I could use a Thunderdome inspired avatar and title.
|# ¿ Aug 8, 2013 12:55|
|# ¿ Jan 24, 2021 03:38|
Pick the risky option! No guts no glory!
|# ¿ Aug 16, 2013 06:53|
I AM GOING TO WRITE A STORY OK
OK I HADN'T woah Caps Lock
I hadn't finished reading the prompt when I posted but my story is set in Orange Cake Baking School
Or maybe Academie d'Cake l'Orange because, as EroBeef pointed out to me, baking sounds better in fake French.
Chairchucker fucked around with this message at 14:11 on Aug 20, 2013
|# ¿ Aug 20, 2013 14:07|
So, about 27 minutes to go huh? Better start writing. Straight into the browser, the best way to write!
Academie d'Cake l'Orange
"Hey, are you listening?"
Jemima had not been listening, because honestly, Bert had the tendency to waffle a bit. "Sorry, what's that then?"
"I was just saying, I don't see why I always get stuck with orange picking duty."
"Ah well, let me clear that up for you." Jemima took a citrusy bite and spat out some seeds. "It's because you're catastrophically bad at baking."
"Catastrophic seems a bit harsh. There was no permanent damage."
Jemima shrugged. "I think it's possible you need to start setting slightly higher goals. Although actually at the moment I think maybe you should set goals that don't involve baking. Did I mention you're not good at it? Because that's an important piece of information you should remember."
"So how come you always get sent orange picking?" asked Bert. "Your cakes were really good."
Jemima finished off her snack and threw the peel on the floor. "I'm a dangerous dissident. I tried to bake with unapproved fruits."
"Why?" Bert was flabbergasted. "I'm flabbergasted! Why would you run that risk?"
Jemima shrugged again. She enjoyed shrugging. It was honestly one of her favourite things to do. "It's not that I don't love oranges and their applications to baked goods," she said. "It's just, sometimes a girl wants to experiment, y'know? I don't see what's so wrong with occasionally slipping something different into a cake. A grapefruit, maybe a couple of lemons, whatever."
"An apple?" suggested Bert.
"Pffft." Jemima shook her head. "Don't be silly, I wouldn't even compare the two!"
"Uh oh." Bert stopped talking and started being very obviously busy and involved in his task. Jemima glanced behind her. Terence was slowly striding towards them. She returned to being very disinterested in her task.
"Hello Bert," said Terence. "Jemima." No greeting, just an acknowledgement that she was there too. He glanced down at the basket she'd been filling. "What are those?"
Jemima looked at the basket. "Diet oranges," she said. Terence seemed unconvinced. "Would you believe junior oranges?" It didn't appear he would. "Travel oranges? Fun size oranges?"
"They look like mandarins," he said.
Jemima looked again. "Well, juice my innards, so they are. You clearly paid attention in fruit recognition 101."
"You know oranges are the only approved fruit," said Terence.
"Well," said Bert, "mandarins are important for our 'Languages other than English' quota."
"What?" Terence looked puzzled. "I am puzzled. What does that even mean?"
Bert sighed. "Too obscure? My jokes are wasted on this audience."
Terence shook his head. "Whatever, this is not my problem. I'm sure the head chefs will have something to say about your fruit picking habits," he nodded towards Jemima, "and about your attitude." He turned and walked back towards the Academie.
Jemima smiled. "Way to go, now you're a dissident too! I liked the joke, by the way."
They continued to pick the wrong fruit in silence.
|# ¿ Aug 26, 2013 07:00|
I am interpreting this prompt as 'write whatever the hell you want, I don't care' and as such I am in.
|# ¿ Aug 28, 2013 06:52|
I have written a thing but as it is 1 am now, I am going to sit on it until I get back from work tomorrow, at about half an hour to the deadline, and see if my story seems more horrific than when I wrote it. (Which is now.) So there will definitely be a story from me, but it might be awful!
|# ¿ Sep 1, 2013 15:10|
Gary Don’t Mind 951 words according to Word and there was totally more info I hoped to convey but didn't but oh well here you go here is a story.
“Man, that was a good match.”
