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Hi, I am new and awful, but I want to get better. I am enlisting. (in?)
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Jul 11, 2014 03:41
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Marquess of Queensberry Rules 50 words Hello Genetic Toaster. I don’t know anything about you, especially not enough to insult your character. You are a first time Thunderdome participant and statistically are unlikely to win. Based on your recent post history, I assert that you enjoy comic books and video games. Thank you for your time.
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Jul 13, 2014 06:59
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Fowlrence of Arabia ================ 150 WORDS The young Arab boy collapsed. His father acted quickly; he took off his bisht and set up a small tent, but the effort was in vain. He knew he would lose his son to the desert: their water had run out this morning, and Cairo was several hours away. He spotted a distant figure on the horizon. He stood to shout for help, but the figure was already approaching. As the figure crept into view, he saw it was a giant duck riding atop a camel. The duck arrived, dismounted his camel, and approached the boy. He produced a canteen from within his feathers and gently lifted the boy to help him drink the cool water. He presented the canteen to the father, returned to his camel, and began to leave. “You’re a good man!” the father called out. The duck turned and in perfect Arabic replied, “No man. Duck.”
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Jul 13, 2014 19:10
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The Desk on the Left ================= 1217 WORDS “You’re being transferred to the mailroom,” Corporal Riggs said from the other side of the table. “Turn in your badge, you can keep your gun.” He cracked a smile and put his feet up on the table next to his bonsai tree. The mess was being turned over to a private contractor, so our squad was being broken up. Vince had been transferred to the armoury, Jenny to the barracks. The rest of the gang was still up in the air. “Did anyone land with me?” I asked. “Nope, you’re on your own.” “Hmm… That’s not ideal.” The mess staff had become my family, and it hurt that I didn’t get to keep any of them. “What’s the good news?” Riggs sat up and laughed. “What’s the good news? The good news is that you’re working in the loving mailroom!” “What’s the bad news?” “The bad news is you can’t smuggle carrots out of the mess anymore. You’ll have to find something new to shove up your rear end.” “Hmm… That’s not ideal.” We both paused for a moment, then burst out laughing. I slid my old set of keys across the table to Riggs and he slid my new set across to me. We both stood up and I gave my best salute. “It’s been an honour, sir,” I said. Riggs’ smile faded. “Likewise, Yates.” He gave me a salute in return. “Dismissed.” I dropped my hand and headed towards the door. As I was leaving, Riggs opened the desk drawer and pulled out a miniature rake. Methodically, he began to rake the rock garden of his little tree. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was past midnight and I was lying in my bunk, unable to sleep. Thoughts of my first day in the mailroom tomorrow pounded inside my head. I turned onto my side and opened my eyes to look at the photos I had pinned to the wall. The photo of my father blowing out the candles on his birthday cake always made me smile, but I was focussed on another. It was of a golden retriever standing on a field of freshly cut summer grass. His yellow, expertly-groomed fur was golden in the sunlight and his chain collar twinkled like a silver star. His posture was superb, ears and tail pointing up towards the heavens. His tongue stuck out a bit as he smiled for the camera. This was Max, and I loved him. He had been mine since he was a puppy and the day I had to watch him disappear on the horizon from the battered seat of an army bus was one of my worst. I’d left him with my sister; she sent me a letter about him every week. There’s an idea, I thought. I’ll go to the mailroom right now. I’ll pick up my letter for the week and take a look around. It might settle my nerves. I got dressed quietly and left the barracks. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I opened the door, but the room wasn’t empty. I had entered the mail station without any trouble but the filing system confounded me, so I began exploring. I consulted the map by the front door and went through the station room by room. At the end of a featureless corridor was the door to the last room. On the map it was labelled as unused, but it definitely wasn’t. Inside there was a vast number of filing cabinets with labels covering the range of the alphabet. In the middle of the room there was a large metal desk, and underneath it a trashcan full of empty, torn envelopes. On the desk there were five labelled boxes: “INBOX”, “IN RESEAL”, “OUT RESEAL”, “IN REWRITE” and “OUT REWRITE”. A man was seated behind the desk. He was of average height, with thin balding hair and a doughy physique. Large round glasses sat on the tip of his nose, obscuring a large face with a droopy expression. He had corporal