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 Chillmatic vs crabrock  THUNDERBRAWL GRUDGEquote:750 excellent words on or around this Italo Calvino quote: The Saddest Rhino posted:gently caress  That's all very well Rhino, but this weak poo poo has no place here. Go back to the Serengeti where your kind are tolerated. quote:Cities & Identity I really liked this. Gene Wolfe's Forlesen via one of Calvino's invisible cities. So, judgment. Chillmatic's was clever and skilful and well-crafted (though with enough flaws to be noticeable), crabrocks actually moved me and made me want to read it again straight away. And while crabrock essayed High Calvinese and made a decent fist of it, he also told a human story with characters I cared about. I went back and forth on this a few times because I am just ridiculously, pharmaceutically gay for Invisible Cities and I thought that might have obscured my judgment, but no. Crabrock wins
sebmojo fucked around with this message at 10:00 on Sep 13, 2013 |
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Sep 12, 2013 00:40
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I was worried when I saw how good chillmatic's was. Thanks 
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Sep 12, 2013 01:01
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Cancercakes vs. sebmojo: Perfectly Adequate Thunderbrawl Results! THE PROMPT: Write a story about inadequacy in 200 words or fewer. THE WINNER: sebmojo, who presented a more-than-adequate amount of characterization and had stuff actually happen besides. CancerCakes didn't embarrass himself too badly, though. Read on for individual crits. CancerCakes, "The Conference": You get a point for not going down the most-obvious road of sexual inadequacy, but is there really inadequacy here at all? Francesca's managing her actual task, to give out badges. Unless psychoanalysis or the understanding thereof is part of her job, her cluelessness doesn't make her inadequate. And her lack of knowledge clearly doesn't make her inadequate in her own eyes. The mention of Dunning-Kruger got a grin from me; I like the joke. For the prompt, though, it's... well. You know. Your dialogue could have used more attributions--and you had words left to use. You could have gotten more by cutting Rachel rubbing her pocket and Francesca's yawn. A nervous gesture for Rachel is good--she's the other side of Dunning-Kruger, right?--but I didn't get that pocket-rubbing was supposed to signal nervousness at all on my first reads. Francesca's self-confidence comes through well enough in her words and wink. Why 'ring' and not 'earring' for the thing in Francesca's ear? I kept picturing a finger ring being used as a gauge. It's a shallow character study more than a story; as sebmojo's entry shows, a story in 200 words is possible. I don't hate it at all--it's probably a shade more to my taste, even--but 'I don't want to set the writer on fire' is seldom adequate reason to grant a win. sebmojo, "Offside": The writing is rather more sound in this one, and the piece has more weight and pathos in its brief span. It focuses on character too, but it's still a story, however short. I also feel like it has the firmer grasp on the prompt of the two. I'm confused how Derek knew about this header thing when he was busy banging in a toilet. 'Football club wound up' must mean the club was dissolved? You err on the side of too much sports slang, maybe. (Then again, I appreciated the red card bit.) It took two or three reads for me to be sure I had most of the fine points as well as the gist. The comma after 'paper' should have been a colon, and for God's sake, use quotation marks. Who do you think you are, Baudolino? As I said, however, it's a story in 200 words. You've developed Derek's personality within the narrative, and you've shown skill in telling me so much about him through his choices and actions. Enjoy the victory you've earned.
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Sep 12, 2013 01:44
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*sharts jorts* *pounds fists*  Fair trial, town, can't get, etc. Nah but really, good game, crabrock. I had a blast both writing mine and reading yours. I really liked the voice in your story (big sticking point with me) and thought it matched nicely with that of the prompt. sebmojo posted:should have started the mythic stuff earlier Yuuuup. About two minutes after I posted it I looked at it again and said 'poo poo, I really should have put the first italicized bit at the beginning of the scene break.' Live and learn! And much thanks to you and Rhino for the crits/feedback. Chillmatic fucked around with this message at 03:23 on Sep 12, 2013 |
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Sep 12, 2013 03:12
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I'm in for this week.
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Sep 12, 2013 03:13
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Chillmatic posted:*sharts jorts* I still think we should have gone to a bar and sat across from each other and wrote our stories.
