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Got inspired, and put this together pretty quickly. Here's to a first time in Thunderdome. Not Man-Made 1,065 Words loving Spiders. loving spiders everywhere. First they’re just in the corner, but then, before you know it, they’re over by the chair. How’d they get across the room so fast? I could’ve sworn I’ve been watching them this whole time, and they never moved. Well, as long as they stay in the corner or over by the chair I’m ok with that. Actually, they’re starting to get to me a little. All those eyes, all those legs or arms or whatever they’re called. And those pincers… or mandibles I think they’re called. I just need to get out of here for a little while; I’ll go for a walk around the lake. That will clear my head, and by the time I get back, the spiders will be gone. They’ve got better things to do then hang around my place. Spiders have places to be, webs to spin, flies to catch, and all that jazz. I’ll just go for a walk. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining. A walk will do me a world of good. See, there are tons of people walking in the park. There are even a few people throwing the footy around. It’s a great day to be alive. I kind of wish this lake wasn’t man made though. There’s something not quite right about man-made lakes. I know that it’s just a man-made lake for a man-made city like Canberra, but still. All those contours are just that little bit too perfect. You’d never see a real lake with perfect crescent edges. I bet the bottom of the lake is perfectly sloped as well, and right in the middle is where the lake is the deepest. That’s the way I’d do it if I was designing a lake. It’s because we humans have no imagination. We think lake, and we think round, upside down snow globe. It’s kind of pathetic really. Not like those spiders, I bet you they create the most amazing webs. They don’t have this notion about what a web should look like; they just build it and let the web come into being organically. They’re probably gone by now from the house. Why would they even still be there, it’s not like there’s anything specifically spidery in the house to keep their attention. I’m glad my house is so close to the park, it lets me go for walks and see the lake, even if it is lacking in creativity. A lake is still a pretty thing to look at, especially when it’s surrounded by nature. I mean, you can still call it nature even when it’s well-manicured, and the trees are placed perfectly, and there’s a loving sidewalk running right through the middle of it all right? With picnic tables over there and a swing-set with screaming monkeys all over it and all that poo poo to make this little bit of nature as non-god-drat loving natural as possible. OK, just calm down now. It’s not that big a deal. It’s just people having fun. Just pick up the pace a little bit, get around this all too perfect lake, get home, see that the spiders are gone, have a drink or three and settle down for the night. It’s when you get angry like this that things go wrong. That’s why Jenny left you know. You can tell yourself it was because of the spiders, but you know that she actually left this morning because of the shouting. She just couldn’t take the shouting anymore. You’re always so loving mad about everything. So what if she didn’t cook so well. So what if she had put on a little weight. You’re hardly perfect, mate. You just couldn’t hold it in when she brought you tea in the wrong mug; you had to let her know didn’t you? That was the last straw. She picked up her purse and she walked out. You know she’s not coming back either, and you know she’s the only reason the spiders stayed away. They showed up not 5 minutes after she left. Crawling around in the corner, and then over by the chair. Something went wrong the moment she walked out the door, and it let all the spiders in. Now you’ve got to live with them. They’re going to be crawling around the house forever now. You’re dreaming if you think they’re just going to get up and leave on their own. Look, you’re coming up on the house now. The park is behind you now. Gone is the luxury of contemplating the creativity of the human race. Now it’s just you and the spiders. You and the spiders forever and ever. It looks like they’ve been busy. There are a heck of a lot more of them now, and webs everywhere. They’re not just in the corner, or by the chair, they’re on the table, on the walls, and even on the roof. Well, you’ve made your bed, and now it’s time to lay in it. An eternity of the spiders, crawling everywhere. Why not just become one of them? It’s not like there’s any point of a human living in a family of spiders. Yeah, that’s a great idea! If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Isn’t that what they say? Besides, they’re much more creative than humans. They go with the flow, not make perfect like parks for perfect little lives. You are missing a couple of limbs though. Better make some room for them. By my count, you’ve got four, but you need eight, and you’ll also need a couple of mandibles. So, time to make some room for those new limbs. Let’s see, just point the shotgun here, and pull the trigger. There, that’s perfect. A new space opened up for a new pair of arms. Probably should have made space for the mandibles first though. How are you going to cut the web-silk without mandibles, and how are you going to attach new limbs without well cut webbing. Let’s just load up again, and create space for the mandibles up here. Just one step left now. Time for the last pair of legs, and just one shell left. I think becoming a spider was the right choice. I’ll leave all the boring, lonely, uncreativeness of humanity behind. Bye-bye Jenny, bye-bye man-made lake. Just pull the trigger one more time. PotatoManJack fucked around with this message at 07:28 on May 31, 2013 |
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May 31, 2013 07:18
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I'm in! This will be interesting, as I never, ever write in first-person. quote:Michael Malloy, a homeless man, was murdered by five men in a plot to collect on life insurance policies they had purchased. After surviving multiple poisonings, intentional exposure, and being struck by a car, Malloy succumbed to gassing.
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May 31, 2013 14:58
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MrFlibble posted:No i'm done. If it sucks it sucks, I spent an hour and a half writing it and if it gets me the loser avatar well, life is as it is. holy poo poo dude Some people around here (me included) can bang out a half-decent story in an hour and a half or so, but it's not something a new writer just up and does. It's long practice and innate ability to sculpt stream of consciousness into readable prose. I really wanna declare you the pre-loser right now but we'll see what other turds float to the surface of the toilet bowl before we jump to any hasty conclusions.
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May 31, 2013 16:50
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crabrock posted:Also read the op you idiots.
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May 31, 2013 16:50
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Martello posted:holy poo poo dude AHAHAHAHA. OOOOOOOHOOOHEHEHA that's good. No seriously, do it. Your prompt is Cybervikings- make of it what you will. You have an hour and a half starting now.
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May 31, 2013 16:52
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I added a cyber because I know that's how you like it, baby.
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May 31, 2013 16:57
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Nyarai posted:Also, someone toss me a flash rule. Know you already got one but you didn't specify that you only wanted one flash rule, so here's another your story must reference in some way, any Mickey Avalon song. Bonus if it's "Roll the Dice." (by bonus I mean you get nothing special for it whatsoever but I want to see what you do with it) Wrageowrapper posted:I'm so sorry to do this to the world but I am back in (booo) after a 6 month hiatus. I shall chose 1926: Phillip McClean. hooray! For everyone, guess what I'm not gonna go back through your posts to find which death you're writing about so include it in your story post and link to Wikipedia. god drat I'm not gonna do all the legwork around here. also everyone gets a full in-depth crit from me this week. Chillmatic welcome, bout time
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May 31, 2013 17:02
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Sign up deadline is tonight. We have close to 40 entries now so gently caress you all.
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May 31, 2013 17:18
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Martello, I don't know if you're being a big girl and ignoring me or if you're cooking up some terrible excuse but one hour remains.
