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  • Locked thread
Aug 2, 2002

Hello I would like to try to write a story. Please let me write a story about Mr. Linden's Library, it will be very bad.


Aug 2, 2002

Hello. Earlier I expressed my interest in writing a story; however, I do not see my name in the list of participants. I hope this is merely an oversight and I can still include my story.

I don't know why I keep writing my posts in this thread like a moron.

Aug 2, 2002

Kaishai posted:

You're good to go, crabrock. Go ahead and submit your Mr. Linden's Library piece when you're ready.

I'm so sorry:

Suspended Without Pay
899 Words

Professor Linden's commandments shot out with a thunderous boom, followed closely by silent wisps of unease. As the students looked to one another for answers that did not exist, he absconded from the silent lecture hall.

Isabella looked around at the other students beginning to pack up their bags. She didn't have a bag; she didn't need one. The insurance policy she had spent all semester cultivating was finally going to pay off. The surprise twelve-page final that was due in a week didn’t bother her in the slightest.

As she did the sideways-auditorium-exit shuffle a boy she recognized from her physics class turned to her. "This is such a load of B.S., huh?"

Isabella tried to fake a smile. "Sure."

The boy's heart fluttered like the flag on a sinking ship.

While most of the class exited out the back, Isabella followed Dr. Linden out the side door. She walked along the catwalk past the multitude of bulletin boards and vending machines, ignored the students sitting at tables selling coffee, and into the hallway housing the offices of the Psychology faculty. Isabella opened the door to the professor's office, saw that he was alone as usual, and locked it behind her.

"I really liked your lecture today," she lied. "I never knew the adolescent mind could be so—"

"—loving broken? That's really what I want to get up there and say every time. It's God's cruel gift to give such a tangled mess of neurons and hormones sentience," he grumbled. “It's a miracle he bothered to make them at all.”

She lowered herself onto his lap and leaned in so he could feel her hot breath on his ear and her hand on his belt.

“But then again, how would you young co-eds develop all those daddy issues that I appreciate so much?”

"Well, why don’t you take this off and punish me," she whispered.

He drew in a deep, slow breath, but this time he gently pushed her away.

"Why?" she protested.

Dr. Linden reached for the stack of identical books and handed her the top one. "My self-published book just arrived today. I just know you’re going to love it."

Isabella took her copy of Mr. Linden's Library. "Well, I would, but I kinda have this 12 page paper to do this weekend."

"Yea, yea. I get your point. This is my magnum opus, and it takes precedence. You come back here on Tuesday after class and tell me what you think, and then we’ll probe the depths of your perversions."

* * *

Isabella nestled into her couch with her quilt and a mug of coffee. She put on her PJs and her reading glasses, and prepared to delve into the mind of a man she considered a genius. The horror started almost immediately:

Page 2:

Amber was an 11-year-old girl with brown hair and brown eyes and pink cheeks, and Mr. Linden nervously quivered when he thought about what other pink delicacies the young lady hid beneath her purple tank top and white shorts with lace on the bottom of them.

Isabella let the book fall to her lap. Her stomach lurched and the nausea that followed was excruciating. Was this a joke? A test? What the gently caress. Maybe it was ironic? Maybe there was a twist? Maybe she needed a glass of wine.

A glass of Cabernet Sauvignon at her side and she dutifully proceeded with the abhorrent tragedy.

Page 89:

Mr. Linden snuggled her and sobbed. "Please Amber, this book contains all the love for you that overflowed from my aching heart, and it is so powerful that if you ever look upon it, it will consume your fragile soul. Please never sneak into my library and read it! I beg you, I never want to lose you! I only wrote this book because if I had not a runoff for our love then my heart would literally explode!

Isabella did not have the willpower to continue reading. She got into the shower and stayed there until it ran cold. She toweled off and fell into bed. Sleep was no respite; the dreams were unmerciful.

The next afternoon after cleaning the grout in her bathroom and kitchen—and taking another shower—Isabella reluctantly opened up where she had left off.

Page 143:

Mr. Linden drove off into the sunrise toward his very important business meeting and then Amber snuck into his library. She stole the forbidden book and skipped back to her bed where she pulled up the warm fuzzy covers. All of the words in the book were so lovely and sweet that she couldn't help but giggle and smile with her sweet lips and she closed her eyes feeling like the happiest girl in the whole world. But she never opened her eyes again, and instead a rose bush made out of pure love grew from the pages and when Mr. Linden got home later that night and ran into her room he saw a solitary rose resting on his lover’s cheek.

* * *

Isabella watched her feet as she walked up to Dr. Linden. She dropped her paper onto his podium, turned around, and vamoosed.

There were no emails, no phone calls, and no texts. Years later when people asked her why she had never settled down with a man, Isabella just shrugged. "They're loving broken."


While brainstorming titles the worst one I came up with was "The Young and the Breastless." Kill me.

Aug 2, 2002

SpaceGodzilla posted:

Jesus wept.

I'm sure this entry will get a completely mild, not-at-all interesting reception :munch:

I made my fiance give me permission to post it out of fear it'd be too creepy or weird so this is totally on her.

Aug 2, 2002

Nubile Hillock posted:

I don't understand the prot's reaction to it. Why does she feel sick?

"Amber was an 11-year-old girl"

I hope I don't have to explain why somebody finding out they'd been banging a pedophile (especially one that brings up daddy issues) would freak somebody out. It's not lolita, it's a horribly written fantasy. I guess I wasn't clear enough? Because you seem to be like "big deal so what?"

Aug 2, 2002

whomever was assigning stories, please assign me one as well.

Aug 2, 2002

sebmojo posted:

Have Yardwork. And get some initiative; this passivity will do you no good round here.

I'll take being called passive if it means i don't have to go read a bunch of bad stories. Thanks.

Aug 2, 2002

I rewrote Yard Work (461 words) as was assigned to me. This won the first round of a duel, and the sebmojo won the whole thing (but not with this story) so I'm not exactly sure how to classify it.

Yard Work 2: The Reworkening
548 words

I took a deep breath; the bandana did little to keep the dust out of my lungs. Almost finished. Even though the ground resembled the paint on a dilapidated shack, deeper down the moist dirt still managed to cling to my spade. I stepped out of the hole and it was instantly twenty degrees warmer. I kicked the back of the shovel with my boot, sending soggy soil splattering against what could loosely be classified as a fence.

Behind me, I heard the screen door slam shut. I didn’t need to look up; it could only be Tracey: my late neighbor’s wife. I heard a rattlesnake in the distance, followed by her meek voice: “Dan, if we’re not going to talk now, when are we?” she pleaded.

