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Enough dickthumping about your stupid degrees, get with a new prompt.
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Oct 30, 2012 00:12
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I'm in.
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Oct 30, 2012 21:02
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I'm at an exhibitor booth all day at a comic con selling stuff, so my entry might be late. Deal.
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Nov 3, 2012 20:42
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Damnit. I was at Long Beach Comic Con with no internet. If it can get to 700, it will, if not I'll just post it anyway.
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Nov 4, 2012 06:27
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Shu'up losertar. This was originally 1230, but so goes Thunderdome. I'm not sure I'm happy with it. The Flood Words: 700 Twelve days. Twelve days since they had been stranded on the roof. “No more food,” Great Uncle Zederiah said. Skinny Britches and his mama, Jolene, just nodded. The three sat on the roof staring at the water that surrounded them. Buck, the dog, barked and jumped in. “Buck, get back here you stupid dog!” Skinny Britches shouted. The dog was gone, swimming off into the distance. “Stupid dog.” Zederiah just watched. Jolene paced back and forth, ranting to herself. She had started talking to herself after three days. In her hands was a glass pipe. Then the mosquitoes came. Skinny tried to hide in the second floor of the house, but the wood groaned from the pressure of the water on the outside, and he could hear cracks and thumps from the outside. The house could give any minute and he would be crushed underneath the water. “Hey! Over here! Hey!” Zederiah shouted. Skinny ran up the stairs to the roof, skipping the third to last. Three men in a boat circled while Zederiah waved his arms in the air. Zed stopped waving slowly. Circling and staring. “gently caress you! gently caress you to hell!” Zed shouted at them. The boat pulled away but the men never stopped staring. Zederiah started to sob silently, and Jolene just kept on talking to herself and turning the pipe over in her hands. Skinny woke up in the middle of the night. Zederiah stood naked on the lip of the roof. “Grunkle, what are you doing?” Skinny asked. Zed whispered to himself. Skinny crawled closer. Zed jumped into the water and swam. “Grunkle!” He could hear his Great Uncle splashing long after he had lost sight of him. The next morning a dead body floated by. It was clothed, but it made Skinny wonder, had Zed made the right choice? Skinny retreated into the second floor to avoid the noonday sun, wary that the walls would close in on him, and he wondered if maybe he should just let it. Coming out top, he saw two boats this time and four men. Jolene was pointing to her pipe, and pointing Skinny out to the men. A creeping numbness went up through his stomach and into his head. He began to feel woozy watching his mother point to him and jabber. One of the men grabbed her by the mouth, and threw her into the boat. A man turned towards Skinny, and pulled out a knife. He waved his partner onto the other boat, and the three men puttered away, Jolene’s screams escaping as they drove away. Clinking, the man undid his belt buckle with one hand. Turning, he scrambled for the stairs down. Only a few feet away, Skinny was tugged to the ground, his chin slamming against the roof. The man had one hand on his ankle and pulled Skinny sharply under him. “Don’t you scream,” the man said, showing Skinny his knife. “Not yet.” Skinny froze as the man grabbed at Skinny’s pants. Skinny shut his eyes and clenched his teeth. He could feel the weight of the man on him, there was no where for him to go. A snarl ripped through the air, and the man was off him. “Buck!” The dog ripped into the man’s arm furiously. He brought his free hand heavily into the dog’s neck. Buck let go, and the man planted a boot into the dog’s side. He turned back to Skinny. “Now you scream.” Skinny ran down the stairs, skipping the third to top step and hid behind a bed and waited. As the man put his weight onto the third step, it snapped, sending him crashing to the bottom. Skinny ran. Racing up the stairs he could hear the house groan and shudder. As he topped the stairs, he felt the house shift. Water broke through the boarded up and sealed windows below, rushing into the house. The walls crumpled, sending the roof going sideways. “Buck lets go!” Buck bounded into the boat, as the roof he had just been in on sank below the water. Skinny cranked the boat motor and turned it in the same direction he saw Zed swim.
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Nov 4, 2012 06:59
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I should have something tonight. Or whenever I feel like it, really.
