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~peer pressure~ If I'm feeling better tomorrow night (I have a cold and possibly a sinus infection), I'll try.
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Sep 6, 2012 06:18
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Forgot my song, I'll pick my favorite Numan if I can which is "Exile" though I might pick another track from that album if I get stumped? Can I do that?
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Sep 6, 2012 06:25
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sebmojo posted:Now remember kids - do not proofread. That is the action of a pussy. Type out your story and POST THAT BITCH. Just slap it right the hell down, the judges will understand your spelling errors and and malapropistic random bullshit. You got it. Exile 315 words The first rock skittered out across the pond, thrown too fast to skip properly. The boys kicked at the dirt and extracted flat stones. You have to do it right, you have to have the flat kind if you want it to skip a lot. Everyone has a cousin who got a rock to skip at least 40 times. Probably more but it went so far they couldn’t even count the jumps after a while. Eric was gritty fingernails and grimy snot-trails down the front of his face, but still he wiped the earth off of his rocks by rubbing them on his jeans. Four ducklings dropped themselves into the shallows. The other boys crouched down in by cattails to watch them swim, all agape, like you couldn’t see ducklings any time you wanted at the park. Back in the ravine, there’d been a dead doe just rotting there. Eric had nudged it with his sneaker toe. He’d thought all the bugs would come running right out of it, scared off just by the smell of him, even, but nothing had happened. Then the guys had just pushed him along like the pond was some big deal. One of his rocks came close enough to earn a warning squawk from the mother duck. “Hey, watch it, you dumb poo poo. You almost hit them. Knock it off, Eric.” His next rock was closer still, and then he really started aiming. The first duck was underwater and gone and then the second, too. He didn’t even hear the other boys yelling as he threw harder and harder at the rest. He waded in to get closer to them and was surprised at how shallow the pond was, but then he was all out of rocks and soaking wet. The three ducklings floating there weren’t even bloody when he picked them up. They just flopped in his hands.
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Sep 8, 2012 07:08
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Chairchucker posted:Welp, at least I get a new avatar I guess. NUH UHH!!!!
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Sep 10, 2012 01:54
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I'm in.
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Sep 10, 2012 21:30
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Ozma's got the bug. Horror/supernatural stories are Ozma Catnip
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Sep 10, 2012 22:12
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I even know what I'm gonna write already and it's going to blow some loving minds let me tell you
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Sep 10, 2012 22:13
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2 and 3 are easy and have already been answered but I feel like 1 is easier still and I'm mad at myself for not knowing it
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Sep 10, 2012 22:24
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Canadian Surf Club posted:I have to be quick on the draw with the way these threads go Who killed the liver eating eagle
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Sep 10, 2012 22:36
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Just so we get this out of the way, exactly how many people are writing "deal with the devil"? Absolutely not.
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Sep 11, 2012 18:16
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Oh, we're supposed to be writing well? gently caress I'm out of here
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Sep 11, 2012 20:42
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I thought I had an idea all ready but I don't like my idea anymore. One Depressed Businessman Makes a Deal with the Devil story coming right up
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Sep 13, 2012 23:00
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Genital Exchange: Not Really What You Thought It Was Going To Be Based Upon the First Part of the Title, But Still Pretty Interesting
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Sep 13, 2012 23:20
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sebmojo posted:This prompt is a motherfucker and I don't even know why. I made the mistake of crowing about my love of horror so now I feel compelled to do something that's not totally lovely. I also need to write a little bit of a memorial piece for a friend tonight (maybe, possibly) so my head's going to be in a weird place when I sit down to do the thunderdome stuff...
