Gau posted:

Alight, Good Soul (1125 words)

Jamie Ballard sat behind me in the sixth grade, and she used to pull the feathers out of my wings. It was a game: she’d pull, I’d turn around, and then I’d be in trouble. So, pulling a feather out on an actual bird hurts a lot and can result in bleeding. Do your research. It wasn’t any better on the playground. “Come on, Peter!” they’d say. “Fly for us!” It’s probably worth noting that my name isn’t Peter. On worse days, they’d call me Tinkerbell. Neither of these characters have wings.

“You’re not that different, Ike,” Oh, okay. Some worldbuilding – children are randomly born with wings here. Otherwise, this would be way, way different. my mother would say. “You’re a little boy too. Just try to get along and play.” I’d stare into at my meatloaf and nod.

“I’ll tell you, son,” said my father, “you smack those bullies one good one, and they’ll never bother you again.”

“John!” protested Said-bookism check… Passed. my mother. She placed her hand on mine and looked into my eyes. There we go. You look into eyes, the abyss, water, but not meatloaf. “Bullies are just people who are hurting inside.” She smiled sweetly. “Really, you should feel bad for them.”

“It’ll be better when you’re older,” said my father. “Adults don’t act this way. You’ll find your own way to earn respect.” Banal platitudes, aw shucks dad.

I’d heard this before, of course. I don’t understand why parents say these things to their kids. What was I supposed to do, look at the kid who pushed me off the top of the slide and say “I’m sorry your daddy hurt you?” Uh-huh. That would earn me another round of hell. Seems melodramatic.

We had this conversation on almost a daily basis. I’d once heard my parents arguing about whether or not to send me to a private school for people with Human Wing Mutation. My mother objected; even I knew we didn’t have that kind of money. I was certain I wouldn’t fit in there, either.

When I’d walk home from school in the snow and rain, I’d wrap my wings around me to keep out the cold and wet. I felt like maybe, if they were just a big bigger, just a little thicker, they could keep out everything else. It would just be me, safe from the pain and ridicule. This is a great idea, but it would pack a lot more punch if you’d show instead of tell. As is, it comes across as angsty.

The rest of the time, my wings just got in the way. They’d bump and knock things over. I’d get mud and gravel in them and have to preen for hours. This seems more like the result of being bullied than them getting in the way. The worst part, though, was that they didn’t even work for their obvious purpose. With these wings, I couldn’t fly.

I’d seen people with HWM on TV, beautiful people with wings like an eagle or a dove. I read the Hero Hawk comic book religiously. I wanted nothing more than to be like them when I grew up. While they soared above the world, I was stuck on the ground. I think that’s what eventually got to me. Yesssssssssssss

So, here I was, standing on the second-story roof of my school, looking out on the playground. My body had begun to change, muscles and hair sprouting from the unlikeliest of places. My wings surprised me with their new span.

I can do this, I thought. It’s finally my time. I can fly.

I beat my wings a few times for practice, then stiffened them like Hero Hawk did when he wanted to just glide. For the first time in a long while, I really smiled. I ran and swan-dived off the roof. The wind filled my wings. My heart soared. I was flying.

-

I woke up in a hospital bed. I’m sure I would have been in a lot of pain, but they’d already put the IV in my arm. Even more than when I’d jumped, I felt like I was above my problems. I struggled to focus, and found my mother’s face.

“M-mom?” I stammered, my tongue too big for my mouth. “What happened?”

“Oh, honey,” she said. Even if I couldn’t see her tears, I could hear them in her voice. “I wish you’d talked to us.”

“There was no reason for this,” said my father. “We should have taught you better.”

I twisted my face in confusion. “I don’t understand,” I said. “I was flying. How did I end up here?”

“You have a concussion,” said my father. He shot an accusatory look at my mother. He can’t see her tears, but can tell what type of look his father is giving? Is he starting to wake up more? “You can explain it to him,” he said.

My mother took my hand in hers. “Ike, you...you don’t understand,” she said. “You might not be able to fly.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your dis-your gift, it’s rare,” she explained. “Humans aren’t built to fly. We’re too heavy.”

