Challenge55411

Question

This one is different. All i want is you own story with these words.
*Kung fu
*Porta Rico
*Hand-me-downs
*claw
*dog
*clowns

Simple? maybe.

Answer 1

For Sarah

Kung Fu Sally had a nice ring to it Sally thought to herself.  She, all of 8, was sitting in her pretty pink room ruminating about her life’s’ ambitions.  Most of the girls her age wanted to be princesses or ballerinas, but Sally was different.  She got along better with the boys in her school than the girls.  Girls just didn’t understand she often thought.  Boys have much more fun.  She was the first to volunteer for a kickball game even if the whole squad was going to turn out to be boys.  She was a scrapper.  Skinned knees, bloody noses and the occasional broken bone never stopped her from having FUN!

Her mother dressed her in hand-me-downs and they were really hand-me-downs not coming from a sibling as she didn’t have any, but from the Salvation Army Thrift store on Market Street.  She didn’t know her father.  Her mom said that her daddy had gone away.  That was ok with her now, but she used to cry herself to sleep when she thought of her other friends who had dads.  She had her dog Prince and her favorite clown doll to keep her company on those nights when the wind would howl and she was afraid.  If it got too scary she would go and crawl in bed with her mom and snuggle.  That was all the comfort she needed in the world.

In spelling class at school she was learning how to spell places and the hardest word for her was Puerto Rico.  She kept spelling it Porta Rico.  She generally did well in school and had many friends.  She did have one particularly odd friend name Gemini who claimed to be afraid of clowns.  How silly she thought to herself.

School was ok, but she had a particular fondness for the martial arts and excelled at Kung Fu.  Even though she was young it wouldn’t be wise to mess with her.  Sally kept studying and clawing her way through the ranks, becoming quite the Kung Fu master and eventually opened her own school for martial arts.

Comments

Awsome!!!!!!!!!!!

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ROFL!!!!!!!!

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I had hoped you got the joke "inked".

Answer 2

"Next stop - San Juan Puerto Rico.  Please fasten your seatbelts as we descend."

What a relief for me.  I'm terrified of flying.   I kept imagining that I would have to claw my way to the exit as we crashed into the North Atlantic.  But here we are safe on the ground.  I can't believe I spent a week mastering the 'dog paddle' in case of emergency.

"Hello, Gilbert.  How nice of you to greet me."

"Don't clown around with me.  I know exactly what you're here for.  The car is waiting to get us to my villa."

From the limo, I could see lots of kids playing hop scotch, Kung foo, marbles and the like.  They wore pathetic 50 year old hand-me-downs.  I couldn't wait to get away from this part.  It reminded me of Brooklyn when I was a kid.

Gilbert poured me a drink and went to the safe.  Handing me a bag, he said "Here's your payment for the last mission.  I assume you disposed of the weapon."

"Of course."

"Well here's another one - semi-automatic.  Stick around a few days.  Have fun.  I think we have another mission for you."

Comments

Mr. Giraffe:  Are we saying that Puerto Rico is a hotbed of the illegal gun trade or perhaps a murderer's haven and they hire people to "lose" the evidence.  Either way its intriguing.

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Very funny, Doug.  Yes, I'm on a mission to inform the world of this activity.  lol

I started out clueless about a story line.  It ended up being about poverty and opulence (much of which is corrupt).  It could have been Georgia or D.C.

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Or just about anywhere in the good ole USA. :)

Answer 3

Viva la libertad!

*
Thoughts ran through his head just like a bunch of noisy, ridiculous clowns chased by a pack of hungry dogs.  No turning around on this one. Once the doubt had found its place in his skull, he stood no chance to dust it off his brain. Inconvenient, like a parasite.  Dreadful as silence. Silent as gold. After all…doubts don’t yell, now, do they?
Poor tormented Bajuanes ! How could he be sure the guerillas were not hiding in the woods?  In the same sweet woods where he had spent his sunny days , laying in the hammock, drinking coconuts, living with Paquita and singing ‘Viva la libertad!’.

