Some of you confused hoard with horde.
(insert evil shark laugh here!)
Members of the Steve Forti Prompt Word Fan Club:
ParmCharm (with a lovely mention of my favorite color fuchsia!)
Winner of the Steve Forti Prompt Challenge: Steve Forti, who used xylophone in a very distinct way.
None of you took a guess about what provided the inspiration for this week's prompt words: Beowulf.
Herewith the semifinalists.
“Hi, name’s Hank and I have noise issues, more issues than National Geographic actually.”
The group whispers. “Welcome Hank.”
“I’ve lived a vengeful life; merely eating beside me pisses me off, unless there’s a T.V. blaring.”
“We’ve all experienced this, Hank.”
“My damn cat walks around intentionally stamping it’s feet.”
“Well… that might be a bit...” He rose and nodded. “It’s o.k.”
“I know people hoard their noises and lie in wait for me.”
“Well, I doubt...”
“And don’t get me started on those irritating voices in my head.”
“Alright people, good job today, see you next Monday.”
Great line: I know people hoard their noises and lie in wait for me.
Fortunately, I know the voices in my head are blog readers.
“There it is again! That noise!”
“Go to sleep, Edna.”
“Who can sleep? It’s like a hoard of bees in my brain. Do something, Ralph!”
“Fine.” Lights on. Window opened. I lurk, a mere shadow, while he crashes about. Finally, he closes the window. “I think it’s gone. Happy?”
A vengeful lust spurs me to act, but I must wait a little longer. Soon, he begins to snore. Just before she follows suit, I approach and whisper in her ear, “Hello. My name is Inigo Mosquito. You killed my mother. Prepare to itch.”
I had to stop and laugh for a full minute here.
"I am a mere scientist, a humble forensic herpetologist," he cried. "I am no warrior, but my heart is pure.
"And you? You are a noisesome fire-breathing theropod, roosting on your ill-gotten hoard! But I have tracked you down. I shall avenge the villagers and return their stolen xylophones!
"And the worst of it, you didn't want them for the melodies -- you wanted them for the scales!"
I had to look up theropod (I love new words. Then I had to suss out that the way you'd used it meant that you're relating dragons and dinosaurs, which I find amazingly clever.
"You know what really anoise me? People who can't spell."
Perhaps you should look in the mere, I thought.
"Though I can live with the occasional faux pas heror there."
"Daddy," our daughter said, skipping in, "is a tomato a fruit or avengetable?"
"Actually, that question was addressed by the Supreme Court in…"
My mind wandered to another world, one where spellcheck isn't "some government plot to stifle free expression."
"Well," he said, placing his perfunctory peck on my cheek, "off to civilize the untamed hoards through the beauty of freshman composition."
Our daughter definitely is going to private school.
Unfortunately disqualified for posting a non-entry in the comment column!
Night again. I hate nights because I’m only seven.
I hear scary noises outside the fragile shell of our apartment.
It’s just my dream, though.
I am no longer a mere little Soviet boy – I am now a middle-aged American. Yet, this hoard of dreams from my past life still inhabits me.
My mom – the hero that she is – hurries to the door clutching rubles.
It’s only kolkhoz folks selling stolen meat to city dwellers door-to-door. I exhale. We’ll have fatty borsch tomorrow.
Nothing to fear, no one to avenge. I can leave this little boy and wake up now.
Not quite a story, but VERY evocative.
"Xylo, phone me quick, I hear noises!"
Xylo shook his head, his new bride of merely one month was frightened of everything, or was she? He had enjoyed playing the hero while they were dating, acting like one of the Avengers. Thor one night, Hulk the next, but now she was calling him at work daily. He'd wait until he got home to see what the trouble was.
"Honey, I'm home, what's this about noises?"
"Whhaat?" She emerged in a tiny negligee from the bedroom where she hoarded chocolates and gossip magazines. "Uhh...who was Captain America this afternoon?"
A mere two minutes into the Holiday Mascot Support Group and everyone’s making noise: Twenty-four-hour shifts, rotten eggs—believe me, these folks ain’t heroes.
I keep my trap shut and my hoard under wraps. I’m about to refill my pint when in walks Elvis, slick, sequined, and sun-glassed.
“Dead Celebrity Support’s down the hall,” I say.
Too late. He spots the Big Guy talking to Cupid. “Santa’s real?”
Not just real--he’s a vengeful elf. “Who d’ya think brought you them blue suede shoes?”
“Seriously? Thanks, man! And if anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”
I smirk. “Neither was I.”
John Davis Frain
Supplementing writing income, Frain started a nighttime gig.
“Literary 911, what is your emergency?”
“I’m on Broadway watching a buxom blonde—”
“A walking cliché? On it.”
“Will you be coming?”
“And hoard all the fun? No, I send editors.”
Phone rang again. “I’m reporting a murder.”
Frain simmered at the voice. “Yesss...”
“Apartment next door. Lady killed her darlings.”
“Listen, if you call agai—” Click. He’d avenge that caller in his WIP.
“You’re a cowardly, self-destructive antihero—”
Frain didn’t accept AI (or second person!) calls, so he disconnected. Time for another stab at the writing gig.
Not quite a story, but no one can resist JDF!
And the finalists are:
We knew the Silence was coming so we hoarded noise: water lapping on the mere at dawn, the crackle of an unwrapped Hero bar, the clumsy notes from a child’s xylophone. Sign language classes were oversubscribed; earplugs languished unsold.
We put our hopes in last-minute diplomacy, negotiating our sovereignty for sound.
It failed. There was nothing anyone could do.
The Silence rolled in.
We screamed and cried but couldn’t hear ourselves. The noiselessness was deafening.
There is only one thing left, now.
We will avenge our loss of Mozart, of laughter, of nursery rhymes.
We will take their eyes.
I mean HOLY F/ING MOLY!
I've come to expect great work from NLiu, BUT HOLY F/ING MOLY.
Please don't be mad. I'm getting ravenge for what Mr. Crawley did to Jenny.
She rote about him in her secret diary.
Hoardes of angry bees keep buzzing in my brain, Daddy. I have to do something.
He'll let me in because I look like Jenny, and he wants another taste of what he did because it's always sweeter when no one knows, like when we sneak candy before dinner.
I'm sorry I took your gun. It will make a mess, smere his blood everywhere.
But its noise will make the bees be quiet.
You guys just terrify me an awful lot of the time.
The intrepid hero ventured stealthily into the cave and began to climb, certain that the mystical hoard at its heart would be hers. Others had tried and warned that it could not be reached, but she was no mere amateur. She would reach the end without disturbing the useless noise traps strewn about the lower ledges and alerting the monster -
"Mittens? Are you in the pantry again?"
Mittens hissed with irritation, leaping up the ledges with a vengeance, but soon found herself firmly grappled well before she'd reached the tuna.
Stupid human. One day those cans would be hers!
If the Duchess of Yowl were still with us, this would be her choice.
And this week's winner is NLiu.
Nliu, drop me an email and let's figure out how to get you a delicious, tasty prize.
Thanks to all of you who took the time to write and post entries.
They were great fun to read.
We're going to have a break next week so I can work on some blog posts that aren't flash fiction.