I have something that I have been writing for this prompt, and if I don't sign up I'll just end up deleting it, so I'm in.
|# ¿ Jan 10, 2014 22:40|
|# ¿ Jul 1, 2022 05:47|
By my count this is the 10th story submitted after the new word count rule was implemented.
The Lingering Wounds
Word Count: 1250
There was glass on the floor.
Marv didn’t expect to hear a crunch under his frayed boot when he walked through the door. Looking down, he noticed mars black paving stones pressed into the hardwood, the remnants of what appeared to be a knight, queen, and king from a glass chess set. Marv was always black, because that was the only way that his wife Charlie would play with him; he always won, except when he didn’t.
Charlie had been drinking. Stepping over a toppled floor lamp, Marv looked into the bathroom. There was vomit in the sink, and the water was running. Turning to the kitchen, Marv found Charlie leaning against the counter, her hand resting in a pool of Malbec as she picked through the remnants of a barren dishwasher.
“Don’t you think it’s irresponsible to get drunk around all this glass?” Marv asked. “You could cut yourself.”
Charlie looked up at Marv. “You threw my dog out of a loving window, so guess what? I don’t give a poo poo if you think I’m irresponsible, because I could have twenty drinks and I’d still make better decisions than you, rear end in a top hat” She pulled an old casserole dish from the rack and hurled it into the living room, nearly hitting him if he hadn’t dipped his shoulder. He winced as the dish exploded against the coffee table.
“Jesus, Charlie” Marv shouted, “give it a rest. That was almost two years ago. You know it was an accident, and I don’t feel like I need to explain myself to my pregnant wife when she is shitfaced. What is it, the third time this week? You need help.”
Charlie reached into the utensil separator, removing a serrated bread knife. As she stepped into the living room, Marv noticed how the redness in her face made the green in Charlie’s eyes particularly vivid. Her knuckles turned wan as she gripped the wooden handle with an intensity she only found at the bottom of a vodka bottle. “How the hell do you accidentally throw my dog out of the window, Marvin?” she asked while approaching him in the hallway.
Coincidentally, the last recorded birth and death occurred simultaneously on January 21st, 2015, at 7:51 pm in the West End Hospital of Kumasi, Ghana. The story has that the hospital was overcrowded that day, turning the hallways into makeshift care centers. It was there where, shoulder to shoulder, life and death met with synchronicity.
Nobody could explain the events that followed, but it appeared as if humanity itself was put on pause. Human cells stopped their natural decay, and they recovered from any damage within seconds. Oddly enough, this was not the saving grace of every injured and sick person, no, quite the opposite actually. Although their bodies recovered from any new damage nearly instantaneously with only a short-lived pain, any ailment that they were suffering from when the immunity caused their body to reset became the new norm. One could put a bullet through the brain of a cancer patient and he would recover before his body hit the ground; however, try cutting out one of his tumors and it would grow back before the incision was sutured. So although death was put on hold, the pain and side effects of the lingering wounds that were afflicting the poor souls of immunity were as permanent as the eternal life we were cursed with.
After the immunity hit, humanity seemed to stagnate. It appeared as if people lost the capacity to learn new concepts and ideas. Most scientists gave up looking for a cure. Universities closed, while schools remained open as babysitters for the working population. Even learning small things, like names and addresses, became more difficult. Still, the world soldiered on through the brain stasis and the immunity; it had to.
Marv recoiled at his wife’s advance, slumping his wide shoulders and grimacing. He didn’t want to get stabbed today. “You know what I mean,” he said. “I didn’t know it would kill him. Todd had just thrown himself from the window and said that the fall into the alley was fun. He said I’d bounce off the pavement like a super ball. When I jumped off with Brutus, I didn’t know that I’d-” Marv stopped as he noticed Charlie raising her knife hand. She wiped the tears from her eyes. Marv stepped towards her, brushing a strand of rosewood hair from her face before holding her free hand in his.
“I can’t believe you” Charlie said with a sniffle.
Something about her tone of voice struck an indignant nerve with Marv. “You know, you’ve hurt me before too.” Marv barked with a lowered brow.
“You heard me. You hurt me all the time. You say the most hurtful things to me and don’t care. You call me immature, you call me retarded, you tell me that I’ve ruined your life. You hurt me and never even acknowledge it.”
“You want me to hurt you, Marvin?” Charlie asked. With that, two flashes of silver against his forest green shirt, a heavy gasp, and a holler. Marv collapsed, blood spurting from his chest with every shallow beat. Lying on his back, the blood shot higher as his heart beat harder, until the blood stopped completely. Cutting the shirt from his chest, Charlie watched his wounds clot, and moments later, heal. “I loved Brutus more than anything in this world.” She said as she cleaned Marv with the sections of his dry shirt.
“I know.” He said with a sputter. “I’m sorry.”
Charlie noticed the purpled bruise on Marv’s shoulder, as familiar to her as a birthmark. Charlie was at the basketball game when Marv took that hard fall. Her heart raced even thinking about him slamming into that hard wood with a thud. “I know” she said.
Holding the crimson blade parallel against her distended stomach, Charlie was at her breaking point. “I’m sorry” she said, “I know you think this is the hormones talking, but I can’t handle it anymore. It’s been 30 months; the sickness, the moodiness, the alien inside me, it’s all too much. I can’t handle this pregnancy anymore.”
“What can we do?” Marv asked while sitting up, “Isn’t this just how things are now? The doctors said if we wait you might go into labor someday; they’re not sure.”
“Marv,” Charlie started, “I just stabbed you in the chest, and you are sitting and speaking like you just woke up from a nap. What makes you think that my body will ever let me go into labor?”
“What makes you think that you can do something about the baby?”
Charlie wiped the blade against her shirt. She rotated it, readjusting her grip in the process before wiping the other side. “I have to try.”
Marv looked into Charlie’s eyes and, for a moment, they were back at Flannery’s on Mission Street that first night when she beat him back and forth across the pool table. “I’ll play you as many times as you want tonight and I guarantee you won’t win a game.” She told him. Over and over he tried for what must have been three hours, buying her a drink for each game she took. At first he tried to win, but his resolve melted with each halfcocked smile that she’d flash, until he was just happy to be in that moment.
“What do you want me to do?” He asked.
She kissed him.
“Get the towels.”
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 20:53 on Jan 11, 2014
|# ¿ Jan 11, 2014 20:51|
Kodoko the Protector dragged Hardy to Tavurvur’s rim. The white skinned coward desecrated the island from the moment Tavurvur brought him to the Slate Shore.
The tribal drums signified Tavurvur’s awakening. When Kodoko found him fashioning a weapon from the driftwood, Kodoko pinned him to the earth with his spear. Still mounted on the spike, Kodoko caved his head against the shale.
Tavurvur’s breath caused Kodoko’s skin to blister. Kodoko flayed the ink from Hardy’s arm and kicked it aside, failing to notice the mark behind his ear. When Tavurvur ate, he vomited. Kodoko was consumed. The drums fell silent.
