A chili cook off.
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The Ancient Pumpkin
The Ancient Pumpkin looked down upon his servants. Mice. Worms. Filth! Where was his mighty army! And here arrives the enemy.
"Trick or treat!" the Ancient Pumpkin heard from behind himself, his permanent grin defying his true feelings. He summoned all of his mighty energy inside. The candle gave a small flicker.
The same pronouncement repeated throughout the night, lessening over time, until it was silent. And then? Well, at least he had his mice and worms. They slowly ate away at him until he was a shriveled, gnarled, moldy shell of his once ancient glory.
Then one bright November day, darkness fell suddenly upon him. He was hoisted into the air and roughly deposited into the trash bin. He might be off to the landfill, but he was playing the long game. Little did his enemies know that the Ancient Pumpkin had left his offspring to fulfill his legacy. And when they did, revenge would be his!
Donald Trump, Winner of the World
Unfortunately for the world, Donald Trump lost the election. Upon hearing the results, he ripped his shirt off, pulled a glowing green crystal out of his back pocket, and shoved it in his mouth, crunching it profoundly. He washed it down with a large mug of black coffee, then opened the window.
Those in the room with Donald watched as he leaped out the window, and flew across New York, decimating it with his new laser vision. Not long after, a squadron of black hawk helicopters and F-22's came flying toward him from the south. They launched every missile they had at him, but he simply caught them and threw them back at the fleet.
Undeterred, he made his own way down to the White House, and confronted Kamala Harris. She tried to put up a fight, but she didn't have crystal-enhanced powers, so her only choice was to concede the election to him. But he didn't want the election. He knew that was his. What he wanted was world domination.
After receiving the presidency, he climbed up to the top of the White House and leaped off this building too. He flew across the globe, demolishing every major city and claiming the title of "Supreme Global Winner" for himself. He rejected all attempts of fealty by any suckers and instead set his sights on the moon.
Donald climbed up a nearby tower, and once again made another leap, this time flying all the way to the moon. The world knew peace for several days before they noticed the moon itself was changing. What was once a beautiful sentinel of the night, soon became persistent image of Donald Trump's face, winking with his classic grin at the planet he won for all to see throughout the night.
Alvin's Last Straw with the Carnies
Alvin was a ticket taker at the local fair. He stood in his booth taking customers' tickets with a smile, but the carnies kept poking him from behind. Having had enough, Alvin finally screamed at the top of his lungs, frightening the little girl in line with her mother.
The mother stared at Alvin, appalled, then whacked him in the face with her purse and walked away with her crying daughter. The carnies were rolling on the ground laughing behind Alvin. He turned around glaring at them, then felt a slimy substance on his face. He felt it and discovered it was egg albumen. Evidently the lady's purse had been filled with raw eggs.
The carnies laughed even harder, while Alvin simply stepped out of his booth, grabbed his jacket and began walking home. Mr. Beauford, the ring leader, called to him saying he'd be fired if he walked away. Alvin said nothing, and kept walking. It didn't matter to him, he never wanted to see those carnies again.
Arnold at Recess Haiku
Arnold ate a bug.
All the girls thought it was gross,
But the boys said "Coooool!"
Little Girl at the Beach Haiku
Digging in the sand,
She stands up holding a shell.
Crash! Saltwater gulp.
She stands up holding a shell.
Crash! Saltwater gulp.
Child Wide Awake Haiku
Please succumb to sleep!
You're up far past your bedtime,
And I've had enough.
A Day at Granny's
"Don't forget the bunions!" Grammy Crudgiums snapped at her seven- and five-year-old grandsons as they massaged her feet with disgust.
"Arnie, did you bring the anchovies?" Arthur whispered to his younger brother, who nodded and reached into his pocket with one hand, keeping the other sufficiently engaged with his insufferable grandmother's foot.
Arthur had to take over both feet while Arnie unrolled the tin, but once it was open, they each resumed a single foot, and began slipping anchovies in between each toe.
"There we are, finally, you two are learning to take some initiative!" she snapped at them again.
The two brothers stifled their snickers until the space between each toe was filled. Then they ran for the front door.
"Oh no you don't! Get back here you two numbskulls!" Grammy Crudgiums yelled, rolling over off of her daybed.
