So this may be fun for some of you.
Last night, I was looking for a new sweater online, and this picture came up in the search results:
There is so much … wrongness … in this picture, I began to wonder: what’s they guy’s story?
Like, not the model who’s getting paid for the gig — good for him. I mean, the fictional guy who is wearing this … thing.
You get up to 150 words to tell his story, if you want to do that. Mine is on the other side of the thingy.
The trick was to make a statement without standing out. He needed to blend in, while occasionally drawing someone’s attention. He needed to be vaguely remembered, and that was all.
A new haircut, new shades, a sweet pair of pants that fit just right, carefully-chosen accessories … Blake was ready.
He walked onto the deck at the club, casually avoiding eye contact, purposely walking without purpose. A guy in popped collar Izod lifted his chin at Blake. The arms of a cable-knit sweater made a knot on his chest. The caps on his teeth were beautiful.
Blake returned the silent greeting, and continued past him, making his way to the bar, where the largest cluster of people stood, waiting.
He subvocalized to the advance team, “I am inside the human compound. They do not suspect me.”
The reply resonated in his aural implant: prepare for detonation.
“This is Mark.”
Figgis waved his arm to present the man we’d been chuckling about as we’d watched him cross the office towards our table.
“Mark ‘s the new Head of Infrastructure.”
Mark stood impassively, his glasses showing nothing, He shot an arm in the air and rattled his bracelets, before casually pushing his hand back into his pink pants pocket.
Toby, stammered and choked on his words for a moment before finally spitting out, “I’m not working under that 80s throwback!’
Mark lowered his glasses and fixed his piercing blue eyes on Toby. Toby wilted under the gaze.
“Let me tell you something,” Figgis said evenly. “Unless you lot get the constant network fallovers under control, you’ll be working under Mark or someone very much like him!”
Mark started laughing and gave Figgis a high five.
None of us much liked Figgis, but he knew how to motivate a team.
“Mark’s the new Head of Infrastructure.” Oh, the horror. The absolute horror! That is mean and typical and I am not coming out from under my desk. Ever.
“This time,” they said, “we have an Ensign uniform for you that will really make you look cool.”
eventual Han Solo reboot
Halloween, 1985.
Dear Diary, I went costume shopping with mom. Dad wouldn’t go. He said I was weird enough already and didn’t need a costume, then he smacked me and went back to his beer. Mom said I could be whatever I wanted, and I wanted to be on Miami Vice. We found the perfect outfit. I mean costume. It’s a costume. My friends from school are going to be so impressed. Usually I just look like a doofus, we all do. We all get picked on all the time because we look different than the kids at regular school. But in my costume, I’m going to look exactly like the guy on tv and everyone will like me. But I don’t care about that part, because my friends like me even when I look regular. But Halloween is going to be so good this year! Signed, Drew.
LOL. we all know that person…
Everything itched. His joints, covered up by the impossibly tight but medically necessary baby blue jumper; his hips; his fingers; his eyes. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pink trousers, listening to the jangle of multiple bracelets. Why pink? Why not beige? Everything still itched, multiple stitches dragging on cloth. He felt that everyone was staring at him. He tried to look defiant while trying not to show how uncomfortable he was. Everything itched. The eyes were the worst. Large, dark sunglasses to hide the huge black holes of his pupils. The doctors assured him that he would regain the ability to control their diameter, someday. Someday. He oozed through the crowd, blending in, hiding, itching, knowing that no one knew what lay underneath. A man restored. A man afraid. A man remade from the bits and pieces of others. A real Frankenstein’s monster.
Nicly done. Win.
omg this one!
Johnny took a deep breath. Everything felt the same. Smelled the same. This end of the bargain had been upheld; this was indeed his apartment. He stumbled a few steps, shins bumping the mattress. ‘If the bed is here,’ he thought, ‘then the closet is…that way!’ He spun around, and shuffled forward, arms outstretched like a zombie. He jammed a finger on the wall beside the closet, wincing in pain. He was at least that much alive, that he could feel pain. Could he also feel pleasure? He would find out soon enough.
