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A BAD IDEA. HE. I am in. CUT TO: Close up of pupil dilating; fear; a sweat drop runs down his temple.
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Apr 16, 2016 07:23
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 12:31 |
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Ok. Ok, ok, ok, ok, ok. I have lost and I have been absent and I haven't even read the prompt but you know what? I am loving writing something this weekend. e: I guess I need to read the prompt, pick something for me and give me less loving words, do it, gently caress you, what do I care? Sign me up,  and loving ban me if I don't goddamn write anything
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Apr 22, 2016 08:33
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Atlanta, 1959 - 992 Words https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsjBPt-GeFc I rounded the corner on Maple & Currant and all of a sudden Billie fuckin Warsaw. I almost went over the front my handlebars I had to stop so fast what with her sittin in the middle of the goddamn road, grinnin and lookin like the smug rear end prick she was. I was on my way to meet up with Terry at the pitcher show so I didn’t have time to deal with no Billie. But bein the Christian I was I knew I should give it a chance to reason with her slow rear end before I made a show of force with it. “Get out of the way, you knucklehead, or you’re gon lose a tooth,” I spat, very matter of fact. Billie was’n movin. She leaned on the front of her own bike like she owned the goddamned road. “Where you gwan ‘n all of a hurry Charelene?” “Ain’t none of your gee dee business, Billie.” I shifted my weight on the seat, impatient and annoyed. “Let me by and go home or to hell now.” Billie got off her bike an’ started walkin’ towards me. My fight or flight kicked in real good but I stood where I was like Custer on the hill. I wasn’t gonna let no Billie fuckin Warsaw see me shakin in my boots. “If’n you wanna pass through me, you gots ta answer these questions three.” She did a wiggle of her rear end and bowed her head deep at me. She had a funky rear end crew cut and the top of her hair was cut funny. It made her look like she was baldin’, like some kind of little old man, if little old men were stinky and dirty and couldn’ do their times tables no good. I raised an eyebrow. “What you talkin’ bout, Billie?” She looked up at me with another poo poo eatin grin. “They’s riddles. Like in the Hoo-bit.” “Eff your Hoo-bit and let me by right now,” I said, twirlin’ my bike pedal impatiently. She ignored me and smoothed her greasy hair back, then pulled a ball of paper from her pocket. “Riddle the first: ‘Word ain’t key to me. I can’t think that eazly. If you keep that energy, Gipsy sounds like a symphony.’” She crumpled the paper up and grinned. “What am I?” I scowled. “Is that even English, Warsaw?” “It’s a riddle, dumbass, you gotta figure it out.” She hopped from one foot to the other like some kind of fat angel baby who had popped her first fuckin arrow in an rear end somewhere. “What am I? What am I? What am I?” “Shut up and let me think.” I tried to turn the words round in my head but they all jumbled up. “Read it again.” She unrolled her ball, slowly and proudly. “’Word ain’t key to me. I can’t think that eazly—‘” “Yeah, that much I got.” She continued. “’If you keep that energy, Gipsy sounds like a symphony.’” I scrunched up my face again in frustration. “Where’n the hell did you get this crap anyway?” She puffed up her chest. “Wrote it m’self.” “Oh, well why didn’t you say so in the first place? You’re an idiot, that’s what you are.” I laughed, an she glared back at me. “What, ain’t that the right answer?” She spat in front of me. “Piss off, Charlene Abbot. You have to make a real guess.” I spat back in front of her. “Piss off right back, Billie Warsaw. You ain’t queen of this here road. It’s a free effin country. Now you let me by.” She crossed her arms and stood like the fattest statue ever made. “Answer the effin riddle. I worked hard on it.” “Oh, did you? Worked all night on it, huh, just to get out here and piss me off? Fat Billie Warsaw slaves all night on what she thinks is a gee dee masterpiece piece for the ages.” I laughed at her face. “How long’d it take you Billie, huh? Three hours? Four?” She hesitated. “That’s not—“ “FIVE?” I laughed and laughed and laughed. Billie just stood there. “Sweet bleedin Jesus, five fuckin hours it takes you to write four tiny rear end lines and they ain’t even in English! Some fuckin poet you are.” She scowled at me. “You shut up, Charlene.” “Get the gently caress out of my way, Billie, you’re making me late to my date, ok?” Her face fell. “…you got a date?” “Yeah, I got a fuckin date an you keepin me here with your stupid rear end limerick.” I was really on a roll now, Billie fuckin Warsaw had really gotten me goin. “You know what a date is, Billie?” I put on airs and put my pinkies out. “It’s what civilized fuckin people do with folks they think is pretty. You ever been on a date, Billie?” Billie was starin at the road. “No.” “Maybe take a bath and skip the gee dee donut in the mornin and someone’ll take pity on your ugly rear end.” I spat at her one last time. “Now get out of my fuckin way. I ain’t gonna ask again.” Billie was real quiet. She stood there lookin at the street for a good minute not sayin nothin. I thought maybe she was workin up if she was gonna deck me or not but all of a sudden she jumped on her bike and rode away like a bat outta hell. I called after her, all sorts of things I won’t repeat here. Then I rode rode as fast as I could to the pitchers and made it by the five fifteen showin. Terry didn’t show, that fucker, but the pitcher was good so I din’t care too much. --- I was twelve then an I din’t know much bout love, but I knew lots bout loss in the comin week cause they pulled Billie fuckin Warsaw from the river two days next.