**
The sun was terribly stubborn on sending unbearable waves of heat that morning and staying in the shadow wasn’t much of an option for them. They had been training 20 hours a day for three month and two weeks now. The claws of the imperialism were threatening. (Or that was the rumor down the palm trees’ path anyway!).  The  Island of Enchantment, Puerto Rico, was far from giving up. Far from surrendering. But also far from the fresh breeze of liberty.
Hours of marching had made their skin rougher. Days of combat had made their souls rougher. They’ll pull it through. With or without help.
-    Do you have some more meat, Lemones?
-    What you need that for, comrade Elijas? It only makes you fatter and slower. Here, have a mango!
-    Argh! Better give me some rum!
-    Comrades, time’s up! Back to training! Viva la libertad!
-    Viva la libertad!
***
Bajuanes got back to his shelter, a spectacular cave in the Cerro de Punta.  He was now sure the guerillas would soon take over Culebra, Desecho, Caja de Muerte and the rest of the isles.  Gone would be the days when he’d sell the hand-me-downs of the jibaros to gringos. Gone were the days when the jolly dollars bathed his shiny shoes.
Paquita will now have to worry. Maybe Bajuanes will not come back once he’ll join the guerillas. This dream of freedom didn’t quite overfill his soul of joy. He didn’t believe in it. What will those savages do after they wash off their enemies? Build up a country based on freedom songs?
Bajuanes had not taught his wife kung fu. If she’d got stuck in the middle of a conflict she’d be defenseless. Maybe he should’ve taught her kung fu…
Bajuanes had not understood why the jibaros became fewer by the day. Maybe he should’ve asked them where they were going…
Bajuanes didn’t feed his children with freedom songs. Maybe he should’ve… viva la libertad, viva la libertad!...

Comments

WOW, Shanley.  What a vivid scenario.  It reads like a stage play about hopes and futility.  He can't dust the doubts off his mind.  If my opinion matters, it's very good.

Answer 4

Sorry this is so long guys, but when Doug referenced a Gemini with a silly clown phobia, I felt a need to defend myself.  Actually I was reminded of an actual incident to write about and I just started typing, lol.  This is a true story…


My husband and I have quite an age difference between us.  And while this isn’t an issue, it has made for an interesting relationship.  Sometimes I feel like he is at a level of adultness that I have yet to reach.  A feeling that was never more apparent than on our first date.  

Luis is ten full years older than I am.  When we met, it only took a few exchanges to realize that we were night and day to each other.  He remembers the fall of Saigon where as I watched the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait.  He was Atari to my Sega.  David Carradine in Kung Fu to Jason Priestly in Beverly Hills: 90210.  

And, in addition to the age gap, we come from entirely different worlds.  I grew up never wanting or needing anything.  Life in western Oklahoma is simple and uncomplicated.  We were comfortably middle class, but mine was a wealthy existence compared to my husband’s.  Luis grew up in a poor neighborhood in western Puerto Rico.  His father died when he was very young, meaning he had to fill in as a father figure to his younger siblings and get a job to help bring in money.  Despite such hardships, he finished school and made a very good life for himself.

Realizing all of this made our first date a nightmare for me.  I assured Luis that I would handle everything, which is a statement that I would immediately regret the second it came out of my mouth.  I had no clue what he was into or where to take him.  I was laid back and spontaneous, and I had to plan an evening for someone who tended to look at life in a serious and calculated manner.  And to make matters worse, it was right before his birthday which fell on Halloween no less.  So it had to be very special.  Very unique.  After some deep thought, I finally decided that I’d take him to Bricktown—location of the famous Haunted Warehouse.  Even though I had been before; he hadn’t.  It would be perfect; I could kill two birds with one stone on this date.  A chance to prove how down-to-earth and fun I could be by going to a haunted house, but also how mature I was by not letting a few funhouse tricks scare me.  

I have NO idea why I thought I’d be able to pull that off.

I am the easiest person in the history of the known world to spook.  I can find something scary about a box of puppies…no joke.  And the Bricktown Haunted Warehouse isn’t a nursery school production.  It’s the kind of place that uses glow-in-the-dark paint, smoke machines and chainless chainsaws.  Three stories full of nothing but zombies, werewolves, homicidal maniacs, vampires, demons, escaped mental patients and swamp monsters.  AND…the nightmare of all nightmares…clowns.  

My clown phobia began with a horribly creepy clown doll that my grandmother gave me when I was four.  I used to bury it, with its sinister visage and untrustworthy smile, in the back of the closet (which is why—to this day—I cannot sleep unless the closet door is all the way closed).  Then it only progressed with movies like Killer Clowns from Outer Space and Stephen King’s It.  Pennywise...shudder.  And in the mid-90’s the band Slipknot capitalized on the grotesque clown angle with freaky costumes and paired it with death metal.  All of which proves my theory that clowns are a bad bunch not to be trusted.  Their painted on smiles are just a ruse to mask hidden murderous agendas.  The Joker anyone?  John Wayne Gacy used to dress like a clown.  I refuse to believe that that is a coincidence.