“Would’ve been better if that bloody zebra hadn’t swallowed his whistle.” Gary picked up his empty lemonade can and crushed it flat. “Rigatoni was getting mauled out there.”
“Come now,” said Paul. “Let’s not be bitter. Best to just accept that the better side won.”
Gary flicked the squashed can at him, and Paul laughed as it bounced off of his arm. “Whatever. I’ve gotta see a man about a dog.” He let himself into the smallest room in the house and closed the door.
“Hey Gary,” said Paul. “I’ve just gotta nip down to the shops for a moment, you’re right to watch Lucy for me, right?”
“What? Absolutely not!”
“Come on man, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Then take her with you or something, I can’t babysit her for you!”
“Five minutes. Tops. Okay thanks, won’t be long.”
“Son of a… no, Paul. This is not Okay. Paul?” There were no further replies from Paul. Gary returned from the toilet and peered out the front window. Paul’s car was no longer parked out the front. “Bloody mongrel,” said Gary.
“What’s a mongrel?”
Gary turned around. “Oh hey sweetie,” he said. “Your dad’s asked me to mind you for just a few minutes. Aren’t you usually in bed by now?”
“Daddy usually reads me a bed time story,” said Lucy.
“Hmmm, I guess I could do that.”
“And tucks me in.”
“Right. How about I let you stay up until your daddy gets home?”
Lucy smiled. “Can I watch TV?”
“Well, I’m not sure daddy would like you watching the kind of shows that are on this late. Don’t you have some DVDs we could put on?”
Lucy nodded and ran to grab one. Gary glimpsed the cover and groaned inwardly. “Uh, can we watch a different one? How about The Wiggles, you like those guys, right?”
“OK,” said Lucy, and obligingly put the Skivvied Ones in the player instead. After a couple of songs, Lucy asked “Can we have ice cream, too?”
Gary looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes tops’ had somehow become ten. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, we can definitely have ice cream.” Lucy followed him into the kitchen and he put three large scoops each into two bowls.
After they’d finished the ice cream, Gary looked at his watch again. Fifteen minutes was definitely stretching the friendship. He pulled out his mobile and dialled Paul’s number. Paul’s ringtone sounded from the next room. Fantastic.
“Listen, sweetie,” he said “Why don’t you phone your mummy to come over? I shouldn’t really be babysitting you alone, definitely not for this long.”
“Mummy doesn’t usually come and pick me up until Monday,” she said.
“Well,” said Gary, “just tell her that your daddy has left me in charge while he’s gone out. She may decide this is a special case.”
Lucy went to the hall where the home phone was kept, and Gary paused the Wiggles mid-potato. He really needed a beer, but Paul didn’t like having alcohol out on weekends that he had Lucy.
“Another one, thanks.” Simon obligingly pushed a new glass over the counter, and Paul passed him the exact change.
“Surprised to see you here,” said Simon. “Don’t you usually have your daughter every other week?”
Paul dismissed the matter with a wave of hand. “It’s all good, I got Gary to mind her for a couple minutes.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already been here for a little longer than most definitions of a couple minutes. Hang on. Gary? Our Gary?” Paul nodded.
Warwick raised his head from his beer. “Sure that’s a good idea, mate?”
“What?” Paul took a sip from his beer. “He’s a great mate, I can trust him.”
Simon shook his head. “No way, Paul. I mean, I trust Warwick, but I still wouldn’t go out and ask him to mind the bar.”
“Come on man, I’m right here,” said Warwick.
“You’re both worrying too much,” said Paul. “He reckons therapy’s going really well.”
Simon shook his head again. “That’s messed up, mate. You’ve gotta go home. In fact” – and he handed Paul his exact change back – “give me that one back. I’m not gonna make you pay for the sip you took, but you’re done with that one, and you’re done here for the rest of the weekend.”
Paul grumbled, but he took his money back and handed back the glass. Both men stared at him disapprovingly as he walked out the door.
Once outside, Paul walked towards his car, but then spied the sign for the Lion’s Head. Not his favourite pub, but no one there knew his custody arrangements. He walked past his car.
