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I've registered but I'm not on the list, is this punishment for talking smack about Goosebumps?
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Sep 13, 2012 00:47
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No, Erik Shawn-Bohner is just a lazy drunk redneck and didn't put you in there.
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Sep 13, 2012 00:49
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I fixed it. Anyone else I missed?
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Sep 13, 2012 01:00
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Sign me up for this week, I've worked up the nerve to brave the dome.
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Sep 13, 2012 01:44
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Less than fifteen minutes until submissions are closed! :O
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Sep 13, 2012 01:48
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Narapatta 911 words This is the story of Narapatta of the Mouheneenner. A young and handsome woman, clad in naught but a maireener necklace and with hair cut to the scalp, she struck a striking figure amongst her people along the bank of their river home. Every morning, when she awoke, the men would sing and dance around trying to get her attention. They would beg, sometimes cry and yell and always would ask the question, "Why, Narapatta, why wont you marry me? I'm strong and lean, dance like no other and have a powerful spirit within me". But always she would give the answer so, "Because I'm stronger and leaner, I hate dancing and my spirit is twice that of yours", and she would laugh and be on her way. Until one day the tribe grew tired and had enough and so abandoned her as they moved further west towards the mountains to hunt the wallaby. The paths they walked were ancient, part of the land itself, so the young woman could simply have followed them behind. But for what reason? They left her and she was better off without them. So instead of going west she walked further south along the river bank. She walked during the day, over native heath and pigsface, through muddy creeks and burnt ash groves. And she walked during the night as the devils in the forest screamed out and the currawong watched. She walked for three days and nights until she came to the mouth of the river where the seals went to play and raise their young and where Narapatta's tummy sang along. Now Narapatta was a keen sealer and handy with a waddy so finding food was no problem but before she could take a swing at a babies delicate head a great commotion erupted in the sea just beyond. Out of this jumped a hideous creature which stayed Narapatta's hand. It had the head of a possum and the body of a thylacine, the limbs of a leafy sea dragon and the tail of a seal, the teeth of the shark and the eyes of a dead man. It was Riggaropa. Wrageowrapper. Kormtenner. Bunyip. “Oi, dickhead. What the gently caress you doin' in my home man. Get out of it before I fuckin' back hand ya, alright”. “I'm not afraid of you, Bunyip. I've hunted bigger things than you and most more fearsome so just watch your mouth”. “Right, that's it woman. I am bloody going over there to eat you. Are you ready for it, here I come”. And that old Bunyip lunged forward, through the river towards Narapatta who was waiting by the shore. Waiting, with her waddy. With a quick crack to the nose the Bunyip was grounded. “Fuckin' oath my nose”, was about all the creature could manage. “There's more where that came from too, so I suggest you do what I tell you to do”. “Anything, anything”, wailed the beast. “I want all the food you have”. “Take it, take it”. So the bunyip brought forth a banquet of shell fish from abalone to oysters, great strands of plump bull kelp, a basket of fresh heath berries and several freshly cooked cuts of wallaby. Narapatta ate her fill and still she wanted more. “And I want a new waddy. This one is cracked”. “Of course, of course. I will make you a new one, mate, no worries at all”. That bunyip busied himself making a new waddy from the finest of woods and treating it in a fire made from fragrant leaves. Yet she still had one more request of the creature. “Finally. I want you to take revenge on the tribe who abandoned me”. His ears perked up and he thought for a second or two. “Oh yeah, I can beat the cunts who abandoned you. No worries, no worries at all. But, eh, it will require a sacred rite be carried out first. Bunyip magic and all ya see”. “What kind of rite?”. “A sort of marriage rite, eh”. Narapatta thought about this and reasoned that whatever marriage they get into she could easily get out of again for this stupid creature had nothing on her in terms of wit and cunning. “This task for my hand in marriage? The deal is done”. With that the bunyip danced and sang for many hours. “Riggaropa Munna potrunne, meelaythenner. Munna potrunne, meelaythenner. Riggaropa.” The mountain, Poorawetter, rumbled and shook with such fierceness that the side crumbled away revealing the characteristic organ pipes of what is now known as Mt Wellington. No one could have survived such an attack. “The deed is done”, an exhausted bunyip revealed. “Then so is our marriage”, replied Narapatta as she played with her waddy. “I think not”. Narapatta then began to change. Her body twisted and contorted. Hair grew where no hair should have grown. Ears expanded, teeth enlarged and eyes pulsated. Skeletal modifications tickled cardiovascular networks and limbs evolved till Narapatta was no more. In her place was the bunyips new, sworn, wife. And to this day if you travel the streets of Hobart at night it is possible to hear the bunyip and his wife, Narapatta, bickering in the cold city air. “Where's me fuckin' ciggy money?”. And that is the story of Narapatta of the Mouheneener and the bunyip she married.
