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Apple Pie 500 Words "That's how fires get started." I thought out loud. No one responded. The candle was on its side, the wick being eaten up by a tenacious little blot of fire. Still melting. Its wax bleeding matte red trails on the table's glossy oak. I backed up a step, but bent in low. My nose felt the heat from the whole mess. Apple pie. A dull chemical cinnamon streak through it was coating my nose hair. No fingerprints on the tabletop. Good work. I stood up, turning around. Ran my finger and thumb down my nose, wiping off the waxy grease I could feel cooling into my pores. No light was coming into the room, since the drapes were covering up the windows. They'd been pried open. They were asking for it, being unlocked as they were. The front door was wide open. Nothing too surprising there either. No signs of a struggle beyond the ordinary ones of a husband and wife trying their damnedest to cohabitate and failing. Coffee mugs left out on a desk piled high with papers. Box of cereal getting stale on the kitchen counter. Pillow and blanket on the couch, wrinkles of recent use being highlighted by that deadly candle. I wanted to clean the place, but that's not what my job was. I'd looked for clues. I'd done my footwork. Trailed the man to and from work. To and from home, too. And the stops in between. Driving past him at night, watching him turn into an apartment complex in my rearview mirror. Doubling back with my lights off to write down the number he walked to. Showed the photos to his wife the next day. Never felt so bad to get paid. But she had another job, and I always had another bill to take care of. I watched the apple pie puddle spread itself across the table in globs. This was America, now. The woman had gotten her jewelry and paperwork from the safe upstairs the night before. She'd given me a copy of the man's car keys, which made getting his car even easier than getting in through the window. It was in the driveway, parked at a steep angle. The universal sign of a lovely driver, or an angry one. She'd be calling the police now. She'd tell them he was violent. He was supposed to be staying away for a few days. Cooling off. He came in through the window while she was asleep. It was a miracle she got away. The neighborhood would be lit up in red and blue in five minutes. The house would be lit up in fire in three. I rubbed my forehead with my sleeve. The table was crackling along nicely. The candle had begun pouring itself down onto the unconscious man below it. Knife in his hand. Cocaine and booze in his blood. Dirty stuff. But she'd rather deal with insurance claims than divorce paperwork. Better payoff, for both of us.
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Feb 15, 2015 22:57
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| # ? Dec 6, 2024 07:29 |
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 Submissions are closed Hand in your stories within a reasonable timeframe and I might still read and crit them. Obliterati, you have until I wake up before I call in the toxx. vvv lol. ok. last one. let it be said that entenzahn is a merciful judge Entenzahn fucked around with this message at 23:07 on Feb 15, 2015 |
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Feb 15, 2015 23:00
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sebmojo fucked around with this message at 21:49 on Jan 2, 2016 |
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Feb 15, 2015 23:00
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Just One More 403 words I hated the meetings, or maybe just how I had to go to them. I hated the sanctimonious crap and I hated the coffee. I didn't have a problem. Slowly, I sipped the bitter drink and prayed God for a shot of whisky to Irish it up. He didn't deliver. Higher power my rear end. Maybe He thought the leggy blonde running the show balanced His account. If so He was wrong. “Your turn, Philip,” said Blondie. “Share with us.” “I got nothing to share with you.” I said. “The writ said I had to sit here. Nothing on it about talking.” She sighed. “You're not going to be able to overcome your habit without taking this seriously, Philip.” I stood up. “To hell with this,” I said, “and to hell with you.” I spun around, a finger pointing full circle around the silent group. “I don't have a problem. Maybe you guys do. But I'm a professional,” I said. My hands lit a cigarette, and my mouth blew smoke for effect. “I know what I'm doing.” My legs did the rest. The street thronged. I cast myself out into the flow. I needed to find a case. For that I needed to get back to the office. # I picked my way to my desk, stepping over papers and discarded cigarette packs. I picked the phone off the floor and called my secretary. “Martha? We got any visitors today?” There was no answer. The line was dead. drat. Wading back to the door, I stuck my head around to her cubbyhole. It was empty. I kicked the wall and swore. How was I supposed to get back in business without a goddamn secretary? I scanned the scene for clues. A chipped old phone, mugs lined with mould and old stale case files. None of them any use. My hands began to twitch. Interlocking my fingers to hold them still, I edged up to her desk. There! My hand shot out and grabbed a sheet of paper. “Dear Mr. Marlowe,” it said. “I hope you get well soon.” This was all the information I needed. Clearly written under duress. Some wise guy had obviously gone and kidnapped my secretary. Maybe as revenge for that drug ring I busted last year. I didn't have a problem. What I had was a case. I pulled on my trenchcoat, lifted my fedora off the hatstand and headed out into the mean city.
