The veterinary Cleric plopped Nogard down on a padded examination table. He poked and prodded at the dragon for a few minutes.
“Hmm,” he said. “Oh my,” he said. “This is not good,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Cliven.
“This isn’t mange; it’s an advanced case of Necromantic Fasciitism!”
“Welcome to third grade!” said Miss Flannerty. “Let’s get to know one another! Tell me your name and your favourite drink!”
Billy and Bobby and Suzie liked apple juice and iced tea and Kool-Aid.
“That’s great!” said Miss Flannerty. “My name is Karen, and I like absinthe! Taste test, anyone?”
CRASH!
Two men burst through a stained-glass window and plummeted downwards.
One man screamed aloud.
The second man suavely raised an arm and caught the first as a parachute ballooned out of his sleeve.
“You saved me again!” cried Timothy Thicke.
Evan Edgelow smiled. “It’s what I do. Now, run!”
“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night!”
“Get off the stage!”
“What, you wanna start something?”
“That’s right! Fight me, funny man!”
They fought. The comedian won.
“Go ahead,” said the heckler. “Make a joke at my expense.”
The comedian shrugged. “I don’t want to ruin the punchline.”
Editor’s Note: This story originally resulted in the police breaking up the fight, but I decided that using that ending would be too much of a cop-out.
The enders huddled together confused, searching for a way to begin.
“Is it possible?” asked Denouement.
“I doubt it,” sighed Foregone.
“Ha!” exclaimed Period, “I bet you it’s already happened!”
“Let’s ask Paradox,” suggested Unresolved, though he knew as well as anyone that Paradox was absent.
Paradox just smiled knowingly.
Today’s Guest Story comes from Jeremy Petter. Jer is a member of LoadingReadyRun.com, an internet sketch comedy group that updates with a new video every Monday. LoadingReadyRun (LRR) recently launched www.commodoreHUSTLE.com to hosts LRR’s web TV show commodoreHUSTLE, which updates with a new episode on the first Monday of each month.
Two bodies sway across the living room, their dance accompanied by the soothing strains of Barry Manilow.
“Mmph,” says the woman. “Your chin is… prickly.”
“Yeah,” says the man. “I’m going for sort of an ‘anthropomorphized wombat’ look. Do you like it?”
“…Here’s a razor. Your choice: chin or throat.”
Editor’s Note: This story was based on a call on Twitter for a noun, an adjective, and a verb. @Sarahkitten responded with wombat, prickly, and dance.
Noon: the sun stood still overhead.
A man in a black hat faced a man in a brown hat.
“Take ten paces!” cried the sheriff.
One, two, three, four—BANG!
Brown hat fell. Blood pooled in the dust; black hat smirked.
BANG!
Black hat fell. “Filthy cheater,” said the sheriff.
“Tell us a story, Grampa!”
“Alright, kids! Once there was an old man with fourteen grandchildren. He was a grumpy man, so he took all their toys away and burned them. The End.”
“Thanks for the story, Grampa! Can we play dolls now?”
“Sorry, Susie. It was a true story.”
Cock gun, point gun, pull trigger. Only three simple steps separated George from vengeance. The stupid cow stood and blinked its heavy-lidded eyes, oblivious.
This isn’t difficult, George chided himself. Cock, point, pull.
He couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t his conscience. It was just hard to balance on one leg.
Muscles rippled under the skin of the runner’s mighty thighs.
BANG!
They were off!
He kept his head down, pouring all of his energy into each stride. No challengers were close behind, and only a few yards remained!
WHOOSH!
The rest of the pack swept past, moving the opposite direction.