Bah, my zodiac is Gemini, for both my reg and my birth dates. I don't like Gemini.
A question: Are we only allowed to use Ask/Tell as research? For example, can I complement my knowledge on spoons of Early Middle Ages from Spoons.com with several posts from the Spooner thread?
Also, are the sub-forums of Ask/Tell fair game? My 'lousy student going to Laos to start a spoonfucking business' may need some more specific information.
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2013 06:24|
|# ¿ Jun 24, 2019 13:23|
|# ¿ Feb 26, 2013 07:15|
There some reason I'm not counted in the signups, dickstain?
You didn't really say 'In' in your previous posts. And you know how the judges can't infer.
|# ¿ Mar 1, 2013 16:59|
Urania (976 words)
She was a brilliant teacher. Beautiful, too. Tall, slender and pale, with her golden long golden hair hanging to her sides. She also didn’t spoke out loud, preferring to have her students sat on the floor next to her.
Her usual method of teaching was through drawing. She always arrived at school few seconds after the security. She would then spend from 5 in the morning to the first bell at 9 am drawing something on the blackboard. It was always related to space. Sometimes it would be the solar system with 9 planets, sometimes it would be the surface of astronomical objects, with the grooves and bumps of Europa being her favourite. When she was drawing she’d ignore everything else. We would put our homework on her table, sat on our desk and stayed silent until she finished drawing.
When her session started, she would begin by telling recent news about space. She would talk about new planets sighted in far-flung galaxies, possible sightings or unlikely objects in the universe, like a planet made out of diamonds or a humongous floating pool of liquid water, just like tap water. We then would ask her about her astronaut husband. When we ask if astronauts use big trampolines to practice walking on the moon, she nodded and smiled. She would spoke at length about the cool ‘games’ astronauts play on the rocket to stave off their boredom.
After half an hour, her entire body would turn incorporeal. First her skin would turn paler, and then she would hop in place, before her weight would disappear as she floated in the air. To anyone watching from the outside, the classroom would be empty. For each of the student, however, they were floating in the dark, accompanied only by her and her shining golden hair.
She grabbed my hand and both of us flew faster than I could ever imagine. In a minute I could see the cracking rings of Neptune. Back then I thought I could hear the sounds of metallic cogs clanging and banging in the atmosphere of Neptune, seemingly in rhythm. In the next minute, we came across Uranus and its shadowy rings, filled with small eyes. She seemed to notice my fear and we quickly moved on to Saturn and its giant concentric circles of candy, surrounded by its tasty moons. I would drool as the aroma of freshly-roasted peanuts, coming especially from Iapetus, whiffed past me.
Here I begged for her to let me stay just a while longer, to let me take in all the flavours of Saturn. She removed her hand and I swam to the candy rings, opening my mouth wide just to have a bite at the scrumptious looking chocolate band. It tasted good. Even after 32 years I hadn’t found anything like it. Back then I thought it tasted a bit like the chocolate cake I have for my eighth birthday on top of the homemade chocovanilla ice cream my grandma made. I would then explore the rest of the rings, tasting from the sweet coffee and milk of the B ring to the supersweet sprinkles beyond the Colombo Gap. As I ate parts of Saturn’s ring, I watched the pulses, the heartbeats of the planet. I felt Saturn’s hexagonal’s eyes on me. I waved at it and it winked. I was barely to the moons when everything faded away into the dull brown of the classroom walls.
That’s it for today, she would whisper to us.
One day I stayed after school to ask her why she didn’t show me Pluto. She smiled and blamed it on me not believing Pluto’s a planet. I said I did, but she claimed that if I did I would’ve seen Pluto anyway. Still being the obnoxious selfish kid, I begged and pleaded with her, until she grabbed my hand, almost too tight for my liking, and sent me to Pluto.
Pluto’s arid dust choked my throat. There were whispers from the dark, stabbing my ears. I moved closer to the ground, just to see that I could see through Pluto. In an instant she moved me back to the teacher’s room and patted me in the head, saying that I should go home.
Later I learned that I wasn’t the only one who noticed the lack of Pluto in her class. I wasn’t the only one Pluto scarred. However, some other student’s parents were far more protective than mine. Within two months, she disappeared from our school forever. I tried to contact her through e-mail, but she never replied. I’d asked other teachers to pass along a message, but none of them could contact her either. The new astronomy teachers came and although there were just as enthusiastic as her, none of them could carry us away to the Space of our imaginations.
