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Feb 4, 2014 21:45
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The Oracle (silver, 590 words) The Oracle By Benny the Snake I knew a person with silver-colored eyes. Where I come form, those born with eyes of silver are blessed with the gift of prophecy. When they become of age, they are taken to the temple to serve as oracles. I once had my future told by an oracle. To this day I still remember what she told me. I spent my days back then toiling over the blacksmith forge as an apprentice for only a few copper pieces a day. One day, I had saved enough to where I decided to have my fate revealed to me by the oracle at the temple. I climbed up the steps and reached the outside where giant columns supported the roof and the archway was guarded by a monk. “I wish to see the oracle,” I told him. “Present your offering before entering,” the monk said and pointed towards a collection plate on top of a pedestal. I thew five gold pieces in the plate. “Your offering is accepted. You may enter,” he said and stepped aside. Inside the temple was a statue of the God of prophecy: a one-eyed man holding a star in his hand with the words “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king” written on the base. The oracle herself was a young woman wearing silk robes who had eyes of silver so polished I could see my reflection in them. Incense was burning inside, filling the air with a sweet scent that made me drowsy. I immediately bowed in front of her. “Oh great oracle, I have come to seek my destiny.” She looked into my eyes. Her gaze was so intimidating that I looked away. “Tell me,” she said, “What do you think about fate?” “What do I think about fate?” I asked. “Well, I never thought much about it. All I really know is that it's unavoidable,” I said trying my best not to look into her eyes. She gave me a faint smile. “That is true. There is a saying that as man plans, the Gods laugh. On a cosmic scale, the fate of man is as insignificant as a grain of sand.” “Well my fate matters to me.” “Of course it does. Give me your hand,” she told me. I held out my hand. She took it and pulled a knife from behind her. “Don't worry. For me to see your fate, I need only a drop of blood,” she said and pricked my thumb. After squeezing it to draw blood, she took my thumb and pressed it against her forehead. “Yes...” she said faintly. “Oh dear...” “What?” I asked as a lump started to form in my throat. “I see you at your home with blood on your hands.” “What?” “Yes, I see blood on your hands and the bodies of three people at your feet,” she told me. “I see a bloodstained dagger and madness in your eyes.” “No, this cannot be,” I said as fear overtook every fiber of my body. “I am sorry, but that is all I can see," she said. “Th-thank you,” I said weakly and turned around to leave. About halfway through the temple I started running. How could I raise my hand in anger against my own flesh and blood? How could I kill them? I left home that night with nothing more than the clothes on my back. A year later I slaughtered my whole family in cold blood. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 00:45 on Feb 10, 2014 |
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Feb 9, 2014 23:17
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I'm in.
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Feb 15, 2014 02:55
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Summer Memories Word count: 988 When I was a kid, summers were spent at my Grandmother's house. She lived all alone in a three-bedroom home with solar panels on the roof and a swamp cooler hooked up to the wall. Grandma was a short, stout, and dark-skinned woman who wore tinted glasses and spoke broken English. She could sew anything and was the best cook in the world. I remember her albondigas soup most of all with giant meatballs, huge potato slices, and broth so rich that it was almost gravy. Just the thought of it always made me hungry. She never had much money but she always spoiled me with food: I think that's with all Mexican grandmothers, actually. Her front yard was a huge grass lawn with sweet-smelling rose and hydrangea bushes planted along the walls of the house. The backyard was a giant dirt pit with trees and cacti planted along the fence and walls. Me, my siblings, and our cousins spent those long and hot summer days in endless play. To keep cool, we'd have water gun fights that went on for hours. My cousins always had the newest super soaker guns and we'd run around the the front and back yards pretending we were fighting a war against each other. We turned the back yard into a huge mud pit by the end of the day and the fight wouldn't end until someone cheated and used the hose. Since we couldn't afford to go to a water park, we'd make our own by turning on the water sprinklers in the front yard and running through them. It was ghetto as hell, but it was fun. There was this one time where a potato bug got inside the house. If you don't know what a potato bug is, it looks like something Satan made in his off time to scare the bejesus out of you: it's a giant, brown, cricket-looking thing the size of a mouse with beady black eyes and huge mandibles. We all jumped on top of the couches and screamed like crazy as if a demon from hell suddenly appeared in front of us. The little bastard scuttled around until Grandma came in with a broom to swat it. Since there was so much time on our hands, we did stupid poo poo like practice wrestling moves on each other. My cousins Jamie and Mark were huge wrestling fans and played the video games all the time. Jamie was the tallest and strongest so he'd put me in a lock and then try to flip me over. We'd do it on a mattress to keep ourselves from getting hurt, but one time he tried to suplex me and I landed head-first into the ground. Jamie helped me up and after checking that I was okay, he made me swear that I wouldn't tell anyone or else he'd do it again. I hit the ground so hard that I think I suffered a mild concussion. What I remembered the most were the fruit trees planted in the back yard: an apricot tree next to the garage, a plum tree along the wall, and a mulberry tree next to the back gate. Every summer those trees would bear fruit and I spent those summers gorging myself silly. The mulberries were my favorite. The black ones were always the sweetest: they tasted better than candy and I'd eat them by the handful. The red ones were slightly tart so I'd eat them with sour Lucas candy. I'd get sick but it was all worth it if only to experience that temporary natural sugar high, the kind of high that made you feel like you could fly and send you running around with your hands out pretending you were a plane. Grandma eventually moved in with my uncle who rented her house out. Some families kept the house in good shape while others left it in complete disarray. Last summer, we went back to her house to renovate the place for new tenants. The first thing I noticed was the giant holes in the ground in the back yard. “What happened?” I asked my uncle. “You remember Jamie's friend? The redhead?” “Yeah, I was friends with him. Why?” I asked. “We rented the house out to his family and they had dogs.” I suddenly imagined a pair of huge, slobbering pit bulls digging holes in the back yard. “It looks so ugly,” I said. “What are you going to do about the holes?” “I called some friends and they're going to come here and fill those holes with dirt,” he said, visibly annoyed. “I told them to keep their loving dogs from digging in the backyard.” “Well what can I do in the meantime?” I asked. “The inside of the house needs painting,” he said and motioned inside. I spent the rest of the day putting primer on the bedroom walls. I got my shirt stained and my Dodgers hat covered in white. I had to step outside after getting lightheaded off the fumes when I suddenly remembered something. I checked and sure enough, the fruit trees were dead. “Grandma, the fruit trees.” “I know, son,” she said sympathetically. “The trees don't get watered and now they died.” “What's going to happen to them?” I asked. “Your Daddy's going to cut them down,” she told me. My Dad worked full-time as a groundskeeper. He came over and cut the trees down with a chainsaw. I watch dejectedly as he fed them into the wood chipper. All those happy memories were gone: all that was left behind were barren trees and yellow grass. Eventually I took a break from painting because breathing in the fumes was making my head hurt. As the warm summer breeze blew, I sat there thinking wistfully about those halcyon days when a familiar song came to mind. “The summer wind, came blowin' in, from across the sea...” Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 07:04 on Feb 17, 2014 |
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Feb 17, 2014 06:54
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Let's rock
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Feb 18, 2014 19:19
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Just wanted to stop by and say thanks to God Over Djinn for your criticism. My story "Summer Memories" was written from a happy place and I wanted to evoke those same feelings of nostalgia in my reader. I was careful to be wistful without being whinny, and I guess I forgot to form it into a narrative instead of vignette.