Also, Im in for the mystery.
|# ¿ Jan 14, 2014 21:18|
“Kids,” Miss Early said with crossed arms, “I’m going to leave the classroom unlocked during lunch, so whoever took Eric’s valentines bag can return it. This kind of joke is never funny, and all you’re doing is hurting a friend.”
Except, Eric White wasn’t a friend to any of us. In fact, I was the only friend he had, and I didn’t even like him. You know he once glued his own eyelids shut in art? If it weren’t for Miss Early helping him, he might have gone blind. It wasn’t that he was a bad guy, just weird. Eric was the kind of kid to eat sliced cucumbers for lunch instead of chips. Just yesterday while we were decorating our bags, he kept trying to make us laugh. “Orange you glad I didn’t say orange?” he’d ask nervously.
As we lined up in the classroom and held hands in a chain, I saw Miss Early take Sarah Burgess’s hand in hers. Her nails were painted like a summer peach and despite the coldness of her demeanor, sparked by this theft, I wanted to walk in her sunshine. I decided then to do it for her.
The cafeteria was a badlands of gossipers, pranksters, and fighters, and the kid I needed to see was a mixture of all three. Jeremy Griffib was a scruffy two-timer with a ringworm in his forehead, who spent most lunches trading away his snacks and always coming out with the better deal. If anything sketchy was happening at Plaza Elementary School, you can bet that Jeremy knew about it, if he didn’t have a hand in it from the get-go. After a quick scan, I found him in the back of the room, turning pretzel sticks into pixie sticks.
“Look,” he said while scooting next to a scrawny 2nd grader, “these pretzels are better for you than this garbage here. Don’t you know that candy stunts your growth? You’ll be little forever if you eat these.” As he talked, his fingers kicked the sweets in his direction, purple, red, purple, orange. I counted ten total.
“Jeremy,” I said. Both he and the boy seemed startled, but his busy fingers grabbed a handful more as he stood up.
“Rich, what’s up?” he asked.
As we walked toward the lunch line I gave him the pitch, “Well you know that jam I got you out of last week? I need a favor. I need to know who took Eric White’s bag of Valentines during the assembly earlier.”
Jeremy rubbed his head. “I heard about that. All that was left was a pile of glitter on the floor? Well, even with the candy inside, it’s not a good score.”
“Sorry, I don’t know anything.”
“Nothing?” I asked. “Can you at least give me any leads?”
“Sorry man. But here,” he said, “cheer up, have some pixie sticks.”
I pocketed them, opening one for the moment. The next step was to try and find Eric and see if he made any enemies recently, but after checking high and low he seemed to be missing too. I opened another pixie stick and flicked the wrapper to the floor, then another. The sweet powder did a good job of momentarily staving off the despair, but the feeling returned after learning that all my other sources were as blind as I was. Maybe it was the candy, or maybe it was the failure, but I felt sick, so I went to the nurse. I didn’t expect so see Jess Readings there.
Jess was always a quiet girl, and since she wore an insulin pump on her side, many of the kids thought she was weird. It wasn’t unusual for her to visit the nurse, but she normally didn’t go during lunch.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I feel anxious,” She said as she gingerly tapped her glucose monitor. “I’ve been in here all day,” she added with a huff as she blew a strand of her blonde hair upwards. “Great way to spend a Valentine’s Day.”
“So I guess you didn’t hear the news?” I asked.
“Eric had his valentines stolen.”
Jess frowned. “That’s sad,” She said “Eric’s always been nice to me; I just don’t get why people have to pick on him. Well, at least I still have my valentine to give him.”
Nurse Garcia walked in. “Rich,” she said, “What are you doing here? Trouble with your asthma?”
“Not today.” I replied. “Just a stomach ache.”
“Well,” Nurse Garcia said “We better take your temperature. Just let me clean the glitter off this thermometer. I swear Jess, you are the sparkliest girl in the school. Must match your personality”
A beeping interrupted my thoughts.
“Jess, you’re low.” Nurse Garcia said.
“I’ve got some candy, Jess.” I handed her the straw and as she dumped its contents onto her tongue, I kept my hand out, offering to throw her trash away. The wrapper was covered in silver glitter, but was it the same glitter as from the floor under Eric’s desk?
“I got to go.” I said, running out the door.
I thought about my victory as I ran to the classroom. Richard, Miss Early would say. Thank you for helping me. You are my hero. Would you like to be line leader? She’d ask as she offered me her hand. All I needed to do was match the straw to the glitter on the floor through the window. I looked into the classroom. The floor was red.
Then I saw Eric. He was with Miss Early at her desk with a crumpled tissue in his hand. They both stood up, and he hugged her fiercely. Head nestled against her side; he made eye contact with me, gently mouthing “Go away,” and waving me off. As the two left the room, I hid behind the trash can.
“Will you walk me to lunch?” He asked with a sniffle.
“Sure,” she said, opening her soft hand.
|# ¿ Jan 20, 2014 02:56|
I wasn't going to go in this week, since it is my birthday and my family will want to occupy my time, but this prompt is too fun to pass up.
I debated going in as Reality Checkpoint, then Dock Ellis, but I've decided on H'Angus.
See you fuckers at city hall.
|# ¿ Jan 21, 2014 04:49|
Prompt: H'Angus (The story is actually based on the Monkey Hanger Legend referenced in the first sentence of the entry for H'Angus.)
The citizens of Hartlepool crowded around the wreckage to pick through the remains. Normally a fishing vessel being ripped apart by a storm would only serve as a mundane cautionary tale to the townspeople, but the French flags washing in with the carnage created a great mystery for all the witnesses. Adults and children alike pawed their way to the front line, pushing and shoving for a chance at the best salvage. The gamblers went for the bodies of the dead, picking them clean like carrion birds, hoping that each pocket they checked might hold a piece of silver, or a ring for an awaiting lover back home. The practical gathered supplies, rations and equipment and liquor for their private consumption or sale. The tardy pulled the sopping timber from the ocean and scavenged what was left in the detritus of the chasse-marée.
Ann Winter found the body under a tattered swath of heavy canvas.
“Look,” she said, “Thomas, another to check. This one’s little; he must have slipped through”
“Well,” he said, turning away momentarily from the pile of timber he was collecting to size up the body, “he probably don’t have much.” He rubbed his forefinger against the frilled collar of the figure’s uniform. “Take the outfit though. We can probably get something for it. It’s good for a laugh at least.”
Ann began to unbutton his shirt. “He certainly is a hairy fellow.” she remarked. Her fingers worked the metal buttons, yet before she reached the middle of the shirt, an unkempt hand grabbed her delicate wrist, pushing her away.
“Thomas” she screamed. “He’s breathing.”
