Post by Mr. Showtime on Aug 24, 2011 15:03:24 GMT -5
(So I entered a short story contest and figured that I would share the output with you fellas. The concept was to write a short story with less than 1,000 words and each heat got its own criteria. Mine was Genre: Comedy, Object: Saxophone & Place: A Mansion. Hope you enjoy.)
The sweet sound of cool jazz envelopes the room. Seymour “Ziggy” Anderson, sits on the edge of the Grand Ballroom stage at the Madison Mansion, playing his saxophone. He and his two best friends, who make up the “Ziggy Zaggs,” have been hired by Prescott Madison IV, to play for the socialite gathering of the year. Oscar, the stand up bassist, and Brent, the drummer, enter the room through two large wooden doors.
“Look who’s sulking in the corner with his little horn,” says Oscar grinning like a madman. “What’s the matter Sally? Did somebody mess up your ponytails?”
“Shut up Oscar,” snaps Ziggy, Oscar always knew how to get to him, especially on a gig night.
“Man, Zig, you gotta check dis place out,” says Brent in his raspy voice.
“There is too much to do before the show to go exploring,” a nervous Ziggy replies.
“Come on Seymour, relax. I’ve heard there’s going to be a party tonight,” says Oscar with a corny half smile, Ziggy staring him down for using his birth name. Ziggy is always uptight, and he knows that with a slacker like Oscar or a burnout like Brent leading the show, this band would never get anywhere. It already hurt Ziggy’s pride enough that Oscar scored their biggest performance, so he was in no mood for Oscar’s shenanigans.
“Mr. Anderson,” says a droll voice from behind the trio. All three snap around to see a man dressed in a pressed tuxedo, tails and all.
“Let me guess,” blurts out Oscar. “It’s Mrs. Peacock, in the study with the candlestick.”
“Charming,” replies the butler, his nose stuck up in the air as if he has a fowl stench stuck in his nostrils. “You must be a riot at dinner parties.”
Oscar and Brent in a confused manner look at each other as Ziggy stands up and responds, “I’m Mr. Anderson, but please, call me Ziggy.”
“I’d really prefer not to, Mr. Anderson,” he replies, adding a bit more tension to the room. “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Peasley and Mr. Madison would like to speak with you.”
“You mean with Oscar, right,” replies a confused Ziggy. “He’s the one that set this up.”
“Is the band not called, Ziggy Zaggs,” questions Peasley in a snide manner. “That would make you Ziggy and them the Zaggs.”
“I get your point,” replies Ziggy, as he hops down from the stage, and follows towards the door.
“If any of the Zaggs need anything, please just ask,” offers Peasley.
“Hey Pea-ster,” yells out Oscar. “Can I get two pounds of green M&Ms, a trident and of those miniature horses?” Peasley, with a complete look of surprise glances from Oscar to Ziggy. Ziggy just shakes his head and motions for the door.
Peasley takes Ziggy through the mansion, and as worthless as they generally are, Oscar and Brent were right. This place is amazing. Coats of armor line the walls, with ancient tapestries hanging along side. Ziggy could even swear that one of the painting’s eyes were following him. Peasley finally stops at a large door, opening it for Ziggy.
“Please wait inside. Mr. Madison will be with you momentarily,” Peasley says.
“I really should be getting back. There’s still so much to set up before the guests arrive.”
“Please don’t worry, Mr. Anderson,” assures Peasley. “I shall assist the Zaggs with your equipment.”
Ziggy is still unsure that he trusts the other members of his group to know how to set up their equipment, but before he knows it he is alone in the study, the doors securely shut behind him. This study is like nothing Ziggy has ever seen. There are books from floor to ceiling, a large executive wooden desk, and a large portrait hanging behind it.
“Wow,” Ziggy says out loud to himself, in awe of his surroundings. “Who’d have thought that the Monopoly guy would have such a nice house? He even has the monocle.”
“Let’s just say that I’ve passed ‘Go” more times than you can imagine,” says a voice from behind. Fear engulfs the saxophone player, as he slowly turns around.
“I-I-I...” stammers Ziggy.
“Relax, Mr. Anderson, I know you’ve meant no harm by your comments,” says Mr. Madison, a spitting image of his portrait, saving Ziggy from finding how to apologize.
“Please call me Ziggy,” he sheepishly replies, getting a smile from Madison.
“Sure Ziggy, I just wanted to meet you before tonight’s festivities,” says Madison, cutting right to the chase. “I have this event every year, and every year it becomes more boring. It’s the same phony people trying to get on my good side. The only thing I look forward to is the music.”
Not that there wasn’t enough pressure on the night, but now Ziggy had one of the richest men in the world putting an enormous amount of pressure on him. Madison continues as Ziggy wallows in this idea and after a few minutes he notices that he Mr. Madison is staring at him.
Not sure what to say he looks Madison deep in the eyes and says, “Don’t worry sir, we won’t let you down.”
“Great, so you don’t mind dressing up like pink flamingos while you perform.”
“Wait, what?” Ziggy asks flabbergasted, whishing that he had heard everything his employer said.
With a hearty laugh, Madison says, “Don’t worry Ziggy, I knew you weren’t listening. All I said was that is that if none of us are going to have fun out there, you might as well. Now I’m sure that you still have much to do before the show, I can’t wait to see what you have in store for us.”
