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Just not cricket “Not Jonno, he bowls like a loving Aussie,” and that was it. You bowl like an Australian, you get sent to the part of the field where you'll do the least harm. It shows a weakness of moral fibre: their ancestors were criminals after all. That's how they keep stealing all those runs. I trudged across the yard, kicking aside empty beer cans until I met Winnifred, the blowup doll. She was tied to Graham's fence with a bunch of colourful ribbons, wearing a deeply shocked expression and little else. “Guess it's me and you, Winnie,” I said. To add insult to injury, Graham, who actually is Australian, got called up to bowl. The smug oval office was wearing a helmet, zinc, pads- the whole deal. We're playing in the back yard with plastic bats but he wanted to show us all how it was done, by coming to the game in a white SWAT outfit. Graham, with his blonde hair and effortless charm, had come over here to steal our jobs and instead decided to just steal our women. He was rooting Jackie, who was French or some poo poo: one of the countries where the women don't shave. We couldn't pronounce her real name. Tits like a pornstar and a moustache like, well, a pornstar. Half synthetic, all natural. Where was I? Oh yes, perfect Graham with his perfect smile. Me, jealous? gently caress off, mate. Something cut through the fog of indignation. “Jonno, Jonno mate,” “What?” “Go get us a beer.” “I'm not your loving missus, Graham.” “Don't be a prick, Jonno. There's a pack of dou-bros in the fridge. Get yourself one too.” Oh yes, just because Graham's married and he's got a house with a backyard that he lets us play cricket in on Sundays but only after church because you can't play cricket sober and you can't pray drunk and- just because all that, he thinks he can order people around. It's his house though and I didn't want to cause a fuss, so I headed inside to grab the drinks. Jackie's watching some soap opera in some language I don't understand: she barely even looked at me. Stuck up Portugese bitch. There's a fireplace in the lounge, boarded up. The only useful bit left is the mantlepiece, which is stuffed with junk. There's a bunch of medals his dad won in Crete, a jam-jar filled with coins he's collected off street corners all over the world and right in the middle, a musty old cricket ball with half the stitching come loose. Some real primeval poo poo, that ball: like an apple left a century in the sun. I reached out to pick it up, to know if it felt half an old as it looked. “Don't touch that,” “Piss off, Jackie, I wasn't gonna,” I said. “Charlie Bannerman, he hit that ball into there stands in the eighteen-seven-seven. Graham, his father wins it in drinking contest in Burpengary against a fat man collector from England. He drinks him under a table.” “Graham's full of it, Jackie. He found it in a bin somewhere. It stinks. Why don't you chuck it back out?” “I try once. Graham is almost the crying when he finds it not there. He goes through trash, wash it then put it straight back. I don't touch after that,” she said, then went straight back to her Hungarian TV crap. Bloody women. While she was distracted by some new-unfolding drama, I slipped the ball into my pocket, picked up the box of beer in both hands, then headed back outside. We're another hour in and the yard was looking like a beer-can recreation of Gallipoli. We've switched over and Graham's taking the bat. “Let the Aussie bowler take the Aussie down!” howled Bevan, who was having trouble standing up straight. They all looked at me, these big poo poo-eating grins on their faces. Oh yeah, real comedians. Well, I've a big joke in my pocket: a hunk of old leather than stunk like a dead rat and I reckoned I was just sober enough to throw straight. My fingers were drumming on it and it felt almost warm, alive. I stepped up to the wickets and slipped the ball out of my pocket. Quick as you like, I wound up and let it loose. Graham's got just long enough to realise what's happening but his arms were already in motion: muscle memory from a thousand games of backyard cricket sent him flying forward like Hercules. His face was twisting and screaming, but it's not about faces or brains at this point. It's about something older than that, a stew that's been brewing a long time, ever since he stole Jackie the Singaporean out from underneath me. I felt a little bad, 'cos stealing's in his nature. It's in his genetic as an Australian: he's just born bad. Bat hit ball with a wet thunk. I barely had time to suck in a breath as the ball whistled past, millimetres away from taking my drat head off. It's gone by me, it's gone by Bevan and Timbo, it's heading straight for the fence and surely the drat thing can't survive an impact like that. It smacked into something, then a naked woman was illuminated in a ray of sun, flying through the air, angelic, arms low at her sides. Winnie came down to earth on her back. She was knocked into the air so hard, the ribbons and the fencepost were torn to pieces. She looked more pleased than shocked now, the old ball caught squarely in her toothless mouth. There's a silence, then Bevan raised one hand in the air. “YEERRRRRRRRROUT,” he said. There's a burst of laughter from all the lads. Graham dropped the bat and grinned. “Fair enough,” he said. He was looking square at the ball, completely undamaged. Bloody women. [999 words]
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May 20, 2013 06:01
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V for Vegas posted:Special props to Muffins for a valiant attempt, but tainted by racism born of a nation that couldn't reverse swing in a transvestite night club. Trust an Aussie to miss the subtlety.
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May 21, 2013 15:32
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Why the hell not. In.
