Writer Chuck Wendig laid forth
the following challenge at his
Terrible Minds blog and I accepted. Please enjoy the following. And enjoy Mr. Wendig. He is a man who wants, nay
demands, writers to be better at their craft.
---------------------------
“Hey. Tony.”
“Yeah, Frank.”
“I’m floating.”
“Huh. So you are.”
It was true. Frank was floating about an inch off the couch
they had been sharing for the last, oh, 15 hours or so, watching Monty Python,
playing video games (if the zombie apocalypse were to come, Frank and Tony
would be experts in culling the mindless killers, assuming the guns were in the
shape of Playstation controllers), and smoking a ridiculous amount of weed.
Despite the amount of THC coursing through their respective systems, Frank
actually was floating, a fact causing
no small amount of hilarity within the minds of the two friends.
The first hour of Frank’s barely-measurable exile from the
earth’s surface was spent attempting to discover why the proud junior college
dropout was now hovering above the indented and sweat-moistened section of the
couch he had spent the last several hours, and truth be told years, firmly attached
to. Tony took a card from the deck sitting next to the couch (when
food/beer/weed supplies were low, the drawer of the low card had to get up and restock)
and slid it between Frank and the couch. The card met no resistance. Tony
giggled.
“You’re not touching the couch.”
“No shit. I’m floating. That’s what floating means.”
“I know, but it’s weird.”
“Fucking duh.”
Tony proceeded to shove Frank off the couch. Frank landed on
the floor, or rather an inch above it, appearing to have actually crashed to
the filthy carpet, but was instead still floating ever-so-slightly over it.
“What the fuck,
dude?!”
“I wanted to see if you would hit the floor,” Tony said,
tears forming from his barely-controlled attempt to conceal his laughter. “You
didn’t.”
“Felt like I did. That hurt.”
Tony pondered. “So you didn’t actually touch the floor, but
it felt like you touched the floor. Has it occurred to you that maybe the rest
of your skin is invisible? That maybe you have, like, invisible flab or
something?”
“You slid the card under my ass, remember?” Frank asked, still
looking wounded from his fall. “It wouldn’t have slid under me if it was ‘invisible
flab.’”
At the moment Frank said “invisible flab,” both pairs of
eyes immediately lit up. They looked at one another, exlaiming, “Band name!”
(It was an inside joke the pair shared. Other band names included “Shitty
Cupcake,” “Batman’s Nipples,” “Couch Fart,” and “Drug Mules for Sister Sara.”
The irony being neither could play an instrument and Tony couldn’t actually spell the word "guitar.")
After laughing maniacally over the new musical moniker, the
two lapsed into silence. Nearly five minutes had passed when Tony spoke.
“Alright, man. I want to you really think about this. Open
your mind and shit and, like, really focus on this. OK?”
“Sure, man,” Frank said, sounding hopeful.
“OK. Now. Has it occurred to you that you’re only floating
because your mind is telling you you’re
floating? What if you told your mind ‘Hey, dude. I’m done floating. Now
let me get back on the couch so I can smoke a bowl and get back to the Parrot
Sketch?’”
Frank thought about that. He took Tony’s concept, inhaled
deeply, taking in the aroma, and then put it in his mouth, swished it around
for a good 20 seconds to really release the flavor, paused for a moment, and
then spit it into something that looked like a small ashtray.
“I told my mind to knock the shit off,” Frank said,
dejected. “And I’m still floating. Dude, what if I fly away? Will I float into
the sun? I don’t want to fly into the sun. I’ve got too much to accomplish on
Earth.”
A man, or at least a man-shaped being, strolled into the
room shared by the now-deeply depressed duo. He was nude, in the sense he was
wearing no clothes, but Tony noticed immediately he had no genitalia. Despite
his assurances to anyone within earshot at any given time that he was a real
man and loved the pussy, Tony was
actually gay. It would be two years later at a late-night round of fantasy
gaming at his local comic book shop that he would act on those feelings with a
young mage named Aaron who preferred to be called “Monkor the Mightily
Equipped,” especially during what he referred to as “Naked D in D.” (Don’t ask
what D in D means. Seriously. Fine, it means “Dick in Derrière.” Happy?)
“Who are you?” Frank asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” said the being, smiling. “I’m going to eat
you.”
Silence.
“Wait. Did you say you were going to eat him?” Tony asked,
starting to giggle.
“Yep. Had to slap a force field around him for a couple
hours to get the germs off and there were a lot.
Now, I’m going to eat him.”
Before another word could be spoken, the being’s mouth
opened impossibly wide as he leaned over and quickly devoured Frank. Tony, torn
between screaming in horror and laughing hysterically, settled on looking at
the space his best friend since age seven recently occupied. He finally managed
to tear his gaze away from the piece of floor Frank had been sitting on
(hovering above) to look at the being.
“Am I n-next?” Tony stammered, true panic setting on him for
the first time.
“No,” the being said. “Eating two of you? That’s just weird. And gross. Yes, weird and gross.”
Tony shook violently and woke up. He turned to his left and
there was Frank, sucking on a 52 oz. fountain drink from the local convenience
store and watching Monty Python. Michael Palin was dressed in an outfit
obviously purchased from LL Bean and singing about his occupation as a
professional woodsman. Tony felt a sense of relief that was better than any bud
he had ever smoked. Ever.
Frank noticed Tony staring at him and spoke.
“Hey. Tony.”
“Yeah, Frank.”
“I’m floating.”
“Huh. So you are.”
