I'm in. Decided to take the Halitosis Bomb. Wanted to make a joke but this is my first post here and that would make for a bad first impression. Gender is part of the prompt though so I can't see how this will go wrong holy poo poo I totally didn't preview my post here this is going to be a trainwreck.
Phobia fucked around with this message at Jan 26, 2014 around 17:17
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2014 00:31|
|# ¿ Mar 26, 2019 22:29|
Thunderdome LXXVII: Well gee, that's certainly something
For the Last Time We Are Not Calling It a Gay Bomb!
Based on the Halitosis Bomb.
Word Count: 900
“What am I looking at exactly?” was the only response Wing Commander Margaret Stine could come up with after reading the document put on her office desk. It was a response in the sense that it was the only thing she was able to put across. The words came out suddenly and without planning, in a dull yet incredibly mystified tone.
The Commander looked up and stared at the soldiers, who were simply standing in front of her desk. They weren't answering her, but a sharp look soon changed that.
“It’s something we've been researching,” the one continually straightening his collar said.
“Couple of years, on and off,” the one with the unsettling smile added.
“Call it a vanity project,” the leftmost one laughed, “t-though we saw it as more than that.”
“And we were hoping to get some official funding,” the rightmost said, composed. “So that we can make all of this a reality.
Stine squinted. “I’m not asking about your life story. I’m asking you to tell me what you’re proposing.”
“It’s…” The one to the left looked to his associate. “It’s a new type of weapon. We stumbled across it, you could say.”
“It’s a non-lethal explosive, powered by pheromones and other chemicals.” The right soldier explained. “Strong aphrodisiacs, mostly. It’s meant to influence the body of an intended target as means of a distraction.”
“Houst,” the Commander said flatly. ”In plain English.”
The one named Houst shrugged. “I call it the Gay Bomb.”
“No, wait” the one named Zubin interrupted, “Nick, I thought we were falling it the Halitosis Bomb!”
“Nooo, the Gay Bomb leaves very little room for confusion.”
“But that’s, like, a misnomer. It’s offensive!”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“Of course you’d say that, Nick!”
Stine leered at the two of them before slamming her fist on the desk. “So you’ve spent several years coming up with a weapon that is supposed to turn someone homosexual?”
“No,” Zubin stammered. “That’s a misconception. What’s it’s supposed to do is make…” He stopped and looked at Houst.
“It’s filled with a mixture of chemicals created such that it’s a makeshift mating call for any enemy soldiers.” Houst gestured with his hands. “Makes them want to shag their fellow soldiers, basically.”
Stine sat there, staring at the two of them.
“So. It turns them gay. So what? How would that be beneficial to us in the slightest?”
Hoult said nothing. His smile twitched slightly.
Zubin scratched his cheek. “Well. Way we saw it, if terrorists are too busy taking it from both sides, they’ll be too busy to bomb any buildings!”
“They would just pull their pants up,” the Commander inched out, against the clenched fist she had pressed to her face, “if they wanted to bomb buildings that baldy.”
Houst shook his head. “You’re thinking of this of terms of a manager sucking a chub in an airport bathroom, Mum.”
“Then enlighten me, please. What exactly am I not getting about your stupid bomb?”
“Think of it in terms of cavemen. Savagery. No clothes, no censorship. It turns them into wild animals.”
Stine shook her head. “You still haven’t answered my question, Houst. So they want to gently caress. So what? How is that any benefit to us?”
Houst opened his mouth. Then promptly shut it and shook his head.
“It might be best if we show you.”
“What do you mean?”
Zubin butted in. “We brought a working prototype with us. I left it in the barracks.”
There was a loud explosion from outside the building. Stine rose to her feet swiftly. She heard Zubin mumble something about how it was ‘probably us’. Fear flooded her system and she rushed out of the room. There was a clear view from the window on the third floor. Gray smoke billowed out the open door and windows. At first she thought there was a fire, but soon enough the mess began to clear up.
She could see them fighting inside. A few soldiers began to leave the barracks, tearing at their clothes, rolling around in the dirt. Even at a distance she could see their eyes, crazed and wild. One was foaming at the mouth as it pinned another to the ground. Soon they were all upon each other, bodies arching, panting, clawing, thrusting. And the noise, oh the noise, the screaming, the growling, even the sickening noise of skin slapping skin.
The whole sight was disgusting, wrong, inhumane but… she understood.
“My god. This is…”
“Wasn’t the way I wanted you to see it.” Houst said, hands braced behind his back.
Zubin smiled. “It’s non-lethal – though there might be some tearing and scratching!”
“… How long is this supposed to last?”
“Uhm, for quite a while. Several hours. We haven’t actually timed –“
“I don’t care. Can you make ten more of those? For testing purposes, of course.”
Houst smiled and stared out at the field below. “If we have the funding, perhaps. Who knows, Mum?”
Stine sighed and said nothing, simply watching as an entire barrack full of her finest men fall into a fit of debauchery.
As Wing Commander Margaret Stine watched from the relative safety of the glass canopy, she realized that this could revolutionize the military war.
In the thralls of war, any sort of advantage over the enemy counts. She just never knew her biggest contribution would be a Sex Bomb.
|# ¿ Jan 27, 2014 04:01|
|# ¿ Mar 1, 2014 05:50|
"Jovial," Phobia flicked his nose with one hand while he typed the penultimate "I" then the ceremonious "N", lips pressed into a bold leer. "I knew my failed entries from the Bulwer-Lytton contest would come in handy someday!"
|# ¿ Mar 4, 2014 04:55|
Oxxi you have full permission to eviserate me.
They found Miriam Lakaemper still straddled on top of Louis Koffman, her fingers still wrapped tightly around the knife handle.
It had been an hour since she had killed her best friend and she had not moved a single inch from the body. That alone was disconcerting alone, without the gore. Rookie coughed as he saw how completely splattered she was.
He and Walker finally reached her. Rookie could her speaking, faint, just barely audible. When Walker pulled her up to her feet and Rookie saw the blood, the tears, and the look on her face, he realized that she was saying the same thing repeatedly. He read her lips. And his blood went cold.
“Rookie,” Walker smacked. He jerked his pistol towards the direction they just came from. “Come on, boat’s waiting.”
It took less than ten minutes to reach the docks. Bossman was waiting there, readjusting the hood over her head. She nodded as she saw them, gesturing with the rifle in her hands.
“Congratulations.” Bossman droned, first to Miriam, then Walker. “You searched her?”
“’Course we did.” Walker snorted. “What do you take me for, a Rookie?”
Rookie could have chosen to respond to that. Instead, he followed Walker.
The girl didn’t put up a fight as they shoved her onto the dock. Everything about her was lame and quiet, and that made the hollowness in Rookie’s chest rumble. She waddled onto the inner elevator with Walker and Rookie right behind her. Walker hit the button with the barrel of his pistol and the rusted doors closed behind them.
It was silent, other than the whirling of the elevator. It must have been suffocating to Walker because he gently nudged the girl’s shoulder.
“Hey, say something, will you?” Walker demanded. “You’ll be going home. Aren’t you at least happy about that?”
Miriam kept up the constant patter, head downcast. Rookie wondered if Walker even noticed her lips moving.
“Potato. Great.” Walker grunted. “Wish she were last year’s winner. What’s his name, Zhang Wei? Now that guy was a winner. He was still cracking jokes even after he slit his girlfriend’s throat. loving shame, too, should have got more credit.”
Rookie did not respond, keeping his head turned from both Walker and the girl in front of them.
“Alright, alright, sorry.” Walker mumbled. “poo poo, I know Grab’n’Bag ain’t your thing but I didn’t want to take a loving chance. Okay? Now stop with the silent treatment.”
Rookie shook his head.
Walker looked at him, then at Miriam. He sniffed. “Really? Christ, stop being a pussy.”
Rookie didn’t dignify that with a response.
The doors to the elevator opened soon after, cutting the tension. They walked down to the jail room and threw her into the first open cage. Walker said nothing as they closed the cell door and walked off, handing the keys back off to Cage (like Nicolas, har har). He said something to Rookie, then walked out the door.
Rookie did not follow. He stared into the moldy cell, watching Miriam sputter on to herself in a dialect he could not recognize. Nothing could will him to leave.
That was, until the girl stopped talking and stared straight back.
He followed Walker to the rec room, where everyone was gathered. When he got there, Face was standing on one of the tables, adjusting his tie.
“Everyone here” He deduced, then shot back. “Alright, alright. Before we begin! Nielsen called in. Don't have the numbers, but e killed it!“ He cackled, threw his hands in the air. “The big wigs wants to sign us for more! We did it people!”
The room erupted into applause, laughter filled the room. Face motioned with his hands for silence, smirk all the more palpable.
“I would like to thank each and every last one of you.” Face bellowed. He threw his hands over his head. “While people may call me the Face of this show, you are the gears making this clock tick.”
The room started buzzing soon after Face got down, the air strangely light like cinnamon. Station nerds chatting up Guerillas, stories swapped as quickly as booze.
Rookie stuck to the booze, petals spread against the walls, RC Cola in hand. He watched the activity in the room for a while before he noticed Bossman.
“Hey,” she sloshed. “What’s going on? You should come dance with me!”
Rookie wanted to ask her how, exactly, they were supposed to dance to Depeche Mode. He didn’t. Bossman broke his bubble, the word ‘consent’ apparently not in her dictionary.
“I heard something. Y’wanna hear?” She giggled, hand covering her cheek like a child keeping a secret.
She hushed, “They’re throwing her back in.”
Rookie felt cold. She must have seen something in his eyes, because she bleated, “She’s popular! Girl’s trending worldwide. The execs said to keep her on a leash, spin some yarn on how she chose to come back…”
He made a face. She smirked, finger twirling around a blonde lock.
