Tuesday, May 17, 2005


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Volume 1, Issue 5

Some people suffer for their art, but whatever you do, don't lose your head.

Today's theme is "a severed head."

Laurence Simon - "Don't Put Another Drachma In The Jukebox"

What's with the singing box?

Well, remember the old story about Orpheus going to Hell to free his girlfriend?

He looks back - WHAM! Eurydice is back in Hell. A gang of women tear Orpheus apart, and his head falls into the stream, still singing.

Some chick puts the head in a box, sells it to a joint on the island, and it becomes the first jukebox.

Here it is. Just fifty bucks.

Problem is, it just sings in Greek. It sounds so painful and sad, but beautiful.

Too bad I don't know Greek.

Do you?

Oh well. They're still beautiful.

Stacy: The Transporter

I drive too fast down the rain-slicked road, smears of street-lights flashing in my water-faceted windshield.

From the trunk I can hear the noise, over the sound of the tires on the wet road, Guns N' Roses in the CD player. Every thump reverberates through the car, creating knots of tension in my spine.

Thump, thump. It’s louder now, against the back of the rear seats. I glance wildly in the rearview, see nothing.

Why had I agreed to this? And why was so much noise coming from my car, when Rollo had the rest of the body in his??

Monday, May 16, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 4

Regret. We can all feel it, taste it, sense it; it is palpable and it dwells in the shadow looming just behind that turn of the corner we just passed. Ignore it at your own peril.

The Eschatologist: Losing Track

"Christ, man, you can let go now," pleaded Oscar.

"Shut the fuck up. I'm not done yet. If this is going to be done, I'm going to do it, and I'm goddamn well going to do it right, now let me finish." Dizzy heard the cord snap and tendons give way under the garrote as cleanly as anytime he'd performed the final excruciation. One final jerk of the polymer cable, and he let the body slip to the floor, still twitching reflexively.

"You can tell them it's done." Dizzy knelt down and closed his brothers eyes and kissed his forehead.

Laurence: Star What?

I am not a loser. Dressing up for a movie premiere is fun, dammit.

I spent hours working on the makeup. It's a pale cream-white body makeup. Leaves one hell of a rash later on.

Ordered a set of special yellow-iris contacts. They scratch my corneas.

Got my hair cut short, gelled it flat. It will all fall out afterwards.

Lost seventy pounds to fit into the uniform, too. Those illegal diet pills may have caused massive hemmoraging in my brain, but other than the facial tic I'm fine.

I'm so ready for The Revenge of the Sith.

Ted Bronson: Phone Calls

"We regret to inform you..." are the most terrifying words one can hear at five in the morning.

The caller continued "...that your husband passed away six minutes ago."

My Mom looked at me and said "Get your brothers and meet me at the hospital."

Instead of asking her to wait, I just said "ok" and walked next door to get them.

When the phone at my brother's house rang, I didn't have to be told, I knew what the caller was going to say.

"We regret to inform you that your mother was just killed in a car wreck..."

Stacy: Justice

The small, grizzled man huddled in a corner of the alley I'd chased him into. His thin chest heaved as he gasped for breath, his wispy hair flew around his face.

"Please," he begged between gasps.

I just looked at him, remembering what he did to that little girl. Wonder if he remembers her begging, her pain, tears, fear. Wonder if he regrets anything.

"What did I ever do to you?!" he screams, half rising against the crumbling wall.

"Nothing," I say, squeezing the trigger on the Glock until the slide hangs open on an empty clip.

"Nothing at all."

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 3

Three Words

In honor of the astonishing array of hardware issues I've been having with my computer this weekend, today's theme is three words:



P.S. Feel free to leave comments, even if the comment box below says one was deleted. It was comment spam (after only 2 days in operation, we're so blessed) and, thus, had to die.

Stacy : Enough

The red haze grew before her eyes as she watched the flames lick hungrily at the walls of her home.

"I should get up," she thought, "get the hell out of here."