Two men rushed to her side, easily hauling the figure from the sea. Ann noticed how badly he was injured from the wreck; he hung forward languidly, hands nearly resting against the sand. Poor dear, she thought, must have hurt his back. “Tie him up to be safe,” Thomas commanded, as if he actually were a military officer and not just an assistant clerk for the bank; “we don’t know why he’s here.” The men dragged the senseless figure up the beach, fastening him to a lamp post with a dripping cord.
“Boy,” Thomas repeatedly barked into the unconscious face.
“He’s barely here.” Ann said. She noticed the cracked, rough skin of his face and the dirt that clung to his body and hair even after washing ashore.
“Then I’ll have to wake him up.” Thomas added, cocking his opened fist backward before striking him in the face.
“Thomas” Ann chided with a yelp.
“He’s the enemy, Ann.” Thomas said, pointing to the half unbuttoned uniform. “At least a bruise or two will take away from those massive lips, the ugly moor.” he added with a laugh.
The boy opened his swollen eyes in a panic. Struggling against the post, he began to buck and scream unintelligibly.
“Calm down now.” Thomas instructed. “Do you speak English?” he asked against a barrage of chirps and grunts from the bound figure. “Apparently he don’t speak at all” Thomas remarked to the newly gathered crowd of onlookers, before putting a haymaker into the boy’s torso. Thomas looked down with a tap of his shoe. “He’s pissed himself” he said.
“He’s a child.” Ann screamed as she grabbed Thomas’ heavy shoulder. “For god’s sake, Tom.”
“He’s an animal.” Thomas corrected, shoving Ann into the crowd. Grabbing the boy’s pudgy cheeks in his cracked hands, bloody from the punches thrown, he continued. “Hairy French gently caress,” Thomas breathed into the battered face, “why was your ship off our coast? Why are you here?”
The boy could only whimper.
Taking the boy’s round head, Thomas slammed it against the post with a thunderous crack. He pulled it back again, when Ann surprised him from behind. “Enough,” she said with a shove.
Thomas fell forward into his enemy. Latching onto Thomas’ nose, the boy clamped his jaws like a slamming gate. Thomas howled, blood pouring from his face, mingling with the fluids he already stood in. He ripped his face free, his nose mangled into a grotesque form.
“You bitch” he snarled from between froth coated lips. Thomas turned, swinging wildly at Ann and knocking her backwards. Thomas stomped forward, casting a chilling, predatory glare. She thought about fleeing, turning tail and running down the High street, shrieking; however, she knew what would happen to the boy if she did.
I’ll scratch his eyes out, she thought, but reason got the better of her. “Thomas,” she began, “don’t do this.” The rabid look on his face told her all she needed. She opened her arms to him. His fist was a snakebite, and before Ann could reach him, Thomas had inserted the blade that she once gave him into her stomach.
They held the trial there. Guilty. He ordered his men to fashion a noose for them both, each lassoed tightly around a neck. The crowd divided themselves into two groups, with friends and neighbors lining the length of each rope, eager to hoist the body upon Thomas’ issue. “On my word,” he began, “fly them high like his French colors demand.” He approached the boy. “Enemy of the state,” he said. He approached the girl. “Traitor.”
Turning away from them both, Thomas stared into the remains of the wreckage, still being kissed by the tides. He’d forgotten to check the moor’s pockets, but it didn’t matter.
|# ¿ Jan 27, 2014 01:05|
I'd like to sign up for the year 2130, if that's okay.
|# ¿ Jan 28, 2014 23:39|
I was told that Leslie could acquire the hard to find, which is how I found myself at a backwoods intersection outside of Clover County. The dilapidated tar paper shacks dotting the landscape reminded me of my mother, and the old blues songs she used to sing. The leaves skating the autumn breeze reminded me that she was gone.
“Chris,” she’d say, “the world can beat you down, but there’s always a way.”
The deal was simple; I would give him 200 thousand dollars in cash and he would give me an untraceable car and a house in the middle of nowhere where I could escape the data of the connected world. Leslie would drive my car at least a hundred miles north before leaving it in the bottom of a river.
Leslie was twelve minutes late, and in that time the missed call indicator on my dashboard blinked one hundred and thirty one times. My dad started calling once I hit the city line and was still doing so. Stubbing out my cigarette, I answered. His face faded in on the console.
“Dad,” I said.
“Chris, what in the hell are you doing? The condition sensors are showing cigarette smoke in the cabin; are you smoking?”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” he asked. “I can see right here that you’re alone- zero passengers. Your biomonitor is spiking, your dopamine levels are higher than normal. Jesus, Chris, I can see the smoke in the car.” He lifted his tablet, showing me all the data and video at his fingertips.
“Then why ask in the first place?”
“What did I tell you about cutting that poo poo out?” he replied.
“Is that all, dad?”
“No, allow me to ask a question that I can’t answer. Why are you in Clover?”
“I’m leaving.” I declared, punctuating my statement with a drag on my last cigarette.
“Where are you going?” my dad asked.
A magenta sedan, more rust than red, pulled up behind me.
“Christopher, come home.” my dad said, “We can go over the data from your last chemistry exam. I have the print off here.”
“I can’t, dad.”
I flipped the switch and the car fell silent.
Pulling out my pocket knife, I disabled the camera in the wheel with a quick pry. Disabling my biometer would be a more difficult affair, but I knew that the device that made my father rich, now implanted behind every child’s ear, was originally designed to be embedded in a shoulder. A quarter of an inch into mine, I found the chip. Plunking the chunk of flesh into the empty cigarette carton, I threw it onto the passenger seat. The seat warmer would do good for feigning my body temperature until the chip recognized its separation and disabled itself.
The cabin was glorious. I didn’t mind the thin walls, faulty wiring, leaky pipes, and water stained floors, because it had everything I wanted, but what was most important was what it lacked, internet. The garden space, workshop, and grazing area meant that I could live out my isolationist fantasies for a long time here. There wasn’t much time for admiration; it was getting cold, and there was work to do.
I went out back and began chopping firewood. The ax was heavier than I’d imagined. At first, each clumsy chop just splintered off to the side, flaking the wood. I soon found the rhythm and was splitting logs in two or three swings. In the silence of that cold afternoon, I experienced a clarity that I’m not sure I ever had before. Without the noise surrounding me I didn’t know what to think about. I found myself thinking about the girlfriend I left at home, the sustainability of my current situation, and returning home. Getting an identity chip replaced was possible, but I’d face hell from the government and my father for removing it. Right now, i didn’t care.
I cooked my food on an open fire that first night and fell asleep counting the stars.
If there was one thing I wasn’t prepared for, it was the pollen. Spring brought a host of new cultivation options in the garden, but it also brought about hay fever, night sweats, and horseflies. I was laying in my bed when I heard the sound of wood cracking under a heavy boot. There were multiple feet now. Men were entering my home. I rolled out of bed and grabbed the hatchet that I kept in my bedroom since that first week in the wilderness. “Leslie,” one of the men said.
