Few, Differ, Disgusting

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

The few, they trudged across that vast expanse. From the mountain peaks their journey ahead seemed disgusting.

Disgusting?

No, daunting, that’s the word. Their journey seemed daunting.

Daunting? Really, isn’t that a bit cliche?

Why?

The journey ahead was dangerous or daunting. What if they journey ahead was silly? What if it would be mostly smooth but somewhat annoying? Let me decide if it will be daunting and tell me what it was. Enough preamble.

I suppose our opinions differ.

I’m in outer space and you’re trying on the 8.5 size shoe at JC Penny because the 8 was just a little bit too tight in the toes. Yeah, I suppose we differ.

Ok, the few continued their journey ahead with no idea what was in store for them.

Who is that for?

What?

“…no idea what was in store for them.” Is that for me, the reader? Are you smashing me in the nose with the obvious? Why would they know what was in store for them?

It’s just a story.

Well tell it better.

Suddenly a ravenous beast roared across the plain.

So no they’re on a plane?

No across the expansive plain.

And so the journey started and suddenly a beast roars? Excuse me, a ravenous beast.

It’s exciting.

I have no frame of reference. I don’t know who to root for, I mean you make the “beast” sound scary but it could be someones dog. I don’t know who the few travellers are and why they are where they are.

I’m going to tell you.

yes but at this point I’ve read enough.

I shall continue anyway.

I’ve closed the book, so have at it.

Display, Beg, Pump

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

You guys! How awesome is this? Answer: So awesome. It is so awesome. It can’t even wrap my head around it.

You guys! Did you see her dress on the red carpet? Wasn’t it so gorge? OMG! Yaaassss queen! I would beg satan to take me to hell if it meant I could wear that dress.

Oh my god! And those pumps? Delicious! My silky gams would be on display in those heels. Rawr.

But seriously how exciting is this? So exciting.

It’s more fabulous to be fabulous than not. Am I right? People can thank what they wish about me, my intelligence, my sexuality, my IQ, whatever. It literally matters not. There is more substance in a fancy, dancy fart than any of their thoughts.

Ask me any of your questions. I’d be happy to answer. Ecstatic! Ask me to my face with politeness and respect. I respond with an answer in kind.

I don’t know or understand everything either. So I’ll ask you questions as well, honey. It’s not the questions that offend, it’s the assumptions.

So let’s have an asky dance where we ask and dance out all our questions. Our minds are starving for information, let’s not keep them hungry lest they begin to eat themselves.

Honey! That scone! What am I eating? Baby Jesus’ favorite pillow? Pah-lease! And this coffee, Damnit I can’t understand where coffee this good could come from unless it’s scooped from the surface of some coffee making planet where all the residents (we would be the aliens) do nothing but perfect coffee. Delicious!

I know girl, they can’t all be fantastically fabulous like me. Oh, don’t you worry about my self-esteem. When you’ve been clear to the bottom their is nowhere for the e-steem to go but up. It’s basically physics, honey.

Heave, Obey, Moult

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

Nigel lifted the tablets. As he did, more hair fell from his head onto the faces of the rock slab he held. He’d been moulting more frequently, now that he was closer to the truth.

Above his head he held the words which were meant to give his life purpose, the words he was meant to obey.

Although his eyes were turned down, away from the sun he was forced to squint. The muscles of his arms were beginning to feel less like stone pillars and more like ropes. Sweat stung his eyes and his hair–it still fell. Now that he held the answers in his hands, tangible and cold, he felt more anxious than ever. He’d begged and pleaded with the sky, against the protestations of his friends and family.

“I need to find the truth!” He told them so while they ate, lounged, partied and laughed, he sought the truth.

Through valleys and deserts, jungles and mountains, Nigel looked for the truth. Every where he went the people asked him to stop and rest but Nigel kept on searching for that something.

The walking and climbing made his muscles strong. The obsession with truth, weakened him. So distracted by finding a clear obvious truth was he that he missed out on everything. It was not all a waste, however, when one day Nigel came across the tablets.

On stones shaped like markers for the dead was a list. On that list Nigel read things which he had to admit to himself were underwhelming and somewhat obvious.

He held them over his head, now nearly bald and standing at the edge of a cliff, heaving the stones over the side with the echo of a crash.

“I’ve wasted my life,” he said, then followed the sound of the crash.

Slippery, Provide, Flesh

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator
Story inspired from sketches by mapka_dgjargorn9

Back then dreams were loosely contained, if at all. The structure of nightmares were slippery and sometimes the subconscious came to life; what in the world of the woke were referred to as myths, legends, fables. These were the makings of story.

Sometimes, like a finger dipped in hot candle wax, flesh was wrapped around those things which drive men to create art; giving form to emotion and feeling.

In this dream walked a procession, four deep. They had come from the hill shaded by the Samanea Saman tree at its summit. They walked; the Cloaked Ruby leading her troupe, stretching and yawning at the sky.

The short but Groovy King of Clash and Bang staring at the Cloaked Ruby’s back.

Towering over the Groovy King was William I, King of Scots. He extended his hand which held the souls of all the picts. The energy of their vibrant spirits and blue bodies radiating around William I.

Snarling at the rear of the parade was the gentle Bovix, carnivorous, yes, but only of that dead meat provided by vanquished enemies.

They marched towards the entrance formed by two gnarled tree trunks. Deformed by the wizardry and witchcraft of so many practicing sorcerers passing by. The tree’s marked the entrance into the waking world, tethered by a tangled wire.

Flawsome, Hangry, Tertiary

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @ladychap84

31 flavors.

It doesn’t sound like that many flavors but when you wait behind “Laura-let-me-try-everything-while-sighing-and-tapping-the-glass-display” it feels like the 31 flavors are manifesting like some Lovecraftian adaptation of Jesus Christs’ feeding of the 5,000. A version where Jesus manifests all the food and then hordes it all for himself.

I think my metaphor is getting lost. I’m hangry. The lady is by no means any sort of savior, except for maybe saving the two of us behind her from getting ice cream within a reasonable time frame.

“Can I try the Rum-Raisin?”

Tiny spoon to mouth and then “Laura” sort of hums and moans at the same time like some sort of indecisive mating call where the suitors are the 31 flavors presented before her.

“I wonder what the coconut-lime tastes like? Can I try it?”

Of course the acne’d youth behind the counter was corporately indoctrinated to that American creed “the customer is always right.” Plus, she’s just killing time until she punches out–

–“Can I sample the chocolate chip mint and the pistachio as well?”

Obliged.

“How about the vanilla bean, how’s that?”

Obliged, and with a smile.

“Is this rocky road made with real marshmallows?”

I can’t take it anymore. I lost my cool in the ice cream shop.

“Hey lady, what does that mean with the marshmallows?”

She turned around. She had on a black t-shirt with an arrangement of gold letters that spelled some sort fo elementary school slang “Flawsome”.

“Excuse me?” she said.

From behind me the tertiary constituent in our sad procession towards frozen dairy spoke up.

