Writing Prompt: Oh Heck

A prompt from Writer's Digest. In turn, this might have been taken from other sources around the Internet. It's been way too long since I did prompts, and I need to get back into shape writing-wise.

So the prompt for today is:

Finding the underworld rather crowded, Satan has instructed his incompetent younger brother Stan to open a milder version of Hell, known as Heck, for low-grade sinners. How does one end up there, and what sort of punishments does Stan devise?

I came up with this. It's pretty rough and I winged the whole thing without a specific plan, so it might come off as choppy, tonally inconsistent, and undercooked. Won't be fleshing this out into anything greater, it's just for the fun of it (and the exercise).

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Cory tumbled out of the black tunnel and landed face-first in a shallow pool of tepid water. His nose scraped against the crusty white lakebed. When he lifted his head up to breathe, droplets of salty water coated his lips and trickled down his throat. Seeing the white and blue expanse around him, he realized he landed on a water-covered salt plain.

The sky above him was blank. No clouds, no stars, just an empty void. It wasn’t so much dark as it was bland. In fact, that was the word that defined the place and how Cory felt about it—bland. This couldn’t have been heaven—it wasn’t nearly pretty enough, and he should have been joyous about it. But hell should have been much more oppressive than this. Purgatory? Even that middle-ground would have elicited some feeling.

He wanted answers, and he knew there had to have been an angel or demon around to make him welcome in whatever afterlife this was. Right when he considered shouting out for help, something splashed behind him. Cory saw a pink-skinned figure flailing in the foot-deep lake, acting as though he as drowning in the Atlantic.

Cory took a few steps and extended his hand. The other fellow’s palm met his, with long fingernails gently pressing into his wrist. They were claws, but their tips were filed down. Surely a demon, but did they like pedicures?

The creature pulled himself up, spitting quarts of water from his purple lips. Black hair clung to his shoulders, thick enough to form a curtain over his face. When he parted his hair, Cory beheld boyish pink cheeks and a pair of dull yellow eyes.

“Oh man,” the creature stammered. “Oh sh*t, I’m sorry dude. I f*cked that up so bad. Don’t tell me bro about this, okay? He thinks I have this teleportation thing nailed, but I totally don’t. This is so hard!”

 The best response Cory was able to give was to squint his eyes and blurt, “What?”

“Oh sh*t, I forgot about the intro. I was supposed to have meteors behind me and this really awesome dragon, and then I would come out of this tesseract thing like some kind of a bad@ss—”

“Just tell me where I am. Is this hell?”

“Um, yeah…no, sorry, this is heck.”

“Are you serious?”

“This isn’t, like, the real hell. Hell’s been full for a while, so we needed more space and my bro set up this dimension for you guys.”

“What? Hell is full? How is that even possible?”

“You know how many sinners there are, man? I mean, sh*t, ever since they invented video games everybody became a murderer.”

“What?” Cory blinked. “Killing an NPC is murder now?”

“It’s not, like, real murder, but it is murder. You used to play that car theft game, right. You killed like a hundred cops. That’s so evil!”

“But they weren’t real, and it’s not like I enjoyed it…”

“Hey, it’s okay. We got dudes here who killed more people than Hitler did, because f*cking games man. You ever play that one where you can make a virus and kill the whole world? That’s like seven trillion murders in one playthrough. We got people here who’ve murdered whole galaxies, man!”

“This can’t be happening,” Cory rubbed his head. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Oh, sorry dude. Totally forgot my manners. I’m Stan, nice to meet you.”

When Stan extended his hand, Cory shook it, then withdrew his arm with the exasperated realization that he just welcomed the being that would torment him for untold eons for reasons he didn’t even know.

“Wait a minute,” Cory said. “You’re some kind of demon, right? And you’re here to torture me? For what again?”

“First of all dude, I’m a prince, not just ‘some kind of demon.’ I mean, do I even look like an imp to you? Sh*t man. Second, um…it’s not so much torture, because I don’t like torturing people that much. Lucifer wanted all this to be like lava and sh*t, but I’m like naw man, let’s just make it a nice gentle lake. Not a pretty lake or anything, but something a little more welcoming than boiling magma.”

“Yeah, thanks, it’s a nice lake.”

“Oh no, don’t say that man! You’re supposed to suffer a little.”

“Why though?”

