In there like a lizard's penis at a casino bar. For both the Fear and Loathing and the Party stories.
Drunk Nerds fucked around with this message at 14:15 on Apr 15, 2014
|# ¿ Apr 15, 2014 14:11|
|# ¿ Feb 7, 2023 02:08|
Heads up: the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas prompt is for a brawl between Sitting Here and God Over Djinn, and it's exclusive to them.
Thanks! My lack of reading comprehension dampers my chances. I am just in for the party story then.
Drunk Nerds fucked around with this message at 14:54 on Apr 15, 2014
|# ¿ Apr 15, 2014 14:35|
Word Count: 938
"Take good care of her," slurred the man who could make my dreams come true, "she's the only thing that matters to me."
After pressing his car keys into my palm so hard they left an indentation, the handlebar-moustached director grabbed his teenage wife's elbow for balance. Before I could pull out my script, he had gone into the tent.
I turned to his Ferrari, parked halfway on the grass, half on the street. Sighing, I looked at my script, "Chameleon man" stood out in bold caps on the clean title page. Tucking it back into my red valet apron, I sulked over to his car.
Despite being distracted by my failure, I couldn't help but be surprised at the pickup as I put it into gear. The commercials said it could go from zero to 100 in 6.5 seconds, which is about the length of time I had spent with the director of my favorite films, The Superhero Chronicles. Two weeks in Hollywood, spending every waking minute trying to run elbows with producers and directors. I had washed the dishes of his favorite restaurant for 50 hours, spent every minute of my downtime at his favorite cafe, and for what? 6.5 seconds with a stumbling drunk.
After easing the car between the white lines in the parking lot, I sat there, staring at the sky. I couldn't give up yet. But I had no plan. Taking my red valet's apron, I tied it around my neck so it draped down my back. "What would Chameleon Man do?" I asked aloud.
I trotted over to the back entrance, past the kiosk where I was supposed to deposit the car keys. Kegs and water were stacked to one side of the tent flap, an large portable air conditioner dominated the other side. The flap opened, a barback emerged carrying a keg shell.
"Here, let me help you with that," I approached the weary employee. Glancing in his eyes briefly, my gaze rested upon the shiny clearance badge pinned to his chest.
"It's empty, it's not really that heavy," he replied, "why are you wearing a cape?" was all he manage to ask before a quick right cross to his jaw made him crumple like newspaper kindling.
"POW!" I muttered to myself. Taking his badge, I dragged his body behind the large air conditioning generator. Grabbing a pallet of water, I ducked through the tent flap.
Once inside, I gazed upon so much Hollywood royalty I felt like it was a film scene. Jazz music floated through the air from a quartet of musicians in the corner, waiters darted around with drink trays filled from one of several bar stations set up strategically around the room.
Spotting the director, slow dancing with his wife with his hands planted firmly against her buttocks, I took the water pallet to the nearest empty bar station. Quickly, I fixed up a tray full of glasses of water, and carried them over to him.
"Bar bitch!" He exclaimed, drops of spit bursting from his mouth, "get me a vodka!"
"Here you are, sir," I said, presenting the tray. He grabbed two glasses, spilling half their contents, and pounded them in succession. I watched his expression nervously, wondering if he would notice that the drinks contained no alcohol. He screwed up his face, swallowed, then stared at me dead on.
"Smooth," he said, grabbing two more.
By the eighth "vodka," his hand was steady enough to drink it down without a spill. Chameleon Man had succeeded in phase one: sober him up. I just had to get him to a quieter place. Returning to the nearest bar station, I removed the brown grocery bag covering my script folder. I tore up most of it into tiny scraps then rolled them in what remained. Makeshift, sure, but it could pass in the light.
"Cigar, sir?" I offered the rolled paper tube. Eagerly, he grabbed it. Pulling out a gold Zippo, he lit the end and inhaled deeply. The cheap brown paper went up in flames quickly, singing his mustache before he could realize what was going on. Soon, his grandiose facial hair was aflame.
"You're on fire!" I pulled him to the empty bar station and threw a glass of water in his face.
"God drat these cheap cigars," spat the director.
"While I have you here, and since I saved you... I wrote a script," I whipped out the 90-page document from my waistband, "it's perfect for you. A new twist on the Superhero Chronicles, a brand new power with a downtrodden hero who has a heart of gold!"
The director looked at me, my heart jumped, "Let me see it."
I handed the script over, the director read the title page, then spewed the contents of his stomach all over it. Wiping off most of it with the sleeve of his Armani suit, he turned to the now-soaked page one.
I couldn't help but do a little dance. It had worked, Chameleon man had saved the day. I pictured myself telling my mom that I'd made it, that she could now afford a full time caretaker and-
"This is garbage." The director spat, "learn to write, kid." He shoved the barf-soaked script into my chest and strolled back into the party.
