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Fresh meat, right here.
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Dec 4, 2012 23:13
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| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 20:55 |
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:Flash Fiction Thunderdome - A Literary Circlejerk. Now with friendly fire!  Nuthin' friendly about it
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Dec 5, 2012 07:17
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Peel posted:I can't remember if Greatbacon is anyone but I am ready to chow down. No this is my first time writing in the Thunderdome.  Also death to capitalist pig dog Peel.
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Dec 6, 2012 02:16
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Three Card Monte (1124 words) “You know why they’re called con games, right Marco?” I stop shuffling cards as I say this and turn to look at him. “Well cause you’ve got to con stupid folk out of their money. It’s right there in the name.” I sigh. “Well, you’re right about it being in the name, but con is shorthand for confidence. You gotta have confidence and whoever you’re conning has gotta have confidence they’re not being made a sucker.” We’re standing around a small folding TV tray that we found by the dumpster behind my apartment. On it rest two jokers and the king of hearts, face down. The backs are brown with the yellow logo of the hotel they’re from. The flat concrete, dusty black asphalt, and the rough brickwork of the street are dull in the overcast light. It better not rain. Rain could kill our work for today. We wait but no one passes. Marco shifts his weight, keeps looking up and down the street. “Hey, can we go over the drill again? Just to be sure.” I can hear the boredom and anxiety creeping into his voice. I agree, to soothe my mind as much as his. “Yeah sure. When you spot someone coming up the street, we play a couple of rounds as they walk up to us. I’ll make a gesture so you know where the king is. I’ll make the game look easy, you throw the round, and then hopefully our mark will take the bait.” “Alright, cool cool. Sounds easy enough.” He pauses. “How much did you say we’ll make off of this again?” “I dunno man. The guy I watched in the park down by the museum last week looked like he made close to a hundred bucks in an hour.” “Well why the gently caress aren’t we down at the park then? This place is loving dead. I haven’t even seen a goddamn dog in the thirty minutes we’ve been out here.” “Because you can’t have two tables running cons right next to each other. It looks fishy and cuts into each other’s profit. Jesus Christ Almighty Marco you really are stupid. I can see why you flunked the eighth grade.” “Hey, I got chicken pox and missed six weeks. That’s why I failed the eighth grade.” “Yeah, but you were already failing before you got sick.” I turn to look at Marco just as his fist connects with my jaw. It feels like my jaw shifts left into the next county and I think I taste blood. There’s a soft creak as my body falls onto the TV tray and I feel the legs give way under my weight. I get up and a quick spit on the ground leaves only saliva chilling with the leaves and dirt in the sidewalk cracks. Turning to face Marco all I see is him staring up the street dumbfounded. Following his eyes leads mine to three figures walking towards us. “Oh poo poo. Marco help me get this setup again. I’ll kick your rear end later.” “Like hell you will” but he comes over and helps me unbend the legs. The wind picks up and sends the card scattering so we barely have enough time to chase them down and get a round finished up just as the three men approach us. “Tough luck there bud. Better luck next time.” I catch the eye of one of the men. He’s standing in front of the other two. Nice suit, nice watch, gold chain, and he’s smiling. Jackpot. “Oh, hello sir, interested in a game? The rules are quite simple. Only a fifty dollar bet.” He looks back at the other two and laughs. His friends don’t even twitch, just keep staring at me and Marco from behind their sunglasses. My heart is beating faster and my stomach is feeling weird, but now his money is on the table. No way I’m going to back out now. Flip the cards up. Joker joker king. Flip the cards over. Pick them up, one in my left, two in my right. Shuffle them and drop. The steps echo in my head the same as the last two hundred times I’ve done it. I set them down. The man looks at the cards, then me, then points at the middle. I flip and a joker stares back at us. The man frowns, looks behind him, turns back and laughs. “Well that’s the strangest looking king of hearts I’ve ever seen. Son you might want to get a better deck.” He starts to reach for the cash but I snatch it away. “What are you talking about, that’s obviously a joker.” I flip the other two cards to prove my point. The king sits on the right. The man coughs twice into his hand and his friends charge forward. They look like pit bulls, all snarl and slobber and rage. They run through the table, sending cards