stripes on his fatigues and a letter in his hands. “Hello,” he said. I was caught off guard, and forgot to salute. “Hi,” I managed to stammer back. “Who are you?” He asked. “Private Anton Yates.” “You are supposed to arrive tomorrow.” He spoke very calmly and purposefully. “I couldn’t sleep.” “Where did you get the key to this room?” I held up the whole keyring. “They came from the brass.” “I see.” Several moments passed where neither one of us said anything, we just stared at each other. Finally, I asked him, “What are you doing?” It had already become apparent to me what he was doing, but I wanted to hear his answer. “I am filtering the mail,” he replied immediately. “The army is filtering our mail?” “No.” He shook his head. “Not the army. I am. I open every letter and package that comes through this station. I read the contents, and decide if they should go through as is or if they need to be rewritten. Sometimes I throw the whole thing out.” This left me with more questions, but for some reason I started with the least pressing. “Who rewrites them?” I asked. “I do. This is a one man operation. I keep copies of the exchanges that each soldier has,” he said as he pointed to the file cabinets. “And I decide what should be written. I don’t release a letter until I have the writing down, both in content and style.” This was insane, I had to tell someone immediately. “I’m getting the guards.” “Please, wait. Let me explain.” He took a deep breath and began cleaning his glasses. “The war against the Ock has been raging too long, and it will not end soon. The battles are becoming more brutal daily. While these soldiers sit in a damp trench, hiding from machine gun fire and air strikes, their lives are falling apart at home. Their girlfriends are leaving them. Their children are getting sick. They are being fired. I cannot help them on the battlefield, but I can make their lives easier by filtering out that which will burden them. One day they will need the truth, but until then I can give them a happy lie.” “You’re an egotist! What gives you the right to decide what they shouldn’t know?” “Nothing. But the truth is it works. This needs to be done.” I turned towards the door. “Anton Yates from the mess, correct?” he called. “Did Vince tell you about his sons straight A’s? He is getting C’s. How much happier is Riggs since he received his bonsai tree? Does he truly need to know who sent it: myself or his wife?” I continued walking. As I made my way up the corridor, the man raised his voice for the first time. “At least think about it until morning! Think of how happy you were when Max got better after the operation!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was past midnight and I was at the mailing station. I opened the door, but the room wasn’t empty. Inside there was a vast number of filing cabinets with labels covering the range of the alphabet. In the middle of the room there were two large metal desks. A man was seated behind the desk on the right. I sat down behind the desk on the left.
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Jul 14, 2014 03:08
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My advice is start in Reno. That way there is no chance you have to go to Reno.
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Jul 14, 2014 03:14
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Thanks for the critiques, you two are very quick. My opponent never showed, such a shame
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Jul 14, 2014 16:58
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Crabrock, some people have a score from you but no crit. Will the Google doc be updated with their crits later? I'm in for this week as well.
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Jul 15, 2014 13:19
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If you want a critique of your work you can get it in another thread man, you don't have to try to repurpose this one (not to mention your writing) Also, the problem with claiming your work as original after previous work was proven not to be just minutes earlier is that no one will believe you
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Jul 18, 2014 18:11
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The Saddest Rhino posted:PPS: I'm an IRL legal professional btw. Slow down, champ The amount of validation you're giving this guy is more than required
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Jul 18, 2014 18:33
