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In. I choose Philitas of Cos, the man who allegedly died agonizing over erroneous word-usage. This is going to force me to write in an entirely foreign tone, so it should be interesting.
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May 28, 2013 14:17
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| # ? Apr 26, 2024 19:27 |
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In for sure. I'll be retelling the death of Harry Houdini, who claimed that he could withstand any punch to the stomach without injury. An amateur boxer took him up on this challenge, without giving him time to prepare, and ruptured his appendix.
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May 28, 2013 15:54
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Overwined posted:In. I choose Philitas of Cos, the man who allegedly died agonizing over erroneous word-usage. This is going to force me to write in an entirely foreign tone, so it should be interesting. Does it matter if two people write about the same subject? I also started writing about Philitas of Cos.
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May 28, 2013 15:59
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Repeats are OK, just boring to read :P. I'll make a sign up list when i get home, it's too hard to edit that post on my phone.
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May 28, 2013 16:32
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In with this lucky fellow http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Hall_%28lighthouse_keeper%29
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May 28, 2013 16:56
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In with Li Bai, who tried to kiss the moon's reflection and drowned.
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May 28, 2013 17:41
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Congratulations Crabrock, this is a great prompt. In for this week
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May 28, 2013 17:48
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gently caress it i'm in with crocodile on a plane. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2010_Bandundu_Filair_Let_L-410_crash I'm going to go with one of the passengers who knew nothing prior to the incident.
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May 28, 2013 17:49
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Family emergency has gotten worse, my critiques and follow ups for the contest will have to wait.
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May 28, 2013 18:22
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Noah posted:Family emergency has gotten worse, my critiques and follow ups for the contest will have to wait. Good luck dealing with that. I will work on a revision with the notes you gave me.
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May 28, 2013 22:02
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In with Clement Vallandigham.
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May 28, 2013 23:57
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In with Draco, I will not mention clothes in any way, shape or form.
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May 29, 2013 01:43
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Trying to stop procrastinating and get writing, so count me in. Tentative choice of 1920: Alexander I, King of the Hellenes.
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May 29, 2013 02:27
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1,400 words about an unusual death? Haha, I'm in.
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May 29, 2013 02:45
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Some of you need to post what you are going to write about. Also feel free to explore the list! lots of people grabbing from the first few.
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May 29, 2013 03:05
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crabrock posted:Some of you need to post what you are going to write about. I don't feel I can compete with Nubile, some I'm just gonna bow out of Draco and take up David Grundman instead, if that's all right.
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May 29, 2013 03:13
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gently caress it, give me William Kogut.
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May 29, 2013 03:45
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School's out, so I'm in with the following:quote:2009: Taylor Mitchell, a Canadian folk singer, was attacked and killed by three coyotes, the only recorded adult person to have been killed by this species.[158][159]
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May 29, 2013 06:57
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In, and because I entered and failed to complete the last two I am going to  myself to slap down a story before deadline. Air Marshall Mitrofan Nedelin is my chosen avatar of unlikely demise. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 10:42 on May 29, 2013 |
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May 29, 2013 10:40
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In before I change my mind. I'll choose a death later.
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May 29, 2013 11:29
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PoshAlligator posted:I don't feel I can compete with Nubile, some I'm just gonna bow out of Draco and take up David Grundman instead, if that's all right. Like hell you are! Get back in the fight! It's almost like you're allergic to fun. I'm not even that good, gently caress. STOP BEING A LITTLE WEENIE. 
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May 29, 2013 13:42
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Nubile Hillock posted:Like hell you are! Get back in the fight! It's almost like you're allergic to fun. I'm not even that good, gently caress. STOP BEING A LITTLE WEENIE. But now I really want to do Grundman 
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May 29, 2013 14:01
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PoshAlligator posted:But now I really want to do Grundman Lol do both So much virility in you.
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May 29, 2013 14:34
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The Saddest Rhino posted:Lol do both Very well. e: As long as this okay with crabrock et al. I am going to write a short story for every entry in that list and make a short story collection 'Unusual Short Stories Inspired by Unusual Deaths'. (this is not true) Also I will mention clothes in my Draco one just because there's a bit in my head that I like that involves mentioning them but I can't say much it's not patented yet. PoshAlligator fucked around with this message at 15:33 on May 29, 2013 |
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May 29, 2013 15:01
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PoshAlligator posted:Very well. Submit both but pick the better one for us to judge add your official entry. A whole anthology of unusual death stories would be cool.
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May 29, 2013 16:45
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I'm in.quote:In the Dancing Plague of 1518 a woman (and eventually a league of 400 people) uncontrollably danced for a month causing dozens of participants to die of stroke and exhaustion. The reason for this occurrence is still unclear. Since the ringleader didn't actually die on the day she started the whole thing (not sure if she herself even died), I'm writing in the POV of some random mad dancer. Is that acceptable?