“Di-Di-Di-Di-Di-Did he-he-he s-s-s-s-st-st-st-st-st-stutter?”

I stared at the lady, raised my thumb and slung it over my shoulder to emphasize his point.

“I’m selecting the flavors I would like. There are 31 flavors–“

“–Hurry up!” I interrupted her.

“Ye-yeah,” started the tertiary ice cream fan. “It’s no-no-not s-s-s-sophie’s ch-ch-ch-choice. Bi-bi-bi-bi-bi-bi-cunt!”

And I realized two things: One) the stutter line came from a guy who had a stutter and two) some people take their ice cream seriously.

Word, Square, Nice

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @justninajo

In Cincinnati lived Samual Meeks. His old colleagues and friends used to call him “Smee”. Now the name felt detached from him, something of myth or legend, just another word that conjured up an old image.

He sat, sipping at his Irish coffee. Really, he had argued, it was the coffee of the working man. Each country had their slight variation on liquor and coffee. Caffeine to wake the body and whiskey to have a nice day, nothing spectacular, just a nice one.

Samuel read the newspaper, something he’d started to do after publishing his memoirs. The publicist he’d been assigned at Hukster & Simple’s Publishing told him he’d be asked about his thought on many topics, not just his book. The publicist said that would make him appear more approachable and position his persona for a much better second book launch.

So he made it a habit of scanning the news. He didn’t need to be an expert, “just care enough to look intelligent but not so much where you become a martyr. Media martyr’s don’t stay long in the public eye,” the publicist had said. He felt more like a square than someone intelligent.

The whiskey in his coffee began changing his mood. On page 6 or 7 of the paper, there was a short human interest piece about a man who claimed to have seen Peter Pan as an adult. The journalist covering the story made the angle more about an otherwise rational adult making an irrational claim. Samuel was curious about the claim itself, in the same way his intrigue was peaked when hearing about UFO or ghost sitings. He didn’t believe it but the possibility was always interesting.

What would make someone ruin their reputation and credibility by claiming to have seen a grown-up that was Peter Pan? That was crazier then Yeti’s or chupacabras.

Samuel finished his coffee, nearly half of it, before finished the article. He squeezed his eyes tight and stretched his throat, realizing how much “a little bit of whiskey” he had actually poured.

The man claiming to have seen Peter Pan was on his way to work at a construction job somewhere in the California Desert. He’d stopped at a McDonald’s for breakfast and said “Peter Pan grew up! He was taking handfuls of salt packets and shoving them in his pockets. He looked homeless.”

That was it. The journalist had not provided any context for which to allow the reader to decide if the man was making a reasonable claim or not.

What ere the man’s religious beliefs? Did he believe in Bigfoot? Had he also seen ghosts and/or UFO’s? A ‘No’ to these questions would make the claim more intriguing, thought Samuel.

Popcorn, Jar, Bounce

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

“Listen,” I told the cashier, “I need a tent but I’ve never been camping so I don’t know where to start.”

The cashier, who looked like he had just popped in to work at the Big 5 from a life of camping, stroked his beard while staring me up and down.

“Will you be camping alone or with friends and family?”

I cleared my throat and scratched my cheek. Just as I was about to say “alone”, Madonna’s Like a Virgin came on through the store speakers and I changed my answer.

“I’m a camping with friends.”

The man pulled a Mason jar full of water from below the counter and took a swig. His eyes bulged, his cheeks flushed red and he let out a puff of smoke before replying, “well, if you are camping alone, I recommend a pup tent.”

“Why’s it called a pup tent?”

He ignored my question and pulled a small brown sack out from the same place his jar had come from.

“This here’s a pup tent and I’ll give it to you for $25. That’s a steal kid.”

I looked at the sack, which looked like it had bounced around the back of a pick up truck full of ketchup, mustard, mayo, ranch dressing and BBQ sauce. That’s also what it smelled like.

“Do you have any other–” I began to say.

“No, thats it, the tents you see around are only for display.”

I glanced at the aisle marked CAMPING and saw boxes and boxes of tents.

CLANG! POP! BANG! POP!

I jumped.

The man stroked his beard and took another bug-eyed swig of his interesting water. Droplets rolled down his beard as he reached down and pulled up a camping stove.

“Popcorn?” he gestured with black fingernails. I could see dirt spidering through the cracks in his hands.

“No, thank you. Listen, could I speak to a manager?” I said looking around.

“Manager? Who do you think you’re talkin’ to little feller?”

“Oh, excuse me.” My face curled up unconsciously into disgust as he gently pressed big, damp wads of chewing tobacco into his left cheek, in between large handfuls of popcorn, which he maneuvered to his right side with his tongue.

Parallel, Adjust, Water

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

It was right there next to me, the entire time. I never realized it was there until it was gone. And not just the good stuff, but the bad as well, I realized it all.

I saw a kid kick the cane an older man was leaning on. The old man stumbled, did his best to catch himself but lost his balance and fell. That’s almost what it feels like, except the kid would have had to take a step further and snap the cane over her knee.

It’s like losing a leg. No, it’s not. That’s probably worse and better left to those who have that experience. But I can imagine that losing a leg is a lot like suddenly realizing your life was in parallel. Each walk was left, right, left, right, left. Now you’re left with right and have to find a way to adjust.

Another thing that’s confusing is all the racing your mind does in moments like these. It can’t stop, won’t stop thinking. It only takes a small crack for all the fissures to splinter off in all directions. Eventually consuming the mind with all sorts of nonsense that I think holds water.

It usually doesn’t, the thoughts usually don’t. The simplest answer is usually indeed true. But something about us, something about me is still drawn to conflict, still finds its way to war. What they call that necessary evil. Would it be necessary if there were evil? Well how do you get rid of evil?

And that’s what I mean, my mind need only focus on my immediate, personal problem but it wants to find the underlying issue. That single unifying, unavoidable trait in humans that causes pain. What theists call sin and atheists call human nature. Beyond all of their bloviating over “ifs” and “whens” and “proof” there is still our existence. There is still us, our experience.

I think therefore I am tortured.

And again, I’m wandering away from the practical, wandering away from solutions and diving deep, deep into that hole of self.

It’s a bottomless pit, self, a never-ending chasm of self-doubt, self-loathing, self-harm, self-pity, self-denial, me, me, me, I, I, I.

It’s a trap. When I stand parallel to myself and look in the mirror, I see a different man. Sometimes he’s more handsome than yesterday. Sometimes he’s uglier than yesterday. Self-esteem.

Back to the problem at hand, how does one trust when there is nothing concrete on which to rest trust. Reason for no reason.

Accept, Salt, Noiseless

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

Peter woke up. It had been raining and water was running down through his spot on the middle of the hill.

He heard birds chirping and could see some light peaking through a slit in the tarp. He knew it was about 6 AM because the sound of passing cars on the freeway was intermittent.

The clock ticking next to him, he never se to the correct time. The ticking sound was all he needed. He wasn’t sure why but he couldn’t sleep in a noiseless environment.

Peter grabbed his hat and bent to step out of the tent. His breath was visible in the air and he pulled his hunting cap down over his ears.