It took twelve minutes after Lucy’s call for Harriet to arrive. Gary knew because he’d checked his watch at least once per minute. Harriet had taken Lucy upstairs right away and put her to bed, while Gary sat downstairs channel flipping and waiting for her to return. “I can’t believe that idiot would get you to look after her,” she said once she’d returned to the lounge room. “No offence, but… you know.”
“No, I’m with you,” said Gary. “I told him I couldn’t watch her, but he asked while I was on the can, and was gone by the time I got out.” Harriet shook her head. “Anyway,” said Gary, “I’m gonna head home.”
“Wait, you can’t just leave me to wait for him by myself,” said Harriet. “He’ll go ballistic. And there’s also the outside chance that I’ll murder him for being an idiot.”
“Fine,” said Gary. They sat down and switched the TV back on, and waited for Paul.
|# ¿ Sep 2, 2013 06:59|
Tastes like poo poo.
Thank me later.
|# ¿ Sep 9, 2013 07:16|
who knew this place was secretly a christian propaganda factory
If god and lord are up but Jesus is down, clearly it's actually a Jewish plot. They control the media you know. Now they're moving onto the dome.
|# ¿ Sep 15, 2013 02:24|
I am in for this week give me a title please KTHX.
|# ¿ Sep 24, 2013 07:55|
The Riddle of the Ruby Gazelle 630 words. Don't feel like rushing a story in the one hour I'll be at home before the deadline tomorrow.
“This really isn’t all that much like Woodstock.”
Drew shrugged. “I dunno, there are some similarities. Bunch of people crowded around a stage, recreational dr-. Uh. Mostly just the people and the stage.”
Drew’s Nan frowned, but didn’t comment about the recreational drugs thing. “The difference is Woodstock had music. Do you really like this stuff?”
Drew shrugged again. “Nah, but a friend of mine was gonna meet me here.”
“Oh OK, what’s your friend’s name?”
“Speak up, I’m old.”
“Wait, over there!”
Over there was someone in what appeared to be a onesie. One of the ones with ears and stuff. Well, over there was a whole bunch of people, but the onesie was what waved back when Drew waved to the group of people, and the onesie and its wearer was what walked over to Drew and his Nan.
“Nan, this is Ruby. Ruby, this is my Nan. I’ve gotta go to the loo, why don’t you two talk about whatever it is women talk about, OK brb.”
“You know, saying ‘brb’ isn’t actually any quicker,” said his Nan, but he’d already left. “So,”
she said to Ruby, gesturing towards the stage, “you’re into this kind of thing then?”
Ruby shook her head. “Not really, but I wanted to catch up with Drew.”
“That’s good,” said Drew’s Nan. “Personally I think it just sounds like noise. Drew tried to tell me DubCon would be just like Woodstock, but I don’t see it at all. Too many young people with stupid haircuts and the music turned up way too-”
There was a moment’s silence, and Ruby said “Sorry, you kind of cut out in the middle of the sentence there, was there more?”
Nan shook her head. “I just realised I sounded like my parents. How depressing. Nice goat costume, by the way.”
“It’s a gazelle,” said Ruby. “I’m a gazelle. It’s my spirit animal.”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Nan. “It’s cute though. Don’t know that I’d wear it here, might make it difficult to clean.”
And then Drew returned from the toilet. “Hey, you ladies great friends now?” He turned to Ruby. “Ready to step some dub?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Ruby.
“Actually,” said Nan, “I think I feel a migraine coming on. Yes, definitely a migraine. From this terrible music. We’re going to have to make a move, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, OK,” said Ruby. “A shame, we just caught up.”
“Well,” said Nan, “if by any chance you find you’ve had enough of filling your ears with this trash, I’d be happy to give you a lift from here. In fact, why don’t you come have dinner with us? I always make too much.”
“OK sure, my legs were getting tired anyway. I’ll just call my mum.”
Ruby wandered to a different corner of the festival grounds where she’d managed to find a couple of bars of reception earlier. “So, do you like her?” asked Drew.
“At least she doesn’t like dubstep,” said Nan. “Seriously, whose idea was it to come here?”
