Well. It's been three weeks, and here we are. I've held a lot of jobs in these past three weeks, and made several attempts at what those of the writing persuasion call "the Life." I tried writing for a nature magazine, but my article, "Marmots: the Silent Strangler of Small Children" received so much negative feedback that they had to let me go. So too was met my canceled-far-too-soon column in Highlights Magazine, "the Anarchist's Cookbook for Tots." Perhaps a more moderate success was my attempt at an advice column, entitled "Eli Says Shut the Fuck Up." Because of the profanity in the title and spaced every four words throughout the text, it was only picked up by the Seattle Sanguinerican; and though it received positive feedback from all four of the publication's subscribers, I unfortunately can't pay my bills with the rendered payment of "all our hopes and best wishes, man." And of course, the less said about my travelogue of the Mediterranean that landed me in front of the United Nations War Crimes Tribunal, the better.
I guess what I'm trying to say, internets, is that while I was dejectedly bouncing from failure to failure, occasionally popping into dark alleys to avoid Interpol agents before changing my face and name, all I could think about is the good times we had. Back before all this heartbreak and deadly games of cat and mouse, writing was fun. I used to love sharing my thoughts and opinions here, and I never once had to kill a stranger in cold blood to procure a counterfeit passport. So, in the interest of my emotional stability and personal safety, I'm returning to what I know.
The world of professional writing is an enticing and alluring one, but it is one best left to the professionals. But, I know there are people out there, people who are born to be professional writers, people for whom failure is an aphrodisiac, who thrive on self-destruction, and aren't afraid of having their fingers broken by men in suits in a sunless room deep in a small fortress that appears on no map, somewhere off the coast of Ibiza; and perhaps, perhaps there are some of those people reading this blog right now who have the requisite nerves of steel, or perhaps valuable state secrets with which to bargain, but have no idea what to write about. Well, fear not, potential example, for I, in my infinite compassion, have decided help you out.
What follows is a list of story fragments I have written, and each one is virtually guaranteed to inspire the next New York Times Bestseller. All you have to do is take the fragment, the "heart" of the story, if you will, and surround it on each side with a hundred pages or so of exposition and resolution. Simple, right? And because I'm such a generous guy, I will provide these royalty free. All I ask in return is that the dedication page of your book read, "To Eli Derbestershire, without whom none of this would be possible, and I would be a complete failure in every sense of the word." Again, a mere pittance, in exchange for what I'm providing you.
And now, the stories:
“I’m going to kill you!” the man shouted, pointing his finger at me. “I’m going to kill you until you are dead.” Then he walked away and I never saw him again.
--
Everyone knows that Jumbilaxes hunt in groups of three. That’s why I always carry a spare Junmbilax with me wherever I go. It worked perfectly until the day we stumbled upon two sleeping Jumbilaxes…
--
“Back in World War II, we used to use them as candleholders,” the old man explained. “Sometimes just for a bit of Sunday tea.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
--
It was Jackie’s 17th birthday. There it was in front of her, the only thing she had ever wanted. The complete destruction of the universe.
--
The smell drifted down through the darkness, between the dripping pipes down to the three frightened figures huddled on the floor. It forced itself into their nostrils, clawing its way through the walls of the nasal cavity, all the way to the olfactory center of the brain. “Bacon!” shouted the Professor, “Of course, it all makes sense now!”
--
My father used to tell me, a man only needs two things to be happy: the love of a good person, and a rockin’ personal theme song written by the Pretenders just for him. Now if only I could find someone to love me…
--
Lieutenant Belfast could not believe his eyes. The Captain, murdered, and right in front of him no less. Sitting back in his armchair and taking a sip of his Blue Hawaiian, he knew it was going to be one of those days.
--
74,000 people used to live in this town. Then they moved to that town over there.
--
“Wherefore!” shouted the man in the silly raincoat. He did not know wherefore.
--
Only a vampire could know how to use the Doomsday Machine, or so said the common wisdom. Wexley knew better, for in his experience most vampires were fucking retarded.
--
The guns finally fell silent. The soldiers, not knowing what to do, simply looked at each other. Was it a trap, a clever ruse to get them to peak out, maybe venture out in the open before beginning the barrage again? Or had the impossible happened? Had they finally achieved peace? Maybe the war was over. Maybe they could finally go home, and see their families for the first time in several very long months. The captain tentatively pulled himself over the edge of the bunker. It was unbelievable! The enemy was retreating! The men whooped and hollered, caps were thrown into the air, when suddenly, like a gunshot, from within their own ranks someone let out a tremendous fart. The captain looked up just in time to see the enemy artillery spinning back around to face them...
--
"Oh my god, is that a bear?!" the worried patron shouted. "No," I replied, "that is not a bear."
Shakily translated from a foreign language version:
"Oh my god, is that bear?"
"No," said man, "is not bear."
--
"How often does it do that?" asked the bank manager. "Constantly," replied Jenna. "It is always doing that?"
--
"Maria, it's over between us. I could never love you now. I'm going to go sleep in the Corridor of Eternal Flame."
--
The promotion offered one full grown African rhino in exchange for 14 bottlecaps. One one level, Douglas knew what he was getting, but on another, more practical level, he was kind of a dumbass.
--
The TV came on by itself; its light played across the faces in the dark room. "Who wants to kill themselves?" it cheerfully inquired. The youths conferred amongst themselves, finally announcing that none of them did. The TV apologized for its intrusion, and turned itself back off.
--
Miley Cyrus stared deeply into her burrito, focusing all of her sad thoughts into it. She devoured it, confident that soon she would poop all her sorrows away.
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