100 Word Daily: Crash Edition

Hey friends and others,

This one... it... well, it just did what these things do sometimes. I dunno. Here ya go.


I’m lying on my back in the sun, the asphalt warm and rough under my back like the skin of a lizard. I try to shield my eyes with my arm, but there’s nothing there. My shoulder grinds, oozes, but nothing. Shouting pulls me away from thoughts of my arm. People are running everywhere, on cellphones. Past them, my car, lying in the street, just like me. I know what happened now. And soon, they’ll find out. My family will go to my apartment, clean it out. And they’ll find it. My secret shame. My sick addiction. My Little Ponies.



I'm really not sure what to tell you. You're welcome? Sorry? In any case, it made me laugh, so that's really all that matters, right?

Well, bye.

-V-

100 Word Daily: Cookie Edition

Ok, so I don't know how to count. Sue me, why don't ya?!

In other, better news, here's a new story! It's about an unstoppable cookie flood. From where do they come? Elves in the pipes. Elves in the chimney. Elves! All the time elves. I never did trust them, but all they do is make freakin' cookies all the time. What's not to trust, you ask? How do they not get huge? That's why I don't trust them. They're not being forthright about their eating habits. You never see them eating the cookies, do you? Do you?! They just force them on us, endlessly, forever. I'm sure there's some Elven conspiracy in there somewhere, but I'm too full to concern myself with it right now.

This idea is from Rachel, a school friend who apparently values cookies over knowledge. I don't blame her. Follow her multiple times on Twitter, @rachpenner and @energyofdance. One of them is about dancing. The other is about like, stuff, and junk. Both are wonderful, and so is she. Enjoy the story, yo.



I should be reading. I should be writing. I should be studying, learning, educating myself. I should be doing any damn thing but eating. But these cookies. These cookies are everywhere, and they just keep coming, flowing in the windows and through the door and down the chimney and out of the drain in the bathtub. To stave off death I must first stave off hunger. But I’m not hungry. Not anymore. But these cookies! So I eat. I eat. The body only has so much room. My home only has so many rooms. All are full of these cookies.



Are you happy that I made cookies scary? I sure am. I am now scared, and happy. Life can be confusing. Okay, I'll write another story tomorrow, and you'll like it just as much, I'm sure.

Bye.

-V-

100 Word Daily: Shift Edition

Hello all,

So, I failed horribly, and missed yesterdays story. I'll make it up to you today, with two. One now, and one a little later, after I've had some breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a nap. Sound fair?

This story comes from my gracious father-in-law, who always has some interesting things floating in his brain. The theme of this piece is "THE SHIFT KEY THAT GOT STUCK"

Also, I'm going to start including the original idea, since sometimes people don't get it. That is my fault, as a writer, and I admit it. So cut me some slack, wouldja?

Ok, here be. Enjoy.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

IT IS WITH GREAT REGRET THAT WE INFORM YOU OF THE PASSING OF YOUR FATHER> HE WAS CAUGHT UNFORTUNATELY IN A COMBINATION PHOTOCOPIER?PRINTER?SCANNER INCIDENT< AND WHILE WE WERE ABLE TO REMOVE HIM FROM THE MACHINE< HE HAD ALREADY LOST A GREAT DEAL OF BLOOD< AND NEEDLESS TO SAY< OUR REPORTS FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WILL CARRY A GRISLY TONE>

WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE CAPITALIZATION AND STRANGE PUNCTUATION> YOUR FATHER WAS OUR RESIDENT TECH SUPPORT MANAGER> AFTER HIS PASSING< THE SHIFT KEY ON OUR COMPUTER STUCK< AND NO_ONE IS QUALIFIED TO FIX IT>

I presume these folk work at an older company, or can't afford a new keyboard, or some such thing. Maybe they're senior citizens, and don't know the difference between caps lock and shift. Many factors contribute to this terrible unfeeling letter.

Ok, keep your eyes peeled later today for another one of these things.

-V-

100 Word Daily: Mattress Edition

Hi,

So, it's been one whole day. I've never been great with schedules, so we'll see if I can maintain this pace. Especially since I might have to pump a story out tomorrow morning to keep on track. This should be interesting.

