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Hello. In for the mystery, if you'll have me. Also I did an epic bit, I guess it’s late but I hope you‘ll tell me something about it: Leave everything as it is and join me at once 92 words Wallenstein’s order arrives breathless, exhausted. It reads: “Leave everything as it is and join me at once”. Pappenheim pockets it next to his heart and puts the Regiment right back on the march, back along the route. Smart and well regulated they pass by the ashes of yesterday’s work, aloof to the cold sour stink there remains. Back, back down the way smart and swift through the night. The day arrives breathless, exhausted. And just in sweet time: a sweltering fog is strangling Wallenstein’s field ahead. A ball meets Pappenheim on arrival.
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Jan 18, 2014 02:57
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[b]Free Parking[\b] Mystery in 528 words I drove her to work 10 hours ago free and easy, no cares in our world. Now I’m seeing the damage for the first time. Her burgundy paint flakes from a deep new crease high on the left. Lipstick traces of a strangers white paint parallel the dent for a yard ending in busted orange glass that was the front turn signal. My car has touched another car. I don’t know where it happened or when. I don’t know the other car but the damage is plain. I got the news from Paco. He really gave it to me, socked it right to me. When the swing shift whistle blew me down towards the exit Paco the fink was waiting by the door. His eyes fixed on me like to say something and maybe walk out together. Unwelcome attention. His lips curled and twitched and barely kept the lid on a sleazy grin. I guessed he was chewing some rude blue punch line with my name on it. He coughed “your car is hosed ”. I thought I got off easy, I thought he‘d choked on the line or spit too quick and queered the funny. Feeling relief I came back “nothings wrong with her a hundred dollars won‘t fix”. He fell in behind and we walked through the door. Now we’re out in the lot and all that relief is gone. How I wish I could have it back. Paco slides up for the shot “Hundred bucks won’t fix that. At least the turn signal bulb didn’t smash; it’s still a violation though. You gotta be careful driving like that. The pigs out here love to catch a guy driving like that. Were you drunk when it happened?” It’s a trick question. Was I driving when it happened? Parked here all day, head in right next to Paco’s green sedan. Now here we are. No shards on the ground, the damage didn’t happen here. “No. I don’t think so, I hope not…” my answer pleases the fink. Wheel in hand I’m sweating cold lead wee wee wee all the way home. I slosh her up to the curb below the bungalows. We street park just North of the driveway, same spot we left this morning. Jump out, take two steps and my heel scratches glass into asphalt. Amber twinkles in the gutter turn me around. Pluck a shard put it next to her wound: it’s a match for the turn signal. I begin to imagine a sequence of events for which I could be blameless. Up the driveway I dash past my bungalow out back to the carports. A fat white minivan lays diagonal inside her own port. She’s pricked, pocked and scratched all over. Still it’s a trick to get my good look at the part I want. Some pawing and peeking soon reveals the reciprocal gash of burgundy paint deep in her sick pale bumper. Flush and throbbing with self-righteous indignation I’m back out into the street. She was hit while stationary and unoccupied, by a lousy neighbor turning into the driveway. Sometimes bad things happen to good cars parked on the street.
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Jan 20, 2014 04:00
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Hello TD regulators, I think I'm not supposed to edit my submission, but while formatting the title I back-slashed where I should have forward-slashed and missed a return... would fix if allowed. Will ensure to preview thoroughly any future submission. Further excuses are available on request. Thanks in advance for your attention and, if I'm lucky, indulgence. Best regards, J.
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Jan 20, 2014 04:13
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sebmojo posted:No edits means no edits. Thanks for your consideration, I look forward to the result our contest.
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Jan 20, 2014 04:37
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InFanky Malloons posted:SHUT UP STOP FAWNING I HATE YOU. Just ninja-edit it next time, and no-one will even know you did it, God. Fanky, Well noted your advice. Thanks for nothing. Hope you won't mind if I don't hate you back. Oh no, that was kind of still fawning wasn't it? I can't help myself. Best regards, J. J. Comrade fucked around with this message at 02:28 on Jan 21, 2014 |
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Jan 21, 2014 02:19
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God Over Djinn posted:
Got it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winchester_Mystery_House + is a woman thing + unadulterated hatred + preview before submit = < 900 words write now post later
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Jan 21, 2014 06:41
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FLASH RULE
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sebmojo posted:Some crits. Working from the back this time. Thanks for the crit. Well noted yucky lines. I'm thinking to work the thing out in another thread, perhaps by adding a middle and end and a story.
