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toanoradian posted:Like most Indonesians I'm incredibly scared of ghosts, so I'm staying away from this thread.  WB Toan
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Mar 14, 2014 01:12
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Requesting a flash rule to help alleviate my writer's block.
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Mar 14, 2014 01:41
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Thanks, Beef! I really appreciate it.
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Mar 14, 2014 02:27
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In.
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Mar 14, 2014 04:02
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elfdude posted:Requesting a flash rule to help alleviate my writer's block. FLASH RULE Write a story inspired by this song: quote:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0-5rhmLwTo CAVEAT: It goes without saying but no fanfic of Pirates of the Caribbean, Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag, or any other popular pirate media.
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Mar 14, 2014 04:05
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You've been added to the list, but I'd like to draw your attention to this part of the prompt: Kaishai posted:Realistically, this is a difficult rule to enforce, and I'm counting somewhat on an honor system, but if I do find out you've asked for help it's an instant DQ for you. Keep it in mind, hmm?
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Mar 14, 2014 04:11
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Oh wow, this thread is every bit as amazing as everyone made it sound. Totally worth dropping three others to catch up on this one instead. Immensely frustrating reading prompts from weeks ago that I immediately came up with a great idea but too bad old news now. I want in, but I feel so much pity for the poor judges who have to read all these entries every week when most of them are terrible. Should I care about that?
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Mar 14, 2014 04:15
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Dancing and Drinking = 1000 words The night was windy and cool. It threatened rain. No matter as we trudged along a quiet sidewalk, knowing that a warm apartment was a few blocks away. “Doing this was a mistake” she said. “What’s the matter? You look wonderful” I teased. “You wanted to go to a costume party and agreed that we could go as a flapper and gangster.” “Well, if I realized how thin these clothes were going to be, I wouldn’t have said yes.” “You look even better with your eyes crossed and tongue flying in the wind” I remarked with a grin. “Dick” she said with a smile and a punch. “For that, I’m going to wear your stupid hat. Looks better on me anyway.” “Hold on to it. Starting to get pretty windy. I don’t want to go all over the city to look for store to buy a replacement. Besides, that was the one that looked the best on me.” “The best one? This dirty old fedora is the best you could do?” “It’s all I could find on short notice. It’s not like I’m going to wear it again. Can you give it back?” A sigh. A perfectly timed wind gust blew the cap out of my hand and around the corner. “Dolt. Why didn't you hold the stupid hat by the brim instead the top? This isn't the first time this happened.” All I could manage was a glare and maroon cheeks. “Go on without me. You look cold and uncomfortable.” After going in separate directions, I chased the hat to a quiet stoop. While I brushed the dirt and gravel off, I looked around. The building looked old and grimy. Rust covered the gratings in the windows and on the hinges of a large wooden door with a small slit near the top. Strangely, I heard music and voices coming from beyond the door. I was clearly hearing things. This stupid party was stressing me out. I picked the shittest costume because I procrastinated. I had a brain fart on costume ideas and choose the most generic idea because I didn't want to spend any money. My date hates me for dragging her along and my slapdash effort on a dumb theme. I just want the night to end. I looked around one more time. I took a deep breath and decided to knock on the door and just calm my addled mind. A few knocks and they would all go away. The sounds didn’t stop. I could live being crazy for a night. I turned around but stopped when I heard something slide. The slit was open and all I could see were a pair eyes. “Password?” commanded the hidden figure. “I need a drink and a place to rest my head” I responded wearily. “It’s in the back and down the steps.” The door swung open and tobacco smoke billowed out. The house looked warm and inviting. “What a nightmare.” I droned, rubbing my temples. I shuffled on in a daze, people fading in and out as well as their words and conversations. I reached the backdoor and weathered the haze of cigar and cigarette smoke to get to the beat up bar. I collapsed in a bar stool and with a raised hand and slumped head and ordered the strongest thing they had. “You sure about that?” said the bartender. “drat