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Apr 25, 2016 04:14
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prooooooooommmmmmmmpppppppptttttttttt
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Apr 26, 2016 04:02
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Yeah, I think I'll try this too. In, gonna go over my old stories and see which one I wanna do.
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Apr 26, 2016 17:21
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Do it, Chili! Write with us 
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Apr 29, 2016 03:21
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Ok, I failed last week but I think I have time this week. I WILL DO IT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WarNOKCnWYs Copper vs. Snowglobe
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May 3, 2016 06:27
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what in the world happened here
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May 25, 2016 05:13
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Hey thunderdome, can someone link the prompt this week? There's, uh, a lot of bolded words in a lot of posts.
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Aug 26, 2016 21:02
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wow i'm an idiot. these things always change, these things never change.
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Aug 26, 2016 21:10
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Also can I still sign up? Put me in.
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Aug 26, 2016 21:11
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Can a prompt be given to me? I thought a prompt was gonna be given to me. I can generate until I like one, but, someone give me one.
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Aug 27, 2016 06:40
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flerp posted:SEE WHAT WENT DOWN WHEN WE WERE IN A COMA FOR PASSOVER IN BORNEO Yes, I will take this. Thank you flerp.
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Aug 28, 2016 06:30
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Psalm 121 Prompt: SEE WHAT WENT DOWN WHEN WE WERE IN A COMA FOR PASSOVER IN BORNEO 1286 words Like yesterday morning, I spent most of the time between six and seven AM watching the cigarette smoke curl in tendrils on the ceiling. I had decided that surely this couldn’t be healthy for end stage lymphoma patients, but I wasn’t in a position to complain about it, and even if I had been, it gave me something to watch. The ceiling was dingy but had been repainted recently enough that nothing was peeling, so even there, there was no joy. Unless, of course, someone was smoking, and everyone was smoking in Israel nowadays. I wondered who it was today who came to sit at me. I had ceased feigning any pretense that my visitors came to be present with me some time ago, or maybe not very long ago. In the early stages of my diagnosis Alona had sat with me and read from the Book, squeezing my hand and singing the Psalms one by one from beginning to end of both Torah and visiting hours, but those were the days in which I could sit up and piss from my zayin instead of a tube, so I told her if I Am had given up on me than I was surely giving up on I Am. “Don’t be a fool, Gidon. God gives up on no man, even the stubborn old dying ones who spit in his face.” She pushed a finger into our worn Torah. “Omar layhwah mach’siy um tzudatiy elohay ev’ach-bo-“ “’Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare,’ et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, it’s all bullshit, Alona, can’t you see.” I motioned for her to bring her cigarette to my lips since I could no longer hold my arms upright. She clucked her tongue at me but obliged, and I breathed deep from the teat of acrid death and her lipstick. “Six million Jews Hitler took; the war, countless more men. Where was their deliverance? Where was their refuge, their fortress?” I took another drag and coughed, choking and laughing bitterly at the same time. “He did not show his face then, and I will not show him mine now.” She frowned deeply at me. “He is showing it to you now, word by word, moment by moment, Gidon. ‘There is no day that goes without the moon and no day that goes without sunrise and sunset.’” She offered the cigarette again and I shook my head, motioning for her to take it away. “I hate your Marlboros. Why can’t you bring me my Pall Mals like I ask you.” “They are not so easy to find now, with the border fighting–“ “Bah.” I shifted my back down into the bed, casting my eyes at the ceiling, watching the smoke tendrils slowly curl out the open window. “’The only solution for Palestine – elimination of Israel.’ What did we fight a war for?” She let the Torah fall into her lap and reached for my hand, but the sharp movement of her elbow knocked the bedpan to the floor. I jolted awake, a motion I neither felt nor showed on my hollow shell. There was someone in my room and everything smelled of piss and poo poo and dirt. Where was I? The shadows from the streetlamp outside danced on the ceiling, casting long fingers like death approaching. I could smell the smoke, too, but couldn’t see it in the dark; kreteks, maybe? All the young nurses were smoking those nowadays. I felt a hand on my arm and heard the squeak of the bedpan cart; a sharp knife of light crossed my line of vision, blinded me temporarily, like the quick flash of anti-aircraft utility. I couldn’t feel my legs; I couldn’t feel my legs. Where was my gun, get up and hand me my gun, Harold, stop clutching that cross around your neck, He