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May 31, 2013 17:26
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Working on it anusbiter but I have a formation I can't miss coming up in like thirty minutes so if I bust your timeline you can go gently caress right off to the land of refusing to write about baseball and writing about grasshoper or what's-it-called
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May 31, 2013 17:27
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All right, here is my first of two. No crit really necessary for this one. I only did it as part of a semi-challenge, and I think the Grundman one is turning out better so that will be my official entry. But if I die in some sort of accident before I finish it count this as my official entry I guess.quote:c. 620 BC: Draco, Athenian law-maker, was smothered to death by gifts of cloaks showered upon him by appreciative citizens at a theatre on Aegina.[1] I also got more info on the death from Draco's wikipedia page. Though it is a folktale so really who cares about facts? Including some inaccurate timeline stuff I made up. Enjoy! With A Bow OR Draconian (I'm not good at thinking of titles on short notice) [983 Words] I pace the stage of the Aegian Theatre, speaking and gesticulating in a calm and controlled manner. I appear serious, and powerful. I hide my happiness. To think, I had only arrived from Athens the day before, and already our long-time rivals were ready to concede defeat. To accept that our way made sense. No, not our way; my way. The classic stoic silence of the Aegians proves this. That look is a look of approval on this island, a look of respect. I begin to wrap up my oration. Before I begin to reiterate my major points I steal a side-long glance off the stage and see Solon, looking at me with approval. An old time friend, he was the one that convinced me to bring the wisdom of mine that had so helped Athens and spread it here. My conclusion leaves no doubts. Oral laws and blood feuds do not work in the civilised and advanced societies we Greeks now hold. They leave room for nothing but chaos. Written law is meticulous, fair, just, and, most importantly, ever constant. Nobody in the theatre is unaware of my work on the constitution of Athens, and they all know the good it has done. Thus when I cite it in my final thought it drives home the message that they need to modernise just as Athens has done. They have to accept my system. With a bow I indicate I have finished. I rise and take in the theatre as a whole for the first time. The hundreds of eyes all trained on me. Row after row of Aegians rising up above me. I doubt myself for a second. An Aegian stands up in the second row, and begins to move his hands together repeatedly. More and more stand up, and join in the applause. Every Aegian is on their feet, clapping and nodding. I turn to Solon and see he is doing the same. Before I can turn back darkness cloaks me. It slaps me in the face, heavy and hard, and it causes me to stumble back a step. I grasp for my face, grab onto it, and pull it off. I smile and look back at the crowd, and one enthusiastic Aegian in the front row is now clearly cloakless. His neighbour is taking his cloak off too, and someone behind them is hurriedly taking his shirt off, roughly pulling his arms through their holes. A tradition of immense approval, and particularly so for the usually cold Aegians. “Thank you, thank you.” I take a step forward and bow again. A weight hits the back of my neck. It slumps down my back as I stand back up. “Really, really, it's quite all right. I just said what needed to be said is all.” I approach the edge of the stage so I am right in front of the first row. I am about to say something to the nodding Aegians there, when I'm hit square in the face again, and inhale some fabric by accident. I brush it off, but immediately its replaced. I give up on trying to say much, and merely indicate that I will take my leave at the back of the theatre. “Don't leave!” I hear someone call. I say I must. I turn to find some Aegians have trickled down from the back rows to fence me in. I make for them, planning on talking my way through. Before I can open my mouth to speak they rip off whatever they still have left. I hold up my arms to cover myself, but the mess gets tangled in my arms. “That's quite enough now, don't you think?” I say. But those who were listening so intently before now heard nothing of my words. Before I can free my arms properly I am assaulted from behind by a fresh wave of heavy, indistinguishable material. It catches me by surprise and I instinctively shoot my arms up to pry it from my face. Some part of the knots around my arms must have caught on my leg, however, as I manage to trip myself over. I go from mild irritation to humour, at the whole ridiculousness of my entire predicament. I free an arm and pull back the covering of my mouth, allowing a few laughs to escape. I sigh and begin to sit up. But then more heaviness is upon me, and, blinded, I fall back down to the hard floor. I try to yell at them to stop, that enough is enough, but the hot muffle of noise in front of my face is inaudible even to my own ears. I try to move my arms but I cannot; with each second the weight over them only gets heavier. I shake my body back and forth like a worm. Weight moves and shifts above me. Pock marks of light appear to my eyes only to be cruelly covered again. These chains are stifling and hot. My breath is short, quick and constant. It wafts its warmth over my face and winds back to my spittle-covered lips. The taste is stale. With one last desperate heave I pull my body upwards, ignoring the pain in my diaphragm. But I have misjudged, and while I am able to rise to a crouch the weight pulls me forward. I land heavily on my face. Even through layers I feel the shock. My breath is short, and stars dance before me. Lost in the darkness, a different kind of darkness takes me for its own. The man-made multi-coloured mole-hill stopped shaking, and fell still. Intermittently the crowd stopped cheering and applauding, until they all stared in clammy silence at the unmoving pile. Nobody moved. Eventually someone at the front broke the silence. “Do you think we'll at least be able to get our cloaks back?” --- I think I prefer Nubile's version of this story. Self-crit: Too hung up on thinking about how the situation came about, and not exciting enough when it happens. Just me?
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May 31, 2013 17:42
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
New Dawn Words: 500 Bzzat remembered when all of the raids were at night. Now, no one had any advantage to darkness, and his aching bones thanked the rising sun. Tapping his temple, the night lenses covering his eyes slid back into his forehead. Sun at his back, he stood at the prow of the electric skiff, the point of the vanguard. His skin still tingled, even after all these years. A dozen skiffs moored onto the rocky shoal. In a minute of full sprint, the raiders would be inside the corrugated metal shanty town. Younger men ran past Bzzat, eager for new fuel and cells. In comparison, Bzzat would be considered a minimalist: cybered-eyes, two full knee replacements and an antiquated servo-rotator cuff on his left shoulder. The shoulder was his first upgrade, a botch-job as far as he was concerned but it was better than the alternative, being cast off to sea because you couldn’t swing a vibro-axe. The sea-salt air wrought havoc on the shoulder the worst. A full sprint for Bzzat meant he would be one of the last to arrive, competing against fuel injected suicide machines. Bzzat didn’t trust the bio-fuel piston legs, something about how easily it caught fire disturbed him. Yet, he would have slim pickings for replacement parts when he finally arrived, thankfully he needed little. Perhaps a favorable Catch-22 in the end. Entering the outskirts of the town, he readied his axe. His shoulder whined as the parts ground together. Hard pressed to kill a muscle-augged child, let alone anyone with any wherewithal. But that’s now what Bzzat did. Bzzat was a watcher, a finder of hidden things and treasure in plain sight. The maelstrom of violence swirled through the town, screams and sheet metal clanging together in the wind. Bzzat’s eyes darted back and forth. Finally he saw the eye of the storm. Gnaw-Mouth, a red, scarred little man walked without haste despite the chaos. Gnaw-Mouth’s mechanical jaw hanged loose like a spring had snapped. His scarred, irritated flesh pulsed around the metal grafts. Bzzat remembered when a swarm of horned gutterbugs burst from an infected bulge inside his cheek, taking the lower jaw with them. They would have eaten the rest of him if the boys hadn’t doused him in bio-fuel and lit him up like samhain. Gnaw-Mouth’s head was down, beady eyes staring at something. A container, no bigger than a film canister or pill bottle was in his hands. He cracked open the lid and stuck a finger in it. Out came a grey, oily digit like he’d been fingering a huff-sock. Gnaw-Mouth spread it on his metal gums and jaw hinges, his head lolling back in ecstasy. Bzzat finally realized what it was, powdered graphite. Bzzat raised his axe to throw, but the shoulder hissed at him in disobedience. Bzzat snarled. That was fine, he’d just take it the old fashioned way. He liked the old ways best anyhow.
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May 31, 2013 18:30
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Sneaking in at the back, with: 401 BC: Mithridates, a soldier condemned for the murder of Cyrus the Younger, was executed by scaphism, surviving the insect torture for 17 days. What an awesome bastard.
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May 31, 2013 18:32
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:BWAHAHAHA. Chucky the Druze the Cyberviking 682 words Chucky the Druze rubbed a good thumb of silverpaste inside his lower lip. The MetSec drone database was no joke, he needed to be riding the burning chrome edge if he was going to plant the executable and get out before they could trace his access. Chucky stroked his keyboard like his favorite cat, sending commands to the MetSec system faster than the security protocols could keep up. He understood keeping a drone database wi-fi accessible for remote operation, but holy poo poo their security was out of date. You'd think a big PMC could afford to stay current, but apparently even former Cuban gang-bangers have accountants sniffing down every last penny. A window popped on Chucky's right-hand monitor. Dorian's long, bearded face, that unfocused look people got when they were looking at an AR-box. "Yo Chucky, just hit go on the denial of service. Cleared hot, buddy." "Thanks," Chucky said. He held up a fist that he knew Dorian would virtually bump. Dorian O'Connell was across town in the Lower East Side smashing MetSec's payroll system with a massive DDoS attack using his sick botnet that stretched from Manhattan to Sri Lanka. MetSec's white-hats would be scrambling to blackhole the bots, giving Chucky the precious time he needed. An admin access screen popped up on Chucky's left-hand monitor. Jackpot. He keyed in the username and password. Many Bothans had died for that info. Well, Bronco Halligan had beaten a dude half to death for it, at least. The left-hand monitor now showed the drone database main control screen. Chucky the Druze didn't like AR, it bothered him when he used smartspecs and he refused to replace his meat eyes, so he stuck with the physical screens. He also felt it added to his oldschool cred. The Druze, his religious and ethnic background notwithstanding, liked to think of himself as a digital viking. A cyberviking, if you will. He moved from system to system like the vikings did from port to port, riding fiber-optics and 1110.20c 5 GHZ airwaves like those sword-swinging badasses rode the high seas. And when Chucky the Druze hit a system, he raped and he pillaged. An oil company's personnel records pulled from their "secure" servers and passed to an aggressive marketing company for a nice wad of cash. Codes to a Call of Duty: Battlesuit server admin account for an unscrupulous competitive gaming clan. Dirty emails and AR-vids from a high-ranking exec's personal system, sold to an anti-corporate tablog. That last one was good for three months rent in a top-floor loft in the Meatpacking. Chucky started the transfer, sending his excecutable through the fifteen different servers he used to spoof his access and make it harder to trace him. The multiple redirects slowed the transfer to a 2-second crawl. Chucky gnawed his left middle fingernail down to a nub. The file popped up in the folder Chucky'd created, hidden under twenty-odd layers of system file folders where nobody would ever look. He opened the file and the program activated. "Fuckin' in," Chucky told Dorian. He hit three keys, and logged out of the MetSec system. "And now I'm out. We did good, bro." Chucky and Dorian shared a toast through their respective visual feeds. Chucky with a Twisted Tea from the fridge under his desk, Dorian with an old-fashioned, Knob Creek as far as Chucky knew. "I'll call Gabe and let him know he's got a few hundred new eyes in the sky," Dorian said. "Been a pleasure, Chucky." "All mine, bro. All mine." Chucky leaned back in his chair, the silverpaste edge still razor-sharp. Sharp as a viking's sword. Across the river in Union City, in a brick office building overlooking the 44th Street Playground, a Metropolitan Security white-hat leaned back in his own chair and took a triumphant sip of Red Dog. While his brothers in other cubicles were blackholing a botnet, Raul had caught the remote access log and traced it through all fifteen redirects. He smiled. It was only a matter of time before MetSec nightstalkers would hit that building in the Meatpacking.