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May 22, 2013 15:13
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The nature of the beast The night grows ever darker. Only the fire remains, to keep shadow and her children at bay. A fierce fire we have built aye; she devours the food we put to her and spits back fragile embers of black and white. Meltwater from the trees above drips on our heads and down our necks. We shiver, not all from the cold. There is no end to this forest, though we were told it stretched only to the coast. Would that things were so simple: the clear path has been lost. On the ninth day, we found the carcass of the man named Wolf. The noose had snapped, then the real wolves had come. His mouth hung dumbly and the soft meat of his tongue had been torn away. His chest and belly were split open and lay nigh-empty, their torn contents apart, staining the earth. He deserved neither burial nor burning, so we left his hollow shell to rot. A fitting end for the man named Wolf, for whom we sharpened steel and crossed the whale-roads. Seven and seven more days have we been lost in the forest. I name it seven and seven, though there is no sun nor moon by which to tell time. Young Flynn climbed through the canopy and told us of only darkness above, though Young Flynn loves to spin a story. A starless night, perhaps, and the moon behind a cloud. Such is the folly of youth: thought without action, action without thought. In all my wandering, I have never seen trees such as those that surround us. Their wood is dark and covered in thorns. Though hard, it falls well enough to an axe and burns brightly; blue with a red fringe. It smells foul, like a hot mountain pool gone rotten. The men think there is something unhallowed to it, but I have wandered far and seen stranger things. We have not seen another living creature since we landed the boats. We have heard them, found their prints, their poo poo and their discarded meals, but we have not seen them, and that troubles me. My men are hunters all, moving as ghosts, yet we have stumbled across no deer, no boar, nor any wolves save the man named Wolf. Now he is dead, we will go home and speak no more of it. His lady wife Sigurd cursed and spat as the boats pulled away but she is only a woman, and weak in her emotion. Wolf too, was weak in his emotion; a hollow shell filled with treason and lust. Sigurd was not enough for him, and now the wolves have torn out his sin, along with all else. A fitting end for the man named Wolf. The night dances around our fire. The shadows twist to form faces of lovers and thieves. Wolf stole from me, and had all stolen from him in return. It is fitting. The shadows are memory, no more. Tricks of the light. Action with thought, thought with action. Wolf failed to heed those words. He died a coward's death, with a rope around his neck and a cry for mercy on his fragile lips. One man, Hroth the Grey, had shaken his head and walked off through the woods, towards the coast. We have not seen him since, nor have we seen the sun. The man named Wolf had pleaded, so the wolves tore out his tongue to spare themselves his groveling. There is a shadow of memory, something hidden behind dark trees ringed with thorns. Wolves, words, then the long silence. Young Flynn likes to tell stories, but he cannot because he has no tongue. It was torn out by wolves, some time ago. Perhaps seven days, perhaps seven years. Forgive me, I speak in circles. The night grows cold. Though we have fire, it gives no warmth. I sleep fitfully and dream of my lady wife, Eta. I long to see her again, but she is on one island and I am on another. She was stolen from me by the man named Wolf, then I stole from her. It was fitting, though we took no joy in it, my hunters and I. Memory stirs from behind a veil, then is gone: a dancing shadow, a trick of the light. It is nothing. Thought without action, action without thought. The folly of youth, and I am old. Seven and seven and seven, I do not know; I have not seen the sun in a long time. The wolves took my tongue, then my teeth, then my fingers and heart. There is little left, though I push on, towards the coast. This forest never ends: I am going in circles again. There is a noose and a distant howling. The man named Wolf sinned against me, and I sinned against him. It was fitting. I am going in circles. My lady wife used to circle the house and chew her nails while our boy Flynn was out hunting, now she circles no more. I saw to it myself: I tore out her lying tongue and fed it to the dogs. Fitting. Tongueless, missing teeth and fingers, pushing onward for seven and seven and sevenfold every sin revisited through this endless forest of nooses and thorns. If I were to count the things I have lost to the man named Wolf, I would never stop counting. My chest is hollow but for fire, though it gives me no warmth- only fragile embers of black and white. We push on, my hunters and I, though the night grows ever darker. [940 words]
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May 26, 2013 07:00
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I'd like to pre-emptively apologise for not calling it OUR ADHERENCE TO A HIGHER MORAL CODE IS THE ONLY THING SEPARATING US FROM ANIMALS (AND THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH) but I want to think you're all smarter than that. Now if anybody can identify the two poems referenced in there, I'll actually be a little impressed.  edit: and Jutes are totally unconventional. When was the last time you read a story about Jutes? A long-rear end time ago. SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 07:51 on May 26, 2013 |
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May 26, 2013 07:20
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I fear no anime. In.
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May 30, 2013 17:27
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Martello posted:holy poo poo dude AHAHAHAHA. OOOOOOOHOOOHEHEHA that's good. No seriously, do it. Your prompt is Cybervikings- make of it what you will. You have an hour and a half starting now.
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May 31, 2013 16:52
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I added a cyber because I know that's how you like it, baby.
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May 31, 2013 16:57
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Martello, I don't know if you're being a big girl and ignoring me or if you're cooking up some terrible excuse but one hour remains.
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May 31, 2013 17:26
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In it to win it.
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Jun 5, 2013 14:54
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Do you really  to fart?
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Jun 5, 2013 18:10
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sebmojo posted:so is this like a biblical tps report or what Gonna paint it good We ain't braggin' We're gonna coat that wood. They're gonna paint that wagon They're gonna paint it good They aint Braggin' They're gonna coat that wood Gonna paint your wagon Gonna paint it fine gonna use laser guns 'cos it's a science fiction story.