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 Just Talk ======= 850 Words The cursor blinked in an empty terminal window, a lone white square in a sea of black. He observed the steady rhythm, unable to stop it. The chassis had been ready for weeks, and all other code had completed testing. The last thing left to program was the mind: thoughts, feelings, personality. When it came to women, he had no idea what to write. Instead he watched the lonely square, and felt his heart beat to the rhythm. ----------------------------------------------------------------- He found the number on the forums. “6 pm,” the agency promised; too much time to prepare. He tried to fill the last few hours by tinkering with his hand. It was futile; his eyes were entrapped by the clock. His heart jumped when the alert appeared on the screen, excitement and fear boiling over at once. She was here. He checked the camera feed for the front entrance. Even in the dark and the rain, her blonde hair was radiant. Staring into the lens were two emerald eyes, vibrant and full of energy. Her skin reminded him of the ads that played on the subway: soft, smooth, Summerfield. Patiently, she waited for him to open the door. It whirred twice: once up, once down. The event that had consumed him for hours was over in moments. He could see now what the camera had hidden: her dark, black heels; her striking, red dress; her exquisite umbrella. Their eyes locked and his body froze. She smiled. “Hi.” He looked away. “Hi.” With the flip of a switch, the translucent, red field disappeared and the ribs of the umbrella folded inwards. He studied the grace of her movements as she hung it on the rack. She turned towards him and the words streamed out of his mouth. “I didn’t know what you like, so I got a bunch of stuff - so you’d feel comfortable. I got beer, wine, scotch, um, there’s cigarettes on the table.” He pointed behind himself to a coffee table in between two couches. “I put the credits on the counter - I mean, that’s what they -” “Woah! Slow down!” “I’m sorry.” He quickly sat down on the nearer couch and fiddled with the hologram of Metropolis that rested on the table. “That’s what the forums said to do.” Aimlessly, he spun the purple image of the city. She sat across from him on the opposite couch. “Hey.” A pouty look of concern had washed over her face. Their eyes locked again. “Don’t be nervous. I’d love a cigarette, thank you.” Wispy smoke danced towards the ceiling. “What are you looking for tonight?” She cocked her head and grinned. “What else did the forums say to do?” The heat rushed to his face. It’s her smile, he thought as his gaze dived to the floor. “I wanted to talk.” “Just talk?” “I mean - if it’s alright…” “Of course!” She kept her smile small, careful not to frighten him. The usual topics didn’t work. Regardless of what subject she chose, she couldn’t get more than a few remarks out of him. Her eyes dimmed and her smiles receded. She reached for the cigarettes with increasing frequency, pulling the thin, grey smoke out of them one at a time. He could see her losing interest, so he took a gamble. “I like your hand.” She held up her left hand. The polished steel plates glowed where the light struck them, but the intricate carvings remained dark and visible. “Oh, thank you! Yours is lovely too.” He clenched and unclenched his right fist. The dark metal was dull under any light, but he could see the tendons move through the glass. “Thanks… I designed it myself...” Her smile reappeared. “You design body mods?” Her eyes sparkled as they gazed upon the schematics, sketches that only he had seen. She asked questions faster than he could answer, but as she did his courage grew. The room echoed with once-private stories of successful designs and laughable failures. He looked into her eyes and smiled back as he opened her hand to show her how it worked. She ran out of questions and he ran out of stories, but it didn’t matter. They talked about their favourite ads, and how it always rained in Metropolis. His ears tickled when she laughed, as if he were listening to his favourite song. Each sensation burned into his memory: the smell of tobacco and sweet perfume, the lines framing her smile, the cool comfort of her hand in his. “I’m just gonna close my eyes.” He put his feet up on the couch. “Please, keep talking.” He woke up alone. The pack of cigarettes was gone, and so was the stack of credits. “Sorry, we don’t give out info about the girls,” the agency told him. “If you’re feeling lonely, we can send another one ‘round tonight.” He did feel lonely, but knew he wouldn’t much longer. He sat and watched the blinking cursor for the final time. When it came to women, he’d had no clue what to write. Now he knew where to start.
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Jul 20, 2014 18:08
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You guys really stepped up your bingo card colouring game
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Jul 20, 2014 22:26
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Helsing posted:In retrospect I should have done something about drug dealing angels or old cyberpunk men drinking whisky in outer space. Oh well. I hear you, thought of like 3 stories as I was posting
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Jul 21, 2014 04:09
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sebmojo posted:Number 36 Kind of absurd setup, and clanky clunky in many places, but there are enough cleanly observed details to make it readable and the otaku's efforts make him modestly engaging Yes
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Jul 22, 2014 14:09
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Echo Cian posted:Signup Yes
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Jul 22, 2014 17:57
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crabrock posted:Also, big congrats to the 3 people who got their first HM this week! I love seeing people improve Thank you. Thank you Tyr, sebmojo and Phobia as well.