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Sep 12, 2013 06:39
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You know what, hit me up with a flash rule.
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Sep 12, 2013 08:30
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Kai your knowledge of horrific body piercings is inadequate. Cheers for the speedy, painful, judgement. Congrats Seb, I'll get you next time. CancerCakes fucked around with this message at 09:57 on Sep 12, 2013 |
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Sep 12, 2013 09:48
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CantDecideOnAName posted:You know what, hit me up with a flash rule. Flash RuleLiteral skewers must play a role in your story.
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Sep 12, 2013 12:23
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CancerCakes posted:Kai your knowledge of horrific body piercings is inadequate. 
Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 04:52 on Sep 13, 2013 |
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Sep 13, 2013 04:33
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right bitches who wantsa swap flash rules come at me If someone takes characters are all related they can give me anything they want.
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Sep 13, 2013 15:25
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sebmojo posted:right bitches who wantsa swap flash rules I'll take characters are all related Sebmojo gets: an event that is belated
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Sep 13, 2013 16:32
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IMPORTANT TIME LIMITED OFFER!! Fancy, wordy, over-dramatic reveal. http://writocracy.com/thunderdome username/password: thunderdome/thunderdome it's there to prevent google from crawling, and to keep general internet hobos away. An archive of Thunderdome stories, authors, and prompts:  Easy to find winning pieces, honorable mentions, losers, and dishonorable mentions.  Overused words!  Depressing Graphs!  Author profiles!  Week Summaries!  What is this? How did this get here. OH GOD WHAT IS THIS!?  Plus other fun/weird things to see an explore! DO IT. ps: a massive thanks to Kaishai for going through the thread and imputing an staggering amount of information. Without her help, I'd still be on week 4.
crabrock fucked around with this message at 00:07 on Sep 15, 2013 |
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Sep 14, 2013 02:53
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crabrock posted:
This is an awesome thing, thanks so much for making it! The "random story" feature is a nice touch. Also, glancing over my list of pieces makes me realize that my two honorable-mention pieces also have the two longest titles. Coincidence? Probably, but I'll be looking into it, mark my words.
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Sep 14, 2013 03:34
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That's incredible. Thanks so much; the threads themselves are pretty impenetrable at this stage.
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Sep 14, 2013 03:53
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Nice work! Surprised to see I'm tied for 6th on Most Submissions. And here I thought I was a slacker!
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Sep 14, 2013 08:40
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That is really loving cool. You are a cool person, and Kaishai continues to be awesome as well.
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Sep 14, 2013 10:27
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I don't know if incredible covers it. This must have taken so loving long. I collated the stats on all my own entries a couple weeks ago, while bored and having seen yours crabrock, and it must have taken me almost two hours. Seriously awesome from both of you.
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Sep 14, 2013 13:21
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crabrock overstates my contribution: along with coding the whole shebang, he put in the vast majority of the weekly data. He's got my thanks and awe for making an obsessive stat nerd's dream come true. In for this week.
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Sep 14, 2013 15:25
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Man, that is so loving cool. Flash Rule Every entry this week contain a 2-3 line dedication to Crabrock and Kaishai. A "To Crabrock and Kaishi..." type deal. You ungrateful bastards need to get down on your knees and thank these people. It doesn't have to factor into your word count, and does not have to be an actual part of your story, but the quality your dedication will be factored into the judgement. Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 15:34 on Sep 14, 2013 |
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Sep 14, 2013 15:31
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Out. Not to avoid the possibility of being successive thrice poo poo-crowned, but work out of town this weekend, FTL, and GMT will probably take me past deadline. I do have something in the works based on the prompt. I'll send it to the Farm.
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Sep 14, 2013 15:32
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I'm traveling this weekend, but I will crit the last entry in after the deadline.
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Sep 14, 2013 15:51
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I particularly enjoy the stats/graphs section. Why do the majority of TD stories take place on/involve the day Sunday? Why do we shun the numbers 8 and 9? Why are god and lord the two most common names, but Jesus is trailing behind Jack, mom, Jim and Thomas? 