Ziggy found his way back to the Grand Ballroom, and when show time came, the trio preformed masterfully. His conversation with Madison really took the edge off, and though the company at the party was dreadful, the one thing everyone could agree on was the band was perfect.
The sweet sound of cool jazz envelopes the room. Seymour “Ziggy” Anderson, sits on the edge of the Grand Ballroom stage at the Madison Mansion, playing his saxophone. He and his two best friends, who make up the “Ziggy Zaggs,” have been hired by Prescott Madison IV, to play for the socialite gathering of the year. Oscar, the stand up bassist, and Brent, the drummer, enter the room through two large wooden doors.
“Look who’s sulking in the corner with his little horn,” says Oscar grinning like a madman. “What’s the matter Sally? Did somebody mess up your ponytails?”
“Shut up Oscar,” snaps Ziggy, Oscar always knew how to get to him, especially on a gig night.
“Man, Zig, you gotta check dis place out,” says Brent in his raspy voice.
“There is too much to do before the show to go exploring,” a nervous Ziggy replies.
“Come on Seymour, relax. I’ve heard there’s going to be a party tonight,” says Oscar with a corny half smile, Ziggy staring him down for using his birth name. Ziggy is always uptight, and he knows that with a slacker like Oscar or a burnout like Brent leading the show, this band would never get anywhere. It already hurt Ziggy’s pride enough that Oscar scored their biggest performance, so he was in no mood for Oscar’s shenanigans.
“Mr. Anderson,” says a droll voice from behind the trio. All three snap around to see a man dressed in a pressed tuxedo, tails and all.
“Let me guess,” blurts out Oscar. “It’s Mrs. Peacock, in the study with the candlestick.”
“Charming,” replies the butler, his nose stuck up in the air as if he has a fowl stench stuck in his nostrils. “You must be a riot at dinner parties.”
Oscar and Brent in a confused manner look at each other as Ziggy stands up and responds, “I’m Mr. Anderson, but please, call me Ziggy.”
“I’d really prefer not to, Mr. Anderson,” he replies, adding a bit more tension to the room. “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Peasley and Mr. Madison would like to speak with you.”
“You mean with Oscar, right,” replies a confused Ziggy. “He’s the one that set this up.”
“Is the band not called, Ziggy Zaggs,” questions Peasley in a snide manner. “That would make you Ziggy and them the Zaggs.”
“I get your point,” replies Ziggy, as he hops down from the stage, and follows towards the door.
“If any of the Zaggs need anything, please just ask,” offers Peasley.
“Hey Pea-ster,” yells out Oscar. “Can I get two pounds of green M&Ms, a trident and of those miniature horses?” Peasley, with a complete look of surprise glances from Oscar to Ziggy. Ziggy just shakes his head and motions for the door.
Peasley takes Ziggy through the mansion, and as worthless as they generally are, Oscar and Brent were right. This place is amazing. Coats of armor line the walls, with ancient tapestries hanging along side. Ziggy could even swear that one of the painting’s eyes were following him. Peasley finally stops at a large door, opening it for Ziggy.
“Please wait inside. Mr. Madison will be with you momentarily,” Peasley says.
“I really should be getting back. There’s still so much to set up before the guests arrive.”
“Please don’t worry, Mr. Anderson,” assures Peasley. “I shall assist the Zaggs with your equipment.”
Ziggy is still unsure that he trusts the other members of his group to know how to set up their equipment, but before he knows it he is alone in the study, the doors securely shut behind him. This study is like nothing Ziggy has ever seen. There are books from floor to ceiling, a large executive wooden desk, and a large portrait hanging behind it.
“Wow,” Ziggy says out loud to himself, in awe of his surroundings. “Who’d have thought that the Monopoly guy would have such a nice house? He even has the monocle.”
“Let’s just say that I’ve passed ‘Go” more times than you can imagine,” says a voice from behind. Fear engulfs the saxophone player, as he slowly turns around.
“I-I-I...” stammers Ziggy.
“Relax, Mr. Anderson, I know you’ve meant no harm by your comments,” says Mr. Madison, a spitting image of his portrait, saving Ziggy from finding how to apologize.
“Please call me Ziggy,” he sheepishly replies, getting a smile from Madison.
“Sure Ziggy, I just wanted to meet you before tonight’s festivities,” says Madison, cutting right to the chase. “I have this event every year, and every year it becomes more boring. It’s the same phony people trying to get on my good side. The only thing I look forward to is the music.”
Not that there wasn’t enough pressure on the night, but now Ziggy had one of the richest men in the world putting an enormous amount of pressure on him. Madison continues as Ziggy wallows in this idea and after a few minutes he notices that he Mr. Madison is staring at him.
Not sure what to say he looks Madison deep in the eyes and says, “Don’t worry sir, we won’t let you down.”
“Great, so you don’t mind dressing up like pink flamingos while you perform.”
“Wait, what?” Ziggy asks flabbergasted, whishing that he had heard everything his employer said.
With a hearty laugh, Madison says, “Don’t worry Ziggy, I knew you weren’t listening. All I said was that is that if none of us are going to have fun out there, you might as well. Now I’m sure that you still have much to do before the show, I can’t wait to see what you have in store for us.”
Ziggy found his way back to the Grand Ballroom, and when show time came, the trio preformed masterfully. His conversation with Madison really took the edge off, and though the company at the party was dreadful, the one thing everyone could agree on was the band was perfect.
