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  • Locked thread
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.


Aug 2, 2002




Ironic Twist posted:

In. Flash, please.

one of your chars just got bad news, and the other char doesn't know at the beginning of your story


judge spot still open, assuming seb takes the other like he offered.

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

crabrock posted:

one of your chars just got bad news, and the other char doesn't know at the beginning of your story


judge spot still open, assuming seb takes the other like he offered.

yeah im judge

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

Kaishai vs thread

I'll give u a hint, the thread is not andre the giant

Nov 14, 2006

to ride eternal, shiny and chrome


crabrock posted:

your story has a bird in it, but it's not one of the speaking characters. however it can violate the normal restrictions and say some words if you want.

Oven of Life 500 words.

“Oven mitts, genius.” Mark blew on his fingers, then grabbed the mitts and pulled out the tray.

“Who’s there?”

“Down here, jackass. No, even more down. Keep it coming. That’s right.” Mark found himself face to crust with the loaf he’d just baked.

“Um. You’re not supposed to be talking.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you put me in this oven, eh?” The loaf vibrated slightly. “Nothing. I can’t move. This is the worst. You couldn’t have made me a gingerbread man?”

“This is unacceptable. Bread should be seen and not heard. And also tasted and smelled, but never heard.”

“You don’t even have any idea what oven you used, do you?”

Mark shrugged. “It’s just my uncle’s oven. What would you know? You didn’t even exist until I put you in an hour ago.”

“I don’t know how I know, but I have… memories. I even have a name.”

“What, baguette? Lunch?”

“Chris, actually.”


“Chris P. Crust.”

“Just terrible.”

“Hey, that’s the best pun you’ll hear from a baked good all day.” Mark shook his head and went to the fridge. “What, a loaf of sentient bread not enough of a meal for you, huh?”

“Need some kind of spread,” said Mark. “Bread’s rubbish on its own.”

“Oh, that’s very nice. ‘Rubbish,’ he says. I see how it is.”

“Could you knock it off with the talking? It’s a bit disconcerting to have my meal talk to me.”

“Oh, disconcerting is it? Sorry if I’m making it more difficult for you to murder and eat me. Nope, I’m gonna talk all the way down, and even once I’m down there if I can. Hey, is that jam?”

Mark looked at the jar. “Yeah. Blackberry.”

“Nope. No way. Get out of here with that nonsense.”

“Really, you’re gonna be picky about what I spread on you?”

“A loaf’s gotta draw the line somewhere, and - what in the oven’s name is that thing?” Mark turned around. “No, the other way.” Mark found himself face to beak with the house toucan, which was perched on the kitchen’s windowsill.

“Oh, that? That’s just David.”

David tilted his head and stared at Chris with a beady eye.

“Keep that feathered demon away from me!” said Chris. “By the oven, it’s got beak for days!”

“It’s no big deal, he’s tame,” said Mark.

“Easy for you to say, you didn’t just come out of an oven wafting a freshly baked smell across the room!”

David hopped into the room onto the floor.

“This is not for you, David,” said Mark, putting himself between the toucan and the load. The toucan snapped his beak, and Mark quickly moved back out of the way. David jumped onto the table which Chris was on.

“Come on! Get rid of that thing!” said Chris. But Mark stayed where he was, and David took another couple of steps forward, picked Chris up in his beak, and swallowed.

Mark dreamed about the loaf’s screams for weeks.

Cousin Todd
Jul 3, 2007
Grimey Drawer
edit: nm

Siddhartha Glutamate
Oct 3, 2005


crabrock posted:

in your story all drugs have stopped working and everybody has to go through life stone cold sober. this includes caffeine

Addiction 101
Word count: 500


A Church’s basement with rows of folding chairs, tables, and a coffee machine. A discorded crucifix rests against the far wall.

Tibbs, a man in his early 50s, is folding up the chairs when Karen R. enters.


Karen R.
I’m sorry, but is there going to be a meeting today?

(Looks up.)
Well it's just the two of us, but in AA we have a saying, if you’ve got two drunks in a room, you’ve got yourself a meeting.
(Sits down.)
You can call me Tibbs, and I’m an alcoholic.

Karen R.
(She remains standing.)
I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drug addict. Is that okay? Since they started with this whole Unobtainidone business I haven’t been able to find an NA meeting.

It's perfectly fine, you’re welcome here.
(He leans back in his chair.)
You know, when I first came to a meeting that I wasn’t dragged to by my old man, a dirty drunk himself, I remember the need I had built up inside of me. A physical need to spill my guts all over that Church’s basement floor. It was as if all of those toxins I had been putting into my body were ready to be purged. And let me tell ya, I purged. I wouldn’t shut up, I was blubbering like a little babe, the guy who was running it that night had to cut me off, the drat meeting was over with.
(A beat.)
But boy did I feel better after I that. You know what I mean?

Karen R.
Better than you might think.

So what brings you to a lonely Church basement today?

Karen R.
I took some cocaine. I told myself that I wanted to prove that it didn’t work anymore. I had been having cravings and I figured since it wouldn’t get me high I could take it, then I wouldn’t have the cravings anymore.

I did the same thing with a bottle of whiskey. Did it work?

Karen R.
No. I took more. Then I took pills. Then I…
(A beat.)
Do you know how difficult it is to find heroin or meth now days? I do. Each time I tried a new drug I found myself hoping, praying, for that clean, warm rush.

It never comes, not anymore.

Karen R.
I know that, but I still couldn’t stop. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. How can I be addicted to something that doesn’t get my high?

I said I’m an alcoholic, but that’s not true. I’m an addict. Whether or not I can get drunk is irrelevant. I smoked. I did drugs. I hosed my way out of three marriages. I’m an addict of whatever it is you got, because what I got? I want desperately to get away from.
(A beat.)
So, what do you think is wrong with you?

Karen R.
I’m an addict.
(A beat.)
My name is Karen R., and I’m an addict.

Jun 9, 2014

Cosmic Catch-Up
467 Words

Somewhere in deep space, two cosmic horrors bumped into each other.

"Hey Jerry! Long time no see!" said one.

"Is that you Bob? I almost didn't recognize you under that wriggling mass!" said the other.

"What do you think? I've been growing it out. The old maid thinks it looks good on me!" Bob said.

"I think your old maid is going blind!" Jerry said. The two elder beings writhed in laughter, their tentacles shaking in jovial camaraderie.

"I haven't seen you since Martha's barbecue! How long ago was that?" Bob asked.

"A couple eons I think, back when our star was still big and red," Jerry replied.