“Okay Chris” One of them shouted. “I heard that you might be hiding out here, so I came to get you. I know that you’re a good guy and I’m a good guy too, but I have a gun and I will shoot you if you do anything stupid. So come out.”
They tied me up in the living room that I spent the winter repairing. The man that was shouting called himself Mark and told me that he was expecting a handsome reward for finding me. From his conversations with the other men, I gathered that Leslie was probably dead. As I sat there, wrists rubbed raw from the rope, I eyed one of Mark’s partners.
“What are you looking at Rich boy?” He asked with a sneer.
“Nothing,” I said, “and I’m not rich. This is all I have.”
“Bullshit!” he shouted, crushing my face with the butt of his pistol.
I could feel the blood running out my nose and soaking into the gag wedged in my mouth. Mark placed a sack over my head, leaving me with only my thoughts and the taste of iron invading my tongue. I leaned back, appreciating the chair I made two months ago. I leaned forward, pressing my foot into the floorboard that had creaked up until a week ago. Silence. This was the world that I had built, and I did a fine job.
|# ¿ Feb 3, 2014 02:56|
I'll take the Toxx like a big girl.
Write something you idiot. Nothing can be worse than my story this week anyway!
|# ¿ Feb 3, 2014 04:41|
I'm in with Phosphorus.
|# ¿ Feb 4, 2014 03:52|
Word Count: 1200
After Mr. Kennedy died, my mother fell into a deep depression. She used to just lie in bed all day until the pain in her knees overpowered the pain in her heart. “The difference,” mom told me once, “is that my heartache doesn’t go away.” She told me that now she had lost the two best men that she ever knew, and we sat in silence until dinner was over.
That Saturday I hit the swap meet, intent on finding the perfect gift to cheer her up. I scoured the aisles, but ultimately nothing spoke to me until he did. A ‘53 Mickey Mantle, but I remember calling him Mickey Mint, because that card was flawless; I had to have him. When my father left, I took up the job of building on his baseball card collection; dad loved baseball so much that he even named me after his favorite player. I couldn’t say when the collection would be finished, but I knew it wouldn’t be complete without Mickey Mint. He wasn’t cheap, but after spending every cent, and promising to do all of the old card shark’s yard work in the upcoming spring, he was mine.
I walked down Freemason Avenue on the way home, appreciating my new prize with every step. I rubbed the slight crease draping Mikey’s shoulders with my thumb, noticing the fine grit on its surface. It felt great. A thunderous repeating snap interrupted my reverie. The high school was just ahead, and the sound of that crack was as identifiable as the sound of his voice; Joe Peerson, All-State Third Baseman, former teammate and best friend of mine. He was taking batting practice. Nobody in the city could blister the skin of a baseball like Joe. The last time I saw him, both Joe and I had bloody noses, so I took the long way home.
I found her hanging sideways out of a strange, sooty, moving truck. Her name was Claire Bishop, and she needed a hand. “I’m Babe,” I told her, lifting the box marked Claire’s Bedroom Stuff, “where do you want it?”
“On the porch is fine,” she said with a smile, “my dad can help me carry it in.” I asked her to hold Mickey Mint, fearing he get any new creases.
“You know Mickey Mantle?” I asked.
“Please,” she scoffed. “My dad has a collection of Negro League cards, and I bet you couldn’t name most of them players. Although, I would take Jackie Robinson over Mantle any day of the week.” I set the box down on the porch, catching a trace of honeysuckle lifting from its folded shutters, and noticing how beautiful Claire was. She added, “and that’s not just because I’m black.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was staring at her lips, and not the color of her hair or skin, so instead I nodded dumbly. “Where’d you get it?” she asked.
“At the swap. I went down there looking for a gift for my mom, but I ended up with this.”
“I’m guessing she’s not a baseball fan,” Claire said, sliding an aquamarine bracelet from her wrist. “Here. Give her this,” placing the bracelet in my hand with fingers that lingered in my hand as delicately as her scent on the breeze.
We fell in love that winter under the shelter of an old woodshed in the dense tree-line beside the high school, a holdover hideaway from my childhood. We kept our love a secret as we shared the secrets of our own. She told me about her distaste for yams, the quilt she was knitting, and her old town, and how the threat of violence caused her family to leave. I told her about my father running out, how I had discovered this place with Joe, and why we weren’t friends anymore. One inky January night, I had forgotten to bring any candles or a flashlight, so we talked and held hands under match light.
“Babe,” she said, bringing the flame only inches from her nose, “kiss me.”
I leaned in, but before I could even close my eyes, Claire blew out the match with a breathy puff and ran into the darkness. “If you can catch me!” she shouted.
I gave chase, but the evening was unkind to my pursuit and I lost her. Off in the distance I saw the spark of a new matchstick.
“Over here!” Claire called, before snuffing the flame.
I started running, tripping over the fallen branches and slipping on red leaves. When I got to the tree, she was gone. “No fair,” I said.
Claire led me around the woods for what must have been an hour, and with each match she struck I ran like I’d never see her again. When her last match, like the North Star, led me back to the shed, we kissed and then fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Meet me in the hideout before sunrise. I have a gift for you; bring your baseball cards.
All my love,
I held the folded note, waiting for my signal flame. When we would meet up, Claire would wait for me in the shed after a lighting a candle, match, or twig to let me know that she had made it. That night her flame was larger than normal.
I knew something was wrong when Claire didn’t peak her head out of the window to call to me. From the doorway I saw my Claire crumpled over in the corner on top of the quilt she had been making. Joe held his trusty baseball bat, and the floor was littered with the ashy husks of Mr. Bishop’s Negro League card collection.
“I knew you were up to some shady poo poo lurking around at night,” Joe said, lifting the Jackie Robinson card in his hand, but I never expected you to be loving a shade.”
“Claire-” I began.
“Don’t worry; the friend of the family isn’t dead or nothing. She even brought you a gift.” He said, tracing a line on the floor in the ash. With a flick of a match, he lit the Robinson.
I dropped my binder and lunged at Joe, but he was too big. Dropping everything, he wrapped my neck in his arm and began squeezing. He leaned down and whispered to me, “I should kill you for disrespecting my family like this.” Joe threw a punch, knocking the wind out of me.
As the world turned white, I noticed Jackie Robinson being devoured by the flame, which then crept to a piece timber. When I heard a crack louder than anything I’d heard before, I was sure it was the sound of my neck breaking, but it was Joe who collapsed onto me. Towering over us both was Claire, holding his bat.
“Hurry!” she barked, dipping her quilt into the flames before throwing onto Joe’s body.