“Well, obviously the games made you a mass murderer.”

“Not for real though!”

“Tell that to all the dead pixels, man. Uh, let’s see…you’ve watched about a thousand R-rated movies.”

“What? That’s a sin too?”

“It’s not good for you, man. Same for all the porn you’ve seen, all the comics and pulp novels, listening to all that Mozart, eating pork, calling in sick when you weren’t, turning down Girl Scout cookies when they came around…”

“Okay, this is bullsh*t, seriously!” Cory shouted. “I haven’t sinned any worse than anybody else on Earth, so why am I really here?”

“Whoa dude, chillax. You think that just because everybody else does this sh*t you can get away with it too? No man. You’re here because of one thing. And because of that one thing, it all comes back in your face.”

“What one thing?”

“That’s the thing—it’s more like the thing you didn’t do, you know?”

“I don’t know, that’s the thing!” Cory paced in a circle, salty water splashing around his calves. There were thousands of things he didn’t do, and it wasn’t fair to judge him for any one of them. He couldn’t have earned his damnation for not giving up a seat on the bus, or not donating to charity when he should have. He never endangered a life or hurt anybody through inaction.

Then he realized he hurt himself through inaction.

“Of course,” Cory brought his palm to his face. “I didn’t go to church enough. Didn’t pray enough.”

“Yeah, that’s sort of it.”

“Sort of? Is it or isn’t it?”

“Chill dude. I didn’t take you for the angry type. You keep this up and my bro will knock you to Ring Five. You don’t want to go there, it’s nasty.”

“Just tell it to me straight—what didn’t I do in life?”

“You didn’t follow the path. You know, THE path.”

“The path…of Jesus?”

Stan suddenly brought his hands to his ears. “Oh, sh*t man, don’t even say that name!”

“What does that even mean though?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Cory knew the answer. He had heard it all his life—follow in Jesus and he’d be saved. Except he never bothered to understand the meaning of it. If he had reached an understanding about it, he could have devoted his life to selflessness, generosity, and love.

What had he really done with the life he was gifted with? Senseless games, beer, and Internet trolling to filled his time. He spent most of it alone, ashamed, and depressed. Years of it ground against his heart, until it finally failed. He only had himself to blame.

“So what happens now?” Cory asked. “What’s the next level of…heck?”

“Oh, no, this isn’t like that man. This is it. What you see is what you get.”

“Really?” Cory regarded the flat expanse of salt and water with a scowl. “Where is everyone?”

“It’s a big dimension man, just keep wandering that way and you’ll find that group of backpackers who fell off of—”

“Wait a minute, is this really it? I’m just supposed to wander around here for eternity?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there no way out? No hope for salvation? I know what I should have done!”

“Do you though?” Stan’s yellow eyes glimmered briefly, and Cory took a step back. With a wide grin, Stan pointed behind him. “Here’s a secret for you. Head that way. Then maybe you’ll have a chance.”

It could have been a trick, but this was Stan and Cory didn’t take him seriously enough to think him capable of treachery. There was earnestness in Stan’s voice, and the glimmer in his eye was a challenge. Maybe there was a second chance, if he had the conviction to go through with it.

Stomping past Stan, Cory headed towards the boring white horizon. Nothing changed as he continued, step by step. Entire miles must have fell behind him, but he couldn’t tell. Time slithered with agonizing slowness, as the salt water stung against his ankles and calves.

Then, the water came to his knees. It wasn’t that the pool became deeper—he was shorter. Reaching down, Cory couldn’t feel his feet. They weren’t there—they had dissolved in the lake, and he was walking on the stubs of his legs. He wasn’t alarmed though. It didn’t even hurt. If anything, it was gratifying, because he knew this was the path. He’d become nothing, and by doing so, he’d rise into a new, better form.

He continued walking until his legs vanished. Then his stomach and hands. When his chest vanished, his head floated towards the infinite horizon, gradually sinking into oblivion.

On Earth, a newborn baby entered the world without crying. Too young to understand or know what soul now inhabited its pure body, but he would live a fresh new life full of chances to walk the path of love.

Writing Prompt: Wedding Crashers

This week's writing prompt from Writer's Digest:

You are standing at the altar waiting to marry the person of your dreams. The preacher says, “Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.” You smile at your soon-to-be spouse, ready to get on with the vows. Suddenly—just like the movies—the chapel doors burst open. “I object!” You turn to see who dared to interrupt your day. It’s your ex. Finish the scene.