Peter walked under the freeway and up around to the other side. Following the road for about a mile until he came to a McDonalds.

Peter ordered from the dollar menu. While he waited, he filled his pockets with as many salt packets as he could before the manager chased him off.

Peter walked back to his tent. Before stepping inside, he held the bag in his teeth to free his hands for tearing open salt packets.

One packet at a time he sprinkled the salt in a circle around his tent. Satisfied, he took the bag from his mouth and stepped inside the tent.

Sitting back on his pile of rags, he started a small fire and opened up the McDonalds bag. Once again he threw everything in the middle of the burger out of the tent, keeping only the bread, which he toasted in his hands over the fire.

After having eaten, Peter pulled out a crumpled spiral bound notebook.

On the open page was a drawing of a flag, black with a skull and cross bones. Taking a pen from his pocket, Peter continued coloring in the black of the flag. As he did so, a shudder ran through his body, jolting the pen through one of the crossing bones.

Fire, Water, Plant

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

The scene was hazy, so I tried to determine which elements were present.

I looked down but could only see, well, I couldn’t see past my belly. I shifted my weight just enough to feel something solid.

Earth.

My lungs weren’t burning and I could feel that familiar habit of inhalation and exhalation. It was automatic. I couldn’t remember a thing but I was breathing. Air was present.

I looked down at my belly again, focusing on something dancing, a shadow bouncing around the rim of my umbilical cord. The shadow was orange and red.

I looked up and saw the source of the orange on my belly. I curled my hands around the cord protruding from my stomach and used it to pull myself toward the slit.

A deep red, orange, yellow wind brushed past my face.

I started to panic as the safety of my darkness was slowly eaten away by the colors.

Now I could see greens and browns leaping out behind the reds, oranges and yellows. I tried to retreat to the safety of the darkness but a weight pressed down on my existence. An apocalypse of my cocoon.

My hands suddenly forced to my sides my nose smashed against the walls of my home. My head bubbling in different directions.

Suddenly my being floated and my world of black exploded into a million pieces of light and color. I floated, my lungs burning. My eyes squeezed tight but the light still stabbing through.

The force accelerated my floating and I burst into an alien atmosphere. My face and body melting, my hands tried to curl around the cord at my belly button but nothing was left.

In shock my mouth sent a scream and all my senses came to life.

I was born.

Pale, Review, Expansion

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

Peter sat on the dock, his big right tow the anchor for some fishing line. Although nothing was nibbling, the skin around his big toe was whiter than the rest of his body.

He dangled his feet and looked up at the sky feeling a sense of nostalgia. The smell of the ocean, sound of seagulls and feel of the hot sun seemed to be trying to pull out some distant memory.

Peter had seen something on TV where a guy used one magnet to move around another magnet that was on the other side of a wall. That feeling of nostalgia was like that, a pulling of something that felt familiar but wasn’t seen.

Peter pulled up his feet on the dock suddenly. He cut the dangling fishing line from his toe with a switchblade and stood up. He looked at the sky. Now black clouds were moving to block the sun.

The nostalgia remained but it was blending with a sense of dread. He tried to review the expansion of feeling inside him.

How could he feel so many things? What was that nagging sense of nostalgia bordering on deja vu really about?

Peter walked to where the dock met the sand and picked up a half empty 12-pack of beer. Every time these feelings began to wash over him, he would take a drink. Such a simple, effective cliche. Another thing he had learned on TV.

This time, however, the feelings remained. This time, Peter thought he heard the muffled ticking of a clock and the distant sounds of raucous, drunken singing; chanting following the low rumble of drums.

Peter turned his head to look at the spot where the water met the sky. He finished his can of beer and grabbed another.

The sky above was beginning to thunder. Peter stumbled toward a nearby outcropping of trees and crawled under the tarp he had hung between branches. Before he passed out, he winced at what he thought was the sound of jingling bells.

Yes, No, Maybe

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @ladychap84

And those are my only choices?

Yes.

I can only agree or decline, correct?

No.

Oh yea, I can say maybe but that doesn’t really mean anything. Which reminds me, why do we say maybe not? Isn’t maybe both the possibility of something and nothing all at once? So maybe is possibility, yes is the affirmative and no is denunciation.

No.

Too simplistic?

Maybe.

Maybe?

Maybe.

So the maybe is both yes and no. Some may be satisfied with my answers above and some may not but did everyone understand? Maybe. I get it.

Yes.

This all seems a bit binary, or I suppose tri-nary, if that is a thing.

Maybe.

Exactly.

Yes.

So I can only answer three ways.

Yes.

Yes is not no and no is not yes and both are maybe. So I’m always in a state of maybe. Maybe is Schrodinger’s cat.

Maybe.

Maybe is the moment between having asked a question and having an answer. And if that answer were also maybe, then maybe would be like standing in between two large mirrors, trying to peer past your own reflection to see the something, but only only staring into possibility, the maybe.

Maybe.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes to maybe?

Yes.

No.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

Yes.

Yes.

Maybe.

So yes to no and maybe but not yes to yes, is that because the answer is both possibility and definition?

Maybe.

So you mean to say it’s more than that?

Yes.

So you’re maybe has a meaning beyond the question asked. In order to become a yes or no, other questions must poke and prod the maybe into a definite yes or no shape.

Maybe.

Maybe, you say maybe because I am close to the true answer but not close enough to a yes or a no.

Yes.

Oh my god, I am something brilliant.

No.

Am I yes?

Yes.

Am I no?

Yes.

Am I maybe?

Yes.

I am?

Yes.

Remake, Iron, Easy

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

At first it annoyed Henry. All the reports of micro aggressions that were making their way into the news cycle. Little things like a man or woman assuming the boss or doctor being referred to in conversation was a male. Or things like internet celebrities making videos of themselves destroying property and stealing while critics praised their “courage to take comedy to the next level.”

Frankly, Henry had no clue what a micro aggression really was but like a pressure cooker, we decided to let out a puff of steam once in a while so as not to blow up one day.

He started at the movie theater. The film was a remake of a movie that had already been made and remade five times.

During the movie, Henry would shout things out:

“Bullshit.”

“Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

“Why not film a turd in the toilet, it would be cheaper and more original than this crap.”

That’s as far as he got. The ushers escorted him out but in a sense, Henry fell liberated, a little steam had puffed out.

When he arrived home, the mailbox was stuffed with what to Henry amounted to a big wad of garbage. So, he kicked the mailbox off its post and threw it into the garbage, where he felt the whole thing belonged.

After a couple of days, he received a notice from the United States Postal Service stating that he would need to put up a mailbox or else the mail would no longer be delivered to him.

Perfect, Henry thought. It was easier than I imagined. Then he tossed the USPS notice in the garbage as well.

Then it was his cell phone. He stepped inside his house and heard his phone ringing, without looking to see who was calling, Henry threw the phone in the trashcan outside.

