Heard, Force, Rascal

“You’re a slippery rascal, aren’t you? First you trick the gate guards to let you in, then drive your car into a convoy transporting ten million dollars, and with a combination of gunplay, knife play, and sheer blunt force trauma, take out a small army. All by yourself! I’m amazed at your hutzpah, Mister… ah yes, Mr. Unwilling-To-Give-His-Name. That’s ok, Mr. Unknown, we’ll have an ID in no time. In fact, I heard there’s a team on its way to loosen those lips of yours.

“But never mind about that! Get comfortable - you’ll be here awhile…”

Wander, Discipline, Pick

The lobby of Feldman Hall, the main administrative building of the college, was crowded; today was the day that my class would pick a field of study, a discipline, a focus for the last two years of our attendance.

Many people went directly to a table, knowing with certainty where their interests lie, like my friend Danny over at the Physics table.

But a few others, like myself, wander about, not able to pick just one thing; I’m curious about too many things.

My eye catches a sign hidden in a quiet corner: Undecided/Multi-Disciplined. My cup of tea.

Broken, Chew, Drain

“So how’d you do it? How’d you get out from animal jail?”

“They call it ‘zoo’. Anyway, those humans think elephants are stupid. They chain up our foot until we give up, then switch to rope. So many pachyderms jailed by their own resignation, mentally broken. But not me. I’d scoop the rope with the hay and eventually chewed through.”

“Yeah, ok, but how’d you get out? You ain’t hurt at all, so I’m thinking you didn’t break through the fence.”

“Nah. Got out through the storm drain.”

“What?”

“And you guys think I have no sense of humour. Gotcha!”

Craft, Amuse, Standard

“Floyd, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Amuse me. Confound me. Whatever - spit it out.”

The two men, both retired postal workers, had been fast friends for years. But Chuck had started to drift away, becoming less social. Floyd was tired of the non-answers and confronted him in front of an old rusty airplane hanger. Chuck was reluctant to let Floyd in, but he did try to explain:

“You know how there’s standard sizes of things, like model trains? Well… I wanted to craft something different, so I’m making the biggest jigsaw puzzle in the world.”

Floyd gaped. Then, “Need any help?”

Insurance, Lean, Save

“Mr. Smith? I’m Dr. Pleasant. You’re here for a physical related to your recent application for health insurance. Hop on the scale please - don’t actually hop, sir, the gown doesn’t do much in the way of covering anything. Sixty-three kilos - according to my chart, that’s not going to get you the best rate - need to be a bit leaner to save money.

“Memory test - how many issues of Women’s Weekly are in my waiting room? Not sure… I’ll note poor memory.

“Question, Mr. Smith? Do I get a cut of your premium? It’s not ethical to say. Next test…”

Medicine, Like, Speech

Small town pharmacies are the worst: everyone knows what prescription you’re taking. Heaven help you if it’s for something embarrassing, like erectile dysfunction. Far better to develop an Oxycontin addiction than to be known as the guy with the droopy pecker. Except that I don’t have an Oxy script; I got the other one.

I was standing in line, five deep, waiting my turn, getting knowing looks. Just shoot me. It got worse: when it was my turn, I got a loud speech from the pharmacist about how this medicine wasn’t like my member - this was robust.

I died inside. 

Cry, Plaster, Obligation

Franco was getting plastered. Hammered. Sloshed.

Whatever pain he’d feel tomorrow was going to be far less than what he wouldn’t feel tonight.

He’d started drinking at 3pm sharp; he’d set an alarm. Since then, he’d been getting around: drink, shower, drink, dress, drink, etc. He’d timed his preparations to leave at five.

As he staggered the six blocks to his weekly obligation, he wondered if he’d drunk enough. Probably not.

He entered his parents’ crowded apartment; people upon people; fire code be damned. One of his aunts cried out, “Oh look! The drunk!”

He groaned. “I aim to please.”

Stable, Scroll, Blemish

Officer Prat needed an easy bust to help boost his profile within the department. Jonathon Scully should have been easy…

“Scroll through his history again! There’s got to be something!”