It took me a long time just to meet her again. Most of that time was spent being the perfect student and trainee with a perfect memory and physique. I learned there were no trampolines or games or candies in Saturn. After years of tests, trainings and try-outs, I finally landed on the surface of the Moon. I don’t even have to get out to notice her, swinging the flag of the United States. As I landed on the grey dust and shook her naked hand. She asked me if I would like to see Pluto again.
The cold, arid, whispering, dark dust was still there, but Pluto was no longer glass. I could see several black things underneath the surface, but I couldn’t make it out. I didn’t care, anyway. I returned to the surface of the Moon. I hopped around the place while she was greeting the other astronauts. I shook my head, forcing myself to never ask her to invite me to Saturn again.
|# ¿ Mar 3, 2013 04:17|
Argh, how could I have repeated a word in the first line of my story
|# ¿ Mar 3, 2013 04:20|
|# ¿ Mar 5, 2013 23:56|
Clearly you have mistaken the sound effects. It's more 'fwoom'.
Or byuuur, fjuush or ما شاء الله, in Aceh.
some of my best fish friends are muslim, it's okay
|# ¿ Mar 9, 2013 12:03|
Old Uncle of Old Street
Part of the 'Memory of the Future' Series
Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday there would be a bit of a commotion on the normally-destitute Old Street. An old man would always set up shop there on the street, to the delight of kids, students, or tourists alike. He would sit on a purple foldable chair, letting the visitors look over the assortment of miscellaneous goods on his table. His collection was seemingly endless; one day he would sell arrowheads with various engravings, on the other sculptures made of bones or bone fragments. It was hard to imagine how the old man got his hands on the objects that he was selling. He was affectionately known as the Old Uncle of Old Street.
Unexpected from his skin colour, the Old Uncle was not Asian but Middle-Eastern. Of course, he couldn’t speak proper English, but none of his visitors seemed to have problems. They would pick up few objects and Old Uncle would try to explain its origin, but nobody paid attention, perhaps due to his slurred speech and almost meandering tone. It also seemed rather pointless; a wooden replica of the Pope’s throne complete with a wooden sculpture of the Pope was still an interesting figure no matter which Pope it was.
Far more interesting was Old Uncle’s history. He legally moved to this country 60 years ago with the help of his aunt. At first he did odd jobs at the post office and the supermarket, but he then became a truck driver. From here he managed to obtain an education on public health, giving him the chance to work at the Ministry of Public Health. His job at the Ministry was his last one, as he remained there until he retired 10 years ago. It is surprising how he remain employed for that long and his leader at the time denied any allegations of bribery or nepotism. And now, in his retirement, Old Uncle maintained his stall with the help of his aunt’s granddaughter, affectionately known as Uncless.
I sat down with the granddaughter for a short casual interview. Because he was old, she often dealt with the calculation and the accounting and often translating or re-explaining Old Uncle’s description of his miscellanea. She was a 34-year-old kindergarten teacher with long hair and pale skin. When asked where Old Uncle obtained his collection, she refused to give an adequate answer, saying only that Old Uncle had many friends from many countries due to his penchant for writing letters.
After the interview I took a look at Old Uncle’s stall. I saw the name of the stall, “Shop’o’Stuff”, scribbled on yellowing paper in excellent, almost mechanical, cursive. Every day the table would have a few themes, with the major theme having the most objects. On that particular day the major theme was very small replicas of famous paintings, like a stamp-sized Mona Lisa or a band aid-sized Pollock, or, perhaps the most interesting one, Washington Crossing the Delaware, on a piece of card stock the size of your average smartphone. Although I had spent only a few seconds looking at them with a magnifying glass (both Uncless’ and mine), I could testify that each of them was exquisitely drawn to an almost magical degree. I asked Uncless what talented artist could have made this and why had nobody heard of him, and she could only shrug, saying that Old Uncle knew only that the artist was Dutch.
Other things on the table include ropes of squishy eye-like beads, sculptures of dragons made out of bottle caps and books cut into shapes, like To Kill a Mockingbird cut into a bird (not a mockingbird, shamefully) or The Very Hungry Caterpillar into the shape of a fat worm. Remarkably, the books can still be read. I spent many hours just reading some Gaines.