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Feb 19, 2014 01:25
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All aboard the Western Train set! EDIT: Do I have to stick exactly to what's in the set, or am I just using it as a base? Because I want to write a Lego train robbery and this was the closest set I could get to a period appropriate train. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 23:39 on Feb 19, 2014 |
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Feb 19, 2014 23:34
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Thanks for clearing that up, Beef 
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Feb 20, 2014 01:59
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I'd like to request a crit for my Thunderdome story before I post it. Anybody who's down please PM me. Thanks!
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Feb 23, 2014 05:28
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Here's my set Prompt: My story needs to involve trains The Great Lego Train Robbery 702 words On the 2:15 train to Santa Fe, three bandits wearing bandanas over their mouths jumped up from their seats with their plastic revolvers drawn. “Alright, this is a stickup!” The leader yelled and fired a shot in the air. “Nobody move and nobody gets hurt!” The passengers gasped in fear and raised their plastic claw hands in the air. All except a brave mini-figure with a badge on his chest who got up and drew his gun. “Not so fast!” He hollered. But the leader was faster and shot him. The marshal fell apart in pieces strewn on the ground. “Little help?” He asked pitifully. “Wait, I know you,” said one of the passengers fearfully. “You're Quick-Draw McClintock!” “That's right, you scrap of cow crud!” Quick-Draw sneered. “So why aren't you getting your money out?” The passenger quickly pulled out his wallet as Quick-Draw snatched it out of his hand and threw it in the sack. “Heh-heh! You tell 'em, Roy!” His partner said with a dumb grin on his face. Quick-Draw turned around. “Dang it, Nutsy! I darn told you not to say my real name!” He shouted and smacked him upside his head so hard his head spun like a top. Nutsy put his hands to his head and stopped the spinning. “I'm sorry, Roy!” Nutsy cried, cowering. “Dang it, Nutsy!” Quick-Draw shouted and smacked him upside the head again. “Aw, Quck-Draw! I wish you'd stop doing that!” Nutsy said and set his head right. “You know I get dizzy easy!” “Quiet!” Quick-Draw barked. “Trigger, you go and take care of the conductor.” “Will do, boss!” Trigger said with a snappy salute and rushed towards the engine. “Now what are y'all doing stallin' around for?! Get to steppin'!” Quick-Draw yelled and pointed his plastic gun out as the passengers pulled out money from their wallets and purses and put them in the ever-growing sack. Trigger made his way to the engine when suddenly, two shots rang out. A pair of marshals were in the car ahead of him, armed and waiting. Trigger ducked behind the doorway and fried blindly into the car as the passengers dived towards the ground to avoid being shot. “Boss! We've got company!” “Nutsy, hold the sack!” Quick-Draw said and jammed the sack in Nutsy's plastic claws as he ran to help Trigger. Trigger was pinned behind the doorway as the marshals advanced from the back of the car. Quick-Draw drew a second pistol and fired wildly into the back the car, hitting one of the marshals who collapsed into a pile of separate pieces. With the second marshal pinned, Quick-Draw and Trigger ran inside and grabbed him. They dragged him to the outside of the car as the landscape rushed by. “End of the line, marshal!” Quick-Draw shouted as the two threw him outside, sending him tumbling across the desert sands. With the marshals gone, Trigger made his way to the engine and fired his gun in the air. “See that pass?” He said and pointed ahead. “I want you to start slowing down right there.” The conductor gulped and nodded as he applied the brakes. Quick-Draw and Nutsy made their way to the front of the train with their sack full of plastic cash and wallets. Up ahead was a fourth bandit with horses galloping alongside the train. As the train slowed, the horses caught up. Quick-Draw, Nutsy, and Trigger jumped out of the train and onto their horses. “Good work, Boomer! You've got the explosives rigged?” “Sure do, boss!” Boomer said as the four galloped towards the bridge. At the foot of the bridge was a detonator hidden in the brush. The four dismounted as Quick-Draw grabbed the detonator. “Take this, ya Yankee varmints!” Quick-Draw shouted as he jammed the plunger down. The bridge exploded and the train plummeted into the canyon bellow as the passengers screamed in terror. On impact, it exploded into a shower of Lego prices. “Good work, boys! Now let's get out of here before the sheriff rounds up a posse!” The four rode into the sunset: another day, another successful stick-up for the Gunpowder gang. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 08:15 on Feb 24, 2014 |
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Feb 24, 2014 04:34
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I'm in like Flynn. I'm also open to collaborate, so PM if you're down. Requesting a crit.
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Feb 28, 2014 08:27
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In.
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Mar 14, 2014 04:02
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Kaishai posted:You've been added to the list, but I'd like to draw your attention to this part of the prompt:
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Mar 14, 2014 07:06
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The Saddest Rhino posted:IN LIGHT of this incredible development, it has been convened, and it has been agreed, that for you, Benny the Snake - in order for your story to escape both disqualification and
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Mar 14, 2014 20:51
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FLASH RULES
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JuniperCake posted:You have two whole drat days. If you have to cobble together something in 2 hours, do that at least. God knows other people have. You're embarrassed, sure, but you aren't loving dead. Ultimately what people think of you on an internet forum doesn't matter.
