Post by Nippy on Jul 15, 2004 8:18:20 GMT -5
Well... since Sera requested it, I'm posting a story I wrote around 2 or 3 years ago. I co-wrote it with my friend Becky, and it was for a history/math project. It's supposed to be a comedy, hence the silly name! ^_^ Don't expect it to be all wonderfully written with big words and such, 'cause we were still in grade school and amateurs at writing, heh... I found it quite amusing, though, and if you'd like a good read/possible laugh, give it a try. I'm always welcome to feedback/comments! ;D Enjoy! Warning: Cheesy rhymes ahead!
The Futuristic Future
It was about 3:00 in the afternoon, in the year 3287. Programmel, the newly appointed leader of the army of the world, was running to his first battle in a field nearby. The tall grass waved around him as he ran swiftly through it. It was near sunset and the light reflected off a nearby lake, behind a growth of vines. Of course, I was all crumpled up in his “top of the line” backpack, but I did peek out a few times to see the beautiful scenery. The last time I saw Programmel was when it happened. What, you ask? Well, it happened a few weeks ago. Let me first explain that I am a squirrel – a talking squirrel. Officers in battle often used talking squirrels because we are so smart and quick to deliver messages.
Anyway, Programmel was running through the field when all of a sudden, we saw a flashing blue light in front of us. It was so blinding that I had to go back into the backpack. There was some conversation, but I couldn’t quite hear it. The next thing that I knew was that we were in the past during the Civil War. The evil thing that pushed us into the past was an evil spirit – the arch-enemy of every creature in the universe. Apparently, Computoral, leader of these evil spirits, was afraid that he might lose the battle against Earth. Programmel was about to go fight in that war (he was a skilled fighter!). Computoral wanted to ensure that he won, so he pushed Programmel back into the past.
“You stupid human,” A voice said. I remember Programmel looking around. “It’s not like it would make any difference, but I have provided you clues to help you back into the future. Of course, you won’t make it back in time to save the world. I’ll help you with the first one because I’m nice – sort of.
“When you get a clue, you must say the number or answer aloud. A word or phrase will hover above you. Once you have gathered all the clues, you must go wherever it says. A portal will await you, taking you back into the future. I will be waiting for you there. I want to kill you myself. The first clue is a poem,” Computoral’s voice said. A piece of paper fell out of the stormy sky.
I jumped out of the backpack and picked up the note, reading it. It read:
Back in time you will go,
The years tick by very slow.
Which year, you ask, could you be in?
Find out this and you will win.
“Hey, Programmel! I think we have to figure out what year we’re in,” I said. Programmel nodded as he scooped me up and placed me in the backpack. “I’m sick of seeing nothing but darkness and your stupid formula all day! LET ME OUT!” I yelled. “It’s faster if you stay in there,” Programmel replied. I sighed as the backpack went up and down on his back.
A few minutes later, I could tell we had reached a Confederate army campsite. I peeped out and looked. There were some torn, white tents scattered across the clearing, and a few horses tied to a small fence. The grass was a faded brown from all of the objects that had been laid on top of it. The men were dressed in brown and gray tattered clothes, which were ripped and torn. They all looked sad and seemed as though they didn’t want to fight. One of the men went up to Programmel and asked, “What’s your name?” in a Southern accent. He tilted his hat a bit farther down and put his hands on his hips. “My name is Programmel. What may yours be?” Programmel asked.
“My name’s Bob,” The man replied. Echoes of “that’s my name” and “hey, mine too” were heard throughout the whole campsite. A man in the back yelled, “Now my name’s Joe!” The whole camp echoed the same response as before. Another soldier must have sighted an important man, because the crowd became silent after he shouted that someone named General Lee was coming.
The man rode up on horseback. Programmel watched as the horse’s mane blew in the wind. It was a chestnut American Saddlebred, and it seemed as though the beauty of the horse matched the significance of the man. He looked honorable as his gray suit blew in the wind. He stopped in front of Programmel. “And who may you be?” The General asked. “My name is Programmel. I come from the future–” Programmel started. All the men laughing at him – except General Lee, interrupted him. “Men! Be quiet!” He ordered. The men suddenly became quiet and stood straight. “As I was saying, I come from the future. I need to know what year it is,” Programmel asked reluctantly.