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Sep 14, 2012 01:07
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Also, we need another silly prompt. These last few weeks have been too loving morbid by half. I won't go morbid, then. I probably should have. Quartz Palace (962 words) The Haunted Hotel story is a sad little cliché, you know it and I know it, but it still pays dividends. My niece and her boyfriend drove all the way up to Estes Park last year just to see the Stanley Hotel and take their ghost tour. At the beginning of the whole charade, the tourguide lets everyone know that, if someone takes any 'unusual' photographs, they should be sure to send them back to the hotel. Imagine the luckless soul sorting through all those e-mails with giant, grainy photo attachments full of lens flares and blurred movements. People like that, and plenty rely on it when they're here. All that Deadwood has going for it is tourism bucks so everybody here’s especially wild for it. By day, little old ladies park themselves in front of the slots with cups of and families bake in the sun to watch re-enactments of the shooting of Wild Bill Hickock. By night, all the saloon-slut-loving cowboy ghosts are supposed to leap right out of the hills and into your hotel room. The Bullock Hotel got itself on “Unsolved Mysteries” for it once. Every hotel here is haunted except mine. Not mine-mine though, I’m just front desk manager. You’d think someone on the staff would start a rumor here or there just to liven it up but no one had bothered until I started up on the Paydays. It’s a problem that came up a couple of years ago. I went to one of those membership warehouse places where you buy everything in bulk and there were boxes of ‘em. I loved them when I was a kid and thought I’d eat one here and there. Except I snarfed the box in a day at work. What to do with the shame over that? Or, more importantly, the wrappers. Do you think there will be any question as to who ate all the candy bars when a maid opens the dumpster in back and finds an avalanche of wrappers? Surely no one will suspect the 300lb manager who takes the elevator from the lobby up to the first floor. I don’t look like it now, but I used to be gigantic. I hid the wrappers all over. You’re thinking that the smart response would just be to burn them or stuff them in my pockets to bring home, I’m sure, but I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. A wrapper in the till up front, a wrapper behind the bar, in that terrible basement closet with all the cleaning supplies. Find one in the elevator shaft or a potted plant and you start to wonder if maybe something funny is happening. Maybe they figured it was me all along anyway and played along but either way, they started talking about the Payday ghost and asking me if I’d seen the wrappers, too. It caught on so much that they all had to have been planting them sometimes. I went on a diet and swore them off but kept smuggling in bars so I could start putting uneaten ones around, too. I’d set an uneaten one in the rafters of the breakroom and a couple hours later, there’d be a wrapper by the minifridge instead of a whole one. Sometimes they’d just disappear outright like someone just got hungry. A Kevin Costner joke is especially bad here since his awful restaurant’s just up the street but it’s his movie that best explains the rest. It’s a “if you build it, he will come” sort of deal. If you say “Bloody Mary” at the mirror often enough something might come out just to keep up appearances. Guests started coming down in the morning to say that someone was flicking the lights on and off all night or yanking the sheets off their bed. Someone said they felt like there was a guy behind them breathing down their neck but when they turned around, there was nothing but the stink of peanuts. It’s not "Unsolved Mysteries" worthy, definitely not enough to make it onto the official Deadwood Walking Ghost Tour, but enough to at least get a little bit of buzz going. The lobby of the Quartz Palace has one of those pressed tin ceilings a lot of buildings have. Those are supposed to be worth a lot. Sometimes the screws holding in the plates come loose. We have a guy to fix that sort of thing but once I lost a bit of weight I’d start going up myself with the big ladder. It’d drive me crazy to see the loose tile otherwise. I see one end of a plate sagging down one day so I get the ladder out of the closet and climb up. I’m holding it in place with one hand while I screw it in with the other when I hear a plastic-y sort of crunch. I push the plate a bit and hear it again, but I notice it feels almost hollow when I’m pushing it. Like there might be something up there. The plates are just flush on the ceiling, so that doesn’t make sense. I take out the second and third screw and that’s when the plate yanks itself out of the wall. And out tumble the candy bars. I counted later on: there were 58 all shoved up through a hole in the ceiling and into some little bolthole. Some were old, too, you could tell by the dates on them. Stashed up there for as long as I’d been playing this trick with the uneaten bars. As if that’s not bad enough, while I was holding the plate before putting it back up I saw what was written in the dust on the back: Thanks.