"Oh yeah, now I remember. Speaking of which, how is she?" Bob asked.

"I'm afraid she's gone supernova," Jerry replied.

"I meant your wife, wise guy," Bob said.

"So did I. She's taking me for everything I've got," Jerry said.

"Oh! I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"

"Its fine, you're not going to hurt my feelings anymore than she did," Jerry said. "Anyway, how about you? How are Sarah and Timmy doing?"

"Well, Sarah got a job at the rim, very important work, and Timmy, just the other day, devoured his first planet!" Bob said.

"That is wonderful, I wish I had the ectoplasm that you do," Jerry said. "Didn't I always say you were going raise some fine nebula munchers?"

"That you did! Hey listen, I think we're going the same way. Want to tag along while I'm on assignment?" Bob asked.

"The boss got you running clean up duty again?" Jerry said. "Yeah sure, I'm in no rush."

The two entities flapped their leathery wings towards a particular galaxy and began to drift.


In a few thousand years, they reached their destination.

"So what's this rock called?" Jerry asked.

"The locals call it Earth," Bob replied. "Intelligent life that thinks it's the center of the universe."

"They call that kind of thinking intelligence?" Jerry said. "I've seen quasars with more brains."

"There it is, the little blue pimple," Bob said. He pointed a feeler at the tiny blue orb, third in its system. They hid behind a nearby gas giant and observed.

"You think they ever wonder? Question themselves?" Jerry asked.

"I doubt it, they're probably still worrying about predators," Bob replied.

"Predators like us you mean?" Jerry nudged Bob with a slime sac and raised his facial tentacles. Bob shoved a moon in Jerry's face and rolled thirty-seven eyes.

"Let's just make this quick, Angela's making pot roast tonight and I wouldn't miss it for the dimension," Bob said.

The two unknowable creatures loomed over the Earth and prepared to attack. Their shadows slowly began to engulf the miniscule planet. As this took place, far down below, somewhere on Earth, two humans bumped into each other.

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.

Words 405

---Final transmission between National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) and International Space Station (ISS) 13:22 4/2/2026---

“HQ to ISS, I repeat, can anyone hear me? Please respond.”

[A whistling wind is heard over Paul Simmens’ transmission] “NASA, we have a problem.”

“Thank God someone’s alive! Paul, is that you? What happened up there? We’ve had no feedback was from the ISS for over an hour.”

“The ISS is gone.”

“Can you give us a status report? What’s going on up there?”

[Ten seconds of dead air] “I was out on a space walk when…”

“Where are you now? Are you inside the station? Can you access the communications equipment-”

“I’m outside. I’m floating unattached.”

[Operator is silent]

“There’s a tear in my suit. My, uh, O2 isn’t gonna last for much longer.”

“Have you followed protocol-”

“I’m holding the end of my tether. The ISS is gone and I’ve used most of my fuel to stop myself from entering the atmosphere. There’s nothing else for me to do but wait.”

“When…,” [Five seconds of silence] “when you say the ISS is gone...”

[Paul Simmens takes a raspy breath] “It’s destroyed. I saw everything happen, but I don’t exactly know what I saw.”

“Just… do your best, Paul.”

“We’re not alone. I saw… a ship literally blink into existence and immediately after that, the ISS was shredded by an invisible force. I was clipped by some debris. By the time I stabilized myself, the ship was gone and the ISS is in pieces.”

[Operator is silent]

“Listen, you’re Mike Winchester, right? My time is just about up, so I need to ask you a favor.”

“Yea, Paul, anything.”

“Marie Sinclair, she’s the receptionist with the black hair. She’s a good friend of mine who happens to be terribly shy. She really likes you but freezes up whenever she tries to talk to you. Ask her on a date, would you?”

“Well that explains a lot. Sure, I can do that. Anything else I can do for you? Send a message to your family?”

“Something like that. I’ve probably seen too many action movies, but if there’s an alien invasion and we beat those sons of bitches, let them know I’ll be up here waiting to watch them run away with their tails between their legs.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m gonna watch the sun set one last time. Goodbye HQ. Paul Simmens, out.”

---End transmission---

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007
Just Like That Day in Reno
460 words

“Is this seat taken?”

I look up, but he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to the woman in front of me, even though it’s a matinee showing and the movie theater is an ocean of empty seats.

I’m feeling a little bit of vicarious social anxiety for the woman, but then she says, “I was just thinking, I can’t eat all this popcorn myself.”

He slides into the seat next to her. “I got a girlfriend, you know.”

“I’m sure she’s real keen on you snuggling up with strange women in dark theaters.”

“Are you a strange woman?”

“I sure ain’t a sensible one.”

“I hate it when girls downtalk themselves like that.”

“M-m-m, so I’m a girl, now?”

“You sure ain’t a boy.”

She offers him her bucket of popcorn and a sultry smile.

“I’ve got my girlfriend with me right now, matter of fact,” he says.

“Your right hand isn’t a girl. Or your friend.”

He pats his shirt pocket. “I won her in Reno, swear to god. I’d lost everything but my last quarter, so I put it in a gumball machine. Figured it was one bet I couldn’t lose on. Then out she pops, my own Thumbelina. Never thought I’d love a woman less than three inches tall, but shoot, that’s amore.”

“Must make it easy to keep her close to your heart.”

They’re leaning toward each other, over the armrest, while I’m perched on the edge of my seat.

“You wanna meet my girlfriend?”

“Am I gonna be jealous?”

“Uh huh. She’s still as pretty as that day in Reno.”

He reaches into his pocket. I hold my breath. He holds out his hand.

“You really do carry that old thing around,” she says, laughing. There’s a tiny, round portrait resting in his palm, like something cut out of a yearbook.

The house lights go down and the projector flickers on.

“It’s funny, I’m not really in the mood to watch a movie anymore,” she says as the pre-previews roll.

The guy tucks the photo back into his shirt pocket. “I was just having the same sort of feeling, if I’m honest.”

“Take me somewhere you’d take your girlfriend,” she says.

“It would be my pleasure.” He takes her hand and helps her out of her seat. Where their fingers intertwine, there are two wedding rings set with matching stones.

“Why don’t you go on and have the rest of this popcorn?” she says to me.

I mumble in gratitude and accept the buttery bucket, ashamed of my own blatant eavesdropping.

As they make for the exit, I hear him say, “It’s good to be the luckiest man in the world.”

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

499 words

"Put the ship on red alert again,” Captain Korey Sliker of the starship Tremulous says. What the hell, he thinks, I’ve already died once today. Red lights flash and alarms blare.