“I don’t remember. Wait, I think it was Tommy, but then he couldn’t make it. Really, she doesn’t like the dub?”
Nan shook her head. “I’m sure people are getting dumber with every generation.”
Drew ignored this slight on his intelligence. “So you didn’t mind the gazelle thing?”
“What? Oh, the onesie?”
“Whatever they’re called. I don’t mind, it’s kind of cute, somewhat impractical to wear at a music festival though.”
“So it doesn’t bother you?”
Nan shook her head. “No, why would I care?”
“I’m back,” said Ruby, who was back. “Mum said it’s all cool. What’re you guys talking about?”
“Dinner,” said Nan, walking towards the gate out. “What would you kids like?”
|# ¿ Sep 29, 2013 11:54|
No. It actually wasn't.
I'm in I guess.
|# ¿ Oct 1, 2013 07:55|
That’s the Spirit 473 words. Hmmm, I'm not sure if I've changed this enough from reality...
The four uniformed figures, three men and one woman, had reached the memorial and were coming to the present arms position. Sleeves were rolled up and all four of them flexed. “Bloody beautiful,” said Wazza to Robbo. “That’s the ANZAC spirit, right there.”
One of the men fell over, onto his face. Robbo shook his head. “Young guy needs to learn to pace himself. Getting plastered before the parade, that’s a rookie error.” An attendant dragged the fallen soldier over to one side, where he was sprayed with water and handed a coffee. A cheer went through the crowd as he wobbled to his feet and resumed his place.
And then some old guy in a robe got up and said some words, but Robbo and Wazza didn’t bother hanging around for that. He was talking about fallen diggers or something. He probably meant the ones down at the quarry; some drongo had gotten into one of them after a few beers and tipped it over. Wazza and Robbo made their way down to the pub.
They went by foot. It was close enough, and neither of them fancied being designated driver. Kev was behind the bar, and had clearly started without them. “Morning lads,” he said. “Joining in the two up comp?”
“Rum first,” said Robbo. “Can’t have ANZAC Day without rum; that would be against the ANZAC spirit.” Kev nodded. No, you most certainly could not, and yes it most certainly would. He filled both of their glasses and then refilled them after they’d both thrown them back.
“G’day fellas.” Sunil had just pulled up a stool next to them.
“Get out of my country,” said Wazza.
“Steady on,” said Robbo. “It’s not Australia Day.”
“Oh, right. I always get them confused. Sorry mate, your first one’s on me.” Sunil shrugged and accepted the free rum. “Hmmm, do you think I should take the flags off me ute, too?”
“Nah,” said Kev. “Just leave ‘em on for nine months, you’ll be ahead of the game.”
The three men made their way over to the two up, still holding their rum. It was just about to begin, and Robbo and Wazza had a System. The System involved misdirection and sleight of hand, which jealous and less successful two up players might’ve called ‘cheating’, but what did they know, they didn’t understand about the ANZAC spirit which had to do with larrikinism or something.
On this occasion their System did not work very well, on account of the two up head honcho noticed them moving their hands and told them to bugger off.
“No sense of humour, that man,” said Robbo.
“None at all,” said Wazza. “Doesn’t understand the first thing about the ANZAC Spirit. Wanna go over to the cemetery via the bottle o?”
“Cheers to that,” said Robbo.
|# ¿ Oct 7, 2013 06:16|
I will make you weep gushing waterfalls down your mouse cheeks.
|# ¿ Oct 15, 2013 05:55|
If this doesn't make you cry, you just don't know what sad is.
I waited at the block and sharpened my axe. Not that it wasn’t already sharp enough, but you can never have an axe that’s too sharp, that’s what my dad always said.
The prisoner had a hood on his head. He didn’t seem happy with the situation. “Oi! I’m not going out like a bloody cat with a bag on his head! Come on, let me at least see who’s topping me!” I didn’t completely understand the simile, but the point was well enough made. I nodded to the lads on either side of the hooded man, and the hood was removed. “Ah, Jack! Glad it’s you what’s doin’ the honours.”
I nodded. “They offered me the day off, Rob, but I wouldn’t hear of it. Someone else might botch it.”