Henry began looking through all of his possessions, realizing that they annoyed rather than brought him joy. He deflated his basketball and football throwing them away. He snapped his golf clubs over his knees and threw them away. He did keep his 5-iron because he liked to hit golf balls at the top of the hill overlooking the freeway. Which, he decided, is exactly what he would do after his material purge.

After the golf session, about 15 minutes of screeching tires, broken glass and honking cars, he drove down to the nicest restaurant in town.

Upon arrival, he waited for a table, noticing the sign that said “no shirt, no shoes, no service.” After being seated, ordering and eating, he removed his shirt and his shoes. When the waiter came by again, he ordered dessert and got away with it.

Henry learned that if you’re already in the restaurant, you can break the rules, not a moment before.

Stride, Regret, Needle

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

It happened quickly. The party was in full swing and all of a sudden Jamie came downstairs, sewing needle in hand, and began popping all of the balloons.

At first, the sound of the music, laughter, cheering and conversation drowned out the popping but after a while, Jamie hit her stride and the sound of instant deflation began turning heads.

“Why, Jamie?”

“We’re having a great time, aren’t you?”

“This is your party, Jamie. What are you doing?”

Those were questions that Jamie pretended not to hear. She just kept popping balloons, and there were many. She had been inflating balloons all week for this day, with a rental helium tank. All 300-something balloons had been single-handedly inflated and tied by her.

As she worked on the balloons during the week, she thought about herself. This would be her great coming out party to show all her friends, family, acquaintances, neighbors and colleagues that she, Jamie, was the string that kept the balloons at the party, metaphorically speaking. Although, for a split second she worried the metaphor would be lost since she was popping them.

And so now, into popping maybe over 100 balloons, Jamie started relishing in the reactions of her guests. The force and energy of all the partiers was hushed by a single balloon popper.

Some of the guests began to leave. Coworkers and neighbors glanced around, made excuses and left. Friends chuckled nervously or tried approaching Jamie but she would only look them in the eyes and pop the next balloon.

Jamie’s friends began to leave and shortly after, so did her family. There was only herself and another girl she recognized from work who was passed out in a chair in the kitchen.

Of the 300-something balloons, she had popped roughly 280. She had lost count when she tried paying attention to her guests.

She allowed herself a brief chuckle and started her walk upstairs. Struck suddenly by an idea, she went back into the kitchen and opened the miscellaneous drawer. She pulled out a Sharpie and walked up to the girl passed out. On her forehead she wrote “regret nothing”, then she capped the pen and headed upstairs for bed.

Knowledge, Belief, Motivation

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by Dad

Around the ages of 11-13, you receive a beach ball. The ball is fully inflated and you’re instructed to keep the ball in the air while you do all the other things necessary during your day.

When brushing your teeth, you keep hitting the ball in the air. When eating, studying, working, playing, sitting, driving, ordering, shopping, running, walking, waiting, rushing, etc. You keep the ball in the air.

You’re told that the ball is to remind you that you are not in control and that you must rely on an unseen power. They tell you this because then they tell you it’s okay if you drop the ball as long as you pick it up again. That the most motivation they give you, that if you drop it, as long as you pick it up again, you’ll be fine.

You do your best to keep the ball in the air. You drop it a few times while doing your hygiene routine but pretty soon it becomes second nature to keep the beach ball in the air.

The only time the keeping up becomes a problem is when you study. Your mind focuses deeply on the books you’re reading and for those moments you completely forget about the ball and everything said about it. Then you close the book, see the ball and pick it right back up again, tossing it into the air and keeping it up.

Pretty soon you start to think deeply outside of the books. You find yourself detaching the symbolism of the ball from the action you’re observing. You realize it’s becoming a nuisance, maybe even an unnecessary distraction. But you keep it up because they told you all sorts of things to scare you: “Without that constant reminder that you are nothing without the unseen power, you’ll shrivel up and die.”

Then you become angry, realizing that many people do not keep beach balls in the air and they do not look shriveled in the slightest. In fact, they seem more capable of engaging with and participating in the world around them.

You walk up to one of them and ask, “What happened to your beach ball?”

They say, “I dropped it a long time ago and never picked it up again.”

“Why?” You ask.

“I found that when I focused on what I knew, the world became less abstract. I found that the beach ball had really become a reminder that I don’t know as opposed to what it was intended to be, a reminder that an unseen is in control.”

You think, then ask, “So how do you answer those questions the beach ball answers?”

“I don’t. I’ve found that one of the phrases rarely stated confidently is ‘I don’t know’ yet when it is given as an answer, I feel closer to others than any sort of beach ball brotherhood because it reaffirms that we all don’t know, together.”

Imbricate, Pongee, Zucchetto

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by Dad

In the museum I was mostly bored save for a few minor details that caught my attention. Supposedly, at one time there were these organizations, run mostly like clubs with memberships, that had the benefit of being tax exempt. Religious organizations.

Each one claimed to be different but after millions of years of doubt, questioning, corruption, and frivolous rules, the obvious simply became too obvious to ignore.

There was no catastrophic event, it was only a “last straw” sort of situation.

Now I was passing an exhibit that was part of the Catholic section (one of the largest section of the museum). The guide pointed at an old pink colored hat, just large enough to fit on the back of a skull, and said “Notice the pongee on this Zucchetto. Pongee the Chinese silk fabric on a cap traditionally worn by Catholic clergy. Quite the contrast of cultures and beliefs in one little cap.”

Indeed, the irony was right in front of their faces (or on their heads) the entire time.

We passed a display with all sorts of symbols. The Christian cross was pointed out as another symbol of irony; a torture device used by the Roman Empire became the symbol of a supposedly peaceful belief system.

The Jewish star, a symbol of the merging of heaven and earth, or to others, the merging of male and female. It turns out a symbol of tangled confusion. Most, if not all the symbols had more than one meaning, which, the tour guide pointed out, should have been another clue into the ambiguous nature of religious truths, if it could be called natural.

We passed by books that had been called holy but were now simply considered old and outdated.

We passed miniature cathedrals, temples, churches, synagogues, mosques, etc. All destroyed now and replaced with museums, art installations, libraries or public parks.

When the tour ended, I walked back to the section with miniature versions of the once erected places of worship. They must have been truly magnificent works of architecture and they were inspired by awe, wonder and a deep reverence for something they believed to be as real as the stones, wood and stained glass used to build them.

I stared at one rooftop in particular, the plaque read “This rooftop was built to mimic the imbrication often found in nature. Notice the uneven staggering of tiles, not like a snake or fish but more like that of a pine cone or blossomed flower.”

What was it all about? Who was it really for?

Evolution, Revolution, Patience

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by Dad

He’s still sitting there at Capitol Hill on the steps of the Capitol building. Eighty-something years old with a leather vest, jeans, and a red, white, and blue bandana. He’s still waiting.

He’s sat there through a couple of major wars and a few dozen minor conflicts. His sign never changes “give peace a chance” it says, but it would seem to the outside observer, that peace needs context and that context is war.

I heard people talk about the hippy octogenarian. They say things like “It’s easy to be peaceful when you never try to do anything” or “You don’t get peace without war.”

