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In please. Colorize me.
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Jul 16, 2013 00:21
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| # ¿ Apr 19, 2024 22:23 |
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Color: piggy pink Words: ~930 Oh What a Sunburned Baby In Dan's dream a Siamese cat kept screaming. It yowled and shrieked and barely stopped to breathe. It sat and meowed atonally until Dan woke. The screaming continued. The baby was burned. The baby glowed pink. On the sandy expanse of Bellparks beach, the three of them were alone. The Tuesday afternoon sun hung quivering overhead, well beyond the reach of the cluster of trees they lay near. Jen was beside him, still asleep face down with her iPod headphones in. White gobs of sunscreen glistened where they had caught at the base of her ponytail. “Oh poo poo. Jen.” He shook her by the shoulder. “Mmm?” She looked to Dan, then to the source of the noise. “Oh gently caress.” She jackknifed her arms behind her to retie her bikini top, then plucked out the earbuds. “How long were we asleep?” “I don't know. I guess the shade moved?” Dan spun his Mets cap bill forward. “gently caress. drat,” she said. “Here, let me just-” Dan stood and spread his muscular back to the sun to cast a long Danshadow over the baby. “God, you just kicked sand in its face.” “Sorry.” She threw their towels and bottles and books into canvas shopping bags. He knelt before the baby and reached out to pick him up. “Don't touch the burned bits,” said Jen over her shoulder. “There are no unburned bits. Look at him,” said Dan. “Scoop. Scoop!” Dan made flat paddles of his hands and gently scooped up Pinkbaby from its blissfully cool underside. Like an eager shoe salesman, Dan carried the baby perched in his hands ahead of him to the car. “We gotta blast the AC,” said Dan. They blasted the AC. Their Jetta left skid marks in the parking lot. “M and M are going to kill us,” said Jen from behind the wheel. “Uh, yeah. They are not gonna be happy,” said Dan. He held the baby in his hands up to a vent. The AC blew grains of sand clear to the back window. “They left us a baby and are coming home to a lobster.” “Jeeeesus christ.” ***** They had razed their aloe plant to a hopeless oozing stump. The smell of cut vegetation filled the cool fan-blown air of their apartment. In the dimmed bedroom Pinkbaby kept kicking. “They won't stay on, Jen,” Dan said. “I got it!” she said from the kitchen, and then entered the room holding a handful of rubber bands. She smiled. “I knew we kept these for a reason.” “Awesome! Brains and beauty.” “Aw yeah!” She tried to wink but blinked. In a few moments Pinkbaby was rubberbanded from head to toe with seeping aloe slices. His crying faded. “Perfect. Drink?” “God yes.” A wine bottle appeared, and they reclined on either side of the now green Pinkbaby. Dan fanned it periodically with an old Maxim magazine. “Do you think it will be back to normal by tomorrow?” Dan said, and his brow furrowed as he looked at the baby. She bit her lip. “If M and M find him like this, they are seriously going to lose their poo poo. I don't think they would even hang out with us after this. What else can we do?” Dan Googled 'Fixing a Sunburn.' “It says baking soda, apple cider vinegar, apricots, tea bags, and something called callendular cream can work.” “OK. I don't think we have any apricots, but we have some peaches.” “Couldn't hurt,” said Dan. ***** A little while later Dan lay on the couch, resting his legs on Jen's lap. The muted TV rolled unseen credits down the screen. “Stir fry for dinner?” Dan said to the ceiling. “I'll make it.” Jen half rose from the couch, Dan's ankles in her hands. “Guess I'm on dishes then,” said Dan. “Mm. Check on the kid?” Dan stepped to the bedroom and froze. Sugar ants move fast in the summer. And when there's a slightly fizzy, vegetation covered infant left alone to nap during the length of CSI Miami, sugar ants waste no time at all. “Jen.” “Yeah?” “Uh.” Dan and Jen rushed to the blissfully sleeping baby and brushed at the ants, which had become welded to the baby in a paste of poorly combined home remedies. “They're not coming off!” hissed Jen. “I told you you used too much baking soda.” “And I told you not to use that nasty-rear end old moisturizer. Bring it to the kitchen, I'll fill up the sink.” Dan went out of the room. Jen grimaced. She picked up the green and spotted black Pinkbaby. “Oh come on,” Dan groaned from the kitchen. “Sorry,” she said quietly, following. “You never do dishes on your night.” Dan was clattering dirty pots and plates from the sink to the countertop. He filled the sink and scooped out a few bobbing bits of sliced carrot. As Jen held the baby in the cool water, Dan carefully snipped the rubber bands. He massaged the lumpy carapace until it softened, and eventually fell off in two halves. They formed a passable baby mold. “Jen look!” She smiled. Dan stared. The baby woke and laughed. The violent pink had faded: Pinkbaby was no more. ***** “How was your flight,” said Dan and Jen in tandem. They looked at one another and laughed. The standing four and the sleeping one were awkwardly crowded around the jettisoned tickets, bags, and passports. “Fine,” said the parents. “We're looking forward to getting our little man back. Hope he wasn't any trouble.” “No problem,” said Jen. “He was great.” “Yeah,” said Dan. “And he's got a bitchin' tan.”
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Jul 21, 2013 21:24
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I'm in for this thing.