General Lee nodded. “Although I do not believe you, it is the year 1861,” Lee replied suspiciously. “1861,” Programmel yelled out. Two blue words floated in the sky. “Icarus! Write this down,” Programmel told me. My name is Icarus, in case you haven’t guessed. I popped out of the backpack with my tiny pen and note pad. I wrote, It is. Another tiny paper fell from the sky. I read it – again:
100,000 men stand tall,
There are four large parts in all.
How many men can you see here?
In other words, are there near?
“Oh! Programmel, I know it! How many men are in this section of the army?” I asked General Lee, who was still on the horse in front of Programmel. I was completely oblivious that this man was so important. Squirrels don’t learn history, you know. Programmel instructed me to get out his automated computer. It looked like a tiny calculator, only it could do word-processing and you could dictate to it. “What is 100,000 divided by four?” Programmel asked the computer. “25,000,” The computer replied in a one-tone voice.
Programmel repeated the answer. The word, basement, floated in the air. I wrote it down. “‘It is basement’? What kind of clue is that?!” I yelled. “Icarus, calm down! We haven’t got the rest yet. And don’t you want to get home?” Programmel asked me as he shoved me into the backpack – again. “How do you know we haven’t got the rest yet?” I struggled to say as he closed the flap on my face.
“Like the sentence would be called, ‘it is basement’? It doesn’t make any sense,” Programmel argued. “But Computoral doesn’t make any sense!” I yelled back. My voice must have been muffled, because he didn’t respond. I chewed a small hole in the bottom of the dark and gloomy backpack. It was just big enough to see through, yet small enough for nothing to fall out. Squirrels are so precise!
I looked down. “WAIT!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. Another piece of paper was on the ground. Programmel stopped and let me out. I read it aloud again:
If there are twenty bullets for each of his two guns,
How many bullets would one section of the army need?
“Uh, Programmel? It’s not a poem,” I said. “Oops! I forgot. Sorry,” Computoral’s voice rang out in the air. “That was for my other arch enemy.” “Oh, so we get the harder stuff?” I asked, paws on my hips. An evil laugh filled the air. “Yes,” Computoral replied as his evil laugh faded out. “What is twenty times two? Answer times 25,000,” Programmel told the automated computer. “1,000,000,” The computer said in a one-tone voice again.
“1,000,000!” Programmel yelled out. Another phrase floated in front of him. I wrote the words, in the, down on the paper. “It is basement in the. It still doesn’t make any sense! Maybe if I say the number next time, it’ll make sense,” I said. I was stupid then. Now, I’m well educated and would never say such a thing! You’ll see why. Programmel sighed. “Fine,” He said. Another paper flew down. I caught it – again. I read it aloud:
The Futuristic Future
It was about 3:00 in the afternoon, in the year 3287. Programmel, the newly appointed leader of the army of the world, was running to his first battle in a field nearby. The tall grass waved around him as he ran swiftly through it. It was near sunset and the light reflected off a nearby lake, behind a growth of vines. Of course, I was all crumpled up in his “top of the line” backpack, but I did peek out a few times to see the beautiful scenery. The last time I saw Programmel was when it happened. What, you ask? Well, it happened a few weeks ago. Let me first explain that I am a squirrel – a talking squirrel. Officers in battle often used talking squirrels because we are so smart and quick to deliver messages.
Anyway, Programmel was running through the field when all of a sudden, we saw a flashing blue light in front of us. It was so blinding that I had to go back into the backpack. There was some conversation, but I couldn’t quite hear it. The next thing that I knew was that we were in the past during the Civil War. The evil thing that pushed us into the past was an evil spirit – the arch-enemy of every creature in the universe. Apparently, Computoral, leader of these evil spirits, was afraid that he might lose the battle against Earth. Programmel was about to go fight in that war (he was a skilled fighter!). Computoral wanted to ensure that he won, so he pushed Programmel back into the past.
“You stupid human,” A voice said. I remember Programmel looking around. “It’s not like it would make any difference, but I have provided you clues to help you back into the future. Of course, you won’t make it back in time to save the world. I’ll help you with the first one because I’m nice – sort of.
“When you get a clue, you must say the number or answer aloud. A word or phrase will hover above you. Once you have gathered all the clues, you must go wherever it says. A portal will await you, taking you back into the future. I will be waiting for you there. I want to kill you myself. The first clue is a poem,” Computoral’s voice said. A piece of paper fell out of the stormy sky.
I jumped out of the backpack and picked up the note, reading it. It read:
Back in time you will go,
The years tick by very slow.
Which year, you ask, could you be in?
Find out this and you will win.