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Sep 13, 2012 01:48
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A deal with the devil story? Maybe~* Osiris 999 words “It's called Osiris because it knocks 'em dead.” I'd been dealing long enough to know Jimmy liked to talk big and sell cheap, but when his new stuff hit the streets it had even the white dudes in their ties and BMWs rolling back into the projects for more. The junkies were always a good measure because they'd buy from somebody new every time as long as it was cheap and when they started lining up around the corner I knew Jimmy was onto something. Every re-up I asked him where it was all coming from and the answer was always “someday Oscar, someday.” followed by a yellow grin just itching to lose a few teeth. Well on someday I got a call from Jimmy saying his boss wanted to meet. I almost said no but was too eager to cut out the middle man and start earning the big bucks so he picked me up and we drove to the outskirts of town. On the way out he ranted about a bunch of conspiracy bullshit like always but as we pulled up to some dingy clubhouse off the highway he looked me straight in the eyes and said something like, “No loving around, this gang is old and serious, they're going to want only two things: your trust and their money.” Inside it was empty and dark save for a bunch of fellows sitting around a poker table who Jimmy introduced me to. I'd come to figure everyone at the top of the food chain was a fat dude in a suit smoking a cigar and this table wasn't any different and only one smiled and stood and slapped me on the back, calling me son and laughing about it like he'd known me all along. They loaned me some cash and we played a few hands, talking Osiris and business but they didn't seem all that interested in city corners. I even came out with some extra dough and when their cigars were done and drinks were empty the don looked at me said, “So our product earn any trust?” “Matters how you spend it.” “An investment then, we got a special job for you.” Everyone stood and he led me by the arm into a back hall, Jimmy and the others watching us go. There were no lights until we turned a corner where I could see a dim glow coming up from the bottom of a stairwell. The steps were old and worn and creaked as we slowly felt our way down. “My grandpa had an expression,” he said with an arm wrapped around my shoulder, “In Heaven, ain't no beer, gotta drink it here.” he snorted to himself but my attention was on the room we were coming into. The floor and walls were rough stone and candles stood on iron sticks in each of the corners. He stopped here, turning to me. “You'd think it'd be different in Hell, but it ain't.” He proceeded down a smooth tunnel cut through the rock and I followed close behind. “There's a lot of fiends down there and I'm not talking the horn and hoof kind.” On the other side was a larger room with more candles gathered in bunches and a stone slab about waist height taking up the center. Figures robed in black came at me from either side and pushed packages onto my torso and legs, securing them in place with long strips of duct tape. I looked to the don and he held up a hand, “No need to worry, the Egyptians did this all the time.” They led me over to the slab and laid me on my back, everything in my gut sinking and telling me it was wrong but something in the don's deep eyes keeping me calm. “Now this is important,” he said, leaning over me and squeezing my cheeks, “Get the money and find Alexander, he'll tell you how to get back.” His breath was hot in my face as he asked me if I understood and I nodded. The robed figures backed off chanting and the don produced an ornate dagger, its hilt studded in jewels and the blade mixed with swirls of obsidian. Before I knew what was happening he slammed it down on my chest, knocking the wind out of me. There was no pain but a dull itch and I could only choke as my blood ran, filling a network of canals cut into the stone. Something heavy lowered itself onto my chest and my eyelids and I wheezed once more before letting go. When I coughed I coughed up ashes and I was very thirsty, pushing myself up from a soil that burned like embers. Everything ached and when I looked up somebody was standing over me, his skin hanging off his bones as if he had been melting for a very long time. “Oh good.” he said and I heard him tearing away the duct tape across my back to take one of the packages. I sat up. “Alexander?” He didn't turn from the package, tearing it open to get at the uncooked powder inside. “You going to pay for that?” He cackled and looked at me, “Sold you that sob story too huh? See any money around here?” I looked around and there was only yellow fog and shimmers of heat and the screams of distant things. “Nah kid, those Joes deal in something a lot darker than money.” He set the powder in a spoon and left it on the soil until it bubbled then poured it into a needle, jabbing it into his arm before withering into something helpless. There was still some left and he took the needle, weakly extending it up to me with a graveyard smile. “Welcome to Hell, want some?”
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Sep 13, 2012 01:57
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Rouge Vif Enters the Ring 939 words It was two in the morning, and Slobodan shivered in the cold as he approached the abandoned grocery store. Most of the lights on the sign had burnt out, leaving only a flickering “OC” in the original “GROCERY”. He stopped in front of the sliding doors as a burly man pushed them open a crack. “You here for the fight?” he asked. Slobodan indicated the dog carrier he had with him and the bouncer slid the doors open. The interior still possessed traces of what it used to be–cheery signs marking the cashiers and the aisles–but the shelves were bare and the air smelled of a mixture of rotting produce and cigarette smoke. Slobodan walked to the butcher counter in the back, where two dozen disreputable gamblers, shouted into a ring of chained-together shopping carts, electric lanterns shining dim light on their faces. Standing on his toes, Stefan was able to see inside the ring. Several wooden blocks covered with nails had been glued to the floor, but what really drew the eye was the pumpkin and watermelon fighting to the death. As far as Slobodan could tell, the pumpkin was winning: Its dense rind had barely received a scratch, while the watermelon bled from several punctures. The watermelon attempted to roll away, but the pumpkin was too fast, slamming it into one of the nail blocks and cracking it open. Rotting watermelon flesh spilled across the floor as the losing gamblers disgustedly handed wrinkled cash to their companions. Victorious, the pumpkin spun around, revealing the streak of dark blood across its side. A bald, tough-looking man grinned at the results. “Marko, your squash is next! I hope you taught it to pray!” Men wearing long rubber gloves threw the remains of the melon into a pot full of boiling water and started cleaning up the arena. Slobodan pushed aside several crowd members and tapped the man on the shoulder. “What do you want?” he said as he turned around. “Are you the man in charge of these fights?” Slobodan asked. “I am,” the man replied, visibly annoyed at the question. “My name is Vladimir. All vampire fights in this part of the country go through me.” Looking at Slobodan’s pet carrier, he added, “All the fights tonight are set. Come back later if you want to enter.” “I don’t want to enter,” Slobodan replied. “I have a top-quality Rouge Vif I’m bringing to a tournament in Pazardzhik, but I’m running low on…ah…gas money.” “So what do you want?” Slobodan held up a coin envelope. “I’m selling its