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Jan 24, 2014 03:49
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Mary Doughal came from Cork [url] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winchester_Mystery_House [/url] I’ve served Madame, the Widow Winchester, past twenty years, in New Haven and now here. Long years, I’ve proved my position. The first time ever I watched an infant starve in this country was in my lady‘s house. And when Sir followed with consumption. Now we two… or rather she, with I attendant, are in this beautiful golden pleasant land, in this terrible house. The building is good for the men, they’re at it all day and Sunday too. But the design is unsound and the plan is obscure. The men hammer and paint, dig and plumb as she orders. Madame pays too well and gives too much of herself to the place, it makes a wreck of her soul. Ever they work and build it tall and wide, dark lurching oak of a house. Not finished still after years. Madame gives of her self too much to the others as well. Those visitors: pampered reformers and pimping performers selling ugly blasphemies to the vulnerable innocent widow. So sick of them. Such ugly poison they feed my lady. The worst is one so-called medium from San Francisco, Miss Post, of certain age but never married. I could never abide her dark presence. I recall I took care of her one Sunday. The spinster Post visited that day, I suppose to do her worst in the Séance Room and send Madame into a spell. But when she’s just in the door this awful says the worst thing I’ve heard in my life she says: “You know Sarah, you really should consider a change in your staff…” her words cut “… all the best houses in San Francisco are using Chinese these days. Your Irish, with their superstitions and attachments and scheming. You‘re not in Connecticut anymore.” Oh that is the end of her. Best houses? Madame’s house stands seven stories tall. Are those in San Francisco, served by Chinese, really the best houses? Anyone can see how we do here. This blasphemous witch speaks down on our service and worse… Post is still on “… their Irish accent is so unpleasant.” When they got to their business I went out to get what I needed. Not far to walk down by St. Patrick’s and meet my fellow Enzo, a professional with his own practice. Italian but that’s not always bad, he’s a barber. It was well dark and back at the house Madame and Post still were meeting. After their goodbyes Madame is away. Post is mine to show out. On her way out I show her a door opened to a brick wall. Irate she lifts up a voice. I cut her short with Enzo’s razor. High to low, ripping silk and skin, left to right through whalebone, guts and screaming. Such a mess. Curse on Post’s body and to hell with her.
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Jan 27, 2014 07:53
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Late submission and lousy composition are my shame. I do not offer this untimely trash to offend you all, I was distracted from the task. Some associates of national basketball fixed my attention squarely on their sport. Sometimes with others at the event and sometimes alone with the nattering cyclops, I was distracted. I hope you will note my contrition and judge me harshly.
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Jan 27, 2014 10:23
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
Pop drove the mule cart down to Denver with all hundred fifty dollars. Plans to fix out a proper cabin for us all, doors windows and such. Buy two doors and window frames, in Denver. Making his way back from Denver (we suppose some cargo here), South of Laramie a wind caught the ash from his pipe. From here it goes: 'you knew Pop' (meaning that tattooed drunken savage drunk again as always) 'drove on hard as he could'. And the cart kindled into a blaze. No notice of danger he’d never let up on the mule (sure sounds like Pop). Finally a singe on his brim, he leaped clear of the wreck. The mule died in the blaze, cart and cargo of course lost. And so that is how Pop arrived safely back home with less-than nothing to show for all the money in the world.
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Jan 28, 2014 08:44
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Thanks for the crit. I do realize I'm not that good at flash fiction or posting. I'll get better. Taking off a couple weeks I'll try again when I get back.
J. Comrade fucked around with this message at 00:43 on Jan 30, 2014 |
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Jan 30, 2014 00:14
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 08:20 |
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in
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Mar 29, 2014 05:19
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