What We Do In Our Spare Time

As the title says, this post is going to show some of the writing we do in time we have to kill, maim, or otherwise!

Something we have been doing for a short time is write short stories that can only be five paragraphs long or less. As you may imagine, this makes the stories rather cramped, and in our case, often nonsensical. But also in these unusual writing prompts, we have to write the story about--or in the least involving--three things that someone else dictates to the writer.

Obviously this explodes the story into new and uncharted fields of fabulous foolishness, and is the best thing for anyone who loves to write!

Well, we've decided to post several of our latest attempts at humor story prompts. And the fun doesn't end here! As the Math teacher once said: After you've read the short stories, comment with a list of three things of your own, and we'll use the one we like most for another of our…dun-dun…TRIPLE THING STORY PROMPTS!!! (Hope that sounded more impressive to you then me, anyway, on with the post.)

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1. A banana peel

2. Three bowls of soup

3. A French terrier

The restaurant was fancy, no doubt about that, what other type would have gold leaf wallpaper? But something told Jams he couldn’t trust the waiter. If you asked why, the simplest answer would be that he had fur. But, so did Jams.

            He scowled fitfully, crumpling his napkin and tossing it aside. It bopped another passing waiter on the crown and he sprawled to the immaculate carpet, soiling it with the three bowls of soup he carried, and several extracurricular swearwords. Ignoring the commotion, Jams looked at the furred waiter making his way towards his table, a smarmy smile on his thin muzzle.

            He was a French terrier, Jams speculated, probably from good stock, but nothing about breeding could commandeer his dislike of the furry dandy. He, a retriever, of course was slightly prejudice, but still...

            “Bonjour again, mon ami misour!” Said the terrier in a French accent so fake it was probably real. “I was anxious to get back to yoo,” he continued. He got no further, with a cry, he slipped on the banana peel, someone must have placed on the carpet a meter from the table.

Jams grinned, as well as a dog could, and stood up, loping past the flailing garcon and out the door. What a strange world, he thought. A banana peel, who would have thought it?

1. The zombie Apocalypse

2. Speedy Gonzales

3. A blue car

The zombie apocalypse had come. It was happening right here, right now. Dan Mitchells was one of the first to know.

            He was sitting in his baby blue muscle car, listening to the radio. The commentator was spouting nonsense about cotton candy eating contests and how global warming had severely affected the production of cartoons. Dan didn’t honestly care; he was watching, waiting for his friend Ryan.

            “Ugh, what are you doing, Ryan?” Dan grumbled, shifting in his seat. The sun was baking the inside of the car through the dark tinted windows. He would have to turn the car back on for some air conditioning soon if Ryan didn’t hurry up and get out of the house. Dan heard sirens switch on in the distance, getting louder and closer until a police car sped by his vehicle like Speedy Gonzales. What was happening?

            A random person walked out into the street, shuffling like a cripple. The police car didn’t even hesitate, just ran them right over. What in the world? Dan almost screamed in horror. He turned on the car and drove forward to investigate.

            The body was Ryan! Dan screamed in terror as his friend got back up again and crawled onto the hood of the car, slamming against the windshield. Ryan was a zombie! Dan got out his phone, took a quick picture, texted it to his 83 closest friends, and put the car into reverse, shaking off his former friend in the process. Time to get out of town.

1. A ship in a bottle

2. A mango smoothie

3. A balcony

As bottles went, ones with ships shoe horned inside them didn’t break as well against a head as a good old fashioned Jack Daniels.

            But Petro wasn’t complaining. He was cursing sure, as he and the brawler grappled their way onto the balcony, his opponent slightly dazed from the bottles impact, and with a tiara of glass shards spiking up from his hair.

Stepping back slightly into the balcony’s lavish apartment room, Petros exploded back at his still swaying opponent and shoved him over the balcony railing, falling a short distance and then impacting with a tremendous splash into the small hotel-side pool.

Dusting his hands, Petro walked back into his apartment, choosing a chilled mango smoothie from the refrigerator. That would teach the man to advertize at his door.

1. A diamond sword

2. A robot

3. Saint Patrick’s Day

The crowds cheered, waving their hands in the air and screaming out like madmen. They were a sea of green, all dressed in St. Patrick’s Day tees and staring down at the small arena in the middle of the stadium, where the two combatants prepared for battle. Stevie “St. Patrick” McKnuckles swished his diamond sword through the air as the boys pulled the wreckage of the last battle down the garbage chute. That was four wins in a row from Stevie and his hard diamond weapon.

            After what seemed like an eternity of noise, the referee announced it was go time. “Ready?” the announcer roared over the speakers. Stevie raised his sword high in the air and shook it, letting loose a glorious battle cry.