seeds. A dozen for a hundred thousand dinars.” Vladimir roared with laughter. “You come into my arena and offer to sell me seeds for a hundred thousand? You must have some balls.” “Look, if you don’t want them–“ “One second,” Vladimir interrupted, flashing a lion’s grin. “If you’re so confident in your vampire, throw it in the ring with my kabocha. I imported it from Japan and it’s won…thirty, forty of its fights. If you can win, I’ll buy your seeds.” Slobodan took a deep breath. He was fairly confident, but should he lose…he shook his head a little. It was too late to go back. “I’ll take you up on that,” he said, and gingerly set the pet carrier on the ground in front of a hole in the carts. Noticing a new opponent, the kabocha circled around the entrance, growling low. Slobodan kicked the carrier and a loud scream rang out, causing several of the weaker-willed audience members to take a step back. Vladimir raised his eyebrows with interest. Slobodan took hold of the grate at the front of the carrier and raised it as quickly as he could. Faster than the eye could see, something smashed into the kabocha in a blur of crimson. The green pumpkin was knocked into the carts at the far end as the challenger slowed down enough to be seen: It was a flat, bright red pumpkin covered with scars and dripping blood. The kabocha attempted to regain its bearings but its opponent was too fast, slamming it against the carts again. The Rouge Vif relentlessly continued its assault, stretching the chains that held the two in the ring. Finally, the kabocha started to break, spitting its guts out of the ring and onto Slobodan’s shoes. “That’s enough!” Vladimir shouted, and one of his subordinates reached in through the carts to try to retrieve his pumpkin. The Rouge Vif, undeterred, smashed into the man’s fingers as it collided with the kabocha again. There was a sickening crack and the man screamed in pain as he withdrew his broken hand. As some of the others stared at what the Rouge Vif had done, another crack sounded as seeds, rind, and pumpkin innards spewed through the carts and dripped onto the floor. Victorious, the Rouge Vif spun back into its pet carrier and Slobodan closed the hatch. A long moment passed as Slobodan and Vladimir stared at each other, silently daring the other to make the first move. Finally, Vladimir took a pile of bills, neatly held together by a clip, out of his pocket. “Give me the seeds.” Slobodan handed him the coin envelope and gingerly took the money. Vladimir opened the envelope and, satisfied with the shiny white seeds inside, pocketed it. Counting his cash, Slobodan strolled towards the exit, and as the sounds of vampires fighting sounded through the store once again, he stepped through the doors and into the freezing night. (This story is based on the Balkan/Romani myth of vampire pumpkins and watermelons.)
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Sep 13, 2012 02:20
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Longing (867 words) I have been waiting, navigating through these twisting corridors, guided by nothing other than the stink of your waste and the loathsome thuds in your wake. I walked, and rested, and walked again, for hours and days and weeks. I despaired, at times, that we should never meet, and that I would never claim my prize. But the maze was finite, and all hallways led only to one ending. How I rejoiced, when I finally found you! The maze was dark and there was no light. Your abysmal grunts were all that told me you were there. I was no beast as dull or gormless as you, and lit my lamp. For it was the better to see you, the better to slay you. Before this meeting, I had fought with myself on how I shall be able to best you, or what I could do if you were to strike. Instead, you in all your glory, shown before me under this dim light, could raise in me no other emotion save for ridicule. For you were a mere beast which grazes plains on calm mountains, red in neither tooth nor claw, no tusk nor fang for rend and tear. I laughed at you, at your horns weighing down your head, your snout dark and stained of moist, your coat of wild hair matted and uneven. You were just a naked thing, squatting in a corner like a mewling child. The fire of my lamp reflected of your large, tame eyes. I saw myself, unchallenged in every way my whole life, here to claim yet another victory. I smiled and raised my weapon, and announced your demise, for I fear you were as deaf as you were dull. You stood up, stumbling over your feet as if you were a man afflicted with age and disease. Finally you reached your full height, towering above me yet pathetic in your docility. When you opened your mouth I flinched, not due to stench or sight, but sound as you spoke in the language of Man. It was raspy with disuse, hesitant and guttural. "Your name," said you. I laughed again, delighted with your bravado, your belief that you could in any way be in control. So I humoured you, and told you it, for even I could not disallow a beast its last wish. "That is all," you answered. So I waited. But you spoke no more. So I went with you with my sword, and you came to me with your clumsy nakedness I shouted for your death you grunted in despair I struck you grabbed my wrist and I could see yourself and you could see myself and my sword was dropping off your hands and you could feel the fur of my body tense and you were screaming and you were only grunting and I was screaming and I was only grunting and I hear your dreams of a wall surrounded by my sick and your poo poo and and you were remembering my fantasies of a return to your prize and I was riddled with warts and your useless strength of ten thousand men and you were a golden man leading a legion of men I had no love for and I was illuminated by the lamp you left in my corner of the room and I was you were beautiful and terrible and divine and pathetic and we were one. we were all created under the same sun and the same sky. we were made of the smallest things of this life. we rise to see ourselves different but we were never far from each other. we were made of stories. we were stories told through the ages shaped by the people who tell them. we were the first and the last . we were of the same genesis and will end the same revelation. we were all stories, and we were all true, and we were the same and I released your wrist you stepped back uneven in your gait I fell you regained your balance I fell on to the ground So I spoke no more. But you waited. You squatted beside me, took your sword and sheathed it. I watch you take your lamp, and started to leave. Perhaps I thought of calling out, that there had been a trick, that you did not deserve this. But I knew it was no use. Already I was beginning to recall my wounds, my aches, my age. I was remembering being in the dark and quiet. And I was disremembering an old life, which you have now dressed yourself in, walking into a future I was used to have. I knew you, too, were starting to forget. As you walk away the oil in your lamp was running dry, and when you disappear into the dark, all I know was this. There was a labyrinth. It was lightless with gray featureless walls, of one entrance and no other exits, pathways and corners leading to only dead ends. All roads in the maze would lead to only the middle, and there I sat, eternal and immortal, with nothing else to do but wait. Waiting for another me. ---- BONUS STORY I wrote because I originally had this idea but turns out it works better (works???) at this length or shorter: That, Which Lasts Forever (402 words) After Mrs Mitchell tucked her daughter in bed, she sat down on the chair beside her. Before she could stop herself, she was already thinking. Mrs Mitchell was wondering which was the worst moment, when