Stu's Stew (Edited)

Ever since he was a little boy Stewart had lived with his grandmother. His parents had died in a tragic car accident when he was 3 so he was very attached to his grandmother. On Thursday nights Stewart’s grandma would make him a delicious stew. It had bulbous carrots, fatty venison, vibrant tomatoes and just a wee bit o’ potatoes. She would always say, “Stuey, come here darling and I will show you how to make my stew.” 

But, too lazy to get up from watching Space Jam which was his favorite movie, he would always say, “No grandma, I'm watching my program. Just cook it.”

So every Thursday she would cook the stew without him and every Thursday he would eat the stew, naive to the secrets of making the fueling concoction. That’s how the stew scenario went for all of Stu’s life, and he never did learn how to make the stew, but it never had bothered him up to this point. 

Many years later, Stu and a couple of his buddies went on a caribou hunting trip in the deep wilderness of Alaska. While wandering the frozen tundra they fell into a deep crevice in the ice. They fell very far but were kept alive by the feet of soft powder at the bottom. After assessing the situation they realized they were trapped down there until they were found and rescued, which could take months. The first thing on their to-do list was food. They searched the entire cavern and found that the only thing that grew down there were bulbous carrots, vibrant tomatoes and plump potatoes. One of his comrades pulled out a little bit of caribou meat from his previous hunt. They stared at the ingredients but didn’t have any idea what they could make out of them. Suddenly, Stu remembered back to his childhood when his grandmother used to make a stew. He thought and thought and thought some more but to his dismay he hadn’t listened to his grandma when she had cooked it. Unable to make a meal, they all starved and died. 

The Gate (Exam Story)

It didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. It wasn't so much of a pain, but more of a deep, dull pressure on his chest. If he hadn't seen what had just happened he might have just walked it off, complaining of a bad case of heart burn. However when he tried this his legs didn't seem to answer, but instead decided to turn to jello and refuse to hold him up. He lay there staring up at the ceiling and that's when the chest sensation changed. It still didn't hurt, and had even become somewhat soothing. It started off a warm, gentle feeling right where the bullet had entered his chest and spread gradually throughout his entire body, relaxing him. His surroundings were left behind and he looked around at the total whiteness that surrounded him. He suddenly felt tired and though at first he tried to fight it, he drifted off into the swallowing glow.

At this time, a strange thing happened. George was watching himself lay there on the floor of his one bedroom apartment. With himself in a pool of blood, he watched as his attacker exit via the back door. He thought that he should've been mad at the man that had just taken his life, but thats whats cool about being dead, nothing really matters. He looked at the killer, knowing perfectly well that he could have possessed his body and driven him to madness or at the very least haunted him for a little bit of payback, but he had no desire to. He sat there, or did whatever he was doing in order to watch what was taking place, thinking about his earthly situation. From the movies he'd seen he assumed he was supposed to hang around and help little blonde boys with their 6th sense or aid the police in solving his murder, but it just didn't interest him at all. He looked up, or what he thought was up seeing as he didn't really have a mass of any sort and wasn't in any specific place whatsoever, and felt the desire to go in said direction. He floated/walked/crawled/moved in that direction for an unknown amount of time, he thought he must have been getting close to wherever he was going, although he couldn't be certain because there were no landmarks or definition of any kind anywhere. So he kept going and going, only thinking about his past life and he must have been traveling for a long time as he was able to analyze, critique and compare and contrast his entire life, from birth to the very day that the bullet had shot through his heart. Just as soon as his last life story had exited his mind, he bumped into something. George looked up in shock, this thing had appeared out of no where but there it was. Sitting right in front of him, was a giant gate like the ones that he had seen in front of mansions during his mortal years. To the left of the gate was a doorbell. It seemed extremely simple compared to the extravagance of the doorway. George out his finger out and thought back to his life one last time. He remembered all the sad and depressing times that he had fought through, but also all the fun and memorable experiences he had had. He looked back, almost expecting to be back in his living room facing the masked assailant once again, but it was just endless white. There was no turning back, he had made his decision. He refaced the gate, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell. 