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May 29, 2013 17:21
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Yup. First person observer is OK, but i wasn't too know what they were thinking as they saw it happen/ participated in it.
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May 29, 2013 18:07
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I'm in. Sigurd The Mighty.
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May 29, 2013 18:49
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Good. That is an interesting one. Remember you have 2 people who will give you an early crit if you want.
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May 29, 2013 18:55
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crabrock posted:Good. That is an interesting one. Remember you have 2 people who will give you an early crit if you want.
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May 29, 2013 19:05
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I'm in with Alain de Moneys.
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May 29, 2013 19:11
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1979: Robert Williams, a worker at a Ford Motor Co. plant, was the first known human to be killed by a robot, after the arm of a one-ton factory robot hit him in the head. I...I can't not do this. I'm in.
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May 29, 2013 19:17
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Withdrawn
sephiRoth IRA fucked around with this message at 18:36 on May 30, 2013 |
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May 29, 2013 19:20
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Jesus, I think my flake out count is something like five now? Not a good number. Whatever. New job, new life, new writing comitment. I will be taking Qin Shi Huang.
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May 29, 2013 19:23
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 Thunderbrawlin' with Kaishai, as judged by the Right Honourable Chairchucker Mortimer & The Drainpipe Dilemma (1,325 words) Mortimer the Plumbing Fairy finished his masterwork and flipped the fountain on, drenching manicured hedgerows, prancing fae-folk and his own hairy beer-gut alike. Spouts he’d tuned for gentle spirals instead spewed frothy geysers, painting a dreadful rainbow across the summer sky. A stray stream lanced towards Lord Tuffy, who dozed beside his prized catnip bush. One yellow eye popped open just before the gusher struck his face. Mort dove for the pipes and wrenched them closed, sweating. This can’t be happening! The fountain should’ve been a raindrop waltz colorfully caressing the garden, not a nightmarish deluge. He bit his nails; maybe no one had seen the mistake. They wouldn’t judge him. He could still win them over, with a few adjustments. The ground yanked away from him and Mort swung in midair, hanging by his collar beneath a waterlogged feline jaw. He sagged. “Sorry, Lord Tuffy.” The cat carried Mort away from the fountain, soggy paws squelching with each step. “I say, you’ve done it this time.” “I thought the garden needed something pretty.” “Truly, you’re a fairy of many talents. Look, it was quite a success.” The cat swung his muzzle towards a flower bed. Uprooted geraniums splayed across pavement and the catnip bush lay upended, roots washed clean. “No, Mort, I’m afraid I’ll have the real fairies clean up your mess.” The cat stopped over a concrete tunnel leading downwards into darkness. Muddy runoff from Mort’s watery mishap trickled down the storm drain and Tuffy hung Mort over the abyss. “Hey, I can’t fly, you know that!” Mort grabbed onto wet fur and waggled his droopy wings. Blasted things hadn’t worked right in years. “Back where you belong. Ta ta.” Mort fell. # Deep beneath the garden, Mort trudged blindly to a junction and touched a pipe. Too cold, too much flow. He shoved wrench onto valve and twisted. Something fluttered and splashed nearby. Odd. A leak? He groped towards the noise. It wouldn’t do having a busted pipe down here. The others may not see it, but the smooth flow of fresh water would one day earn him his ticket to return topside, he just knew it. Fur mashed into his face and a screech echoed through the sewer. “Plumber fairy?” “Who’s asking?” Mort snatched a flashlight from his toolbelt. A dark-eyed bat shifted from foot to foot, head cocked to one side. “The heck are you doing down here?” “I’m Skag. A plumber fairy got tossed down here the other day. That you?” “You see any others?” Mort tucked away his wrench. “What do you want? I’m busy.” “I got a job for you. Something to get back at them that’s wronged you. Get ‘em real good. What d’you say?” Mort snorted. “I’m pretty busy trying to keep stuff flowing for the fairies topside. So if you’ll