MY SHORT STORY IS DONE

 

THE NOBLE CAUSE We know better.  So we are taking it to them. But we have a hard time telling exactly who they are, so we attack them where they weren’t before but they are now. 

They can run, but they can’t hide.  We know where they are.  We are making progress against them.  They just don’t know it.  Soon they must acknowledge our superiority.  We don’t know when.  There are more of them then there were before.  This proves that we are winning. 

We know our cause is just. Just what we can’t say.  Who are we again and what are we fighting for?

HAVE A SHORT STORY in you you would like to share?   Amuse yourself and your friends by leaving three paragraphs, one hundred words or less in comments.  A creative commenter may use this opus to link to a longer post elsewhere. Opus sez a me.  Short is sweet.

Comments

[media girl]

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who claimed, "I'm not a leader. Fuck it!"
NARAL pulled the ad
Pro-choice is a fad
And all us girls are just to suck it
up.

[Lance Mannion]

WHY THEY HATED HIM

a short story by Lance Mannion

Grade 4.

They were jealous, as a group. Their collective attitude toward the Clintons can be deduced—diagonosed. I’ll play armchair psychologist, since the coverage of the Clintons was often driven by psychobabblers and pop psych readers and well-shrunk reporters projecting their own neuroses on Bill and Hill—from the popularity among them of two books, Primary Colors, by Joe Klein, and First in His Class, by David Maranisss.

Maraniss’s book was a psychological case study with a diagonosis, based on nothing but the author’s prejudices, what could be picked up in any freshman pysch class, and, I’m guessing, one too many readings of Robert Penn Warren’s All the King’s Men, of Bill Clinton as a slicker Willy Stark, a cracker on the make, willing to do anything to get ahead in order to compensate for feelings of shame and indadequacy at having been raised by a mother who would have embarrassed Mariness and a weak, alcoholic stepfather. This provided the subtext for all the reporting about the Clintons since—everything Bill did must be hinky somehow because he doesn’t do anything that isn't motivated by his twisted psyche. Everything he does he does just to get ahead, to put more distance between him and his white trash past.

That’s why he identifies with Elvis, you know.

(I'll drop off the link tomorrow, when the darn post is done.)

[Betty Blogger]

Such a tease, ;)

[Robert Penn Warren]

Tell me a story.
In this century, and moment, of mania,
Tell me a story.

Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.

The name of the story will be Time,
But you must not pronounce its name.

[Lance Mannion]

Good morning. The rest of the story's finished. It's always been about Whitewater. I think I like my three paragraph version better, but what are you gonna do.

Also Digby's been telling a similar tale.

[shpx.ohfu]

The president sits behind his desk. His salmon shirt is fully buttoned and the yellow tie is tightly knotted around his neck, pulled upward by Jeff Gannon with all the strength his buff, shaven body can muster. Bush's face is bright red as he labors mightily to finish himself off before anoxia sets in. His navy blue slacks are puddled around his ankles. The lights are dim; scattered over the surface of the Lincoln Desk are the secret Abu Ghraib rape photos; the obituaries of the latest war dead; and Halliburton's balance sheet. "The Passion of the Christ" plays on in the background. Karl and Matt sit motionless in the corner, waiting for the moment when they can slake their thirst on the Preznitenantial bounty.

Meanwhile, down the hall, the entire defensive unit of the Texas A&M football team waits patiently outside Jenna's door, carefully numbered paper slips held in hand.

[www.lake-shore.co.uk]

lol