This story comes courtesy of the always fascinating mind of good friend Adrian. I would give you all a link to his twitter, or his blog, or some other online presence, but it's minimal. He's on facebook, I can tell you that much, but good luck getting in touch with that crazy character. In any case, this one just smacks of his sense of humour, and I'll try to do it justice. Last time he gave me a story idea, it became one of my favourite stories, so hopefully this one does the same. Or better, even.

The days are uncountable. I lay perfectly still, eyes clamped shut. I toss, then turn, then repeat. Sandwich break and a piss, and it’s back on the damn mattress. I don’t sleep. I can’t. I never do. So the tossing and turning is convincing. And when I go home, it’s the same thing. The boss says I can’t just lay there. This has to look honest. What do I think he’s paying me for? Obviously a ridiculous question. I’m paid to suffer. I suffer daily, and for the comfort of others. And for what? A comfy retirement. A death bed.

HEYO! Storytime over children. Off to bed. I bet this one makes you want to just curl up on your superbly comfortable mattress and go to sleep. This man clearly has a miserable existence. Too much of a good thing, and all that. But I'm ready for bed myself, so please, take a minute and enjoy. Wait, you already did. Well, whatever. Goodnight.

-V-

100 Word Daily - Caffeine Edition

Hey all you beautiful people.

SO, I'm on break from school for a little while, and I figured I would spend some of my extra time working on more of these 100 word stories. I made a little post on facebook and on twitter, and I got a whole big pile of them. And so,  I've decided that I'll write one of them a day until I go back to school, starting from the top of the list on facebook. Since there were less on twitter, I'll just pop them in here and there. Not that any of it matters to you, since you probably won't even notice it happening.

In any case, now that you know what my plan of attack is, please enjoy the first of many many tiny stupid stories. The first comes courtesy of my friend Leslie, who goes to school with me. She's a rad chick with a crude 'tude. Or some such nonsense. She's involved in public relations, and making your crappy little company seem way better than it is. Follow her on twitter at @ABPRgirl, or in your car after 3, most days.

Here comes the gold.

She strains against gravity, and the weight of the sheets. Her eyelids peel apart like fabric tearing, and hang half-open, refusing the light. Colour enters her eyes, but she can’t tell one object from the next. Thoughts bubble from the bottom of her brain, but pop before they cohere. Blood sits in her veins, idle, cold. She pours herself onto the floor, and pieces together the easiest path to the kitchen. Her body is lacking vital components, chemical fixtures that imbue the human body with a new magic. Protein builds our bodies. Calcium provides our shape. But caffeine maintains life.

You see? It's possibly the most important substance you can absorb, beyond the blood of your enemies.

Alright, I'll be back tomorrow, with another whatever.

-V-

100 Word Story: Hellhole Edition

Howdy, y'all!

That sure was unnatural. I shan't be doing it again.

What's happening, my people? Don't answer that. By the time you do, this story will be over, and you'll have missed it. That's no good for me. It's all about the numbers, man.

So anyway, Lindsay and I are moving next weekend, so we thought it would be fun to look at some of the more interesting aspects of the building we're currently in. As I'm sure you're all aware if you've ever talked to me, we live in the worst building in Victoria. At first, I thought it was exaggeration on the part of everyone. Not so. After seeing several other places, I've discovered that, yes, it is a terrible place. So naturally, it's a demon portal. Count your lucky stars that they only built one, and not the two buildings they planned on originally. Or else we might be living in a demon's toilet or something by now, while they make use of their coastal property to impress all of their demon friends.

Ok, on with it!

It’s called View Towers. There’s only one of them. I worry that if the second was ever constructed, an immutable evil would claw its way through the balconies and devastate important parts of downtown Victoria. The chants, shouts and music at all hours serve as a conjuring spell. Drug dealers, junkies, and people with no regard for their own quality of life will be food for this monster, giving it the power to spread anger and mild discomfort throughout the city. Don’t worry. I’ll be safe. Someone will pull the fire alarm, and we’re the only ones who actually leave.



Haha! The rest of them can burn up! That's terrible. I apologize.

