|
gently caress, I forgot the title.
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 00:31
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 19, 2024 12:38 |
|
|
oh i misread the word count gently caress me. oh well. i leave my mercy up to the thunderdome.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 00:32
|
|
|
December Octopodes posted:gently caress, I forgot the title. yeah you did.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 00:33
|
|
|
Protest Song (841 words) The city lay before them. Strange how a single star can steal the eye, and change the shape of the night. Frank descended unto the streets and passed barred doors and shuttered windows. Few others walked the streets, and none paused to offer greeting. “gently caress’s sake, you can cut it with a knife,” said Lana. She wore her bass strapped to her back, still in its case, a contrast to the guitar that Frank wore openly, a sword without a scabbard. “Got that right. Not too surprised, though,” Frank said. “On account of the kid.” Lana simply nodded and they picked up their pace. The roar of the bar could be heard even on the street. “At least there’s an audience,” Lana said. Frank snorted and pushed open the door. The bar was packed, and silence surrounded the pair like a bubble of unease as they walked to the small stage at the back. “Think we’re going to need something special tonight,” Frank said. Lana shot him a glare. “gently caress man, you crazy? Tonight?” “Yeah,” Frank said. He fixed his tuning, testing it by ear, while Lana went about her own preparation. A few of the bar goers pressed in closer to the stage, and Frank glanced up from his work to look at their faces. They told him everything he needed to know. He said, “Remember the tune?” Lana began the bassline, soon threading it with the chords they had worked on together. Frank joined in, but Lana covered the majority of the harmony, making that bass sing. The roar of the crowd slowly began to fade away and Frank’s eyes were only on his guitar. He lowered the microphone and sang directly into it. His voice was soft, and low, a barely whispered growl that entwined with the harmony. Bullets rip the air and the roar silences all. Six shots fired into the body of an innocent and her blood stains the streets. Frank elongated and elided as necessary to match the rhythm of the harmony, hitting the consonants as he continued to sing. And who holds the gun? Not a madman or a murderer but a man with a badge, who stands acquitted in the eyes of his peers and who shakes the hand of the governor. Frank’s melody grew simpler still as he continued to sing, staring intently at his guitar strings. Justice has no say, when the men in power run the show and all the pretty plays are just empty gestures to make us blind to their greed and their hate and their hunger. Frank’s fingers fell from the strings and Lana picked up his part of the harmony, weaving the sounds together. Frank focused entirely on the song. And we all the pay the price, it's all our blood that stains. We can't cry and we can't fight and it's all for nothing in the empty night. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he wouldn’t brush it aside, he could feel the weight of the room pushing down on him, uncertainty picking at him. When mothers want to embrace their daughters and fathers want to teach their sons and its all thrown away because the puppet strings are taut. All we can do is tell the tale, sing the song of ones who've gone, and make sure they aren't lost in the noise. Frank slapped his hand against the body of his guitar, tapping out a beat to fill the gap in the verse. Remember her and hold her. Grow hard and steely strong in the dark and show the rich you won't lie still forever. Frank bowed his head as Lana brought the song to a halt, closing his eyes. With the last chord, silence filled the bar. He turned his gaze up, expecting to see a spark of rage flaring into a bonfire. But all he saw were tired faces, men and women who had been suffering for so long that it was all they knew how to do. He let out his breath, and his form deflated under the weight of those eyes. But Lana began another song and a smile came to Frank’s lips. He lifted his head and looked out over the crowd. He sang, “There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done, nothing you can sing that can’t be sung….” Throughout the night they played, and the crowd milled and drank and talked. They took fewer breaks than normal, not allowing silence to settle onto the bar for long. A few gave tips, and Frank accepted them. They had to eat after all. The bartender sent a few drinks their way, and for that they were grateful. The bar should have closed hours ago, but a few stragglers lingered on, and Frank and Lana did their best, despite mounting exhaustion. Finally, the last left and they packed up their things and stepped out onto the street. The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough. Inspired specifically by Dave Van Rank’s Luang Probang, and more generally by protest songs in general.
