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I dive in as well, and to underscore my lameness, my random selection (first video that caught my eye) is from his more recent work. I choose The Fall. May  give me strength.
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Sep 6, 2012 01:57
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| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 02:35 |
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Lies in a Box 791 words “You bitch!” Alyssa bolted awake, arms raised to shield her face, then breathed an uneasy chuckle. It was only the television. The clock underneath it read 1:15. That new prescription worked wonders, but anxiety tugged at the back of her mind. Heart thumping, Alyssa pulled herself off the couch and padded into the kitchen. A Post-It note adhered to the fridge. LAUNDRY 18:00 Jay used to leave such sweet love notes, sometimes even poems. Now it was just ‘CHORE’ and ‘RETURN TIME.’ Maybe he’d have the energy to write again if his shirts were folded right. Maybe... Alyssa set the laundry basket against her hip. No time to waste. The washer opened with some resistance, and she dumped most of the clothes in. One of the dress shirts was... stained, though. Sickly hot rage welled in her chest at the sight of blood. Jeremy was a passionate man. Alyssa should have known better than to provoke him, but did he have to rub her nose in it? She wasn’t being fair. Jay worked so hard to support them. Laundry was the least she could do. Alyssa sprayed the shirt before tossing it in with the rest. She started the wash cycle, then padded back to the couch. Pain coursed through her tender shoulder. Eyes closed, Alyssa remembered fondly when her bruises were from karate class, black eyes from tennis, and broken wrist from horseback riding. Her life was in those lies. The escapist fantasy had vanished along with her friends. Even her family had stopped calling. Jeremy was the only person she could count on. Alyssa’s stomach growled. The food in the fridge was rotten; Jay preferred take-out anyhow. She used to have a credit card of her own, but he cancelled it after ‘strange charges’ appeared on the bill. Alyssa had to take his word for it. Everything was in his name. Jeremy wouldn’t leave cash around either. That attracted thieves, he said. That made sense... but not really. Her hand idly twitched over to the other cushion but caught only air. Where was the cat? Alyssa dashed to the kitchen. The dish was empty. If she didn’t wake up, then Tammy would have woken... Her chest tightened. “Tammy?” Like a cat would come when it was called. She checked under the bed. “Baby?” The closet door was shut tight. She had to be here. Somewhere. Oh please. Oh God. Oh no. Alyssa bolted out the back door and ran, barefoot, to the garage. Jay. Tell me you didn’t. She clasped both hands over her mouth. Tammy was slumped next to the trash cans. Her little neck jutted at an unnatural angle. A furious sob burst from Alyssa’s throat. Saliva dribbled down her chin. The garage door flew open in a chorus of rattling metal. Jay was obsessive about his tools, which made the shovel easy to find. A battered shoebox caught her eye, and she scooped it towards her. I’m so sorry, Alyssa thought, as she laid Tammy inside the box and closed it. The house seemed so much smaller from the outside. It was a mere dozen steps from garage to the garden. She’d always wanted to grow vegetables, but the relationship sapped her energy. Jeremy had at least mucked around with the soil. Small miracles, she supposed. Droplets splattered against her bare shoulders. So much for that, then. Alyssa dug with a fervor not seen over the past year, rage bleeding out of her and into the ground. This was her life. Housekeeper, and now, gravedigger. What was wrong with her? She went to college, for Christ’s sake! Thoughts roiled in her mind with each scoop of dirt. Alyssa needed to vent to someone. Number, numbers... poo poo. Whose numbers did she still remember? Her contacts were gone. Jay ditched their cell phone plan without consulting her. Too expensive, and besides, they had the landline. She was soaked to the skin. Mom lived nearby, but her car was gone too, another ‘needless’ expense. Her arms trembled with exhaustion as she tamped down the grave. Alyssa hung the shovel on its peg, then tromped back inside. She laid down on the couch, mindlessly staring at whatever daytime crap was on the television. A phone blared. Her phone. Its shrill tone cut through her fogged mind, and Alyssa’s heart pounded. The number displayed on the screen wasn’t Jay’s office. She nearly tripped her way into the kitchen. Could someone have decided to reach out to her after all this time? Nerves tingling with excitement, Alyssa picked up the receiver. “Hello?” “Wrong number. Sorry, man.” Click. Her hopes had soared and been vanquished. Just like that. Dial tone taunted her, joined soon after by the washing machine’s buzz.
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Sep 8, 2012 19:24
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TequilaJesus posted:The only reason this thread's so quiet is we're all too busy What he said. 
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Sep 9, 2012 17:59
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Martello posted:"Nyarai, come forth and take the staff. This is Thunderdome. We have spoken." My movements are jerky as I mutter, "You honor me, oh Great One." Staff gripped in my fist, I raise it high above my head and bellow, "Thunderdome!" (Woo! Really wasn't expecting that. What would be the best way to get my idea to you guys? Once I come up with one, that is.  )
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Sep 10, 2012 02:03
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nyaraizen [at] gmail [dot] com
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Sep 10, 2012 02:06
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Less than fifteen minutes until submissions are closed! :O
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Sep 13, 2012 01:48
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I missed you dudes. It's been a couple depressing months without the 'dome. I may have nearly had an anxiety attack writing/submitting, but damned if I didn't grin for like a week straight afterwards. I'm clearly not gonna get over my writer's block/depression by staring at my computer and wishing for energy. IN.
