Plot Generator

I was just over at http://www.plot-generator.org.uk/ playing with the short story generator. This is what it spat out.

The Drizzle that Rained like Sitting Mice

A Short Story
by T. Barrel Shittington

Melanie Porridge looked at the silver blade in her hands and felt cross.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her cold surroundings. She had always loved grey McDonald's with its colossal, crispy crowded. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel cross.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Owen Merriam.
Owen was a caring academic with vast fingernails and blonde feet.

Melanie gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a witty, considerate, tea drinker with dirty fingernails and curvaceous feet. Her friends saw her as a muddy, magnificent monster. Once, she had even helped a manky enormously fat man cross the road.

But not even a witty person who had once helped a manky enormously fat man cross the road, was prepared for what Owen had in store today.

The drizzle rained like sitting mice, making Melanie surprised.

As Melanie stepped outside and Owen came closer, she could see the weak smile on his face.
Owen gazed with the affection of 8606 sweet late lizards. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want an invitation."

Melanie looked back, even more surprised and still fingering the silver blade. "Owen, It's in the mail," she replied.

They looked at each other with ambivalent feelings, like two giant, gentle gerbils laughing at a very ruthless snow storm, which had classical music playing in the background and two lovable uncles singing to the beat.

Melanie studied Owen's vast fingernails and blonde feet. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Melanie in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't love you Owen."

Owen looked confident, his emotions raw like a rapid, rare record.

Melanie could actually hear Owen's emotions shatter into 3419 pieces. Then the caring academic hurried away into the distance.

Not even a cup of tea would calm Melanie's nerves tonight.

THE END

More Lurching

Here's a short story type thing I wrote last year that was based on a scam email I got multiple times. I was going to submit this some online literary magazine, but then I decided not to bother since I could just as easily have no one read it here.

From Mrs. Rebecca Williams

NO 112 Rue Des Martyrs Cocody

Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire

ATTN:

DEAREST ONE OF GOD

I am the above named person from Kuwait. I am married to Mr. Benson Williams, who worked with Kuwait embassy in Ivory Coast for nine years before he died in the year 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child because I don’t like children. He died after contacting a rare disease from illegally imported kangaroo meat. I know it was foolish to make a stew with something as potentially hazardous as illegally imported kangaroo meat, but if you’ve ever eaten kangaroo meat you would understand. The outcome was tragic, yes, but still, sometimes I think it was worth it. There really is nothing quite like kangaroo meat.

Before his death we were both born again Christians. Since his death I have come under the influence of a necromancer named Steve. I have decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which the Steve is against. I asked why he was against it, but he just shrugged and said he didn’t need a reason. I guess that’s his business, but I would kind of like to have a reason. Sometimes Steve is so obstinate. Don’t you hate that kind of behavior in a person? I know he has a lot on his mind what with raising the dead for his own nefarious purposes, but he doesn’t have to be so uncommunicative and brusque.

When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of $2.5 Million (Two Million Five Hundred U.S. Dollars) in the bank here in Abidjan in suspense account. After he died he no longer deposited any more money in the bank. Some of my fondest memories of my husband are of him rolling naked in piles of money, screaming, “It’s all mine! It’s all mine!” Everyone has their curious peccadilloes and rolling naked in money was my husband’s. The funny thing was I never grew tired of watching him rolling and screaming while flinging armfuls of cash into the air. And he also never grew tired of rolling and screaming in piles of money. You would think it would get old after a while, but I guess it didn’t lose its appeal for him. The odd thing about all of this is I never had any real desire to roll in the money myself. Now I kind of regret not at least trying it out, who knows, I may have enjoyed it, but it’s too late now.