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Sep 14, 2013 20:00
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Sitting Here posted:I particularly enjoy the stats/graphs section. Why do the majority of TD stories take place on/involve the day Sunday? Why do we shun the numbers 8 and 9? Why are god and lord the two most common names, but Jesus is trailing behind Jack, mom, Jim and Thomas? who knew this place was secretly a christian propaganda factory who knew
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Sep 14, 2013 20:16
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Good loving lord, I have the lead for most Dishonorable Mentions. 
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Sep 14, 2013 20:21
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Signups closed!
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Sep 15, 2013 01:00
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i'm on the list twice. I don't have to submit two stories, right?
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Sep 15, 2013 01:23
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Jeza posted:who knew this place was secretly a christian propaganda factory If god and lord are up but Jesus is down, clearly it's actually a Jewish plot. They control the media you know. Now they're moving onto the dome.
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Sep 15, 2013 03:24
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I like Jewish men, so I for one am happy God's chosen people are taking over.
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Sep 15, 2013 03:38
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Do it with a rockstar - 269 You’re the best! Around! I think to myself. I’m rocking it out to a crowded audience, Nothing’s ever going to keep you down! “Do you?” Came a voice from one of the stall in the bathroom. I hate working here. “Do you wanna?” Same voice, just a little shriller. “Do what?” This one was the next stall over. A tad more exasperated than me. “Do it with a rockstar?” Feet shuffled around and toilets flushed. Two young girls, younger than me pranced out over to the sinks. “Do you wanna go home instead,” The one with red hair and shrill voice pouted. Flashing her eyelashes in faux sympathy as she washed her hands. “My cats are all alone.” The brunette looked flushed and spoke quickly. She clutched her phone tightly. Even I could tell that was a weak excuse. “And there’s a chicken waiting on the stove.” Red-head’s hands rose above her head dramatically. It felt like minutes of Brunette just glaring at Red-head. “Do you really want to go home Sarah?” “No,” Sarah sighed. She pulled out her lipstick. Dark red goes well with her hair. “Of course not,” Red head gave a big smile. She dried her hands and went about fixing up Sarah’s hair. “This will be a great story someday.” Sarah left first. Red came out close behind, slipping me a twenty and giving me a knowing wink. I smile back and pocket the twenty. Where was I? You’re the best! Around! EDIT: I am the worst person, I completely forgot to add in my dedication. Crabrock, you are an amazing person and have made possibly one of the best websites ever. I've had hours of fun on it and the mad libs are enormously entertaining. Kaishai, I am really grateful that you helped Crabrock like you did to complete this website. Lord Windy fucked around with this message at 01:08 on Sep 16, 2013 |
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Sep 15, 2013 10:42
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did you just write amanda palmer fan fiction don't answer that
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Sep 15, 2013 10:49
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crabrock posted:i'm on the list twice. I don't have to submit two stories, right? I think you know the answer to that.
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Sep 15, 2013 13:55
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It is now 8:18 P.M. GMT
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Sep 15, 2013 21:18
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I'm not gonna make it. I went travelling this weekend and my wife would have broken my fingers if I spent my time on my laptop instead of exploring.
