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Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

I want to give this Thunderdome thing a whirl. I'm in and would like a flash rule.


Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

Bad Seafood posted:

Whoever, wherever your characters are, they bond over their mutual adoration of a 90s pop culture icon of your choice.

Smoke Signals
1143 words

Easton traipsed through rough brush, cursing with every step. Even though he had spent the past month in the woods, Easton still hadn’t got used to the itch and scratch of undergrowth grazing his legs. Through the trees he could see the sun lowering on the horizon, its light scattering on the ground. Back at his campsite he had already gathered the larger boughs and arranged them into a neat stack, but he couldn’t start a fire without nettles for smoke. Finally he saw what he needed—fresh nettles near a creek that had yet to dry in the summer drought. With his prize in hand, Easton rushed back to his campsite.

Fitz always kept his fire burning. When he was young he never bothered with the preparation required to get a proper transmission fire running. Now, he kept wood and nettles on hand so he could peer into the smoldering embers and talk with those below. Most days he just used it to keep in touch with his childhood friend Jerry, who preferred to play cards earthbound repioneers. Tonight was going to be special, though. Tonight he was going to talk with his grandson.

Easton stared at his glowing ball of tinder, watching the small flames lick larger branches but fail to make them combust. He tried to breathe life into the fire with short, halting bursts of air. He looked at his matchbook—only two left. Easton rubbed his hands together and waited for the kindling to catch.

Phyllis put her hand on Fitz’s knee. “I’m sure he’ll be on shortly,” she muttered. Fitz rose from his recliner and walked across the room. After glancing at the fire he walked over to his bookshelves. Fitz looked up and down his music collection before settling on a shelf near the bottom. He flipped through some of his oldest pieces, paused over vinyl recordings of the Beatles and glanced at some Led Zeppelin cassettes. He chose a CD, a recording of Jeff Buckley, that he had purchased secondhand in his childhood. As the music started he began to hum along, staring at the Earth’s nearly full waxing gibbous from his window.

chtchtchtchtcht”- Easton heard rustling through the trees beside him. His apple-sized ball of tinder continued to glow but was fading fast. With just a wan crescent glowing above him, he couldn’t see far out into the woods. Easton looked at his pile of wood and grimaced. Without a fire, his campsite would soon be overrun. He could hear the roaches scuttling and it would only be a matter of time before something larger and more dangerous started looking for its meal. He needed something to feed the fire and he only had one source of paper left in his rucksack—his pocket Bible. He began to tear out pages from Leviticus and hummed a tune he remembered his father singing when he was a boy. Granddad is going to be worried sick, he thought.

“I’m sure he just was slow making camp. He’ll pop on in a bit. Don’t worry,” said Phyllis as she handed Fitz some tea. “You know he likes to hunt at dusk.” Fitz alternated between staring at the fire and looking out at the Earth through the window with a blank expression. “We should have never let him go down there. Not after what happened to Jon—”

“You wouldn’t have been able to stop him if you tried. He’s your grandson. The same stubborn streak that’s in you was carried over to Jonah and to Easton alike. He’ll be on shortly. Just drink your tea, listen to your music and wait.”

Jonah. Jonah Jonah Jonah. Fitz thought back to “camping” trips with his son. Years before they opened up shuttles for resettlement he took Jonah out on excursions outside “the Bubble.” Camping wasn’t the same when you didn’t have a fire or trees to get lost in. But, the important parts were still there—you could still get away from the city, still share food, and still stay up far too late telling stories. Best of all, if you trekked to the dark side, you could still see stars rivaling the best views you had on Earth. Driving back to the Bubble, Fitz sang to Jonah- “There’s the moon asking to stay long enough for the clouds to fly me away.” He pointed to the Earth and winked. “Someday we’ll go back to Earth. Someday we’ll go back and you’ll be able to look up at the moon.”

Fitz never made it back to Earth. Struck with a heart condition at 40, he was unable to join in the early repioneer movement. Jonah, however, would take trips down to Earth and bring back souvenirs for his young son Easton. He’d tell stories of waterfalls, fields, and fierce beasts unknown on the Moon. Every day Jonah built his fire, put on nettles, breathed the smoke and told Easton and Fitz about his day through the transmission flame. Some nights he would even sing. Each night Easton would wait in the fire to hear about his father’s adventures. But after a month, the transmissions from Jonah stopped. Jonah broke his leg while exploring a forgotten city. Other repioneers found his body months later.