I took a moment to turn around and look at her, squinting as sweat beaded into my eyes. Her golden locks were plastered to her forehead and I could tell she’d been crying.

“Talking isn’t going to do us any good right now,” I said. I climbed back into the hole and put my foot down hard on the shovel like that litter of rat pups I found out under a bale of hay last spring.

“I’m scared,” she cried.

I threw another load over my shoulder. “Get inside and pack the drat suitcase already!” I yelled back at her.

Jack, my recently deceased neighbor, had kicked down my door and caught me by surprise. His white knuckles gripped a buck knife. I remember falling backwards in my chair onto the roughhewn floor as he lunged at me and let the knife slip from his hand. He kicked me once and I spit blood. A second time and the crack of my rib breaking sounded like a far-off gunshot. Tracey had screamed as I picked up the knife and thrust it upwards into his flesh. Jack stopped kicking.

The hole was still shallow, but after I had filled it back in I would put a few rocks on top. That ought to keep the coyotes away from the body for at least a few days. It was simply too hot to continue. I stuck the shovel into the pile and noticed Tracey had gone back in the cabin like I told her to. I walked around to the rolled-up rug and gave it a nudge with my foot, but it did not move.

I don’t know if Jack and I could be called friends, but we had been known to share a bottle or two at the saloon. I had gone to his house to collect a poker debt when I first saw Tracey: mad as hell and a hatred in her eyes that was years in the making. Her downfall came so fast I’m not sure if it was true attraction or just a way out for her.

I shoved again with my foot—harder—and the drunken fool fell to his final resting place. At least he was somewhere dark and quiet. I thought about the journey south that awaited Tracey and me, and felt the desire to climb down there with Jack and pull the pile in on top of us. Able to close my eyes and escape my burden; to swaddle myself in the earth’s cool embrace.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 01:02 on Apr 13, 2013

Aug 2, 2002

systran posted:

Just get your fiancée to check it before you submit and blame her if it doesn't turn out well.

I support this notion. I also advocate hitting her a lot for all the shame she brings you when it doesn't turn out well.

edit: do this even if it turns out well.

Aug 2, 2002

sebmojo posted:

It's a real 'They Live' moment when you click on to this - so many words just don't need to be there. Even my Yardwork, which Beef talked about above, and which I consciously wrote to be as tight as possible, reading it again I just did another pass and dropped maybe 20-30 words without hurting the piece. And if you cut words and don't hurt the piece you've improved it. Serious. Cut cut cut.

This isn't in direct response to EB's crit, but the issue I have with cut cut cut is when a story was written in the first person past tense (such as your yard work). When people are telling a story they say things like "I saw," "I heard," etc. They're describing the experience they had, which to me is the point of writing in the first person. To say "A door slammed shut." leaves the story incomplete. Did they hear it, see it, feel the vibrations? Nobody talks like that, and it makes the story seem like it's being told by an overly dramatic person who is either trying to be pretentiously terse or trying too hard to be a gruff old man like they saw in a movie. All of the sentence fragments in such a short story just seemed awkward and forced. Maybe my rewrite wasn't the best, and I obviously still have a lot to learn, but I think avoiding all instances of "I [sensed] something" is leaving out a large part of a person's story-telling repertoire. If you want to stick to facts then just write in the third person.

But in essence I was rewriting a story about a man who looks a lot of directions:

"I [...] looked up. [...] I looked down [...] I glanced up. [...] looked up [...] I looked [...] I’d looked up"

Aug 2, 2002

systran posted:

Because the story is from a first-person perspective, it is implied that, "a door slammed shut" is being perceived by the narrator. If it's important to the plot that the narrator HEARD it rather than SAW it (or vice versa), then you can mention that. Otherwise it doesn't matter what sense the narrator used to know that the door shut.

I hardly think that anybody is advocating getting rid of any exposition that is not necessary to drive the plot forward. Hearing a screen door slam shut evokes a very specific feeling than simply describing that a door shut (in itself not important to plot at all either). You could just skip to some lady on the porch talking to the main character, but the whole reason the door stuff is in there in the first place is to provide a bit of narrative. If you don't care how something affected the narrator, why put it in at all?

edit: like this sentence: "After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill."

You could argue "oh well of COURSE they heard the train whistle. Why say they heard it? What's the point. Of course they see the headlight. Those are both wasted words and would make Hemmingway cry. You could cut out words and end up with "A train-whistle blew on the other side of the plateau and a headlight shined on the hill." or even shorter "A train was coming." but that doesn't necessarily make it better. Saying HOW something happened is how people tell stories, even made up people in your writing. It's important to inform your reader of what your character is experiencing, not just what is happening. That is boring. Objective reality is not as important as how people perceive it. Also that quote is from "The Sun Also Rises."

crabrock fucked around with this message at 15:19 on Apr 16, 2013

Aug 2, 2002

systran posted:

The critique of your piece had a large amount of examples of "I could tell," "I heard," and "I saw." I don't think the critique meant that you needed to remove every single instance of this, but rather you need to pick and choose which of those you really want to leave in. If you have "I heard a screen door shut," the reader is going to hear it shutting more than they will see it shutting. This can be a useful tool, but just like if you bold/underline every fifth word, each bolded/underlined word loses weight. Each time you have "I heard/felt/saw/sensed," the reader becomes more immune and those extra words become dead weight. If you otherwise just have "x verbed, y verbed, z verbed, I heard x verb," the reader is more likely to really think of the sound when you finally do use it.

Like I said, my issue wasn't in response to the crit of my piece specifically, but to the notion of "If you ever see something like "I heard", "she saw", "he smelled" or similar sensing verbs in your prose, you should consider cutting them." and sebmojo's "cut cut cut."

I will definitely be careful with the "I heard, I saw" etc. in the future (honestly only see a few instances of that in my last submission anyway, and still prefer to keep them in as they are. most of my sentences are declarative), I just take issue with blanket statements telling people to trim down their writing into boringness because that's what the readers apparently prefer to write.

Aug 2, 2002

Martello posted:

Also if you guys wanna go back and forth about cutting words go and do it in Fiction Advice and Discussion. We write, crit, and shitpost here. We don't have long conversations about stuff that belong in other threads.


Aug 2, 2002

why write AND shitpost when you can combine it into one fluid movement? ho ho ho

Aug 2, 2002

Going to waste a judge's time yet again by popping something out.

