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Signing up for your best song, please.
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Jun 18, 2014 00:58
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Song: Walk Like an Egyptian Living with the Curse of Married Life 1200 Words Carl traveled halfway around the world to see the Sphinx with his wife, but after three days in Egypt he would have flown all the way back for a proper doughnut. Next week he’d be in Jordan, enduring a visit to Petra. Perhaps they would have a Krispy Kreme there. “Wasn’t it magnificent?” Josie asked, before drawing a deep breath off the hookah they shared. Carl answered with a nod. Truth be told, Carl was unimpressed. If he wanted to see a decaying human form, he could just find a mirror. The cancer was eating away at him with an efficiency that sand and wind simply couldn’t replicate, but this historic landmark tour meant so much to Josie, and he wanted to leave her with some good memories. Carl couldn’t recall how many weeks he had left. Funny, when you are dying all the days blend together. When he thought back, the only real vivid memories Carl could find were not of the traveling he’d done, but rather of the days before the illness, pressing his police uniform the night before work, grilling out on the patio, those were the images that remained. “Carl?” Josie interrupted, “I’m going to the bathroom, okay?” The cantina was a dingy little alcove with faded, mosaic tiled floors and leafy vines stamped across the bottom of the bar. Carl’s table was in a shadowy corner, where the only attention he and Joise would draw was from the waitress. Along the far wall, aged men with face warts and receding hairlines smoked shisha, allowing the thick plumes of smoke to escape their parted lips. Carl wondered if he was staring when one of the oldest men approached him. He sat down at the table without asking. “You’ve come a long way to be here; I can tell. You have a beautiful wife; you are young, so why hide in the darkness?” the man asked. “Am I?” “I understand that you are sick, but is that any reason to act as if you are already dead?” Carl was about to speak before the man raised a hand, a silent gesture urging him to shut up. “It’s eating you alive. It’s clear as the sun,” he said, “but the question is, would you live forever if you had the chance? If the cancer wasn’t wearing away your muscle and bone.” “I’d live as long as she does,” Carl said, gesturing to his wife on the other side of the room. The man smiled. “That’s a good answer,” he said while getting up. He doubled back and rested his hand on Carl’s shoulder, saying, “it was lovely chatting with you.” As he walked away, the old man bumped the table, knocking both Carl and Josie’s drink to the floor. “Don’t worry about that,” the man said with a rotten smile, “someone will take care of you.” Surely enough, moments after the man walked away, a blonde haired waitress that Carl hadn’t seen before brought two fresh drinks for the couple. The drinks seemed stronger than Carl remembered, but the couple didn’t mind, and they drank until the two forgot where their hotel was. Fortunately, the kind old man offered to see them back. *** It awoke on the floor of the hotel suite, hardly able to open it’s crystalline eyes. It expected to see pale skin when it lifted a hand to rub it’s head and nurse the hangover pounding on its smooth skull and instead found a charcoal leather clinging to its bone. It didn’t find the lack of skin and hair upsetting, surprisingly, what it was moved by, however, was the hunger. So it decided to eat. From it’s back, the creature found getting upright to be an impossible task. It’s body had a lightness and fragility that it had never experienced before, but with that came a lack of strength that it had never experienced, not even in illness. It had to stand up, so pushing with its bony palms, grinding the elbow joints into powder, it moved backwards, resting against the couch. This was the first chance it had to see the rest of its decrepit body, with legs as thin as the arms dangling listlessly from its torso. Save for the few wispy hairs on its head, the creature was as smooth as onyx. Grinding its heels as it had its palms, the creature managed to push itself upright, but balance was difficult without meaty heels to stand on. It shambled to the refrigerator and opened it with skeletal fingers. There were beverages and sweeties alike, but it knew that they wouldn’t dent the hunger it felt. It opened the bedroom door with a creak and a moan that escaped its toothless maw when it detected her silhouette. She was what it had been looking for. Josie, it knew. Asleep and under the half sheet only, thanks to the humidity, the creature traced her outline from head to toe. Its gaze lingered on her thighs, expecting to feel a sexual arousal, but instead finding only the hunger gnawing away at its core. She was what it needed, but she was what it refused. With every step and movement, the creature could feel the leather-tight skin on its bones pulling and stretching to the ripping point, but the pain in its extremities was nothing compared to the pain of turning away from what would finally sate the call. Still it did, and with each uncoordinated step, the call grew louder until it closed the door, leaving a smear of bonedust against its beige surface. The creature hoped that the distance and barrier separating it from Josie would enough to discourage it from going back into the room and tearing and biting her to appease the ravenous desire, but it wasn’t. It knew that on the other side of a thin door was the one thing that would bring it peace, but it loved her once, and it knew that the only way to keep her safe was to get away. Its bony hand lingered on the doorknob. “Carl?” Josie called. The creature turned around and Josie began to scream. It wanted to apologize to her. It wanted to console her. It wanted to love her once again, but the only feeling within the dryrotten being was the desire to consume. The hotel room was small, and with all of the tacky, faux Egyptian furnishings, cornering the beauty in the matchbox bathroom was easy. The creature collapsed at the edge of the bathtub where Joise was contained. Running its cracked and splintered fingers over her body once more, its hands didn’t stop where they had hundreds of times before. This time they lingered on her neck. Its thumb bones were sharp like little daggers, and the cloth wrapped around them, nonabsorbent. So when it punctured her delicate neck, spooning the blood into its mouth was difficult. As it did, the hunger faded slightly, then all at once as the young woman expired in the porcelain tub, and when Josie crossed that dark precipice, the creature did the same. The authorities would find the beautiful corpse covered in a fine powder, but the kind old man knew.
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Jun 23, 2014 03:23
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Gau posted:Around the World Brawl: WeLandedOnTheMoon! vs. Broenheim So I wrote 2000 words on this thing, and was done yesterday night. Care to revise the due date, or should I go ahead and post now?
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Jun 26, 2014 01:52
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Nothing to see here, just double posting.