The flames finally started to build. Easton removed his gloves and allowed the muscles in his hands to relax. Satisfied that his fire was stable enough to give a good signal, he threw the young nettles into the blaze. As the nettles smoldered and smoke built, he could make out a familiar sight. His grandfather’s friend Jerry was hunched over a game of solitaire. Before Easton could move, Jerry called out “Easton! You know your grandfather is waiting for you!”

“Yes Mr. Williams, yes yes. I’ve just got my fire going. It was a long day. Have a good night.” Easton shuffled around the fire before Jerry could respond. As he moved, Easton peered into dozens of rooms. He saw parents waiting to talk with repioneer sons and daughters, other repioneers trying to find company for the night and folks Moonside who were just in need of someone to talk with. Finally he heard a familiar sound—Jeff Buckley’s “Grace.” Although he couldn’t make out his grandparents’ living room, he knew he found the right angle. “Gram? Granddad?”

“Easton?” Easton! You worried us sick. You should really talk to us more often. It always worrie—”

“I know Granddad, I know. I’m safe. I had to burn a few pages of the Bible Pa gave me, but I have a good fire going. I’ve got plenty of food. They’re going to be sending down farming equipment to us all next week. We might be able to get a settlement going.”

“Shame about the Bible but we’re just glad you’re safe.”

“Hallelujah,” said Easton.

“Hallelujah,” returned Fitz.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011


Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

In. :toxx:

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

The End Is Nigh
592 words

"And how exactly did you receive this divine revelation?"

"The archangel Uriel spoke to me from a urinal at the McDonald's down the road. He told me I needed to prepare the way."

And then he pissed himself while smiling beatifically.

Work was a hell of a lot easier before the locusts. Don't get me wrong, frogs weren't pleasant and nobody enjoyed boils, but it wasn't until the locusts that they pulled us into "the Taskforce." This wasn't like a Fugitive Task Force or a drug busting operation—by the time we got pulled in everyone with a badge was a member.

This is how I spend my days now, talking to bums about messages from God—and after the locusts every bum has a story about God. You ask me, I say that we’ve had a series of unfortunate coincidences. Some frogs rain down from a hurricane, a particularly virulent strain of flu breaks out and happens to cause boils, and now we’ve got locust swarms covering half the American continent, but our entomologists say that’s cyclical. You ask me, you know, I think you get enough scared congressmen together and they’ll create a committee for anything, science be damned. Thus, “the Taskforce.” Now I’m forced to interview every haruspex practicing hobo in the county. Everything in the search of an answer.

I doubt the mouthpiece of the McDonald’s metatron is our man.

After you go through enough of these intakes they all start to blur together. You forget whether your interviewee was chosen by St. John the Divine to spread the truth that peanut butter is unholy, or whether it was St. Michael and some other sweet spread. But, marmalade, jam or jelly, you can be sure that your interviewee will be a sticky, smelly man with a message from God.

I turned to my stinking soothsayer. “So, what should we do to prepare the way?” I handed him an orange. With the locusts ravaging crop production worldwide, we’ve had an increase in visions. Turns out you’re more likely to have a religious experience if you’re starving to death. Maybe some glucose will let him snap out of it.

He stared at the orange, grinned and handed it back. “There’s nothing to do but to spread the word. You’re trying to stop the current chain of events from unfolding. You need to let go, James.”

Well, he gets points for noticing the name tag. “For the record, what’s your prediction as to what is going to come next? We’re trying to catalog responses so we can better react to what’s coming down the pipe.” Not that any of you have a loving clue as to what is going on.

The fast-food fortuneteller smiled again. “You’ve read Exodus, I hope. After locusts is darkness. You’re going to want to reach for your flashlight now, James.”

The chair-pissing prophet was entertaining at least. Normally these bums have enough sense to predict something vague to ensure that we keep them around and keep them fed. Immediate darkness takes guts, I’ll give the smug bastar—


“I told you that you should reach for your flashlight, James. Here.”

I blindly reached for my flashlight. I brushed his hand as I grabbed it.