and cheap aluminum flying. Locked in place, I stare one in the eyes as he barrels down on me. The other peels off for Marco. A fist connects with my torso. A thousand cheap metaphors of pain fill my mind. Spots, stars, then blackness fill my vision and all thoughts slip away. Seconds later I drift back into consciousness. Spit, dust, leaves, and shined leather shoes fill my vision. I hear Marco groaning to my side. Another pair of black leather shoes step into sight.. “You little shitlords want to run a game on my streets, you need to pay for the right.” The dull blunt of oxfords dig into my side. I hear Marco grunt. “You try to run a con on the Marioni's you pay the price.” Another dig into my ribs. Blunt tips on stiff bone. “Now pay attention, we’re talking business here.” Another kick and a crack is almost audible. I’m pretty sure he just broke one of my ribs. Oh god he broke my ribs. A cry escapes my lips and I start sobbing quietly. It feels right, but each heave hurts my side. I can barely breathe. “Now you jokers listen and you listen good. You work for me now. So every loving Sunday I want to see an envelope with a thousand bucks in it in the collection plate at Saint Marcs. And if one week it isn’t there, I’m going to send my friends here to hunt you down and mail your heads to your mothers? Okay?” All Marco and I can muster is groans. The six feet in shoes depart, continuing down the street. The last thing I hear before I pass out is Marioni. “Remember; Saint Marcs every Sunday, every goddamn week, for the rest of your useless loving lives”
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Dec 7, 2012 19:35
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Peel posted:Satire? Nasty. Well thank you. I did enjoy the fact that your story managed to stay true to the prompt and undermine it at the same time. Good luck with your satirical cheese.
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Dec 8, 2012 16:24
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Am I missing something, or does it look like the critique for Peel and I is missing some of itself?
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Dec 9, 2012 02:36
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Breast Cancer Awareness Month (479 words) A digital display hanging above the almost empty square announces in a robo-feminine voice that the time is now a quarter past eleven on this, the third day of Children’s Dental Health month, in the year of Breast Cancer Awareness. A solitary man on a bench checks his watch and looks around with the concerned expression of one kept waiting. Unlike his last three glances this one yields results. On the opposite end of the square walking towards the bench is a man in a worn blazer with umbrella in hand. As he approaches the bench the other gentlemen stands and they embrace. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it.” “I haven’t missed our Sunday meetings for the last ten years, why would I start now?” “Well there’s always that little tickling in the back of your mind when someone is late that they’ve... that they weren’t aware enough. One of the boys I work with got taken away for enlightenment a couple of weeks ago.” “Really? That’s a drat shame. That’s why I always wear pink underwear. It’s hard for the state to argue that you aren’t aware of your own underwear, let alone the topic of this year. The gentlemen take a seat upon the bench and look out over the empty square. The wind blows but does little to stir them to conversation. Only the digital display’s announcement that is now half past the hour brings them back. The man with the umbrella clears his throat. “Goodness, already eleven-thirty? Where does the time go?” “Beats the hell out of me. My son turns eighteen on the fifth of Dance Appreciation month.” “Eighteen?... Do you think he’ll be drafted for this year’s awareness campaign?” “It’s possible, the draft numbers keep getting closer and closer to his. If he ever does get drafted hopefully he’ll be able to get a discharge due to his medical history.” “Oh yes, that’s right. He had that little spat with leukemia last year didn’t he?” “Yeah it’s a good thing the doctors in this country are so aware about cancer. They were able to get him on some pills and the whole thing cleared up within a week. There is always a chance of remission though, so we’re hoping that’s enough to keep him out.” “God yes. I can’t even imagine how horrible it must be to live in an unaware society. It seems like every year we’re engaged in some campaign against them. Dropping explosive pamphlets and cleansing the unaware.” “With this last campaign I’ve stopped wearing my yellow ribbon. Replaced it with one for Chicken Cruelty Awareness.” The digital display interrupts, informing the near dead square that it is now noon and that the state sponsored news report will be beginning soon. The man with the umbrella stands up at that, concern on his face. “Well friend, it’s been a pleasure but I must be off. See you next Sunday. Be aware.” This is late by a lot I know. School blew up in my face this weekend. My disgrace knows no end.