Scully was on parole for theft; his MO was to post video of his activities on social media, making convictions straightforward. He’d been out on parole for a year; surely he’d done something. But no matter how loudly Prat yelled at the tech, not a single single incident, not one blemish, appeared on his social media.

“Maybe he’s gotten himself straightened out, stable, you know?”, the tech said.

“Maybe. Damn.”

Lady, Bit, Beat

Lady Pierce attended to Madame Margot’s every need as she recuperated from the “attack” she’d endured from angry spirits. While anyone watching from outside the seance would have seen Margot throw herself into the display case and deliberately cut herself on glass, the participants believed it to be real.

Lying in the sick bed, she picked at the food, eating a bit of this, a bite of that; a lack of appetite meant she was still recovering.

To play on the Lady’s sympathy meant being on her game and not missing a beat. Weakly, slowly, painfully, of course…

Drum, Cabin, First

Barbara’s parents tried to be supportive by allowing a drum kit into the house. Within a week, the drums were relegated to the basement.

Each day, Barbara practiced, inspired by her hero, Neil Peart. Each day, she got a little better.

That first kit is still in her parent’s basement and gets played when she visits. Her professional kit fills a cabin on Gull Island, with just enough space to cook and sleep.

Barbara is a session drummer whose list of credits is massive, including Rush covers.

But her parents still can’t listen to her work without earplugs. 

Colour, Flagrant, Push

In unison, in every Irish bar in Boston (and there’s a lot of them), the crowd cheered then erupted in anger; the Bruin’s leading scorer had just netted a hat trick (cheer) then hit the ice from a cheap shot from the Flyer’s “enforcer”. The Bruin had yet to get up.

“Flagrant foul!”, people in every bar yelled.

No one could hear the TVs but from the body language it looked like the enforcer was telling the referee it’d been a gentle push.

Meanwhile, a red colour was emerging from under the downed player’s face. The medical team ran out.

Victory, Culture, Civilization

There are different ways to achieve a victory over any challenge: sudden victory from a single great battle and slow insidious victory from strategic knowhow.

To wrest a culture from a civilization and replace it with one better suited towards a certain person’s bottom line, it’s the second method that will win the day.

Capturing the hearts and minds of the young is key. Without them realizing it, they must be immersed in the new way of being. Being obvious in the presentation of the new is to ensure adherence to the old, or worse, straying into another’s cultural path. 

Definition, Solitude, Steal

As a reporter at Superhero City News, there’s a responsibility to correctly identify both the perpetrators of crime and the heroes who bring criminals to justice. Getting those names right helps give definition to our readers; calling someone a cat burglar isn’t helpful - is the criminal stealthy? Do they steal cats? Or dress like one? Our readers want to know.

The same goes for heroes. A recent addition to the city’s law enforcement force is someone who goes by the name “Solitude”. No one knows much about this person and I think the name gives a clue as to why.

Perfect, Aim, Point

Days ago, we arrived at the coast. As my squire set up camp, I looked out at the endless expanses of ocean and sky. Pristine blues and greys. I imagined the vast fleet making its way to our shores, the horizon broken by countless masts, acres of sail.

The engineers are doing their best to prevent a single soldier from making landfall. Catapults and other engines are being built, their aim almost perfect, to sink ships. They are the point of our defensive spear.

This beautiful place might be preserved, unstained by blood, from man and his need for warfare. 

Grunge, Aid, Ground

Years ago, darlings, there we were, a small resistance group, huddling in the back of the city’s wildest gay club, brainstorming ways to disrupt the fascist government that had taken over two years before. Among them all was me, the most flamboyant male performer the club had ever had the pleasure to host.

I got volunteered - everyone else thought they were being followed.

I protested: I use bandaids on hangnails; can’t stand being dirty, much less grungy, and animals poop on the ground!

No matter - they sent me.

It was horrible but I did my part.

I need a drink.