Presently, the fund is still with the bank. Recently, my Doctor told me that I have serious sickness which as far as can be determined wasn’t caused in any way by the illegally imported kangaroo meat or by my activities as an apprentice necromancer. The doctor thinks that I have what’s called psychic monkey fever, which is a rare condition where the infected person can communicate psychically with primates. I know it sounds exciting, but I tell you it’s no adventure having to psychically communicate with monkeys whenever they are within a 100 meter radius of me. The monkeys think only of food, sex, and territory. There’s no romance among the primates, so you can leave your sentimentalism about the animal kingdom in the First World. The one thing that disturbs me most is my knowledge that the monkeys know I can communicate with them psychically. I don’t think the monkeys like the idea of someone being in psychic communication with them, but it’s hard to tell what with their obsessions with food, sex, and territory.

You may ask why I don’t simply get my friend Steve the necromancer to reanimate my corpse after I die of psychic monkey fever. The answer is that I don’t wish to spend all eternity on earth as a member of the undead. No, it is best that I simply be allowed to die.

Having known my condition, I decided to donate this fund to an individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. I want a space ship built so that underprivileged astronauts can leave the earth just like those rich NASA people who think they’re so special. Also, I want enough of it set aside so that my corpse can be launched into outer space. It has to break the bonds of the earth’s gravitational pull. I won’t settle for being shot into a low level orbit only to reenter the earth’s atmosphere and burn up like so much space junk.

The Bible made us to understand that blessed is the hand that giveth. I took this decision because I don’t have any child that will inherit this money because I don’t like children and my husband’s relatives are not progressives and I don’t want my husband’s efforts to be used by unbelievers in affordable space travel for all. I don’t want a situation where this money will be used in a ridiculous way. Those relatives of his will use the money to pay for vaccinations for the poor, I just know it. This is why I am taking this decision. I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am going--into space! I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the galaxy. My dead body will be my space ship and it will travel for all eternity. Well, it will travel for all eternity unless it crashes into another planet or gets hit by an asteroid, but let us hope such a thing does not happen.

I don’t need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health hence the presence of my husband’s relatives is around me always I don't want them to know about this development. They will for sure foil my plans to launch my body into outer space if they found out about it. Why they’re so against space travel I will never know. With sufficient rocket power all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the bank here in Abidjan. My happiness is that I lived a life of a worthy space-traveling necromancer. Whoever that wants to travel in space should be able to do it affordably, be they pauper, necromancer, or even electrician.

Contact me on the above e-mail address for more information; any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing another individual for this same purpose. Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated herein. Hoping to receive your reply.

Remain blessed in the quest for affordable space travel.

Yours truly,

Mrs. Rebecca Williams.

Burn it! Burn it, I say!

Last year while digging through a bunch of old crap I'd written, I found what's probably the oldest extant short story I've ever written. It was written circa 1985 in pencil on notebook paper. I was sixteen years old. I've typed it out for your pleasure rather than burning it like I should have done.

Murray’s Freezer

     Joe’s truck pulled into Murray’s yard. Murray didn’t have the five thousand dollars he owed Joe. Joe stepped out of his truck, he had large pipe-wrench in his hand. Joe didn’t bother to knock on the door, he just knocked it down. Joe was a large man, about seven feet tall. He weighed about five-hundred pounds. Murray was five feet eleven inches tall and one-hundred and ninety pounds.
     “Pay or die, Murray!” he said.
     “AAAAHHH!!” said Murray.
     Joe picked up Murray and threw him across the room, knocking him out. Joe picked Murray up and put him in the big freezer Murray kept in his garage. Joe then drove away in Murray’s new car.
     And for the next 40,000 years that freezer hummed on through great wars and famines. It was a good freezer.
     Two archaeologists dug up the freezer and were amazed it was still running, and that a guy named Murray was inside of it. Later at the University of Quau, some doctors thawed Murray out. After he was completely thawed and received electric shock a few times, he came around.
     The doctors asked him a few questions. He was confused at first, but then finally awoke.
     “Do you know that you have been frozen for 40,000 years” they asked.
     “I have? Like, wow, man. What a trip!”