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Jun 26, 2014 02:46
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Gau posted:Dude, just post it. With the forums going SNAFU, we're going to have to be flexible. The Kabaddi Raider’s Path (~2000 words) It started with the rich, hungry men, as most incredible things do, in their floor seats and silk shirts; then it spread to their discontent and beautiful wives, who only knew that something special was happening based on the sole occupation of their husband’s faces. Then it spread a few rows up, to the ignorant men more interested in those women than the showman who had just crossed the midfield line. In moments, the silence climbed to the starry top of Punjab stadium as Duleep Bhatt drew a single deep breath and eyed Omio, the man he would soon destroy. Hell They met in a trash pile during a time when Duleep and Omio’s fists were only slightly larger than the apricot pits and crumpled paper that they sorted. He didn’t know where Omio came from, but it didn’t matter, because the glass bulb was pristine. Its base was uncorroded, filament, perfect, and when the boys looked into its surface they saw each other, distended and warped with clenched fists. They were fighters. Duleep was first to the prize, but unfortunate to hold the glass in the palm of his hand. Omio held the corkscrew bottom. “Finders keepers!” Duleep shouted. “Saw it first!” Omio demanded. In the years that would follow, both would disagree about whether Duleep squeezed too hard, or whether Omio shoved the glass into his palm. Regardless, when the momentary melee was finished, Duleep was bleeding out. Omio wasn’t a murderer yet, but the child was scared and ran away like a child does. Duleep collapsed into the pile of filth, and in the process found something sharp piercing the fragile skin of his back. By the time his father found him, the bleeding had slowed to a thick, syrupy, seeping. There was time for him. There was a time for a beating first. Duleep “cost the family” with his, “reckless behavior,” his father told him nightly. So, for every day that Duleep didn’t dig, for every day he let his weakness contain him to the tin shack they occupied, he spent a night without food, and he spent the night under his father’s drunken fist. Children grow quickly and perversely under a heavy hand, so one night, when his father had spent an especially long time in the Sonti hut before his nightly visit, Duleep left in the darkness. The following days were wasted under the blistering sun as Duleep walked until he no longer recognized the buildings or faces dotting his path. He found an alley to sleep in, and managed to scavenge enough scraps to stay living from the rancid disposals of the houses nearby. At nights he would lay and think about Omio and his father, unsure of whom to blame more for his troubles. He finally settled on Omio, reasoning that he could have met his father’s expectations, even if they were unfair, if it hadn’t been for the evil child. Duleep fantasized about what he would do if he ever saw Omio again. Preta Duleep spent those first weeks hungrier than he’d ever been before. One evening, he considered picking up the very trash he sorted through and eating it just to calm his raging gut. It was just as he eyed the plastic bits that Duleep could have sworn he saw Omio on the distance. So he gave chase, and the boy ran, and as Duleep chased the specter the throbbing in his back and wrist faded away. He was lost in the hunt, like a panther, and when the gangly beanpole tripped cutting a corner of the ramshackle houses too close, Duleep caught him. He was swinging before his knees slammed into the rough dirt, and by the time the two stopped their slide, leaving a heavy trail dug into the caked mud, the boy’s blood was heavy on Duleep’s hand. He was going to take a fistful of the boys hair and ears, when he was shoved off by someone new. Even through the mangled nose, Duleep could see the familial roots in the boy’s nose and jawline. His prey had a brother, much larger and older than Duleep. The bloody child ran to his guardian and held his hand. In a solo fight, it was clear that Duleep would leave the child and broken wreck, but in the company of the bigger and faster, he developed an unfounded confidence. However, Duleep was not deterred; the sounds of the child’s squeals were still ringing in his ears. He took the stance that came naturally, and taking care to not let the two hinge shut on him like a trap, Duleep fired a bullet-kick to the brother’s ankle. “Mader chod!” the brother hollered as he collapsed. As quickly as he fired that first kick, Duleep sent a second punch to the little one. “Children,” a heavyset man interjected, “the world is hard enough, don’t fight each other.” Duleep got in another good blow before the man grabbed him by the shoulder. Animal He called himself The Ploughman, “because,” he told Duleep, “I take little animals like you and train them to use their aggression. I’ll take you in, and put you to work, a man’s work. What do you say, little Paśu?” If it meant not sleeping in the alley anymore, Duleep would have sliced his thigh from hip to knee and paid The Ploughman in flesh. Duleep soon found him paying with flesh in other ways, as The Ploughman trained the boy to work, and sweat, and he would have trained him to bleed as well, but he knew his little Paśu could do that already. In his first fight, Duleep recoiled when thrown into the center of the crown, a tiny circular pit where the men would gamble and watch the fights. Paśu lost that first battle. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” The Ploughman said, “I bet on the other one.” After more training, Duleep was fighting again. Again he lost, and again The Ploughman told his little Paśu that all was well. Duleep swore that he would cause The Ploughman’s pocketbooks to bleed, and sure enough, he did during the very next fight, when he imagined that his opponent was little Omio. The Ploughman didn’t wager against him after that fight. Human Paśu slammed the Sonti jug against the counter with a belch, another victim, another victory, another stack of rupees to line his mattress. Reaching as he would for a new bottle, Paśu wrapped a sinewy arm around the waist of one of the new girls. The new place he began to visit always had the best women, and Paśu liked the way this one’s rear end felt against his hard muscle. He pulled her onto his lap. What a life little Paśu had grown for himself on the backs of his knotty, broken knuckles in this fertile world. Here, with a belly full of food, a bottle full of drink, and this beauty, his for the night, he was the ploughman. It was grand, wasn’t it? Paśu wondered what the old man was up to now that he was without him. Then he wondered if The Ploughman had regained his ability to walk yet. Paśu really went to town on the man’s legs when he discovered just how badly he was being screwed. Still, the man had discovered him and taught him how to turn his gifts into gold, so he stayed at the knees or lower, just rough enough to make sure the old man wouldn’t follow when Paśu left for Delhi. Had pussy always made Paśu this reflective? gently caress, he needed some more to drink. She was a good lay, and Paśu had half expected to wake up still inside of her. She was far better than the others, he knew, despite the difficulty in comparing the blurred stable of physical conquests immediately afterwards. That was a just-started-drinking-activity, and what Paśu needed most was sleep. He awoke on the floor, blanketed by the wet canvas of his gutted mattress. Every last rupee was gone. The kutti. What was her name again? Paśu thought for a moment, brushing aside the damp cloth. Then it came to him. It didn’t matter, it was early. She couldn’t have gone far. The night was such a blur that Paśu found it even difficult to remember her face, only her covered areas remained in the fog of his addled brain. So Paśu did the only logical thing he could; he went back to that red light district and looked for the shapeliest rear end walking Garstin Bastion Road. After hours of searching, Paśu understood that he was walking a fool’s errand. Still, he continued to walk in until he reached the river Jamuna. There, against the surface of the water like reflecting glass, Paśu’s vision caught sight of a baptism, men locked arm in arm in the water. He approached the men. “Good afternoon,” Paśu said. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping that you men might be able to provide me with some spiritual guidance.” One of the men spoke up with a laugh. “Well,” he said, “I’d be happy to instruct you in the six domains; however, I am not sure if the voice of a kabaddi raider is the most godly.” As he finished, one of the man’s partners, struck him with an open palm in a snakebite slap. Immediately, the raider and one of the men he held hands with tried to snatch up the offender, but the offender cut the water like a canoe and successfully escaped the pursuit. Paśu began to leave the men with their game. “You,” the raider called. “I owe you a slap for the one I was just given. Take off your nice shirt and shoes, and leave them on the river bank. You won’t need them.” Paśu held his breath. Asura Duleep emerged from the water and knew that even in that short afternoon, he was one of them; he was a kabaddi man. In the days and weeks to follow, Duleep understood the call of the kabaddi. He was a natural. When he stepped across the half-court line, if Duleep was facing two defenders or less, he was guaranteed the point. He struggled against three; after all, three versus one is hardly a fair fight, but Duleep drank the challenge like the liquor he had long forgotten in the cupboards of his apartment. None of the women he chased were as difficult as a raider who had successfully made the tag and were steps away from getting him out. He stopped wearing the nice clothes he purchased; the delicate fabric couldn’t hold under the grip and pull of an attacker. One evening, after the Delhi Dervish Kabaddi Raiders had secured another win, Duleep was met by an official man in official clothing. The India National Team needed him. The Blissful State Duleep steadied his trembling foot against the turf before starting the attack. Was it Omio? Was Omio Bangladeshi? The man had the darkness in Omio’s eyes and cheeks, but Duleep couldn’t be sure. Not after so long. It didn’t matter. There was a job to do. Duleep danced to the man, initiating a game of will he or won’t he with his right and left feet. Duleep preferred to make contact with his foot, even if it meant being less able to escape the pursuit. The game lasted seconds, but the burning in his chest, the oxygen within fading away, made it feel like much longer. He slapped out with his left, catching the man on his cheek. Duleep backed up and turned, but he was caught like a child running with stolen candy. In the moments it took for him to tumble to the sod, Duleep knew by the grip along his wrist that he had found a friend after a long journey. The impact caused the air to rush from his lungs. The game was over. “Kabaddi. Kabaddi. Kabaddi,” he praised through his exhalation.