Comment, Wine, Burn

One of the things that I enjoy about choosing the daily prompts is that no one feels the need to berate me for not choosing their favourite words. No trolls. Not a single burn directed my way, six comments down, about how I need to put the word “wine” into the mix sometime soon, and tomorrow would be perfect.

And so I’d like to dedicate this story to everyone who reads my daily stories, my creative outlet that allows me to take the number three, add cheese, bake it in an oven, and present a platypus. Or the colour orange.

Information, Party, Normal

Great. So you, my supposed friends, have sat me down for an intervention because I’m not normal. When have I ever claimed to be normal? Or as I view it, boring.

Yes, I threw a beach party with seaweed decorations. I’ve waited for the Great Pumpkin on Halloween. I dance in crowded elevators and sing to department store music. I danced with the Macy’s Santa and he’s on my dance card again this year.

So, for your information, you stuck up losers, the only change I intend to make is to do more of what makes me happy. So there.

Bottom, Anything, Mood

Attitude is everything.

Trekking in the Alps had turned into a slow death at the bottom of a crevasse. Nestled in my ice prison, movement was impossible. Thankfully, I wasn’t in pain. It was so quiet, all I could hear was my breathing and the slow drip of water melting.

To distract myself, to keep up my mood, I started singing. Anything I could remember: rock, pop, show tunes (don’t judge).

At some point, my mouth not really working anymore, I heard barking above me. A St. Bernard. How stereotypical.

That dog’s owner pulled me out and saved my life.

Applause, Sword, Fern

Seniorita, I do indeed look like a silk-clad peacock! But with a sharp beak! My sword and I have brought many a scoundrel to justice. Don’t get me wrong - I don’t do it simply for the applause - I do it for the adulation!

Gracias for the sangria; drinking is thirsty business!

Tell me, why did you call me over to your table? Who is it that requires my help?

No one needs it? So why…?

You have a brother, named Fern? What about him?

He too wears silk? You think we’d…?

My apologies, but I don’t require a matchmaker.

Mouth, Otherwise, Frost

I’d had my fill of “otherwise”: do something that will stain your soul or have awful repercussions rain down on friends, family, and of course, yourself.

I was kneeling, gun at my temple, implacable killer standing over me. The frozen ground crept up my spine; frost coating my ribs. I shivered in fear and with cold.

“Francis”, my potential killer purred, “it’s a simple choice: rejoin the family, everything forgiven. Otherwise, I drag everyone you love to this very spot and… they don’t get a choice.”

Mouth full of lies, I said I would.

I must overpower and kill him.

Play, Puff, Scratch

Scratch.

It can mean The Devil. This story ain’t about that (necessarily…).

Or what you do to an itch.

This story is about earning scratch. Moo-la. Cash. By playing pool.

It’s not enough to play well. Dress the part, puff up a bit, intimidate the opposition. A bit of swagger, a smattering of wit: they all play a part. Losing money to a well-dressed shark is almost expected; no one wants to lose money to a thug in a hoody.

And never drink. Never. Make it look like you are, but don’t. Bartenders take bribes - don’t cheap out.

Crow, Worry, Damage

One Grimm’s Fairy Tale that didn’t make the cut:

A hungry crow stared at an unmoving straw man in the middle of a corn field. Despite his fellows landing on the man’s arms and defecated on his head, the hungry crow worried something bad would happen.

“Hey!”, the other birds yelled, “C’mere! Plenty to eat and nothin’ ta fear!”

But the hungry crow trembled so much so that he fell off his branch and damaged his right wing. The other crows pointed and laughed.

The hungry crow whimpered but was still hungry, so walked into the field and began eating.

Surprise, Fact, Descent

It came as a surprise to everyone around Amanda, including her doctors. No one could explain her condition, her descent into a psudo-Jeopardy, fact-based reality. But as reported by both local papers and specialty medical journals, her ability to communicate in other than questions appeared one day and no one knew when it might reverse.

The hard part is that she couldn’t simply state something; she had to respond to statements with questions. When her husband said, “This is what’s for dinner.”, she’d respond, “What’s lasagna?”

