Register a SA Forums Account here!

You can: log in, read the tech support FAQ, or request your lost password. This dumb message (and those ads) will appear on every screen until you register! Get rid of this crap by registering your own SA Forums Account and joining roughly 150,000 Goons, for the one-time price of $9.95! We charge money because it costs us money per month for bills, and since we don't believe in showing ads to our users, we try to make the money back through forum registrations.
  • Locked thread
a friendly penguin
Feb 1, 2007

trolling for fish

Passenger Pigeons

Wordcount: 236

a friendly penguin fucked around with this message at 01:50 on Dec 15, 2016


Aug 8, 2013


Something Innate
Words: 250

Father’s weekly berating voicemail hissed from the phone. The cheap speakers gave his voice an unpleasant tininess, but it was the belittlement in his tone that made me put the phone down.

My head pounded. I needed clean air.

When I stepped onto the patio, I noticed a hatchling chick sprawled helpless beneath a tree. Its slowing chirps stung my heart, and when I could not bare the display any longer, I went back inside and looked for something to help it with. I found an empty shoebox in my closet. Lying next to it was a tiny pink blanket, soft and fleecy. I took that as well.

I bent down to the hatchling’s level, cooing as gently as a motherbird. It squirmed and spazzed its lumpy wings when I placed it on the blanket. I swaddled the cloth around the chick, forming a loose, protective bundle. Its frantic chirps calmed as I laid it in the box.

The internet helped me care for the hatchling. Within weeks he’d sprouted feathers, and soon he explored with the curiosity of a toddler. He’d often seek out tall objects and dive from them. His wings would madly flap as he plummeted to the floor. I couldn’t help but smile.

One day, though, he got the hang of it. He flew about the room, desperately seeking something innate. I looked at the window and, with great hesitation, opened it.

After he flew away, I looked back at my phone and saw another voicemail.

Aug 8, 2013


Proof of my stunning bravery in submitting to an online publisher!

Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.

The Ineffable Mr. Bancroft
Words: 242

It began with a thrown snowball packed around a sharp-edged rock. High pitched jeers of prepubescent children cut through the cold, thin air. Hot, thick blood splashed across the fresh fallen snow in rivulets of pink while Mr. Bancroft watched from behind the wooden slats of a window. He abhorred bullies.

Stepping outside, his nose hairs crystallized. The soft snow crunched underfoot as he trudged to the edge of his property. “Boy,” he called out, his voice gravelly with disuse. A murder of crows perched on a skeletal oak tree cawed as if summoned.

The boy edged closer to Mr. Bancroft while keeping his eyes downcast.

Mr. Bancroft grabbed the boy by the chin and forced his head up. On the edge of the boy’s eyebrow, a bright red jewel welled from the cut. Mr. Bancroft wiped the blood away with a crooked thumb. “You want them gone, boy?” he croaked.

The boy’s nod was more of a terrified shiver.

Mr. Bancroft wiped his bloodied thumb against his tongue and peeled back his lips in an alien mimicry of a smile that failed to reach the eyes. The boy ran, his face as pale as the snow.

Mr. Bancroft plodded down the street toward the children, a shadow of birds overhead flitting from tree to tree. The children stopped their playing when a cloud of seed pelted them. The children screamed as the crows swooped down to scratch, peck, flay and eat.

anime was right
Jun 27, 2008

death is certain
keep yr cool

From Loaf to Crumbs (231 words)

On the day Johanna stopped bringing the bread home, Richard bought his own. When Pat said those last words through crooked teeth and with a gun in his hand, Richard sat on the bench hours later. Every day he stopped by where they wore white and they smiled like old friends. Richard bought a loaf there and he tore it to shreds before the lake, and every day he sat on the same bench to the applause of riotous quacks.

Even on the day when words became letters and reality broke into a hot fever and melted into a dream, he crumpled the loaf and tossed it. His watch had broken and the sun had switched places, but his friends waddled joyously before him.

The world flashed red and blue and, instead of giving him bread, they who wore white took him away. When they opened their mouths, only noise came out.