“But...I’ve seen it,” I said. “Hero Hawk flies!” At this point, the dialogue is feels clunky and unbelievable. No teenager would say this.

“Hawk Hero is a comic book,” said my father. “The truth is, we should have told you this sooner. Some people with your disorder can glide, but most spend their lives just like you. On the ground.”

Even through the medication, I could feel my anger growing. It burned through my heart and into my face. I yelled; I don’t remember what. I wanted them to go, to never speak to me again. They obliged me and left. This paragraph feels like a missed opportunity for some good imagery or some good character interactions with strong emotions. You talk them through all the boring plot stuff and gloss over the exciting bit.

The doctor came and went. So did a psychiatrist, who wanted to make certain that I hadn’t been trying to kill myself. I thought it was obvious that what I wanted was actually quite the opposite.

-

When I’d come home, my parents introduced me to a website for people like me called “Grounded Angels.” They thought it would be helpful for me to share my experience with others who had the same problems. I saw a counselor and moved schools. None of it helped. Telling.

Most of the Grounded Angels wrote long, impassioned diatribes at each other about how their depression was natural, society was wrong, and the bullies were just haters. It was okay that we couldn’t fly; we were angels even as our feet remained on the ground. My counselor tried to sell me on the idea that Things Get Better. Someday I would Grow Up and find my Self Esteem and People Would Love Me For Who I Am. Nice.

I was smart enough to recognize these lies; I’d been fed them by my parents for the better part of a decade. Good tie in from earlier. I dreamt of flight, of that moment when my wings caught the wind. I overheard my parents discussing surgery to remove my wings. I could go to college on a fresh slate, unburdened by my “gift.”

I unfurled my wings in the wind, gazing out at my future from this height. Graduation was just weeks away. Beyond that, I could see my life. Even if I had my wings removed, they’d done their damage. I’d never be like other people. I was too damaged to pretend. Extending my primaries, I leapt from the top of the water tower.

Never to touch the earth again.

Fanky Malloons posted:

Postin' so I don't forget that I have been summoned from the dark depths of Starbucks and graduate school to brawl Surreptitious Muffin for the crime of making unforgivably awful puns in IRC. You ratbastard

Sebmojo is apparently judging, and I demand at least two weeks to submit because I'm all busy and poo poo.

Thalamas posted:

Gau

”Benny the Snake” posted:

It was first period at school and Jeremy was running across the hall as fast as he could like a deer being chased by a pack of hungry, bloodthirsty wolves. Action, though you could have done this in half the words Worse than wolves, they were sixth graders. Talking to the reader A wolf would rip your throat out and that would be the end of that--a sixth grader would humiliate you in front of everyone and throw you back in the wild so he could do the whole thing over again the next day. Talking Jeremy was in full flight mode as he was one of the unfortunate ones born without a fight mode. Talking He made a hard right turn and almost crashed into another classmate before he dove into a broom closet to hide. ActionHe could hardly breathe and the dust was irritating his lungs but he didn't dare reach for his inhalerAction, as the slightest sound would give him awayTalking.

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

It will be a revolution of boners. An insErection.

Fanky Malloons posted:

I hate you so much.

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

WHO IS THE BIGGEST LOSER?

PHOBIA VS. MEINBERG

As most of the IRC channel know, I love dogs. They are the best animal. They are adorable but also cool. The PoV character in your story is a dog. Not a super-smart dog or a furry dog or some dog that's basically a human with ears and a tail, but an actual dog. The dog helps a bunch of people in some way and is a big hero. Winner is the person who can make me smile the most.

1000 words

Deadline: 11:59pm Thursday 22nd Singapore time.

Gau posted:

Fanky Malloons posted:

I hate you so much.

Thalamas posted:

I'm not going to dignify this with a response.

Other than this one.

sebmojo posted:

Lake Jucas, if there is no story for your Entenzahn brawl when I wake up in the morning (8 hours from now) then you will lose.

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

WHO IS THE BIGGEST LOSER?