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Nov 8, 2012 01:18
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I wanted to see if I could put together something in as few words as possible. Internship Words: 450 Sarah sat unbuckled in the driver seat crying. Her forehead pressed against the steering wheel and she watched tears fall onto her legs. Just sitting here, crying, that’s what I’m good for, she thought. A knock came at her driver side window, startling her. Bernice stood there with a piece of paper in her hand. Wiping her eyes really fast, Sarah rolled down her window. “I’m sorry, I just needed—“ “It’s nothing, sweetie. Here,” Bernice said giving Sarah the paper. “Your volunteer hours are all signed for, here and here.” “But, I still have—“ “Don’t you worry about it. If anyone calls, I’ll cover it. But no one’s gonna call, you turn in your paper, you get your credit.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t know—“ “It’s okay, honey. You don’t need to apologize to me. I’ve got to go back inside now, you be safe driving home, okay?” Sarah nodded. She watched Bernice in her scrubs, the floral print top and sea-foam green pants, walk back inside. Envious of Bernice’s composure, she wondered what toll it must have taken on Bernice to be like this. A car pulled up a row and two spots in front of her, near the front of the building. A young man stepped out, and closed the front door. He leaned against the door and ran both hands through his hair. Sarah watched him take a deep breath and shake himself out. Rubbing his face, he turned and opened the back passenger side door. He waited, standing, staring into the back seat. Kneeling down he reached in, futzing around. Finally, he scooped up a salt and pepper furred dog. Sarah could tell it was a mix, probably black lab and a collie she guessed. Tears started to form fresh in her eyes again. The man clutched the dog tightly as it sniffed the air. Rocking back and forth the man buried his face into the dog’s neck and the dog nuzzled the side of the man’s head lightly. He sat down on the sidewalk in front of the building, in front of a handicap space. His dog curled up in his lap, his legs out in front of him, bowed slightly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag full of snacks and one by one, he gently fed them into the dog's mouth. After the bag was gone, the dog licked its lips and settled down its old head. Sarah couldn’t watch anymore, she pulled her sweatshirt hood all the way over her face and tried to collapse into a singularity. Looking up a few minutes later, the man had gone inside. Sarah started her car and rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She pulled out of the parking lot and looked in the rear view mirror once before the shelter drifted out of sight.
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Nov 8, 2012 23:03
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titles count as words in thunderdome.
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Nov 9, 2012 00:52
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Congratulations guys, I got my rejection letter but i was pretty certain that organ harvesting, nazi surgeons was gonna get the axe. Also, I think this shows how good of an idea that weeks thunderdome was, and I really hope that trend can continue.
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Nov 15, 2012 06:21
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Haha, now I'm starting to feel bad for myself and all the other thunderdomers that got rejected.
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Nov 15, 2012 07:03
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Alright, I'm in too.
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Nov 16, 2012 02:03
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Revolution Words: 715 Toby Nugent Jr. was shot. The President was dead. The screams of the crowd still rang in John’s ears as he watched the television cut to a frantic anchorman. John’s hands were pressed together in silent prayer, his nose and mouth buried in the crevice between them. “Oh my god,” he whispered to no one. He leaned forward, as though to get a better view. His wife, Liz, washed the same dish over and over again at the sink. She gulped, listening to the television. “He was right all along,” John said. “They had to shut him up.” Liz looked down at her feet. Duck-footed. She ran a dry tongue over her veneers. “We’re all dead. It’s over.” Her grip tightened in her pink, rubber gloves. The plate cracked, but John didn’t notice. Falling into two pieces, the plate sank slowly into the water. Liz shook her head, and blinked slightly out of unison. Daydreaming of better times. Simpler times. She walked over to the garbage and threw out the dish. ”I broke a dith,” she said. John wasn’t listening. “Where’s my gun? I have to get ammo before those bastards take it all.” “John, pleath,” Liz said. “And what? Just lay down and die?! We’ve got to do something!” John got up and went to the bedroom closet. Liz adjusted a contact in her eye, and looked at her hair in the mirror. The anchorman paused and his eyes widened. “We have just received video evidence of the assassin. America, you must see this,” the anchorman began. Liz looked around quickly for the remote. On the far side of the couch. She darted and grabbed the remote, slamming her finger on the power button. The television stayed on, and she jammed the button again, curling her lip. The Blu-Ray player turned off and on. “What are you doing?” John asked, walking into the living room. “I-I couldn’t hear it,” Liz said. “Look closely, at this footage taken by amateur video from the President’s rally today,” the anchorman continued. Liz put the remote down and moved to the kitchen as John retook his seat, rifle in arms. “This man, figure, no, this thing in the large coat. Produces a weapon, but please, keep in mind this is graphic evidence that must be seen.” John’s hands moved to assemble the bolt-action on the rifle instinctively. Muscle memory guided his every move as his eyes were glued to the television. “You can clearly see this tail, as the creature flees after firing the shots. There is no mistake, America. The hunched figure, the reptilian tail, and President Nugent’s crusade against the Illuminati,” the anchorman said gravely. “I knew it, I loving knew it!” “Clear as day…” Liz’s ears began to hum, and she felt as though her brain had begun to gloss over. She couldn’t hear the television, or John ranting and loading his gun. Her vision began to skew sideways and her mouth salivated. She smelled blood. John shouted into his cell phone and slid his finger across it. “Honey, lock the doors, and no matter what, do not open it for anyone. We’re meeting at the YMCA,” John said, suddenly appearing in front of her. She shook her head, but the smell of blood was strong in her nostrils. She licked the bottoms of her veneers furiously, trying to get to the jagged core. John turned and grabbed a coat from the rack. “No, pleath, John, don’t,” Liz said. John stopped and turned to her. “John, I’m thcared.” And there she was. Her arms wrapped across her shoulders. John looked at his wife and the adrenaline seemed to ooze out of him. His muscles relaxed, and he leaned his rifle against the wall. Liz sank down onto the couch, and began to sob. Streaks of acidic, ozone-smelling tears made green chasms through her makeup coated face. John sat down next to her and breathed deeply. Pulling her in close, she buried her face into his chest. The tears seeped through his t-shirt and irritated his skin. He put a hand on the back of her head and rubbed, shifting the wig back and forth. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” John said. “I know you’re one of the good ones, don’t you worry about that, dear.”
