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Monthly Archives: October 2010

I promise, this won’t be a habit…

Seriously, I have to get up for work at 5am in the morning, and I just got home from seeing “Phantom of the Opera” live at the Pantages Theater in Hollywood (woot!).  So, I gotta go to bed like now.  I’ll try to write a story at work again tomorrow.  Hooray for being a slacker!  (Not really, I won’t have much else to do tomorrow, so it should be cool)

Love and skiddlypoops,

the SotWC

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Posted by on October 26, 2010 in Announcements

 

The Princess and Her Guest (story #73)

Ahhhhhhhhh, that’s much better.  All full of sleep and ready to write a story while I’m still at work (I’m such a rebel).  Actually, I should be editing a lecture right now, but anyone who edits – especially stuff for work that you’re not personally invested in – would almost certainly agree that you have to take some mental breathers while doing this or you go out of your mind.  Can I get a “hey” from my editors out there?

Anyway, I fell like it’s a good day for a fairytale.  Don’t worry about the possible double-entendre that could come with a “fairy tale,” I already did that in the first incarnation of the SotWC fifteen years ago.  No, instead, I plan to be inspired by EC comics “Grim Fairytales.”  Heh heh heh.

THE PRINCESS AND HER GUEST

"When Shall I Marry a Fabulously Wealthy Prince?" Art by Holly Knevelbaard

Once upon a time, there was a princess named Gertrude who lived in a castle named Hanter.  She would often wander the halls of Castle Hanter and ask herself important philosophical and existential questions like, “am I the prettiest princess ever?” and “when will I marry a fabulously wealthy prince?”  Unfortunately, no one else lived in the castle, so there was never an answer to her queries.

How did she eat, you may ask, with no one living there to prepare her food?  Worry you not, dear readers, her food was prepared daily.  How were her fine dresses cleaned and pressed, you may wonder, with no one living there to tend to her clothing?  Fret not a moment, children, her every need was met.  Why was the stable full of horses if no one lived there to ride them?  And who tended the magnificent animals?  Ask no more questions now, ponder no riddles.  You will discover, as our next character may, that Castle Hanter is full of surprises.

Our next character arrived one sunny and blustery Thursday morning.  As she stood on the parapets, Princess Gertrude saw him approaching on horseback, a standard flying from a saddle-bound flagpole.  He looked to be a knight, young and strapping and strong.  Full of excitement and anticipation, she ran downstairs to meet the approaching stranger.  “Raise the portcullis!” she cried, and the portcullis was raised.  “Lower the drawbridge!” she cried, and the drawbridge was lowered.  With great flair, flapping of flags, and sounding of trumpets, the princess stepped forward into the sunlight to meet her guest.

“Greetings to you, good sir, from Castle Hanter,” she said, curtsying with a royal flourish.

“Castle What?” the stranger said without removing his helmet.  Gertrude immediately grew suspicious of him.

“Castle Hanter,” she repeated, and considered giving another royal curtsy.  She decided against it, however, and was glad in the next moment.

“What a silly name for a castle,” the strange knight said, still astride his horse, still wearing his helmet.

“Well!” Gertrude exclaimed.  “When I spied you from the parapets, sir, I was excited to have a guest.  Now, if you insist on being rude, I shall have to ask you to turn your steed about and vacate my considerably large lands post-haste.”

“I mean not to be rude,” he answered.  “I only and always speak my mind.”

“Your speech may offend,” she replied, “but your manner makes your matter so much the worse.  Had you doffed your helmet as a gentleman may, or removed yourself from your horse, it may have gone some distance to excuse your words.  But I see no merit in your manner, nor wisdom in your words.”

The knight said nothing, but quietly began to laugh under his helmet.  Gertrude grew more furious by the moment.  She had, upon seeing his approach, thought to invite the man not in, but out for a walk about the castle grounds.  The angrier she became, the more she resolved to invite him in instead.  It would serve him right.

“Your anger doth much excuse your attitude,” the knight said finally, “but your reproach doth entertain more than vex.  Is there no king to invite me into this ill-named fortress?”

“I am all who live in this castle,” she replied, not giving a second thought to any danger such an admission might bring upon her.

“Just so?” the knight replied.  “Then if you, as lord and lady of this castle, will invite me in, I will promise to remove my helmet and make such an apology as is necessary to secure your favor.”

“You would enter such an ‘ill-named’ fortress?” she teased.

“And so I may,” he responded.  “If invited.”

“And so you are,” she replied icily, “with all due thanks and anticipation of an eventful visit.”