she met the Devil. Was it when the Devil came to her? (It was not: he rang the doorbell, introduced himself and was grateful for a cup of tea) Was it when she was left alone waiting for him? (No: he just needed the bathroom, and was gone for just a minute) Or was it when he made false praise of her lemon meringue pie? (That was not true: even the Devil could not be so mean to ask for second helpings to spite her) It was the secrets, perhaps. Maybe, Mrs Mitchell thought, it was when the Devil described how the man who took her daughter and left her body behind a gas station 500 miles away. It was an impulse decision, the Devil told Mrs Mitchell. The Devil took a sip of his peppermint tea. The man chose her daughter in the same way he chose to buy a Cadbury bar at the gas station after he disposed of her. But it was not the worst part. And it was not the worst part, either, when the Devil told Mrs Mitchell that there were three girls with her daughter at the playground, but she was the only one wearing a pink dress. Or that her daughter was left to herself at the playground, because her niece's boyfriend wanted a quickie. Or that Mr Mitchell entrusted her niece with taking care of her daughter, because he was going to the pub. Or that her brother was not there to help with her daughter, because he was away cheating on his wife. Or that her sister-in-law was there, but did not like Mrs Mitchell enough to take care of her daughter. Or that she chose the pink dress for her daughter. But Mrs Mitchell knew what was the worst. She tried to tell herself that it was that instance the Devil told her how to bring back her daughter, that all she had to do was agree, and tell the Devil the person who would take her daughter's place. But it was not that. It was after she said yes. And the Devil told her, the person you choose cannot be yourself. Then the worst moment begun.
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Sep 13, 2012 15:59
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Renegotiation (1016) Nevada,2055. The research and production facility of AetherLogistics stretched out for miles almost the entire death valley. Located in one of the world’s most hostile environments it was the only known location where a stabile portal to hell could be supported. From there flowed the precious Aether that had made AL the most successful and powerful firm in the world. It was in everything from Sodas to skin cream ,tires, condom, clonebeef,fuel and much more. Aether in short was the impossible material that made all things possible. The facility ran deep beneath the arid ground. At the very heart of the facility and the AetherLogistics empire was the flame room where the hell portal was located. A man and a women were talking the central control overlooking the flame room. Pierre Legarde the facility director was telling the new Security assistant Jenny Edgecliff a tall woman dressed in red-brown combat fatigues about how the Aether was produced. This is where the magic happens facility director Pierre Duroche said to Jenny Egdecliff, his voice dripping with glee. She knew she should have read up on the science behind Aether , but when you offer 200.000 in global credits a year with full benefits no sane ex-soldier like herself could refuse. Even if did mean working in hell. Pierre pointed eagerly to the windows to the left and right “Those large pipelike organs are our clonehatchers, from embryo to fully grown in just nine days! You can see the conveyor belt at the bottom . Those are for carrying our biweekly tribute to the flame room over here. As you can see we have just finished preparing this week’s offering. He stepped forward to front panel and continued.” Any minute now the flame-door will open and the demons will take their tribute. It will be your job to go beyond the flame when that happens and find out what’s going on, why aren’t` our off-world staff responding and why has there been such a drop in production”. Indeed as the director had said the bare metal room the size of basketball court in front of them was filled with little automated baby carries each carrying a freshly made clone. At the other side they could see a large blue flame flickering sometimes growing, sometimes fading but always there. “What do they do with them” she asked, “Some say they eat their souls, all I know is that whatever they do it’ll cook your brain in seconds. We chuck the remains right back into the hatchers to recycle as many nutrients as possible” Pierre answered. Stopping only to hand Jenny her service pistol he continued “As soon the other side starts feeding you need to be ready, when they stop you have about 20 seconds to jump through the flame. Now when you get there remember…” The flame suddenly widened considerably, a mirror like surface appeared and out from it poured red lightning which seemed to take the forms rabid dogs. A sound like nails scratching on a blackboard filled the air. Now! The director screamed, “run like hell!” Jenny felt like a thousand hungry mouths bit at every inch of her body as the jumped through the flame. When her vision cleared a second later she saw before her a large red-brown plane stretching beyond the horizon littered with heaps of large armor-clad bodies. To the east and the west dark mountains pierced the deep red sky. From the great flame she followed the asphalt road the company had made long ago going towards the eastern mountain range. Normally automated tankers would be coming and going all the time but now it was dead silent. After a few miles she saw a burnt out vehicle, a small pool of yellowish liquid had gathered around it . Jenny recognized it as raw aether-juice completely unfit for consumption. Suddenly to the left of her a large platoon of hooved, horned and heavily armored creatures appeared marching up from the plain. In there were 50 of them all carrying a long pike and a shield , they were unmistakably demons. Jenny called out to them” Are you with Chief Moloch”. No one answered and the flock of warriors started to run towards her. Jenny did not shoot, partly because they were far too many and partly because the company had made it clear how it disliked “Violent episodes”. Just ten feet from her they stopped. A short white man bedecked in white colonial era gear stepped out from behind them. He would not have looked out of place standing alongside Dr Livington . The man gave a salute and said with an eager voice“ Hello mein Schone, my name is Gunther”. Jenny felt more than a little perplexed but managed to stay focused “You are a man” she asked, “I once was ” Gunther replied and stretched out a hoofed foot. “ But right now I am the new minister of Human affairs. And it is my duty to inform you that although the traitor Moloch has finally met his end” at this he pointed to the corpse laden field behind him “the revolutionary council bears no grudge towards AetherLogistics, despite the fact that several of your employees were found abetting Moloch in his struggle”. Gunther clapped his hands and said “But there will a renegotiation of the deal Moloch made. No longer will our natural resources be traded away for a pittance just so a Babysoul-Junkie can get his fix . We demand proper payment in the form of education, technology and most importantly guns. Tell your superiors this and then maybe we will be able to craft a better future together”. Jenny could scarcely refuse when Gunther ordered one his warriors to piggy back her to the flame-door. As Gunther yelled out ”And make it Schnell you verdammte Arschlocher “ and the muscle-bound creature started to run she wondered to herself what the future would bring. Without a doubt these new demands would drive the price of Aether to the heavens and the world economy to hell.