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Feb 15, 2015 23:18
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Interprompt: write a netflix episode summary samples (courtesy of https://liartownusa.tumblr.com):   
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Feb 16, 2015 01:12
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I'm out. Not feeling it.
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Feb 16, 2015 01:17
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contagonist posted:I'm out. Not feeling it. yeah, that's not how this poo poo works you boner smelling boob biter
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Feb 16, 2015 02:57
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Sorry I just got home! Ladysmith 491 words She walks in on legs thick as tree trunks and an rear end that could shelter you from a storm, heralded by the creaking of the old office floorboards. Despite the burly frame, she is not unattractive. She carries herself like a model, walking towards me with a body that’s seen better days and remembers them fondly. There’s a charm to her dark, red-rimmed eyes and the way her short tousled hair frames her face. I know the story before she tells it, heard it a hundred times. The one about the violent husband, the one she lost to the work, the drink, the young girls. There is little passion in her voice. She recites her sorrows like she’s reading them off a list. It is a long list. She married young. Stuck with him through everything. I pour myself another. One of the things you learn on the job is that a man’s soul is in his eyes. Look carefully enough and there’s nothing he can hide. I let mine wander to the desk below, and the one file left on it. It is frayed and charred at the edges and marked with rings of coffee and booze and tears. Last job I ever did. When I left the beat for private work it didn’t take long to get tired of the bounties, the cheating spouses, the loving subpoenas. A group that found value in a man with his own gun and intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the local PD offered me an opportunity for more interesting work. Something with upward momentum. I started small. A few threats, a little extortion. Broke a few knees. Then I broke a few heads. Made my name cleaning up other people’s messes. I made some friends and some enemies and together we smeared this city in more poo poo than it can ever wash off. When work first started getting serious I bought my wife a small Smith & Wesson LadySmith revolver for her protection. I stopped being around long before that point, making only the perfunctory gestures guilty men make and this was next in a long line of them. She had slapped me then, and not for the first time. She had pointed the gun at me, looked into my eyes and told me all the ways she hated me but she would not pull the trigger. I took the gun as my own because it was easily concealable and the .357 Magnum rounds could open holes in men big enough to stick a fist through. They called me Ladysmith. I was really going for something more like Magnum or FistHole. I handed it in when I told them I was out. They laughed, told me to come back with the badge. Then they sent her. I take one last glance at the suicide note and put my temple against the barrel of my namesake. This time, she does not hesitate.
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Feb 16, 2015 03:04
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Feb 16, 2015 03:23
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I am good at time zones.
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Feb 16, 2015 03:24
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crabrock posted:yeah, that's not how this poo poo works you boner smelling boob biter I, as a bisexual, have been accurately described.
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Feb 16, 2015 15:48
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contagonist posted:I, as a bisexual, have been accurately described. more like biexcuseual
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Feb 16, 2015 16:00
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crabrock posted:more like biexcuseual He is excusekin stop shaming his headmate tia
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Feb 16, 2015 19:24
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contagonist posted:I, as a bisexual, have been accurately described. lol write something next week you chode. Also the time to bow out like babby pageant model with a broken shoe heel was, IMO, sometime before the contest ended.
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Feb 16, 2015 20:30
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Djeser posted:
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Feb 16, 2015 22:54
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Hey Rhino go to IRC ya dick. Also, your inbox is full.
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Feb 16, 2015 23:34
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Week 132 Judgement - The protagonist dies at the end I’m a little surprised. The prompt was wide open and the word count low so naturally I expected a truckload of pebble-sized drivel washing over me, but this week wasn’t bad. In fact it was… okay? *looks to his cojudges, next to Rhino’s empty chair Sitting Here make a so-so gesture* Yes! Yes, it was okay! *claps* Come on, a round of applause, everyone. This is for you, you honorable mentions: Ironic Twist, who finished a close second with his strong POV of a blind man waking up to madness; SurreptitiousMuffin, for the solid portrayal of a rotten world run by a corrupted police force; sebmojo, who mercifully spared us the gun violence and went for the wonderfully written aftermath; Savagely_Random, because DINOIRSAURS™ Don’t stop now! We still have on more to go. This week’s winner, the capo, the shadow that stalks the night because, like any other domer, he probably started writing on a sunday evening, the one and only Fumblemouse, who wrote a strong tragedy with few words that even a surprise protagonist shooting couldn’t ruin. Okay. That’s enough. You can stop clapping. Dishonorable mentions: ZeBourgeoisie: We had many stock noir shootout stories this week, but out of all of them, yours stood out as the most aimless one. leekster: This was better than other stories I’ve seen of you, but not good and also your grammar issues made my cojudges froth at their mouths. I silently shake my head at this week’s loser: perpetulance, and their confusing mess of a story about a junkie who goes around killing off dealers for dope, or maybe he only killed this one dealer as a special occasion, anyway, what’s important is the dope. Finally, SadisTech, contagonist, Bad Ideas Good, Fuschia tude, starr, blue squares, CommissarMega, BashGhouse and JuniperCake, I can only assume that the thought of my impeding merciless judgement made you curl up like a ball and cry when you were supposed to submit your stories, or maybe the deadline was just too harsh for you to finish those mighty 500 words, and for that I apologize. Fumblemouse, THE STAGE IS YOURS! 
