|
You guys are losers, I got rejected weeks ago
|
#
¿
Feb 20, 2013 04:18
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 11:29 |
|
|
Starcrossed 1120 words Derek flung his satchel on the bed with somewhat too much force; it slithered across the bare mattress and landed on the floorboards with an uncomfortable thud. “poo poo,” he slurred, a little too loud; he was thoroughly drunk. It was Christmas Eve, and for the first time in nearly two years, Derek was alone. He'd known when Claris handed him his present; the laxness of her grip on the narrow parcel, the cheap, effortless packaging, the very act of giving early. “I'm not coming tomorrow,” she'd said, fishing a twenty-dollar bill out of her clasp. “I already picked up my stuff. It's over.” And she'd left him where he sat, empty dishes littering the table, a faltering smile clinging to his face as he turned her present over in his hands. He hadn't cried. Her twenty covered half the check; he'd expected to pay it all anyway and spent the balance on cheap wine, pouring glass after glass of anonymous red down his gullet until the sad-faced waiter clasped him by the shoulder and asked him, politely, to leave. After which he'd hit Mac's, and now, with a couple dozen drinks in his system, he was home. “poo poo,” he said again, the word spilling out of his mouth in a wash of hot vapour. A noxious whirlpool raced around inside his skull; it was like he'd docked his head at a petrol bowser. He could feel the paint slowly peeling on the backs of his eyes. “I need to sit down.” * * * Derek awoke to find his cheek stuck to the pleather padding of his armchair, coated by a gummy rind of congealed saliva. His right eye wouldn't open; the lashes had fused, and his fingers were just too drat clumsy to help. “Fuckit,” he croaked, hauling himself upright, lurching over to his little kitchenette. There were dishes in the sink; an abundance of glassware, all of it filthy, and cockroaches scuttling out of sight between them. He cleared a space and stuck his head under the faucet, drinking deeply, feeling the tissues of his mouth relaxing as their residues dissolved. He had some tablets in the fridge. Why he kept them there and not somewhere convenient like right here by the dishrack, he couldn't say; the fridge seemed a lifetime away, and with each slow step he felt the ground pitching beneath him, ready to fall away completely and send him tumbling down that nauseous abyss, into the river of vomit he so desperately wanted to avoid. The capsules clicked out of their packaging, and as they tumbled into the palm of his hand he glimpsed the vodka-bottle peeping out at him from its roost above the crisper – the perfect accompaniment. He took a neat swig, feeling the aspirin trace its foaming path down his throat as the vodka, still slightly too warm, burned after. Right, then. Back to normal. “It's over.” Wasting no time, eh? Well, she hadn't given him a whole lot to work with, there; there were only so many times he could replay that little snippet. Fine, she'd left him. At least she'd been quick, and honest; he'd been through worse, much worse, and there didn't seem much point in dwelling on it more than he absolutely had to. From the bedroom, a buzzing and a beep; his phone. “Claris,” he said, a surge of hope rising in his chest, and he fumbled his way over to his bedroom, to the source of the noise. It was nice and dark in here, a relief from the piercing outdoor-light that seeped in through his loungeroom curtains, and for a moment he just sagged against the doorjamb, waiting for the phone beep again, to give away its position. There – on the floor behind the bed. He climbed onto the mattress and scooped his satchel from the floor, dragging it up to rest by his chest, feeling around inside it for the smooth rubber surface of the phone. It vibrated again, its tone a little hollower this time – running out of battery, no doubt – and he found it, tucked up against the lining. He grabbed it – “Ah, gently caress! gently caress!” Pain lanced through his finger – the screen must have cracked, and as he drew the phone out of his bag he saw a droplet of his own blood soaking its way in between the slivers of glass. 