Category: 750 Words.Com

Daily writing exercise, 750words.com

fiction by Jason Edwards

Turn the corner off of Zunder Strasse onto Pfennig and you may be blinded by the white walls of the Z’at Ki Dak, an edifice that has been in place and maintained for centuries. The legend goes that Kind Gellen, king of the Ground People, suspicious that the Arachnid Armies would invade that summer, consulted with his wizard, Eld the Root. The wizard prophesied a long drought, by which the king deduced many hot, sunny days. Knowing that the Orcs were underground dwellers with large eyes, and that they’d be riding spider-mounts, beasts with hundreds of eyes, the king had the wall built and painted white to reflect bright sunlight at any advancing armies.

The story explains how a spy had infiltrated Kind Gellen’s retinue, and reported back to General Anathemus, leader of the Arachnid. Anethemus decided to stage a night raid– and on the very night the Orcs descended on Castle Hilo, a torrential rain flooded the plains, effectively killing the entire army. Not a single Ground People soldier was lost in the fight.

Kind Gellen was pleased, but also incensed that Eld’s prediction of drought had been so wrong. Eld pointed out that while his prediction had been incorrect, it was not his decision to paint the walls white. The king decided to banish Eld, rather than have him executed for treason. When word of this edict got out, the Ground People became nervous, since the last time a King had banished his court wizard, the resulting war had led, essentially, to the spawning of the very Orcs that had menaced them ever since. However, Eld took the banishment without any argument, and left.

Soon after, Kind Gellen had a new court wizard, who was, to many people, almost indistinguishable from Eld the Root. He called himself Ban the Branch, and like Eld, derived his power through Earth magic. Everyone assumed that this was Eld himself, with nothing more than a name change, allowing the king to save face while at the same time keeping an otherwise expert councilman.

That is, until several years later, as Kind Gellen lay on his death bed, surrounded by his retinue and family, his twin sons Gehalis and Gander, his daughter O’Nelitae, and his wife Demosa of Banyon. That was the problem– Demosa had died giving birth to the twins. Ban the Branch was using earth magic to conjure her spirit, to welcome Kind Gellen into the Summer Lands, but in doing so Ban was using graveyard earth, a touch of necromancy that Eld the Root would never have used.

For it wasn’t Demosa at all, but a demi-imp from The Fifth Oval, who, in exchange for Kind Gellen’s soul, had promised to give Gehalis the heart of his brother. Of course, as a being of purest evil, he had made the same promise to Gander. Each had approached Ban individually, asking him to assist in this plan, and Ban had decided he’d let the demi-imp have all three of them, wed O’Nelitae for himself, and become the first wizard-king of the Ground People.

That’s when Eld the Root returned. The fight between Eld and Ban was epic, lasting all through the night as even Kind Gellen struggled to stay alive. For so long as the King lived, his land gave power to Eld. As the king slipped closer to death, that power shifted back to Ban. On they fought, pyro-works and freezing sheets in a maelstrom, foul beasts against noble forest creatures, each wizard conjuring up an exhausting and exhaustive array of monstrosities both savage and divine to fight the foul battle.

On the plains outside Castle Hilo they waged relentless war, and soon the land was as black as Death’s blood from the terrible magics. Ban even brought forth those dead orcs and their now skeletal spider mounts to charge at Eld’s quickly diminishing supply of Elven archers called up from the Jade Slumber. Inside the castle itself, Gehalis and Gander discovered one another’s wiles, and fell to fighting as well, all but tearing down Hilo itself as they battled, for they were at the time the two most puissant knights of the realm, and their melee did considerable damage to stone and any person accidentally caught up between them.

O’Nelitae used what medical training she’d received from the Sisters of Broken Misery, with whom she’d been raised, to keep her father alive, battling her own consciousness, for she knew how much he suffered and that releasing his soul now while Ban was fighting meant the demi-imp would not be able to claim his soul- but she also know his very life-force was what kept Eld in the fight.

The battle between the wizards reached its peak, and Ban conjured a final massive creature, a bone-dragon from the depths of the Marching Under. Dragon, Orc and Arachnid descended on Hilo and Eld’s position in front of Z’at Ki Dak– and as the sun rose over the distant horizon, the light that reflected off those piercing white walls blinded them all, burning the eyes out of Ban the Branch as he stood locked in his final power gaze.