I wound up whipping out this story in my usual fast and loose manner.
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Oh God, why now? Of all the people, why Jay? I tremble in rage as the arrogant little sh*t walks down the aisle, smiling smugly like he just won the lottery. What bothers me the most is his self-righteousness, which I know is just a mask for his true impulses. I know he just wants to cause a ruckus, like a child with a temper tantrum, because I chose Gary over him and he never really got over it. It takes all my willpower to stop myself from strangling him with my veil.

The entire chapel gawks at Jay as he strolls down the aisle. I see my mother face-palming and father muttering some expletive. Murmurs and gasps fill the entire chamber — everybody wakes up to a sudden and unexpected twist. Shame none of them know Jay like I do.

Gary looks Jay up and down, calmly and without any change in expression. I always admired him for his patience — maybe this could be the ultimate test after all. Maybe now I’ll see if I chose my groom wisely when faced with my ex.

Jay announces, “Gwen, you can’t marry this man. He’s not even a man!”

The murmurs intensify as everybody’s imaginations take this new information and runs with it. Annoyed, I cross my arms. I know this is just a tactic for Jay to shake everything up. Everything has to be so melodramatic with him, it still sickens me.

I respond to Jay, “Well, I’ll find out tonight, thank you very much.”

“That’s not what I mean. This man is not human — he’s an android!”

“Wow, really?” This is seriously the stupidest thing I ever heard Jay say. Then again, I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t know for a fact how shoddy his detective skills actually are. You’d think a private eye like Jay would have those skills, but Jay is living proof that standards in the field are shockingly low. I refrain from yelling out my frustration and let the man delivery his flimsy evidence.

Jay says, “Gary Stalls is a false identity, given to him by an underground advocate group for runaway droids. This unit has been on the run for years. He’s drifted from state-to-state as an unskilled worker. He’s been paid under the table so often, he’s remained off-the-grid. But now that he’s been in this community for so long, he’s started to draw attention. That’s how I found out about him.”

“So?” I ask. “None of that explains how he’s a machine.”

“True, but the thing that really tipped me off was his spending habits. I followed Gary for a week, never saw him eat a thing. But he did buy up a ton of car parts. Computer parts, like memory, cables, and thermal paste. Why would one man need all that, unless he needs it for his own body?”

“Gary loves working with hardware. I’ve seen him work.”

Gary calmly says, “I don’t mean to question your methods, but your investigation is inherently biased. I don’t think your findings are conclusive. You just want to find a way to separate us. I find it sad that you’d resort to slander to ruin our love.”

I feel warm and proud of Gary. The feeling is short-lived when I see Jay pull something out of his pocket — a glass vial filled with green liquid. Jay says, “I’ve never been more conclusive in my life, and I’m certain that this will melt the bio-silicon mask you wear and show everybody what you really are.”

I say, “Jay, stop this. You’re about to throw acid into a man’s face! Do you even realize what you’re doing?”

People in the pews hold up their phones — I hope somebody is calling the police. Knowing my family, they’re all probably posting on Instagram already.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Jay says, to my disgust.

He tosses the vial and lets the acid fly into Gary’s face. My hand snaps out on reflex, as if I could catch the liquid and stop it. I know it would burn my own skin, but I wanted to protect Gary. Unfortunately, it’s all out of my reach — the acid flies in front of my fingers and it lands on Gary’s head.

When it hits, Gary throws his arms up and covers his face. He doesn’t scream, but everybody else does. Hell, I scream, and I feel appalled. My husband might not have a face when he pulls his arms away. What if the acid burns through everything and kills him?

Just as Jay is yanked off his feet by my overzealous cousins, Gary lowers his arms. The room is instantly silent, as everybody stops to gawk at him. A pile of melted skin dribbles down his suit, revealing a shiny chrome skull underneath.

Holy sh*t, Gary was a robot this whole time and I never even suspected it. It takes me by surprise like it does everyone else. Deep down, I feel a sense of betrayal bubbling up. Why didn’t he tell me? Didn’t he trust me?