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Jun 26, 2014 04:11
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Signing up to post my 6th sense fan fiction.
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Jun 26, 2014 14:33
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Life Outside of The Eggshell 900 words I blindly pawed up the length of my arm for the rubber hoses that should have been keeping me asleep, but the stench, like fire within my nostrils, was enough to destroy all sense of priority. Like having rose and lilac packed into my nasal cavity; it was enough to wake me from my chemical sleep. So with the snapping of tubing ringing in my ear like a gunshot, I pulled away from the bed. I could feel the blood running down my forearm like two racehorses. “Lisa!” I screamed through panicked snorts. “She isn’t here yet, Ivan,” Timothy informed me through the intercom. I collapsed to the smooth, cool, floor. “What is that awful smell?” I asked. “You can’t identify it?” “Now’s not the time for a god damned quiz show, Tim. I know what Geraniol and Linalool it is; thats elementary identification. Who brought it in?” I heard the whirring of air compressors pick up in the distance, and the flood of lilac and rose began to wash away in the neutral air filling The Eggshell. Suddenly, my vision returned. “The intern had on some perfume, but I sent her home already, Ivan. I’ve also maxed out the air scrubbers to clear the air for you. Lisa should be here in a few. I’ll send her in.” For the first time I noticed the slight gravel and nasal tones to his voice. They were new to the morning. “Thank you,” I said, “and Tim, plan on taking tomorrow off. I can hear you getting sick. Sounds like the flu. Want me to check a sample?” “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” *** Lisa had been my client manager and personal handler for the past month. She caught me cleaning the blood from the floor when she exited sanitation. “You’re up early, why aren’t you still hooked up to the SIM?” She asked while gesturing to the Slumber Induction Machine. “Weird morning,” I said. “It’s about to get weirder.” she told me, “Your first client wants to come in for a face to face.” “Tell him no. You know the rules.” “She is already in sanitation.” “Turn it off,” I demanded. “It’s Tessie.” “I am not helping Tessie.” *** Tessie always looked nice in green. “Thanks for helping me, Ivan; my sister is very grateful.” Back when we both worked for the NYPD, Tessie was the first person I turned to when I lost all feeling in my body. I remember tripping over my own feet as I ran to the diagnostics lab, and a sound as audible as ripping paper, my own ripping skin, as I cut my elbow on the floor. After Tessie brought me a cup of coffee to calm my deadened nerves, I could taste the clove, toffee, and chocolate flavor notes like they were ingredients strewn across her lab table. Six months later, after the final papers were signed with Reynolds Medical, I turned in my badge and opened The Eggshell, a diagnostics lab that was faster and more accurate than any hospital, because it had me. Soon after, I took to living there; New York is a loud, bright, stinky place, and my condition made tolerating it nearly impossible. Tessie was my handler for the next four years, assisting me both clerically and, when my condition would leave me senseless, personally. In our free time she taught me chemistry. Those were good years; then she just upped and left. “Of course. Lisa,” I asked, “would you mind?” She nodded and took her exit. I turned back to Tessie. “What do have for me?” I could hear her heart racing in her chest as she removed the samples. “Blood. Hair. Saliva.” “What symptoms does Erin have?” “Vomiting, diarrhea, aches, and most recently, hair loss.” I reached across the consultation table and held her hand. “Why did you leave?” Her skin lacked the warmth and resilience that I had come to know. “I can’t talk about this right now, Ivan. I’m here for my sister. Please don’t make this any more personal than it already is.” I looked into her eyes, noticing a slight yellowing to the whites around her china blue. “Before I help you, I have to know. I’m sorry Tessie, but it has to be this way.” She slid away from the table. “This is it Ivan. This is why. Right here. You can be so short and stubborn and rude. That’s why I don’t want to be around you anymore.” I marched over and slapped her. It was light hit, but the impact felt like slamming my hand in a car door. Blood trickled from her nose to her pink lips, and I kissed them. The taste was distinctive. I had to ruin the breathless moment; “Radiation poisoning,” I whispered, “I’m sorry.” One just doesn’t acquire radiation poisoning, damnit. *** I thought about that afternoon as I adjusted my funeral suit a week later. Lisa looked nice in black. “Ready to experience life outside of The Eggshell?” She asked. The plan was to lose them right before the service started. With the help of some old contacts at the precinct, I’d be drat near untraceable by the time the reception started. I had saved quite a bit of money over the years, and I intended on spending every cent on finding the bastard that did this and making them pay. “Let’s go, Lisa.”
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Jun 30, 2014 04:27
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Jul 1, 2014 02:31
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Signing up! *** Taj "Coyotaje" Clinton is a tall, thin, and handsome man who is never caught without his Australian outback hat and aviator shades. When he was six, Taj started his smuggling career under the tutelage of his father. For the next twenty years, he smuggled narcotics and people across the Mexican boarder for the Los Zetas cartel. He eventually started using what he was smuggling, taking a cut here or there where the Zetas wouldn't notice. Someone did, because the last thing Taj remembers about his smuggling career is that night that when he was hauling cocaine and migrants through South Texas. The slapjack to the head. Waking up in the desert. Everything gone. Taj knew that the Zetas would be looking for him, so he went into hiding and got sober, except for the two packs of cigarettes he smoked daily. He had a kid of his own, Melinda, and although the marriage was short, Taj was happy. That was thirteen years ago. Thirteen days ago, Taj received a call from a voice he knew, but didn't know. The Los Zetas have Melinda, but promised to keep her safe for fourteen days. They'd even forgive his debt, but after that, "there are no promises anymore." The only way Taj will ever see his daughter again is by apprehending the man known only as Domingo Silver and returning him to the Zetas. He's tracked Silver to Los Grano D'oro. "Person for person," they promised, "on our honor." He'll hold them to it. *** (I am also looking for one or two people for character crossovers. Or, if someone even wants to write Domingo Silver, that would be quite fun. Lastly, I would love to kill your character, so hit me up via PM or in IRC if any of those interest you.)
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Jul 1, 2014 19:53
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Fanky Malloons posted:
I'd like to use this character in my story.