|
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 00:37
|
|
|
Half an hour until the word-count drops to 727.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 01:29
|
|
|
Midnight Special - 972 Words The city lay before them. Strange how a single star can steal the eye, and change the shape of the night. Light traveling eons through the cold emptiness of space finally reached their eyes. The two men let their legs dangle in the breeze as they watched it flicker red in the night. “Hey Jim, you reckon we’ll find work?” “Town that big, be lucky if they don’t beat us before they jail us.” “Been all over these states. Can’t stand being locked up.” “Least they serve black bread there.” Neither heard a man come up to them. “Jim, Rob, we’re getting a game on. Got any coins?” Jim’s hand reached into his pocket, not for the dime or the pennies but to rest on his harmonica. “Couple pennies.” “Me too. Feeling lucky.” The moonlight shining in the freight car was barely enough to make out the faces of the cards. Jim couldn’t see the wear, but the cards felt as rough as the shirt on his back. He made sure to cut the deck when it was offered. He had been a drat good poker player in years past. Five miles later the pennies were gone. The game continued without him. He moved away and pulled out his harmonica, looking at the red star in the sky. Cold cold country, getting brighter every day. I say it’s a cold cold country, getting brighter every day. Lord it’s freezing here, but I still do pray. The harmonica punctuated the stanzas with a short riff. He continued his blues. My wheat gone dried up, went and blew away. All my wheat done dried, dog gone blew away. God it makes you wonder- He was thrown into a crate as the conductor applied the breaks. His body bounced off the box. The harmonica fell out of his hands onto the wooden floor, sliding further down the car. One of the players yelled out, “What in the hell, heard the yard was three miles from town!” The train rolled to a stop. From the floor, Jim could see the track lined with gruff looking men holding lanterns and truncheons. Railway security. Pinkertons. Jim was stunned. He hid from the lights in the narrow space between a crate and the wall. Most of the men ran. Tripping over themselves in the night, they ran right into the line of men holding batons. The Pinkertons grabbed them. Rob tried to fight through and was rewarded with a strike to the back of his knees. He was quickly subdued. Three of the guards swept through the train with their lanterns, missing Jim’s hiding place. One guard wearing a silver bull buckle noticed a glint on the floor. He picked up the harmonica, looked it over, and pocketed it in his jacket. The three went outside. Confident they were gone, Jim peeked out the door. A guard wearing a gold star addressed the captives. “Bet this ain’t what you came to town for. Y’all probably thought you could jump a mile before town and mosey in for a handout. Just walk up to Miss Parker on Main and ask for a pie. Well, we don’t want your kind here. Hobos ain’t welcome in Maybury. You gentlemen don’t seem to get that. Boys, time to get educatin’.” It was a fierce beating. Six men held up and thrashed by a mass of brutes. Kicks, punches, and sticks pounded them. One cried out for mercy. The lead guard delivered a strike to his temple that left him limp. Robert’s shirt was spotted with blood. Minutes passed before the guards grew tired of the assault and threw them to the ground. The lead guard signaled the train driver to continue on. He chuckled to himself. “Well, I bet you learned your lessons. Best not let us see you in the county tomorrow, or we might not be so kind.” The train started up with Jim on it, but he looked at the man with the silver buckle. A hundred feet down track he picked himself up from a roll and began to follow them. He trailed the men back to their guardhouse. They spent the time chewing snuff and laughing at the faces the men made as they beat them. The guards split into four shacks at their camp. Soon the lights were off and the men were asleep. Jim waited for what felt like an hour. Silver buckle was in the far left cabin. He sweated as he approached the door. Through the door he heard the faint sound of snoring. Jim reached to open it. Locked. He crept around the back of a cabin, finding a window open in the summer night. Jim crawled into the room, hearing the floor creak under his feat. They didn’t wake. The man with his harmonica slept further down the wall. His jacket rested on a chair just feet away from him. Jim’s hand shook as he checked the pockets. He found it in the third one. The room was silent as he crept back to the window. His torso leaned out as he brought his legs up and through. He managed to get one outside when the sil cracked, rolling outward under his weight. He hit the ground with a thud. “What the hell?” “Huh? I’m sleeping.” “Something from the window.” “Just fixed it yesterday.” “You did a poo poo job.” Jim crawled away. He followed the tracks to the train depot. In the morning twilight he jumped a train heading away from town. His hand reached into his pocket, resting on his harmonica. He pulled it out a blew a chord. Dented from the fall, but it still played a nice tune. The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 01:39