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Sep 13, 2012 22:11
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I'll give you exactly 30 minutes to fix the formatting errors and find 16 words you can cut to make your story tighter, Baudolino. It should be easy.
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Sep 13, 2012 22:27
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Future rule stretching into eternity: always hit the preview button and read it--especially if there is a lot of time on the clock. This is the last clemency. If you copy-paste from your Apple II or whatever the gently caress bunk machine you poo poo out words on, at least give us the kindness of making sure it's as well formatted as it can be. We realize it sometimes screws up and characters/formatting go missing, but we do our best to read and comment on the 20k-30k words a week, and that takes hours. Formatting a flash piece takes a few minutes. Regards, Management
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Sep 13, 2012 22:43
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If you use Apple products of any vintage to produce stories and I know about it, automatic -10 points. Regards, your mother irl
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Sep 13, 2012 22:47
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I thought I had an idea all ready but I don't like my idea anymore. One Depressed Businessman Makes a Deal with the Devil story coming right up
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Sep 13, 2012 23:00
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Y Kant Ozma Post posted:I thought I had an idea all ready but I don't like my idea anymore. Was the original idea a shy but intelligent woman making a deal with the devil for her soul to get a magical pen that allows her to write incredible short stories, but the twist ending is that she tricks the devil and wins her soul back and realizes that the talent was inside her all the while? As everyone knows, I loving love those stories.
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Sep 13, 2012 23:07
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:Was the original idea a shy but intelligent woman making a deal with the devil for her soul to get a magical pen that allows her to write incredible short stories, but the twist ending is that she tricks the devil and wins her soul back and realizes that the talent was inside her all the while?
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Sep 13, 2012 23:18
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Genital Exchange: Not Really What You Thought It Was Going To Be Based Upon the First Part of the Title, But Still Pretty Interesting
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Sep 13, 2012 23:20
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Could I get an ETA on the deadline? Checking SA from my phone* so timezone conversions are a nightmare. *HTC Firefly. Runs Android. Iphone is for chumps.
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Sep 13, 2012 23:22
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Y Kant Ozma Post posted:Genital Exchange: Not Really What You Thought It Was Going To Be Based Upon the First Part of the Title, But Still Pretty Interesting Now there's a prompt. SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Could I get an ETA on the deadline? Checking SA from my phone* so timezone conversions are a nightmare. 28ish hours.
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Sep 13, 2012 23:26
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:*HTC Firefly. Runs Android. Iphone is for chumps.  HTC Thunderbolt.
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Sep 13, 2012 23:28
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Y Kant Ozma Post posted:I thought I had an idea all ready but I don't like my idea anymore. This prompt is a motherfucker and I don't even know why. I was this close to writing a story about someone trading their riches and fame to the Devil for a soul before I realised that it was a stupid idea.
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Sep 13, 2012 23:54
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sebmojo posted:This prompt is a motherfucker and I don't even know why. I know, ugh, what the gently caress.
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Sep 14, 2012 00:09
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The smell of weakness is like rare strip steak fresh off the cast-iron pan.
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Sep 14, 2012 00:10
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Fanky Malloons posted:I know, ugh, what the gently caress. Seriously agree. Every other prompt I read through had an amazing plan in my head. This one? Drew a blank, I only hope my meagre offering to THUNDERDOME is enough.
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Sep 14, 2012 00:48
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Oh thank god, I thought I was the only one having trouble. It seems so simple at first glance but it's really hard to write something that doesn't sound like a kid's campfire story.
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Sep 14, 2012 00:55
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Oh thank god, I thought I was the only one having trouble. It seems so simple at first glance but it's really hard to write something that doesn't sound like a kid's campfire story. I know, I keep going back to look and the prompt and wondering "Is it right? Am I going to bring shame upon myself, and dishonour to my ancestors if I write this?" 
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Sep 14, 2012 01:02
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sebmojo posted:This prompt is a motherfucker and I don't even know why. I made the mistake of crowing about my love of horror so now I feel compelled to do something that's not totally lovely. I also need to write a little bit of a memorial piece for a friend tonight (maybe, possibly) so my head's going to be in a weird place when I sit down to do the thunderdome stuff...
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Sep 14, 2012 01:07
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I am currently doing Olympic gods in the style of Cormac McCarthy and despite its horror I do not now how or when this path grabbed me and dragged me to these unfathomable depths of such wrongness that neither me nor my friends could see an end in anything but defeat.
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Sep 14, 2012 02:03
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Black Griffon posted:Olympic gods in the style of Cormac McCarthy Oh-Em-Gee, please do. 
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Sep 14, 2012 02:08
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Y Kant Ozma Post posted:I made the mistake of crowing about my love of horror so now I feel compelled to do something that's not totally lovely. I've pretty much done the opposite so I guess the pressure is off. Either that or I'll lose points for it. All the points. Either way.