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Jul 31, 2013 01:44
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This is ~990 words. So The Man Walks Into a Bar... The sign over the door fizzed popped and blinked Big Daddy Hector's. When the man walked in the blinking stopped. Hector was behind the bar, talking with the regulars. He looked at least six foot six, black, with a build like a fridge. Subcutaneous implants sparked from his upper lip to the ends of his his thick black moustaches. As he spoke the blue light danced. The bar was dark, spotted with glowing green that bled from dim displays. Aside from Hector, the room was quiet, the patrons low and hunched. Thin gold-tipped cables ran from the displays at each table to a hole in their skulls. Some let their fingers rest on the connection as they swayed in place, eyes closed in bliss. There was a faint smell of ozone in the air. “Are you Hector?” The man stepped to the bar. He carried a thin handled tab and wore a blue wool suit. Pure white was his shirt, his hair, his teeth. “You want a drink?” said Hector, turning from the regulars that already forgotten him and let their heads droop. “Or jack?” “No.” The word was comfortable on his lips. “I'm here to buy your place of business.” Hector smiled. The chrome plated tips of his teeth, re-enforced to open bottle-caps or strip wire, twinkled in the dim light. “Ha ha. It ain't for sale.” “Ah, but you haven't heard my offer,” the man said, raising his gleaming tab and placing it on the bar. “I guarantee it's more than you bring in from these jack heads.” “Well,” he drawled long, “they might be jack heads, yeah.” He looked about the room and took in its patrons. “But they're our jack heads. They plug in here and we keep the levels safe. We know they eating. Sure, it might be better if there never was jack or crack,” he looked sharply at the man for a moment. “But we do what we can with what we got.” Hector glanced to one of the green pools of light. Raised his eyebrows. A tall lanky boy came forward from deep in the shadows carrying a coppery halo. His eyes were too big for his skull, and keloid scars were patterned around his bar arms. “Mister, you wanna buy a alph-ring? Bran new.” The boy dropped the loop on the man's head and screwed it in place. His hands bunched and twisted in the white hair. “Get the hell off me.” He pawed his hair back into place and threw the loop back at the boy, who deftly caught it with one hand. “You get out of here, Wuddy,” said Hector. Wuddy retreated to the shadows. Hector filled up a well-polished glass with amber liquid and pressed it into the man's hand. “Here. On the house.” “No. Thank you.” The man put the glass back on the bar with a thud. Hector shrugged, picked up the glass from the base and deftly poured out the beer. He put the glass below the bar. There was a metallic clink. “Look here, my boy. I don't want your drinks. And frankly I don't want your bar. The first thing I'm going to do is tear this place down. You probably don't know this, but this neighbourhood is sitting on some valuable land. My associates and I intend to redevelop this entire block, raising the property values and making it safer for... everyone.” “Mm-hmm. Well I ain't selling to you.” Hector leaned over the bar screen to adjust the serotonin levels on jackpoint four. Tweaked the dopamine flow on seven. Then tapped a quick sequence of executions too fast for the man's eyes to follow. The man stepped back from his counter, taking his tab with him. “That's a poor decision, boy. Poor indeed.” “That right?” A smirk. “I'm taking this one way or another. You think this dive bar will stand up to non-stop inspections, Hector? Weekly raids? Cops sitting on your doorstep?” The man's face flushed red under his pasty skin. Hector crossed his arms and leaned forward. His lip curled, and the tips of his teeth looked like fangs. “You think your the first dumb-rear end honky to come in here trying to buy us up? Wuddy! You got that thing?” Wuddy emerged from the shadows once more, this time holding a tab of his own. He put it on the bar. This wasn't the polished Chinese masterwork that the man held. Each component held a different brand name. Duct tape secured the display. An honest to god keyboard was strapped to it. “Brother died down the way last week,” said Hector, jabbing at the device. “Killed. Po-lice came, got these fingerprints, got that DNA. See here.” Hector spun the display around to show the man a readout of the internal police records system. “Here,” pointed Hector with a stubby finger, “that's the DNA profile link. And here,” a second finger, “that's the print.” The man looked from Hector to Wuddy and back. “Your confused. Well let me make it simple so you can understand. This,” he stabbed one of the keys, “this is your DNA profile, and this is your print.” He caressed a button on the keypad. “And this, this big, beautiful black thing right here? This enters your info live into the po-lice records.” The man's eyes widened. He shook his head. Hector nodded. Smiled. “You best be more careful who puts rings on your head and who's glasses you be touching.” Hector gestured for Wuddy to take the tab away, and he put his hands on his hips. “Like I said, you think you the first white fool to come in here like this? These streets stay the way they are. Now unless you want twenty years in the pen and a bootprint on your skinny rear end, get the gently caress out.” The man turned to go. “One more thing, cracker. The name's Big Daddy to you.”
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Aug 2, 2013 20:14
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Sitting Here posted:Would anyone like a flash rule? I'll be in and take a flash rule as long as you give me the opposite of what you were about to.
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Oct 24, 2013 06:16
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| # ¿ Apr 19, 2024 22:23 |
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Is there a way to post to Google Drive anonymously? I don't see any way to share without my actual name being on it. I think this should work. The Boy Who Didn't Cry Wolf, ~750 words https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QZhTMQhubHKwCbgZ5x3BlKjLM9QKa9VaDvdI1MP5_Zk/edit?usp=sharing The Swinemaster fucked around with this message at 23:13 on Oct 27, 2013 |
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Oct 27, 2013 20:39
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