|
|
|
THREE HOURS REMAIN. YOU ARE DOWN TO 727 WORDS.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 02:00
|
|
|
Busker's Jam 1025 words The city lay before them. Strange how a single star can steal the eye, and change the shape of the night. Tonight, singer-songwriter Angelo Baz donned the disguise of a street performer. For he was in a slump, and thought to bring his music to the streets to rekindle his passion. In the corner of the street he played popular hits in a voice hoarser than what the public heard from him. It was his secret hope that someone would stop and tell him that he sounds just like Angelo Baz, by which he would remove his fake beard and run a hand through his messed-up hair and say, "that's me!" But there was no one who added their spare change to the open guitar case on his feet. Angelo had filled it with twenty-peso bills and one cheeky, crumpled one-hundred. Still people walked past, hurriedly passing his spot. Why, he wondered. Amidst the merriment in the surrounding bars, amidst the sounds of the arcade to his side, Angelo heard the aggressive, take-no-prisoners bass solo that put a damper to the people coming his way. He glanced in its direction and saw the tall form of a fellow busker: he wielded a bass guitar left-handed (a sight rarer than a drummer-vocalist), and was subjecting passersby to an aural assault that somehow turned to be less than music. Angelo knew the bassist to be very skilled--he worked the entire fretboard, and employed slap and pop, finger-picking, and even the occasional strum to his advantage. But in his musician's heart he sensed nothing but narcissism and a disdain for the fleeting audience. Angelo gathered his things and went over to the bassist. It took him several tries to catch his attention. "Excuse me," said Angelo, "I think your playing is making people upset." To this the bassist put on a smug smile and said, "I'm trying to uplift their paean tastes. If my music is reminding them of their lack of sophistication, then I'm succeeding." "I see you've been improvising," said Angelo, "and it sounds like jazz, occasionally blues, with maybe the pomp of rock, but could you play something more to the masses' enjoyment? I'm the busker further down the sidewalk and I'm not getting anyone to enjoy my tunes." "I've heard your so-called music," said the bassist, "and it is nothing but derivative garbage. You sound exactly like Angelo Baz, except in need of throat drops." Ignoring the insult, Angelo looked down and saw that his fellow busker did not have an open guitar case for collecting tips. He was not here to earn money or fans, but for the exact reasons he had stated. "But do not blame me," added the bassist, as if everything was Angelo's own fault instead. "If there's anyone you should accost for the crowd's foul mood, it's the girl farther up the alley, blasting the passersby with her mad thrashing." Angelo strained to listen. There, he heard it: a drumbeat set to some song he could not name. It was spirited and loud and all the adjectives one could use to praise any drumming, but that was it. There is a reason why albums do not contain drum tracks. Angelo walked over to the offending drummer. She was young, her face unmarred by rent or dirty laundry or any of the myriad things an adult worried about. A pair of humongous headphones framed her small head. It took Angelo several tries to catch her attention. "Are you waiting for your bandmates?" he asked. Surely no one was insane enough to busk with just their scaled-down drum set consisting of a bass, a snare, and a hi-hat. "I'm alone," said the girl, removing her headphones. "No offense, but wouldn't a studio suffice?" asked Angelo. "Studios stink," said the drummer, "and it's no fun playing somewhere without an audience." "Well, it's a problem," said Angelo, thinking of an audience who would appreciate a solo drummer. "What's the point of playing a song without melody?" "What's the point? Check your privilege, guitarist! That beard looks terrible on you, by the way." "Hmph! I'm done here," said the bassist, who had walked over with his things as well. "Play together all you want." Angelo snapped. He had a song in his heart that wouldn't come out and instead lingered like a bad case of heartburn, because of these two. "Why do you busk?" he asked. "For what reasons do you stay amidst the cold and apathy?" "My band kicked me out," said the bassist. "I was in it for three years. Three years, they said, that was all they could take of me. I'm trying to find out what I'm lacking as a musician." "You