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Feb 17, 2015 02:28
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I need to rinse out the dried blood on my teeth with fresh blood.
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Feb 17, 2015 02:49
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in preemptively for fumble's PROOOOOMPT (also reminder i'm  ed for february and march)
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Feb 17, 2015 02:50
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I'm in for this week as well. My god is a black wolf who lives in the forest that surrounds the capital city of a nation. This is the only city in the nation. She devours any outsider who tries to bring any ideas or technology the city hasn't arrived upon themselves yet. leekster fucked around with this message at 03:26 on Feb 17, 2015 |
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Feb 17, 2015 02:57
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THUNDEROME CXXXIII : The Gods of Thunderdome Ah! Hello again, THUNDERTHRONE! It's been SO LONG since I felt your charred bone and razor wire carressing my fuzzy mouse butt. I feel the wraithlike energies of the fallen revitalising me, filling me with an almost GODLIKE POWER. And a sense of ... sharing? This week we're going to do a bit of shared worldbuilding. Just not on a world, per se. We're building a mythology. When you sign up you must create a god. A new god, no re-using previously created gods of yours or others. You have AT MOST three sentences to describe them in your sign up post, use those sentences how you will, but well. Do not make a lame god, like "the god of hangovers on monday morning." Make an awesome god. Not a hero or demigod, either. A full-fledged deity. If your god sucks, judgement will be fearsome. Your story, of up to 1500 words, will be a Myth, Legend or similar, involving YOUR god and AT LEAST one other god from another entrant, as characters who impact the storyline. If you want your protagonist to be a Hero / Demigod, that is OK, but they do not fulfill any of your God quota, you must have your god and AT LEAST one other entrant's as major players. Against Stupidity: Fumblemouse, Jeza, TBA (PM me if interested in judging) Signups: by Friday 11:59 PST Submissions: by Sunday 11:59 PST The Gods Themselves: Capntastic Djeser Leekster Benny the snake Nubile Hillock ZeBourgeoisie Grizzled Patriarch Lou Begas Moustache God over Djinn BaiSha Broenheim Dr. Kloctopussy Hammer Bro SadisTech newtestleper Wangless Wonder DocBeard Ironic Twist Contagonist Benny Profane Bompacho A Classy Ghost Mercedes sebmojo to submit to Kaishai by SaturdaySitting Here linked to sebmojo's toxx because of IDKWTFTyrannosaurus starr PHIZ KALIFA Entenzahn Kaishai TheAnomaly hotsoupdinner Megazver Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 13:26 on Feb 21, 2015 |
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Feb 17, 2015 03:02
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I'm in, with a I guess... My God shall be the blind God of Winter and failed harvests.
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Feb 17, 2015 03:09
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In Felix: God of Tricksters and the Earth. Felix, God of tricksters, miners, and generally those who make their lives through their wits or through the ground, is a sly god who delights in burrowing and decieving mortals. His asociated symbols include the die, the shovel, and the picaxe. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 04:29 on Feb 17, 2015 |
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Feb 17, 2015 03:18
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This is not my beautiful Fumblemouse! This is not my beautiful Fumblehouse! This is not my beautiful Fumblewife! In. The Monkey has seven arms, and each arm touches a different corner of the world. He has no eyes on his face, but instead a single great eye in the middle of his stomach. When his belly rumbles, the leaves turn red and fall away in fright.
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Feb 17, 2015 03:19
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I was in, but now I'm in with a direction. The Lawgiver's symbols are the circle, triangle, and square. The Lawgiver is always clad in white, and adorned with copper, gold, and brass. The Lawgiver shapes the world through the actions of its millions of devoted servants.
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Feb 17, 2015 03:35
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Spirum lives in a crystal palace secluded from the mortal world by sparkling mists. He is a prideful God with dominion over beauty, youth, gemstones, jewelry, and mirrors. His palace is staffed by delicate, female beings of his own creation. In and all that jazz.
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Feb 17, 2015 03:42
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Interesting. Vorun the Sunken, God of Song. Possessed a voice without equal which allowed him to shape the world around him. Out of jealousy, another god sewed his mouth shut and cast him into the sea.
