LEVEL 0 INTERVIEW: A Novelica

There're Novels (love 'em), then their are Novellas, glorified short stories (love those too). And then there are Novelicas, an unusual breed of literature, these are the sort of stories you write in an hour, and edit in half, and then post on your blog as pointless filler. ignore that last part. Ahem.
But the story you're about to read is an example of that species of short stories so short they usual don't exceed single digits in pages. Hope you enjoy it!

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“Now Mr. Tung, I’m sure you know why you are here...”

“'Course I do, small cramped room, smelly metal walls, and you staring a hole in me, this is a magazine interview, obviously.”

“Very amusing, Mr. Tung; but unfortunately this is the much more serious kind of interview.”

“Hunting Quarterly?”

“I am surprised really, Mr. Tung, at your flippancy, I’d of though the handcuffs would stopper your, unique, attitude.”

“Stress always makes me smile.”

“I think we’ve had enough of this repartee, Mr. Tung, so getting down to business, are you or are you not going to answer my questions?”

“You haven’t given me much time to think this through.”

“You are chained to a chair, Mr. Tung; overall comfort is the least of our concern…”

“I’ll keep that in mind. But yes, I’ll go with you on the questions, though I can’t promise satisfactory answers, mind.”

“We can iron out any discrepancies after the initial interview.”

“You don’t do casual conversation well, do you?”

“That isn’t our policy, no, Mr. Tung, and now we’re going to record, and the questions will start.”

“I’ve always wanted to be studied closely.”

“Your full name is Antonin Draco Tung, is that correct?”

“I know that’s standard procedure, but it kind of hurts.”

“Answer simply and to the question, or you will be reprimanded, Mr. Tung.”

“Alright then, yes.”

“You are 19 years old?”

“Yes.”

“And you are the biological son of Miranda Dorkus Tung and Thomas Fafnir Tung, both deceased…ten years ago?”

“Yes…”

“Good; now, concerning the crimes.”

“Yes?”

“Do you admit to them being the reason for your confinement and this mandatory interview?”

“Remind me what I did again, it’s slipped my mind.”

“Breaking and entering into private space but, furthermore, assault and battery on the inhabitant.”

“What was the guy’s name? I’d like to thank him for false accusations.”

“Your victim was one Fabian Intendo, resident of #56 Maroon Rd. which you entered illegally early last night, and attacked Mr. Intendo, severely injuring him.”

“Did I break his arm or something? My eyes were closed at the time.”

“He was found severely contused and with seven fractured ribs, Mr. Tung, and I’m afraid denial won’t fit, as he made a positive ID on you twice over in the hospital.”

“Seriously speaking, haven’t you ever heard the word ‘lying’?”

“Why would he lie, no reason, from my point of view.”

“Yes, and from what I can tell, your point of view wouldn’t span a gnat’s—”

“Your frustration doesn’t fit well into your innocence.”

“I didn’t attack anyone, much less him!”

“In short, you deny the charges?”

“I’d do it at length, but you seem to prefer the short, ping-pong conversation.”

“Then that’s a ‘yes’. Very well, this interview has gone far enough fruitlessly. You will admit to your guilt, or I will have you forcefully detained and interrogated much less comfortably and far more forcefully!”

“I thought you’d snap sooner or later. Send in the next cop to try and squeeze a confession out of me.”

“Alright, blow this. Let’s be frank, Mr. Tung, you are facing life imprisonment at this charge, and if your previous offenses come through, even death row, so, please, can you drop the tough talk, I feel like I’m on CSI.”

“Hmm, your shell cracked a little more than hairline there, judge, do I see a personality revealed behind that magnificent façade?”

“Do you realize your literally digging your own grave by continuing on like this?”

“I think you’ve said that, albeit in different words, about five times in this interrogation; so far. Come on, go for six.”

“Mr. Tung—”

“Call me Antonin, might as well get to know each other better.”

“Mr. Tung, do you except and realize the charges and end possibilities of those charges if you are found guilty?”