Aug 2, 2002

So uh, does anybody else have a fiancee I can blame this current piece on? because I already used mine.

Aug 2, 2002

systran posted:

I recommend everyone title their submission: The Mystery of the VERB-ing NOUN

Isn't it going to be confusing telling all the stories apart if they all have the same name :confused:

Aug 2, 2002

Martello posted:

shut the gently caress up and write everyone

no you. I already wrote mine I'm just taking a break from masturbating whilst I read it again for the twelfth time.

edit: changed while to whilst

Aug 2, 2002

wait how did this get here

The Case of the Elusive Keymasher
(1200 words exactly)

The story you are about to read is based on true events. The names and verb tenses have been changed capriciously.

The Critiquer General stood up and waved his hands. “Whoa, whoa! Stop! Right there,” he pointed, “second line: flagrant violation of proper adverb use.”

“Well sir, we didn’t think it was relevant,” said the new guy.

“Not relevant? We’re not dealing with your average fanfic here. This writer is depraved, debauched, reprobate: a profligate with a thesaurus and a keyboard.”

The older men at the table all had different nervous twitches. Sure they had trained for this scenario, but they never thought they’d actually see this kind of horror unleashed on their community of hard-working, middle-class families who spend most of their time watching the news about the outside world and shaking their heads and lamenting about what things were coming to.

The Critiquer General fell to his knees and vomited. “My God. Who was in charge of this disaster before I was assigned? Was it you Jenkins?”

Jenkins nodded but didn’t have the courage to look the Critiquer General in the eyes.

“And you didn’t think to warn me,” his voice rose to a shout, “that this fucker ended a run-on sentence with a preposition?”

Jenkin’s voice wavered when he talked. “It… we… Sir, nobody here knows how to handle a piece like this. That’s why we called you.”

“This is making me feel uneasy.”

The Critiquer General looked around. “Who said that?” Everybody shrugged. Humphrey eyed O’Brien, but he was watching Roberts, who was noticing his suspicion but he suspected he was really who was after him from the beginning.

“God dammit! I have no idea who is whom anymore!” the Critiquer General screamed. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he shivered just like the kid in The Sixth Sense when he felt a ghost. “Bad similes, missing pronoun antecedents… sentence fragments. He’s been here the entire time.”

The Critiquer General (who is pretty fat, by the way) moved to block the only exit. “I guess we have no choice. We sit here all night until we discover the low-life who is responsible for this mockery.”

Sgt. W. Knight shifted uneasily in his seat. “I dunno, I kind of liked it,” he said. “I mean, I know it’s not great, and I know it’d never make it on its own out in the real world, but is that really a crime these days?”

“Typical,” Rodriguez shot back. “It’s because you only ever read the first page or so and then you skip to the end. You don’t know what it’s really like to be out there in the poo poo. Maybe if you paid attention to the middle once in a while, my partner would still be alive.”

Rodriguez tried to lunge over the table at Knight, but Brady and O’Leary held him back. Even the men who had been sitting quietly were now up and yelling at each other.

The Critiquer General had lost control of this investigation. Everything he had worked so hard for was slipping away. The late nights cramming a few extra reads in before bed. Rereading a line twice, three, four times just to try to understand what the hell was going on. Being the one to try to educate the uncouth amateurs who threw their dystopian sci-fi novellas and crude medieval epics at his feet. It had been worth it, though, when he’d gotten the congratulatory phone call after his qualifying exams. How proud he to hang the certificate up on the wall in his small office. And for what? So he could stand here watching the whole Division of Clichés and Idioms go at each other like ‘roid-raging capybaras? He let out a sigh, lost in exposition.

The men eventually settled into idle chit chat as the night crawled. The Critiquer General still said nothing. He knew if he couldn’t outsmart the writer, he’d have to wait until the bastard slipped up. He must be panicking now. Without The Critiquer General saying and doing things (in his fat-tub-of-lard ways), the story had no way to progress. The Critiquer inspected his cuticles. Two new characters, Bob and Joe, sipped out of their coffee mugs. The Critiquer General smiled. He’s not even trying anymore. It’s only a matter of running out the word limit now. He checked his watch: only 469 more to go.

The Critiquer General inspected the room. “Wait, where did Withers go?”

Harrison frowned. “He got edited out a while ago, sir.”

“But his quip… it was perfect. And wait, weren’t we at a diner?” Reality dawned on the Critiquer General. He had bitten off more—“than he could chew!” interjected Michaels of the DCI. Everybody groaned.

The Critique General started packing his papers into his briefcase. “There’s nothing more for us to do now. We’ve lost. He wanted us in here bickering and wasting time, meanwhile nobody was monitoring the past perfect to see what sort of things he had done. Everybody go home to your families, if they still exist (they don’t).”

The Critiquer General walked out of the office, never to be seen again.

The End.

You see, this story is good because I murdered not only several members of his team, but their entire families. I made you think that this character would dramatically reveal that I was behind the insults and faux pas, but instead I made the characters utterly fail. And who is going to critique me now? Just try to tear this story apart. I dare you. Anything you say is bad I can counter was purposeful. I can do whatever I want. Watch this:
The plane crashed, killing all on board.

Do you know how good it feels to wield power this great?

We find ourselves in a dark alley.

Wait a minute, what is happening?

The Critiquer General stepped out of the shadows, his gun drawn. “You didn’t really think I’d let you just fill out the rest of your twelve hundred words with justifications for your lovely story, did you?”

In the distance sirens wailed and helicopters hovered over a fiery wreckage.

This isn’t how it is supposed to end.

The Critiquer General shrugged. “Your ideas are stale, your prose is awful. I’m here to put an end to it. I just needed you to be distracted. In a way you should be proud—I got the idea from you.”

Backspace backspace backspace. What the?

“Read only.”

I have a bad feeling about this. Maybe I should start over.

The Critiquer General laughed and began his monologue. “There’s no time; the submission deadline is too soon. You know why I brought you here. There’s only one reason for an ominous setting like this: to bring justice to those the system has failed. Soon the only evidence of our meeting will be another rotten corpse for the pile.”

Still a few words left. Quick, think of an alternate ending. Uh, flowers, a whole field of them. And—

The Critiquer General’s finger tightened around the trigger. “Flowers? What do you think this is? The Magical World of Richard Scary?” He began to squeeze. “This is Thunderdome motherfucker.”

crabrock fucked around with this message at 18:19 on Apr 18, 2013

Aug 2, 2002

Sitting Here posted:

Is this real life? Were you like, "those mean judges are gonna give me mean crits anyway, but maybe if I smear my story in poop they won't go near enough to crit it"?