right!” I exclaimed exhaustedly. “Ok. Take it slow. Your kind doesn't take to well to this stuff.” I was quite puzzled by what this guy meant, but my headache was getting worse and so was my attitude. The glass came by and I did as I was told. My mood improved, my headache lifted and I was feeling fine, if a little light and empty. A man in a snazzy suit was on stage singing something I couldn't quite place. The place seemed to have been cleared of the thick smoke I walked into. “Enjoying the show?” the bartender asked. “Yeah. I feel much more relaxed than when I came in for sure” I said. “What’s your story?” “I wanted to be a doctor. But considering the difficulty of one such as myself becoming educated in the practice, I took to bartending. That’s why people call me Doc. How about you go up and dance? I feel this going to best song of night coming up. Don’t worry about the hat, I’ll keep an eye on it.” I thought about for a few seconds and considering my mood had improved over the last half an hour, I strolled over to the dance floor. The man in the snazzy suit the stage started a new song, quite familiar and foreign at the same time, and I started to flow from one dance move to the next. I saw things in the corner of my eye, people here and there disappearing and reappearing but it didn't matter. I was having fun. I returned to the bar to find a note and key where Doc was. The note read: quote:“Thank you for finding my old hat. As a reward, take this key to the metal box behind the closet. Should look brand new because nothing opened that box in over 70 years. Also, bring your girl the next time you find us, I think she’ll like this place. I left the now clear bar and walked back to the front of building. The music sounded faded and the place was sparsely populated. I found the closet and rummaged around looking for something. A few loose boards rotted away and the box was there, just like Doc said. I opened the box to find a gray fedora, smooth and blemished from the decay the building was now laying in. The music, the carpet, the furniture, the people, and everything else were gone. I placed a few quick calls and danced down the decrepit steps and on the sidewalk, right up till the sunrise the next morning.
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Mar 14, 2014 04:19
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In. Also since it seems to help me get into the writing groove, I'll crit another fantasy-oriented story. Doesn't have to be a recent one. Whoever drops me a link here first gets it. Some Guy TT posted:I want in, but I feel so much pity for the poor judges who have to read all these entries every week when most of them are terrible. Should I care about that? If people cared about that, there would be no thread.
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Mar 14, 2014 04:20
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This is Thunderdome. Don't pity the judges, because they're not going to pity you. Write good words, and maybe the judges won't have to pity you.
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Mar 14, 2014 04:21
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OK, I'm in.
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Mar 14, 2014 04:23
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Kaishai posted:You've been added to the list, but I'd like to draw your attention to this part of the prompt: 
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Mar 14, 2014 07:06
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Ah, that would explain why you've been asking Fanky and Sebmojo to help you edit your piece, then. We talk, dude. You are the worst cheater. As in, you are terrible at it. Whatever you submit had better be an entirely new story from the one you've been passing around this week.
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Mar 14, 2014 07:16
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IN LIGHT of this incredible development, it has been convened, and it has been agreed, that for you, Benny the Snake - in order for your story to escape both disqualification and FLASH RULES shall be applicable to you:1. YOU MUST WRITE A NEW STORY other than the one attempted to be shown to, or has been shown to, Sebmojo and Fanky Malloons. We are fully aware we cannot control this, so let your own conscience be your guide. 2. YOUR STORY MUST PROMOTE THE FOLLOWING MATTERS AS GREAT VIRTUES: (a) reading and listening to instructions carefully (b) not being a liar. We look forward to reading your story!
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Mar 14, 2014 07:24
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:We talk, dude. You are the worst cheater. As in, you are terrible at it. So clearly what is needed to fix all the bad cheaters is to have a week where cheating is compulsory.
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Mar 14, 2014 07:30
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gently caress, I keep running over the world limit, and I can't seem to prune poo poo without compromising story integrity. Is it still okay if I submit anyway? If not, I might as well take the Thunderdome loser avatar.