He pulled open the closet door, shoving his hands in to find clothing. The feel of softness, and a sleeve. A sweater. The grey one? Peach? Blue? It mattered not. He pulled it off the hanger, and ripping the tattered and burnt remnants of the top he was wearing, slipped on the sweater. He reached in again, feeling around. Fingers found a cool smoothness, a pair of cotton pants. He slipped those, too, onto his body.
Stumbling to the left, he felt the dresser, grabbed a handful of fashionable bracelets and one of those shell necklaces, and decked himself out. He’d always had an impeccable fashion sense. He found some shoes beside the dresser, and touched a pair of sunglasses hanging off the mirror.
“Yes, glasses. That’s a good idea. I doubt I’ll be able to find a virgin with gaping eye sockets.’
He set them on his face, and fumbled he way to the door. Now to complete his end of the bargain. The Dark One required a virgin. A pair of eyes to get here, a virgin to stay. Johnny knew he still had the talent. The ladies were always drawn to him. He should be human again within the week.
Johnny did not stop to ask if the Dark One had returned him to the correct decade. He needed the virgin, right? There’d be no other reason to send him back, right?
Deep in the bowels of Hell, laughter echoed amongst the screams.
Glorious, Shae, just glorious. Took me a bit, but by the end you had me.
8 hours prior to this photograph, Joe was, well, just your average Joe. He had slightly less ambition then a burger flippin teen but more than a 9-5 office working, life contemplating adult. However, during his morning Wheaties, Joe tuned into the news and was perplexed when he heard about a job opening at a game developing company that his soul had began to long for soon after he heard. His perplexity came from the fact that the company was tighter than the spandex that one may witness be worn at Walmart when it came to hiring. Nevertheless, Joe was determined, as this company made his favorite game, Saints Auto 500. After a long, yet successful interview, Joe was so sure that he was the man for the job but suddenly after, things changed. Joe looked up and he was not in the game developers office, he was not in the building, heck, he was not even at home with his onesie pajamas. Joe was suddenly in a brightly lit dressing room that smell oddly of moth balls. Joe then noticed that above his head the phrase “CUSTOMIZE YOUR CHARACTER” was mysteriously just floating there. It is then that Joe realized that he was, in fact, a virtual character himself. But what of his outfit you say? Well a Grandma named Joe owned this particular game disc. Yepp.
Emily had called them his “beach trousers.” She said it in that posh accent she couldn’t shake. In Chelsea, her voice wouldn’t have turned a head. In Orange Beach, Alabama, she might as well have been Mary Poppins gone feral.
“You’ll never wear them anywhere else,” she said. “They’re white trousers. Beach trousers.”
He bought them anyway, and he liked the way the sun hit them when he led Emily by her hand out onto the sand. She would protest, her accent getting thicker as he dragged her beyond the dog walkers, shell hunters, and sunburned kids. He sounded like Mussel Shoals, but he thought if he wore the right sunglasses and that blue jumper she liked, he would remind her of Chelsea, of anything that would make her want to stay. The white trousers—the beach trousers—we almost an afterthought.
He’d yelled at her when she washed them with her new red bikini. He said things he didn’t take back before she got in the car for the airport and couldn’t take back after the car slid under the 18 wheeler’s trailer on I-10. Now the trousers were pink, and he couldn’t take them off, even if the funeral was in five hours.
When he awoke he was only certain of a few things…First, his thirst told him he had been asleep for quite awhile. Second, his memory was useless and lastly he was certain he had no clothing. He took a few wobbly steps away from the bed and stumbled into the only other piece of furniture in the room, a wardrobe. He grabbed the knobs and threw the doors open in a mixture of curiosity and excitement, but to say that he was disappointed was an understatement. He was expecting a stunning tuxedo or something of the sort but was instead greeted with pair of pastel pink shorts and long sleeved light blue shirt. The accessories seemed even more bizarre…avaitor shades, a single gold necklace and a few bracelets. He put the outfit on despite his disappointment and turned to the mirror. He felt right. He couldn’t understand it but as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his shorts and stared back at his reflection through those sunglasses he felt something. He didn’t know what awaited him outside that room but he strutted out ready for whatever was to come.