excuse me.” “Really? Even after they tossed you down in the muck?” “I work down here. It’s no big deal.” Mort plodded back towards the pipe junction. “They appreciate what I do.” “Do they really? They ever say thanks? Good job? Well done?” Mort stopped. “Aw, Morty.” Skag sidled up, laid a hand on Mort’s shoulder. “Tell you what. You thirsty? There’s a whole crew who’d love to meet you.” “Would they?” “Sure. What d’you say we get a cold one? I’ll introduce you. You’ll be the talk of the tavern. Cross my heart.” Mort smiled. “Well, I could go for one drink.” “Attaboy. We can talk business later.” # Mort hoisted himself up to the lip of the storm drain and peered over. Garden fairies lazed on leaves, sipping dewdrops, and Tuffy lay on his back beneath a tree, his proud thick fur heat-frizzed. No one watched the grate, and, of course, why would they? None of them cared about the hard work he did down there. He pulled himself topside, plucked a key from his toolbelt, jammed it into a keyhole and twisted. Rusty gears howled as thick metal plates sealed the storm drain. Mort raced to a hedge and dove in. A cicada ceased buzzing and stared at the droop-winged fairy cowering in the dirt, but nothing else happened. By the earth, Skag was right, they really didn’t care! Jaw clenched, Mort marched to the fountain and wrenched valves open. Days of careful adjustment paid off; beautiful streams of fresh cold water sprang into the air, splattering back into the basin, just where they belonged. Mort ran for higher ground and clambered atop a tall stone bench. The fairies drifted from their mossy hillocks and leaf beds to the lip of the giant stone fountain. After a moment’s staring, they danced in the cooling mist. Even Tuffy padded over and sat in the cool spray wafting from the jets. Across the garden, Skag hung upside-down from a shaded branch with his wings folded over his head. Presently, he lifted a claw and shot Mort a thumbs-up. As the sun dipped to the horizon, the frolicking fairy folk continued to play in the refreshing spray as water lapped the basin’s lip. Mort smirked. The flood would begin soon, better get going. The branches of Skag’s tree were empty. Indeed, no furry bundles lurked in any of the garden’s darker corners. “So, Mort, was it you who did this?” Tuffy loomed over Mort, whiskers twitching. “Did what? I didn’t do nothing. Just coming up for air.” Dark wings drew Mort’s eye skywards. Skag was airborne, circling over the garden. “Nonsense, who else knows how to fix that thing?” The cat patted Mort’s head with a paw. “Thanks, I guess.” Mort waved to Skag. Down here, you moron, come pick me up. That was the deal! A trickle of water crested the stone basin and slopped over the side. One last lazy loop and Skag flitted away, vanishing beyond the trees. Mort ground his teeth. Never trust a goddamned bat. “Tuffy, quick, get everyone away from the fountain.” “What’s this? It’s a delightful refreshment. You can’t expect us to forego—“ Thunder split the sky and dark sudden clouds poured down bucketfuls of rain. Denied drainage, water inundated the garden. Fairies launched into the air, only to be knocked back into the rising flood by downpour’s sheer force. Peals of laughter twisted into screams for help. “Good heavens. Mort, do something!” Mort pointed. “We have to get to the storm drain. Swim me over there.” “Swim?” Tuffy shuddered, droplets flying from his fur. “In the water?” Shedding his toolbelt, Mort dove into the churning floodwaters, a key clenched between his teeth. Currents pulled him under, shoved dirt and bark up his nose, and hurled him against bush and stone, but he fought on. When he made it to the drain the water was thrice his height and still rising. He sucked in air and dove. He shoved key into lock, strained against it. His breath soured in his chest and he spewed bubbles, screaming at the damned machine to budge. The lock clicked, the grate unsealed. Floodwater flew down into the abyss and Mort hugged the keyshaft. His breath burst from his chest and he swallowed a mouthful of muddy water. One by one, fingers peeled away from the key. A fat paw pressed him to the ground, the vicious current still tearing at him. Vision darkening, he thrashed and slurped in more muck. The last of the water drained away. Mort coughed up mud and drank storm-freshened air. “Dear me, you almost got away from us there.” Tuffy stared down at Mort. “How on earth did this happen?” Mort wiped leaf-bits from his lips and spluttered. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I’m sorry.” He coughed again. “But everyone’s okay, right? They saw how beautiful it was.” Tuffy sighed and shook his dripping head. “Mort, whatever will we do with you?” Mortimer P. Fairy is currently serving a fifteen year sentence in a maximum-security federal penitentiary.