lack tact and humility," said Angelo. "Is that it?" said the bassist, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't have a band," said the drummer. "I mean, it would be great to be in one, but none of the bands at school would play the songs I like, so I'm here. What about you?" Briefly Angelo explained his social experiment. "You're really Angelo Baz!" said the drummer and bassist in unison. "Your beard looks really fake," said the drummer. "And I could tell it was you even if you had changed your voice," said the bassist. Angelo sighed. "Maybe, just maybe we could play something none of us have ever played before, and forget our problems for one night." "But how? We've only just met," said the bassist. "You've been in a band before," said the drummer. "You should know how to jam." And without waiting for anyone else, she launched into a beat of her own design. The bassist started laughing, adding a pulse to the beat and keeping it steady. Angelo strummed along. The song made itself known to him. He hummed it first, and when his voice could bear it no longer, he started to sing. One by one the footsteps slowed, until they were surrounded by a crowd they had long since craved for. ### The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 02:01
|
|
|
Double Act (605 words; Flash rule: the instrument is alive) The city lay before them. Strange how a single star can steal the eye, and change the shape of the night. ‘And that star is me.’ You? A washed-up bard who didn't see a real bed in two months? Did you really need to interrupt my narration with your stupidity. I bet you won't even make it through the city gates, Brendan. ‘Halt! Who’s there?’ Those two guards were probably enjoying a nice game of dice until you disturbed them. I doubt they’ll be attending your gig tonight. In the unlikely event there’s going to be one. ‘My greetings, good sirs. I am a travelling musician Brendan of Areghast. I’m on my tour bringing quality entertainment to all corners of His Majesty’s domain. I hope to give people of this city a wonderful performance tomorrow, if only you allow me to stay for the night. I’ve got it all: songs of sorrow and joy, ballads of love and betrayal…’ Well, what did I tell you? They are rolling their eyes at you, mate. ‘Don’t you know where you are, bard? It’s Clabertin, the city of music. Only yesterday we had to exile a dozen of musicians just to keep their population at bay. There’s nothing worth listening you can possibly bring to this place.’ This guard is quite right, you know. Go back to that wondering circus. I’m sure they’ll take you back if you apologise and beg on your knees. Oh, here we go, you’re about to say something stupid, aren't you? ‘That’s where you’re wrong, good sirs. People are known to completely lose themselves in otherworldly arcane music that I bring. For you see, I’m in possession of a unique magical flute.’ If you’re still not done humiliating yourself, the second guard is about to help you with that. ‘We are not deaf, we can hear your flute narrating! Why should we let you in, when it’s the flute what does music, you daft tit? Can you even play it?’ Can you, though? I never even thought to ask. ‘Of course I can! If it’s demonstration of my musical prowess what you want, I’ll prove that Brendan of Areghast is here to amaze and captivate with his talent.’ I swear to old gods, Brendan, if you’ll put me anywhere near that stinky gape that you call your mouth I will toot-toot. Toot-toot. You literally blow me right now, do you realise that? ‘Shut up for a second and let me have my way with you!’ Toot-toot. That’s what you’ve told that bearded lady at the circus and here’s where it’s got us. To-o-o-ot. You’re pathetic Brendan, look what you’ve done. They’re laughing at you. Still laughing. What are you waiting for, Brendan? You know what they say, there’s one step from laughter to breaking a pretentious bard’s hands with a hilt of a sword. Leg it while you can. Alright, this is not healthy. Can humans die of laughter? Someone should probably call a healer for these two. At last, I think they are ready to give you their final round of insults and send you on your way. ‘You are no musician, man. You’re a comedian – a rarity to the city of music! You may pass, traveller.’ Huh? That’s new. I’ve got to say, Brendan, and it’s not just me giving you lip service in return, you might have done something not entirely wrong today. Carry on. And I’ll get back to narration, if you don’t mind. And don't interrupt me, please. Ahem. The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 02:43
|
|
|