It took about a half hour for the tears to stop. Regaining my composure, I reflected that this was all for the best. At least I tried, I had made the effort and gotten a clear answer. That was enough, it would have to be. I gunned the engine, opened the door, and dove out. Hitting the ground hard, I rolled in the dirt for about twenty feet. I rose, dusting myself off, just in time to see the Ferrari go off the cliff: Its descent mirroring my hopes. Chameleon man had taken a turn toward the dark side.
|# ¿ Apr 20, 2014 11:55|
In. I can do better.
|# ¿ Apr 22, 2014 18:27|
Word Count: 1099
A panel slid open in the cast iron door, revealing just a pair of eyes. They flickered red and blue underneath the flashing neon sign, "Password?"
I cleared my throat and expectorated a huge wad of saliva into the bouncers face. He stood there for a few minutes, letting it drip into his mouth, "alright, you're clean."
The door opened revealing a long, dark hallway. I stepped past the bouncer and walked to the end, passing several people lying on the floor. The hall took a sharp turn and widened into a large concrete room. Paper lamps hung from the ceiling, illuminating a large square bar in the center of the room, with stools pulled up to every side. Some people slumped in the stools, but the majority of Club Contagion's patients lay on the floor wheezing, creating a cacophony of coughs.
"What'll it be, bub?" muttered the man standing behind the bar, "tonight's special is euphoria."
"Oh it's all free," said the bartender, pulling out a spray bottle, "we just charge you for the antidote." The bartender sprayed a fine mist around my head, which I inhaled deeply.
Dizziness came first, I stumbled onto the nearest bar stool. Waving my hands in front of my face created vivid multicolored trails. Then a sense of extreme well-being crept over me. Soon it had engulfed my body like warm water. I felt so good I almost lost sight of my mission, soon pleasure waves were cascading through me with the intensity of a powerful orgasm, I grabbed onto the bar rail and let out a moan.
It was a few minutes before the feelings began to fade, I felt a tickle in my throat that evolved into a full-fledged coughing jag.
"Better take the antidote soon, it's all downhill from here," said the bartender, drawing a syringe full of syrupy, clear liquid from a large jar, "believe me, you do not want to experience that, it's like somebody worked over your nervous system with a baseball bat.
Grabbing my shoulder, he injected me with the cure. Immediately, my head began to clear and I was once again in control of my body. My hand seized his wrist, I pulled the syringe out of my arm and stuck it straight through his eye.
The bartender bellowed in pain. He pulled the syringe out of his eye socket, revealing a gooey, pulpy mess of blood and eyeball. As the bouncer stormed into the room, I hopped over the bar. Grabbing the jar of antidote, I pulled out a gun.
"Take another step and the antidote gets it!" I screamed, putting the barrel of the gun against the jar. The bartender's yellowed eyes grew wide, he raised his hands in the air and froze in place. "Where is she?" I spat.
The bouncer pointed at a swinging door set into the corner of the room. I crept over the bar and backed slowly through the door. A light bulb hanging from a string lit up some dingy concrete steps. Climbing up, I found myself in the bar's "kitchen." Trays of empty glasses littered a nearby counter. In the center of the room sat a folding hospital cot. On the cot, unconscious, lay my sister. Her face was sallow and purple, her frame emaciated. She had to have lost 25 pounds since I last saw her the day of her kidnapping. Several tubes ran from her body to various IV bags stationed around the bed.
"Emily can you hear me? We're getting out!" The jar of antidote fell from my fingers, smashing onto the floor as I ran to her bedside. Ripping the tubes from her spine and throat took only a moment, and left several oozing scars. I felt a twinge of pain at handling her so roughly, but I was almost out of time. As I heaved her body over my shoulder and ran to the nearby window, I heard the swinging door below bang against the wall. I pried open the window, a rush of footsteps ascending the staircase.
"Jump!" I barked, but Emily could only emit a sour moan. Leaning out of the window, I dangled her by her arms until she was only about 10 feet from the ground. I let go, and watched her fall to the ground. She landed in a crumpled heap, but as I swung my leg over the windowsill I saw her struggle to her feet and stagger into the taxi I left waiting. Hearing the cab pull away, I swung my other leg out the window and pushed off. Rough hands grabbed me in mid-air, hauling my body back towards the window. I was pulled inside, a large heavy object hit me in the head and I blacked out.
When I came to, I was in the hospital cot. Struggling revealed I was tightly bound to my location by at least a dozen leather straps. I heard the swinging door creak open, a single pair of steps came up the staircase.
"You cost us quite a bit of money, not to mention resources." the bartender's voice floated softly across the room, "that antidote alone took weeks to obtain, not to mention all of the expense of procuring a subject."
He stepped in front of me. Red, scabby scar tissue puffed out all around his eyepatch. "You see," he continued, "staying alive while the body is constantly being harvested is something that not everyone can handle. It takes a special kind of genetic disposition."