Vance Jackson wanted two things. The same two things he always wanted after a weekend in Miami. Vance wanted more coke and a way back to the ‘champagne days’ when he was Lead Background Artist on Miami Vice. Vance brought life to tedious expository scenes with Crockett and Tubbs. Vance made you believe that he was the best damn sunglasses salesman on that beach, and usually while stoned out of his mind. Vance could punch out any poser, punk-ass Assistant Producer who challenged his right to wear pastel in a funeral scene.
And so it was that Vance came to be in Downtown Miami. Destitute, with only his funerary garments, and an itchy case of sobriety. But things were about to change for Vance… a chance meeting with a young Charlie Sheen might be just the ticket.
Vance sighed heavily as he rang the bell at Charlie’s place…
[Voiceover, intro; shot is on That Guy walking into a bank through the main doors right at close, supercrisp, some slight slo-mo to the shot as he does Bank Stuff, obviously stalling for time.]
There’s a fine art to dressing for a bank heist. Amateurs think you don’t want to be noticed. NO. F*** that. You WANT to be noticed. You’re GONNA be noticed, you want it on YOUR terms. Specifically, you want people to take one look at you and think, “Is this guy for real?”, and almost immediately answer, “No.” You want folks looking at your wanted photo to decide they will never, they could not possibly run into someone who looks like that in real life, and give up looking on the spot.
Because, see, people see nobodies every day. You look like a nobody, all these other nobodies will have an eye out for you. But, look too much like a somebody, like some celebrity or something, eyes will lock on to you, memorize you while they try to figure out “Who is that guy?”, and you’ll be busted inside of a week. No, what you gotta do is inhabit that weird middle ground, uncanny valley, right? Like those young silicon valley types that come into money too fast, buying all their outfits outta the backs of magazines, just rich enough and just dumb enough to look at the model and think, “I could probably pull that off, I’ll take the set.” You want their eyes to slide… no, to bounce right off you, to roll so hard they pop out onto the floor. In a movie, you’d be credited as “Douchebag playing shuffleboard.” Because who the f*** plays shuffleboard, right? Got it?
You want to be That Guy. You want to be that entitled ***hole who comes in right before closing, you want every eye in the place on you, rolling at you in sync, disgusted at the sight of you, you want them all to see someone that can’t possibly for be real…
…so that the second you take it off, he’s gone.
I would watch this movie
Good life advice, right there. What else do I need to know?
After all this time, Blake still felt the same duality when he wore the glasses.
There was a familiar comfort when he put them on. They served as both disguise and armor. They hid his gaze from the watching eyes. They served to conceal the darting movements as his orbs moved from person to building to sign and back again, in an endless sweep as he headed from safety to safety, hoping never to be discovered.
However, there was the never ending dread when he wore them, for he saw those people, those buildings, those signs in their true form. The commands, the awful faces with misshapen heads and enormous eyes, the promise of pain and punishment were he to be discovered.
He kept his face still as he moved. He wished he’d never put the glasses on. But he knew too much now to ever remove them.
Cheryl sat at the other end of the bar. Did she recognize him after ten years? A dye job, gym regimen, clear skin, a new nose…
Skylar, his name now, cracked his knuckles and flagged down the bartender.
“7 and 7 for the lady across the bar,” Skylar said.
The bartender delivered; pointed him out. Cheryl smiled and blushed. Skylar nodded. Cheryl gestured to the seat next to her.
“7 and 7’s are my drink of choice. How did you know?” Cheryl asked.
“Lucky guess.”
“So what brings you out tonight?” Cheryl asked.
“Rough day at work,” Skylar replied.
“What do you do?”
“Marketing.”
“Funny. Me too!”
They talked and laughed for two hours, finding they had a surprising amount in common.
“That’s my favorite movie too!” Cheryl said, awed.
“Crazy thought. How about we go out sometime?” Skylar asked.