The battle was won, the king died, and Eld fell to his knees. From a tall tower the bodies of Gehalis and Gander fell, the two still fighting even as they dropped, only to die locked in each other’s arms at the base of the white wall.

Eld recovered, and stayed on to advise O’Nelitae until her reign as queen stabilized, and then left once more, stating that he had a duty to maintain the late king’s banishment. In his honor, Z’at Ki Dak to this this day is also maintained, its walls kept an immaculate, blinding white.

Cody, Brody, Jodie, and Rajeesh Patel-Modi were trying to have surfing lesson when BLAM! Shotgun blast. They fell off their boards, into the hot Hawaii sand.

Their instructor, Armadillo, did not. He cooly turned to see Sheriff Six-Shooter standing on the boardwalk, shotgun on his shoulder, smoke oozing from the barrel. Arma just glared.

“What the hell, dude,” said Brody. Brody had grown up in Wichita Kansas, and was a pothead from the age of thirteen. On his 29th birthday a friend had gifted him some sweet thai stick and a used copy of Point Break. Hearing him talk about that night, you’d think he was a little girl who’d been called to the nunnery at age 8 and never looked back. He gave up pot, got his Associates, got a job, and saved very penny for this trip to Maui.

“Issomeoneshootingatus?” said Jodie, who always talked like that. Jodie had a rare skin condition, such that direct sunlight turned her blood to caffeine. Not literally, but nearly. Jodie had grown up in Mesa, Arizona, an only child on account of more or less ruining her parents for more children, since she was a constant, frazzled mess. Constantly jittery, and if Antonio Dimasio is right, constantly nervous due to her brain thinking her body must know something. She’d moved to Seattle on a whim, and had been utterly calm, at peace, serene even, for the first time in her life. She’d opened a yoga studio for the homeless, and had personally rehabilitated over a dozen army vets who had previously suffered from very bad PTSD. But then she’d fallen in love with Cody, and he’d drug her ass here.

“Farm out!” said Cody, Brody’s brother. From another mother, even though they’d been raised together. Cody was the exact opposite of Brody: straight shooter, all-As, never touched drugs, Kappa Cum Laude or whatever, MBA, New York City, corporate job, wife, two little blonde girls. On more or less the day that Brody had seen Point Break for the first time, Cody had gotten fired, found out his wife had cheated on him and that the girls were not his, was arrested for drug possession, had his car stolen, and somehow pissed off a Mob Boss. On bail, the boss sent someone after him, which resulted in a very bad beating, so with what little shred of self-worth he’d had, Cody agreed to trade state’s evidence against the boss in exchange for the drug charges being dropped– oh, and it was all a set-up anyway, he’d never had drugs on him at all, he was just the victim of a bad cop looking to make collar to distract IA from some shady relationships he’d been developing in The Village. Cody had been put into Witness Protection, Seattle, specifically, where his business acumen an experience had set him up as one of the most liked and least profitable pot dealers in the state. Then he’d met Jodie, who he could not stand, but when he mentioned his half-brother was going to Maui on a vision quest or something she’d offered to pay for them to go to.

“Oh shit not again,” said Rajeesh Patel-Modi, the child of the first Indian couple to ever decide to hyphenated their offspring’s name. He was just here to learn a thing or two so he could hopefully someday impress a babe. Rajeesh was very much into babes. He had spreadsheets.

“Help you, Six?” Arma shouted. He was the very epitome of the platonic ideal of the stereotypical surfing instructor. He’s entire body was a deep golden brown, his hair was long and blonde and stringy, his face was a map of sun wrinkles, the board-shorts hang from his hips hid muscular thighs above strong calves, which themselves were dwarfed by his enormous chest, wide shoulders, and Popeye arms.

“Barbarossa’s back. Seen ‘im?” said Sheriff Six-Shooter. That was his real name. He wasn’t Native American, but through a complicated strings of marriages, divorces, adoptions, and a rat’s nest of half-finished paper-work, Sheriff Six-Shooter had grown up knowing that someday he’d wear a cowboy hat with a star on it, a handle-bar mustache, a leather vest with another star pinned to it, chaps, chinos, and boots. He hated revolvers, however, so he carried Remington Arms “Winchester” 1887. It should be noted that at the time of this story, Maui had no Sherriff, but folks put up with Six-Shooter, as all ever shot were blanks, straight up into the air, when no one was looking.