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Mar 14, 2014 10:12
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CommissarMega posted:gently caress, I keep running over the world limit, and I can't seem to prune poo poo without compromising story integrity. Is it still okay if I submit anyway? If not, I might as well take the Thunderdome loser avatar. Submissions over the word limit are allowed. They are also instantly disqualified from winning. However, they can still lose. Edit: You're probably also going to take a beating for claiming that you "can't" prune poo poo. It is almost a given that you "can" but are: (a) unwilling to do the deep plot surgery, (b) not experienced enough to know how to tighten a sentence elegantly and/or (c) unwilling to murder some darlings. You have two days. Put your story away for 24 hours and come back to it. Read it with fresh eyes. Erogenous Beef fucked around with this message at 10:40 on Mar 14, 2014 |
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Mar 14, 2014 10:37
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CommissarMega posted:gently caress, I keep running over the world limit, and I can't seem to prune poo poo without compromising story integrity. Is it still okay if I submit anyway? If not, I might as well take the Thunderdome loser avatar. You still have until midnight Sunday which is a considerable amount of time. Take a break for a day or so then come back to the story. You'll probably be able to cut some more words out. You can do it, don't give up.
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Mar 14, 2014 10:37
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CommissarMega posted:gently caress, I keep running over the world limit, and I can't seem to prune poo poo without compromising story integrity. Is it still okay if I submit anyway? If not, I might as well take the Thunderdome loser avatar. If you're really that stuck, try reading your story out loud to yourself. Every time I read a TD story out loud (or any story I write really), it becomes instantly clear what needs to be cut and I shave tens, if not hundreds of words of fat off the piece.
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Mar 14, 2014 11:29
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Yeah not sure if you got message on IRC but I'm not gonna be able to submit this week.
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Mar 14, 2014 13:17
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In for this week.
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Mar 14, 2014 17:39
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The Saddest Rhino posted:IN LIGHT of this incredible development, it has been convened, and it has been agreed, that for you, Benny the Snake - in order for your story to escape both disqualification and
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Mar 14, 2014 20:51
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Benny the Snake posted:DQ me. I'm done this week. Huge surprise.
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Mar 14, 2014 20:51
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Benny the Snake posted:DQ me. I'm done this week. actually it's not a DQ. It's a Failure. You get a big red "FAILURE" next to your name in the archive. You can't disqualify if you never attempt to qualify in the first place. FAILURE TO ACCOMPLISH YOUR DREAM Because you couldn't be bothered to read THE loving BOLD RULE IN A SHORT PROMPT.
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Mar 14, 2014 21:41
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crabrock posted:actually it's not a DQ. It's a Failure. You get a big red "FAILURE" next to your name in the archive. You can't disqualify if you never attempt to qualify in the first place. Also to be noted: Sitting Here posted:People who sign up and then don't post a story are the worst kind of people. Benny, if you fail to submit this week, you will need to Toxx yourself if you want to submit again.
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Mar 14, 2014 22:49
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Benny the Snake posted:DQ me. I'm done this week. You have two whole drat days. If you have to cobble together something in 2 hours, do that at least. God knows other people have. You're embarrassed, sure, but you aren't loving dead. Ultimately what people think of you on an internet forum doesn't matter. Writing is what you want, isn't it? Take your flash rule, write up a new story. Do it for you. All you gotta do is put some drat words on the page and you'll find that life goes on. Small steps, big steps, whatever you can manage, just move forward and to hell with everything else.
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Mar 14, 2014 22:51
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JuniperCake posted:You have two whole drat days. If you have to cobble together something in 2 hours, do that at least. God knows other people have. You're embarrassed, sure, but you aren't loving dead. Ultimately what people think of you on an internet forum doesn't matter.
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Mar 14, 2014 23:32
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Well poo poo, if Benny's in then what am I waiting for! In
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Mar 15, 2014 02:05
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Roughly two hours remain to join in this week's trip to the afterlife.