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Sep 15, 2013 21:25
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Let's open this pit up! Dedication In honor of Crabrock and Kaishai, intrepid souls who dug through the corpses piled high and deep in the recesses of the Thunderdome. They gathered the stinking bodies and laid them out with their honors and dishonors in tidy rows for spectators to examine and mock. The dead will not be hidden and buried, but put on display in a museum that surrounds the arena of battle, and none dared touch them beyond two brave souls who shame all others with their courage. Flash rule: Literal skewers must play a role in your story. Prophet of Death (705 words) “You’re the prophet?” I was aghast. The girl nodded. She was filthy, a child covered in caked-on mud and scratches, with the bright blue eyes of a madman. I had expected a woman—or a man, even—shining and beautiful and strong, closer to angel than human. Not this half-grown attempt. “You?” I repeated. “Why is that so hard to believe?” she demanded, crossing her arms. “I am the prophet. What proof could you need?” I grimaced. If she was the prophet, there was no use in lying to her. If she wasn’t, then she would come back later cleaned up to fit my expectations. “You weren’t what I was expecting. Go home, girl. The only proof you could give would be a miracle.” I started to close the door when she lunged at me. The carpet tripped me up as I backed away and before I knew it I was on my rear end on the floor, with this enraged child straddling me and pressing a skewer to my face. Where the hell had that even come from? “Home?” she hissed. “Whatever home I had is a mud-filled crater. Those who enslaved me are dead, their town in ruins. You don’t believe that I could kill that many thousands of people in one night? What more miracle do you need?” The skewer was shiny and new, from what I could see of it, and the tip of it rested just below my left eyelid. Her hand was steady despite the rage in her eyes. “Give me shelter,” she demanded. “Surely you know I am being hunted. Aren’t you one of my own?” My heart was pounding in my chest. I tried pulling away and she shoved me to the floor, withdrawing the skewer. I watched it for a moment but she simply held it at her side. “I won’t kill you,” she said. “There is no reason to kill the devout.” The anger was gone from her, controlled, and for a moment I glimpsed something greater in her, a dangerous power that was cold and uncaring, a cosmic eye that would see all and burn all. “Am I devout?” It was all I could say. She stared at me distantly. “Would you follow me?” I shivered. Would I follow her? I was saved from answering by the appearance of a man with a shotgun. My neighbor, a part time bounty hunter and full time gun nut. “Stand up nice and slow, lady,” he ordered her, pressing the barrel against the back of her neck. “I know who you are from the news, and I don’t want any funny business.” He glanced at me. “You okay, Mike?” I nodded numbly. She got to her feet, the barrel of the gun leading her up and away from me. “Hands where I can see them, girl.” She spun, weaving out of the range of the shotgun. He fired too slowly, and she had him pressed against the wall with the skewer in his neck before I could get to my feet. The skewer had gone into his artery, and there was blood sprayed across the white wall. I scrambled up as she wrested the gun from him and aimed it at his face. There was no anger in the action, no desperation, no malice; she acted as one who was merely doing what had to be done. “I am the fire that burns the forest and brings forth new growth,” she said. “I am the wave of lava and ash that scours the land and gives it fertility once more. Could you stop an avalanche with a single tree? I am the harbinger of new cycles, and I will not be recaptured and dragged back to a life in chains by a mere man.” She pulled the trigger, but it wasn’t only his head that exploded. It was as if she had fired ten shotguns in unison, shredding his body and painting the wall with gore, covering her head to toe with splatter. My heart skipped a beat when she turned to look at me with cold eyes, hot blood dripping down her face. “I need a shower. May I use your bathroom?” I bowed. “Of course, prophet.”
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Sep 15, 2013 22:14
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To crabrock, whose dedication to the tasks of categorizing, preserving, and presenting data is nothing short of glorious, and whose patience in fixing errors is scarcely less so; and to Kaishai, without whom I would truly be nothing. Diamonds (873 words) The couple came in on a Thursday night, after work hours. They held hands, and as the door closed behind them, the heated air of my jewelry store picked up the scents of his fresh shower gel and her tea-rose perfume. I stayed in my chair behind the back counter and kept my greeting to a quiet, "Good evening," and a smile, leaving them free to smile back--hers showed teeth, his didn't--and then ignore me in favor of my merchandise. My eyes fell to the broken bracelet I'd been repairing, but I eavesdropped without trouble. The shop wasn't what you'd call large. "These aren't diamonds," the man said; his voice came from near the display of rings to my right. "It doesn't have