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Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Hoedown or Throwdown.

Thought: Everyone has to sign up by some arbitrary date. Those who promise and don't deliver get a custom title to that effect.

I say this as someone who didn't post here until I had a near postable draft so I could chicken out if need be.

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Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
THE GORTA MOR (Edit: 962 words)

Black dust blew through chinks in the grey farmhouse walls and settled in the folds of the sheet wrapped around Old Jeremiah Flanagan. His cough was coming on again. Connor brought in a chipped jug of water and a mason pickle jar for a glass. Jeremiah slowly lifted himself to his knobby elbows, every inch chasing the pain to a new home. He took the jar and swallowed. Connor dampened a rag and wiped the dust from his Pa’s face, felt for a fever, found none.

“Ye can’t be gettin’ sick again, Pa,” Connor said, running the rag against his own lined forehead. “Times is tough already, and the potatoes…don’t see how I can sell ‘em... And so many mouths to feed.”

Jeremiah felt an old fear settle around his stomach, grinding against itself. Connor lifted his head, and in the grey wisps of hair and the hollows beneath his eyes, Jeremiah saw that his son had somehow grown old. Older even than his own father, when he had told Mum about the bad potatoes in green old Ireland.

Jeremiah had followed Mum and Father out into the field, pumping his short legs hard to keep up. Father had reached his strong, calloused hands in to the dark soil, and brought up a sick, brown, wrinkled thing. It didn’t look like a potato. It looked like Baby Catherine, wrapped in the white sheet when they put her in the churchyard month past. Mum gasped and fell to her knees. Father cut into it with his knife, and the thick, pungent smell of rot washed over them. Inside was mushy, wet blackness. The thing filled Jeremiah with terror.
“It’s the blight,” Father had said. He dug up a second, third, fourth, fifth potato, all black and rotten. He flung them to the ground and cursed. Mum made the sign of the cross. Jeremiah grabbed onto her legs and cried.
Then the Gorta Mor had stalked them. The hunger swallowed up Happy Nell, Charlotte, Micha, and finally even Father. Jeremiah’s stomach was gnawing itself inside-out when Mum at last gathered the children and fled the village, but in all of Ireland they smelled the awful rot and were hungry. They took a boat to America, but still the Gorta Mor followed and the boat grew crowded with corpses. Mum tried to cover his eyes when they threw the dead overboard, but Jeremiah looked and saw their swollen white faces sinking into the sea.

In America, they found peace. Jeremiah grew up, had many children, then grandchildren of his own. There were nearly thirty members in the Flanagan clan by 1928, when his son Connor had borrowed the money to buy the farm in Bingham County. Jeremiah had plead with him, begged him not to tempt the Gorta Mor, but Connor said these were different potatoes and called him a superstitious old man. Land was cheap and russets sold for a dollar fifty a hundredweight. The whole family had moved to Idaho to work the farm. But now everyone strong enough worked on other farms between harvests just to pay the mortgage. It was just Connor and Jeremiah to look after their potatoes and guard against the Gorta Mor.

When Connor told him about the potatoes, Jeremiah knew it was near. He had felt it coming for a long time now, but no one listened to him, a superstitious old man. He crept to the kitchen where his son was looking over his many papers, scratching at them in the dim light of the lamp. Despair creased his face and his shoulders sagged. Jeremiah whispered Saint Patrick’s Prayer for strength and slipped out into the night to face the Gorta Mor.

He walked to the edge of the field, slowed now by age instead of youth. The brown, dry stalks rustled in the wind as he knelt down in dust. He reached his old, gnarled hand into the dirt and scratched for a potato. With dread he imagined the soft touch of rot, Baby Catherine’s wrinkled flesh breaking open, blackness crawling under his fingernails. He shivered in the cold, empty night, and held back a coming cough. Finally his fingers found a root. He held his breath as he struggled to pull it up, and prayed it would not be someone long dead. The potato was gloriously firm and smooth, but Jeremiah knew the danger had not passed. He slipped the knife from under his dressing gown and shakily sliced into the potato. Its two halves fell apart and their pearly white smoothness shone in the moonlight. Jeremiah scrambled to his feet and dashed for the house. The Gorta Mor wasn't here!

Kneeling in the cold had frozen his stiff joints, and before two steps he stumbled. Connor was at the door and coming towards him.

“What have you done, old man?” he asked, helping Jeremiah to his feet. Jeremiah beamed and showed him his perfect potato.

“They’re alright, lad, they’re all right!” he wheezed. Connor helped him to the house and into the kitchen chair. He wetted the rag again, and wiped the dirt off his Pa’s face and hands and knees. Jeremiah still shivered, even though the kitchen was warm. Connor put him in the bed and got the extra blanket.