PHOBIA VS. MEINBERG

As most of the IRC channel know, I love dogs. They are the best animal. They are adorable but also cool. The PoV character in your story is a dog. Not a super-smart dog or a furry dog or some dog that's basically a human with ears and a tail, but an actual dog. The dog helps a bunch of people in some way and is a big hero. Winner is the person who can make me smile the most.

1000 words

Deadline: 11:59pm Thursday 22nd Singapore time.

Entenzahn posted:

I am not going to accept the shame of a victory by default. Given sebmojo's consent, you will write a piece and it will go up against mine and I don't care when you do it. If you have a few hours, use them. Take a month. It matters not. You will be crushed, and your wails will fuel my ascent to Thunderdome greatness.

Entenzahn posted:

I am not going to accept the shame of a victory by default. Given sebmojo's consent, you will write a piece and it will go up against mine and I don't care when you do it. If you have a few hours, use them. Take a month. It matters not. You will be crushed, and your wails will fuel my ascent to Thunderdome greatness.

Starter Wiggin posted:

OOOOH THALAMAS, NO LONGER AM I THE BASIC BABY BITCH. THAT HONOR HAS RETURNED TO YOU.

Phobia posted:

This week, I will be doing line-for-lines for this week's loser and the DMs because I am still attempting to repent for the Gay Bomb story. I'm thinking there will be two or three DMs, unless Meinberg throws a hissyfit over me winning our brawl and DMs everyone then I guess everyone gets line-for-lines. Or if I lose/DM, which in that case, um, gently caress...

I am also opening this up to three people from last week too. That's three line-for-lines for last round, three for the current, theoretically speaking.

... You know this would have worked better if I posted this just after the Round 93 results. Whatever.

Bad Seafood posted:

“If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and man.” - Mark Twain

You have seven days weeks and 700 words to get back to me on this quote.

Mercedes posted:

Spiders is the cruelest month.

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

Robot barmaids and the professors who don't actually love them.

Bad Seafood posted:

I shouldn't even have to say the winner is Dr. Klocktopussy.

Phobia posted:

I am also opening this up to three people from last week too. That's three line-for-lines for last round, three for the current, theoretically speaking.

Thalamas posted:

Rebirth 1349 words (brawl with Starter Wiggin)

Casimir drove home with the windows down and the stereo turned up. meh opening. drove home from WHAT is the interesting detail here (left out) The Offspring cranked out “Self Esteem” as he hit every familiar Spokane pothole along Monroe Street. A year in Las Vegas chasing dreams, a year back home, and today he had worked a split shift. wait, he's just coming home from work? Sit back and ask yourself "is this interesting?" In the middle, he’d gone in front of a judge and signed his final divorce papers. He’d lost his dog in the divorce. It sounded like a joke. Cas parked in front of the rented house he could no longer afford. His parents were taking him in for a while, just until he got back on his feet.

They had his guns. He’d asked them to stop by and pick them up the night she’d left. It had seemed prudent. you're putting all the interesting stuff in past perfect while he does boring stuff

At least he could cook. there are two ways this could be interpreted. at least he has the ability to cook, which is a little wtf, and at least he has the utensils to cook still. i'm assuming the later, but make it clear.

The night passed. zz A good steak, a Romeo y Julieta, and a bottle of Ardbeg kept him company on the couch while he gamed.

need a transition or SOMETHING or else these sentences flow right together and it's jarring.

He rolled over and slapped the alarm off at eight, then grabbed a bite to eat, a cup of coffee, four aspirin, and a quick shower before work. DUDE. i don't care about this dude doing all of this stuff because what's the point? what is he working toward? I don't want to just learn about the boring details of Sir Dogless. Cas grinned into the mirror, brushing his teeth, and swiped a clear streak through the fog. In the reflection, he caught a flash of? movement awkward leaving his bedroom. He jerked his head after it, shouting, “Hey!” Grabbing a towel, he chased into the hall, but found no one. “Hello?” A jingling sound taunted him, but a search of the house revealed nothing.