He laid beneath a bleached sheet and there were too many lights.

They who wore white brought a tray with bread on it this time. Richard reached out and took it.

And then, just like every other day, Richard sat on the bench. Gone were they who wore white. Before him was the lake, now covered in a curtain of clouds. His audience welcomed him for the final act.

Every day, Richard fed the ducks.

Hammer Bro.
Jul 7, 2007


The Feast (250 words)

5,961 feathers painstakingly plucked, sanitized, and sorted by size. 62 pounds of meat, less 21 organs (maybe Oscar would want them) and 5 pints of blood (bottled for later).

They had laughed him off as second-rate for too long. Something inside of him was broken; maybe it always had been. So he sent out his invitations, first the first and second the rest, with their specific locations and times. Even if they groaned at his immaculate precision, they still showed up.

Every tick of the timer was music to his ears. 113 more and it would be ready. The whole street was talking about it. They didn't know what he was cooking, but they knew it was Big. He chuckled to himself. Once they saw this dish, there would be no doubt of his supremacy. The timer buzzed, and he pulled the steaming roast onto a platter.

He pointedly placed an ear up against the doorway. Most of the chatter was about the empty chair at the head of the table, although one boor blathered about cookies. Donning a fresh cape (the old one was stained yellow), he cued up a dramatic number on his pipe organ.

The room fell silent as he pushed the trolley through the swinging doors. Tendrils of drool traced the path of the wafting scent. He laid the fowl on the table and sat himself at the head chair.

A motionless minute passed, then Elmo screamed.

He just laughed. "Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah."

Fleta Mcgurn
Oct 5, 2003

Porpoise noise continues.

250 words

Edited to remove published material.

Proof of submission:

Fleta Mcgurn fucked around with this message at 14:16 on Nov 20, 2016

Aug 8, 2013


Hammer Bro. posted:

The Feast (250 words)

At first I had no idea wtf this was about until somebody in IRC pointed it out.

I hate you so much.

Nov 14, 2006

The man was stunningly well dressed. He had a smart looking jacket, and a really neat looking cape, the lining of which was shimmering and sparkling in more than Oriental splendour, which is a great deal of splendour indeed, just ask Kipling.

Hammer Bro. posted:

The Feast (250 words)


Aug 5, 2013

I believe I am now no longer in the presence of nice people.

Squawk at Night. (249 words)

Squawk. That was all a woman heard for the past few hours. It was the dead of night, and the bird just couldn’t quiet itself to sleep. In the woman’s mind, she wanted to silence the bird by any means necessary. With a plastic shopping bag in hand, the woman stormed to the bird’s resting place.

The woman could remember when she had acquired this now-annoying bird. It was lying on a mountain trail she frequented, injured via unknown measures. The only thing the woman knew was that this bird could die. Without hesitation, she snatched the bird from the ground, intending to rush it to a veterinarian as soon as possible. Days passed, and the bird was healthy once more. The woman felt a sense of comfort from rescuing this bird. She would then purchase a cage and some seed, as to shelter and nourish the bird for some time.

Back to the present, and the woman stood in front of that same bird’s cage. Her eyes wore heavy bags, a sign of sleep deprivation. One of her hands lurched forward, ripping the cage’s door away. The bird was right in her hands, vulnerable to whatever the woman attempted.

“You’re not going to throw me away now… are you?” the bird suddenly spoke.

The woman was rendered speechless. Since when could it talk?

“If it’s about the yelling, I’m sorry. Just tell me to quiet down next time. Please?” The bird finished.

“It’s fine.” She found herself saying.

And submission proof:

The Cut of Your Jib
Apr 23, 2007


The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 19:09 on Nov 18, 2016

Jul 2, 2007

There's no need to rush to be an adult.

I was waiting for my publisher e-mail to come in, but they haven't replied, so here's my e-mail to them for proof submitted.

Hammer Bro.
Jul 7, 2007


ZeBourgeoisie posted:

At first I had no idea wtf this was about until somebody in IRC pointed it out.

I hate you so much.

At least the word count was short this time.

Don't worry; I won't tell on you.

