"Oh my gosh, I tripped over a dead guy!"

The man sat up in the gutter. "I'm dead?"

"Oh, you're not! Thank goodness."

"I'm not? CRAP!", and he laid back down.

The man bore great resemblance to Osama Bin Laden and I briefly wondered what he was doing, pretending to be dead, if 99% of US snipers wanted him to be dead anyway.

By weird force of mystic play of Destiny we found each other again next morning at Starbucks.

This proved to be one of the most interesting morning coffee conversations ever.

“You see, my child,” he explained to me over a latte, “I am an unfortunate twin brother of Osama.”

“As you know “Osama” means “Loneliness” in your language.”

I nodded, sympathetically.

“My brother and I were inseparable until he found great solace in international terroristic activities. I couldn’t put up with such behaviour, but Death has challenged me…”

He sighed, and continued, “Failed to bring peace to me so far.
I’ve tried drowning, hanging myself, being shot by very proficient snipers… But nothing worked.
So I thought either I have a very significant destiny to fulfill, or the Universe is playing a joke with me.”

I briefly pondered his words and then we took a walk.

"Oh my gosh, I tripped over a dead guy!" he yelled.

The old guy seemed quite shaken.

Weren’t these Muslim-guys supposed to be rather fatalistic about it all?

The man sat up in the gutter. "I'm dead?"

"Oh, you're not! Thank goodness."

"I'm not? CRAP!", and he laid back down. Osama-twin sighed briefly. Then he turned pale.

I looked back and saw what he saw. The George Bush lookalike lying in the gutter.

"Oh my gosh, I tripped over a dead guy!"
As cool and calm as I may sometimes pretend to be, this was no ordinary piece of cake for me.
The man sat up in the gutter. "I'm dead?"
"Oh, you're not! Thank goodness."
"I'm not? CRAP!", and he laid back down.
He was such a hottie I honestly wondered what he was doing lying about in the gutter, pretending to be dead.
Ah, well. The world is full of crackheads, mental cases, workaholics gone mad, teenage alcoholics and potential wife-abusers.
No loss, one less.
But somehow, I couldn’t just leave him there, could I?

I mean, what if some real maniacs were to find him, and well, rob him or make him die in pangs of hell, suffer a strange, obscure, profane ritual abuse or something?? That would, like, torment his soul throughout eternity?
Or worse, what if a really rich fake blonde pack-full of sillicone decided to take him home as her homeboy?
What would that do to my karma?

What if the guy is just broken hearted and all he needs, is, well, love?

I should know better than to quote Beatles to myself, since they’re the ones who put me in that much trouble the other time around.
But there I was, returning to the place a couple hundred yards back where I saw the mystery boy lying around, only to find to my great surprise he was missing.

Where could he have gone in such short time? Kidnapped by aliens? Not bloody likely.
No Hell-mobiles or even Harleys were running down the street with breaks snarling and beard-owners chanting weird incantations. Not even any Jesus people in sight.

I was really late but I was sure I could always catch the next bus. Like, this was waay more important than any dead or alive 18th century composer, including Beethoven.
I had no clue where to start looking.
I couldn’t go to the police, could I?

Sarah was one of the oldest homeless people on the block. The one that gave even my Mum a fright. I gave her a pound or two sometimes.
So I asked her if there was anyone ‘new’ on the block.
“New,” she mumbled. “There’s always someone new, isn’t it?”
“This city is the bloody Mecca of every runaway kid with broken dreams, or an asocial personality.” She snickered. “They all think they’ll get rich and famous here, don’t they?”
I mumbled sth that could or could not be interpreted as yes or no, an apology for disturbing her peace, or a deep and sincere proclamation for world peace, if desired; and she continued, half re-assured.
She said, “Lookin’ for someone specific?”
“Black/dark brown hair, brown eyes, very cute, round 22-25, could be younger, or older, he-“
I paused for a moment, thinking how to say this so it wouldn’t sound too fishy. “He likes to pretend he’s dead.”