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Sep 14, 2012 02:13
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Black Griffon posted:I am currently doing Olympic gods in the style of Cormac McCarthy and despite its horror I do not now how or when this path grabbed me and dragged me to these unfathomable depths of such wrongness that neither me nor my friends could see an end in anything but defeat. Dammit, mine also involves gods and sports, albeit lesser known ones (the Gods, not the sport). Post yours soon so I can make sure mine isn't somehow exactly the same 
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Sep 14, 2012 02:19
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The Photograph Words: 922 David grew up without a mother and an overworked father. A fire had claimed his home, his mother and all of his possessions. David now lived in a small apartment with small photograph of his mother and an overwhelming feeling that his father secretly resented him. Playing hookey was how David spent most of his time, running through the cobblestone streets of Old Town Boston. Nearly slipping, David came to a halt on the dew-wet sidewalk. His face pig-nosed as he pressed it up against the glass window of a storefront. Fighting with his mittens, he grabbed his one-pocket wallet and pulled the weathered picture of his mother out and stared. In a frame of the shop was a large, pristine version of the one he had in his hand. He kept looking back and forth between them. They were the same, no doubt about it. Door chimes twinkled and crashed as he rushed into the store, pointing at the frame. A middle aged man, wearing a white collared shirt and mottled green-red sweater vest looked up at him uninterested. David pointed eagerly at the frame in the window and showed the photo to the man at the desk. The shopkeep raised his eyebrows, stuck out his chin and nodded. “Twenty dollars,” said the man. David’s face fell. He emptied his wallet onto the counter, three dollars and 16 cents. The shopkeep shook his head. David pleaded and begged. The shopkeeper just shook his head again. “I can’t sell an empty frame.” David put the frame back and began to trudge out of the store. “Wait,” the man said. Under the table, the man pulled out an old camera. “I have one shot left.” David smiled wide until he heard the sound of the bulb and was blinded by the flash. “Come back tomorrow.” Running home David could barely contain himself. He wanted to tell his father. He wanted to see his father smile again. But when he got home, his father was asleep on the recliner in the dark, the television illuminating him in blue light. David would wait until tomorrow when he had the picture. Stretched on his bed, David envisioned going to the store and getting the photograph and running home. Sometimes in his imagination the wind would catch the photograph, and he’d chase it all over Old Town, over puddles, through wrought-iron fences, before he’d finally get it back. Other times a bully would steal it and he’d use his wits to get it back. But they all ended the same, as the sun set he’d come home and show it to his Dad. His Dad would stare at it and run a hand over the picture before a tear would come to his eye. He’d stand and pull David into his body with a giant hug that would last until they were both out of tears. On the mantle the picture would go, in a brand new frame, to remind them that David’s Mom was always there, watching them. That was how David fell asleep that night. A yellow bus zoomed by, splashing a puddle as it left the stop. David stepped out of the bushes and watched it go with a smile. Turning around he ran all the way back to the shop, bursting through the front door like he did the day before. The shopkeep saw him and held up a hand while he went to the back. Producing a picture the same size as the frame, he handed it to David. David looked at the picture of himself, beaming wide, showing a thumbs up. David was careful to hold back his desire to just tear the frame apart to get at the picture of his mother. He undid the fasteners, pulling the backing out of the frame and pulling the photograph out. Gently, he slid the photograph of himself into the frame and sealed it back up. Placing it right where he found it, he saluted the shopkeep, who had a warm smile on his face. Clutching the photograph of his mother he ran out into the street and back home. He didn’t care if his father would be mad at him for skipping school, not after he saw this picture. Every so often David would look down at his smiling mother and pull it close again to his chest, making sure it would not get stolen by a stray gust of wind or oversized lout. Slightly disappointed his trip was uneventful, he charged up the steps to his brick apartment building. His keys did not fit. He tried each and everyone to no avail. He stopped and looked around, not recognizing the street he was on. The buildings were unfamiliar and their numbers hidden. Thinking he must have made a wrong turn he ran down the street, taking lefts and rights looking for a landmark, something he could recognize. Dead-ends, cul de sacs, roundabouts and empty trolley stops passed by as he ran down each street. He stopped and looked around, nothing he had seen he remembered. He looked down at his mother, still smiling, and he felt okay, safe. Looking back up he couldn’t remember which direction he had come from, so he picked a new one and continued to run, peeking at the photograph every so often. David kept running even after the street lamps had turned on and his breath had turned to fog. He had to show his Dad, they all had to be together again. **** This is probably the third version, and I really wanted something sub-500 words, and I thought I'd get it on this try, but to no avail.