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Jul 4, 2014 19:59
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Midnight Purple 1500 Words He’s been driving up and down the same dockside avenue for forty minutes because there’s some bad men at home with Melinda. They have bullets and belt straps, and the creative, angry minds to put them to good use if they don’t get what they want. --- One Week Earlier His trailer home was a mess of glass and splinters. Not a surface was intact, minus a single end table in the center of it all. A cellphone sat atop it, propped against the photo of his daughter from the bedroom.There was only one number saved in the directory. He called it. “Mr. Clinton. Taj Clinton. You know we never forgot about you.” “I do now,” he said. “And you probably know that we have your daughter.” “It appears so.” “You move people for a living, Coyotaje,” he told him, “so find the man named Domingo Silver and move him here. Then you get your girl and the debt you owe is forgiven.” He took a drag from his cigarette. “An even trade?” “On our honor.” --- The bad man couldn’t tell him where Domingo Silver is, but Taj knows the he can be found somewhere in Los Grano D’oro. A man like Silver has a way of attracting bad poo poo, and since bad poo poo happens at the docks, this is where he starts. Taj pulls into an alley to adjust the volume on his police scanner when there’s a knock at the window. His hand’s on the Beretta that lives on his hip. There’s a blonde girl behind the glass, and she gets so close when she talks that the window fogs. “Heya mister,” she asks while chomping on a glob of bubblegum, “I lost my daddy. Can you help me find him?” Her finger is tipped in cherry red and matches the bows in her pigtails. She draws a heart in the condensation. “Get in,” Taj tells her. The girl walks around the front of his Challenger in a playful half-skip that sends her skirt swishing and gives Taj a peek at what’s underneath. She wants to look thirteen, Melinda’s age, but her body language betrays her. It’s all too practiced, a characterization only convincing to the deluded pedophiles she’s trying to attract. She gets in and takes a schoolgirl posture, back arched, legs crossed high on her thigh so her skirt hem creeps higher and higher. “So, what’s your name, daddy?” she asks before blowing another bubble. She reaches over, heading for the zipper on his denim but eyeing the gun in his holster, but Taj is fast and draws on her. “My name is don’t loving try it. What’s yours?” The girl breaks character and slouches in her seat. “The name’s Honey, now what do you want?” “Information.” “Information is just as expensive as a gently caress,” she says. He begins to tell her that she can gently caress right off, but the police scanner announces that a man matching Silver’s description just took out half a SWAT unit. He’s on foot, heading north on Eighth Street. Taj floors it. The girl just has to come with. *** Out of all the animals Taj has tracked, humans leave some of the biggest, bloodiest, prints. He explains it to the girl while they follow the trail that ends at a dusty cathedral. He also explains to her how she is going to help him catch Silver. First, Taj makes Honey lower her loving skirt and gives her a jacket to cover up; he smears off her makeup with his sleeve. “Next,” he says, “go do the lost little girl bit, only don’t act like you want to suck his dick.” He produces a wad of bills. “Then you get this.” When Honey enters, she doesn’t skip or swing her rear end; she just drags her feet and tells him that she’s scared. He’s tells her not to get too close, but she cries and runs into his arms anyway. These aren’t the I’ve-been-a-bad-girl-so-spank-me-harder tears that Taj expects; they’re the real deal. She even sobs. That’s when Taj grabs what black hair he can and bounces the man’s face off of the pew. The man’s nose is pouring blood, but he still finds the strength to get up. An electric crackling fills the space between the floor and the fresco ceiling. Taj throws a haymaker, but the man catches it and sweeps the legs from under him. “You think I am an animal for you to hunt, Coyotaje?” the man asks through gritted teeth. Elmo lifts his foot high, ready to stomp, when a thud overtakes the crackling air. Elmo’s eyes roll back into his head, and he topples over. Behind him is Honey with a pair of brass knuckles. She reaches out with those cherry tipped fingers and helps Taj up. He searches the man’s mouth for a signature silver tooth, and when he finds it, he handcuffs the big man, tapes his mouth, and moves him to the trunk of Taj’s Challenger. There’s also a briefcase that gets tossed in the backseat. Taj gives Honey her money. Then she knucks him for good measure. When Taj wakes, he doesn’t bother to look for Honey. She’s gone, and so is El Camino that was parked in the back lot. His money’s gone too, but she’s left everything else where it belongs. There’s also a big smooch on Taj’s cheek, left with her pink lipstick, which he fails to notice. On his way back home, the phone with only one contact begins to ring. There’s a big man on the other end making an even bigger promises. A man named Walt has hosed up, and if Taj deals with the Walt situation, Mr. Big will ensure that the Zetas stay honorable. Taj cuts a u-turn across the median; the night’s young, afterall. *** Walt’s house has already had a once over by some goons. There’s a Honda out front with slashed tires and the front door’s been kicked in. Taj finds a half-packed suitcase in the middle of the bedroom. Walt must have run out the back door. Underneath the bed is a laptop marked with a cracked bootprint. The screen’s been shattered, but a single panel of the fractured glass still works. Walt had just purchased a bus ticket when the goons showed up. There’s only one bus station in town and only one bus leaving before sunup. Taj catches Walter there, standing in a line with his little backpack, ready to say goodbye to Los Grano D’Oro and hello to Montpelier. If Taj hesitates, even for a moment, Walter is going to board the vehicle and Taj is going to have to kill a whole busload of people. He has neither the patience nor bullets to do so, instead he revs the engine, pops the curb, and puts five rounds through Walter’s Hawaiian shirt, dotting the yellow pattern in red splotches. Taj steps on the gas and pushes the car as fast as it will go. He calls Mr. Big and tells him the job is done, but right before he hangs up, the rearview mirror lights up in blue and red. Someone at the station must have gotten his plate. Taj drives fast, weaving through alleys and side streets while Mr. Big tells him where to go. Taj hears Silver sliding around in the trunk. There’s a movie executive named Brückenau and he’s going to make it all disappear. At one point, Taj nearly splatters a Chinese girl on rollerblades. His car is still suped up to outrun border patrol and anti immigrant militiamen, so he manages to lose the cops, even if he also loses his driver’s side mirror, rear bumper, and a good deal of paint in the process. When he pulls on to the lot, Taj is directed to park on a city-street set. With all the cameras and actors, it’s clear that the set is live. There’s an overweight man sweating through his shirt and barking orders; Taj figures him to be his problem solver. Taj exits the vehicle while calling his contact with the Zetas. He wishes he could tell him that things went bad, explain, but he hasn’t the trust nor time, so he bluffs and mentions Mr. Big, and he tells the Zetas that he will kill Silver. Taj doesn’t let the man respond. “And if you lay a loving finger on my daughter,” he says, “I’ll do to each of you what I’m about to do to Domingo Silver.” Taj turns on video conferencing, pops the trunk, and leaves the camera squared right on the man the Zetas want. He slams the lid. “Thanks,” Taj said as he hands the fat man the set of keys, “owe you one.” Taj lights a smoke as he walks towards the street. There’s a bounty out there that needs cashing in and more people he plans on visiting.
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Jul 7, 2014 03:43
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Signing up to fight in this glorious war.