The bartender put on a surgeon's mask and strapped a white apron around his thin frame, "on that note, I think we can work out a payment plan that will do quite nicely." He pulled a syringe from a nearby drawer, filled it with a vial of brown liquid, and stuck me in the stomach.
As I felt the dizziness and euphoria overwhelm my senses, I barely took note of the doctor intubating my throat. He placed a rag, reeking of ether, over my nose and mouth. As I drifted off, a smile crossed my lips... not from the overwhelmingly pleasurable effects of the bug I was now hosting, but because I had succeeded.
She was finally free.
|# ¿ Apr 27, 2014 12:29|
Edit: But with this self-imposed restriction: I have to pick something mundane that I do today, and make that my MC's greatest moment/last hurrah.
Drunk Nerds fucked around with this message at 15:12 on Apr 29, 2014
|# ¿ Apr 29, 2014 14:55|
I gave myself the additional restriction that I had to pick something mundane that I do today, and make that my MC's greatest moment/last hurrah. I picked "dialing a phone"
Circle of Death
Horace had never noticed it before, but the crisp leaves crunching underfoot sounded just like his mother's nose slamming into a steering wheel at 45 miles per hour. The autumn fog hung thick and low as he shuffled up the wooden porch and rapped on the flimsy wooden door.
"So you finally showed your face. I bet you think you're a hero or something, " spat the extremely pregnant woman flinging open the door.
"You never were one for hospitality. If mom were alive, she'd be rolling in her grave."
"If mom were alive today, we wouldn't be here," the woman shrugged, turning away and disappearing through a nearby archway. Horace trudged inside. Shutting the door quietly, he turned to face Daphne as she reentered the room, carrying a cup of tea..
"Well, sit down," Daphne plopped her expectant frame into an overstuffed chair. Horace didn't feel quite ready for taking a load off his feet. "I thought you would call," she continued.
"I don't use the phone anymore. They kill people, you know."
Daphne swung her head back and brayed melodramatic laughter, "and let me guess: You kill people, too, with your absent fingers of death."
"It's not funny. You know she'd still be here today if I had answered."
"So what? That's why you disappeared for months? Because someone picked up the phone while driving and crashed a car?"
"Not someone. She wasn't just someone to me!"
"What do you think she is to me? While you've had your head in the sand, I've spent this time coping, facing the fact that she'll never see her grandchild. Only I wasn't stupid enough to try to take control of the whole thing."
"Stop it!" Horace's soft voice broke. He stuck a finger in his sister's face, "you don't have this on your shoulders, I couldn't talk to you."
"Blood," creaked Daphne.
"... is thicker than water" Horace finished, "I know. But I couldn't just-"
"No, blood!" Daphne squealed, she gently dabbed her crotch with her hand and held up a crimson stain, before quickly adding "you moron."
"My car," he raised her and guided her to the door, "I'll just need to put down some towels, where do you-"
"Don't worry about your drat Taurus, you freak," she hissed.
Down the porch and out to the street they tottered. Horace opened the door of his rusty white Ford and half-guided, half-heaved Daphne onto the seat. Soon the engine sputtered to life. The car bolted down the lane, past a sign that said "freeway entrance."
"That was... the drat... ramp," Daphne hitched her labored breath.
"I don't take freeways, it's safer." Horace flipped on his turn signal and wheeled a left turn past a sign which read "Rural Route 80."
"You're... retarded," Daphne huffed, "this will take forever."
"A half hour extra at most."
A dark stain grew around her midsection as Daphne fumbled in a large pocket sewn into the front of her housecoat. She pulled out a cell phone and started dialing. "Why do I get no... drat reception?"
"It's the blocker. I put it under the dash."
Daphne stared at him, her eyes a glaring blend of pain and disbelief, "why?"
"Phones killed mom."
"It's going to kill me you loving idiot!" Daphne screeched so loudly she found herself out of breath. Desperately, she fumbled under the glove compartment, "where is it?"
"You can't disable it, it's screwed in!"
"Flag someone down, we'll never get there in time."
"Nobody uses this road, I haven't seen anyone since we got on."
Shrieking with pain and panic Daphne removed her seatbelt and tried to twist her swollen frame underneath the dash.
"Stop it! That's not safe," Horace leaned over and wrestled with her. Distracted, he missed the eight-point buck trotting out into the road. The car slammed into it, Horace was flung face first into the dashboard, hearing that now all-too-familiar crunch. His body contorted around his neck, arching over the dash and through the windshield.
Landing a dozen yards away in a ditch, Horace immediately tried to struggle up. He lifted his right leg up, tried to lean on his knee, then tumbled to the ground as his left leg dragged limply behind. Trying to drag himself out, he found his right arm to be similarly useless. Using half his limbs, he bit his lip and weakly struggled towards the car.