“There’s none to do about them potatoes, Pa,” he said. “It’s not the blight, it’s the price. It’s down to fifty cents a hundredweight and falling still. They’ll rot in the ground ‘ere we can afford to pull ‘em out.”

Old Jeremiah Flanagan lay down and let his own son tuck him in like a child. When Connor blew out the candle and closed the door, he pulled the blanket close and wept. The Gorta Mor had returned.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Nautatrol Rx posted:

Paradigm shift: the due date has been cut back by one hour. Why? Because none of the other judges are awake/care enough to see! Suck on that, plebs.

New cutoff is ~1:30 hours from now, meaning 1am EST.


I loving love the Thunderdome.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Jonked posted:

This competition is really scary! So many good stories... and I'm already down 20 points! Am I... destined to lose!?

If Jonked loses, I propose that his new title simply be his old title with "Raymond Chandler" replaced by "Stephanie Meyer"

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
I'm so excited for round two, oh God.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
"Why the hell am I spending hours on historical research instead of repeatedly slamming my hairy butt cheeks against the keyboard?" -- Me, about 50 times this week.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Martello posted:


Spudipus Complex

by Sitting Here

This was loving insane and whacked out and I don't know what it means but I love it. I agree with Stupor that the Pink Floyd reference was lazy. It pulled me out of the story by being an obviously cribbed line when the rest of it was so original and out-there. Still, "Spudipus Complex" is all I've been thinking about the past few days. I mean, obviously, I did a reading of the drat thing.

it seems a little silly to complain about a line cribbed from Pink Floyd when the entire story is a Star Trek parody piece (which is itself a referencing 1984, heh).

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Martello posted:

I don't watch Star Trek so I had no idea.

:saddowns:

Ha ha, really? It's basically the famous Chain of Command, Pt. 2 episode, but changed to be about potatoes. And I did have to look up the episode name, I am not that huge of a Trekkie (or Trekker as they prefer to be called.) Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chain_of_Command_(Star_Trek:_The_Next_Generation)

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Don't show weakness! The judges can smell fear. THIS IS THUNDERDOME!

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
All hail Pipes!!

In on this. Though chick lit is basically already distopian.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
I put on $600 heels and ate Ben & Jerry's straight from the carton (Cherry Garcia, FroYo, natch) while writing this:

Observation Squad Dropout (497 words)

I was starting to regret ever joining ObSquad. Sure, I loved my Prada uniform and quilted Chanel bag—badge and gun in one stylish package!—but god drat I wanted a martini. Sometimes the Chardonnay allocation just isn’t enough, excellent vintage notwithstanding. Headquarters should consider an exception for “worst break up ever,” especially since it was their fault. We need neutral observers, they claimed. Whatever. I even snuck half of Mattie’s bottle after she left last night. Result: unsatisfactory.

“Shaaaaaron! Let’s Go!” Mattie’s stilettos echoed menacingly through the dorm. I gulped a sobritol and opened the door. Mattie eyed the two empty wine bottles.

“I didn’t think you’d mind if I left early,” she said with a wink.

“Oh, I poured yours down the sink,” I said breezily. Mattie might be my new best friend and partner, but I wasn’t about to confess to a crime like that.

Patrol time: we owned the streets of Sector 7H. Hidden behind my goggles, I eagerly searched for the smallest sign of rank-violation. Sadly, the khaki-clad mucks all looked down appropriately as we passed, two perfectly poised bitches with a license to kill. Slick.

Then the suicider went off. I really hate those guys. Mattie can keep cool, but having a couple people spattered across my blazer always makes me hyperventilate. It’s totally embarrassing. Mattie covered while I cleaned my goggles, but the smell sent me over the edge. Suddenly Patrick, muck of aforementioned breakup, had his arms around me and was wiping guts off my face. I pushed him off, but screwed up and made eye contact. His easy smile hit me like a grenade. I almost smiled back until Mattie elbowed me in the ribs. Thank god, unauthorized expression of emotion towards a muck meant dismissal and probably rehabilitation.

“Gross! I can’t believe he touched you!” Mattie squealed. “Should we call it in?”

“Let it go,” I said, finally catching my breath. “He was only trying to help.” Mattie raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push.

Shift-end: I still felt like poo poo. Everyone had saved their social allocations for the office party, but I couldn’t take more Chardonnay. Screw it. I threw on a jumpsuit and some drug-store cosmetics I’d kept--sentimental me. And anyway, Maybelline Plum-tastic gloss looks really good on me.