The info he had paid for was very good.
I am not a writer but love your blog. Big smile today! Thank you!
Those are some odd looks. Must be looking good! . . . Right?
It’s good. Just keep walking.
Why are they staring? Looks down casually Barn door is closed.
I mean, my pants feel a bit tighter than usual but it was sitting out with my clothes for the day.
Maybe the necklace is too much?
I dunno, put sunglasses on? That works for Samuel Jackson.
Still staring.
Okay, maybe my wife was right and I do need a haircut.
Later at home. . .
Wife turns to me, “Sweetheart, I accidentally put my pants on top of your khakis when I was getting ready this morning and . . .”
Being color blind sucks.
I’ve passed her on the street three times since I moved to LA. Each time, I changed my cologne. I wanted her to smell home, the Boardwalk, the Friday night car exhaust, anything to remind her. Amy Fisher was my first love, and she doesn’t even know I exist. One more rep. One more.
She babysat for me when I was a kid, and I knew then that we were meant to be together. I tried to call her at the prison, but I wasn’t on her list. Figures. One more rep. One more.
If I could have been there, I’d have saved her from that creep, told her she was my everything, and whisked her across the river like the Boss always said. It should’ve been me she went for. One more rep. One more.
Goddamn, I miss Jersey. One more.
Markus Markusson, 1975-2002
Markus Markusson, Chief Other Good Stuff Officer of the Derek Zoolander Center for Kids Who Can’t Read Good and Wanna Learn to Do Other Stuff Good Too, has died. A native of Sweden, Mr. Markusson achieved notoriety as the face of Oscar De La Renta’s provocative “Easter Egg Revenge” line for men. He was recently recruited by Mr. Zoolander to develop and implement the Other Good Stuff programming at his new children’s center. Mr. Markusson was hospitalized last week after consuming an orange mocha frappuccino made with expired soy milk, the complications of which led to his death. His brother Meekus, also a world-renowned fashion model and roommate of Mr. Zoolander, died last year in a freak gasoline-fight accident.
Thank you. Just–Thank you.
Wait, what, me? Ha, thanks! And Wil, this was fun. Can’t wait for the next one!
Oh, Wil! I am laughing so hard right now. AT WORK!
“It worked! … I truly believe it worked.” Blake whispered tentatively. The hydraulic door opens and the bright light in front of him makes Blake thankful he remembered his Ray Bans. He stepped out of his creation. The light darkens and before him were people dashing by, barely seeing each other, barely seeing themselves. Eagerly, Blake tries to acquire all necessary scientific observations. They move in unison, yet some move randomly. A blur of muted colors, blacks and greys with an occasional red or deep purple. Definitely not the pastels and neons he was used to. “Are they human? ” Blake ponders. They appear to be. Some talk to each other, yet some talk to themselves with a kind of robotic device attached to their ear. Blake notes that they are still using conventional means of transportation, as a car passes by yet some of them seem to be plugged in like a toy.
All these observations seem to be lost amongst Blake’s main thought. His smug grin said it all. His portal worked! He had arrived into the future. Now what was he going to do about it?
My apologies if this is similar to anyone else’s story. I didn’t read all the comments.
Thank you for the opportunity Wil!
Hahah… um how about a non-fiction story? I was this guy.
It’s 1986, an impoverished Sophomore in college trying to make ends meet, takes a modeling job. It’s either that, or quit school, or take a third “real” job, which seems infeasible because the two he already has are consuming too much time. Perhaps he could go beg his brother for money… again. His parents are just enough over the poverty line that his student loans and grants are small despite his high GPA, His gender and ethnicity disqualify him from additional forms of assistance, so it’s this or his dream dies. Over the next three years, he will take hundreds of pictures for small clothing brands and catalog production houses. It feels like an oddly false way to make money; helping sell things he can’t afford, but he is thankful that he can do this and not have to work at the canneries as many of his friends do. Reagonomics don’t seem to be helping the economy, and even with a college degree, it’s going to be a rough ride starting out in the world. But without a degree, well, just look at all the guys who didn’t make it out of (town name omitted).