I was considering writing a longer story, to try and include more of the gross, offensive, and sometimes scary things that would happen in the building, but I've got a brand to uphold here.

That said, I'll give you another story next week, about the best thing I ever saw in the building. It's about music and superheroes, so it'll be just great. Stay tuned.

As always, shoot ideas my way if you want to, and I'll write them into fun little tales of morality and woe. Mostly woe.

-V-

Rocket Cat and the Warehouse of Dinosaurs

Hey there everybody that is alive and well and reading this silly little thing I do on occasion!

I presume you're all well? Actually, I don't care.

So today's 100 Word Story is a little different, in that it's 1400 words long. But it was done with a goal in mind. Specifically, it was done so that Panditty could turn it into a comic in some way or another. I predict it'll be about two pages long, but I'll leave that up to her artistic sensibilities, of which I obviously have none.

So please, enjoy this bit of nonsense. If it seems like something a colourful girl would come up with, well, that was the goal. So, congratulate me next time you see me, because I earned it.

Adventure begins in 3...2...1!

       Sunlight peers through the curtains, kissing dust motes and making them gleam, and Rocket Cat is curled up underneath my feet, snoring. I often find myself wondering where this cat came from, and who figured out how to graft a fully-functional jet onto his back, but cats can’t talk, and I don’t understand science. 

       He showed up on my patio one day, while I was out barbecuing a whole fish. He came screaming out of the sky, trailing smoke and flame, and smashed face-first into my grill. One quick leap, and he whooshed off into the sky, my salmon clenched tight in his jaws. He climbed down after he finished eating, and became a permanent resident. I tried locking him out once, but he just hit Mach 5 speed outside my front door and shattered all my windows.

       On T.V., the morning news opens with stories of bus crashes and break-ins, and all of these other things that ruin a perfectly calm morning. Then, static. This rouses R.C. from his sleep. He stretches way out, popping tiny metal claws and scraping the carpet. He twists his fuzzy face up at me, then climbs my pant leg, hopping into my lap. The static fades, and a jagged maw fills the screen. A voice burns out from between the teeth, dry and ragged. “The time has come! The Dinoids have risen again, and we shall not be denied this planet a second time!” The dinoid stepped away and the television went black.

       I sat, staring at the screen. Some sort of dinosaur thing in a fur coat, with legs of brushed metal. I could see an army of them behind the one that spoke, but they weren’t moving. Rocket Cat stirs in my lap, meows at me, and I barely have time to throw him out the window before the tight blue flame in his jet spreads into a wide white plume, and R.C. soars off over the horizon. I run out the door, hop on my Segway and follow the billowing path left in the sky.

       The trail leads me to an industrial part of town. Chain-link fences and orange cones litter the landscape before me, and all around, vehicles are overturned and smouldering. The organic sounds of fur hitting thick, leathered flesh interjects into metallic collisions and the horrible screaming of a great number of lizards. Rocket Cat beat me here. The sounds lead me to a warehouse, made of brick, and short one side. I grab my bat out of my bag (it’s a big bag) and take my time getting to the door. I hate to think what this crazy cat is getting up to in there, but if I learned anything from television, the second I get to that door, one of those Dinoids is going to jump me, and maul away at my soft bits with mechanically-enhanced talons. Arguably, these are the worst kind of talons.

       I get to the door, kick it in, and step to the side. Something pulls at me, hard, and I hit the concrete floor.

       A swirling mass twists around in front of me, spraying what might be lightning and smog around the room. Thick blue and black tendrils kiss and kick, at me and everywhere. From the centre, a heavy light burns. Dozens of Dinoids are pouring out of the light, piling up on one another, barking and furious. The one from T.V. stands in front of me, snapping orders, but something’s gone wrong. The minions won’t listen. They start tearing at each other, angry and confused. Pockmarks in the roof show me where R.C. came in, where he left, and where he came in again. With the wall smashed out like that, that damn cat could be anywhere. I charge into the mess, swinging my bat like a maniac, because typically, I make poor decisions regarding my bodily health, and head straight for the supposed leader. He’s fighting off some rampaging minions of his own, and it’s not hard to get up close to him. The Dinoids aren’t that imposing, anyway. Somewhere between the size of a chicken and a turkey, like the little ones from Jurassic Park, only half-robotic. Fierce, too, and angry. I shake one off my bat, tossing him into a pile of others, and watch him get to shreds. Then I take my bat to the head of the leader, trying to get him somewhere I can talk to him. Overhead, the telltale shriek of Rocket Cat announces his arrival at breakneck speed. I see him smash into a group of Dinoids, hissing and scratching, and I know that they don’t have a chance. I get the head Dinoid against a wall, and keep him at bay with the end of my bat.