Arma just shrugged, which, owing to the size of his shoulders, was not an insubstantial movement. Sheriff Six-Shooter glared at him through the haze of the hot Hawaii sun, then turned and sauntered off.

Arma turned back to his class of surf-wannabes, and shrugged again. Then he looked at Rajeesh. “Now, what did you say?”

Writing Exercise: come up with funny pub and drink names, see what happens.

My dailypages at 750words.com

We started off at the Regis Arms, where Clarence had a Wesson’s Original and I had a Folby’s 13-Year. Clara, Mike’s sister, was there, serving instead of drinking this time, which meant she had to play nice when I smacked her on the ass. It was like hitting a velvet balloon packed very tightly with expensive cottage cheese.

From there we walked over to the Russet & Merry, where I had three bitters and a sour, while Clarence managed to make a Tiny Tim last through three repeats of “Come on Eileen” on the orchestrina. The landlord frowned at us the entire time but then when I asked for a bag of Denny’s Smash he seemed eager to sell them to me. Left them right there on the bar, I did.

Helen of Leeds was there, which is what we always called her after her dye job made that one bloke with bad acne chase her around for two weeks insisting she knew his mother. I suggested we go to the Duck’s Goiter, and Clarence explained I was thinking of the Lucky Goiter, and Helen-of set us both straight and led us to the Lucky Garter. Mine was a Champagne-on-Marbles while Clarence tried a Savoy and Seven. Helen-of asked if they carried Coke or Pepsi and when the stiff behind the rails said neither she had a Jamison in a tall glass. Cheeky.

After that, we hit several places in quick succession, tipping cabbies along the way to make sure we never had to piss in the same WC twice. The Gray Bones for a pint of Old MacMillian’s, The Chelsea Cracker for a shot of Grandmother Gilligan, and, of course, no night with Clarence and Helen-of would be complete without a stop at The Steeple and Tomato for a Flaming Cherry Cummerbund. As luck would have it, Clara, Mike’s sister, was there, drinking not serving, and when she smacked me on my ass it was like Infant’s all over again.

We snogged until Clarence got a call on his mobile from Clarissa, who said she and some mates were over at The Cooper’s Demise, so we grabbed a handy double decker and offered the driver shots of Purple Passion for most of the trip. He refused, of course, and we only stopped when he let us sniff his thermos. I’m no expert, but if his Earl Greyjoy wasn’t spiked with Little Jack’s Number Eleven, I don’t know my potables.

Clarissa’s mates were alright so we played credit-card bingo until one of them, Clayton I think, said there was a fruit machine over at Medusa’s that was usually good for a tenner. On the way there we hit The Raven and Flower, The Seven Sprinkles, Mr. Marten’s, The White Tiger (where Clarence nearly got into a knock-down with Mike’s sister Clara, who was there delivering cases of Wicked Peter, not drinking or serving) and even a quick half-glass of sherry at The Mine Diamonder, even though Helen-of’s been banned there for two years now. They didn’t even see there I don’t think.

The Mule’s Foot was closed to the public for a charity event, but Mike’s sister Clara, who was there serving canapes not drinking, snuck us out a plate of casa-queso-en-pano, which we gobbled uncontrollably until one of Clarissa’s mates, Clementine I think, pointed out that the paprika was from Madagascar, so we all spit it out. We’re not racists, for Christ’s sake.

After that Clarence dragged us up to Commodore Filbin’s where he had a Galloping Theresa while Helen-of’s was a Brutal Stone, no ice. I asked for a Teacher’s but they gave me a Philharmonic by mistake. I was going to complain but that was when Clarissa told us her mates wanted to go see Missing Chesapeake, a funk combo that were about to start playing over at The Buttered Onion. So we left before I could make my concerns known, though I was sure to leave a very fierce tip.

