Briefly… 100 Words Plus A Sentence

Wait… is this my first-ever 100 Word Song AND Master Class 2013 Mash Up?

Hot damn, I think it is. But you tell me – as I’d love to know if you’ve been paying attention. Lord knows I haven’t…

Anywho – I saw both challenges, and just knew that I had to make them work together (in part, because I had no earthly idea what to do with them individually!) I hope it worked out in the end. And I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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“Do-ya mind… iffff I play tha ukulele?”

He slurred it to no one in particular, as he sat alone, drunk on the park bench. While playing, some pigeons waddled over to inspect it, his efforts, that is. Finding his talent lacking (and he without bread), they went their way; wreaking a havoc different than his upon people simply trying to enjoy themselves – sans pigeons and the homeless.

But he was no mere homeless. No, He was the Savior. The Messiah. The King returned to His people.

Sadly, neither the people, nor the pigeons, nor even himself knew all that. And as such, the world just continued to tip.

•••

This week’s song was chosen by Deana: “Tight Rope” by Janelle Monae

And Prof “asked Lexy to choose any book and give me a 10:” from the 10th page of Terry Pratchett’s “Mort.”

228 Words Plus A Sentence

They call me scrapper.

What?

They call me scrapper.

Now why in the fuck would they call you that?

Don’t know. Just do.

Well, hell, Ain’t nothing scrappy ‘bout you. When’d they start?

Start what?

Start calling ya that, “Scrapper?”

Not sure.

Did ya used to get into fights?

Nope.

Wear rags?

What?

Wear rags? Did your clothes used to be all tattered n’ such?

Ha-ha, no.

Damdendst thing then, them calling you that. Sheez, “scrapper.”

Yup.

Hey, did ya ever happen to ask them where they got the name from?

Nope.

Well, why not?

Well, cuz they was all in my head anyway.

Now wait a… WHAT?

Yeah, they was all in my head anyway.

Who?

The folk that done called me that. They was all living up in my head, see?

Well now, why in the hoot didn’t’ you tell me that before?

Don’t know.

Don’t know??

Don’t know.

Well I’ll be…

Yep. So ya see, asking them why they called me that would be just like asking me, I suppose.

Well… there is that. A whole ball a fuck if ya ask me, but there is that. So, did you ask you?

Sure did.

And?

And what?

And whadya answer with, DAMMIT?

Whelp, all that I could really come up with was what they said at the start.

You mean, your answer was…

Yep, just that, “they call me scrapper.”

•••

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It’s not often that a prompt comes along so perfectly suited to aid me in my long(ish) term goal of using it at both the beginning and the end of the story. This week’s entry for Master Class 2013 finally(ish) realizes that dream. I hope you enjoyed this little trip down the Southernmost section of the rolling trail of the unexpected, and I hope y’all come back now, ya here?

Now, here’s another scrapper. One with a similar problem…

490 Words Plus A Sentence, AND One More To Boot.

I think I’m missing an assignment, but the Prof promised me extra credit, as long as I really “brought it” this week.

Damn. I could’ve used that extra credit…

Anywho, this week’s Master Class 2013 assignment had a bit of a switch in it, in that the prompt came from a song instead of a work of literature; to be used at the end of the submission. As such, and after reading the prompt, I decided to put one more switch into place, and also included a lyric at the beginning. One that was prompted by the prompt. Make sense?

Probably not. Regardless, I hope you enjoy, and invite you to please click on the MC2013 link above, in order to join in on the fun! You know you wanna…

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I’m standing in a line with a dirty mind. Clean it up on Sunday morning.

Yeah, yeah. Gotta go to Big God’s house today. Better clean up. Hide everything… get all the “stuff” put away. Yeah. He’ll never see it up there, tucked way away in the corner of my filthy little mind. All the things I want, all the things I crave. All the things I need, all the things I think would fulfill me. All the things that He said I can’t have, after He created them. Yeah, grab all that shit and hide it away.