With that, the knight dismounted his horse and followed the princess inside.  Had he looked back, he may have seen his horse led away in such a manner as to cause him to flee.  He did not turn, however, and what happened next is what happened next.

Entering the dark and cavernous main hall, the knight begged the princess to stop and tarry a moment.  “We are within, now,” he said, “and my helmet may be removed as requested.”  And so he removed his helmet, revealing his pale, white skin, evil red eyes, and glistening fangs.

Gertrude gasped.  “Nosferatu,” she said softly.

He laughed again.  “I am known by many names.”  He stepped closer to her, but she did not flinch.  “Ido so enjoy this age of heavy armor,” he continued.  “It provides such cover even at mid-day as may befit one of my kind, permitting passage as freely in sunlight as any dark shadow.”

“And so may you fool innocent maidens,” she said and, alarmingly, stepped closer to the creature of the night.  “But none such easy prey as a princess with no living relatives in a castle bereft of company, is that not right monsieur vampyre?”

“So you say,” he replied, “and so it is.”  He reached out for her, long fingers splayed out to grab a handful of her throat.

She smiled.

“Father!” she called.  “Are you going to let this beast have his way with me?”

“Father?” the vampire said, recoiling slightly.  “Why do you call someone who is not here?  You yourself told me you live here alone.  Play no fool’s games with me, girl.  I can read your eyes, yet, and see no lie there.”

“You see no lie for no lie exists,” she said, her grin growing wider.  “I said that none live here but me, and ’tis truth.  I live.  Others do not.”

The vampire felt a hand fall upon his armored shoulder.  With cat-like reflexes, he spun around, lashing out with his razor-sharp fingernails, sure to spill the blood of anything behind him.

But there was nothing there.

Surrounded by nothing, the vampire felt himself lifted from the ground.  “What madness is this?” he cried as the buckles and straps of his armor were sprung.

“My family protects me, though you cannot see them” Gertrude said as she walked slowly around the writhing figure hovering above the floor.  “They feed me and tend the horses and see to my every need.  And have done so ever since they were all murdered by vampires as I hid in the dungeons.  The very night-stalkers who sought to take this castle for their own were the first victims of my family’s wrath.  Wrath from beyond the grave.”  Stripped of all but the barest underclothes, the vampire hung in the air, staring at his hostess as she stopped and looked him in the eyes.  “Ghosts are here, monsieur vampire.  They live not, but need not live.  Not in a haunted castle.”

The vampire’s screams filled the great hall as he was carried to the front of the castle.  “Raise the portcullis!” Gertrude called, and the portcullis was raised.  “Lower the drawbridge!” she called, and the drawbridge was lowered.  Sunlight streamed in, and her guest was no more.

As she walked outside to visit her new steed in the stables, she asked herself “when shall I marry a fabulously wealthy prince?”

And, as always, the answer returned to her was silence.  She smiled.

THE END

Interesting.  And finished just in time to leave work.  Huzzah and good cheer for all.  Happy “Thursday.”

See you next week,

the SotWC

 
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Posted by on October 20, 2010 in Fantasy, Horror

 

Not Feeling Well, Going to Bed!

Wel, kidies, I haven’t ben slepig very well the pat few night, and apparently it’s affected my ability to spel properly.  Wow, this was supposed to e the eginning of tonih’s story, but I am so out of it that that’s what I ended p with.  I’ve decided not to correct ny of my typos just so you will be utterky convinced of my need to go to bed now instead of writing a story.  This just keeps getting better.  I wonder if anoe cn ctually decipher the meanings of these sentences.  Come t tink of it, mae it wod be fun to writ ea story in this state just to see if anyone could read it…

Nah, the humor alue is outweighed by my need for sleep.  I’ll write a story tomorrow and hope you can all forgive me. I swear, I am just seleeep-deprived, not drunk, despite whht thheese typos look liike.  🙂  Nghty-night.

See you tomorrow,

the SotWC

 
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Posted by on October 19, 2010 in Announcements

 

The Story of the Spider Who Wouldn’t Hurt a Fly (story #72)

Well, here it is, another Tuesday, another story.  I am listening to some way 80s-tastic music right now (Madonna and Paula Abdul, to be exact.  Don’t judge.) so I considered writing a nostalgic 80s story in the same vein as the groovy 70s story from a few weeks back.  Then I realized I don’t feel like it.  Instead I plan to write something inspired by the red and yucky spider-bite I am dealing with on my arm right now (and for the past few days).  Red and yucky and IRONIC when you consider I’m the only person I know who actually likes spiders.  You’d think the little buggers would cut me a break.  Oh well.  At least I looked up symptoms of a black widow bite and am certain that’s not what bit me.  Huzzah and good cheer all around.  No abdominal cramps or nausea here.  Just an angry red arm.  Good Lord, I’m just talking about my day.  I better start writing the story; this starting to look like an actual blog.