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Jul 23, 2014 03:14
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A Tower of Joy ============ 1153 WORDS Osmond looked down at Sheila, and watched the familiar words materialize on her light brown pages. Better down than up! His cheeks pulled on his great, white beard as he smiled. “Better down than up,” he replied. He began the descent from the bedroom to the base of his tower, taking each step slowly and carefully. He carried Sheila with his left arm, and held his staff with his right. Though her weight burdened his old bones, his smile revealed how grateful he was for her company. He focussed on the task at hand and his expression soured. “I bet Thaddeus is in one of his moods again.” The words reformed on her pages. But why would Chris go with him? “Who knows, but they took my scrying glass!” He raised his nose high in the air. “A wizard without a scrying glass - hmph! Blasted fools, how am I supposed to get any work done?” Osmond continued down the spiral staircase, now grumbling inaudibly to himself. He had become accustomed to Christoph waking him at the crack of dawn. Christoph’s oak frame would tower over the bed as he belt some wonderful tune with his chimes. Today there was no tune, no Christoph to belt it, and no Thaddeus eagerly packing his drawers with supplies; just Sheila on her shelf and an old man who had slept in. He softened his expression and pulled Sheila in close. “Do you think I said something to upset them?” Close to the bottom of the stairs, he made sure to whisper in case they were listening. Oh, Osmond! No, you were your regular, grumpy self. At the base of the stairs, Osmond stopped to stretch his back. Confident it had survived the trip, he made his way to the kitchen. “Frederick, my master chef, sorry to keep you waiting! I hope breakfast is still warm? Frederick?” There was no answer, only a large mess. The sink was littered with pots and pans, a bag of flour had spilled onto the floor, and there was a great deal of jam on the table. Wow, maybe they are upset… “Frederick, reveal yourself right now!” Osmond swept his staff across the cupboards as he shouted the spell. “Aht-kro!” The doors flew open, revealing nothing inside but cups and plates. “Don’t tell me he’s in hiding as well!” Maybe they went somewhere to talk? “Preposterous! What are a clock, a desk, and a frying pan going to talk about? And more importantly, how?” Osmond stormed out of the kitchen, careful not to drag his robes through the mess. “I bet Thaddeus is sulking in the basement, just like the time I forgot to use a coaster.” No! Her words formed faster than usual, and her script was more plain. I bet they’re in the laboratory. Osmond raised a bushy eyebrow. Well we should check there first anyway, you know? Search top-to-bottom? “Hmm, I suppose.” He let out a deep sigh. “This isn’t how I imagined today would proceed.” Oh? What’s special about today? Osmond smiled. “Nothing but a silly human tradition, one that hasn’t brought me joy in many years.” The laboratory was untouched from last night. Torchlight illuminated wooden tables littered with bottles of potions, their fantastic colours and magnificent shapes combining in endless permutations. As Osmond turned to leave, Sheila fluttered her pages. Hey, what’s wrong with your potion of detection? Osmond stopped and looked over at the open bottle of clear liquid. “Why, what’s wrong?” It looks like something is forming inside. “Blast! Not another water crystal!” He laid Sheila down on the table and lifted the potion up to the light. Sheila waited patiently until he held it right in front of his nose. Thrack! A thunderous clap echoed throughout the room as she slammed her covers together with all of her might. Startled, Osmond spilled the potion onto his robes. The liquid hissed and evaporated rapidly, leaving a black stain on his chest. Eyes still wide, he picked Sheila up and flipped her open. “Egad, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” Sorry! I saw a bug! In times likes these Sheila was thankful for her lack of intonation. Even before the stain, Osmond’s robes had seen better days. Dusty, dirty, and weathered, it was hard to imagine that any creative wizardry could blossom from within such drab. Now that they were stained, wearing them was out of the question. You should change into your nice robes, it’s been ages since you wore them! “Around the house? Don’t be ridiculous...” Who are you saving them for, the QUEEN? Sheila folded and unfolded the corner of her page, her own take on a wink. Osmond harumphed the idea, but nonetheless headed for the stairs. Looking up towards his bedroom, he sighed. He reached out towards the wall, as if to grab the railing that wasn’t there. His beard, enormous as it was, could not hide his frown. Better up than up twice? --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Shelia was right about the robes. The gold runes glowed brilliantly against the purple fabric, energizing Osmond with youthful vigor. His slow, careful steps were replaced by great, confident strides. Too long had Osmond puttered about, a grey spectre of his true self. In his drab, grey robes he had been Osmond the Wizard, but now he was Osmond the Great! Osmond the Powerful! He opened the basement door with one mighty push, and stared at the darkness within. “We know you’re in here, you mischief-makers! We’ve searched the other rooms, so whatever you have planned, it’s about to come to light!” He cracked his staff against the ground and let loose a booming shout. “Svet-lo!” Bright light burst forth from the end of his staff, illuminating the room. When the three assistants saw the look on Osmonds face, they knew their plan was a success. As Christoph broke into song, Frederick took a bow and presented the feast that sat atop Thaddeus’ back. At the forefront was a plate of loafcakes, filling the room with the sweet aroma of lemons and nutmeg. On one side of the plate, there was a cup of milk. On the other, a cup of tea. Behind it was a great, big seared fish with a side of roasted potatoes and peppers. Frederick always fancied himself an artist, and this was his masterpiece. The sight brought joy to Osmond’s heart, but the banner above his friends brought tears to his eyes. The beads rolled down his cheeks as he read the words, red jam on a tablecloth: “Happy Birthday”. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Who knew? Whose idea was it?” A desk leg, a clock hand, and a handle all pointed back in his direction. Osmond looked down at Sheila for the first time since they had entered and was overcome with laughter. He couldn’t help it; he had never seen a book blush before.