Rob smiled. “Well, this has made my day. Let’s get to it, shall we?”
I nodded again, and he knelt down and placed his head on the block. “Some people like to say some last words at this point, Rob,” I said. “Did you have anything in mind?”
He shrugged, a difficult action from his position. “A pleasure doing business with you, Jack.” A gentleman to the last, our Rob.
I took my stance, feet shoulder width apart, lifted the axe above my head, and prepared my downsw-
“Hold that axe!” The magistrate emerged from the crowd. “We’ve got a stay of execution order.”
The magistrate nodded. “Not a pardon as such, we’ll be executing you in due course Mr Keillor. Jack, a word if you please, in my office.”
The magistrate’s office overlooked the square. As the magistrate and I watched, Rob was helped to his feet and the hood was placed back on his head.
“I was just in time,” said the magistrate. “Almost made a bit of a mistake there!”
“Thought you said he wasn’t being pardoned.”
“Oh, no, he’s still being executed. You don’t do what he did and not get executed, no sir. What I meant was, he’s not getting executed by you.” He reached over to a large black cloth nearby that had somehow gone unmentioned in this narrative and tugged on it. It came about halfway off of whatever it was covering, but then got snagged. “Hang on, I’ll have it off in a jiffy.”
“Need a hand?” I asked.
“Please.” I reached up above his outstretched arms and carefully unsnagged the cloth, then lifted it off. “Behold!” said he.
It was a large wooden frame. “What am I beholding?”
“It’s called a guillotine. It’ll be erected in the square. It’ll be much more cost effective than having to employ a professional to swing an axe, in the long run. Ah, progress.”
I was a little confused by this point. “So, what about me? I’m a little confused.”
“Ah yes, this part is always so awkward. I really should hire someone to do this, especially now that a staff vacancy is opening what with you being fired and all. Ah! I got through it, lovely! Please clear out your stuff on the way out, thank you!”
I don’t remember leaving his office, but presumably I must’ve done so. I don’t specifically remember entering Mike’s, either, but there I was. “How was your day, Jack?” he asked.
“Mead. Better make it a jug.”
He raised an eyebrow as he passed me the mead. “Must’ve had a rough one. Heard Rob’s High Justice got interrupted, it’s not just about that is it?”
I took a swig. “It’s that, but it’s more than that too.” And I explained the whole thing with the big wooden frame with the French sounding name that was supposedly gonna replace me. And I drank my mead.
Mike shook his head. “It’s a drat shame, is what it is. You’ve been here longer than that bloody magistrate, and now he’s showing you the door and replacing you with some… some foreign machine?” He shook his head again. “drat shame. This round’s on the house.”
The denizens of the bar suddenly became very interested in our conversation. “What’s going on?” asked Leo. “Why the free mead? Not that I’m looking a gift mug of mead in the mouth, so to speak.”
And then I had to explain the thing with the French sounding wooden thing again, and all the men shook their heads and agreed that it was a drat shame, and that I wouldn’t be paying for any more drinks that night, and some time soon after that I must’ve passed out from drinking so much free mead.
It was about a week before the guillotine was built. Passers by occasionally stopped to observe that “Jack didn’t take up quite as much room” and “Jack didn’t need a week to get ready,” but Rob’s day came once again. Again, Rob was hooded, and again he objected quite strongly. The two guards glanced over at the magistrate, who was ready to do whatever needed to be done to the French thing to make it replace me. The magistrate nodded, and the hood was removed.
Rob looked at the frame. “You’re kidding me, right? Where’s Jack?”
The magistrate sniffed. “He’s obsolete. This is the future. Have you any last words?”
Rob shook his head as he knelt down and placed his head beneath the blade. “If this is the future, I think I’m glad I won’t be around to see it.”
A gentleman to the last, our Rob.
|# ¿ Oct 20, 2013 14:07|
If the aggressive machination of our labour force doesn't make you tear up, I just don't know what to tell you.
|# ¿ Oct 22, 2013 10:41|
This is an even better judgement post
Sebmojo vs Sitting Here: Ultrabrawl IV: Another Subtitle
I dunno you kept changing the name or something.