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Mar 14, 2014 23:32
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El Cucuy (993 words) In the city of Juarez, Mexico, there were two boys: Jesús and Diego. The two were cousins and while they didn't have brothers, they were brothers for eachother. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, Diego met Jesús at a liquor store. “Hey Chuy, what's-” Diego said before his jaw dropped. “What's that in your mouth?” “It's a cigarette, pendejo. Wanna hit?” Jesús asked and handed it to him. “It tastes like mint.” Diego pushed it away from him. “That's bad for you, Chuy!” “Chuy” was a common nickname for those named Jesús, based on how the “J” made an “h” sound. Jesús laughed. “Man, you're such a kid!” He said and smacked him on the back. “Come on, guey; I have something to show you.” “What is it?” Diego suspiciously asked. “You know what? You ask too many drat questions.” Diego and Jesús walked down the street. “Hey guey, you still seeing Rosa?” “We're studying together, if that's what you mean,” Diego answered uneasily. “You hosed her yet?” “Christ, Chuy” Diego said and shoved him in the shoulder as Jesús laughed. “Man, you are too easy to gently caress with,” Jesús said and grinned. “Well, we're not,” Diego answered uncomfortably and stepped away from him. Jesús took a long drag from his mint-flavored cigarette. “Look, man; I'm just looking out for you. I mean, God forbid that you turn out to be some strawberry-eating jota.” “Well, I'm not,” Diego said and coughed as his cousin blew smoke in his way. “Good, because me, my dad, and your dad would beat it out of you,” Jesús said and grinned like a Cheshire cat. Eventually they made their way downtown to an abandoned building. Caution tape was wrapped around and bullet holes riddled the walls. “What is this?” Diego asked. “This is where that cartel shootout went down a few weeks ago,” Jesús said and ducked under the caution tape. “Wanna see a dead body?” He asked and smiled. “Dude, can't you read?” Deigo asked and pointed towards the tape. “It says, 'Do not cross'!” “poo poo, man,” Jesús said giving him the eye. “You are such a pussy, you know that?” Reluctantly, Diego followed him. Inside was an abandoned restaurant. The whole place was cleaned out by the police and all that remained were bare floors and a bar counter. “Dude, let's get out of here,” Deigo sad and edged his way to the door. “This place looks haunted.” “Listen to yourself,” Jesús said and made his way to the back of the bar. “Hey, I bet I can find a bullet back here. That'd make an awesome necklace!” “Chuy, I'm getting out of here,” Diego finally gathered up the courage to say. “I don't want El Cucuy after me.” “What did you say?” “You heard me,” Diego snapped at him. “I want out.” “Mira, cabrón,” Jesús said and hopped over the bar. “How loving old are you?” He asked and leered at him as his cousin cowered. “There is no such thing as el cucuy. There are no boogeymen waiting under your bed when you gently caress up. That's just a story to keep us in line like the devil or la llorona.” Diego said nothing. Jesús shook his head in disgust and went back to the bar. “Holy poo poo, take a look at this!” He said. Diego went over to the bar and gasped. Jesús was holding in his hand a pistol with the image a skeleton lady on the handle. “Isn't this the the most awesome thing you've ever seen?” “Dude, put that down!” Diego shouted at him. Jesús laughed. “Don't be such a pussy!” He said and whacked him on the back. “Hey, I bet you some cartel soldier killed a man with this thing. I mean, look,” he said and pointed to the handle. “That's Santa Muerte on the handle! That's badass!” “Dude, just put that down already,” Diego begged him, but his words fell on deaf ears. “I wonder if it's loaded,” Jesús wondered aloud as he stupidly pointed it at Diego and pulled the trigger. A loud bang sounded and a bullet flew out and went straight through Diego's left eye, leaving the wall behind him painted with blood, brains, and skull fragments. Diego tried saying something, but he collapsed as a pool of blood formed from the wound from the back of his head. Jesús dropped the gun from his hands and ran out of the building as fast as he could, scared out of his mind. Jesús didn't say a word as he arrived at home. Eventually, his father went into his room. “Jesús, were you with Diego today?” “N-no, I was all alone,” he lied. “Wh-what's the matter?” His father bowed his head mournfully. “I'm sorry, Jesús. But Diego...” Jesús threw himself into his father's arms and wept. He didn't need to say a word, he already knew. He cried himself to sleep that night. Hours later, he woke up, hearing a familiar voice under his bed. “Diego?” He asked. He peeked underneath his bed and screamed in terror. Starring back at him was the one-eyed face of his cousin, whose face was being eaten away by maggots from the wound in his left eye. Before he could do a single thing, the corpse grabbed him by the hands and pulled him underneath the bed. “Jesús? Mi hijo?” His mother called out hearing the screaming. “Is something wrong? Jesús?” His mother gasped as she found a pool of blood forming from under his bed. She looked underneath and shrieked in horror. Underneath was Jesús' skinless, bloody body. His eyes were eaten out by maggots and his mouth was empty of his tongue and teeth and filled with blood. An unseen presence from within with glowing eyes stared ahead and disappeared in the darkness. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 04:59 on Mar 17, 2014 |
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Mar 17, 2014 04:57
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So just to make sure, because I've been disqualified does that mean I'm unable to enter this week's prompt?
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Mar 19, 2014 04:31
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Let's rock.
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Mar 21, 2014 19:34
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Thank you for your criticism, Kaishai.
Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 08:04 on Mar 23, 2014 |
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Mar 23, 2014 06:57
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Worlds Apart 1177 words Dear Jason, It's been a while since you've moved to Mars. How is it over there? I can only imagine how alien the world must look like compared to Earth. I have good news-I'm seeing someone! His name is Sean, and we've been seeing eachother for a few weeks now. Well, hoping you're doing well. Yours, Lydia. Dear Lydia, That's great that you have a boyfriend! I haven't really met anybody up here on Mars. You're right, it is very alien. Everything here is red-from the dirt to the skies and whatever isn't red turns red once the windstorms kick up. The planet hasn't terraformed yet, so we've been living inside a giant transparent dome and we have to suit up every time we go out. So tell me what Sean's like. How are the two of you? Yours, Jason. Dear Jason, Wow, Mars does sound different! I'm almost jealous that I'm not there! Me and Sean are doing well, I guess. He's a little...aggressive. Like, we'll be out on the town and he likes to get into another guy's face. I'm not sure if it's more him or the Marine machismo. Oh, I forgot to say, he's a marine! It's why I fell for him-I guess I have a thing for big, strong, military types. It's like I said, I wish he was a little less combative but I guess that's what he was trained for. How are things over there? Yours, Lydia. Dear Lydia, A marine, huh? You know, it's been my experience that most military types are raging douchebags. But then again, that's just me. Anyway, I have bad news. There's been some grumbling going on in my community over water rights. See, all the useable water here on Mars is located at the very north where the ice cap is. We depend on it for our water supply. But for the past few weeks, the local government has been rationing our water on the basis that the purification process uses too many resources. We're farmers, so we depend on that water for our livelihood. Some of us have taken to protesting the rationing. Others have been talking about secession. I don't like where this is going at all. I hope things are going better over there than they are over here. Yours, Jason. Dear Jason, Wow, it sounds like things are getting serious over there. Hopefully it won't get too serious. I'm starting to get tired of Sean's machismo. Just last week, we were at a bar and he suddenly started picking a fight with another guy he thought was leering at me. Why do guys think that being aggressive in front of girls makes them swoon? It doesn't-it just makes you look like an even bigger rear end in a top hat! God, what did I ever see in him in the first place? I seriously thought I could mellow him out. I hope things get better where you're at. Yours, Lydia. Dear Lydia, Things aren't getting any better over here on Mars. A bunch of the homesteaders are calling a vote to secede. The government most likely won't recognize us, so they've started to talk about taking up arms and taking over the water plant by force. I'm starting to get worried. But I hope things between you and Sean get better. Yours, Jason. Dear Jason, Things between me and Sean haven't gotten better at all. In fact, we've split up. What happened was so stupid I can barely believe it happened. We were at home visiting the folks and he got drunk and started going through my little sister's underwear. I honestly thought Dad was going to get in a fight with him, but I was more scared that Sean was going to kick his rear end. Thankfully, we all forced him out. I've severed all ties with the bastard, and yet I still feel hurt. I feel even worse telling you about all this. I mean, I'm just talking about getting my heart broken and you're possibly facing a war. I wish there was something I could do for you, but we're worlds away. Yours, Lydia. Dear Lydia, The homesteaders have successfully voted to secede. The government has stated that they won't recognize our secession, so they also voted to declare war on the government. I've been drafted into this war and I don't want to fight. I've never fought anybody in my life, Lydia. I've never fired a gun in my life. I've never so much as hurt anybody in my life. I don't believe in what we're fighting at all. How could I? We're fighting over water. Water! No human life is worth a gallon of water! I must be the only person who thinks that. Almost everybody else, including my family, is too caught up in the “us vs them”, “it's ours, not theirs” bullshit. I'm scared, Lydia. I'm really scared. Yours, Jason. Dear Jason, Couldn't you run away here to Earth? I'm not sure how you got to Mars, but couldn't you hop a shuttle to get here? You could live with me and I don't think whoever's in charge on Mars would come after you. Yours, Lydia. Dear Lydia, There's no way I could go back to Earth. There's not a single shuttle coming to Earth and even then, it would take years to get there. I'm stuck here. I just got back from arms practice. The gun's really heavy in my hands, and I almost fell over when I shot it for the first time. The commander has told us that our first mission is to take the water plant. I don't know when it's going to happen, but if I'm going to be as bad as I was during target practice, I'm hosed. I hope you're doing better than I am over here. Yours, Jason. Dear Jason, I really don't know what to say. I mean, everything's peaceful here on Earth. There hasn't been a war in my lifetime and I can't really imagine what it's like to live in a situation like that. I really can't. I don't know what to say at all. Yours, Lydia. Dear Jason, I haven't heard for you in months. Things turned to poo poo with Sean. First he started stalking me, then came the threats, and now I'm filing a restraining order against him. But every time I think about how bad things have gotten for me, I think of you, Jason. I think about how you got drafted against your will in a war you don't believe in. I think about those long summer days we spent together laying on the grass watching the clouds fly by. I think about how we'll never see each other again and it hurts so bad. I wish you never boarded that shuttle for Mars. I wish you would've stayed here on Earth where we could be together. I love you, Jason. I love you so much. I wish I could've told you that before you left. Please make it back. Please answer this. Please.
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Mar 23, 2014 21:55
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I'm in. And thanks for the week 85 criticism.
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Apr 4, 2014 21:06
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Angel of Sorrows Word count: 1159 words Ever since I was a child, I've been able to see angels. They don't all hold harps, though. Depending on their patronage, they hold different things if anything at all. Over the years, I've been able to distinguish them apart. There's the Angel of Inspiration, whose singing is more beautiful than a nightingale and who's songs bestow illumination to those who listen. There's the Angel of Mercy, who holds a shield and who's responsible for what people call miracles like when a person survives a horrific accident or when a premature baby girl takes her first breath. And there's the Angel of Serendipity, whose laughter is infectious and assists people in ways so insignificant and mysterious they attribute it to luck like finding a twenty in your pants pocket or getting a cup of coffee for free. But the one I've always feared the most was the Angel of Death. She's dressed in dark robes and her wings are made of raven feathers instead of dove's. She wields a sword and cries constantly for the souls she has to claim. I recognized who she was at first sight and the first time I saw her she took away someone very dear to me. My paternal grandpa was a short, humble man of eighty-five years. His head was bare and his eyesight was just as lacking. Over the years, walking became harder and harder to the point where he shuffles along with a cane. He became very prone to stumbling. In fact, last week he fell and hit his head against the table. My aunt Rosa was in complete hysterics, but he was fine. Us grandkids called him Papi and none of us could converse with him--we weren't taught Spanish. It was a generational thing. The house Papi shared with his wife, my late grandmother, was surrounded by almost every form of plant and vegetation imaginable. The front yard had a tree which grew pungent-smelling seeds