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Jul 27, 2014 18:04
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Thank you for the critiques. I am in for this week. I choose Week 91:OUR FINEST HOUR. Other thoughts: I like having my critique, complete with fancy-stats, on lined paper. Reading through the archive, some of you are very mean in your prompts. My chosen prompt had extra time given to the participants which I feel entitled to as well. Number 36 fucked around with this message at 01:30 on Jul 29, 2014 |
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Jul 29, 2014 01:27
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Entenzahn posted:You have 24 hours to redo any previous interprompt (even if you have done it before) for extra words. One per customer. Chairchucker's from the previous page Johnny Judge and the Case of the Innocent Client ======================================== 126 WORDS The five minute recess was over. Johnny kicked down the door and walked right past the old attorney, up to the judge “Objection! Your-honor, this-trial-is-a-mockery. Lest-you-forget, my-client-is-innocent-until-proven-guilty.” “You’re right. Innocent!” The judge struck the block with his gavel. The old attorney walked up to Johnny. “You-did-a-drat-fine-job, son. You-stood-up-for-justice, even-though-it-meant-standing-up-to-your-father-who-is-also-your-boss. I-am-retiring-and-you-inherit-the-firm.” “No-thanks. I-have-become-disillusioned-with-the-legal-system. I’m-quitting-to-join-the-circus.” Johnny raced out of the room and exited the courthouse. He jumped into his corvette and drove away.
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Jul 31, 2014 04:51
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Number 36 posted:Week 91: OUR FINEST HOUR. Word limit = 1000 from prompt + 89 from bounty = 1089 total They'll Understand =============== 1025 WORDS My voice reaches a pitch it hasn’t since I was a kid. “Roger, I’m not doing this script. I’m not losing the championship title to Mikey Magnitude!” Roger’s voice crackles over the phone. “Nobody’s asking, Danny. Mike paid his dues, now it’s his time. Look at it this way: it sets you up for a redemption arc in the future.” “I don’t want a redemption arc, I want to stay champ!” I shout. “I don’t give a gently caress what you want!” Roger shouts back. “The wheel never stops turning and everyone gets their chance, you just happened to get yours first. Now grow the gently caress up and start memorizing.” The receiver clicks and I toss the phone. Pieces of plastic scatter around the room as it hits the wall. I imagine life as a habitual loser. Losers don’t sell merchandise. Losers don’t get free meals. Nobody asks to take have their photo taken with a loser. I get another phone from the kitchen, then sit down at my desk and slide the pile of fan mail over. Sorry kids, you’ll have to wait. They all say they’re my biggest fans. If they are, they’ll understand. I pull out the Yellow Pages and lookup “boxing”. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The music starts and I descend from the stadium rafters. As the cable lowers me, I flap my dragon-wings cape. Jets of fire spew from the corners of the ring when I touch down in the middle. The referee brings me my championship belt and takes my wings. I lift it over my head and spin so everyone can see. “Dra-gon Dan! Dra-gon Dan!” The chant of the crowd is intoxicating. This moment is what I live for, the crystal-clear sense of purpose. I’m not a wrestler, I’m a source of joy and inspiration to people who’re missing that little something in their lives. I hate the rear end in a top hat that wrote the script. I hate Roger for giving it to me. It wasn’t his choice, but I hate Mike too. They’re taking me away from these people. Even worse, they’re taking these people away from me. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear a round of applause for your World Wrestling Heavyweight Champion!” “Not so fast!” The lights flicker. The rumble of an earthquake fills the venue. Everyone hushes as the spotlights focus on Mike standing at the challenger’s entrance. “Dragon Dan, you’re a fraud! You don’t deserve that belt! I’m here to take you down and prove it.” Boos erupt from every direction. Just like we’re taught, he stays in character and keeps his face a mask. Nevertheless, his eyes speak for themselves. The pity I feel for him vanishes when I realize that I’m looking at my future, one possible version of it. I lose all doubts about my plan. My mind goes on autopilot. Before I know it, Mike is in the ring with me and the bell has rung. I charge at him, but he pushes off of my shoulders and hops over me like a frog. I keep running into the ropes and turn around. Like a slingshot, they launch me at him from behind. He takes one quick step to the side, lifts up an elbow, and down I go. He