“Back to the Q&A? Alright then, and yeah, I got all that.”

“Good, then, do you plead ‘innocent’ and ask for a court showing, or ‘guilty’ with the aforementioned consequences?”

“Lemme see, I was charged with breaking windows, kicking a guy in the ribs—ah--severely injuring him, sorry. But what are my previous offenses, I can’t remember much more than a few parking tickets and a few misunderstandings with a mime in the park…you see, when he was in that invisible box—”

“You were charged with drunken behavior in a bar ten years ago, where you injured several customers, all of whom charged you with assault, which does not support your denial of the attack on Mr. Intendo.”

“Oh yeah, that--and oh yeah him, too--When do I get to see my victim? I’d like to speak to him…”

“As I mentioned before, he is currently recovering in the hospital, where he is still accusing you in particular of his assault and the destruction of his belongings.”

“So, all in all I’m gonna be garroted if I don’t go to court for something I didn’t do.”

“Is that a statement or a question, Mr. Tung?”

“It’s a statement of fact and a question concerning the stability of our justice system, which seems a tad shaky from my point of view.”

“Very well; under the law, due to your pleading of ‘not guilty’—”

“Didn’t exactly plead…”

“—you will be assigned a court case and number, and when your number is called you will repeat your case against the assaulted Mr. Intendo, who we will allow two weeks to recover sufficiently to appear in court, where the final ruling will be decided by an impartial jury. Do you agree to this action?”

“Well, my hands are tied, aren’t they? They’re actually handcuffed, but never mind. Yes, I think those terms will do just fine. Do I get to choose my lawyer?”

“The judicial authority will assign you a defending lawyer.”

“Ixnay on that, then…”

“Our business is at an end, Mr. Tung, you will appear in court in two weeks time or possibly later, which will be the…15^th of February. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“You’re very welcome, but I never got your name, I’d like to have something to think on in my cell. What is it?”

Standing up, the interrogator turned halfway towards the room’s door, then turned back, deciding.

“My name is Watson, Mr. Tung, James Watson Jr.”

The Wizard of Oz..zi

Who here has written fan fiction? I've never done it before, but this snippet of a story wouldn't break from that, as its really another possible version of a story, not something in the exact same story. 
I wrote this awhile ago, as a new take on the classic Wizard of Oz, where the first person to visit Oz gleans a strange magic from that place which she names after herself...
And so, (please) read on and (please) enjoy what I'm calling for now (please)The Wizard of Ozzi.

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The winds whistled around Gale. Emulating her name in a scream of primal power, it flung a funneling gust twisting about her. Rising from the ground, Gale raised her arms and the wind formed below her into a great tapering current like tapering, twisting smoke.

The Constant stars gleaming above flickered and flashed as the twirling tempest coursed through them, twisting ever about the form of Gale. Now she rose even higher, her hair floating around her like gravity had forgotten it

Slowly lowering her hands, the twister telescoped open above her, swirling around her in a wide rim with her at the epicenter. Now the eye of her storm, Gale was in full control. Reaching down her arm, Gale stroked the air, and as if strung to her intentions, a writhing tempest leaped from the vortex below and; changing as it went, hovered to its mistress’ side.

Flickering and rippling like a face underwater, the wind creature extended a tongue shaped like a fingering draft and licked her hand, which to Gale felt like being licked by a cloud.

A sudden draught of power adrenalized Gale Ozzi, and a laugh slipped from her mouth.

And, as the twister below her began to spin fast and faster, Gale looked down at her loyally drifting dust devil. “Come on, Zephyr, there’s no place like home.”

Prelude to The Oz Zone

Book One of The Wizard Of Ozzi

  

The Battle of the Bulging Inbox

Your mother downloads your memory! Lyle typed ferociously. Across the crater pockmarked no man’s land, an enemy Spammer staggered under the ruthless attack. Flicking on Caps lock and ignoring the frenzied typing of his battling comrades, he shot back with a loud

WELL YOUR MOMMA DOESN'T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A MACBOOK AND A TRUCK MANUAL!