The night of our date arrived and was going splendidly until we pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse.  As we got out of my truck, I immediately felt that familiar ball of nerves well up in the pit of my stomach.  The first few levels of the haunted house went well considering they were exact replicas of the sets used from the previous Halloween.  The toxic waste room was identical to prior seasons—even using the same hand-me-down melted mannequins from last year.  And the undead backdrop was just as I remembered.  It was reminiscent of Resident Evil complete with animatronic zombie dogs.  I was able to keep my cool since I had seen these setups before and knew what to expect.

I thought I was going to make it all the way through the warehouse without so much as an innocent little jump until we came to the last room.  A room I hadn’t seen before.  At first I thought it was intentionally left empty.  There were no props.  No smoke or epilepsy inducing strobe lights.  It was completely dark except for a single light bulb hanging from a chain in the center of the ceiling.  Something about this room didn’t feel quite right.  Luis and I were directly beneath the light bulb—nearly out of the room without incident—when a face materialized out of the darkness and into the triangular ray of dim yellow light given off by that solitary bulb.

It was the face of pure evil--with a painted on smile that was not misleadingly happy but haphazardly drawn on by a creature completely devoid of sanity.  This clown’s smile was a reflection of the anger stored in its blackest of hearts.  Its teeth were all crooked and pointy.  Its face half covered in gauze stained with fake blood, and the patches of skin that I could see were all lacerated and unevenly stitched.  Matted tangled hair framed its face.  Even its shiny red nose was dull and a bit smashed in.

Met with my greatest fear, I could not move.  It hovered no more than mere inches in front of me.  I could clearly see its bloodshot eyes staring at me…staring into my soul.  Then it raised its claw-like hand and held out a mangled bloody finger.  It pointed at me as if it had just marked its next victim.  And then—in a most evil semi-whispering voice—it spoke…

“Do you like clowns little girl?”

It was so close to me that I could smell its putrid breath as those words slithered off of its wicked tongue.  Actually his breath smelled like Mentos which to a rational person would have given the whole incident away for the adolescent ploy that it was.  But reason had all but left me at that point.  All I could hear was the deafening sound of my heart beating amidst a distant high-pitched ringing—which turned out to be me screaming like a little girl.  I turned to run in the opposite direction, crashing square into Luis and nearly knocking him over.  What happened next escapes my memory, but I vaguely recall running in circles around that room, panicked and rambling something about a devil clown trying to get me, until some poor volunteer finally took pity on me and opened the exit door.  

I burst into the cool night air, stopping to catch my breath at the edge of the sidewalk.  It was as if I had just survived impending doom and needed to reevaluate my life.  When the air hit my lungs, I began to get my head back together, and I suddenly remembered where I was and who I was with.

Oh no.  I was certain that, after that display, my relationship with Luis had come to an abrupt end.  My first instinct was to apologize and offer an explanation, but I couldn’t get a word in amidst his uncontrollable laughter.  Once he composed himself and wiped the tears away we went to get something to eat.  Over dinner, he told me that that was the best time he had ever had on a date.  That he had never laughed so hard in his life.  And that it was nice to meet a girl that wasn’t afraid to be herself and not worry about what other people thought of her.  

I chuckled at the irony.  

After that night, I had no problem just being me and embracing our differences.  My husband still likes to tell that story, making light-hearted fun of my complete breakdown of common sense on that night.  It still makes him laugh until he cries.  And yet, he is all too happy to make sure the closet door is always completely closed.  Just for me.

Comments

Oh and Doug, I am SO going to draw this clown for you over on ThinkDraw.  Just as soon as I get the time...

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I was going to ask you to draw a clown.  Let me know when it's finished.  And how in the heck did you know my wife and I are 12 years apart.  I know my semi-art and scary stories give away my propensity for the macabre and gruesome.  Loved your story.  Even the "single bulb" gave me a little deja vu.  Hmmmm...

Answer 5

“The Alpha Beta Charlie’s” by Ron

Her name was Barbara Britton and she had sat in front of me since first grade. We never spoke. She’s a girl right? And girls are stupid. They don’t know anything.