Notes in an Empty Room (722 words) The city lay before them. Strange how a single star could steal the eye, and change the shape of the night. Tracy looked out across the lake, watched the lights from the marina glittering on the surface. Jesse’s mom hugged her and pressed the apartment key into her palm. “In case you want something to remember him by,” she said. “They’re gonna sell everything else.” Tracy let out a long, shaky sigh. She felt herself on the verge of tears, the skin around her eyes tightening, but she didn’t want them to come. Not yet. Not in front of her. *** The caller ID said “unknown number,” but Tracy recognized Jesse’s mom right away. Her voice was syrupy, sedated. She was calling from the coroner’s office. They’d found him in his car, she said. He’d duct-taped a vacuum hose to his exhaust pipe. There was a long pause. “I know you weren’t really talking much anymore,” she said. “But I thought you should know.” Tracy flipped her phone shut and laid it on the counter. The sun coming in through the kitchen window suddenly felt too hot against the back of her neck. She finished drying the dishes, her hands going through the motions as if they weren’t really a part of her, and because she was afraid to find out what stopping would mean, she stayed in motion until her bags were packed for the drive home. *** The lights were still on in Jesse’s apartment. Tracy fished the key out of her pocket and let herself in. She glided through the empty rooms, taking in the faint, familiar smell of his sweat mingled with that same lovely body spray he’d been buying since high school. His bed was unmade. A mildewing towel lay in a heap at the foot of it. There was a picture of the two of them on the nightstand: Jesse with a big cheesy grin on his face, one arm around her and the other clutching the neck of his guitar. His first paying gig, only a couple weeks after they started dating. That was before the record deal fell apart, before some slick young A&R rep recouped almost every penny of Jesse’s advance and left him in Chicago with barely enough to make it home. When he came back, he’d looked smaller somehow, more fragile, as if he’d shrunken inside his clothes. But if anyone asked about him, he’d just smile and say he was working on another project. The guitar was leaning against his bookcase. Jesse owned half a dozen of them, but the acoustic was his favorite, the one he’d taught Tracy to play on. The finish was worn bare in places, and the laminate bubbled along one edge from the time he’d gotten drunk and played too close to a campfire. Tracy could picture him sitting on the edge of the bed, humming a snatch some song he was writing. For hours he would hunch over, pluck a few notes, nod or frown, jot down tablature in his notebook. She used to curl up next to him and rest her chin on his shoulder, just watching the little movements of his head. Seeing the guitar now was too much. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, like listening to the ocean in a conch shell. Bile crept into her mouth, and for an instant she eyed the bathroom, wondering if she could make it in time. She steadied herself against the bookshelf until the nausea passed. Her arms and legs felt like rubber. She collapsed onto the bed and tried to take slow, deep breaths through her nose. The smell of his skin was on the sheets, but every time she inhaled it seemed to grow fainter, as if she were breathing him away. Tracy sat up and lifted the guitar into her lap. The wood was cold against her skin, but it didn’t matter. Strings bit into her fingertips. The first few notes rang out, slow and unconfident. The first song he’d ever played for her; four years later she still remembered the whole thing. Notes filled the empty room and faded away. Morning light slanted in through the blinds. The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 02:52
|
|
|
Civilised, Mile-deep Darkness 567 words The city lay before them. Strange how a single star can steal the eye, and change the shape of the night. It had been a single flash, a starburst that had taken his sight and his voice. And now the night of all those invisible ant-swarming people down there is my day, my endless, conscience-blackened day. Miraldo could hear them down there, the murmuring distant rumble of a city talking to itself. He groped for his cigarettes, tapped the rear end of the pack on the gritty concrete ledge they were sitting on and pulled a smoke out with his lips. The lighter flicked in front of him and he inclined his face to it, feeling the little warmth of the flame as Juan’s hands cupped his. “I can see them setting up in the park, Miro,” said Juan. “Already, the crowds. Will be a good show, today. You feel it yet?” Miraldo splayed his fingers and wiggled them side to side, slowly, like an ocean bird searching for floating scraps. Juan chuckled. The movie was playing again on the dead black screen in front of Miraldo’s eyes, phosphenes dancing out their usual traitorous ballet. He did not rub his eyes to banish them; his penance was to watch it through, he had decided many years before. Each time, all the way. And listen to the song, scratchy with the static of their history. He could remember every detail of that night those last few minutes of his