But when she got to her feet, the anchovies were so oily that she couldn't grip the floor. She began slipping all over the place, unable to keep up with her grandsons. They made it out the door, and by the time their grandmother slid to the front door, her son was walking up from his car to pick the boys up.
"About time, Andrew! Your boys have been tormenting me once again. Why I agree to watch them, I don't know, but you still have a long way to go with them at home." she yelled.
Her son was only mildly aware of her shouting though, as Arthur was explaining what she was making them do, and their retaliation. Their father started laughing, and his boys followed.
"What is it? What is so funny?" Andrew's mother shouted.
"Thanks mom, I'll work with the boys!" he simply said in reply. "Nice footwear, by the way!" he added.
Grammy Crudgiums looked down and wailed as she realized what they had done.
"You miserable little fools, get back here and clean this off of my feet this instance! What am I going to do? I'm a poor old lady! You're leaving me incapacitated!" She yelled as her son drove away laughing with is sons.
Attempt at Temperance
"S. . . Sir, d. . . don't you think you've had enough yogurt?" Ernold the squire said to his master.
"Enough? Preposterous. Make it hotter!" He yelled back in reply.
"Hotter! Of course, why didn't I think of that?" Ernold said, then trotted off back to the kitchens to fan the flames heating the yogurt.
The Ratfother's Final Heist
"Get the cheese!" The Ratfother shouted at his grunts. "Our ride's leaving in thirty!"
He hobbled down the hall as quickly as he could. The ride was sitting outside waiting for the gang to return from the heist. The large wedge of cheese soon passed by the Ratfother, carried by six grunts. They were soon out the door leaving the Ratfother alone in the house.
He dared not look back. Surely the cat was alert by now. Surely, he was even aware of the Ratfother himself hobbling down the hall. Surely. . . he was just playing with his mind. Enough the Ratfother thought.
He dropped his cane and turned around. There the cat was, walking smugly toward him. The sound of the wheels screeching outside indicated his ride had indeed left him. So, he put up his fists and prepared for his final fight.
"I'll give you the hairball of a lifetime. Come get it, Kitty."
And the cat pounced.
Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez
Everyone in attendance of the space soccer game was shouting into their microphones, cheering for Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez, the century's best space soccer player since Spele was in his prime. The game was tied with a minute left in the match. The Space Sombreros had the ball, but the Galactic Fuzz were playing excellent defense. After much pressure though, and with only three seconds remaining, Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez scored, claiming victory for the Space Sombreros.
When the commotion had died down, and the team had finished the initial surge of celebration, Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez took the microphone and stated to the crowd that he'd be retiring from soccer to become a poet. This was met with joy and sorrow, both in equal amounts of hysteria. Fans immediately began reading his poetry; it was viral on social media.
The problem was that his poetry was terrible. Often, it invoked a nauseous response, and anger grew over Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez's decision. Why would he think this was a good idea?
For example, one poem he wrote before his retirement went as follows:
In my locker room bag
I have much cream for various situations.
I wish I didn't need this cream, but then
maybe I don't?
For those that didn't exhibit nausea, the confusion still left it difficult for them to navigate their daily lives. Mockery and assault followed Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez wherever he went from then on. Unfortunately for the world, the choice of therapy for managing himself during these times was poetry, resulting in a horrific cycle.
Eventually the SSF (Space Soccer Federation) had to get involved, and even the UGG (United Galactic Government) had to send special forces to quell the rioting. They forcefully froze Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez's blog page, and hid it from the public until the situation was under control. The anguish of not being able to post publicly sent Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez into a deep depression.
He resorted to physically writing his poetry down, and keeping it in secret, maybe one day this will be read was his hope. That day wouldn't be soon, but he kept his journals, hoping one day they'd be released for all to enjoy.
Eventually the chaos of the situation subdued, and the soccer games resumed. Manuel Miguel Hernandez Fernandez was slowly forgotten, and soccer fans everywhere recovered from the effects of his poetry.
But just wait until you read my journals. . .
Buried in Life
Over time the meadow was overtaken by weeds. Then vines, shrubs, and trees found their home there, slowly engulfing the hero in a living sarcophagus. This would feed him, though. Slowly, it would return him to life, to full might. And when the time was right, he would burst forth, alight with life energy, ready to defeat the evil powers that slayed him here previously. The fools. Until then, though, time was his only companion.
