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Here's my entryquote:True friends stab you in the front “I swear to God if one more thing goes wrong, I'm going to cut a motherfucker!” Zoraida mutters angrily through clenched teeth. She bites down into her lower lip and rapidly clicks the mouse, trying to elicit a response from her frozen computer. Frustrated, she slaps the mouse away and falls back into her chair, vivid images of her fist through the screen dancing in her head. She leans far back into her chair and rubs her eyes while attempting some meditative breathing she learned in her anger management classes. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. gently caress! Zoraida shoots up out of her chair and walks out of her cubicle towards the kitchen. Meditation never really worked for her. Pulling a mug from the cupboard she pours herself some coffee and then leans back against the counter edge. A movement near the door catches her attention. “Hey there grumps!” A blond head pokes into the room. Her large smile causes Zoraida to slightly frown. Elise has one of those personalities that resemble that annoying ray of sunshine in the morning. Yet somehow the two of them bonded immensely and Zoraida now consider her a best friend; an only friend really, besides her boyfriend. Zoraida grunts in response and brings her coffee up to her mouth to blow and sip. Looking at Elise, she senses something off about her – nervousness perhaps. Elise walks in the room and takes a seat at the lunch table. “Hey, I know this is last minute...” She says as she avoids her friend's gaze. Zoraida furrows her brow. “Ah... After you're done with work tonight, can you come to Mojo's with me? It's important.” “Mojo's?” Zoraida's eyebrow goes up. “I never knew you for a bar girl Elise. You're hiding something, aren't you?” “I'm not saying anything else until we're both at Mojo's.” She crosses her arms, still refusing to meet Zoraida's gaze. A tense moment passes. “Alright. Why the gently caress not? I'm not going to be able to get any more work tonight; not with my computer acting like a jack-hole.” Zoraida pulls her cellphone out. “I could really use a drink... Did you want to share a cab?” “Sure. I've already called one before I came to talk, so it should be here soon.” Elise stands up and starts walking out of the room. “Meet you outside?” she pauses to ask. “Let me try to salvage my work first. Computer froze on me.” Zoraida points in the direction of her cubicle with her phone. “Shouldn't be long.” “Alright Zora. See ya soon.” Elise says. “Yep.” Zoraida places her phone to her ear. She's halfway to her desk when her boyfriend picks up. “Hey Rucks.” She says. “What's up my Hershey Princess?” Him and his drat pet names. “I'm not gonna get in until late. Going out with co-workers.” She say, sitting at her desk. “That's fine,” He replies. “My boss pushed a ton of crap on my lap so I'll probably just spend the night at the office.” “You work so hard. I hope you get that promotion.” “That would be pretty sweet, huh? Anyways, I don't want to lose my focus on this so I'm gonna let you go. Bye Mocha.” “Bye.” Zoraida set her phone down and slaps the frozen computer. “Stupid piece of ancient poo poo.” She sits there brooding for a moment before considering getting ready to leave. “Whatever, I'll deal with this tomorrow.” As she made her way outside, she saw Elise's cab turn the corner. “Well- f...g...” She momentarily struggles for words. “poo poo.” # Elise's eyes are puffy and brimming with tears. The driver checks his rear view repeatedly before finally speaking up. “Hey, what's a pretty girl like you crying?” She rolls her eyes and sniffs, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “I'm a bad friend.” The cabbie's eyebrows go up. “Oh, I'm sure you're blowing things out of proportion. What happened?” “I had sex with my friend's boyfriend the other day.” The cab driver is quiet, not sure how to respond. “It was a huge mistake. So stupid. I was out at the bar and I saw her boyfriend there. We got talking and after a few drinks I … I uh...” Elise falters and starts to cry again. “I'm sorry.” The cabbie says. “I had a plan for tonight. Zora and I were gonna share this cab, but she was taking a long time and I just lost my nerve. I was gonna tell her-” She sniffles again. “-tell her at the bar what happened and beg for forgiveness.” The cabbie turned in his seat to look at Elise. “Hey everything is going to be fine. I'm sure your friend will understand we're all human and we make mistakes.” Elise smiles faintly. “I hope your r– WATCH OUT! TRUCK! TRUCK!” She shouts, pointing at the U-Haul blindly backing out of a driveway. The driver snaps forward and tries to swerve out of the way, but his reaction wasn't fast enough. The feeling of weightlessness followed by overwhelming pain was mercifully brief. # Zoraida walks up to the bar and orders herself an bottled beer. After the initial gulps, she scans the room for Elise. She doesn't find her in the sparse crowd, but instead finds her boyfriend chatting to some young looking woman. “Rucks?!” She shouts incredulously. “Nigga', what the gently caress!” Rucks looks up and his smile turns dour very quickly as he witnesses his angry black girlfriend storming towards him. “First Elise stands me up, and now your bitch-rear end lies to me about where you are. See your rear end hard at work talking to this tramp mothafucka!” Her fingers jab him in his chest as she emphasizes words. Rucks turns pale. “Oh goddamit... Elise told you. Look, it was an accident Hershey. I had too much to drink that night. It doesn't mean anything!” Zoraida's stops; a focused and intense rage clouding her face. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In- “Baby, I'm sorry.” Zoraida explodes, holding her beer bottle like a club and swinging it at Rucks. He was not expecting such a sudden attack. His arms didn't come up quick enough to protect his temple from the vicious strike. Six years for voluntary manslaughter, her lawyer told her. Zoraida sits in her cell staring at the wall. That night she hospitalized Rucks after smashing a bottle across his head and he died an hour later of internal bleeding. She later learned that Elise died in a car crash on the way to the bar when the driver, who lived, collided with a U-Haul truck . He claimed he was distracted trying to console her. She wasn't wearing her seat belt, they said. If only she didn't wait so long to join Elise in the cab things would have turned out different, Zoraida laments as she ties a shoe lace she smuggled in to the top bed. Mercedes fucked around with this message at 04:18 on Jun 13, 2013 |
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Jun 12, 2013 18:02
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Mercedes posted:1,189 words [...] Mercedes posted:his angry black girlfriend
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Jun 12, 2013 18:07
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Write what you know am I right fellas? Fellas? Mercedes fucked around with this message at 18:26 on Jun 12, 2013 |
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Jun 12, 2013 18:14
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Mercedes posted:Write what you know am I right fellas? Mercedes posted:Here's my entry 
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Jun 12, 2013 18:27
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Mercedes posted:Write what you know am I right fellas?