“Hey, Programmel! I think we have to figure out what year we’re in,” I said. Programmel nodded as he scooped me up and placed me in the backpack. “I’m sick of seeing nothing but darkness and your stupid formula all day! LET ME OUT!” I yelled. “It’s faster if you stay in there,” Programmel replied. I sighed as the backpack went up and down on his back.
A few minutes later, I could tell we had reached a Confederate army campsite. I peeped out and looked. There were some torn, white tents scattered across the clearing, and a few horses tied to a small fence. The grass was a faded brown from all of the objects that had been laid on top of it. The men were dressed in brown and gray tattered clothes, which were ripped and torn. They all looked sad and seemed as though they didn’t want to fight. One of the men went up to Programmel and asked, “What’s your name?” in a Southern accent. He tilted his hat a bit farther down and put his hands on his hips. “My name is Programmel. What may yours be?” Programmel asked.
“My name’s Bob,” The man replied. Echoes of “that’s my name” and “hey, mine too” were heard throughout the whole campsite. A man in the back yelled, “Now my name’s Joe!” The whole camp echoed the same response as before. Another soldier must have sighted an important man, because the crowd became silent after he shouted that someone named General Lee was coming.
The man rode up on horseback. Programmel watched as the horse’s mane blew in the wind. It was a chestnut American Saddlebred, and it seemed as though the beauty of the horse matched the significance of the man. He looked honorable as his gray suit blew in the wind. He stopped in front of Programmel. “And who may you be?” The General asked. “My name is Programmel. I come from the future–” Programmel started. All the men laughing at him – except General Lee, interrupted him. “Men! Be quiet!” He ordered. The men suddenly became quiet and stood straight. “As I was saying, I come from the future. I need to know what year it is,” Programmel asked reluctantly.
General Lee nodded. “Although I do not believe you, it is the year 1861,” Lee replied suspiciously. “1861,” Programmel yelled out. Two blue words floated in the sky. “Icarus! Write this down,” Programmel told me. My name is Icarus, in case you haven’t guessed. I popped out of the backpack with my tiny pen and note pad. I wrote, It is. Another tiny paper fell from the sky. I read it – again:
100,000 men stand tall,
There are four large parts in all.
How many men can you see here?
In other words, are there near?
“Oh! Programmel, I know it! How many men are in this section of the army?” I asked General Lee, who was still on the horse in front of Programmel. I was completely oblivious that this man was so important. Squirrels don’t learn history, you know. Programmel instructed me to get out his automated computer. It looked like a tiny calculator, only it could do word-processing and you could dictate to it. “What is 100,000 divided by four?” Programmel asked the computer. “25,000,” The computer replied in a one-tone voice.
Programmel repeated the answer. The word, basement, floated in the air. I wrote it down. “‘It is basement’? What kind of clue is that?!” I yelled. “Icarus, calm down! We haven’t got the rest yet. And don’t you want to get home?” Programmel asked me as he shoved me into the backpack – again. “How do you know we haven’t got the rest yet?” I struggled to say as he closed the flap on my face.
“Like the sentence would be called, ‘it is basement’? It doesn’t make any sense,” Programmel argued. “But Computoral doesn’t make any sense!” I yelled back. My voice must have been muffled, because he didn’t respond. I chewed a small hole in the bottom of the dark and gloomy backpack. It was just big enough to see through, yet small enough for nothing to fall out. Squirrels are so precise!
I looked down. “WAIT!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. Another piece of paper was on the ground. Programmel stopped and let me out. I read it aloud again:
If there are twenty bullets for each of his two guns,
How many bullets would one section of the army need?
“Uh, Programmel? It’s not a poem,” I said. “Oops! I forgot. Sorry,” Computoral’s voice rang out in the air. “That was for my other arch enemy.” “Oh, so we get the harder stuff?” I asked, paws on my hips. An evil laugh filled the air. “Yes,” Computoral replied as his evil laugh faded out. “What is twenty times two? Answer times 25,000,” Programmel told the automated computer. “1,000,000,” The computer said in a one-tone voice again.
“1,000,000!” Programmel yelled out. Another phrase floated in front of him. I wrote the words, in the, down on the paper. “It is basement in the. It still doesn’t make any sense! Maybe if I say the number next time, it’ll make sense,” I said. I was stupid then. Now, I’m well educated and would never say such a thing! You’ll see why. Programmel sighed. “Fine,” He said. Another paper flew down. I caught it – again. I read it aloud:
Save for the math part I was never good at math (thinking too hard) 