Yeah. Put all that shit away. Just put it away, boy-O. No one, but no one, needs to know about all that. They don’t wanna know that you like it a little rough sometimes. No. Just sit there looking pretty. They don’t need to know that your first time wasn’t with the right sex. Oh, hell no! Just sit there with your eyes glued to the pulpit. They don’t wanna hear that you sometimes wish you could dress out here, the way that you dress behind closed doors. They don’t wanna know. They can’t bear to know the person that God made ya to be. They can’t stomach knowing how often you wanna share your love, and with how many different types you wanna share it. No. That would disgust them. They only wanna see the pin-striped, straight-jacketed version of the body that you deny weekly, all in an effort to appease them and their rules. To appease Him. Yeah. That’s what they want. That’s what He wants. Why’d He make you otherwise? Who knows? Cross-to-bear shit, I would imagine.

It don’t matter much. It’s His game, not mine. And every drop of sunshine he lets in, just confuses me more. I mean, why’d He give me these glimpses of happiness, only to have His tool of a shepherd-man tell me it’s all wrong, raining on the very parade He started? Gotta be cross-to-bear shit, man. Gotta be.

So you go on denying. You go on pretending that it’s girls you like, and white lace, and picket fences in the moonlight. You make sure you rough up your brows, just so no one notices that they look a little too nice otherwise. You keep grinning with that same stupid-ass grin you slather on your face every Sunday morning. The same stupid-ass grin your daddy slathered on his face before you. You grin it, and you ignore every last nerve inside of you, screaming to God for freedom in a world that He created, and then gave over to the power-hungry, the homophobes and the pricks.

I mean, why not, right? Cross-to-bear shit, man, cross-to-bear. Besides, it ain’t gonna rain unless it pours anyway. Until then, there’ll be no sun, and no rain. Just constant and oppressive pin-striped straight-jacketed grey. So what’s the point? Like daddy used to spit out through his stupid ass grin, well before the day he blew out his denial-doused brains, “No umbrellas, no sunglasses, hell and hallelujah everyday,” right?

•••

This week’s prompt came from Incubus’ “If Not Now, When?” and the subsequent prompt to the prompt came from The Bolshoi’s “Sunday Morning.” That’s right kids, that means it’s a double song day bonus!

684 Words Plus A Sentence

OK, so check this out! Know who got to pick the prompt this week? THIS KID!  

Hell yeah, I’m a suck up! But whadda I care, as long as I walk outta here with my 4.0, BITCHES!!!

So anywho, I’m pretty sure that we all knew I would go with either Lewis or Adams. And, as the prompt had to be the fourth line from page 144, Adams eventually won (sorry Clive, but every single one of your books seemed to have a real suck line, prompt-wise, at this exact location.)

All that verbal cacophony aside, and with the somewhat insane task of placing the prompt sentence somewhere within the 4th line position only (4, 8, 12, etc., etc.), here is my response to this week’s Master Class 2013, as pulled from Douglas Adams’ piece of genius “Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency.”

Please let me know if you like it!

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As he normally did, Leonard walked into the room, unannounced and unnoticed.

The children were busily sucking off the teat of the flat screen, slowly turning bloated and blue from the poison of mediocrity and “lowest common denominator,” while the tube of boob slowly drained their life force. Similarly, Leonard’s wife sat ignoring him, giving all her attention instead to a smaller screen, held by one hand and stroked lovingly by the other. She gave this device the sort of attention that would have had a boy on the cusp of manhood running home in order to change his soiled trousers. Saddened by seeing his world in such an alien state – one that, had he actually been paying attention, would have realized had been corroding like this for years – Leonard walked over slowly to the wall. Limply at first, followed by a more forceful attempt, he pulled the hard plastic plug of the television from the socket, causing the children to almost fall to their faces, as if the very light from the screen had been a physical thing that they’d been leaning on up till then.