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Dec 17, 2012 04:26
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| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 02:35 |
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In honor of the prompt, I took Chairchucker's flash rule and expanded upon it. I subtracted 150 words from my maximum then, because the Devil is about self-bondage, I wrote a story of exactly that length (inc. title). XV, The Devil  Victory or Death (850 words, inc. title) The robed man chuckled as his yellow eyes observed an unsuspecting yak. His rotted face pulled back in a smile, and shadow flared at his fingertips. These idyllic plains would bear witness to his dark slaughter. “Poor, stupid creature. Little do you know that you face Phthisis! Master of the Fel Arts! Lord of the-" Boop, boop, beep! Brandon jerked in his swivel chair. Soda cans clattered on his desk, some making the leap to join the others on the floor. “God drat it,” he thought. “What now?” He’d taught his mother how to use GTalk over the weekend, and every day since, she would send him a sappy, little message. Brandon sighed and tabbed away from World of Warcraft. The yak could wait. He blinked in awe at the chat window. It was Kristi, and she had written, "keith broke up with me  " Brandon’s heart thudded in his chest. Kristi was his classmate in a Criminal Justice course. At first, they would only get together to do homework and study for exams, but recently, she had invited him over just to hang out. Keith was a frequent topic of discussion, and Brandon always lent a sympathetic ear. Perhaps, Kristi finally realized what a great guy he was? He was always available to her, except when there was a raid, of course. Brandon was nothing if not responsible. With sweat-slicked fingers, he typed back, “I’m so sorry to hear. (hug)” Time slowed to a crawl as he waited for a reply. Kristi’s Facebook profile confirmed his suspicions; she had told him first. This could be his chance. It would be hard to balance a girlfriend with his WoW responsibilities, but they would make it work. After all, Keith barely spent any time with her at all. Brandon could definitely find time at least once a day to see her. Plus, there was IM or the phone. Technology had done so much to aid communication between distant lovers with busy lives. He would make it work, for her. A reply flashed on the screen, “its ok.” Brandon’s heart broke at all the sadness contained in those five little letters. She lacked the energy even for the Shift key. “Do you want me to come over so you can talk about it?” Brandon asked. His apartment was a mess, and though he would do almost anything for Kristi, there was no time to clean. "no, i don't want anyone to see me like this." Poor girl. He frantically typed back, “It’s okay. Really! We’re friends. I don’t mind.  ” Brandon swallowed once, then again. Clearly, Kristi’s misery had driven her to solitude. If he told her how he felt, that could lift the cloud of darkness. “Listen,” his pivotal message began, “I know we've been friends for a few months, but I really like you as more than a friend. I want to be there for you when you’re depressed. Then maybe, when you feel up to it, we could go see a movie? Maybe dinner first?” His pinkie finger trembled over the Enter key. Brandon shouldn't say a ‘few months.’ That would imply that he didn't know (or care) when they became friends! He plucked a crumpled syllabus off the carpet and scanned it. The first exam had been February 19th, which meant they studied together on the 17th. Eighty-one days sounded too obsessive, though. Brandon was no stalker. He quickly deleted ‘a few’ and replaced it with ‘almost three.’ Depressed had to go too. Kristi could think he was calling her insane. Sad? Too simple. Bummed and down were too slangy. Heartbroken? That would work. He hurriedly made the change. Three minutes had already passed. Was she still there? Did she still want to talk to him? If Brandon blurted out his feelings at the wrong time, their friendship could be ruined. Then again, if he didn't tell her soon, Kristi might find another guy. Or worse, Keith could realize what a mistake he made and beg for her forgiveness. Kind to a fault, she would almost certainly take him back. Sweat beaded on his brow. Brandon took a sip of soda to soothe his dry mouth. He had to do it. Consequences be damned, he had to tell her. His finger dropped towards the Enter key. The screen flashed once more. “Kristi has signed off. Messages you send will be delivered when they sign on.” God drat it. Brandon had missed his chance. He certainly couldn't send the message now and have anxiety hang over his head like a guillotine. There was a raid tonight, and the distraction would ruin his performance. Reminded of the game, he tabbed back to World of Warcraft. The screen had turned gray and ethereal. His mighty warlock lay sprawled on the ground, dead. Brandon scanned his combat logs. This “Gnobocop” had attacked his helpless character, then had gone on to taunt him. ‘Gnobocop spits on you,’ ‘Gnobocop claps for you, clearly unimpressed,’ and one more, ‘Gnobocop spits on you,’ for good measure. “God loving drat it.”
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Dec 22, 2012 20:50
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