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Sep 14, 2012 02:28
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Could I get an ETA on the deadline? Checking SA from my phone* so timezone conversions are a nightmare. I use http://www.thetimenow.com/est/eastern_standard_time on the blackberry (and the blackberry phone is absolutely awful but our firm insists on it) to get the time and calculate from there. Would that help? I originally had the idea, since "exchange" was so arbitrary, to write a Twilight fanfiction, except instead the vampire is a ghost, and the ghost is a girl, and instead of being in Spoons it would be at the New York Stock Exchange. Then I realised I didn't know what the NYSE even looked like, I have never read lesbian chick lit, and I never met a ghost. All my ideas, a house of broken promises 
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Sep 14, 2012 02:43
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Yeah OK. (Edited because the spacing looked a lot nicer in Word.) Exactly 1000 words including title More Small Than Medium I’ll never forget the day I met Sarah. It was about two in the morning on Saturday and I had just been thrown from the top level of a multilevel carpark. I had heard it said that when you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes. Well, I had my eyes open the whole way down, and all I saw was concrete. When I became aware of myself again, there she was, going through my pockets. Well, not my pockets anymore, but my crumpled and broken body’s. She stood up. “Rufus Jones, I presume?” “What? I mean yeah, but how did you..?” She held up my bloodstained wallet. “Had some ID on you. Now I expect you have some kind of unfinished business that is keeping you around here; that’s usually how it works. I’m Sarah, by the way.” Yeah. Yeah I did. I just nodded and said “Grab my shoes as well, I reckon they’ll come in handy.” “Glad to see you’re taking the scavenging of your corpse relatively well” she said as she took my shoes off. “Some folk get upset by that for some reason.” My shoes along with my wallet and watch, which was stopped at a couple minutes before two, went into her handbag.” I shrugged. “No time to get upset by little things like that,” I said “this unfinished business you spoke of has a time limit.” Actually, I was more impressed than upset. I didn’t even seem to have a sense of smell anymore, and just looking at my corpse was enough to make me glad I also didn’t have a stomach anymore. “OK, we’d better scram” I said. “Tyrone’s not gonna want to leave witnesses. If you’ve got my keys there we can take my bike.” “Yeah, that’s one option” she said. My bike was easy to find; there were not many bikes parked along the street at two in the morning. She didn’t hop on, though; she opened the fuel tank and stuffed in one end of what I recognised as part of my shirt. Taking a lighter from her handbag, she lit my shirt and said “OK, now we run.” So we ran, but I also told her “OK, now that’s a little upsetting. There was no need to destroy my bike.” She shrugged. “Those things are dangerous. Now, you said something about a time limit.” “I have to make a drop. Glad I didn’t trust Tyrone to take the package.” “So I guess we need to pick up whatever the package is, first?” “No, you’ve got it already. We gotta go to the corner of Drake and South, although it would be easier to get there quickly if we had a bike or something.” She ignored my pointed comment. “Don’t worry, I know these streets pretty well, we’ll be there in no time.” I didn’t recognise most of the streets or alleys we ran down, and I thought I knew this part of the city well. I don’t know how she was able to run the whole way; if I’d still had lungs or whatever I’m sure they would’ve been spent, but she just kept going until we got there. “So. This package. What is it?” “Take out the inner soles on my shoes” I said. “Need to drop the envelopes you’ll find into the mailbox here.” That done, I said “We’ve probably just got a few minutes before they show up; we’d better make ourselves scarce.” She shook her head. “Not on your life. Sorry, figure of speech. But this is too intriguing; I’m hanging around to see what happens.” An alleyway opposite the mailbox had a conveniently placed dumpster, and into this she dropped. Seeing my face she said “Don’t worry, you don’t need to climb in here, they won’t see you anyway – trust me on this one. What was in the envelopes, anyway?” “Money. We just paid a ransom.” “Didn’t feel thick enough to be much of a ransom.” I didn’t answer, because James had just arrived, with Tyrone behind him. “I don’t know why we’re bothering” said Tyrone. “I didn’t hear a thing from Rufus, he’s obviously scarpered with the ransom. Let’s just kill the boy and mount his body on a telegraph pole.” James shook his head. “There’s not quite as much money in child killing, Tyrone. Rufus has never let us down before, let’s just check the mailbox.” Tyrone shook his head as James checked the mail. Tyrone stared in disbelief as James came up with the two envelopes. “Impossible! There’s no way he could’ve made the drop!” “Something you want to tell me, Tyrone?” asked James. His hand was at his pistol, but Tyrone didn’t seem to notice the warning signs. “I killed that fool! He couldn’t have made the drop!” The pistol was out, and too late Tyrone realised his error. “Hate to say this, Tyrone, but I’m afraid our business association must come to an end now. I wondered why you specifically wanted to kidnap your ex’s son.” Tyrone opened his mouth to talk, but James filled it with a bullet, then turned and left. After a few minutes to make sure the coast was clear, Sarah climbed out and jogged over to the fresh corpse. I followed, and when I got there she was kneeling at his corpse – she didn’t seem to be going through his pockets, though. I couldn’t see what she’d been doing, but she explained as I arrived. “I’m just binding him to me so I’m the only one who can see or hear him. You’ll find you’re free to go, by the way.” “What?” It was true. I was fading. As my spirit faded, his appeared. She stood up and said “Tyrone Parkes, I presume?” “What?” he asked, then saw the wallet in her hand. “Yes! You’ve gotta help me avenge my murder!” I’ll never forget the last words I heard her say, either. “I don’t gotta do a drat thing.”
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Sep 14, 2012 03:41
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loving preview. Anyone else is an automatic disqualify. You loving children. Edit: Everyone behind this post gets a pass to edit their poo poo for spacing and punctuation. I've got all the windows open to check for word and grammar changes. Just submit it in a readable format. Check out a goddamned style book if you need to. Anyone else that I catch for a second dropping bad format is automatically disqualified. Just hit the preview button and see it for yourself.