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Mar 15, 2014 03:11
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I was delayed in getting home tonight; I was hoping to say in but I may be too late.
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Mar 15, 2014 05:22
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Technically so, but I'll add you to the list anyway. Such is my masochistic mercy. Sign-ups are now officially CLOSED.
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Mar 15, 2014 07:00
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Right, I'll be on an airplane soon, but I managed to squeak out the last of the  TD 83 line-by-lines Lead Out In Cuffs Your storytelling is sloppy as hell. Your characters are all over the place, your plots have no uniting theme, and you resolve everything with a Deus Ex Machina machinegun. It seems as though you had a few different ideas and just tried to shoehorn them all in: * Daughter v. Daddy * Woman v. Traditions * Lovers v. The World * Woman v. Her Own lovely Opinions Not one of them seemed to take center-stage. You can have sub-conflicts, but they all need to feed into one big main idea - that’s what’s lacking in your scatterbrained mess of a story. Also, trying to shove all this in is probably trying to do too much in a short TD piece. Your prose flows poorly and is tedious to read. Read more books. You also have a serious problem with adding “extra” actions to connect the general flow of the action, i.e. televisionitis - you’re showing us ALL the action instead of presenting the important parts needed to understand the flow. It’s the difference between: “Mel’s fingers trembled and inched towards the pistol on his hip. He reached down and grasped the hilt. He flipped a thumb under the leather clasp and popped it open, then yanked the gun from its holster and held it out before him and pointed it forward to aim it at the sheriff.” and “Mel grabbed his pistol, yanked it from its holster and aimed at the sheriff.” The former is only permissible if the act of drawing the gun is meant to be very slow and deliberate, and you’re trying to emphasize how very nervous Mel is. The latter, in most cases, would be preferred if the method in which Mel draws his gun isn’t a very important part of the story. Long-form crit here. God over Djinn This story has several problems. First, it’s obvious you weren’t too clear on your theme, and didn’t go back to revise. At some points, this was about triumphing over adversity despite disability, and at other points it was a lesson showing that disabled folks shouldn’t be treated special because it hurts their feelings. You decided to obscure the clarity of your story’s opening in the name of tossing around pretty language and delaying the reveal of the blindness. That’s a sin. Don’t sacrifice clarity for style. Your main character whips back and forth - at some points he’s motivated to win because he’s being told he can’t, and at other times he only wants to win fairly (and this isn’t shown/emphasized through his emotions or actions). Towards the end, he becomes a snotnosed punk, but his bad attitude has nothing to do with him not getting the equal treatment he desires. For this to work, the point at which the kid goes from “i want to win fairly” to “i want to win at all costs” needs to be highlighted, and then it needs to be clear that his “i want to win at all costs” attitude is what robs him of winning fairly. Long-form crit here. Sebmojo This is a terrible story. It’s not even a story. “Stuff happens”, and, worse, you’ve basically not even told us most of what does happen - there’s conversations and courtroom action offscreen, but we have no context nor any framing information to understand them. The entire final third of your piece is characters talking around things we’re not privy to! The “running” thing is 100% tangential to the rest of the story. It doesn’t illustrate anything about her character. It’s not used except as an excuse for you to write a bunch of pretty descriptions of New Zealand. That’s horribly self-indulgent. Don’t do that. Your characters are cardboard cutouts: Caroline is a distraught wife whose husband died of cancer. Roger is a greedy poo poo of a brother. At no point do we glimpse their motivations or beliefs, and at no point are those (absent) motivations/beliefs challenged. What’s your theme or unifying idea? There doesn’t seem to be one. There’s no characters who change, nor is there a character who we see consciously refuse change. Ugh. I truly hate this piece. It’s all style with absolutely no substance behind it. Long-form crit here, wherein I say "pointless" and "so what?" a lot.
