Brace yourselves: you're all about to get a laudatory smack right on your overachieving foreheads (it's like a high-five, but more painful). Why? Because you butts are genetically incapable of doing the bare minimum (and that makes the rest of us look bad). Case in point: last week's prompt challenged you to include 2 (out of 7 potential) items in your story, but most of you scoffed in the face of that suggestion and said "You know what? I'm gonna go ahead and include all 7. They don't call me Shakespeare Junior just because of my exceptionally tight pantaloons and rapidly receding hairline." So well done, you above-and-beyond-ers; your commitment to giving 110% will surely serve you well in your prestigious future careers as masked, machete-toting milk supervisors (see, even I, the inventor of the the prompt, could only work in 3 of the items—and "milk supervisors" doesn't technically count!). And now, the venerable winners of last week's war:
Sparklers' Choice (with 14 votes): keepcalmcarryon!
My fingers soar over the ivory, playing "Under the Sea" from the Little Mermaid like a boss. Just as I'm getting ready for my big finish, which involves lots of pounding, a few elephants, and Ryan Reynolds, a voice calls out to me from the kitchen:
"Hey, moron. You forgot to throw out the milk!"
I sigh and push back the bench. Ryan will have to wait for me.
"What milk?" I ask as I saunter into the kitchen. My sister frowns and vigorously shakes a cream colored carton at me. Oh. That milk.
"Uh," I begin eloquently, but she’s already shaking her head and heading for the trash can. “Wait!”
How do I tell her that the wallet she supposedly “lost” last week actually had a mysterious stain appear on its cover, a stain whose origins are completely unknown and why are you looking at me like that it wasn’t me and oh my God fine it was me the orange popsicle flew out of my hand okay? Whew. There’s a load off my chest.
Anyway, I read on a very trustworthy website (howtoremoveorangewalletstains.net) that sour milk will remove such a stain. Hence, the wallet currently marinating inside the carton my sister is holding. “What?” she now snaps, but the light thump from inside the carton as she shakes it gives me away. She peers inside the opening, widening it with her fingers, then slowly looks back up at me. “I’m going to kill you.”
I decide to run before she can get her crossbow.
Dagger's Choice: synchrogirl117!
I was chasing down a howler monkey when it hit me—I was insane. I mean, I was alone, hair tangled and clothes torn, sprinting after a monkey that I’d named Moop. You don’t get much crazier than that. Of course, the Moop wasn’t exactly sane either—he was a kleptomaniac. He kept stealing my knife.
I plopped down on the beach with a sigh. Moop could keep the stupid knife. I couldn’t use it much, anyway—unless I managed to kill Moop, there was nothing to hunt on this island. It was just Moop and me. The dumb monkey was all I had.
I got up and trudged through the sand, walking around the island for the 403rd time in the last three days. The sun had come out this morning for the first time since the storm that wrecked the boat. Normally sun didn’t bother me—I could tan by a pool for hours. It wasn’t as easy to handle when you had no water.
Moop watched me from the shadows of the four trees that inhabited the island. He waved the knife around, screeching a primal monkey laugh. I wanted to stick my tongue out at him, but it felt like sandpaper, so I refrained.
Suddenly, I saw it. A spot of pink floating right off shore. Moop was pointing it out with my knife!
I whooped wildly and ran into the waves to get it. I knew exactly what it was—the cooler we had brought on our boating trip. Nothing was left except a loaf of bread—which was completely saturated with sea water—and a glorious half-gallon of milk.
I cried with joy as I unscrewed the cap. I raised it to my lips—and put it down.
It had expired last week.
Excellent job extolling upon the many virtues of spoiled milk, lads! Now pick up your laptops once more and extoll upon this week's prompt:
Write a short story (we THINK that Gary will now let you post up to 350 words, but we may be wrong) about trying to capture, slaughter, or befriend a famous fictional or mythical creature (like a dragon, a talking lion named Aslan, a hippogriff, an Ewok, etc).
What are you waiting for, the Rapture? Start writing!
Related post: Writer Wars!