Horace attempted to open Daphne's door, but the frame was bent in such a way that it wouldn't budge. Dragging himself around to the driver's door, he found it similarly wedged. He saw Daphne's limp body crammed in underneath the dash. That was when he spotted her cell phone, it had come to rest on his passenger seat. Horace brought his left hand up to the window and rapped on it a few times, but the glass did not budge. Pulling himself up to one knee, he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, then pitched himself head-first into the window. A bright light overcame his field of vision as he crashed through the glass. It faded after a moment, but left a searing wave of pain in its wake. He considered dialing with his nose, before seeing a stream of blood pouring off his face onto the front seat. Struggling with his one good leg, he managed to shift his weight enough to maneuver his left arm inside the car. Dialing 911, Horace could barely croak out "route 60... Greenville...crash," before his body gave out .
Tom Stanford was the unlucky EMT who got the dispatcher call on his first day. Pulling up to the car, he examined Tom's prone body before vomiting all over it. That was when he noticed the dead pregnant woman wedged beneath the dashboard. Hauling Horace's corpse out of the way, he dove through the window. Tom bit his tongue to keep from passing out, then began the unenviable task of sawing open her midsection to remove the screaming baby inside.
|# ¿ May 4, 2014 14:13|
Thanks for the crits! Also, thanks for listing those tips. I'm sure I can get better if I just study hard, practice, edit more, and work on improving focus.
I'm in. My gift will be humor (the non-lovely kind).
Also, I'd like to squeeze in more practice by joining SurreptitiousMuffin's brawl. However, I'm going on vacay starting the 14th, so if that is before the deadline, don't sign me up.
|# ¿ May 7, 2014 17:33|
At no point in a man's life does he examine his past decisions more closely than when he is wearing a gorilla suit, covered in feces.
Six hours ago, the plan seemed so simple: Take down an elephant, make it look like negligent care, collect a huge amount of money. But as I lay here, exhausted from the heat inside my furry getup, I began to wonder if I was truly cut out to be a professional hitman.
It wasn't the first time in my life I'd wondered this. Just a month prior, after getting no responses from my ad, I was going to give it up and get a job at my cousin's peanut butter factory. But then I got my first target. An elephant had been appointed Prince of India. It was supposed to be ceremonial, but then the pachyderm started barging into parliament meetings and knocking over tables. So I was called. Three poisoned darts to his neck and I had cemented my role as "that guy who assassinated elephants for money."
Soon after that, the phone rang from an animal activist group. I was given my next target, and the details: I couldn't just shoot the elephant in the face and blame it on the zookeeper. It had to look natural.
Looking back, I think my main problem was that I made things too complicated. Posing as a tourist, I carried my plain black suitcase into the zoo. Once there was no one else at the gorilla pen, I hopped the fence, and made a quick change in the bushes. I thought I could just hang out, disguised as a gorilla, until closing time. I had underestimated how interested the other apes would be with their new arrival. By the time I heard the loudspeakers crackle "the zoo is now closed, please exit the zoo now," I had been pelted with feces from three different species of primate, and two of the larger males were fighting for the right to mount me.
I stripped off my disguise, and bolted for the fence, the now-angry gorillas bounding after me. I hopped up and swung myself over the top, their primate hands inches away from pulling me back down. Making my way to the elephant cage, I pulled out my weapon of choice: A carrot soaked in tranquilizer.
The bull elephant was chained to a thick tree. Clearly in musth, I approached carefully. Otherwise his swelling hormones could spark a fit of rage, or, even worse, arousal. But the elephant was fast asleep, napping in the blazing late dusk sun. It was simply a matter of mushing the carrot into its food, and I was ready to make my escape.
As I darted toward the fence, I felt a strong sting in the side of my neck. Reaching up to swat away what I assumed was a hornet, I felt a dart. I yanked it out, but by the time I reached the ten-foot-high chain link enclosure, I was already feeling nauseated and woozy. I leaned against the fence, summoning the strength to haul myself over. That was when a tall, blonde man stepped from behind a tree and approached me.
"Greetings!" he exclaimed, way too cheerfully.
"Why?" I asked.
"You didn't actually think there was a market for elephant assassins, did you? Of course you did, otherwise you wouldn't have come out here. You probably recognize my voice from our phone call. I am actually John Smythe, elephant assassin assassin."
My last words before he stuffed a ammonia-smelling rag into my mouth were, "there's a market for that?"
|# ¿ May 11, 2014 11:54|
Someone's got to come in last. Hit me:
|# ¿ May 28, 2014 16:48|
Here is my picture:
Here is my original story:
Here is my entry. Length 607 words (exactly as long as the original)
Just One More
No need to enjoy her all at once, no need at all.
Realizing the blessing of perspective that came with losing everything, the Fisherman cast his reel over a cresting wave. The sun peeked over the ocean that spanned the horizons.
He had never before taken in all the majestic sea had to offer. He wanted to savor it as slowly as he could, for it was all he had left. That, his old rod, and a metal shack held together by rusting screws. His wife had absconded with his other possessions in the night, even taking their old broken wheelbarrow that had been the crux of their disagreement.