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Mar 15, 2014 22:06
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Sacrifice (723 words) Hans was the poorest little boy in the village. He had never known his father, and his mother sweated and toiled on the family plot. But every day Hans would play with the other children on the green, and every night he would come home to a nice thick slice of black bread for his dinner. One day some men came to the little cottage where Hans and his mother lived. They talked about castles, and old gods, and gold. Hans did not understand much of it, but his mother frowned and nodded. Later she took him to a place where a great castle was being built. The sounds of sawing, and chiselling, and digging echoed within the rising stone walls. The men led Hans to a hollow in a wall. They placed him inside, and began laying stones over the gap. Hans was frightened and started to cry, but the men gave him the shiniest red apple he had ever seen, and he was still. When the last block was mortared into place, it was dark, and Hans began to shiver against the cold stone. He ate the apple, and he waited. Tired of waiting, he slept. When he awoke it was still cold and dark, and Hans was lonely. He cried and cried for his mother, but nobody answered. He pounded his tiny hands upon the stone, but heard only his own muffled echoes. His lips cracked and his throat burned with thirst. He slept once more. When he awoke, Hans was no longer thirsty. He stood and walked out through the wall. The leaves on the trees were a thousand shades of gold and the rye stood tall in the fields. This was strange because, when he went to sleep, it had been spring. But Hans paid this no more mind than he had his unnatural passage through the solid stone. He went to the green where he had played with his friends. They saw him and waved, calling out: “Hans, Hans! We thought you had gone away, but you’ve come back! Come and play with us!” They ran and they danced and they sang songs. Hans smiled and laughed as the day wore on and the sun sank low behind the dark and brooding woods. When the church bell rang for Vespers, the children hurried home to their dinners. Hans went home, too. The little cottage was not as he remembered. In place of the old roof of rotting, black thatch there was fresh, yellow straw. Where the stained and warped old door had creaked in the wind was a new door of the sturdiest oak. Hans bounded through. “Mama, Mama, may I have some food? I’ve been so hungry!” he said. His mother paled. She crossed herself and turned away. “Mama, I don’t like this game,” he said. Hans nagged and he begged, but his mother said not a word as she set about her evening chores. Still, the more he begged, the paler she became, until finally she clasped her hands to her head and ran out into the night. Hans followed. Through the dark woods they flew, over gurgling brooks and under mossy boughs. Hans kept calling, but his mother made no sound. They came to a clifftop, and his mother did not slow. With a shriek she threw herself into the air, and with a thud she landed on the greensward below. Hans climbed down and sat beside her. Hans waited for his mother to wake up. He waited as the sun rose and cast its dappled light across the glade. He waited as the sun set once more, turning his mother’s cheeks a cheerful rose. He waited as the moon peered above the trees, and his mother’s skin turned a sallow grey. He waited as the wolves came and circled with slavering jaws. Hans shooed them away. Finally he grew tired of waiting, and set off home. As the little cottage drew in sight, Hans saw the faint glow of a candle. Through the window, in the dim light, he could just make out a familiar face. Hans ran inside. “Mama, Mama, may I have some food?” he said. His mother smiled, the candle flame flickering through her transparent features. “Of course dear, let me cut you a nice thick slice of black bread.”