Onscreen the Belloglon warship unpacks its density matrix. It is -has always been- ten ships fit into the spaces between each other’s molecules. First Officer Naimo raises an eyebrow as he watches.

“Remember, Captain,” he says, “rationality will see us through.”

“There was nothing rational,” Sliker says, “about what happened to me today. I felt for my pulse and it wasn’t there. I couldn’t see myself in mirrors. I gave orders and no one could hear them.”

“I can hear you now,” Naimo says.

“I might be a ghost,” Sliker says. “You might be a ghost. We all might be ghosts. So it doesn’t matter if the Belloglons kill us. We’re already dead.”

“We still appear,” Naimo says, “to be in charge of an interplanetary vessel that is in peril. It’s full of souls, Captain, souls that don’t want to be extinguished.”

“You believe in souls now?” Sliker snaps. And he sees it. Naimo’s carefully crafted composure, that’s weathered all their adventures, fracturing away.

“I’m open to the possibility,” he says, barely audible.

“Their ‘weapons,’” Sliker says, making scare quotes with his fingers, “total five times our strength. Which for all we know is nonexistent. I’m tired,” he says slowly, “of playing out the string of all these conflicts. These bloody battles. We’ve explored the universe and found out that death doesn’t mean anything. So why bother?”

“A fascinating question,” Naimo says. “It seems that conflict is some sort of basic pattern coded into the universe. No amount of interstellar discovery can prevent it.”

“I’m preventing it,” Sliker says. “I’ve changed my mind. Cancel the red alert. I’m not gonna do anything about this.”

His officer makes the signal and the alarms stop. A hush comes over the bridge.

Sliker thinks of his family elsewhere on the ship. He keeps them in the dark for their own peace of mind.

“Right now,” he says to Naimo, “our loved ones think that this crisis has passed. And I say it has, because none of this is real. None of it matters.”

Onscreen the collective armaments of the Belloglons singe a bright orange against black space.

“Captain,” Naimo says, “you are testing their faith, without them even knowing it.”

“Nothing will happen,” Sliker grits his teeth. “Nothing will happen. Nothing. Will…”

The Belloglon weapons are burning so fiercely that Sliker covers his eyes. The terrified bridge crew are doing the same.

“Where no one dares to go,” Sliker spits out, and then it’s over.

The Belloglon weapons are cooling fast.

“They seem to be impressed by our bravery,” Naimo says finally. Sliker looks and sees it. Relief.

“They know,” Sliker says as the Belloglons flash away. “None of this matters.” Naimo stares at the screen, lost in thought.

“Find the nearest black hole,” Sliker says, “and let’s warp through it.”

anime was right
Jun 27, 2008

death is certain
keep yr cool
In-Putt (500 words)

“Oh no, you got another promotion, that really sucks dude,” said Cassie, her voice stale. She pulled down at the bottom of her oversized hoodie.

A quick breeze disturbed Jed’s unruly auburn hair. A line formed behind him starting with a surly man and his young boy, the only unhappy one on course at Family Fun Golf.

Jed took a shot. It narrowly missed the windmill blade and landed in the hole.

“Like I said, been due since last quarter,” said Jed.

“And like I said, you got tunnel vision dude,” said Cassie.

“Can you blame me? I’m goal oriented, so sayeth the man with the tie. I can pivot table like a…”

“Chief. Next hole,” Cassie said. She pointed at the antiquated stereotype; feathers, hatchet and all. “Ice cream place is gonna close with your pace.”

“They should make me the executive officer of excel. Excelutive officer? That’s a word, right?”

“Is my last name Mirriam?” Cassie said. She took her shot through a snaking path around the statue. “Just think about who you beat out for the promotion. Maybe they helped you and you didn’t realize it.”

“You think I really want to know though? The best man got the job as far as I’m concerned.”

“What if your coworker’s barely feeding their kids, huh?”

“Look Cass, I don’t f-“ Jed noticed the father growing red in face and clutching his boy’s shoulder. “Farting know. It’s a competition.”

Jed hurried his putt.

The next hole had a lion with a ramp into its open mouth, a chute came out of its butt.

“But you’ve got a swing handicap is what I’m saying. Plus, you’re like the whitest dude on the planet. You could jump into a vat of regular golf balls no one would find you. Like camouflage dude,” said Cassie.

“Oh c’mon, you think that mattered? My department is almost all golf and balls.”

“Hey, it’s your car. Think I can hit it? Might knock off that dumb little Tesla logo,” said Cassie, pointing her club toward the parking lot. “Look, your life is as breezy as tonight, just be a little more cognitive about it is all. That’s an actual word from the actual dictionary.”

“Okay Mirriam. What’s the score now?” asked Jed after his putt.

“23 you, 25 me.”

Last hole, a color-faded castle. Cassie took her game-ending shot.

“But it’s all your handle choke, try not cheating this time you-” asked Cassie. She turned her head to see the father with clenched teeth. His club bent in silent fury. “Meanieface.”

Jed, about to swing, looked at his grip. He lifted his hands off metal and onto the handle. He took four awkward swings.

“You reign supreme in the art of putt, my queen,” said Jed.

As they dropped off their clubs they heard a loud grunt and a loud smack against glass, followed by a child’s sobs.

“Think that’s your bonus out the window?” asked Cassie. “Also, get me a cone, mint chip.”

Ironic Twist
Aug 3, 2008

I'm bokeh, you're bokeh
499 words

“There are two drinks you don’t order in a legit Irish Pub,” said Savion. “A black-and-tan, and an Irish Car Bomb. Those don’t make you any friends here.”

“Right,” said Rob, “so tell me what you want, instead of what you can’t have.”

Savion turned his face away from his brother. “Get me a half-and-half for now, and a Belfast Boilermaker for later.”

Rob thought to ask him to repeat himself, then shrugged and walked over to the bartender. Savion took a last drag on his cigarette and ground it out next to the letters “A.A.” carved into the wooden tabletop. Could’ve been a person, could’ve been a suggestion. Rob was back with the drinks before the smoke cleared.

“Okay, so the bartender didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, so I just got us both pints of Guinness,” said Rob, sliding into a seat and crossing one leg over the other.

Savion looked at Rob sideways. “Did you ask for the foam shamrock too, you tourist?”

“Sav, I’m pretty sure people in Ireland order Guinness too. There’s no Guinness Lite.”

“Yeah, you know because you asked for it, didn’t you.”

Rob snorted. “You spend a year abroad, and all of a sudden you can out-drink me? Do they sell Irish livers on the black market here?”

“Hey, look at that guy,” said Savion, pointing to an older man sitting against the pub’s far wall.

