This topic contains 2 replies, has 2 voices, and was last updated by  A Kovacs 3 years, 11 months ago.

John and Quentin Duke it Out

  • WOT? That is sad!

    But it is also a little madlibs in it’s descriptions, for sure. Made me giggle too. “Hairy” ribs? lol.

    WOT? That is sad!

    But it is also a little madlibs in it’s descriptions, for sure. Made me giggle too. “Hairy” ribs? lol.

    So my muse has been in a coma for a while, so I was searching different kinds of writing generators and prompts and ended up playing on this one: When the short story prompt let me choose violence as the resolution and problem, for some reason, I immediately thought of John and Q and decided to see if the generator would whip me up a prediction of what will go down between John and Q and if their friendship would survive.

    I have to admit, I wouldn’t have picked this outcome, but I am left laughing at some of the descriptions:

    Two Temperamental Uncles Grinding to the Beat
    – a short story
    by ISB

    Quentin Barnes looked at the dusty bottle in his hands and felt furious.

    He walked over to the window and reflected on his noisy surroundings. He had always loved swanky Ionath City with its lively, large lots of beer. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel furious.

    Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of John Tweedy.

    John was a naive demon with hairy ribs and athletic knees.

    Quentin gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an egotistical, thoughtless, beer drinker with tall ribs and muscular knees. His friends saw him as a gentle, grieving god. Once, he had even rescued a gorgeous old lady from a burning building.

    But not even an egotistical person who had once rescued a gorgeous old lady from a burning building, was prepared for what John had in store today.

    The mist teased like stomping spiderbear, making Quentin confused.

    As Quentin stepped outside and John came closer, he could see the strange glint in his eye.

    “I am here because I want justice,” John bellowed, in a caring tone. He slammed his fist against Quentin’s chest, with the force of 7051 orca. “I frigging hate you, Quentin Barnes.”

    Quentin looked back, even more confused and still fingering the dusty bottle. “John, It doesn’t have to be this way,” he replied.

    They looked at each other with betrayed feelings, like two defiant, determined deer growling at a very commanding celebration, which had punk music playing in the background and two temperamental uncles grinding to the beat.

    Suddenly, John lunged forward and tried to punch Quentin in the face. Quickly, Quentin grabbed the dusty bottle and brought it down on John’s skull.

    John’s hairy ribs trembled and his athletic knees wobbled. He looked hurt, his body raw like a weird, creepy chair.

    Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later John Tweedy was dead.

    Quentin Barnes went back inside and made himself a nice drink of beer.


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