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Jun 12, 2013 18:34
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Ain't a fuckin thing wrong with foul language in writing, if used correctly. Now if you want to talk about it, go to Fiction Discussion.
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Jun 12, 2013 18:54
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This person is emotional because look at how much they are cussing!
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Jun 12, 2013 19:28
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I'm a big fan of Mr. Wilde and I was named after him, so I feel I'm obliged to be in. Not really feeling decision making today, and I love all of his quotes (a pocket book of which is on my desk right next to me), so I'd prefer it if you gave me a quote.
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Jun 12, 2013 19:30
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sebmojo posted:"I love stories about talking pigs so I wrote one and here it is" New prompt everyone write about talking pigs in the stylings of Oscar Wilde. Mercedes posted:Here's my entry What, no, stop trying to put me in your story.
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Jun 12, 2013 20:36
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PoshAlligator posted:Not really feeling decision making today, and I love all of his quotes (a pocket book of which is on my desk right next to me), so I'd prefer it if you gave me a quote. A quote for you: "Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not." And with it, a  Flash Rule: Someone in your story must make an important decision.
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Jun 12, 2013 20:48
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Mercedes posted:“Hey there grumps!” A blond head pokes into the room. Her large smile causes you to slightly frown. Elise has one of those personalities that resemble that annoying ray of sunshine in the morning. Yet somehow the two of you bonded immensely and you now consider her your best friend; your only friend really, besides your boyfriend. To get back to work, turn to page 32.
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Jun 12, 2013 21:13
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I never get on well with second person fiction. It just seems a bit gimmicky and takes me right out of it. Sorry.Kaishai posted:A quote for you: "Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not." I had a feeling I would have that flash rule thrust upon me. sebmojo posted:Good point! Well, alrighty, then. PoshAlligator fucked around with this message at 00:24 on Jun 13, 2013 |
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Jun 12, 2013 21:22
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PoshAlligator posted:I never get on well with second person fiction. It just seems a bit gimmicky and takes me right out of it. Sorry. Good point! Flash Rule Your story must also be in second person.
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Jun 12, 2013 22:15
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Martello posted:In. Flash Rule Pirates, dogs.
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Jun 12, 2013 23:25
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Sitting Here posted:
Everyone knows SH only wants to be features in the finest trailer park scat/snuff fiction.
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Jun 13, 2013 00:24
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Nubile Hillock posted:Everyone knows SH only wants to be features in the finest trailer park scat/snuff fiction. Step into my self-pub erotica thread *waggles eyebrows at u*
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Jun 13, 2013 00:29
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Sitting Here posted:Step into my self-pub erotica thread *waggles eyebrows at u* Flash Rule: Your story must include an entrepreneur. Preferably a billionaire.
Kaishai fucked around with this message at 01:45 on Jun 13, 2013 |
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Jun 13, 2013 01:10
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In with this: "Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives."
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Jun 13, 2013 01:40
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Sitting Here posted:
Goddamn Mercedes. I'm so used to writing in first person. Is it too late for me to go back and edit them back into second person?
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Jun 13, 2013 02:04
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Mercedes posted:Goddamn Mercedes. I'm so used to writing in first person. Why yes.
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Jun 13, 2013 02:10
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Sitting Here posted:Step into my self-pub erotica thread *waggles eyebrows at u* Is this really a thing? DID SOMEONE PAY YOU FOR YOUR TRAILER SNUFF STORY!? Also lol'ing at angry black girlfriends or something, for content  nublet spotted
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Jun 13, 2013 04:08
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In. Give me a quote.
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Jun 14, 2013 00:30
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Draxamus posted:In. Give me a quote. "One of the many lessons that one learns in prison is that things are what they are and will be what they will be."
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Jun 14, 2013 04:27
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I was hoping to have more time to review and work on my entry, but I'm away for the weekend (It's Friday afternoon here in Oz), and will have limited access to email / internet. So, here's my Entry: Quote "Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future" Starting Over at the End - word count: 1,194 Michael tapped his foot in anticipation. He was getting out today. Three years in the joint because of a bad luck. He thought back on how he and Nathan had staked out the shop for an hour before going in. They had barely seen anyone go in or out. It should have been an easy job. In and out in under 5 minutes. No one hurt, and then they’d have a couple hundred in cash for the weekend. They had gone in hot, with their blades out. It was always best to go in with weapons out he reminisced. It kept everyone on their back foot. They’d never actually hurt anyone, it was about intimidation. Clerk had given up the register no questions asked. It was a chain store after all, not some mom and pop shop where the guy behind the counter cared about the money. Then it had all gone wrong. What were the chances that an off-duty cop that carried a piece would walk through the door right at that moment? If Nathan had been collecting the cash instead, he would have been the one to get busted. Nathan had been able to run past the cop before he could get his gun out. Michael had been the one behind the counter grabbing the cash out of the register. He’d had