THE STORY OF THE SPIDER WHO WOULDN’T HURT A FLY

Once there was a spider named Terrance.  He was a pretty fierce-looking wolf spider (commonly found in Virginia, like every time I used to mow the lawn and they’d scatter up the walls of the house) and he knew it.  He even intimidated other wolf spiders.  “Grr,” he would growl when other spiders would come near him.  For those of you who don’t know, spiders don’t usually make noise and they certainly don’t growl.  Yeah, that’s just how much of a badass Terrance was.  Too bad about his name, but, hey, his mom had to name 150 other kids at the same time when he hatched.  She did her best.

So, one day, Terrance’s sister, Port-o-potty, came up and said, “hey, bro, wanna go hunting?”

“Nah,” said Terrance.  “I’m just gonna sit here and look like a badass.  Bring me back something if you can.”

“Listen, T,” Port-o-potty said, “I don’t mind bringing you flies and stuff, but, seriously.  It’s been like, two months since you went hunting.  We’re all kind of worried about you.  I was just talking to Fartypepper this morning and he agreed; you need to get out more.”

“Look,” I’m fine,” Terrance replied.  “I just don’t feel like hunting.”

“But you’re the biggest badass in the whole state of Virginia,” his sister said.

“I know,” Terrance said and grinned an evil grin.  That’s how much of a badass he was; he could grin even though he didn’t have lips or teeth.

Just then, one of Terrance’s other brothers came creeping up (not that he was trying to be creepy, it’s just kind of what happens when you have 8 legs; you creep everywhere).  “Hey, sis.  Hey, bro,” he said.

“Hey, Tikitorch,” Terrance said.

“Hey, Teek,” said Port-o-potty, “don’t you think Terrance should get out more often?”

“Oh, sure,” said Tikitorch.  “I was just talking to Old-blind-joe this morning about how we miss hunting with this big badass right here.”

“Aw, you’re sweet to say that,” said Terrance.  “I mean, um, Grr.”

“So, you’re going hunting, P?” said Tikitorch.

“Yeah,” she replied, “but I want Terrance to come.  He said no.  Again.”

“Hey, man,” said Tikitorch (and by “man,” he meant “spider”), “why don’t you tell us what’s going on.  We’re family.”

“Nothing’s going on!” Terrance shouted defensively.  “I just don’t wanna go hunting!  Isn’t it enough that I’m the biggest badass in the state?”

“It used to be,” said Port-o-potty.  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”  With that, she started crying.

“Aw, sis,” said Terrance, “don’t cry.”

The noise brought dozens of Terrance’s other family members (who, for some reason had not spread out all over the state upon being born like spiders are supposed to.  What are you gonna do?  Science doesn’t know everything, and these spiders were way into family ties.  Not the TV show), who all gathered around in a big, scary circle.  All of you out there who are afraid of spiders would have totally peed your pants at this many spiders hanging out together in one place.

Art by Josh Judd

“Hey!” said a spider named Kaboodle, “who made our sister cry?”

“Well…” said Tikitorch, who was worried about starting a fight.

“You better tell me,” said Kaboodle.  “I’m two and a half seconds older than you.”

“Okay,” said Tikitorch.  “It was Terrance.”

Everyone looked at Terrance.  After a long moment, Terrance went, “Grr.”

As impressed as they all were, they still kept staring at him until, finally, one of his sisters, Peepers Magoo, said, “all right, T.  What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Terrance protested.  “I just said I didn’t want to go hunting.  You know, for food.”

“You haven’t been hunting for months!” Terrance’s brother, Criminy Jones, called from the back of the crowd.

“Yeah, we already established that,” Terrance said.

“Oh, sorry,” said Criminy Jones, “I just got here.”

“Okay,” said Kaboodle, “let’s settle this.  Why don’t you go hunting anymore?”

“Aw, Bood, leave me alone,” Terrance said.

“No,” said Kaboodle.  “We finish this now.  We’re your family.  Tell us what’s going on.”

After a breathless silence, Terrance finally said, “it happened about two and a half months ago.  I was chasing down this juicy pillbug and he went under this big plastic thing.  Turns out it was a child’s stroller.  I climbed over the top of it, just looking for the bug and suddenly found myself sitting on a baby human’s arm.”

“Whoa,” said Port-o-potty.

“What did you do?” asked Tikitorch.