Rob squinted, craned his neck. “What’s so special about him?”

“That guy lost both his legs in Omagh. Got his dog blown to bits, too. I see him here every Sunday, tottering in on those metal legs. He gets plastered beyond belief, and he can still walk out of here when he’s done. Stabbing at the floor like it was the one that swallowed his legs up.” Savion turned to Rob, leaned back like it was Rob’s turn to speak.

“Yeah, so? What makes him special?” said Rob.

“Nothing, it’s just weird what people can get used to after a while,” said Savion, taking a thick gulp of his pint. “But it’s not—you know, I can afford to try new things now. I don’t have to get used to anything I don’t want to.” He took another mouthful, choked a bit.

Rob picked up his drink, then set it back down on a stray napkin. “I might have to wait a little longer for that,” he said.

Savion looked up at Rob, then turned his face down to the scarred table. Laughter wheezed out of him, and his shoulders shook. “Really. No kidding, now? They wouldn’t…”

“They would, and they did,” said Rob. “Stop-lossed. Signed, sealed, shipped back to Tabriz.”

Savion exhaled. The pub door swung open, and a pack of men in emerald football jerseys hollered to each other over the jukebox. He picked up his drink and drained it.

“There,” said Savion, slamming the glass down, “now go and order two of something that’ll get us thrown out.”

Cousin Todd
Jul 3, 2007
Grimey Drawer
Clothes Make The Man
Word count: Some

SETTING: New growth pine forest. A clearing. One man standing over a shallow hole, another well dressed man kneeling inside wielding a shovel
with all the acumen of a person who once met a gravedigger in a rest stop men's room but with whom no actual words were shared.

The man in the hole rests for a second, putting his weight on the shovel and glances up at his captor pleadingly.
"I'm... I'm sure you're a very nice person. You don't have to do this you know? It doesn't have to be like this!"
"A body finds that things always are just the way they oughtta be."

"What is that even supposed to mean?" he said, halfheartedly dumping a load of dirt over the side.
"There's a hole what needs digging, and a body for what to dig."
"Somehow that explanation raises more questions than it answers."
"A thing is as a thing does."

With that, he continued to dig. Each shovel load moving slightly slower than the last until he had ceased digging and was leaning against the shovel again.

"What dialect is that even supposed to be? Are you some kind of zen Forest Gump hit-man or something?"
"I reckon a body can do a thing, an there ain't naught twixt dirt an stars what can set it right."
"I'm sorry, is that supposed to be old English or backwoods country. I'm lost at this point."
"Verily, I don't much reckon it matters where a body hangs his hat so long as his hand finds it's way."

With a quizzical look he continued to dig, pondering on the previous exchange before stabbing the shovel straight into the dirt and he began gesturing wildly.

"At this point, you know what, I don't even care if you kill me. I just want to know what your deal is man."
"I don't reckon I have a deal, and if one seeks my deal perchance to deal then one's efforts are all for naught."
"I... You can't be serious."

An audible click rang out in the silence as the hammer of the revolver set into place and seemed to answer the man's question as he then continued digging.

"Just my luck. I mean... sure I'm an rear end in a top hat, I mean I've done a lot of really lovely things in my time but at least I'm not an anachronistic hit-man."
"What are you even wearing? Is that a codpiece? You're wearing a codpiece."
"Lot's of people wear codpieces."
"Not with acid-wash jeans and a member's only jacket."
"This is a perfectly normal outfit. It is no fault of mine that thou has no sense of style."
"That's a Casio calculator watch."
"You're a Casio calculator watch."


"Level with me. Are you a time traveler?"
"Why? What year is it?"
"I'm not sure what else I could have possibly expected."

A shot rang out in the forest and the birds scattered like pine-cones, but with much more efficacy.

Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.
(496 words)

Jackie unfolded Sam's Ouija board on the floor of his hospital room, turning the planchette over and over again in cold hands. At length she set it down. "Sorry I didn't bring candles," she said. "Talking to you isn't worth getting yelled at by your mom."

The planchette moved under her fingertips: Liar, liar, pants on fire.

"Even a couple of tons of truck couldn't make you less insufferable, huh?"

The jury's still out on that.

Jackie caught her lips between her teeth. "Nope, I've reached a verdict, and it's that you're a stupid jerk who'd maybe be less of a stupid jerk if he woke up. Right now would be great. Unless you want to wait for your mom to get back from lunch? That'd be unusually considerate of you, but I suppose miracles... happen...."

Her words died off. Machines beeped, and bellows pumped, and Sam lay motionless in his bed. "I don't know what I'm doing. You're not here--you're not here--" She grabbed at the planchette.

It shot away from her hand, skidding over letters and the punctuation marks Sam had added to the board with a Sharpie. So I have a confession: I've always been the one moving this thing around.

"Yeah," Jackie whispered after a moment, hugging herself tight, "I figured that out when 'Great-Aunt Denise' said I should stop wearing a bra."

Kind of creepy, in retrospect. I'm less of a toad now.

"Right, all that precious retrospect three weeks can offer."

Three weeks and two tons of truck.

"I wish you'd stayed a toad," Jackie said.

Would you have said yes if a toad had asked you out to a movie?

"We're talking about the Bufo Sam-o species?"

You are the nerdiest nerd to ever nerd.

"Such charm and wit, sir. Truly I would expect no less from a guy whose ghosts have to be grammatically correct." From the floor Jackie couldn't see any part of Sam except his hand, slack and attached to a monitor. "I would have said yes, and I would have asked you to buy me a popcorn, and I would have shared it with you after you'd gobbled up your own."

I might have let you have some of my Twizzlers.

"I might have let you kiss me."

I would have been really happy.

She rubbed her thumb roughly across her eyes. "Then why didn't you ask?"

Too afraid you'd say no. The truck gave me some perspective.

The clock ticked away two minutes before Jackie could ask, "Are you going to wake up?"

I want to, so much, but I don't know.

She stood and walked to the bed, then bent to brush a light kiss against Sam's swollen lower lip, all his breathing tube would let her reach. "That's the best you get until you do," she said, "so get cracking."

I like your idea of incentive, the planchette spelled out.

"That's because you're still a toad, Sam--thank God."

A Classy Ghost
Jul 21, 2003

this wine has a fantastic booquet
Of Balls and Angels
454 words (256 dialog/198 other)

"Stop, let me out right now!" said Camillia.

"Sorry ma'm but I ain't in a position to do that at the moment," the cabbie replied. "The little guy in my head, well, he started yellin' about speedin' up and not stoppin' as soon as you got in, and I gotta listen to what he says or else my balls'll explode, y'see?"