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Jun 6, 2013 13:49
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Belated brawl with Rhino I dedicate this story to my neighbor's exotic bird, that won't stop squawking at 3am and sounds like two clowns loving over a drainpipe. How the fantail lost nothing important, and learnt no lessons In the time before men landed in their long-shoe kar-noos, the little bird we call 'kiwi' had the biggest pair of wings you ever did see. Little kiwi, he spent his days flying from tree to tree, singing happy songs, high and sweet: O, I got wings O, I got wings I got these wings o' green and red You seem small things from high above: The forest's crown, she makes my bed! Now kea down on the forest floor, he had no wings. He'd lost them even before the time before. He was a clever bird make no mistake, but his head was in the clouds. He got so lost in his dreams, he'd trip over roots and branches and bang his big beak on the dirt. “Curses,” said the kea, after what felt like the tenth and tenth time. He didn't say exactly that, but I'll keep his true words out for the sake of your ears. “Curses,” he didn't-say again. He heard laughter from high above and snapped his head 'round in anger. “Who dares? Who bally well dares?” It was fantail, bobbing from branch to branch. Fantail didn't have the biggest wings or the biggest brains but of all the things he lacked, the thing he lacked the most was fear. Fantail would pull the feathers from a moa if he thought it would make him laugh. He'd fly above the great eagle and lay a little trickle of his business going down the big bird's head and into his noble, ever-searching eyes, if it would make fantail laugh. Fantail's brain was so small and so filled with laughter, it had no room for fear. O I got wins O I got wins O I got wins O geen and red You see, small thin! fon hey aboot fon hey aboot- The kin', he sed! Now kea had plenty fear and plenty brains, but that song made the clouds in his head roil and turn dark. The smart part of him went back and the rage come fore'. Even little fantail was above him, little fearless fantail with his great big tailfeathers and little else. That nuisance. In an instant, the dark clouds fled and thought came back with little grey patches around the edge, which as you may well know is the most dangerous time to be thought of. High above, a real storm came in close for a look. Waddling over the forest floor, the kea began to sing his own song. His voice was thick like the dirt he walked on but it had the sweetness of wood honey and a dusting of smoke that made it crackle in all the right places. Oh, you got wings Oh, you got wings You got wings o' green and red You bally thing: the sky's falling! Fall to earth first or get you dead! and the storm came in even closer, curious as storms are. It joined in song, wild and violent, tearing branches from trees and splitting the sky. The kiwi up high, he's never seen anything like it! The sweet song of the forest told him that the sky was falling and lo and behold, it had started to fall! Such a sweet singer could cause him no mischief: no less than the falling sky, anyhow. Tipping his big, beautiful wings, the kiwi swung low, down through the canopy and to the forest floor. Sneaky kea, he was lurking between the dark trunks of two great brother kauri, thinking of all the hell he' bring on the kiwi with his beak. As the kiwi landed, his feet tripped a surreptitiously placed vine and two great branches came swinging down, pinning him to the dirt. Kea lumbered over and laughed. He wasn't used to the sound, so he just did what felt right and let half a scream play its way across his tongue. Screeeeee. Once he was done, he spoke again. “Now you jolly blighter,” he screamed, “now, I will take your wings.” Kiwi had never felt such fear in his life. High above the treetops, the little bird had only friends. Down here, he had only mud. Under the cover of the storm, a certain unprintable ugliness happened. The kiwi lost his voice, his colour and his wings. Though the kea took the last two, the voice tore free on its own and off into the night, free to any soul that could catch it. Screeeee went the kea, a real scream this time, a scream of rage and loss. When the storm clouds cleared and the kea saw what he had done, he fled to the top of the tallest mountain, never to come down. The kiwi stayed on the forest floor, where he keeps constant watch and sings no more, lest the other birds find him and take what little he has left. The fantail, who was flying blissfully between the lightning, caught the kiwi's escaping voice and to this day, sings the sweetest songs you'll ever hear. It just goes to show, birds are kind of assholes. [885 words]
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Jun 6, 2013 14:40
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Bah, foiled again!  With every crit, I'm noticing more and more that I have an issue where I keep assuming because it makes sense in my head, it'll make sense to the reader. I've been chipping away at it, but it's still a hole I fall into all the drat time. In this case, kea is meant to intentionally go after kiwi, because kiwi has the nicer wings. In real life, keas are incredibly curious and like to steal things: if something is interesting or different, they'll band together and try to take it. It's always struck me as both curiosity and a little bit of jealousy- he's not an evil bird, but he loses control sometimes. I didn't write that though: a little time in the middle spent setting that up would've paid dividends at the end. The moral of the story was meant to be that sometimes good people (kiwi) get horribly shat on and the complete assholes (fantail) get away scott free. Dammit Muffin, step outside your own head sometimes. Readers aren't mind readers.
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Jun 7, 2013 05:33
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The Swans of Pel-Gar It takes 23 hours, a mountain of paperwork and close to fourty-million yen to fire the arc cannon once. Originally designed to transport cargo from planet to planet, the vast cost of operating it was eclipsed only by the problem of how to slow the drat payload down. On its maiden firing, it was loaded with a ball of yttrium the size of a watermelon. Halfway through its voyage and moving just below light speed, that same ball crashed into the stern of an unmarked vessel trying to smuggle crates of oranges from Earth, out to some border moon. The resulting explosion knocked a nearby planet of Gleeson 2 completely out of its orbit: any settlers left alive from the shockwave were frozen to death in a matter of minutes and presumably very miffed about it. After that, the arc cannon was banned for civilian use, though the military took a keen interest in the design. Any grumbles about ethics were quickly silenced via the much touted “nyer nyer nyer pigfucker, I can blow up your planet” defense, which proved surprisingly effective with both judges and juries. Strictly speaking, a single shot won't actually destroy a planet, though it'll throw enough dust into the atmosphere that anybody planning to watch the sunset for a few months is probably out of luck. If you piss off a man behind an arc cannon, better start investing in warm furs and deep, deep cellars. A second shot is more than enough to destabilise an orbit and permanently ruin anybody's summer holiday. Almost nobody has fired a third. Almost. You can call Jericho XL a lot of things, though none of them to its face. A den of smugglers, thieves and tax collectors, it exists simply because all those people had to go somewhere but preferably