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Jul 7, 2014 17:36
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Teddybear posted:While I'm thinking about it what's the legend on the roster screen you put up? The dots and colors and stuff. Wins, losses, HMs, DMs
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Jul 8, 2014 04:21
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Meinberg posted:On the Matter of WLOTM  A Message to Meinberg100 Words Meinberg, I am not writing this for extra words, because I don’t need them. I am writing this to warn you. You may as well just not submit; that’s the safe thing. You won’t embarrass yourself by not submitting, because there is nothing embarrassing about passing on a fight that you won't win. For you, this isn’t about victory or defeat. This is about survival. Is it wrong for a trout to stay under the waterline as a hawk circles overhead? No, it’s smart. So go on, gather your token phrases; make your outline. They won’t save you. I’m coming.
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Jul 13, 2014 05:46
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Gau posted:No. Sithsaber posted:Pps. Briiing it! I will judge this. Prompt is imminent.
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Jul 14, 2014 02:23
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Thunderbrawl: Gau vs. Sithsaber in Holiday Road Word Limit: 2000 Due Date: Tuesday, July 22nd  So it is summertime, and the living is most definitely easy. The ice cream man is making his rounds. The waves are lapping at my pale toes. I've just had my first kiss under the boardwalk, but my summer is not complete. No, not until I have had a roadtrip. Unfortunately, money is a little tight this year. Dad just got laid off  . So I have to live vicariously through you two. By Tuesday, July 22nd, I want no more than 2000 words about a roadtrip. Keep in mind that this is a summer adventure, and I expect it to be appropriately adventurous. There is, of course, a catch. I choose your destination. Each of you must respond to my post by telling me where your summertime adventure will begin, and I will tell you where you are heading. You do not have to actually make it to your destination; however, if you don't make it, there you better have a drat compelling reason why. I am going to make my roadtrip playlist, so get writing. Sithsaber's Funky Trip: Orlando, Florida -> The Grand Canyon National Park Gau's Strange Adventure: Reno, Nevada -> Cedar Point Amusement Park a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 04:45 on Jul 14, 2014 |
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Jul 14, 2014 03:11
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Sithsaber posted:I start off in Orlando, Florida.  Your destination is the Grand Canyon National Park. a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 04:43 on Jul 14, 2014 |
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Jul 14, 2014 03:27
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Your Friend in Vietnam 1200 Words My father taught me how to be a man. He taught me to learn. He taught me to wait. He taught me to kill. I learned to hunt from my father. “Kevin,” he would tell me as we rode in his creaky pickup to the hunting grounds, “learning to hunt is learning to live. I tracked and killed my first bear when I was ten, and I’ve hunted my own food since I was eight. When I was nineteen, I hunted your mother too. Only difference is I didn’t need birdshot to get her.” He told me that story every time we made the drive. The first time I killed a deer, I cried. I had been taught what to expect; father did a good job, but I cried. You can’t prepare to watch life fade away. I didn’t fire a rifle again until I was twelve. The next time I went hunting, I was with my friend Michael. We spent the day in a treestand, sipping sodas, and I killed another deer. That night, instead of crying by the fire with Michael, we kissed. I’m not sure how it happened. There were others after him, and they always just happened, like a summer rainstorm you don’t expect. There’s a feeling in the air. Then a crack. The next thing you know, your clothes are soaked but it doesn’t even bother you; you are just so relieved to be out of the sun. I’d been in many storms over the next eight years, but none brought me as much relief as Michael. We’d never talk about it at home. In fact, kissing Michael was terrible for our friendship. Back in Aroostook County, we were acquaintances at best. We didn’t talk in church. We didn’t tryout for the same teams in school. We weren’t. But every June we made that same trip to the woodlands. I could only imagine his bewilderment when I wrote to him during that frostbitten February. We need to talk. Bring the equipment, the letter read. *** I climbed from the cab of my pickup, careful to pull the notice from above my visor. It had been folded there for days. “Thanks for coming,” I told him while grabbing the gear from my truck. His stubble was coming through under his shaggy brown sideburns. He nodded. “Ready to go?” He nodded again, and we were off into the birches. Michael carried his gear on his back: a hunting tripod, blinds, rifle and ammunition, a tent to sleep in, food, water. I could tell from his hunch and gait that it weighed on him. My bag was lighter, but still it was heavy. “Want some help?” I asked, but Michael shrugged the question off. As we walked deeper and deeper into the woods, I clutched the letter in my pocket. He looked so mournful, like someone walking to their death. Only the sounds of crunching of leaves and snapping twigs cut the unbearable silence. “How’s Betty?” I asked foolishly. He stopped and dropped his bag with a shrug. “Jesus Christ, Kevin.” He closed the distance between us with heavy stomps, each more menacing than the last. “What kind of loving question is that? How’s Betty doing? Probably significantly worse if she knew that I was about to gently caress some guy in the woods.” He stroked my cheek with his beaten workman’s hands. I had grown my winter beard thick that year, but still his touch felt good. “Betty’s fine. I’d prefer to keep her that way.” “That was a stupid question,” I admitted. “Yeah.” “Look, if you want to leave, you don’t have to be here. Go. I’ll see you around town, and we can go back to nonexistence. Your decision.” “I’m here, aren’t I?” he asked. “Yeah.” “So shut up and walk.” We continued to walk in silence until our campsite was just visible on the horizon. “Hold on,” I said as I rummaged through my bag before producing my father’s old, rusty, beartrap. I staked it into the ground and opened the iron jaws. “We don’t trap,” Michael said. “I do this trip.” We enjoyed dinner by sunset. The campfire ripped and popped with a carefree abandon, and it lit Michael in the warm glow that I always saw in him. We sat close to each other and the fire, and I don’t know which warmed me more. I took his hand. “What are we doing, Kevin?” he asked. “I miss you.” “You see me all the time.” “Don’t be stupid. When are we going to stop and just be upfront with everyone?” His lips, those lips I’ve felt change and grow and love me, his lips formed that downturned look of disgust I’d seen before, in the moments after the moments we’d spend in his tent. “That can’t happen,” he said. “Wouldn’t you want it to?” “I’ve got a girlfriend, Kevin,” He said, “and as much as it pains you-” “it’s good, I know-” “Yeah, it is good.” He allowed himself to smile in that way that he only could at our hunting grounds. “You know. Maybe I’m the reason this works. Maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s Betty or you. Maybe I’m just that good.” I smiled back and pretended his comment didn’t hurt. “Well,” I said as I removed the frayed letter from my pocket, “you will have plenty of time to figure out if it is just you. You’ll have plenty of time to spend with Betty, or anyone else for that matter.” “What’s this?” I pressed the letter into his hand, not allowing him to open it. “I got picked.” “Picked?” “Selected.” His eyes took on a glassy look as he read by the firelight. It wasn’t his fault; he didn’t put my social security number into the lottery machine, or my face on the dartboard. He didn’t pick me, but maybe that’s why I was upset. Here I was, picked by the United States government, but never picked and by the man I loved. I could feel the heat behind my eyes and the water building on their forefront. “So you will have lots of time to spend with Betty. In a few months, I’ll be a distant memory. I’ll be your friend in Vietnam.” I stood up, not knowing where I was planning on going, just that I needed to walk. “Wait,” Michael said, catching my waist. “What are you going to do?” “What is there to do?” We stood there for a moment, just us and the trees, the fire and the moon, and the kiss I’d used to mark my year. I shoved him away. Funny thing about the night and passion is that they both obscure your vision. Did I forget that I had staked the bear trap close to camp? Did I miss it in the leaves and darkness? I would never tell. I can only remember the feeling of my bones breaking under the serrated teeth, the tearing of muscle and flesh, and the feeling of Michael leaving all his bags behind to carry me back. I knew, even then, that I’d lose the foot. I knew I’d be staying home.