But she just sat there, consumed with black hatred for those who pursued her. Who had pursued her entire life. Who would continue pursue until she was dead. Her hatred was a live thing, urging her up, out into the cool, night air.

But still she sat there, even as the flames began to sear her skin, hair and clothes. "Fuck destiny," she thought, and closed her eyes.

Laurence : 648,710

"When you see the color red, you will experience so much hate that you will kill the Senator. It is your destiny."

Arthur heard this phrase six hundred and forty-eight thousand, seven hundred and nine times before they stopped the recording and wiped the drool from his chin.

It used to be that you had to loop a recording with a razor and cellophane tape. Now you just hit "REPEAT" on an MP3.

They gave him a gun and a bus ticket. Two days later, he shot four seals at the Boston Zoo.

Hey, nobody said this stuff was perfect.

Ted : Preflight
"Hey Red, hand me that spanner would you?"

Red looked at the instrument like it was a live adder somewhere deep in the Sahara.

"I don't see it anywhere, Joe."

"Come on Red, just gimme the damn spanner. I hate this job as much as you do, but as soon as we are done here we can head over to The Destiny for a beer and a lap dance."

Red screwed up his courage and reached out for the spanner remembering that just three days ago Smitty and Doug got killed doing this exact same step on the maintenance checklist.

Andy : The Fall
As the Explorer 2125 ushered itself into an orbit high above Mars, Captain Garrett was fighting for his life.

Commander Stendahl stood above him, grinning, and slicing into Garrett’s flight suit with a razor. With each whisk of his arm, a new wound opened – first fabric, then skin, then blood.

Garrett, struggling with releasing his harness and fighting back, flailed about. “Why?” he asked.

Stendahl pulled his head back and cut clean through his neck. Garrett mouthed the question once more.

He had no reason other than when he read it in a book, he knew it was his destiny.

Michele - Holler Back

"Eenie Meanie, Miney, Moe."

She plucked a medium sized lobster from the tank.

"If he hollers let him go."

She dropped the lobster into the roiling, scalding water. It let out a squeaky hiss; not nearly a holler. Alison thought it sounded more like a sigh. Either way, the creature was now at her mercy.

She used the tongs to pull her victim up. For a brief moment, the lobster thought it was escaping the steam bath. Then Alison dunked it into the pot once more.

"It is your destiny," she growled in a deep, affected voice. And she laughed.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 2

The fiction continues, for better or for worse.

The inspiration for today's series of entries came from CreativeWritingPrompts.com - where, yesterday, Andy selected the 13th prompt as yesterday was May 13th. You're dealing with creative minds, you see. That prompt read:
Write about a weird day in your workplace.
Of course, we're all about making stuff up here, so everyone was under orders to take the prompt, mix with a good dose of fiction, and come up with 100 words of carefully distilled genius.

Looks like we might have a lot of Les Nessman mea culpas coming up after this issue...

Laurence : Lucky Bastard
I work in a call center and the company owner is really cheap.

Of all the awful things here, the chairs here are the worst. They are old, worn-out, and cause frequent painful injuries.

One guy was speared with a spring and lost a kidney. Another broke a wrist and an ankle when a wheel just completely let go. A third rolled out of a window, never to be seen again.

Bob got it the worst. One day, he's typing away, and we hear a loud CRACK!

He's in a wheelchair now. Can't feel anything below his neck.

Lucky bastard.

Andy : Creep

I shove my right arm into the shrinking space between the elevator doors.

“Sorry,” I say.

She nods, looks forward again. My parking lot guess from ten yards was spot on: the front is as good as the back.

The doors close.

She watches the digits. Red hair, spilled against a white blouse stretched tight across her tits. Nice ass, navy skirt, just a shadow of a panty line. I imagine my hands running up her pale legs, raising her skirt, touching….

The doors open.

The stout receptionist from nine steps in; she smells of sweat and rubber chew toys.

Michele : Mugged

Since Jen’s death her coffee mug has gone untouched. It’s like one of those roadside memorials, with the flowers and signs. Instead of roses, there’s mold.