“Oh, the Death-Wisher.” She chuckled. “You’ve picked yourself a wrong one-”
“I-“ I tried to oppose weakly.
“The guy is so broken-hearted he won’t look at a girl unless she breaks his heart twice as hard as it already was broken.” She chuckled with a mischevous eye. “Some guys just don’t know what’s good for them.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmured.
**
And there he was, just as she said. Lying in a cardboard box, pretending he was dead.
“No use pretending you’re dead,” I said. He flinched. “Come,” I pulled his sleeve. It didn’t even stench too horribly. “Come,” I said. “Stand up. We’re going to a really cool party.”
I briefly contemplated pushing him into a car wash and restoring him to Fa-freshness, the smell of daisies, or sth equally inappropriate.

“It’s you,” he didn’t seem too thrilled about it. I sternly admonished him I might as well be the odour police, and that straightened him up a little-
“I showered-“ he wrinkled his forhead trying to muster up some kind of brain activity, “last – Thursday?” He staggered a little. “I - think.”
I murmured to myself: “No need to think, honey, if you look like this.” Though thoroughly hopeless, he could make any teenage girl’s ultimate fantasy.
But I didn’t say anything out loud.
He seemed so spaced out I could just as easily be pulling the gingerbread man along and conversing with a lettuce head.

“So you wanna be a rock star?” I said. Everybody wanted to be a rock star. If they came here they did. And if they looked like this. “Or a movie star?”
He gave me a puzzled look.
“Today I am your fairy godmother,” I said. “Today, and today only, I will take you along to a party where you can meet all the hottest directors and producers, agents, radio station owners, the lot.”
He looked at me as if I was going to bring him to the slaughterhouse and sell for bodyparts. Which, for his sake, I might as well be.
I cheerfully smiled: “Now, honestly, do you want to go there smelling like this?”

Smelling nice and fresh (didn’t have to use the car wash after all, yay!!;), in new clothes borrowed, begged or stolen from red cross/salvation army aka Ben and Ted, we set along the way.
“How do you know I’m not a crackhead?” he scratched his head.
“Are you?”
He grinned, admittedly somewhat embarassed.
But he persisted, “How do you know I won’t screw it all?”
“Hey-“ I said. “Let me get this straight.” I turned around and looked him in the eye.
“I’m not pulling your leg.” I continued, “This is not a one-night stand.”
He grinned.
“You wish,” I said.
“Furthermore,” I added, “My boyfriend doesn’t produce adult movies.”
He grinned even more sheepishly, obviously somewhat embarassed.
I continued.
“I’m not offering you a six-figure contract. Or my everlasting love or anything remotely like that. I’m taking you to a party. A really good party. With lots of boring people, and some utterly fascinating ones.” Then I paused.
“Even crackheads deserve a chance.”
He simpered, and ventured a smile.
I just didn’t want to see him lie into gutters and pretend he was dead again.

“Come, we’re late,” I said briskly.
He turned around, and said briefly,
“Thank you.”

Ha ha, are you waiting for Part Two?? ;) Don't worry, it isn't a novel (so far). I was thinking more along the lines of a short story.. Not a very short short story though;))
I'm not sure LinnAnn gives me the rights to copyright her initial words and post them somewhere else on this forum- ??[;)]

I wasn't completely happy with either of them (if the last one actually made a point, it would've been too long by then;), so I didn't post any initially. But you challenged me!!;))

I'm not describing *my* fantasy, just a highly unlikely version of what *might have been* (i.e., any woman's potential fantasy, that's what romances are!!;)) I don't think I'd pick up highly suspicious strangers from another planet even in my fantasies!! (Ooops, I gave away some of the storyline!!;))

QUOTE: Originally posted by kr1model
[Hey. In a way this is present in my story too. In a way...


My thoughts exactly;))

Who controls who??

Initial challenge stated what both protagonists say, and anyone who wishes to be dead and lies back in the gutter isn't highly likely to show his superpowers right away, *is he*? ;))

QUOTE: Originally posted by LinnAnn

This is a portion of a true story (my daughter Sarah's). Your challenge is to take the following bit and incorporate it into a short story. 1,000 words or less.