Jul 2, 2012

Grandfather’s Pigeons (245 words)

Every Sunday when I was a very small child, my grandfather and I would go out to feed the pigeons that gathered in the town square. They’d gather round cooing as he sprinkled crumbs from a bag of stale bread. He’d given them all names and he’d greet each one in turn as they waddled to him, beaming from his wrinkled face. To me, they always looked the same but he could always tell them apart.

My mother never hid anything from me with malicious intent. She simply wanted to protect me from everything the doctors and the family were telling her. But it meant that all I was told about my grandfather’s condition as the years passed was wrapped in euphemisms: he’s slowing right down.

Grandfather would call me by my sister’s name sometimes, but he’d still remember the names of each of those pigeons. I used that as a lifeline – all that I had heard couldn’t be right, he was going to be OK while he still remembered what every one of those birds was called. The lifeline broke the day I read that pigeons only lived for six years. By this time we’d been feeding them for nearly ten. I went out that Sunday intending to confront him, but when I saw him smiling down at the birds as if they were his own children, I decided to push that thought to back of my mind for as long as I could.

Submission proof:

Sarkimedes fucked around with this message at 16:44 on Oct 30, 2016

Crab Destroyer
Sep 3, 2011

Cuckoo - 249 words

Carl knew that the fat, stupid, crybaby that lived in his house was not his son. At age eight, the boy resembled a globe and had no redeeming qualities. Carl had tried to turn the boy into a healthy, assertive young man, but at every turn he was sabotaged by his wife. She loved the boy as he was, and didn’t see the danger in this unconditional love. Carl didn’t know how to fix these dreadful circumstances, until his wife died suddenly.

Her tragic death allowed Carl to take steps that would have shattered their marriage. He could finally get a paternity test, proving the boy wasn’t his son. It would take two weeks to get the results, and Carl thought he could handle the boy until they came. He was wrong. The boy had become unbearable to be around, constantly crying and blubbering. To Carl, this was more proof the boy was not his son.

By chance, Carl saw a reporter bemoaning a loophole in Nebraska that allowed a child of any age left at a hospital to become a ward of the state. Realizing this was his chance to be rid of the boy, Carl took him to Omaha. Now the state of Nebraska could decide what to do with him.

When Carl returned home, he found an envelope from the DNA testing company. The probability of paternity was 98%, or ‘inconclusive’. Carl was vindicated: the boy was not his son, and so he could be forgotten.

Ironic Twist
Aug 3, 2008

I'm bokeh, you're bokeh

E: gone

Ironic Twist fucked around with this message at 20:57 on Nov 5, 2016

Some Strange Flea
Apr 9, 2010




Some Strange Flea fucked around with this message at 16:17 on Nov 13, 2016

Jan 27, 2006

No sense waiting to get a response from FF. For submission proof, here's the story portion of my sent email:

Feb 25, 2014


proof of submission:

242 words

Twittering Machines

edited out

flerp fucked around with this message at 18:45 on Nov 14, 2016

a friendly penguin
Feb 1, 2007

trolling for fish

In case anyone wants proof.


a friendly penguin fucked around with this message at 11:42 on Jan 4, 2017

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007




Deep Sky
224 words

This story is available on

Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 01:44 on Nov 19, 2016

Aug 2, 2003

Kill the Messenger

242 words

Starvation comes in many forms. Our starvation was a steady diet of fish. The community’s goals had scaled back to mere subsistence. The secrets of agriculture were either far more arcane than any of us could guess, or rendered irrelevant by corrupted soil.

We could fish, though; that wasn’t getting any harder. Just more and more pointless.

"Dad! What's that?" Junior pointed at the sky.

"It's a bird."

"It's swimming way up there?"

"Flying." I looked at the circling gull and thought of chicken.

Junior started reeling in his line. "Can we catch it?"

Maybe. "Sure we can, son, but not with that."


I squinted. "We need bait and a net, I think." Junior went running for a net. Every tool we had was for fish. It would work.

I scattered fish meat and backed off a few paces. Junior came running back.

