Vignette II: Bank Robber It was a drizzly May day in Breebleville, when the skies were thick with gray and musty smell wafted over the sidewalks. Most people were holed up in their homes, watching TV, playing games, and avoiding the visual despair that seeped through the glass of the windows. The workers at Smith & Josten Bank creeped through their daily jobs as the plain beige walls of their offices flayed their sanity and the clock mocked the workers with its cruel face.
It was on this dreary day that a man calmly walked into the bank. He was a man with a shaven head, and dull brown eyes. He was wearing a rotting hoody, some moldy jeans that were held together by fabric strips the size of human hairs, and a blissful smile that would shame the sun.
"I'm terribly sorry to intrude," he said to the nearest bank clerk, "but I'm afraid I'm going to have to rob this bank."
Vignette I: Interrogation Room "Where were you on the night of March 16, 2007?" The interrogator screamed.
"What?" Bob stared wide-eyed around the dank room, disoriented and frightened. It was a small garage, poorly lit with rotting cement walls. A very important looking Lincoln was parked in front of the rusting garage door, and the smell of ancient dust and mildew seeped from the walls.
"You know what I said, shit head," the interrogator said. "Did you rob the bank of Smith & Josten on the sixteenth of March? Huh? Did you?"
The interrogator towered over the metal chair that Bob was tied to. He was a large and sweaty man, whose pores could envelop a cat and whose gut threatened to conquer a small country with its bulk. His pits reeked of pond water and mustard. The interrogator had claimed he was f
ProtocolPROTOCOL: Scan, examine, terminate. Leave no survivors.
The robot forced the door open, the wood splintering under the force of a hydraulic leg. The hall was bathed with sunlight as the door flew across the tile floor and crashed against the wall, and dust hung suspended in the air, unsettled by the missile that had struck the building. The robot stepped inside, observing the bodies that lay inside, draped over tables and leaning quietly against the walls. The missile had delivered a shockwave tuned to the frequency of human bone, emitting that frequency throughout the structure and foundation of the building, causing any human touching ground to have their bodies shattered. The recipients would struggle with their last breath as ribs failed to support them, blubbering incoherently as their brains and mouths fought fruitlessly against the force of gravity. It was simple, effective, and
Memoir: Ski TripIt was the spring of 2006, my sister, Tiff, was home for break. I was pressuring my dad to take the family to a ski trip; I had not been skiing for 2-3 years, and my legs longed to be on the slope, carving graceful curves out of powder with technologically advanced pieces of fiberglass. Not wanting to bear the burden of finding acceptable rates, fares, everything that a working man is concerned about in life when taking a vacation, our father set the job upon the rest of us to find a good mountain, sending the possible candidates to him for review. Our mother, in the behavior of someone who has a deathly fear of heights and skiing, told us she didn't care which mountain and that Tiff and I should find it ourselves. So we searched.
In less than a day (about 2 hours, in fact), we had singled down a couple ski slopes, which included Vale, Copper Mountain, and Breckenridge. The list was e-mailed to dad, and he
SUPER ZOMBIE PIRATE ISLANDJuJu Bonnyhopkinalitz stepped into the arena with an air of angst. This was an angst most foul, deriving from an origin most foul. This origin was a cheesy and poorly written title of a clearly plotless and stupid fiction, but the angst spewing forth from it could not be denied. (Little known fact: 97.3% of all angst in fiction derives from titles, and only 2.5% was pinpointed to have spawned from gruesome deaths of family. The other .2% is attributed to the immense hatred of furry woodland creatures).
On the other side stood a zombie. Its flesh rotted of rotting flesh, and it smelt of smelliness. Amidst the cheering crowd, it screeched a foul battle cry: "uh…"
This was it! The GREAT DREAD PIRATE BONNYHOPKINALITZ, having been subject to a mutiny, stranded on an island for 15 years (even among mutineers, not giving a survival kit to a marooned man is a disgrace most foul. These pirates were none too smart, as proven by th
BiochemistWatch them suffer.
Watch them writhe.
Watch them as the gasp their last, their pitiful life freed from their mortal filth.
He watched the man fall to the ground, grasping his swelling throat.
"It's a shame, you know. So many just like you, hopelessly loyal to whatever being offers you a shred of wealth. It's a shame that you're all expendable, that I might have to recite this very speech to countless numbers of you. I could very well watch you choke to death, but, my friend, I'm offering you a choice."
The man, dressed in a dark winter jacket and all but his face covered in black cloth, pulled out a small vial filled with clear liquid from the folds of his coat, and brought it to the blue face of the choking man.
"This, my friend, is an antidote. I can give it to you if you want to cooperate. Or you can choke to death. It's your choice."
The choking man nodded furiously, desperate to survive.
"I'm glad you chose this way
ChangeIn a small, forgotten cabin in the forest lived two philosophers. Their names were Bill and Ned. Every day they rose, made tea, and discussed the meaning of life; on occasion one entered the city to gather supplies. One day, Bill came back from his town errands to the sight of Ned tossing a book into the fireplace.
"Why are you throwing that book into the fire? I thought you opposed to books being burned," Bill said.
"I'm opposed to story being burned," Ned said. "This is not a story."
"Why ever not? It is a fictional narration, am I correct?" Bill inquired.
"But there is no story between the cover, no intrigue within the leaves," he responded.
"And why is that?"
"Because the characters never evolved. It was nothing more than you said, a fictional narration. It was just a description of events, nothing more."
"It is possible that it was a story," Bill stated.
"With no change?" Ned questioned.