I went to our old bar. I couldn’t find a face in the sea of khaki. A radiant smile finally surfaced and there he was, offering me that delicious, illicit martini. My heart lifted, tethered between his warm hand and the cold drink; I reverently sipped.

That’s when four ObSquad muscles broke the door down and shoved their Louis Vuitton briefcases in my face, Mattie gloating behind them.

“Back to mucksville, Sharon,” she said. Then I saw the Burberry trench. Bitch ratted me for a promotion. I tried to mockingly toast her, but the LV thugs took my martini.

“Navy is so not your color!” I shouted as they pulled the hood over my perfect blow-out.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Sitting Here posted:

Sorry, it's Hempfest in Seattle. Which somehow concluded in me and some people forming a band called the Bob Dolemites and recording a song called "Pizza Barrage." It's been a long day.

My judgement shall rain upon ye shortly.

(Oh and I'm a she, not that it matters)

If you don't post Pizza Barrage I will cry myself to sleep every night for a month.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Stuporstar posted:


Dr. Kloctopussy
Observation Squad Dropout

Tell me honestly, did you shove that hilarious brand name bullshit in there before or after I posted my story? Either way, good show. :golfclap:
Bonus points for making her miss her old life, giving her more motivation to fail at her new career than just being a cardboard cut-out falling for a dude.

Before you posted your story, but after I read the first chapter of The Devil Wears Prada to figure out what the hell chick lit is. When you posted yours and I saw the handbags I freaked a little and avoided reading it until I finished mine.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
In with "My Shadow In Vain"

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Everybody loses anyway.

Gary Numan posted:

Me I've just died
But some machine keeps on humming
I'm just an extra piece of dead meat to keep running
Why won't you let me die in peace?
Why won't you let me die with some kind of honour?
Why won't you let me die at all?
I know
You've got your principles

My body lies immobile
I left it days ago
And me I watch from somewhere as the loved ones come and go
I see them glancing at the switch
I hear them whispering "maybe it's better that way"
I see the love turn into feelings
I know
Aren't quite the same

I see the men of learning
Pacing to and fro
But how can I expect the sane to ever know?
I'd rather die than have no mind
I know my brain is gone "damaged beyond repair"
I see an empty shell below me
I know
I've had my time

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
THE SHADOWTHIEF

I’m supposed to take another pill now: that’s part of the rules. Stay on the corner, sell the flowers, take the pill, no stealing. I know it’s time, because I can hear the shadows buzzing. They feel me waking up and whisper to each other, a shadowthief, a shadowthief is here. Shadows feel best in the gold light afternoon. Cool purple caresses, cries of delight and recognition: they are my true friends. Much nicer than the solid people. I don’t take the pill.

I hear an old wounded shadow begging its person, no no no, not there, don’t walk there by her, but of course the person can’t hear them. You can’t hear shadows when you have your own on. That’s why most people never hear them at all. I try to reassure it, it’s okay, it’s okay, I won’t take you. When it crosses, the horror runs right down my spine and I have to sit down and plug up my ears or I’ll start screaming, too. Then they’d find out I broke the rules and keep me inside under all the fluorescent lights that I hate and not let me sell the flowers and see the shadows.

Finally it’s gone. Get up, smile at the people going by, no one’s looking, good. But then I hear her, whimpering please please please right up the cobblestones to my feet. A young girl, my age? But no, don’t think about that, it can’t be my own. Please, she begs. She’s sewn up to a smug, balding man. He’s wearing her right out in public, dragging his perversion down the street assuming no one can tell. My stomach’s in such a tight little knot that it might squeeze a scream right out of me. I shake my head.

“I can’t,” I whisper. No stealing. Not even shadows, though of course that’s not explicitly in the rules. She’s so scared though. And he stole her from someone else. No, not himself. He could feel her, get off on her fear and the cool, slick touch of a child’s shadow, but that was it. He didn’t hear her or he wouldn’t have come so close to me. He doesn’t know what I am. The please, please, pleases fill my ears, even as she limps after him. She’s definitely about my age.

I’m running after her. Stop, please stop, I beg my own legs. I’m definitely not on the corner anymore. She’s reaching back, stretching so far along the street I’m scared she might rip herself in half, but I finally catch up to the man. Crash right into him, drop all the flowers I was carrying.

“So sorry,” I mumble. He smiles at me like a perfect gentleman and the scream of “Pervert! Pervert!” launches up so fast out of my belly that I can barely bite down and keep it inside. I bend down towards the flowers, but don’t pick them up. I start cutting the shadow free as fast as I can, but I have to be careful. His boot hits me hard in the chest. Caught!