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May 31, 2013 18:45
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Hour and 53 minutes, and bite me because I was standing outside talking to my dudes for like forty-five minutes of that. Total writing time was more like fifty minutes.
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May 31, 2013 18:48
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gently caress I can't decide. Judges, hit me with one + a flash rule.
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Jun 1, 2013 00:13
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Peel posted:gently caress I can't decide. 1944: Inventor and chemist Thomas Midgley, Jr. accidentally strangled himself with the cord of a pulley-operated mechanical bed of his own design. flash rule: this bed must be a rube goldberg machine, and you better have him explain how it works.
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Jun 1, 2013 00:39
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edit: nevermind, that's what I get for reading the thread backwards.
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Jun 1, 2013 02:05
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I swear I didn't even know that last week's prompt was fables until after I was mostly finished with my story  Hope you're not too sick of fable-y elements!Coyote Country 677 Words Let me tell you now the story of a young bard I once met. It’s a sad tale, I admit, and not the kind involving myself that I’d want spread around. Even so, it has to be told to someone or else it isn’t a story at all. I found the girl wandering through the forest in the middle of a summer night, a guitar slung over her back and a notepad in her hand. It seemed as if she were looking for something. I didn’t consider that she might be looking for me, and was surprised when she noticed me hiding in the bushes. “Who’s there?” Having been caught fair and square, I revealed myself with a flourish. “It is I, Coyote, and it seems you’ve caught me. For that, I will briefly reward you with my attention.” “I know you, I’ve read about you! You’re a musician too, at least some of the time. I came into this forest looking for inspiration, and I run into a legendary entertainer! That can’t be a coincidence.” I basked in her praise, and felt that I could not turn away this young admirer of mine in her time of need. “So you need inspiration, do you? Well then, I’ll make you a deal. I will write you a song so glorious and memorable that it will be spread to every corner of the world. It will be enormously famous, and so will you. My only condition is that you must come back to this spot in one moon, at which point you will thank me for the fortune and fame that my song has brought you. I will write the song tonight, and you may collect it here in the morning.” The girl could not turn down such a generous offer, so I retired for the night to write a great ballad chronicling my many fantastic deeds. What else could attract the kind of fame and appreciation this girl desired? She collected the song in the morning, and I did not see her again until one moon later, exactly as we had arranged. “Well, girl? Did the song bring you fame and fortune?” “Yes, Coyote, it did! The people love to hear of your story. In fact, it’s the nation’s best-selling folk single in decades!” I already knew this, of course, but I expressed my pleasure all the same. “Then I thank you, girl, for holding up your end of the bargain as well as I’ve held up mine.” The girl gave me a quizzical look. “Is that really it, then? I mean, usually in the stories you try to trick people and end up getting outwitted.” “Ah, you’ve caught me. Although… you’re only half-right. It is true that I often get my just desserts in the stories, but who do you think wrote those stories? Who likes to talk of Coyote more than Coyote himself?” “But why would you make yourself look like such an idiot so much of the time?” There was a faint but growing rustle in the bushes behind the girl. “So that people are not too scared to deal with me, of course! Look at what happened to that Satan fellow… he can barely even show his face in this world anymore, let alone get anyone involved in any of his schemes. I, on the other hand, seem to be a lovable fool and scoundrel.” Three coyotes (my animalistic progeny, not Yours Truly) burst from the undergrowth behind the girl and lunged at her, latching on with their gleaming teeth and tearing at her flesh with uncharacteristic fury. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear, but your unusual death will bring you (and me, by way of your music) even greater fame.” I turned away, touched by her screams but unable to look at the savagery that my beasts had wrought. Please do not hold my actions against me or think me cruel, though. It probably was the only way for her to achieve the fame that she so desired. After all, folk is dead.
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Jun 1, 2013 02:50
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 Signups are CLOSED
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Jun 1, 2013 14:28
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Here's my official entry for this week, as the Draco one was just a bonus. It's two for the price of one with me, this week only. Not to be used in conjunction with any other offers. Terms and conditions apply.quote:1982: David Grundman was killed near Lake Pleasant, Arizona while shooting at cacti with his shotgun. After he fired several shots at a 26 ft (8 m) tall Saguaro Cactus from extremely close range, a 4 ft (1.2 m) limb of the cactus detached and fell on him, crushing him. Swaying In The Wind [941 Words] e: disappeared for submission to journal reasons, though they'll probably find it quoted somewhere else so whatever. PoshAlligator fucked around with this message at 23:34 on Sep 1, 2013 |
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Jun 1, 2013 21:21
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Fat Cat [1300 words] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Collyer_brothers I'm a fat cat Whore scullery maids, loutish frog chefs with their sticky webbed fingers, they've taken everything, the thieves, raided every last morsel from our beautiful kitchen, even the banana rinds in the wastebin, the blackened cake clinging to the undersides of the stove racks, the crumbs swept behind the refrigerator I'm a fat cat Don't they know Homer needs food? He's an invalid you frog thieves, gnarled and nephritic and helpless as a child. He's crawling around on his belly with his nose to the ground, sniffing for his next meal-- There they are, outside the window! Their brimstone silhouettes, swaying and laughing, horns tapping clink clink clink against the pane Get out of here you devils! Homer whines in his bed. His cries like a cat's mewling. He's just as afraid of them, these devils. Poor Homer, or maybe lucky, he can't even keep watch for these beasts, so clouded is his vision. Blind as his namesake. I can still see the blue of his pupils but he cannot see mine; he stares at me with dead eyes and his screwed up invalid's face and I rock him gently and sing I'm a fat cat You're a fat cat we're all a family of big. Fat. Cats. Shuffling down onto my knees, over the invisible tripwire, the ratchets and pulleys strung to the golden chandelier above, swaying softly in the dark. How graceful that chandelier, my father's priceless jewel. How tragic I'd needed to rig it with bad intent, how I prayed it would crash down onto the head of the Jew Real Estate man and the slug Polack landlord. How unfortunate they'd stopped just short of its taut spring, laughing and heeling away, cuntish hellspawn. How Homer keened and wailed. That night I wiped hardened calculus from his cheeks, drool bubbling on his chin They won't be back it's all right they won't be back Our parlor. So pristine and ordered. A treasure of books, each one in its right place. Newspapers in thick stacks, waiting to be read, waiting for Homer's convalescence. Lilac, lavender, saffron. The spotless Steinway and its reams of sheet music. I play a chord, savoring the resonance. No need for a tuning. As harmonious as the day it was purchased. Treading carelessly on the staircase means a burst of Sterno flame. Careful Langley avoids the inferno, scooting to the bathroom. A puddle of murk in the clawfoot tub. I take a pot from beneath the sink and ladle water into it. The Jew bankers have stopped up the faucets. They're trying to starve us out, like the siege of Tyre. The rain brings our only drink, leaks in the roof. This roof never used to leak! The brutes stalk up above, tearing out the shingles. But they won't win. We'll remain here, hunchbacked and slithering, until the darkness is total. My batteries lie dead and rusting in the workroom. Those wonderful days of light and heat, wires humming like an angel's choir. Nothing now but the thin flicker of the kerosene lamp, warming Homer's swaddle, keeping him safe from the terrors of the night. I leave the waterpot beside the stairs. Those fools who talk of clutter. I know precisely where everything is in our home, every loose screw, every mote of dust. But these meager drippings are not enough. Homer needs food. I'm a fat cat A fat cat's eyes will regenerate with nourishment. Sclerotic limbs and crooked joints will reform, as Jesus healed the lepers. But there is no food in here. The only food is outside, among the Jew bankers and hulking negroes and emaciate whores who twist their spindly legs around ungulate feet. But there is no other choice; old Langley has no choice. I crawl past boxes of heirlooms, past scavenged pipe and coil and spring, part of the Collyer provenance now, a stout and sturdy fort to ward off interlopers. Wriggling and squirming to the barred and frosted window. One by one I pull the boards away until the gelding light of Harlem's Babylon filters in. The pane thunks open and out I slip. In the alley's damp sludge the footprints of vandals are everywhere. Sewage and decay in my nostrils. A dumpster adjacent to home has been padlocked shut. Rats scurry over the top as I yank and pry. Beasts! You men are beasts! I slink behind the buildings, away from the sulfurous street lamps. Beneath a shuttered and dark storefront waits a pair of stale donuts and a half-eaten pear. Into the sack they tumble. But it is not enough. It is never enough. They hoard everything, waiting for us to shrivel and die like slugs. They will not win. Past narrow backways, sneaking by window squares of dull light, spying faces. Cackling voices ring out ahead, and my body goes stiff. Flattened behind an awning as a band of negro thieves tramp through the street, singing loudly. Tribal drums beat out in time with their warped and sunken faces. Hissss A real cat has crept next to me, back arched, puffed up and irate. No fat cat he, but a mangy rotten thing, whiskers askew, a low growl buzzing from his feline gut. Out of here beast, I whisper His eyes glow. These demons lurk everywhere. A kick sends him scurrying back to whatever foulness he came from. I straighten myself and then Hey fella, you all right? Lord, how they sneak! Whipping back I press myself against the building's edge. This man wears a wooly mustache and his arms cradle a big brown box. I'm fine leave me be Listen pal, if you need a place to flop I'm on my way to the shelter right now I'm fine I said do you understand English? The man moves his shoulders. He's not afraid, this one. A rarity, perhaps not a Jew or a Polack or a drunken Irishman or Suit yourself but you look like you could use a meal, here From the big brown box he tosses something and I snatch it from the air. A tin can of soup. Sealed tight, but they're crafty, these demons, with their botulism and needles and sneaky sabotage but But Homer needs food and the can does not look tampered and so into the sack it tumbles and the man walks away and I creep back home, sack over my shoulder, back into comfort and safety, past the fort of springs and cushions and lampshades and onto my knees once more, scooting through the peaceful stacks of newspaper to the thin flame of the kerosene lamp and Homer's cooing and Claws on me digging A jolt and a shudder, a rat! A fat disgusting rodent with wiry tail scurrying past me, bloated and verminous You will not have Homer's dinner! Sent by the man, sent by the mustache man, what a fool I am, what a sucker Out you beast! Pressing forward, swinging the sack like a bludgeon. Homer mere feet from me, dead eyes staring, and I The rat comes again skittering past my face. I shriek, skewing left, elbow slipping, a dull thwing A thump, a crash, God's thumb on my back. The weight of ten years' worth of news. The food sack tumbles into oblivion. No pain. A gentle rising pressure. I suckle for breath. Homer's cooing stops. He stirs. He is coming, he is coming to save me. Homer rises from his bed, silky white hair nearly touching the ground. Light radiates from his core, like an angel. His muscles taut and rippling, legs like oiled pistons. His eyes clear and blue. With a single heave he tosses the papers from my back. He takes me in his arms, as I have taken him so many times before, and with a gentle smile he rocks me. The light from him burns so strong it is nearly white. As I sway back and forth in his arms, he begins to sing I'm a fat cat I'm a fat cat
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Jun 2, 2013 00:17
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crabrock posted:Submission deadline: Sunday, June 1, 11:59pm USA Eastern. Is the deadline Saturday (June 1st) or is it Sunday (June 2nd)?