So he pauses, turns, pushes the glasses up on his head and looks up, pushes the glasses down on his nose and looks down, throws the Don Johnson jacket casually over one shoulder while he worries whether he hasn’t studied enough for midterms. Perhaps late tonight after his shift at the cafeteria he will be able to go back to his room and study.
Then the shoot is over and he is in yet another faux-wood paneled bathroom washing half a tub of gel out of his hair to the hum of bare fluorescent lightbulbs.
Ah undergrad… lol… Good times, though.
I checked my sleeves… to make sure they covered my scar. I didn’t want anyone seeing it. They always ask. They have good intentions. But if I tell them the truth… they have that look… they don’t know what to say. They feel awkward. I feel bad for them. They are embarrassed that they don’t know what to say. I don’t have anything to set their mind at ease. There isn’t anything to say.
I tried a hundred different ways to tell the story. Someone might think I was exaggerating. But I have a diary in my mind. A hundred different ways to tell a hundred different people.
Fucking civilians.
But I can’t think that way… remember what she told me. Remember her shoulder, cradling my head… Remember. Don’t wind up like him. Crazy, ranting into the night… a shotgun… shouting at a world that doesn’t care anymore…
I’m not sure about a short story involving this fella, because I simply thought you were advertising the character poster of the no talent hack actor in the far too serious remake of the 1988 Roddy Piper sci-fi flic, They Live.
“Ma’am, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…” The officer said.
“But what did I do?”, She asked.
“Abuse of the Blind, Ma’am”
“But he likes to be dressed that way, honest!”
“Ma’am, noone would choose to dress that way if they knew what they looked like… You’re going away for life for this unusual cruelty.”
“And this,” Jeff gestured towards a photograph that hung prominently over the fireplace, “is last year’s Dude of the Year: Mr. Roger Haines!”
At his enthusiasm a few members of the tour clapped, only for the applause to die a quick and embarrassed death.
“Roger,” Jeff continued, “won Dude of the Year by best exemplifying what it truly means to be a dude in the 1980’s. As you can see, his penchant for bracelets set quite a trend.” Jeff modeled his own.
The blue sweater itched and the thin gold chain around his neck felt like a slave’s collar. Jeff was grateful for the sunglasses though; they hid his soulless eyes. Only one more year of giving young humans tours and then, oh then he would have seniority in the fraternity.
His reign would be decisive, purifying, and if all goes to plan, very very bloody.
It’s possible this man could also be Manfrit Jungflannel.
The main villain in the new Rammstein movie.
The man walked into the dinner, looked at the menu, and ordered his breakfast. He sipped at his coffee, still trying to adjust to the taste after so long. His sunglasses reflected the dessert menu as he turned his head. He quickly yelled to the waiter, “I’ll have some pecan pie too!” The waiter stared before nodding.
The men in black suits appeared behind him shortly after. The four of them sat in the booths nearest to the doorway, two in each.
His ham and egg sandwich arrived, and he nibbled at the warm goodness. After he finished his meal, the pie was given to him. Taking off a small piece, he placed the delicacy into his mouth. Hazelnuts: the diner’s sign that everything was ready.
New paint was being applied to the walls.
“How was your meal?”
“Not enough nuts,” the sweater exuded.
Chad didn’t care that none of the other “Miami Vice” stand-ins bothered to dress the part. They had hired him to be Crockett – so he would be the best damned Crockett he could be. Not only did he have Johnson’s build, his clothes, his jawline… he also had his every move down pat: a study in muscle memory that Lee Strasberg was bound to notice, even if nobody else did. To get that walk, and every head turn, down pat, he had secretly followed The Don around for over a week. The Actor’s Studio would have to let him in, once he sent them this tape.
Then it all went south on him– even further south than Key West. Next thing he knew, two cops had him in cuffs, and The Don was screaming at him from the craft services table: “Stop stalking me, you weird-ass little punk!”