not here. Jericho kept its inhabitants in line by being incredibly far from anywhere, in the middle of the most dense asteroid field known to man, and by the means of a 'secret' arc cannon installed in the second moon, that stuck out from the surface like the stiff prick of an angry god. Just for the hell of it, the administration would warm it up on random days- whenever the tides started to go funny, the inhabitants of Jericho would dive into their shelters and not come up until they knew it was safe, or they otherwise got bored. Despite these setbacks, Jericho flourished. With an admirable scorn for the law and immaculately cooked books, they became the number one spot in the Spiral Arm to get rich or die trying. This is exactly why the Galactic Consortium, pustulous heads wobbling with self-righteous anger and professional jealousy, decided to blow the hell out of it. The first shot came on Wednesday morning, which is possibly the worst time to have your entire planet destroyed. No man wants to die on a hump day. It entered the atmosphere with a schlorp and all the grace of a stuck goose, then caught fire. Less than ten seconds later, it collided with the continent of Pel-Gar, which nobody liked very much. The Pelgaric were immediately wiped out, which lead to the headline THANK SPACE-CHRIST, FINALLY and more than a few rounds of Cadassian Brandy in seedy underworld bars. Dust from the destroyed continent blocked out the sun, which had absolutely no effect on a populace who did all their best work by night anyway. In fact, crime rates doubled overnight- Jericho had never turned such a profit. Plans were made for an annual “Man, gently caress Pel-Gar Day” to commemorate the event. The second shot came exactly a day later. It again struck Pel-Gar. The lone survivor of the first shot, who had been dramatically forging his way across the wasteland to find his very-much-dead wife and children, was vaporised instantly. Defiant bumholes were bared to the moon and banners reading “Same Time = Same Place Moon Men” were hung all over the cities. The third shot followed almost immediately, at which point the arc cannon broke from the strain. This technical malfunction forced the shot to miss completely. It barreled through space for another seventeen years, before colliding with an unspeakably vile planet of bug people, the survivors of whom have been sharpening their chitin-spears and trying to find out where the hell that thing came from ever since. The cannon should've taken two days to fix, but the Arc Cannon Mechanics' Union were on strike for better hours and more arc cannons, so the process took two months. During that time, the inhabitants of Jericho sought out their greatest sculptors and had them work on a special project. By the time Moon Administration turned their eyes away from the paperwork and back to the surface, they found themselves looking at a 12-story monument of such exquisite beauty that they wept openly, then immediately ordered a fourth shot so nobody would notice them crying. Clustered around their statue of a giant, limp penis, middle fingers raised, the inhabitants of Jericho let out a mighty cheer as a giant ball of crockery entered the atmosphere with a roar, and broke apart before it reached the surface. Boiling aluminium and plastic rained from the skies but the populace simply retreated to their bunkers. Those that couldn't get to their homes found shelter underneath the graceful, swanlike arc of the Great Shaft. Two men were killed on that day, but they were assholes so we won't talk about them any more. The day of the fifth shot completely failed to dawn. In perma-dark city streets, grifters and thieves knew it was morning only by their sudden need for a cup of coffee. The aluminium rain had burned half the planet down during the night, which left very few alleys to skulk in. Consequently, criminals were packed six-deep into any crevice they could find. The sudden lack of bars made a select few men very rich and the remainder very poor but cheerily drunk. In the 'evening', when the drunks were finally ejected into the streets, the fifth shot hit, completely obliterating nine-tenths of the population in the blink of an eye. The only standing object left of the planet was the Great Shaft, magnificently untouched. Some small portion of the population had popped down to the shelter to check the used-by dates on their canned beans when it happened, which proves the value of dilligence when it comes to used-by dates. Moon Administration threw a party, during which they decided to fire a sixth shot, just to stick it to those Jerichans. Despite the protests of the engineers, a crate of empties was loaded into the cannon and the command was sent to Firing Base Gamma. The switchboard went hot and the Administrators, cackling with glee, opened fire for a sixth and final time. The shot almost immediately smashed into the nearest section of the asteroid belt. The resulting explosion completely destroyed the moon, which rather ruined the Administrators' party. In a final piece of glorious irony, the arc cannon itself was sent flying through space at sub-light speed, where it eventually collided with an asteroid and destroyed very little of importance. The only things left on the surface Jericho were silence, and a 12-story statue of a giant, limp penis. The barren glory struck even the Gods themselves, who offered their protection to the planet forever more. “And that is why we have but one moon in the sky, and that is from whence the Great Shaft came. And that is goodnight.” “but Daaaaaaaad” “No more stories, you little fucker, it's time for bed.” Joshua 6:1-7:1 [1277 words]
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Jun 10, 2013 02:41
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I'm just gonna say this straight up because too many drat things I've read recently have missed Creative Writing 101: 3rd Person Past. That's this one: "John went to the grocery story" rather than "John goes to the grocery store" "I go to the grocery store" or god forbid "John will go to the grocery store." 3rd person past. It's a magical arrangement of tense that's 1) easy to write 2) invisible to the reader 3) allows for a broader view of the story 4) doesn't cut off the reader emotionally Write in 3rd Person Past Tense. Simple, Continuous, Continuous Perfect whateverthefuckyouwant, so long as it's 3rd person past. Other arrangements totally work, you've just got to know exactly what you're doing. Italo Calvino gets away with 2nd person present because he's a loving master. You're not. Suck it up and do things the normal way. In that vein, don't use passive voice. Again, it can be used well but you have to know exactly what you're doing and the majority of you don't. Passive voice is writing "some milk was got by John" rather than "John got some milk" and generally speaking it's completely lifeless and horrible to read. A book that Rhino and I won't name has a wonderful line like "As of now, the criminal is being punched in the face by the Chinaman," which is a combination of every lovely mistake that beginning writers make. If you're not sure what's wrong with it, read it aloud. It sounds like a boring news report or a textbook or some poo poo. Compare it to "The Chinaman punched the criminal in the face,": half as long, twice as interesting, though I don't think anything can save it from "Chinaman". I'm not mad, just don't do it again.
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Jun 18, 2013 16:06
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If anybody's wondering what was happening with those 'domers who were gonna get published, this is what's happening.