no chance to make a getaway. Michael tapped his foot a little faster. Nathan wouldn’t be the one to pick him up today; he was doing a stint up state for drugs. Billy had said he was free though. He had just finished probation, so he was allowed to spend time with ex-cons now. Hearing the guard’s voice call “Michael Stillwell?” stopped his foot tapping, and pulled him into the present. He stood automatically and confirmed his presence. Three years had ingrained this reaction in him. The gate to his cell opened, and Michael followed the guard down the corridor past the row of other cells. A fanfare of hoots and hollers that accompanied any prisoner being released echoed around him as he followed the guard down the catwalk. After the cell block it was through to a different holding cell, signing of paperwork, picking up what few belongings he had in storage, and then out to reception where Billy was waiting. Instead of his friend Billy, Michael found his brother David waiting. Michael hadn’t seen or even spoken to David in over 5 years. David had gone off to college to study business, and Michael, whose grades had never been great, had hung around town. David had always been the rising star of the family to Michael’s black sheep act. As Michael spiralled downward, David’s fortune seemed to do the exact opposite. Before long, Michael wasn’t even bothering to go to family events anymore where all he’d hear was how David was doing so well. At that point, David looked up from his chair and saw Michael. The two locked eyes for a long awkward moment, neither knowing what to say. David was the first to break the silence “Hi Michael, long time no see.” “What are you doing here? Where’s Billy?” “I bumped into Billy the other day, and he said he was coming to pick you up today. I asked him if he’d mind if I came to get you. He didn’t, and so here I am.” “Sure, whatever” Michael responded “Good to see you.” “Ready to go?” David asked, and with a nod of agreement, Michael and David headed out to the parking lot. David lead Michael to his car. To Michael it looked like some generic over-priced import, but the engine started with a meaty purr that met his approval. After a few minutes silence, Michael cut straight to what was on his mind “So what’s the deal? Why’d you pick me up today?” David took a deep breath before responding “I’ve got cancer, Michael. It’s the inoperable kind. Doctor says I’ve got between three and six months.” “I’m sorry, David, I didn’t know. That’s a bum deal.” David chuckled although there was no humour in it. “Yeah, a bum deal” David answered with an edge to his voice. “Well, what do you want me to do about it? What’s this got to do with me?” David shot back at him without missing a beat “I’m loving dying, and that’s all you can say? How about you pull your loving head out of your rear end and grow the gently caress up. Did you know that Mom and Dad are both in a home now?” He was met with a blank stare from Michael that confirmed his assumption. “Of course you don’t. They don’t even know who I am half the time when I visit. Do you know how much it costs to keep both of them in there? Of course not, you’re too busy getting into trouble with your jerk-off friends.” Michael sat stunned for a moment. He couldn’t recall having heard David ever speak that way before. After a few moments of quiet, David continued in a more level voice. “I’ve done ok for myself, but work always got in the way of personal relationships. I never had much time for family and friends, and was never much of a brother to you. Sure I was home for holidays, but that was as far as I was willing to go. Looking back now, I can see my priorities were pretty skewed.” Again, there was a pause, but this time it was Michael that broke the silence “Hey, I really am sorry about the cancer, and what’s been going on with mum and dad. I wish I’d known.” “I know you are Michael, and I know you do. Even if you did some dumb things, I truly think you always had a good heart. I’m kind of banking on it.” “What do you mean?” “Someone’s going to have to look after mum and dad, Michael. I’m not going to be around, and that leaves you. I’ve tried talking to cousin Patrick, but he’s got his own problems. Mom was an only child, and Dad’s brother Luke died two years ago. Michael, if you can’t step up to look after mum and dad, I don’t know what’s going to happen to them. I know they weren’t perfect parents, but they did their best.” “Yeah, they were always ok. Even when I was getting into trouble, they never gave up on me. They even visited me in jail when I first went in. I wondered why they stopped coming. I always thought it’s because they’d had enough.” David sighed before answering “I should have come to see you myself, but with work and mum and dad going downhill, I just couldn’t find the time. It’s a lousy excuse, and I’m sorry I was a lousy brother. I need you to step up now, Michael. Mum and dad deserve better than some government housing or the street.” Michael paused before answering. He considered David’s statement, and everything he’d learned that morning. Finally, with a quick nod and a hint of determination in his eyes, he answered. “Yeah, they do.” PotatoManJack fucked around with this message at 05:48 on Jun 14, 2013 |
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Jun 14, 2013 05:42
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Someone hit me with a flash rule, pretty please.
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Jun 15, 2013 04:40
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Someone hit me with a flash rule, pretty please. Flash Rule: Your story must be set under the sea.
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Jun 15, 2013 04:44
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Someone hit me with a flash rule, pretty please. Two for the price of one: Flash Rule #2: One of your characters should be remarkably polite.Kaishai fucked around with this message at 04:47 on Jun 15, 2013 |
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Jun 15, 2013 04:44
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Awesome, I hear mermaids are the new Vampires. Merpires. Do fish even have blood? Can you sparkle underwater?
Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 04:51 on Jun 15, 2013 |
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Jun 15, 2013 04:48
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Do fish even have blood? Click here for prizes  
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Jun 15, 2013 04:55
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Awesome, I hear mermaids are the new Vampires. Merpires. Do fish even have blood? Can you sparkle underwater? how quickly can we write a trashy romance novel with a vulnerable boring mermaid involved in a love triagle with a merman and maybe a seawitch octopus man?
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Jun 15, 2013 04:59
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Signups are closed. No more flash rules unless you really want one. Be warned, they'll be way shittier from here on in.
