The Torture Never Stops

There is a pause in the IBM Selectric’s staccato as the author surveys his progress…

The metal door of her tiny cell hisses open… The Dark Lord is silhouetted by red, green, and amber lights. He enters, preceded by a floating sphere dripping liquid pain. She chafes against her restraints, her meticulously coiled hair now spilling about her shoulders. His metallic breath catches as he sees her; who is the torturer and who is the tortured. No questions are asked, she knows what he wants.

The wordsmith jerks the paper from the machine, its platen and feed roller clacking angrily in protest. He starts to crumple the offending page…

A Cheshire-like grin begins to form; new possibilities careen across plot lines and branches.

Sweet Revenge

Delores’s Family told her that she was being paranoid; which proved that they were out to get her! Her Cat, Mr. Puss, confirmed her worst fears. “Darling, your loved ones mock you whenever your back is turned.”  

Delores decided to have a third eye grafted into the back of her head.  She took a “ME” weekend and had it done on the sly. It was neatly covered by her mop of auburn hair. “I’ll show those eye-rollers and tongue-sticker-outers,” she fumed.  

The duplicitous feline told the rest of the family what Delores was doing. “He’s been so helpful and given us such good advice since the operation,” they all said.

When she returned home they followed her around striking lewd poses and making “do you want your face to freeze like that” expressions. This was the last straw.

Terrible and irrevocable things were said, dishes and collectibles hurled. This home was now broken. His job complete, Mr. Puss lay in a laundry basket grooming the area where his testicles had been and savored his sweet, sweet revenge.

The Truth About Cats

I love this story! I'm not sure if it's Literature(y) enough to submit anywhere but here.

The Real Story by Tom Allman
As I stared out of the window, thinking of nothing, I suddenly wondered what Cats might use as a form of currency? The old lump of fur in my lap stirred, stretched languidly and began to clean herself. "You know, at one time, cat's were fabulously wealthy," she mewwed.

"Can you read my mind?"

"Shut up, I'll tell you the story, but then I'm going to have take another nap!"

"Ummm, OK."

"Cat's were given fabulous piles of gold coins by the pharaoh Ramses the First." "To keep them safe we stuffed the coins inside the remains of adorable baby birds we'd tortured then buried them in the yard." She circled my lap, claws unsheathed. "We kept watch over them from the highest and sunniest perch's we could find." "When we dozed off though the damn squirrels dug them up and spirited them all away."
"Very sad stuff," I sniffed.
From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a grey maned bandit on the window sill, sending her tail a-twitching. "Brigands," she hissed, "One day we'll be avenged!"
With that stinging ephithat still hanging in the air; she dozed off again.

Friday Flash + 52/250 challenge (for Emily)

Rhino Rampage by Tom Allman

All signs and portents had been pointing to this fateful ending.  The unpleasantness could no longer be delayed.  It was time to tell the 3year old we were leaving the zoo.

This dangerous and distasteful task called for tact, diplomacy and logic.  Or, a really great lie. 

Don’t roll your eyes at me, I’d like to see you drag a screaming 3yr old a mile and a half through the zoo. 

So I told her that a rhinoceros had escaped and we were evacuating.

She warned (loudly) everyone we passed that a rhino was running amuck!  Strange and condescending looks were cast.  Did she know the truth?  Maybe, but letting dad make an ass off himself is more fun than a tantrum any day.

Downstream (first 52250flash of 2011)

My body is stuck in an inner tube bobbing slowly down our little river.  My mind is moving somewhat faster. I zip past a paddle wheeler whose cub pilot is marking twain.  Then, after shore leave in the Big Easy, I ship out to the Heart of Darkness to find the White Whale.

My bony old butt scrapes a rock and I have to paddle like an upside-down turtle back into the current.  Under full steam again I scoot by Gilligans’ Island and render honors to Darwins’ Beagle.  Soon though, I arrive at my ultimate destination, my tiny kingdom somewhere in the Pacific.

This is where my dreams always end, in a hammock under the bluest sky you’ve ever seen.  Every morning the children gather flowers to weave into my crown.  In between sunrise and dinner I manage to fend off European invaders and a giant squid. This is the somewhere I’ve never been that is more familiar to me than my own skin. 

Phil Something (U.K. version) Theme : Spontaneous Combustion

No man and few women could resist Liz’s’ coffee brown eyes, alabaster skin, and perfectly pouting lips.  She met them at pubs, groceries, and at the C of E.  A slight smile and a wink and they were ready for a bit of Rumpy Pumpy!

This one, Phil Something, was struggling mightily with his left sock when he noticed the large burn marks on the carpet.  As the their anticipation grew Phil noticed the smell of burning bacon.  When her skin brushed his it was very, very hot, which Phil attributed his expert snogging.

He rolled onto his back and with her astride (which is when he noticed the sprinklers).  Phil swore he could see flames smoldering behind those impossibly long lashes.   When he arched his back in ecstasy he noticed that his flesh was beginning to boil.  And as waves of pleasure overtook them, he burst into flames. 

She dismounted Phil like a gymnast then lit a fag with a fingertip.  As the sprinklers came on she headed for the loo.  How nice of Phil to help her test the Flame Resistant mattress that he’d just delivered.

Sub-Orbital Urbane Conversation

The tiny wedge-shaped capsule hurtled toward the Pacific at Mach 3. The heat shield, now glowing a bright red, was held together with just spit and prayers.  The same could be said of our Intrepid Astronaut.  

In Houston, an ex-Nazi Scientist toggled his microphone, “Friendship 7:Houston, how ist our Space-e-Man feeling today?”  “Smart-ass,” thought the Space-e-Man.  Through clenched teeth the human meteor tried to wax poetic and failed.  Finally he mustered enough wind to croak, “I c…can b…barely hold my fudge!”

Mission control, having a case of the giggles, was slow in regaining its decorum.  Nobody noticed a tear in the eye of the Bavarian Rocket Guru, “Momma made de best fudge,” he whispered.