Chad took it in stride. He didn’t need Miami. He was headed to the top –by way of New York. A real booking at the police station would simply be a gold mine of sense memories he could mine as an actor for the rest of his life. Even so, he wanted to make a good exit. Kicking and spitting, he launched into Pacino’s monologue from Dog Day Afternoon. “Attica! Attica!”
I really dig your take on this.
i can see Don actually doing this. I hear his voice. “Stop stalking me, you weird-ass little punk!”
Chris is a extra. Chris was supposed to be an actor by now but that didn’t work out.
Now being an extra is usually fun, but lucrative would be more fun. Chris’ specialty is crime reenactment shows, and cold case work. He’s been told he looks very seventies or eighties, but that’s becuae he’s got the hair. The g-d dmaned Hardy Boys bowl cut has become his signature and it gets him a lot of work. He dare not even do the man-bun as there isn’t quite enough hair to pull it off.
An no beard, that’s a gift of genetics right there.
Now Chris knows he’s one good break away from landing a part in some of the Baywatch remake.
But at this exact moment Chris is none of these things. Chris is out on a “working date” with his significant other, who shal remain nameless and un-strangled for the time being. The unnamed other is a teacher and this an eighties theme’d prom. Chris will be posing wiht a stream of high school kids who think the eighties is terribly nostalgic. After this shot there will be endless staged pictures with themes and gags.
This will go on all night.
Chris volenteered to do this because he’s in love.
Love is hell. Unpaid hell.
But what the heck, he’s got the clothes… and the hair…
We see an opening scene of a man in a tuxedo being handcuffed and led away from his car while police examine the large zip lock bag full of a white powder. No-one notices that his pant’s zipper is open. The man’s companion is leaning against the car, talking with another officer. She obviously is stunned by the turn of events. Her main thought racing through her mind being “I hope HE doesn’t find out about this!”
Next we see our main character dressed oddly in that post_Miami Blues style with regard to his current surroundings. We listen now to the narrator, Morgan Freeman:
“Andy had walked though that door thinking it was odd the warden instructed the guards to make him change into these clothes first. Then Andy had stepped through, out into the yard. The clang of the door behind him, booming in his ears like someone dropping the lid on top of a casket. The sunglasses he wore would hide the abject fear seen in his eyes. Out in the yard, weights were put on the ground, the basketball games ending abruptly, and all eyes with a sense of desire turned on Andy. To this day, nobody can explain the mix up in scheduling that provided for all the guards stationed on the walls and in the yard to suddenly take their coffee breaks all at once. No sir, that was not one of Andy’s best days.”
No one would recognize him like this. No one knew. Not a person in the club would ever make that connection between he and ‘The Brad.’ The Brad was not real. A silly invention of a ridiculous commercial that no one would remember anyway. But why then… Why did he wake up in the middle of each night, his stubble shaved into a 70’s handlebar… With no memory? The truth was, he WAS and always would be….. The Brad.
“What? No…, who is that?”
“You don’t think he came by invitation do you? Surely, the word is out about the door.”
“Well, he’s definitely not from here.”
“Crap, security is on him. Send a diversion team to distract them.”
“It’s going to be close, let’s go!”
We glide over the railing landing softly to not attract attention. The diversion team is a youthful group from our outskirt city. They are resourceful and salty. I like to call them salty.
We are within five feet of him and my partner grabs my hand to show me something in a shop window because she noticed a secondary three man team tailing him.
He’s through the door we’ve lost him…..
“Where was he from? Why was he dressed like that? You don’t think they are desperate enough to be inviting there own to the door. ”
“They’ve always said their guests come willingly.”
“We have to report this.”
“Hyunh!… Hyunh!…”
Todd was making progress in his self-actualization session. Everything was perfect: plugs and nipple clamps were in place, pink Dockers gathered comfortably around his ankles, favorite baby blue Banana Republic sweater felt smooth and soft on his tanned and depilated chest. The aviators blocked out the afternoon sun, preserving the ambience.
There was a knock at the bathroom door. “Honey, I have to go to the grocery store now.”