“She won’t amount to anything else.” She needled. “Her parents don’t want her. So she’s got no one else, except the game and maybe a padded cell. Who cares what happens to her?”
Bossman kept yapping but all Rookie heard was white noise. Soon, he walked away and she did not stop him.
It was easy, almost too easy. Cage was already flat out drunk, so grabbing him and dragging him out wasn’t simple. There was a key to the broom closet. He thumbed the pistol as he snuck over to the jail, peeking before walking in.
The girl did not speak as he opened the cell. She looked up, hands balled into her hoodie.
Rookie watched as she rose from her cot.
They met eyes. And they stood there for ages, everything before he turned his back.
She was on him in a second. Guy had no chance.
As Rookie laid there, slumped, watching the girl grinning as she loaded a round with almost practiced easy, he wanted to feel happy for her. Rookie knew what she was going to do. That was why he did it. But, he could not believe how loving stupid he had been. Would have slapped himself, if the bowie knife had not hit his spinal cord.
It did not take long for him to die, small favors. They would find his corpse in the wake, chuck him overboard with more than a dozen others. Rookie’s death would cause no waves; no family, no life goals, no friends save for the ones rotting in a cell. He didn’t have a name anymore,just some stupid initiation rite.
In Rookie’s final moments, he seemed to realize all of this. Between bile and blood and spit, Rookie managed to vomit laughter. It came pouring, his mouth tasting of disgusting metal.
As his vision went blurry and then dark, Rookie stopped laughing.
“Shoulda loving searched her,” he said.
|# ¿ Mar 10, 2014 04:22|
Kaishai, thank you. Spooks and specters are like my bread and butter. In.
|# ¿ Mar 10, 2014 19:27|
Mud (890 words)
There was once a mansion that sat on a hill, surrounded by a sea of trees. People in the neighboring villages said that it was haunted, and there even rumors that an insane woman had killed her husband there many years ago. Legend said that, every night at midnight, the ghost of that woman came out to drive whoever was inside mad, just like her.
One day, a pastor by the name of Reginald learned about the house. A man of narrow conviction, he believed that there was nothing wrong with the house, and he offered five-thousand dollars to the person brave enough to spend the night inside. However, no one had the nerve to take him up on this bet.
That is, until one day when a boy by the name of Hansel went straight up to and took the man’s challenge. This boy did not believe in ghosts, and scoffed when Reginald asked if he wanted the pastor to leave the doors unlocked.
“Lock them,” he said. “Wouldn’t want any intruders getting in, right?”
The preacher gave Hansel a look but did what he asked.
Later that night, Hansel was locked in the mansion, and all of the doors leading out were locked.
Hansel smiled to himself. “This place isn’t so bad,” he told himself. “All of these town folk are just superstitious fools.”
After exploring every nook and cranny of the mansion, he retired to the living room. He lit a fire and the fireplace and hopped on the antique couch, not even bothering to kick off his shoes. He placed his hands behind his head and soon began to drift off to sleep.
Then, as nocturne settled outside, a gentle creek woke Hansel from his slumber. As he rose up, straightening his third collar, he could swear he heard a voice coming from somewhere.
“Who did this?” sang the voice.
“Must be the wind,” Hansel mumbled as he closed his eyes again.
However, it was not long before the voice came again.
“Who did this?” it cried.
“It has to be my imagination playing tricks,” Hansel told himself. “Just has to be. No such thing as spooks.”
He didn’t close his eyes again. The voice was back not long after, and it was coming from the foyer. Hansel rose to his feet and stomped over to the stairs.
“Alright, you little freaks.” He called out. “Come on out. You’ve had your fun.”
Just then, the fireplace in the living room went out, sending the entire house into pitch darkness. With a trembling hand Hansel reached for a candle on a table and lit it up.
Just as he turned around, there, in the light of the flame, was a floating severed head, it’s eyeballs ripped from its sockets and rotted teeth pitched in a growl.
Hansel nearly fell over in fright. He covered his mouth with his free palm and the head, that of a woman, parted its jagged maw, lifted an unconnected hand over her head and spoke.
“WHO TRACKED MUD ALL OVER MY CARPETS? AND ON MY SOFA?” screeched the woman, pointing a bony finger “WAS IT YOU?”
“Yes! Yes!” Hansel pleaded. “I swear it was an accident! I didn’t even know I got mud on my boots, just please don’t kill me!”
“FOR SHAME. I JUST GOT THIS CARPET INSTALLED LAST WEEK. DIDN’T ANYONE TEACH YOU TO WIPE YOUR FEET AT THE DOOR?” the woman spat. “HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT IF I CAME INTO YOUR HOUSE AND STOMPED ALL OVER YOUR CARPETS?” she groaned. “KIDS THESE DAYS. NO RESPECT.”
Hansel blinked. Then he sneered. This was it? The spook in this house was some old coot?
“Okay, wow? Really? That’s what you’re getting angry about?” Hansel sneered, his fear suddenly draining. “Look, lady, everyone in town says you’re spooking up the place? They say whoever comes here is driven insane by a ghost. If this is your idea of coming back to haunt the living then you should, like, go back to being dead.”
“OH, SO YOU WANT TO BE SCARED?” she held up a piece of ghostly paper in her disembodied hand. “YOU SHOULD SEE HOW MUCH I’LL HAVE TO PAY TO GET THESE CARPETS CLEAN.”
Hansel looked at the paper, then at the floating head. Then, with a deep, calm breath, he looked at the paper clutched in the woman’s pale hand.
It was already morning, and Reginald was going up to check on the cocky boy. In his hands was a paper bag filled with the reward money. A promise was a promise, after all, and he intended to fulfill his end of the bargain.
Needless to say, he was shocked when he saw Hansel leap straight out of the window nearest the door. The preacher was prepared to ask the boy what was wrong when he froze. Hansel rose to his feet, a crazed look in his eyes and his pants down at his ankles. He couldn’t stop screaming, not even when he shoved Reginald off his feet. And so Reginald sat there on the grass, watching until Hansel disappeared into the clearing, left to wonder what in the devil he just saw.
That was the last anyone saw of Hansel. Some say he is still running to this day. In the end, no one ever did claim that reward.
|# ¿ Mar 17, 2014 04:04|
I'm in, definitely in.
|# ¿ Mar 18, 2014 14:01|
I get these letters every day. Sealed in dirty, burnt envelopes, addressed to me in shaky handwriting. I find them in places only I would think to check. I don't know how they get there. All that I know is that I have received a letter every day for three years.
Until last week.
You know those kids in high school who’d drop you like a sack of potatoes just for the approval of a bunch of assholes they didn't even like? Jeremy, my best friend since grade school, was that guy. I knew it too. But I tried so hard to make it work.
One Friday, I asked Jeremy if he wanted to hang out. He said, “Yeah, sure.”
Of course he wasn't going to come. I chose not to believe that. So when I found myself spending my Friday evening sitting on a bench outside the mall in the pouring rain, and realized that they weren’t going to come, I snapped.
If you were anything like I was as a kid, you let things build up. This wasn’t just Jeremy. It was my parents, school, hormones. I bottled it all, and when Jeremy stood me up, it all came rushing out.
But that isn’t important. What’s important was that I tried to kill myself. Up until then the urges were confined to simple thoughts, nothing more. But that night, when I was sitting up in bed, I decided that I wanted to die.
I waited until my mom was asleep and walked to the kitchen. The plan was to overdose on my Ritalin. I know, I wouldn’t have died anyway. I admit it, I was being stupid. You overdose on methylphenidate the same way you overdose on caffeine. Regardless, when I opened the medicine cabinet and there, sitting upright, was the first letter.
“I Lov U”
I stood there there for what felt like ages, just staring down at that piece of dirty paper. I snorted, then squinted. Was I still sleeping? Even if it was written in cursive, it was jarring. You don’t expect to find this poo poo when you’re about to shove a whole pill bottle down your throat.
I chucked the letter in the toilet. By the time I returned to the cabinet, I just lost the will, so I closed it up and went to bed.
Another one came, the next morning. I found it under my pillow.
“U R Specal”
I told my mom to stop screwing around. It was creeping me out. She looked confused, and when she wanted to know what I was talking about I quickly shrugged it off. It must have been a dream, I told her.
When I received one the next day, I knew it wasn’t a dream.
“NICHOLAS JAMIE LADD”
They knew who I was. My first name is technically Nicholas but I just use Nick. My middle name is Jamie because my mom wanted to name me Jamie. I never told anyone that.
They kept coming after that, once a day. Always brief, rarely filing a sentence, but almost always positive.
“U R Met 4 Great Thin”
“Have A Nic Dae”
“U R Prfekt”
I wish I were joking.
The strangest part, the thing that probably disarmed me the most, was the handwriting and grammar. Imagine an adult pretending to be a child trying to write motivational posters and you got the idea. But even when they fell flat on their face, half of the time I found myself laughing. Turns out I really needed a laugh. So, in a way, it was motivational.
It took a while to get used to, at first. When it first started, of course I tried to find an explanation! I remember staying up several nights in a row to see if anyone would sneak in. They never did. And yet they would still find their way, in a corner I forgot to check.
Eventually I stopped looking for reason. I just took the letters for what they were. It became routine.
My life started to change for the better. I started fitting in at school. I made new friends. My mom and dad were making up. For a time, I wanted to think it had something to do with those silly letters.
Then I realized I could write back.
I discovered it by accident. I used one of the letters to pass notes to my new friend Brandon during class. We made jokes about the teacher, talked poo poo about Jeremy. Silly crap. The note disappeared when I got home, but the next day I found it in the usual envelope, along with a note.
I don’t know why it took me so long to notice. I started sending things to my weird penpal. Hell, I thought, maybe I'll finally learn what this guy's deal is.
“Who are you?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Want 2 Help”
“Where are you?”