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Dec 10, 2012 07:35
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Perhaps by writing about it, I can learn more of what you humans call "love". I'm in.
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Dec 11, 2012 16:46
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Peel posted:I guess most people didn't click on the time link. I am one of these people apparently. Who uses New Zealand time? So, sorry for being a big stupid and missing the deadline twice in one week. This story is best enjoyed to the musical stylings of The Smiths - This Charming Man Bollywood Swinging 887 words. It’s my first day on the set of the movie. Honestly it’s my first day on the set of any movie for me. I’ve built sets for practically every production of my high school and college career but this is my first professional gig. It isn’t really a big film or anything, just some American rip-off of a Bollywood remake, but standing here on the unfinished stage, actors and assistants and artisans bustling back and forth makes me feel like I’ve stumbled onto the set of a Christopher Nolan film. A man in a headset, who turns out to be my production manager Greg, looks up from the plans on his table and yells at me. “Hey you must be Sanjay, get over here and we’ll get you up to speed. And close your mouth, you’ll catch the clap around here.” The rest of the people at the table chuckle as I walk over and I shake Greg’s outstretched hand. I’m introduced to the other members of the stage crew but I’m so nervous their names pass out of my head as soon as I hear the next one. With the introductions over Greg clears his throat. “Well, now that we’re all friends, let’s get down to business. Shooting for this film begins next week so we’ll need to finish at least one stage before the weekend.” Greg turns to a table behind him and picks up a large roll of paper continuing to speak all the while. “The director has decided that he wants to start at the end of the script and work backwards, so it looks like we’ll be responsible for making the giant field for the climax scene first.” He unrolls the massive paper on the table in front of us. I’ve never seen a set sketch use such bright colors before. I assume it’s a Hollywood thing and look away so as not to be blinded by the solid, almost pastel blue of the sky. The girl across from me though, Julia I think her name was, starts talking. “Jesus Greg. Are we seriously going to use those colors? We’ll go blind painting it, the actors will go blind working with it, and the audience will go blind watching it. We’re gonna be arrested on terrorism charges.” “Sorry folks. It’s an executive order here. The director wants it to feel like a storybook and these are the colors he picked out.” Grumbles echo around the table, but no one is willing to challenge the director. The next few days are a blur of balsa wood, saws, and nails as we work on the framework and structure for the stage. It feels great to finally say I’m working in Hollywood and seeing everyone move around the stage obviously focused on something just seems to further enforce the fact that I’ve finally made it. The best part though is Frankie. He plays the male lead in the film and is honestly one of the most handsome men I’ve ever encountered. He’s got an actor’s physique; slim with the suggestion of muscle. My girl friends in high school always referred to it as “ottermode.” On top of that he’s always got this perfect collection of scruff on his face. Just enough that it looks like it wouldn’t be scratchy, but not so much as to hide his solid chin. I’ve made eye contact with him a couple of times and nodded in his direction but he always seems so busy. I always feel like he’s headed off to some practice or meeting or whatever it is actors do when they aren’t acting. On Friday though, he actually comes over to talk to me. By this point the stage crew is finally painting the set. Acid green grass on International Klein blue sky. “So. This is what the infamous field is supposed to look like, huh?” I’ve never heard him speak before. He’s got a deep voice, but somewhat nasally. And on top of it there is the edge of a Hindu accent that you only notice when you’re focusing on his words. I’m in shock, and can barely mumble an affirmative. I’m locked in my head, I can’t think of a drat thing to say. An actor, cute to boot, and he’s talking to me. He checks his watch. Slowly of course, practically brandishing it so I can see that it’s Rolex. Or at least a very good Rolex knockoff. “Well, I have fifteen minutes till shooting actually starts. I don’t suppose you would mind if I stayed here and talked with you while I waited? I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with your boss.” “Fifteen minutes with you? Well... I wouldn’t say no.” The next thirty minutes pass in a haze. Describing flirting is an almost useless endeavour. There’s never anything useful said, nothing interesting. But all of his jokes are funny, all of his anecdotes engaging. When his assistant comes by to remind him he’s fifteen minutes late for filming it almost feels like the air has left my lungs. Before he leaves though, he lays a hand on my shoulder. He smiles, white teeth shining in his dark complexion. I look up and lock my brown eyes with his. “Would you be interested in grabbing some drinks after work today?”