       “What the hell is going on here?! Where are you guys even coming from?” I shout over the claws ricocheting off metal behind me. 

       “We’ve come from the Under! This world is ours! We will rule the Earth! We have—“ and I crack him across the jaw with my bat, just light enough to help him focus.

       “Enough with the catchphrases. I don’t even care. How do we stop this?”

       “My minions, they’ve turned against me! My plans are for naught! We must close the gateway, or else the Earth will be overrun!”

       “I thought that’s what you wanted?” 

       “Yes, but they do not obey me. If I cannot lead, then there will be no invasion!” He begins to struggle, but I’ve got him pinned under me. He was clawing at me at first, but since his revelation, he seems to have calmed down. “We must destroy the main generator. The main control mechanism was destroyed when the Dinoids came through. Destruction is the only way.”

       “Excellent. I’ve got just the thing,” I said, digging in my pockets for my house keys.

       Turning, I find Rocket Cat in the midst of the madness, looking like he’s having a great time, his tail held high and a thick tendon dangling from his jaws. “R.C., here! Look at this!” I say, shining the thin beam of red light that hangs from my keychain in front of him. “Look, here!” I say, in the tone of voice that all animals universally respond to. I shake the beam a little to catch his eye, and then swing the beam to the heavy metal box that contains the gate’s mechanical workings. Rocket Cat wiggles on his haunches, and I hear the quick intake of oxygen as the rocket fires up. Like lightning, R.C. has launched his way clear into the heart of the control box, and sparks were flying like bees out of the machine. The portal shimmered and blinked out of existence, nowhere near as dramatically as I had hoped. Rocket Cat climbed out of the guts of the machine and went back to slaying Dinoids.

       I grab hold of the Dinoid leader. “Good. Now I suppose it’s time to throw you to the cat.”

       “Wait! You mustn’t! I helped you to save your world, did I not? You must show some compassion.” 

       “Hey, I don’t owe you anything. In case you didn’t notice, we just about got consumed by a massive amount of insane dinosaur robots. Which is definitely the coolest way to die, but still.”

       “I’ll make a deal. Let me live. I will find a way home, and I will prevent Earth from becoming the target of another invasion.” He said, grovelling at my feet.

       “Now why in the world would I trust you with something like that. I might as well just bash your silly brain in for all the mild inconvenience you just caused me.” But the way this Dinoid looked up at me, leaking what appeared to be tears from his cold lizard eyes, warmed my heart. Not too much, but I wasn’t going to go smashing brains just now.

“Ok, you know what? I’ll let you live. But you’re living by my rules. You’re going to hang out with me, and be my rad robot dinosaur buddy. Trust me, of all your options, this is probably the best you’re gonna do.” I could see the gears turn in his head while he thought the offer over.

       “Yes, I accept. If I were to return home, I would be killed and eaten immediately anyway. Yes, let’s go be ‘rad buddies,’ and ‘hang out.’” 

       I look back and find Rocket Cat snuggled in in a mass of intestines that he twisted into some kind of cat nest, purring peacefully. He had no trouble tearing those Dinoids to shreds, and now he just needs a bath and a nap. I pick him up, and head for the door, followed by my new robo-dino friend. Like I said, I’m not great at making decisions.

Woo! So many words. You see how I left that open-ended like that? Like they could have more adventures at a time in the future? I hope you recognize that. I'm interested in fleshing this world out a bit more, as right now, it's incredibly off-the-cuff. I could certainly tighten things up a bit. But really, that's for the artist to worry about. Ha ha! Comics!

