These guys are so awesome and talented and funny that all I do is howl with laughter (and pick up the bar tab) when I'm with them.
It dawned on me that the series of photos from this event would be deliciously diabolical prompts for a writing contest!
Usual rules: write a story using 100 words or less. Reference the photos in any order you choose. You MUST reference ALL the photos. Bonus points if you manage to include a reference to Brooks. Reference means that each photo must illustrate a particular moment in the story. (the words Photo x do NOT count for the word count)
Here's an example:
Dan said "You guys should pretend to be each other."
Sean thought that was a good idea until he realized he would have to be Jeff. (photo 1)
Post the story in the comments column of this blog post. Contest opens Saturday 11/19 at 9am. Closes Sunday 11/20 at 9pm. 36 hours of terrifying torment.
Oh, and the prize? Books from all three of the authors. If you already own any of them, and you win, we can come up with a substitute.
Ready?
Set?
Contest now closed! Winner announced as soon as I quit howling with laughter.
Got questions? Tweet to me @janet_reid and I'll answer
 |
| Photo 1: Left to right Dan Krokos, Sean Ferrell, Jeff Somers |
 |
| Jeff Somers, Sean Ferrell |
 |
| Photo 3: Evan Mandery |
 |
| Photo 4: Sean Ferrell |
 |
| Photo 5: Jeff Somers |
 |
| Photo 6: the captive audience |
*The Electric Church by Jeff Somers
*The Man in the Empty Suit by Sean Ferrell
*Q by Evan Mandery
22 comments:
(P6) Lured in by the promise of debate on the theoretical possibilities of Time Travel, the crowd has no idea of the sinister plot unfolding behind the scenes.
(P2) Jeff: “Is everything in place?”
Sean: “Oh yes. I can't wait.”
Jeff: “Keep your pants on. How's this goin' to work?”
Sean: “Evan is going to run him through with a sword.”
Jeff: “Muahahaha, I bet he'll love that.”
(P3-P5) The conspirators establish their alibis.
(P1) Dan: “So, guys, is this where they hand out the Thriller Award money?”
Sean, snickering: “Yes, Dan. Go wait in that room, back there...”
...
(This pandering was brought to you be the letter "I", as in, I want those books damnit.)
Five athletes put their whole selves into the quest for gold; none thought simple “right hand in” would destroy him.
Pressure shatters Brooks: wrong hand. (0)
Evan buries his left in his pocket to escape the same fate, but the delay times him out. (3)
Three survivors face off. (1)
Jeff, disqualified for left-right labelled pompoms, claims ambiguity in ICHP regs, (5) but the judges scoff. (6)
Sean and Dan reach “right foot,” but Sean is stuck on right hand. He cringes, trying to pull back. (4) Dan wins.
The runners-up laugh amid tears. (2)
The tiniest slips - in professional hokey-pokey, that’s what it’s all about.
Jeff Somers whispered to Sean Ferrell, “Did you see who’s here?” (Photo 2)
“Yeah,” Sean winked, “Giada, Martha and Rachael.”(Photo 6)
“Janet’s gone,” Jeff said, “crying over spilt single malt.” (Photo assumed?)
“We’ve branched out,” intoned Evan Mandery. “Our new product is the Big-Johnson (snickers) Omelet Maker (Photo 3)…Sean?”
Sean stood. “First you shake the egg like this (photo 4)… Jeff?”
“Then, inject liquid cheese.” (Photo 5) Jeff demonstrated. (Proprietary image blurred) “Microwave and voila!”
Brooks Sherman burst into the room. “Stop, (Photo 0) never let writers cook. To make an omelet you must first break an egg.”
Later, the three writers gathered. “That went well,” said Jeff.
Dan Krokos hiccupped and groaned. (Photo 1)
“OMG, dude, no deodorant?” Jeff asked Sean. (#2)
Sean sniffed a pit, and grabbed his right arm to stop it from falling off.
“Ewwww. A little rank. Let me stand and shake this can of Brut.” (#4)
Dan: “No shower – yesterday, too?” (#1)
Sean: “Look, I’m leaning away.”
Jeff: “Focus, guys. You ready to learn the Chicken Dance?”