to be a diamond. I like color." "I want to get a diamond for you." "Thomas." She spoke his name sharply. "I can afford it." Surely an old argument. I raised my estimate of how much money I would make on this sale. She said, "But if I'd rather have a ruby or an emerald--that's important, right? Otherwise I don't know why I'm here." Thomas held in his reply for several seconds. "At least look," he said at last. If I could hear strain in the pitch and rasp of his words, surely she could too. "Before you settle for less." They looked. For fifteen completely silent minutes, they studied my diamonds. I watched them from the corner of my eye, my prong pusher hovering over a loose sapphire. Thomas's hand drifted twice toward the small of her back, but he stopped short of touching her. Her hands were balled in the pockets of her oversized white jacket. Thomas murmured something I didn't catch. She jerked one shoulder. He left her and approached my counter, summoning another tight smile; I set the bracelet down. He said, "I'd like to know how much some of the engagement rings cost." Behind him, the woman moved back to the display of colored-gem rings, her posture changing now that he couldn't see: her shoulders slumped, and her neck bowed. I focused on Thomas. "You might be surprised by the cost of a good emerald," I told him. "Not you, too. Please. Susannah deserves the best I can--" Thomas's mouth kept moving, but a body hit the front door so hard that the sound of the impact overrode whatever he said. A figure in a canvas jacket and ski mask stomped the two strides to the center of the room, where he pulled a gun from his pocket. "You throw your purse here and get down!" he yelled at Susannah, and then, after she flung her shoulderbag at him and hit her knees, he turned my way. "Money! Rocks! Now!" He aimed at Thomas. Then at me. Shock had numbed me, and I noticed in a distant way that while Thomas was trembling, the robber's whole frame shook harder. Despite my calm, my own fingers wouldn't hit the right register keys. Thomas shifted his weight. The robber swung the gun back to him. "Keep your loving hands out and don't move." Susannah said, "Drop the gun." She still knelt on the floor. But since the robber had turned from her to focus on Thomas and me, she'd drawn a Glock from under her jacket. Her steady hands pointed the muzzle dead at the man's head. Her brown eyes fixed on what could be seen of his face. The robber made his choice in an instant. Instead of complying, he turned his weapon toward her. Thomas lunged as soon as the other man moved, tackling him and grabbing for his arm--they thudded onto the carpet as Susannah threw herself flat, and a shot hit the wall and sent one of my framed photographs of diamonds crashing down. Thomas yelled. I yelled. Thomas got hold of the robber's forearm and slammed it against the floor with crazy energy. The man dropped his gun, and Susannah scrambled for it. She had it in her left hand; the robber rolled Thomas hard into my counter, hard enough that Thomas lost hold of him, and then he gained his feet and ran. Susannah held both guns on his back, but she let him go. When the sounds of his escape faded out, she set the weapons on the countertop with hands that had started to shake. Then Thomas was up and reaching for her, folding her into his chest so tightly I couldn't see much of her other than her hair and her arms, wrapped around him like steel bands under white leather. "You idiot." I don't know which one of them whispered the words. Her fingers dug into his shoulderblades. I took deep breaths. I picked up the cell phone next to the register. But before I dialed, I said, "Ma'am? Sir?" Thomas turned his head to look at me; Susannah didn't move. "I hope you'll take any ring I sell in thanks," I said. "Whichever one you want." Susannah's short, uneven laugh brought a curve to Thomas's mouth. He pressed his lips to her crown, and as I called the police, they went on holding each other within the rings that mattered.
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Sep 15, 2013 22:34
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One more hour to get them submissions in.
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Sep 16, 2013 00:00
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At the Market in Alabama 948 Words. I was buyin’ bread to make myself some sandwiches when I seen all the negroes shouting. They was at the diner counter, the negroes I mean, and they was sayin’ how, at the Woolworth’s over on Acton, they been eating at the whites only counter on a count of the big sit-ins from a few months back. That ain’t entirely right, because I heard the one that was leadin’ the shouting say, “You ain’t supposed to have a,” and he put his hands up like quote marks in a book--he must have been a college-schooled negro--, “whites only counter. You should serve us like anyone else like they doing at Woolworth’s!” This boy was angry, and I don’t know why he din’t just go eat with the other ones at the colored counter; they was eating biscuits and seemed happy as pie, well, they was until they saw this boy yelling and shoutin’, then they got worked up too. I ain’t one to gawk, but seeing this boy, a black boy, pointing his finger at a hard-working white man made me watch a spell or two. Not that I got myself involved, no