“I…I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

“My name is Elijah, James.”

I took Elijah by the arm and leaned in. I embraced him and I could feel him—wet, soiled and warm—I didn’t care. I hugged him, breathed deep, and I felt loved.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011


I'm also interested in doing a crit swap with someone. If anyone has interest, respond to this post and I'll crit you up.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

Some Sunny Day
887 words

Klaxxor kept a tight grip on his drink. He gave Shackron a quizzical squint, “I just don’t know what we’re going to do now that we’ve completed the mission. These parties are always so hollow.”

Shackron shook her torso and laughed, “You’re such a worrywort. There’s always a new mission. You got to enjoy your time on Earth. There will be other planets for you to visit after we’re done harvesting the resources from this one.”

Klaxxor sighed, “You don’t understand. Earth was great. They have this soft, fragrant vegetation called ‘grass!’ They lay down on it and enjoy the radiation of their star. It is a shame you didn’t get to witness it. If we could just give them another week…”

“Just enjoy the party, Klaxxor. I’m going to get more…wait, what do they call this again?”

“Kool-aid. It’s a mixture of water, sucrose, various colori…”

“Right. Kool-aid. Anyway, relax a bit, Klaxxy. You did good. Just sit back and enjoy the fireworks.”

Klaxxor adjusted the party party umbrella in his drink and took in the spectacle around him. They had transformed the observation deck into an ersatz Earthling bar, but the decor was a hodgepodge of Hawaiian luau, American dive bar and Japanese izakaya. Klaxxor crossed tatami mats, weaved through tiki torches and placed himself between the beer-pong table and observation window. The decor might change, but the window was always a safe spot during the festivities.

Here’s to you. Klaxxor raised a glass to the blue and green orb spinning silently beneath his vantage. It’s a shame that nobody will be able to gaze out over your waters again, little Earth.

“Hey there Klaxxor. What are you looking at?”

Rajax. Head of the “Gravitational Re-alignment and Resource Collection” taskforce. “Head of the Group of Jerks who Blow Planets to Smithereens to Mine for Resources,” more like. Why can’t he let me enjoy some peace with you, little Earth?

“I’m just looking at our last subject, Raj. You all set for the fireworks?”

“Set? SET?! Klaxs, we’re going to blow the thing to bits! There won’t be a single one of those four-legged monstrosities left in the galaxy! It’ll be great. First, we’re going to combust their atmosphere to give a show for the families here. After we set the thing on fire…”

“I really don’t want the details, Raj.”

“Just wait, I haven’t even gotten to the antimatter bombs we buried under their mountains.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just not in the mood, Raj.”

Rajax gave Klaxxor a harsh glance. “Well get in the mood, Klaxxor. I’m thinking of asking you to push the button tonight. I know you get attached to the primitives you meet on your field missions, but remember that your little anthropological studies are just a means of appeasing the peaceniks who are afraid of us eradicating galaxy culture. Some culture,” said Rajax as he flung a party umbrella into a tiki torch and watched it burn. “Well, I’m up again at the beer pong table. We’ll talk. Soon.”

Klaxxor turned back to the window. A song from the American 1920s, “Blue Skies” by Irving Berlin, started playing. Oh to see those skies as they see them. Klaxxor looked around the room. Months of research. Months living on the surface. For what!? For a twelve page report and a “historically informed party celebrating the culture to be sacrificed.” Klaxxor exhaled and made his way toward the Observation Deck’s exit.

“Hey Klaxxy, where are you heading?” asked Shackron with a smile.

“Oh, I’ve just got a bit of indigestion. We really should stop trying to serve local food,” said Klaxxor with a laugh. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Well hurry back! We’re going to start limbo soon, and then it is time for the fireworks!”

“Hooray,” Klaxxor flatly intoned.

After exiting the party, Klaxxor sped to the cargo hold where surface-bound materials are kept. If this is where they keep my lander and camping gear, it has to be where Rajax and the Re-alignment and Resource Collection crew stores their materials as well. Now what does an antimatter bomb look like anyway?

While the crew on the Observation Deck limboed, luau’d and played beer pong, Klaxxor sifted through hundreds of bins, containment fields and storage boxes until he found one marked “unspent munitions.” Inside, he found a small dull white sphere, suspended by a containment field. Satisfied with his find, Klaxxor returned to the party above.