“Are you in the future?"
Why the hell did they even respond to me if it was going to be evasive?
Out of exasperation I just sent him another question, first one that came to mind.
“Are you okay?”
The letter came the next day. There was something different though. Immediately I noticed a brownish drop on the top left corner of the envelope and I paused. Something was wrong. But I shook it off and opened it.
...What the gently caress.
It clicked for me then. I felt sick, having been letting this go on for so long.
I stopped opening the letters. Every time I found one, I would just chuck it. But it was grinding my last nerve towards the end and I just snapped. I tore open a letter and made it clear.
The letters stopped coming after that.
That was last week. I thought it was over.
A letter was laying on my bed when I came home last Friday.
I didn't want to open it.
I opened it.
The writing was chaotic, frantic, bunched together and covering almost every inch of the page. I couldn't make it out, still can't. I barely noticed though. I felt something else, slimy and wrong.
My blood chilled as I held it. I opened my trembling hand.
A human eye.
I haven’t slept in days. I just stay in bed.
My room stinks of rotting meat and decay.
School’s called and asked where I am. I didn’t answer.
Brandon sent me a text. Jeremy went missing last Friday. The whole town is looking for him.
They won’t find him. He's not here anymore.
The letters, they're just appearing in front of me, out of thin air. Just dropping on the floor.
There must be fifty of them, all bulging, seeping with blood.
This thing loves me.
Jeremy hurt me. So it hurt Jeremy.
It wants me to be happy.
I don’t want to die anymore. I’m happy. But I don’t know how much more I can take of this.
It’s going to run out of parts sooner or later. It won’t stop there.
Mom's not picking up her cellphone. I haven't seen her since Saturday.
|# ¿ Mar 24, 2014 05:40|
In, so in. Also, flash me Hoppa'.
|# ¿ Apr 1, 2014 22:12|
Angel of Death
Death came for me on the 14th of May. I was in my chair when it happened, dirty cigar between my chapped lips. The gas heater was off and the room felt so cold I swear I could see my own breath. I noticed her in the reflection of the TV, but she stood so close that I didn’t see the use in turning my head.
“I’m dreaming,” I said. “I must be. All I need to do is wake up.”
The Angel hovered over me, it’s bony fingers coiled around a tall walking stick. She considered me.
“I apologize, Harold. But I am very much real. Fate has decide that your life ends this very night.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s unfortunate, I understand. But you have no choice. It is time.”
I stared at the television for a long moment, thinking. This wasn’t a dream.
“Christ. Just let me watch the rest of this. Can you let me do that?”
She hesitated. The walking stick tapped the floorboards with a slow beat, but in the end, she relented. The Angel stood in place for a long time.
“Take a seat, why don’t you?”
The Angel hovered to the chair opposite me and sat. In the cavities where her eyes should have been, only pitch blackness remained. I forced myself not to stare into them.
“I will be here until you are ready,” she said.
“Whatever. Help yourself to a drink.”
She twisted her head to look at the table, bottle of brandy close to the edge. Cracking a hand out, she pushed it across the counter and closer to me.
“I cannot,” she said. “But I appreciate the gesture.”
Seinfeld was ending that very same night. It wasn’t just a half-hour, closer to an hour and a half. It gave me time, room to think. Of course, I found myself more glued to the television sitting in front of me. The finale was a joke. A prank played on every last sap that watched that show. And the more I kept watching it, the more I wanted to grab the brandy and chuck it at the loving screen.
Instead I brewed. I couldn’t do anything. My body felt stiff and I didn’t feel like moving. So when the trainwreck ended and turned to the news, I was left to my own thoughts.
I finally spoke a hour later.
“It’s not fair,” I said.
“I understand that it is not fair.” The Angel said. “If it were up to me, I would not be here. But there are gears in this world that must tick, you already understand this, Harold.”
I sighed. “Not at you. At my kids.”
The Angel just looked at me. In my mind, I imagined myself running my hand through my gray hair.
“They take after their mother, I swear. They are impossible. I bet you anything they’ll put on a face when it’s this mansion and my money on the line. Like loving vultures.”
She bowed her head. “How does that make you feel?”
“Like a horrible parent? Like I should have changed my will? What are you asking, exactly?”
“I am asking questions in order to help you cope. I already know the answers.”
“… And how the hell would you know? You a mind reader?”
“I have been with you since the day you were born, Harold.”
That wrenched an incredulous laugh out of me. I stopped talking, and we sat in silence like that. She watched me. I watched TV, but my mind was running through fifty stray thoughts at the exact same time.
“Give me a day.” I said. “I’ll change the will, chuck everything to a charity. Give me a day to do that, and I’m yours.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Harold.”
“An hour then. I could write something up in an hour. Please.”
The Angel said nothing.
“I don’t want them getting anything.”
“You already said that your children do not respect you. If that is the case, then why, pray tell, did you give them everything?”
I sighed again, feeling a knife in my chest.
“It was what my father did for me.”
When the Angel did not speak, I continued.
“When my father died, the money was split even. My brothers and I, we decided to give the house over to me. Everything he own was in this house, and that’s how I kept it. The plan was to give it to my kids, to let them decide just as we did years ago. But that was only wishful thinking.”
A knife jammed in my heart as I said that last part.
“So why do it?” The Angel asked.
“Because it was how my father taught me.”
“And how does that make you feel, to have lived in your father’s shadow?”
“What are you even hoping to accomplish with these damned questions? Stop toying with me.”
She said nothing, drat her. I wanted to bury my hands in my face but the feeling in my arms had left me so very long ago.
The clock in the dining room struck midnight. I couldn’t take it. I sighed again.
“I feel inadequate. Every little choice I have made over the past sixty years has turned out to be the wrong one. My brothers hate me. My children want everything I have. My father would be disappointed in me, I know that. And I hate myself for that.”
Silence overwhelmed the room again. I stared at her.
“There. I answered your question. If you’re going to kill me, just do it. I’m done.”
She did not respond at first. Then, through her gnarled mandible, I swear she was smiling.
"You are mistaken, Harold. You have been dead since yesterday.”
Took a second to sink in, but when it did, I howled so badly my throat burned. Christ. It was the funniest thing I heard all my life.
"S'that so?” I said. “gently caress it. I won’t fight. But do me a favor, before we go."
The Angel cocked her head, stood up from the seat and gave what looked to be a nod.
"Let me go out with a bang."
The Angel rose her arm and extended a finger.
The gas valve snapped. The room smelled like rotten eggs. She hovered over to me, old bones cracking as she twisted her hand, putting thumb to middle finger, right under my cigar.
In my head, I imagined dropping to my knees, pressing my hand to my chest. Father. Son. Holy Spirit.
I saw the light. A-loving-men.
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 01:59|
Interprompt: 100 words on the beautiful end of the world.
A Good Night's Rest
They warned Rolf about the bustling city life, but not even they could predict the noise and the insomnia that inflicted him.
Rolf was trying to sleep on the couch when it happened. The loud screeches made him jump. Then, nothing.
Carefully he rose and made his way to the window. His eyes dilated at the sight.
Abandoned cars littered the street. The sky took on a deeper shade of black, one of silence and void. Not a soul in sight.
It was still early, wasn't it? The man smiled to himself. He returned to the couch and closed his eyes. He slept well.
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 14:31|
Best prompt, I'm in
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 21:54|
I'm not even going to make excuses for last time. All I know is is that I'm in. Definitely.
|# ¿ Apr 19, 2014 03:57|
The Last Tea Party
“I say, old chap, I think Ariel is the prettiest princess of them all. Wouldn’t you agree, Duchess Izzy.”
“I much prefer Snow White, old bean. She’s much more regal and presentable. Don’t you agree, Princess Mirabella?”
Mirabella shook herself out of her stupor. “Sorry, Izzy, I’m just…”
Izzy’s living room went silent, the kind of quiet that makes you want to go back to your bedroom and curl up in a corner. Izzy must have noticed something off because she spoke up real quick.
“Hey.” Izzy adjusted her glasses. “Mira. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Mira lied. She tugged at the necklace made of grass. Lauren taught her to daisy chain when they first met at Camp.
“You don’t look fine!” Lauren chirped “Even Sir Fuzzles can tell you that!”
Lauren turned and looked at the stuffed rabbit in the seat opposite her, with the top hat and fake monocle. When the bunny didn’t speak, Lauren turned to look at Izzy expectantly.
“Sir Fuzzles has taken a vow of silence”, Izzy explained.
“Oh.” Lauren broke character. “You look really sick though, Mira.” she laughed. “Is it because we played Hooky? Are the nerves getting to ya’?”
“That’s it.” Mira gave a nod. “I’m just nervous. My dad gets mad, y’know?”
Izzy still didn’t buy it. She was smart like that. Lauren, on the other hand, bought into it, and she gave a nod and a smile. The pink room they were in, with the frilly table cloth, the china cabinets and the multitude of those creepy German figurines, felt especially suffocating to Mirabella.
“We need more tea,” Lauren moved on quickly, holding up the teapot
“I’ll do it.” Mira said.
“Are you ever so sure, Princess?” Lauren said with a coy snicker.
Mira didn’t answer. She just took the teapot and walked out of the room.
She poured water into the teakettle and placed it on the burner. The itching around her neck was getting annoying, so Mira pulled. Unfortunately she made the mistake of chucking it on the side of the counter. The necklace lit on fire almost immediately.
The fire alarm went off and Mira screamed. In hindsight, she overreacted. She ran out of the house and buried herself on the lawn.
Izzy and Lauren came out. Mira was pulling the grass out of the lawn, ripping each individual blade to shreds.
“Good thing we found you!” Izzy said. “We thought you disappeared.”
Mira didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.