“Thief!” he yells and then the footsteps are coming from all around. She’s still attached by a tiny shadoweaver’s thread, but I hang on to her hard. If I can just get in one last snip. Four strong hands grab me and hold me down, the police. The man is trying to get away, but the girl won’t let go of me either. She’s starting to tear. No, no, not that. I can’t keep the screams in any more. I try to push her away, but she hooks into me with ten long clawed fingers and wrenches herself off his feet. She’s crying and gasping for breath through the pain. And she’s definitely not my shadow because I can still hear her and I feel like my own feet have just been ripped off. The screams get out then. The doctor appears and put’s the pill in my mouth and makes me swallow it.

The pervert rages and demands I be whipped and flogged, but he can do nothing. No one would even believe him. And now everyone knows he’s a pervert. The police lead him away to do paperwork and scraps of her flutter lifelessly around his polished boots. She’s with me now, quieted down to a whimper, it’ll be alright. Maybe we can find her right person someday. But right now I can’t hear her at all.


Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
I light the candles just before I set the steaks out to rest. I really want tonight to be perfect. I've thought about it a lot over the past few days, and I've finally mustered up the courage to tell Martello the truth: his critiques really hurt my feelings.

I won't say it like that, of course. This is Thunderdome and I don't want to look like a pussy. Looking like a pussy is basically signing your own death warrant here. So no, I won't say it like that. I'll say it the way I've planned: real casual like.

"Hey baby, you seem a little stressed lately, is anything bothering you?" That's how I start the script.

"No, everything's fine." That's not really on script, but I persevere.

"It just seems like you've been a little...harsher....than usual." His eyes narrow; I know that I have hosed up. Big Time. His nostrils flare as the scent of my weakness literally wafts across the kitchen. The feeding frenzy will start soon if I don't loving metal up.

"On those other spineless shitheads!" I try to say it bold, but it comes out a wimper. Martello spears his rare cut of sirloin and devours it in two easy bites.

I open my mouth to say those last three desperate words that might save us all, but his fist hits me hard and fast. I taste blood and know that I deserve it. We sit quietly for a moment, reflecting on our respective positions.

"I'm leaving for a month," he says, "army poo poo, you know."

I don't know. What does it mean?

"Will you miss me?" I ask hopefully.

"No," he says without flinching. "But you will miss me." He is right, as always.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Next time I will start writing more than three hours before the deadline.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Stuporstar posted:


Dr. Kloctopussy Most enjoyed. Almost one. Won. Will discuss more later when I'm not free-associating with garbled dreams. Stop clamoring for attention. You all get your turn. Why you all wake me up to do this?


I would really appreciate any discussion you've got. I really like the idea, but am not in love with my execution. I am probably going to rewrite it in third person and expand it to double the size to actually develop the backstory/world. I'll post it in CC after that, but any advice you (and anyone, really) have to help me get started would be awesome.

Also in for this week's horrorshow.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Stuporstar posted:

You story concept is unique and interesting and I like the character's voice. Also, the idea of a man with a girl's shadow is truly creepy. I'd love to see this detailed and polished. Keeping it ambiguous about whether or not this girl is insane also kept me interested. I could see this published in Shimmer, which just went up to pro rates.

Edit: feel free to pull it from this thread if you do decide to submit it somewhere so you don't get nailed for already being "published."

Aw shucks! :shobon: Switching it to third person definitely risks losing a little bit of her voice and making it less ambiguous if she is crazy or not. I'll have to try some rewrites both ways. Thanks for pointing out Shimmer, I wasn't familiar with that one. It looks like a good fit if I can make this sparkle.

When I was writing it, I kept getting so grossed out by the man I had to take breaks.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

Just so we get this out of the way, exactly how many people are writing "deal with the devil"?

Not even close.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Lonely as the Million-Pointed Sky

Every Friday, Christine slipped out of the office an hour early. Eight new bankruptcy filings due by Monday crowded her briefcase, but she ignored them. She walked across downtown Abilene to Dan Malone’s antique store with her eyes half-closed, face upturned to the big, Texas sky. It was less lonely outside, under all of Heaven.

She smiled at the familiar faces in their albumen prints, but came for the telephones, each hiding its own secret conversations. Her hand lingered on the smooth Bakelite handset of an old rotary model.

“Got a real treasure for you today,” said Mr. Malone, softly. Malone sometimes faded into his merchandise, he was so soft and grey.

“I got it Tuesday, but I’ve been saving it.” He swept open the storeroom door to reveal a walnut cabinet gleaming in a sun beam aswirl with sparkling dust. Shining jacks studded the front panel in a perfect grid; a jumble of cables overflowed from the shelf below.