OK yeah I'm the secret judge woooo mysterious OK carry on
So this was Lord Windy's prompt with the powerful women and the stilettos, and first of all you both lost POINTS with me by not featuring actual stilettos in your stories, but instead going with high heeled shoes or whatever. But then Sitting Here lost even more points by having the entire premise being "Oh my goodness, gender reversal, the ladies are in the board room and the man is in high heels and is a PA, how topsy turvy!" Not enough to carry a story in which otherwise, a bunch of people talk about policy or whatever the hell it was I dunno. And I preferred Seb's literal interpretation of powerful women as well.
ROUND ONE TO SEBMOJO
According to the very minuscule amount of research I could be bothered doing just now, this prompt was something like slice of life, speculative fiction, music. It might've been different for each of you from memory but I can't be bothered looking it up.
Seb, I didn't really like your narrative style in this one. It takes a lot for a story to rise above a "Ah yes, come have a beer with me and I will unload some exposition on you" story. And then nothing happened in your story, so. Yeah.
I kind of liked Sitting Here's story even though it had a character with apostrophes in their name, and it got all kind of weird and existentialish or something, so
ROUND TWO TO SITTING HERE mostly by virtue of you didn't have an old man in a bar dump a bunch of exposition on us.
OH AND WHAT A COINCIDENCE, THAT MEANS IT IS NOW DOWN TO THE THIRD STORY TO BE A TIEBREAKER
So one interesting thing here is that Sitting Here submitted on time but at over double the word limit, whereas Sebmojo took his sweet time and eventually got a word count reduced to 200, so you're both terrible right away. But then Sitting Here's story was pretty good and Seb's pretty much wasn't, and I've run out of what little enthusiasm I had for actually critting any individual elements of the stories, I mean 2,500 words what the hell I'm not going through lines or anything.
But if you looked closely you might've noticed that there's a final judgement there, that's right,
WINNER OF ROUND THREE AND THE COVETED TITLE OF 'NOT AS AWFUL AS THE OTHER PERSON IT WAS OUT OF' (BUT STILL TERRIBLE AND SHOULD FEEL BAD, 2,500 WORDS, STREWTH ETC) IS SITTING HERE YAAAAAY
Oh and apparently the other judges might offer more words about exactly what it is about each of your stories that made them all terrible, whatevs.
Chairchucker Out, Suckas.
|# ¿ Oct 29, 2013 06:11|
I'm going to write a story I guess.
|# ¿ Oct 31, 2013 11:11|
The greatest solo artist ever in my story? Why yes, yes I will.
|# ¿ Nov 1, 2013 23:26|
What up, here's a story, 971 words, aging Bowie, and another familiar face!
God from the (Tin) Machine
Violet was outrageously excited. She’d missed an absurd amount of gigs while being in hospital with several broken ribs, a pierced lung and a completely wrecked spleen, and to be able to see Bowie live as her first gig out of hospital and second ever – Maiden counted, dammit, even if she’d been unconscious for most of it – was… well, it was outrageously exciting. She was excited. Outrageously so. It was gonna be so groovy.
“Now remember,” said her mother, “no going in the moshpit. The wheelchair’s not ours.”
“Don’t worry,” said Violet. “There probably won’t be any near fatal stompings at a Bowie concert.”
“Well still, be careful.”
“You know, I could’ve reinforced the wheelchair maybe, made it more effective in a moshpit situation.”
Mother shook her head. “Doctor specifically said no weaponising the wheelchair.”
Violet shrugged. “C’mon, let’s see how far the sympathy card gets us.” Mother rolled her towards some important looking men in black suits, and Violet put on her best ‘I’m in a wheelchair’ face. It was more or less a normal expression except she sat in a wheelchair while maintaining it, so it was usually somewhat effective.
The sympathy card got them to just barely offstage. “This is dope!” said Violet. “I should get myself wheelchair bound for all the gigs!”
“I’m not buying you a wheelchair for better spots at gigs.”
“You say that now, but wait until Bowie is close enough to touch, and we’ll see what happens.”