"We have to be patient, now." Patience came easy with fish, but something about prey you can see inspires anticipation. My boy was bouncing on his toes.

The bird landed and hopped among the chum, twitchy and curious. It hopped a pace closer.

Now, son.

Junior leapt with net extended. The bird cooed and fluttered backwards, well out of reach.

“Guts!” Junior picked up a rock and threw it. “Take that!”

The bird exploded in feathers. What a shot! He ran over to inspect the bird.

“Dad, what’s that?” The bird had a roll of paper tied around its leg.

Only registered members can see post attachments!

Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!



Thranguy fucked around with this message at 16:57 on Nov 7, 2016

Sep 13, 2004

Morning Coffee (233 words)

My coffee is cooling and I am watching the pigeon beside me on the pavement. It is a grey morning and cold gusts leaf through my open newspaper on the table. Part-time job vacancies circled in pencil. Obituaries. I was twenty pence short for the coffee but the girl let me off. She knows my circumstance.

I hope this pigeon’s life is more than roosting and foraging for food. I tip the crumbs from my finished plate onto the floor and the bird walks closer and pecks at them. Pigeons have a bad name but I am more sympathetic to them. Would it feel feel content with a fuller stomach; respite with more time to roost?

The cafe sign blows over on the street corner and it breaks my reverie. I cannot make rent this week. My daughter despises me. My wife was buried before I could make amends. My coffee is cold.

I wonder if birds can recognise people. This pigeon - could I pick it out from a throng? And would it come back to me when I return tomorrow if I could provide it with crumbs?

I look in through the window and see the girl at the counter. I accept her food each morning but I insist on paying for the coffee. She is kind to me and when she sees me in the streets she smiles and says hello.

Jul 26, 2016

241 Words

The lights went out last August.

It took a while to realise the extent of the outage, but within a week we knew from friends of relatives of friends of travelers that the whole of New Zealand was disconnected.

Next to my wife in bed, we could both hear how the sounds had changed. At night the ocean sounded louder, closer.

The boats had stopped bringing in oil, and the rigs shut down. Soon the sounds of engines dwindled and our cars became little more than decoration, uncomfortable rooms mounted on rubber.

Jobs changed too. We found new ways to be useful. I left my job at the council and started a vegetable garden. My wife and son spent the afternoons outside with me, tending the seedlings in our newly turned back garden.

We heard sounds that had always been there more clearly - the animal and insect sounds, wind through trees. My son said he could hear the way the breeze wove between the individual branches.

Most of all: the birds. The air filled with birdsong, the sound rushing in to fill the vacuum like wine into a glass. Harmonies, counter-melodies, a whole choir of voices tumbling over each other. A perfect, chaotic symphony.

And at the heart of the arrangement was their message. We all came to hear it in our own time.

“This land is ours, we were, we are and we will be – even after you’re gone.”

Oct 4, 2013

Gray Wave Symphony
249 words

When she hears the seagulls cry, miles inland, the sailor knows she was never meant to escape the ocean’s call. After that first night aboard, with shore a fading memory amongst the black waters, she had stolen a dinghy and fled; cursing the salt-tongued fools who had lured her past the coast of the ocean that stretched for years across the western horizon.

Once her flimsy vessel reaches her familiar rocky shores days later, she collapses; feels the sturdy weight of the earth beneath her. All too soon the rising tide nips at her ankles and she flees eastward.

Weary, she wakes the next day in a distant inn to gullscreams and the bartender’s whispers of ill omens. The boasting youths around the table, displaying their blueprints for a grand ship, scoff and claim that the birds have simply come to wish them luck on their maiden voyage. The sailor remembers the toast she had made with her crew, shouting their eternity words “We’ll be the first. We will find the ocean’s end. We will find the answer.” When she opens her mouth to dissuade them, the gulls drown out her words.

Hour by hour, they begin to drown out her mind; shrill, longing cries that let her know she is missed. The ground sways under her feet. She blinks, tasting salt; finds herself on the shore; staring out towards the endless sea.

As she wades deeper, she can only hear the crashing waves and her own humming oceansong.

Jul 26, 2016

Proof of submission.