The pole arced downward sharply, the fisherman leaned back from his spot in the water. Slowly he reeled in his 105-pound catch.
"You again?" The mermaid frowned, pulling the hook from her tail, "what could you possibly want now?"
Gazing upon her splendid form, the Fisherman could see the last few days colored all over her body. The fins of her tail were the tin-can gray of the wheelbarrow he had wished to be fixed... Her scales glistened with the emerald color of the house his wife had insisted he wish for instead... Her hair the off-yellow shade of the golden castle he had asked for when his wife decided that an emerald house was not enough... and the deep blue eyes that matched the sea of which his wife had finally insisted she become queen (which caused the mermaid to angrily return everything he owned back to its paltry original state).
"Just one more," he whispered.
"Fine!" The mermaid glared at the Fisherman, "but after this I'm telling my brethren to kill all the fish in the area, so you can never cast here again. Also, don't wish for a thousand wishes, I'd rather die."
"A kiss," said the Fisherman.
The mermaid brayed laughter, "THAT's what you want, you pathetic old perv?"
"My wife, she left," he explained, "this is my last chance to ever feel the touch of a woman."
"I can see why your wife left you, you're a fool."
"Still, it is my wish, and I have made it."
The mermaid swam close to the Fisherman, his hand slipped into the pocket of his waders.
"Are you touching yourself, you freak?" A look of disgust passed over her face, "let's get this over with."
Leaning in, she grazed her mouth against his cracked smile. She then bit down on his lower lip, drawing blood.
"Just a reminder to never seek me out again,"
The Mermaid drew back, but the Fisherman grasped her blonde locks. From his pocket came the rusty, four-inch screw he had painstakingly unfastened from his shack. He stabbed it deep in the side of her neck. Using motion and strength obtained over a lifetime of gutting his catch, he worked the screw down the side of her body, holding her fast with his other arm as she screamed and squirmed. Cutting down to the end of her fin, the Fisherman reached inside and grabbed her tail bone. With a twist and a jerk, he had deboned her bottom half.
Rolling the mermaid into the sand, he held her down with his knees and began ripping off her tail as she bled out with a guttural moan.
He had no use for her upper half, but her tail was meaty. Perhaps enough to last him until he restored his stock of food. He tasted a tiny bit, but would leave most of her tail for later.
No need to enjoy her all at once, no need at all.
|# ¿ May 31, 2014 18:12|
Drunk Nerds fucked around with this message at 15:04 on Jun 3, 2014
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2014 14:38|
I have to bail on writing a horrible short story this week, I lost my job yesterday and so the whole weekend must be spent lining up job interviews.
I like the exercise though, so I'm going to try to field a late entry Monday.
Best of luck, everyone!
|# ¿ Jun 7, 2014 19:08|
Thanks for the crits, good folks, they really help.
Obviously it's too late to enter this week's challenge, but Lord knows I need the practice:
This was my pic:
"I want blueberry pie! I'm too old for it to kill me," Tanya could hear her mother's high pitched whine all the way down the stairs and through her closed bedroom door.
Tanya picked up the dark brown hunk of meat she had drawn, and admired it. The marbling was appetizing, she had gone to painstaking care to draw tender creases in the meat which would no doubt improve the flavor. But her mother wouldn't notice that, her mother would only notice that it wasn't rare.
Tanya opened her door and yelled, "I told you, mom, we can't afford any blue. Too expensive." Tanya stepped lightly up the stairs, into her mother's converted attic room, and dropped the paper into the bed-ridden woman's lap.
"I used all our green for your asparagus yesterday. I haven't even had a vegetable in weeks. Plus you don't even eat the parsley."
"Still," said her mother, then sighed haughtily as if she had proven a point. Tanya's mother ripped the steak out of its white paper background and shoved it in her mouth. "Tastes dry."
Before Tanya could retort, there was a knock at the door.
"poo poo, is it 7:30, already?" Tanya looked down at her hastily-drawn white T-shirt and pajama bottoms, "poo poo, poo poo, poo poo!" She ran downstairs and back into her bedroom.
Tanya had wanted to take her time with her afternoon outfit, really show Blake that she was a designer worthy of his palette. But she only had a moment to draw two red triangles and fasten them around her waist and shoulders before there was a second, louder knock at the door.
"Coming!" Tanya ran to the door and flung it open. There stood Blake, a six-foot-mess of a man. Tanya's jealousy made her bite her lip. All that color, and her chose to use it on a dumb baseball cap and button-up.
"Tanya!" Blake said, and tried to enter. Tanya moved her lithe body in his way.
"This isn't a social call or a date, Blake. Did you bring the colors I need?" Tanya knew her demeanor was not the sweetest way to get what she wanted, but if he came in and made a move she knew she couldn't say know. For the colors, of course.