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Jun 15, 2013 05:12
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Oscar Wilde posted:Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes. All That They Can Do (1171 words) "At ease," Sergeant Bragg said in the launch bay. "Major Bowens will brief you on the nature of the enemy." Major Bowens stepped into view, clad in the powered suit that had made him a legend among the force. "Men, this is a simple sweep operation, but do not grow complacent. I have fought the bugs in twenty different campaigns, and have seen all that they can do." He exhaled, the built-in respirator turning it into a rasp. "I do not fear them." Easy for you to say, Trooper Abnett thought. What was a decorated veteran doing with a bunch of grunts, anyway? "What strains of bugs are we expecting, sir?" Trooper Caine asked. Bowens exhaled again. Abnett wondered if his respirator was faulty. "Biters and spitters. Since you've never fought the bugs, I will guide you through. Any other questions?" "Sir, we were wondering if... you could show yourself underneath your suit?" Caine said. "If it's alright, I mean." "You're out of line, Trooper Caine!" Bragg barked. "I do not mind." The powered suit took an arms-open stance, emitting a hiss of recycled air from its joints. Abnett fought to keep his face neutral as Major Bowens revealed himself underneath his armor. What was left of him, at least. The rumors were true--what had been his limbs ended in stumps, and his head was a shrunken mess that only a mother could love. His torso looked like a misshapen lump of scar tissue, if anything. "My left arm was taken by a slasher, when I had been a lowly trooper like you," Bowens rasped, his voice still amplified by the speakers in his suit. "None of my squad survived. My right was amputated before poison could spread into my entire body. I had been a sergeant, eager to save my squad." "My legs were taken by a digger. I was directing troop movements from the rear, when a bug ambush caught us by surprise. Even as I lay on my stomach, bleeding to near-death, I continued giving orders." "And your troops, sir, what became of them?" Abnett found himself asking. "They all died, swallowed by a nest of the things." That's not very good, Abnett thought. All those comrades, dead. How could Bowens still be standing in front of them? Here was a bastard who took all the luck of his troops for himself, leaving none for the others. "And your head and body, sir?" Bowens looked sad, if his cauterized face could look any more sorry. "My wife." There was a strained silence, which Caine broke. "I can relate, sir." Bowens ignored the comment and the nervous snickers that followed it. "She was infested, you see. In an intimate moment, I... detonated a grenade inside her." Hell of a way to go, Abnett thought. Major Bowens' armor snapped back into place. "The army is all I have left. Now, about the bugs you are facing. There are fifty different strains of them all, biters and spitters among Class Magenta..." * * * The squad's mag-soles made a steady thrum on the installation's walls. Walking sideways made Abnett uneasy, being the first trooper behind their powered suit even more so. He couldn't wait to turn the artificial gravity on. He brushed aside a piece of debris from his face. It wasn't debris. Globulets of blood stuck to his mesh gloves. "Agh!" Vocal arrestors dampened his cry, but everyone in the squad still winced. "You'll get us killed, Abnett!" The sergeant barked. "No sign of the enemy," Bowens said. "Be on the lookout for chittering. That's the sign of--" As if right on cue, Abnett heard it. He would've screamed himself, but Demien beside him gurgled, halting in his tracks as the green spitter acid melted his helmet away, along with parts of his face. He fell back, feet still magnetized to the surface. The spitter bug had come out of a tear in the wall, too small for anyone to imagine a human-sized insectoid to have come through. A panicked volley of lasers tore the bug to pieces. Abnett fired again to stop its twitching. Demien cheated at cards, but no one quite deserved such a horrid fate. "Good work," Bowens said, almost cheerfully. Abnett would have kicked him if he could. "Far better than most squads I've been attached to, given their taste of first contact." "How much better, sir?" Caine quipped, in his usual manner. "You didn't get wiped out, for starters." "Oh." They continued on to the artificial gravity room. Bowens forced the doors open, his powered suit's servos whirring with the effort. A pair of biters leaped at him, horribly-distended jaws closing, and the Major swatted them away with a mechanized fist. Flamer nozzles opened at his suit's wrists, hosing them until they were burnt husks. "Mmm, toasty!" Caine said. Even Abnett laughed. That was a better second encounter, Abnett thought, having the slight advantage of no one dying on their end. But he couldn't help but worry about Bowens' presence. While he was a decorated veteran, his achievements were often at the cost of his fellow soldiers' lives. He wondered if Bowens could wipe out the bugs by allying with them instead. "A biter is most vulnerable when its jaws are at their widest, so take advantage of that." Bowens talked about the various techniques he had learned fighting the bugs, learned from trial and error. Abnett ventured it was more of the latter. "Sir, what's wrong?" Bowens stared at the floating corpses before them. Abnett shone his helmet lamp on them. Their skin was an unhealthy shade of green, and their faces were frozen in a nasty rictus. "They died of poisoning, introduced through the respiratory tract." There was a tinge of hesitation to his voice. "Make sure you're sealed." Abnett was checking his air supply when the bugs attacked again. Spitters burst from the ceiling, firing corrosive spores from their elongated mouths. Biters skittered out of the walls, snapping at them. Sergeant Bragg stared down a biter's gaping mouth before opening fire on its insides. The next one sheared his neck off its shoulders. "Sergeant's down!" Abnett called, a little unnecessarily. "Squad, on me!" Bowens took on the bulk of the bug force by himself, strafing the incoming horde with high-explosive shells. It kept them from completely encroaching them, but not enough to cover a retreat. That was when the third strain appeared. It had a low profile, and an enlarged posterior that blew a cloud of mist, which permeated the air in a matter of seconds. "What's that, sir? We were only briefed about two strains!" "Engaging." Bowens opened fire at the new bug, but the rest of the horde shielded it with their bodies. A biter leaped at his arm, clamping jaws around it. The plates crumpled, and Bowens halted his fire to punch it away. But the damage had been done. "Bowens to base. We've found strain fifty-one," were his last words. "poo poo," was Abnett's, as a biter slayed him.