Out of time, he sent a text to his step-father asking him to check on the house, snatched his bag, and left for workpunctuation?

Robin waited for him at the curb. She wasn’t cherry red. gently caress cherries. huh?

She was red like a sunset, a burning coal on the blacktop. He keyed her on oh. and took off at a gentle rumble "took off" and "gentle rumble" don't work well together.. The Offspring picked up where they’d left off, launching into “It’ll Be A Long Time.” pointless details, really. why does he like listening to this band? what is he feeling when he does? did he pick this or was it just on shuffle? so many things that'd be more useful than just telling me what song it is.

Cas pulled out onto an arterial and headed south, a big time gap here. make better transitions. then realized he must have missed the turn when the street sign read wrong. He flipped the car around and drove back, then stopped, cursed, and flipped around again. He took the first right, then a left, and a right. directions are pointless details

He spotted the mall in the distance and made his way there, then turned onto the central street. As he drove, he saw there were no people in sight. No one on the sidewalks, no other people driving. No animals in sight, not even the usual crows or sparrows. He turned the stereo off. The drycleaner had a different sign, their logo revamped into a jazzy blue number.

The street signs should read Division, not Expo. He was completely lost.

Overarching all, he saw the calm blue sky dotted with clouds. He steered into the lot of a coffee shop and parked. The smell of rotting quiche hit him when he entered. ew “Anyone here?” It felt stupid to ask. He grabbed a local paper. The date was from November, months old. The front page picture was titled: Riverfront Park particle collider grand opening. oh cool, the plot device from Arrow There was no particle collider in Spokane. He checked his phone. No Service. His earlier text had failed.

“Ha. Hahaaaha. Ahaha! No way.” He stepped outside into the fresh air and took a deep breath. The businesses were different in small ways. It was easy to miss when he drove by them a few hundred times a year. Cas picked out details - Shawn’s Auto-Service instead of Shaun’s Auto-Service, Wong’s was Juan’s. He ran across the empty, eight-lane street to a gas station and took a lukewarm sweet tea and a paper map of the city. the lukewarm tea thing is weird to me. is it a different temp than room temp? if not, just say sweet tea or say room temp, if you MUST emphasize it's temperature. On first read I was like "wait, why is the tea still a little warm, did they JUST vanish? but then the food was rotten.

Unfolding the map revealed a new Spokane, city streets with different names laid out in strange, new patterns. Even geographic features like the Spokane River had shifted. He took Robin’s t-tops off, strapped them down in the back, and pulled out his keys.

The ring had an extra key. It was long, brass, with a square top. A clock tower and tent were embossed on the metal, the logo of Riverfront Park. He didn’t know how he’d missed it that morning. Strange. so like, everything is kinda hosed up, and all I've heard from Cas as this point is "no way." Then his keys are different and he's just like "yeah I probably just missed that this morning." You're trying too hard to set up an ending here, and your protag is acting in an un-real manner, which hurts the story.

Robin purred like a six-cylinder cheetah no. If anything, "Robin's six cylinders purred like a cheetah". Cas let her loose on Expo, barreling down the barren streets at a hundred and ten with a whoop quotation marks if he's saying this. He spent the day exploring the bizarre version of his hometown, listening to music, and trying doors to random houses. The power was out everywhere. He picked up a length of tubing from an auto supply store and used it to siphon gas from cars. Grocery stores reeked of rotten produce and meat, but they had enough of canned food to last his lifetime.

The days passed. It took a while to bring the cigars he found he found is so... non-commital. just say he took them or rescued them or anything other than making it sound like he was walking down the street and was like "oh hey, cigars." back to the right humidity level, but the scotch was great immediately. Oddly, they both lost their savor in the sunshine. huh? Cas found he didn’t miss the video games. He spent his time driving, meditating, exercising, foraging. time frame? He figured this Spokane was a parallel universe and wondered if he’d ever get home, or if he even wanted to go home. It was peaceful here. And But lonely.