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Nov 17, 2012 01:18
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Stop with the loving haikus. Jesus christ.
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Nov 20, 2012 00:43
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What sadistic teacher has a lab exam the day before thanksgiving?
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Nov 20, 2012 23:34
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Here's a list of the winners: 1: Sitting Here 2:Budgieinspector 3:Sebmojo 4:Toanaradian 5:Nyarai 6:SurreptitiousMuffin 7:Budgieinspector 8:Y Kant Ozma Post 9:Sebmojo 10:Sitting Here 11:Jeza 12:Fanky Malloons 13:Toaster Beef 14:Sitting Here 15:LordEarlVonDuke Also, so what's the threshold of stories needed before these finally get bundled and together and thrown into a compilation that goons can purchase? Seems like a natural progression for this to take. If no one wants to volunteer to do this, I can start compiling them into a nice looking PDF. Not sure exactly what is required to convert it over to e-reader format, but I suppose I could look into it. sebmojo posted:One that's in Ireland, where the only holidays are Guinness Thursday and Christmas? What a terrible, deprived country.
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Nov 21, 2012 00:02
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If you would like to, for sure. The effort is mainly to sit down in with InDesign and Illustrator and make the layout and design really nice. The text is just bingo-bango plop it in. 15 short stories seems like a good stopping point. I'll start drafting up some mock ups. When I know how the design will look, I'll put a deadline to have stories edited by, or I'll copy/paste right from the thread. This is of course, with all the permissions of each winner. Going through with the project would require contracts, rights, and all that jazz.
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Nov 21, 2012 02:39
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There will also be the issue of intent of the publication. Is it going to be distributed for free or pay and if so how much? Is it going to be a nice, crisp, colorful .pdf, or will it be formatted for an e-reader? Who is publishing it (the entity, existing or a new one to be created)? Of this publication, someone needs to have propriety over it. For the authors of the short stories, you are foregoing submitting these same stories to other publications. I would suggest for multiple time winners, you might want to diversify. Choose the one you want to feature, and then shop the others around. Or save it for another compilation. I don't want to step on anyone's toes or cross any boundaries, since this thread bloomed from Martello, ESB and Stuporstar's infected phalli. They have first dibs on essentially being Editor-in-Chief of such a publication.
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Nov 21, 2012 03:03
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It's my opinion that the writers should be paid for their work, even if they only churned it out in a matter of days. I also feel as though the stories should be able to stand sans their prompts. A good story is a good story, regardless of why the story was written. It seems the thunderdome founders have this covered, but if anyone needs help with InDesign or some layout stuff, I'm always free.
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Nov 21, 2012 07:46
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I feel like I'm missing something from my writing that's going to keep it from getting better. I would like to achieve better results, but there's something extra that I am lacking. Does any judge, winner or other writer noticed anything from my entries that I seem to misstep on?
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Nov 22, 2012 07:03
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Thank you for the replies. I will really try to push myself harder when self-editing.
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Nov 22, 2012 22:53
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I'll get in on this. This has been my sole writing motivation the last couple of months, I have no excuse to not do this.
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Nov 23, 2012 22:37
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Small Details Words: 710 “Right here, right here is good,” Max said, setting up a tripod. In the middle of a busy sidewalk, Max started filming while his friends Joey and Natalie did their best to not be noticed. “Max, come on man, we’re in everyone’s way,” Joey said, getting pushed by a woman walking out of Victoria’s Secret. “Don’t start, I need all the footage to set the scene. Without it, it’s not New York enough, it’s just some random city.” “Hey, you, you can’t be filming here,” said a cop on the corner. “The gently caress I can’t,” Max said, straightening up. Two men in jackets came up behind Max. One of them reached for the camera. “Hey, what the gently caress!” Joey stepped forward, realizing the men hadn’t seen him or Natalie. Natalie grabbed his arm at the last second and shook her head. “Give me the camera,” the original cop said. Max wrenched the camera away, and Joey saw him pop the SD card out deftly. One of the men grabbed Max by the shoulders and kicked the back of his knees. Another man grabbed the camera as he placed a knee into Max’s back. Max flicked the SD card towards Joey before his arm was wrenched behind his back. Joey stepped forward, placing his foot over the SD card. “Hey, what’s going on here,” Joey said. “Nothing, move along,” the cop said, squaring up to Joey and flashing his badge. Joey nodded, and when the man turned around, he quickly knelt down and scooped up the SD card. Joey and Natalie melted into the crowd as the men turned the camera over, pawing at buttons and clasps. “Holy poo poo,” Natalie said, plopping herself into the passenger seat. “What do we do?” Joey asked. “Tell