But when I see the angry scowls of everyone else in the chapel, I see the answer already. How could Gary trust me, when everybody’s first reaction to an android is to run him out of town? I’ve seen the severed android heads lined up on the edges of Peabody’s land. The news always shows clips of angry mobs beating down robots with clubs and rods, until their bodies break and leak oil. I never gave it any thought until now, because I never saw the machines for what they were — vessels of consciousness, no different than a human body. For the first time, I had to ask why do people hate the machines?

I can’t even imagine what Gary must have felt. Some would say he doesn’t feel a thing, but I know what can’t be true. He’s expressed his feelings to me repeatedly — beautiful thoughts on love and life. We wouldn’t be in the chapel if it wasn’t for our shared feelings. He must have felt fear his whole life, living like a rat being chased by hordes of cats. I know him better than any of these cats, and I know he’s not a heartless machine deserving of punishment. He deserves love. My love.

I look at the minister, who just shrugs sheepishly. It hits me — he can’t wed us anymore. The state won’t recognize a marriage between me and Gary, because of what he is. As to what the Church thinks, who the hell even knows? Nothing in the Bible condones the holy union of woman and robot. I can picture all my family and neighbors banding together and chanting the same old words we already know — marriage is between a man and a woman.

But I see Gary as a man. Even as Jay struts proudly in front of everyone else and starts riling them up, I make up my mind. I grab Gary’s hand, and we run out the chapel. I fell in love with his consciousness, not his body. I will fight for it if I have to.
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I wound up enjoying this prompt more than I thought I would — this is a story that could be expanded into a full-blown novel if I wanted to. If I did, I'd likely change up the last few paragraphs and put those details somewhere else (preferably shown instead of told). As it is, they were worldbuilding points I shoehorned into the prompt to make the themes stand out — there are better, more transparent ways to do that in a larger piece of work.

I also realize this story could also work if Gary was an alien in disguise. If I go that route, lots of things would have to change (my biggest fear then would be it might wind up too similar to Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land, or the movie Starman). As it is, I'll probably stick with the android angle and wind up incorporating this as a subplot into a larger manuscript I'm planning (which happens to be about robot civil rights).

Writing Prompt: I Can Hear You

This week's writing prompt from Writer's Digest:

You were involved in a terrible car accident and have been in a coma for the past three months. What your family and the doctors don’t know is that you can hear everything that they say. Write the scene.

I found this more interesting than I first imagined. I whipped up the following spiel, but it's far from refined. I really don't have any idea if any of this is medically or legally accurate, I just followed the impulses of the drama. For a prompt, I'm not bothered to refine this any more. So here it is just for the fun of it.
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Through the dense veil of darkness, Caleb heard his mother’s voice. “So irresponsible. I thought I taught you better. You always were…irresponsible…” She sniffled and sobbed.

Caleb envisioned her face, contorted with grief and soaked in tears, but he couldn’t see. He couldn’t move. The darkness enveloped all his senses, except his hearing. It was his only conduit to the world. In all the endless hours he listened, he heard constant footsteps, beeping sounds, quiet discussions. He was certain he was in a hospital.

Where else would he be after driving his car straight into an 18-wheeler truck? In the quietest moments of his stay, Caleb still saw the metal grille coming at him like the maw of a metal monster. It felt as surreal then as it did now — the only difference was his state of mind. It was a slurred, hazy experience when he saw the truck and felt the impact rumbling through his body. It was more vivid in his memory.

He didn’t know how much time passed between voices. Minutes? Hours? Years? Time no longer mattered. Caleb remembered how Dr. Manhattan described it in the Watchmen — the past, present, and future all combined into one confusing mess. The only difference was that the big blue man could control space and time. Caleb couldn’t even move his pinky if he wanted to.

After an unknown span of time, Caleb heard other voices, so stiff, commanding, and judgmental. “Your son’s blood-alcohol level was three times over the legal limit. It’s a miracle he got into the car at all.”

His mother asked, “What does this mean?”

“Since he is at fault, he will have to pay the entire cost.”

“He has insurance.”

“Insurance doesn’t cover this and they refuse to pay. We don’t expect you to cover for him at all, ma’am. As the joint owner on Caleb’s account, we’ll just need you to sign this form, allowing all funds to be withdrawn from his account.”

“Does he even have that much?”

“Barely.”

Caleb heard the scribbling of a pen. Just like that, all his money was gone. He heard footsteps as the mysterious man left the room — he must have been an insurance investigator. Once again, he heard his mother’s condemning words, “So irresponsible!”