I don't think I've ever seen someone try to preemptively roll with the critique-punches via fanfiction.

Alternatively, you were trying to be cute which...well you'll see how well that works shortly :twisted:

haha, uh no. the only part that is "real life" is the very end where I was like "maybe I should start over."

Aug 2, 2002

sebmojo posted:

Yep. I haven't started mine yet, I'm still going to submit. 1000 words is nothing, just crank it out. Crabrock has done you the huge favour of making GBS threads out something so terrible that you're probably already safe from the loser av. That's not a luxury you get every week, don't waste it.

In my defense,

Aug 2, 2002

in for somebody else's easy win.

Aug 2, 2002


Flash Rule: My theme was "blame."

There's Nothing You Could Have Done
(1,058 words)

Dave pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store just as the sky began to darken. Several weathered protest signs slid around the bed of his pickup. The store was empty. He scratched at his stubble as he traipsed up and down the aisles.

The sound of a circular saw died down and Kevin walked in through the back.

“Hey Dave, didn’t expect to see you in here; figured you’d be at the rally in town. Especially today of all days.”

“When I was a kid I’d run outside and watch it cross the sun every time,” Dave said. He inspected a box of nails, but set them back down. “Now it’s just a reminder that another 6 months has passed. It’s time for me to move on. The only thing that matters right now is protecting my daughter.”

Kevin smiled. “Well I’m glad to hear that you’re getting back to your old self. Did you see the new report that just came out, said the virus came from birds? I know it won’t fix much, but maybe it’s something worth thinking about, at least?”

“I read it.” Dave held up a box of staples. “Hey, you got these in an inch?”

“I can check,” Kevin said. “But what’d you think?”

Dave shrugged.

Kevin continued: “Well, I always wondered, why didn’t people start getting sick until fifteen years after it showed up? And if they were going to attack, why would they be broadcasting that countdown?” Kevin said, pointing to the muted TV screen showing protestors outside the state capitol building.

All of the twenty-four-hour news channels displayed a little circle icon that had been filling up like a clock over the years. Scientists said that the static emanating from the orbiting structure were fractions of pi: what they coined “a universal loading bar”. Right now it looked like it was about 11:55.

Dave rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what they have planned, and anybody who claims they do, like that bastard right there,” he said, nodding toward the presidential candidate motorcade on the TV, “Is a drat fool. But we’re supposed to believe that after they show up and we get the worst disease in modern times that it’s just a coincidence?”

Kevin picked at his nails. “Hold on while I go check on those staples,” he said, and disappeared into the back of the store.

The sun peeked out again and the daytime gradually returned.

Dave grunted: “Good riddance.”

“Hey,” came Kevin’s voice from the back, “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? My wife bought a whole case of steaks that I need help getting rid of before they spoil, and my daughters would love to meet your girl.” He walked out with the box of staples. “She’s twelve, right?”

Dave stopped at a car battery display. “Almost, but sorry, I don’t have time for that. I’ve got a lot to do. How much are these?”

“Well, think about it anyway. Those are about $50 each.”

Dave walked up to the front. “I’ll take a dozen of them, and these” he said, tossing a box of razor blades on the counter.

Kevin nodded. Usually when people came in looking to buy a large quantity of batteries it was because they were up to no good.

“That’s a lot of batteries,” Kevin said. “What are they for, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Dave didn’t answer immediately. “Well, I don’t want to be rude, but I’d rather not tell you.”

“Oh, ok then. I guess I’ll get a cart and load these batteries up for you.”

Kevin watched Dave drive away as the object moved away from the sun and back toward the horizon. His hand rested on the store’s phone. Twice he picked up the receiver and set it back down. Sure Dave was a little weird, but he wasn’t dangerous. Was he? They’d known each other for years, even before his wife had been taken by the epidemic. Nah. Kevin leaned on the counter and turned the volume up to hear the Senator’s plan for what his administration’s plans would be. This was the president that would have to deal with whatever happened when the timer ran out.

Dave finished hooking the batteries up to his new solar power bank. That should give his house the juice it needed when the aliens took down the power grid, he assured himself. He hammered the tacks into the carpet at the top of his stairs where his daughter had tripped and almost tumbled down. He took a long hot shower and shaved his face. He kissed his sleeping daughter on the forehead, walked past his sister snoring in the room next door, and got back into his truck.

The crowd was large and rowdy, but Dave pushed his way through to the front. The Senator read from his teleprompter and the spectators cheered. Most of them. He paused until the roar died down. “My opponent would have us meet these visitors with the full might of the U.S. Military,“ the crowd booed, “While I say we need to prove to them just how far humanity has evolved and treat them with respect and dignity!”

After the Senator wrapped up his speech, his Secret Service detail tried to usher him into his waiting car. “Nonsense!” he scolded them. “If I want to show the people that I’m not afraid of our visitors in the sky, how can I show fear of the people down here on Earth?” He walked over to the police barricade that held back the rally attendees. As he made his way along, shaking hands and posing for camera phone pictures, his security pleaded with him to come back to the hotel.

Dave held out his left hand. The Senator grabbed it. “You would kill us all,” Dave said, and held on tight. He raised his other hand and pushed the barrel of the gun against the senator’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he pulled the trigger.

Kevin stood up and grabbed his hair. “No. No, no no.” He looked at the phone he had picked up earlier and knocked it to the ground. For the first time since the craft had appeared in the sky, Kevin was afraid. On the TV, the clock ticked another minute closer to twelve.

Aug 2, 2002

I didn't really want to finish this prompt but felt obligated to since it was vs. somebody. I hated this story with every fiber of my being and it is one of the worst things I've ever written.

Aug 2, 2002

I ended up being very busy and produced a rushed piece that I wasn't proud of and frankly didn't want to post, but I felt obligated to especially because it was a 1vs1.

Thanks for the crit though.

Aug 2, 2002

Submitting my entry to Animals of Tomorrow!.

Aug 2, 2002

Submitting to:

The Electrocat Purrs All Night
1190 words

The fluorescent lights sputtered into a thick hum and illuminated the operating table in an other-worldly blue. This is the lab of Dr. Krackenvole, the only mechano-surgeon in the tucked away hamlet of Venusian Hollow. While usually bogged down in the monotony of treating and repairing the cybernetic draft animals that tilled the purple soils of Omitron 8, he was occasionally able to indulge in the more illicit activity of biological replacement research.