Battlefield Clean Up
Crutch Ship Three flew up next to the battlecruiser. Debris from the gaping hole in the ship created a maze for the crutch ship to navigate. Slowly and carefully, it eventually navigated to its designated side of the downed spaceship.
CS1 and CS2 had been tethered for over half an hour now, but they were on the clean side of the battleship.
"Mitch, what's taking you so long buddy? We've gotten through three games of Smashtroids waiting for you!"
"The field's strewn with debris, guys, and we're already down two Crutches."
"Alright alright, get into place so we can move this thing back to the maintenance yard."
"I'm hooked up. Tension check passed. On your command Val."
"This is CS1 requesting entry to Dark Side"
"This is Dark Side command, you're clear for entry."
"Affirmative, en route now. ETA is ninety minutes."
"Roger. Just watch asteroids and debris. We've been having trouble keeping the space clear these last few battles. The junk piles up faster than we can clear it."
"Understood. Maybe they'll finally consider giving us blasters; we could help clear it."
"I think we'd all appreciate it. Anyway, see you in ninety."
"Roger that."
"Roger that."
Val cut the Dark Side comms and resumed chatter with her crutch companions. "This is gonna be a long ride guys. With the debris everywhere, they've prohibited auto pilot, so no Smashtroids during the trip."
"Boo!" Ernest shouted from CS2.
". . . Anyone know any good folk songs?" Mitch asked.
Silence followed.
"You'll pipe up in ten minutes," he added.
Laughter sounded throughout the radios. Maybe it wouldn't be that long of a trip back after all.
Cricket Cookies
"A pinch of salt. . . A dash of squished toadstool. . . and a handful of chopped crickets. . . Mmmm Creepy Cookies!" Mrs. Saggybones muttered as she prepared the dough for her famous Halloween treats.
Her grandchildren were over to help before going trick or treating. "Ewww Grandma! We can't hand those out!"
"Of course we can, dears. It's Halloween!" she replied.
She put the cookies in the oven, and while they baked, she helped the kids get dressed in their costumes. To their disappointment, she wouldn't let them go until the cookies were done; she didn't want to leave the oven on while they were out.
When the cookies finished baking, and had sufficiently cooled, other children were already knocking at the door. Mrs. Saggybones' grandchildren were begging to go out by now, but before she took them out, she asked if they wanted to hand out cookies to the other kids.
Their faces changed to those of completely devious schemers. Hand out cricket cookies to the kids? Heh heh heh she could almost hear them thinking.
They gladly handed each and every kid a cookie, eager to see their reaction.
"Mmm crunchy!"
"With gooey bits!"
The kids shouted as they ate their cookies. Meanwhile Mrs. Saggybones' grandkids were lying on the floor, clutching their stomachs laughing.
". . . vanilla and cookie wafer pieces" Mrs. Saggybones could be heard speaking to another parent, but her grandkids had no idea what that meant. When they had recovered, they went eagerly out into the night to score as big of a haul of candy as they could.
Ashton's Table
Well, there was a man, Ashton, and he was frustrated. He kept trying to figure things out, but nothing was working. "Fine," he said. "I'll just make a table. I dunno what else to do."
So, he began making a table. Day by day he figured things out. He cut some wood. Made some notches. Learned to make rope. Then he fit all the pieces together as best as he could, and lashed them together securely, and in the end, he made a perfectly usable table.
Was the table expertly made? Not at all.
Was it beautiful? Not really. Sure, it had a "natural charm" to it, but it was rough wood, a little too high -- he could change that -- and it warped in the middle; nothing lay completely flat on top.
But who cares? He needed to do something. So, he made a table, and it worked. And what he realized after making the table was, he learned a little bit.
He learned a little about cutting wood, and making rope, and putting a project together. He used his time constructively, without knowing whether it would pay off at all. But he didn't realize how much it would in fact pay off.
The next day a travelling merchant had set up in the market square. Behind the baskets he had set up front, he was trying to fix his broken table. Ashton noticed this and realized he could help. But he wasn't a carpenter by trade, he had only made one table. But no one else was stopping to help, so he walked over and offered to take a look.
One of the legs had come loose and was not staying in place. Ashton found some loose cord and used the rope tying skill he'd learned to fix the leg in place. "Amazing!" the merchant exclaimed. "Are you a carpenter?" he asked.