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Jul 14, 2014 04:29
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Gau posted:Sounds good to me.  Your destination is Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio.
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Jul 14, 2014 04:41
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systran posted:
Not working here either. I downloaded hexchat and had to reteach myself to IRC.
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Jul 15, 2014 00:34
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BINGO
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Jul 15, 2014 04:57
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I'd really love it if you wouldn't mind "filling" my "free space," Tyrannosaurus. Heh.
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Jul 15, 2014 20:07
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 (Bros, Moral Authority, Ragtime, Lovecraftian, Told in a Pub) The Groom's Reflection 1202 words “It’s not something that Yanks do.” Kate warned him. “The night before a girl’s wedding day, her friends come and kidnap her. They take her from pub to pub while the groom has to track her down.” “That doesn’t sound like much fun for the groom.” Jack said. “Well it gets worse,” she said with a kiss. “The groom has to pay the girls’ tab.” “In each pub?” “In every pub.” She winked. *** Jack thought about that conversation as Roland paid the barkeep at The Cock and Hen. The Hen had always been good to Jack, good for a laugh, good for a bite. This was the place where he and Kate met, and she had always been a traditional girl. Traditional Christian wedding, traditional customs, she insisted on them from day one. So it came as a surprise to Jack when his traditional girl didn’t choose the traditional hiding spot. Roland set a stack of bills over the bill. This is why you’re my best man, big brother.” Jack said. “Where now?” his brother asked. “The Blue Bench,” Jack announced, and the two were off into the bitter evening’s wind. After a few blocks, Jack noticed a foreign window’s warm glow melting the frozen air. Jack could hear the rabble of laughter and music inside. An etched sign hung over the entrance. The Looking Glass Inn. “Has this always been here?” Jack asked. Roland shrugged his shoulders and held the door open and said, “a place you’ve never heard of would be a good place to hide.” The room was awash in dark, glossy wood, bronze trim, and beautiful people. A man sat in the far corner, playing a ragtime song on an old piano. His suit was darker than even the black night outside. A massive ornamental mirror lined the bar wall, unobstructed by any bottles of spirits, while an old man fled to a back room to mix and pour the drinks. Jack bumped into a woman on his way to the bar. Instinctively, he swung his arm around her delicate back, his other hand grabbing hers, keeping her from toppling over. Her ivory skin was flawless against the violet of her top. “Pardon me,” he said. Jack and Roland saddled into the two seats. “Help you?” The barkeep asked. Jack opened his wallet, flashing a picture of Kate. “I’m looking for my fiance. Have you seen her?” The man squinted and adjusted his glasses. “I’ve seen her around.” He said. “Let me make you a drink.” Jack stared into the mirror as he scanned the room for Kate, unable to find her in the crowd. He didn’t have time for a drink, not tonight. But the ragtime song bouncing around the room was intoxicating. Whenever his thoughts strayed to grabbing Roland, getting up, and leaving, they were lost in the springy tempo. The man set a pint in front of Roland before doing the same for Jack. “Enjoy.” Jack and Roland nursed their glasses as the bartender disappeared behind his station. “Think,” Roland said, “tomorrow you will be a married man, joined in an unbreakable union before god, your friends, your family.” “Are you trying to scare me like you used to?” Jack asked. Roland could only smile. Jack took a sip. “Okay, let’s go. I’ve got a bride to find,” but Roland was gone. Jack looked up just in time to see him disappear into the restroom. He got up to follow. But there was the piano again. The man in black played a flourish on the keys before starting a new song, and Jack sat back down; there was a fresh pint in front of him. The pianist began to sing, and Jack fell back into the mirror’s gaze. This life is very sad to me, a sorrow fills my heart My story I will tell to you, from me my love did part The village church bell sadly tolled, the one I loved had died She was a treasure more than gold when she was by my side. Jack didn’t notice the dingy film crawling over the mirror, nor did he notice the fraying of the stool underneath him, nor the change that swallowed the room entire. He only noticed her. The woman in violet. Dancing, laughing, drinking. The most beautiful woman in the world. She looked into the mirror, her eyes meeting his. “Jack!” she called, flashing a smile of grey and rotting teeth; it was an inviting smile. He wanted to kiss it. He wanted to know her. “I’m sorry. I think you have me mistaken for another.” The woman approached, placing her arm around his shoulder. “Jack, you found me,” she said before leaning into his ear and whispering. “Was it really that easy?” She leaned in, and Jack could feel her sweating through her top, a thick goo that clung to his fingers. “I’ve missed you,” Jack said as he caressed her blemished face; he wanted to take her away to some back room. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice squeal like a gutted pig. Roland? Jack rose from his seat, but the violet woman grabbed and dipped him before thrusting her forked tongue into his mouth. Good. It would be happy with Roland. When the barman returned with another drink, Jack couldn’t wait to finish the consummation. The man held his bloody orifices over the pint glass, topping the strange drinks off. Jack wanted to let her ravage him in the pianist’s hellfire music, but the drink came first. It was the natural order. Then he’d strap himself to the lid of the piano and- This wasn’t right. Jack shoved the violet witch away and threw his drink to the floor. He stormed out of the pub and into the warm air, back to his barstool, and took his drink. “Wait-” Jack declared. His violet lover sat next to him, cutting the skin of his back with her gritty black nails. He stared into the mirror again as the pianist sang. But now she's gone beyond recall, in a silent tomb she sleeps The one I love yet best of all has left me here to weep Though death so ruthless stole my love, my dear and only Grace I've yet a treasure in this world: a picture of her face. When Jack returned to himself, all of the patrons were gone. Only the barkeep, a wrinkled featureless man with a face as smooth as an eggshell, and the pianist, still playing his song, remained. “Yes,” the barman creaked through a lipless mouth, “I have seen your fiance.” He pointed a wrecked finger to the collapsed stairwell in the corner of the dusty room. “Right up there. She’s been waiting.” Jack looked up through the dilapidated ceiling into the violet sky. The bloodmoon hung pregnant over the world, and Jack felt it all slipping away again as he stared into the mirror. “Sir,” the barkeep said, “Your fiance and her friends reserved a room upstairs. Congratulations. You’ve found her.” The pub erupted in applause. He smiled and checked the groom’s reflection in the mirror. He could hear the dirges already.
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Jul 21, 2014 02:36
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Sign up post.
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Jul 22, 2014 17:09
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Holiday Road Brawl Crits Gau: There wasn't much that I loved about your story; however, you did make a thoughtful attempt to reflect the nature of a roadtrip through your structure. It didn't work for me, but I understand the decision. Also, I liked the undercurrent of tension, even if the ending was too ambiguous. You could have spent more time with this. Sithsaber: To reduce the chance that you will reply in thread, please see your comments in the doc. I will say that you need to work on a few basic things, but you have the potential to be a fine writer if you choose. By virtue of writing an actual story, as opposed to a character study, Gau wins.