“Uhm.” Lauren hesitated. “Everything’s okay. Nothing to be upset over, but…“ She smiled nervously. “Was it your necklace that – “
Her necklace. Her stupid necklace. Hers. That was when Mira broke down. She brought her hand up and hit herself over the head.
“I’m stupid, I’m stupid, I’m so stupid!”
Her friends just stood there. Lauren stared looking around aimlessly. Izzy braced her hands over her head, teeth clenched. Izzy spoke, telling Mira not to hurt herself. It wasn’t just Mira though. It was everything. Whenever she sneezed and it left a mark; Joey Williams, who had a crush on Izzy and always stole the seat next to her on the bus; her dog allergies; her father stomping. Everything she hated, every little inkling, she took and blamed it all on her, and she transferred that hate from her mind to her palm and brought it cracking against the side of her head. And she kept hitting herself, until she felt whoozy, until she learned her lesson, until Lauren grabbed her wrist and held her back.
“You’re scaring me, Mira.”
Mira wanted to slap Lauren but when all of the stars went away she notice that Lauren was crying. She felt bad because she didn’t want to make Lauren cry. It was Mira’s fault she was crying because everything was Mira’s fault. She stared down at the floor like an idiot, the kind of idiot who sets fire to someone’s house while making tea.
“About what?” asked Izzy.
“Almost set your house on fire. Ruined your necklace. I’m sorry.”
“It was just a silly bunch of grass. Everything’s fine!”
“I walked away.” Mira’s voice turned hollow. “I shouldn’t have walked away. I’m sorry.”
Izzy stopped talking, and she looked at Lauren. Lauren clasped her hands like a squirrel hoarding nuts. Izzy’s hands were on her hips. They both looked unsure. Mira could smell the smoke from outside, metal, cinder and regret and it made Mira want to throw up.
Mira stood there, staring at the floor. Every once in awhile she would look up, just to make sure they were still looking at her. Lauren was ready to ask, but Mira cut her off at the pass.
“My mom left.”
Lauren blinked. Izzy seemed to understand but Lauren was always slow. “She left? Did she go on vacation or something?”
“No,” Mira said. “I – I dunno! Last week I woke up and she was gone. Dad told me she left.”
Izzy frowned. “Jeez Mira, I’m so so -“
“I’m not finished.” Mira said.
Izzy closed her mouth. Noth she and Lauren nodded. They didn’t see anything else. Mira sighed.
“Mom and Dad were yelling last weekend. They’ve been doing that a lot. I didn’t tell you guys because I wasn’t…” She breathed. “Dad came into my room and he asked me if I wanted to come live with him. He just stared at me, waiting, and I didn’t answer,” snot billowed out of her nose and into her mouth, “and mom told him to leave me alone,” she remembered how she curled up into a ball in the corner, her parents looming over her like trees, ”I wanted them to stop but they wouldn’t listen, and,” she shut her eyes and choked on air “he asked me if I loved him more and I said yes and I,” it was all her fault, all her fault, all her fault, “and my mom, she – “
Lauren hugged Mira so tight it pushed out what little air was in her lungs. Izzy joined in, and they held Mira in one big hug pile that crushed the burning in her chest. Mira stopped talking after that, pressing her nose against Izzy’s shoulder despite the snot. Lauren kept telling that she loved her, Izzy kept telling her everything was going to be okay. Mira believed them.
It couldn’t have been longer than a half hour but to Mira it felt like centuries before she spoke.
“I love you guys.”
“We know.” Lauren said.
Izzy patted her shoulder. “You the best, Mira. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a jerk.”
“Yeah!” Lauren grinned. “Your dad’s a jerk too!”
Izzy shot Lauren a mean look. Mira didn’t mind. In fact, it made Mira smile. She even laughed. She laughed so hard that it hurt! It was the funniest thing she’d heard in her entire life! Lauren started laughing, and soon enough Izzy joined in! And there they were, three sixth graders giggling up a storm in somebody’s backyard at noon on a school day. Despite the tears, it was one of the best days of Mira’s life.
|# ¿ Apr 21, 2014 06:56|
using laughter or love as your contagious element will get you disqualified
Inb4 someone writes a story about a widespread outbreak of kissing booths.
|# ¿ Apr 22, 2014 15:53|
We Are All Diseased
There are rules in funeral homes, rules of respect and civility. You are taught to embrace, to present yourself appropriately to the cognizance of others. You’re taught to speak kind but not patronize, sound sincere but not candid. Lastly, you learn how to keep your distance so you may not get any on you.
Even though I rarely went to the services, Father beat these lessons into my head. He did so with a smile. I smiled too, said my whenever necessary. Then I crossed the street and never looked back. Do it enough times and it becomes natural.
But it isn’t natural. It’s a cancer that you fool yourself into accepting.
It happened one afternoon in Autumn. I was walking home from school when I saw a deer on the side of the road.
He sat on the opposite side of the road, sprawled on his side with his legs brought together as though hogtied with rope. Even in the distance, I could see his jaw hanging wide open.
If I didn’t make eye-contact with him, I would have kept walking.
It took a moment to see that he was a buck. I had trouble because his antlers snapped. I realized from the trail leading from the road that someone dragged him over and out of the street. I did not need to see the tire tracks to know they did not stay long after.
He was in shock, I told myself. Once he snapped out of it, he’d would scramble to his feet and run away.
My hopes were dashed when I crossed the street and noticed that his legs were not bound by rope but by his entrails.
It was getting late. Father would be worried.
I brought my hands up in a defensive gesture, like it would help matters. The buck stared at me.
"He-Hey there," I said. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."
It did not occur to me that he was incapable of speaking. Perhaps it was my childish ideology skewing things but I swore he understood. The glimmer in his milk dud eyes or the notion of a nod, whatever it was, I took it at face value.
I told him, "Stay there.” The deer stared.
I took hesitant steps. My legs wobbled with each one. I reached his side and got down onto my knees. I placed my hands on his torso, trying not to touch the gaping hole around his belly. Naively I thought that I could actually help him. Slap a bandaid to keep his guts from spilling out.
There was no inhale or exhale though. At the time I found it strange but nearly shrugged it off. That’s when I noticed. He had not so much as blinked in the several moments of my being there.
I snapped out of my stupor when a passing car honked. Not at the buck. At me.
I arrived back home a few minutes later. I left my schoolbag at the door and stepped into the foyer and past the glass chandelier when I noticed Father’s office was open.
Father was with a family. Middle-aged man, younger woman. A chilling silence hung over the room as all three turned to look at me.
"You’re home late, pumpkin," Father said. He called me that. Pumpkin. He smiled at the man. "John, this is my daughter, Anna.”
The man turned to look at me, his face stained with familiar black pools. That was not unusual. He said nothing. Nothing unusual either. Both twisted the knife already embedded into my chest.
“Yeah,” I said. “I-I got caught up with something.”
“Really? Did you talk to anyone in school today?”
“No.” I was having a bad year. “It’s just…”
I looked towards the woman. She had her head on the man’s shoulder, busy staring at the floor. When I turned away, I noticed a flash of read.
I stared at my palms. They were stained a dull red.
Father must have seen something in my face because he frowned at me. “What’s wrong, Anna?”
"I'm sorry," I said.
Father laughed. "Sorry? What are you sorry for?"
I hope you die, Father.
“It’s nothing. Just… not feeling good.”
He scratched his head. “You look really pale.”
That’s because you make me sick, Dad. You infect everyone that comes in here and they pay you for the privilege. I bet you wouldn’t even blink twice at that deer. Someone should break your legs and leave you to die, maybe then you’ll learn your lesson. Jesus Christ, I wished I could operate on you in order to dissect the sickness that YOU have been nursing inside of me for fifteen loving years. For gently caress’s sake stop smiling at me. Goddamn it. If mom were still alive she would have left you.
I forced the sob back into my throat. I smiled.
“It was something I ate,” I said. “I’m going to go lay down. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He looked at me strangely, scratching the stubble under his chin. He smiled. “Okay, honey. I’ll come check up on you later.”
I turned and didn’t look back. I washed my hands and got into bed.
I had night terrors every night for a week. Same dream, always ending at the sink, scrubbing a bar of soap so hard into my palms that only bone remained, no blood. I’d always wake, sweating, staring down at my hands.
I never told Father about any of this.
The family from before held their service on a Saturday. The whole home was packed with black suits and veils. The boy must have been my age when his friend ran into a telephone pole.
I stood in the foyer, arm slung around the railing leading upstairs. I did not know him. But I recognized his mother, the older woman from before, when she placed a hand on his chest and stared into his closed eyes.
I realized only then.
This is natural.
The deer was not an isolated incident. That very same year, a senior thought it would be a good idea to mix bourbon with sleeping pills. One kid in middle school went to the beach and swam too far out into the ocean. A girl in elementary fell ill. More than one, actually.
Darwanism, survival of the fittest, death. It’s all part of the same plague. We are all diseased. Some of us die on the operating table, others are eaten away from the inside. But we are all sick and we are all going to die. You, me, everyone we love, every religion and school of thought. We just have to fool ourselves into pretending otherwise.
I did not like it. I wished it wasn't true. But I had to swallow the pill without the luxury of water. Pull my head back, shove it in, choke on it until the bitter taste dissolved. Only then could I feel better.
So that’s what I did. It has helped, somewhat. I still have the night terrors, on cold nights when I sit in bed wondering what death must feel like.
|# ¿ Apr 28, 2014 03:33|
Sitting Here is a true ukulele playing patriot. God bless America.
UNOFFICIAL FILLER PROMPT
PUNY MAN CRY BEFORE BLOOD QUEEN. HAMMER CRUSH PUNY MAN LIKE BUG. PEOPLE CHEER.
ME LIVE FOR PAIN AND FOR MEAT AND FOR BLOOD HAMMER. HAMMER CRUSH GOOD. ME LOVE HAMMER.