Sep 2, 2016


Power In Death

Word Count: 250

Eat your meat. My mother coaxed. It’ll make you strong. Pushing steak around on a dinner plate, I knew that was bullshit. When I lost the ability to hold the fork, I was forced to swallow her spoon-fed fairy tales.

But spinal muscular atrophy has no happy endings.

In middle school, the kids called me Bird-Boy. I looked like a bird. Not an eagle or anything valiant like that. With my skinny elbows bowed out from my chest due to contractures, I was their chicken, the tormented class pet. Their laughter echoed as I squawked myself to sleep, on a bi-pap. My mother, that wouldn’t let me die, lay curled on a cot in the far corner of the room.

I didn’t want the vomit inducing experimental drugs. I didn’t want slightly increased motor-function. gently caress walking, I wanted to fly. I wanted to be a vulture.

If that sounds morbid it’s because a child who has tried to snuff themselves three times by their thirteenth birthday is bound to be a little dark. I admired vultures. They were scavengers, but at least they were the ones circling corpses.

I was tired of being a corpse.

I drove my new chair, my adult chair, electric and massive, in circles. I wondered if I charged the sliding glass door, would it actually break? Did I have any power over my life?

You’re doing good, Carter. My mother, who had never expected me to live, smiled.

I flew forward. The illusion finally shattered.

llamaguccii posted:

In. Thanks for the crits.

Jan 18, 2015


Night's Flight
248 words

He soared over the countryside, his sharp eyes seeing even the tiniest movement far below. He swooped down at a slight movement, and rose with the night's dinner in his sharp talons. He was used to the taste of raw flesh by now, and the white rabbit in his grip was still fat from summer's bounty. He would feast well this night.

The first time he found himself like this, he'd been lying in bed, watching the birds fly far above through his window, wishing he could fly away with them. His eyelids had grown heavy, and then he had found himself soaring like the birds above the clouds, feeling the wind through his feathers, breathing the cold night air.

Now he flew every night, taking to the skies to escape his father's shouts, and his mother's tears. He soared high above the hurt and the pain that always followed, when his father sought someone else to take out his drunken anger on.
He knew these were only dreams. That he was not flying high up in the sky, but asleep in his bed, his mind escaping the reality of his wretched life.

There was a shift in the air. He banked, dropping the rabbit carcass in the progress, and flew across the rooftops of the sleeping village. His sharp eyes fixed on a particular open window, and the drunken man standing above a sleeping boy.
His talons felt sharp, and he swooped in.

The boy slept on.

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009

A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly

Comfort Food
250 Words

Not long after Parker’s wife, Francine, kicked the bucket, he decided that it was time to find a new companion.

“Dad,” Orel said through the phone, “parrots can live for over a hundred years.”

“Well, it’s too quiet around here.”

“Let’s discuss this when Carol and I drive up for Christmas,” Orel replied.

Parker read that crows are even smarter than parrots. Besides, Orel had a point about their life spans. It was decided.

Parker named the crow Toucan Sam, which is the name he planned on giving a parrot, since a parrot’s colors reminded him of his morning Froot Loops.

Every night, Parker would cut strips of steak for Sam, and they would watch old home movies.

“You know,” Sam said between spats of preening himself, “your wife was a beautiful woman.”

“She was,” Parker said. “I miss having beauty around me.”

Sam hunched forward, craning his face into the ruffled feathers of his breast.

“I’m sorry. I’m not really used to being on my own,” Parker said.

“I was raised in captivity,” Sam said. “I’ve never been alone.”

Parker hobbled to the window. His wrinkled fingers pressed willfully against the window until it creaked open. “You could try it,” he said, “if you want.”

Sam fluttered to the sill. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“That’s the exciting part.”

The December wind blew icy through Sam’s feathers. “Maybe,” he said, “could I have a bit more steak first? Close the window for now and let’s finish this tape.”

a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 23:45 on Oct 30, 2016

Jay W. Friks
Oct 4, 2016

Got Out.

Grimey Drawer


(Prompt: Birds. 244 words)

"Do you smell that?"