“It’s a switchboard,” Malone explained. “From the old Southwestern Bell Exchange at Ninth and Tyler. Every call in the county used to go through there.”

Mr. Malone demonstrated how the operators would plug the cables first into one jack, then a second to complete a call. Enchanted, Christine gently cradled the receiver against her ear. The faintest hint of “number please?” brushed against her ear.

“It don’t work, of course,” Malone said with an unsettlingly earnest look. “Can’t even plug it in no more.” Christine shivered and quickly replaced the handset. She bought it immediately.

By shifting a few piles, Christine made room for the switchboard in her dinning-room-turned-library. Glass of wine in hand, she caressed the old phone, connected the lines, and eavesdropped on imagined conversations. Stop being silly, she finally told herself, pouring another glass of wine and heading to bed.

The phone dragged her awake. She groped for her cell, knocking Wuthering Heights behind the bed again. The screen was blank, but the ringing grew louder. In the library, a light flickered on the switchboard. Shaking, she plugged in the cable.

“Number please?” said a clear, polite voice. Christine’s mouth opened, but a husky male voice answered first.

“Gladys, sweetheart, it’s Dan....” Christine drew in her breath. “How are things going tonight?” The voice did sound familiar. Could it really be Dan Malone?

“Dan, Darling! Things are slow as usual. I can’t stay on the line though—you know that.”

“Why not, if no one else is calling?”

“It’s my job; there might be an emergency.”

“You sound strange. Is someone there?”

“Of course not, Dan. We’ve been through this so many times….”

“Because you’re always talking to someone else! I’m coming to see for myself.”

“Please darling, no one is here, don’t—if you come again I’ll be fired! My shift’s almost over and I’ll see you then, alright?”

“No Gladys, I’m tired of you running around, and I’m going to put an end to it.” A click and nothing but a breath and a heartbeat.

“Oh Dan, please don’t,” Gladys whispered.

The light died and the old wires fell silent. Christine trembled her way back to bed.

***

Too much wine and stress, Christine told herself the next morning. She tried to read the filings, but Gladys’s voice kept tugging her away. With a sigh, she resigned to consulting her neighbor Lucille.

Christine spotted Lucille in her garden, bent low, singing to geraniums, mostly hidden by towering foxglove. Lucille was as old as they come in Abilene, as old as Dan Malone. Like all good elderly neighbors, she knew about everyone in town.

“Good morning, Lucille!” Christine called. “Say….” she paused, how could she ask about Gladys without sounding loony? “I bought a switchboard from the old exchange at Mr. Malone’s yesterday…”
“One of those old things? Ha!” Lucille said. “Must’ve had it in his basement all these years.” The cool lump in Christine’s belly caught fire.
“That’s odd. He made it sound like he just got it.”
“Dan bought up everything he could afford when they gutted the Bell building to install the automatic exchanges.” Lucille smiled, but it faded quickly. “Kind of sad, actually, but it’s how he started his antique business.”

“Why was it sad? Did it have to do with Gladys?”

Lucille gave her a sharp look, then sighed. “I thought so. It was awful. Not the kind of thing you’d think could happen around here. Gladys came from Oklahoma City, for personal reasons, she said.” Lucille raised an eyebrow, and Christine nodded comprehension. “She worked at the Exchange. Dan was real sweet on her, too, real devoted. But one morning Betsy goes into work…and finds Gladys at the bottom of the stairs…. Dead, you see?” Lucille tenderly wipes her eyes.

“Did they ever find out who did it?”

“No, police figured her past finally caught her. Some thought Dan was involved, he was a jealous thing after the war, but he was utterly heartbroken. When he bought up all that equipment, it was like he was trying to find a part of her.”

***
Christine dialed Malone’s Antiques, and counted twenty rings before hanging up. Finally, she lifted the switchboard receiver.

“Number please?” said Gladys. Catherine waited for Dan’s answer but only the soft, impossible hissing crossed the disconected line.

“Number please?” Gladys repeated, a bit impatient.

“Oh-oh hello Gladys,” Catherine stuttered. “This is Catherine. How’s it going down there?”

“Slow as usual,” said Gladys.

“Glady’s...about Dan. What happened?”

“Hmm? You mean that old accident on the stairs? Ancient history, Dan and I haven’t spoken of it in years. But then again, can’t take secrets like that to the grave.”

“You still talk to Dan?”

“Oh sure, nearly every night. In fact, here he is checking in on me again, I’d better go.” With a click, the switchboard went silent.