his Dad, wait for a phone call?” “I guess so,” Joey said, starting the car. They heard the explosion from several blocks away. The car rattled and shook, and for a moment everything was silent. Car alarms warbled through the screams. Joey looked down at the SD card and looked at Natalie with wide eyes. *** “I don’t know what I’m even supposed to be looking for,” Joey said, playing and replaying the video. “You’ve been at this for two days, there might not be anything,” Natalie said, sitting in bed. The phone rang. Joey picked it up. “Are you okay?” He said. “Jesus. Really? Okay. Yeah. I do. Yeah.” He put the phone down. Tapped on the keyboard several times and popped the SD card out of his computer. “Make a copy of this video,” Joey said. He grabbed his keys and put on a jacket. At a corner a mile away, Joey saw Max wearing the same clothes he was when he was grabbed the police. “Do you have the SD card? There’s something really important on there I have to see,” Max said. He had bags under his eyes, and he looked worn down. His hair matted to his head with grease and the street lamps made him look jaundiced. Joey nodded and handed him the card. A gray sedan screeched around the corner pulling up next to them. Joey stood still as Max walked to the back door and opened it. He mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” and the car peeled away. 34th Street replayed over and over in Joey’s head as he walked back home. What was he missing, he wondered. Something was on that footage, something he was missing. Stepping onto the darkened porch he paused. He had left the lights on when he left. He heard thumping from upstairs and took off running. Natalie sat at the computer chair thrashing at the plastic bag wrapped around her face. A man in all black leaned into the choke, tilting the chair backwards. Joey grabbed a lamp and bashed the man over the back of the head, again and again. Natalie ripped the bag off her head with a deep gasp. Joey kept hitting the man until the black mask held just a red pile of mush. “Oh god, oh god,” Natalie panted. Joey wrapped his arms around her and pulled her head into his chest. “Pack a bag, now. We’re putting this online right now, and then we disappear.”
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Nov 26, 2012 04:59
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I'll throw in.
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Dec 5, 2012 00:46
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Benagain posted:"Paul," said Caprice, striding towards him heavily, "I'm going to slam into you because of inertia and the fact that I'm preggo with your baby." I will not steal that. I am looking forward to our competition, and hope that the challenge can bring out the best in both of our stories.
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Dec 6, 2012 10:46
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Guilt Words: 1625 Paul crossed his left leg over his right and shook his foot. The leather of his Steve Maddens was still tight, giving the back of his foot a blister. Caprice stood there, periodically looking between her shoes and at Paul’s unbuttoned neckline. She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Paul just reclined in his office chair and rapped his fingers along the hardcover book he had been reading. “Why are you so shocked to see me? Your wife isn’t home,” Caprice said. “Because you’re dead,” Paul said, uncrossing his legs. “I don’t believe you. I remember the things you used to tell me.” “I didn’t say ‘dead to me,’ I said dead. As in I wrapped my hands around your throat and watched your pretty green eyes roll into the back of your head.” Caprice stared at her feet. Placing his hands on his knees, Paul pushed himself up off the office chair. “And then, while you were still pliable, I stuffed you into a garbage bag, and put you in my trunk.” Stepping closer to Caprice, Paul leaned in to her neck and took a deep breath. Lilac. Grimacing, he straightened back up and looked Caprice over again. Deep bruises lined her neck, with a slight cut on her right side where his wedding band had pinched the skin. “It’s okay, I forgive you for trying to kill me, I know you still love me,” Caprice said, slowly turning her bag back and forth. “Then I drove you out to the new suburb development, and I dug a real deep hole, and I tossed your used up, worthless piece of poo poo body in and buried you real nice.” “It wasn’t deep enough, but that’s I guess that’s nothing new for you,” Caprice said smirking. Paul’s hands shot up, grasping her face, placing his thumbs over her eyes. His nostrils flared wide, and he took a deep breath. Slowly, he returned his hands to his side and laughed. “You’re a hallucination. A manifestation of stress, and probably the Ambien. Nothing more.” “Have you been losing sleep over me? That’s so sweet.” Paul ignored her. Returning to his seat he looked at his notepad. Groceries to buy. Bills to pay. Journals to submit to. A skinny arm reached around his seat back, a warm hand sliding into his open shirt. His chest hairs tingled and his skin goosebumped over at the suddenness of the touch, but he didn’t react. A finger circled his right nipple slowly. “Let’s just go, the two of us. We can leave it all behind.” “Still on about that, are you?” Caprice spun the chair around so he could face her as she bent close. Thick blood vessels tinged her whites, threatening to swallow the pupils whole. “None of it matters, your wife, your patients,” Caprice said. Paul sighed, growing impatient. “All those rejection letters.” “Ha!” Paul jumped to his feet, startling Caprice. “These only came in after you died. You’ve given yourself away, so please leave me alone now. I have work to do.” “If the writing was anything like that novel you keep working on, rejection was a foregone conclusion. Just let it go, and lets get out of here.” Paul reached up to her and caressed her head. Letting his head tilt slantways, his eyes widened. Grabbing a handful of hair, he pulled Caprice down by his ribs. “You