Is the opposite true? You don’t get war without peace? I’ve wondered. Is this man’s 60-year protest, antagonizing? While some men die, others sit and hold signs? Is that antagonizing?

I’ve thought about asking the old man my questions. I’ve thought about asking him how it felt for other men to have fought proudly for what they believe and die for it? How did he feel about protesting their sacrifice?

I’ve considered asking him about the evolution of man but I realized by watching him that man’s mind doesn’t evolve. It’s a stubborn and unbending thing, especially when the odds are stacked against it.

Evolution only exists in nature and not the unnatural minds of man, who question everything.

I’ve considered asking the old man many questions about war, foreign and domestic policy, the value of human life, and revolution. I haven’t because I think that when i look at that man, the questions only arise out of my own insecurity.

Do I have the strength of character to sit at the same step for 60 years? Could I stand for something so staunchly, even thought it doesn’t affect my day to day life? Is that man my enemy or am I my own?

One day I walked by the steps and the old man wasn’t there. On the local news that night a short segment was dedicated to him.

I watched and changed my mind, a little. It wasn’t about the forces to which he opposed or the forces which other men fought, it was about being a force. All protests come to an end. All war comes to an end. The only force is that he stood for something. It could have been war, it could have been peace.

Exciting, Chocolate, Clock

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @ladychap84

I can feel that bubble welling up in my chest. No, it’s not a literal bubble it’s that feeling of pressure that rises up and sometimes forces your cheeks into a smile or occasionally causes you to shake. when you’re about to get something you’ve been wanting for a long time. The anticipation of receiving that thing you’ve wanted for a while.

I sat on the edge of the check-up bed, my bare ass sticking to the thin paper they pull over the top to stop cross-contamination. I could feel the paper sticking in my crack and start to curl up my thighs. This part was not exciting.

I was waiting for the news about my cancer. The nurses and doctors had been treating me like I beat it. They were slapping my back and saying things like ” I shouldn’t be saying anything like this but I’m 90% sure you’ll be cancer free. Let’s just wait for the tests.”

That was the excitement. Now I was staring at the clock, begging its hands to speed up. I needed to know.

I heard a soft knock on the door and the doctor came in. He didn’t look like a man about to tell another man that they were cancer free. In fact, the doctor looked the opposite.

He came over next to me and said, “Sam, I’m sorry but I spoke too soon. Your tests came back positive and the cancer has spread.”

I could only muster an “oh.”

“I’m afraid you only have another two or three months to live.”

I looked up at the clock, the hands now looked like they were zipping around its face. I wanted everything to stop for a minute so I could wrap my head around it all.

“Can I put my pants back on?” I asked, not really waiting for his reply.

The doctor was talking but I wasn’t listening as I walked out. I still had on the gown over my pants. Passing the reception desk, I reached into the bowl of mini-candy bars.

“Sir,” said the lady at the desk, “we ask that you only take one at a time. We want everyone to have the opportunity to get some.”

“One at a time.” I grunted, then stopped and pulled out a mini-mars bar and stuck it in my mouth. I reached into the bowl and pulled out a mini-reeses pieces. In between chewing the mars bar, I stuck the Reeses in my mouth.

One at a time, as per the lady’s instructions, I unwrapped and ate chocolate covered candy bars, until they were all gone.

It was too much. I started to gag. The lady pulled a trashcan from under her desk and gave it to me. I threw up all the chocolate, a lot of it still intact.

I wondered if it was my gluttony or my cancer that made me sick but then I thought, with two or three months to live is that really what I’m going to think about?

Account, Arm, Sniff

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

The file had been on my desk since my first week at Lav, Slav and Tony investments. It had been put there by an old man, the founder, who wore a tux and stuffed cotton balls into his cheeks like Marlon Brando in the Godfather. He had dreams of going legit but to everyone’s knowledge he had never actually had any illegitimate business.

So I opened the file and started reading the paper. It was a MEMO, a short paragraph that read:

“ATTENTION: All account managers, please do not keep arms at the office.”

At first I wanted to make a joke about how we would do our typing without arms but then I remembered that the MEMO was nearly four years old.

I grabbed the MEMO and slid it into the waste bin. Now I was all caught up with work. I headed out of the office but before I could go Lav and Slav stopped me (Tony was the cotton ball guy, dead now). They invited me out for a drink. As their employee, I said yes.

They took me to this club in the part of town where they store meat, fish, furniture and other wares. A club with a pink sign in Miami vice style writing that said “Lazerbeam” only the “m” was going in and out so every few seconds it was club “Lazerbea”, which I thought sounded cooler.

We went inside and Slav motioned to a waiter who took us to a booth. We ordered drinks, then Lav took out a little baggie of white powder.

“Time to put on my dancing shoes,” he said.

Then he chopped up an impressively straight rail, a real mathematical wonder. He dragged his nostril across the table, which stood out to me because the table wasn’t so clean. I could see bits of lint, dust and Saltene crackers being pulled into his nose. Lav dabbed at the residue left on the table and rubbed his gums with it. Then he jumped up and ran to the dance floor.

Our drinks arrived and as I reached for my Whiskey/Coke, Slav said, “Ah, I notice you didn’t read our MEMO.”

Resonant, Rich, Testy

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

I imagined one day that I would have money. Not that I definitely would but I imagined what it would be like to have money.

I remember the movie Richie Rich, Macaulay Culkin living in a mansion with a roller coaster and being transported by helicopter. I remember Scrooge McDuck diving into a vault filled with gold coins. He would do the back stroke and spit out coins like water.

Now I’m older, fortunate to have as much as I do. Now because I’m able to get my car’s oil changed or buy all the groceries I want I feel rich.

It’s an appreciation of wealth. I don’t mean me saying “I’m grateful” I mean since I’ve been able to work and earn money, I understand the value of money.

The realities of having a rollercoaster in the house would be a nightmare; all the maintenance, security, city permits (of which there would be a plethora for safety, zoning, expansion, etc.) not to mention that riding the same ride would get old. Not that I could afford to have a roller coaster but even if I could I would not choose to afford one.

I think that’s what being wealthy means to me, being able to make decisions on what I will choose to afford so that what I need to afford won’t make me broke.

There are a lot of reasons I’m at the point I’m at now. Yes, I have worked hard but really I had a lot of opportunities and help from people who cared, (or at least I think they did). I think that makes me rich as well.

I have a friend who talks about not having much money but their personality is such that they have a wealth of friends, acquaintances, people they’ve met who would provide opportunities at the mere mention of needing help. Not that this friend likes asking for help but people feel like helping.

I know that when it comes to topics of money, wealth and privilege, people can get a bit testy. I can get a bit testy. Privilege is often loaded with politics. No one likes to feel like the things they have are not deserved or even earned.

I used to think about the idea of a “self-made man”, perhaps an out-dated term but it applies to anyone who claims to make “it” on their own.

I don’t know that I believe such a thing really exists. There are people who work hard and look for opportunities, then get them. There are people who work hard, look for opportunities and don’t get them. There are people that don’t work hard, know people and get opportunities.