quickly pins me, all according to the script. This is it, my one chance to talk to him. “Mike, you have to throw the fight.” “What? No man, you lose about ten minutes from now. Did you even finish the script?” “gently caress the script, Mike. You’re throwing this fight.” “Sorry man, I know you’re upset but -” I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. I roll him over sideways, now I’m on top. I hold his shoulders down and punch him right in the jaw. Before I can get another hit in, he throws me off over his head. On my feet in a second, I adopt my fighter’s stance: right foot forward and raised fists guarding my face. He gets up and spits blood. “Are you serious?” I nod. Mike doesn’t have a chance. The wrestling is fake but the muscles aren’t, and I have about twenty pounds more of them. While he was memorizing the script, I was learning to fight for real. First he tries to use wrestling moves, then he tries to copy my technique, both to no result. I land blow after blow to his body and head. As he comes at me again, I fake him out with a jab and knock him on his rear end with an uppercut. I circle him as he’s getting up. He looks like a wobbly top that can’t spin for much longer. The bloody streams from his mouth and nose meet at his chin, then drip to the floor. He stares at me through his black eye. “Mike, just throw the drat fight.” He wipes the blood from his mouth. “Do you know how hard we work? Do you know what we go through to make you look good? How much better you have it than us?” I keep circling him. “People shout at me on the street. I don’t even open my mail anymore. This was my break, all you had to do was follow the loving script.” There are tears in his eyes. I want to tell him that I do know. I want to explain that that’s why I’m doing this. I want to be sorry. Over his shoulder, I see Roger coming with two security guards, so I move in. One, two, three times I jab, then I follow with a cross. He swats my jabs to the side, but he’s wide open after the third one. He doesn’t get back up. The guards are climbing into the ring. Roger is right behind them. “You’re finished! I don’t want to loving look at you!” he shouts. At least, I think he does. I can’t hear him over the cheering crowd. I grab the hanging mic from overhead and climb onto the top rope. “You mess with the Dragon -” Security tackles me before I can finish. I stare at the ceiling, smile, and listen to the fans. “You’re gonna get burned!”
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Aug 4, 2014 03:55
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Thanks for the crits/judging Entenzahn, Fumblemouse, Sebmojo, and Thalamas
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Aug 5, 2014 13:49
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Echo Cian posted:Number 36: A Tower of Joy Thanks for the extra feedback Echo, I appreciate it. EDIT: I don't have much time this week, but whatever. I'm in again.
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Aug 6, 2014 03:45
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What We Do ========== 981 WORDS “Do ya think what we do matters?” Andrew asked. His Texas twang matched his outfit. Jonas straightened his hat. “You mean philosophically?” “I mean our job.” Jonas puckered his lips while he thought. “I think so, yes.” He took off his glasses to clean them while he spoke. The dim saloon light made finding the smudges difficult. “Without us, the timeline would suffer.” He looked over Andrew’s shoulder to make sure that Tom was still sitting at the table by the doors. He nodded in the direction. “Take Tom, for example. We’re not here, he sells his blasters to the Bloom gang. What changes? Perhaps a lot, perhaps a little, but certainly something.” “Hmm.” Andrew sipped his whiskey. “Or maybe the Native Americans get a hold of them. That would change a thing or two.” Jonas donned his glasses again. Andrew set his whiskey down on the table and took his feet off of the chair. “I guess it depends what ya think about the timeline. Like, you’re assuming that we can change it.” He leaned in. “What if it’s constant? What if anything that these assholes try to do just ends up causing the future?” Tom was still at the table. The Bloom gang had arrived and they were speaking. Jonas leaned in as well. “Well, maybe we’re the force that keeps it constant. Maybe all attempts to change it fail because we’re there to stop them.” “But what does that say about us? Brass might could’ve picked anyone off the street and sent them to stop the baddies. Sure as shoot, they’d do a good job.” Jonas shook his head. “I doubt it. Brass can’t be certain that the timeline won’t change, so they choose the best men for the job, thus ensuring that it doesn’t change!” Andrew smiled. “Okay, now let’s say it isn’t constant. Let’s say we mess up and some silver-tongued devil convinces the Ruskies to launch the bomb. Do the changes take effect in our timeline, or is it like branches on a tree?” Jonas smiled back. “Do we continue on the new branch, the only ones aware that something has changed?” “Exactly.” Jonas raised a finger and opened his mouth. Just then, he realized that the table by the doors was empty. “We’ll have to resume this later; Tom’s making his move.” Andrew downed his whiskey, turned the glass upside down, and slammed it onto the table. Jonas began entering commands into the console hidden in his coat. They walked out into the night. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The men gathered in the alley between the barbershop and the general store. Tom opened the crate to reveal a dozen black rifles. “Here’s the load of ‘em. Did ya boys get a chance to try out the ‘un I gave ya?” “Yessir, yes we did!” John Bloom’s grin was missing four teeth. “And?” “Well, is certainly the most impressive gadget we ever did see. They pack quite a punch, too! That peckerwood boy Petey’s widow will attest to that!” The rest of the gang sniggered. “We gotta couple problems wit ‘em, though.” “What problems can ya have wit a gun that’ll take out a lawman and his horse in a single shot?” “For starters, they eat through that fancy ammunition ya gave us mighty quick. For seconds, no one but yourself has any idea of where to get ‘em or how to fix ‘em.” The others nodded. “It seems that we’d be best in the West, but we’d also be dependin’ on you.” “Worst case, ya switch back to regular shooters after carving out a nice piece a land for you and yours.” Tom frowned. Sometimes he felt like nothing would convince them to buy. “Y’all said in the bar you were ready to cut a deal. You got the gold or not?” Bloom put his fingers on his chin in contemplation. He stood still for several moments. “Well?” He stood very still. “Well!?” Perfectly still. “Aw, hell. I’m in a pause field, ain’t I?” Jonas and Andrew blocked both ends of the alley. “Thomas Richards,” Jonas shouted. “You’re under arrest for crimes against time!” He opened his coat. The moonlight glimmered on his badge. He kept one hand on the console. “Y’all love saying that rhyme, don’t ya?” Tom replied. Andrew flicked the butt of his cigarette. “Why are you talking like that?” Tom paused. “No idea, I guess I’ve gone a bit local. In any case, eat poo poo!” He grabbed a blaster and fired. Jonas was ready. He pressed the yellow button and the hexagonal shield formed before him. It hummed like a bug zapper as it absorbed the blast. The wooden walls on either side of him groaned and splintered, but held. Tom could hear the swish of Andrew’s pants. He faced the sprinting lawman. Andrew pressed the blue buttons on his watch and hoped that Jonas had had enough time to place the portals. One opened on the ground in front of him. He jumped in feet first as Tom fired. Andrew came out horizontally from behind and dug his heels into Tom’s back. Tom crumpled to the ground. He lay there groaning while they cuffed him and collected the blasters. “See,” Andrew said. “I told ya cleats were a good idea.” -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They looked up the Bloom gang when they got back. All five gang members were arrested by the sheriff of Holbrook. He discovered them late at night in an alley, “In deep contemplation of their sinful behaviour.” “Wish we looked ‘em up beforehand, too.” Andrew said. “May could have some answers.” He shook the sand out of his boots, carefully minding the spurs. “You never told me your opinion,” Jonas said. “Do you think that what we do matters?” “I don’t know.” Andrew smiled. “I love doing it, though.” “Me too.” Jonas took off his duster and cowboy hat. “I love the costumes.”
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Aug 10, 2014 18:04
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the wildest turkey posted:your lovely stories 
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Aug 13, 2014 23:13
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AaronMFK posted:My thanks seemed inauthentic with a period and overly enthusiastic with an exclamation point. Just stop using punctuation altogether and let God sort em out I challenge the next person who posts to a brawl
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Aug 14, 2014 16:55
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Pitiful you are, and meaningless. By the flesh and by the blood shall your heart sink in my darkness.
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Aug 14, 2014 17:11
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 17:52 |
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Like at least post a time zone, "Friday night" covers an entire 24 hour period without a time zone
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Aug 16, 2014 05:32
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