sight. “Miro,” Ele had said, pleading. The harmonics in her cracking voice were like a rusty door. The tears on her face, glinting in the streetlights. The part of his mind that was the stenographer, noting all this down for later use in a song. How he had turned, the walking away. The song, rippling with stolen emotion, a soundtrack to the events it described. And now, the hallucinated clarity of the dirty sidewalk, the hamburger wrapper he kicked out of his way as he’d turned the corner, only to jerk his head back at the scream from behind him. “The sky is getting light,” said Juan. “We should head down to the stage, hey? New fellas need some encouragement to get the build right.” Ele had had her back pressed to the wall, hands above her head. A man in front of her, skinny, no account type, pistol in his hand, red cloth over his face. Miro was running. Shouting something, the song in his head crashing with the feedback and the guitars they’d overdubbed at his instruction months later. Grappling, the masked man shouting over his own shouts. And then the muzzle flash, burning his eyes. She had died at the scene, bloodloss, the doctors said. Miro didn’t say anything; he couldn’t say anything. Chose not to. “Hysterical paralysis,” they called it. But the songs he made spoke for him and the people chose to listen. And now here he was, playing out his torment, Sisyphus on the stage, rolling the boulder of his past up the hill only to have it tumble down each night. Juan tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, my friend. It’s time.” Miraldo pulled his feet up and grasped Juan’s hand for the climb down the hill. The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 11:21 on Aug 23, 2014 |
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 04:59
|
|
|
Hammer Bro. posted:All right, one more because it struck my fancy. This one's a little less musical but a little more dramatic. I don't think I've ever deliberately composed a song before, certainly never sung one. If you'd ask me how I think I'd done, I'd say, "Not well, but close enough."  Regicide by Hammer Bro.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 05:14
|
|
|
My class is going longer than expected. Y'all get an extra hour, which means entries close in 35 minutes.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 05:25
|
|
|
 IT'S OVER ENTRIES CLOSED, FAST JUDGING GOOD JUDGING, SOME OTHER FUCKER DO THE INTERPROMPT, RHINO AND I WILL BE GETTING DRUNK AND SCRIBBLING DICKS ALL OVER YOUR STORIES AFTER WORK TODAY. PEACE. Stolen directly from the prompt post: TROUBADORS: Sebmojo - Choose two: protagonist is mute, blind or deaf. Civilised, Mile-Deep Darkness (IT'S MILE-DEEP, CIVILISED DARKNESS LOL WAY TO gently caress UP THE REFERENCE) SittingHere Dead Star Mercedes FAILURE, WITH A SICK NOTE Meinberg Protest Song LOU BEGAS MOUSTACHE Pest Control Thalamas Battle of the Band Perpetulance Midnight Special Club Sandwich The Astral Plane Amused Frog A year to change the world. Paladinus - the instrument is alive Double Act docbeard Honor Her Obliterari Aint No Devil Can Bring He Down December Octopodes Untitled Anathema Device - Somebody has lost a family heirloom, and they're desperate to get it back. Comet Song Alpacalips Now The Golden Revelation Ironic Twist Over and Over (Again and Again) WeLandedOnTheMoon! FAILURE Grizzled Patriarch Notes in an Empty Room the wildest turkey The Big Break Hammer Bro. Regicide Entenzahn Love Songs Schneider Heim Busker's Jam TARDY TO SIGN UP, AND SUBJECT TO WHIPPING WITH GUITAR STRINGS: God Over Djinn - Your protagonist is a rapper. Their instrument is voice. Genre: fantasy. FAILURE Tyrannosaurus - The instrument is a Maori Nose Flute. Must not be set in New Zealand, no hipsters. Because Sometimes You’re Not Appreciative Because You Just Don’t Understand Phobia - the song music genre is pop ye ye or dangdut, and the setting must be in either Malaysia or Indonesia. FAILURE
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 06:00
|
|
|
INTERPROMPT 100 words on pet romance
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 11:18
|
|
|
Human Is the Cruelest Animal 'Mom, dad. I have a confession to make. I know I told you Ralph was just my pet dog...'
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 11:36
|
|
|
The Greatest Love Story Ever Told The formal introductions were complete. Twelve agonising hours of careful scent manipulation, low-range vocalisations and perfectly orchestrated body language. Now, the courting began. It had to be delicate or she'd be scared off, but take too long and she'd get bored. Every action was crucial. Nothing could be overlooked. A leg bent just so, a lip carefully curled. So much effort, but no panting allowed. To pant is to show weakness. Finally, finally, she acquiesced. He was exhausted. Utterly drained. But he couldn't fall at the final hurdle. He approached, jaw clenched, muscles screaming. "Boo-boo! Milton! Not on the rug!"