which we'd pick and throw at each other. There was an avocado tree there too, and an orange tree in the back which grew the sweetest-tasting oranges I've ever had. Papi loved animals. He had a few dogs over the years but his pride and joy were his canaries. He built a giant birdhouse with his own two hands to house them. He had so many of them, you'd think he worked for the mining industry. Every Saturday, my Dad's side would meet to have a potluck at his house. It helped that we all lived in the surrounding area. Not everybody would show up, but I always made it a point to show up every week if only for the good food. There was my Uncle Paul, who was the pride and joy of the family as the retired fire captain. There was also my Aunt Rosa, who was the mother hen of the group--constantly doting on Papi while barking orders to the rest of us. She took grandma's death the hardest of all and took it upon herself to take care of Papi as often as she could. Her husband, Sean, was a veteran police officer. That day, Rosa brought stuffed peppers. They were delicious Anaheim chilies stuffed with mozzarella cheese and fried in egg batter. “So how's the surfing, Uncle Paul?” I asked. “It's great,” he said. “The waves got up to twenty feet and there was a wind blowing from the coast.” “But wouldn't a wind blowing against the waves make them break earlier?” I asked. He shook his head. “It actually holds them up. See,” he said and held his hands up, “The wind pushes against the wave and keeps it from cresting,” he said and demonstrated by pushing the palm of his left hand with the fingers of his right. “I managed to surf longer on those waves.” “I would’ve never guessed you'd ever get into surfing,” I told him and took a bite out of my stuffed pepper, savoring each and every little flavor from the spiciness of the pepper to the richness of the cheese. “How's the beat, Uncle Sean?” “I caught a guy with a nasty staph infection on his leg the other day,” he said. “Husband, not at the table,” Rosa said and winced visibly. “Hey, it was a learning experience for the rookie,” he said. “If you can't handle this, then you have no business being a cop.” “Stop it,” she berated him. “Dad, how are you doing?” “Okay,” Papi said and let out a hacking cough. He handed his empty plate to Rosa as she got up to put it in the sink. Papi got up and walked out of the dining room. He was always restless and couldn't sit down in one place for long. “Honey, would you go out and look after him?” Rosa asked me. I finished my plate, put it in the sink, and walked out after him. “Hey Papi,” I said and found him in the back yard sitting under the trumpet vine. “Hi son,” he said and looked up at me. “Where's your daddy?” “Esta en casa,” I said in my broken Spanish and sat down in the chair next to him. “Your head feeling good?” I asked him and put my had where his bandage was. “Oh yah,” he said and chuckled as he sipped his coffee. I heard the canaries singing their beautiful song in the background. “Lemme get you more coffee,” I said. He handed me his thermos and I went inside to fill it with black coffee. No sugar, cream, or milk, just the way he liked it. When I went back outside, I almost dropped it--standing next to him was her. Tears were streaming down her face and her wings were folded against her back. Without saying a word, she looked at me and nodded. I handed Papi his thermos. “Thank you,” he said and sipped away oblivious to the specter of death standing next to him. “Papi?” He looked up at me. I bent down and held him in my arms. “Te amo, Papi. Te amo mucho,” I said and cried in his shoulder. “I know son,” he said and hugged me back. Looking back at that moment, I think he could sense her too. That night, he died peacefully in his sleep. We buried him beneath the orange tree in a private ceremony. During the funeral, I saw her standing next to his grave in silent vigil. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to run up and attack her. But something stopped me--it was the memory of my grandfather, and how he met his death with grace and without protest. He was a man who lived his life without hate, and in memory of him I couldn't bring myself to hate her. I still don't.
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Apr 7, 2014 02:54
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Hey Tin of Beans, am I too late to ask for an in-depth crit?
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Apr 9, 2014 03:58
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A Tin Of Beans posted:Can you read, Benny the Snake? Is that something they taught you in snake school? You're fourth out of three, bro.
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Apr 10, 2014 07:06
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Apr 12, 2014 01:47
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Long Live the King 604 words King George was beside himself. His people were a hair away from open revolt. His wife was carrying on with an affair with his best knight. To cope, he indulged himself in his creature comforts--his liquor mixed in with fresh squeezed orange juice and entertainment from his new court jester, Marvin the Moron. “Summon the royal jester!” Martin bounded in, doing forward flips before tumbling and standing straight up with his arms outstretched. “Leave us,” King George instructed his guardsmen as they left the hall. “Marvin, do you remember what happened to my last jester, Sebastian the Snarky?” Marvin gave a nervous smile. “He always looked so much better from the neck up.” “Indeed he did,” King George said and chuckled. “Now amuse me, or your head will end up on a pike as well!” “If I may m'lord,” Marvin said uneasily, “I've noticed that you're pouring quite a bit of liquor in your orange juice.” “”Why do you notice?” He asked testily and took another sip. “Why m'lord, for liquor is the great equalizer!” “How so?” The King asked as he raised his eyebrow. “For it is liquor that turns us all into fools!” The King laughed jovially. “How very, very true! Now tell me, Marvin,” the King said and took a deep drink out of his glass, “What are your thoughts on what is happening in my kingdom?” Marvin was perplexed. “M'lord, it is often unwise for someone of your position to seek the counsel of a fool like myself.” “Oh, I'm not seeking counsel,” he said. “I figure I can get a laugh out of it if I can get drunk enough.” “Well, if you insist-” Marvin said uneasily. “And I do,” the King said as he took another drink. “Well,” Marvin began, “I would presume that you fear for your life.” “A king always fears for his life,” King George said. “What makes now any different?” “Because now, I'd be wary of assassination.” “Really? Tell me then,” he said and leaned in. “Who would be most likely to try to assassinate me?” “First rule of theater, m'lord--it's always the last person you'd expect.” “And who would that be?” “Why me, your humble court jester, of course!” King George laughed so hard that he spilled his glass and almost fell out of his seat. “You? A simple jester? Assassinate me, your King?!” “Indeed, m'lord,” Marvin said and smiled. “In fact, I switched your liquor with poison!” King George was doubled-over in hysterics. He laughed so hard, he dropped his glass on the ground as it shattered in a million pieces. His laugh was so loud that it echoed throughout the hall before he choked, hyperventilated, and fell on the ground. “They never listen,” Marvin said and tsked. He heard someone pounding at the door. Working fast, Marvin sliced off the King's ring finger with the ring still attached, put it in his pocket, and rushed towards the window behind the throne as the guardsmen burst in. With a snappy salute, he leapt out the window and landed in a cart full of hay below. “So did you do it?” The driver asked. Marvin answered by showing him the severed finger and ring. “You know, it never ceases to amaze me how they never suspect the jester,” the driver said as he started driving the wagon. “You can tell someone just about anything as long as it's a joke,” Marvin said and gave him a sly wink.
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Apr 14, 2014 04:50
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crabrock posted:You should wait until judging is complete before posting crits.
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Apr 14, 2014 23:23
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Thanks for the brutally honest criticism. I appreciate it.
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Apr 16, 2014 22:31
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In.