You see where I’m going. There’s any number of scenarios in which people receive or do not receive opportunities.

Something that resonated with me recently was an exercise that Mr. Rogers used to do on his who and with his crew. It was to take one minute and think of one person who has helped you get to where you are, even if it’s not all the way to where you want to be.

That resonated with me because while I don’t believe in a god, I do believe that other people are as important as myself, and Mr. Rogers’ exercise is a good reminder that we all get a boost from time to time.

Delirious, Jaded, Glitter

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

A lonely traveler trudged through the steps of the rice paddy’s. She was approaching the temple delirious with hunger and exhaustion.

The journey had begun in high spirits, now, nearly at its end, she was feeling jaded.

What was so special about this temple? There were many temples in her own prefecture, what drove her to this? Enlightenment?

She reached the steps of the temple and started to climb. At the top, a figure dressed in yellow robes appeared. She hoped he would have a bowl of rice and maybe some sake.

At the top the monk gestured for her to sit at the top of the step. From inside the temple, another monk brought her dumplings, rice and water. She ate until her hunger was gone. She also realized that her mood had improved as well, but her exhaustion was making her annoyed at the monks, that they couldn’t say anything to someone who had journeyed so far and so long to reach them.

One monk beckoned her to a corner where there was a mat with bedding, just what she needed.

She didn’t remember falling asleep but she awoke and found herself in high spirits. She had completed the journey she had set out to finish and after food and a good nap, she could appreciate her achievement.

A monk came and motioned for her to follow. They walked through the temple until they arrived at a statue of the Buddha, a fat, smiling Buddha.

The woman sat and stared, closing her eyes, holding out her low but audible “ooohhhmmmm’s”, opening her eyes, fidgeting. She looked around at the other monks all sitting, eyes closed, facing the Buddha with a collective low hum of deep meditation.

She couldn’t focus. The deep satisfaction she had felt upon reaching the temple and then receiving her humble reward of food and sleep, was not matched by this, whatever this ritual was to a glittering Buddha.

At that moment, she became enlightened. The rest and food, normal and often under-appreciated necessities of life, became her deepest rewards after her journey. She could not fathom a satisfying life of stagnation at the top of a mountain simply staying put.

The woman grabbed her things and began the journey back down the mountain to her home. She looked forward to the hunger and exhaustion that would bring so much meaning to whatever food and rest she would find at the end of her journey.

Nutritious, Cap, Measure

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

“Take a swig,” said the Cap. “It’s nutritious and besides that it’ll cure your alopecia. You’ll be as hairy as a Himalayan Yak again in no time.”

I looked at the mixture the Cap had poured. Supposedly, besides being Captain of the Jelly Dodger, he had once also been an herbalist.

I’d gotten alopecia suddenly after seeing a ghost. I was shaving and in the mirror, behind me, I saw a tailor. He was holding up a measuring tape with pins in his mouth.

When I saw him, all the hair on my body instantly fell off. From head to eyebrows, balls to toes. All gone. Then to add insult to injury, the first mate kicked open the bathroom door, followed by a gust of wind behind him. The first mate took a piss and the wind blew all my hair into the urinals at the far wall. I wasn’t even left enough hair to gather and glue onto my chin.

The Cap being the good leader he is, said he had just the remedy: the shit of a seagull, the ink of a squid, coconut water, algae, rat fur and the piss of the hairiest man or woman onboard.

The seagull shit was the easiest to get. All we had to do was climb up the masts and scrape the white chips into a cup. The job could even be done without looking.

The squid ink just took some fishing but eventually we put a squid in a bucket and it inked right away. Two ingredients down.

The coconut water, algae and rat fur were almost simultaneous. We were drifting just off shore and someone noticed coconuts off the port bow, that’s also when we remembered all the algae under the boat, which reminded us of all the rats on the boat.

So we cracked the coconuts, scraped up algae and shaved rats. That was the funnest part, watching the crew shave rats with their razors.

The next part was not so fun. We had to find the hairiest man or woman on board to piss into the soup of ingredients we had collected.

Before my scare, I was the hairiest man. So all the men lined up and we judged who was the hairiest. It was the first mate.

The timing of all this was unfortunate. Our rations were thinning and the only food we had in abundance was asparagus.

Now I held a fowl smelling concoction that was to supposedly cure my alopecia and bring back all my hair.

The color was black. It was thick like paste from the seagulls and covered in millions of tiny hairs. It smelled like asparagus urine.

What would you do?

Master, Grim, Bate

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @taabithewonderer

She was in a foul bate sitting in traffic. Her knuckles were white, gripped around the steering wheel and she was gritting her teeth. She refused to look at the drivers or passengers in the cars all around her.

“This,” said Master Tempo, “is traffic. People all over the world would travel to places like this.”

“I feel so angry, Master, why do I feel so angry?”

“Because you are human and when you are sitting in your car, surrounded by moving cages, you are directly facing your limitations in that moment.”

“And people did this everyday?”

“Sometimes twice a day.”

“And that’s what stress was?”

“That was one way to feel stressed, one of many. People realized that to eliminate stress, you eliminate options or choices.”

“But doesn’t that go against what you just said about traffic? That the anger of sitting in traffic is an anger at realizing your own limitations?”

“Yes. Excellent, but that is only because of their choice to drive. If you remove that choice then you are a passenger, simply riding along.”

“But someone has to drive.”

“Excellent again. Yes, so long ago they decided that a few would drive, a few voted and elected to drive. Everyone else would just be along for the ride.”

“You’re not talking about traffic anymore are you?”

“No, I’m talking about our new ways. We all have the same jobs, we all live in the same houses, we all have Master’s and eventually we all become Master’s. And we never have to leave the house. Everything is automated and you learn through the audio/visual headset.”

“But what if I want something, something else?”

“You don’t need to want for anything and the best part is you won’t have to deal with anything you don’t want.”

“What about the garbage, human waste? What about sex and human relationships?”

“You’re experiencing that now.”

Sheryl removed the headset and blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the California sun. A car honked behind her setting off a chain of honks. She put the VR set on the passenger seat next to her.

I’d rather have the choice of getting stuck in traffic than that bullshit, she thought, looking at the VR set.

She took her Tesla out of autopilot and stared at the bumper of the proud parent of a child at McKinley Elementary School.

Curdle, Debauchery, Feckless

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @salgadoarnie

I was at the office. It was 3:20 PM and I was in my cubicle picking staples out of my arm.

Jerry had come by and “filed a couple of reports” which I guess meant put as many staples in my arm as possible before I was able to wrest the stapler away from him.

It’s okay, Jerry’s dead now. Susan came by with a carton of milk that had been in the fridge for two years. She doused him with it. While he was trying to rub away the milk from his eyes, she asked him if he wanted a towel and instead handed him a plugged in toaster.

It was like watching a reverse Frankenstein story. Where the living creature gets jolted, jumped and jostled around until it’s NOT alive.

So that’s how Jerry went. I don’t have to worry about him but Susan, my god what a psychopath.