We threw whatever we thought would burn into the growing hell before us. As the flames swallowed the structure whole, we kissed. Then we sobbed. Then we ran. We ran from Joe, the woods, and the town, but we couldn’t outrun the morning.
|# ¿ Feb 10, 2014 00:22|
|# ¿ Feb 11, 2014 18:13|
I'd appreciate being flashed.
|# ¿ Feb 12, 2014 03:42|
The S Stands For Hope
Word Count: 1125
I couldn't breathe the hot and thin air inside the suffocating cardboard. My back was aching from sitting hunched over in the cramped box. Sweat was dripping in my eyes, and the Dio playing from the speakers was loud enough to cramp my ears. I lifted the ashy roll of carpet like a handkerchief, dabbing the liquid from my face. Reed was going to be fired if this didn’t work, and I might be fired for helping him.
The Sunshine Department Store, one block off the beach on the corner of Oceanside and 38th Street, didn’t employ the smartest staff, because it didn’t take a rocket scientist to stock beach chairs, umbrellas, and water wings. So when my friend Reed Martin painted the floor behind the cash register in stolen lighter fluid, bootlegged from a case of neon Bics he should have stocked on the counter, nobody thought to question his sanity. When he gathered us around; me, Blue, and George, and lit the masterpiece with the only lighter he didn’t break open for fluid, I was intrigued. When the capital S and diamond outline flamed and smoked like a wildfire, I was impressed. It wasn’t until the phone rang that I became nervous.
George picked it up and recited the standard greeting, “Thank you for calling Sunshine Department Store, where the sun is always shining.” He looked at us. “Okay,” he said in-between giggles. “Okay, will do.” George turned to Reed. “I hope you are ready to die, because that was Liz. Apparently nobody did a deposit yesterday, so Robert is going to come in and get the money from the safe. You’re hosed.”
The Levin brothers, Barry, Robert, and Juan, a trio of hardcore Jews from New York City, collectively owned five tourist shops between 6th and 38th Street, including Sunshine, the store that now had a large, scorched Superman emblem right in front of its safe. Barry and Juan were complete nitwits. Robert, their older brother, was a different story. Robert had an innate ability for bullshit detection, and if you weren’t making him money, you were in trouble. Robert hired Liz to keep us all in check, but even Liz had to have a day off and today Robert did too, or at least he was supposed to.
If Robert would fire someone for being too lazy or slow, he would kill us for burning a hole in the floor. We needed a plan, and with a minute of reckless planning, we had one.
The Levins used the same blue and red speckled carpet in all of their stores, so all we needed to do was steal a square from someplace where nobody would notice it. The 6th Street shop fit the bill perfectly, as it was the only shop with a carpeted storage area. All I had to do was get into the back room, use the square he cut as a template for a replacement, and fill the square behind the register at 38th Street. We figured that Robert would likely stop at the three other stores between, 6th and 38th to get deposits, so we had time.
I pulled up behind 6th Street with skidding tires and sweating palms, adjusting my grip on the dirty roll. Tyler, the unofficial boss of 6th Street, was waiting for us. Despite the fact that were all friends, Tyler, Reed, and I, we were the type of friends to bust each other’s balls for our own amusement, and I could tell by the look on his face that he planned just that.
“Hey guys” Tyler said. He pointed at the roll of sweaty carpet tucked into my underarm. “What do you have there?”
Tyler flashed a gap toothed grin that betrayed his false ignorance. “Well,” he said, “Blue called me a few minutes ago and said that you burned a big rear end S into your floor. He also said that you were going to come down here and try to take some of our carpet to fill it.” Tyler took a step toward us, “I hope you know I can’t let that happen.” He entered the back door of the shop, before poking his head out for one final comment. “Also,” he said, “I’ve told everyone to kick you dudes out if you even step foot in the store, so good luck.”
“What now?” I asked Reed, playing with the gravel under my feet.
“We can’t leave without that carpet,” he said. “So let’s get it.”
Reed scouted the front of the building to see what we were up against. Jasmine and Seth were on the register; Phillip was working the floor; Tyler was roaming, on the lookout, he had no doubt. The odds were against us.
I needed a disguise.
I needed to call Clay.
Clay ran the distribution for each of the Levin’s stores. In the morning, he would call and ask what products the store needed for the day. An hour later, Clay would pull up in a brown van, with screeching brakes almost loud enough to drown out the Dio blasting from the tape deck, and unload the day’s merchandise for someone to stock. Today he’d be making an extra stop at 6th.
I clutched the carpet roll as Clay hoisted me down with a rattle.
“What’s up Tyler?” I heard through the cardboard. “Juan’s got a new batch of shirts that he wants you to display. Where do you want them?”
“In the back is fine,” he said. “I need to have Phil clear some rack space.”
I felt the unsteady wobbling of Clay’s old hand-truck before he dropped me in the storage room. I had to be patient; I couldn’t risk Tyler opening the box. I had to wait for Reed; he was the diversion. The seconds I spent waiting for him were some of the longest of that entire magical summer.
“Okay bitches! I’m here for the carpet and only the carpet, so hand it over!”
If Reed bursting into the front of the shop and causing a massive scene wasn't enough to pull Tyler away from the storage room, nothing would be. I sprang from the box, my carpet still in tow. Spreading my template on the floor, I made quick, hurried cuts. I’d done it.
As much as I would have enjoyed taking a victory lap, we weren't in the clear yet, so I ran through the rear door, jumped on a bike, and pedaled with a fury that caused my lazy calves to throb and quiver. Approaching 38th Street, I thought about my one deviation from the plan. I looked down at my ashy, sweaty carpet. I couldn’t just leave it in some dingy back room. It deserved better.
|# ¿ Feb 17, 2014 05:15|
I am in.
|# ¿ Feb 18, 2014 13:00|
Is it bad form to ask for a point of clarification? Should these Lego stories be devoid of any humans, or are Toy Story scenarios acceptable as well? Is this open to interpretation? I only ask because I haven't seen the Lego movie yet.
|# ¿ Feb 18, 2014 16:54|
We will be visiting Gold City Junction for my Mercury Seven inspired story.
|# ¿ Feb 20, 2014 00:38|
Set: 6765 Gold City Junction
Cool Picture of My Set: Click here
The Mercury Seven. Story may not take place in space or be a recognizable ripoff of either The Right Stuff or From The Earth To the Moon.
One Hot Stud
Black Bart removed his pistol from the holster and dropped his bag; Banker Bill reached for the sky. It was a stickup.
“Now Billy, you know what I’m here for, so hand it over or my friend Flatnose Curry might just show you how he got his nickname. Ain’t that right Flatnose?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Bart,” Flatnose Curry said with a chuckle, banging the old skillet in his hand against the counter like a hammer. Bill winced. “How’s about a new nickname, Banker?” Curry asked. “We can start the Flatnose Crew after I finish with you.”
Bill slipped his foot into the baseplate behind the counter and took a deep breath. This was his place, the place he was made to fill. “Now boys, don’t go doing anything crazy. I’ll give you every cent I have.”
“What am I going to do with that?” Bart asked, “Pay the snow to stop falling? Give me what I’m here for; give me the fire.”