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May 29, 2013 21:10
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The Glass Heart (1,071 words) (For my Thunderbrawl with Erogenous Beef. Prompt: Write a fairytale without inspiring resentment in Chairchucker.) A young man lived in a castle of glass. It was the only home he'd ever known, and he had little curiosity about the world outside. Everything he thought he needed lay within the walls, including the etched tablets that had taught him to read, to figure, and to work magic with sand and fire. For companionship, he had birds: talking glass birds of many species flew in his hallways, brilliant in the sunlight, shimmering under the stars. The mockingbird was his particular friend. She played games with him as he grew up; she told jokes that made him laugh; she defended him when other birds, even those larger than herself, pecked at him in some fit of temper. One morning, the young man walked with the mockingbird on his shoulder. They sang a duet until the crash of breaking glass interrupted their music. The young man ran in the direction of the sound and startled the woman who stood amidst the shards of a vase in his grand hall. He had never seen a human other than himself. Her hair was a dark brown threaded with copper, and none of his birds had plumage quite like it. She carried a sack slung over her shoulder; as she got over her surprise, her full lips curved in a smile. "I'm so sorry! I didn't realize anyone lived here! And then I heard singing, and I turned around too fast, and--" She gestured at the pieces at her feet. "I can fix it," the young man said. "Step back, please." She did; her blue eyes flicked toward the glass mockingbird. "What a pretty ornament," the woman said. The young man picked up two of the large fragments and fit them back together, then he spoke the words of mending. The line between the pieces glowed white. Molten glass flowed, then cooled at another word from him, and the shards were seamlessly joined. He did this with every piece until the vase was whole again. "Your magic is wonderful," the woman said. "Would you show me your castle, sir? I've always wanted to see inside. Would you tell me about yourself?" The mockingbird whispered in his ear, "I don't trust this stranger." But the woman's voice fascinated the young man: it was lower and softer than anything from a glass throat. He bobbed his head and led her on a tour of his home. He brought her to his atrium and orchard. Apples, peaches, pears, cherries, lemons, oranges--all fruits flourished there in all seasons, and the young man shared plums and tart raspberries with his guest. Several birds flitted in to get a look at the visitor, but the miniature peacock didn't strut for her, nor would the canary sing. The mockingbird perched on a low branch, where she could keep an eye on events. He showed the woman his conservatory, and he played her a song on the glass flute. He sat with her in his parlor, though she didn't seem to like the glass chairs. He would have taken her to the library, but she protested. "I've had a lovely time." The berries had stained her mouth a fine red. "But now I must be going." The young man felt hollow when she had gone. Loneliness was so foreign to him that he didn't recognize it. He returned to the atrium to look for the mockingbird, but she wasn't there--nor was the peacock or the canary. He searched the whole castle in increasing distress, and even with the glass hummingbirds lending their aid to the hunt, he couldn't find those three friends. So he did as he had never done: he left his shining castle and took the long road down the mountainside, through a forest, to the nearest village of people, and he found the woman there, sitting on a bench outside an alehouse with her bag at her feet. When she smiled this time, he saw only teeth. "Give them back," he said. She said, "No, I don't think I will. Your pretty birds will bring me a lot of pretty coin--well, except maybe for this one." She bent and pulled the mockingbird out of her sack; the bird's sooty wings were bound with twine. "I wouldn't have bothered to take this drab thing, but it attacked me when I picked up the peacock. How stupid! Do you want it back?" The young man saw the mockingbird's fear in her glossy brown eyes, and he couldn't speak. He held out his hand in a wordless plea. The woman dropped the mockingbird to the ground and set her boot on the little grey body. The young man found his voice: "No, please--" The woman stood and stomped on the mockingbird with all her strength. His best friend exploded in a crash of splinters and dust. "Will you chase me?" the woman taunted him. "Or will you stay here and try to put the bird back together again?" But mending wasn't the only thing the young man's magic could do. Pointing at the woman, he spoke the words of glass, and she became glass. Her blue eyes gleamed like marbles; the sunset light glowed through her hair. She was perfect, except for the deep flaw in her heart. When she opened her mouth to scream, her heart exploded in her breast, and deep cracks shot outward to split her body. She fell in jagged fragments to the dirt. The young man released the canary and peacock. He gathered the shards of the woman and put them in the bag with dry eyes, but he wept over the tiny fragments of the mockingbird, no longer recognizable as anything at all. Nevertheless, he gathered them too, and he took all the pieces back to the glass castle. He put the woman back together, save for the shard over the hollow place in her breast. He made a careful pile out of what remained of the mockingbird, and he cupped a hand over the slivers as he spoke the words of remaking. The splinters flowed together into a soft-grey heart. The young man placed the heart in the woman and covered it with the final shard. Then he spoke the words of love, and the glass woman opened glossy brown eyes. She smiled her first real smile, as white as the bar on a mockingbird's wing.
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May 29, 2013 21:45
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OK cool I will read those when I get home from work this arvo.
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May 29, 2013 21:59
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sebmojo posted:In, and because I entered and failed to complete the last two I am going to You need a toxx-clause punishment for yourself
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May 29, 2013 22:13
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Standard is a ban, isn't it?
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May 29, 2013 22:18
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1978: Janet Parker CancerCakes fucked around with this message at 16:10 on May 30, 2013 |
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May 29, 2013 22:22
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