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May 16, 2014 20:28
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Given To Fly 1179 words It was first period at school and Jeremy was running across the hall as fast as he could like a deer being chased by a pack of hungry, bloodthirsty wolves. Worse than wolves, they were sixth graders. A wolf would rip your throat out and that would be the end of that--a sixth grader would humiliate you in front of everyone and throw you back in the wild so he could do the whole thing over again the next day. Jeremy was in full flight mode as he was one of the unfortunate ones born without a fight mode. He made a hard right turn and almost crashed into another classmate before he dove into a broom closet to hide. He could hardly breathe and the dust was irritating his lungs but he didn't dare reach for his inhaler, as the slightest sound would give him away. “Hey Jerry,” Alex called out. Jeremy hated being called that. “I can see you, you little bitch!” He called out. It didn't matter if the door had a lock--Alex would just call an adult to have the door unlocked and give Jeremy a head start to begin the mad chase again. Jeremy grabbed a broom handle and stuck it out in front of him like a spear. Alex threw the door open as a scared Jeremy held his broom handle at him pathetically. Alex sneered and grabbed it out of his hands. “Jerry you little poo poo,” Alex said as he closed the door behind him, took the broom handle out of his hands, and held it like a bat. “Don't-you-ever-hold-something-at-me-again!” He shouted while whaling on him. Alex was smart enough to hit him in the back, chest, and legs so that he wouldn't leave any obvious bruises. “Hey, what's going on in there?” An adult shouted. Alex propped the broom handle against the wall. “Don't say a loving word or I'll use a bat next time!” He told Jeremy in a harsh whisper as he turned around and opened the door. “Nothing, Mr. Garcia,” Alex said. “We were just horsing around is all,” he said trying to look as innocent as possible. “Well get going, you're late for class,” he said as the wolf became a fox and scattered leaving a scared deer behind. “It's Jeremy, right?” Mr. Garcia asked. He nodded. “Son, I keep telling you that you have to avoid him. You're not purposefully running into him, are you?” Jeremy shook his head and pulled out his inhaler to take a dose. Mr. Garcia sighed as if he was forced against his will to do his job. “Well, get going or I'll have you marked as tardy.” Later on that day, Jeremy got off the school bus and went home. Inside he heard his parents shouting at each other in the living room. “You can never be satisfied with anything, can you?” His father shouted. “What am I supposed to do?” His mother screeched. “I can barely afford to pay for groceries! And you still can't make enough money at that goddamn warehouse!” “I'm helping to make payments on this house! I'm helping to make payments off that new car you had to buy!” “But you never learned a trade! You're still working at the warehouse making poo poo pay because you never went to school! You're failing this family! You're failing me!” “You know what your problem is?” His dad asked. “Your problem is that you've never accepted me for who I am! I'm making an honest living trying to support this family and all you do is give me grief for it!” “It's because you've never pushed yourself to be any kind of success! You're too drat complacent for your own good and we're suffering for it!” Jeremy threw his backpack on the porch. His parents heard the noise and stopped arguing. “Honey,” his mom said before he turned around and ran away from his house as fast as he could. “Jeremy!” She called out as he kept running away. He had no idea what they were arguing about and he didn't care. He raced to the only place where he could find any solace. Near his house was a cliff overlooking the ocean. There, Jeremy would lie down on the soft grass and slowly drift away to sleep with the cawing of seabirds and the rhythmic crashing on the waves against the cliff as his lullaby. It was there, and only there, that he would dream about flying. In his dreams, he'd stand up and, after lifting his arms to the sky with his hands as fists, he would lift off from the ground and catapult himself into the clouds. Higher and higher he'd fly, punching past clouds and soaring towards the sun. His eyes would water from the wind streaking into them but he would never lose his breath or have another attack. He'd soar through the clouds, high above the fields and cities below him. He would laugh and cry as he flew as high as he could, trying to reach above the skies and into the stars above. After reaching as high as he could, he'd dive straight towards the ground bellow. With the adrenaline racing in his veins, he would see how close he could get to the ground before he'd shoot back up at the last second. Here in the skies was the only place where he found any kind of peace in the world. One day, Jeremy had enough of it all. He had enough of being chased by his bully at school and he had enough of his parent's incessant arguing. But most of all, he had enough of how he couldn't do a drat thing about it. He returned to the cliff where he found peace and stood at the edge. A cold wind was blowing from the west and it made his hair stand on its end. After a brief moment of reconsidering his actions, he closed his eyes and stretched his arms out, ready to make a swan dive to the craggy rocks and churning waters below. Jeremy stopped. He heard something behind him. He turned around and saw a sparrow standing on the ground looking straight at him. Jeremy could tell from its coloring that the bird was female. She tilted her head as if she was asking him a question. “Are you okay?” Jeremy could hear her saying. He nodded at the bird. The sparrow chattered excitedly and then started flying around him, singing the most beautiful song he ever heard. Jeremy started crying. He didn't know why and he didn't care. The sparrow finally flew towards her nest to take care of her chicks. Jeremy wiped his tears and took another dose from his inhaler. He knew what he had to do. Jeremy returned home later on that day. He didn't worry anymore about what would happen the next day at school. Whatever would happen, would happen. But he wasn't scared anymore.
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May 19, 2014 07:44
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I'm in.
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Jun 18, 2014 22:48
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EDIT: never mind.