I need to get out of here by 5 PM but I have to pass the conference room on my way out. There’s supposed to be a meeting in there until 5:30, which I suspect will be a bloodbath. Ever since the former owners son took over, we’ve all been working ourselves to death.

It was now company policy that only combat wounds received in the workplace were covered by insurance, couple that with the totality of anarchy outside the workplace and you were always on high alert, high strung and needing to keep the adrenaline high.

Kristen came around the corner. A trash can on her head, a two-fanged stapler remover in one hand and a long gel-filled wrist rest for the computer in the other. That thing could leave serious bruises if wielded correctly.

I pulled out the last staple and grabbed my keyboard for a shield. Kristen stopped at my cubicle.

“I have no quarrel with you, where is Jerry?” she asked.

“He’s dead.”

“Well, have you filled out his death report? Called human resources? Put out a casualty memo?”

“No.”

“Well, dammit Stan, what are you waiting for?”

“Yeah, no problem. I got it.” I started looking through papers for the right forms, blood was drying and sticking sheets together.

“Have you seen Susan?” Kristen asked.

“Yeah, she’s the one who ‘filed a couple of reports’ on Jerry.” I said.

“What the hell are you talking about, reports? I told Susan to toast Jerry right after he stapled your arm.” said Kristen.

“Oh, okay, I must have misunderstood what he meant, because he walked in talking about reports…” I was getting nervous and starting to drone on. “…but he did staple my arm, he did do that very well, I only just finished taking them out.”

Ridiculous, Sleep, Honk

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @ladychap84

The medicine man came to town, this time in a new fangled contraption. A wagon pulled not by horses, but by witchcraft or engineering (depending who you are).

We heard him before we saw him coming. He blared his horn and we all ran to our windows. It was nearing sunset and through the dust we saw the shape of his ride; one of those Ford vehicles with a cart hitched to the back that looked more like a fortune teller’s or circus sideshow cart.

we knew it was the medicine man because in between honks he’d shout out our problems then give the answer in the form of a powder, tonic or magic elixir.

“Warts? Cysts? Boils? Scrapes? Bumps or Bruises? I’ve got a tonic that’ll smooth your skin back to its newborn state!”

HONK. HONK.

“Having trouble sleeping? Do you suffer from the terrors of the night? I’ve got an elixir as old as time. A few swigs and you’ll be sleeping like a baby.”

HONK. HONK.

“Can’t seem to muster up the courage to ask out that pretty gal? Trouble speaking up in public? I’ve got the cure! You’ll be gabbing like a child telling Santa what they want for Christmas.”

HONK. HONK. HONK.

It seemed everything he was selling would turn us back into some sort of child. I didn’t understand at the time why that was so appealing. Then again, back then I had to stand on my tiptoes and pull on the sill just to look out the window.

The man parked in the center of our town square and opened up the cart he hauled. My mother took me and my two sisters to see him.

When we approached, the four of us gals were already a little late. We watched and waited as our neighbors, acquaintances and other town folk shouted their ailments and he miraculously provided the cure.

“What do yer got fer balding, kind sir?” asked the town cobbler.

“For the follicular-ly challenged I have this hair powder. Mix with raw egg, a splash of gin and leave it on your head for two days.” said the medicine man.

“How much?” asked the cobbler.

“Two dollars fifty.” said the medicine man.

He probably could have named his price, with the cure for baldness on the table.

“Step right up and let me know your weaknesses, I’ll give you the cure. I’m only in town for a day, business calls me elsewhere.”

“Ridiculous.” my mother muttered to herself.

“What is?” I asked.

“That poor cobbler drinks enough gin to put enough hair on fifty men. He eats only eggs because he only owns one hen.”

“Yeah but he doesn’t put them on his head, maybe that’s the trick.” I offered.

“That’s the trick alright. If he’s dumb enough to put that awful smelling mix on his head and pay good money for it, then he deserves it. But by the time he finds out that medicine man’ll be long gone.”

She grabbed our hands and shooed us back to the house, muttering all the way.

“Two days to leave it on but he’ll be gone tomorrow. Ridiculous.”

Regular, Tiresome, Popcorn

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

A helicopter flew above them, its blades chopping at the air. Below the canopy of the jungle the two of them sat in their foxhole.

Jerry smoked a cigarette and looked at Miles who was alert and canning the jungle in front of them. The sounds of the helicopter faded leaving only the occasional rustling, lonely sqwuak and, thank god (or whatever was up there) nothing else.

Jerry broke the silence. “Why do they call the enemy Jerry?”

Miles ignored him, so Jerry continued.

“I mean, that’s my name and I’m already out here in the shit taking fire for some rich politicians spoiled son and they have the nerve to call the enemy Jerry.”

“What are you talking about?” Said Miles. “That’s what they allies called the German’s in World War 2. Nobody’s saying that now. Relax, man. And put out that cigarette, Jerry will smell it and be on us like green on leaves.”

“They can’t smell shit. They probably in the same position, scared out of their minds–wait, did you just call them Jerry?

Miles laughed. “But seriously, put it out man, they’re sneaky.”

Jerry put out his cigarette and grabbed his rifle, taking a position next to Miles.

“Do you know how out of my mind I am right now?” Said Jerry.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sitting out here in the middle of a country I hadn’t even heard of until a few months ago, with a guy I hadn’t met until a few months ago with my face painted in black and green sitting in a deep mud puddle. That’s far out, man.”

“Ditto,” Said Miles.

“Is that normal? Just two regular guys sitting out here aiming loaded weapons at nothing?”

“I know man.” Said Miles. “But you better keep that talk between us, it’s tiresome to everyone else.”

Jerry smacked at a mosquito on his arm.

“If Jerry doesn’t kill us, these fuckin’ mosquitos will. God damn!”

“Hey watch my back,” said Miles. “I gotta take a shit, right on schedule.”

Miles hopped out of the hole and crouched behind a tree, still holding his rifle.

“You been going pretty regular, that’s great,” said Jerry. “I’m still at the mercy of the soup inside.”

“Hey,” said Jerry. “what do you miss most about home?”

“Toilet paper,” said Miles. “As many plies as I want plus folded. Toilet paper.”

“I miss the movies,” said Jerry. “You could feel terrified one minute, then walk out of the theater and head home the next. It was just an experience.”

“well this out here is an experience too.” Said Miles, pulling up his pants.

“Movies and a big tub of popcorn. That’s what I miss,” said Jerry.

Flame, Famous, Shy

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

She went on to do great things. Invited to universities she had never attended to give graduation speeches. Invited to television talk shows so her admirers could see she was really like everyone else but in the most glamorous way. Her name was leant to movies, books and T.V. shows as a way to further promote them. She made trips to congress to speak bout issues in which she was passionate. She was loved and adored. Her personal life, however, did not exist.

Her name meant many things to those who followed her but to herself it had lost all meaning. her quiet demeanor was misattributed as humbleness and her few choices of words marked as the attribute of a great speaker, rather than to her shyness.

Long after her body existed, she would live on in the memories of the collective conscience. They would make meme’s of her on social media platforms that generations after would look at and attribute new meaning.