***

Catherine woke to the phone ringing again, but the switchboard was dark. It was Lucille calling her cell. Dan Malone had passed away last night.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Jesus Christ, I did that many rounds of edits and somehow didn't notice that I'd switched my main character's name from Christine to Catherine 3/4 of the way through? gently caress. Me.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

MadRhetoric posted:


The Last Love Song On This Little Planet (995 words, including title)

Running as fast as I can, edging ever closer, trying to catch an illusion. Stumbling, falling, dirtying her. White. She's always wearing something white. Always humming that same tune too.

This tune?

Running just as fast as we can
Holdin' on to one another's hand
Tryin' to get away into the night
And then you put your arms around me
And we tumble to the ground
And then you say

I think we're alone now
There doesn't seem to be anyone around
I think we're alone now
The beating of our hearts is the only sound

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
In for atrocious poetry time.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
1) I never bothered to even look at the deadline
2) Petrarchan Sonnet, not Shakespearean
3) No Kurt Vonnegut.

RULES. WHATEVER. :rolleyes:

The Untimely Death of Missy May

The windows wept with rain and Mom forbade
Another step in Missy's warrior dance.
"Now behave yourself, this is your last chance!"
"But I'm so bored, bored, bored!" cried Missy May.

When Mom to her book returned Missy crept
Down basement stairs into forbidden crypt.
With Bucket helm and broomstick sword equipped.
She stalked the iron dragon where it slept.

But oh! the looming beast shuddered awake!
The mouth of fire roared to stay away.
"I won't, I won't! You can't make me obey!"

Defying orders she knew she should take,
She leapt, but tripped and stumbled in her haste.
She kissed the flames and burned as quick as hay.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Mine was quarter-assed at most.

At some point, I might try to write what I originally planned (The Ultra-Top-Secret Adventures of Missy May, Part 1) in a more kid-friendly structure.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Suggestion: kangaroojunk's punishment for losing is zero further recognition for losing and no custom avatar.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
In. These girls better be ready to stumble into another dimension or something, because I'm not writing some cute little historical vignette where their prom dates can't tell them apart and hilarity ensues.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:

Yeah, the cutsie poo poo will get laughed at. However, I want to clarify the use "parallel dimension" as an out for making it realistic. If you want to hit it into left field with something like they secretly arranged for the death of Hitler (you can't do that specific one since I just mentioned it and you'd be lame for doing it), that's actually kosher. Having them slip into a parallel universe that has ipads, steam technology, or what-the-gently caress-ever circa the local 1950 isn't.

You can make them travel, do extraordinary things, give them credit for unexplained events, etc so long as you can at least justify how it'd be done with that period's level of technology.

Well, FINE. I guess I won't write about them stealing a time-travelling dirigible to visit ancient Japan (konichi-wa!) and their magnetically attractive, mysterious passenger who only comes out at night.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
We don’t look it now, but before now we were real lookers. All the boys were after us. All the time. But we said no. Usually. Not because we wanted to, see, but because we had to. It’s the curse. We have over a hundred and sixty years between us now, but we were only a couple dozen when that rotten old gypsy read our fate. It was right after Lucy kissed her first boyfriend, down on the boardwalk after work, and I was sulking jealous. We’d always done everything together, up ‘til then. I tried to get him to kiss Darcy, to keep it even, but he flushed bright red and ran right away. So, we walked out on the pier, just me and Darcy.

Lucy had bought us both a cotton candy to smooth over the kiss. I was letting it melt in my mouth, eyes closed, imagining it was my own kiss, when the scabby old claw grabbed my wrist. It was the old lady who told people’s fortunes for a dollar. She looked at me and Darcy’s palms, held them right next to each other and you could see the line run straight across mine and onto Darcy’s. That’s when we learned our true nature: “Your gentle touch brings death to all men.” And I’ll be darned if Lucy’s little boyfriend didn’t fall of the pier and drown not two days later. We both started to believe a little bit then. Took us a while to figure out what the rules were, especially since they changed as we got older. But basically it was sex. So usually we said no, but not always. At first our friends wondered why we only dated assholes, but then they started wondering why the assholes kept dying. And it’s not like we killed any of them ourselves. Well, except for Dennis. But that was self-defense. Finally, we had to move away, but it turned out there were assholes everywhere.

Kennedy was a surprise. Not that he died, of course, but that he was even interested in me at all with all the other willing, pretty girls around. Darcy was devastated when it happened. She came home in tears saying she’d done a horrible, horrible thing. It’s true, I thought I’d ended the world! Or at least America. I did try to say no, of course, but John wasn’t easy to say no to, and I was very tipsy. Very tipsy doesn’t quite describe the way we carried on in those days, poor Darcy was probably half-gone. Maybe, but now I feel kind of like John was a gift to me from the Universe. He was going to die anyway, anyone could see that. I didn’t really have anything to do with it. So he’s the only one I don’t really feel guilty about. Well, and Dennis, I suppose.