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Sep 14, 2012 04:04
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Holy Zeus and his holy loving anus, are some of you new to the concept that POSTS on SOMETHING AWFUL look different than DOCUMENTS in MICROSOFT WORD? This poo poo better stop I swear to God
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Sep 14, 2012 04:09
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Apparently I've been conscripted to help my parents move tomorrow. It's been that sort of week. poo poo, I'll be happy to see the end of moving trucks. What that means is I've lost the morning I was planning to do my third and final round of editing and you all get my entry a few hours early. Here I am, on a sunny Friday afternoon, working on Thunderdome when I could be at the beach. I hope y'all are happy. Also, we need another silly prompt. These last few weeks have been too loving morbid by half. Rota Fortunae They take children there at low tide, to dig holes and play seaweed tag and the like. There’s the occasional dead fish to teach them about the circle of life and scare each other with. Whoever holds the fish, rules the beach. Qui audit adipiscitur. The sand is damp, golden and perfect for castles. The little kings and queens will cherish these days forever. By the break of high tide, the place is deserted. Noone wants to be around when the water sucks down through the hole in the rocks and screams (screams) like a nameless thing that’s just discovered lungs but has long known rage. Someone could get caught in the flow, dragged under and bashed against the rocks until their bones are powder and their guts are cat food, until their brains leak red-grey out a fountain in their skull and the little fish that dare come this close feast like little kings. Qui audit adipiscitur. Kapai. Fortuna imperiatrix mundi! Avast dog, you’ve pissed on my leg. Bought the bumper sticker, rode the water slide. There’s not a thing that lives there, any more than there’s a thing that keeps protons shaking or blue eyes blue, in that there might be but I fear the answer. The old folks called it a Taniwha. Aye, rock dragon who guards the old water, who keeps the tapu places tapu. White folks called him dragon but that’s a fresh new word for rotten old bones. Taniwha don’t breathe fire, he breathes love. He loves so much that any who touch his water are savages, thieves. He drags them down and feeds them to the sea, to keep his beloved wet-wife happy. He polishes her teeth with their floating bones. What can a body say to that? Not much. Kapai. Enoho ra. You’re hosed, fulla. Your seed will go in no woman (the sea-wife is no woman, oh no) and your eyes will go white while the brave little fish pick you to pieces. It’s a good thing that Taniwha loves his wet-wife with such fury, he and all his brothers. She is fat, she is greedy and along some coasts she is not so well loved. In some places, she lashes out and takes (takes) and they put up signs about currents but it’s no use. After all, they’re trying to turn the tide. Some old folk know and they know when it’s their time, so they clamber up the rocks at high tide and walk gentle into the dark water to have their skulls bashed open ‘cos by that point they’re beyond caring. A lover’s arms are not a bad place to rest. Before they go, they tell their kids about the hole in the rock where the Taniwha lives, and it only fully sinks in seventy-odd years later when the sandcastles have been swept away, when their bones hurt and their guts hurt ‘cos the pills don’t work no more and they slip out in the dead of night to catch the break of high tide and slip on a wife-wet rock and the little fishes feast like kings. Qui audit adipiscitur. A little red grease to keep the wheels turning. Fortuna imperiatrix mundi. Kaipa. Enoho Ra. A lover’s arms are as good a place as any.
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Sep 14, 2012 05:18
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Also, I know I'm not allowed to give out bonus points but I want to show off, so Martello or someone might give bonus points to the first person to name the cantata I'm riffing off. He probably won't but you'll feel really smart and all the ladies (and/or men) will love you.
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Sep 14, 2012 05:24
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Also, we need another silly prompt. These last few weeks have been too loving morbid by half. The Numan prompt was meant to be silly. It's not my fault people didn't decide to take it that way. < >Executive Order: Next week your main character must wear a silly hat, toupee, or full wig, regardless of context or what the judges come up with for a prompt. I won't be judging because I'll be on vacation, but that doesn't matter. I want to see ridiculous headgear. NO FEDORAS.
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Sep 14, 2012 05:40
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This is probably a terrible idea and going for gross-out horror is probably going make me lose/get an actually legit embarrassing avatar, but oh well. Sorry if this offends anyone. Lasting More Than Four Hours – 553 words Nathan Cook carefully recited the strange Greek and Latin words that witch had taught him, and ritually slit the donkey’s throat. Nothing happened immediately, besides a big sticky mess of blood on the floor of his basement. He started to feel a bit silly, wearing the toga and holding the lotus plant in his other hand. “It appears I’ve been made the fool,” the elderly Bostonian muttered to himself. “Fools aren’t made, they’re born,” came a deep rumbling voice behind him. The esteemed Mister Cook turned with a start, panicking and wondering exactly how he would explain the heathen ritual to the intruder. His hurried excuse died on his lips as soon as he saw the… thing. It looked like a man, but exceedingly hideous. Its eyes were dim and drooping, nearly hidden beneath a sloped brow. His nose was wide, with bristly hairs sticking out like wires. Its mouth was too small for its face, and its teeth were a crooked mess of yellow daggers. It stood hunched over, with gangly arms that nearly brushed the floor. Mister Cook wasn’t looking at the horrible thing’s face, however. His attention was drawn to the more immediate issue of the large, turgid member that jutted out between the creature’s legs obscenely. He stared at it, transfixed. The Prick – it could be described no other way but by the most vulgar word Mister Cook knew – was as hideous as its owner, covered with weeping sores and slowly dripping a foul-smelling discharge. He saw it twitch, as if it knew it was being watched. It was lewdly over-sized, like the genitals of a syphilitic mule. “Are… are you a demon?” whispered Cook, as he slowly sunk to his knees in horror. The man-creature chuckled, and shook its head. “I am not so Abrahamic, no. I am a god of the more… classical type. And you are a pathetic old man who lacks the virility to bed even his devoted wife, and far too proud to ask the advice of learned scholars. Luckily,” it pointed to The Prick, “that issue is well within my domain.” “Dear God protect me.” “I’m afraid he doesn’t have much to say on your current issue. The fact remains, you have summoned me here to restore your manhood, lest you become the cuckold of your younger bride. I am quite happy to oblige. It’s not often that I am sacrificed an rear end these days, especially one as fine as this. Your prayer has been answered, though I must warn you that my blessing is also my curse.” “Then I am cured?” Cook reached down to fumble with the belt of his pants. “Not yet. There is one more task required for my benefit, one I doubt you will enjoy. Barbatis non nisi summa petet.” Cook remembered enough of his school boy Latin to understand what was required. Choking back bile, he nodded his head in agreement. “…leaving the city marshals with scant clues to explain the series of events that led to this point. At this moment, all is known is that Mrs. Nathan Cook and four other women have been hospitalized for extreme exhaustion, while Mr. Nathan Cook of Boston has died of what examiners described as acute and severe priapism of a bizarre nature.”
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Sep 14, 2012 06:08
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