want to go somewhere? I know where we can go!” Dropping her purse, Caprice clumsily clomped after Paul as he stormed to the garage. Wrenching open the door to his sedan, Paul threw Caprice forcefully into the passenger seat. Paul slammed the door closed, and was halfway to the driver’s seat before he stopped. Taking a deep breath, Paul went back into the house. Coming back he held the notepad in his hand, and got into the car. “Groceries,” he said, smiling. “Don’t want to make wifey upset,” Caprice said, returning his smile. Paul glowered as he put the car in reverse. “Why are you taking me grocery shopping?” “Oh you won’t be here for that. You’re just a minor inconvenience. A test of willpower.” “Maybe you could write a paper on willing mental illness away,” Caprice said. The leather on the steering wheel creaked as Paul tightened his grip. “You’re right, it’d probably get rejected too,” Caprice said, looking out the window. Paul pressed harder on the gas. “We’re going to the lovely grave I buried you in, so you can see what the worms have done to your precious face,” Paul gloated. “lovely? Do you put as much effort into your digging as your lovemaking?” “Just wait. Oh just wait.” Paul’s sedan raced through the half-built suburban neighborhood. Only the first few houses of the subdivision had actually been built and put on the market, the rest of the neighborhood was just a mud clearing when the development company went bankrupt. At the end of a winding, flat road came a cul-de-sac. Paul slowed down, but kept going as he hopped the sloped curb and drove into the mud. “I didn’t get to see this place in the day, very bleak,” Caprice noted. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” Paul said, putting the car in park. Popping the trunk, Paul opened the door and stepped out into the soft ground. The heels of his leather shoes sank into the dirt, the instability irritating the back of his feet. He regret not changing into sneakers and socks as he retrieved the same shovel he used the first time he was here. Caprice followed Paul as he used the shovel as a walking stick. Paul looked around, looking for the spot he picked the last time he was here. After circling the area for several minutes, he picked a place and began to shovel. After several shovels, he took his sport coat off, and thought about returning to the car. “I can hold that for you,” Caprice said. Paul paused, but handed it over cautiously. Caprice folded it over her arms and pulled it close to her chest as she watched. The back of his feet stung as sweat crept into open sores. His leather shoes were caked in mud, and the ends of his pants were soaked in due and perspiration. Deep, moist stains formed at the pits of his shirt. Looking at his watch, he frowned and hurried his pace. “You’re not gonna find me down there,” Caprice said. “You shut your mouth. Just shut your loving mouth,” Paul said pointing at her. Paul dug deeper, and deeper, the pit now was above his head. He was now piling the dirt at the end of the hole, so that he had a step to pull himself out of the wet dirt. Every so often, dirt from the piles on the surface would slide back into the pit. Paul would curse as sweat poured into his eyes, but he remained silent every time he heard Caprice giggle. “You’re just wasting your time. Everything you need is right here already,” she said. Dirt slid into the hole, landing on his shoulder. “gently caress!” he shouted. He looked up at Caprice, waiting for her to say a snide comment. The towering sides of the hole seemed to stretch much further than he remembered. Caprice shrugged and smiled at him. She seemed so far above him now. Paul sneered and returned to digging. The shovel thumped against something solid. He smiled and began to dig around the mass. Brushing away dirt, he revealed the familiar plastic yard trash bag he buried Caprice in. Tearing open the bag, he pulled out decaying scraps of the white dress she had been wearing that day. “See, you stupid bitch, do you see now?!” Paul kept brushing dirt away until he got to her head, mostly skull and hair. He stood triumphant holding the skull with an entire hand. Palming it like a basketball it seemed so small to him. He looked to the top of the grave, at the walls towering above him. Caprice was gone. Laughing to himself he made his way to the mound that served as his stepping stone. Slipping on the loose dirt, he fell back into the hole, landing on top of Caprice’s skeletal body. Dirt from the pile above the grave started to slide back into the grave again. Paul scrambled back to his feet, throwing himself at the edge of the hole. He threw the skull over the lip, and began to claw his way up, his leather oxfords slipping through the soft dirt. Larger clods began to fall as the side of the hole started to come loose. With a final surge, he hauled himself to the top of the grave, and breathed a sigh of relief. Standing to look, the grave was more shallow than he thought. The dirt he thought had collapsed in on him was barely a crumble, the depth of the grave hardly above waist height. He looked at Caprice’s skull in his hands and grimaced. Turning, he made his way back to his sedan. Staring at the skull he began mulling ideas over in his head for new articles. He sucked his teeth and looked up, locking eyes with a police officer who was standing near his car. Paul froze and the police officer both froze. Caprice’s skull fell onto the ground and the officer hunched and unholstered his firearm. Paul vision began to twist and a buzz filled his ears. Sinking to his knees, he couldn’t even hear the officer shouting, but he knew what to do. Paul put his hands behind his head and slowly laid himself down into the mud. He looked over at Caprice lying next to him. She was smiling.
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Dec 7, 2012 10:24
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Martello posted:Hey guys, did you know I like to post in FYAD? Because I do. Let me tell you more about how I like to post in FYAD. FYAD guys.