More empty time passed. Another voice — his best friend Jacob — said, “Hey, I don’t know if you can hear me or not. I heard this sort of thing is good for patients in this condition, I dunno. Uh, how’s it going?”

There was an uncertain pause, and Caleb knew that something else was going to happen. Jacob cleared his throat and said, “Listen…I’m sorry to say this, but you need to know…your boss heard about how wasted you were…he’s going to fire you. Sorry man. I don’t even know how this sort of things works, but if you do wake up, you’re going to have to find a new job.”

Caleb had no money and no means to make money. If he could scream, he would.

More time passed. He heard the occasional mutterings of doctors and nurses. “He looks stable, but who knows how long he’ll be in this state?”

In another instant, he heard his mother complaining, “It costs too much. Can’t we just…” Caleb understood at once, and he envisioned a plug yanked from the wall and ending his life.

“Just give it time, he might come to at any moment,” the doctor assured.

Caleb was scared. His own life was in other people’s hands and there wasn’t anything he could do. He wished he could say sorry to his mother. He wished he could beg to his boss and vow never to drink again. He wanted to repay everybody for all the harm he caused. Without being able to repent, he couldn’t argue his own case to live.

He expected it to end at any minute. A long period of silence followed, before he heard whispers. Strangers in the darkness were arguing. “Are you sure about this?”

“This kid is a deadbeat, nobody will catch on,” another voice said. “Get the scalpel.”

Caleb wanted to know what this was about. Was this surgery? If so, why were they whispering? Why did they talk about him this way?

These were no surgeons — they would have used anesthesia. He felt something in his side, sliding down the skin. It parted, and there was pressure. Somebody made an incision and stuck his hands inside of him. His skin stung, and his organs ached. He wanted to shout and jump up, but couldn’t. All he could do was listen to the sickening sounds of oozing blood and moving tissue.

“His liver looks terrible,” one voice muttered. “What a waste. Kidney’s not bad though.”

“Take it. Hurry.”

The pain lasted for an eternity, before he was left with an excruciating ache in his side. He felt dozens of stings as somebody stitched his skin and closed the incision.

Pain filled all of Caleb’s world, until the voices came back.

“This kid’s still here.” One of them said. Caleb panicked. What else did they want? What more will they take from him?

“Hearts are in high demand,” the other voice said.

“Won’t that kill him?”

“It’s either that, or lungs, or sperm. Hey, you can try to collect his sperm if you want, but I’m not touching that. Besides, the heart will fetch a good price. His mother won’t mind as long as she gets her cut.”

“Let’s take his heart.”

Writing Prompt: Killing Clichés

Here's the latest writing prompt from Writer's Digest:

Write 10 sentences using a different cliché in each. Now, rewrite the sentence to eliminate the cliché and find a more clever and creative way to convey its meaning.

Lots of folks have taken this and made a whole 500-word story out of it, but I simply took the instructions at face value, wrote out ten clichés, and modified them. It can be tricky, but I find value in the exercise because clichés are indeed something to avoid, and this can help take an old phrase and make something new or smart out of it. These could even be whole new clichés for the future, who knows?

So here are my responses. I might have to use some of these invented lines in my own works someday. If you're attempting this and need more cliches, try ClicheSite.com, or run a search.
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Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
When you give a baby all the toys in the world, he grows up to be a brat.

Back to square one.
We got to do this on New Game mode.

Damned if you do and damned if you don’t
It doesn’t matter what you do, you’re f*&ked.

Different strokes for different folks.
Different stats for different cats.

Drink the Kool-Aid.
Follow the rest of the lemmings over the cliff.

Get the ball rolling.
It’s time to get this primed.

Jump on the bandwagon.
The hype train is pulling up and I’m getting on it.

There is more than one way to skin a cat.
This is a road with a thousand lanes.

Watching grass grow.
This is as exciting as watching the universe expanding.

You have to break a few eggs to make an omlelette.
You can’t go ice fishing without cutting a hole.

Writing Prompt: What the heck happened here?

I decided to try and get back into the groove of doing writing prompts. Found one from Writer's Digest, and it is as follows:

To get the story straight, Dave, we think, has become a chicken. Just the worst of luck with that guy. Tom is claiming he married the futon that’s now covered in yogurt, Carl is on the chandelier with the dog and you just walked in after getting groceries. What the heck happened here?