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Dec 15, 2012 15:29
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I am in for these shenanigans.
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Dec 17, 2012 16:59
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A Cold Evening at George St. Croix Train Terminal (771 words - Wheel of Fortune tarot) A thousand years ago the field’s only discerning feature was an aqueduct, the lifeblood of the Roman empire, and an almost infinite stretch of grain. These days the area is only known for it’s train station. A relic of the last century, the managers of the line pretend the station is still relevant by making the commuter train stop there everyday. Once on it’s way into the cities and once again on it’s way back out. Sitting there in the brisk wind of winter, John Gerard waits for his train home. The glass in the dome of the station lets the bright orange light creep into the platform. Autumn was two months ago, but this break in the weather once again brings bright orange and searing red to the forefront of Mr. Gerard’s thoughts. The last time he saw his mother it was autumn. Fifteen years ago. Or was it only eight? There had been an election that year, so it must have been eight. Longer than it should have been though. He had just been laid off from another job and had decided to spend a couple of weeks resting in the country at his parent’s home. None of this will affect the train’s timetable. As always the iron behemoth will arrive fifteen to twenty minutes late. A reasonable delay for those coming from the city to the countryside. But for those heading from the countryside to even further into the wilderness it means even more darkness to endure. The sun finishes slinking behind the horizon and the stars have begun to shine. A soft light blinks on and then off in front of John’s face. Left floating in front of his face is another point of light, bright red instead of the dull, pulsing white of those in the sky. A quick inhale followed by a heavy sigh leaves breath and smoke mixed in the winter night. The last time he rode this train his life had been in shambles. He had no job, no girlfriend, and the last of his savings had gone into buying that ticket home. He had assumed that on his return he would find some of his personal effects had been repossessed. This is if the super hadn’t changed the lock due to the couple of months back rent owed at the time. Now he absentmindedly twists the gold band on his left hand in between drags. When he reaches the butt he drops it on the platform and crushes it beneath of the heel of his polished wingtips and checks his Rolex to see how late the train is now. If it arrives this instant he will be home by ten. Assuming he can get away from his father and sister and aunts and uncles and cousins and get to bed after only a couple of hours, that still means at max he’ll only get six hours of sleep before the funeral. And he won’t, because he’ll have to stay up all night writing a eulogy, because he only got word about the funeral this morning. At least this time he got a call. While studying at University John had discovered his dog had died when he went to visit his house on spring break and Arrow wasn’t there to greet him at the door. His mother’s excuse was that she didn’t want to upset John’s studies. A voice at the back of his mind thinks that this would be a great story for the eulogy and he should write this down. The rest of him physically grimaces at this thought. He shudders and gasps and feels his eyes swell and his nose begin to run. He offers a small prayer to the patron saint of darkness that watches over this platform. After a while his silent sobs turn to sniffles and later still the sound of his tears is altogether drowned by the high pitched wailing of a train mourning it’s tardiness. Spotting the column of steam on the horizon, John quickly rubs his eyes and fumbles through his pockets for a handkerchief to blow into. As the engine pulls through the platform he stares straight ahead. The wheels spin through his line of sight. The piston driving up and down, propelling the vast beast forward down the line doesn’t. There is only one coach car but it’s shining lights bring some autumn warmth back to John. A conductor leans out of the door, “Are you coming sir?” John looks around the pitch black platform, then back at the lighthouse of a car. “I suppose I don’t have much of a choice.”
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Dec 22, 2012 19:27
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