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Jun 16, 2013 16:24
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Try to enjoy this word vomit. I have numerous excuses, but there's no point in relaying them. I feel I got something out of actually knuckling down and doing something, though. The parameters: quote:A quote for you: "Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not." The Importance of Being Greg [1200 Words] “Man, I just don't know what to do,” he sighs, and scrunches his eyes closed, creasing his face. You pick up your glass of whiskey, drain it, and put it back down. You shake your head and shrug. Even though he's not looking at you, you know he knows you did it. He goes on. “I know it's my fault. I shouldn't have lied to her. Maybe I've just got to do this and whatever will be will be. Quesadilla, quesadilla” “What is it you told her again?” You haven't really been paying attention, and have to admit you're not entirely sure what Greg's on about. “I made out like I'm big on theatre to her. She's into books and stuff, man. She asked me to use her spare ticket for tonight, like, a week ago. I don't know anything about the theatre. It's going to be so obvious. I didn't think this would ever happen.” “Ah, right. Well, I have a few A levels, and a couple of years of an English degree, Greg. It's no theatre studies but I could tell you some basic facts so you don't seem so lost. What're you going to see anyhow?” “It's an Oscar Wild thing. The Important Earnest?” “That'd be The Importance of Being Earnest, and 'Wilde' has an 'e' at the end,” you say. “How did you know I said it without an 'e'?” “Never mind.” “I don't even know his name!” he exclaims, staring into his drink. “Man, I'm so screwed. I can't go. This was a huge mistake, Michael.” You order another whiskey and Greg slowly shrinks into his arms. When it's poured, Greg suddenly sits upright, and turns to face you, a mischievous grin playing on his face. “Calm down with that grin,” you say. Then: “What is it?” “You know what Cynthia said just the other day? Just before she said about the tickets?” “No, of course I don't.” “Well, we were talking by the kitchenette, and you walked by.” “Oh yeah?” “She said she always thinks we look 'so alike'. You and I,” he nods and continues to stare at you with hungry eyes. “We're sheep of a cloth, Michael. Sheep of a cloth.” “I think I see where this is going. You're going to try to get me to be your Cyrano, right? I don't think I have ever heard such a stupid idea in actual real life,” you scoff. “Cyrano? What's a 'cyrano'?” You sigh. “Well, maybe it would be for the best after all.” * * * A couple of hours before the theatre you go over to Greg's place, and borrow one of his suits. You double-check with him that he really wants you to do this, but he insists. If anything, he seems oddly excited by the idea. “Have you been watching too much Scooby-Doo?” you ask. “Rot at all, Raggy,” he answers, passing you his suit. “Range into ris.” You take it into his ensuite. “That's not even how he talks,” you call out. When you've changed, you look at yourself in the mirror. Passable. You step back into the bedroom and hold your arms out. “Look like you?” “Yeah, sorta.” He squints. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Go get 'em, tiger.” * * * You meet Cynthia outside the theatre. She spots you from across the road, smiles and waves. She frowns a little as she crosses and gets closer to you. Does she know? “You look sort of different,” she says, and tilts her head a little. Oh, God. She's going to catch on right away and how goddamn stupid and creepy will you look then? “New suit?” she asks. “Yeah, that's it. New. Ha ha,” you say. “Still just old me, though. It's what's on the inside of the suit that counts.” “Is that right?” “No! I didn't mean me naked!” “That's not what I thought you meant.” “Oh.” “Shall we go in?” “Sure,” you snap, eager to move on. Even though it's clear that she thinks you are Greg, you feel more nervous than you should for a man hiding behind a veil. * * * “What do you think so far?” Cynthia asks as you both head for the bar during the interval “It seems excellent so far,” you say. You haven't been to the theatre for too long, and are thoroughly enjoying yourself. You talk easily and quickly about all manner of things during the twenty minute interval. Just before the curtain begins to rise, the conversation has inevitably turned to work. She makes a comment that pricks your heart: “that friend of yours is a bit weird, isn't he? You know? The one I said you look like.” You feign a chuckle at this and respond with a trailing “oh...”. You want to press her, but the curtain rises, and Wilde once again enraptures the audience from the grave. All but you. As much as you wish to enjoy the play, you cannot shake the wisps of thought swimming about inside your head. What sort of problem does she have with you? Or with her own, internalised version of 'Michael'. You've barely tried to act like Greg, even, and have just been yourself. That was the point, though, right? And she seems to be fine with you. Furthermore, why do you care so much that Cynthia would confide in Greg that you're weird? * * * As you leave the theatre and fall into a stroll the words jump to your lips, and you only just about manage to make them feel 'of the moment': “You were saying about someone being weird?” “Oh, it's not really anything,” she says. “It's just for the last week or so he's just been a little all over me, always trying to make a lot of conversation.” “That's not that weird, really,” you say, frowning, not remembering doing such a thing. “Yeah. It was only weird when he insinuated we had plans for tonight, though. Like I'd ever ask him to the theatre. He clearly doesn't know anything about theatre.” “How do you mean?” you ask, your voice a little higher than you meant it to be. “I'll have you know he has a few A levels, and a couple of years of an English degree. I mean, it's no theatre studies but I'm sure he knows at least some basic facts.” “Shut up!” she exclaims, and laughs. “No way does Greg know anything at all about theatre, though he's always pretending to around me for some reason.” “Oh,” you say, then pause, and stop. “Yeah, that Greg, huh?” “Little bit of a weird guy. Just a little bit.” She makes a 'tiny' gesture with her left hand. You raise your eyebrows and nod, biting your lip. “What's up with you all of a sudden anyway, Mike?” she asks. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” you say, and catch up with her. “Say, what was your favourite part of the play tonight anyway?” The two of you continue to walk and converse. --- A few words from PoshAlligator: it's meant to be not fair but good because of the confusion between people, but everything actually working in Michael's favour in the end, also the important decision is meant to be when he decides to tell Cynthia about any of it. I really don't think these came across well and I am baaaaad. This happened with my fox fable entry a while ago, but does anyone think this also has too many scenes for its length? The fable crit made me think of it, but only after writing this. I think this might be something I need to work on. I don't usually write stories in the 800-2000 range intentionally so I might have some structural problems. Oh God I am so bad at everything. But at least I do things.
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Jun 16, 2013 18:58
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7 hours to go.