Sometimes I think Lucy got Bobby Kennedy and didn’t tell anyone, just so we’d both have a Kennedy. We like to keep things even. I did not, especially not after seeing how guilty Darcy felt right after John died, oh you should have seen her carrying on. Crying and wailing, she would have rent her clothes if she weren’t so vain. She marched us both right down to the nearest CIA office and told them everything. I hadn’t done anything, and didn’t want to get in trouble, but I had to go anyway, or who knew what would happen. That’s right, and that’s how everything started with LBJ and how we became America’s Black Widow Twins. Almost like superheroes the way they talked about us! Well, the few people who knew about us, anyway.

He tried to send us after Ho Chi Minh, first, but it was no good. The jungle was completely impassable at that point. Rumor has it they tried later with Jane Fonda, but she didn’t have much luck either, not even with those legs of hers. We did get a few Viet Kong of course, but no one really worth mentioning. Lucy always wanted to sneak into Cambodia and go after Pol Pot, said it would make up for Kennedy. Darcy was always too chicken, though. We were shuffled around a bit after that. They sent us to Russia, but we really weren’t so special there. Finally they thought to send us to South America, and that’s when things really got started. Chile is the most amazing place, everyone should get a chance to see it. We were officially on business, of course, but business meant acting like socialites, and we were good at it. First we got General Schneider, which threw the whole army into disarray. That lead to that Marxist Allendale getting elected president, and so we had to go after him, too! I don’t see why we couldn’t just have done him straight off in the first place. Well, poor guy had run for president three times before and lost so I guess it’s nice that he got to be president for a little while. Before he died.

After that, they brought us home. Carter wasn’t as interested in our talents, I guess. The CIA still called us every now and then for “special situations,” but the calls came less and less often. They gave us a nice pension and set us out to pasture, and here we are.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
I am going to submit once I get home.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
ALRIGHT. I edited it to add the bit about Reagan going for a kiss on the cheek and then getting shot. I failed to mention that it happened at a Christmas party :(

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Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
I'm going to go ahead and admit that even though I know my submission is complete poo poo, I hold a deep, secret hope that Mr. Gonzalez will read my terrible story and say "THIS IS GENIUS! WE MUST GIVE HER MILLIONS OF DOLLARS $47.65 RIGHT NOW!!!"

edit: But no, you see, this one submission will lead to a seven book deal, which will lead to a movie rights bidding war, which will lead to licensing opportunities........

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
After two terrible weeks in a row, perhaps I can redeem myself. Or continue to be terrible. You know, which ever.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"

budgieinspector posted:


Dr. Kloctopussy -- "I Eschew Titles for Jesus [Darcy and Lucy: Sex Assassins]"
There's an "I", there's a "Lucy" and there's a "Darcy"... and all three are twins. "I" is sometimes "Not-Lucy" and sometimes "Not-Darcy", which leads me to question whether "I" is actually supposed to be any of them, all of them, or if there even are twins. This got in the way of my reading about twins who kill with a magical sex curse, so I can't tell if I'm angry about that or glad.

I was trying to write it with both of them narrating, usually together (we), but occasionally each individually. Sort of like if they were telling someone the story. It obviously did not work out!!

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
The Diplomat's Wife (994 words)

The old woman on the roof raised the binoculars again. Mr. Whiskers yawned and stretched one white-tipped paw across her battered copy of “Rare and Unusual Birds of Europe,” present in case the nosy-old-biddy gag flopped. Luxembourg, global retirement home for washed up diplomats, proved so dull that she’d actually memorized most it.

Joy of joys, here was that scoundrel Nesbit, former attaché to the Ambassador to Jordon, rounding the corner. Probably coming to give poor Albert congratulations on his promotion. The old Ambassador to Luxembourg died, and the knuckle-heads back in Washington gave the post to her idiot husband. Ridiculous. Couldn’t trust him with the dry cleaning, much less national security.

She watched Nesbit polling his way up the street on his polished cane. In his left hand, which usually sported a scar-laden briefcase befitting his hunched and tweeded countenance, he carried a sleek new laptop bag. He looked up and wiped his face with a handkerchief. Interesting, thought Katherine, waving cheerfully at him before heading inside.

She greeted Mr. Nesbit at the door with all the charm and grace she’d learned at Bronning’s Institute of Espionage. She led him straight to the couch in the parlor, and had him sitting down before he knew what was happening.