"Oh my gosh, I tripped over a dead guy!"

The man sat up in the gutter. "I'm dead?"

"Oh, you're not! Thank goodness."

"I'm not? CRAP!", and he laid back down.

Give me your best folks. When she told me this it totally cracked me up! I'm very excited to see what you can come up with.
love, LinnAnn


I decided to take a short cut to the local watering hole, it was karaoke night after all, and i didn't want to lose my opportunity to sing bad 80's songs with a good buzz on. while traversing the alley that ran parallel to the main street i stumbled over something barely illuminated by the street lights, "Oh my gosh, i tripped over a dead guy!" i exclaimed. Now bare in mind that i don't normally say "gosh", but i was affraid that there might be children around, so i censored my language. To my thankful surprise, the man sat up in the gutter, "I'm dead?" he groaned. "Oh, you're not! Thank goodness." "I'm not? CRAP!", and he laid back down. It was at this point that i became fed up, "look dude, if you're going to pass out, at least get out of the side walk. a car could hit you" i said. he didn't seem too interested or coherent. being in a college town, i assumed one of two possibilities, either he was dejected roady from a band that recently played, or his girlfriend had broken up with him and he drank himself to this point. the clock was ticking away, and i didn't have the time or patience to play impromptu psychiatrist. he told me to just leave him alone. well, the altruist in my nature was not going to let that happen. "seriously, get up and go home." i said hoping that that would be enough to motivate him. but, it wasn't and instead he responded with, "get the f--k away or i'll kick your @ss" I couldn't help but laugh at him because he wasn't in condition to kick a rock let alone defeat me in a street fight. apparently, he took my laughter as mockery, and this seemed to rouse him enough to stand up out the gutter he was formerly lying in. i told him that if he was well enought to fight, then he was well enough to go home. yet again, the force of reason was impervious to his armor of emotions. well, either it was that, or he was wearing a new cologne by Jack Daniels. from a side street adjecent to the alley appeared three large, inebriated young men, all wearing the same three greek letters on their t-shirts. "jimmy?" they shouted, "is this guy fu-king with you?" i tried to tell them that i was only trying to help him, but being what they were, any of my speech that was more articulate than a grunt was misunderstood as a sign of hostility. quickly summing up the situation and gathering that there were now four of them to one of me, i decided that evasive manuvers were now in order, so i took off heading for the main street. one of them tried to follow me, but considering his apparent condition, he quickly lost interest in pursuit. i vowed that that was the last time i try to help some schmuk, especially before i examine the letters on his t-shirt. however, 20 minutes before closing, who would come stumbling in through the bar's door with his three friends, but the jerk lying on the sidewalk. and guess who they were looking for?

Andreya--was the first one wishful thinking? lol
"There’s always someone new, isn’t it?”---isn't there

mumbled sth--what is sth?
Fa-freshness, the smell of daisies, or sth equally inappropriate.--what is the FA and the sth again?

Here in the states we call the Salv. army, 'sally ann's" lol
I think this is a cute beginning, but I don't get the Sci Fi part. So you may have to do a part 2 to show us that aspect. I DO love sci fi. lol

I never said these had to be funny or a joke, and the challenges have always been open to critiques. It's just that these are a fun way to break the stagnant problem, or the writers block some suffer from.

Obanion, try to put in some paragraph breaks. They don't usually transfer well. You are missing capitalization!

I quit reading when we got the F and other swear words. Sorry, I just don't enjoy that kind of literature. Maybe someone else who isn't as sensitive to that will comment further.
love, LinnAnn

LinnAnn!! I've been missing you!!

Oh, thanks for the crits! I'm glad you like it!;))

I forgot to edit properly: [xx(]
sth = something

Fa: a deodorant heavily advertised over here on TV etc. (also shower gel etc.)