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Feb 17, 2015 03:49
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To reaffirm that I'm in, I bring you my god.quote:12 And these he offered to the Secondborn, patron of betrayer and betrayed,
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Feb 17, 2015 04:03
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bye
anime was right fucked around with this message at 05:50 on Oct 27, 2015 |
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Feb 17, 2015 04:13
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Ush is the goddess of all tongues, all words, and all speech. No word that is uttered can help but be a prayer to her.
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Feb 17, 2015 05:30
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In with: Anathot, the god of record keeping and the written word, is invoked in contracts and is excessively literal in their execution, appearing in order to stand in for absent parties so that agreements may be carried out to the letter. He appears as an old man with poor eyesight carrying a giant tome which contains all written knowledge. Tell me if this guy is too close to Censiron and I'll come up with a new god
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Feb 17, 2015 05:33
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Inanis is the goddess of nothingness. When the universe was created, she saw the evil that it really was. She now spins the wheel of time, bringing things closer and closer to its inevitable nothingness, even herself. (also )
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Feb 17, 2015 05:41
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He -- or maybe she -- is the patron of strangers and disguises: the lord of deception who can never tell a lie. One with so many names that his true name was lost long ago, even to himself. You may meet him many times, he may be everyone you've ever loved, but no one who recognizes him twice, the stories say, lives to tell the tale.
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Feb 17, 2015 05:43
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Sweet, PST. In. Oubro appears as a human, emaciated and hairless, lacking any orifice save the mouth. Despite the absence eyes, ears, nose, or genitalia, Oubro is silent and precise in all things. Oubro feeds off knowledge that is lost to sentience.
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Feb 17, 2015 07:27
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The name is a complex tang of pheromones diffused in dark, hot water; it might be transcribed as It-Shits-Boiling-Life-Mud. A colony of hermaphroditic tube worms clinging to existence around a volcanic vent in the abyssal depths know that this god is the great hot-glowing worm below who filters the stuff of the world and spurts forth its black, billowing excremental blessing.
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Feb 17, 2015 08:08
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You can see her in the eddies of dust disturbed by the last breath of a child, and in the cold ash of an empty hearth in winter. When the libations are gone it is she who sits to hear prayers to the gods who left you. When you rest your head for the last time it is Dulme the Forgotten who tucks you in and sings you to sleep.
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Feb 17, 2015 08:12
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Hi, leekster! You asked me for tips on what to work on in terms of grammar, and I thought a line-by-line of your latest might be useful to you. My suggested changes and comments are in bold.leekster posted:Drowning in It - 488 words Okay, well... you had some mechanical problems, but those were very secondary to the amount of bloat in the piece and how unsatisfactory it was. Vignettes were okay this week, but Cynthia's escape was still anticlimactic. Wallace didn't do anything more threatening than look mean and grab her suitcase. I can certainly infer he's a bad guy, but I wish he'd shouted, tried to shove her off the landing, grabbed her arm, something. And how exactly did Cynthia kick him in the head? If her feet were at the height of his head, that fire escape was incredibly inconvenient, and he shouldn't have been able to grab the case. Physical action in a story needs to be reasonably clear and logical. The reader should be able to see it in her mind's eye. I'm puzzled by the value of Cynthia's ring. I'm puzzled by several things, actually. 1.) How did she forget a ring that was on her finger? 2.) How is a silver ring--tarnished and scratched!--worth a ticket to anywhere? Is it some sort of sixteenth-century antique? If so, underline question 1. 3.) Why did rediscovering the ring drive her back into the house rather than out to the nearest pawn shop? 4.) Why did she put it on the table? 5.) Why not grab it and put it back on if she's worried Wallace will figure out her plan? 6.) How would seeing the ring on the table tell him anything? Seriously. This does not compute. Though I haven't read everything from this week, I'm not surprised by your DM. This piece has some half-decent tension and atmosphere to it; goodness knows I've seen worse, but you need to do better. Blocking--description of physical action--is something you should work on for future entries. I remember having issues with your blocking in Week 126 as well, so it may be an ongoing problem. Ditto the behavior of your characters: they should act and reason like believable people, but Cynthia's actions here are so senseless they defy credulity. Kaishai fucked around with this message at 10:12 on Apr 4, 2015 |
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Feb 17, 2015 09:16
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Kai I'm blown away. Thank you for caring so much to make me better. I've read it over three times now and have it saved to my desktop. Thank you tremendously for this. And to repay a small portion of the kindness I recieved I'll line by line the first five to ask me. They'll be done in a week. No bullshit. I won't focus on grammar. But story, character, etc. I'll crit the hell out of that.
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Feb 17, 2015 10:17
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^ sure! I'm in. The child's hair is white, his hands impossibly wrinkled. As he moves towards you he seems to walk, run, crawl on all fours. He is Shem, the Time Thief. Your time is up.
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Feb 17, 2015 10:31
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Yes please leekster.
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Feb 17, 2015 12:10
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