Thanks to Panditty, one tertiary portion of Girls and Greatswords, for the drawing that inspired this mess in the first place. Check them out. They're girls, and they talk about stuff, and you'll learn how to talk to women and impress them, and then next time you come to read my stuff, you'll probably have a girlfriend, and I will be SO HAPPY for you.

Ok, see you next week. I'll do another 100 Word Story for real. Give me ideas, and I will impress you to no end. Or else I will not impress you. Both are fine with me.

So long,

-V-

A little procrastination piece for you.

Hi my people,

I'm having a hard time getting rolling, like my muse stole the car and crashed it in a river. Both still exist, they're just useless.

Partially, this is because of all I've got going on. But this is no excuse. It's obvious that the only way to write is to write, regardless of lame excuses. So I apologize for all that. I just had to type some words to try and get things moving. If it works, you'll know. If it didn't, well, it'll be a little less obvious.

Sometimes, it just feels like the old poetry to the writing is gone. I read things that I wrote years ago and think, "holy moley, did I write that? I used to be talented. Where did it go? What changed?"

Obviously, I've grown as a person. I have a lot more experience now than I did. So why can't I write anything I'm proud of? Perhaps I'm more critical of myself, which is not a bad thing. Perhaps I'm not critical enough, or not putting in enough effort. The unfortunate side effect to all this is that I no longer feel good when I'm writing. Instead, I'm forcing it.

I used to have ideas. And I could make them go somewhere. Now they sit, blinking at me, wondering what the hell I'm doing. And I look at them and think, boy, you sure are interesting. Then it gets up and leaves. And I go back to bed.

Ok, enough of this bellyaching! Sometimes there's just something floating in your head that you need to put elsewhere in order to carry on with things. Probably, that place should have been a journal, or a blank paper that I proceed to fold into a crane and flush down the toilet. But tough cookies, blogtown! You're my vent-victim today!

So long,

-V-

100 Word Story: Time Turner Edition

Hello all you everyone!

So, I blew past my deadline. I know, I said Thursday, and I missed it by an entire day. This clearly makes me a monster. However, it's quite relevant to the topic at hand in this day's instalment of itty-bitty fiction. So come with me on this journey.

I begin and end in the middle of a sentence. Read it once, and then just go ahead and read it again. And again, on into infinity. My goal is to absorb all readership, everywhere. Enjoy.



...stepped out into the wasteland of the future. Gabriela had come home. Her machine fizzled behind her, raindrops sizzling and bouncing as they kissed the metal hull. The machines started this mess. And she would use them to see the end. When the technology was perfected, people used the machines to go back, to right wrongs. But how many wrongs can you right without harming the future? So Gabriela took her machine back and destroyed the others. imagining a new future, clean, without adjustment. Her job done, Gabriela set out for the present. She landed hard. Opening the doors, she...



Haha, how experimental of me! This was an interesting one to write, as I'm dead tired and have been focusing my efforts on things related to feature writing, social media analysis, and something having to do with cameras. But I enjoyed it, so that's all that really matters.

For next week, I'll have a story in a more traditional sense. Panditty (one piece of the Girls & Greatswords braintrust) drew a swell picture of a rocket cat. I offered to write a story regarding said cat, and she will expand it into a short comic! Ho ho! Collaboration. So look forward to that for next week. But as always, keep the 100 word story ideas coming, and I'll write some garbage that I'll be embarrassed by later.

KBYE

-V-

100-Word Story: Cannibalism edition

Hey you beautiful people, and then the rest of you, who look less good, but have stunning personalities, and so I consider you beautiful as well, but you know, not in a way that everyone would understand without talking to you. Not to say that people who look good are worth talking to, just that the immediate beauty is a little more apparent. But of less quality.

Ok, look, what I'm trying to get at here is Hello.

Tonight's 100 word story is brought to you by some dude named Brian. You can follow him on Twitter @guaybrian, or check out his website here: http://brokensnowflakestudio.ca/. He draws pretty pictures and causes great envy in my blood.

This story focuses on financial instability of being a restauranteur in a cannibalistic society.