ME FEAST ON PUNY MAN. PUNY MAN WHIMPER LIKE SCARED CUB. ME LAUGH. TEETH DRIP OF NECTAR FROM PUNY THROAT.
THUNDERDOME WHERE BLOOD QUEEN BE. ME CRUSH WEAK. THUNDERDOME GIVE MEAT. ME NOTHING WITHOUT THUNDERDOME.
THUNDER FROM SKY UP ABOVE. PUNY MAN NOT SATISFY. MORE BLOOD. ME GIVE.
ME RAISE HAMMER. PEOPLE SCREAM FOR PAIN AND FOR BLOOD QUEEN.
ME SMILE. THIS THUNDERDOME. BLOOD QUEEN CHOSEN ONE.
|# ¿ Apr 28, 2014 22:29|
Just when I thought I was out, they pull me right back in.
|# ¿ Apr 29, 2014 14:16|
As penance for submitting late, I'm offering three line-by-line crits to whomever asks first. If you want to crit my story in return, that would be cool too.
I'll trade you a magic trick for a vase. (Or crit for crit whatever)
|# ¿ Apr 29, 2014 22:19|
Yo thanks for da crit lambeth, I will return one when I dig myself out of this pile of homework
Also crabrock jesus
|# ¿ May 1, 2014 17:49|
I ask the girls in the bullpen, “Has anyone seen Shapiro?” From the chorus of averting eyes, stifled giggles and the secretive whisper game between Angie and Miranda, I know something went down. Normally I don’t involve myself in schoolyard poo poo. You gotta understand. It’s the bottom of seventh and we’re inches away from a perfect season.
My patience’s running thin. I asked again.
Kelly shrugs. “Maybe Alex ran to the bathroom?”
I heard Miranda mutter “Her water broke.” Angie snickered.
“If she comes back, tell her to get her butt back here.”
I walk back out and approach Raymond. He asks me if I’ve seen her, and I just snort.
“Calm down, Jared. These kids are, what, 14, 15? Why are you getting so upset over this?”
I’m about to go off on how he wouldn’t be umpire if it wasn’t for me when someone tugs on my shoulder.
“Coach Dwyer?” I spin around. Leila, my best player. “Me and Alex got into a fight.”
I stare at her. “Really? When?”
Leila shrugged. “Last inning? Her boyfriend was cheating on her and she thought it was me.” She pushed her bangs back, pursing her lips. “But, like, she totally came at me, so, it was all in self-defense!”
“Whatever.” I press fingers to temple. I’m this close to losing it. “You know where she is?”
“I think she’s called for a ride.”
Raymond nods and I walk towards the exit. On the way, I pass Val, big slab of steak, can’t miss her.
Val looks concerned. “You okay, Jared?”
“Yeah.” Almost punctuate that with a ‘dyke’ but I hold my tongue.
I find Shapiro sitting on a log near the back of the parking lot, tearing strands of grass into tiny little specks.
“It’s your turn.” I tell her.
She ignores me, keeps ripping at the grass.
“Shapiro. Get up.”
I clench my fist.
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
She ignores me again, orange hair speckled with dirt.
“I don’t care if you started a fight with Leila. Just come back. I need you.”
“Issat’ what she told you?” Flicks the blade away. “I’d tell you about how she told me that my mother’s a whore. But I don’t hold a candle to precious Leila Langford, do I?”
“…what’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs, like she doesn’t understand the question.
I grunt. “Enough of this bullshit. Get up.”
She smiles at me. “Screw you, Coach.”
“…What did you just say?”
She stood up. “I said, ‘Screw. You.’ I’m done being bullied by you. You’re an rear end in a top hat.”
My knuckles are going white. “Don’t you talk to me like that.”
“Or what?” She smirks. “You’ll put me on the bench, like you have this entire season?”
“Don’t start with me. You started with Leila, you will NOT start with me.”
Shapiro scoffs, places a hand on her hip. “Gosh, Coach. If you love Leila so much, why don’t you marry her?”
“At least Leila listens to me.”
Shapiro snorted. “At least I’m not some shriveled-up old gently caress who gets his rocks off to a children’s game – “
I slap her. Hard.
Shapiro coughs and staggers.
Her legs give out and she falls on her rear end.
She shakes. Touches her cheek, over the imprint of my ring.
Tears form in her eyes. She moans like a baby.
Starts looking at me like I’m some boogeyman.
I squat, face level with hers. I make a fist.
“I am this close to beating some goddamn respect into you.”
She’s shaking. Eyes wide.
“Now you’re going back there and you’re playing. Is that understood?”
Opens her mouth to speak.
I raise my hand. Shuts up, nods.
“Now get up.”
Ray nods at Val as we return. The other team scrambles to get ready. Shapiro stomps over to the plate and rips the bat out of Kelly’s hands.
I walk over to the bullpen and I hear Miranda quote Full Metal Jacket. I stare at Shapiro, knitting my teeth. She’s holding the bat like she wants to beat the catcher with it.
Pitcher lines it up.
Kid swings the bat like an axe. Ball flies under her arm. One.
Shapiro propellers so hard she nearly gains altitude. Two.
Three. She’s out. Shapiro leaves without saying anything. Kelly clenches the game. We win. I tell the girls how proud I am, shake hands with some parents then we all go out to Pizza Hut. See you next year. Sans Shapiro. Happy ending.
….That’s how it should have happened.
Shapiro cracks the ball and it flies over the fence.
What happens next comes straight out of every goddamn baseball movie. The girls run out of the bullpen. The crowd cheers. Artiste claps like she’s at the opera. Raymond whistles and pumps his fist. Everyone’s excited. Except for Shapiro. She drops the bat and covers her face with her sleeve. Raymond notices first, goes from excitement to confusion in three seconds.
I curse under my breath. This wasn’t supposed to happen. My stomach churns. My eyes are glued to Shapiro, gently caress me, this wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Girl knocked it out of the park there.”
Val steps in front of me, blocking my view.
I mumble. “Yeah.”
Val cocks her hip. “Reminds me of when I was young.”
I peer over Val’s beefy shoulder and, gently caress me, Raymond’s pulling Shapiro off of Leila. Leila’s kicking, holding her bloody nose. The rest of the team’s huddled nearby, eyes wide. I look over at the stands. Some concerned parents are walking, most are shocked at what they’re seeing.
I swallow, hard. “Room to improve.”
“C’mon, Jared, don’t be like that. She’s a kid!”
Shapiro’s got her head in Ray’s flab, babbling, fistfuls of his striped shirt. Ray rubs the back of her head and says something. He shoots me a look I can’t read.
Val puts out her yellow-stained fingers. “Good game.”
I don’t shake.
“Yeah,” I say. “… Good game.”
|# ¿ May 5, 2014 08:00|
Hey guys, sorry I'm late! Beef's crit knocked me all the way to Kyoto and I'm feeling some serious jet lag! (also thank you for da crit beef)
I brought you all a book of Japanese Folktales. No it is not a manga holy poo poo why does everyone keep thinking I'm bringing anime into TD I don't even go into adtrw.
Phobia fucked around with this message at May 5, 2014 around 21:44
|# ¿ May 5, 2014 21:35|
So apparently the document with all of the line-by-lines I have been working on for Party Week got corrupted somehow. So there's that.
If it’s any consolation, I read some of your stories. That consolation is not for you but for me, admittedly I am an rear end in a top hat.
This is my first time critiquing so, like, grain of salt, whatever. If your stupid story isn't on here that's because I cherrypicked a couple of stories and just headbutted them. I might come back to do the rest but right now I really don't care.
Yes I am extremely salty right now what gave it away?
House of Leaves-type poo poo
I had a really bad headache. I squinted so hard at this my eyelids are stuck that way. Why the hell are you posting your creepypasta poo poo here? Did you think the judges would simultaneously climax to your blurry-rear end-hipster-poo poo? Well whatever.
Putting on my serious rose-tinted glasses for a second, this was a unique way to hit the word count handicap headfirst. And it's certainly made an impression on me, just... not in the way you were probably hoping it would. Or maybe you don't give a poo poo. That's possible.
Here's the thing - nothing makes sense. And I don’t mean that in the good drug-fueled sense, I mean that in a “who are these three friends, how old are they, where are their parents, how have they not been thrown out of the Chuckie Cheese" sort of way that is not conductive to having fun. You had 200 more words you could have used. It’s good that you didn't overstay your welcome but maybe if you had spouted some exposition or made an attempt to show us the beginning, middle and end, instead of locking the reader into the middle and putting on a Spooky Ambiance CD that you bought 2-for-1 at the local Walgreen. Also you shoehorned “grass” and “water” at the end, wow, how did you not get disqualified.
But hey, you tried something different. Gold star. I didn’t like it though.
that hipster John Mayer-type motherfucker at every party that plays an acoustic guitar in a desperate attempt to get girls to sleep with him out of 10
Comic book-type poo poo with that one scene from Office Space where they beat up the copier machine as the ending.
Okay. So, like, this story. This story here. I've read this story. The story that you wrote. You wrote this story. Why did you write this story? You shouldn't have done this story.
I want to get my message across but critiquing this story is way too much work and I want you to GET my point. So instead of going into specifics, I'm just going to dress up like Hunter S. Thompson, find where you live, tie a copy of The Elements of Style to a brick, chuck it through your window and then drive to vegas in your mom's BMV. Call me Gonzo Man.
I'm actually being facetious, I wouldn't do any of that because it's stupid and illogical. I would gladly take a bat to it though.
A Keeping Up with the Kardashians viewing party out of 10
"I swear to god if I see any more of this House of Leaves poo poo I am going to punch someone." Phobia, in his room, brute forcing crits.
At least I can read your story. That puts you above The Cash Cab though that isn't saying much.