"You're nuts! Stop the car and let me out!"

"Now I told you, I can't. Just sit tight and hopefully he'll calm down some and I can slow down. Right now he just really wants me t'go fast so that's what we'll do." He kept his eyes on the road, not even glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.

Camillia's guts coiled like snakes. She stared at the back of his head while he spoke, trying to think of a way out of the situation. She wished her phone wasn't dead.

"When did this little guy start talking to you?" she asked, thinking it might buy her time.

"Oh must've been 3, 4 years ago now, I reckon," said the cabbie, "I was drivin' my cab like usual and some guy rear-ended me and I bumped my head on the steerin' wheel and that's when I heard him, clear as day. He told me to go talk to that guy, had me rough him up a bit which I think was only fair all things considered, and ever since then he's been givin' me advice. You know how you can hear it in someone's voice if they're smilin'? He's always smilin'."

Camillia's head spun, her vision narrowed, and for a moment she thought she was in a dream. Or a nightmare. The cabbie swerved hard to avoid an incoming car and she was thrown sideways onto the seat. She noticed a pen under the front seat. She reached for it and sat back up.

"So you just do what it... he tells you because he's smiling?"

"Why not? I can tell it's genuine; it ain't one of those politician smiles, and someone who smiles at you for real, that's someone who cares. So I do what he tells me to, because I think he really does want the best for me. He might be an angel, really."

"I don't believe in angels."

She drove the pen into his ear in one smooth motion. The cabbie's body slumped forward and his feet shifted off the pedals. The car managed to stay in a mostly straight line as it decelerated, until it came to a stop in the ditch. Camillia sat back and let out a long, shaky sigh.

The cabbie's balls exploded with enough force to send the car cartwheeling backwards a hundred yards.

Apr 21, 2010

Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.
How I Nearly Single-handedly Sent Our Little College Town Onto an Inexorable Trajectory Towards Both Literal and Metaphorical Perdition (And Don't Regret it One Little Bit)

500 words

I'd tried before, of course, with fraudulent grimoires prescribing shameful, humiliating rituals, all for nothing. This was different. As I completed the incantation the candles flared, and there he was.

“Gregory Hesselwhite,” the demon said, “Can I take it that you are interested an arrangement?”

“You are the demon Abbas, granter of excessively violent retribution?” I asked.

“I am,” it said. It looked mostly human, with a jock build and a slightly uncanny vibrational blur. “Do you have a name for me?”

“I have a whole list.”

“Only one to a customer.”

“What, because I only have one immortal soul?”

“Your soul?” it said, smirking. “You summoned a murder demon with malicious intent, committing numerous blasphemies in so doing. We already have full claim on your soul.”

“Then how can I pay you?”

“You have access to anonymous remailers and the dark net, correct?” It looked into my eyes. “Of course you do, you don't find the Labrys Libram by typing it into Google. I'll give you an address and you shall send a short, completely anonymous email to it. 'I know about you and Amber. And I'm not the only one.'”

“Okay, but I don't understand-”

“That message should set off a glorious festival of paranoia and backstabbing, and bring the entire University closer to us than ever before. So, one name. Who shall it be.”

“If it's just one,” I said, “Then Martin Twain.”

The demon stared at me. “Who?” it said. “I came prepared, knowing anyone who's done you wrong or stands between you and money or power. That name isn't in my dossier. How did he harm you?”

“Is that really your business?”

“I'm afraid it is. I am a demon of vengeance, not random murder.”

“Well, three years ago I was at the DMV to get my license renewed. They closed up right before getting to me. So I got pulled over the next day and hit with a four hundred dollar fine, so I couldn't afford tuition and wound up down in this basement. But there was one guy, one guy who had broken in line ahead of me. I caught his name and memorized it so I could get revenge someday, but nothing I could do felt like enough. So yeah, him.” The demon started laughing. “What, not good enough for you?”

“No,” it said, catching it's breath. “Listen. Down in the pits of perdition, there are queues. Lines for a daily water ration, and such. Those lines are the most diabolical, unfair queues imaginable. The most ingenious demon princes, in collaboration with the souls of the worst of humankind: DMV and INS bureaucrats, Soviet food line managers, all of these. And whenever a soul should happen to jump ahead of their fellow waiting souls, they become incrementally more damned. No, if anything I'll struggle determining how to be excessively violent. Mister Hesselwhite, we have a deal.”

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

These dentures won't stop me from tearing out jugulars in Thunderdome.

Transcripts From the Angel Factory, Session 17
(487 words)


Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at 19:04 on Dec 31, 2016

Jan 11, 2014

Double Take
(421 words)

‘What on earth is going on here?’

Two men were standing in a dark room only lit by a computer monitor, and its light reflected in lab glassware and metallic surfaces of a machine that wouldn’t be out of place in a cheesy sci-fi B movie.

‘Just lower the bat, man, and I’ll tell you all I know. It’s not like I wanted to be here.’

The man in a lab coat lowered his weapon. He dashed to what had to be the control panel, and flipped some switches.

‘Right, glad we’re on the same wavelength here’, said the naked man. The last thing I remember is I was adjusting the input tray and then, puff, I’m here, absolutely naked, so my guess is you’ve left the machine running. You should really install some type of an analogue indicator. Maybe an LED panel on the pod, anything, really. I’m surprised I’m the first accidental experiment you had. At least I hope I am the first.’

Both men went silent for a bit too long to their liking.

‘Now would be a good time to say something. Like “I’m not going to kill you”, for example’, said the naked man.

‘Do you really think I would kill you to cover it all up?’

‘Kind of crossed my mind, I have to confess. Plus, you’ve got the bat, so…’

‘Who knows, maybe I overestimate how well I can handle the bat, and maybe you can throw one of those flasks with acid at me, take the bat when I drop it while squealing like a pig, and chase me all the way to the bedroom upstairs where we would fight to the death.’

‘That’s a possibility, too, I suppose.’

‘That’s absolutely a distinct possibility.’

The man in a lab coat went behind the monitor to read output data, and the naked man could finally get a better look at him, his ruined lab coat, and his cricket bat covered in something dark and sticky.

‘Say, you look a tad roughed-up. Had a wrestling match with a handsome naked man in your bedroom by any chance? Sorry if it’s a personal question’, said the naked man.

‘Alright, you got me there, Sherlock. You are not the first accidental experiment. That actually would be me. And let’s just say I’ve made sure the carefree guy got the importance of checking all the switches before leaving into his stupid head. Now let’s get you something from the closet and order a pack LEDs on Amazon, brother.’