“Albert’s on the phone at the moment, why don’t I make some tea while you wait?” She bustled off immediately, preventing all protest. Albert never dreamed of setting foot in the kitchen—in fact, he seemed to believe that food simply appeared at certain times of day, with no preparation whatsoever—so it was the perfect place for her base of operations.

Not that she’d had any real operations lately. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, Washington decided Europe was no longer “priority.” Albert received the transfer to Luxembourg, and Charles directed her to follow him. “In case we need you.” Or “so I’ll know you’re safe.” He gave her so many reasons she wanted to believe, none of them true. But she went anyway, out of some twisted sense of loyalty to him or country. And apparently he’d never needed her after all.

Katherine gave a little toss of her head to shake off those useless thoughts and started the tea. She still kept some of her special brew, guaranteed to make a man piss for at least two minutes straight.

While the water boiled, she considered her resources. She never carried a cell phone and she’d told Albert the laptop was a gift from her niece, to send pictures of the kids, but she’d always secretly kept up with the cutting edge of technology. She pushed aside her old hidden-camera glasses, slipped a thumb-drive loaded with a key-logger into her pocket, grabbed the tea tray, and tottered into the parlor.

Nesbit had left the couch and was examining her library. He stopped at the complete James Bond collection.

“You like spy novels?” he asked.

“Oh yes, they’re just so exciting! I wish I could do that!”

He bestowed her with the superior little smile that meant 007 did his job again.
The intelligence community despised spy novels, and refused to seriously consider anyone who read them. It was one of her best disguises.

She corralled him back onto the couch, pressing a mug into his hand. She watched out of the corner of her eye to make sure he was drinking it before slipping down the hall to check on Albert. He was sound asleep, just as she’d left him hours ago.

Putting on her best apologetic expression, she returned once again to Mr. Nesbit.

“I’m so sorry, he’s still on the phone.”

Nesbit wiped his face with the handkerchief again. Either the tea was working or he was nervous. Probably both.

“I saw the most magnificent spotted robin this morning,” she started in enthusiastically. Bird-watching cleared a room faster than yelling fire. “It was about 10am and I was…”

“Um, excuse me,” interrupted Nesbit, his face taking on the sheen of a cornered animal, “may I use your restroom?”

“But of course,” she said, rising at exactly the same moment he did, leaning so close that reaching his bag would have meant knocking her over. He left it, but looked back over his shoulder nervously. She sank back down into a perfect impression of frailty.

As soon as he was out of the room, she opened the bag and plugged in the thumb-drive. It was programmed to work automatically—anything typed on Nesbit’s computer would stream directly to her laptop in the kitchen. Depending on the encryption levels, she might be able to see what was on the screen. She started counting deliberately to thirty, the approximate install time. She heard the bathroom door open at twenty-eight. She quickly grabbed the lap top bag and ran for the door, right past a shocked Mr. Nesbit.

“What are you doing?” he shouted, running after her. As she hit thirty, Katherine yanked out the thumb-drive and turned to Mr. Nesbit, letting all her real fear show through.

“It’s a bomb! I heard it ringing!” She continued to move towards the door until he yanked the bag from her, relief plain on his face.

“That’s just my cell phone!” he said, pushing his way back into Albert’s office. Katherine chuckled and went to make herself a real pot of tea. The numbers started streaming across her screen before the kettle even whistled.

48098343820943078…she recognized them at once: Albert’s top secret decryption code. She’d found them in his promotion papers, left scattered on his desk, and memorized it immediately. Her program kicked into full gear and text and images filled her screen: American troop locations, assets, names. Blast. That slimeball Nesbit had got his hands on some high level information and Albert had just unlocked it all. She pulled the satellite phone from her drawer, switched the tea for gin on the rocks, and placed a call. At least now Charles would have to come.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Stories can be narrated from Heaven.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
This prompt is confusing as hell. It has to be "modern day" but also "set in an imaginary world?" and what is a transgressive romance?

I'm in regardless. Woo!

Edit: oh, I guess it can be in a parallel world or a world-within-a-world, but that seems to seriously undermine the idea of "high fantasy" to me. Whatever, it's cool.

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Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
Hahaha, my terrible (nearly losing) Lucy and Darcy "Thunderdome" entry was also accepted for publication. Jesus Christ.

edit:

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

I'm going to go ahead and admit that even though I know my submission is complete poo poo, I hold a deep, secret hope that Mr. Gonzalez will read my terrible story and say "THIS IS GENIUS! WE MUST GIVE HER MILLIONS OF DOLLARS $47.65 RIGHT NOW!!!"

edit: But no, you see, this one submission will lead to a seven book deal, which will lead to a movie rights bidding war, which will lead to licensing opportunities........