Todd spit out the gag. Tossing sweaty blond locks, he sighed loudly. “Maria, I’ve almost attained satori. It’s so not cool to disturb me when I’m in my inner sanctum.”
“Oh… sorry… have you thought about job hunting this afternoon?”
“Maria, I’ve already told you. The boys and I are rollerblading at Venice Beach. Have you washed my favorite pink thong?”
“Uhh…thong? No.”
“This conversation is over.” Todd locked the door. Where was he? Oh yes.
“Hyunh!… Hyunh!…”
That’s right! Don’t mess with the Hyunh! Cackles, all around.
A week ago, Monday, after two years, Monica had left him. He had cried softly into his pillow. But, yesterday, Barry had become fed up, too, after three years and countless promises of change. Now, Biff’s big, eager heart was bruised, and he was contemplating something rash.
With the I.R.S., going on four years, he had honed his bullying and eavesdropping skills to a dark edge, had become so committed to his work that he had begun fondling women’s breasts, in the produce aisle, and smacking teenaged asses, then flashing his badge and his perfect, pouty smile. And, today, he had received his “Private Investigation, Gumshoe II Series” diploma and a rubber pistol.
This morning, his boss had rewarded diligence with an all-expenses-paid week in Vegas, Land of Righteous Silicone and Pimpery.
Sweet salvation was at hand, and long, sweaty nights of rolling senior citizens, in casino garages, his amnesia.
It’d been so long since that night. Those days out in Cali heading operations against the cartel took a toll on John Goodface. Some of his fellow agents to this day call him to ask how he’s held up in his new life as a department store model- if he still has those nightmares. Every time it’s the same chuckle, the same look. You spend more time with your partner on those cases than you do your own wife. You become brothers. And after watching his partner, Danny Mustache get pumped with enough cocaine to fuel a 1980’s sci-fi franchise cast party, he swore to take his choice shades and never take them off. Not in bed. Not in the shower. Not even in his generic JC Penny photoshoots. Because John Goodface will never forget.
Good job
Continue! I want to know the rest of the story.
He stepped in for his photo after Char finished hers. Engagement photos. Several together. Several separate. Making memories. This one memory. . .soon forgotten. Soon he’d drive back to Biloxi to the Honey Hole. Soon to Mimi, sweet Mimi. Simple Mimi. She’d like the new shades, the sweater. She’d fondle the bling, and mean it. Mims would mess up the blowout, but, who’d care. She had a way with fingers, a great way. Like the way she fingered the bands at his wrist, slow and tangled, twisted. That was Mimi. Twisted. Sweetly twisted.
“Whatcha say, Char? Slouch? I don’t slouch, babes. I’m magic, babes. Best magic you ever had.”
Poof!
Wow, that somehow works really well! Thanks for the entertainment, Wil. You rock.
Blake is a man of few words.
Blake is a man of few thoughts.
Blake is a man of few hair cuts.
Blake does not value such things.
Blake values only two things: friendship and friendship bracelets.
Sounds normal to me. You can’t wear that without the bracelets.
It was cold. These are my under-garments. I also have long hair. Look at me. LOOK AT ME! Now run out and buy stuff and try to look like me. You will fail. YOU WILL FAIL! MWHAHAHAHA!
“It’s time. You’ve nothing to worry about Ms. Ester; you’ve made the right decision”. Doctor Cornelius Fiz-BáTang had spent the better part of the evening reassuring his patient, and explaining the validity, and efficacy of the full-body skin-changing procedure she was about to undergo. An intercom squawks, “Doctor, the donor skin has just arrived”. Doctor Fiz-BáTang smiles, firmly grasping Ms. Ester’s hand; “It’s time”.
The surgery to fix her grotesque appearance was about to begin.
“Count backwards from ten”. “10, 9, 8…” as she drifted off to sleep, she thought of her life, of her mutation, of isolation, and of the prejudice she’d barely been able to endure. Her final thoughts, before entering anesthetized void, were of the endless gasps and gazes of onlookers; and of the abhorrence, gleaming deeply from within their eyes.