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Jul 23, 2014 19:08
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The Alchemist's Spire 1200 words The Stone Death arrived on a whisper. For some, it was the gentle chatter of rolling leaves on the forest floor, or the lonely crying of an unlatched gate swinging free. For others, it was the bluster and pomp of the wind ripping through an alleyway. It was a feeling that every man and woman knew, the feeling wind on his face and the dread that came with it. Aaron remembered the day that they grey tide swallowed him. The snow had been falling for days, coming in heavy, wet flakes that pounded against the windows of Aaron’s room. He had been locked up for so long, watched by the servants and chefs and his sisters. They all warned him. Nobody was to go outside until the grounds had been thoroughly inspected, but the snow was pristine and smooth, and the way it reflected the moonlight drew Aaron in like a moth. That snow, marvelous, waist-high, perfect for bunching and rolling and making snow angels. He was asleep when his father kicked in the bedroom door. “Get up!” his father shouted. Instinctively, Aaron ran from his bed. “Not another step!” his father commanded. “What?” Aaron asked. “Take of your shirt.” Aaron had only lifted his shirt midway when his father stopped him, pointing out the bulbous, mushroom headed pustules to his mother and sisters. “The boy’s been infected.” “Infected?” Aaron stammered. His father pointed through the frost rimmed window to the angel in the snow. Aaron hadn’t noticed the stone dust under the snowbed, nor did he notice the mushroom caps underneath him. “You’re a capper now.” His parents sent him away with a bag of supplies, a horse, and as much gold as they could spare. He was fortunate, most cappers were exiled with only the clothes on their backs, while Aaron was well equipped to survive the week’s journey through the grey zone to the capper’s colony. *** There were no animals in the grey, only the heavy mushroom caps that Aaron kicked like a soccer ball when he stopped to eat or rest. The rash had already begun to spread to his chest, and in the quiet moments of his trip, Aaron wondered how long he would last. When his thoughts weren’t on his own demise, Aaron watched a narrow spire in the distance. He had seen lots of castles and estates while traveling with his father, but he had never seen a tower built like a hanging rope, tall and thin with no other compound attached to it. Aaron wondered if it was a lighthouse. Aaron arrived at the colony after four days of traveling, only the ramshackle village was abandoned. Only an elderly woman greeted Aaron when she heard his horse’s footfalls on the hard dirt path. “Welcome to Granite Pass,” she said. They dined on fried mushroom caps and scraped greens in the evening. “Where are the others?” Aaron asked. “Dead, or traveled to the alchemist’s tower for work in their dying days.” “That tower belongs to an alchemist?” “Indeed it does. He employs cappers to scrape away the spores while he conducts his experiments. He claims to be able to turn stone into gold, which he sends by pigeon to the families of those who work for him. “Why haven’t you gone to work then?” The woman laughed the food right out of her mouth. “I’m the mayor of Granite Pass! I founded this crossroads five years ago.” “Five years?” Aaron asked. “How’s that possible?” “Let me ask you a question, young man. If I were to help you live as long as I have, would you help me?” “How?” “I come from a very poor family. If you were to give me your horse and gold, I would be willing to give you my secret.” “But that’s all I have,” he said. “What good is gold and a horse when you will be dead within a matter of days? With my secret you’ll live as if you were as healthy as a young man should be, and with your gold I’ll be able to provide for my family once more.” Aaron nodded before turning back to his dinner. As he ate, the old woman unfastened a necklace and slid it across the table. “There,” she said. “The necklace?” Aaron asked. “When I first caught the Stone Death, my husband gave me this onyx crystal to protect me. The crystal was blessed by a Yutan priest when we were forced out of our fatherland by the stilted men.” She rose from her seat, approached Aaron, and clasped the necklace to him. “I am positive that is has kept me safe through these years.” The woman rode off within the hour, leaving Aaron to spend the night alone in the ghost town. *** Aaron intended on walking home. It would be a long journey, but he knew that when he showed his father the amulet that he would be welcome back in his home. Yet even with this thought; even with the understanding that all was indeed well, Aaron turned away from his home at the fork outside of the colony. Perhaps it was foolishness laced in a desire to bring his father’s gold back in its entirety, but the spire was calling to him. Aaron walked for days, slipping into the hours like a night’s sleep. The hunger was dreadful, and he wondered if the necklace would protect him from all forms of death. When the gnawing became too great, Aaron would pull a sheet of beetle bark from a grey tree and chew until he became numb again. He marched until he was marching in the shadow of the spire, then he marched to the alchemist’s gate and pounded until his hand bled. The alchemist had a tight white beard that contrasted with his dark skin, and when he poked his head from the upmost window, Aaron could hardly make out the scars on his face. He took an hour to descend the tower, but when he reached the gate, he pointed to his bubbled face and said, “burns, not caps, but obviously that doesn’t matter if you are here. Aaron lifted his shirt, revealing the caps on his torso. “I’d like some work, if you have it.” “Aye,” the alchemist nodded, “come upstairs, and I’ll get you started. Keep your hands to yourself while you are here. Wouldn’t want you getting sicker.” He smiled. As they climbed the spiral staircase in the center of the narrow tower, Aaron noticed that the archways leading into the floors were stoned off. Each one, first floor, fifth, eighth, all the way to the twentieth, walled off with stone and mortar. The alchemist’s chamber was a mess of equipment. “Is this where you turn stone into gold?” Aaron asked. The alchemist pulled on his gloves. “Unfortunately, the heavens have deemed it an impossible task, I am sorry to disappoint you.” “Then how do you spend your days up here?” “I’ve turned to seeking a cure for the stone death,” he said, “the gods have ordered it.” Aaron unclasped the crystal around his neck. “Then perhaps the gods have sent me to find you.”