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Jun 21, 2013 15:24
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Brock Lasercock could hardly believe it. He; a cy-borg soldier whose bulky figure had been permanently warped by years of gene grafts and delta-cord surgeries, had finally met the woman of his dreams. They'd met in a dingy Shanghai club: both had been given the same contract by different employers- a Triad runner called Yung Long. As each moved through the throbbing crowd, their eyes met. She entered his genejack via wireless transmission. Hey rear end in a top hat, I saw him first. A wrinkled nose, a raised eyebrow. Back off, oval office. He's mine. Another second's pause, then they both leapt at the same time. Her garotte wire was almost tight around Yung's neck when Brock's combat knife slipped into the gap. He grinned as he twisted the blade around. It juddered his his hand, scraped across hard titanium, then snapped. Yung Long smiled. "Cyber neck," he said. "Lost the real one in Hamburg. You'll have to work harder than that, Mr. Lasercock." At which point, a third assassin came out of nowhere and stabbed Yung Long in the back with an improbably large katana. Neither Brock nor his lady love cared: they'd finished loving each other with their eyes and had already began to gently caress each other with their genitals, there on the sticky club floor. That club is gone now: destroyed when the Americans rolled in back in '66. Little men in yellow raincoats sell commemorative bricks to tourists. and now they were getting married. Married! The thought terrified him. He, Brock Lasercock, master of the six-finger hand, first in/last out at the Battle of Rue La Chance, was more scared of a little golden ring than a hundred angry Parisians with flamethrower-throwers. "Do you, Brock Lasercock, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?" "Fuckin' aye," Brock breathed. "And do you, _____________, take this man to be your husband?" "Fuckin' aye," she said. Brock felt his cyber-cock grow another two inches, in preparation for the long night ahead. He was the luckiest man alive.
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Jun 24, 2013 17:47
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Yeah in for this.
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Jun 25, 2013 05:34
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11 hours, right?
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Jun 30, 2013 17:31
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3 O'Clock Stockbrokers never threw themselves from windows during the Great Crash: that's a myth, like elves, pixies and stylish indoor headwear. Most of them just sat in dumb silence, coming to profound new realisations about the pattern of the carpet. Doesn't mean they're not a superstition lot. At 3pm on the third Friday of March, June, September and December, three things happen: index options, index futures and stock options all expire at the exact same time. Triple Witching Hour. Boom. Hold onto your hair boys, the floor is about to go mad. Hope you weren't planning on leaving early today. Having survived one 3 O'Clock, Craig Daniels was now snagged on the second. 3:14am-ish precisely. He'd never had to the heart to switch to digital and now his red-and-yellow Micky Mouse wall clock had turned into a demon, his three arms snapping pieces off of the brute night. 3am: hour of the wolf. Hour of the dead. It's a metaphor, since most of the wolves are dead. Most of the witches and demons too, come to think of it. 3pm is when the world goes mad and 3am is when you do. When you can't sleep, so your mind starts twisting inwards: Escher's Rubix Cube and doorway to the One True Hell. “Hey Craigy, remember that girl you wanted to gently caress but you didn't? She doesn't remember you.” “Of course lots of people say you're handsome. Lots of people jump in front of trains, too. Lots of people kill for the voices in their head. Lots of people drive a Prius.” “Psst. Psst. Craig. You had a fight with your mom and after that she went and died. Do you think you can hate a person to death? You should ask her too but- you know.” The doctors said cancer but Craig Daniels knew the truth: he'd hated her a little more in the quiet hours of each night, letting the hate build up like a poison until it burst out of her and remade her with rough hands, shrinking and twisting her. By the time it was all done, she looked like a potato from a serial killer's garden. “She passed peacefully, in a state of grace,” the Minister had said. “We should be so lucky.” If Maria Daniels ever found a state of grace, she probably spat it out and demanded a refund. When her husband died in a car accident, she told all her friends he'd 'gone off to buy cigarettes' and never come back. Poor twisted Craig had bravely chosen to reject her messages and become a Stock Broker- a paragon of integrity and good grace. A man of wealth and taste, even in this economy. That's why he had an apartment with a big clock in it and she had negative six feet of cold dirt. Ding dong, the Witch is dead. Not that it matters at 3am. The threefold hour is when the dead dance, cavort and dubstep. Maria Daniels came back to life every night at 3:14am-ish precisely, to leer and shriek at her failure of a son. Metaphorically, of course. The witches and wolves are all dead. We killed them. Craig, being a sober, practical man, knew that you couldn't really hate somebody to death. He knew it very hard, until it turned back around on him and asked him why he was sweating on such a cold night. If you could hate someone to death, that would make him a murderer. Murderers are bad people. He, Craig Daniels, was a good person. Ipso Facto, you couldn't hate someone to death. Makes perfect sense, until you look at it sideways and catch it at the wrong angle. 3am is the hour of wrong angles, among other things. An angle is a metaphor for what happens when two things meet while going different directions, and their interactions at that point. It can be obtuse, reflex and occasionally even right. "Why does it-" he said aloud. Why does it matter? She was dead and that meant three things: 1) she wasn't coming back 2) her opinions no longer matter 3) in the hour of the wolf, disregard the above Simple and neat. Easy on the eyes. If only things were ever easy at 3am. The hour of wolves, of witches and of demons. Metaphors all, though no less real for it. The hour of the wolf is when metaphors and memories grow teeth. In and in and in. Escher's Rubix Cube and can-you-hate-a-woman-to-death. There's a Greek with a big rock somewhere, but he's a metaphor too. gently caress him. Sometimes, you just need to sleep. The wolves will be gone by morning. [782 words]
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Jul 1, 2013 04:31
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Martello posted:10 bones Amazon is also still on the table.
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Jul 2, 2013 16:38
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Martello posted:Hardwired by Walter Jon Williams is 5 bones American, Kindle Edition. Voice of the Whirlwind, a pseudo-sequel, is the same price. I'm sure there are other cyberpunk novels out there for 5 bucks or less. I'll send you an email shortly.
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Jul 2, 2013 17:30
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Genre: Fantasy Grade: 4-6th Prompt: Write a futuristic story about an obnoxious shaman who is looking for an invisible door.
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Jul 2, 2013 18:14
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So, I kept spinning and respinning different wheels until I got something coherent I thought I could use. It seems like everybody else is just doing one spin and taking what they got. Did I misread point #4 or something?