"I brought them," Blake flashed a box of pens that made Tanya salivate, a lush forest green, delicious lemon, even royal blue. She would have enough to design the dress and feed her mother all the parsley she wanted for weeks. She reached out her hand and Blake pulled them away.
"First, you have to give me something." said Blake.
"What?" said Tanya, not liking the way Blake was looking her up and down.
"The house on the hill," Blake nodded toward the old manor a block away, "I helped the crazy geezer move in. He's got something in his basement, covered with a sheet. Bring it to me."
"Get it yourself."
"Everybody knows you've got the skill to draw your way in and out of their stealthier than a fox. I can barely make my door fit that jamb."
Tanya sighed, "then I get the whole box?"
"The whole thing if you bring it to me. Otherwise I'll just loan it to you for an hour."
Tanya sighed and nodded, then slipped inside to grab her pencil box. She looked at the shades: poo poo brown, charcoal, off-white, high yellow. It was a veritable ethnic rainbow, but it did her no good designing an outfit that would wow the single men at the upcoming ball. Swallowing her fear with a painful gulp, she headed out for the aging house set on top of the grassy knoll.
No one had lived there since Tanya and her mother moved here, years ago. As she got closer, she could see why: The house was sinking into its foundation at the northeast corner. Why anyone would want to move in, now, was beyond her, and she really didn't even care. She wanted to go in and out as fast as possible. Breaking and entering really wasn't second nature to the girl who finished tops in her class at the institute of culinary drawing and design.
Making a loop around the house in the dark, Tanya didn't spot a single lit window. Walking to the side of the house, she was finally glad for the charcoal pencil. Tanya pulled it our and drew a large rectangle in the side of the house, just large enough for her to slip through. As her eyes adjusted, she saw moving boxes piled high and furniture covered in white sheets, but now staircase leading down. She was sad to do such destruction to someone else's home, as she had no idea how to get rid of her drawings. Still, her mother had taken care of her for 30 years, and deserved more in the final months of her life than brown meat hunks, sans veggies. Tanya stepped back to get perspective, then quickly sketched a square hole in the floor and brown stairs leading down.
Climbing down the stairs, she found herself in pitch black. When her eyes failed to adjust, Tanya whipped out her yellow pencil and drew a light bulb in the ceiling. As she adjusted to the now blinding light source, she could make out a large sheet in the middle of the otherwise bare room. Striding towards it, she pulled back the sheet to reveal... What the hell was it?
It was small, about the size of a pack of gum... and pink. The rectangular object sat upon an otherwise empty table. Tanya picked it up to study it, but still could not discern what it was.
"Who are you!" the old man's croak made her jump back. Tanya wheeled around to see the decrepit old man at the staircase. His frown scared her, but what really made her shake was when it turned into a menacing grin.
"A burglar, eh? Let's have a little fun." With a litheness that betrayed his form, the old man stepped into the room and grabbed the pink object. Tanya opened her mouth to scream, but the old man swiped the pink rectangle over her face and she was unable.
Putting a hand to her head, Tanya realized she no longer had a mouth.
|# ¿ Jun 9, 2014 17:09|
I have a favor to ask you, Kaishai
May I have a song to write about, even though I almost definitely will be entering late on Monday/Tuesday, and thus be DQ'ed?
I have trouble writing my best on Thurs/fri/sat/sun due to work/childcare obligations.
But I still want to write one because A. Everyone knows I need as much practice as possible and B. My wife and I have a running joke where we come up with offensive interpretations of mundane songs ("Did you ever wonder if `I Got You under My Skin' was really about getting an STD from a whore?" "YES! I've always wondered the exact same thing about `(You Give Me) Fever'"
If not, I'll self-assign a song so I can sufficiently humiliate myself, as usual. But, somehow, it feels more constructive if that song comes from the official.
|# ¿ Jun 20, 2014 02:19|
I'm inclined to grant your unusual request, but we need some stakes here. Russian roulette is not the same without a gun, and in the Thunderdome, without a risk there isn't fun. I'll give you a song if you agree to the following:
I love it, thanks.
|# ¿ Jun 20, 2014 14:15|
After all that fuss, I actually managed to get this done on time.
Clara had been through the painful steps so many times that her mind was as numb as her blood-soaked toes.
"Let's Dance!" Fritz's voice crackled through the tinny loudspeaker, "put on your dancing shoes!"
Clara looked in her cracked dressing room mirror. "What do you mean us?" she muttered.
She laced her pointe shoes around her aching, swollen feet. Once pink, the shoes had become dark red, stained by slowly seeping blood.
But she went into what was probably her thousandth rehearsal with a spring in her step. Today would be different.
As she approached the stage, "La bataille de Casse-Noisette et du Roi des souris" began playing from the theater's aging sound system. Once, the ballet had featured a full-orchestra. But that had been removed when dwindling attendance forced cutbacks, scrapped along with new equipment and their third daily meal. Clara slipped behind the curtain, helping Sergei get his mouse costume over his hump.