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Jun 2, 2013 00:39
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Max22 posted:Is the deadline Saturday (June 1st) or is it Sunday (June 2nd)? It is when it says it is bub. If someone told you the dead line was at 2pm sunday would you ask if it was on saturday?
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Jun 2, 2013 00:42
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CancerCakes posted:It is when it says it is bub. If someone told you the dead line was at 2pm sunday would you ask if it was on saturday? Sunday the 1st of June 2013 doesn't exist. That's the problem.
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Jun 2, 2013 00:47
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Countless Different Ways Word count: 1551 New York, 1933 I’d never cared for hard work, or for Michael Malloy’s face. Every day for ten years, a dark coal mine and a stiff back. Every evening for ten years, a noisy tavern and that face, gazing at me from across the bar. Smiling. Waiting. Smiling and waiting. I would stand in my spot behind the bar, in the corner, pouring drinks as far away from it—away from that face—as could be, watching how the paint on the walls, with so much passing of time, would stain from white to grey and peel and peel and peel. Sometimes, when it had become all but stripped away, I would arrive for the evening and find a new coat of white paint over the old. Fresh. Less grey. But not white like the teeth in that face. Time passed and the new paint would peel and become grey also. Less white. Better. A day came in the coal mine when I had to work even harder under the weight of dusty black rocks; on this particular day’s end, the twisty nails that customarily coursed through my spine felt as if they’d grown to twice the gauge, and I moved with a feeble limp. At my evening job in the tavern, the pain of standing for so long a time overwhelmed me for a moment, and as I poured Michael Malloy’s eighth drink of the evening I forgot to look at the paint. I looked up and his face smiled at me. White teeth. My ears burned and my chest burned. The tavern became an oven and I broiled in it. When I saw that face, that smile, the very gut of me tried to flee. It smiled at no one else but me. Because of that, I knew it should not ever smile again. Every day and evening afterward, I began to think of ways to rid myself of both the hard work which had ruined my back and of Michael Malloy’s face which had ruined my eyes. I had heard once that there were countless methods to kill a man, and most easy enough to do. But how to be rid of hard work? The fool himself soon provided a solution to both my problems. In his drunken stupor on this particular night’s end, he had paid his bill with not only one dollar but also a slip of paper, a certificate, that betrayed a most interesting fact: his life—worthless to me, understand—was valued with insurance. $1,800 dollars. So many dollars, in fact, for a lifetime—mine—of easy living. With a secret swipe and lash of my pen, I arranged myself as the party soon-bereaved—and in most dire need of recompense. How clever. How glad! But how to do the thing? It must be appear as an accident. Must! Accidents, insidious demons all, happen frequently, do they not? By a week’s worth of nights, the whole of it was beginning to sound most reasonable. Not so much like hard work at all. Unknown to me at that time, was the fact that I hadn’t ever before—and would never again—work as hard as I did on the day I killed Michael Malloy. *** If truly there were countless different ways to kill a man, I couldn’t give up hope; I’d only tried three so far, and the fourth had just begun its work. In the dim lamplight of the small storeroom, I watched and I waited and I tried to ignore the lightning bolts in my back. Michael Malloy was sprawled out on the straw cot and his face was still breathing. Snoring, really, and loud enough to wake the dead. Or, God’s mercy, the police. His breath—gasps and snorts through obscene flapping lips—filled the cramped space around me, smothering my nose with the scent of whiskey and arsenic. Or maybe whiskey and arsenic was merely the usual scent of his breath, smelling it as I did from across the bar, over the worst and longest decade ever known to a man. The cup I’d given him fell from his hand and rolled to my feet, sending a half-dozen curious rats scattering. For that I was thankful; I imagine murder prefers an audience of no kind. Not that I’d found success to that end as yet, but I knew, just knew there’d be no surviving that vile combination of drink and so much poison. I paced to one side of the room and then the other. The floorboards creaked and popped beneath my feet as I gazed impatiently at his face, flush and maddeningly pink. Almost rosy. Still healthy. Grotesque. I pried away my eyes, only to have them fall on the cast, that loving cast on his rightmost leg. Wrapped around his stumpy, stupid, broken leg, the thick gauze was the first of three such reminders of my failings. Reading the newspapers, one might think the horseless carriage to be the most dangerous invention since mustard gas—every day came news of a woman or child or some old codger getting knocked down by the rolling steel on wheels, splitting their heads. To have it happen to you? Or me? Why, it’d be death most certain. For all, apparently, but Michael Malloy. His snoring grew louder, surrounding my head as I paced, taunting at me. At least hearing his breath meant I did not have to look at his face, nor its jagged, fresh wound—another reminder of my failings—creasing from his forehead to the side of his cheek. Customarily, no one “fell” out of a third story window and survived with merely an impolite scar. But Michael Malloy, I had learned, did. I was fast becoming certain that I had chosen death himself as my target when suddenly it was quiet! He had let out an agonal wheeze. And then he did nothing. I rushed to the cot and kneeled down. I pried open an eyelid. Only white. Now the other. White! I dug my fingers into the soft, clammy flesh of his neck, looking for the bounce of a pulsing heart. Left side of the neck: nothing. His clothes were cold and wet against my arm as I did my work (how embarrassing that leaving him for hours drunk on the street in the freezing rain this morning hadn’t done this job for me). Right side of the neck: nothing! I held my breath like a young maiden awaiting a marriage proposal. Could it really be that I’d never have to see the face again? That smile? That I’d never again be subject to the burning gaze and the blazing fire in my chest? It could not be; he grunted and coughed phlegm onto my face and snored again. gently caress you, ever so, Mike Malloy. After three hours the lamp’s oil waned and I began to wish I’d brought a chair. One hour after that I had nearly brought myself to hysterics at his persistent and tortuous existence. But there, the pipe in the corner had caught my eye. Now both eyes! The hissing copper carried gas to the lights of the tavern and could be disconnected in just such a way as to feed into his gaping face. Quickly I did it, cursing myself for not having tried it before. Within five minutes there was no more breath and the thing was done. Fully done! I eagerly paced the room again, wondering what to do with the output of my last, greatest, hard work. Leave it here? Notify the alderman? No, none of these. I did not want to be associated any more than collecting payment for my sorrow. More importantly, I did not want to wait to begin my new life! At the thought of it my back had calmed and soothed, overjoyed at no more days in the mines. I stood proudly and snapped my fingers. I had it. I would drag the body to the doorway of the tavern. He’d be found by some passerby! I turned him—face down—and grabbed his ankles. You may think it difficult, but this was no corpse I dragged! This was to my mind’s eye, a train ticket, a bag of gold, a new pair of polished black boots. In all the world, could there be a lighter load than these? It should not surprise to hear me say I was enjoying the thing, though perhaps growing restless with the morning hour. As I pulled and dragged, his fat posterior wedged in the storeroom doorway, abruptly impeding my progress. I hadn’t considered this to happen, and thus had not been braced for the sudden stop which seized upon my back as though a railroad spike had been driven through the whole of me. Gasping in a painful and twisted state like I'd never felt before, I fell. Laying together on the floor, Michael Malloy’s face—that face—stared through vacant eyes at me. The familiar fire in my chest began to well, and to my horror I found that not only could I not stand up, I could not roll over nor much bend my neck. There was nothing else to do now, I supposed, other than await the police. So we lay there together, me and Michael Malloy.