A rapt audience (#6) later watched as Jeff butchered his lines, making the magical Brooks Sherman spin in his hand. (#5)
“Folks, we’re only testing the Emergency Genie System,” said Evan Mandery. (#3) “Besides, I’m wearing a tie. You can trust me.”
Jeff’s underarms were damp. Rank excitement from the audience cut the cold November night. (photo 6)
Fucking ‘Writer Death Matches.’
Krokos, Sherman’s lackey, led the ritual hokey-pokey. (photo 1) Jeff was a simile away from crapping his pants. Fail, and he’d be fertilizing Brooks’ garden. That fucking psychopath. (photo Brooks)
Sean opened with a wanking fist. (photo 4) Jeff channelled Harry Potter to block, crafting a lumos ball of literary bullshit. (photo 5) Evan crumbled and just pounded the music stand (photo 3). Fertilizer.
Jeff, sweating 80-proof, essayed a bawdy Limerick and pretended to yank his teeth out. (photo 2) Sean laughed, then froze. Fertilizer.
Jeff’s tension melted. He’d survived to write another day.
“Presenting tonight’s dates for charity.” (photo Brooks)
“Nobody will bid on me. Cat gnawed off part of my nose last night,” said Jeff adjusting a self-adhesive prosthesis.
“Please don’t cry,” said Sean. (photo 2)
Brooks suggested Evan say something enticing to get the bidding started.
“I’ll stare deep into your eyes throughout dinner,” said Evan. (photo 3)
“Can’t anyone see my paddle?” said Jeff. “Fifty bucks!” (photo 5)
Sean pounded his podium. “Jeff, stop. It’s the booze talking. And not having a nose.” (photo 4)
Jeff’s prosthesis dropped to the floor. The audience gasped. (photo 6)
“At least Evan and Sean raised money,” said Dan.
“Because they’ve got nice noses,” said Jeff. (photo 1)
(Bonus) Brooks decreed, “I shall be ruler of all the land unless someone can best me at bird calls.”
(P1) Dan, Sean, and Jeff turned to each other. “We can’t let this happen,” said Sean. “He’ll eat our winter supply of jellybeans and leave us to handle the sugar-detox on our own.”
“Blasphemy!” said Dan, his eyes rolling wildly.
(P2) Jeff covered his mouth and whispered to Sean, “We better handle this ourselves.”
(P3) So they each made their way to the mic-stand. They substituted Sir Evan for Dan, and he hooted.
(P4) Sean cawed.
(P5) Jeff tweeted.
(P6) Birds flocked to Jeff.
“Noooo,” cried Brooks, defeated.
“It’s red-eye, from the flash.” That was BS (P0). He always said that, but DK was suspicious. He’d seen flashes of red in his eyes, usually right before the disappearances. The police were calling it the Brunette Vanishings.
DK warned the others, but they laughed at him (P1). Dk laughed, too. Then he vanished.
“That, DK. What an imagination,” JS whispered (P2). SF laughed. He didn’t have anything to worry about. Or did he?
EM stood to speak (P3), noticing the audience (P6). No brunettes. What if it was true? His hand began to fade.
It started with the hands (P4). A slight blurring (P5). Then nothing.
Hands Down
“Gentlemen (loose term), what will you discus today?” queries Brooks. (Photo 0)
“How about hands?” responds Dan, “since, Brooks, you appear to have none.”
“You mean the ones on our hips?” asks Sean. (Photo 1)
“Yep.”
“I’ll use mine to hold my nose on,” says Jeff. (Photo 2)
“And I’ll use one of mine to hold the other,” adds Sean. (Photo 2)
“Then I’ll hide mine in my pockets,” pipes up Evan. (Photo 3)
“If I keep shaking mine it will do tricks,” Sean boasts. (Photo 4)
“Tricks you say? I’ll turn mine into a ghost,” counters Jeff smugly. (Photo 5)
The captive audience would clap— if they weren’t sitting on theirs! (Photo 6)
Too late, the audience realized they couldn’t leave [p6].
