Random story challenge

Here's a writing challenge I found on the internet. Take a random idea and write a story about it. So, here are my first few tries.

4-28-11
The story starts during a class/training session. During the story, there is a terrible misunderstanding. During the story, a character becomes pregnant.

health class, 1990, sitting in a trailer outside of school grounds, because talking about sex within the walls of the school would be an infringement of the new PTA parameters of acceptable school room health topics. The class is discussing sexually transmitted diseases, as if slowly going higher and higher on a ladder of doom. Starting with Crabs, then the clap, then herpes, then...AIDS. Nobody really knows what it is, we are all kids anyway, but we're all horny as fuck. Everybody is getting their driver's licenses, we're all the small fish in the big pond of high school, and each and every one of us guys wants the same girl, even the girls want her. She wears a mini skirt with red hearts on it for valentines day.
It's impossible. The whole daily routine of avoiding eye contact with the tough kids, waiting for that glimpse of her, then watching my shoe laces for another three hours while stumbling through class after class. The health class is exciting though, because it is addressing a current topic, it's the equivalent of acknowledging each and every bundle of hormones sitting in their assigned seat is a loaded weapon, needing instruction in care and functioning.
The categorization of the diseases continues, progressing through what is known and what has been discovered about each one...some mysteries revealed and some broadened. A hand is raised, a question offered, "Can you give AIDS to yourself?" A small gasp escapes the classroom, half exasperation and half disbelief. A few people laugh. A long explanation. A formal apology from the student. There is a pregnancy, two years later. And somebody contracts something.

4-21-11

The story must involve a book in it.

I was reading a book, but stopped halfway through, because I felt ashamed for being interested in what the writer had to say.

4-19-11

A character will take a bath. During the story, a character is given a good talking-to. The story must have a bench appear in the middle.

I have nothing to offer you.

Undressed, standing in front of the mirror, I am less of a man. No labels adorn me, no markings of affluence or status. No brands except that which makes me human. I look for less than a minute, but the thought resides in me as I step into the luke warm bath water. Tepid. Silty from the sand and dirt left in the tub. I sit down and allow the bathwater to envelop what remains of my personage. My self-glorified, yet absent patience is still looking in the mirror, appraising and evaluating the musculature and lines of my naked face. My body is like an iceberg, drifting in its own small porcelain ice cube tray. The image plays itself out in my head, the ice cube trays are each bathtub in my apartment building, the ice cubes are the residents, we are drifting in the ocean, slowly melting and evaporating. Along the edge of the tub, sitting down as if on a bench, Lydia the tattooed lady looks down at me. "You're really not the type", she says.

4-20-11

The story takes place ten years in the past.

It's that song, on the radio, by that band from england. It's the happiest, most positive, most promising song he's ever heard on the radio. He is at a disparate and metaphorical crossroads. A daily routine had been ingrained, over countless exits to the East, he is for the first time traveling west, as if in open declaration of his freedom to choose his own course. He doesn't want to turn it up, he wants to record the moment, the song, the beautiful day, the constance of motion as he accelerates out of a turn and onto the highway. He is traveling west, for the first time in years, returning to school. The same exit he had taken East, he is now traveling in the opposite direction, the direction he has chosen as clearly delineated as a carpenters level. The moment is being stitched into his mind like a patch on an old pair of pants. It is ten years later. The only thing that remains is that moment, that song, the sensation of traveling forward, away from what he had known to what he could not expect.
It's the English Beat. Save it for Later. And he is ashamed at his lack of metal sensibility.

4-10-11

I realize you don't like the results of today. Once you get drunk though, you'll forget all about it, and that's what you'll keep doing until somebody convinces you their solution is the one you want. So deal with it.

I added that last part. It's not very random.