2:21 PM 3 new messages Carefully, he dragged his fingertip across the screen and nudged the prompt. But it wasn't Claris, calling to make up – it was his parents. Was he alright? Did he need help? Would they still be seeing him next week, for his birthday? Of course. Christmas lunch. Well, that was definitely not happening today. Derek slouched onto his back, gazing up at the tiny screen, thumbing his way through photos of Claris. It was beautiful, in a way, watching her face slide side-to-side beneath the fractured glass, as he deleted every loving memory she'd left behind. Bitch. Then, there was – that shot. He lingered; he wasn't so sure about deleting this one, and anyway, what was the rush? He stared at it for what seemed like hours, savouring each contour of her body, memorising every graceful curve, until it felt as though his eyes just couldn't stare any more, and he started to lose focus. He dragged it to the trashcan, and let his gaze relax. Silhouetted against the screen, something small and dark sat poised atop his index finger, right where he'd cut it, a loving cockroach – “Jesus gently caress!” He flicked his hand, slapped at the lightswitch on the wall. All across the surface of his mattress, little brown-black shapes manoeuvred swiftly into shadow, some over the edge of the bed, some beneath his pillow, but most of them reversing their course, crawling back into his satchel. “The gently caress?” He pawed the bag upright, but the light was just too dim to see inside – he tipped it upside-down, spilling magazines, mint-rolls, cigarettes, all over the bed. And bugs. Little flat almond-shaped bugs racing for the nearest patch of darkness, and already he could see them moving in the periphery, scuttling around the corners of his dresser, working their way between the corners of his bedframe. Bedbugs. loving bedbugs. An object still remained, half-protruding from the mouth of his bag – a crumpled paper packet. A gift from Claris. Derek peeled away the tape, unfolding it. It was a page from OK! magazine, the horoscopes – she knew he hated that crap – and as it shifted in his hands, a slew of small specks, like burnt crumbs, rilled down across its surface, over three words scrawled in Claris's blocky hand. Happy birthday, rear end in a top hat. A/T threads
|
|
#
¿
Feb 24, 2013 15:19
|
|
|
twinkle cave posted:THUNDERCRIT - LET THE BLOOD FLOW!!!! No other means of saying 'thanks', so Thanks! Food for thought in there.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 25, 2013 02:46
|
|
|
systran posted:I had noticed parents are naming their kids all kinds of ridiculous poo poo and most of them started with the letter "J". His name was kind of a joke. To be fair it's pretty funny
|
|
#
¿
Feb 26, 2013 02:35
|
|
|
In. I hate this poo poo more than anything. E:vv trying not to poo poo up the thread with 'thankyou' posts but thanks for the feedback Kaishai, that's exactly the kind of stuff I need to know (re. grammar, accursed semicolons etc). And yes you caught me abusing the prompt, fair and square. ee: Christmas lunch missed after drunkenly passing out; Awakes at 2:21 pm; Shutting-up now STONE OF MADNESS fucked around with this message at 04:08 on Feb 26, 2013 |
|
#
¿
Feb 26, 2013 03:44
|
|
|
Martello posted:Marquez. It's going to be a long week  
|
|
#
¿
Feb 27, 2013 02:32
|
|
|
Not a great week irl; here's what I've got. Skirmish 1000 words It's dark when Hermann makes his way out from the bunker, and though the air no longer rings with shellfire, the night sky is still clouded with dust. “I can't hear them,” he says to no-one in particular, “are they close?” An MG-42 rattles as the serpent unfurls within its nest. “No sign.” Its hiss cuts through the air like molten steel, and Hermann clutches at the weals upon his arm, remembering. “They'd better not be.” He picks his way down the rough steps, very carefully, mindful of the torn meat obstacles that litter his path. There are dead men all along the sandbags. Some of them will still have rations; he should find horsemeat, at the very least. The serpent has slithered down to join him. “You've left your post,” he tells it. “I know,” it says. “As have you. As have they,” and it gestures round the valley with a broad sweep of its tail. In the end-coils it brandishes a bottle of schnapps; Hermann stares at it, meaningfully, but it is not offered. “I'm hungry,” he says. “Then eat,” says the serpent, “as I do.” The serpent pours its mass across the trenches, winding back and forth before him, and where it passes Hermann sees the bodies blanch and wither. Jasmine-petals wilt on the terrace at Biarritz; Sophia smirks over her cognac, her toes twinkling on the edge of his desk. How long has it been, now? He's lost count. All hope of leave has long since disappeared; there is no transport anymore. The serpent leers at him, a mocking grin half-masked beneath