“Klaxxor! I was worried that you didn’t have the constitution for our festivities. You know, I’ve gotten to push the button so many time, I am going to have you do honors tonight.”

“Sure thing, Raj! But first, let’s have one last game of beer pong. Just you and me.”

Raj laughed. “That’s the spirit! I’ll set up the cups. We just need to find another one of those blasted balls.”

“Don’t worry,” said Klaxxor. “I have one right here.”

From Earth, the humans witnessed an explosion unlike any they had seen before. In an instant, the sky filled with orange glowing fire. The fire swirled into a vortex and contracted, compressing down until it was just a pinprick of intense glowing light. The light from the pinprick shone for a minute and then, just as suddenly as it started, disappeared.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011


Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:

Reminding you clowns that I'll crit up to two stories based on request.

If you have already requested on from someone else this offer doesn't apply to you.

I'll take you up on this and I'll offer up two crits of my own to any takers.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:

Party crits for Bushido and Grizzled. You both have the same problem, namely that the Protag spends most of the story sitting on his rear end doing jack.

Thank you so much!

ETA: still offering two crits of my own!

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

Braid New World
917 words

I remember when I saw my first infected: golden curls bouncing down to his shoulders. Within a couple of weeks you couldn’t walk down the block without encountering several of the infected, their heads glistening with grease. It took months for the news to realize that it was contagious—everyone just assumed it was another fad. They called it “Mullet Madness” or “hockey hair heads” it spread like wildfire. We were told not to be alarmed, but I knew that someone had to cry out against these crimes against coiffures. Someone had to fight to protect the beauty of carefully cut hair.

After the story broke, I knew that I had to track the illness’ spread. I watched as it swallowed entire blocks and saw far too many beautiful heads of hair walk into an establishment well trimmed and exit as tangled, slimy Kentucky Waterfalls. With a few weeks work, I managed to locate a source, a hotbed of hapless haircuts, centered in a dive bar downtown. The hockey heads weren’t aggressive about transmitting their illness—it seems like the soon to be infected came to them. If I wanted to protect my beloved undercut, I knew what I needed to do. If I wanted to understand the plague, I needed to know what kind of person let himself get infected.


I smoked about half a pack in my car during my stakeout watching the establishment. “Happy’s” seems like an inappropriate name given the horrors that must transpire here. So far, several groups of patrons have entered the bar with various trendy haircuts. Each exited with the same short in the front long in the back abomination. After hours of waiting, I finally saw an appropriate subject, a young man, about He was alone and was small enough that I should be able to restrain him if he puts up a fight. After he walked past I exited my car and put on my widest grin.

“Hey there, would you be able to help me out?” I asked the man.

“Huh? Me?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’ve lost my way. Could you help me out? I have a map here.”

“Oh, sure. Let’s take a look. Where are you headed?”

“Let me show you my map.”

It was over before he had a chance to react. The ether soaked rag that I had hidden behind the map worked wonderfully. He collapsed into my arms like a bundle of wet noodles. Before anyone could notice, I tossed him in the back seat and headed home.


“Just tell me why you would want your lustrous hair to turn into one of those monstrosities.”

“Why the gently caress do you have me tied up, man? Just let me go! This is so hosed up!”
“Tell me what you know and I’ll let you go. I need answers,” I said, delivering each word in a rapid staccato.

“You gotta untie me before I’m saying nothing. This is so hosed!”

My interrogation wasn’t going as smoothly as I had hoped. My captive, “Rich,” refused to give me meaningful answers. He admitted that he hoped to catch the bug by going to the bar but refused to explain why. He just kept saying something about wanting to “join in.” He also refused to tell me the bar’s password.

“Listen,” I pleaded in my most soothing voice “I’m just curious.” I loosened his straps. “I don’t understand why someone would take something as beautiful as this,” I said as I brushed his hair “and become part of the greasy mob.”

He looked me in the eye. “Don’t you want to belong? There’s no judgement in the mullet. They’re all part of the same party posse. Listen, I can look at you and see that you don’t get it. The hipster haircut. The glasses. You want to be unique.”