Also you have a story so that helps too.
I don't have much to say about this one. I liked it, though I wasn't crazy about it. It's bittersweet, and I normally enjoy me some hopeless melancholy. I love how Dylan's story is frantic but hopeless and Marie's story is slow but numbed. I don't like the epilogue though. Personally, I wished it ended on them seeing each other. But I'm just glad you left the means of apocalypse up in the air. Because that isn't what the story is about. It's about people, not events. I like it when writers don't get the two mixed up.
That one time I went to New Years Eve party for some reason there's a buffet table full of chicken and waffles, nothing but chicken and waffles, which is really weird to have on New Years Eve but I can dig it because I like chicken and I like waffles. I don't know if I'd ever lump them together in the same meal but whatever out of 10
You drat Kids Get off My Lawn: The Movie: The Video Game
A conversation between Gau and the reader:
Reader: Why should I care about this guy's stupid house?
You had good opening and ending lines and the imagery is vivid but I have no idea what you were trying to do with this story.
a jukebox filled with nothing but Kids Bop Ke$sha covers out of 10
B2000, Robo Party Bouncer
I have this wicked grin on my face and it's all your fault.
Okay, this story boils down to “this guy is a jerk and two friends have a misunderstanding”. I hate when the conflict in a story can be boiled down to “two people having a misunderstanding”, it’s why I hate most romcoms, but I understand that the story isn’t about Gabrielle and Katie but about them and the robot. And I like the robot.
It feels like you had a lot of fun writing this story, and I had a lot of fun reading it. Gabrielle is delightfully sardonic and full of herself, Casper is a dick enough that I hate him but not too overboard and the robot made me laugh on plenty of occasions. I do have a problem with how you seem to be pushing the story downhill in a shopping cart. It’s like your spoonfeeding me apple sauce. I like apple sauce but I can eat apple sauce just fine on my own, mom, thanks. But I can excuse all of that because your story doesn't see itself as a grand epic. It’s tongue-in-cheek and silly, and when you embrace those elements you really soar.
This story isn’t perfect and it's not the best story this week. What I can say is that out of this batch of crits this is my definitely my favorite.
a Ro-Bollywood dance number breaks out at an Oprah Book of the Month meeting out of 10
Fear and Loathing and Refund Checks and Sudden Halloween Parties in Tiki Land
You come off as very eloquent, some colorful choice of words but I feel like I'm missing something. Something vital. Was there even a plot to this story? Or was this some sort of Ullyses fever dream and I just don’t get it? It could just be me, I am a simpleton and my definition of depth is
Okay. Walk me through this. So our protagonist Al and he isn’t having such a good time at his work’s tiki party. There’s this one girl named Alaysha who he likes but he can't be friends with because she's much too young for him, golly gee what a headache!
Alaysha is also a really weird name compared to Al. Al. Alaysha. Oh, I see. It's all symbolic isn't it? Alaysha is Al’s wasted youth and he can’t make friends with her because he’s an old fart.
Or maybe Alaysha is part of Al's multiple system and when he puts on his mask he becomes her? Now he is the Alaysha and not only will she get to kiss the boys she will also get two refund checks with like a million dollars each because mystery money. That must be Al's master plan, it’s genius.
Or maybe there's nothing here and you just wasted fifteen minutes of my life.
You need some sort of conflict that isn't just "Middle Aged Man feels left out of social circle" if you're going for a Snapshot Jamboree. You had conflict, kind of, for like two paragraphs, but the refund check is a really jarring addition that's dropped almost immediately. There was this one paragraph where Al jumps into the ocean and has a pseudo-flashback and I kind of liked that. I have no reason to like Al though, past the Stockholm Syndrome Pity Party, and if I knew the story wasn't leading anywhere I would have stopped reading it at the part where someone throws punch in his face like this is a movie set in high school.
I wanted to like this story but then I realized there was no story and you were just hiding behind semi-colorful prose.
Also who the gently caress dances to dubstep? "Let's Dance?" Hold up a second Starman. You headbang and throw your arms around to dubstep, you don’t tango to dubstep. But I guess if you didn’t shoehorn that detail in the ending the reader wouldn’t know that Al is old cuz only old people do the cha-cha to Skrillex FT. Snoop Dog. How delightfully antiquated!
That one scene in Scott Pilgrim Vs The World where he’s at a party awkwardly talking to Ramona about the anecdote about Pac-Man’s name originally being Puck-Man and there’s the barest minimum of conflict and characterization because he was all confident when he told his underage Asian girlfriend that exact same story earlier in the movie but he's totally falling flat on his face talking to the magic pixie scene chick but overall it just makes you roll your eyes out of 10
I Kissed a Girl and now everyone thinks I'm gay, BRB going to drown myself in alcohol
Out of the selection of stories in this crit batch, this has the best overall quality and it almost edges out ChairChucker's Robo-Bouncer as my favorite this round.
You have this talent of really making the reader connect with the character without making it very overt. Like, seriously, I found myself really liking your protagonist and I liked her friend. Lots of funny dialogue.
My biggest problem with the story is that... a lot of it is superfluous? The story is the MC hates parties, goes to a party with her friend, hates the party, plays a game of spin the bottle, kisses her friend, then drinks herself into a stupor. Like, there's a lot of buildup to the moment they kiss and I feel like Spin the Bottle doesn't need to be there. You could have cut out a lot of the descriptions but the descriptions are really, really good.
Overall, good story. Not great but good.
Walking in on your two best friends making out and then you backstep and close the door slowly so they don't see out of 10
Christ. I should be studying. What am I doing with my life?
Phobia fucked around with this message at May 6, 2014 around 14:38
|# ¿ May 6, 2014 14:35|
PUT YOUR BRAWLS IN MY FACE: BIGGEST LOSER EDITION
Just reaffirming that I am most certainly in because nobody likes a coward.
|# ¿ May 7, 2014 22:01|
The Mystery of the Elephant Statue
Elements: Elephants, Japanese Folklore and Humor, actual Humor.
The cornfield stank of hibiscus and rotten meat, and rot in general. I’m not a man for analogies but bloody speckle still splattered the crops like a brace-wearing trying to sing She Sells Sea Shells ten times over. Also there are an absurdly large amount of cigarette butts all around. I adjusted my bowler and look up at the lady standing next to me.
“This ain’t the work of wolves.” I pull the cigarette from my mouth and rested it between index and middle. “You’re dealing with an Oni.”
Instead of the loud gasp I was expecting, the lady standing next to me covered her mouth and snorted.
“Oh goodness,” Kid says. “I’m so sorry! You’re talking all gruff but I can’t take you seriously with that dress!”
I don’t get mad at her. Half think that exact same sentiment, other half nod and smile. I lift myself, brushing at the dust staining my elaborate petticoats. “Oni are a different breed of yokai. Can’t be killed by conventional means. You did good, calling me.”
The kid looks a bit skeptical, kicking at the disturbed dirt beneath her sandals. “Gosh. That actually does – “ Snrk _”- sound serious.” She holds up a hand. “I believe you, by the way.”
“And I believe you that you believe me.” I nod towards the farm house. “Bring me to the widow.
Something about that tongue twister makes her scratch her head. She shrugs and leads me to the home. House’s got its feet in the grave, or however that cliché goes. The wooden steps creak and moan like it’s begging to be put down. I adjust my bowler hat and notice the obnoxiously large statue near the door.
“Is that a Hindu Elephant?” I note, because for the life of me I can’t imagine why there’s an elephant statue.
Kid shrugs again, finger the latch to the door and slide it open. “Just the regular kind. Nara-sensei has all these trinkets and stuff. S’kinda weird.”
We catch Nara-sensei in the middle of watching paint dry. Kid busts into the room, waving her arms like a spaz trying to fight off a bee.
“Mr. Nara-Sensei! I
“Hanako?” The old man blinks, eyes darting between the Kid and me. “How did you get into my house?”
Kid prods her index fingers together. “I picked the lock?” She gestures to me. “I’m sorry that your wife died! He’s here to help!”
“Hope you don’t mind if I light up,” I say.
I lit up the cigar before he can respond. Nara-sensei’s shaggy brows knit into a V shape.
“Hanako.” He says. “Who is this drunkard and why is he in my home?”
Kid clasps her hands and beams. “His name is Moseley! He’s an American! He can cleanse your farmland and find whatever attacked Uzume! For free!”
“A private shrine maiden,” Sensei mutters, “who is a Yankee,” rubs his bald head, “and isn’t looking for donations.”
“Uhuh! He’s been sober for a month, too!”
“Hmn… Why am I finding all of this hard to believe?”
The cig dangles from the corner of my mouth. “Ain’t dealing in snake oil, old man. You’re looking for the best. I’m it.”
Nara cranes his neck and examines me skeptically. “…Aren’t shrine maidens supposed to be women?”
“Geki.” I grunt, smoke billowing into my nostrils. “Male shaman. Big difference.”
“…then why are you wearing that dress?”
I gesture to my elegant, flowing gown. “This article has been blessed by Amaterasu-ōmikami. Since I am a direct descendant, it is only appropriate I pay respect. Also,” I wave the smoke out of my face, “doesn’t bunch up. Feels right, where it counts.”
Sensei just nods and smiles.
“I’m here to tell you that your wife did not die from a pack of wolves. You’re dealing with an Oni, I’m afraid.”
Sensei snorts. “Impossible. The Oni is fiction, a fairy tail.”
“Not fiction, reality. The Oni is very real and very dangerous,” punctuated by a raised finger, “and most Oni don’t have tails.”
“This is ridiculous. I was willing to give you but I won’t sit here listening to this nonsense. It’s the wolves that have been feasting on my crops for months. That is all.”
“I can assure you that it’s an Oni, Sense-“
“And I can assure you that it’s not.” He threw his hand towards the door. “We’re done here.”