Fire blocks were a hot commodity ever since the snow started falling and the sun stopped shining. “Okay, okay,” Bill said. He stared up Bart’s pistol, “Just put that thing away.” These outlaws must have robbed him fifty times by now, and even though The Sheriff and his deputy Zack usually burst in to save the day, Bill knew that he was alone for this one.
It’s a dirty job, being the banker, he thought while stuffing fistfuls of orange flames into the sack. A single ember stud slipped unnoticed between his fingers and rolled under the counter.
Bart and Flatnose climbed through the hole they’d blown in the wall of the Gold City Junction bank and rode off, their images soon lost amongst the darkness of the freezer. Who knew where they would be by the time The Sheriff and Zack got back from their hunt.
“They took it all,” Bill would tell them, “every hot stud.”
“What he means, Sheriff, is that he gave it to them,” Zack huffed. He kicked a frozen pea across the room and continued unpacking his haul.
Bill remembered when Zack was just three studs high.
It was the day Zack’s mother came looking for a loan, tugging the little scrapper in tow. “Just a few bricks,” she pleaded “to patch the hole in my roof.”
“Sorry,” Bill said, “It’s my role to be the banker, and this just doesn’t make sense for us.” Despite her painted tears, she was still the most beautiful figure he’d ever seen. Fists clinched, little Zack shot Bill a glare.
It was the same glare Zack was giving him now.
Sheriff looked at his friend. “Bill,” he said, “You’ve been an important part of the Junction since forever, but since Harrison put us in the freezer, you’ve been nothing but a liability.”
“What he’s saying,” Zack blurted, “is if you can’t bring nothing to this business relationship, why should we do business with you? It just doesn’t make sense for us.”
Sheriff spoke to his friend Bill, “I think we all might be better going our separate ways. There ain’t no fire here anymore; staying ain’t an option for us. Maybe you could head out east; before Calvary Man left he talked about going that way. He might’ve found another settlement that Harrison put in here; maybe he escaped altogether.” Sheriff looked tired. The cold was breaking him.
“Or maybe he’s still out there, buried in the frost,” Zack added with a crooked smile.
Bill knew the decision was final. He was allowed to take a horse and a ration of supplies from the general store packed in a pickle cask. On his way out of town, Bill stopped into the bank, the only home he’d ever known. Standing at his station, he slipped his feet into the floor-pegs one last time. This place wasn’t for him anymore. It was uncomfortable. It was hot. It was the lost ember wedged in his foot! Bill pulled the Gold City flag from the wall, and wrapped it around the coal before packing it all away.
As Bill crossed the baseplate out of Gold City Junction for the first and last time, he stopped, admiring the snowy, gridless, ground of the freezer. He was on his own. Bill tucked his little coal into the cask, and lowered the cask onto his head. As he rode into the alien landscape, Bill could barely see through the cracked wood, but the world was warm, and his to explore.
|# ¿ Feb 24, 2014 02:00|
|# ¿ Feb 25, 2014 14:33|
I'd go for a collaboration if anyone is interested, pending the story idea. I've got a decent solo idea but would love to take advantage of the interesting part of the prompt and do a group thing. I'm EST if that's a thing that matters.
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 21:14 on Feb 25, 2014
|# ¿ Feb 25, 2014 21:08|
WLOTM's eyes shot to the computer monitor, his mouth hanging in a crooked smile. "I'm in," he hurredly belched to nobody in particular.
|# ¿ Mar 4, 2014 05:22|
Follow the Lady
Word Count: 1200
Oscar crumpled the late payment notice and stuffed it into his pocket, wishing he could make it vanish like one of his playing cards. Back in high school, even as a budding magician, he has a knack for sleight of hand. That was before he discovered that making it as a crook was easier than making it as a performer. Even now, after years in and out of prison and with hands beaten and broken by working menial jobs, Oscar could make a card disappear, and, hopefully, make some money in the process. Was it the deftness of his fingers? The speed of his movements? The grace of his tired hands even after hours of performing the same routine over and over again? Bark, bag, shuffle, and scram, four surefire steps for crooking.
One, bark at the foot traffic filtering down from the Magnificent Mile until you find a suitable chump with a few bills and fewer braincells. Two, say any drat thing you can to put that chump in the bag; get him on the hook. Have him play the fiddle game, or get him to follow the lady. Three, let the sucker give chase, and ensure that he always loses. Four, once you have his money, make the fool take a hike, or, if he wises up, haul it to a back alley or safe-house before the cops show up.
A lifetime of scamming left Oscar tired. He was tired of grinding; tired of the spotlight; tired of his sweaty, balding landlord, Mr. Leen, riding his rear end about the back rent; but most of all, he was tired of running. After the nine he served in Marion for fraud and going on the lam, Oscar had enough of this drat city. He’d save up those rent pennies and catch a bus down south, maybe take up farming, take in some fresh air. After that he wouldn’t run anymore.
Running a comb through his bushy black hair, Oscar examined the growing crowd. “Okay ladies and gents,” he fired into the mass while shuffling his three playing cards, “the game is easy and the game is simple.” Oscar lifted the middle card, exposing it to the crowd, “Find the queen of hearts.” His hands moved faster as he finished his shuffle, “but the queen is a fickle woman, harsh and flighty like her telltale suit. If you try too hard to catch her, you’ll never succeed; you have to let her call to you.” The cards settled, each a perfect little tent, waiting to be flipped over. “So,” he teased with a smile and a wink, “who’s going to find her?”
Oscar stared into the blank faces looking at him. They watched him as one might a television show, with a sort of novel apathy. “Look,” their stares bleated like bored sheep, “an actual card shark.” While Oscar hoped that his bit caught the attention of of a gullible dope, he found that a woman in red caught his. She was inexplicably gorgeous. What was it about her? She didn’t have the conventional symmetry of any of the numbers of beautiful people in a city like Chicago, and yet he couldn’t look away. Perhaps it was her confidence? The way she stood, alert and completely uninterested in his silly show. Red snaked her hand into her boyfriend’s pocket with a lack of subtlety that screamed “lets get out of here.” One of those girls, Oscar thought; he liked those types of girls. That explained it.
“I’ll take a go,” braved a man in a black polo shirt with a mohawk.
Oscar assessed the challenger. He was tall and fit. His haircut said that he was adventurous, and his tattoos said that he was a dimwit. “Great!” Oscar steered, “What’s your name, sir?”
“I’m Tom,” he voiced with a cocky smile. “Let me guess, you’re Monte, and these are your three cards?” he shrugged.
Tom dropped a twenty on Oscar’s card table. Oscar lifted the leftmost card, revealing the queen of hearts, before starting his machinations. Oscar was giving him the slow shuffle, designed to give a small payout in hopes of getting the mark hooked on a larger payout immediately after. Tom watched absently until Oscar stopped.