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Jun 16, 2013 22:06
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Oscar Wilde posted:Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong. What could possibly go wrong? (917 words) Bob had an idea, and it was the best idea anyone's ever had. Like, in all of history. There might have been some prehistoric fellow who thought of something better, though. The guy who invented fire, for example. Bob was willing to admit that fire was on par with his new idea. “Billy! Get over here, you gotta see this!” he yelled, looking over his work. Spread out on the table before him were sketches, diagrams, and pages upon pages of mathematical formulae. Some of them had those fancy Greek letters in them, so anyone could tell this was real heavy stuff. Not for the dim-witted, no sir, only a real genius could understand this. “What?” said Billy. Now, Billy had a nickname. People called him “the Hill”, because he was large, like hills tend to be, and because he was quiet, which is also a thing hills often are. At least that's how it had been explained to him. Point is, when he entered that room, he didn't make a sound. So don't look down on Bob for being a little startled. Take no notice of the pencil he was holding being flung across the room. Make no mention of his sudden motion toppling his chair, with him still in it. As for the pathetic “Eep!” that could be heard, say instead it was a mouse; the house had no shortage of rodents. Let poor Bob keep his dignity. He doesn't have much else. While Bob most certainly wasn't getting up from the floor, Billy looked over the mess on the table. Most of it he didn't understand—charts and numbers went right over his head—but he recognized the thing in the sketches. A Y-shaped wooden structure, with rubber bands attached. Next to it was written, in Bob's nigh-unreadable scrawls: It was the biggest slingshot Billy had ever seen. Or would be, if it ever got built. “What do you think?” said Bob, not favoring one leg after the fall he didn't take, “Cool, right? The Wright brothers can take a hike, this here's the future of air travel!” The gears were slowly turning in Billy's head. He wasn't a thinking man, but he thought he could see where this was going. “You going to shoot people with that?” he asked. “What? No!” said Bob, “I'm going to shoot people from it. Huge difference, brother, try to use your brain.” Yep, that's where it was going. “Won't they... splat?” said Billy, smacking his palms together as if smashing a bug. “You poor, sweet dullard,” said Bob, “of course they won't. We'll shoot them into a lake! Splash instead of splat, perfectly safe.” “Oh,” said Billy. He still wasn't sure about this whole thing, but he trusted Bob. Bob had never been wrong before. Well, that's not quite true. Bob was very often wrong, but he would just keep talking and talking until anyone who disagreed with him got bored and left. As far as Billy understood it, that made Bob right. ---------------------------------------- Building the slingshot turned out to pose few difficulties. Manpower wasn't a problem—a lot of people were willing to help the village idiots with their latest harebrained scheme, if only to see how it would go wrong this time. Materials weren't hard to find either, since some of the local industries saw the publicity value in helping create the world's largest slingshot. They thought Bob was joking when he said it was for human transport. Let us fast-forward through the construction, then, and skip ahead to the maiden voyage, one clear summer evening. The slingshot had been built in an open field, next to a highway. They didn't technically have permission to build it there, but the state was willing to overlook that for all the sweet, sweet tourist money the contraption would bring in. Bob and Billy were the only people there. Their volunteers had all given up trying to talk them out of it, and none of them wanted to be implicated when the brothers inevitably wound up hurting themselves. This had Billy a little worried, even though he trusted his brother. “Bob, why does everyone think this is a stupid idea?” he asked while fastening the launch pocket to the back of their truck. “Because it is brilliant,” said Bob, donning a pair of swimming goggles. He was already wearing the trunks; it wouldn't do for him to splash into a lake with all his clothes on. Billy did not understand, and said so. “Have I ever been wrong?” “No...” “There's your proof: People always argue with those who are right.” Bob got seated in the pocket, and Billy hopped into the driver's seat of the truck. “I think I get it,” Billy said, starting the engine. He pushed the truck forward slowly, the giant rubber bands offering more and more resistance. In the rear view mirror, he saw Bob working to cut the rope that tied the pocket to the truck. Then Billy was struck by a question. “Hey Bob,” he shouted over the noise of the car, “if someone doesn't argue, does that mean you're wrong?” “No idea,” Bob shouted back. “Never happened to me!” Then he got through the rope, and with a reverberating twang Bob was launched in the general direction of Lake Kickapoo.
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Jun 16, 2013 23:14
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and such 716 words With each drumbeat a footfall; the clatter of shells and beads. Sap boiled and exploded, sending bursts of sparking ash into the darkness. The lake reflected these, multiplied them before snuffing them out. If I looked up through the stinging smoke I could see Polaris at the dipper’s terminus. But I had another polestar now, moving by the beat of a leather heart. Mona, blessed Saint of the Hangover Halo. Three feathers in her mask: reader, clairvoyant and shaman. There were seers, sure, but their names I did not know; they were no more than living shadows. The drummers sped up, the rhythm growing frenzied and fraying at the seams. Nothing but a wall of sound now. Mona’s beads and shells still clinked and clicked, but the sound was a memory stuck repeating. It disappeared then, the sound. Turned into a sort of moving silence, hit the resonant frequency of the universe and disappeared into the nested sine waves. She turned toward me, floating on the rhythm, gliding towards me in motions that are ethereal and ill remembered – or maybe not disposed to betrayal through the basest tongue. The words are always the same, but each night they come to me as new. “There is nothing,” she says. With the final word comes a single drumbeat reverberating over still water. She throws the mask aside and sits by the fire, in silence. The other shadows are gone and I feel a sickness in my stomach. My tent is behind the cabin. Morning starts as always. I awake before the others. There are no birds here. There’s a gravel road that leads out past the trees but I’ve never followed it. I walk to the pier along the beach, the same fish bones lie half buried in the sand. The boats are still there, rubbing against the dock with every quiet wave. I don’t know how long it’s been, none of us leave marks. I stand on the wave break and look at the horizon. Endless water with our little horseshoe of beach. I know that we are dead, but the others disagree. The sun is halfway up the sky when I return. The crunch of cereal muffles quiet sobs and dry-heaves. Jason pours whiskey into his mug, Karen lights up a smoke. Mona is still asleep. I’m not hungry, I never am. I don’t think I’ve eaten since I got here. I asked the others about their words on my first morning here. No one remembers, they just shake their heads. In five minutes a motor will start up, Kevin will charge his phone and Ana will try to check her email. Their truck won’t move. After that a two-four will be brought in and the day will start all over again. Mona’s words still ring in my ears, louder than usual. I choose to get a pop tart. Nervous glances from around the room as I bite in. I decide to eat on the porch before someone says something. Mona’s already there. This day isn’t like the others. “Do you remember anything?” I ask. “You mean about last night?” she answers, “I keep telling you it’s gone.” “You said there was nothing. You mean there’s nothing outside this? I mean, someone’s gotta remember how they got here.” “I have no idea, man. I think I need a drink, I’m feelin’ rough today,” she said. “See! That’s what I mean, it’s not what you said yesterday!” We spent the day outside, as always. I drank more than usual and lost myself in the waves and words and dancing. The sun crested and began its slow descent. When the air got cold we lit the fire, but the question in my head burned brighter than the flame. It was time, again. Mona threw her head back deep in a trance, the drummers were coming to the apex, the tipping point. She was over, I could see it, but the world still had its grittiness within me. I felt nothing, felt like a tool with a singular purpose. She came towards me again, looking at me through the mask. I spoke before she could open her mouth. “How did we get here?” A sound like vacuum tubes and voltage, the world disappeared into a single point of white.