The support act was Talking Heads, and they came on and were somewhat quirky and whimsical. “You know, gettin’ jiggy in a wheelchair is surprisingly difficult.”
“Rethinking your gig strategy?”
“I didn’t say impossible. It could grow on me. My legs aren’t getting tired, which is a plus.”
And then Bowie came on. “Hello everyone,” said Bowie, sounding all British and charming like he does. “Let’s play some lovely songs, shall we? That’d be pretty groovy. You all probably know this one.”
And then the band started playing, and Bowie opened his mouth and out came “Wait, wait, wait, were we doing that one first?” And his drummer shrugged and then Bowie said “OK why not chaps, come around for another verse one, there’s a good band,” and the band replayed verse one and Bowie started this time for real, “I know when to go out. I know when to stay in…”
And then time seemed to shimmer, and the stage shook, and Violet’s mother fell down, and-
“Well look who’s back in the land of the living.”
Violet’s mum opened her eyes. “What?”
“That was quite a spill you took there,” said an absurdly handsome doctor.
“Violet. My daughter.”
“I don’t know what you’re ta-”
Violet looked around. The entire crowd, her mother included, seemed frozen, asleep on their feet. The band had stopped playing, and Bowie looked around in confusion while still trying to belt out Modern Love. “What gives, lads? This section isn’t a Capella!”
Violet wheeled onto the stage, because this seemed like as good an excuse as any to get closer to Bowie. “Looks like they’re all under some kind of spell Bowie, also can I get a photo?”
Bowie shrugged. “Anything for a fan in a wheelchair. Might have to be a selfie though, looks like all of our potential photographers are in some kind of demonically induced stupor. I’d say probably the work of Asmodeus, this seems kind of like his bag.”
And then Asmodeus emerged from beneath the stage, causing some damage to the woodwork on the way through. “Neat special effects,” said Violet.
“That’s not one of ours,” said Bowie.
“GAZE UPON MY COUNTENANCE AND DESPAIR!” bellowed Asmodeus.
“Over this way, chief,” said Violet.
“OH MY, THIS IS EMBARRASSING,” said Asmodeus as he turned around to face them. “NOW WHY IS IT YOU TWO AREN’T STUPEFIED, LIKE A GOOD BUNCH OF THRALLS? I CONTROL ALL HUMANS THROUGH THEIR EASILY MANIPULATED SPLEEN!”
“Oh well that explains me,” said Violet.
“Sorry old bean,” said Bowie, “but I’m not in the habit of sharing the stage with Princes of Hell, so could you be a good lad and shove off, eh?” And then Bowie grabbed the microphone and let out a thunderous scream, his voice lifting up to the very heavens. Mingling with his were the voices of Elvis, not Costello the other fellow, of Buddy Holly, of Ray Charles, of Paul McCartney, of-
“WAIT, MCCARTNEY?” asked Asmodeus. “THAT DOESN’T EVEN-”
And then Bowie punched him in his big fat demonic face and strangled him with the microphone cord. “Strange,” said Bowie, “the voices of the fallen thing usually works. I guess I can’t hit the high notes quite as well these days.” Then the band started waking up, and being highly trained professionals they ignored the charred remains of Asmodeus and started again from the top, and Violet wheeled back over to where her mother was staggering to her feet.
And the show was totally dope as is to be expected from the single greatest solo artist ever, and if you don’t agree with that description I will see you in the parking lot after the story you jerk, and afterwards Violet and her mum got to go backstage and meet Bowie, where there was surprisingly no hedonism or debauchery at all, and instead they did karaoke, and Violet sung Run to the Hills, although having no spleen and a still recovering lung made the high notes pretty difficult. And they all had a lovely time with absolutely no untimely interruptions from pop stars with dumb nicknames. Later Violet and her mum went home and watched some TV, but we’re kind of moving away from things of interest here, so let’s just call the story finished at this point, hmmm?
|# ¿ Nov 3, 2013 14:46|
Re: our prompt.
Where is it?
Season's greetings etc.
|# ¿ Dec 17, 2013 06:59|
That sounds like a thing I would do maybe.
|# ¿ Dec 17, 2013 19:53|
OK here it is, straight into the browser as is my custom.