And, of course, she was heralded as a great voice for women all over the world. Though she never directly spoke of women’s rights, her image was used as an example to all women.

To this, she had her doubts. Am I a tool for another’s agenda? Do I belong here for my ideas? Or will I always be a female body with ideas, doomed never to be separated from my anatomy.

These questions would arise in her mind but to them she also rebutted, as long as my ideas are sound they will rise above all superficialities, in time.

She got older and wiser, the political climate changed and issues came, went and came back again. Her image came and went with them.

Now as she neared the end of her life, with only a handful of years to walk this earth, she noticed the same things.

“Here is an example of a woman who has risen above it all to achieve great things, despite.”

“This woman has to rub it in everyone’s faces that she is a woman, just focus on the ideas, lady.”

She had heard the same criticisms all her life, on both sides, calling her woman. They were not wrong but they were miles away from the truth.

As she spent her final days in a house of a quiet neighborhood in some lazy suburb, she would look out the window and watch the world go by, still with that same flame, passion and will. To all of you, she thought, that say I am more than a woman or just a woman, I only ever wished to live as I am.

Yearn, Rasp, Grit

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @kadeburgercow

“Follow me.” The guy said. He was wearing a wide brimmed safari hat and an all Khaki outfit with zippers zig zagging everywhere. It looked as if the designer had made it their mission to challenge the pre-existing record of zippers on clothes.

From the looks of the outfit, he holds the record.

The guy who said “follow me” was our tour guide. His outfit would have been fine in the jungle but we were in downtown Los Angeles in July. This jungle required less clothing.

Why I was with this gentleman? Well, I wasn’t in my right mind. The Dodgers had just lost to the Brewers and I honored the visiting team by drinking copious amounts of brew. Then I stumbled out of the ball park, took a taxi downtown and realized I was thirsty.

The concrete-Dr. Livingston beckoned to me and now I’m following him, hoping he can lead me to the fountain of youth, or any working water fountain. I was yearning for some H2O.

I was slowing down, however, because of some sand in my shoes. A couple of bigger pebbles were stabbing straight into my foot bones by the toes then shifting down to my heal.

I sat down to take off my shoes and dump out the rocks. The guy came lumbering back, saying, “aren’t you coming? What’s wrong?”

I told him and his answer was, “No grit, no glory. Get up and get on. Tomorrow waits for no man so let’s get on it today. Work–“

His voice trailed off as he stomped away. Where the hell am I? Is this guy Jesus? Is he taking me to heaven? I hope there’s either water there or no thirst.

I stood up and ran after him. My running line zig zagging all over the side walk (like the zippers on his khaki suit) and then all over the asphalt. Then suddenly I stopped running. I was at eye-level with all the car tires and pedestrians feet. A incredibly loud and intense grating noise was in my left ear.

Then I was air-born, looking down at my body being dragged under a Semi truck. A teeth-gritting rasp emitted from the sound of my skull scraping against the asphalt.

I looked up, floating closer to the clouds. I looked over to the sun, feeling its heat and realizing that I was still thirsty.

Constitute, Vernacular, “Sea Foam”

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
These three movie titles provided by @audreyfankhanel

Something comes over me when I watch an episode of Seinfeld. It’s a familiarity, a closeness with humanity. The characters and scenarios make me feel that I’m part of the whole, that I’m not the only one concerned (perhaps overly so) with superficial things. Besides that, and more to the point, it makes me laugh.

If I were a character in Seinfeld, I’d more than likely be George Costanza. Maybe George on the inside and Jerry on the outside. George speaks a language I can understand. he exudes a pettiness and unchecked passion for the principles of things. I understand him, as despicable as he may be to some.

Jerry has a laissez-faire attitude. Things happen to him but he stays at the same level of comfort, neither better or worse off than the beginning of each episode.

Kramer’s character, as I heard Michael Richards describe him, isn’t dumb or crazy, he’s actually one level above everyone. Unconcerned with what others think, the world is his playground. And so he finds himself in situations like golfing with pro’s, being serenaded by legendary crooner’s, finding and living with the discarded set of the Merv Griffin show.

Kramer lives, I believe, as most of us wish to live. His careless abandon allows him to be exactly Kramer, Cosmo Kramer.

Elaine Benes is the more functional Kramer. Maybe I’m wrong, but her confidence and charm give her the opportunities Kramer is unable to receive, simply because he stands out for the wrong reasons, according to societies rules and expectations.

Elaine expresses all emotions without shame but is also able to pull it together when it matters. Because of this, she often comes out on top, fairing better than her three companions.

All four main characters represent different aspects of humanity. George is primarily emotion and passion. Jerry is mostly logic and reason. Kramer is pure joy. Elaine is responsible yet mischievous.

I think one of the scenes that captures this dynamic is this: The four are sitting at a booth in the diner. Jerry is next to Kramer and Elaine is next to George who is telling his adventures as a Marine biologist.

“The sea was angry that day, my friends.” He begins and the scene cuts to a beach, sea foam rolling up on shore.

So that’s 20 minutes of straight writing. I must of just been watching Seinfeld.

Dangerous, Adjustment, Ache

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

A limp. A fucking limp. That’s what I’m left with now. I was carrying groceries from the car to my house, maybe 20 steps away and I misremembered the step leading from the front door into the living room.

Like collapsing a tent pole, all the bones in my leg broke in a chain reaction; the ankle popped, pushing up my tibia and fibula up into my knee cap with a crunch, bruising my femur and dislocating my hip. Or at least that was the doctors best guess according to my account and the x-ray.

The good news is, I no longer have to carry the groceries. I think I’ve already mentioned the bad news.

Of all the things in the world that are constantly trying to injure, maim and kill us, it was my memory and pride that landed me here.

“Take one bag of groceries at a time,” my mom used to say.

“Take one bag of groceries at a time,” my wife used to say.

“Why make 3, 4, or 5 trips when I can make one.” I used to say.

Who knew it would be so dangerous? Not I. Who knows it can be dangerous? I do, now.

I’m getting nearly recovered, or at least to the closest recovery I’ll be able to get to. I can walk with a limp but I can walk. When it rains or is about to rain, my bones ache but I can walk.

My buddy helps with the groceries. He’s the neighbor across the street. He carries them in, two at a time (show-off) and leaves them for me on the counter. I can manage putting them away.

Except for today, I don’t always need to buy flour, so I keep it on the top shelf, just out of reach.

Well, I’m not an invalid, I can still do things. So I lift up my good leg onto the counter below, then I pull up the bad one, so I’m kneeling next to the salt, olive oil and cook books.

I grab the flour and just edge it over the lip of the shelf. It’s sticking out, so I reach and feel everything stretching, from finger to shoulder to back to hips to toes.

Losing my balance, I fall backwards. My neck slams down on an open cabinet door below, which snaps my head one way and my body the other.

A wheelchair. A fucking wheel chair. That’s what I’m left with now. I’ll have to make another minor adjustment to my routine but at least I don’t have to carry in my groceries or put them away.

Fuck.