Eric's Special Writing Time
A little while back, my friend Eric Rampson (scud_o) presented the following writing assignment:
All right, writers, write me a story!
Use the word "algebra"!
Use the word "cadence"!
Use the word "mission"!
For a 27 point bonus, use the phrase "...feels like cupcakes..."!
Oh, and try to work in a new genre (so no cybernetic love-gods with tri-lobed brains, Mr. sTone)!
The Sergeant came down last, executing a perfect landing in spite of the night’s only light coming from a half moon in the sky. He detached his gray parachute deftly, breaking into a brisk jog as his feet hit the ground. I saw his silhouette leaping over broken branches, gradually slowing and eventually falling to his knees, then to his stomach. He was less than ten feet in front of me now.
“Who’s made it down?” he stage-whispered.
“Stevenson,” I answered.
“Hicks,” I heard from my right.
“Ormand,”
“Gro-*kaff*-Grossman,” I heard the gunner sputter from behind me.
“Michaels,” came the last, quiet voice, from just in front of the Sarge. We waited a few more seconds
“Okay, Michaels, I need you to do something for me. On the ground in front of you I see a shape. I need you to reach forward and tell me what it is.”
I couldn’t make out what the Sarge was talking about, but I prayed it was a rucksack, or perhaps a part of our plane, and not one of our missing men. After a quiet rustling I got my answer.
“It feels like Cupcakes, Sir.”
“Fuck. I was sure I got her chute on properly.”
Cupcakes had been our bomber’s dog; a sweet German Shepherd who’d been our crew’s only constant in this war, as we lost men, gained men, changed planes, changed routes, and more. Through all of it, she’d been with us; checking each new plane for a good spot to lay down when we took off, judging how close she could get to the bomb bay and the side gunner doors without being torn out by the wind. Now she was just one more body on German soil, mourned only by six men whose own fates were anything but certain.
“Well, gentlemen, it seems that our mission has changed a bit. Without the Son of Frankenstein, I sincerely doubt we’re going to be able to complete our bombing run. Indeed, without our trusty aircraft, we’re going to have a devil of a time doing a lot of things. Like knowing exactly where we are, or finding food, or…” Grossman made some sort of terrible noise from the shadows behind me, like he was trying to eat a cat.
“Grossman,” the Sarge continued, “you’d better keep your voice down, and if you interrupt me again I’ll have you peeling potatoes from now until the day you die.”
“Pale threat, Sir. I seem…*hurff*…to have a large piece of tree coming out of me.”
“Can you walk?”
“Not unless somebody carries the tree for me. It’s gone through my lung, Sir.”
“Hell. Do you…do you need somebody to speed things up for you?”
“No, Sir, we don’t know how close we are to German troops, so we don’t need to be firing our guns if it’s…*hurff*…not in self-defense. I’ll just wait until I bleed out or until I drown in my own blood.”
“For God’s sake, Grossman…”
“Do please be quiet, Sir. Let’s hope I just bleed out. I somehow envision it as being much more pleasant than the other option. Now let’s get you gents moving.”
He began quietly rapping out a cadence on his empty canteen.
“Hup. Hup. *Hurff* Hup,” he quietly muttered.
For a few moments nobody spoke, until the Sarge quietly barked at us all.
“Thank you, Grossman. Already everybody, I want you bellycrawling double-time to my side. Follow the soldier’s beat.”
We made it to the Sarge and took a quick inventory: seven handguns, three rifles, one day’s ration of food per man, and an algebra textbook. The Sarge looked sheepishly about at all of us.
“What?” he snapped, “Just because we’ve been spending the last months bombing the hell out of some Jerry bastards means that I can’t use my spare time to bone up on my math?” We all had a good laugh and got to our feet, confident at last that there was nobody anywhere near us.
“Alright, you poor excuses for soldiers, let’s find the nearest town and give every goosestepper we can find a proper what-for. Grossman! Give me a standard mark time!”
We stood in silence, as only crickets answered the call.
“At least he went quickly, men. Let’s all dash off a quick prayer for the same and then get marching. My finely-tuned nose smells Nazi just a few miles upwind.”
He quickly set the pace for our march and off we went, to certain death and quiet, secret glory.
benjamin sTone
Current Music: "Pistol Packin' Mama" - Tex Ritter
Last Book I Read a Page of: WE ARE EVERYWHERE: The Irresistable Rise of Global Anticapitalsism, edited by News from Nowhere
Last Movie: KUNG FU HUSTLE (HK, 2004, Stephen Chow)
Next Movie: ???