The extravagant invitation from “it” agent Brooks Sherman pulled them in. Backstage, Dan Krokos wagered scheduled readers Sean Ferrell and Jeff Somers their next advances he could reversibly vaporize living tissue [p1]. Ferrell and Somers took seats onstage daydreaming of easy money [p2]. Emcee Mandery introduced the authors [p3] and slunk away.
As each speaker read his passage, he noticed his left hand blurring [ps 4 & 5]. A wave of panic enveloped the room as everyone’s extremities faded into transparency.
High above the auditorium, Sherman, flanked by his two accomplices, flipped on the PA. They’d give him everything.
Dan was sick of Evan’s practical jokes, so he approached Jeff and Sean with his revenge plot. (photo-1) Both quickly agreed as Evan’s pranks also tormented them. While Sean distracted Evan with his spontaneous version of “Babaloo” (photo-4), Jeff switched Evan’s hot chocolate with his “special” brand.
“I used in a ton of that low-carb syrup,” whispered Jeff (photo-2).
Evan was only half finished when the Maltitol hit him. He stood cheeks pinched as he labored through his poem (Photo-3). A burst of flatulence left the crowd stunned (photo-6). It was so rank that Jeff had to fan his way through his sermon (Photo-5).
Jeff and Sean were feeling nervous. It was almost their turn to take the stage on America’s most popular singing competition, Middle Age Idol.
“I’m terrified,” Jeff said, biting his nails. (Pic 2)
“You’re scared? I gotta go first,” Sean reminded him
Show host Evan then introduced the first contestant.(pic3)
Sean belted out his rendition of an R.E.M. song. (pic4)
Then Jeff sang a Frank Sinatra tune. (pic 5)
The audience was captivated. (pic 6)
Dan, the performance coach, gave the two entertainers some tips for future shows
“It’s all about the hands on the hips, boys,” Dan stated. (pic 1)
“We need better talent,” show producer Brooks complained. (Bonus)
Sean smiled at Jeff while they waited. “You shouldn’t pick your nose in public.” (photo 2)
Jeff ran away sobbing.
Sean followed. “I’ll take care of Somers. Again.”
Instead of reading from his novel, Evan talked about how much he enjoyed the letter “X.” (photo 3)
When the other men came back, Sean said, “We hugged, jumping up and down like this.” (photo 4)
Jeff interrupted. “It was more like a hug/twirl thing. We started to levitate like a magical ball of joy.” (photo 5)
“THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!” Brooks shouted.
The audience wasn’t amused. (photo 6)
After the reading, Dan approached the other authors. “Who wants to tickle fight?” (photo 1)
When you ply a literate audience with too much Absolut, this happens: A Bloomsday to remember. (6)
Limbering up in the green room, they divvied up pages. (1) Somers read the snotgreen sea; Ferrell the scrotumtightening. (2)
Come forth, Lazarus, Mandery intoned. And he came fifth. (3)
Absolut bottles clinked joyously.
Could Ferrell top this? Yes! But oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. (4)
To which Somers: Unsheathe your dagger definitions. (5)
Do not disrobe, Brooks mouthed at the orange-shirted woman leaning forward. (0) Too late. She Molly Bloomed him: yes I said yes I will Yes.
Considering the years since the suspects' last meeting, their postural similarities were uncanny. (photo 1) The jury's task, already difficult, seemed well nigh impossible. (photo 6) Still, they had to try.
They questioned Evan first, and he seemed an upright fellow -- until his hand began to shake, and then they thought, 'His tell! Surely he's the one.' (photo 3)
But their glee turned to dismay when Sean (photo 4) and Jeff (photo 5) appeared, each a portrait of the other, identical to the very last tic.
The jury despaired. "This trial brooks madness," they cried, when suddenly, Jeff scratched his nose. (photo 2). "A boon," the foreman said. "The jig is up."