On the table lay two kittens, smuggled from Earth at great expense, bloodied and almost unrecognizable. The man who had brought them in spoke with a staccato urgency interrupted by short, shallow breaths: “Can you, help them? Gift for, my son.”

Dr. Krackenvole’s polymer gloves lifted the head of the smaller one. Grey matter dripped out onto its crimson stained fur. “This one is gone,” he said. He moved to the next one. The smaller female’s chest rose and fell ever so faintly. “This one is alive, but barely.”

He pushed a button on the side of the table and a large arm extended from the ceiling. The arm uncoiled and the sensitive lens on the end stopped a foot above the struggling feline. A blue wave washed over the kitten as the arm scanned it from head to tail, then curled back into the ceiling.

The table around the kitten sprang to life: heartbeat, EEG, blood pressure, and myriad other vital statistics displayed with undulating pixels.

The doc studied the waves and pointed to one that was flashing red. “See there? Poor little thing’s got a perforated heart. She’s holding on, but I don’t know how long she’ll be able to keep it up. Too bad, she’s a fine specimen.”

Jack paced back and forth, his breath returning to a more normal rhythm. “Is there anything you can do to save her?”

“Well, nothing legal,” Dr. Krackenvole said. “You know that my cybernetic parts are reserved for the Mechano-Farmer’s Guild for their neo-oxen and compu-chickens.”

Being able to repair the animal-machines was imperative to the survival of the colony; even one animal out of order could be the difference between surviving the three months that the planet would be rotated toward the pulsar and dying of starvation in their underground bunkers. Jack, as president of the Mechano-Farmer’s Guild, was not ignorant of the risks.

“Do what you have to do,” he ordered. “If this one dies my kid’ll be a father himself before I can get my hands on another.”

Krackenvole pulled open a drawer and took out an inch-long blue tube. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The procedure was quick and precise; the robotic arm never made mistakes.

“This artificial heart will never wear out, and never get clogged. This thing will outlive your cat, easily.”

Jack picked up the sleeping kitten. It felt oddly still in his hand. “Doc, what’d you do? This thing’s got no pulse.”

“We don’t design parts like Mother Nature: we’re better at it. This is just a simple spinning pump; fewer moving parts and no stress of a racing heart,” Dr. Krackenvole grinned. “But you better get out of here before the inspection droids come in. Do you mind if I keep this little guy?” He motioned toward the dead kitten still on the table. “I haven’t seen a full-blooded animal since school, and never a fresh one. I’d love to get in there and remind myself of how these things tick, you know, in case you need any more work done on the female.”

Jack was already on his way out the door. “Yes, just make sure if you get caught with it that it doesn’t trace back to me.”

Jack returned home and gave his son the kitten. Though his son bonded with the kitten in the way that he had never achieved with his robo-puppy, accidents happen. It was two years later when Mittens was caught under the anti-gravity field of Jimmy’s hover-trike. Jack again rushed her to see the vet, and he again misappropriated a few parts to replace the crushed spine and obliterated hind legs of the hapless cat.

After a while, Jimmy barely even noticed the difference between petting the soft fur on its head and the synthetic microfibers on its back.

Another few years passed until the pulsar had an unexpected burst of gamma radiation and blinded most of the animals working through the night. Jimmy found Mittens caterwauling in the fields with a half-eaten mouse by her side: blind as when she first crawled from the womb.

The doctor worked his forbidden magic time and time again, each time replacing a part of the cat’s natural parts with the mechanical gears and copper wires.

Jimmy still fell asleep every night with the cat curled up at the foot of his bed.

The day came when Mitten’s camera orbs began to roll into the back of her titanium skull, and Jack worried that the doctor’s parts weren’t as reliable as he claimed.

Jack took the cat to Dr. Krackenvole as he had done many times before. “Don’t worry, nothing wrong with her this time,” he said, “This time it’s one of your parts that’s on the fritz.”

Krackenvole looked puzzled. “Hm, that doesn’t seem likely. Let’s run a diagnostic test on her.” He scratched under her chin and could feel the vibrating purr of her quad-shock rotator magnets. He set her down on the diagnostic table and plugged a cord into her belly. The equipment ran through a battery of tests but spit back a clean bill of health.

”Nope, everything checks out. You know there’s only one thing biological left in this cat, and that’s her brain. Some of the natural-brain mechano-animals have this problem. The lepidolite in the soil affects their synapses: makes ‘em get seizures. I’d bet my lunch that’s what’s happening to her. I can fix that you know.”

Jack seemed incredulous. “How can you fix her brain? Then there’s nothing left to call a cat!”

Dr. Krackenvole scoffed. “Nonsense. You just feed her this special mix of cat-chow and her own neurons will slowly replace the endogenous proteins with nano-bots. The chow’s got the gene-therapy chemicals, the nano-bots, and the metal alloys all mixed in already, so it all happens slowly over time. There’s no change in behavior, and she will still love Jimmy just the same. Only she won’t get seizures and she won’t ever have any of the other age-related mental debilitation other animals will. She’ll be perfect.”

Jack took Mittens home with her new diet and Jimmy faithfully gave it to her every morning until sometime in late spring—unbeknownst to anybody, even Mittens herself—she ceased to be even the smallest iota of biological.

Shortly before his high school graduation, Jimmy fell from a ladder and his leg landed on the plasma saw Jack was using to trim iron beams for the new barn. Jack rushed him to the only doctor he trusted. Dr. Krackenvole laid Jimmy on the operating table and hit the button to initiate the biometric scan.

“The femur is completely disintegrated,” he smiled, “But I think I can fix it.”

[edit: fixed a few typos. that's what I get for submitted rushed at 1 in the morning.]

crabrock fucked around with this message at 21:52 on May 6, 2013

Aug 2, 2002

in with Georgia & If you would not be forgotten As soon as you are dead and rotten, Either write things worth reading Or do things worth writing.

Aug 2, 2002

Instead of spending tonight writing I decided to get a kidney stone instead. :( no entry this week, but rest assured I am being punished.

Aug 2, 2002

Not dead, so: in.

Aug 2, 2002

Bee for Two
969 Words

Recreation time is from 2:00-3:00 every day; if you behave yourself you can be out in the yard, if you cannot then you assigned one of the less desirable activities.

Julia scanned the small cluttered room. “So, this is quilting?”

The heretofore lone occupant focused on the mess of fabric in front of her, sewing little orange squares to little blue triangles.

Julia orbited the old woman, inspecting her. “So what’re you in here for? Trying to vote?” Julia asked.