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Jun 23, 2014 05:18
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In 
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Jun 28, 2014 06:37
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Ursine Cuisine 896 words Guadalajara was one of the most popular restaurants in LA. Inside there were large, family-style tables, cushy chairs, and kitsch-y items adorning the walls such as black and white family photos and ranching tools. The bar was tended by a self-proclaimed mixologist whose fake glasses and hipster mustache would've made him unlikable if he didn't make the best margarita in the area. There was a wide variety of items on the menu--from more traditional items such as burritos and tostadas to more exotic items such as cow brain tacos. In the back was the kitchen were all the cooks, dressed in white, were busy working on their stations There was a whole spectrum of scents from the hot peppers being sliced to the carnitas slow cooking in pots. Guadalajara was one of the few Mexican restaurants which made two varieties of carnitas--pork and turkey. The turkey carnitas were especially popular for those who practiced kosher or halal diets or anybody else with personal objections to consuming pork. In stepped Marcus, the founder, owner, and head chef of Guadalajara. “Chef,” a waiter approached him. “The patrons at table five send their regards for the albondigas soup.” Marcus nodded. “Make sure table five gets something extra, compliments of me,” he said as the waiter nodded and left. “Taste test!” He shouted out as he approached the station where stuffed peppers were being made. The cook presented a morsel on a small plate for him to taste. Marcus inhaled deeply through his nose and took his taste. He took a moment to let the richness of the cheese soak in. “There's a little too much egg yolk in here,” he said. “We'll still serve this, but make sure you use one less yolk for the next batch.” “Yes, Chef,” the cook answered. “Taste test!” Marcus called out and moved on to the next station where the ground beef was being prepared. Flaring his nostrils, Marcus let the savory aroma of lean ground beef cooked with onions and tomatoes waft before taking a taste. “Add one more clove of garlic,” he said simply and moved to the next station. “Taste test!” He called out and moved to the rice station as the new cook gulped. Marcus tasted and winced visibly. He turned to the nervous cook. “What did you use for stock?” “I-I used the powdered stuff in the back,” the young cook stammered. He expected his short and stocky superior to use his bodybuilder physique to throw him across the kitchen. Instead, he closed his eyes and sighed. “Ivan, is it?” The young cook nodded. “You're new here, so I'm only telling you once: we never use chicken powder, we always use chicken broth. Unless we run out of broth, I never want you using the powdered poo poo again, understand?” Ivan nodded. He was then instructed to put the batch of rice into a catering container and mark it with an S to be delivered first thing next morning to the local soup kitchen. “Chef!” A waitress called out. “A Mr. Lik wants to speak with you.” Marcus nodded, straightened himself out, and walked outside to greet a rich Chinese businessman as they greeted and conversed with eachother in Mandarin. “Do you have the product?” “I do,” Mr. Lik said. “But Marcus, how may times do I have to tell you that your payments are not sufficient? You cannot continue to supplement your payments with food anymore.” Marcus smiled nervously. “But Mr. Lik, you know as well as I do that you're saving hundreds of dollars a year by eating in my restaurant pro-bono,” he tried reasoning with him. “I can't pay for the chemicals with food, Marcus,” Mr. Lik said contemptuously. “Besides, we both know that your arrest for possession is just a simple phone call away.” Marcus nodded slowly and smiled to hide the fact that he was screaming inside. “May I recommend the stuffed peppers?” Later on that night, Ivan stepped outside for his break. After flipping through his smart phone, he noticed in the distance Marcus puffing from an e cigarette. “Hey Ivan,” a voice called. “Hey Mark” Ivan said as he sat next to him. “I didn't know the Chef smokes.” “He has to, man,” Mark said. “Why?” “He's a mutant” Ivan stared at him. “I ain't bullshitting you, man. The dude has a superhuman sense of smell.” Ivan gave him a look. “Why do you think we call him The Bear?” Mark asked. “He always takes a deep sniff before he tastes anything and he could tell that you used powder in the rice. He smokes to keep his nose in check.” “So why doesn't he have cancer yet?” Ivan asked. “Know that Chinese guy Lik? He comes in once a month and eats here for free. The guy supplies him with specialty made e-cigs so that he doesn't get cancer.” Ivan shook his head. “You sure Marcus is a mutant?” “You could always ask,” Mark said. “gently caress no,” Ivan said. Mark shrugged and walked off. Ivan looked down at his phone. Could Marcus be a mutant? He sighed and shook his head. As long as he was getting paid, his boss could be a bear for all he cared.
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Jun 29, 2014 20:41
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Schneider Heim posted:I promised Teddybear a line-by-line last week, and here it is.
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Jun 30, 2014 20:25
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Phobia posted:Would you kindly do a line-by-line of my TD entry Benny?
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Jun 30, 2014 21:44
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Phobia, I went ahead and did a line by line critique of your most recent TD submission. The Fall of Cedric Conrad 1447 words Took him a minute to remember how to breathe. His legs twitched and he laughed, laying back, hands off fate’s wheel, rolling with it ‘til he crashed and burned. He, Cedric Conrad, 40, was not himself. Great intro. I personally would've re-worded the last sentence as “The victim is Cedric Conrad, age 40. He was not himself.” "Pace yourself. Try not to fall when you trip cuz' it's hard to get back up." That was what Lacie told Cedric, 16, the day of his first. Cedric said that he didn't feel anything and Lacie laughed. Lacie was chill, real Stevie Nicks type. Try putting “age” next to “16” for better context. Wore the pants, Cedric liked that. "Give it a few. Best comes to those who wait." Cedric felt it, 'it' being his head and 'felt' being the helium pumping in through his ear. His nails dug into the arm of the couch because he was afraid he'd float and get torn by the ceiling fan. This is a really vivid image. Lacie laughed and hugged Cedric and told him not to worry, just relax, roll with it baby. Only thing Cedric remembered was watching Rocky Horror with Lacie's head buried in his chest. They stayed in touch 'til Cedric, 35, went into rehab. Again with the numbers. I feel that if you emphasize the numbers as being their respective ages, it helps reinforce that we're witnessing a series of sequential events and consequences. Cedric, 40, felt all round his apartment! Touching things! The remote, pillows, an apple, the wall! Everything was so fresh, so new! Spent a hour just feeling around the bookcase, cackling like a hyena every time he knocked over a book! Jesus Christ comma it was hilarious! Cedric, 20, went to the same University as Lacie, still friends. The grammar here is kidna wonky. I would re-write this as “At age 20, Cedric went to the same University as Lacie.” You've shown us already the two of them are friends through their interactions, so the “still friends” bit is superfluous. She invited him to dozen parties. The Only time he accepted was when he was high enough not to give a gently caress about nerves. Course, he still gave enough of a gently caress to stick to the wall with a cup of cola in his hand. "They don't bite, you know." "Me neither. Let's be wallflower together." I'm assuming that it's a stylistic choice that Guy is using wallflowers singular when referring to the both of them. You could always try turning “wallflower” into a verb so that it would read “Let's wallflower together” since “verbing” is a recent linguistic phenomenon and would make the dialogue feel more natural. They talked for what felt like hours. Cedric laughed more than he had in ages. He couldn't believe it when “Can't Help Falling in Love” came on and they actually started