Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title. Current one is Less Than Three.

---

"What else do you want to do?"

I looked up to see Marty standing at the door, hand on the door frame, not quite coming into the room. I understood his look of concern, but couldn't do much more than a small smile.

"Not sure," I answered. "What else is on the list?"

"Let me go get it." he turned around and left the room.

I turned to look back out the window, the bright late summer day beckoned us to head out into it, to enjoy the day, the hour, the moment. We'd head out shortly, I wanted to rest for a moment more. Marty returned.

"Okay, it looks like we have another two hikes, a couple sprint workouts, three massages of different styles, all foot massages, of course, and a rock climbing lesson." He looked up, worry clear in his face. "You sure you want to do all of this?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"In less than three days?"

"Fewer."

Marty smiled. "Okay, in fewer than three days." He didn't continue. He just looked at me.

I smiled back at him. "Yes, let's go. Which one first?"

"Which one? You pick."

"Let me make the massage appointment for my feet, then let's go on the hike through the canyon. We can finish it in three hours, have the massages, and go out dancing tonight."

His eyebrows went up. "Dancing?"

"Seems reasonable to me."

"On some level, yes." He started to turn, but stopped, turned back around and just watched me. I let him, I knew what he was thinking about.

"I still have three days."

"Less than three."

I smiled. "Less than three."

He waited a little longer, then took a deep breath. "You know..." He paused. I knew what he was going to say. This wasn't the end of the world. I would still be able to walk after the surgery. I would have the prosthesis fitted well. They were removing only the foot, I would still have the rest of my leg. I could learn to jump, even. We could still hike, nothing really bad was going to happen to me, just a small bad.

And yet... And yet...

I stood and walked over to him, put my arms around him and let him put his arms around me, hold me close. I started crying, and he held me.

When I stopped, he held me longer. He held me until I spoke.

"Yes, I know. I know it all. It'll all be okay, but I worry that more balls will just form. That I'll find more spots of cancer balls, and they'll take another part of me, and that some day it won't be okay."

"You know what to look for now," he responded. "We know what to look for," he emphasized the "we."

"I know," I interrupted him. "But for the next three days, I want to dance. I want to use my foot. It'll be gone in three days. I don't want to stop until it's taken away. I don't."

"Okay." He gave me one quick squeeze. "You make the appointment, I'll go pack the day pack. Meet at the front porch in five."

I smiled at him.

"Deal."

Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title. Current one is Beat me by Seven Seconds.

---

"Mom! Grandpa is telling that story again!"

Mindy looked through the door towards the living room, knowing her dad would most likely be on the porch. He liked that rocking chair they bought for him a couple birthdays back, loved playing the part of the old man rocking on the porch, watching the world drift by.

She knew better. She knew he was as sly and sharp as he had ever been. And loved him for it, too.

"I'll go get him," Lynn said, moving to set down the pot she was carrying.

"It's okay, sis," Mindy responded, tugging on the apron strings along her back. "I have it."

"Okay. Let me know if you need help."

Mindy smiled at her sister, dropped the apron down on the table and walked out of the kitchen, through the house.

She could see through the front window that the old man had most of the neighborhood boys sitting on the porch. Counting them as she walked through the living room, she realized she didn't recognize most of them.

"There are quite a few more this time," a voice commented from her right, stopping Mindy as she smiled.

"I was just thinking myself that I don't recognize most of them. Any idea where these kids are from?"

"Clearly the neighborhood," Mindy's brother answered from the couch. "Other than that, I have no idea."

Mindy stood watching the small crowd mesmerized by the old man's tales. Their expressions ranged from small smiles to utter delights. Mindy smiled, too, when she realized the crowd was almost only boys. "I'm pretty sure I know which story he's telling, but, do you know?"

"His world record one," Jim said.

"Of course," Mindy smiled larger, and started moving towards the door again.

"Of course," her brother echoed.

Mindy walked through the front screen door, keeping the door from banging shut, as her dad continued his tale.

"... and then, could you believe it! I get this call, they'd been trying to call me for days, trying up to twenty times every day to tell me my record had been beat! Beat me by seven seconds! they tell me! Seven. Seconds." his last two words punctuated by dramatic jabs of his pointing hand.

"And what am I to do? I had trained all my life for that record. Even I couldn't beat my record, and he beat me. Do I start drinking water again? Do I switch to coffee so that I can train faster? Do I ask him the secret to extreme duration urination?"

"Dad," Mindy stood behind the boys, smiling broadly but with a warning in her voice.

"Well, it's true, girl. There is a secret to duration urination. It's all in the control of the flow, and I had it. I could..."

"Dad."

"Well, okay. But see here, I could piss longer than a giraffe..."

"Dad!"

The boys around them erupted in laughter.