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Sep 14, 2012 06:53
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Hahah thank you
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Sep 15, 2012 06:19
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Should I run this week's challenge by the other two or just let 'er rip? You won- go for it. They can fall in line.
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Sep 17, 2012 02:55
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Way to choose a poetry prompt on a week when I'm probably too busy to enter
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Sep 18, 2012 18:50
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Martello posted:Way to Oh you want to start some poo poo I'll write something so terrible you'll all wish you'd never known me
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Sep 18, 2012 19:08
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about it.
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I thought this was a supportive environment. Wow. What a bunch of dicks. Well, I'm out of here.
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Sep 18, 2012 19:34
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I'll loving do it OK but goddammit I also just really hate writing in iambic pentameter. I'm a wimp. I write prose poetry, OK? OK? THAT'S MY DEEP DARK SECRET
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Sep 18, 2012 22:39
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pipes! posted:Jane Austen is a waste of dead trees ohmygodholyshit pipes I hate you
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Sep 20, 2012 00:02
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"Jane Austen was a privileged woman who wrote frivolous social satire/romance novels" ---a thing lots of dudes say and feel cool about saying because it's fun to diminish the work of female authors as long as you throw in something about the Brontes still being OK ENGAGE TROLL MODE
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Sep 20, 2012 00:03
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I seriously was too goddamn busy I might still write a poem about Vonnegut's "Bluebeard" though because that's an insanely good book
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Sep 21, 2012 20:25
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The Last Postcard - 526 words “Why, Lucy, I’m surprised at you! To think that we had this conversation not two weeks ago and here you’ve not only forgotten the substance of it but have wrongfully apportioned blame as well!" Darcy holds court from her settee, plum lipstick and a perfectly set face. The smell of cold cream that is both of us now, our combined scent after we abandoned perfume. “What point is there when it’s just us chickens?” I think. I say. Darcy purses her lips as she yanks floss through her embroidery hoop. “More or less, I think. But, what you said is,” she tilts her head and squints her eyes as she mimics my voice by giving it a nervous wobble, “'I don’t see why I should have to write another one of these when William won’t write back and doesn’t care what we do anyway.' Tell me you don’t recall saying exactly that while we stood in line at the drugstore." “It doesn’t matter. I just thought-“ “That you’d blame me? That you’d dream up some odd story about how I’ve MADE you stop writing notes on those awful Reno postcards you pick up and send out? Why on earth would I do such a thing?” I’d put the last postcard card in the box and, just as I put the flag up, she was so close behind me that I smelled her the inside of her mouth, her dentures, as she said: “that’s the last one of those that we’ll be putting in there, isn’t it?” Darcy is a vixen and her kits are little pieces carved off me. She twists the gooseneck lamp and she splits the strands of another length of floss before drawing it through the needle. “It seems to me that you never liked writing those letters anyway. I certainly don’t disagree, I’ve never liked writing a letter. Tell me when you think I’ve written a letter to someone and enjoyed it. If you didn’t want to write them anymore that’s quite alright, but to make it sound as though I’ve forced you to stop is ridiculous.” “I told you that it doesn’t matter. I’ve said it twice now. We’re not writing any more letters. It’s decided.” “YOU decided it. YOU decided, Lucy. Tell me that, at least.” “I decided.” “And you decided because?” “We - I- don’t like writing letters.” “I’m all the company you need, it seems. You clearly do need me, too, don’t you?” Darcy’s sewing so quickly now that I wonder if she can even see where she’s stitching. In 1959 had a white crepe dress with pastel butterflies all over it. We’d stopped matching clothes outside of our acts and it was all mine. It would probably fit me now. At that beach house party I’d looked all over for her before I found her in a dark corner, whispering. “I have to take care of her,” she’d said. “She can’t be on her own for long. She’s probably worried about me now. You can’t even leave her alone, not one minute, poor Lucy girl.” “You’re right, Darcy. We hate writing letters.”
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Sep 28, 2012 04:04
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Sep 28, 2012 05:20
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I am very pleased, thank you much. 
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Oct 1, 2012 16:35
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Oct 6, 2012 17:04
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