The Evil Imp

Once upon a time, many years ago there lived a sour little imp named Stan Bundle.  He was known throughout the imp community as being a very fiery fellow, full of spite and anger. Coincidentally, his appearance was just as fiery as his attitude and he patrolled around town with red hair and a bright orange beard. His job was also quite fitting, and as the local exterminator he found much pleasure in taking the lives of the smaller, helpless insects.
One day, Stan woke up in Imp village like ever other day. He brushed his teeth, put on his clothes and drank his coffee. He turned the door knob to exit his mushroom, for this is what Imps lived in, and came face to face with the entirety of Imp Village. Stan's face flushed with anger, "Get off my property!" he screamed.
The mayor of the town approached the fuming Imp.
"Excuse me, Mr. Bundle. Sorry for disturbing you but the town has an emergency and we need your help. You see little Miss Lilly has been impnapped by a giant centipede and you're the only one with the skill to take care of a bug like that."
Stan pushed his way through the crowd and shouted back, "NO! Little Miss Lilly should have though about this before she went and got taken by the centipede. I have a job to do!"
The town was devastated. The meandered around, knowing perfectly well that without Stan Bundle there was no way they could save Lilly and there was no way they could convince that angry imp to help anybody.
On the other side of town, Stand began doing his daily bug killing rounds. Stomp out a cockroach here, squash a butterfly there and had almost totally forgotten about the Lilly incident when he passed by her house. He stood there looking at her neatly kept mushroom and for once in his life, he felt a need to help someone else. He wiggled his body to make sure it wasn't just gas, but sure enough there it was. With a sudden rush of compassion, he stormed off to the forest of giant bugs. He followed the trail of centipede slime right to where the bug was holding Lilly hostage. He stormed in just as the centipede was about to eat her, and kicked it in the abdomen. The centipede roared with pain and dropped Lilly. It stared at Stan but then decided that Lilly looked more appealing and started to go back in for the chomp. Right before Lilly had all but entered its mouth, Stan dove and pushed Lilly to safety, leaving himself to be eaten by the beast.   However, once inside its mouth a remarkable thing happened; the centipede, who usually thought imps were delicious, spat him back out. He looked up in amazement and quickly scurried home. For many years after he told stories of how he had used pure strength and fought his way out of its mouth. But if you ask the centipede, he would just say that that little imp had tasted funny. A taste faintly resembling piss and vinegar.

There once was a man from Peru, who...had a wife.

  I'm sure you've all heard of that poor man who was plagued with the curse of dreams coming true, most of them ending in clothing consumption. However, I doubt that many of you have heard the full story. The one focusing on an even unluckier person; this man's wife.
  Deep within the cities of Peru a house stood on top of a hill, separated from the main flow of venders and tourists that made their way throughout the streets. It was dark and secluded and was known to emit screams of horror in the middle of the night, leading many of the town children, and even some of the more gullible adults, to believe it was haunted. Nobody ever left the house and their only source of food was from a butler that would go out, purchase the bare necessities of living and return to the home without a word. Many times people would approach and question him, attempting to get information to solve the riddle of the mysterious screaming house but to no avail. Aside from this no one had the guts to try and enter the house, afraid of what it's foreboding exterior held.
  If any of them were to have ever entered the house, they would have been pleasantly surprised. It was tastefully furnished, with expensive woods and fabrics, and was kept nice and clean. It smelled warm and comfortable, like a library, which could be explained by the shelves of leather bound books that lined the walls. Up an elaborate set of wooden staircases sat french doors, behind which was the master bedroom. Unlike the rest of the nicely kept house, the bedroom was a mess. Ugly shades, bought for their practicality rather than their appearance, were pulled all the way down to block out all possible light and pillows, pants, hats and shoes lay ripped up on the floor. In the bed was a middle aged man, who looked far older than he actually was, with dark circles under his eyes and wrinkles on his forehead. He could have been sleeping, and in fact he was, but it was not a normal sleep. Instead of a peaceful, dormant slumber this man was groaning and rolling around in his bed. Next to him was an even sadder case. A women sat up in bed, unable to sleep, stuffing a pillow over her head and trying to avoid the rocking that her husband was causing. She had tried everything to solve this terrible problem- Bose Headphones, sleeping masks, Bobopedics...but nothing had worked. Unlike her husband, who was able to at least get troubled sleep, she wasn't able to sleep at all except for a few hours when pure exhaustion would take over and she would pass out. She both looked forward to that time, but also resented it. This was because when she awoke it was always the same thing. Her husband's dream, and her nightmare, had come true. Their lives had been consumed by her spouse's sleeping fantasies. But unfortunately so had her Jimmy Choo's.