...uh.....ooooookaaay...well, here goes something...

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                When I stepped inside with my groceries, I stopped short at the doorway when I saw Carl sitting on the chandelier. Something about this didn’t register correctly in my mind as a natural or normal occurrence.  I watched him dangling his legs and cradling his pet Chihuahua in his hands.

                With a nod of his head, Carl greeted, “Sup?”

                A number of specific questions materialized in my mind: how did he get up there with his dog? Why did he get up there? And when? It all came out of my mouth in a big hustle of words, “When what how did you why are you with your dog what the fff—“

                “It’s no big deal, I get a good view from up here.”

                “A view of what?”

                “The wedding.”

                “What wedding?”

                “The one that happened just now while you were gone.”

                “What? Right here in the entrance-way? Who got married?”

                “Tom. Can you believe it finally happened?”

                “I didn’t know Tom was engaged to anyone. Still, how…” I gestured up at him, still struggling to ascertain the line of thinking that would lead Carl to hoist himself on the chandelier.

                Looking around, Carl wondered aloud, “How did I get up here? Hey, do you mind taking my dog for me?”

                Holding up my hands, I showed off the big bag of groceries and said, “My hands are a little—“

                Without much forethought, Carl beamed and said, “Here, yo quiero Taco Bell.” He then let the poor mutt go, yipping all the way down.

                I had no choice but to abandon the groceries and catch the dog. With an agitated sigh, I let the dog down on the floor and snapped at Carl, “Come on, that commercial’s like fifteen years old now. Do you even know what that phrase means?”

                “Nope. Thanks for catching Ricky Martin for me.”

                As much as I wanted to chide Carl for the naming conventions of his dog and his seeming obsession with everything from the late 90s, I stared at the spilled groceries on the floor with even more distress. With a sigh, I started gathering up the food.

                In the midst of gathering everything up, I questioned Carl on even more pressing matters, “So, who did Tom marry…just now?”

                “Well…”

                Carl’s hesitation didn’t help make this any less weird, so I just asked, “Is Tom here?”

                “Yep.”

                “Good, I’ll just ask him.” Carl never was a good source of critical information anyway.

                Once I got all the groceries back into their bags, I carried them to the kitchen and started the tedious task of transferring it all into the fridge. I opened the fridge and was shocked to find it stuffed with beer. I had to take fifty bottles out to fit in the food with actual nutritional value.

                When I pulled out some packets of chicken breast to put in, I heard Dave clearing his throat behind me. I turned and beheld a live chicken staring at me. Defying all the commonly-held beliefs I had regarding chickens, this one opened its beak and spoke in Dave’s voice, “So...was that chicken parts I saw you put in the fridge?”

                “Yeah.” Realizing that I was addressing a talking chicken, I sputtered, “What…what…how…what?”

                “Oh yeah, about my body. Total freak accident at the lab today. Remember that mutagen I was writing my paper on? Well, I decided to go through the procedure to see what would happen. One thing kinda led to the other…”

                “So, what, you mutated into a chicken?”

                “Unfortunately, yes. It’s nothing like the original formula, which was supposed to make me shoot fire out of my eyes. So, now that I’m a chicken, there has to be some changes. I can’t abide by us eating…that. I mean, that’s a piece of breast from one of my kind. What kind of sick f*cker eats dead breasts?”

                “Look, just because you’re a chicken now doesn’t mean the rest of us humans can’t enjoy chicken!”

                “You don’t see me eating a dead human!”

                “Well, no, that’s murder.”

                “So is that!” Dave pecked his head in the direction of the fridge. “This is so offensive in so many ways.”

                “Dave, you’re an animal now. Humans eat animals. You of all people should understand the finer details of how the food chain works. It’s nature.”

                “Oh no, we live in a manmade world now, and I’m living proof that we can play God. If I can become a chicken, we can find alternate forms of sustenance. I’m campaigning for everyone to become a total vegan, and no more chickens are to be killed!” Dave suddenly darted out of the kitchen in a flurry of flapping wings and feathers.

                Once the groceries were properly stowed in the fridge, I sought out Tom to ascertain what was really going on with him. I found him in one of the rooms, lying on a futon covered completely in a thick white mess. It took me a moment to realize that it was all yogurt, and not the other kind of white material that suddenly came to mind.

