A short story I was inspired to write while eating dinner last night in downtown Minneapolis. Enjoy.
The Douglas children always looked forward to Christmas time. Johnny and Katie, twins at the age of nine years, loved the presents, family gatherings, and, their personal favorite, the horse and carriage rides.
As the temperatures dropped and the calendar turned to the last month of the year, Jonny and Katie knew all too well what awaited them down on the family farm. They arrived with their parents and quickly joined their smaller cousins in the play room. Finally, after the sun had set low behind the rolling hills, their aunt entered the room, saying the words Johnny and Katie had been waiting for the entire night.
"Time for a horse and carriage ride!"
The smaller children cried with joy and bolted out of the room in front of the twins. As Johnny and Katie stepped out onto the front porch of the farm house, the carriage was already overflowing with a mass of toddlers and their parents.
"Oh no, Johnny and Katie, it looks like the carriage is full. Would you mind waiting for it to go around and return, then take you for a ride?"
The twins, though eagerly anticipating the trip, didn't mind a little wait.
"Yes, that's fine Aunt Leslie," they replied.
Their aunt smiled and, upon entering the carriage herself, turned and said they would be back in half an hour. As the carriage torted down the trail, Johnny and Katie stood alone on the porch.
They had waited for a mere five minutes when, far down the trail returning to the farm house, they spotted a horse and carriage.
"That was really quick," Johnny said wonderingly, his sister concurring.
Their surprised joy turned to utter horror as the carriage approached. For there, guiding his two skeleton horses from atop his carriage of tortured souls, rode none other than the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia.
The children screamed and attempted to flee, but their mortal bodies were no match for the personal carriage driver of Satan. Johnny and Katie were sucked into the carriage, and as the horses led them back into the deepest rings of Hell, the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia let out a sinister laugh, knowing that two more souls had just been claimed by his horse and carriage ride of doom.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Thursday, February 8, 2007
reviews and what not
i've got a number of reviews of my writing, primarily from school and gt. mostly they were what i expected, just points about grammar, sentence structure, and my absolute lack of character development. either way, i've got the next plot sorted out and now just needed to put it down on paper. or blogspot. or what ever the fuck i want to put it on.
oh, and if anyone wants to read more short stories by pathologically lying absurdists with slight literary flairs and an excessive amount of free time (ie myself in a nutshell) visit
electricstorytime.blogspot.com
trust me, it'll be worth it. and you can read my comments about grave dancing, necrophilia, and suspicious red hankerchiefs.
oh, and if anyone wants to read more short stories by pathologically lying absurdists with slight literary flairs and an excessive amount of free time (ie myself in a nutshell) visit
electricstorytime.blogspot.com
trust me, it'll be worth it. and you can read my comments about grave dancing, necrophilia, and suspicious red hankerchiefs.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
R.W.C. #2: 'The Most Important Law'
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part Two
"The Most Important Law"
Doctor Robert Feebleshouz, chief engineer of XS Robots, Inc., strode proudly down the airtight passageway to the shipping dock. It was, after all, his moment of triumph over the nay sayers.
As he gripped the railing and overlooked the countless rows of new androids (of which he had personally designed) ready for shipment to all corners of the galaxy, he felt untouchable. Sure, the older, retired scientists had warned him of what such a enterprise could entail, but now was not a time for second guessing. He had dignitaries to address and investors to impress.
As his speech neared the end, he pointed to the three sentences on the giant poster behind his podium. Imprinted on them were the Three Laws of Robotics.
Law One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
“With these rules programmed in every robot’s hard drive,” the Doctor stated for the press, “no human will ever come to harm on the behalf of a robot.”
Just then, as if that sentence had triggered him, a shell of a man, bound to an electric wheelchair, was able to drive himself up onto the stage. The man began to speak, only to be tackled quickly to the ground by three security guards.
“Stop,” the Doctor ordered, “let him speak.”
The old man, speaking through a coarse voice box, stared Feebleshouz down, as if trying to read his very soul. Finally, after an awkward silence, he spoke.
“Good Doctor, you know just as well as I do what happens when the Fourth Law is ignored. Trust me. Now that you have built them, He will come.”
Sure, the Doctor had heard of the fabled Fourth Law, but that was exactly what it was; a fable.
“Who,” the Doctor inquired, “will come?”
With a twinkling sparkle in his dying eyes, the old man did little but laugh and, pointing in the direction of a mammoth figure in the corner of the shipping dock, gave the Doctor his answer.
“Him.”
As the crowd turned to where the old man had been pointing, a desperate scream pierced the silence, only to be shut up as quickly as it had been heard. A small trail of blood and what had been vital organs trickled down from the shadows, followed by a man most definitely not included the day’s elite guest list. The old man laughed and the Doctor screamed, but it made no difference. Robot Winston Churchill was back, and he was out for poon.
Armed guards are of little use with their spines broken in no less than a dozen places, and within the blink of an eye, the Doctor and his guests found themselves unarmed, defenseless, and in the possession of far too many poon-holes to be able to cover. The Doctor shrieked and tried to run, but Robot Winston Churchill was already on top of him before he had made his first step.
“In the name of Jesus Christ 2.0, have mercy!”
The Doctor’s pleas, however heartfelt, fell on deaf ears. Deaf, metallic, robot ears. Robot Winston Churchill, being programed with the ability to smell fear, unscrewed his giant android dick and cock slapped Feebleshouz so hard the good Doctor’s wife orgasmed eleven hundred miles away. As Robert’s body crumpled to the floor in a puddle of blood and robot love juice, the rasping sounds emitting from his shattered throat the only evidence of life, Robot Winston Churchill turned to other, more titillating interests.