its pelt. Was that a wink? He cannot tell. “As I do,” it repeats, and sloughs away its uniform, its lustrous scales all flashing at the hidden moon. “Follow me.” Hermann peels away his greatcoat. There's a chill to the air tonight, and already his undershirt turns to ice; his backflesh crawls at the touch of freezing sweat. “Hurry,” the serpent hisses. Its great broad bison-head begins to turn; the fear of loneliness stirs in Hermann's heart, and he tears at his boots, anxious to keep pace, terrified of falling behind. They peel away, too easily, and as his toes sink deep into the trench-muck Hermann feels them fusing, closing up around themselves like day-flowers. “I'm ready,” he says, writhing through the collar of his shirt. They forge a path eastward, through the pines. “We're past the front!” says Hermann, his lizard-jaws gleaming under naked stars. “We're the advance! We'll take Smolensk!” “No need,” the serpent chastens, gliding just ahead. “You'll see.” A caravan advances through the forest. Hermann scents it coming; soiled clothing, unwashed skin, the unmistakeable warmth of tired diesel motors. “The victory brigade.” The serpent turns its placid features, smiles at him; he doesn't know how, but it knows. “Let it pass, and Europa falls.” “Or,” says Hermann, his tone suggesting everything; the serpent nods. * * * The convoy draws near. Hermann is waiting; his grubby K98 lies propped between two roots, the narrow roadway in his sights for miles. He's a little rusty – too many months spent barking into the radio – but as the first vehicle crawls into his firing line, Hermann knows he's got them. It's a two-man GAZ – unarmed, as far as he can tell – and if he can cripple it, the whole line will be forced to stop, sitting targets for him to pick off at leisure. “Now,” hisses the serpent. Hermann fires, and in the scope he sees a short puff of grey atop the bonnet of the jeep. It lurches forward – the driver, clearly, is unnerved – and the column accelerates. “Stop them,” the serpent cautions, “before they get too close.” They haven't seen him – not yet, at least – and now, as the convoy's rearguard rattles into sight, Hermann fires again, straight into the driver's side windshield, and the GAZ swerves to a stop between two trees. “Perfect,” he whispers, retracting the bolt of his Mauser, bringing the scope back to bear. They're disembarking, scattering for the trees, and in their confusion he brings two of them down, direct hits to the neck and shoulder. Now the rest are covered; now, the real work begins. Motionless but for the barrel of his rifle, Hermann scans across the forest road, back and forth, waiting. A truck door opens, swinging back against the cab; the sound carries all the way to Hermann's roost, a flat metallic slap, and he fires. A shadow slumps onto the ground. “Good,” the serpent says; he hisses back, “Shut up!” They're firing back, now – they've tracked him, and now he sees their muzzles flare, pinpoints in the shadows, stars upon the lake at Moûtiers. It makes it easier for him to spot them; on the other hand, there's little cover here beyond the pine-needles and gorse. “We'll have to move,” he says – but already, a white-hot pain shears through his shoulder, and his rifle discharges in his hand. “loving hell!” He scampers upright, ready to retreat, but a flurry of bullets tears him down again. He's hit, badly, his chest perforated, pine-sap burning where his raw wounds lie against the ground. “Too bad,” the serpent murmurs. It doesn't seem particularly bothered; it slides over towards him, coils poised to wrap around his body. * * * “You're home,” Sophia whispers. Still, she holds the brandy-glass; still, her dark eyes linger in the dusk. Her fingers stretch out to brush his face. “I am.” He leans across the balustrade, sucking the sea-air into his lungs. He's filthy, still; his clothes are stiff with grime. “Touch me,” she says, clasping his fingers within her own, threading them into her starlit-silver hair. He feels the blood and dirt scraped from them; she doesn't seem to mind. “Touch her,” the serpent whispers, and behind him Hermann feels a great weight rushing forward, as if a gravity is born within him; an impact, the great coils slamming down, and all is turned to dust.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 3, 2013 05:20
|
|
|
systran posted:scrap the whole tea thing. I liked the tea thing e: Martello posted:a rifles bolts get slammed in not retracted gently caress you I am glad of this STONE OF MADNESS fucked around with this message at 01:19 on Mar 8, 2013 |