                Once again, a myriad of questions manifested in my mouth and came out in a jumbled mess, “So…what…who…I heard, what?”

                “It’s true, all of it,” Tom said.

                “So, who is the lucky gal?”

                “Dude, you’re looking at her,” Tom gestured at the mess around him. “Say hello to the lovely lady Futonco.”

                “Futo…what? You married the mattress?”

                “Hey, she’s a futon, and don’t you forget about it!”

                “It’s not even a real person!”

                “Oh no, she’s more than that to me. She’s so soft, and she understands me,” Tom started swirling the yogurt in gentle circles all over the futon…or his wife, rather.

                I had the sudden image of having Tom and the futon standing at the doorway with a priest. I had my doubts that the state would make this a legal marriage, but then again, this is California. With a sigh, I decided to just accept it all, and focus on the one last mystery in front of me. “What’s with all the yogurt?”

                “Oh…it’s a thing between us. I guess you could call it a fetish. Futonco loves it. Oh yes, you like it when I do this, don’t you, my little cotton wonder…” Tom started smearing the yogurt all over the place. It felt too awkward to linger.

                At that moment, I made the conscious decision to ditch Omega-Mu-Gamma and find a new fraternity.

Writing Prompt: Hello! I'm Captain Jiggles

From Writer's Digest, this week's prompt presents this bizarre scenario:

Unforeseen medical expenses arise, and you enter a bank to take out a loan. A bank teller explains that she has a “special new trainee” today who will help you in just a moment. Then a man in a full clown costume (wig, facepaint, oversized pants — the works) comes out and says, “Hello! I’m Captain Jiggles, the new loan officer, and I would be happy to help you now.” Write this scene.

I decided to write out this scene using a character from my detective novel, a rather cynical fellow named Marco Salinger.  I probably could have done plenty more with this scene, but I felt it was amusing as-is.
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Get a load of this guy.  He says his name is Captain Jiggles, and that in itself should be enough of a hint to tell you of what kind of joker he is.  He comes out wearing a pair of gaudy red and yellow balloon pants, a fluffy white shirt with pink and purple polka dots, and he’s got red gloves on his hands.  His whole face is smeared in pure white make-up, he’s got a gigantic red ball on his nose, and his hair is a mess of red curls.  The real kicker about all this is that I’m not here to be amused – this f%cker is supposed to be my loan officer.

I look at the bank teller as if she just puked up a whole lobster out of her mouth.  She just stares back at me blankly, wondering what my problem is.  I look around and wonder what everyone’s problem is.  Surely, I can’t be the only sucker in this joint that finds this strange and stupid.  I can’t tell if the other people in the bank are oblivious to the presence of this wacky clown, or if they’re just pretending not to notice.

Captain Jiggles meets my gaze and says, “Is there a problem, Mr. Salinger?”

I act as cool as I can, given the circumstances, and reply, “No problem at all.  Let’s get this over with.”

F#ck it.  Getting the loan is the most important thing right now – who the hell cares if it’s Ronald McDonald filling out the paperwork? I’m just glad it’s Captain Jiggles and not a juggalo – I always heard those guys are freaks.

I follow Mister Jiggles to his office (I seriously don’t know if I have to address him as “Captain” all the time or if Jiggles is his literal surname).  I half expect the door to open up to a zany funhouse full of bent mirrors and colored doors and other crap.  I’m floored when I see nothing but a clean office with a single desk, computer, and the cushiest chairs imaginable.

Jiggles offers me a seat, before sitting behind the desk and starting to type away at the computer.  He asks, “Would you like anything to drink?”

Whisky would have made my day, if it’d help me get over how goofy Mr. Jiggles looks.  I figure that booze is scarce in the bank, and asking for it might get me kicked out.  I just say “sure” and let him get me something.  From a fridge behind the desk, he pulls out a bottle of red soda – Faygo.  Ah sh*t, maybe he is a juggalo after all.