"Don't gently caress up the costume," said Sergei, his usual mantra for this routine, as he slipped into the full mouse suit.
"I think it's today," Clara told him.
This caught Sergei's attention, a rare smile broke out over his face, "when?"
"After... lunch," Clara winked, the man in costume nodded his mouse head.
"Mouse King!" Fritz's voice boomed through a megaphone, even though the fat director was ten feet away in the front row.
"My name's Sergei," his voice was muffled through the thick mouse costume.
"Your name is Mouse, king of the crippled actor assholes! If you don't get your rear end onto the trapeze, you're name will be Homeless Monkey!"
Sergei trudged behind the curtain, and began strapping on the harness. As Sam the stagehand grabbed the heavy ropes, Sergei whispered, "be ready."
The life-sized nutcracker marionette sat onstage. Clara had never felt so much hatred for an inanimate object as she had for that stuffed wooden puppet. The first night critics had openly laughed when it lifted into the air and "fought" the mouse king. Sergei had done his best to feign a good fight, grabbing the nutcracker's arms and whacking them against his mouse head, but the whole thing was a farce. Still, Fritz had insisted continuing with the oversized puppet, despite pleas from almost everyone in the production.
Today, she would get even with both of them.
Clara hurried over to the life-sized nutcracker marionette. It was onstage, in full view of Fritz's burning red eyes. But this was no time to start worrying about consequences. She reached deep into the torso of the nutcracker, pulling out an enormous amount of stuffing and shoving it in her mouth.
"What the hell, Clara!"
"It's a backstage tradition," she said, truthfully, through a mouthful of stuffing, "I call it `lunch'."
Fritz waddled onstage and looked in the nutcracker, "well you'll have to stop calling it that, because it looks like there's no more stuffing." He laughed, Clara knew her hunger made him happy. She also knew the round Nutcracker torso was hollow: She had removed the last bunch of stuffing, setting in motion the entire plan.
With a flabby arm, Fritz shoved her. Stumbling backwards sent bolts of pain through her toes and up her ankles. The thick black curtain barely broke her fall. "Into position!" he yelled. Clara slipped behind the curtain and waited. For the first time in months, she felt excited.
"And up!" The music started again. Sam pulled on two ropes, Sergei and the nutcracker flew in the air.
Slipping through the curtain, Clara entered the stage. She knew her blocking, it was ingrained in her thanks to Fritz's beatings. So it was hard for her to walk way off her mark, and begin her opening pirouette.
"CUT!" Fritz's spit flew from the front row onto Clara's face, "GET IN POSITION, YOU DUMB BITCH!"
"I... I don't know where..."
Spiking his megaphone onto his chair, Fritz stormed onstage. Grabbing Clara's wrist so hard she could feel it sprain, he shoved her to the wooden stage slats. "Here!" He moved into position, directly underneath the nutcracker, "put your skinny rear end here!"
Clara's painful grimace turned into a wicked smile. "Now!" She screamed.
Backstage, Sam released his grip on the left rope. The hollow nutcracker fell onto Fritz's head and shoulders. The stagehand released the right rope, and Sergei fell. He smashed onto the nutcracker, forcing it down around Fritz's stout body.
"I can't move" screamed the red-cheeked director. It was all he could get out before Clara wrapped duct tape around his mouth.
"Let's dance!" Sam said, right before shoving the nutcracker head down over Fritz's fat face.
That night, the ballet had its first rave review. Soon, audiences began filling the seats to see the small production that had somehow turned itself around. Of particular note to the critics was how lifelike the nutcracker puppet seemed during its epic battle with Sergei, the Mouse King.
|# ¿ Jun 21, 2014 17:18|
Drunk Nerds easily claims last place.
|# ¿ Aug 6, 2014 01:22|
|# ¿ Feb 7, 2023 02:08|
“It's 2014,” said Doctor Davis
Jessica thought for a moment, “twenty-one years.” She looked around the mine shaft, “so this is the future.”
“Sort of,” replied the doctor.
“We've been bombed back to the Stone Age!” chuckled Sheriff Grayson.
"Shhhh..." chided Davis, "she's not ready,” he turned back to Jessica, “We were lucky enough that this town... up above... is in the middle of the desert.”
“Just haul her up, time's a wastin',” snapped the Sheriff.
Davis shot Grayson a hard look, “we don't know what her deal is. She could be a serial murderer, a crazed convict.”
Jessica recoiled, “I'm not either.”
“But, you got to have somethin' wrong,” snapped the sheriff, “Nobody chooses to get frozen by the gub'ment because they liked their life.”
“Is... Is there a cure for thyroid cancer, yet?” Jessica inquired.
Davis shook his head, the sparkle in her eye vanished.
“Refreeze me,” she demanded, “I only have a year to live.”
"I can't," Davis took her hand, “let's get you some fresh air”
The doctor led her up a long sloping passage, the fat sheriff waddling behind. The trio arrived at a wooden door. “Guard your eyes,” said Davis. He swung open the door to reveal bright sunlight.