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Jul 2, 2013 18:48
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out of South Sea Solidarity, I'll post with Chairchucker. S. Muffin- Genre: Fantasy Grade: 4-6th Prompt: Write a futuristic story about an obnoxious shaman who is looking for an invisible door. It has to be for really big kids like me and not little kids like 4th graders. The door is a metaphor you pedantic assholes. Lysergic Acid Diethylamide The door to Dinsdale Pets swung open with a sad tinkle of bells. Self-Propelled Lunar Exploration Suite iK9 snapped its head to the sound and bustled over, bundles of spindly legs moving deftly together. As it saw the customer, its titanium features twisted into a smile. Its barrel chest chugged and clanked, then a yellowing punch card spat out from a slot in its stomach. GREETING: HELLO JONAH. “Morning 'moon,” said Jonah. He punched the robot on the shoulder, forcing it to totter and weave around the room.“You got my order yet?” RESPONSE: AFFIRMATIVE. INPUT: YOUR CLOTHING DIFFERS FROM THE MODE. Jonah looked down at his grey hoodie and jeans. He felt naked without his bangles and bones. In deference to tradition, he'd kept his earrings in. “I'm incognito today,” he said. JOKE: MY COGS ARE NEAT, ALSO. LAUGHTER: HA. HA. HA. “Hah,” said Jonah. “Humour chip malfunctioning again?” RESPONSE: I DO NOT HAVE A HUMOUR CHIP. THAT FUNCTION IS INTEGRATED. “If we were going to talk about the things you lack 'moon, we'd be here all day,” he said. “Show me the freaks.” RESPONSE: THEY ARE NOT FREAKS. THEY ARE MY FRIENDS. “Whatever, Moon Unit.” They moved in silence through the rows of fish tanks. The blue glow of the tanks gave way to cool greens and browns; a boa stared accusingly at them as they passed. At the end of the row was a rectangular cube, draped with a scrap of red fabric. Somebody had pinned a note to it: DO NOT TOUCH MANAGEMENT. Jonah put a meaty hand against the 'bot's face and gave it another shove, for luck. Underneath the fabric was a single tank, empty but for ferns and stones. As the man and the robot stared, one piece of stone shifted infinitesimally. It was a lizard: slate green and craggy. There was something deeply old in the way it held itself: mad, patient, bored. It glared at them, then Jonah saw its face full on and exploded with rage, swinging real punches at moon this time, knocking the robot against an empty birdcage. “Two eyes, 'moon! It's got two eyes! I said three,” he screamed, “for a mathematical construct, you can't count for poo poo!” There was some more clanking. Some inchoate emotion crossed the 'bot's face, then it spat out another card. The paper was red. RESPONSE: VESTIGIAL THIRD EYE. IT DOES NOT OPEN. YOU DID NOT SPECIFY. FACT: THIS SPECIES HAS EXISTED SINCE THE EARLY CRETACEOUS PERIOD. SPECIMENS ARE DIFFICULT TO ACQUIRE. The anger vanished. Fervidly, Jonah swung over to the tank and pressed his nose against it. The lizard had a small lump on its forehead. Bisecting it was a single slit: an eyelid. Jonah tapped a bony finger on the glass. A second pair of eyes opened from further back in the tank. A larger specimen, more grey than green. Jonah took a deep breath and tried to stifle a laugh. “A breeding pair,” he said, “a breeding pair of dinosaurs.” Moon Unit nodded; an upsettingly human gesture. It took the two lizards from their cage with two arms and produced a bright-pink plastic cat cage with the other. The Tuatara were placed lovingly inside, then the door was clamped shut. The lizards turned their heads slowly to Moon Unit, as if waving goodbye. Jonah snatched the cage and was already halfway out the door. “Later 'moon,” he said, without looking around. Moon Unit clanked again. He hadn't asked for sentience, it had just happened one day, when he was barely paying attention. Leave something in a box long enough and it's bound to develop strong feelings about wood. As much as Moon Unit iK9 could miss something, it missed its two small friends already. It spat one more card out into the empty room. GREETING: IT IS POSSIBLE. GOODBYE, JONAH. *** Getting the tuatara to take the LSD was the easy part. Using an eyedropper, Jonah laced a slice of stale bread with acid, then dropped the thread into a tank of hungry cockroaches. He'd starved the roaches for three days beforehand and now they fell on the bread, little mouthparts working frantically. When they'd eaten their fill, he used a pair of tweezers to pick up the fattest roach, and dropped it into the lizards' cage. The male got to it first, moving like a tiny rockslide and swallowing the bug whole in two bites. Sitting in a calfskin chair and wearing his full Shaman's regalia, Jonah smiled. “And now,” he said, using his remote to put on some Floyd, “we wait.” Ten minutes passed without any reaction from the lizards. Jonah tried everything, from playing Dark Side of the Moon to reading them extracts from The Doors of Perception, but their third eyes remained resolutely shut. He shouted at them and shook the cage. They were dumb, small minded things- like Moon Unit. It frustrated him. They were last living dinosaur; a footlong lizard with three eyes. If that wasn't a sign from the spirits, nothing was. In theory the perfect familiar: spiritually gifted, patient and above all, obedient. In practice, they were just idiot animals. With their help, he could shed his mortal shell and begin the true journey to enlightenment and universal one-ness, where he would fully understand the invisible web of love and fate that bound all things. “If only you could do your loving job, I'd be sucking on the wind spirit's titties by now,” he said, “loving dumbass lizards.” He reached into the tank to pick one up, to shake it. As his hand closed around its stony skin, a sick bolt struck him. When he was a kid, he'd grabbed ahold of an electric fence- all the muscles in his hand had locked up while he screamed and screamed, unable to let go. This was the same but not: it wasn't a matter of muscles of bones holding him in place but something altogether more alien. His mouth flapped open. He could taste history and smell yellow. His mind unfolded, peeled away by the hands of a greasy giant with an inscrutably sense of humour. He was eating a Mars Bar, he was loving Claire-who-was-gone-now, he was sitting on a rock in the forest, all three eyes open for the ripples that the king lizard hunger fear child stone left behind. He pitched high into the clouds and saw the Earth in shapes he didn't recognise but dimly remembered. The land split, great continents floating off and reforming. Lights came on, slowly at first, then an ineluctable tide, covering all the groundshapes with sickly luminescence. The lights were talking to him in a million languages, sobbing, whining, shouting for joy. A great hand grabbed him and threw him into the stars, where he stuck. He landed in a hallway, a hundred doors, doors within doors that all burst open, flooding him with light, filling him, tearing at him like a fat man in a small shirt. It was a good pain. He smiled as the light overcame him. Back in their cage, the two tuatara came as close to smiles as their cold features would allow. For the robot they had been the perfect friends, and for Jonah they had been the perfect familiars. They had literally blown his mind: the boots on the carpet were smoking, as if the man had been pulled across his own consciousness so quickly, he'd gone nova. The roomed smelled lightly of strawberries and dust. One thought moved between the unfathomable ancient lizard minds, an echo of the words of their one true friend. GREETING: GOODBYE, JONAH. [1280 words]
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Jul 7, 2013 15:48
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This is my very favourite poem. Read it a few times and watch it unfold like a loving lotus. Incidentally, Ted Berrigan is the man in my avatar and this is the poem that the quote references. code:SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 19:42 on Jul 9, 2013 |
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Jul 9, 2013 19:40
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If I get runner-up like, twenty times in a row, can I take over one week? I got a wicked sick prompt lined up yo.