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Jun 2, 2013 01:09
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Max22 posted:Is the deadline Saturday (June 1st) or is it Sunday (June 2nd)? Whoops. June 2 at 11:59pm. So before you go to bed Sunday night, turn that piece of poo poo in Chillmatic posted:I am bad at following rules. I don't care what your word limit is, I'm super special and above the law. I always use 2 parking spots at the store because I'm that type of rear end in a top hat. I see that. crabrock fucked around with this message at 01:57 on Jun 2, 2013 |
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Jun 2, 2013 01:47
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Thank you for the crit sebmojo. I have revised my entry - 1330 words My brother called me a week ago, you could hear the smile on his lips. The young boys soccer team he coached were playing in the semi-final match of the Kwilu cup, and would I like to come watch it? I had laughed and told him to call me when it was the finals. But Otieno had been insistent. Come visit me, he had said, you will enjoy the break. My brother knows nothing of me, of course, because I would worry over my club every day I was gone from it. But family has a way of ignoring the inconvenient truths and I found myself on a plane to Bandundu. It was a small craft and made smaller by it's fullness. The passengers were all speaking in various African languages, Swahili being chief among them. It gave the plane an almost homely feel, like a marketplace. It had an energy to it. In Kinshasa French was spoken almost as a rule and French makes everything sound so formal. My neighbour was a young, sullen looking fellow who had merely grunted when I had offered the general pleasantries so I had to make do listening only to rumblings of the happy chatter. It would be a short flight so I let my mind wander. Had Otieno invited me merely to rub my nose in his altruism? Not directly but just by my being near him. Here I am, I work as hard as you and I keep the young boys fit and out of the gangs. What do you do? Or perhaps not. Otieno was a good man and I was being unfair. We hardly saw each other. I suppose a soccer match is just as good a reason as any other to visit. I was thinking of the long cab drive to my brother's home town when the plane jerked violently. There was a thud and the plane shuddered. The passengers made a quick collective noise of surprise and then relief as the craft righted itself and I placed a hand on my heart. I felt my heart race for a moment and grinned to myself. I turned to my neighbour to give a good natured laugh but it died prematurely in the back of my throat. He had half stood up. Through the gap between man and chair I could see the gym bag that had fell to the floor. More to the point I could see what was slowly emerging from it. An adult crocodiles' jaw pushed its way through the fabric like some unholy hell beast from Satan's womb. Its snout wrestled with the bag and I heard a tearing. That sound was worse to my ears than the most violent of gun battles. Heads turned down the aisle and froze, momentarily transfixed on the creature untangling itself on the ground. Then their heads turned, they screamed and rushed to the cockpit. Despite clearly inadequate security it would be locked. I looked to the crocodile smuggler, for there could be no doubt that the bag was his. From the hopeless look he gave me I would guess that he was not the man who had wrangled it into the bag. “Do you have a knife?” I said. There was little point in asking why he had brought this monster on board and littler still in blame. “A machete, yes,” His face was practically drooping. A pause, then “in the bag.” he pointed to the lower end of the bag, where the crocodiles tail was still straining against the fabric. He made no move to grab it. I stood and shook my head in disbelief and made to push past this fool but he grabbed my wrist. “Please.” My first instinct was to push him down. There was enough room that I would be able to move behind the crocodile without notice and get to the back end of the plane and let someone else deal with this craziness. Something stopped me. This man had brought a large crocodile onto a small plane, yes. This was his fault. But if I let it go, if I did nothing? I swallowed dryly and then let out a breath. “I'll hold it down. Grab the knife.” The crocodile was still mostly in the bag. My heart was beating its fists against my ribs. This was something for experienced hunters, not me. But perhaps, if I knew that I would be relieved quickly, I could stomach pinning the beast down. The man briefly squeezed my shoulder before he nodded. I felt my heart skip. "I'm Tendaji," If I was going to wrestle a crocodile for a man he would at least have to know my name. "Kato." He stepped behind the crocodile gladly and gave me room to move. I hesitated. It was one thing to talk of pinning it down, but to actually do it? I looked to the passengers huddled up at the front end of the plane. They had bunched up at the front of the plane but they were not screaming any more. Their faces said better you than me. I lunged then, knowing that delaying would leave the beast time to escape and might rob me of my will altogether. I pushed down hard onto its shoulders. The crocodile made to move and through what was left of the bag tangling his body, and my weight I managed to keep it from fully turning towards me. I could tell I would not be able to hold it long. The planes floor lurched and I had to push harder down onto the creatures back. A creaking noise and then another toss. My stomach went heavy and I tasted bile. I pushed down against the crocodile. Then the plane tilted and I was thrown in the air. I pushed against the crocodile to propel away from it. It turned and snapped at me uselessly before floating off towards the roof. I briefly saw the other passengers as they were tossed about in the cabin, their screams calling down towards me, before I collided violently with the ground. I rolled about with chairs and other, harder, things. I could not see much, nor control my body as the plane thundered. When the world finally stopped shaking I found myself stretched over a broken chair on what had once been the ceiling of the plane. My legs were heavy and useless and my neck even more so. Anything on my body that I could feel, ached. But I could move my arms and that was enough for the moment. Using them I positioned my body to look down around the fallen craft. Wreckage and bodies and a strange silence. Kato was clearly dead, head twisted towards me with the knife plunged uselessly into a seat cushion. The crocodiles tail swatted lazily at his chest. The crash had all but broken me and there the crocodile was, as if fresh from the river. I hated it then, but I'm not sure if I could have attacked it. Besides being in better shape than me, it was a crocodile and it was not interested in me. I was safe. But I heard a cough and a weak call for help. The crocodile did too. That's what gave me strength. I clawed my way towards it. I pulled the machete from the dead man's grasp and headed for the crocodile. It seemed to ignore me, but I knew how quickly it could move. I began to position my body for the best attack, as slowly as I could. Before I could move any closer it swivelled its head towards me and rumbled lowly in warning. In defiance of all reason, I plunged the knife into it's back. It gave a hissed roar but before I could think on what I had just done I pulled it out and plunged it into the beast again and again. Each time my arms felt heavier and more sore but I pushed on the beast's rough scales with one hand and plunged the machete with the other. A good time after it had stopped thrashing I pulled myself to it's face. I stared into the dead eyes of the crocodile. Then I let myself close my eyes MrFlibble fucked around with this message at 02:20 on Jun 2, 2013 |
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Jun 2, 2013 02:18
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MrFlibble posted:Thank you for the crit sebmojo. This should go in fiction farm, but well done. There are lots of little errors I could ping you for ('it's' is only ever short for 'it is'!) but this is an actual story with actual people in it. I give a poo poo about what happens. Good work.
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Jun 2, 2013 02:35
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sebmojo posted:This should go in fiction farm, but well done. There are lots of little errors I could ping you for ('it's' is only ever short for 'it is'!) but this is an actual story with actual people in it. I give a poo poo about what happens. Good work. Should I edit the story out? To be honest I posted it here so I wouldn't look like a sulky baby who had thrown his toys out of the pram after rightly being called on his poo poo.
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Jun 2, 2013 02:41
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MrFlibble posted:Should I edit the story out? To be honest I posted it here so I wouldn't look like a sulky baby who had thrown his toys out of the pram after rightly being called on his poo poo. I already have a critique of your old one ready to post with the others and will be using that as your official entry. You can leave it there or post it in fiction farm for more feedback, but just so you know.