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Dec 8, 2012 11:28
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Fusion Words: 450 Rob slumped over the podium, crumpling the blank reservation list. “Hoo-wee!” James said, walking out of the bathroom. Rob would have been mad if there were actually customers to hear him. James walked gingerly over to Rob, pale and perspiring slightly. ”Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here,” James said taking off his jacket. “It’s fine. It’s the optimal 65 degrees for a restaurant,” Rob said straightening up, smoothing out the reservation list. “Man, it’s 8pm, prime eating time, why are we always so dead?” “Did you do all the ad stuff we talked about?” “Yeah! I bought tons of Facebook ads, we should be blowing up,” James said, breathing heavily. He sat down on the ergonomic waiting chairs and winced. Smooth jazz piped in at the perfectly researched volume levels drifted through the empty restaurant. Slices of raw chicken lay across a chilled cutting board, next to tubs of rice and proprietary sauce recipes. “Do you think it’s the name?” Rob asked. “There is nothing wrong with our name, it’s a perfect blend of-“ “Southern soul fusion, I know, I know. I just don’t know about So-So-Sushi. It kind of sounds, not as good?” “Hey, come on. We made a decision, we just have to stick—“ James paused and put a hand on his stomach. He shook his mostly empty bottle of water a little, before holding up a finger and scooting back to the bathroom. Rob looked around the empty restaurant and sighed. Sanosuke, the sushi chef, leaned heavily in a corner of his cooking station with his face buried in his hands. He seemed to be shuddering slightly. “Oh hell, is Sookie crying? I can barely understand the little guy as it is,” James said coming back from the bathroom. “I don’t know what he has to be sad about, his food is delicious!” James knocked on the counter near Sanosuke and held up two fingers. Sanosuke gave him a pained look. “Dos,” James mouthed. Sanosuke moaned quietly as he began to roll up some rice. “I just don’t know what to do,” Rob said. “Nothing, man, we’ve done everything right. Every minute detail researched. Layout, menus, temperature, furniture, paint color, everything!” “That’s what doesn’t make any sense,” Rob said. Sanosuke draped the uncooked chicken strips across the top of the rice ball and drizzled a soy sauce gastrique over the pieces of sashimi. James popped one into his mouth and chewed quickly, a tiny bit of liquid dribbled out of the corner of his lip. He closed his eyes and smiled. Rob pouted slightly. “What do you want me to say?” James asked, picking up the second piece. “I mean, it’s the economy, there’s nothing we can do about that.”
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Dec 10, 2012 00:17
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Dec 17, 2012 03:57
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 A Mother's Love Words: 530 “Tell me Mrs. Murray, what are you going to do now?” A news reporter asked. “I just want to see me kids,” Sadie said, looking confused from a hospital bed. Sadie looked down at the phallic remote control, with its vast array of buttons, trying to find the pause. No familiar sound of the VCR grinding, just a perfectly frozen image of herself, every wrinkle, every gray hair perfectly intact. The TV even had titles, like the old TV Guide channel, “Mysterious World: Woman Wakes from Co...” stretched across the bottom. She placed the remote back on the coffee table. Only the TV illuminated the darkened room. Inside the mostly vacant house, she sat. Physical therapy to repair her sleep ravaged muscles was her main physical interaction with the outside world. Looking around the room she moved to the kitchen. Walking was doable, but exhausted her, and she made sure the movers had put plenty of chairs in each room. This was not the house she and her husband had bought, that had been sold, to help combat the rising hospital bills. “I wish you would have died,” Marshall, her son had said at her husband’s funeral. She picked up the phone and sat down. Moving to grab and pull the coiled cord with her, she grabbed air. Everything had been like yesterday. “I knew she would wake up all along,” Geoff Murray said, leaning into a microphone. Geoff paused to have a small coughing fit. “I knew that one day she would hear my voice, and she would remember.” Sadie had never heard her husband, it was to her like going to bed, and waking up the next day. When Geoff would talk about staying at her bedside as much as he could, she smiled to him, never telling him the truth. “You’ve got to be loving kidding me,” Marshall screamed at the lawyer. “Everything? To her?” The lawyer nodded, holding a small stack of documents. Jonathan, her other son, kept quiet. He was only 2 when Sadie went into a coma. Empty, hollow guilt followed her every time she saw him. She didn’t recognize him, and all the love and affection she felt for him when he was so young was replaced with nothing. He was a stranger. “We lost everything because of her! We lost our father, the house, and I had to take care of my brother like a parent. And she gets everything? Un-loving-believable!” Marshall stormed out of the room. Sadie looked down at her hands. Dialing the phone, she paused. Finally, she put in the last digits and put the phone to her ear. “Hi Marshall, honey, its your mom again, I was just calling to see if you and your family would like to come over for Christmas eve, I would cook dinner and everything, just call me back, please, you know the number.” Sadie held the phone in her lap, and sat silently in the kitchen. Dust had settled over the stove and oven, and the trashcan was almost full of delivery boxes. She breathed heavily, and stayed in the chair, waiting for the energy to move back to the couch.
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Dec 22, 2012 22:12
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Dec 25, 2012 11:02
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Christ, can someone make an official time? Changing it every week is stupid and even more stupid.