"No, but I built a table last week." Ashton replied.
"I'd like a new one, will you build me one? I'll pay you handsomely."
Ashton considered it. He built one table that wasn't very good. A merchant wouldn't want an inferior one, he'd want a quality one. Could Ashton provide that?
"Um, I can try" he finally responded.
"Excellent, I look forward to it! I'll be here the remainder of the week. I'd love to leave this town with a new table to show off my wares."
"I'll do what I can." Ashton said, leaving to go figure out how on earth he'd build another table in only a few days.
"I'll do what I can." Ashton said, leaving to go figure out how on earth he'd build another table in only a few days.
Questions and uncertainties filled his mind for hours, but eventually he arrived at the realization that he could at least try to build this merchant a table. So he set to work gathering the same materials he'd used for the first one. Some wood, some rope, and the knowledge he already had about building mediocre tables.
Ashton set to work over the next few days, and three days later he tied the final knot in his second table. He stepped back to look at it. It was still mediocre. . . But he had made this one much faster than the first one. He even had time to add finishing details, and when he was done, he was truly proud of what he had created.
The following day he lugged the table to the market square and found the merchant. When the merchant saw the table, he was elated. "You built this? in three days? Incredible!"
The two of them set it up together, and the merchant found he had plenty of room to nicely display his wares. Instead of baskets strewn in front, he had some on top of the table, some still in front, and the extra he stored underneath the table.
"Good sir, you have made me quite happy today. Please take this gold as payment!" the merchant said, handing Ashton a sack of gold coins. It was more gold than he'd ever held at once in his life.
"Wow, thank you! Thank you, this is so generous!" Ashton said
"Nonsense, you've earned every bit of that. Go! Make a living for yourself. When I hope to be in need of an additional table, and I hope I'll be able to count on you for that!"
"Yes. . . Yes sir. Thank you again!"
"Yes. . . Yes sir. Thank you again!"
The merchant began packing up his stall, and Ashton began walking home. Before he could leave the market square, though, several other merchants came up to him requesting tables for themselves. Astounded, he began taking their orders, and when he was done, he took the gold and the orders home and began thinking about how he would possibly fulfill all of these.
Well. I built one table. Then I built another. Why couldn't I build a few more? he thought. So, the next day he gathered even more supplies. Enough for all of the orders. But this time he had the foresight to gather enough for even more. Suppose I get another order between now and when I gather supplies again was his reasoning.
Then he began building tables over the next several weeks. And incredibly, orders began arriving from other towns. Ashton began making enough money to hire other people to gather supplies for him, and for new tools to help him build better tables. He had found his way into supporting himself. And all because I decided to build a table he thought.
Chase on the Docks
There he is. Wendall. I know he sees me. Maybe he doesn't know I see him, yet Ansther thought. He continued operating his crane as if it were a normal day. But then Wendall sprinted forward. He knows!
Ansther smashed the side window and dove out just as Wendall smashed his front window, clearly intending to tag Ansther right there. And if he were tagged, he'd be stuck in that energy field until Westingham saw to him. Ugh.
Anther leaped across the shipyard, dodging behind containers as best he could. Several times he felt the tug of the field right at his feet as Wendall shot tags at him, but none had captured him yet.
The chase would continue as long as Wendall liked. He had more stamina than Ansther, but Ansther was slightly more agile -- though his agility was dwindling from sitting in the dockyard crane for so long. There was one way to escape the chase, one that Ansther had been preparing for a while now.
At the next container he dodged right, away from the dock, and from any opportunity to escape the docks, toward the ocean. He found himself at the gunwale, and without hesitation, dove into the water. The energy field would be so weak here Wendall wouldn't bother trying to capture him. And there he was, peering over the edge, resting on one elbow with a smug casualness. Clearly intent on waiting until Ansther ran out of air.
Ansther dove further down, and under the ship. Had he still been looking up at Wendall, he'd have seen him roll his eyes at prolonging the inevitable -- or at least the gesture of doing so behind his blank mask. What Wendall wouldn't see from the deck was the hidden compartment Ansther had constructed under the ship and had been stocking for over a year now.
He'd be able to survive for a long time. Please presume me dead he'd spend most of his time thinking, though.