The old lady smiled: “Oh, it’s so hard to remember now.”

“I’m Julia. You are?”

“People just call me Granny.”

“Well, this has been a thrilling conversation,” Julia said. She climbed over the boxes of ragged old prison uniforms and leaned against the window facing the yard below. She doodled in the dust of the windowsill in silence until the hour was up.

The next day Julia showed up with a beautiful new bruise across her bare arm. She flopped into a seat across from the old woman.

“Were you part of that commotion I heard down in the caf’?”

Julia sighed. “No, but didn’t stop them from running in and hitting everybody with batons anyway.”

Granny said nothing for a while, and when she spoke it was as if to nobody who was listening. “If one was to put an animal in a cage, for the sake of this example let’s assume it’s a dog, where one half of the floor is electrified, and the other is not, the dog will quickly learn to avoid the electrified side.”

Julia scowled. “Why would anybody do that to an innocent dog?”

“People do these things, don’t ask me why,” Granny said. “Anyway, one day, they are feeling rather dreadful and electrify both sides. At first the dog yipps and jumps about, trying to find the spot that does not cause it pain.”

“That’s horrible!” Julia said.

Granny continued: “Yes, It’s very sad. But eventually it gives up. From then on the dog just wallows in its own self-pity. It doesn’t know why it is in pain. It doesn’t know what it did to cause it, only that it cannot escape no matter what it does. If the other side’s electricity is extinguished, the dog will never notice because it has already given up.”

Granny picked up another blue square and started sewing it to the quilt. “We aren’t so different from dogs you know, psychologically speaking.”

Julia’s eye throbbed. “You are a crazy old woman. Why do you spend so much time in here sewing quilts you’re not even allowed to take out of this room? Haven’t you run out of things to make in your three thousand years locked in here?”

Granny added her newest row to the larger quilt. “I reckon they’ll bring in the director if it was as bad as you say down there,” she said.

“Probably. They got us out of there pretty quick, but some of the girls look like they weren’t movin’,” said Julia.

She leaned forward and picked a needle out of something that looked like a tomato and starting sewing pieces together haphazardly until she had accumulated a chain about an arm’s length. “See, not that hard,” Julia said. Granny nodded. “But I see one thing you did wrong. Toss it over.” Julia gave Granny her fabric. Granny ripped it in half.

“Hey! What the hell did you do that for?” Julia screamed.

“Keep your stitches tighter. The one thing you have to know about sewing. Tight stitches will hold an elephant, loose stitches can be ripped apart by a weak old lady. Start over,” Granny said as she threw the rags back to Julia.

A guard opened the big metal door. “Come on ladies,” he said.

Julia threw her quilting to the ground and stormed out. Granny picked up her quilt and carried it to the door. The guard held out his hand. “You know the rules, Bathtub Betty, nothing leaves.”

“But, it’s going to be so cold tonight, and with the arthritis I won’t be able to get out of bed. I’ll have to get the medics in again, and it’ll be such a fuss. You can come get it first thing in the morning—nobody will know.”

The guard hesitated. “Well, I guess the warden probably want everything running smooth as can be tomorrow. But only for tonight, ok?”

“You’re such a nice young man”, Granny said, as she shuffled past the guard back to her cell.

As she sat on the edge of her mattress holding the quilt, she looked up at the sealed envelope taped to the wall. She had found it stuffed into her one of her son’s pocket while she was moving the damp bodies. It said simply: To Mommy.

She stood up and put it into her pocket, draped the quilt around her shoulders and rang her call button.

The director arrived at sunrise. The guards had spent the night scrubbing the blood off the floors and walls, repairing tables that were broken in the melee, in addition to tidying the place up in general. Now they all stood watch over the women eating breakfast in the spotless mess hall. The warden had even pulled the sentries off the wall to provide increased security.

As the director took his stroll around the prison he noticed an unfamiliar blue and orange banner flapping in the wind. “What’s that?” he asked.

Granny’s quilt had ripped open like an accordion, strong stitches holding tight where they were supposed to, and coming apart at the seams like she had designed. The makeshift rope was tied to a railing at one end, and reached the ground at the other.

Julia was eating breakfast when the alarm sounded; she fell to the floor and covered her head. “Not again!”

Aug 2, 2002

Kleptobot posted:

Huzzah, I fell somewhere around the median. Yay.

Sometimes all you hope for is to not see your name in bold.

Aug 2, 2002

In for losertar

Aug 2, 2002

It's Hard to Get By Just Upon a Smile
1711 words

All the world that was not the sea was pervaded with gently rolling hills replete with lush grasses. The grass grew thick and tall, and 'most everybody was happy.

Rabbit spent her days munching on grass and nursing her babies, and she was happy.

Gopher dug his long tunnels underneath the grass, nibbling on the thin roots, and he was happy.

Bird pulled the worms that aerated the grasses from the soil, and he was happy.

A small sapling shivered in the shade of the tall grasses, thirsty and riddled with parasites, and he was the unhappiest thing the hills had ever seen.

Rabbit bounded from her warren as she did every morning. “Time to fill up!” she said. As she ate and ate, she came across the little sapling.

“You are a funny looking piece of grass,” she said.

“I am not grass; I am a tree,” said the sapling.

“What kind of creature is a tree?” asked Rabbit.

“A tree is the most important living thing. We grow big and tall and serve as homes for other animals, and food for others. During the winter you chew on the lichen that grows on our branches,” said the sapling.

Rabbit laughed at the silly sapling. “You don’t seem very mighty: you are barely bigger than a blade of grass. Why, I could eat you right now if I wanted to,” she said.

“Please don’t eat me,” the sapling begged. “I can’t grow and become strong with all of this grass in my way, perhaps you could help me?”

Rabbit had important things to take care of back at the warren, but she felt sorry for the tiny sapling. Plus, she always enjoyed taking care of the bunnies, and thought that it might be fun to take care of a baby tree. So she spent the day eating the grass around the sapling until it was standing tall in the sunlight.

The next day Gopher popped up from a hole near the sapling which had grown overnight so that it was now five centimeters thick.

“Wow, look at this huge piece of grass!” Gopher shouted. “Its roots will feed me for a week!”

“Please don’t eat my roots, Mr. Gopher. I am not a piece of grass but a mighty tree,” said the sapling.

Gopher’s face scrunched up with confusion. “What is a tree?” he said.

“How have you never heard of a tree?” The sapling said with astonishment. “We are the best things ever created! We can give you shade on a hot summer day, or keep you dry when it rains. There is little a tree cannot do to help others.”