Anyways - we were studying geography and Mr. Butler was rambling on about Puerto Rico except he spelled it “Porta Rico” on the board. None of the kids noticed.
 
Barbara flicked her hair back across my desk. It was long and black and silky and we’d played this game since forever. We never spoke or hung out but she liked me to play with her hair and over the years I’d become pretty good.

I can braid. I know I’m a boy and all but I’ve had these locks at my disposal for five full years and you learn. I can’t do the tight corn-row things like the black girls. But if I just had a comb I swear I could do that too.

Barbara’s head was a bit to the right which indicated she preferred two braids instead of the usual pony-tail today.

I gathered up a handful and ignored the snickers of boys behind us. Her head leaned into my hand.

I separated three lengths using my fingernail to part them. I would use a pencil to get it perfect but there’s something just not right about the idea so I don’t.

I hold the three strands in a practiced manner and deftly start the passes from thumb to thumb. My braids are tight and perfect. If there’s an errant hair here or there I back up, get it under control and resume.

The tradition, when I finish, is that she slides her hand down to the tip of the braid, pinches the remaining strands and pulls it forward. She manages the little colored rubber band things that girls use. I don’t know what they’re called. She then tilts her head just so in the other direction. And I begin again.

The teacher drones on and on as I finish the second braid. I’m getting drowsy and wish more than anything I could be somewhere else; anywhere else.

Barbara retrieves the braid and my attention is drawn to the window.

I see it out there – orbiting about three clicks – and I know: It is coming.

At some unknown signal the bird drop its nose and slides sideways, gaining speed. The turn completes and he aims directly at us. It’s an Apache and its painted black.

It swoops to hover directly over the next building. Four black ropes unfurl like snakes to the roof below. Four back-clad men leap out riding the ropes to the ground. They unhook and pan across the rooftop looking for threats. The leader points two fingers to his eyes then points to the left and again to the right. He advances straight towards me.

I see a shadow. A black-clad man is floating right outside the window. His rope catches and he swings in. He crashes into the classroom right in front of Barbara Britton. She screams.

Another then another and another man crashes through different windows.

Kids scream and duck and cover. Glass flies.

The teacher – who was speaking about the Puerto Rican Department of Government and written “D.O.G.” on the blackboard - turns to the melee and whispers a single syllable: “dog”.

The leader from the first chopper climbs through a broken window and calls for order.

“No one is getting hurt.” He says “If everyone calms down and cooperates.”

He opens a loosely bound notebook and starts scanning pictures and kid’s faces. He looks at me.

“You.” He shouts. He looks at the picture again in his book, nods.

“You’re coming with us again. We need you.”

He pulled off his pack as I approached and retrieved a soft package. “Put these on.” He says.

I tear open the package and my kung fu outfit is there – pressed and neat.

I tear off my orphanage hand-me-downs and change right there – on the spot – I’m not gonna see any of these kids again anyways.

Dressed in ninja black I climb through broken glass and deftly follow the leader up a knotted rope to the roof. My chopper is waiting as is my old C.O.

“Sorry kid. I thought this was all over. But we’ve got one last mission for you.”

We climb into the chopper.

“What have you clowns stepped in this time Colonel?” I ask.

“It’s The Phillipines again. Guy calls himself The Claw. I think you met him once.”

“No. If I met him he’d be dead.”

“No. He was a kid then too. But we think you did his dad back in ’08. Now he’s got a bone to pick.”

“Why ‘The Claw’?”

“No idea. Intel says something about a death grip.” He hands me a thick folder.

“Well – if it’s gotta happen its better me than someone else. Let’s go.”

The chopper lifted and headed south. It was gonna be a long trip and I needed some rest. I’d read the file in a minute. I let my head slip against the glass and drifted fitfully to sleep.

I awoke to an empty classroom – strands of black hair across my desk.

Comments

Hey all. Long time.
This is a story with no purpose. But the hair part is true and the daydream was one of my all-time faves.
I hope to catch up on all the submissions at some point.

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It's not quite "Saved By the Bell", but cool.  Maybe "Welcome Back Kotter"?  Nah.  Welcome back Ron.  What do you think of this new format?  I like it, but it's harder to keep up with.  I've been on a few other writing forums and nobody communicates or critiques the other stories.  This one is very cool for that, at least.