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Jun 16, 2013 23:31
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Judges please imagine Christian Bale and Penelope Cruz are in my story, tia. Forcefully inspired by this quote: quote:Our ambition should be to rule ourselves, the true kingdom for each one of us; and true progress is to know more, and be more, and to do more. And it had to have some sort of millionaire/mogul type person in it. Symbols and Maps 1200 words if you count the title I was a fortunate young man, though fortune is only ever the helping hand to the bold. Good fortune, after all, is useless to those without the diligence to recognize it and the gumption to seize it. So it fell out that I found myself thriving in the zeitgeist of the late 1990's, when the world was still coming down from the fevered cocaine high of the decade before and the dot com bubble was taut and swollen. I was a regular darling on a scene that never made the weekly gossip magazines, a fixture at San Francisco web marketing parties where no one knew anyone else's name or what product we were toasting to. Elvis Costello was playing for pre-launch bash hosted by a search engine, just loud enough to cover the sound of the death knell that had started tolling in the spring of 2000 when the NASDAQ topped out at over five thousand points. I drank Cristal and watched partygoers chant death to software while wearing keffiyehs and gas masks, imitating the rioters who'd lain siege to Seattle during the World Trade conference the previous year. One of them saw me and broke from the crowd; Craig Sievertsen, his face red and puffy as ever, looking like an elementary school bully with his pale blond buzz cut. "Erik-goddamn-Benkhe," he said as Costello broke into What's so Funny 'Bout Peace, Love and Understanding. "That was some voodoo you pulled when you were with Appster. When are you gonna stop kicking all our asses man?" "When you learn to think twenty moves ahead of the game," I said. Craig laughed, would've laughed at anything I said, and we shared a toast, his beer bottle clinking against my champagne flute. "I see the end game, man," he said after a long draw from the bottle. "Bigger and better. This is just the beginning. Guys like us, we're the future. It's a new world, and we loving rule it." Someone nearby caught the tail end of our exchange and took it up as a chant: We rule the world! We rule the world! Craig joined in and elbowed me that I should do the same. I demurred; those who rule the world in truth rarely need to declare it, and never while drinking on someone else's tab. They swirled around me like ballroom dancers, the new money of the new wild west, drinking, dancing and loving each other for a taste of that prized and ephemeral coinage of the internet economy: Buzz. As if generating enough buzz would acquit them of the obligation to provide content. "Hey Benkhe!" Craig reemerged from the crowd. "Touch base with me later. I know a killer startup that is just begging for the right marketing guy. Two words: Online currency. You want in, man. This is going to be huge." I smiled and raised my glass, then excused myself to a quieter part of the modern art gallery that was playing host to the party. Deeper I went, until the fever dream in the reception hall was nothing but a distant echo. She took me unawares when I stopped to inspect a canvas that was blank except for one small square of red that filled the lower right corner. "What do you see?" A woman in a gold cocktail dress had padded up behind me, black kitten heels dangling in her right hand. "I see another artist who's angry that they have to work hard to stand out," I said. "But you know better than most that there will always be those who will pay more for less," she said, and plucked the glass from my hand. I watched her drink the last drops, and imagined tasting fine champagne on her lips. If she noticed, she seemed amused. "There will always be foolish people, yes, and other foolish people will always build monuments to them," I said. "Art is marketing for ideas. This guy, he should be designing logos, not trying to sell some vague, probably grandiose concept to other reactionaries." "Thank you," said the woman in gold. I stared at her dumbly for a moment. "For saying I should be in marketing, I mean. I've always wanted to leave behind the futile pretense of art for the more noble pursuit of getting people to eat poo poo with a grin and ask for more." I started to say something in reply, and she laughed. "'There will always be foolish people.' Don't worry, I'm not the artist, but I know her. Would you like to hear her grandiose, reactionary concept?" "I suppose I owe her that much." The woman traced the small red square on the canvas with one finger. "We don't make art, we explore it," she said. "Here, pretend this is a map. And this--" she gestured at the white canvas "--is the ocean. Now this little bit of red, this is the corner of a continent, see? The tip of the iceberg. You can't see all of it because no canvas can map the whole of human expression." "A map no one can read, to a place no one can go," I said dryly. "Men like you have no love for lands they can't rule," she said, her eyes still bright and twinkling. "Though you have no love for the lands or people you think you rule, either. Your reward and your punishment is to govern us through the almighty dollar, through the vices that you hate us all for." I gently took the champagne flute from her hand, threw it onto the gallery floor where it shattered with a sound like falling jewelry. "We don't hate you for your vices," I said. "We love ourselves for having the power to overcome our own. We don't rule you, you let yourselves be ruled." I contemplated the glittering mess on the floor, then shrugged. "It's not that I want control, it's simply that I don't want to be controlled." "And yet here you are at another empty soiree, looking for something else, something all your millions haven't bought you yet." As the woman spoke, she knelt down and selected a glass shard an inch long from the floor. "Here," she said, holding it out to me. I took it, bemused. She stood, her eyes calm and catlike, and carefully closed my fingers around the shard, tighter and tighter until warmth and wetness filled my closed palm. Pain! But what was pain? "You rule nothing," she whispered. "Except in this moment. Now, you rule yourself. But when you go back to the lights and the bullshit and the games, you'll be ruled by them like always. Kiss me." I did, and it ended too soon. "There, now you have a kingdom and something worth keeping in it." The woman in gold slipped into those black kitten heels. "Where are you off to, then?" I asked. She turned away, then looked back to smirk at me over her shoulder. "To depose more kings." "I have been a stranger in a strange land," I murmured, and followed her back into the dark, decadent night. The shard fell from my hand, slick with blood.