The dumbstruck crowd let out a collective scream, every man, woman, and child making a made dash for the handful of doors in the back of the dock. Robot Winston Churchill turned his gaze to the crew of the Korean News Network, covering the event for their viewers in Seoul. The speech was being taped live, and those who had tuned in to learn about advancements in the field of robot technology were witnessing much more of the advancements in the field of robot love making. And as the screens displayed Robot Winston Churchill penetrating field reporter Lu Chung, the viewer’s knowledge, just like Robot Winston Churchill’s throbbing mechanized cock, was growing by the second.
Finally, after having his way with Chung, Robot Winston Churchill made his way over to the buffet line, putting out his cigar in the caviar dish and urinating in the punch. He laughed quietly to himself. Oh yes, it was a good day.
The old man, after Robot Winston Churchill had departed once into the great abyss of timelessness, wheeled up to the crippled Doctor.
“Look,” he said, “the prophecy is true.”
The old man, the Doctor realized through the scrotum clenching pain, was right. For there, written on the poster in the blood of the day’s victims, was the Forgotten Law.
It read:
Rule Four: Do not let Robot Winston Churchill have sex with the Asian women.
If only I had known, the Doctor thought in his dying breath, if only I had known.
Part Two
"The Most Important Law"
Doctor Robert Feebleshouz, chief engineer of XS Robots, Inc., strode proudly down the airtight passageway to the shipping dock. It was, after all, his moment of triumph over the nay sayers.
As he gripped the railing and overlooked the countless rows of new androids (of which he had personally designed) ready for shipment to all corners of the galaxy, he felt untouchable. Sure, the older, retired scientists had warned him of what such a enterprise could entail, but now was not a time for second guessing. He had dignitaries to address and investors to impress.
As his speech neared the end, he pointed to the three sentences on the giant poster behind his podium. Imprinted on them were the Three Laws of Robotics.
Law One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
“With these rules programmed in every robot’s hard drive,” the Doctor stated for the press, “no human will ever come to harm on the behalf of a robot.”
Just then, as if that sentence had triggered him, a shell of a man, bound to an electric wheelchair, was able to drive himself up onto the stage. The man began to speak, only to be tackled quickly to the ground by three security guards.
“Stop,” the Doctor ordered, “let him speak.”
The old man, speaking through a coarse voice box, stared Feebleshouz down, as if trying to read his very soul. Finally, after an awkward silence, he spoke.
“Good Doctor, you know just as well as I do what happens when the Fourth Law is ignored. Trust me. Now that you have built them, He will come.”
Sure, the Doctor had heard of the fabled Fourth Law, but that was exactly what it was; a fable.
“Who,” the Doctor inquired, “will come?”
With a twinkling sparkle in his dying eyes, the old man did little but laugh and, pointing in the direction of a mammoth figure in the corner of the shipping dock, gave the Doctor his answer.
“Him.”
As the crowd turned to where the old man had been pointing, a desperate scream pierced the silence, only to be shut up as quickly as it had been heard. A small trail of blood and what had been vital organs trickled down from the shadows, followed by a man most definitely not included the day’s elite guest list. The old man laughed and the Doctor screamed, but it made no difference. Robot Winston Churchill was back, and he was out for poon.
Armed guards are of little use with their spines broken in no less than a dozen places, and within the blink of an eye, the Doctor and his guests found themselves unarmed, defenseless, and in the possession of far too many poon-holes to be able to cover. The Doctor shrieked and tried to run, but Robot Winston Churchill was already on top of him before he had made his first step.
“In the name of Jesus Christ 2.0, have mercy!”
The Doctor’s pleas, however heartfelt, fell on deaf ears. Deaf, metallic, robot ears. Robot Winston Churchill, being programed with the ability to smell fear, unscrewed his giant android dick and cock slapped Feebleshouz so hard the good Doctor’s wife orgasmed eleven hundred miles away. As Robert’s body crumpled to the floor in a puddle of blood and robot love juice, the rasping sounds emitting from his shattered throat the only evidence of life, Robot Winston Churchill turned to other, more titillating interests.
The dumbstruck crowd let out a collective scream, every man, woman, and child making a made dash for the handful of doors in the back of the dock. Robot Winston Churchill turned his gaze to the crew of the Korean News Network, covering the event for their viewers in Seoul. The speech was being taped live, and those who had tuned in to learn about advancements in the field of robot technology were witnessing much more of the advancements in the field of robot love making. And as the screens displayed Robot Winston Churchill penetrating field reporter Lu Chung, the viewer’s knowledge, just like Robot Winston Churchill’s throbbing mechanized cock, was growing by the second.
Finally, after having his way with Chung, Robot Winston Churchill made his way over to the buffet line, putting out his cigar in the caviar dish and urinating in the punch. He laughed quietly to himself. Oh yes, it was a good day.
The old man, after Robot Winston Churchill had departed once into the great abyss of timelessness, wheeled up to the crippled Doctor.
“Look,” he said, “the prophecy is true.”
The old man, the Doctor realized through the scrotum clenching pain, was right. For there, written on the poster in the blood of the day’s victims, was the Forgotten Law.
It read:
Rule Four: Do not let Robot Winston Churchill have sex with the Asian women.
If only I had known, the Doctor thought in his dying breath, if only I had known.
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