It was easy to see why people like Old Uncle’s little shop. The sheer variety of widgets and doodads would surprise everyone but the most experienced of museum visitors. It was more than just unique looking gubbins, as jars of various foreign perfumes and small musical boxes covered with almost-excessively woven quilt would delight the other senses. Old Uncle was lucky that his extensive network of pen pals allowed him to meet talented artists from other countries. One would wish he would also display some knick-knacks from native craftsmen as well. This table would truly be in the memory of the future generation.
|# ¿ Mar 11, 2013 04:00|
You have until 7:59am GMT March 16th to announce your entry. Same time on the 18th to get your stuff turned in. This would be the same time as last week, except some people have had Daylight Savings switches and some haven't. Daylight Savings has not yet started in the UK (i.e. where I am), and will not between now and either deadline, so I mean GMT proper, not Bull poo poo Time (GMT+1).
Time no longer makes sense to me.
Can I get in?
|# ¿ Mar 12, 2013 20:48|
I'm in. Probably with some Owl City songs.
|# ¿ Mar 26, 2013 07:26|
Hello, Thunderdome. In it to sloppily half-rear end it.
You only allow one source, so I'll be using that source and only that. I don't care if the quote's not real.
toanoradian fucked around with this message at Jun 12, 2013 around 02:14
|# ¿ Jun 12, 2013 02:10|
No reason is enough for my error. 1199 words.
Quotesman No More
In this moment, I am euphoric, Lawton repeated in his mind. He could hear the laughter of the audience even on the dressing room. He picked up his paper cup and drank air.
The wooden door opened and a buff woman, dressed in floral house dress, limped across the doorway. She sat down on a nearby chair and sighed. She looked at Lawton. “Not a good audience,” she said. “Apparently misquotes are enough to kill any jokes.”
Well, duh. Professional quotesmen, Lawton thought. He bit his thumb.
“What are you doing?” the woman asked.
“Hosting the award ceremony,” Lawton said.
“I feel so agitated, like a hamster in search of a wheel,” Lawton said. “Carrie Fisher.”
“That was a quote. From Carrie Fisher’s autobiography,” Lawton said. He saw the woman staring at him, perhaps in disbelief, unlikely in awe. “Well, I am a quotesman. I mean, it’s not that incredible. You know some quotes. I mean, I know more, but that is only because it’s my job to know and make quotes.”
“I’m Quotesman of the Year in 2008,” Lawton said, feeling his collar tightening.
She put her hands up. “Don’t ruin the make-up. Hell hath no fury like a make-up artist scorned. Calm down. Remember, concentration is a fine antidote to anxiety.”
“Jack Nicklaus,” Lawton said. Let the Congreve misquote go.
“Whatever,” she said. “Point is, don’t stress. Here’s a quote: When you’re on the stage, it gives you strength, it gives you some kind of control. You can do it.”
Lawton looked at her. He adored the faces of people who never realized they have misquoted somebody. They have no dull headaches. But the woman was right; he can do this. He had been on stage before. He had met most of the audience yesterday.
“By Han-Suyin, ‘there is nothing st-‘”
Lawton pressed the buzzer. “’There is nothing stronger in the world than gentleness.’ from A Many Splendored Thing.”
The crowd cheered as the judge put ‘5’ on his scoreboard. Lawton could see his rival, the Passaging Politician Bob Prescott, cringing.
The judge flipped a blue card from his set of multi-coloured decks. “Final question for this round, Quotesmen. Who says: ‘If ever there was a diamond in the rough, or good fruit enclosed in shabby husk, it was Abraham Lincoln.’?”
The crowd snapped silent and looked at Prescott, gritting his teeth. “The US Brigadier General…Keith?…” he mumbled, his bony hand just above the buzzer. He furrowed his brows. “Kane…”
Lawton pressed his buzzer. Prescott’s facial muscles all contracted, his neck popping with veins. “Keyes. Erasmus Keyes.”
Prescott banged his head on the table.
“Yes!” Lawton said. “In this moment, I am euphoric! Not because of any phony God’s bless-“
“Whoa, where does God come into this?” she asked.
“It was a quote I planned for the gig,” Lawton said. She didn’t know to never disturb a quotesman mid-quote. Don’t get angry, he thought. “Not because of any phony God’s blessing, but because, I am enlightened by my intelligence.”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
Another person opened the door and gestured to Lawton. It was finally his turn. She put her left fist up and said “good luck” to him. As he walked into the backstage, he could see the blinding lights and the silver podium.