“But you are so small! I would be roasted alive if I tried to take refuge under you!” said Gopher.

“It is because the grass around me soaks up all my water. I will never grow massive without water,” said the sapling. “Perhaps you could help me by eating all the roots of the grasses around me?”

Gopher did not like to eat all the roots in one place, because he knew that they were slower to grow back, which meant he had to spend more time searching for food. But he also hated being rained on, and if the sapling could grow into a tree and give him a place to hide from the rain, then it would be worth it. He spent the rest of the day eating the roots of the grass around the sapling.

That night it rained, and there was nothing to steal the saplings water, and its girth increased to a more respectable size.

The next day Bird was flying around looking for worms when he saw what he thought was the largest snake he’d ever seen standing straight into the air.

“Snake! Snake!” he yelled in alarm.

“I am not a snake!” The sapling yelled back. “Come, sit in my branches and see that I am a tree.”

The bird alighted onto the wobbly branches of the sapling. “If you are not a snake, what sort of creature are you?” He asked.

“I am a tree! The most majestic creature to grow in the hills,” said the sapling. “When I am finished growing you will be able to sit on me and see for miles around. You will know if there is a wildfire from lightning or a hungry snake from the river coming towards you and your friends. You can do this without having to spend all your time in the sky and leaving your eggs alone for hours on end.”

Bird chuckled at the thought of grass thinking it could grow into the clouds, for he knew only he could get that high up. “You are just a little plant, look at how you sway in the wind,” said Bird. “I can barely stand on you, let alone build a nest in you.”

The sapling creaked and moaned as a large gust of wind threatened to blow it over. “I cannot grow sturdy with all of these bugs eating my leaves,” said the sapling. “Perhaps you could help me out by gobbling them up?”

Bird was tempted by the thought of building a nest for his wife that was not on the ground, but feared that without his watchful eye, the other animals might be in danger. Still, if the sapling was telling the truth, it would save a lot of animals in the future. “Sure, I can eat the bugs, if you keep your eye out for snakes,” said Bird.

The sapling watched for snakes while Bird ate every last aphid and caterpillar from its leaves. That night the sapling grew a layer of hard bark and no longer swayed in the wind.

The sapling continued to grow and grow, until he became the august tree that he had promised. The other animals looked up at him with awe and wonder. His branches grew out in all directions and blocked out the sun. Under the expansive canopy, the grasses withered and died.

Rabbit could not find anything to eat around her warren.

“Hello Tree,” said Rabbit. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course,” said the Tree. “I remember when I was trapped under the shade of the grasses and you made fun of me, saying I was small and threatened to eat me.”

Rabbit frowned. “But I helped you by eating all the grass that hindered you, and you promised to help when times were tough.”

Tree pondered this for a moment. “You are the one who ate all the grass. Maybe you should not have been so greedy and saved some for hard times,” he said. “I cannot help those who cannot help themselves.”

Rabbit protested, but Tree was silent. Rabbit went back to her baby bunnies, hungry and cold.

The next day the skies were angry and dumped the contents of the clouds on the hillside. Without the roots of the grasses, Gopher’s tunnels collapsed in the deluge and he struggled to the surface.

“Hello Tree, remember me?” asked Gopher.

“Yes,” said the Tree, “I remember when you made fun of me and doubted that I could ever be useful.”

“But I helped you by eating all the roots of the grasses and now my tunnels are destroyed. Surely you could help me by allowing me to tunnel under your protective roots where the dirt will be dry and stable?” said Gopher.

Tree scoffed at Gopher’s naiveté. “I am a yew tree, and my roots are poisonous. You will find no respite among them. Please, do not come to be with your petty problems, and leave me be.”

Gopher sat under the tree, but soon learned that the drops that fall from its branches are fatter and heavier than those that fall from the sky.

The next day, after the storm had passed, Bird landed on the serpentine branches of the tree. “Hello Tree, do you remember me?” he asked.

“Yes I remember when you teased me for being weak,” said Tree.

“But remember that I picked bugs off of you to keep you safe when you were vulnerable, and you promised me that I could build a home for my family in your branches?”

The tree considered Bird’s argument. “True, I did say that if I grew you were welcome to take up residence, but there are others that would call me home as well,” said Tree.

Bird noticed that all that he thought as branches were not so. They writhed and curled. “Hello, Bird,” said a snake.

Bird took to the air and flew around the tree, and saw that there was no safe haven to be found within its dense undergrowth. He had no choice but to return to his wife and their muddy nest on the ground.

When spring came, Tree let loose his thousands of cones. The hungry animals devoured the seeds inside and spread them far and wide in their droppings. Thousands of saplings sprung up across the plains. The grasses died and the grounds turned muddy; one by one the animals were forced to leave their homes. The hillsides crumbled and trees filled the land with their poisonous roots. Snakes infested the forest and killed anything that came close to the dark wood that permeated the hills.

Tree looked around at what he had created, and was proud of himself. “This, my brothers, is what you can achieve with hard work and perseverance,” he said to the other trees around him. “Let us all take lessons from the careless rabbit, the ignorant gopher, and the cowardly bird. Every opportunity was given to them to grow large and powerful, but they eschewed that gift. Let their misjudgments and simple worldview live on as a warning to those who would take what they can to live a better life.”

The other trees swayed in the wind and to the erstwhile sapling, it sounded like applause. Over the years all the animals of the forest died after grueling lives filled with misery and suffering. Tree, and all of his descendants, lived on throughout the years in luxury.

If one is to live a happy and comfortable life and leave a legacy for his descendants, he cannot ignore the lesson of the yew tree.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 23:32 on May 26, 2013

Aug 2, 2002

Thanks for the crit and the compliments. I had a lot of fun writing this one (with my good friend Wine).

Aug 2, 2002

magnificent7 posted:

I love fables. I have to say, after doing a ton of research on fables, and poo poo, I think I could write a hundred of them.

Please don't. I read your entry and wished I was the paper.

Three characters walk down a path to a destination that does not matter, and then murder each other for no reason. It does not matter that they are rock, paper, and scissors as the issue of invulnerability to the others never comes into play, only that they can kill each other (which lots of other things can do as well). Why a county Fair? Why a bridge? Why the river? If there is some twisted logic behind your symbolism them I missed it completely.

You keep posting that you have great ideas, but maybe you should have read more fables on hubris during your research, because your ideas are consistently boring and weird. The thing that'd help your writing the most now is some humility.