The old man was smirking with delight at the reaction from his audience. Mindy was smiling, too. When the laughter settled to a stream of giggling, she asked, "Could I just go get your world record plaque for urination duration and we move on to a different story."

A twinkle in his eye, "Sure," he answered.

"Now boys, have I told you about the time ..."

Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title. Current one is Laundry Czar

---

"Where's Willie?" Jennifer asked, as she stepped through the door, laundry basket balanced on her hip. Her voice barely carried over the humming of the clothes dryers. Several people sitting in chairs around the small laundromat looked up from their magazines, then looked back down.

An older woman sitting in the corner near the front window next to a small boy, stood up and walked towards Jennifer, her eyes red, her face blotchy. She moved slowly, not quite keeping up with Jennifer, as the younger woman moved to the back of the room, watching everyone with puzzled eyes.

Jennifer put her basket down on the wide table in the middle of the room and turned around.

"Hey, what's going on?" she asked more loudly. The older woman reached Jennifer, and took her hand.

Patting it gently, she said, "He's gone, dear."

"What?"

"He's gone. He's not here."

"Mamma Maria, what do you mean he's gone?"

The old woman continued to pat Jennifer's hand as she looked up into the younger woman's face. She didn't answer.

"What is going on?" Jennifer demanded. She looked around the room to the regulars she saw every week. Old Man Jack. The Gutierrez sisters. Amy. A half dozen others. They were all avoiding her eyes.

"What? Where is he? He's always in front asking for change. He's always there. Where is he? Why isn't he on the step outside?"

The hum of the dryers continued.

No one answered.

One stopped, and buzzed.

"Willie went to stop Paco from getting beat up by some kids," Old Man Jack said quietly. Jennifer turned to look at him.

"What happened to him?"

"He didn't make it." Jack said.

Jennifer pulled her hand from the patting grasp of the old woman. "Where is he?"

"Last I heard, he was at St. Grace's, but, he didn't make it. He was gone before they took him."

Jennifer looked down the rows of washers and dryers to the small boy huddled in the corner. Her eyes softened as she saw Paco hunched in the corner, looking fearfully back at Jennifer.

She walked back down the laundromat aisle to Paco, and sat down next to him.

"You okay?"

He nodded.

"You want to talk about it?"

He shook his head.

She looked at him for a bit, then said, "He was smart, wasn't he? Always sitting where he knew people would have change."

Paco nodded again.

"You okay if I cry?"

The small boy nodded again.

Jennifer wrapped her arms around her legs, put her head down, and started crying for her lost friend.

Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title. Today's name: Condemned Milk and the full story archive

---

"Really? Today is your last day?"

"Yeah," Jim said sullenly, poking at the soggy french fries on the plate in front of him.

"But, that doesn't make any sense," Beth protested. "You're the best engineer this depart has, maybe the best in the company. Why would they let you go? Worse, why would they actively send you away?"

"Personal reasons was what they told me," Jim responded.

Beth scrunched her face as she watched him continue to move the fries around on his place. No one else in the company cafeteria sat next at their table, or at the tables immediately around them.

"Are these the same personal reasons that cause everyone to treat you like a leper?"

Jim looked up. "What?"

"Are these the same personal reasons that cause everyone to give you a wide berth? I've never understood why people do that to you. You're nice. You're friendly. You're open and considerate. But no one sits with you at lunch."

Jim looked around. After a few moments, he smiled and looked back at Beth. "You noticed that, eh?"

"Hard not to notice it."

Jim shifted a bit in his seat, then picked up his glass of milk. "Half empty or half full?" he asked Beth, raising it slightly.

"Oh, definitely half full," she said with laughter in her voice. Jim downed the glass in one quick gulp.

"Say, could I have your glass, too?"

"Sure," she answered, as she pushed her full glass of milk to Jim. "You sure like milk."

"I do. A lot." He paused before continuing, "This will be my last here, so I might as well make the most of it." He quickly finished her glass, too.

"What does that mean?" Beth asked.

Jim looked at her without answering, his hands rolling the glass around. He then leaned over, and while Beth waited for him to answer, farted loud enough for Beth to hear over the noise of the cafeteria.

Beth looked at him for a moment, then smiled slowly.

"I give that an eight. Good bass, nice duration, surprising volume. Definitely an eight."

Jim looked at her with a look of shock on his face.

"You... you..." he stammered. "You can't smell that?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I was born without a sense of smell," she explained then paused. "Does it smell bad?"

Jim smiled back. "Oh yes, very bad. It has a range of about 12 feet, too, which is why the tables are empty."

Beth looked at him. "Is that why..." she trailed off.

Jim looked at her. "Yes."

"That's a stupid reason." They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither looking at the other.

"So," Beth broken the silence. "Want to go out with a bang? I'm buying."

Jim smiled, then shifted in his seat.