Promising valuable info on Medicare prescription plans, Brooks waves the impatient crowd into the venue and bolts the doors, eyes gleaming maniacally. (bonus)
Nobody suspects a thing when Evan speaks. Must be the tie. (p3)
Jeff speaks next but he is too fast for the crowd. (p5) "Dude, see that white haired woman on the right? She wants me." (p2)
"I'll distract her." Sean says and tries slight of hand. (p4)
The white haired woman on the far end sees her chance. (p6)
Dan has a better idea. "Just put your hands like this. She won't be able to tell us apart." (p1)
I heard their voices, like the depth of my father’s, when he spoke of possibilities. There were three at first, (imagined 1), bantering, deciding which would speak ahead of the others. Two sat in silence, (assumed 2); they pondered, we waited patiently, (felt 6), for enlightenment. And when one voice, Evan’s, (guessed 3), spoke above the rest, I thought of Sean. Why did he not speak, and then he did (dreamed 4), followed by Jeff, (envisioned 5). I wept. Their words sang. When it was over I tapped a path to the door with my white cane; into darkness still, (blank).
“Keep smiling.” Jeff pretended to scratch his nose. “It’s happening tonight.” (Photo 2)
“Which one?” Sean asked.
“Redhead. Real professional. (Photo 6) Ok, game on – let’s make this believable.”
“We’re here to honor Evan on his triumphant novel, Q,” Jeff read, bile slowly rising in his throat. (Photo 5)
“And present him with this award,” Sean lied, unveiling the plaque that should have been his. (Photo 4)
Evan stood to thank his colleagues. “You two are the best friends….” (Photo 3)
A gun shot exploded.
“Call 911!” But Brooks knew it was too late for that. (Bonus photo)
One down, two to go. Jeff plotted and smiled at next year’s competition. (Photo 1)
"My name is Evan, and I'm a vampire." (PHOTO 3)
"Good grief," Jeff muttered (PHOTO 2). "Not another one."
Sean approached the microphone. "This isn't Vampires Anonymous, folks. Anyone else in the wrong room?" (PHOTO 4)
Two wraiths slunk out with Evan. A woman in the front row fidgeted with her scarf. Unnoticed, an ember-eyed fiend (PHOTO BROOKS) mesmerized the remaining audience (PHOTO 6) from the wings.
Jeff stepped up and began to read (PHOTO 5). Without missing a word, he swatted a large bat that swooped in beside him. The bat shrieked, morphed into the fiend, and fell dead.
Dan congratulated him during intermission (PHOTO 1). "Nice backhand. Buffy would be proud."
The competition was moderated by a man with red eyes. The contestants faced off with their hands on their hips, then sat on stools placed uncomfortably close and muffled pleasantries into their hands. The audience took their seats, and the author in a tie demanded the lights be dimmed so he could show his best side. The next shook his fist and shouted, “Pick me!” Then came the lanky one, who shuffled his papers in time with his feet. He lost his place, and the audience gasped as the man with red eyes lowered the boom.
There were three men and some stairs.
Then, there were two men in some chairs and the audience in theirs.
Evan stepped to the mic.
"I killed Sean with a spike."
Who should appear onstage?
Sean with a package.
"This from Jeff."
Mr. Somers rushed forth. "I'm deaf, I'm deaf."
And the captive audience applauded.
Evan shouted, "But I've been defrauded..."
"For who did I bludgeon?"
"This has me in high dudgeon."
"What's in the box?" A canary said from its perch.
The authors smiled. "The man in the Empty Suit, Q and The Electric Church..."
"For M.R. Jordan."
“Hi, I’m Brooks and I’ll be your host in purgatory.” (P-0)
“We’re dead? Was it zombies?” asked Somers. (P-2)
“Probably tunapalooza at Dan’s-Day-Old-Sushi,” replied Ferrell. (P-2)
“Silence! Your torture is public speaking while melting! You!” Brooks boomed at Somers. (P-0)
“You hear about the one-handed typist? All hunt, no peck.” (P-5)
“Mandery!” (P-0)
“Look mom! No hands!” (P-3)
“Ferrell!” (P-0)
“Shake shake shake, shake my, phooey, they’re gone.” (P-4)
“I’m calling management,” said Brooks, “Oh, Janet.” (P-0)
“Yes, my handsome devil?”
“They’re making jokes.”
“They’re writers. Tormenting them is my specialty.”
“You will join Krokos CLOG DANCING (P-1) before your fifth-grade math teachers!” (P-6)
The screams of the damned pierced the night.
Post a Comment