One late afternoon he tried the radio on a whim. oh how convenient! also, if you're going to make the radio an integral plot point, give it a mention earlier. The FM just spit out static, but the AM still had one working station: the emergency broadcast. His own voice came out of the speakers. “Cas, you’ll hear this when you need to. Come to Riverfront Park. The collider is underground, use the key.” The recording looped.

He drove downtown along the streets that were just starting to become familiar familiar streets and parked on the grass in front of the iconic pavilion constructed for Expo ’74. Searching the area revealed a metal door set in concrete. passive A plastic sleeve taped on the outside protected a note in his own handwriting: “Use the bathroom.”

The key fit. He unlocked the door and entered. A large, framed map hung on the wall. The facility was huge, the collider two floors below. He went to the bathroom where a letter waited for him.

Cas,

This dimension collapses at 5:32 tonight. I’ve included the calculations at the bottom of the page for you. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and I’ll leave those for the ones who come later, but for now, look through the mirror.

He stopped reading and looked up. The mirror was like a window to his own bathroom. He saw himself walk through the door and get in the shower from weeks before when all this had first happened.

You have a choice to make. Climb through, put the key on the ring, and hide. Tonight, you’ll cease to exist and all this starts again.

Or, you can go downstairs and shut off the collider. I can’t make myself do it and I think you feel the same. There’s no way to be sure, but I think it will bring the people back and restabilize this place. It’s been a while since grad school.

Cas (#1)

A pen sat on the sink. Calculations scrawled across the bottom of the sheet, along with notes from a dozen others. One claimed to have driven as far as Dallas and back without seeing a single person. He looked up at the mirror and heard the shower turn off. A world of people, missing their lives, and him getting to live his as many times as he wanted. The last few weeks had been so satisfying, so life affirming, and he knew he could have this back home.

His watch read 5:27 PM.

Cas took off for the collider at a jog. It had been years since he’d worked in a lab, worked with any kind of particle collider. this stuff would have been useful to set up earlier. as it is, it just seems awfully coincidental. A perceptible hum filled the air as he ran down two flights of stairs.

Instructions had been taped to each of the dials and levers, inked in marker, and he jogged from station to station. 5:31. Ten seconds. He flipped the last switch and the hum died. 5:32. A flash of light, then nothing.

He rolled over and slapped the alarm off at eight. well, not really him, right? but some other him?

Starter Wiggin posted:

loser brawl w/ thalamas

Just Say Maybe
1080 words


How long has it been?

Eric rolled to the side, his eyes scrolling the length of his room, looking for a clock. pretty boring opening, but the next sentence makes it almost work

Oh yeah, I hid it. Man, sober me is a dick. haha.

The drugs had been in effect for what felt like sometime between five minutes and forever, and Eric was riding them hard.

I should, I should go and maybe get some water or something. Yeah. Water and maybe also some mints. Thalamas, take note. here is a very simple motivation. Like, it really doesn't get simpler than this, but at least it's SOMETHING. And it's kinda funny, give the setup. "A very simple task turns into an adventure ON DRUGS"

He stood, and the world shifted dimensions for a second before stopping very solidly and then spinning into fluorescent swirls of color.

Maybe the water can wait. Maybe I just need some air. Or some sunlight. Like a plant. Yeah. Maybe I can photosynthesize some water if I can find some sunlight. What if I turn into that basement plant monster guy from that Goosebumps book? That would be OK. I’d probably get a sick scholarship if I was half plant monster. I’ll never know until I get some air, though.

One tentative step forward, and the swirls parted, leaving a glowing path to his window. He followed the path, sensuously, like a snake, weaving his body in one wave-like motion, all his muscles having become one, and his bones having melted to liquid gold.

The window was there, and he stopped in front of it and cried.

Snakes don’t have hands. I can’t open this window. I can’t ever leave. I’ll die a molten husk here on the floor. And I’ll never be half plant monster.

Sobs wracked his serpentine body. As he coiled round and around on the floor, lamenting his fate, Eric noticed his knees had come back. He stood on them, half knee-man, half snake.

This could work. Knees are useful. I can do child’s pose now that I have knees. I could be the world’s best yogi: half snake, half man, all awesome.