“You don’t know me or why I care about this,” I snapped back.

“I can tell you’re curious. Let me go and I’ll tell you how you can get into the bar.”


Given the way that everyone stared at me, you’d think I was the one who was infected. Rich was able to convince me that I didn’t need a hazmat suit, but I still had my gloves, goggles and mask to stay safe. Everyone at Happy’s seemed, well, happy. I had never seen so many mullets at one place: curly mullets, golden mullets, permed mullets all together. Even those who hadn’t undergone the transformation seemed at ease.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” the bartender inquired.

“I’d rather not drink anything here. I’ll gladly pay for a drink, though.”

“How about a bring you a beer anyway, in case you change your mind.”

Soon, a strange song started playing. “Do something about your long filthy hair—it looks like a rats nest,” the singer intoned. The crowd whipped into a frenzy. In that bar, I could finally understand why people sought out the mullet bug. I looked around and I saw humanity, a dancing singing throng. They didn’t care if they didn’t look cool. They all belonged.

“CUT THE MULLET! CUT THE MULLET!” the crowd sang with Wesley Willis.

I couldn’t stifle my laughter. Before I knew it, I was dancing with them. The dancing left me sweaty, so I removed my goggles and gloves. After the song ended I returned to my spot at the bar. The bartender smiled and said “your drink is getting warm.”

“You’re right,” I returned. I took off my mask and drank deeply.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

100 words

A whimpering mass mewling for clemency shivers around me. My rivals have not to do but suck their thumbs and cry for their mothers. One troubled tyke stands to challenge me. I raise my feather-stuffed cudgel high and let out a fearsome shriek—he too shall know my wrath. He soils himself in fear. With one bash of my pillow I send him stumbling. He falls into a pitiful crawl and pleads for mercy. I give him none. My enemies weep plaintively. Their tears will salt my post-nap milk and graham crackers, for I am the Blood Queen of the Thunderdome.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011


Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

751 words

The Hunter stretched out his sinewy limbs. He felt his atrophied muscles relax as he swayed his body back and forth. Although he wasn’t as fast as he once was, he remained flexible. The Hunter grimaced at the sound of his his joints cracking as he arched his back. But, as he straightened his body out, a wan smile spread across his face.

His son scolded him, “You shouldn’t smile. This is nothing but foolishness.”

“I am an old fool,” the Hunter returned. “But, every boy needs a birthday party and every boy needs a gift. Let me bring my new grandson a gift for his birthday.”

The Hunter turned and waved at his infant grandson. The grandson was resting in his mother’s arms.

As the Hunter left, two younger trackers joined him. Together, the three went off in the direction of a nearby antelope herd. The Hunter looked at the recently snapped branches and followed the wide path the herd left in the grass. With a smile three started in slow pursuit of the herd.


The Hunter’s joints ached as he followed the two younger trackers. They kept a slow pace, but the uneven ground made running difficult. As they trailed behind the herd, it broke into smaller groups. After an hour of effort tracking a small group, they winnowed their prey down two older antelope, a buck and a doe.

The run was not consistent. The antelope would burst forward with speed for a mile or so and then would just as suddenly stop. Each time the pair of antelope stopped the hunters would close the gap between them. The Hunter watched as the antelopes’ lungs heaved as they struggled to keep catch their breath. His lungs also heaved as he strained to breathe. Before he could feel rested, the antelope stood up and bolted forward once again.

After hours of pursuit, the two antelope finally parted. The younger hunters split off to follow the doe. The Hunter drank deeply from the water he carried, but stopped before he slaked his thirst. The buck sprinted off into the distance again. The Hunter followed his prey alone.


The Hunter’s legs throbbed as he continued his run. The antelope’s uneven tracks showed that it too was in pain. The Hunter smiled as he approached a tall hill. He ascended the slope triumphantly, expecting to find his prey exhausted from the climb. However, upon cresting the hill the Hunter saw a reformed herd of antelope. His prey had re-entered the fold.

The Hunter screamed in rage. The reformed herd darted at the sound. The hunter chased after bunch, sprinting as fast as he could manage. He nearly lost his footing in the frenzy of the chase. At first all of the antelope looked the same—just a mass of flesh and bone rolling away from him—but he eventually spotted his target struggling to keep pace with the rest of the herd. The Hunter pursued the bull with fresh enthusiasm. Gleaming with sweat he pushed forward as the antelope separated from the herd and collapsed under its own weight.