Knees shaking under the reverberation of the repost, Lyle laid down an italicized spew of unrelenting adjectives and phrases.

Wi-Fi piggy backer!

Ram stealer!

And lastly, you’re no better than a one gig. Hardrive!

Swaying at the aftershock of these cutting remarks, the enemy Spammer broke his Shift key in an attempt to retaliate, but Lyle had already taken the advantage. Daringly he shoved his laptop out from his entrenchment, where all attacking signals converged on him, and sliced into his assailant with one final burst of devastating nouns, prods and pokes.

Double negative!

Soundtrack pirate!

You’re like an iPhone case with no signal array!

Go clean your flash drives!

And finally, ever pixel, ever bit, and every battery cable in your sleazy little computer is dumb!

Toppling backwards, the Spammer thudded to the hard earth, exhausted and beaten to the ground by Lyle’s superior profanity skillz. As the line teetered around the broken link, Lyle’s fellows clipped on extension cords and charged forwards as the enemy scattered, sending them insulting emails as they fell back in disarray.

VICTORY IS OURS! Lyle typed jubilantly, then slotted it into his Reminders just to make sure his schedule didn't get mixed up.

Symeon Simian: Unfortunately not a Monkey's Uncle

Yup, yet again TDL has been postponed due to flagrant procrastination from we three authors of the blog. 

We realize the only reason mass uprising has only been prohibited by our hungry Wyvern which we prefer to call Please No, as that's usually the only thing its hears while defending our domicile.

Anyway, due to our so-forthing, we will be posting letters next week, along with a complimentary page of the Weekly Draconian, but for now, we put forward a recently cobbled together painstakingly created short story for the enjoyment of all ye who hearken to the Wyvern's Den.

Enjoy!

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Symeon the monkey swung in a gentle arc through the moist morning air, his hairy toes firmly lodged around the springy branch he was using as a swinging pendulum.

            At the apex of his swing, he released his feet from the pliant branch and shot upwards, neatly catching the highest branch on the tree and wrapping his agile legs firmly around it.

            Bouncing slightly upside down with the branches recoil, Symeon blinked around his enclosure. What to do; what to do…

             The dartboard tacked to the far wall was already perforated with dart points past and present, and he had gone too long with it anyway. The swing-set was entirely too grounded, he much preferred his current vantage.

            Gazing from the computer, across the picture wall, platted with animal, human and strange unreal photos he guessed were fantasy from his handlers’ minds. Past the obstacle course and finally, ah, that was what he wanted.

            The 72 in. plasma TV perched invitingly beside a less enticing rock garden, complete with snaking wires and curving white objects he had yet to explore.

            Springing down to the packed earth and stone of the enclosure floor, Symeon loped over to the TV, snatching up a white object and fingering the TV’s sides until it lit up.

            Crouching back on his hairy haunches, Symeon squinted at the screen. Figures and bright objects began to bounce around the edges of the bright screen.

            Unsure, he prodded at his white object. A character on the screen sprung upwards unexpectedly. So the white object made it move.

            Over several minutes, Symeon mastered the controller, figuring out how to attack the other flamboyant characters on screen, how to move and evade, and finally, how to win.

            Hooting like his less civilized relatives, Symeon flung his controller at the screen in victory. He had mastered yet another thing. Leaping up, Symeon swiveled, looking for something new to conquer, there was so much to do in his room.

            Outside the long observing window, Doctor Povral sketched out a few words on his clipboard. The subject was coming along nicely. From where he had been looking at the opposite windows monkey, Doctor Manning joined Povral, swinging his completed clipboard beside him.

            “Anything new with the primary?” he inquired, squinting through the window. Povral need not answer, but did anyway. “Oh yes, Subject Symeon is coming along unexpectedly well.”

            Manning nodded, slightly awed by the room behind the window. “Good lord, there’s something you don’t see everyday.” Inside, monkey Symeon had found a hatstand and had begun to dance with it.