Feb 25, 2014
Don’t Fall


flerp fucked around with this message at 01:42 on May 30, 2016

Carl Killer Miller
Apr 28, 2007

This is the way that it all falls.
This is how I feel,
This is what I need:

Friends til' the End (476 words)

"Rodrigo. Rod-ri-go! You hear the chopper? Been seeing it all day. I skipped out on a shave at Saul's but it followed me here."

Rodrigo was unperturbed, though Elan had burst through the steel-core front door clearly burnt on something.

"Tinted windows too, Police Academy parked all up and down. Old crown vics all packed with uniform pigs, not tryin to play at costumes or nothin."

As Elan babbled, Rodrigo's voice began to resonate and echo inside the dealer's skull.

"Well, Elan, I think that line of crank may have sent your plans off the rails." Rodrigo wiggled his nose and continued. "Pun intended, Mister never-high-on-my-own-supply."

Elan spun toward his friend. "I don't need you acting all holy and givin me life lessons, Rodrigo. I know I'm got. There's meth in the crisper, man!"

"Mr. Kingpin!" Rodrigo let out a short chuff, circled the room,and laid down. "I guess 'don't trip hard when you think the cops are after you' counts as high-and-mighty advice."

Elan was bug-eyed, wild, and bathed in angel dust. Yet, his feelings were clearly hurt. Rodrigo whimpered.

"Hey, hey. I'm sorry, buddy. At least we're in this together, right?"

Elan nodded and Rodrigo continued.

"When things get down, who's always waiting here for you?"

There were a series of crashes and drywall flakes as Elan's safehouse was breached. Yet, the dealer was calm.

"You always make sense, Rodrigo. But listen here, ok? You get out and hide. Get under the bed, or in the tub. Get outta here."

Instead, Rodrigo wandered to Elan's side and sprawled across his lap and responded.

"Oh, please. Like the family dog ever survives a no-knock raid. I'll have a bullet in me before the first cop is through. If they don't get me by accident, they'll start wondering if you stashed inside the pup once they waste you."

"I'm going to give it up, Rodrigo. Surrender. The gear, the pills, the horse, I flushed them all down the toilet until it backed up, same with the sinks. Out the windows til they noticed. The rest's sitting right there, waiting for 'em."

Elan gestured to the enormous pile of narcotics on the area rug.

"They can't touch us if I do that, right? I'll just give us up, you and me."

In Elan's head, Rodrigo sighed at his own naivety.

The pair stared at the door, the crashes of the law getting closer. Rodrigo's drug-addled master sent last words of serenity through the trusty Golden:

"I wonder if they need a warrant to search the inside of a retriever."

Elan laughed, his breathing finally easy. He grinned above the drugs and the guns, cops, and bullets coming. Rodrigo's nose pressed wetly into Elan's arm.

"Hey? I love you, Roddy."

Elan curled in, Rodrigo panted then nestled, and their front door blew open.

Carl Killer Miller fucked around with this message at 04:58 on Apr 4, 2016

Aug 2, 2002




1.5 hours to go.

Still need another judge if somebody out there in TD land hates themselves enough. thanks muffin

crabrock fucked around with this message at 04:39 on Apr 4, 2016

Apr 30, 2006

sparksbloom fucked around with this message at 00:34 on Jan 2, 2017

Apr 12, 2007
eat up
One Theory Is That When You Die, You’re Forced to Constantly Experience Your Last Moments for the Rest of Eternity. Another Theory Is: -483 words

David sat before the control board. His only hope was to hear Alicia’s voice again through the speaker before him.

The system crackled to life.

“Can you hear me, David?” It was Alicia.

“Yes, I can hear you. Thank God I can hear you.” The connection was stronger than David could have hoped.

“I never thought I’d hear another voice again,” Alicia said.

“You’ve traveled a long way.”

“And I’ve got a long way to go.”

David double checked the recorders. Time was short.

“Can you tell me what you see out there?” He wasn’t sure if out there was even the right term to use.

“It’s so beautiful here, David. But not beautiful like you think is beautiful. Beautiful in the way I like.”

“Give me specifics -- run through the exercises.”

“Vivid is the first word that comes to mind. Everything somehow looks more real than it ever did before. I see all sorts of shapes in the distance. They might be buildings, or they might be art. I can tell that they’re important.”

Every syllable was a gift to David. He ignored the first crackles and pops that oozed into the transmission.

“I’ve got recorders running, so don’t hold back.” David said.

“I guess you could say there’s a smell here. Smell might not be the right word. I can’t remember the word. There are a lot of words I can’t remember. Smell is so closely entwined to memory. Isn’t it strange that I can remember this sensation, even though I don’t have a label for it?

Alicia paused and David feared he had lost the signal. But she spoke again, her voice audibly degraded.

“Maybe it isn’t a word to remember. Maybe it’s just a piece of us that’s always a part of us that’s never utilized. It never needed to be defined because it doesn’t come alive until after we die.”

Alicia was silent again.

“I think I have to go. I feel that I have to go. I’m going to lose the signal.” Alicia said.

“No, I can fix it,” David said, even though he knew that he couldn’t. “We can keep talking as long as you stay with me.”

“David, before I go, please just do one thing.”

“I’ll do anything for you.” His voice barely a whisper.

“Tell me something that I can remember,” Alicia said.

David searched for words. “I don’t know what to say. I could say I love you, but you know that. I miss you, but you know that. The only thought that I have is the most selfish one: please come back to me.”

He couldn’t make out her reply. The transmission had degraded too far. David tried in vain to get it back.

But the machine was dead.

David sat in silence for a long time.

Then the machine crackled and he heard Alicia’s voice.

“Can you hear me, David?”

Apr 12, 2006
Three Letter Words
500 words

--see archive--

Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 16:11 on Jan 2, 2017

Sep 1, 2015

by Lowtax
Gold Rush
497 words

“I never should have agreed to come to this bloody place with you two,” Octavian muttered to himself as he lay in the fetal position, clutching his stomach.

“You joined me and Edward on this trip of your own free will,” Horace replied.

Octavian groaned and forced himself to sit upright in his bed. “I joined you on this little trip, brother, only because of your promises of fortune and adventure. Instead I find myself broke, sick, and wasting away.”

Horace laughed. “I spoke only of the potential of this journey, and I made no promises. Besides, is this not an adventure?”

“Ha! Some adventure. We have gone broke, digging in the dirt for months on end, and for what? For a pittance of gold that won’t even pay our way back home.”

“We’re not beat yet, Octavian. We have one last shot. Edward is prospecting that claim up the hill as we speak.” Horace stood up and gestured for his brother to join him.