“Okay, soldier,” Oscar smirked, “call it."
Tom pointed at the leftmost card, the king of clubs, and hummed in hesitation. His point shifted to the middle. “This one.”
Oscar flipped the queen of hearts. “You got her,” he confessed, dropping a twenty of his own in front of the player. “Care to go bigger?” he asked, “Of course, you could always just go home with your meager winnings.”
“I could go another round,” Tom smiled, dropping four hundred dollars onto the table. “Or is that too rich for you?”
Oscar eyed the cash. Normally he only carried five hundred dollars in cash, but this morning he didn’t even have that. Oscar mustered his confidence, and, reaching into his pocket, he plunked the remainder of his money down. Dipping his little finger into his sleeve, he primed the second king of clubs, used for covering the queen in his trademark trick. Oscar revealed the red queen and started his shuffle with a new haste. Using an ink pen, he mirrored Oscar exactly, over, under, over, across, across, over, under. Despite Oscar’s speed, Tom’s pen immediately followed. She was marked. “That one!” Tom gushed as Oscar finished.
The louse. Oscar needed doubt on his side if he was going to swap the second king over the queen.
“You sure?” Oscar questioned. “I think I saw you hitch once or twice with that pen of yours.”
“Hell yeah; you thought you could pull one over on me.”
Oscar slapped his palm onto the chosen card like he wanted to slap Tom. He slid the pocket king under the queen in a quick fluid movement. Oscar lifted them both.
“Sorry,” Oscar excused.
“Bullshit!” Tom blurted, flipping the other two cards. He stared at the three black cards and drew a hidden pistol. “Give me the money I won,” he demanded. Oscar handed him the cash. “Be grateful I don’t plug you right now,” he fumed. “Get out of here,” he commanded the crowd, watching them disperse. Oscar thought about clocking him, grabbing the money, and running for it. He might have made it to the fence, maybe even over it, but he remembered his promise, and soon Tom was gone.
Only the woman in red remained. “Tough draw,” she sympathized.
“Shouldn’t you have left with your boyfriend?” Oscar scoffed.
“He’s at work.”
“What are you doing here then?” Oscar wondered.
“What’s your name, miss?”
“Ruby,” she replied with an outstretched hand.
Oscar shook it. She palmed him a hidden item. A credit card, the name read Tom Matthews.
“I think we should partner up,” Ruby dealed, “you take the cash; I take the credit.” She fanned herself with the stolen cards. “You’ll need to get some better cons though,” She added.
Oscar smiled. “And a new location,” he nodded.
“Agreed,” Ruby concurred, leading him down the alley. “You don’t want to be here when the cops show up.”
|# ¿ Mar 10, 2014 00:29|
This is me signing up and also requesting one of them flashed rules.
|# ¿ Mar 10, 2014 22:08|
The dead girl’s milk-toned skin was flawless, really perfect, truly, except for the purpled bruising outlining the silver chain and crucifix around her neck. Miriam once had skin this lovely. Was this bruising a clue as to what killed the little church mouse? Strangulation? Not likely. She had no structural damage. Miriam primed her scalpel, admiring the way it reflected the clinical light of the examination room. She dragged it down the center of the dead girl just like she used to do the frogs in biology. Nothing. Not a cut. Not a scratch. Not a single inch of dead perfect skin moved under the edge of the blade that could kill Miriam or her partner with a single reckless swipe.
“Sarah,” she called to her partner, “you've got to see this.”
“What’s that?” Sarah asked.
“The girl’s built like a steel girder,” Miriam said, showing off the girl’s rigidity.
Sarah tried to bend the girl’s arm, but it wouldn't move. Picking up the scalpel, she tried her hand at cutting the girl. Nothing. She sliced again, and again. “This goes beyond any rigor mortis I’ve ever seen.” Sarah announced before turning her attention to the clipboard behind her.
Removing the green latex glove with a snap, Miriam explored the dead girl’s pearly rock hard skin, running a finger from her bellybutton up the gentle incline of her chest, terminating with lingering fingers on her delicate neck. Felt like skin to her. Miriam traced around the purple tracks outlining the girl’s necklace. As she closed the small loop, Miriam felt a jolt that made her eyes water. She closed her eyes to quell the pain and found her mind invaded by dread and perverse images; mutilated corpses of her loved ones, of Sarah; cuts on her arms, legs, and belly, fresh and gushing, carved in languages unknown to her; the dead girl, her eyes open, gelatinous, and coal black. The dead girl’s mouth open, chanting, and releasing carrion flies between her incantations. One flew into Miriam’s ear. She was chosen.
“Miriam!” Sarah shouted.
Miriam turned around from the dead girl, all glassy eyed and rubbery.
“Let’s figure this out,” Sarah said.
There was a humming in Miriam’s brain; the vibrations, quick, rapid, unyielding and generating an unbearable, overwhelming, heat. Miriam staggered to Sarah’s side and picked up the discarded scalpel. The skin would yield now, she knew. With a gentle and steady hand, Miriam cut the girls eyelids into little doors, opening them and revealing coal black gelatinous eyes.
“I’ll step through, yes” Miriam said, staring into the black void.
“You broke through?” Sarah asked.
“That's what I said.”
Sarah glanced one of the dark, black, eyes with the tip of her needle, before gently breaking the membrane. Perhaps the humour would explain it all. Sarah gasped at the inky sludge filling the tube. Where would she start with this?
As Sarah began to test the mysterious fluid, Miriam lowered her mouth over the other onyx eye, and with pursed lips, sucked the mush out with a pitiful pop. She drifted to the other eye, the one that Sarah had just wrecked with her needle, and began hungrily scooping the gunk from the socket. Miriam was still hungry. She opened the girl’s mouth to look for something. Miriam stared into the girl’s sockets; they began to smoke like little fires in her skull. She watched the smoke rise softly, and feeling the hunger stir in her, began wafting the dark clouds into her face. She breathed like she had never held a breath of air in her sad lungs once before. Reaching behind the girls neck, Miriam unclasped the necklace, put it on, and smiled. “Sarah?” she asked, wiping away the residue from her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Yes?” Sarah replied from behind a microscope, sniffing the air absently.
Miriam sat at her desk, pretending to copy notes on the poor girl. “What happened to the girl’s eyes?” she asked, knowing what was necessary.
Sarah pulled out her flashlight to inspect the corpse’s sockets. She hunched over the girl, and Miriam could smell the disgusting floral notes of her perfume. Sarah probed the hole with her finger. Miriam’s eyes were stinging. Sarah’s finger went deeper.
“Enough!” Miriam shouted.
With a flash, the dead girl’s arms swung up and locked themselves around Sarah.
Miriam would help her friend. Sarah struggled against the corpse’s grasp, thrashing with abandon. Sarah dug her nails into the girl’s arms. Nothing. Miriam grabbed the syringe. She would show Sarah the light.