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Jun 16, 2013 23:46
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I'm sorry I don't have anything to submit this week. Please forgive me.
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Jun 17, 2013 00:02
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"I think that God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability." – Oscar Wilde Manual of a Dream 1143 words Joe was admiring the girl he had brought into the world when her tiny jaw slid off. This wouldn’t have been such a tragedy except for his promise to deliver 2,000 Babbling Bettys by the end of the week. “Well ain’t that the hyena’s hemorrhoid,” he said. Joe hadn’t worked a job for as long as he hadn’t wanted one. “My real passion is dolls,” he’d tell abstracted idlers and the decrepitly aged. The arms articulated, the eyes blinked, the hair was silky smooth. Only the mouth remained unactualized. There were dozens of prototypes constructed with screws, glue, tape and staples. His garage looked like a sadistic tyrant’s pleasure yacht. Three months ago during Joe’s sales pitch, his long hair combed and in a ponytail, tie around his neck and shirt tucked in: “What makes this doll different is how many words she knows. Sure we’ve all seen the dolls that can say ‘mama’ or ‘I wuv you,’ but Babblin’ Betty will learn language like a real-life baby,” Joe promised. “When those little princesses unwrap their babies Christmas morning, the dolls’ll start soakin’ up words and spittin’ ‘em back out.” After several months of feverish work, all he’d managed to coax from laconic dolls was a pitch-shifting “ahhhhh,” that warbled into deep octaves before sputtering out. Joe threw the jawless doll on top of the other failures. The forlorn cries of the discarded emanated from the pile constantly. Harry poked his head into Joe’s garage. “Sounds like a chorus of angels!” said Harry. Joe’s insomniac neighbor had finally known what it was to sleep the first time the soulless vessels filled the night with their unholy wailing. It was soothing to him in a strange way, like an exotic bird in a foreign paradise. Batteries drained in the older dolls; new carcasses gave renewed life to the clamor. When the crying was loudest, Harry slept best. Joe’s shoulders drooped. “How am I going to pull this off, Harry?” “Keep tinkering; never give up!” said Harry. “Remember Charles Lindberg.” Joe didn’t feel like a national hero. “I have 6 days to make a doll say ‘mama’.” “And I’m due for a mid-day siesta,” said Harry. He tipped his hat to Joe and walked back to his house with a skip in his step. “I hate when he whistles,” grumbled Joe, and he kicked the mound of dolls with his steel-toed boot. From the stack of babies came a voice that sounded pleasant. “Mama,” it said. Joe turned his head so that his ear was facing the pile. He paused, then kicked again with guarded optimism. “Mama,” it repeated. Joe fell to his knees and began desperately digging through the bodies. One by one he shook the plastic bitches, but none uttered more than their usual bleak reverie. He threw the last doll into the pile—now 10 feet to the right—slumped against the wall and cried. Harry yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He slipped his feet into his loafers and bounded downstairs and outside. Harry was delighted to see the pile of dolls moved even closer to his house. “I’ve got an idea for you,” he said. Joe roused and looked up. “Please,” he begged. “When I was in ‘Nam and we wanted somebody to talk, we always got one of his friends in the room and then gave them a lesson in human anatomy. Worked every time,” said Harry. “Anywhooo, back to work. I got a promotion; I have the energy of ten regular employees.” Joe was pretty sure that Harry’s idea wouldn’t work. But when he was eleven he’d also been certain that female sexual organs were filled with teeth. He shrugged and grabbed a doll and ripped its throat out. “Do you like that, other dolls? Do you feel tough now?” He discarded the silent corpse behind him. He reached for another. Even though he still had little faith in this plan, it did make him feel better. He made his way through the heap, maiming each doll in turn. Now their mouths moved but no sounds came out. Joe thought they looked like the feeder fish he’d seen in the back of the pet store. He turned off the light and sulked. Harry laid in bed and gaped at the ceiling. 1:30. He kicked at the blankets and slammed his fists into the mattress. The next morning he spilled coffee on his shirt and dropped his briefcase in the parking lot, sending papers blowing down the street. Tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes. Joe awoke at noon, well-rested and feeling free for the first time in weeks. He poured a bowl of cereal, flipped on the TV, and put his feet up on the coffee table. An abrupt knock caused him to spill milk down the front of his pajamas. He opened it to see Harry leaning against the jamb. “Harry, you look… different.” “What’d you do to your dolls?” demanded Harry. “Therapeutic surgery,” said Joe. “I don’t care about the money anymore.” “I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars if you fix them to how they were last night,” said Harry. Joe blinked. “Harry, that’s twice as much as the shopping channel was gonna pay me for the whole lot.” “I’m going to go to the bank right now and get that money order,” said Harry. “You just work on the dolls until I get back.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He ran to his car and sped off. Harry was already lying in bed staring at the ceiling when Joe finally ventured into his garage, ready to work. Joe picked up the nearest doll and started reinstalling the speakers, only to find he couldn’t remember if the black wire went on the front or the back. He chose the back and screwed it in. The little goldfish looked back at him, gasping for air. “Mama,” she said. Joe shook his head in disbelief. “No way,” he said. “No way,” the doll repeated. Joe started laughing. “This is unbelievable!” he shouted. He fell back into the pile of dolls and laughed until his sides hurt. He held up the little doll. “This is the best day of my life,” he told her. He felt a slight tug on his hair, then a pinch on his arm. His clothes tightened around his body. He struggled, but he felt weighed down: stuck in the mass of tangled wires and gnashing porcelain teeth. The silent dolls swallowed his hair in big gulps and latched onto his appendages. Joe panicked as his flesh was ripped from his body. Harry heard the first whimpers grow into loud screams. He smiled. Joe had one-upped himself this time, he thought. Money well-spent. As the cries grew louder and more frantic, Harry drifted off into the finest sleep he would ever have. crabrock fucked around with this message at 00:08 on Jun 17, 2013 |
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Jun 17, 2013 00:05
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Ah poo poo. Work caught up with me so I got nothin'. I am a bad person.
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Jun 17, 2013 00:35
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