            At the other side of the arena, the floor opened up and a humanoid robotic foe rose up: his challenger. Stevie grinned and slashed his sword through the air. As soon as he heard the ref’s whistle blow, he charged the artificially intelligent combatant with full vigor. He sliced his sword through sputtering sockets, cleaving off the robot’s left arm in a single blow. The bot, however, did not take kindly to such wreckage, and flung itself bodily at its competitor. Stevie ducked and rolled out of the way, jumping onto the technological creation’s backside. He hacked off the bot’s head in a clean stroke and raised his sword high, plunging it deep into the circuitry of its main body.

            The crowd went wild as Stevie pulled out his blade and kicked the trashed hunk of metal across the arena floor in a gesture of ultimate triumph. St. Patrick victorious!

            Stevie abruptly woke from his fantastic dream. It was 6:30 in the morning. He rolled over and slapped the snooze button on his alarm clock.

1. A train

2. Babies

3. A disgruntled office worker

‘You must rescue the babies’ they said. Well alright, I do rescue ops, but did they say anything about the train? Oh no, speeding locomotives packed with armed gorillas wearing clothes was much too trivial to mention.

            “One less to worry about”, grunted Tom Barker, flinging open the train door and tripping the wailing thug through it in a blur of motion. Grabbing the man’s gun, Tom stepped to the next door. Locked.

            “When will they learn,” Tom said, unable to resist as he peppered the wooden entrance with a burst of bullets. Giving the doorway a solid kick, Tom stepped through into a padded room, full of cribs where sleeping babies gurgled and snored in their adolescent dreams.

            Turning slightly to assess the rest of the room, Tom felt a massive weight wing his left side, sending him spinning to the train car’s softened floor. Rolling to the side and up, Tom barker was back on his feet, gun raised, side aching, mouth cursing.

            In the doorway stood a short fat man. Tom recognized him. He was the office worker for the orphanage principal who had hired Tom, a very disgruntled office worker. Evidently he had tried to flip the broken door onto Tom’s back. “Didn’t work”, chided Tom, watching as the office employee strode angrily over the wrecked door. “Now wait a minute, we can come to an agreement,” said Tom, shooting the office jughead five times. There we are, Tom finished in his head. Job well done.

1. A fat dwarf

2. A gold ring

3. A Mount Olympus toilet

Clyde was feeling generous today as he sat behind the counter at the lobby, checking insurance claims and other such paperwork. He’d had a good day so far. His girlfriend, Bonnie Sweetkins, had just proposed to him yesterday.

            Now, as he worked in the Mount Olympus lobby, his pudgy fingers flying over the keyboard as he sent an abrasive email to a bad customer, he felt the utmost glee. Because on one of said pudgy fingers was the dwarf’s very own gold engagement ring. Oh, mom and dad are going to be so excited when they find out! Clyde thought. Ah, wedded bliss with Bonnie Sweetkins!

            Clyde felt the urge creep up on him slowly as he sat working quickly and efficiently. He needed to go to the bathroom. Clyde pushed back in his wide chair and stood up. His wide girth toddled to the restroom, where Zeus’ latest selfie hung on the wall. The great snowy beard stared down upon him as he did what he came to do.

            As Clyde turned to wash his hands, however, the ring, almost as if it had a mind of its own, slipped off his finger and tumbled down into the toilet water.

            Auto-flush kicked in almost immediately.

1. A strange fish

2. An engraved skull

3. Three bottles of apple juice

He was a strange fish, Throckmorton knew, but the shopkeeper certainly knew how to draw customers.

            The dingy shop cases presented strange objects from seemingly everywhere. An engraved skull from Africa for instance, and a miniature totem pole from ancient America. But Throckmorton was looking for something special. Magic objects usually were. Two stepping around a fat case of Parisian baubles, he made his way up to the counter. The squinty proprietor squinted harder. “Can I ‘elp you” he grunted, his morning breath nearly flattening Throckmorton.

            “Yes,” Throckmorton coughed, the smell of coffee de sardine still wafting around him. “I am looking for three bottles of apple juice.” The shopkeeper closed his mouth sharply at the code word. Then he nodded and motioned Throckmorton after him, into the back of the shop.

            Stepping through the dusty curtain, Throckmorton watched the shriveled shopkeeper rummage in a cupboard, elbows cracking like medieval cannons as he reached farther in, grabbed something, and turned to Throckmorton, holding three grimy bottles of ginger liquid, stamped with a tiny brand tag each.

            “Apple juice?” Throckmorton snorted in indignation. “I was supposed to get a Jinni’s bottle!” The shopkeeper nodded creakily, proffering the bottled beverages. “They are, Mr. client, but you have to drink them first.”

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Tell us which ones you liked most! And remember to show your three things for us!

*NOTE* We accept that several of these short stories are not politically correct. But as none of us plan to become lawyers, senators, or dump truck drivers, we feel quite safe.