He slammed the door behind us. I vaguely wondered ‘Wait, wasn’t this a screen door a second ago,’ but Kid started tugging on my sleeve and I wonder why a twenty year old girl could be so short.
“What are we going to do Mr. Moseley-Chan? Mr. Nara-Sensei doesn’t believe us!”
I stroke my chin, lollipop between my sugar-stained fingers. “We can’t kill the Oni, but there’s an alternative.”
We wait until the dead of night out in the cornfield with a bucket filled with Lucky Strike because that is the only brand Oni smoke. Kid and I sit cross-legged in the middle of the patch.
“My parents must be worried.” Kid muses, head in her hands. “They probably think I’m out doing depraved things with boys! Wait until they hear that I’m waiting to catch an Oni.”
“Kid.” I say. “You’d be incredibly annoying if you didn’t have the spunk factor going for you.”
There’s a rustling in the crops over yonder. An Oni steps into view, a few ears of corn stuffed into the pockets of her Gucci suit. The Oni are like a Zaibatsu except less finger chopping and more general tomfoolery.
“Oni.” I say, holding up the bucket. “Here.”
“Hey, thanks man.” She says, I assume it’s a she because of the bow in her hair. “You want one?”
“No thanks.” I say, placing the carrot. “I quit yesterday. Say, did you happen to kill the farmer’s wife last night?”
Oni strokes her chin slowly. “Nah. I slept in last night, really screwed up my internal clock.”
“Okay. Nice talking to you.”
Kid blinks. “…That was it? That was your plan.”
“Of course. What did you think I was going to do, have an elaborate fight sequence with them?”
“Yes,” Kid say. “Yes, actually.”
“Oh.” I say.
Suddenly a figure leaps out of the bushes and grabs the Kid’s wrist. I drop my carrot.”
“It was you.” I exclaim.
“Yes, it was me all along.” Nara snarled, pressing the ear of corn to her neck. “And I wouldn’t have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for that pesky Geki.”
“But why?” Kid gasps. Needless to say, she isn’t exactly worried about the dangers of Corn Poisoning.
“Isn’t it obvious? Did you even see that stupid Elephant statue! That woman bought THAT with MY money! She didn’t even liked elephants so why she bought the damned thing is beyond me!”
“You killed your wife over an elephant statue.” Kid repeated, corn pressed to her throat.
“O-Of course when you put that way it sounds really petty! But it’s been like this our entire marriage! Buying things she doesn’t need, asking me to buy things she doesn’t need!”
Kid’s eyes dilate. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to refund it all?”
“I…I didn’t think of - ” He grits his teeth. “T-THAT ISN’T THE POINT! The point is that with the wolves and her, I was losing everything! So I killed her, then doctored everything pin it on the wolves eating my crops! I don’t know anything about this Oni business.”
“Actually, I’m the one who has been stealing your crops.” Oni says, honestly I forgot she was still there. “So, yeah, sorry!”
Nara gets real quiet, like his whole world has crumbled before his very eyes. He presses the corn to her neck. “You move, the girl gets it. I’m warning you.”
He started to back away, Hanako looking more annoyed than frightened. Oni and I stand there, helpless, as he nearly makes it to the clearing when he trips. He starts cursing as he holds his broken ankle. Then he looks lets out a harsh screech as the Elephant statue crushes his head like a scene straight out of an ultra-violent children’s cartoon show. Hanako gets blood on her face. The Elephant was a yokai all along.
“You did good, Elephant.” I bowed my head.
The Elephant statue gazed upon me with a benevolent smile. Then it brought it’s paws together and closed it’s eyes. “Dōitashimashite.”
|# ¿ May 12, 2014 03:01|
All of my submissions have been lapsing much too close to the Word Count and this makes me very sad. So I am In this week with a self-imposed flash rule.
My first week was set at 900. I'll try my best not to screw this in the pooch.
|# ¿ May 13, 2014 21:08|
The Kite Flying Blues
Flash Rule - 900 words
So I'm staring straight into the sun when a thought slaps me across the face; if I raise my left foot, right now, I’ll fall. I’ll hit the ground harder than that Guido motherfucker I caught Casey with.
I imagine colliding with the concrete and I have to step back so I I don’t get any puke on me. ‘How retarded are you?’ I hear you asking. Good question. Like, I’m jumping, so who cares if I vomit on my shirt? Whatever, my intestines growl as I finish. I reach into my pocket and pull out the photo of me and Casey.
Doesn't matter how salty I am, she’s the prettiest drat girl in the world. ‘She’s way out of my league’, I remember telling myself one night, years ago. ‘No way am I getting with her.’ Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I caught her in bed with a roasted beefcake.
You might be thinking Casey’s why I’m up here, like she’s the anvil that broke this camel’s back. Ain’t exactly true; try a perfect, lifetime-long storm of straws and a liberal arts degree stained with ketchup. Casey was the only reason I didn’t jump a year ago. Without her, I've got no direction. There's nothing holding my back. So. Why not?
But... C-Christ, not sure what's worse; how high up I am or how it’s nowhere as high as I imagined. I figured I would get thirty seconds of freefall, at least. From this high, I’d be lucky to squeeze out ten.
I need a smoke. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the carton. It’s empty. Cursing, I ball it into a wad and chuck it. A sudden gust of wind sends it flying southbound, and when I follow it with my eyes, I catch a glimpse at a kite as it’s about to take a nosedive.
... Wait, a kite? Why is there a – Jesus!
I drop to my knees, out of sight. There’s a park across the street from the apartment complex, I saw it when I first came up here. Clearly I didn’t ‘see’ it, because I didn’t notice the kid.
This girl, she waddles over to her misshapen kite and starts bawling her eyes out! A woman in a straw made comes over to her. She sits on her haunches, rubbing the kid's back. The girl turns and buries her face in her mother's shoulder, and I'm tearing up too because holy poo poo I almost killed myself in front of a kid!
Now a guy in a polo shirt's coming over! Pretty sure he can’t see me, but there’s no way to know for sure. He squats down too and says something to his daughter. I can't hear the girl crying anymore, but I see her clutch her mother's sundress and nod. The guy smiles, takes the kite and stands up. He starts fiddling the plastic sticks holding the kite together. After a minute, he examines it, nods, then holds it so his daughter can see.
And this girl... she just flashes the cutest smile I've ever seen. I smile too, even though I'm still blubbering.
The girl reaches for the kite and her parents laugh. Father hands his kid the twine and picks her up while the mother holds the kite. Once she's settled on his shoulders, the parents move around a bit so that they're facing at the right angle. Father says something just as the wind picks up again. The mother nods and quickly lets go. Man, that puppy starts soaring almost instantly. The girl's facing away from me, but I see her bouncing and pointing and I hear her giggling. I laugh too.
So I'm watching this father making his daughter giggle when she was crying a minute ago, and I realize something; I want to be him. I want what he's got. I want to be a father.
No. Scratch that. I've always wanted a kid. I just never knew it. Something about that scares me, even more than wanting to kill myself. With suicide, I know how it's going to play out. With this, I...
gently caress. I mean, I feel like a piece of useless poo poo, yeah, that hasn't changed. But seeing a couple making their daughter happy like that, it makes me want to grin and bear it, even though that's what I've been doing for years. I haven’t smiled this much in ages, certainly.
So I force myself away from the ledge. Then I reach into my pocket and pull out the picture of Casey. I start folding the edges, one over the other, until I make myself a plane. Then I throw it Casey flies, flapping her creased wings into the cold air. Another gust caries her away, and I watch her soar until she's only a speck in the blue sky. I sigh. A couple of bucks at the one-hour photo shop and a thousand painful memories, all gone with the wind. Feels bittersweet.
I don't know where I'm going after this, but I have my destination, and that's all that matters.
As I turn to leave, I see a cigarette on the ground. Must have fallen out of my carton. I crush it with my heel. Good day to quit.
|# ¿ May 19, 2014 06:02|
Write about the things that disappear when you close your eyes. 150 words.
|# ¿ May 19, 2014 12:04|
The strange technicolor blob that lives in my closet told me to enter this week and ask for a flash rule. I don't question it. Last time I did it made my dog spontaneously combust.
|# ¿ May 20, 2014 21:09|
Has your ego blinded you Meinberg? Even if you have won, you are still a Loser in the eyes of the Almighty Thunderdome. I shall break you for your hubris.
WHO IS THE BIGGEST LOSER?
Macy and the Bad Man (or Three Cheers for Macy!)
The Bad Man was about to cut my hair and wash me and tie The Bow on me. So I nipped him! I don't get why he's upset. I only bit him about as hard as I do The Boy and The Boy always teases me! I think Bad Man's just mad that I fought back! Now Bad Man has put me in a cage and I'm scared because he keeps saying my name. I don't understand what he's saying but he's really mad!
Bad Man hangs up his thingy and walks out of the room. The furball across from me starts yipyaping. I don't know what her name is. Mommy says I’m a Rot-Why-Lahr, I don't know what any of that means but I miss Mommy and Daddy and even The Boy.
"Maybe you should have thought about that when you bit him." Pipsqueak yips.
"Shut up, pipsqueak!" I start biting the cage door. Maybe I can chew my way out! "It's not my fault, he was asking for it!"
"You'll be lucky if he sends you to the pound," huffs the poo-del next to me, which is a weird name. "I was there once. They made me sleep on the ground, the water was dirty. It was truly ghastly."
"I heard Squirrels chase dogs in The Pound," rrrs the sad looking Pug underneath me.
"Well I heard," Pipsqueek cocks her head. "that they don't even serve Kibble! at The Pound."
"I don't waaannaa go to The Pound." I whine. "I'm not a Bad Girl!"