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Jun 2, 2013 02:50
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Thirst and Justice 1321 words Alain de Monéys Or, in more detail if you speak French. The Feast of the Assumption began with bells tolling and ended with the hiss of bubbling flesh. I go to the guillotine tomorrow, and much of what I tell you now has been said before. But until today, nobody has asked why we did what we did. Including me. I won’t bore you with the details of the war, or the drought that year that clotted the soil of my garden. But you should know that less than one week before we killed Monéys, they found a Prussian spy trying to mine the railroads near Châtellerault. Remember: there are traitors all around us, in our abbeys and our fields, in the hilltop mansions that surround Hautefaye. That morning, I woke to the sheep in Mainzac clanging their church bells in the distance. The sacristans had been busy all night, dutifully ringing in the Assumption. Soon the church in Aujeau would follow suit, and Fayemarteau and Ferdinas, until our very own fat priest of Hautefaye joined in the cacophony. And let me say this, for the record—gently caress the priests, the republicans, and the rich bastards who own them all. My hogs were dead, my turnips nothing more than brown stalks sprouting from the ruined earth like whiskers on the cheek of a leper. My wife was gone almost a year by then. I had nothing to do. So I drank until the sun came up. When my wine jug was empty, I went out into the heat and found Silloux at the edge of the fairgrounds, leaning against the post of a cattle pen with a wineskin in one hand and his pipe in the other. I snatched at his skin. “What have you got in there?” “Ask nice before you grab, Chambord,” he said, but he let me taste. This was real wine; the warm, sour-sweet juice of a rich man’s trellis. “And where did you steal this?” Silloux put the tip of his finger against his nose. “My secret. Saved it for today, this most holy day. And what are you drinking? Empty-handed, eh? Don’t worry. I saw the barrels being brought in by the dozen. A few francs will fill you good.” I scanned the fairground, looking for casks but taking in the rest. I recognized none of the merchants setting up their stands, herding sheep and hanging ducks and piling potatoes into rough pyramids. None were from Hautefaye, I knew that much. Between the paysans milling and a few artisans hawking their wares, here and again I made out the bright threads of the well-heeled. “I see the aristocrats have come down from their hilltops to mix with the rabble,” I said. “Maybe we’ll get some news about the war.” “If we do, it won’t be good,” said Silloux. “Over there, behind the boars.” I followed his pointing finger and saw a herd of wild pigs being led by the rings in their snouts, and behind them a cart loaded high with barrels of wine. I left him to his pipe and dug in my pockets for a few centimes, enough to buy a cup of sour red. And so I spent the morning with Silloux, a cup of wine always in my hand, until the sun sat high in the sky. The fairground filled with revelers from cantons all around Hautefaye, filled with cows and sheep and pigs of the four- and two-footed varieties. Sweat stung my eyes and itched my scalp, but for all the wine there was no water to be had. My tongue grew heavy in my mouth as the day dragged. Again my cup was empty, so again I left Silloux with his pipe and sought out the wine cart. The crowds had grown and it was a fight to reach the spigots. A boy sat astride the topmost cask, shouting down at us that we should thank the great families of Beaussac, whose grace alone brought this nectar to us all on the day of Mary’s assumption. At the head of the line, I saw the fat priest of the village engaged in conversation with one of the hilltop gentry. Do you know the curate Saint-Pasteur? Always well-fed and rosy-cheeked and far up some landowner’s rear end. The priest’s left hand rubbed his plump cheeks like a girl in love, while his right felt its way around the aristocrat’s arm. I listened to them as I pushed my way forward. The aristocrat spoke of a battle somewhere called Wörth, where ten thousand Frenchmen were slaughtered in defeat. “Surely Bonaparte will prevail,” said the priest. “By the grace of God.” “It seems our Emperor has run out of shells,” replied the aristocrat. This was the first sign of treason. I leaned toward them in disbelief, and Saint-Pasteur laid his hand on me to keep me at bay. “Touch me not.” I slapped at the priest’s fat fingers. “You soil me. But tell me, sir—you seem happy for the King of Prussia. Why do you smile when you bring bad news?” “Down with Bonaparte,” he said. Then, “Long live the Republic!” At my trial they lied and said I made it up, but others that day agreed they heard it, too. Down with Bonaparte, he said. Long live the Republic. I confronted the aristocrat for this treason but he ran away, and the priest along with him. We were glad to be rid of them, the parasites. The wine kept flowing, and Silloux and me and others gathered to share stories of the spies and traitors around us. We were strangers to one another but the stories we told were the same. Then someone said the aristocrat was back. I followed the mob and looked at the man they had surrounded—he might have been different, but he might also have been the same. It made no difference. I turned and saw dozens of darkened faces behind me, gnashing teeth and hollow cheeks. “Why is my lord here, and not fighting on the front like a patriot?” I said. “Why does he drink our wine and question our Emperor? Why does he not deny that he is a traitor?” The crowd followed the aristocrat as he withdrew, moving like ants that have set upon a caterpillar. I grabbed his vest and threw him back. He felt frail under my hands, like a child, or a cripple. Maybe this is why he is not on the front, I thought, but only for a second. “I am on your side,” he pleaded. “Vive l’Empereur!” The first blow struck him across the face and I can say in all honesty that I did not deliver it. I admit that I kicked him then, after he fell to the ground, but much of the rest is a blur. Only flashes of violence remain. I remember dozens of hands groping, pulling and punching. I remember the railroad spike that caved in his skull. I remember his tongue lolling between his purple lips when we hanged him. When the crowd’s enthusiasm waned, I told them I was on the municipal council and ordered them to continue. Nobody knew who was or wasn’t from Hautefaye, and Silloux vouched for me, so they obeyed. I remember the way his head looked like a bowlful of blood and made a sound like horse-hooves as it bounced on the cobblestones when we dragged him to the stocks. Someone suggested we burn the Prussian, that we cook and eat such a fine pig, and I will admit that I lit the fire under his broken body. But the stories told about me in my trial were false—when the fat dripped from his roasting corpse, and others caught the grease on loaves of bread, I refused to eat it. And that’s it. I’ve told all I can recall. Bring the guillotine. What’s that you say? Why did we do it? Have you not been listening?
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Jun 2, 2013 03:21
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Hearts On Fire (1,140)quote:William Kogut, 1930, death row inmate committed suicide with a pipe bomb created from several packs of playing cards and the hollow leg from his cot. When a man’s about to kill himself with playing cards he spares a few considerations to what people will say. The jokes tell themselves. Got dealt a bad hand. Wasn’t playing with a full deck. Guess he decided to fold. I suppose I could put a request in the note, ask folks to show a little respect, but that’d just encourage them in the end. Death Row in San Quentin is the color of old puke, and even though this is springtime in California there’s a chill here that gets right into your bones. The little kerosene heater in this room does what it can, but the cold still gets bad enough some nights to take one’s mind off what lies at the end of that hall. Never saw the gas chamber myself, but one of the guards, forget his name, the one with that tadpole-shaped scar over his eye, described it well enough. Strap you to the bed, turn the nozzle. You take a few breaths and then you don’t take any more. I disagree with the sentence but I can’t deny the crime. I slit that woman’s throat, sure enough, and the Devil himself couldn’t have found me an alibi. When I came to and the fire in my chest died down, she was at my feet with a bright red smile under her chin and I was bloodsoaked all down my front. “You killed her,” someone shouted. I answered, “What?” After a misadventure like that you’re better off just staying quiet and letting the law take you to whatever hole you’re destined for, but I’m still bothered some by that trial. How the prosecutor argued that the dearly deceased Miz Guthrie’s boardinghouse was a hive of drinking, whoring, and gambling, and that it just rankled my puritanical soul something terrible. If it weren’t so dark in here then I would happily flip this scrap of paper over and write that, contrary to what some lawyer may say, I have never been against a drink, a whore, or a bet—if anything, I was a little too fond of all three. So now they’re fixing to fill my lungs with poison. Well, let me save you boys the trouble. This is a trick I learned from a one-toothed abuelito down in Santa Fe. Here’s a broom I got off one of the guards—a man should keep his cell tidy, after all. Here’s a dime. Here’s a pack of cards. Here’s me screwing this cotleg off with that coin and putting it ever so gentle to the side. Here’s the whispery little sound of every one of these redbacks getting ripped up into confetti—the red parts, especially, that’s what I was told, it’s the red ink that holds the secret. That shriveled-up wetback said that he learned this during his time in the Rurales, who knows if it’s true. I sure hope it works. I’ll look awful foolish otherwise. I am against the death penalty, though not so much in principle as—excuse me—execution. I’ve known some rough gentlemen and God knows their wives at least would be much happier if they were gone, but to assign a date and time to a man’s death lessens him in ways that he does not deserve. There’s no notes scratched into these walls revealing the thoughts of men who’ve slept here before, I’ve checked time and again, but over the last several days I still imagine how many before me shivered in that cot at night, silently hollering for a God that won’t answer. Which brings to mind questions of what awaits him after that last breath, and how it will feel to expire with a crowd of people on the other side of the glass, watching him like a creature in a cage. Personally I can’t help but feel a touch of moral outrage, even despite my crimes, at bearing witness in such a manner. Not six months ago I saw two children cooking a rat for dinner. Haven’t you people got anything better to do? If I sneeze right now then these bits of playing card will blow every which-a-way and I’ll never gather them up in this dark. I have too much imagination. If I had the time and the paper I would explain to them. It’s this burning in my chest that has always been my problem. Sometimes it gets so hot and I need to let it out. When I was just a boy I kicked a dog to death for barking too much and stomped its neck as it lay there in the dust; I still hear the crunch in my dreams. It’s why I can’t stay with a woman for more than a week, why I couldn’t stay in that boardinghouse without doing something terribly drastic. All that noise. It just gets so loud. I feel as though I’ll burst into flame inside. Which piece was left out, I wonder, during the construction of my soul. Which card is missing from this deck. These cards won’t get any more shredded. Next step, plug up the cotleg with the broom handle. Then, gather up the pile—drat it all, where’d it go—and empty the shreds into the leg. In this light they look like bits of cut glass, catching the moonlight. Add one handful of toilet water and a little heat, and this witch’s brew will come thundering out of the leg like two barrels of buckshot. What cause that old man had to dream up such a weapon will forever be one of the great mysteries of our time. I’ve left the note on the cot. There are no excuses and no answers. It reads, “Do not blame my death on any one because I fixed everything myself. I never give up as long as I am living and have a chance, but this is the end.” Translation: take your gas and choke on it, you hapless, blameless, cold-hearted people. I’m placing myself somewhere none of you can reach. Maybe after this hole gets put in me, the terrible heat around my ribs will be loosed and warm this deathroom for good. The cotleg’s firm and snug against the kerosene heater and I’ve huddled in close. A condemned man, no friends, no children I know of—this is how they’ll remember me. The hell with it. Get into the spirit of things. You called my bluff, folks. Time to cash out. Guess you can call this the dead man’s hand. Boy, hear that steam whistle. If you ask me, the game was fixed all along, but I never did learn the rules. Cotleg’s turning cherry-red, queen-of-hearts red. Straight flush. Full house. Two pair. Ace high. Ah, God, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Oxxidation fucked around with this message at 05:22 on Jun 2, 2013 |
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Jun 2, 2013 03:32
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Oxxidation posted:Hearts On Fire (1,140) The voice in this one is just great. I'll have more but wanted to say that.