mock slow dancing. Everything was going great. Then they kissed. D'aww Next day Cedric was scared. He never knew that side of himself. But he liked it. The guy was Ken Akimoto and they went out on a date two days later. Lacie said they were cute together, but she always made a face Cedric couldn't read when they were together. It took Cedric, 40, ages to figure out how to use the phone. Try re-writing it as “At age 40, it took Cederic ages to figure out how to use the phone.” It flows better Kept ringing and ringing. Hank, Lacie's husband. “Hank, Lacie's husband, answered the phone.” White boy but down to earth. Cedric liked him. "Cedric. Lacie's been trying to call you. "We heard about Ken. She wants to know if... "Cedric? Buddy, are you there? I can hear you breathing. "If this is a joke it isn't funny. "Lacie's worried. We're coming over, don't worry." Cedric dropped the phone. The walls were closing in on him and everything was turning red. He needed to get the gently caress out. He didn't want to go back to rehab. Cedric, 21, dropped out of college. “At age 21, Cedric dropped out of college.” The whole name and number tic is getting tiresome because 1) at best it's questionable gramar and 2) it lacks context. Ken said it was fine, just take a break. Cedric got a job paper pushing, didn't pay well but it was something. “Cedric got a paper-pushing job. It didn't pay well, but it was something.” Ken and Cedric, 22, found an apartment and moved in. “At age 22, Kevin and Cederic found an apartment and moved in.” Ken wore the pants, summa cum laude but didn't go for Graduates. Got a job at an advertising agency that paid well. Cedric really loved that high-rise. He was happy for a time. Ken took him to Chinatown one night. For once Cedric, 24, didn't smoke. Omit the number. It shouldn't matter what age he was since “one night” implies that it was recent. Server laughed when Ken spoke Chinese. Ken was Japanese so it was a surprise. There should be a “The” next to the word “server”. Server got them the real menu, very fancy stuff for cheap. You keep omitting articles. I'm starting to think that it's a weird tic instead of a stylistic choice. They talked for a bit. How's the job? Are your parents coming for Thanksgiving? The niceties stopped though. Ken got serious. "Please don't be mad." Cedric promised he wouldn't get mad. I would've made the two sentences a single paragraph. Otherwise, this was neat how you juxtaposed dialogue and narration. "I really think you should quit." Was he talking about the job? It was dead end but Cedric liked it. "Don't act dumb. You know what I mean. I'm worried that you may have a problem." There wasn't a problem. He could pace himself. Cedric told him not to worry. You do a good job showing how Cedric has a dependency problem without outright stating it. "You're getting high almost every day now. Hank said you called Lacie up one night asking to drive you to Taco Bell." Cedric laughed. Holy poo poo comma he remembered that. Ken didn't laugh. He sat up straight and made that motherly frown of his. Ken didn't seem to mind back in school. "You aren't in school anymore Ced. I'm just worried, okay? Please promise me you'll quit." Cedric promised he would quit. Ken nodded and smiled. Cedric, 24, moved out after he broke Ken's flatscreen. “At age 24, Cedric moved out after he broke Ken's flatscreen.” Cedric went over to Lacie's and cried in her arms. Lacie smiled and patted his head like a puppy. "Screw that guy. He's got money coming out of his rear end, he could afford another loving flatscreen." Cedric hugged Lacie, told her thank you. Now you're dropping conjunctions. Then he took a hit, asked if Lacie wanted some. Lacie looked away. "Sorry, I'm trying to quitting." “Sorry, I'm trying to quit.” Cedric slept on her couch for a week. Cedric, 40, never walked outside when he was high. Seriously, you're starting to sound like Frank Miller. Always stayed inside or got into a car to go somewhere. Chronic article omission. It can happen to anyone. The creeping sense of unfamiliarity grew as he stumbled down the street. poo poo got alien to him: everything was in focus but strangely abhorrent. The sidewalks, crosswalks, alleyways, streetlamps, pedestrians, the trees, all larger and wider and slouching and verdant. This is a great way of illustrating what a bad trip is like. A man with an elephant snout started bumbling towards him. Cedric didn't like the look of him so he ducked into an alleyway. He bumped into a giant in slouchy jeans and a wifebeater. "Watch it rear end in a top hat." Cedric watched it but he fell on his rear end. He groaned. The giant looked towards his gremlin friend and cackled. "Holy poo poo do you see this guy?" The gremlin wore a hood over a baseball cap started laughing too. Now you're dropping pronouns. The clown to the giant's left, white bread what? and wearing a beanie, grinned and pointed at Cedric. "Dude this nigga high as hell." "Hey man where you get the chronic?" Cedric whimpered. This was a nightmare, he was going to wake up soon. Drop the comma and make them into two separate sentences or else add “and” between the both of them. He rolled onto his scraped knees and started trying to crawl away. Something grabbed him by the hair and threw him back. "Never did like loving tramps." "Mikey tape this poo poo." Missing comma The clown pulled some alien device out and aimed it at Cedric as the gremlin and giant started pounding Cedric into mush. They kept talking about posting it online. Youtube superstars. This fragment has no context. Cedric vomited blood and he Cedric, 35, lost his job paper pushing. He came into work high. Lacie wasn't answering her phone so he went home and got high. Lacie called him back. "...Ced, are you high?" No he was not high. They put him in rehab for several months. When they let him out, Cedric, 36, felt like a new man. He discovered that he didn't need weed. He reconnected with his parents and got up on his feet. Found He found a job as a McDonalds manager. He was happy for a time. Lacie stopped talking to him though comma and that disappointed him. Cedric, 40, couldn't get up. They took his wallet and left him on the ground. No matter how much he scratched and clawed at the brick wall he could not get up. He was stuck on the ground and he couldn't get up. "Try not to fall when you trip cuz' it's hard to get back up." Holy poo poo! He just got that! Cedric started laughing with vomit on his face and piss in his pants Cedric Conrad woke up in the hospital. There were flowers and baskets sitting next to him. He was so lucky to be alive, so many people that truly loved him. Cedric did not smile though. Everything looked gray. Cedric, 40, got a phonecall. It was someone he didn't recognize. "Is this Cedric Conrad?" “This is him.” "My name is Yuri Akimoto. My brother, Ken, was in a car accident last night." Cedric hung up the phone I can see what you're going for. You're trying to match the disorienting effect of inebriation by bouncing around different times. It's doable, but what hamstrings your story is the bad grammar. And yes, I'm very aware of the Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 04:47 on Jul 1, 2014 |
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Jul 1, 2014 00:31
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In like Flynn and with a character: Todd Templeton, age 43. Profession: professional gambler. Which is just a euphemism for "Compulsive gambler with enough skill to keep himself out of bankruptcy". Losing at the blackjack tables at the El Diablito casino, Todd one day has a chance encounter with a lady in a red dress and a mysterious Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 22:20 on Jul 1, 2014 |
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Jul 1, 2014 20:39
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I've also come up with a way how Todd loses the case. PM me if you want to collaborate! Also, mind if I borrow Goldie, Sitting here?
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Jul 2, 2014 07:01
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Fanky Malloons posted:Everybody plz post your story/character requests in the form of personal ads from now on kthx. Sitting Here posted:Alright, that means one more lucky 'domer gets a date with Goldie. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 07:46 on Jul 2, 2014 |
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Jul 2, 2014 07:21
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