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 11:56
|
|
|
Princess "Princess," I meowed. "Princess, speak to me!" The expanding pool of water touched my paws, but for once in my life I didn't care about getting wet. On the tile floor all around us, shards of glass glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Next to her toppled plastic castle, Princess lay dying. I reached out and ran my paw across her radiant golden scales; along the perfect curve of her gill. She felt so cold. A wide eye turned toward me, but without recognition. She gasped once more, then fell still and silent. I buried my face in my paws, knowing that I would never purr again.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 17:15
|
|
|
My Science Project by Rebecca Bergman Age Nine Day 1 Grafts of skin from Subject B and fur from Subject A exchanged, fastened with scotch tape. Grafts fell off after three minutes. Day 2 Intial contact failure. Subject A attacked and hissed Subject B. Research halted due to researcher's arms getting scratched. Day 3 Began bathtub acclimatizaion. Subject A held over bathtub containing Subject B. Day 4 Subject B bit Subject A. Bap administered to nose; daily crickets garnished. Day 5 Subjest B urinated on Subject A. Great progress, but researcher grounded. Day 6 Subject A seen napping on sofa with Subject B. Interspecies romance a successful achievement!
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 17:43
|
|
|
For sale: baby shrews, newly born.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 19:22
|
|
|
For romance enthusiasts 99 words If you're reading this, chances are, you're a proud new romance owner! Or, 'companion' as we like to say. Romances have a mind of their own, so don't expect yours to see you as its master. Your romance will need: -Frequent massages -Red wine and chocolate once a week -Something else, but you'll have to figure it out yourself because if your romance tells you exactly what it is, then you'll just be doing it because romance said so and it won't be as special. Those are the basics. As your romance grows, it will doubtlessly need other things.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 19:32
|
|
|
Really I should have chickened out when I had the chance. Buster's Present to His Secret Admirer 44 Words "YU AS A SEKRAT ADMIRE O LUVS YU. I IS Enclosed: A pair of torn slippers
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 22:08
|
|
|
quote:"Huh," Djeser thought, refreshing the User Control Panel for the thirtieth time today. "Getting crits is great. It's really cool when crits get posted in TD." Complete crits for Week 99 now available, now including WeLandedOnTheMoon!, Kaishai, Thalamas, Nethilia, Grizzled Patriarch, and Tyrannosaurus. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hvy0qvFeyOaPAT60BNqY7RwwDvqzKKGmsN03v4eChTE/edit?usp=sharing It's really cool when crits get posted in TD.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 22:27
|
|
|
Where Coydogs Come From 98 Words Summer-flowers smells him on the evening wind and names him moss-in-rain. She paces her fence, bowing low with her tail waving, as he slinks from the wooded shadows. He pauses; she lowers her ears as he comes forward until their noses touch through the cold metal. She pushes her tongue between the links, tasting rabbit blood on his jaw. He whines softly in his throat. She digs at the fence until she can wiggle through the hole. Dirt clings to her fur, and the sharp metal ends catch on her skin, but she wins free. Together, they run.
|
|
#
?