|
#
¿
Mar 7, 2013 15:05
|
|
|
In with 'Uninvited Guests' His heart was pounding. He was sure he had seen the doorknob turn.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 3, 2013 00:36
|
|
|
 this ol' thing  I need to flex my wriceps; I'm in with this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8jPPxh3PAk STONE OF MADNESS fucked around with this message at 13:42 on Oct 29, 2013 |
|
#
¿
Oct 29, 2013 13:40
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 11:29 |
|
|
The Bonedrum 717 words The stars are settling into place; a cool mist lurks among the mangrove, and the mosquitos have come. Beside the dwindling peat-fire Çep-Mayis flexes his limbs, stretching his fingers till they crack. A bowl in the embers at his feet contains a stew of toad and crickets, but his appetite falters, and for the moment he leaves it to cool. Across the lagoon, a sallow moon ascends; he lets its first light touch the bonedrum before he begins to play. The rhythm is a simple one. No one taught it to Çep-Mayis – he has learned it through his years of solitude, from the silent stagnant pools, the muttering reeds. It is the rhythm of drowned footfalls, of the suction of the bog, the downward pulse of rotting matter. His fingers brush the fish-skin surface with a measured reticence, as softly as the willow scrapes the water; it takes only the merest touch. Tonight he plays, though for months the bonedrum has lain hidden in his stash beneath the stones; a stranger must be beckoned if the meeting may take place, and the night is ripe for killing. Çep-Mayis beats the drum, three ponderous strokes, a sound no stronger than the landing of birds; yet it carries, and (he knows) for as far as the tepid water reaches, the bonedrum can be heard. From the dampened coals a final wisp of smoke escapes, curling upwards, a tripartite frond; he guides it with his drumbeats, urging its collapse upon itself, its dissipation against the cooling sky. Far beyond the glimmer of the lake, heavy boots sound upon the earth. Çep-Mayis whistles, salty breath washing through his blackened teeth like the ebb-tide in the roots; his fingers plod upon the drum, and its bark is thin, as if an echo, whose source is yet unheard. He whistles the cry of the great dark birds that fly in from the west; he twists it into something else, a hunting-song, his own melody. In the depths of the dusk Çep-Mayis rocks and sways. His head and hands drift, like pad-leaves in the wind, but it is his own inner impetus that sets him in motion; he is sending out the song, a calling node, worming through the night's stillness, seeking out its listener. A shadow glides under the silver-struck water. It is silent, but sediment boils up in its wake, like the oil-fires at the temple on the rocks (which Çep-Mayis has seen, and dared to visit, once, when the dark men's ships went away). A catfish flounces to the surface, and for an instant Çep-Mayis pauses, perfectly still. But the bonedrum has barely ceased reverberating when he returns to play, and now his song is just a fraction faster. Çep-Mayis beats the bonedrum with the tips of his talons – the sound is like the splintering of twigs – and his free hand caresses the bronze-burnished brow of the drumbowl, plays with its loosening teeth. Time is short; he beats it away. He is tired. A hand clutches at the rotting matter on the shore, gouging carefully into the clay; as the Cimmerian rises not a droplet is permitted to fall, but slides back to its source without a sound. He slinks between the rushes, pantherish, one great hand pressed against the pommel of his dirk; he has reason to be stealthy. The odour of the fire has gone – but the sound of the drum is very close, and he can hear its second, the eerie shrilling of the old man's teeth; he grits his own. He is not a man to favour rites of any kind. The islet is long and small. Conan stands astride its southmost point; already he can see its northern limit, and the little hump of reed-thatched mud that marks its centre. There, too, sits the adversary, barely distinguishable among the darkness of the matter and the silver of the moon, but there nonetheless, and his song is calling, calling. The moonlight glints upon a blade; the moonlight glints upon a scattering of teeth. Wordlessly, he stands; his weapon hisses in its sheath. The old man has crumpled to the ground. He rolls the body over with the toe of his great boot, and crushes the bonedrum beneath his heel. The thing is done.
|
|
#
¿
Nov 2, 2013 12:42
|
|