The theme of this story: epic horror. The main character: arrogant servant. The major event of the story: hunting.
The torches flickered in their sconces which were set into the crumbling brick walls of the equally crumbling mansion. Lightning cracked and thunder roared, and the servant who was named Lancaster York CXXVII walked through the dark hallways with a flashlight in hand. There was no one in the mansion anymore except for a few aristocratic individuals of strangeness who stayed in there for reasons Lancaster did not understand.
Lancaster turned the corner and there was a zombie there, tilting his head and reaching out toward him with his arms. “Ah,” sighed the zombie. “Won’t you let us in, and won’t you let us eat your brains. Won’t you please let us in, I am knocking on the door and I want in.”
“But my repulsive fellow,” Lancaster said after sniffing loudly and adjusting his monocle arrogantly, “You are already inside.”
“Oh. Okay. We eagerly hunger for brains.” The zombie said and took another step toward him.
“Yarr, die,” Lancaster said and swung a lampshade at him. Lampshades are not good weapons against zombies, except perhaps to make hats out of which they can then wear as hats which will in turn sear the other zombies’ eyes because of its atrocious lack of sense of fashion.
Unfortunately, the lampshade only ripped. “Brains please, we hunger for it,” the zombie said again.
Lancaster crossed his arms and thrust his nose in their air, hoping the nosebleed he felt coming on would not actually come on in reality. “Who’s we?”
“I don’t know, but I’m here and I’m pretty sure that other guy is too. Am I right, precious?”
“You plagiarist, die,” Lancaster said and took his father’s blade and slashed at the zombie’s hand.
“NO U,” said the zombie as his hand went flying every which way.
And so Lancaster paid him no mind and swept by him, carefully waving the air of decay and stench away from his nostrils, which were now beginning to drip with blood, which oxidized upon contact with the air and turned a vivid red colour.
A hiss came from around the corner and then a vampire materialized. She was deathly pale and carried a watch hanging from her pocket, as well as a heavy box dragging behind her on what looked like a length of white paper.
“You’re messing up my house,” Lancaster said. “I will strike you down for great justice.”
“DO NOT WANT,” said the vampire.
“Please stop spouting brainless memes. If you visit 4chan on the computers in this fine establishment, I will cut you. By the way, you have a box on your ankle.”
“Oh, I know, my dear,” the vampire said. “But I got the paper stuck on my shoe in the bathroom and then the box decided to come along and now it trails me like a faithful companion. You should try it sometime. Faithful companions are good to have. They stay by your side in the darkest times and give you counsel and wisdom and weight training.”
“I need no weight training! I have no weight training!” Lancaster said with a dangerous glare and slashed at the vampire with a fingernail. “I am Lancaster York some kind of number which I am too lazy to remember at the moment, and the author is too lazy to scroll up at the moment so I will not tell you. And I tell ye now that the sweet dive of oblivion shall overtake ye, and ye shall die in agony of a zillion screams!”
“Two things,” the vampire said and held up two fingers. “One, I am already dead. Two, zillion is not a number.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Lancaster said and cocked a gun with a loud ker-chack. “Why, the other day I heard that two brazilian skydivers met untimely deaths. No wonder skydivers are extinct.”
The vampire rolled her eyes. “No wonder servants are extinct,” she said and languidly stretched.
“I am not extinct,” Lancaster York said stiffly. He became extinct.
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speedwriting 2 - angst
The theme of this story: serious relationship. The main character: melancholy astronaut. The major event of the story: crime.
The stars twinkled in the sky overhead, except the sky was not overhead because the astronaut was floating in a void. This void was space, and the stars actually twinkled all around. There is no sense of direction in space, although the four cardinal directions still apply for some reason, which the author has forgotten at this moment.
The astronaut sighed heavily and tapped at his helmet, letting a tear smear in the process. “Alas and alack,” he cried, but no one heard him, for sound does not carry in space.
He then decided that there was perhaps a better chance of finding someone to hear him where air existed, and then he took up a towel and landed on a planet.
You were in my past and now you were gone, he said to himself and tried to picture a face in his mind. There was a woman nearby, but she looked nothing like her, and so he decided to commit a crime.
There was a bank nearby, and a lemming and a gangly blond young man running around it. This did not look tempting, so he continued to look for a bank. He took his tear-stained helmet off, and grimly walked on, but the tears dripped off the helmet onto the ground and left tracks. To rob, or not to rob, that was the question.
You simply took your purse and left, your face left an imprint on my heart and your purse left an imprint in my face. I can still smell the purse.
He could have been a poet.
In fact, this was a capital idea. He had missed his life’s calling. On the way to a yet-undetermined financial institution which was to be his victim, he stopped and in a roadside café he whipped out a wrinkled piece of notebook paper and a chewed-up pen, and dashed off a few lines.
In fact, he still smelled the purse above the aroma of the coffee and donuts. He suddenly stood up, a dramatic light gleaming in his eyes. There she sat, a newspaper spread before her face and a small round opening glaring at him through one of the pages. He could not see her face, but he was certain it was her because of the purse and the way her nails were manicured.
“You’re back!” He exclaimed, standing up and dropping his helmet on the ground. The tears had evaporated by now, and the dramatic effect was quite lessened. The newspaper shifted, and she was gone in a puff of smoke.
Clearly, the world was against him, fate mocked him, and Fortune had cast her wadded-up tissue papers upon him and left him.
He then remembered that the woman had not been named Fortune. But this hardly mattered. Taking up his helmet again, he walked into a gas station. He would do this thing, and be commemorated in history as the warrior astronomer poet who left his mark not on faces, but in economies of planets everywhere.
He brandished his helmet and bellowed, “All your gas are belong to me!”
There was no response, so after waiting for a while in a menacing posture and flinging the helmet at a coffee dispenser several times for good measure, he went about siphoning gas into a tank that had appeared conveniently.
“Hey, stop that,” suddenly came a voice behind him, and he turned around to see a belligerent woman standing there with her arms crossed. And then the planet exploded.
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