“I kind of freaked out,” Terrance admitted sheepishly.

“You?” said Peepers Magoo.  “But you’re the biggest badass in the state.”

“I know,” said Terrance.  “But I like people.  I know most of you think they’re ugly and scary, but I like them.  Always have.  So I didn’t want to frighten this little kid.”

“I guess that’s nice,” said Fartypepper, who was hanging around (literally) just above everyone’s head.

“I would have bit him,” said Kaboodle.

“That’s cuz you’re a butt,” said Terrance.  “I decided I wanted to just get out of there.  The kid was asleep, so I thought I’d be safe.  But then I heard his mother screaming.”

“His parents were there?” Port-o-potty asked.

“Yep,” said Terrance, “and they got pretty freaked out.  I mean, I was bigger than this kid’s whole hand.”

“What did they do?” Tikitorch asked.

“They got a broom,” Terrance said, “and they were gonna sweep me off the kid.  But I ran (or creeped, or whatever) out of there as fast as I could.”

“Wait a minute,” said Kaboodle.  “What does this have to do with you not hunting anymore?”

“I haven’t hunted since that day,” Terrance replied.

“Okay,” said Kaboodle as though he was talking to a child, “but why?”

“It happened when I jumped off the stroller,” said Terrance.

“What happened?” asked Fartypepper.  “You just up and decided not to hunt anymore?”

“Not exactly,” Terrance replied.

“Then what happened?” asked Port-o-potty.

“My tastes changed,” Terrance said.

“What do you mean?” asked Tikitorch.  “Like, you don’t wanna eat flies anymore?”

“Nope,” said Terrance.

“Because you got away from some humans?” Kaboodle asked skeptically.

“I never said I got away,” Terrance replied.

“What?” said Peepers Magoo.  “You’re saying…  What are you saying?”

“They hit me with the broom,” Terrance replied evenly.

His brothers and sisters looked at him, waiting for the rest of the story.

Finally, Terrance said, “and they killed me.”

It took a few moments for this to sink in.  Then, from up above them all, Fartypepper shouted “ZOMBIE SPIDER!”

Everyone screamed as Terrance jumped on Kaboodle and ate him right up.  When he was done, he looked up at his other brothers and sisters.  “Anyone got a problem with that?” he said.

“Naw,” said Port-o-potty.  “He was kind of a butt.”

“Word,” said Tikitorch.

“So, now that you’re dead, you only want to eat other spiders?” asked Peepers Magoo.

“Yeah, pretty much,” said Terrance.

“You’re not gonna eat the rest of us, are you?” said Criminy Jones.

“Yeah,” said Terrance.  “I probably will.”

“Well,” said Port-o-potty, “looks like it’s time to spread out across the state like we were supposed to upon birth.”

“Word,” said Tikitorch.

“Grr,” said Terrance.

THE END

Yeah, that’s right.  Zombie Spider.  Word.

See you in seven,

the SotWC

 
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Posted by on October 12, 2010 in Uncategorized

 

The Story of Linguine’s Drink (story #71)

I’m tired and I feel like writing this week’s story entirely in limericks.  And what?

THE STORY OF LINGUINE’S DRINK

Art by Josh Judd

There once was a man named Linguine

Who drank a thrice daily martini

He never got drunk

But his breath really stunk

For he made drinks with foot-long weenies!

You see, old Linguini resigned

to make drinks with whatever he’d find

So he went to a store

With hot dogs galore

(And also was out of his mind).

Now he’ll sit in the meat and cheese aisle

Grinning a welcoming smile

And if you stop by

He’ll see you and cry

“Why don’t you sit down for a while?”

Perhaps you’ll sit down to be nice

But, friend, you will not do it twice

For he’ll make you a drink

And before you can blink

You’ll know that one drink will suffice.

Perhaps you will smell the drink first

But the smell isn’t hardly the worst

For he’ll mash a frankfurter

and laugh, “meat is murder!”

And you will believe yourself cursed.

You may want a drink at first glance

It has apples and gin (made from plants)

But the first time I tried

I thought I had died

And the fright made me pee in my pants.

So, while I am never a meanie

I’ve told you the tale of Linguine

To warn you and say

You should run far away

From Linguine’s long-weenie martini!

THE END

What is wrong with me? I know limericks are inherently dirty, but I thought I could escape that pitfall by writing about something innocuous like food and drinks.  Oh, well.  Please don’t read any meaning into this poem; it’s too late for me to write something else instead.  🙂

See you in seven,

the SotWC

 

 

 
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Posted by on October 5, 2010 in Poetry