Lawton entered the stage amidst applause. He had trained to stop scratching the back of his head or smiling randomly. He patted his tie.
“Welcome to Quotesmen Award of the Year.” The applause died down. “In the short years I’ve been a quotesman, nowhere have I been more awed, more impressed and more humbled than at Quotacon. In this event, we quotesmen, usually trapped between the bookshelves, have the chance to truly experience the beauty of Quotes. We played around with it yesterday, I won contests…“
In the audience, Prescott waved his fist.
“…there are galleries, speeches and gun duels. Today we award the worthy. In this moment, I am euphoric. Because of our intelligence, particularly of the four nominees.” Lawton opened the envelope on the podium.
Upon reading the first name, Aristotle’s ‘fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil’ quote blared in Lawton’s head. The words became fuzzy, his vision warped. In the end, it was useless. “Sophie Wickham, for her quote ‘Genius? Nay, merely a gene for ennui that breeds nuance.’”
There are other quotes from her and other quotesmen, but Lawton couldn’t care. His worst nightmare was coming. “The winner is Sophie Wickham.”
His lack of pause delayed the applause, but the rambunctious rumble appeared in the end. He glared at her, at her green-black gown, at her jewellery and her lips. Every step she took angered him more. Eventually she was few feet away from the podium. She waited for Lawton to give her a spot at the podium, but Lawton stood still.
“You don’t deserve this,” Lawton said. “That quote of yours is based on a typo.”
Stop that fake smile, Lawton thought. “Oscar Wilde. I have nothing to declare but my ‘genuis’.”
“Gene for ennui? You just stretched ‘genuis’! How is that creative at all?”
“True originality consists not in a new manner but in a new vision. “
“Don’t quote The Writing of Fiction at me! That’s not about making quotes. You just have enough learning to misquote. Lord Byron.”
Wickham backed down. The crowd looked at each other, baffled.
“Quotesman of the Year demand originality, Ms. Wickham. And you don’t have it. You snatched upon an easy mistake, abused it and then act as if it’s a gem! One writes in order to feel – Muriel Rukeyser – but the quotes you wrote are as cold and flat as graveyard stones. Elizabeth Browning.”
“This is ridiculous,” Wickham said. “Who are you to decide who deserves what?”
“I am responsible for my writings. And that typo in Wilde’s Oscar-isms is a disease, fear made manifest on my mind. Mary Eddy. Handing this award to you equals poisoning everyone in the world.”
Wickham stared at Lawton. “Misquote.”
“Excuse me?” The buzz of the dull headaches appeared.
“In the original quote from 1875 edition of Science and Health, disease is already ‘an experience of so-called mortal mind’. It is fear made manifest on the body, Mr. Lawton.”
As his name left her lips, his headaches sharpen.
“Don’t you have the – I believe this is Douglas Freeman from Lee’s biography – nobleness of self and mildness of character to let the past be but the past?”
“Shut up,” Lawton said. His headaches felt stronger, turning from white noise into loud pulses.
“Besides, ‘originality’ usually amounts only to plagiarizing something unfamiliar. Your typo is unfamiliar and, honestly, unbecoming of someone as quote-crazy as you.”
“Katharine Fullerton Gerould. I am not crazy,” Lawton said. His headaches felt like bullets; the loud metallic drumming echoed in his head.
“How long have your harboured this hatred, anyway? There is a stage in any misery when the victim begins to find it satisfying.”
“Storm Jameson. Wrong. Stop,” Lawton said. The headaches had invaded his head and he can smell burning. His tongue was bitter. His eyes saw vomit-green.
He vomited on the stage.
|# ¿ Jun 17, 2013 07:29|
Whoa, Chairchucker, give Fumblemouse a bit of time settling in into the throne, it's a bit painful for someone who hadn't been a Judge.
toanoradian: Quotesman no more
Truth be told, the idea of a person winning a quote contest by making a quote based on a misspelled quote was already made before you make your Flash Rule. I kept mum to not hurt your feelings.
|# ¿ Jun 18, 2013 11:52|
I'm in! Are we only allowed to use one thought experiment/paradox? Can we combine them? Like what if the cat inside the possibly radioactive box is also falling and had a buttered toast butter side up strung around his back.
DO NOT do a boring physics thing like The Monkey and the Hunter, where, SURPRISE!, poo poo falls at the same speed as other poo poo.