The Adventures of Gun Slingin' Jack

Gun Slingin' Jack stepped onto the horse drawn carriage. Every step jingled with the sound of guns, ammunition and harmonicas. Once inside the rickety wooden stage coach, he looked around and saw a quiet Indian sitting in the far corner. His mind flashed back to the stories his father had used to tell him in the ol' saloon about the crazy savages that killed white men and kept their heads. Jack spent the entire ride staring directly at the Native. The Indian spent the entire ride staring at the ground. Once they had reached the final destination, everyone stood up within the cart and made their way to the door. Still staring at the Indian, they both finally made eye contact. The Indian smiled a gentle smile towards the cowboy, but what Jack's distorted mind saw was a challenging smirk, mocking Jack with a silent confidence. While trying to avoid the traffic of people funneling out, the Indian accidently bumped into Gun Slingin' Jack and sent him sprawling to the floor. Jack looked up and said, "You just messed with the wrong bull, welcome to the rodeo."
True to his name, Jack produced a .44 Magnum and pointed it at the Indian. The Indian stood tall, and did not flinch in the face of the loaded pistol and then with inhuman like speed he put a blade to Jack's neck.  They brought their faces very close to each other, shooting daggers with their eyes, daring the other to make the first move. After standing there for what felt like an eternity they both backed away and holstered their weapons. They nodded to each other, left the train and went their separate ways. Neither mentioning the event ever again.

Stu's Stew

Ever since he was a little boy Stewart had lived with his grandmother. His parents had died in a tragic wheelbarrow racing accident when he was 3 so he was very attached to his grandmother. On thursday nights Stewart’s grandma would make him a delicious stew. It had bulbous carrots, fatty venison, vibrant tomatoes and just a wee bit o’ potatoes. She would always say, “Stuey, come here darling and I will show you how to make my stew.” 

But, too lazy to get up from watching Space Jam which was his favorite movie, he would always say, “No grandma, I watching my program. Just cook it.”

So every Thursday she would cook the stew without him and every Thursday he would eat the stew, naive to the secrets of making the fueling concoction. That’s how the stew scenario went for all of Stu’s life, and he never did learn how to make the stew but it never had bothered him up to this point. 

Many years later, Stu and a couple of his buddies went on a caribou hunting trip in deep Alaska. While wandering the frozen tundra they fell into a deep crevice in the ice. They fell very far but were kept alive by the feet of soft pow at the bottom. After assessing the situation they realized they were trapped down there until they were found and un-trapped, which could take months. The first thing on their to do list was food. They searched the entire cavern and found that the only thing that grew down there were bulbous carrots, vibrant tomatoes and plump potatoes. One of his comrades pulled out a little bit of caribou meat from his previous hunt. They stared at the ingredients but didn’t have any idea what they could make. Suddenly, Stu remembered back in his childhood when his grandmother used to make a stew. He thought and thought and thought some more but to his dismay he hadn’t listened to his grandma when she had cooked it. Unable to make a meal, they all starved and died.