He pours some of the pop into a plastic cup that he pulls out from a drawer.  I half expect him to stick a silly straw in it too.  When he plants a plain, straight, transparent straw into it, I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

For the next hour or so, he takes down all my personal information and gets the ball rolling.  It takes just moments to check my credit score – not too good ever since last year – and then he goes into a big spiel about locking in percentages.  The whole time he talks, it sounds as professional and smart as talking to any other banking professional.  I like the fact that this clown isn’t bullsh&tting me, he gives me the numbers and prospects straight-up.  At the same time, I can’t help but to gawk at the man’s gigantic red snoz.  Seriously, what the hell is this? Why is this guy dressed this way? Why is the bank allowing this kind of dress code? How can they expect me to take this sh$t seriously?

When business gets wrapped up, I can’t complain – I get a legitimate loan at a damn good rate.  But I also expect something to come out of the blue at me.  Maybe Mr. Jiggles will shake my hand and I wind up getting zapped by one of those stupid buzzer toys.  Or maybe he’ll squirt my face with water from those stupid little flowers.  I spend the most mental energy entertaining the thought that a cake will roll in and a dame dressed like Harley Quinn will pop out of it.

Nothing happens though – Jiggles leads me to the door with a friendly smile, as if everything’s cool.  Once again, I don’t know if I’m disappointed or not.  As I exit the door with documents in hand, I turn and ask him, “May I ask you something?”

“Certainly, what is it?” he beams.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask:  what is it with this get-up?”

“What do you mean?” He frowns as if I just spat on his Armani suit.

“Well, sir, it’s not every day I see a guy dressed in something as…colorful as this.”

“I know, isn’t it great?”

“I have to ask though…do you come to work like this all the time, or do you have a second job entertaining kids or something?”

“No, this is my normal suit.” Jiggles pulls on the shirt proudly and beams.

What a joker.  I decide just to drop it – stranger sh&t has happened for me to worry about what one clown is doing working at a bank.  At least this’ll give me something interesting to tell the nurses when I’m getting my lung cancer treatment.  Hell, I start to wonder what’ll happen when the procedure’s underway, and I start to think that having all the doctors and nurses dressed as clowns might make it bearable.  Something about it takes the edge off – I realize I spent so much time among stiff, boring people that seeing a clown in the mix feels crazier than it actually is.  What if everything was backwards – if everybody else was a clown and I was some schmuck in a plain black suit acting all serious?

The change in perspective turns out to be what I need.  God knows if I’ll actually survive the treatments, but thinking about the clowns of the world keeps my mind off of how dire it all is.  Next time I see the doctor and he tells me all the potential risks of surgery, I feel like I can look him in the eye and say, “Why so serious, doc?”

Writing Prompt: Writer's Digest Your Story #57

For the next Writer's Digest Your Story competition, the following prompt is offered:

Prompt: Write the opening sentence (25 words or fewer) to a story based on the photo to the left.

Use the submission form OR email your submission directly to yourstorycontest@fwmedia.com.

It's a pretty straight-forward exercise.  The real trick is to try and convey something unique, funny, exciting, or all-around promising, in only 25 words.  Exercises like this could be useful for visualizing story openings, because starting a story is one of the hardest parts of story writing.

If you wish to submit to this competition, simply go to the web page for this exercise, and submit through Writer's Digest.   If you win, you could be published in their magazine.  No cash or prizes, but it is a fun thing to try, and it's a good exercise for the brain.  The deadline for this exercise is April 14th.

The first responses that come to my mind:

Scrambling along the floor of the prison cell, Jacques desperately tried to find the lock pick that Serj had dropped.

After stepping through the mysterious vortex, Robinson Crusoe was surprised to find himself no longer on a desert island.

Despite his exhaustion, Dennis struggled to do one more push-up for his robotic overlords.

With his legs bound in tie-wraps, Don had no choice but to roll off of the gurney, fall on the floor, and crawl away from his captors.

  

Waking up face-down on the hard white floor, Arnold realized to his terror that he had been drugged and abducted by organ harvesters.

Knowing that the aliens would be back to probe him, Ernest struggled against the drugs and tried to pull his numb body toward the hatch.

Examining the floor carefully, Roger affirmed with his keen senses that there were traces of gasoline leading to the next room.

Having been knocked to the floor by his opponent, Earl started to wonder if this martial arts school was for real…

Sprawled on the floor, James thought to himself, "This is the worst job interview ever."

Joe immediately lunged to the floor, looking for the gold coin that Mendes had dropped.

After all he had been through, Matthew suddenly wished he was in Disneyland.