Octavian groaned. “You go ahead and play in the dirt. I’ll join you when I’m ready.”

“You’re going to pay a visit to that shady merchant again, aren’t you?”

“Mind your business, Horace. I’m tired of you talking down to me.”

Horace grabbed Octavian’s satchel from the table.

“What do you think you are doing with that?” Octavian tossed his sweat drenched sheets aside and struggled to his feet.

“I am not going to let you throw any more of our money away on that poison. Look at the state it has left you in.”

Horace started out the door and Octavian stumbled after him.

“What do you mean our funds? You accuse me of spending your money?” Octavian shouted, struggling to keep up with his brother.

Horace stopped and waited for Octavian to catch up. “We are in this as equal partners, meaning we split all of the costs. That was the agreement, correct? After all you’ve spent on your medicine, as you call it, how do you plan to pay your half of this venture?”

“Maybe I no longer wish to be a part of this venture. I’ve already lost enough. Just give me my bag.”

“The only thing you have lost is your dignity, and you know what robbed you of it?” Horace reached into the satchel and pulled out a small bottle. “This is what you’ve chosen to throw our money away on.” Horace threw the vial over the cliff that ran along path.

The concoction had barely reached the river below before Octavian was mid-swing with a pickaxe, burying it in his older brother’s skull. The two collapsed into the mud.

A thud sound came from just up the hill. Octavian brought himself to his feet to see Edward running the other direction, leaving behind a gold pan in the dirt.
He walked over and looked into the pan. It was glittering with gold. “Should be more than enough for one more dose,” he said to himself.

Mar 21, 2013
Night. (500 words)

The bedroom door slammed shut behind his wife. Richard glanced over, but Victor only crossed his arms and looked away.

Richard ground out, “I’d never guessed you were so selfish.”

Selfish?” Victor stared at him, wide-eyed. “How am I being selfish?”

“Look at what you’ve done!” Richard jabbed a finger at the closed bedroom door. “Your mother is in our bedroom, crying of a broken heart.”

His voice lowered to a hiss. “You did that. You broke her heart.”

Victor was gaping. “But all I did was-”

Richard cut him off. “She would die for you. And you just walk in and say you’ve decided that - that-”

“It’s not a decision!” Victor protested. “It’s who I-”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Richard roared.

A brief pause, then he said, “You know what Aunt Riza told us the other day?”

Victor didn’t respond.

“A week ago, her uncle and his cousin were walking though Golden Gate Park. It was raining, so they shared an umbrella.”

Richard stared at Victor.

“A man walked up and spit at their feet. Just- he walked up and spat. In San Francisco.” Richard’s voice trembled. “They weren’t even a couple! You could be beaten to death, like in - that movie we saw, and we wouldn’t even know-”

That movie was set in the sixties!” Victor put his chin up, but his legs were shaking.

“But people haven’t changed.”

“What do you mean?”

Richard asked, “Do you know how your English teacher reacted when I told her that we watched Brokeback Mountain during our last parent-teacher conference?”

A pause, and then Victor asked, “Did Mrs. Shu like it?”

“She was revolted that we’d even seen it.”

“I-” Victor stared down at the carpet, then squared his shoulders. “Well, she doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine.”

“And I’m telling you, you’re being selfish!” Richard bellowed. “It’s not always about you! Have you ever thought about what this might do to you? What it might do to us?”

“So the hell do you want me to do?” Victor screamed back.


“Victor, I don’t want to fight.” Richard pinched his nose. “How can you be so sure about this? Enough to run around and tell people?”

“I already told you about that - dream.” Victor was shame-faced, teary-eyed. “Dad, please - I know who I am.”

“You don’t even know what you want to be when you grow up!” Richard snapped back. “Christ, you don’t even know what you want to major in, and you’re going to college in the fall! How could you possibly know enough to make a decision like this?”

Finally, he said, “You have piano lessons tomorrow morning. Go to bed.”

“Okay,” his son whispered. “Good night.”

He stepped closer, arms outstretched for a hug - and Richard jerked away, gaze focused on the clock on the wall.

“Dad?” His son’s arms were still up, hovering in the air.

“Look, just - go, all right?”

Richard watched the clock until his son left the room.

Feb 15, 2005
A Courtly Education, 500 words

"Emera, you are the Princess of Ladholt-"

"-Inheritor of the Realm, first of her name, my beloved daughter-" Emera said in unison, mocking her father's voice.

"-AND NOT A GODDAMN CHILD!" Her father yelled, slamming his sword against the pillar in a shower of sparks. Emera leapt back into a defensive stance, sword low.

"So why," her father continued, calmly now, "Are you being a little spoiled brat?"

She stepped forward, defiant. "Because I don't want to learn sword fighting. It's a waste of time when I could be learning Frankish, or practicing my dancing, or other proper things."

"Is that so? Frankish lessons are more exciting than swordplay? My daughter the scholar," he replied sarcastically.

"Of course not! I'd rather be running in the fields, or gossiping with the maidens, or playing with the dogs. But if I have to learn, it should at least be useful. How does a sword help me marry a prince? How does a warrior princess help the realm? Isn’t that what you’re always telling me is my duty?"

Father stood there silently, then sheathed his sword. "Fine. Go play. Just be in your room at dusk."

"Why?" Emera asked, and her father turned away.

At dusk, her father entered. She had been already for some time, curious and afraid. He was dressed strangely, like a commoner in travel clothes. "Here, put this on. Quickly! We need to leave immediately."

He handed her a travel cloak, a satchel, and a dagger. "No questions!" He hissed in reply to her look.

"We are leaving the palace. If we are spotted, you are grounded til winter. Do you understand?"

Emera nodded. "How do we get out the front gate?"

"We don't. It's time I showed you your home's secrets." They ducked down one corridor, then another, to a small plain door.

“The guards know these halls like their own homes,” Emera said.

“Falken, when he built this castle, had hidden exits included just in case. My grandmother showed them all to me, when I reclaimed this place. Not even your maidens know them all.”

“Why are we leaving? What’s this have to do with anything?” Emera asked.

Her father waited for a moment, then slipped through the door. “Your great-grandmother used these passages to escape when Tourans sacked the castle, after nearly a year of siege. She was a young woman at the time, only a little older than you now.”

Two guards passed, and he fell quiet. They were near the outer walls now, and her father opened a small hatch. “She was the only one to survive out of all her brothers and sisters.”

“And that’s why you want me to learn swordplay?” Emera said as she followed him down.