On the third day, the mold has formed a circle the size of a Kennedy half dollar. It’s a small bruise; black and green with a crop of fuzzy pus around the edge.

By the fifth day a layer of dust has formed on the outside of the mug, and Garfield and Odie sport a five o’clock shadow of grime.

On the seventh day, a new girl takes Jen’s spot. The mug is gone.

Stacy: Dorfman

They just took Dorfman out in a body bag. Which is good, because he was beginning to smell, and I have to get this report done by five.

The cops interrupt me with questions. No, nobody liked Dorfman, he was weird and he smelled like onions all the time. People would walk across the room just to avoid the stench coming from his cubicle.

Not that he smelled any better dead.

No, I don't know who might have wanted him dead. Someone who was trying to get their report done, maybe? Ha ha.

Twenty minutes to five. Back to work

Ted: Les Nessman Copout

The Les Nessman character on the TV series WKRP in Cincinnati wore a band-aid in every episode. Either on himself, his glasses, or his clothing.

Friday, May 13, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 1

Welcome to the first issue of 100 words or Les Nessman.

Today's theme is a photo; we will all be writing our 100 words based on this. I picked this photo quite by accident. We were all supposed to come up with a random word (in a mad-lib kind of way) and then I would do a Google Image Search on that word and voila, we'd have our photo. Except when I plugged the combined words into the GIS nothing came up. So I did a text search, came up with a site in which the words second, green and pleasant were highlighted, plugged that into GIS and this is what we got. Click for bigger.

Michele : Untitled
When Evan was done, there was remorse. It lasted long enough for him to drag her body down to the lake; to cleanse the blood from her face and her hair; to dry her hair in the sun and comb the flecks of blood from it; for him to bury her in the dirt, whispering memorized lines about dust to dust.

By the time some wandering kid carved his own initials into the stone marker months later, Evan had forgotten what he did or who Elizabeth was or why there was a silk, white slip slung over his bedroom chair.

Andy : Grave Secret

James stood, remained quiet, and watched the casket sink into its sepulcher carved out of topsoil and clay. In the middle of friends and family, he was alone.

Do you take this woman? He did. Do you take this man? She did. To love and comfort and honor and stand by in sickness and in health, and be faithful so long as you both shall live? Until death do you part?

They did.

Forty-one years and eight days later, Death crept in and upheld its vow, just as Sarah had upheld hers.

James stood, remained quiet, and burned with shame.

The Eschatologist : A Cheery Bit
Felsic lattices lanced through his igneous creation. As he turns it over in his hands, shaping it, the intruding spars relent to his will. Apropos of panegyrizing his clients, the granite molds slowly into a fitting homage while Hades, not without some irony, gifts it with temporary life. Sighing, he then casts his breath at the stone, burning upon it the name of the newly interred. Silently, he thrusts the headmarker upward through the vents, vessels, and bones of the world, until the hand of Hades wrenches open the wet earth and lovingly rests the marker with the newly called.

Stacy : Dysfunction
"Your shadow's in the shot," she said.

He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, moved silently to the left.

She glared at him then turned back to the camera.

He eyed her surreptitiously, wishing they'd hurry the hell up before he froze his nuts off.

She heaved a great sigh, stepped dramatically back from the tripod, flipped her hair.

He hunched his shoulders tighter, waiting for the inevitable criticism, surely his very aura was now impinging on her framing of the shot.

She glared at him again, then stepped back to the tripod.

He moved silently to the right.

Ted Bronson : Our Honored Dead
They told me that he was acting in the highest traditions of the Corps.


I found out later that he was high as a kite in the South Carolina swamps on a three day furlough.

The still he was tending got a little too hot and a little too ripe from the dead possum.

The story the news got was that he was on a training exercise and tried to pull some innocent campers out of a fire.

Cheers to my brother, the fucking hero. Dickhead.

When Memorial Day comes, I don't know which story to tell my nephew.