Only months before, customers were barreling through the doors, fighting for seats. Those that couldn't find a spot were offered new ones, in the back. They obliged, following the hostess into the kitchen. They came back out, fried, basted, grilled. For the connoisseur, wrapped in seaweed. Soon, the kitchen ran out of specials. Customers went to complain, and returned in a stew. The owner had never seen such success. He treated the kitchen staff to the servers, and rewarded himself with the kitchen staff. Now he sits amid the bones, gnawing gently at his toes. A man's got to eat.

Delightful and disturbing. Much like myself.

I hope you all enjoyed this instalment of rapidfire lunacy. Please, give me ideas, and I will write them. Give me ideas, or I will eat you.

Your pal,

-V-

Gotta get all this holiday off of me.

Hey everyone who reads this thing (by this I mean no one!),

No stories today. I just figured I would update the blog so that it maintains relevance into another year. As relevant as it has been so far, in any case.

I've been thinking a lot about trying to force myself to work harder and be better at the things I want to do. I go to school with people that have kids, a job, outside hobbies and interests, and they still find time to go to school and get decent grades. I work one lazy shift a week in a completely relaxed grocery store, and do nothing else with my time, and I sit down at the end of the day, feeling completely swamped. My question to you, my faithful friends, is simple: how in the sweet rollicking plains and misty mountains of Narnia do you pull this off?

All I want to do is write more stories. I'm not even concerned with publishing and marketing and that end of things right now. I just want to get words on paper, and I feel like I don't have the time. Then people come along and do so many things in a day that it makes me feel like a complete waste of space.

I spend this time reading books, and the good ones make me feel even worse about the situation. I need to break this rut.

I did not intend for this to turn into a New Year's Resolution post, but I guess that's sort of what it's become. I'm going to write more, and will suffer no excuses. I am the master of my destiny after all. I simply need to climb the hill again, and trudge through the garbage that I'm undoubtedly going to spew at first. This garbage will force me to despair. But up yours, garbage! I'm going to get this done. There was a time when I felt confident and proud of my written work. There was room for improvement, as there always will be, but I at least felt good about it. So I'll bring that back as a birthday present to myself.

Also, I'm going to ride my bike more (which is super easy, since I currently ride it none). and try to dress nicer as well. These appear to be superficial resolutions. Because they totally are, and I have no problem doing good things for myself.

Ok, this got out of hand. If you're still reading this, give me story ideas, and I'll write 100 stupid words about them.

Your pal,

-V-

100 Word Story - Sexy Helicopter Edition

Hi everybody!

I didn't mean to neglect you. I'm sorry. Please take me back. Please? O.K. I'm back.

Now that that's all over and done with, I wrote 100 more words for you. Admittedly, it's kind of creepy, but I'm living in a tall apartment building now, so things are different than I'm used to. Enjoy.

He is often seen chopping his way through the sky. People think nothing of him, even though his only concern is for them. He watches the way the roads move, the tiny colorful insects beneath him. He comes from above, twisting around buildings. The major centres are his territory, and he watches carefully. He sees the patterns. But this is not all he sees. When he is in the skies, he is unnoticed. The high rises are eye level, and people mistake height for privacy. Their intimacy is his pastime. He watches for danger. But he also watches for pleasure.

EEEEEEEEW. Like I always said, people with helicopters are up to no good. Disgusting.

Give me ideas, because apparently when I do this on my own, they're all gross.

Have fun!

-V-

100 Word Story - Facebook Edition

Hiya folks!

I'm back, trying to write short things that are also entertaining at the same time. It's harder than I remember! Damn this concise collection of words. Oh well, I'm winging this one. It's about a sentient facebook account. I like sentience, especially in things that don't deserve it. Let's see how it goes.

It's all so simple. A young man signs in and wonders why parents have to be so awful. I like what he says, letting him know that I agree with him. I offer to play a game with him, and he does. If he does a good job, he levels up, levels up, levels up. I send him requests, keep him tied to the computer. His attention keeps me alive. I ask him to tend to crops, and he complies. I ask him to send gifts to other people. He'll get some in return. Doesn't he realize there's nobody there?  

That got a touch creepier than I thought it was going to. But isn't that always the case when you're shooting crap off the top of your head?

Send me ideas if you want to. I'll write them into stories. Or send me a story, and I'll break it down into ideas, although that's less fun.

-V

The Honeymoon's Over...