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Dec 29, 2012 20:46
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Silence is Golden Spoon Words: 660 Diet Coke? Why does he taste like Diet Coke? “…You were brought in with extreme dehydration, vomiting, and…” That’s weird. Diet? What does that mean? Is it the chemicals? “Hey, hey you,” the doctor said, snapping his fingers at Kristin. Kristin shook her head and returned her eyes to the doctor’s browns. “I’m sorry, what?” She asked. “Did someone put something in your drink?” “No, I don’t think so. No, I just, got sick.” “You just got sick?” There it was again, that aftertaste. Sort of sweet, but empty. Refreshing at first, a little oily after. But, why? “I said, are you doing any drugs?” “What? No!” Kristin said. The doctor sighed and leaned onto his knees. “I told you, sometimes I get these tastes that make me really sick. This guy, he was saying something to me, and all I could taste was this, ugh.” “You could taste what he was saying?” “I told you, yes. I can taste what people are saying to me. Its in their voice, like their tone, I can taste it. I know what they want to do to me.” The doctor put the cap back onto his pen. “You don’t have to tell me, I’m just someone trying to make sure you don’t die,” he said. Chemicals? Made in a lab? Substitute? A fake Coke— “Hey you think I’m lying to you!” “I have other patients to attend to, you can check yourself out.” “I’m not lying, you, you, you guy! Aagh,” Kristin said shaking her sheet at the doctor as he left her ER space. Heel after heel, Kristin looked down when she walked the street. Jaw ache from chewing gum meant it was time to switch to Altoids. The distinct doodle from her iPod said get home soon. She pulled her cap further over her ears as a Chopin etude set the background for her walk home from the emergency room. Avoid eye contact, blow bubbles, smack gum, get inside. Hum if necessary. The door slammed behind Kristin and she pulled the over-ear headphones off. Sore, she had been wearing them too long. Stopping by the trash can, she opened her mouth and a large wad of gum tumbled out slowly. It joined several others in the bottom of the waste bin. “Hey!” Fred her roommate called out to her from down the hall. Doritos tingled her tongue. Cheese and saltiness fought its way through the wintergreen gum taste and she smiled. She pulled her ears, stretching them out. Letting her jaw hang loose, she shook it, trying to get it to feel like it was back in the right place. She waved to Fred as she went by and closed the room to her door. The utter laziness and lack of sexuality refreshed her. Smoke pot, eat some chips, that was all Fred wanted. From the first time she ever heard his voice, she knew she would take him on as a roommate. Nacho cheese, a girl’s best friend. Closed captions flashed periodically across her television. Kristin watched the television in silence as she flipped through the channels. Bonks come from the computer behind her. She had left it on all night. Dozens of messages left unanswered from online friends. As she sat down to type out messages, her phone buzz startled her. She peered over at the phone as it shook on her table, and she withdrew. “Dad.” Her stomach dropped out from under her. She pulled her knees to her chest and she stared at the phone until it stopped ringing. Stillness. Then another spasm of buzzes from the voicemail alert. Tears began to streak down Kristin’s face. She reached towards the phone, and another buzz made her jump. Text message. “Hi honey, did the hospital release you? Are you okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you, I had to get back to work. I’ve never seen so much vomit, lol. Call me when you can, ilu.”
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Dec 30, 2012 09:43
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twinkle cave posted:for that i challenge you to a flash brawl. 4 stories in 4 days. 700-1000 words each. you may choose the start date of your demise, or you can use Ph.D Bohner's random algorithm. any story that reeks of "i just slapped it down like a bitch whore journal entry" is automatic disqualification. in otherwords BME and reasonable quality. you may choose the judge, or just take your shame now and back away from this challenge only fit for those who had parents with kids that lived. I'll take you up on that challenge, if there is room for more in it.
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Dec 30, 2012 09:44
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I was hoping that it apparent that her dad was the one who made her so sick. I had some extra room for words, I probably should have used a little more buffer.
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Dec 31, 2012 00:58
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:We can do it (I'll force the other two to man/woman up). Do you think it would be helpful or discouraging? We're just three people with opinions, so while I love the idea, I think it should be a free for all where people give an effort to do it. Make it inclusive, and we'll poo poo on the trash people as we always have. While I think the idea would be great for the writer, it's really kind of lopsided. I feel if a writer wants a profile from a judge, the writer should have to profile another writer. Why is it fair for you to have to read 15+ submissions from someone just to indulge them? This way there's more back and forth effort instead of someone sitting back and waiting.