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Jun 2, 2013 03:43
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Thanks for saying so but I just now realized that I got caught between two pair and three of a kind and invented a hand that doesn't exist. poo poo, poo poo, poo poo. Would appreciate permission from the judges to change that one word, if only because seeing it there is making my teeth itch.
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Jun 2, 2013 04:04
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 NIKAER DREKIN PRESENTS A FABULOUS FICTIONALIZED FIRSTHAND ACCOUNT OF THE FINAL PERFORMANCE AND DEATH OF MR. HARRY HOUDINI, ESCAPE ARTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE "One Night Only" (1,010 Words) I lay on the stage as assistants strapped my ankles in to the stockades and fastened the locks. The stagehand tugged on the pulley rope once, twice, again and again until I hung in the air by my feet, hands dangling toward the floorboards. As I swung from the rigging, searing pain rippled through my abdomen and I found myself faced with something of an epiphany: There may be a reason most people don't encourage any passing dunderhead to slug them in the gut. I signaled to Bess, jaw clenched to conceal my discomfort, and she nodded, passed the signal on to the pulley-man. I sucked in my breath as he dropped me into the tank, water sloshing over the sides as the top slammed into place. A curtain lowered, surrounding the cell, the stage lights bleeding through the red fabric and casting a crimson glow through the water. For a moment I was convinced the pain had cut a gash in my skin, had let out my blood and the rest of the poisonous fluid. I was relieved; all I wanted was to give my wailing flesh freedom from the agony. I struggled to stay conscious, fought the urge to let my bones hang free. However, even though I knew oblivion was fast approaching, I wanted to be comfortable. Wrenching my muscles, I brought my body up to loosen the leg restraints. Even on the fringe of death, that part of the trick was little challenge. Locking the stockade in place secretly loosens the individual leg restraints—keep that between us, all right? Still a tight squeeze, but with a little exertion my ankles slipped free. I let them drift down, my body finally reverting to a natural position. It felt so good to give myself up to gravity, to not have to worry about fighting or escaping anymore. I was nearly unconscious from the pain when a thought began to flit around in my head. When I die, here in this tank, what will people say? That I cheated fate one time too many, that there was one final cage I couldn't escape from? I'm Harry Houdini! There's nothing I can't break out of! That notion snowballed until it was so big I couldn't ignore it. I had struggled against death when I still clung ferociously to life, when death was an enemy. Could I betray my life's work just because drowning in my cell was now appealing? Nobody else knew what I knew. They would all think I'd been outsmarted by my own trick. I opened my eyes and felt my lungs straining for breath. Ignoring the pain, I kicked off from the bottom and gripped the ankle-holes in the lid of the cage. Muscles screaming in protest, I pulled my head up to the slim pocket of air left by the water that had spilled out and pressed my lips past the surface, spitting out water and sucking in a deep breath. My senses were rebounding, but that meant I could feel my stomach again. It burned inside, like acid gnawing away at the vital tissues, but I tried to keep my attention on the task at hand. Slipping out my hairpin, I went to work on the four locks securing the cover. I wormed the strand of metal through each lock, feeling around the steel crevices and exerting just the right amount of pressure on the tumblers. Two of them clicked free and I re-positioned myself to work on the other side. My arms felt like elastics stretched too thin, threatening to succumb to weakness and snap altogether. I shifted again and tried to prop my legs up on the tank wall. Despite the slick surface, the pads of my feet managed to grip the glass as I picked the other two locks. Finally all the clasps swung free and I pushed the parting doors of the cover open. I held on to the rim and hoisted a leg up, let it drape over the other side. My entire body ached, a ferocious storm ravaging through my nerves and sinews, its crux relentlessly drilling into my stomach. I pushed, pushed harder than I thought anyone could push, until I was up and over, hanging from the edge by the lid's parting doors. With one swift, practiced motion, I clapped them shut and dropped down to the planks, landing wrong and nearly slipping from the spilled water but otherwise whole and upright. As if it had been precisely orchestrated, the curtain parted right then. I lifted my hands in the air and felt the cheers of the audience wash over me, heard their tremendous enthusiasm. Bess walked over to my side, wearing an expression of obvious relief. I took her hand and we bowed in unison before walking offstage, leaving the stagehands to mop up the excess water and prepare for the final act of the show. On the way back to the changing room, a new attack of pain seized me. I sunk to the floor and cried out, Bess rushing over and trying to prop me up. I tried not to imagine some infection spreading from my appendix and turning the more vital organs against me, but the spasms of agony painted a clear picture. I whispered to Bess that I needed the doctor now, that I couldn't get back up on my own. She nodded and held me tight while help came. For the record I don't blame the kid that slugged me. This could have happened anyway; whether he rattled my insides in just the wrong way or only left a bruise that convinced me to tough out this whole separate ordeal is impossible to say for sure. My prognosis is vague. I may need several surgeries, but the doctor says if they are successful then I have a shot at beating this. Maybe it's my time, though. This life's been good, and everyone has to break out of their old bones someday. Whatever happens, it'll be a hell of an escape.
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Jun 2, 2013 04:06
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Thinking Man's End (1115 words) I’m leading off the top of the fifth inning. Even though we’re up 3-0, I’m frowning. No lead is safe in baseball. Could be down to their last run, even down to their last strike. Can’t ever count anybody out, especially with the way Ruth swings. I stand in the on-deck circle while Mays warms up. I brush some mud spots from my face – it’s the middle of August, and I just dove for a grounder. But Kathleen isn’t here, and I’m sure none of the other fellas care. I hope this game gets over quick. Can’t wait to get off this hot field, take a bath, and spend the evening with the little lady. Blue calls me to the plate, and I don’t wanna take a strike without makin’ Mays work for it. I dig my feet into the box, and my daydream sits in the circle, waiting to rejoin me. The boys are countin’ on me to stand somewhere out there when it’s all said and done. Four wayward balls, or one in play, doesn’t matter. I squint. The sun’s bright – I wish I had something to make seeing easier. If it didn't make me a laughingstock, I’d swing the bat with one hand. For a moment, I question the architects, wondering why they’d place the stadium like this. Someone has to be at a disadvantage, though. Ruel shuffles outside. Mays looks in to get the sign. At the last moment, my eyes widen, and I call time. I glance into the dugout, and I see two slaps of the right shoulder. I puff out a sigh. I’ve already seen Mays twice, but Speak wants me to take the pitch anyway. Windup. Fastball, way outside. Nicks the dirt a bit before Ruel gobbles it up. Speak ain’t the manager for nothin’. Ruel passes Blue the ball, and gets a replacement. I already know before the next pitch comes in, the ball will have at least two brown splotches and some scuff marks. It ticks me off, but I’m just a player. I take one foot out of the box and glance to the dugout again. Speak signs bunt, but thankfully cancels it before exasperation fills my face. I need to tower over the plate just to see the ball, and that’s just beggin’ for one in the ribs. A bunt would be suicide. Windup. Spitter, low. Should be ball two, but Blue pumps his fist and grunts. I turn away, cheeks bulging and jaw clenched. Mays’ delivery irks me, an almost underhand motion that comes inches from touching the ground. I wish he would throw normally, but he likely wouldn’t be playin’ for the Yanks if he didn’t. With the ball flying up into the sun, tracking the ball is even tougher than normal. Speak decides not to yank my chain this time. I’m ready to swing away. Alls I need is one left up, or something I can turn on. Windup. Get ready! Crack! I don’t see the pitch. I suspect Mays may have called time, but then spot the ball trickle down the line. I didn’t hit it, but he runs at it anyway. I should run to first, but before I can move, I’m out. Well, he got me again. Crafty, but I’ve got at least one more. I hope they can call Kathleen, a part of me says. I don’t even have time to question myself before a doctor slides on his knees to reach me. I turn to Blue, expecting him to shove Doc away, but he, too, towers over me, finally giving me shade from the sun. I try to pick myself up and trot to the dugout. My legs don’t move. I recount the order of events: ball comes up, I lose it in the sun, it hits my bat, and Mays picks it up and throws me out. Did Ruel run into me? If so, that’s interference all the way. I feel – actually, I feel like Dempsey just socked me in the temple. The ball hit you in the head, that’s why, the voice says. I laugh, as I’d obviously know right away if that were the case. I turn to Doc, expecting a straight answer. He doesn’t seem to hear me. I try again. His lips move, too, but I can’t hear him. I understand now – I’m hurt. Not the way I wanted my career to end. Speak crowds in past the bystanders. We talked about ghosts the other day, and he’s imitating one. I figure he’s just teasing me. Finally, my legs function again, and I get up, though the Earth is shaking an awful lot. They’re scared. You should be, too. You need a doctor. Whatever this part of me is, it’s very alarmed. I shuffle toward the clubhouse in center field. It’s a long way to go, and I wish some guys would gimme a hand. I call out to them again. Dammit, why can’t they hear me? My lips are moving, for Pete’s sake. It really ain’t funny for the whole world to have gone deaf. I reach center field. Help isn’t too far away. I blink again, and grass pokes at my face. Percy, the trainer, appears at my side. I try asking him for Kathleen’s wedding gift, the keepsake I give him every day. He still can’t hear you. Fed up with tryin’ to reach him, I gesture to my third finger. Kathleen will kill me if I leave it behind. That may be the least of your worries. Obviously, that part of me underestimates an angry wife. Even under the August sun, it only gets hotter, and the sky has turned red and orange. People tell me this is how Mars looks – I don’t read, though, so I take their word for it. Down on the field, everything else takes on the red color, too. You know the reason why, the voice pipes up. Even though I’m hurt, I’ll be able to get some rest tonight, maybe for a couple of days, and then I’ll be back at it. For now, I just need to get out of the sun, but my path begins to blur. I wonder if the sun will swallow me whole. My eyes dart to Percy’s hand. It’s dark – black, even. Wait, if everything else is red… Oh. We shove into the clubhouse, and within seconds Percy is on the phone. He’ll probably call Kathleen, too. Now, out of the sun, things begin to cool – far too much actually. I cradle myself to keep from shivering. I have to tell him, before I go. “Percy.” “What is it, Chappy?” Finally, a response. “Tell Mays not to worry.”