I keep growling and nipping along the bars. If I can chew through Daddy's shoes, I can chew through these bars. Then my snout bumps against something and there's a click! The cage swings open and I pounced! I don't know what I did but yay, Freedom!
The other dogs start barking! Some are cheering me on, others are begging me to let them out! But I'm not out yet! I run up to the door and start clawing at it! The door opens and -
Oh No! Bad Man! He starts howling and walking towards me. I start padding backwards but my butt bumps against the wall! Oh no, I’m trapped! He has his paws raised and he looks really scary! Once he’s close he tries to pounce me. There’s space between his legs so I try to run through them. I bump into him instead. He topples over and makes that sound Daddy makes whenever I jump into his lap! I run out the open door, up the stairs and crawl through a doggy hole.
Yay! I’m outside! Bad Man is right behind, he’s screaming but he can’t catch up to me. Eventually he stops on his lawn and starts panting, and I stop and pant too! Maybe he has to pee?
“Too bad, Bad Man!” I arururu. “Guess this Good Girl won't be getting washed!”
I can sniff out Home from here. Maybe I can find it by following the scent! I start running down a street. I can smell cats and squirrels and bunnies, and I really want to chase them. But I have to go home. So I keep running. Even though I want to chase them!
At the end of the road there's a bunch of trees. There's no trees at Home, but the scent tells me it's past here! The trees make me wanna pee so I squat, but before I tinkle I see a truck pull up. Oh No! Bad Man.
"Stay away Bad Man," I growl. "I will bite you."
He tries to grab me but he stops when I snap my jaws! Then I run off into the trees and follow the scent. I can hear him screaming my name but he is a Bad Man and I do not come!
The scent lead me to a big pool. It's really weird, there's a pool at Home but it never looks this long. Home is across this pool and I'm a really good swimmer. I jump in just as the Bad Man comes out of the trees.
Wow this pool is really mad. Cold too! I've only been swimming for a minute and it keeps pushing me! I make it across but I'm really tired. I shake my fur and sit down for a second to pant. I'm almost Home, only a little more to go...
Bad Man starts calling my name. But he sounds scared. I look and see him thrashing his paws in the pool. He keeps calling my name, he looks really scared.
Oh no! He's in trouble! He was trying to cut my hair - but I have to save him! But what if he puts The Bow on extra tight? I can't just leave him. He's a bad man but - He's in trouble! I have to save him!
I jump back in. I paddle over to him and bite his shirt. His hands wrap around me and he's really heavy! The pool gets really mad and it keeps pushing me. It's really hard keeping my head up but I keep pulling and paddling!
Finally we make it to shore. The Bad Man starts crawling and hacking up a hair ball. I give him kisses and he keeps saying my name. We sit there and he doesn't put The Bow on me. He's petting and hugging me! Maybe he isn't such a Bad Man after all!
When we get home Mommy is there. She starts growling at my Friend, but she stops once Friend whimpers. Mommy and my Friend call me a Good Girl! Mommy takes me for a ride and I get to sit up front, and when we get home Daddy calls me a Good Girl lets me sit in his lap! The Boy calls me a Good Girl, he even gives me some hamburger! I love my Pack, but I hope I get to see my new Friend soon.
|# ¿ May 22, 2014 15:59|
This week, I will be doing line-for-lines for this week's loser and the DMs because I am still attempting to repent for the Gay Bomb story. I'm thinking there will be two or three DMs, unless Meinberg throws a hissyfit over me winning our brawl and DMs everyone then I guess everyone gets line-for-lines. Or if I lose/DM, which in that case, um, gently caress...
I am also opening this up to three people from last week too. That's three line-for-lines for last round, three for the current, theoretically speaking.
... You know this would have worked better if I posted this just after the Round 93 results. Whatever.
|# ¿ May 22, 2014 17:10|
Rooftop Brain Crack Blues
I have been in my boyfriend’s apartment for a week, maybe more. Despite the aching in my limbs, there’s nothing stopping me from leaving. Brad’s apartment is the only place I feel safe. Brad was a very ‘safe’ guy. I was never a ‘safe’ girl, far from it. Perhaps I coveted that about him. I never expected him to shoot himself when his brains started coming out of his nose.
I could shoot myself, too. It would be so easy. Put the barrel to my head, POW, as simple as that. It’s not like I have much reason to live. Brad’s corpse is slumped against the wall, just under a mirror. I’ve seen myself change right before my eyes. C’mon, you can see your ribs ready to tear through your skin and your head is as big as a watermelon and you still think you have your whole life ahead of you? To think, people used to call me attractive. Such pretty eyes, very punk-rock dyed hair, a wide, full chest. My breasts are pruned and sagging. Whatever hair remains has grayed. My eyes have sunken so far back that I can run rings around the edges of the sockets. I am a satire of who I used to be. I want to ask what the hell is happening to me, but of course the circus members are there to shake all my doubts away.
They hover before my bloated body. These abhorrent apparitions, their features so far removed from reality that I cannot for the life of me describe them. But they stroke my bloated head and they caress me like a newborn and they whisper that I need to go to the roof. Part of me doesn’t want to go to the roof, afraid of what I will find.
I can’t take it anymore. Need to get to the roof. Forcing my limbs to cooperate, I pick myself up, my hands braced against the wall. My ankles twist as I force myself to step, inch by inch, towards the door. As I make it to the door, I take one last look at Brad. He was the only reason I didn’t give into the voices on the first day. He loved me, even with my stubborn attitude, even when I screamed and called him names, even when my swelled head looked like a football. He loved me and I love him. God, I wish I could kiss him. But I can’t. Maggots are covering his entire face.
I shamble down the hallway, bracing the wall and clutching each door handle as I pass. Managing to reach the staircase, my limbs snap like tree branches. I fall face first into a step. I swallow my teeth, my mouth tasting of metal and determination. I climb. Each step makes my body burn with a new species of agony, my legs bobbing up and down as my arms do all of the work. Brad’s apartment is on the tenth floor, the roof is on the thirteenth. I cannot keep track of how far I am because this staircase feels endless, impossibly steep. The only thing keeping me going are the phrasing voices of my Masters and sheer stubbornness. Brad always said that I had to win in every argument. Can’t say he was wrong.
No matter how loudly my body screams, I will not stop. When I reach the final staircase, I am on the verge of laughing, tears lapping down my face. I force myself up on my broken knees, pushing the weight of my entire body against the latching, hoping, praying that the door is unlocked.
The door is unlocked. It opens and I flop head first into the pebble-littered ground. The fire alarm goes off and it makes my head ring, but I do not care. The voices are cheering, congratulating me, but I’m not finished yet. They tell me to go to the edge, everything will be explained there. I do so, crawling and writhing like a dying animal. Once I reach the edge, I place my chin forward so I can look out at my surroundings.
New York is pretty at this time of night. Looking out at the flashing lights of Times Square, I smile as it hits me. I finally understand.
A spine-tingling relief washes over my spine as my head cracks like an egg and as the cinnamon sugar that used to be my brains flows out of my nostrils. I will pollinate the night’s sky and the entire world will blossom into something beautiful.
|# ¿ May 26, 2014 03:57|
I don't suppose I could take one of your line-for-line crits?
I'll gratefully take you up on this for last week's attempt.
You got it! Got one more opening for last week!
|# ¿ May 26, 2014 04:10|
INTERPROMPT: THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN FANTASTIC
The Night The Milk Spilled
Ulysses Fury stood hunched over the freezer section. The milk cartons flowed across the aisle like his dead wife.
2%? 1% Whole? Skim? Ulysses gnashed his teeth. He grabbed a nearby kid by the collar and pulled his pistol from his trenchcoat.
"Tell me what I want to know! 2%, Whole, difference, now!"
"I don't know!" Kid said. "I'm just the janitor! Oh god please don't shoot me!"
Ulysses spat in the Kid's face. "Wrong answer, punk."
Security caught Ulysses bashing the kid's head against the freezer door. The third grocery store Ulysses was banned from. When will the pain end?
|# ¿ May 26, 2014 22:39|
In love with this prompt. In. Yes. In.
Phobia fucked around with this message at May 26, 2014 around 23:12
|# ¿ May 26, 2014 22:49|
Flash rules will be assigned to the first three people to ask for them.
My picture is a bag of hashbrowns. Hit me Seb.
|# ¿ May 26, 2014 23:05|
KURONA_BRIGHT's crit for Week 93.
|# ¿ May 27, 2014 05:48|
Muffin I could make excuses but you don want dat, I don want dat, td don want dat so here's my poo poo song.
KING OF poo poo MOUNTAIN: KING OF THE LOSERS
You are the corpse in my garden
a hang nail past it's due
that wry smirk you always make
makes me wish I never met you
it's funny how you can gloat
about how I can be so clingy
with that putrid nose and ugly laugh
who'd ever care like I do?
That's when I see you look at me
it's if you know
that I know that you know that I know
that I can't live without you
"You appreciate the things I do?"
God, you're so drat smug
Sometimes I want to leave
pack up all my things
but every time I go to try
I stop and have to wonder why
start thinking things through
fingers feeling head spinning
stomach churning heart pounding
getting nauseous and worried and I
Then I can't
I swear, I just can't
And then I see you look at me
it's if you know
that I know that you know that you know
that I can't live without you
"You always know the right thing to say..."
But you're just so so smug
Now I'm trapped with you, tied in chains
you cart me around like some prize
I thought you thought that I was pretty
and it turns out I was right
being with you, it's suffocating
I've got no room to breath
but at end of the day I thing
I'm so lucky
so drat lucky
When I see you look at me
it's if you know
that I know that you know that I know
that I can't live without you
"I guess you are pretty funny."
Christ, you're so loving smug
So so smug
|# ¿ May 31, 2014 06:52|
|# ¿ Mar 26, 2019 22:29|
In. . Ain't letting last round happen again.
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2014 17:18|