Wait, hang on...so even if the monkey drops down, the bullet still hits him
But then he couldn't help his infinite friends write that Shakespeare! But infinity minus one is still infinity
And then he couldn't tell the four monkeys stuck in the cage that climbing the fence is actually okay and their fear had been psychological programs all along
why is the monkey/bullet boring i learned parabolic movement through that
toanoradian fucked around with this message at Jun 18, 2013 around 14:18
|# ¿ Jun 18, 2013 14:12|
If you think you can pull it off, there's no rule against it. But the odds of tripping over the razor-wire shoelaces of your own clever boots are pretty high.
Bah! What use are legs if we can't play around with things that may take it away? I'll try combining things. Maybe my fiction can be like a unicorn instead of some misshapen chimera.
|# ¿ Jun 18, 2013 22:15|
Remember Martello's challenge! As long as they follow the prompt, wedding stories are A-OK.
What was the challenge? The link goes nowhere.
I'm in. I'd ask for a Flash Rule, but I figure if I point out a mistake in the Judges' posts I'll get it anyway.
|# ¿ Jun 25, 2013 07:59|
CRITPAIROFF everyone else should do this too because it is the right thing to do.
I'm gonna ask you to this deadly dance we call
|# ¿ Jun 25, 2013 10:25|
yeah i'm just gonna blame the concept of time zones
Marriage and a Consensual Affair
“Alligator facts. Now.”
“Their sex is determined by temperature when they’re eggs. Their lung system is similar to birds. They belong to the Alligatoridae ord-“
Clarice blew her whistle. “Alligatoridae is a class, not order. Your turn, Martie.”
Martha looked at her. “Fine. I don’t actually listen to you when you talk about alligators.”
“Big mistake. Martie minus two, Abbie minus one.”
“Minus one? I got two correct,” Abraham said, almost standing up from the floor. “I would be fine with zero points.”
“Why are you arguing that?” Martha asked. “Clarice, this is a ridiculous contest. Nobody cared about alligators as much as you do. I bet anything we say sounds ignorant to you.”
“Ignorant and beautiful, Martie. At least you stopped saying ‘crocodiles’ when you mean ‘alligators’,” Clarice said. She walked to the whiteboard glued to the wall, erased ‘round 1’ and wrote ‘round 2’, under ‘Who’s Gonna be the Legal Spouse? Clarice Stage 3’. “Alright, round 2!”
Abraham slapped his forehead. “Should’ve gone with weak mouth muscles!”
Clarice stared at Abraham and added ‘-1’ under ‘Abraham’s score’. “Only the muscles that open their mouth, Abbie. In round 2, you will have to properly write the correct scientific nomenclature of the American alligator.”
Abraham swore under his breath.
“That’s the one with the ‘penis’ in it, isn’t it?” Martha asked. “Miss-“
Clarice clapped. “You gonna have to write it down, Martie.”
Martha groaned and picked out a notepad from her pocket. She ripped one page and gave it to Abraham. She noticed that Abraham was biting his lower lip. “Do you really not remember? I thought you’ll ace this round.”
“I don’t remember names that well, Martha. Kind of not my thing.”
Clarice clapped again. “Stop discussing and start writing. Hand it to me when you’re finished.” As she let the two write their answer, she wrote ‘round 3’ on the whiteboard and began doodling. She was halfway through the body when Martha stood up and handed her answer. Minutes later, when she resorted to drawing crocodiles, Abraham did the same.
She read both pages and chuckled. “Seriously, Abbie? Mississippenis?”
“Just deduct the points and get on round 3,” Abraham said. “I’m not winning anyway.”
“Martie’s wrong, too!”
“Eh? Mississippiensis, right?” Martha said.
“You misspelled Mississippi,” Clarice said. Martha swore. “Nice to see you finally invested in this competition, Martie. Plus 1.”
“She got it wrong!” Abraham said.
“Bonus points for participation,” Clarice said.
“You really just want to marry Martha,” Abraham said. “And leave me to be the mistres-no, wrong, master? No, master sounds wrong in this context. What’s the word?”
“I don’t think there’s an actual male version of ‘mistress’ in that context. Closest I can think of is…oh god, I can’t even think of a male equivalent,” Martha said, scratching her head. She tapped on notepad with her pencil. “Come on, Martha Louise, think,” she said. She pinched few strands of her hair and put it between her lips.