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Jul 28, 2014 00:06
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Signing up Thunderdoming Against Humanity Card me, Crabrock. a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 04:29 on Jul 29, 2014 |
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Jul 29, 2014 04:24
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From Thunderdome Against Humanity Prompt: Why do I hurt all over? Pictures of boobs Closed Windows 665 Words “What the-?” Alice mouthed as she stared into the nipples, stretched like flattened pennies under the weight of the pendulous tits hanging above them. Tits, that was the only word for them. Alice didn’t care for foul language, preferring to use the word “chest” if forced to address her own, but these were tits-- big, saggy tits, adorned with silver hoops, resting on a flabby gut. Alice listened to the running shower head behind the bathroom door. Is this what Tom liked? Alice forwarded through more photos of the same trashy slut. Her hair was bleached and she wore a heavy eyeshadow. The woman wore a faux gently caress-me face, her lips snarled like a hungry tigress. When Alice noticed a pair of blue boxers, frayed along the waistband, she felt her stomach churn. Continuing in her disgusted slideshow, Alice jumped past the painting she intended on printing. In that flash of Saturn Devouring His Son, she felt guilt. She hadn’t intended on snooping in the first place; Alice knew how particular Tom was about his computer. Now she knew why. Anyway, if Tom had fixed her laptop like he promised, Alice wouldn’t need to use his computer in the first place; he had gotten lazy. The printer finished its humming moments before the shower stopped. Alice thought about leaving the image on the screen for Tom to see, forcing the issue. But in her uneasiness, Alice clicked away. She walked up to the bathroom door, waiting for the moment when Tom would emerge, a moment she couldn’t predict. But when Alice heard Tom’s hand on the knob, she fled to the bedroom. “Everything okay, love?” Tom asked as he exited the bathroom, his blonde hair dripping down to the waistband of his frayed boxers. Alice could’ve puked. “Fine,” Alice said as she took her place on the bed. Tom continued to talk as she began pretending to take her notes on the painting. She had just become comfortable with the wedding band on her finger. “-Alice?” Tom said, and she nodded, sending him away. She examined her reflection through teary eyes. What was wrong with her? Should she get a bad dye job and stop going to the gym? Implants? What would be enough to make her enough? Alice looked at the painting until she felt angry enough to stomp into the living room and lay into her husband. He was at his computer, the recycling bin open but now empty. “Alice?” Tom said, “You weren’t on my computer, were you?” “Yes,” she said, and I saw the photos of your girlfriend “I needed to print the Goya for my class tonight. I deleted it though.” Tom had been sweating through his shirt, “Okay honey.” Alice had never been a confrontational person. “And?” she asked. “And I love you.” Tom said. Alice plastered on a fake smile, fighting the ache in her stomach. “I love you too.” She grabbed her bag. How many times did you gently caress her? Did you need anything before I go to class? “Just a kiss.” “I can’t,” Alice said as she opened the front door, “I haven’t brushed my teeth.” Tom caught her from behind, holding her waist in both hands. “I don’t mind,” he whispered. “It’s okay to be dirty once in a while.” Alice shook her head, and Tom settled on a long kiss on the crown of her head, before patting her rear in a playful shove through the door. She used her footsteps echoing in the hallway to mask the quiet sobs. As she sat down in the driver’s seat, Alice was certain that she would drive to a friend’s and stay there for the night. She’d call Tom in the morning and end it; tell him to get out before she came back with a gun. But when she put the car in gear, Alice knew she was heading to class, and then back home. It was eating her.
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Aug 4, 2014 01:58
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Aug 5, 2014 03:36
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Head First 1111 words Billy’s head rolled backward, gently swaying back and forth until it came to rest against the back of the chair that he was tied to. I tried to keep track of how long it had been since I broke into his apartment and found him passed out on the floor, but my migraine was killing me. Still, I knew he was only minutes from crashing. “Are you with me?” I asked. Nothing. I reared back, giving myself a moment to place all of my frustrations into the palm of my hand before slamming it into the side of his face hard enough to make my fingers go numb. He opened his teary eyes and began cursing at me some more. Blood was running from his nose, and at the first taste of it running down his lips, he began hocking red spitwads across the empty U-Haul. I set the catheter on the lid of the cooler and removed the drugstore glucose monitor from my front pocket. “Do you know what’s going on inside that head of your’s, Billy?” I asked. His death glare was wiped away in a moment of confusion, and in the brief, placid moment, I held the test strip under his pouring nose. B positive. “See, that coke you just did was laced with something very special. You ever heard of nosedive? Well, right now your Orbitofrontal Cortex is making GBS threads itself.” I pulled the blood bag from the cooler and hooked it to jerry-rigged IV. “And if you don’t let me give you this, in a moment, you are going to lose your drat mind.” “What the hell are you talking about?” “Let me give you an example. There’s this husband and wife who’ve been in a bit of a rut. Marco and Jan. We’ve all been there, you know? Anyway, they’ve been in a rut, so the husband scores some nosedive from a friend at his investment firm, thinking it would spice things up a bit. He thinks that one snort and twenty minutes later they’ll be strangers again, ready to gently caress like it’s their first time. It’s almost romantic. So they have a go. First, the husband feels this tingly sensation that runs from his fingertips to his toes . Then his head feels top heavy; he can barely keep it upright. With his last bit of strength, he turns and sees that Jan’s already toppled over. Then a sensation of falling overtakes him; he might as well be plunging to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The last thing the husband hears as he hurdles backwards through that canyon? ‘I love you’ coming from the top of the ridgeline. The voice is a familiar soprano that he can’t quite identify, but it comforts him as he hits the bedrock.” I inserted the catheter into Billy’s numb forearm as he sat distracted. “When the husband comes to, he is in a house that he doesn’t recognize. There’s a woman screaming about an intruder and he feels like he’s been hit by a truck. Still, he tries to calm her down. He tells her his name is Sal and that he is a cab driver, not a criminal. He tries to leave, but the woman is erratic and she grabs the biggest knife in her butcher block before cutting him deep. He gets away, but bleeds out on the steps of their building. When the cops showed up, Lupe had taken all of the photos of her and Sal and thrown them in a trash bag. She said he was a home invader, that he had been gaslighting her with the photos and other sentimentals. She swore she had never seen him before. But when the cops asked about Lupe’s wedding band, she said her boyfriend hadn’t proposed yet. She tried to call him, but Lupe couldn’t remember her phone’s passcode, or why the wallpaper was of her and Sal.” I massaged the hanging blood bag, and watched as Billy succumbed to the narcotics in his system. *** It took a few minutes for the color to return to Billy’s face, but when it did I thought that he would make it. He looked up to me, apprehensively at first, then with curiosity, then fear. “You loving bitch, what are doing to me?” “My name is Laura; I’m DEA, and for the record, I am pulling you through the nosedive you just overdosed on.” “No, no, no, you loving junkie. I told you to stay away from me; I told you don’t come around anymore.” Billy began thrashing in his chair, but I had done a good job restraining him, a better job, apparently, than I had done bringing him back. I could tell by the rage in his eyes that I had lost him. To calm him, I reached for my badge that I kept in my front pocket, but I must have lost my wallet dragging Billy from the apartment. Bill jerked harder, sending the chair he was strapped to toppling over. There was something about the jarring reverberations bouncing around in the metal container. I was losing my patience. I couldn’t tell if the splintering sound under my boot was wood or bone, but in that moment it didn’t matter. I slid the chair’s leg from under the restraints tied to Billy’s calf and struck him once on the back of the head. “Who’s your supplier?” I demanded, hoping that he still maintained that part of himself. “You junkie bitch, I am your supplier!” I hit him again, this time harder than before. “Okay, okay,” he begged, “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” “Who sold you the nosedive?” “I got a guy; he provides me with all of my product. Name’s Redd.” I swung the chair leg like I used to my police baton back before I joined the DEA and went undercover. “How do I find him?” I asked. Billy was quick to turn over the directions, but as I closed the metal shutter of the truck, I knew I couldn’t let him go just yet. Someone needed to be culpable if the information was bad. As I climbed into the cab, I thought about the words of warning Billy had given me before I gagged him. “Redd’s a dangerous man.” I checked the chamber on my Glock and thought about my years of training. I was dangerous too. I really should have called the captain for backup. He’d want me to bring Billy in, but Redd would be a big score, and I didn’t want to share. Besides, I couldn’t remember my phone’s passcode for the life of me. "And through the canyon, they hear 'I love you'."
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Aug 11, 2014 03:39
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Sign up post.
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Aug 13, 2014 17:04
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| # ¿ May 9, 2024 17:21 |
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I am going to have to bow out for the week due to being sick as poo poo.
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Aug 16, 2014 16:52
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