sir. So the boy, he sat down at the counter, and the other negroes did too. When all the stools been taken up, the rest sat down on the floor like I seen in the paper. The man at the counter just walked straight away into the kitchen. Myself, I was too old to be learnin’ these new things, but this man was young enough that he prolly shoulda been calling them colored instead of negro, and I think he just didn’t want to get in trouble with no one, so he got his manager. The manager came and told that boy as politely as he could, “I’m sorry sir, but we’d be happy to take your order over here with these nice folks,” and he pointed over at the negroes who wasn’t eating their biscuits no more. They was just staring. The boy looked at the manager, and he raised his chin up high, and since he had glasses he looked like a right refined boy. “I would like grits, a biscuit, and coffee, please.” The manager smiled but he didn’t look very happy, and he said, “Sure thing, sir, if you would just take a seat at the other counter we’ll have that right up for you.” The boy didn’t move and he crossed his arms. “I am comfortable here, thank you.” Then the manager walked away too, and when the door to the kitchen opened I saw all the kitchen staff standing by the door. Like I said, I ain’t no rubbernecker, so I went and got some pickles and onions and was going to be on my way, but then right as I was fixin’ to pay I seen the police come in. I left my bread and pickles and onions on the counter and went to see what the police was gonna do. It turns out the manager was the owner too, and the police was saying to him that Woolworth’s didn’t have no colored and whites counter and that all the public buildings weren’t having none of that neither. The police said they didn’t agree with it and din’t know what the world was coming to, but that maybe he should just let this boy have his grits right where he was. Now, I didn’t agree with none of this; the negroes had their own counter and it weren’t helping nothin’ to raise a stink about it. Just as I was thinking this, Billie Jones, old Dick Jones’ grandson, came up to the counter and said to the negro, “Move over boy, I want to sit down.” The boy turned to Billie and said, “I’ll move as soon as I finish my meal.” And all the other negroes was ordering food but there weren’t no one writing nothing down. Dick and me went way back; his son, Buzz, fought in the war and ran an honest business, but his son, Billie, the one telling the boy to move, weren’t really no good. Billie only worked as much as he had to and was always getting in trouble, and here he was getting into something that no smart man would want any part in. Billie went and tried to shove that negro off his stool. The boy almost fell off but the one to the left held him steady. Then the other negroes from the floor stood right up and made a circle around the boy. Now if Billie wanted to shove him again he’d have to go through all of ‘em. And he was stupid enough to do just that. He swung his arms and started hitting the whole group, lucky for him there weren’t no lady negroes standing up. And the negroes just let Billie hit them; I even seen one get hit square in the eye and another in the jaw. They got hit and hit and the police finally pulled Billie away. They took him out of the store, and he weren’t gonna be arrested or nothing since Buzz, his Dad, was such an upstanding citizen, but he looked mighty foolish being pulled out of there, arms still flailing and face all red. The negroes sat back down, and some had bumps and bruises and some were bleedin’, but they didn’t say nothing, they just looked at the owner. Finally they brought that boy his grits, and I still think he shoulda moved, but I laughed when I saw that boy finally eating right where he wanted. Crabrock is a nerd that loves spreadsheets and I love them too. Kaishai is straight up awesome angel opportunity fucked around with this message at 00:15 on Sep 16, 2013 |
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Sep 16, 2013 00:07
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Walter Grant - 645 Words He woke up today at 7:24am, a few minutes earlier than usual. He lay in bed for a little while, one leg over the covers and one under. I don’t know why he does it, but he always does it. He sleeps like a baby too, all curled up with arms tucked in. When he goes to sleep, he follows the same pattern every night. He lies, at first, back flat and head propped on the pillow, then twists onto his left side for a short while, then finally onto his right side. Only then does he sleep. He always sleeps on his right side. Why doesn’t he start by lying on his right side? I don’t know. I know a lot about Walter Grant but I don’t know anything about him. It feels like I’ve been locked in his cell with him for years, observing, noting, considering but have still learnt nothing. I want to know why. Why, when he eats breakfast, does he take a bite of toast and a sip of tea at the same time? He doesn’t mix them together, mulching them into some bready-tea gunk before swallowing; no, he stores the bite of toast in his cheeks like some overgrown hamster. I’ve watched it happen countless times. Can’t he wait before taking a drink? Why does he do it? I don’t know, but I note it down. I’ve noted a great deal of things about Walter Grant. For example, did