            “Make sure not to give it too much to do, it might rub off,” he said to Povral, watching the monkey with a nervous eye. The Doctor shook his head, laughing. “Come on doctor, honestly. What could a simian possibly ever do to us?”

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Tell us what you think in the little box for words below, and while your at it, watch out for spelunking Giraffes.

Easter Prep: A Holiday Short Story

This is a short story genre we've never tried, and probably never will again, so read closely. 

They've gone into what happens on Christmas Eve, bionic reindeer and enslaved elves. They've written on Halloween and alien abduction for candy, death fights over Mars bars, and so on.

But have you ever read a story on what goes on Easter's Eve? This is definitely it.

Enjoy, and watch out for Wyverns.

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“Big Yo, this is Good Egg, all units present and in position.”

         “Roger that, Good Egg. And I told you, its Big Yoke.”

“Affirmative Big Yoke, all units ready.”

         “Move ‘em in.”

         From behind the rhodedendron bush, Big Yoke watched as his eggheads appeared from behind other bushes around the park, their black ninja masks encircled by the trademark colored stripes.

         Switching off his wockey-tockey, Big Yoke reached up and scratched his furry ear furiously, taking stock of the situation as his unit closed in on the prime zone.

         Good Egg bounced slightly ahead, moving faster than his comrades, but measuring his leaps so not to get completely out of formation. He was a new agent, but was one of the best BY had seen yet.

         The hopping system had been a branded part of the operations since the seasonal big bang, BY asserted; supposedly even members of their genus relations had copied their breakthrough in movement.

         Rubbing his drooping lug contemplatively, BY sat back. He wondered if Whitebeard’s elves also had a system. They were certainly more recognized.

         But publicity was definitely not high in his operation, the only thing the people really knew about it was the stealth itself.

         Contented that his celeb was suffisciently greater than the fat man’s, BY went back to watching his squad.

         The circle had stopped now, having reached the zone, and began taking out equipment. Long cylindrical magazines appeared from their body suits and slotted into each’s specialized rifle.

         Some fumbled with their gear, nervous at the job. It wasn’t every year that the Big Yoke oversaw an operation.

         Two thirds of the squad split from the idling main circle and set about with their parts, blending almost seamlessly with the dark grass and shady bushes, save for the jouncing beams of their ears weaving through the darkness.

         Buckteeth flashing in a grin; BY unclipped his binoculars and set to watching the operation. These eggheads were the primary section of the mission, while the rest would be making the more specialized work.

         Winding the binocular lenses to the distance, BY watched as the operatives began shelling the park. Hard Boiler, the head of the down, knelt beside a park bench and shot a brightly colored egg into the cropped grass.

         Priming his gun once again, Hard Boiler punched another colorful oval into the space under a bush. Around the park, similar eggs were shooting into their spots from egghead rifles.

         After finishing shelling the park, the primary rabbit squad melted back into the main circle, allowing the special force to spread out.

         These mammals all carried satchels instead of rifles, with a red egg symbol emblazoned on their shoulders, denoting them as specialist agents.

         BY watched as, one by one, they set to work. These were the profesional shellers, prancing across the dark grass, they scaled lampposts, flicking eggs into their chambers, then sliding down and ninja walking through the bushes, twisting them into roots, perchign them in bush crowns, and on, until their satchels were empty.

         Raising his paw, BY checked his watch. They were almost out of time. Half an hour was the absolute max for a park shelling operation.        Flicking on his wockey-tockey, Big Yoke barked through to his agents.

         “Hard Boiler, Good Egg, pull your squads out, we need to move!”

         “Roger that, BY,”

         Affirmative, Big Yo.”

         Strangling Good Egg was not a good idea, BY knew. He decided instead to put him on warren clean up once they were back. Right now, they had too much to do.

         Following the dissipating eggheads, BY turned slightly to see the church steeple peeking from behind the trees.