'sally ann's' - didn't know that!;)) Is that just popular name or used in the media too etc? Where does it come from (s.a. initials or something else?;))

Maybe I'll post Part 2 when I get round to it;)) So far I only have the plotline/story description;))

'Wishful thinking'? hmm... Maybe, a little bit (if you mean the third one posted;))[:D]

The rehearsal was not coming off nearly as well as the bespectacled, middle aged director had hoped it would. Try as she might she couldn’t get any of the actors to enter on cue, follow their script or even play their roles correctly. The homeless guy was the worst. Was he dead? Was he sleeping? She didn’t know. He didn’t even know. She only knew she was about two shakes from writing him out of the story altogether, if she didn't choke the life out of him first.

“Ok, let’s try this again,” she shouted out to the cast. “This time, let’s get it right. From the top, and… ACTION!”

Flame crackled and sparks flew as the blonde waitress rushed out of the smoke filled kitchen, through the dining area and into the street before stumbling heavily over a still form lying in the gutter.

"Oh my gosh, I tripped over a homeless guy!"

The still form didn’t move.

The blonde waitress, believing the man to be dead, let out a hideous cry and burst into tears.

“CUT!” The director shouted.

She marched up to the homeless guy, leaned down and gripped his face firmly between her hands and then pulled it to within an inch of her own. “Honey, what’s your name?”

“Mine?” asked the homeless guy. “Franklin P –“

“No. No! NO! In the script. WHAT IS YOUR NAME IN THE SCRIPT?”

“Uh…”

“The homeless guy!” she shouted in his face. ”The homeless guy. You’re the homeless guy. The script IS written in English, right? You DO read English, right? And it clearly says ‘The Homeless Guy!” The director suddenly realized, with a generous amount of grim satisfaction, that she was now whacking the man smartly about the head and shoulders with a rolled up copy of the script. “Now BE the homeless guy.”

“Um... yeah that’s right, I’m the homeless guy. Yeah, yeah, I can do this, the homeless guy. Gotcha.”

“And YOU missy,” the director snarled, wheeling on the waitress who immediately snapped to rigid attention, not nearly satisfied with berating only one of her overpaid performers “He’s homeless, he’s not REALLY dead. He’s not even pretend dead. He’s just homeless. He’s just pretend homeless, OK? Not a dead guy. A homeless guy. Ok, let’s try this again.”

“Places!” someone shouted from offset.

“One more time and… ACTION!”

The blonde waitress ran out in a panic, flame from the smoke filled kitchen dancing at her heels. She crossed the dining room in two seconds flat, darting out the door onto the street, once again stumbling heavily over a still form lying in the gutter.

"Oh my gosh, I tripped over a homeless guy!"

Again, the still form didn’t move.

Again, the blonde waitress shrieked and burst into tears.

“CUT! Over the top, over the top OVER THE TOP!!” The director shouted, finally at wit’s end.

The man sat up in the gutter. "I wasn’t dead, I was being homeless!"

"But you looked SO dead!” the waitress wailed.

“The waitress thinks your dead," the director spewed venom for words.

“This time I was definitely homeless! I was just sleeping.”

“You looked dead to me,” the voice from off stage interjected.

“I did not! Someone explain to these people that I was homeless! Homeless people sleep somewhere, you know!”

The director began simulating the act of frantically pulling large handfuls of her hair out while at the same time jumping up and down like a two year old, giggling hysterically and drooling, all in one artful motion.

Suddenly, she had a brainstorm.

“Fine. You can be the dead guy then,” she said, now done with her fit. Her words were spoken with a dangerous calm. She took the waitresses script from her hands, scribbled over several sentences in it, and then thrust it back in her face. She took the homeless mans script and ripped it up. Then she took her seat back in the director’s chair, a murderous look on her face.

“PLACES!” the voice called from offstage.

“ACTION!” The director cried.

The soot covered, blonde waitress stumbled out of the nearly engulfed kitchen, over a chair, around a toppled table and finally out into the street where she stumbled, yet again, over the now familiar still form lying in the gutter.

"Oh my gosh, I tripped over a dead guy!"

The man sat up in the gutter. "I'm dead?"

"Oh, you're not! Thank goodness."