...But I mean that in the nicest possible way. Lindsay and I have returned from our Asian vacasian, and it was a splendid trip indeed. I had a great time being a minority in a culture that values happiness, calmness, and laughter above money, status, and power. They thought very highly of us financially, because we were white, but with a little harmless bantering, and never losing sight of that buddhist goal of inner peace, we were able to work wonders with them.

In order of preference, I rank them thusly:

1. Cambodia - The closest thing to what I would imagine a southeastern Asian country to be like. It was kind of dirty and dusty, and the people were generally very poor, with the occasional rich guy driving around in a Lexus. They viewed us as somewhat of a novelty, or at the very least, recognized us for the travellers we were. No one ever complained or had disparaging words for others or anything, really. Plus, it's superduper beautiful.

2. South Korea - Although we weren't there for very long, it quickly became one of our favourite places in the world. To be in a country that had no need for our white dollars really opened my eyes to how pushy the western world is. I already knew we were pushy, but after being in a country that figured we were just there to be annoying, it became very obvious that we accomplish nothing by feeling so superior to third world countries. South Korea is what Canada would be if we were all way richer. All of us.

3. Thailand - This was the main focus of our trip, so it's kind of disappointing that we liked it the least. Still, it's incredibly beautiful and has such a wide range of experiences from north to south that there was no way we would miss it. Elephants are supercool, and we met lots of great friends travelling.

In all, I recommend you all get out of your strange little white guy bubbles and go see what the hell the rest of the world looks like. Believe me, you'll enjoy it.

I'm going to resume blogging on a more regular basis once we're moved into our new Victoria apartment, so if you want me to write any supershort stories, send me them ideas, and I shall. Otherwise, you'll just hear stuff that Danielle already wrote about at Royal Roads.

Kthxbai (that's Asian for Ok, thank you, goodbye)

100 Word Story - Thailand Edition

Hi everyone!

You'll have to bear with me on this one today. I'm in Thailand, and all the words on the computer are in Thai. So I'm kind of going on sense memory with this thing. Also, I have no way of doing a proper word count, so it's basically just something close to 100 words. Today, this story is brought to you by the letter Eeew and the number 10 000 000 bugs.

Spiders are everywhere. Mosquitoes are everywhere, feeding the spiders. There are flies, worms, bedbugs, cockroaches, beetles, and all kinds of creepies that have crawlies. And they're everywhere. But I've got the solution. I bought this bag, you see. You step into it and pull it up over your head. There's a drawstring, and it tightens up over your face. It's like a cocoon. Hey, wait a minute. I think they tricked me. Now they're all over me. I can't get out. I can barely breathe. Get off of me, you monsters! You can have my blood over my dead body!

Scary! And I think they'll probably succeed. Most of our blood is gone, having been replaced with whatever it is mosquitoes put in you to make you itch. But honestly, Thailand is awesome. I recommend it to all of you, and immediately. You know. So we can hang out on an elephant.

Ok, that's all for now. I'll have better stories once the malaria wears off.

V.

100-Word Story - Avengers edition

Hello. There's only one girl on the Avengers. And she's the weakest. What does that say about us as a society, huh? 

There are boys everywhere. Some girls, too. They're watching this thing, on the screen. It's about four guys, and they have awesome super powers. They use them to fight the forces of evil, and set the world right. They stand up for the little guy, and do the damaging that needs to be done. You could say they're avenging us. Although that implies that we've already been killed. But whatever. They shoot lightning and punch airplanes. Oh, what? There's a girl? What's her power? Guns? That's not really a power. Oh well. I didn't even want to see it anyway.

This was a pointless update, but I felt it was necessary. 

Give me ideas. I'll write them. For realsies.

Ok bye.

Kaboom! Go buy a Trans-Am.

If you can't get ahold of a Trans-Am, get a Firebird. Also not possible? Then chop the lid off your car, put this CD in the music thing, and crank that bitch until the knob falls off. Drive really damn fast and listen to Heaviside's new album, "Wasted Generation."