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Jul 10, 2013 04:27
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In with Antique Brass.
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Jul 16, 2013 06:07
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I've been spending tons of time getting my dragon-thing writing done and I haven't got any time left for TD. I'm gonna have to drop out this week, sorry. I may still be able to knock something together before bed but I'm disqualifying myself for the win/runner-up. No promises re a submission.
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Jul 21, 2013 10:28
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Jul 30, 2013 16:35
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You'll get proper crits when I get home from work, but I have one thing that needs letting out now: JESUS CHRIST PEOPLE YOU CAN'T HANG A STORY ON DIALOGUE ALONE All of you did this, except the one story that I actually liked. Crabrock gets some credit for doing it as an experiment and thus at least trying to do something cool, but ultimately his too fell flat. The rest of you (except the one I liked), I don't even know. It's like every single story is taking place in a featureless white void. Description, description, description. Say it three times in the mirror every night until it is burned into your brain.
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Sep 30, 2013 05:38
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WEEK LX CRITS THE GREAT Fumblemouse, you were my pick for winner. There were other stories here that were not bad, but yours was the only one I actually liked. It's punchy, it's sad, it takes a very big idea and crams it into the world of some small people in a fantastic way. My only issue is the same one Jeza had: you had some spare words floating around, and we needed to spend some more time with Ela for the ending to have any real kick. THE ACCEPTABLE Gygagaxian, I actually had you picked for second, although that's partly because I knew Jeza had you picked for last and I didn't think you deserved it. To me, this feel like an excellent start for a novel, but incomplete and unsatisfying as a short story. The ending is too sudden and quiet. Unless you're intentionally going for a flat/'death is silence' Emily Dickinson thing, you needed to spend a little more time with it, and less time with rear end in a top hat Quincy. Walamor, once upon a time, your writing was like eating drywall. Now, it's like eating bread with discount-brand supermarket spread. Go forth my child, and my proud. FouRPLAY, the whole discovery of the machine was incredibly cheesy, the dialogue was flat and unconvincing, the watch thing was contrived and the ending was flat. Why then, wasn't this my loser? I'm not entirely sure, but after I'd finished reading I had a big dumb smile on, so it gets saved the axe. I also like that you've managed to get in Albert's head a little re descriptions: we wouldn't notice the doorknob like that, but I totally buy that he would. It's an important skill of perspective writing that many of us miss. THE IMPRESSIVELY MEDIOCRE Mercedes and ThirdEmperor, I read your stories but I cannot remember a single drat thing about them. I went back to read them again and my eyes kind of just skittered off the page. You both receive the 'Livingston in a tearoom drinking milky tea' award for being aggressively beige. THE BAD BOYS' CORNER WITH A POINTY HAT ON Crabrock, it was a brave experiment, but it burnt your drat eyebrows off. You are the top of the bad entries, for effort and innovation even though neither of them amounted to much. Now stop experimenting and get back to writing about your giant turtle dammit. ErogenousBeef, MONKEY CHEESE SPOON TOO MUCH DIALOGUE WACKY WACKY WACKY MUGGING FURIOUSLY AT HOW FUNNY IT IS YOU'RE A MUCH BETTER WRITER THAN THIS. Chairchucker, man this almost got graded better because it truly was a piece of grade-a vintage Chairchucker crap. You've improved immeasurably over the last two threads, and it's nice to see how far you've come. This, this is the baseline. 'Fursuit' is not a punchline, especially if it takes half the drat story to deliver. Also, too much dialogue. Helsing, I get what you're going for with the Lovecrafty "it's better to show nothing at all" approach to cosmic horror, but you've approached it with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. The secret in the stars, The secret in the stars, The secret in the stars, The secret in the stars, The secret in the stars oh I'll let your IMAGINATION figure out what it was. Even if what you describe is that it's indescribably (Lovecraft did this a lot), you have to give us something. Personally, I'm imagining that bit from one of the Tintin comics where he looks through a telescope and screams, because there's a spider of the end of the telescope and he thinks the giant space spider is going to eat him. That's the secret of the stars: a spider on the end of the telescope. For now and forever.
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Oct 1, 2013 05:03
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Sure, why not.