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Mar 15, 2014 22:24
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Bonfire Night I shivered, tucking my hands into my pockets to keep them warm, as I struggled through the crowd. The sulfuric stench of gunpowder left behind by the fireworks hung heavily in the icy night air, mingling with over applied perfume and the occasional whiff of weed. I have to get out of here. I thought to myself as I headed towards the edge of the crowd. I knew most of them would be there all night, enjoying the fire jugglers, the carnival games and the overpriced booze and other recreational drugs on offer. I broke through the crowd. I was lost. I fumbled with my phone. drat thing, no signal! I realised it's built in GPs was pretty much useless without a working connection to download the surrounding map. The river runs along the south side of the park, so if I head in that direction, I can figure out where I am! I switched over to the compass app and headed in the right direction, weaving my way down a twisty, mud pathway, the sounds of the firework display rapidly fading, dampened by the trees surrounding my route. It's getting a bit dark here, this path is a bit too overgrown for night really! I thought, and turned my phone on to it's flashlight setting. A thin beam of light stretched out from it, casting frightening shadows. After a while, I started to worry. How far am I from the river? I should have broke through the trees by now. Then the world turned dark. My phone's battery died. Panic set in. Something primal inside me screamed out in terror at being lost, alone, on a cold dark winters night, trapped in the middle of a heavily forested part of the park. My rational mind fought hard to keep it in check, to keep it's silent scream just that. With no other option available, I decided to push on. As I walked on something large, about the size of a Labrador, brushed past my legs. I froze, my eyes darting down, but I couldn't see below my own waist. The darkness pressed in, enclosing me in it's icy grasp. I must have imagined it! I told myself. Even without my eyes I would have heard something walking up to me. I gathered my resolve and pushed on. *pad* *pad* *pad* *pad*. Only the sound of my own footsteps accompanied me. Once or twice I stopped, suddenly, to see if the padding carried on without me moving. To see if something was indeed following me, using my own steps to mask it's approach. But I heard nothing. Then it brushed my leg again. It bumped into it, and my hand dropped out of instinct, stroking the silent beast. But my hand found nothing there, the weight vanishing from my leg. I increased my pace, not wanting to run, but needing to be out from under those trees as quickly as possible. I needed to be out of this park, back in my city. I needed the false dawn of a thousand street lights. I needed the chaotic orchestra of traffic. I needed the smells of grilled onions, week old hot-dogs and month old, hardened buns. *padpadpadpadpadpadpadpad* I hurried down the path. Twice I almost tripped on undergrowth. Then it was there again. Brushing past me. Walking beside me. It's heavy weight thumping in to my other side this time. I froze. "what's there?" I asked in vain. For no reply was offered. "Who, or what, are you? And what do you want from me?" Again, no answer. "Please, leave me alone!" I plead, almost in tears. A low, rumbling growl answered my plea. That was the final straw. I didn't care how close to the other side I was, I had to get off this path. Back among people. And lights. I turned, and ran back in the direction from which I had came. Ten minutes, I ran, my heart pounding in my chest. When I finally reached the end of the path, the crowds from the display finally appearing in the distance, the harsh temporary floodlights half blinding me, I collapsed on the floor. I'm safe. I'm off that terrible path! I thought. "You okay mate?" Someone asked, helping me to my feet. I explained i was fine. Told him I had tried to cut through the trees, to get back to the river. To catch my bus home. "Ah, that's not a cut through. It's a walking path, doubles back on itself and ends up just down there!" The man explained, gesturing a few hundred yards further down the main road. All that, and even if I had made it through my gauntlet, I would have ended up almost where I started. I forced a laugh, and asked for directions. Ten minutes later, I made it to my bus stop. I welcomed the sights and sounds of the city as I walked there. Neon lights inviting tourists in for a drink. Distant arguing. And the constant squeal of sirens racing past in the distance. I didn't sleep that night. Nor the night after. On the third day, i braved that dark path in the day time. A little way in, something shining caught my eyes. I pushed my way off the path into the trees. I almost threw up when I saw what it was. A silver choke collar. One part caught on a branch, the other still wrapped around the throat of a jet black dog, some sort of mongrel. It was roughly the size of the one that would have brushed past me on the cold night... Sadness overwhelmed me. The poor thing had got caught. It had choked to death. And all it had wanted was some company. Someone to walk beside, just for a while. I felt something bump into my thigh. "Good boy. It's okay." I said, glancing down at the dog which wasn't there.