All right, writers, write me a story!
Use the word "algebra"!
Use the word "cadence"!
Use the word "mission"!
For a 27 point bonus, use the phrase "...feels like cupcakes..."!
Oh, and try to work in a new genre (so no cybernetic love-gods with tri-lobed brains, Mr. sTone)!
The Sergeant came down last, executing a perfect landing in spite of the night’s only light coming from a half moon in the sky. He detached his gray parachute deftly, breaking into a brisk jog as his feet hit the ground. I saw his silhouette leaping over broken branches, gradually slowing and eventually falling to his knees, then to his stomach. He was less than ten feet in front of me now.
“Who’s made it down?” he stage-whispered.
“Stevenson,” I answered.
“Hicks,” I heard from my right.
“Ormand,”
“Gro-*kaff*-Grossman,” I heard the gunner sputter from behind me.
“Michaels,” came the last, quiet voice, from just in front of the Sarge. We waited a few more seconds
“Okay, Michaels, I need you to do something for me. On the ground in front of you I see a shape. I need you to reach forward and tell me what it is.”
I couldn’t make out what the Sarge was talking about, but I prayed it was a rucksack, or perhaps a part of our plane, and not one of our missing men. After a quiet rustling I got my answer.
“It feels like Cupcakes, Sir.”
“Fuck. I was sure I got her chute on properly.”
Cupcakes had been our bomber’s dog; a sweet German Shepherd who’d been our crew’s only constant in this war, as we lost men, gained men, changed planes, changed routes, and more. Through all of it, she’d been with us; checking each new plane for a good spot to lay down when we took off, judging how close she could get to the bomb bay and the side gunner doors without being torn out by the wind. Now she was just one more body on German soil, mourned only by six men whose own fates were anything but certain.
“Well, gentlemen, it seems that our mission has changed a bit. Without the Son of Frankenstein, I sincerely doubt we’re going to be able to complete our bombing run. Indeed, without our trusty aircraft, we’re going to have a devil of a time doing a lot of things. Like knowing exactly where we are, or finding food, or…” Grossman made some sort of terrible noise from the shadows behind me, like he was trying to eat a cat.
“Grossman,” the Sarge continued, “you’d better keep your voice down, and if you interrupt me again I’ll have you peeling potatoes from now until the day you die.”
“Pale threat, Sir. I seem…*hurff*…to have a large piece of tree coming out of me.”
“Can you walk?”
“Not unless somebody carries the tree for me. It’s gone through my lung, Sir.”
“Hell. Do you…do you need somebody to speed things up for you?”
“No, Sir, we don’t know how close we are to German troops, so we don’t need to be firing our guns if it’s…*hurff*…not in self-defense. I’ll just wait until I bleed out or until I drown in my own blood.”
“For God’s sake, Grossman…”
“Do please be quiet, Sir. Let’s hope I just bleed out. I somehow envision it as being much more pleasant than the other option. Now let’s get you gents moving.”
He began quietly rapping out a cadence on his empty canteen.
“Hup. Hup. *Hurff* Hup,” he quietly muttered.
For a few moments nobody spoke, until the Sarge quietly barked at us all.
“Thank you, Grossman. Already everybody, I want you bellycrawling double-time to my side. Follow the soldier’s beat.”
We made it to the Sarge and took a quick inventory: seven handguns, three rifles, one day’s ration of food per man, and an algebra textbook. The Sarge looked sheepishly about at all of us.
“What?” he snapped, “Just because we’ve been spending the last months bombing the hell out of some Jerry bastards means that I can’t use my spare time to bone up on my math?” We all had a good laugh and got to our feet, confident at last that there was nobody anywhere near us.
“Alright, you poor excuses for soldiers, let’s find the nearest town and give every goosestepper we can find a proper what-for. Grossman! Give me a standard mark time!”
We stood in silence, as only crickets answered the call.
“At least he went quickly, men. Let’s all dash off a quick prayer for the same and then get marching. My finely-tuned nose smells Nazi just a few miles upwind.”
He quickly set the pace for our march and off we went, to certain death and quiet, secret glory.
benjamin sTone
Current Music: "Pistol Packin' Mama" - Tex Ritter
Last Book I Read a Page of: WE ARE EVERYWHERE: The Irresistable Rise of Global Anticapitalsism, edited by News from Nowhere
Last Movie: KUNG FU HUSTLE (HK, 2004, Stephen Chow)
Next Movie: ???