Sarah turned just in time to see the coal black eyes and the cocked arm of her friend Miriam; she threw herself over the table, rolling over the dead church-mouse and pulling them both to the floor. Miriam came down with the needle; clanging against the table, it bounced from her hand.
“amplecti, ad amorem meum,” Miriam chanted, clenching her eyes shut. Opening them with a force, darkness fell across the building.
Sarah struggled against the weight of the teenage corpse latched to her. With the lights out, she had no way to defend herself. Something was leaking onto her neck. It was the black fluid. Sarah heard the sound of the bone saw spinning its small blade.
“Sarah!” Miriam prowled the room.
Sarah dragged herself under the examination table, finding the syringe of black tar. Dipping her thumb into the black socket, Sarah turned the corpse’s head, reared her arm back, and plunged the needle deep. It let go, and, across the room, Miriam screamed and collapsed.
Sarah traced the black veins running the course of the unconscious Miriam’s necklace. Sarah squashed the overwhelming desire to unclasp the crucifix and wear it herself. She needed to find a priest. She looked to the examination table to ensure the corpse was still strapped down. It was. Maybe there was hope for her friend still, Sarah thought as she slid Miriam into freezer compartment 2A. Miriam wasn’t a toe tag, not yet.
|# ¿ Mar 17, 2014 02:48|
I really wasn't going to sign up this week, yet here I am doing it anyway.
|# ¿ Mar 20, 2014 21:52|
The Diary of Babel
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 02:32 on Jul 1, 2014
|# ¿ Mar 24, 2014 04:14|
I am pleased with this result... Expect a prompt at about 4:30 EST when I am not busy rocking faces at work.
|# ¿ Mar 25, 2014 17:42|
THUNDERDOME WEEK LXXXVI: Have You Seen My Trophy?
Look, Thunderdome, I get it. Spending hours and hours hunched over that dirty keyboard, only to be swatted on the nose with a dishonorable mention, or worse, a loss, can’t be fun. Can it? Maybe writing just isn't your thing. You must be good at something. Ever tried juggling? Cooking? Trainspotting? Oh, you haven't? Well, look deeper.
This week, your prompt is to write about people who are obscenely talented at something obscure, mundane, or otherwise minor. Want to tell me about the world’s greatest grocery bagger? Awesome. World’s greatest hopscotcher? Skippy. World’s greatest Starbucks employee? Serve me up a pot of that. Tap into your real life experience if need be, but keep in mind this general rule:
If you can get famous in any standard sense, solely for doing it, don't write about it.
Also, please be sure that your story includes an actual plot. If you are writing about the aforementioned grocery bagger, giving me 1100 words exclusively on grocery bagging will
Sign-up deadline: Friday, March 28th, 11:59 PM USA EST
Submission deadline: Sunday, March 30th, 11:59 PM USA EST
Max word count: 1100
Beginnings are delicate times, as Aunty J said a long time ago and SO we will have a flash rule to burn that into your thick skulls: Least-good combination of title and first line will receive a dishonourable mention regardless of the quality of their story.
Talented People: (41)
God Over Djinn
A Tin Of Beans
Anathema Device (or die trying)
Starter Wiggin Flash Rule: Your protagonist is constantly jostling for number 1 status with a childhood rival.
curlingiron Flash Rule: Your protagonist suffers crippling performance anxiety when his or her talent is observed by an outside party.
Some Guy TT Flash Rule: Chatty motherfucker chats too much, gets what's coming to him.
The News at 5
That Old Ganon
Cpt. Mahatma Gandhi
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 22:28 on Mar 30, 2014
|# ¿ Mar 25, 2014 21:20|
Also, I'd like a flash rule.
Your protagonist suffers crippling performance anxiety when his or her talent is observed by an outside party.
Somebody flash me please.
Your protagonist is constantly jostling for number 1 status with a childhood rival.
|# ¿ Mar 26, 2014 00:36|
There are approximately 2 hours remaining for you talentless hacks to sign up.
Write like your lives depend on it, because, for one of you, it does.
|# ¿ Mar 29, 2014 01:54|
Just under 6 hours remain to submit
|# ¿ Mar 30, 2014 22:03|
Hi WeLanded, I just wanted to make sure you knew I was in this week because I didn't see my name on your list. I came in here.
Oh, you are in; you've been in since the day your mother pushed you into this unforgiving world.
Don't disappoint her.
|# ¿ Mar 30, 2014 22:25|
Please note, before you instantly write my story off for breaking the rules, Vantiger Reed isn't the person with the amazing talent, even though he is amazingly talented in his own right. The prompt is fulfilled by both the insect tracker and the bride stealing glazer
Hey yeah, don't do this. Just make with the words.
|# ¿ Mar 30, 2014 23:28|
Just over 4 hours remain to submit.
|# ¿ Mar 30, 2014 23:53|
Less than 2 hours remain to submit.
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2014 02:04|
Approximately 50 minutes remain to submit your story.
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2014 03:06|
Submissions are closed.
I am super loving busy, but I will have a judgement ready within a day or so. Detailed crits will be delayed until the end of the week, however.
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2014 04:01|
Since I am just now starting the reading process, I won't immediately DQ you both.
Don't make me regret this.
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2014 04:18|
RESULTS: THUNDERDOME WEEK LXXXVI
I asked you bozos for talented at being talentless, and while many of you certainly fall into the latter of those two designations, a few stories this week reminded us that some of you actually kind of know what you are doing. We saw a wide variety of talents on display this week, but it seems that whether your character was talented at bleeding for Subway or talented at buttchugging and biking, nearly all the stories this week left some form of bad taste on our palates. Except for HopperUK, who wrote a sweet and sinister fairy tale that seemed to scratch our judging itch the best. She is the winner.
Following up on his heels, we have some honorable mentions for Kaishai and Tyrannosaurus, who both wrote stories about gritty, talented, dudes.
The talentless pile is a degree more muddier. The judges all agreed that we disliked Masonity's attempt at super sleuthing although he will tell you the talented individuals were the bug tracker and the glassmaker so it gets a dishonorable mention. Also in the same boat is Nethilia, for writing a bland, boring, story about playing cards.
ZorajitZorajit wins the special Sebmojo special DM of the week for the worst title and first line combination.
Be happy that you didn't lose outright for making this sloppy pile of garbage.
Finally, the loss this week goes to RunningIntoWalls. Although I don't like the idea of the same person scoring a loss in two consecutive weeks, your story was 1100 words of literally nothing happens, oh my god I am bored, please stop boring me like this. There was no plot, no tension, and no real character to speak of, only the sound of my teeth grinding together as I was forced to read your tripe.
Detailed crits to come later in the week.
HopperUK, the job is yours now, sucker.
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 18:36 on Apr 1, 2014
|# ¿ Apr 1, 2014 18:09|
|# ¿ Jul 1, 2022 05:47|
|# ¿ Apr 1, 2014 18:25|