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Mar 16, 2014 01:10
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That Which Is Seen (971 words) A well-dressed man drunkenly stumbled onto the street. Prosecutor John Stevens had been in a good mood all day. He'd aced every single conviction from the latest drug case, guaranteeing a huge string of dealers would be stuck in prison for, what was the cumulative total? A thousand years? At the office the reaction was tremendous. He'd spent hours hitting up every bar in town with his co-workers because why not? His inevitable promotion was assured. Judge John Stevens, they'd be saying soon enough. People were looking at him. There was only one thing sullying his mood. The pleas for mercy. The complaints about the harshness of the sentences. Stevens snorted. So they had families, so what? Even the lowest, basest scum on the planet had people who cared. Stevens had succeeded in putting bad people away. Stevens had bulked up his own career. Stevens was well-liked. He could have died happy in this moment. Met with the vengeful spirits of the victims. Stevens always liked to think that ghosts were the vengeful sort. It was in this state of mind that Stevens suddenly found himself annoyed by a beggar, sitting on on the sidewalk mumbling to himself while counting the same stack of coins over and over again. "You get outta here," Stevens slurred. "Too good for the likes of you." The beggar suddenly stopped, and turned to Stevens, creaking his head at an oblique angle. This was a very slow process and Stevens squinted, agitated. "You can see me?" said the beggar. "Yeah," Stevens said, further annoyed, "now get out." Stevens had, at this point, plenty of friends on the force, and figured nobody would mind a random beggar with a busted lip, so he took a swing. But the disheveled man had completely disappeared. Stevens tried to look around, only to find that he couldn't move. His entire body suddenly felt heavy. "You can see me," a voice purred, ever so slightly blowing the hairs on Stevens' neck. "I thought this day would never come." "...the gently caress...are you..." Stevens said, forcing himself to speak through the paralysis. But he immediately realized his defiant words were a mistake- they only emphasized how weak and helpless Stevens was compared to the malignant presence. The beggar took his time walking in front of Stevens, the slanted head and wide crooked smile ever expanding, until finally, the face was so long Stevens couldn't see around it. Just a wide mass of hideous wrinkled flesh shaped like a kite. "An excellent question!" the beggar said, his voice now undulating randomly between octaves. "It must have been...decades perhaps? I've been sitting there so long, but nobody ever saw me. Sometimes there was money. Or maybe food? Did I eat? Or sleep? Hard to say...time loses all meaning when there's nothing to live for. Just counting the money, day in, day out...like in the old times." The beggar breathed in through his now giant nose, and Stevens felt repulsed. Even as he couldn't move, the very dirt came off of Stevens' skin, the hairs swayed in the direction of the beggar's nostrils, and Steven could feel the inerrantly human smell of this increasingly hideous, disgusting man. "I was successful once," the beggar said. "Then I wasn't. What happened? I remember meeting a crazy woman, somewhere. I didn't pay attention to her rambling. Just pushed her around. After that it was just this...fear, should I say? You know that feeling now, I take it?" Stevens tried to open his mouth in response, but this was a mistake. It just stood there, frozen open, and he could feel the spit draining from his mouth into the face of that...thing. What was worse, his sensations were all slowed down. A second in this gaping vortex felt like an hour. Stevens was in a panic. Even if he could move he didn't dare try. "I do remember what she did at the end. I remember her crying she would finally be free now." The beggar opened his mouth wide. Stevens saw an apparently infinite row of teeth, but the proportions were ruined. They looked too wide, the centers too grossly formed. The grime, the plaque, whatever it was, called out to him, and Stevens soon felt that he would be consumed. But then just as suddenly the mouth closed again and the beggar grabbed Stevens in a warm embrace. Forcefully, the beggar pressed his lips against Stevens', and it was in that moment that Stevens suddenly realized he had not blinked the entire time he had been frozen. His dry eyes crackled and baked from the lack of moisture, and he only noticed that pain here because his lips, no, the rest of his body was screaming for release, begging to no longer be wetly touched. The beggar pulled away, his face apparently back to normal, a serene smile on his face. Stevens collapsed to the ground, and the beggar whispered. "You'll get your wish." ----- It was some time before Judge John Stevens remembered this little adventure. At the time he expunged the event from his memory, didn't even tell his therapist. She already thought he was gay anyway. Probably just a bad cocktail. But now in the nursing home, he had nothing left. Oh yes, there was his title, the sense of justice. Ungrateful friends. Ungrateful children. They never looked at him. Was he dead yet? It was difficult to tell when Stevens couldn't remember eating or sleeping. Then Stevens remembered his encounter with the beggar. And then old decrepit Stevens, maybe a senile old man, or maybe a ghost, realized how he could escape. And so he stared at the door, a wide smile brimming from ear to ear, waiting for someone who could see him. Once that day arrived, Steven would have his revenge.