“Focus, the two of you,” Clarice said. “Round 3 will be about-“
Martha raised her hand and mumbled.
“Hair still in your lips,” Abraham said.
Martha spat out the hair and said, “Give me a minute.”
“No,” Clarice said. “Round 3 will start no-“
“I can’t call myself a literate Englishwoman if I can’t answer that, Clarice. It’s a simple question, it’s a concept that’s not at all rare, but I can’t think of any word that fits!”
Abraham put his hands on Martha’s shoulders. “No, no, it’s okay, Martha, you don’t have to answer, I’ll go look it up later.”
“Wouldn’t ‘adulterer’ work?” Clarice asked.
“That’s gender-neutral,” Martha said. “Wait, no, was it? Was there an ‘adulteress’? Hang on, I’ll be back.” She stood up and tried to walk away, but Clarice stopped her, walking in front of her.
“We haven’t finished Round 3, Martie. I mean, come on! You’re winning and this is the last round! Just stay for five minutes so we can finally decide which marriage is formalized. Come on, it’ll be an easy round.”
“You really want to marry Martha, do you?” Abraham said. Martha went around Clarice.
“Gay marriage’s legal now, Abraham, I think we should appreciate it,” Clarice said. “Anyway, round 3 is not even about alligators.”
“Really?” Martha asked, turning around.
“Well, not real life alligators. LEGO alligators. It’s actually crocodiles, but then ‘Allego-ators’ won’t work as the round name,” Clarice said. “Also, round now have names. It’s a set of five trivia questions about the LEGO crocodile!”
“That sounds like the worst thing anyone could make,” Abraham said.
“Minus three.” Clarice said.
“I’ve already won, then,” Martha said. She went into her room.
“Pretty much,” Abraham said. “Alright, I’m going to put this data into the power rankings. Let’s see if once again I fell into third rank due to unfair rules.” He picked up the laptop on the carpet next to him, opened it and began typing down results.
“Come on, Martie, Abbie, I haven’t even asked a single question,” Clarice said. “I mean, I’ve got interesting trivia here! Like, ‘what colour was the crocodile unit after the four year hiatus from 2004?’ You can see from the wording that the colour changed, all you have to do is find out from green to what.”
“Yup, I’m in third rank,” Abraham said while rubbing his forehead. “I’ve got Martha’s visa scanned. I’m going to need your ID card, Clarice.”
“Abbie, can’t you even attempt to answer the question?”
Martha limped out of her room, an eBook reader in her left hand. “From Madame Bovary ‘mistress’ can be used.”
Clarice turned around, “Wait, really?”
“No, not really. Unless Abraham’s fine with ‘gigolo’.”
“I’ll be Clarice’s gigolo, yeah,” Abraham said. “And Clarice, no, I’m not even going to attempt. I’m three points behind and my answer’s very likely wrong. Let me sulk at my stats.”
Clarice tore her card of LEGO alligator trivia question in two. “You are the lousiest gigolo,” Clarice said.
|# ¿ Jul 1, 2013 06:08|
All those research into adultery laws and lego sets for nothing. I'll try to comment on works, just to salvage whatever left of me.
|# ¿ Jul 1, 2013 06:11|
See, if I can read clocks and I've gone with my original idea, there would be a story about LEGO brick composition posted on time and I would've stolen your tiny vestigial heart with it! Curses.
Abraham needs Martha's visa and Clarice's ID so they could start registering for a marriage license in Delaware. Upon further research, turns out they need to apply in person, so that part's wrong but well, I can't just have him playing Minesweeper to avoid feeling sad, so the incorrect document-holding stays.
|# ¿ Jul 2, 2013 07:26|
'Mojo and I will be arguing over who's GI Joe and who's Cobra Commander between the two of us.
Wow, the judges are sticking to the theme by having a childish argument! Nice job.
Prompt: Write a one-sentence postcard to a short boy who is invisible.
|# ¿ Jul 3, 2013 03:58|
In. I want to go with Prussian blue, but turns out it's not there anymore. So give me one, judges.
|# ¿ Jul 16, 2013 02:26|
|# ¿ Jun 24, 2019 13:23|
Discontinued colors are acceptable, so you get a choice: you can stick with Prussian Blue, or you can accept Atomic Tangerine.
Geez, both are renamed colours! I'll stick with Prussian blue then, thank you very much.
|# ¿ Jul 16, 2013 03:06|