Potentially related are the pictures of Alex Trebeck wallpapering her living room.

Guard, Tribe, Abolish

Pitch black and quiet. Guards posted but one asleep; entering the enemy camp was easier than I’d hoped. My target: the king, for abolishing my people (and related tribes) from these lands and following up with this invasion. His presence on ancestral lands is an affront which must be paid in blood.

The rows of tents are endless but the King’s palace is obvious. Death, Your Highness, will take you tonight. I hope your soul is prepared.

My dagger slices through the tent wall, loud in the silence. It can’t be helped.

Luck, you’ve guided me. Now guide my hand.

Wonder, Dry, React

How would you react?

You sit there in judgement, wondering how I’m the sole survivor of the latest massacre of a British Regulars company in this godforsaken land. I wonder the same thing.

We were marching along a cart track when the savages hit. It’d been raining miserably so none of our powder was dry. Bayonets don’t work well against an enemy in trees firing endless barrages of arrows. I took two in the chest.

The next thing I remember, I was on the ground, left for dead. I managed to make it here, somehow.

I lived. Sorry they didn’t.

Heel, Tiny, Inside

A world in miniature; Yolanda graduated long ago from Barbie’s Dream House to a small city.

Located in a (formerly) abandoned hanger, Yolanda’s passion project involved intricate detail and complicated moving parts on a tiny scale. Her latest addition was a family of three… almost; Jason Unger, his wife Debbie, and her as yet unborn baby.

Yolanda had made a fetus and put it inside Debbie.

At the end of that build, Yolanda pressed the heel of her hands into her eyes, trying to see the next project. And it appeared - a new city, connected by roads.

Smiling, she commenced.

Welcome, Faith, Plateau

A lone eagle floating in the early morning sky cried out as The Seeker crested the Himalayan plateau; he’d been on a quest for enlightenment for so long, he’d forgotten his name.

He’d supposed that the tales of a lone wiseman sitting in front of a fire, reading a book, answering questions of those in search of wisdom, were just that.

He never expected a welcome mat. It said “Welcome” on it.

As he looked up from this unexpected discovery, he looked out to see rows of hovels, lots of wise-people, with signs identifying language and faith.

Organization. Wise.

Meld, Total, Sign

It’s said that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The key is to meld individual pieces into a single organized totality. And in a sign of the times, when talking about social issues, it’s been social media that’s been the glue holding movements together.

However, it can also act as a Pied Piper that leads lemmings over a cliff (to mix metaphors), corrals members into tightly controlled “thought prisons”, and pushes individuals into acts they wouldn’t otherwise do.

There is unprecedented power in the ability to motivate disparate individuals. But that power is easily corrupted.

Thesis, Squeeze, Quirk

At age 3, she was considered quirky. At age 12, she defended her doctoral thesis (Editor’s note: The title of the paper is omitted due to its sheer complexity. I’m not sure the examiners understood it.)

In a recent PBS documentary, Hannah Gardener, now age 76, explained her ideas to a disbelieving public: that energy and consciousness suffuse the space/time continuum much like juice in an orange and that with the proper technique, one can squeeze the “juice” from it.

Only one person watching the TV understood what she said. Aged 8, Joshua Pemberton envisioned an unusual juicing machine.

Pickle, Enter, Enough

Among the sounds keeping Keith awake in the hours after New Year’s festivities (fireworks, air horns, car horns, the upstairs neighbour who was, presumably, horny), a loud thump at his apartment’s front door was expected.

Opening the door, the first thing that hit Keith was the smell of a few breweries, all sitting next to a burning cigarette factory. Looking down, he saw his roommate, Wayne, slumped against the wall, fumbling for keys. Keith wondered how he’d managed to enter the building in this state.

“Had enough to drink? Pickle yourself good?”

Wayne drunkenly swatted the noise away. “Hhhaapppyffffukkknnnggg Neewwwwwwyyeeaarrrrr.”