Will the Time Worm be Unbroken 850 words including title.
"Whoa there. That worm is not for you, son."
Kyle lowered his fork and peered at the worm in question. "Whose worm is it, then?"
The massive beard with a face somewhere behind it stopped cleaning its mug and cracked its knuckles in the manner of a beard whose owner is about to lay down some serious words about worms. "It's not about whose worm it is. I mean, can anyone really claim to own a worm?"
"I think so," said Kyle. "I had a worm farm as a kid. Pretty sure I owned all the worms therein."
A corner of the beard that roughly corresponded to a place you'd expect to find an eyebrow was raised. "Be that as it may, sonny, the point I was trying to make is that you don't want to be eating that worm because it's no ordinary worm. That, young whippersnapper, is a time worm." Both eyebrow corresponding beard areas wiggled expressively.
"I don't know what one of those is. Do they not taste good?"
"Let me tell you about time worms, young feller me lad. Let me tell you a story that will set the hair on that appallingly beardless head of yours on end."
"You know what," said Kyle, "I think I'd rather you didn't. How about I just take your word for it and not eat the worm."
The beard continue on regardless. "Once upon a time when I was but a wee lad with a beard much smaller than the one I sport now - but still better than your shamefully shaven face - I happened upon such a worm, and I decided to eat it."
After a few moments, Kyle asked "Sorry, was there more to this story?"
The sides of the beard turned downwards thoughtfully. "Hmmm, I'm sure there was more to it than that, but I can't seem to remember it. Still, quite a story, eh?"
"No." Kyle lifted the fork again, put the worm in his mouth and started to chew.
"Wait, I think I remember someth-" and that was all Kyle heard.
Kyle looked around. Tiles. Porcelain whiteness. He was in one of those... what do you... you wash there sometimes. Or you go there when you've... you've eaten too much and then some time later you. You. What do you do.
Kyle had had some strong alcohol before, but nothing that could prepare him for a time worm hangover. Some well practiced instinct within him told him to flop his face on top of the white porcelain thing. The... it was a seat. That was weird, right? Usually a seat was where you put your butt, not your face. Gross, his face was where other people had-
His stomach stirred, and from his throat came a warm and foul smelling reminder of why bathrooms are tiled. He lay there for what seemed like at least ten minutes, but was actually only nine and a half, so he was way off, hugging the toilet, until he was certain there were no more reminders of supper past still to come. With both hands he pushed himself up and dragged himself over to the sink. He'd have to gargle, like, a whole ocean of water to get that time worm taste out of his mouth. He'd have to run another ocean of water through his beard to clean that out as well.
Through his beard.
He reached up and touched his beard. It was magnificent. There was something bothering him about the beard, but he couldn't figure it out. What could he possible have to be upset about? It was a glorious beard. He would be the envy of all beardless people. Of all people with lesser beards as well, for that matter. He shrugged and made for the door.
He apologised to the occupant of the stall, turned around and made for the exit door. They really should make it harder for people under the influence of absurd amounts of whatever substance to tell the two apart. He was still a little disoriented. Disorientated? Whichever. He was too hungover to figure out big words. He found his way out to the bar, took his position behind the bar and started polishing a glass. His position behind the bar? Was that right? Of course it was.
A fresh faced young man came in, slapped a twenty down on the counter and said to the behind the bar dwellers at large "I'll have a worm please." Kyle frowned. There was something weird about this lad. Nonetheless, a customer was a customer.
"We got any worms?" he asked.
"Sorry," said Kyle. "No worms. Get you something to drink instead?" The young lad frowned and shook his head, then left. Kyle thoughtfully polished his glass. He was sure something hadn't gone as it was supposed to just then, but he wasn't sure what.
It was probably something to do with the worm. I mean, who orders a worm at a pub? That's weird, right? Yeah. That's all it was.
|# ¿ Dec 22, 2013 17:05|
|# ¿ Jan 24, 2021 03:38|
Fast judgin's good judgin', also Merry Christmas from THE FUTURE.
|# ¿ Dec 25, 2013 00:32|