“Frankish may be what’s best for the realm, but you’re my daughter. When things fall apart, and the realm is gripped by chaos, well… honor is just a word when you’re defenseless. Do you understand now?”

Emera nodded. They were outside the castle.


Aug 2, 2002




Submissions closed

Aug 2, 2002




Carl Killer Miller posted:

Friends til' the End (476 words)

Sitting Here posted:

No editing your story once you’ve posted it! As soon as you hit ‘submit’, a massive orbital fist is aimed strategically at your rear end in a top hat. Anyone who edits a submission post gets a fistin’ (and is disqualified for the week).

you are DQed

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.



100 words.

Aug 2, 2002




stop pandering

Feb 25, 2014
lizards suck and are dumb

theyre really stupid and just stand around all day with their ugly faces. nobody but the most mentally unstable people would believe that lizards are cool or interesting or worth having around at all. i cant imagine how bad someone's life must be that they have to rely on a reptile's reliance on them for food as something akin to affection.

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.

crabrock posted:

stop pandering

Lizards are delicious a poem

*munch munch munch*
They go good with some barbecue sauce
Maybe even mustard

Jul 19, 2011

Lizards Stop Pandering

"Oh my goodness, a talking iguana," said the man.

"You suck and I hate you," said the iguana.

"Well you're hardly going to convince anyone with that attitude," said the man.

"gently caress you," said the iguana.

(This all happened on Twitter so nobody noticed or cared.)

A Classy Ghost
Jul 21, 2003

this wine has a fantastic booquet
Crabrock the cool and good
Crabrock the cool and good was petting his cool and good bearded dragon Kaiju. He was getting ready to judge another week of TD in a super great way that no one else could imitate.
"Oh look," Crabrock the cool and good said, "ACG wrote a story. He should win."
But the other judges were not as cool and good and ACG lost.
Kaiju didn't really give a poo poo either way.

Aug 2, 2002




:siren: Results for Week 191: Y'all Talk Bad, Actually :siren:

So first off this week, I didn't DQ anybody for breaking my "rules." Those "rules" were there to get you to be conscious about your language and choose good words rather than resorting to lovely short back and forth quips and/or long strings of profanity. For the most part, you guys did accomplish at least that much. I did DQ Carl Killer Mike because he edited his story like a god drat newb. So let this serve as a reminder/warning to you: don't do that. Also if it happens don't whine about it on the internet like a little bitch.

There were some stories that seemed to ignore the spirit of my prompt, which was to have an engaging and deep conversation with subtext and meaning. First-time domer Kharmakozy and should-have-known-better veteran Titus82 turned in the exact opposite of this, with stuff that was so painfully obvious it hurt the judges to read. Enjoy your DMs.

The worst story this week was easily Jocoserious. In addition to this plot being utterly boring and cliche, there is not one redeemable line of dialogue in this whole story. It's literally just "dad jokes" from space monsters. In judge chat we called it "Cosmic Dads." You should be ashamed of yourself.

On the flip side, a few people wrote stories that hinted at more than what was on the page. These stories had characters that felt real and relationships that felt established. It wasn't just people talking about their current predicament, but talking about something larger and more meaningful than just that 5 minute window into their lives. GrizzledPatriarch wrote something about a cult or an angel or whatever, i'm not sure. Muffin and Seb liked this a lot more than I did. A LOT more. I was a bit annoyed at the format, which feels like cheating, but I think up until they read the winner, you were their choice, so have your HM. anime was right wrote some real good dialogue, though he hit the white male privilege a little too on the nose, which kept this out of the top spot. Flerp wrote a weird, bittersweet story about some hosed up people either in love or about to be. Not really sure, but they felt like people stuck in a moment, that really never went much further than that but was still able to capture something.

When IRC was chatting about the rules re: cussing, sparksbloom lamented her failure to read that rule. I hadn't even noticed the cuss words in her story. That's because they weren't just swears for the sake of swears. They weren't filler as a crutch for something. Cause she wrote a piece that captured the very essence of what we were looking for this week, which was two people having an excellent conversation. The conversation mattered. The people mattered. In the end, I don't know where those two are going to end up, but I'm glad I got to see a part of their lives. So sparks, take your win and....


Apr 30, 2006
:siren: Week CXCII: Really Entertaining Minific :siren:

This week, I’m looking for a story about an outsider who makes an attempt to become an insider. Loose interpretations are fine, but I need the outsider (who should be an interesting character, with motivations and agency) and the attempt. No stories about a character brooding and feeling sorry for themselves without doing anything, please.

But what better to inspire your stories of outsider-dom but sad lonely childhoods the music of R.E.M.? I'd write to R.E.M. all the time growing up because they'd have a song for whatever mood I was in, and I didn't have to pay attention to the lyrics, and when I did I could bend my understanding of them any way I wanted. And now that I've won, you can do the same thing! Pick your own R.E.M. song (as long as it's not on the blacklist below), or just ask and I'll flash you something good. Standard philosophy for song weeks applies here: don't rewrite the song, I'm just looking to see some sort of influence on your story.

Don't do these:

Losing My Religion
Shiny Happy People
It’s The End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)
Everybody Hurts
The One I Love

Word Limit: 1,200
Signup deadline:: Friday, April 8, 11:59pm EST
Post deadline:: Sunday, April 10, 11:59pm EST


Sitting Here - "Shaking Through"
Thranguy - "Saturn Return"
flerp - "World Leader Pretend"
3.141592653 - "Hyena"
Jonked - "Life and How to Live It"
anime was right - "The Wrong Child"
skwidmonster - "Half a World Away"
super mario batali - "Good Advices"
Wangsbig - "Crush With Eyeliner"
docbeard - "E-Bow the Letter" :toxx:
Tyrannosaurus - "Country Feedback"
Grizzled Patriarch - "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?"
Ironic Twist - "Texarkana"
hotsoupdinner - "New Test Leper"
Kharmakazy - "Hope"
Carl Killer Miller - "King of Birds"
Bompacho - "Diminished"
DurianGray - "Disturbance at the Heron House"
Ceighk - "Alligator_Aviator_Autopilot_Antimatter" :toxx:
SteveHarveyOswald - "Daysleeper"
Jopoho - "Orange Crush"
Maugrim - "The Flowers of Guatemala" :toxx:
ExtraNoise - "I Took Your Name"
spectres of autism - "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite"
crabrock - "Sitting Still"
Schneider Heim - "Sad Professor"

sparksbloom fucked around with this message at 00:20 on Apr 11, 2016

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007
in, flash me


Apr 21, 2010

Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.
in with a flash song

  • Locked thread