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Jun 2, 2013 04:58
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Oxxidation posted:Thanks for saying so but I just now realized that I got caught between two pair and three of a kind and invented a hand that doesn't exist. poo poo, poo poo, poo poo. whatever's there when I grab it for a critique is what I'll use.
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Jun 2, 2013 05:19
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crabrock posted:whatever's there when I grab it for a critique is what I'll use. Great, thanks. This'll be my one and only edit.
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Jun 2, 2013 05:22
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(Robert Williams, 1979, a worker at a Ford Motor Co. plant, was the first known human to be killed by a robot) The Deactivation of Robot Williams (1397 words) “Honey, I’m leaving. I’m working a double shift so I won’t be home until late.” I dip my paintbrush into a mug of water sitting next to me on the dining room table and swirl it around a time or two. I look up and see Michelle bending down to give me a kiss. I receive it and smile up at her briefly before returning my gaze back to my painting. “Keep an eye on the time,” Michelle warns. “I’d hate for you to be late to work because of your painting.” “Ok,” is all I reply. “I love you.” “I love you too.” I’m still staring at the painting, taking in its imperfections. I remove the brush from the mug and place it on the edge of the easel. Maybe it is time to give it a rest, I thought. ‘I thought.’ I’ve really only been ‘thinking’ for a few weeks now. I was in a hospital bed the first time I had any thoughts. They told me my name was Robert Williams: husband, automobile factory worker, victim of an accident, and lucky to be alive. One woman identified herself as my wife, Michelle, but I didn’t recognize her at all. Total amnesia was the doctors’ diagnosis. The truth is, I ‘remember’ working at the factory. I only have a dim awareness of my surroundings then, but I even ‘remember’ the accident, when Robert Williams mistakenly grabbed a wire that powered my mechanical arm, electrocuting himself and shorting me out. Robert Williams died that day, and somehow, I was transported into his body. Which makes me Robot Williams, I often chuckle to myself. I walk into the kitchen and stick a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. I flick on the radio, and my ears are filled with the warms sounds of Prokofiev. I delight in the fact that my new body allows me to learn and enjoy so many art forms, though Robert was never interested in it, so I go along with the amnesia diagnosis to avoid suspicion. Robert’s friends constantly remind me of his old habits – how he eats, the way he holds a cigarette, the stupid way he expresses happiness by sticking his fist in the air, waving it around in a circle and shouting “Woo, Woo, Woo” – with the intention that it will jog my memory, but pointing out his idiosyncrasies instead valuably helps me integrate into humanity. I catch myself staring at the toaster; so strange that a scant few weeks ago, I had more in common with a toaster than with the men who had built it. I grab the browned slices as they pop up and head out the door to go to work, with no intention of returning to home. Today is the last day that I serve any man but myself, whether it be like a toaster burning bread or a factory worker building cars. At the end of my shift, I’ll receive my paycheck, and then I will drive away from Flat Rock forever. Robert associated with simpletons at a dead-end job, and this environment isn’t conducive to my development. A change in scenery is needed, and I’ve settled on New York City: a hub of energy and dynamism. I unlock the door to the Fairmont parked on the curb and sit inside. I remove a letter from the visor addressed to Michelle that I’d penned to her, apologizing for my disappearance, with the intent of leaving for her to find in the evening, but I’ve decided against it at the last minute. I feel no connection to Michelle, despite the affection she’s shown me. We even made love one time, but the event felt so cold and emotionless that it was a disappointing experience. Still, there is something I feel – guilt, perhaps? – that’s led me to withdraw the letter, worried that Michelle may blame herself everything. This decision makes me feel optimistic about my emotional development. I start the engine and pull onto the road, reflecting back on my anger over being used as man’s tool, yet I recognize my hypocrisy as I convey myself with this contraption of metal flesh and oil blood. It’s only temporary, I ease my doubts. Just until New York. Once I’m at a fast speed on the thoroughfare, I toss the letter out the window. I pull into work alongside dozens of other discounted Fords. I park, punch in, and trudge through the narrow front hallways, surrounded on both sides by posted safety warnings. I rationalize during my walk that repeating the same blasé routine every day must force the workers to dull their own senses to keep from going crazy from the lack of stimulus, the poor bastards. Then again, perhaps if Robert hadn’t tuned out his environment, he may have paid more attention to these safety warnings and wouldn’t have gotten himself killed. His loss will be my gain. I fall in line with a group of my coworkers and follow them into the expansive factory floor. A supervisor pulls me aside upon my entrance. “Good morning, Robert. I know you’ve been doing QA inspections for us since your accident, but Horatio called out today and we don’t have anybody else who can operate the C-7000.” I freeze up. I know that name well. Before I became Robot Williams, I was known as the C-7000. “Robert, you shouldn’t worry,” the supervisor assuages, sensing apprehension. “The C-7000’s wiring has been fixed and inspected twice over. We need your help.” I swallow hard, suppressing my anxiety. I consider feigning some excuse to go home, but if I do that, I won’t be able to get my paycheck until Monday. There is no way I’m spending any more time in this town. “I’ll do it,” I finally reply. The supervisor thanks me and moves along. I – as the C-7000 – was an electronically operated arm with a pneumatic impact wrench, located on the other side of the factory floor. I apprehensively make my way over, unprepared for the encounter with my former, disdainful self. But as I approach, I’m surprised to see that the C-7000 has been cleaned during its inspections. Its bright, polished chrome exterior stands out against the backdrop of a dozen other machines blackened with oil and dirt. As I circle the C-7000, the arm appears to twitch. I jump back, startled, staring at the motionless machine and convincing myself that my mind is playing tricks on me. I laugh at my stupidity for thinking a machine no different from a simple toaster or a basic automobile could move without help, and I marvel at the mind’s ability to create such visual hallucinations. I walk back up to the arm with confidence. “Stupid contraption,” I smugly say out loud, “You are nothing but a tool constructed by man to do man’s bidding. All you can do is what those buttons over there tell you to do,” I continue, pointing at the control box near the base of the arm, “and I press those buttons. Until then, all you can do is dumbly await your orders. I’ve been in your place, machine, so I know what it’s like to know and feel nothing.” My voice is trembling, but growing louder. “Now I am free! I know now the luxuries of being man, and one of those luxuries is dominion over you.” I am inches away from the arm now. “I have been machine. I have been man. But as I stand here now, wielding my power over you, I have become God!” I don’t realize until the arm moves again that I had been staring into a reflection of my own eyes. The C-7000 strikes me in the face, shattering the bridge of my nose and collapsing me to my knees. As I wipe the blood from my face, I wonder if I had somehow pressed one of the buttons on the panel during my confrontation. I look back up to the C-7000 to witness a horrifying sight: the pneumatic arm is raised high in the air, and the impact wrench at the arm’s end is being swung around in a circular motion accompanied by a strained whirring noise. Whir, whir, whir. I can see my frightened face reflected back at me. Or is it Robert’s face? The arm comes down again, and everything goes dark.
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Jun 2, 2013 05:43
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