Parachute Pants

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.

Lou joined The High Stepping Feet Crew and immediately started pressuring me to join, too. I didn’t like rap music and I didn’t know how to breakdance, so I said no. Lou was a dick about it.

On the bus rides home, Lou would go off on how ‘Fresh’ David Florence and his brother, Carlton, were. Two redheaded dudes with crimson jheri curls and weird fuzz on their upper lips. They wore parachute pants.

Carlton carried a boom box around in the halls between classes. He’d gotten detention, so he didn’t play any cassettes for fear of getting in trouble. He just popped and locked to biology class with this object on his shoulder, yelling “Yoyoyoyoyo!” at the cheerleaders.

The High Stepping Feet Crew, according to Lou, defeated all comers at ‘battles’ held at a roller rink/dance club in Johnston called Midnighters. Carlton’s backspin was their secret weapon.

In the hallways, once, The High Stepping Feet Crew, all three of them, were gathered around a locker shouting “Yoyoyoyoyoyo!” The meticulous lexicon of hip hop slang had yet to arrive in rural Rhode Island, so our heroes were forced to improvise. Carlton, to impress Katie deBeers, an icy blonde cheerleader, fired up his backspin. He flung himself to the ground and started flapping his arms and doing some kind of weird mule kick.

He torpedoed Randy Calosanto into the chest, accidentally. Randy passed out.

Carlton leapt to his feet, surveyed the situation, and decided on the spot that he had suffered a broken ankle.

Randy missed the important game against Shea High School. Our coach allegedly drove to The Florence Household and threatened the whole family.

The High Stepping Feet Crew quietly disbanded.

Lou went back to listening to Foreigner.

They’re OK, The Last Days In May

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.

Hunter S Thompson.

Aubrey was way into the gonzo journalism. He hadn’t yet been born when Hell Angels was first published, and you always got the feeling that he thought he’d missed something big.

Skinny kid. Round Lennon glasses. Army surplus sweaters. Tan cords. Desert boots. Grown-out bowl cut. It was always Imaginary 1972 for Aubrey.

The school had a tiny journalism department. It was assembled after the Kent State shootings, presumably to inculcate a sense of moral indignation in the student body. Power of the press. Woodward and Bernstein kind of stuff. Aubrey didn’t talk much at bullshit sessions in the student union, where kids smoked so much the drop ceiling became discolored. In classes, however, he was righteous – to the point of abusive behavior. Shouting down teachers and Reagnite students. His outbursts became legendary around campus. Transcripts were traded like bootleg Dead tapes.

Aubrey decided to get deep gonzo. He switched his Bob Weir LL Bean get ups for a Raiders jacket and started hanging around the housing projects near campus. Miraculously, no-one kicked his ass, but no-one sold him any crack, either.

His brother’s roommate at UVM hooked Aubrey up with an honest-to-God drug dealer, a dude named Mr. Coffee who looked like a grinning Sweathog, but who was real bad news. He agreed to take Aubrey up to Quebec to meet some members of Rock Machine who’d sell him some speed. This was to be Aubrey’s senior thesis.

No-one ever saw the Sweathog or Aubrey again.

In May, Aubrey’s parents came to the school to give a speech about their likely-deceased son. Aubrey’s dad was a McGovernite braying ass with a huge adam’s apple. Saliva flicked from his bottom lip when he confronted others on their ignorance or hypocrisy, which was often. He stood at a podium in the chapel basement and whinnied about how the students body’s unforgivable complacency had led to his son’s demise.

Well, we saw where Aubrey inherited his personality, and nobody mentioned that he owed everybody money for all the weed he’d ‘bought’ but never paid for.

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.

I am beautiful and I am a God and the filth and grime and grit that became attached to me has been burned away.

Where I walk, there is ash in my wake. Those who see me, who gaze upon me, are drawn to me or are blinded by my terrible and otherworldly beauty.

I can walk through walls and wherever I may press my hands on the ground, great men will eventually be born.

I burn. I burn and I burn. Burn forever. None have burned before me. None have seen the burn before I drew it up from the earth and it enveloped me and it was the perfect burn and I am surrounded by it and enveloped within. My skin is gone and my eyes see through the flames.

Men will see the smoke in the distance and that will be enough to make them change their lives.

She walked into the room. She spoke.

“I want you to look for a job, today.”

Mutant Turnip Haiku

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a haiku inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.

“Greetings, Blood Creatures,”

Said Evil King Endicot,

“You will die like figs.”

Mutant Turnips.

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.

By the 72nd hour, The Turnip had enlarged to the circumference of a radial tire and sprouted eyeballs. Professor Dorkelman’s O-Gro Granules had evolved beyond reasonable expectations.

Flash and I administered a self-awareness test to The Turnip. Results were inconclusive; the thing just stared at us with its newly-formed ocular apparatus.

By the next morning, The Turnip had grown eyebrows – expressive, angry eyebrows. Teeth, too.

We had no choice but to call The Man From R.U.T.A.B.A.G.A.

Something Happens In My Sleep

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.

Something happens when I sleep. The people in the building move. They drag their furniture around and hide booklets under the carpets. They leave maps in one another’s apartments. You need to read them in the right order to find what they want you to find. They leave tricks in the maps. You don’t know they’re tricks. Something happens when I sleep. They change the fluids in my car. Precious automotive fluids. The windshield wiper fluid is different. They leave messages in the cracks in the windshield. If you lock the doors, the remnants are caught in the car forever… or at least until you open the doors again. The priests at the parish up the street won’t take my calls, anymore. They say I need a doctor, not Jesus. Something happens when I sleep. Somebody keeps changing the channel to ESPN. I will leave papers on the floor. White papers. If something happens in my sleep, I will see the footprints when I awake. I hope something happens in my sleep.

Night Of The Hunter

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.

For most of his childhood, he is nocturnal. He awakes, even before he is old enough to read, and seeks out illuminated objects in the house. Telephone dials. Digital clocks. His mother will pick his up and place his back in his bed.

In his teens, he become preoccupied with the streams, ponds and tiny swamps concealed in the forests near his house. He travels like a detective along the paths through the trees, holding a plastic flashlight the size of his forearm. He waits until after The Tonight Show is finished to disappear. He likes watching the comedians like David Brenner and Robert Klein – they’re suburban and cerebral and they don’t swear or make jokes about smoking weed. Those things make him uncomfortable.

He’ll crouch near the winding narrow streams and listen to the dark sounds: the water’s soft muttering and the things in the trees. One day he realizes that should he encounter anything out here, be it an angry hippy or a ghost, he would be at a tremendous advantage. He knows the ground better than a 18th century native guide.

One of his favorite games is to recede so far into the shrubs and ferns that the absence of light becomes almost convenient. The same dark exists when his eyelids are tightly closed as does when they are wide open. The leaves obscure the moon, leaving only a mist that reminds him of the light. He thinks about the black and white moves that start at 2AM on PBS. A Midsummernight’s Dream with Victor Jory. Wuthering Heights.

He stays out for no more than an hour. Any longer seems indulgent or risky. He’ll return home and eat the chicken sandwich his mother leaves in the fridge for him.