didn’t throw us from that plane so we could poo poo ourselves here and die in the goddamn mud like sniveling little tsoyg, did he, charge, you piece of poo poo, charge, you sons of bitches, we’ll send this island straight down Hitler’s throat and make him piss it out his rear end in a top hat, charge, charge, ammo, fire in the hole, medic, get down, there’s too much smoke, there’s so much light, holy God just one more hill, shir la-ma-alos, eso aynai el he-horim, may-ayin yovo ez-ri, ez-ri may-im adonoy, osay shoma-yim vo-oretz- There was smoke everywhere and Arthur was desperately trying to put out the Shabbat candle. I opened the flap to the tent and stuck my head out, coughing fresh air as smoky tendrils rushed past my head. Samuel continued with the final prayer even as Arthur scrambled to find a way to keep our tent from catching flame: “Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, shehecheyanu, v’kiymanu, vhigi-anu, laz’man hazeh. Blessed are You, L-rd our G-d, King of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occa-“ His prayer was cut short by the entire contents of two canteens being emptied onto our makeshift seder table. It soaked the cocoa powder and stuck it to the table, pushed the rest of the applesauce onto the dirt. Our makeshift charoset erupted up and on to Samuel’s tallit before he could scramble back in time. I watched from the tent flap, fanning smoke towards it. “How both of you have survived this long in combat, I will never know.” Samuel brushed at the sticky nut mixture, attempting in vain to remove it from his prayer shawl. “Perhaps we should have tried harder to find something bitter, rather than letting Yahweh bring it to us…” Arthur picked up the soggy Torah from carnage before us. “This is certainly the most unique take I have seen on the dipping of the karpas.” The back of the Torah was where we kept our cigarettes, and that, of course, was ruined, as was our pesach dinner, meager as it had been. Undeterred, we left the tent flap open for Elijah, who we knew would not come, and went begging to the gentiles. They pitied us because we were Jewish, but we knew they hated us because we were kikes, and we all of us were in the South Pacific so what did it matter, anyway? Gey gezunterheyt. We three were all the Jews left in our division, and we were seen as lepers by Axis and Ally alike. We had joined the War to liberate the camps, and instead we hopped from island to island, iron birds calling out for the release of death. They said we were winning. We sat under the stars and smoked our cigarettes. We did not know when the next assault would come, but we knew it was being planned. There was always another island, always another hill to take. Our cigarettes were Marlboros, which I hated. The smoke rose into a blackness I could not fathom or comprehend. There were so many stars, like so many fallen Jews, like so many fallen men, like dingy ceiling paint aching to chip. Half asleep, or maybe half awake, I thought I felt the bedsheet on my legs, but I knew it was a phantom shimmer of a distant memory. Alona was reading the Torah, and I could feel her hand in mine. Samuel sang from the Bekol Ram: Od tir’eh, od tir’eh, kama tov yihiyeh; bashana, bashana haba’ah. My cracked voice echoed his words in my throat but did not ring, as the plane burned around me: You will yet see, you will yet see how good it will be next year. A sharp knife of light crossed my vision, blinded me. I couldn’t feel my legs. I couldn’t feel my legs.
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Aug 29, 2016 04:54
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....pr....oooompt?
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Aug 29, 2016 06:17
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Is this the new standard turnaround for crits and winners / losers because hot drat, thunderdome, hot drat.
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Aug 29, 2016 06:20
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In, and requesting a -punk and a flash rule
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Aug 29, 2016 07:22
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Chili posted:Psalm 121 I normally don't respond to crits and let them happen, but in light of your comments, Chili, I do want to apologize if I offended anyone who is far more of a practicing Jew than I am. I am ethnically Jewish but beyond occasional seders, Chanukah, and a knowledge of the prayers, I realized about halfway through the story as I was sifting through the 8000 tabs I had open that I had a good idea but I am no Michael Chabon. It never really gestated exactly how I wanted it to, there was a lot of rush stuff at the end (as called out for), and I think if I was looking to do something that got me more in touch with my Jewish roots I probably should have given it a little bit more than Friday to Sunday, but at the end of the day, I wanted to get something in for critique. My intention was not to present that I was any sort of expert on Judaism, and I think a little too much of "I can do this" crept in when I couldn't. So if anyone read my story and went "wow, this dick," I truly apologize, because I can see how this can come off as some random internet white dude writing about Jews in WW2.
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Aug 29, 2016 17:04
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 12:31 |
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Thranguy posted:Psipunk. (Psionics) Flash Rule: Set in the '70s.  yesssssthanks!!
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Sep 1, 2016 05:32
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