Her hopes now lay in the deft hands of Doctor Fiz-BáTang.
(Word limit Ending)
During the surgery; she died.
THE END
Epilogue:
She looks into a mirror after she wakes. The surgery was a success! She slowly glances around the room and at all of the people standing around her bed. They were looking at her and they were smiling. She looks back at her own reflection and smiles.
She now looks like everyone else on the planet. She now looks like some dude in a weird getup.
THE END
umm also before maybe,,, she ahhh had a pig nose…?
“So what do you do?” She asked.
“Oh I model for stock photography. No big deal. You know, these frame companies have to put something in there, right?”
“Yeah. Do you ever see yourself in the store though? Is that weird?”
“Naw, its all right. Its a paycheck.”
She smiles, and adjusts her salad. Then she casually reaches into her purse as if to check her phone.
“Actually, I really want you to tell me about this one. I’ve been hanging on to it for a couple years.”
He smiles and then when he looks down his face freezes.
No. No.
He blacks out, as he falls from his chair he grabs the tablecloth as if to cover his shame.
The last thing he hears is laughter.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! WINNER! Love these stories.
The time traveler appeared, admitting he was from the 1990s, but having stole his Ray Bans from the 70s, and his fashion sense from the 80s. Yes, he is Don Johnson’s log lost brother.
They said the preppies would be the first up against the wall. He was never more proud.
Most hockey players knew what to expect. Playing Juniors in cold, faraway places like Saskatoon or Halifax, their closets filled with toques and mukluks to help them get through their 7 months of subzero temps and snow.
Trevor, however, grew up a Sharks fan. His earliest memories were going to the beach with his dad every other Saturday and then catching a game at the San Jose Arena (he’d never call it the HP Pavilion – nerds be damned, and he never really knew it as the SAP Center). Trevor always wore his Nabokov jersey and his lucky Puca-shell necklace to every game on those heady Saturdays. When he was old enough, Mom took him to get ice time in Anaheim (and seemingly always argued that Dad should be the one ponying up for his gear) but he showed talent and coachability.
When he was accepted into the Juniors program that November, Trevor was overjoyed. He packed his bags and, in planning for the trip he found a warm full-length sweater and the only pair of long pants in his closet. Stealing a look straight out of one of Dad’s dust-covered coffee table catalogs, Trevor confidently took off his sunglasses, handed his ticket to the boarding agent, and thought to himself – “Calgary, I’m ready for you!”
“It’s kind of sad really when you think of it. This is me, or should I say was me. I spent my life in pursuit of what I believed was ultimate happiness. I followed the trends without questions and absorbed as much of the light of Hollywood as my body could stand. I looked good. I felt good. And I had friends. Friends who would help me get gigs, friends who could get me in to clubs, friends that always complimented my pants. What I didn’t have were friends. Not anymore anyway. The only memory of a childhood of joy, playing, laughter and silliness are the rings of friendship bands still tied tight about my wrist. Where are they? What do they do now? Why haven’t I called them? Why haven’t they called me? I wish I knew, but now I never will.” Billy Stephenson 1970-1996
“OK, Stan, tell us what’s on your mind right now, let us get a picture, and then go up front and you get $125.”
Alright, my name is Stan Perkins. You guys want to take pictures of me and give me money. I didn’t know there were still survey places in malls, but, OK.
My sister Sherry is in the hospital about to have her baby. I’m so excited! I couldn’t make it to town for her baby shower and she wanted to be surprised on whether the baby was a boy or girl. So I wore blue and pink and headed to the mall to pick up a gift. I came in through Sears, nothing there, so I was hoping to find a nice present at a smaller store. And you guys showed up, and I’m like, a hundred twenty five bucks would be enough for a great gift!
After being a massive fan of Duran Duran in the 80’s, and reading a lot of Brett Easton Ellis, Tarquin had found his niche. Cashmere sweaters, Portsiders and pastel Chinos. Long Island ice tea and cocaine. Partying all night and rocking up in his vintage Ferrari. He’d come a long way from Scunthorpe and if he had his way he was never going back.