"I'm not? CRAP!", and he laid back down.

Silvermoon-
couldn’t get any of the actors to enter on queue---do you mean 'cue'?
finally darting out--Im not sure why you said 'finally' as 2 seconds isn't all that long. The last time through explained it better.

The arguing over whether or not he looked dead or 'asleep' cracked me up.
I loved the ending. lol
love, LinnAnn

I know I won't respect myself for this in the morning - oh, wait, it IS morning. Normally I'm character, not idea, driven, but oh well. It's been fun.[:D]

Schrodinger’s Bum


Pavarti‘s foot hit something soft but resistant like a water balloon as she ran toward the bus stop. She looked down, gasping. "Oh my gosh, I tripped over a dead guy!"

The man sat up in the gutter. "I'm dead?"

"Oh, you're not! Thank goodness."

"I'm not? Crap." He laid back down. Pavarti forgot her bus and circled the man instead, noting his stained, frayed Oxford shirt and dirt-smeared pants. He must have looked very nice before he decided to lie in the gutter.

He cracked open an eye. “Please stop observing me now.”

“Why?”

“Because I wish to return to being a wave function. Perhaps the next observer will collapse it in my favor.”

Pavarti sat down on the curb. “Are you trying to be Schrodinger’s Cat?”

“What would a little girl like you know about it?”

“Well, I know it won’t work.” Pavarti grinned at the man, who sat up again and glared. “For one thing, you’re a macroscopic object, and they can’t be represented by a wave function. And I‘m not a little girl. I‘m twelve.”

“You’re still short.“ He rubbed his stubbled chin. “Why can‘t I be represented by a wave function?”

“Thermodynamics.” Pavarti shook a finger. “But even if that wasn’t the case, your plan still won’t work. You’re your own observer. So the wave function has already collapsed, because you’re thinking about yourself or how nasty this gutter is, or that stupid raven pecking in the garbage over there, so you know you’re alive.”

He looked very gloomy at that. “What if I stop thinking?”

“According to Descartes, that means you don’t exist. So there’s nothing for the wave function to apply to.” She poked his chest. “You’re stuck.”

“Blast.” He looked at her. His dull green eyes seemed sad. “How did you get so smart? I have a master’s degree, and I didn’t know those things.” He pushed his lips together and brushed a beetle off his shoe. “Okay, so it’s a law degree I’ve got, but still. I read science magazines.”

“Well, my dad’s a physicist and my mom teaches philosophy. That’s probably why I’m smarter than you are, Mr. Lawyer.”

He snorted. “Fine. You’re a genius. So tell me when the bus gets here, Ms. Genius.”

“We missed it. There’s another one in fifteen minutes.” She thought about what he’d said when he first discovered he was still alive, and added, “But you don’t really want to throw yourself in front of it. There’s better ways to go than that.”

“Listen, Ms. I’m-so-smart. I’m not discussing my future with a twelve year-old.”

“Why do you want to be dead?”

“Because then I can haunt my ex-wife. She deserves it. And she can’t prosecute a ghost for harassment. I checked.” He clicked his teeth. “We shouldn’t be talking about this stuff.”

Pavarti shrugged. “I don’t mind. But I think your plan stinks. There’s no evidence that ghosts exist, so that plan probably won’t work, either. For somebody with a law degree, you sure are dumb.”

“You got a better idea, Ms. Snark?”

“Yeah.” Pavarti stood up and tugged on his sleeve to make him stand up. “You could give me twenty bucks. Then my friends and I could buy eggs, and you could tell me where your ex-wife lives, and we could egg her house for you. If she’s really not a nice person, anyway.”

He shuddered. “She’s the epitome of evil. She’s a demoness. She’s -- unpleasant.”

“Fine. Then it’s a deal.”

“There’s just one problem. She’s got all my money.”

“That’s okay. I know a cracker who can get her credit card number.”

He grinned for the first time. Pavarti thought he looked nicer, even though the smile was full of wicked delight. “You know, Ms. Genius, I’m glad you tripped over me in that gutter. Now I have a reason to live.”