This thing reminded me of what music should be. The bass is fuzzed, the drums are fast, and lead singer Mitchell's vocal range can be described as nothing less than bitchin'. Johno's guitar solos sound like they were born from the song, not written. They are fluid and melodic and beautiful, and right where they need to be. The rhythm section smashes it up, blending together like gasoline and orange juice, creating a fiery napalm ocean that the guitars and vocals ride over on surfboards of iron and leather and electricity. This is a band to be reckoned with. And they're damn well ready to reckon.

We're stuck in a world of over-produced pop garbage, with layer upon layer of sound hiding what little musical value there is to be gained, and we're selling every single twelve-year-old as the next big thing, when all they're doing is rehashing the stuff that's come before them, with more sex and more technological advancement. Heaviside decided to keep the sex, and cut way back on the technology. This thing sounds like it could have travelled in a flux-capacitor-powered El Camino from 1977, bringing with it chicks in tiny jean-shorts and fluorescent bikini tops, drinking Michelob Lite out of their own cleavage with brightly-coloured twisty-straws.

Heaviside's not trying to sell you on any heavy message. They don't bog their music down with deep metaphors and soul-altering questions. They shoot you with a party gun, and bring you back to life with a rock 'n' roll defibrillator.

I had a blast listening to this album. It's the first time in years where I sat down to specifically listen to music, and I couldn't be more happy that I did. I also totally wrote about this before, see? I could hear fingers sliding on strings and breaths being taken and sticks clicking and clacking around, and it made the experience all the better for it.

I've only seen these guys live once, but they put on a hell of a show. And they get awfully sweaty. If the band you're watching doesn't get sweaty, they aren't performing right. Demand a refund immediately.

My favourite song on the album was Aurora, followed closely by Eva. The rest was all badass too. Listen to it. Do it.

Here's the website. Check 'em out. They're pretty. http://heaviside.ca/.

100 Word Story - Airplane Edition

Hiya folks!

This one is for Adrian. He wanted science, omelettes, and a crashing plane. I think I delivered juuuust fine.

“Hmm, interesting,” he said to himself, as the flames twisted over his head. “It appears that they've used real cheese, and yet they've sunk to the level of artificial bacon chunks.” The flight attendant slid by on the floor, chasing her legs, leaving a thick meaty paste behind her. “Awful!” he exclaimed, slicing through the omellette and breaking his plastic knife. “These plastic utensils simply will not do.” The plane cracked in half, and the people poured out of it, into the open air at 20 000 feet. “My God!” he whispered. “An eggshell!”

Hopefully you enjoyed this silliness at least as much as I enjoyed writing it. (Ed. Note - I didn't enjoy it. Too much violence.) Welp, send me your ideas and whatnots, and I'll make them shorter and more ridiculous than they need to be.

-V

100 Word Story - Mullet Edition

Hi everyone! Thanks for the wonderful facebook suggestions. I'll do one for each of them, I think, in time. For this instalment, I wrote about one Kurtis Mullet, and I hope you all enjoy it.

Kurtis Mullet is a bad kind of guy. His eyes glow, but for all the wrong reasons. He stomps and clomps, ruining the economy with every footfall. Women tremble at the sight of his ankles. They can't see much higher up than that, with the clouds and all. There's only one man that can stop him. He's the same size as you or I, but as strong as all of us. His power comes from within us, and Kurtis can tell from the way he uses his walk that he is Woman's Man, and he's got no time to talk.

Excellent! References from before I was born.

Ok, that's all. Please keep making whatevers, and I'll whatever them.

100 Word Story - Owl Edition

Okay, here's another one for you guys. This one is courtesy of Carrie's wild mind. It's about a lonely hooter.

Armand is a noble man. He hums and haws on his accordion all day, supporting his family with coins thrown by tourists. Others say he shouldn't be proud of being a tourist attraction, but Armand doesn't mind. His friend Louis, the Screeching Owl, sits nearby, singing along with Armand's graceful notes. The tourists come for Armand's songs, but they leave when Louis starts to sing. His high-pitched screeches are poison to the ears of tourists, and a precursor to death for small rodents. “Louis,” says Armand, “You may have wings, but tonight, I think I must fly solo!”

Ah hah! Poor Louis.

Well, as always, give me ideas, and I'll make itty bitty stories out of 'em.

-V