As was normally the case, it was only when he pulled stunts such as this, that his wife seemingly remembered they shared the same house, space and life, and immediately thrust the entirety of her personality into exploding her reign of anger upon him, screeching, “Now what in the fuck did ya that for? Ain’t you got no common sense, love? Ya stupid fucker, plug it back in!” Leonard knew the attack was coming, but it still hit him like a brick when it did. The only solace was his amusement over her continued use of the word “love.” It was a habit started when they first met and she meant it, but now just a disconcerting reminder to him of what once was. The fact that at times she would call him this, all while cursing the very flesh used to make him, caused him to giggle uncomfortably inside.

The children also knew the attack was coming, and as such simply stayed put until the venom and spit had flown. Once they knew the coast was clear however, they too joined in with their mother hen, verbally pecking at Leonard’s soul with insults and complaints.

Gathering what little self-worth was left, Leonard stiffened as he meekly chirped aloud, “Now listen lovelies, we can’t keep livin’ on like this, as livin’ on like this ain’t very much like livin’ at all.” But even before the words had finished dribbling forth, he saw the steely gaze from his wife, and realized his mistake – he should have kept his mouth shut, stayed in the background, hidden.

“Plug. It. Back. IN!!!!!”

Things had been much better when he had been hidden.

“But Dearie…”

“PLUG IT! BACK IN!!!!”

The tone in her voice alerted Leonard to the idea that the words she growled no longer meant what you would normally think they did. No, this time “plug it back in” could have been read more accurately along the lines of simply, “die, you turd.” It was a common enough phrase for Leonard to hear from her as well, just one normally stated with the actual words being used to express the idea.

Slowly looking about the room, Leonard realized his error. His life was no longer his own. He had been beaten out by technology and – again had he been paying attention – his own indifference. His wife had taken to her, her phone as a lover. His children had left his lap, for that of the flat screen’s. And he, well, he had allowed it all to pass while apparently off in some cloud of his own.

Defeated, Leonard fumbled about as he plugged the television back in, thrusting the hard plastic plug once more into the electric vagina that had become the life source for his kin. Shortly thereafter, the children returned to their previous state, one that even a zombie would see as unbecoming. And his wife, after muttering one more “Ya stupid fucker,” returned absent-mindedly to the task of jacking off her handheld lover.

And, as he normally did, Leonard walked out the room, unannounced and unnoticed.

•••

Much to my surprise, today’s track was actually posted on Youtube by my friend and former DJ for Buffalo NY’s “premier” Punk Rock club, The Continental… enjoy!

302 Words Plus A Sentence

After a long stretch, I’m finally jumping back in to bed with the kids of Master Class 2013 (No! Not like that…!), and I hope that Professor SAM is pleased enough to give me at least a passing grade for this long-overdue assignment…

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I woke up in bed with a man and a cat. Well, I suppose I could’ve also said “pussy,” but that would’ve given an entirely different spin to the story, you know? Besides, the cat was far too cool to be considered anything less, and the pussy wasn’t really all that bad as to warrant an insult.

What? Yeah, man, cat – both were men – one pretty generic, the other pretty cool. What I was doing in bed with them, was what I do in bed with all of them. I was making a living. A damned good one at that. Usually it’s strictly “one per,” but these two had some sorta weird “let’s fight over the boy” thing going on, and were willing to pay a helluva lot more for the “pleasure.” They’re all like that though, cattle. Show them less than a minute of absolute bliss, and they’ll come running back every time, cash in hand.

True, I don’t need the money. That’s not why I do it. And true, they won’t actually go to hell just for “bumping their bits” against me, but they think that they will. And that, my friends is all that’s needed. The sin isn’t breaking some predetermined law given down from “On High.” The sin is breaking the law as you see it, breaking the promise that you feel should be honored, but then don’t.

Big Daddy God is not cool with that. Trust me.

So these stupid fucks give me all their money, get their rocks off, and then condemn themselves to hell to boot! Pretty freaking sweet deal, if you ask me. Right?

What? No, none of them ever have figured out what I am. First off, they’re thinking with the wrong head when they’re with me. And quite honestly, I like to leave the horns at home when I go to work, anyway.

•••

This week’s prompt is from Robert Heinlein’s “To Sail Beyond the Sunset,” and the song is – well – just what popped into my head as I wrote this, I suppose. Go figure.