Of course they wanted a fiver for a cover to see the band, which goes against my principles, but Helen-of said she knew one of the roadies so we all got in through one of the side doors. I made straight for the automat because I was in desperate need of a curry, but Clarence beat me to it and got a shepherd’s stuck in the chute. He tried tilting it back and forth but then one of Clarissa’s mates, Clodagh I think, accused him of taking woman pills instead of man-roids and they started brawling. Or shagging, I couldn’t tell. Up on stage, a familiar voice started belting out an old tune about the best place to buy very expensive cottage cheese, and who was it but none other than Mike’s sister Clara, on bass guitar. Smashing.

When she was done I had that look in my eye so Clarence dragged me out and we headed towards The Jelly Tomorrow but we lost Helen-of along the way, and one by one Clarissa’s mates disappeared down alleys and up stoops to bedsits where they were squatting. Soon it was just me and by best mate once again and after a shortcut through Fitzpatrick Park we wound up in front of the Duck’s Goiter, which existed after all. That got us to laughing. It was a pretty good night.

So, listen, people will tell you that a pub crawl in Wichita, Kansas is bloody awful—but I’ve lived here my entire life, like, and I’d never leave it for anyplace else.

Daily pages at 750words.com. About 30 mins.

Remember that time we went skiing? You were wearing that bright red sweater and matching stocking cap, complete with little poof-ball on top. I was wearing all black, very slick, very ninja. You said that. You said, “You look like a ninja.” I was so happy. Then you said “You look like a big fat ninja.” And I was sad. Then you said “But a fat slick ninja.” And slick was in italics, so I felt better. So you know what we did then? You know what we did.

Shredded.

We were like a Michael Crichton novel on the slopes. I don’t mean his famous ones, but his earlier stuff, when he was writing under a pen name. When he was in medical school. The ones he wrote that were so formulaic. We were formulaic. We cut and we slalomed and you were like a fish and I was like a slick black ninja. I hit a tree. I knocked over that tree. And we stood over that tree and we just sort of looked at it and you took off that ridiculous red stocking cap and held it over your heart and we mourned that poor dead tree.

Killed by a fast fat ninja.

Say that nine times fast.

No, don’t.

After that, in the bar. the Double Diamond. You, hitting on the girl serving drinks. Me, hitting on the bowl of peanuts. You thought it would be funny to tell her about our day in surfing argot:

“Cresty was nice but the ankle snappers were groady like chowder and the barneys were charging all the rollers. I tried to back door a grinder but it got so gnarly my chinese pitched a pearl and the party turned into mushburger. You know what I mean? Noahs and men in gray suits, every cap was a dust biter, but you know me, babe, if it’s good enough to get broke off a proper chunk, I’ll take a small piece of some of that funky stuff.”

She gave you a shot on the house. Then she looked at me and I said how there were no prices on the menu, so everything’s free, right? And she said:

“You know how if you cut a crumb in half, you don’t get half-crumbs, but just two more, smaller crumbs? Your wit reminds me of that.”

Later, alone in my room, I wept piteously.

The next day, driving to another slope, another resort, another day of formulaic shredding, I showed you the above, in my journal, word-for-word, and you crossed everything out, except for “I wept piteously.”

“It’s the only part worth reading,” you said.

I laughed uproariously, and you ripped the notebook out of my hands, and crossed out “I laughed uproariously,” You had that look on your face. The one you got, I bet, after you were done with the girl who served us drinks in the Double Diamond. Or later that next night, the girl from The Bunny Slope. We were doing the Endless Winter thing, you in your red sweater and me in all black, you with your wenches and me with my peanuts. My tiny peanuts.

It was the same look I gave a bowl of tiny peanuts when it was finally empty. Tell me. Tell me how I can get so fat on nothing but the free drinks you get off wenches and bowls of tiny peanuts. I ski all day. Every day. There hasn’t been a day since we met when we didn’t ski and go to bars. Why am I so fat.

Why are you so angry.

Judgmental, you said. Standing on the top of Greg’s Drop, still one more ski resort, one more mountain, one more red sweater and me in something stretchy, tight, taut, naughty if I was wearing it, say, in that piss-dungeon where you found me.

Judgmental, you said. After I said you were always tearing me down. And then you decided to tell me how to ski Greg’s Drop using Jai Alai terminology.