Aug 18, 2014 23:01
|
|
|
Retirement 98 words “Fastest Judge in the East,” they used to call him. Towards the end, he didn’t even need to listen to the lawyers, just looked ‘em in the eye and banged his gavel and that was that. “Fast judging. Good judging,” he always said. ‘Course, he’s retired now. Breeds dogs to keep himself busy. Truth be told, he’s not so good at that. Just throws ‘em all in a pen at once and yells at them to get on with it, make their minds up right now. Turns out dogs aren’t much for speed dating.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 00:00
|
|
|
The Petromancer 100 words Stocker rode in the passenger seat of Heward's Model T. Eyes fluttered, fingers twitched. Heward kept them straight along the gravelly Nacogdoches county road. "Left!" Stocker’s eyes shot open. "It's out there!" Heward shrugged and turned left onto a dirt road. They drove another two miles before Stocker pointed. "Right there! Pull over!" They climbed out of the car. Stocker led the way to a patch of soft sand. He put his ear to the ground and grinned. “Oil, Bob! That’s good crude, down there!” Hours later, the drilling company showed up. By midnight, sure enough, they hit black gold.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 00:15
|
|
|
hashtag FJGJ
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 00:56
|
|
|
because your tears I have a raging boehner. We've discussed what we like/don't like, and we're just waiting on DocK's picks for winner/loser.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 01:13
|
|
|
Sitting Here posted:hashtag FJGJ DQed for complaining.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 01:28
|
|
|
Djeser posted:It's really cool when crits get posted in TD. It is! First round of my crits for Week CV, for Drunk Nerds, AaronMFK, Jon Joe, Alpacalips Now, Crabrock, Surreptitious Muffin, Duke of the Bump, Number 36, and Theblunderbuss. More to come.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 01:45
|
|
|
RESULTS CVI The winner was a difficult pick this week. There were some very good stories: SittingHere and Docbeard wrote excellent stories that did cool things with the prompt, and earn Honourable Mentions. Meinberg was just edged out the win: If the song had worked better as an actual song and the plot hadn't looked so much like the rest of the pack, he could've done it. Honourable Mention. Ironic Twist also gets an HM, mostly for his wonderful recording that had us all smiling like idiots. Seriously, go and listen to that if you haven't. It's great. The winner, working with fiddly tools and actually making something pretty touching, was Tyrannosaurus. It's not perfect, but it's a unique and creative use of the prompt, and you sold the hell out of a flash rule. You do confuse Maori and Pasifika a little, but overall this was wonderful. For every night there is a day, for every yin there is a yang, and for every midsummer's kiss there's a drunk at a party throwing up all over himself while shouting "I'M DOING IT GUYS WWAAARRBGLBLGLBGBL!!!" Alpacaplips Now, we put our three heads together and we cannot figure out what the gently caress your story is supposed to be about. Nothing happens for 800 words, then it goes completely batshit insane with a star-god and a journalist with a gun, and golden golden golden. There was no difficulty in this pick: we were all left angry and confused. You lose, sir. A failure of pacing, and a total failure to make any sense whatsoever. Dishonourable mentions to LOU BEGAS MOUSTACHE, Club Sandwich, Paladinus and Obliterati, who escaped the loser's podium because we could actually understand their stories. Tiny-armed Dinosaurus no-good motherfucker, the floor is yours.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 01:56
|
|
|
Dr. Kloctopussy posted:DQed for complaining. nuts to you drK!! *rides HM into the sunset swinging a cowboy hat in the air*
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 02:48
|
|
|
a great deal of thought went into our song choices, and you should probably consider every single lyric as a sort of backhanded insult or compliment. Sitting Here posted:nuts to you drK!! *tips hat, then lowers revolver coolly*
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 04:03
|
|
|
i wish to channel my failure into success this weekend but i am going to be gone, and now i have nothing to channel it into besides diet coke and reading. you dishonorable monsters. thanks for not DQing me tho. see yall in a week.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 04:10
|
|
|
I'm not entering until I finish my Week CV Crits but still PROOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMPPPPPPTTTTTTT!!!!!!
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 04:18
|
|
|
The Saddest Rhino posted:We got a little tipsy yesterday and we chose for all of you the best songs to represent your stories. The car is on fire, and there's no driver at the wheel. This was really cool, and a good fit! Thanks for the backhanded compliments.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 05:56
|
|
|
The Saddest Rhino posted:
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 06:23
|
|
|
that major lazer sample is really good, and i enjoy this song a lot. thank you.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 06:45
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 19, 2024 12:38 |
|
|
Pet Romance 99 words Donny clipped the leash to his new romance. It had only been an hour since he'd brought it home from the pet store, but already it scratched at the door. The romance tugged at the leash. Donny jogged behind, trying to keep the pressure off the romance's delicate neck. "Wouldn't want to suffocate you." The romance attracted the attention of several swell-lookin' ladies. "Awww, it's so cute. What is it?" Donny scoffed. "We prefer not to use labels." "Oh." Later that night, Donny got drunk and smacked the romance when it went to the bathroom on his shag rug.
|
|
#
?
Aug 19, 2014 07:10
|
|