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Dec 31, 2012 05:08
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sebmojo posted:
A Woman's Work Words: 1000 Amelia looked through the wooden shutters. Those two idiots are just undressing each other with their eyes, she thought. Sheriff Poolt and “Black” Addison Walker stood at either ends of main street, too far to hit each other from that distance, but neither moving closer. “Miss Amelia, I don’t really know how to shoot one of these,” Louise said. City girl, Amelia thought. “Just keep loading those guns, Louise. You can bet as soon as Walker and his boys finish celebrating Sheriff Poolt’s untimely demise, they’ll be coming this way.” Chairs and sofas were brought down from the second floor rooms, and put in front of windows, and bandages were stock piled in the back office. Amelia went through each section of brother’s foyer, checking the barricades. “Sophie, you and Elizabeth please get the mattress from the back room and put up against this window here, we’re gonna need more than some chairs and throw pillows to keep those boys out,” Amelia said to two of her newest employees. In the office, a young girl sat between the wall and the last unmoved desk in the building. Josephine, skinny but well fed, I think her favorite color is periwinkle, Amelia ran through the details in her head as she approached the girl. Josephine shook noticeably. “Josephine, dear, this ain’t no time for sitting around,” Amelia said. Josephine looked up at Amelia, her round eyes wet and glistening. “But, but, Johnny, he’s real good with Walker, he said everything would be just fine,” her voice shaking. Amelia pushed hair away from the side of Josephine’s face, revealing a high bruise by her hairline. “Darling, if you think a man is only evil enough for some scrapes and bruises, then consider yourself a very lucky girl.” Josephine began to sob and Amelia pulled her close. Wondering if Josephine could feel the burn scars beneath her silk blouse, Amelia heard a shot rattle off outside. Heeled boots stomped all around the wooden floors as girls scurried to the make-shift bunkers Amelia had set up. Amelia pulled out a knife from her thigh-high and pushed it into Josephine’s chest. “You take this and go to your room, ya hear? I give you a gun, you might just shoot yourself on accident.” Josephine scrambled up off the floor and ran out of the room. Waiting for Josephine to be completely gone, Amelia opened a cabinet on the desk and pulled out a metal lockbox. Full of bills, neatly stacked, and an assortment of silver, the lockbox was what had been neglected to be deposited at the bank. With Poolt dead, Amelia was glad she had waited so long to go to the bank. Across the room, Amelia pulled up a loose floorboard and stuffed the lockbox into the underbelly of the house, and covered it back up. Brushing her self off, she stood up and collected a pistol from desk. She closed her eyes and whispered to herself. Another shot rang out. The still air had somehow grown even more silent. Two more. “Get away from the windows girls!” She shouted. Amelia’s knees shook, and her guts started flipping. Poolt had been a good man, an average lover, but a good man, she thought. Treated Amelia and her girls fairly, like a real business person. He didn’t deserve whatever desecration his body was going through right now. She hoped to be able to offer a prayer at his funeral, but she wouldn’t waste time preparing anything in advance. The door rattled. Everyone caught their breath inside. She could hear shuffling, and hammers being pulled back to ready. The door thumped. Someone was using their shoulder. Amelia heard a chair shift and fall from the tower they put infront of the door. As the chair fell from the top, the door gave, scattering all the loose furniture into the lobby. Louise shrieked, and a shotgun blast went off and two bodies hit the floor, along with the clatter of the gun. Old Confederate gun, Amelia thought, what dumb girl thought she could shoot that? Louise shrieked again, shakier and less force than before. Amelia popped out, pistol at chest height. Sheriff Poolt lay face up in the foyer and Louise, with a reddened and rapidly swelling left eye, was on her knees near the body. Amelia ran up quickly and pushed Louise to the stairs, where another girl took her up. Grabbing the shotgun from the floor she rushed to the Sheriff. Dead as dirt, and still smoking from the shot. Amelia poked her head out the door. People had started poking their heads out their windows and doors to see what had happened. Addison Walker lay crumpled in the street, and two men were also dead, slumped near an alleyway. “Sophie, Elizabeth, Margeret, you drag those dead boys in here right now, and get this door blocked up nice,” Amelie said. No one moved. “I said now!” ”Yes Ma’am,” the girls faintly said, pulling up their skirts and moving out into the open street. Amelia stepped out onto the boardwalk, shotgun braced against her shoulder. She wheeled it around, daring someone to make a move on her girls. They weren’t the fastest, but the girls managed to drag all three bodies into foyer without harassment. Josephine sobbed from a balcony overlooking the mess. “We’re gonna sit tight until a Marshall arrives, you hear, girls? That could be a couple of days, maybe more. But we’ll be fine, I promise you,” Amelia said to the silent crowd of girls. They nodded, but said nothing. Amelia bent over and pulled Sheriff Poolt’s badge off his vest, and pinned it to hers. She stepped out onto her boardwalk so all could see. Holding her gun at her side, she gave every onlooker a stare. “Next man that steps foot through this door better have God behind him, ‘cause he sure as hell ain’t got the law!” She shouted, before slamming the door shut behind her.
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Dec 31, 2012 08:53
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THUNDERBRAWL - TWO GOONS ENTER, ONE GOON LEAVES
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I think keeping it in thread is a better idea for the concerns Sitting Here said. It seems like it would be more populated on-site than off.
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Jan 1, 2013 00:07
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Jan 2, 2013 01:09
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I don't know yet. Not really sure what I'm uncomfortable with.
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Jan 2, 2013 03:23
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Do I get included in any judgments/reviews for my piece?
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Jan 3, 2013 16:54
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