Not trying to be [too] mean, but every time you post about how awesome your ideas are I want to smack you.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 22:43 on May 27, 2013

Aug 2, 2002

took it to fiction advice thread because farms smell like poop

Aug 2, 2002

:siren: Thunderdome Week XLIII: He's dead, Horatio :siren:

Prompt: You must pick an entry from this list of unusual deaths ( and provide a first person account of what happened that day. I’ve always wanted to know a little bit more about what these people were thinking when they decided to do what they did, and what was racing through their minds at the end. Luckily that want of knowledge did not specify that it had to be based in reality. Post which person you are going to write about when you sign up!

Additional Rules: No mention of any clothing. Yes, they’re wearing clothes (or maybe not ) but I don’t want to hear about it. Any mention of shoes, shirts, pants, etc., will make me hate your story. Jewelry is ok but only if it is non-precious, so nothing over $100.

Sign-up deadline: :siren: Signups are CLOSED:siren:

Submission deadline: Sunday, June 1, 11:59pm USA Eastern.

Maximum word count: 1,400.

Judges: crabrock

PoshAlligator - David Grundman, 1982, Shot a limb of cactus that detached and fell on and crushed him
Ceighk - Philitas of Cos, 270 BC, studied arguments and erroneous word usage so intensely that he wasted away and starved to death.
JonasSalk - ???
Overwined - Philitas of Cos, 270 BC, studied arguments and erroneous word usage so intensely that he wasted away and starved to death.
Nikaer Drekin - Harry Houdini, 1926, famous American escape artist who was punched in the stomach by an amateur boxer.
Horrible Butts - Henry Hall, 1775, died from injuries he sustained after molten lead fell into his throat while he was looking up at a burning lighthouse.
Auraboks - Li Bai, 762, who tried to kiss the moon's reflection and drowned
CancerCakes - Janet Parker, 1978, died of smallpox when researcher at the laboratory where Parker worked accidentally released some virus into the air of the building
MrFlibble - Plane Crash, 2010, when a crocodile, being smuggled by one of the passengers in a sports bag, freed itself and panicked the passengers who all ran towards the flightdeck
Jagermonster - Clement Vallandigham, 1871, demonstrating how a victim may possibly have shot himself while drawing a weapon from a kneeling position when he shot himself in the process
Nubile Hillock - Draco, 620 BC NO CLOTHES CHALLENGE
ultrachrist - Alexander I, 1920, bitten by diseased monkeys
Accretionist - ???
Oxxidation - William Kogut, 1930, death row inmate committed suicide with a pipe bomb created from several packs of playing cards and the hollow leg from his cot
SpaceGodzilla - Taylor Mitchell, 2009, a Canadian folk singer, was attacked and killed by three coyotes, the only recorded adult person to have been killed by this species.
Sebmojo:toxx: - Mitrofan Nedelin, 1960, died when a switch was accidentally turned on, causing the second stage engines of a rocket to ignite
Peel - Thomas Midgley, 1944, accidentally strangled himself with the cord of a pulley-operated mechanical bed of his own design.
:siren: rule: this bed must be a rube goldberg machine, and you better have him explain how it works.
Schneider Heim - The Dancing Queen, 1518, a woman (and eventually a league of 400 people) uncontrollably danced for a month causing dozens of participants to die of stroke and exhaustion
magnificent7 - Sigurd the Mighty, 892, the decapitated head of his defeated foe grazed against his leg as he rode, causing a fatal infection.
Phil Moscowitz - Alain de Monéys, 1870, French aristocrat, was cooked and eaten alive by villagers
Truman Sticks - Robert Williams, 1979, a worker at a Ford Motor Co. plant, was the first known human to be killed by a robot
areyoucontagious - Jenny Mitchell, 2010, killed when her car exploded after fumes, caused by chemicals mixing with hydrogen peroxide leaking from a bottle of hair bleach, ignited as she lit a cigarette.
Benagain - Qin Shi Huang, 210 BC, the first Emperor of China, died after ingesting several pills of mercury in the belief that it would grant him eternal life
CancerCakes - Worth Bingham, 1966, died when a surfboard, lying atop the back of his convertible, hit a parked car, swung around, and broke his neck.
Umbilical Lotus - Tennessee Williams, 1983, died when he choked on an eyedrop bottle-cap in his room at the Hotel Elysee in New York.
Noah - Homer Collyer, 1947, blind and paralyzed, died of starvation several days after his brother killed by his own boobytraps
Max22 - Garry Hoy, 1993, fell to his death after he threw himself against a window in an attempt to prove to a group of visitors that the glass was "unbreakable."
Bug Bill Murray - Langley Collyer, 1947, died when his boobytrap of newspapers and other poo poo fell on him.
Wrageowrapper - Phillip McClean, 1926, became the only person documented to have been killed by a cassowary.
Sitting Here - Sharon Lopatka, 1996, was killed by Robert Glass who claimed that she had solicited him to torture and kill her for the purpose of sexual gratification.
Manoueverable - Ray "Chappie" Chapman, was killed when a submarine ball thrown by Carl Mays hit him in the temple
Nyarai - John Kendrick, 1794, an American sea captain and explorer, was killed in the Hawaiian Islands when a British ship mistakenly used a loaded cannon to fire a salute to Kendrick's vessel.
:siren: Flash Rule: story must involve some sailor who said he'd do something but doesn't, and it must be an important part of the plot.
:siren: Flash Rule 2: your story must reference in some way, any Mickey Avalon song. Bonus if it's "Roll the Dice."
Symptomless Coma - Mithridates, 401 BC, a soldier condemned for the murder of Cyrus the Younger, was executed by scaphism, surviving the insect torture for 17 days.
Chillmatic - Michael Malloy, 1933, a homeless man was murdered by five men. after surviving multiple poisonings, intentional exposure, and being struck by a car, Malloy succumbed to gassing.
PotatoManJack - Suicide Man, 1995, man committed suicide in Canberra, Australia by shooting himself three times with a pump action shotgun.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 13:29 on Jun 1, 2013

Aug 2, 2002

PoshAlligator posted:

I'm in.

I pick Draco, 620 BC. I will have to mention some clothes, though. Specifically cloaks. Unless you want to do some sort of crazy challenge.

I thought about this before hand and you can mention the article if it's directly related to the death, but if you describe these cloaks so help me god... Or if you want a real challenge try to write without mentioning they are cloaks. Maybe he doesn't know what they are because it's dark or something


Aug 2, 2002

Repeats are OK, just boring to read :P. I'll make a sign up list when i get home, it's too hard to edit that post on my phone.

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