He inhaled, a deep drought of hot animal fat, a nostalgic smell if there ever was one. He imagined corn dogs, fried chicken, deep fried Twinkies. Pleasant lard entered his veins with every bit of chewed up extravagance tumbling down his throat. He licked his lips. She murmured into his ears, her feathers brushed against his raw hide.

"You're not cured. You still think of the poison. I will change that."

Hot oil upturned his ragged flesh. He struggled to scream against the gag in his mouth. Her cold palm found his fleshless stomach.

"You’re sick. That’s why you’re here.”

He’d been “here” before. His aneurysm had taken him strange places, but this one was all too familiar. The area shifted around him. His restrained body was now in between a mesh maze of chicken wire. Greasy, foul smelling birds clawed and flapped inside the wall of cages. Never at a complete stop due to an insatiable hunger.

"They are the remains of disease I have pulled from others. "

A chute opened above him. A long stream of grain fell onto him. It stuck to every pore and ground into him as he struggled. The seed gave them strength to escape. He howled in painful understanding. She flew down from a great height of observation,

"Regret is the key. Hold onto it and you can be changed. This place is here to rehabilitate you, since life never could."

my cat is norris
Mar 11, 2010


(247 Words)

The ground beneath my feet is hot as an iron skillet and just as hard. My toes touch upon it, and I can feel them blister; my heels drag across it, and I can feel them crack. My blood seeps from my sore and weary feet, and with every smear I leave behind me, I trudge deeper into Death's domain.

The sun has scorched away the world's color. All I can see are endless fields of unrelenting white.

The trees I pass are brittle and dead. The wind groans between their skeletal branches; my breath groans between my ragged lips. They and I tremble with shared frailty.

The mirage of my lady shimmers on the horizon with her hand open to me in supplication. My fingers are too shrunken to bear my wedding band. I carry it anyway; it's no more burdensome than the despair I've carried since the day she vanished.

I search the white sky for something other than grief.

Shadows dance above me in a slow spinning waltz. Their movement captivates me. Their seduction invites me to forget my pain. My body does not find the ground so unforgiving.

If I have failed to find my lady, I have at least managed to find my comfort.

One by one the shadows descend. Their great wings blanket me in soothing darkness. The sharpness of their beaks cuts the misery from my flesh. I do not cry out at being consumed; I am being given mercy.

Only registered members can see post attachments!

my cat is norris
Mar 11, 2010


YO THIS CHALLENGE WAS SUPER HARD. It's very difficult to cram a story into 250 words and I'm super proud of everyone who's meeting this goal!!

Aug 7, 2013




Flying Machines - 249

Claire stroked the little fellow's head as he blinked the long, confused blink of a new thing, stretching his wings and settling into his shape. Beautiful wings, blue-gray fading black at the feathertips, with a broad brushstroke of red across his shoulders. The image of a German Wallcreeper. She prodded away, following him as he hopped across the worktable and pecked at wrappers. She brushed the pinions, testing the way they sprung back into formation, caught his beak and swung a penlight into his eyes. They dilated in the light without discomfort, staring back pliant and still.

On her shoulder, another creation chirped. The Wallcreeper warbled through its held beak, and scrambled onto the back of Claire's hand as she let go, pinpricks dancing up her arm as the brothers met. Bartleby was an awkward, lovable thing, meant to be a parrot, his feathers confused, broken in bald spots and colliding in ruffles of tangled green. He wobbled as the smaller bird circled around him, croaked, snapped out his wings. Claire winced, grabbing for the Wallcreeper as he mimicked the gesture. Too late. Bartleby lept into the air and the new brother followed, lunging off her shoulder in an awkward flap that sent him careening over backwards, spiraling into a panicked tangle of feathers that hit the ground with a dry, hard crack as Bart careened in circles overhead.

Someday she'd know what she'd done differently for him. For now, she turned off the Wallcreeper's light.

Nov 15, 2012

What will you say when
your child asks:
why did you fail Thunderdome?

Proof of submission: I submitted

250 words

She buried Polly in a box in the garden. She hadn’t cried in a long time, and she wouldn’t start now.