“This is Glitter Gulch!” Davis exclaimed.
"What's left of it," Grayson muttered.
As Jessica’s eyes adjusted to the daylight she noticed a group of men gathered around the door. In the back, a lone woman gasped.
“Who... who are you?” Jessica addressed the group.
The Sheriff brayed with laughter. “we're a mining town. Eleven men, one woman: Carolyn...” he put a meaty hand on Jessica's shoulder, "well, two now.”
A gangly young man stepped forward, “On behalf of the citizens of Glitter Gulch, I'd like to welcome you,” he stuck out his hand, “my name is Deputy Chuck.”
Jessica reached out to shake Chuck's hand. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground.
“She needs rest,” said Davis.
“I'll take her,” Grayson said.
“You only have one bed in that shack of yours,” Davis replied, “help me carry her to my place and she'll spend the night on the couch.”
* * *
The next morning saw a weary Jessica sitting in the town hall with Carolyn, mending a huge pile of clothes.
After sitting in silence for what felt like hours, Carolyn muttered, “I'll trade ya,”
“I... I'm sorry?” Jessica's voice cracked.
“I'll take your cancer, and you can have my problem... I'm barren.”
Their rapport was cut short by a pair of gunshots. Rushing outside, they saw a muscular young man holding a pistol over a lifeless, bloody body. Soon, the entire town had gathered.
“I had ta do it!” the man with the pistol slurred, “he was sayin' he was gonna get with the new girl, and I wanted her!”
“You're drunk, Booker” Grayson said, taking the man's gun and slapping a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.
“A little moonshine ain't no sin!” Booker retorted, utterly missing the irony.
Carolyn screamed at a tall man nearby, “This is what your still does to this town, Nick!”
The sheriff grabbed Jessica, “Can't have you runnin' loose. Look what it does to the menfolk.” Before anyone could object, he led Jessica and Booker away.
* * *
After locking Booker in a cell, Grayson strode to the jail's front door, and fastened the deadbolt.
Jessica asked nervously, “Am I goin' in a cell?”
“Naw, honey,” said the Sheriff, taking off his belt. ”you ain't going nowhere."
Jessica tried to run away, but stumbled. The Sheriff pinned her down.
Their struggle was cut short by the cold click of a revolver.
“Y-You just stop right there… Just back up!” Deputy Chuck stuttered. He tried to steady the shaking pistol by grabbing it with both hands, but this did little.
"I forgot you had keys," Grayson lunged for Chuck's revolver. The Deputy fired. The force blew the pistol from his hands, the shot hit Grayson square in the thigh.
Jessica picked up the pistol, “Don't move. I'm going back there and none of you hicks are gonna follow me.” Jessica darted outside and ran towards the mine.
* * *
Jessica stabbed at buttons on the control panel with her fingers. She banged it hard with her fists, the noise echoed through the cavern.
Hearing footsteps, she wheeled around, “I told you not to follow me!"
Davis put his hands in the air, “did you get it to work?”
“Me neither, I can still unfreeze people, but that's it.”
Davis nodded, "there are dozens, maybe a hundred. The machine lets me do one every twenty four hours. Look Jessica-"
“Shut up!” she cried! “Just shut the gently caress up, now! They say I'm broken doc? They're right! There's no chemo here, there's no drugs! I'm gonna die in pain! I was doing a whole goddamn lot better before you unfroze me!"
“I'm sorry, Jessica…,” Davis began.
“Oh, yeah, you're sorry alright… You think you can fix me? You can't fix poo poo,” Jessica clinched her teeth, and pointed the gun at her own neck.
The doctor buried his head in his hands.
A woman's voice boomed through the mineshaft, “you apologize!”
Startled, Jessica pointed her gun into the void.
Stepping into Jessica’s vision, Carolyn leveled a steel-eyed gaze at her, “Apologize to the doctor! You think someone was gonna solve cancer in the next 500 years? We can't even get our clothes clean! If it wasn't for the doctor, you woulda stayed frozen until whatever powers this poo poo machine wore down. You should be on your knees thanking this man, but instead you're whinin' like a tin whistle. You have a year to live? Boo hoo hoo. Do you know how many billions of people would've given anything for another year when the bombs went off? You think Artie wouldn't want another year, rather than bleeding out on the street up there? You don't know how good you got it.“
Jessica cast her gaze downward, a tear welled up in her eye. "I'm sorry."
The gun fell from Jessica's grasp. Carolyn stepped forward, picked it up, and embraced Jessica. After a minute, Carolyn stepped back, "It's okay, you'll stay with me. We'll figure this all out together. Let's get you home."
As she led Jessica from the mine, the deputy reached for the gun. Carolyn pulled it away form his outstretched arm, "I think we'll hang on to this for now."
|# ¿ Aug 9, 2014 17:06|