Having forgotten that snakes can’t open windows, Eric went right into practicing his yoga routine as part snake.

Warrior poses are out, and so is downward dog. I can’t do sun salutations. Maybe all snakes can do is child’s pose. Maybe that’s all I’ll ever be able to do again.

And again he cried. He cried until his knees froze and shattered and grew back, but on the wrong sides. He cried as his snake body molted and his arms grew in where there had been none before. He cried as his small and shriveled and wrong appendages all twisted and shrank back inside, and then grew out again, slick and shiny and raw.

Eric tested his new limbs by crawling on them in an effort to find his door.

I have hands, for now. I can open my door and get outside and into the sun. If I turn back into a snake, I’m going to need that sun or I think I can freeze to death if I’m not in a direct sunbeam. And snakes can’t open doors. I sure can’t slither under that door, now that I’m a human again.

He crawled forward, feeling in front of him for the wall. His new hand touched the popcorn plaster and he stopped. Looking up, he saw his door, surrounded by others. Big, beautifully ornate doors. Small and distant doors. Doors that seemed to sing his name to him on a deep molecular level. He couldn’t remember if his usual door was filled with dangerous and alien fish, swimming in hypnotic patterns. Or was his door the one that was covered in shimmering spikes that called for his blood? Maybe his was the door that had no knob, the one that you had to imagine it was open until it did so. He wanted to try them all.

His body couldn’t handle the stress of choosing, and he molted again, his limbs dissolving into neon dust and funneling out under the many doors. He sighed, resigning himself to wait until his next shed when he would hopefully regrow at least one limb. Eric turned his head, sweeping side to side and tasting the air.

It tastes stale in here. Like a crypt. So dry. God, I wish I had water. I wish I /was/ water, then I could drink myself and maybe that’s what Frost meant when he said, “and that has made all the difference.” I should have paid more attention in school, if knowing what that poem meant could get me water now.

A shiver, and his limbs were back, his snake skin floating high above his head and disappearing.

Quick! Pick a door, any door. One of them is bound to have water behind them. Or some sort of liquid to quench this ridiculous thirst. Do snakes even drink water? Oh wait, I’m a human again. Humans definitely drink water.

He reached his hand out and it dissolved into sand, pooling on the floor in front of him. He tried his other hand, and it froze in a flash of cold light. He sat down on the floor, defeated for the time being. He put his frozen hand in the sandy remains of his other, in an attempt to melt it.

Sand is always warm, I think. I don’t know. I don’t know what I know, anymore.

The doors thrummed in front of him, taunting him. They knew he couldn’t open them himself until his hands thawed and grew back, so they opened themselves. Only for a split second, but long enough for Eric to see behind them. They showed wet worlds, worlds where ‘desert’ is a dirty word, worlds where dehydration is a sin. They would reveal themselves, just long enough for him to smell the cold, refreshing tang, and then they would close and laugh.

Another shed, and another, and his hands were back. They had too few fingers, and too many nails, but they were hands, and they were his. He lunged towards the closest door, a grey paneled monstrosity, covered in dewy sweat. His hands gripped the cold handle, and he turned it. With a “click”, the door swung open inwards, and Eric saw a dark, foreboding staircase leading down and around a shadowed corner. He tasted mildew and damp in the air that rose up to greet him. He slithered down the mossy stairs.

Maybe I will get to be half plant monster, after all.

Mercedes posted:

I'll get my revenge on someone one day!!

Cheneyjugend posted:

I'm in.

Just finished Slaughterhouse Five, too. This is more damning than it sounds.

I think I need a flash rule to help me come up with some idea that won't spew bile all over a distinguished work of literature.

quote:

“Yes detective. For the past week that has played at exactly noon,” Police Chief Filkins said. “And five hours after this we find the body of a soldier who was living on base.”

“So how do we know they’re related?” Sergio said.

“Detective. A rouge broadcast fills every channel on the net, public and private. And after that we find bodies. I’m not one for coincidence.” Filkins said, the condescension wasn’t lost on Sergio.