“Poor old thing, you couldn’t keep up,” he said to the antelope. “I am going to be like you someday soon, but not today.” The Hunter took out his spear and threw it into the antelope’s vitals. After the antelope died, he cut off its feet and removed its entrails through a slit in its gut. With the carcass dressed, he put it on his shoulder and started his trek back home.


By the time he arrived, the feast had already started. The two younger trackers had been successful as well. Flesh from the doe they stalked was crackling over the fire. As the Hunter approached, the hunters came to take the carcass from him. His son came and greeted him with an embrace.

“I’m glad to see that you can still hunt,” the Son said. “We were worried about you.”

“Of course I can still hunt!” the Hunter returned. “Now let me see my grandson.”

The Son brought over the newborn and carefully handed him to the Hunter.

The Hunter’s smile gleamed as he held the child. He whispered into his grandson’s ear “I have many things to teach you. I want to teach you about the sun and the stars. I want to tell you stories about the antelope and the cheetah. I want to teach you how to become a good man. Here’s your first lesson: above all else, you must be persistent, little one.”

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011


I'm bringing a death wish with me.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

In with a :toxx: for failing to submit last week.

Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011

Like a Morning Star
571 Words

“Joe, check out the halteres on this one,” I said as I pointed to the two bulbous masses behind each wing. “They’re massive! This guy has to be our tail rotor. I’m going to call him Spike.”

The latest specimen was superb, but my kid brother didn’t seem to appreciate just how lucky we were to find “Spike.” True, most houseflies are nearly identical, but our Spike’s wings were several deviations larger than the average fly’s, and boy were those halteres something.

Although previous iterations of my fly-powered-flight contraptions had failed, with Spike at the rear, I was confident that my latest project, the Fly-O-Copter Mk 1, would be a tremendous success. I just needed to glue my flies into place.

“OK Joe, if we want to attach our pal Spike to the frame, we’re going to need to squeeze the body a bit as we gently glue his legs in place. If you don’t squeeze him, his whole thorax will get attached and he won’t be able to fly. We want him to be firmly attached, but he can’t be smushed against the balsa wood, you got it? But, don’t squeeze too hard! If you squeeze too hard you’ll squish ‘im and—”

“Thomas! What have I told you about playing with flies! It’s disgusting. Let it go and wash your hands. I cannot believe you’re using out kitchen table for this.”

Moms just don’t understand. The first time I caught a fly I was ecstatic. I, a mere boy of seven, had plucked a creature from the sky with my bare hands. As I raised my arms in triumph my mother gasped and shouted “let go of that thing right this instant!” Victory was short-lived.

“Ma, listen, I’m really close to a breakthrough on the Fly-O-Copter and the kitchen table is our best workspace. If you let me wrap up here, I promise I won’t touch another fly again in my life.”

“You said that last time, when I caught you gluing them to a baloon—”

“You mean the Hindflyberg,” I interjected.

“And the paper airplane…”

“Air Fly One,” I said with emphasis.

“and the time before that when you were trying to tie a string around—”

“It really was more of a leash. I don’t have time to go into the techni—”

“I want the flies gone, Thomas. I’m glad you have your hobbies, but I’m done with the flies. And I swear to God if you have more of them sitting in a ziplock in the freezer, I’ll ground you for a month.”

The joke was on her—I learned to avoid ziplock bags weeks ago. The clear plastic makes it way too obvious if she opens the freezer while I’m trying to stun the flies. Much easier to place them in the bag of frozen mixed vegetables that had gone untouched for years.

Realizing my defeat, I looked down at Spike, and over at Joe.

“Joe, thanks for your help. Hopefully next time—”

“I just told you there wasn’t going to be a next time, Thomas. Joe, go wash your hands and go to your room,” my mother commanded.

I looked down at the the frame of the ill-fated Fly-O-Copter Mk 1. Spike had roused from his cryogenic slumber. As he cleaned his wings and flew away, I remembered a song from my youth.

“Shoo, fly,” I spat at as I batted him away.


Bushido Brown
Mar 30, 2011


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