“Give me the hoover, Stephanie!”

Collective Automatic Writing from the class I teach in Ideas Generation at Prague College, in uh, Prague:

It was a sunny day in Phoenix, and nothing was happening, it was another boring morning full of dust.  Cowboy Bill breathed the dusty day deep in his lungs, and sighed, watching the sunset through the smokey air reflecting in the windows.

The shadow of a giant crapfly, it was really scary in the shadow and the need to hide somewhere increased.  Thus, our hero hid in the trunk of his car.  He reached for the desert eagle hidden in the spare, and aimed carefully.

“This is gonna hurt” he thought.

The little cow was on her darling way to school on the little cow bus and the sun was smi-smi-smiling away.  Everywhere was springtime and the insects flew buzzinzly a-rounf without a care of a thought in their heads.  Then they decided they should care about they way they fly, because of what happened to poor Carlos.  Nobody would believe it at first: “Bullshit”, they all said.

But Chuck replied “Bullshit, or Basketball.  This is not a request.  This is an order.”  Not waiting for an answer.

All the guys got to their positions again and started counting up to the number ten.  After that, they jumped into the Hummer.  They sped towards Captain Cocaine’s, their favorite local cathouse, in search of energy, and destruction, but it had been destroyed and smashed so they cried all night for two straight weeks.

Resting in the restroom with a couple of ladies,  talking about random things, really shitfaced, trying to make some sense in the haze of the night.  That’s when everything comes on, out, and up, riding the rollercoaster sunship of the westerly winds, and little birds with fruit bat sounds link the largest to the smallest smells with the largest and smallest dreams.  And then it stopped, however it ws only a pause button stuck in the tape player in the buick oldsmobile on the highway to Toledo, but then he got into a traffic jam and died of boredom.

Once upon a time there was a clear sky with dark clouds flying in the reflection of the buildings.  The said buildings were as tall as twenty elephants stacked on top of each other.  Jade knew it from the start of the job, this was gonna take a lot of C4 to get down.  Zombies were inside, having no idea that the old town square was under reconstruction and that they clocks would not bang.  He cursed the damn computer who had started the whole fucking problem.

Fuck fucking skype!

He took the fury out on the CPU, and it felt sooo good.  He was shouting: “Take it, stupid CPU!”, and was enjoying himself.  The CPU soon crumbled under the power of his strikes, pushing the situation back on the rusted tracks of anonymous folks dreaming about lonely sun on arabic nights.

They were dead before they found the bodies.  The rescue squad was a complete disaster.

Car, and no fuel, summer tires throughout the winter, happy budget cuts broke into silence of icy storm of protesting teddy bears.  There were so many of them, it was uncontrollable, until a bunch of gangsters decided to steal some of them.

“Lets try the backdoor.  I guess the fuckers let it unlocked” he whispers to Rufus.  Water was pouring from the roof.

Alan screamed “Give me the hoover, Stephanie!” Stephanie wasn’t cooperating, so water kept pouring from the ceiling and Alan was getting angry.  So he picked up Stephanie and shoved her into the ceiling and they lived happily ever after.

There were three dumb brothers sitting on a park bench.  Suddenly, a loud noise was approaching.  The Firemen were on their way to the bar, to be there in time for the opening.

He shook his head, “it’s unlikely,” he thought, “that she will call or write, or that I will ever see her again.”  So he took his coat and went to the nearest pub.  The rain was really heavy.  It’s raining dog, as in a Tom Waits song:

“sitting in the street, getting soaked in raindog”

The weather wasn’t supposed to improve.  So they went to sleep into the camp.  End of story.

“Drinking coffee, and eating dirt”” she said to herself, this is no way to live, and she swam off into the distance.  She took the gun from her purse, and took aim at the yield sign.  Then the shooting began, one from the left, third from above, burning barricades with drunken solders skipping orders from generals.  They knew they were gonna get busted tomorrow, but they killed the civilians anyway.  One can’t leave evidence like that, human evidence, lying around.

It was an amateur mistake, the kind of mistake that leads you to the green mile.  “Piss up a rope” she said, slamming the door in the face of the poor, soapy dog, and slowly released the trigger.  Just a sound of silent explosion disrupted the perfect silence.  And then it was silent again.

Authors:

Ondrej Skaroupka

Jorge Boehringer

Krystof Kriz

Petra Znamenackova

Laura Castillo

Alexandre Phillippe Laskowsky Ziguilinsky

Denis Shevchuk

Pavla Stefanova & Ana-Lina Helson, in spirit

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