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Mar 16, 2014 08:39
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428 words Undying Love “I’ll have a burger,” said Brad. “Same,” said Sue. “That’s one burger then,” said the waiter. “I know it’s tricky to figure out for a school leaving minimum wage earner,” said Brad, “but that’s clearly two burgers.” “Sorry,” said the waiter, “but we don’t serve spirits here.” It was a good gag, and they all laughed heartily. “Seriously though,” said the waiter, “we aren’t serving her anything.” “Whoa, I thought you were kidding,” said Brad. “It was a good gag, and we all laughed. You’re seriously not gonna serve her?” “It’s OK,” said Sue. “We can go somewhere else.” “Why don’t you listen to your little ‘lady’?” asked the waiter, doing the air quotes with his fingers and everything. “Maybe some places will serve her, but we’re a family restaurant. People bring their kids here.” Brad stood up, scraping his chair noisily across the floor. “You know what,” and his voice filled the diner now, “this place is a dump. What say I take you to a classy joint, one that isn’t run by bigots?” “Come on now, we don’t want no trouble,” said the waiter, but Brad punched him in the face anyway. ~ “Was that really necessary?” asked Sue after they had left. “Sorry,” said Brad. “I just sometimes forget that even in this day and age, there are still people who think like that. It makes me so angry.” Sue pulled him close and kissed him on the cheek. “I appreciate you standing up for me, but I’m used to it. I don’t need you to punch everyone who insults my honour.” “It’s just so hard, you know? Sometimes I think about trying to die in tragic circumstances just so no one will question our love.” “Oh, don’t speak like that, honey. The fact that you can actually breathe is part of what makes you you. Besides, all the dead men are so depressing.” “Oh yeah, speaking of which, do you have to go haunting soon?” Sue leaned over and peered at his watch. “I’ve got time. Let’s go get that burger, first.” Brad put his arm around her waist and pulled her close, and for a few minutes, as they walked to a more tolerant diner, they were able to forget about things like dead people only recently getting the vote, and marriage still being legally defined only as a union between two living people, and the fact that for several hours every night Sue was compelled to peel back her face and scream at tourists. For now they were just two souls in love.
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Mar 16, 2014 14:14
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Katy’s Doll (998 words) http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=1820&title=Katy%5C%27s+Doll Nethilia fucked around with this message at 09:21 on Dec 4, 2014 |
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Mar 16, 2014 14:23
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[EDIT: removed for publishing reasons]
SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 03:17 on Dec 4, 2014 |
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Mar 16, 2014 16:44
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Righto, here we go. Where do you guys get those sayings for the flash rules, if I may ask?quote:A Doctor For Mama (998 words) Also, because I'm a rebel who's too cool for yo' rules  quote:Ghostfuck Awright! EDIT: Quotes for neatness. CommissarMega fucked around with this message at 18:10 on Mar 16, 2014 |
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Mar 16, 2014 18:07
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Fallen Grace 980 words [Removed for submission] Echo Cian fucked around with this message at 00:48 on May 30, 2014 |
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Mar 16, 2014 18:38
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