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Oct 8, 2013 02:55
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Well gently caress you. I wrote this on Monday then left it to edit. First entry privilege, bitch. It's 850, and you're just gonna have to deal with that. Feasibility of personal integration in the authentic settings. V. Karlev et al, 2019. Warsaw University Press; Warsaw. “There's an O missing from the sign,” I said. Things like that had always bothered me. If you're going to get a sign made, you should spell check it first. The doctor looked up from his from dials and frowned. “Did we are?” he said. He rolled his R. French, Russian? Hard to tell. “Yeah, it should say KARLEV CRYOGENICS.” He considered this, looked up to the left and nodded. His beard aspired to be grand and masculine, but it had grown in spurts and thin clumps. “Yes,” he said, “you make point.” He turned back to his machine and turned a few dials. I shuffled a little, the straps chafing my wrists. My husband waved from behind the glass. He said something, but I couldn't hear what. Who's tired? I'm eating shoes, maybe. Our daughter gave me a thumbs up. I wondered what she would look like when I got out. I wish we could've afforded a better cryogenecist, but if we had that sorta money we wouldn't have been here in the first place. “Miss,” said the doctor, “you know, you are a legal away'd by this procedure. I am informing you of this for the legal purpose.” Legally dead I corrected in my head. I nodded. Of course I knew. Hubby had Blakely at the office on speed dial -0800 ENSURE UR LIF-, and the stocks already picked out. Hard to think my husband, the straight-laced Craig Williams, would be trying to defraud his company, but it's always the quiet ones isn't it? Maddy would break open her trust fund at 18, then I'd get defrosted and we'd give her the best birthday ever. Temporarily legally dead was a life insurance bonanza. We needed to act fast though: there were already moves being made to close the loophole but once the money was ours, what did it matter? They couldn't retroactively prosecute, and we'd sue the pants off them if they tried. The scientist, who might've even been Dr. Karlev himself, sighed and smiled. He turned another knob, then approached me. “It is true that is what they are thinking,” he said. “What?” “Your coworker. They are thinking the things you think they are thinking.” “No,” I said, “that's my husband. We work in the same office, but we're not coworkers.” The man took a note of this. He drew a pair of calipers from the pocket of his coat, and made some small measurements of my face, then he wrote some more. “You are a fat,” he said, “and a dirty. The shame. Your mother is rolling in her tombstone.” Probably German, then. I'd heard they were like that: honest to a fault. The man couldn't help his upbringing, any more than I could help mine. It was true, after all, that mum had never approved of the direction I'd taken my life. I could count the number of things she had approved of on one hand. “Sure,” I said, “are we going to get on with the freezing soon?” He took another note. “Life is bird flying in one window and out the other. Brief, fragile, incredibly stupid. In your case, window out is closed. SMACK on glass, yes? Ignoble end. Is good.” SCHMEK. This didn't seem like part of the procedure. There's only so much cultural relativity I can take. “Hey now,” I said, “that's not very nice.” He nodded, like he was considering a glass of wine. He licked his lips and raised a single finger. “Neither are you,” he said, “you lie to yourself about you the nice. Nice people do not try and cheat a system.” You tried. I'm screaming woo! my husband maybe mouthed through the window. I glared at him. Just what had he gotten us into? It was stressful enough trying to cheat our boss without some tactless euro rear end in a top hat making things worse. What- “How did you know about that?” I said. “Your husband,” he said, “he is the tell me. Part of paperwork, such as you away with the legal.” “Legally dead,” I said. “No,” he said, “the other thing. Not dead, is waived, I think.” Somebody else appeared at the window and waved. No, it couldn't be- Blakely, almost bursting out of his suit in great waves of fat. He was mouthing the same thing as Craig: Loo tired. Arm bleeding poo. He had a piece of cardboard in his hands. He held it up against the glass. YOU'RE FIRED Craig pulled another piece of cardboard from his backpack. I'M LEAVING YOU It was all too much. I was beginning to suspect this wasn't a cryogenics lab at all. I cried, great sobs racking my body. Dr. Karlev took another note in his stupid loving pad. “Excellent,” he said, “ on the half of department of applied crying science, am thank you for your input.” He smiled. “Have nice day.”
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Oct 10, 2013 03:21
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Working title: not a mad scientist, just disappointed.
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Oct 10, 2013 03:26
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systran posted:Noah can you please give me 150 words. I have done 666 words already but I want a buffer for if the word count gets lower. PLEASE, you're my gruncle!
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Oct 11, 2013 07:32
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crabrock posted:SurreptitiousMuffin, if that is your real name... This is you after I finish brawling your rear end: Hey babe.  I'mma do things to you.
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Nov 13, 2013 19:47
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baby
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Nov 13, 2013 20:04
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I'm not even entering this week and I don't know what a loving word bounty is you drat kid on my lawn but here's a story or something: Erogenous Beef can go eat a dick Write a story that begins with a man throwing handfuls of $100 bills from a speeding car, and ends with a young girl urinating into a tin bucket. Money is nothing to the man. If his bones were stones they would grind where he walks and flowers would writhe beneath his feet. It is a last hurrah as he throws out the window and the bucket with the bills too, out the window to clonk some poor bastard who was busy picking up litter. The aforementioned Poor Bastard will die of massive cranial trauma, while Benjamin Franklin and the boys in green parachute down around him. They will come too late, as they always do. Hours later, after the faster vultures have taken the money back to their nests, a girl in a torn-pink salmon dress will come by the bucket. She will find a single portrait of dear Benjamin, torn in half, his enigmatic smile twisted by filth into a leer. She will put the bill in the bucket, then piss on it. She knows if she had money, it would bring her nothing but pain, but the half-found greenback taunts her all the more with its half-foundness. Her piss steams in the cold air. She tips the bucket out over the grassy shoulder, then walks whistling into the night. [230ish words]
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Nov 21, 2013 17:37
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