you know that when he does press-ups, he always does an even number - unless it ends with a five? Or that when he eats meals with peas in them he never chews? He just swallows them without tasting them. He could just tell us he doesn’t like peas - we are obliged to provide meals that inmates can enjoy, but he never does. He eats all of them, every time, without ever tasting a single one. Perhaps that is just how a murderer eats peas. After all, Walter Grant is quite a murderer - he’s killed seventeen people. That’s why I watch him. Because when he sleeps, he sleeps a murderer; when he eats, he eats as a murderer eats. It’s all important, all has to be written down. We might learn something. Murder might not just be, after all, the agglomeration of the distended corpses of cats and the bruises from familial fists imparted. The real devils might be in the details, in the untasted peas of Walter Grant’s prison dinner. So I’m told. Yet even so, I don’t like Walter Grant. In fact, I’ve learned to hate him. I hate how he lives his life and I hate that he will soon be strapped to a gurney and pumped full of FDA approved toxins, because then I won’t ever know why. I don’t care anymore why he killed those little boys and girls, I want to know why he covers his sneezes when there’s nobody around, I want to know why he reads the ends of books before he starts them; I want to know why he didn’t cry when he got his date, because everybody has a little cry when they get their date. I’ve watched them, I know. When they think nobody can see or hear, in the darkest corners of the night, everybody has a little cry. A little sniffle or sob. It doesn’t matter who they were or what they did. But Walter Grant didn’t, and I want to know why. Has Walter Grant transcended the fear of death? Has he found Nirvana in that six by nine foot tomb? What’s in his head? And are the peas part of it? Are all the little things part of some greater ritual that I can’t see? What’s his secret? What’s he hiding? I want to know Walter Grant, I want to know. This story dedicated to my loving children, Crabrock and Kaishai. May their boundless enthusiasm for compiling statistics be a light for me in darkness and an inspiration to all other baller OCD peeps out there with time on their hands. God bless you, every one. Jeza fucked around with this message at 00:16 on Sep 16, 2013 |
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Sep 16, 2013 00:11
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Kaishai and crabrock stand on the bridge and none may pass. The sword of their effort and the shield of their achievement turn every way and guard them from the quibblers and and the naysayers. Truly shall their names be written on the slabs of midnight black stone that are laid down at the heart of the world. The Heisenberg Property 447 words I used to live next to a man who was always late out of the house. It killed him in the end. They were a couple; Derek, and Sarah. He was tallish and fattish and (judging by the t-shirts he would wear on the weekends when he sat by himself on his chair in the back yard) he worked with computers. She was skinny and had brown hair in a tight bun. She wore glasses. I don’t think they ever saw me watching from my perch on the second floor and I’m not sure what I would have done if they had. I felt warmly towards them, like they were pets of some description. I had pet mice that lived in a loaf of bread when I was a child. I could see them through the holes they’d gnawed in the sides. I would sit in my red chair and watch Sarah waiting by the front door for him to come out so they could catch the bus together. She had the high-pitched nervousness of the sort of person who is always a little too calm. She’d tap her foot and check her watch. Occasionally a folded bus timetable would be brought out for cross-reference. Then, the time would pass, and her shoulders would slump. When he would finally emerge, she would berate him as they trotted off down the street. After seven years she left, packing up her books and bedding and piling it into the back of an old station wagon driven by her sister. It was a Holden, I think. Derek came out of the house as the car was grumbling round the corner. For a long time he peered at the space on the pavement where her possessions had sat. Then he looked around. For the first time in my period of observation I felt uncomfortable, and considered closing the curtains. Then, he went inside. In the years that followed he spent less and less time outside, left later and later each morning until most days it was not until the afternoon that he would venture outside. He got fatter, and would come home with heavy glass jars of beer in supermarket bags. One night I smelt smoke and blinked myself awake. The time was 2.14 AM and Derek’s house was on fire. The door was closed. I picked up the phone to call the fire service but it was too late for Derek. I overheard the firemen talking after they’d put out the fire and were wetting the smouldering remnants of the house. Smoking, fell asleep, didn’t wake up in time. They sounded resigned, like it happened all the time. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 12:07 on Oct 23, 2013 |
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Sep 16, 2013 00:14
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