         Enjoy yourself kids, He thought. Then turned and bounced after his squad, they still had several thousand parks to equip for the holidays.

And Another Thing

As we probably haven't informed you, one of J.T.Z. Baner--me, in short--has centered his Camp NaNoWriMo project on novellas, just a fancy word for jumped up short stories, the highest form of shortened novel writing.

Over the first ensuing days of Camp, I've realized what energizes your brain really well is just a dive into the imagination, a random flirt with the letter keys per se.

In short, a three thing story prompt. I've done three of them so far in the first few days of camp, and they've helped immensely, the fact that I am still behind nine hundred words is irrelevant.

Here are some of the more enjoyable ones I've done so far, if you want to read more, just comment below with three (preferably imaginative) story components.

BEGIN!!!

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1. A record player

2. A first edition Gulliver’s Travels

3. A diadem

The shop closed soon after daylight had discontinued its glare against the dusty windows. Shooing a few stray children clutching (all four of them) what they thought was a first edition of Gulliver’s Travels. And they thought right, Erik thought, bolting the door and flipping the open sign to its opposite. He was no swindler, a bookstore was a bookstore, and he liked to think his was the best in London.

            Just as he was closing the blind, and alreadyt hinking about his squashy armchair and the ancient record player sitting invitingly out of sight upstairs, Erik caught sight of three dark figures scuttling from an alleyway like bipedal beetles, up the steps of the museum and seemingly straight through its dark windows.

            Immediately discarding his thoughts of sleep, Erik unlocked the front door and toed silently out and up to the museum’s window where the figures had dissapeared. He immediately realized that they had cleanly cut out a wide circle of glass from the tall windowpane. All thoughts that the figures were not burglars were flushed from Erik’s mind. Looking around to see if any bobbies were coming by, Erik saw none. With a disgruntled swearword, Erik clambered through the window hole and into the dark interior.

            Far ahead through the blackness he caught sight of a jumping beam of bright light, the burglars had broguth flashlights. Creeping forwards, Erik passed the dark bulk of the information desk and through a corridor into what he thought might be the jewels wing.

            Ahead, the beams of light dissapeared as the figures went down a stairwell. Erik found a spiral stair and quickly clambered up it to a higher wing. Just below him, through the open middle of the wing, he saw three flashlight beams flick on and congregate around a small case. Bright white light glittered off of something jeweled. The museum’s diadem, Erik realized.

            Driven by a sudden impulse he turned, grabbed the nearest thing to hand, several glass orbs filled with cerimonial statuettes and hastened to the edge of the opened floor. Flinging down the orbs one by one, he struck down the figures in glittering explosions of ruptured glass.

            Outside the window, Erik shook his head; that would never happen. Flipping open his mobile, he clicked out 9-9-9, the police could handle the burglars.

1.  An ice berg

2. A fat duck

3.  And a spanish colonel

The punch stung Jake’s mouth like liquid bee sting. Glancing around surreptitious, he dumped the rank liquid into a nearby flowering bush. The bush swore fluently and peeled off a sopping daisy mask. That was the trouble with Halloween parties, surreptitious wasn’t in their dictionary.

            Unusually certainly was, Jake mused, two stepping past a human ice berg with a toy Titanic glued to it to avoid the profane flowerpot that still pursued him. Losing the figure in a massive wave of costumed humanity, Jake clipped some champagne from a passing Einstein Bobblehead’s tray.

            He had always liked costume parties, whether in Halloween or out. It gave people a chance to exercise their imagination, drink free beverages, and let loose in your shielded alias.

            Emptying the champagne into his mouth and tossing it aside, Jake made his way towards the room’s crowded doorway, snagging his springy feathers on a Spanish colonel’s dress uniform.

            His fat duck costume wobbled comically as he pried himself through the noisy doorway out into the far less noisy street, that was enough revelry for the night. Now to go home and egg those kids who TP’d his house last year….

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If you enjoyed them, comment below. If not, go and contract a beehive.