But she was burying so much more than a parrot.

She was burying the day she’d bought it at Pete’s Pet Store, where Marcus had worked. Marcus who’d loved his ant farm, smelt like hay and summer, smiled in a way that left her unsure if it was because of her or the animals.

She was burying their first kiss, down in the park beneath the vines, warm fall winds lifting them up as they intertwined.

She was burying the moment they’d first stepped into their shared apartment. Polly’s cage had gotten dented on the move. Marcus had given her a hug and promised to fix it.

She was burying the day they’d gotten his diagnosis. Their discussion of what to. The many times Polly had cried the C-word. The many times she’d wanted to take the drat bird out its cage and snap its neck.

She was burying Marcus’s slow decline, the constant forced smiles, his drifting away and the bird waiting for her back home after the funeral, pretending like nothing had happened, and her moving out and taking the bird with her even though it wouldn’t stop repeating the word.

She hadn’t cried during any of this.

But now, nothing was left, and all that had been was well and buried beneath the hardened earth.

And then, just like that, it happened all on its own.

Dec 11, 2013

by Pragmatica

[b[The Peacock And The Raven:[/b] Proof Of Submission
245 Words

Megan was a raven; sleek and stylish and cunning. I’ll never understand what motivated her to peck around the zoo with a dopey peacock like me, but I’m glad she did. Every time she came by I felt a desire to learn, to be smarter. I was as eager to tell her of the mysteries I’d unraveled as I was to hear of the world beyond my zoo. It hadn't been long since she left. She’d heard of the wonders outside the city and needed to see them for herself.

This zoo now feels to me as the city must have felt to her: too small for my ambitions, too familiar to sate my curiosity.

I hop to the roof where this all started and wait. My feathers ruffling with anticipation as the truck below me roars to life.

I take a running leap; landing on the truck with a graceful click as my talons make contact with the roof. It’s hard to stay balanced on such a smooth surface. Each bump in the road threatens to throw me from my perch.

The gate isn't far now. I can see it open as we draw nearer.

A warm thermal of freedom billows underneath my wings as I cross into the world beyond.

I don’t look back. There’s world ahead of me is too new.

I don’t know where I’m headed, but for the first time in my life I feel like I can go anywhere.

Apr 12, 2006

Tuesday Afternoon
250 words

--see archive--

Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 15:20 on Jan 2, 2017

Mar 21, 2013

Leftovers (249 words)

Mark brushed his thumb against his lip, and wondered if it was worth worrying about the cut getting infected. Absentmindedly, he pulled off another chunk of bread from the French loaf in his lap, and tossed it in his mouth. No sharp-beaked seagulls swooped in to snatch it this time.

Past the railing, the ocean crashed against barnacle-encrusted rock. If he’d been a little closer to the railing, he might’ve been soaked.

Francine’s first words to him had been, “Do you need my towel?”

What was he even doing here? She was probably vigorously enjoying this morning in bed.

One business trip. One. A month ago, Francine flew out to the Big Apple for business, and the next thing he knew, Manhattan was in a state of emergency because some really nasty worms wanted to turn the whole place into applesauce.

He’d began to suspect she was involved when a ridiculously theatrical stunt involving a snakeskin briefcase, a polka-dotted tie, a washed-up Navy SEAL and his jock strap taking place 70 feet above the city had been broadcasted live on national TV, followed quickly by sloppy make-outs.

Something pecked at his shoe. It was the seagull again. He could see a dash of dull red on its beak.

Mark sighed and tossed it the rest of his loaf. He glanced back as it took flight, bread in mouth, then started walking.

He should go home and rinse out his lip. It was already swollen, but better late than never.

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

Behold my brain the golden throne of my consciousness. In here I am seated. Shackled. From here I police the land.


The Saddest Rhino fucked around with this message at 04:52 on Dec 19, 2016


Jan 23, 2004

college kids ain't shit

Fun Shoe

Someday, this poo poo may be included in a volume of bad stories.

Chili fucked around with this message at 07:19 on Jan 1, 2017

  • Locked thread