“This one looks like a partido, partner, but its more mala than guente. Hit turn seven at speed, go libre on the fuenton, and be careful of the effecto near the trees– we don’t want another dos paredos, not if we’re going to zaguero a bunny at The Mogul tonight. Okay? You got that? Picado, pelotari, pelato, easy as hair pie, with a hellafied gangsta lean, getting funky on the mic like a old batch of collard greens. See ya at the bottom, you fat black ninja”

And instead of weeping, or laughing, I loaded up my MSR and readier her for .338 Lapua Magnum. I don’t know what that means, but I know you hate Latin.

Daily writing exercise, 750words.com

fiction by Jason Edwards

My name is Taylor Swift, which is unfortunate, obviously. And I’m pretty much exactly the opposite of a female, thin, tall, beautiful singer. We’re both white, although that doesn’t really mean anything because once you hit a certain economic strata, everyone is white, more or less. But, otherwise, I’m not famous, I’m a guy, I’m short, kind of chubby, and no one would call me beautiful except my mom. We haven’t spoken in years. Not for any bad reason. People just grow apart.

But another thing I have in common with the famous Taylor Swift is that we both wear Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks. There are plenty of people, enough to be annoying, at least, who point this out to me. In my defense, I wore them first. Or, to be precise, I got mine before I knew she had hers.

Who knows, maybe the skinny Swift is friends with Herbert Hainer himself, and he had the design team make them just for her. And she put on the first prototypes, months before they were on the market. Fine, she wore them first. I’m older than she is– I had the name first.

There’s me in a Karaoke bar on a Saturday night. Every other song is a Taylor Swift song. My friend Aaron is there. Aaron Dell. A. Dell. Starting to see a pattern here? Aaron is tall and skinny, and judging from the number of times he’s left the bar not-alone, he’s beautiful, I guess. And every song that’s not a Taylor Swift tune is an Adele song. At least Aaron can hide behind having a full name, and not need his initial unless, I don’t know, he needs an icebreaker to chat up a 43-year-old divorcee.

Not me. I don’t score. Short chubby guys who wear blue jeans, video-game t-shirts, vests, and Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks don’t score. No matter what we’re named. Or drink- Martinis. the guy at the karaoke bar soaks olives in vermouth and adds them to straight gin. They’re strong and they make me forget my name’s Taylor Swift.

And I do, eventually, and even though I can’t sing, I get up there and belt out something by Kid Rock. Badly, but then, whose identity is based on the ability and the pride earned from singing Bawitdaba really well? Who’s going to back to the office on Monday and gliding up to the coffee maker with a grin on his face and when Sheila in Accounts Receivable in her nearly see-through blouse and black bra and just a little too much lipsticks says, why the big grin, fella– who’s going to say “Just riding the high from nailing another Kid Rock anthem at Annie’s Sister Saturday night.”

That’s the name of the Karaoke bar. Get it? Annie Oakley’s sister Carrie? Carry Oakly? Karaoke? I have tried to explain this to literally dozens of 45-year-old Zumba addicts and not one of them has ever understood what I was talking about. And then I tell them my name, and the amount of interest they wear on their faces at that moment is colossal in how much isn’t there.

Then Aaron walks up, and says something cheesy, like “Hey, quit hitting on my friend, he’s just here to ogle the bartender’s olives,” and they laugh, and he suggests a duet and she picks somethings country and he steers them towards something from the 70s, something with a lot of veiled sexual references, and I order another martini, and sit on my stool, and kick my Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks against the bar to the beat of Afternoon Delight.

Which all sounds very sad but, hey, I’ve got a job, I’ve got an apartment, I’ve got three characters up to level 100 in Warcraft, and I’ve got these Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks. I’ve had them for years now, and you know what? They still look brand new. I wear them to work, to the gym, around my apartment, in rain, in snow, for a summer of Ultimate Frisbee, which turned into a fall of disc golf, which turned into a winter of Xbox 360 at a dope dealer’s house, and then a spring of the new World of Warcraft expansion, me in my apartment in nothing but a pair of skivvies, a ratty robe, and these pristine Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks.

Yeah, I know how it is, if the rich Taylor Swift ever admitted to wearing nothing but a robe, a turquoise thong, and a pair of Yeezy 350 Boost Moonrocks, Us Weekly would go freakin’ nuts. But they’d go nuts no matter what shoes she was wearing. For me, mine are kind of special.