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Phobia posted:
 God Over Djinn posted:Hey, I was all about this, for what it's worth. If you can find someone else who wants to use you as a punching bag, I'm standing by to judge it. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 08:04 on Sep 23, 2014 |
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Sep 23, 2014 07:54
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Fanky Malloons posted:This. Sorry, I didn't actually consider how you were going to archive it, my bad.
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Sep 23, 2014 19:26
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Fanky Malloons posted:This pleases me, even though things like this sometimes make me wonder if you are not, in fact, some kind of mad genius at trolling.  So I broke out my D&D dice and I rolled...  ...2 and 1. May the 'dome have mercy on my soul 
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Sep 24, 2014 02:27
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Quidnose posted:I was trying to get some Friday Night Flash Fiction started in the IRC channel where whoever was around would give a prompt to each other round robin, and then we would write for a set time and share our stories with each other. It was fun. We should all do it again.
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Sep 26, 2014 06:57
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 Benny vs Benny Brawl AKA the "Stop Hitting Yourself" match Listen to the Mocking-Bird Sing (inspired by "The Monkey's Fiddle) 999 words Standing at the crossroads, I dig an inverted pentagram around me with a knife. I pour kerosene into the earth so it flows through the lines of the shape, cut into my palm with the knife, and bleed into the center of the star. "Mammon, prince of Hell! Lord of Avarice!" I say in a loud, clear voice as I stand in the center and ignite the pentagram. "I summon thee!" I shout while the star explodes around me. "What do you want, boy?" I hear a cold voice ask behind me. "gently caress!" I cry out and jump. Behind me stands a man dressed sharp in an expensive-looking suit. "Mammon?" "At your service," he says at me mockingly. "Now make it quick," he tells me while pulling out a gold cigarette case out of his jacket. "Time is money, after all." "I'm here to talk business." I tell him. He laughs as he draws a cigar out the case. "What the hell's so funny?" I ask. He lights the cigar with a matching gold lighter. "No matter how many souls I've taken, I'm still amazed to this day how easy your kind is willing to part with your immortal soul," he says and flicks his lighter closed. "You want my soul or not?" I ask angrily. "Of course, boy. What do you need?" "I want to be a rich and famous fiddle-player," I tell him. "Of course you do," he says and blows smoke in my face. "I have just the thing," he says. The earth opens next to me and a case appears. I unbuckle it and I find the most handsome-looking fiddle I've ever seen. "Play this fiddle, and anybody who hears it will dance. Excluding yourself, of course," he says. "Is this acceptable?" "Yes," I say, trying to keep calm. He draws a piece of paper from his jacket and hands it to me. "Just sign on the dotted line," he says and hands me a pen. I sign my name and hand it back to him. "See you soon, kid," Mammon laughs. The next few years are a whirlwind of performances and dances. I gain all kinds of fame and fortune at honky-tonks and concert halls all over the place. But of course, Mammon's itching to collect. I'm sitting in a bar, relaxing after another successful show. 'Course, everybody in the bar is exhausted as well. I'm knocking back a brew when somebody sits next to me. "I know who you are, boy," he says. I take a good look at him. He's dressed in old, patchwork clothes and he reeks of alcohol. "Get outta here, old man," I say and get back to drinking my beer. "You've sold your soul to the devil!" he shouts in a clear, loud voice. I turn my head slowly and stare at him, his white, unruly hair framing his face like a mane. "You've sacrificed your soul on the altar of greed for that fiddle, boy!" he says and points at my case. "Sam, would you get this guy out here?" I ask the barkeep. He nods as the bouncer grabs him. "Idolater!" The bum screams. I turn around and I see the bum holding a gun in his hand. "Your soul is required! In hell!" I feel a searing pain in my chest and I look down to see the blood flowing through my shirt. I fall down on the ground and everything goes blank. "Going somewhere?" I hear a familiar cold voice ask. I wake up and see Mammon wearing the same. "Yeah, about that," I say. "I like my soul too much. "Boy, do you realize who you're loving with?" "I want a fair trial," I tell him. "As you wish," he says. A courtroom appears, complete with a trial of twelve, damned men and a judge who looks, well, demonic. What, with the horns and the goatee and the beard. "This court of the dammed is now in session," the judge says and bangs his gavel. "The honorable Judge Lucifer, residing." Mammon walks towards the jury and holds out the contract. "I have in my hand a contract, signed by the accused, where he agrees to trade his immortal soul for a magic fiddle. All I ask is for my compensation." The jury murmurs as Lucifer bangs his gavel. "Does the accused wish to defend himself?" I grin and grab my fiddle. "If it pleases the court..." After tuning and plucking, I start playing. Lucifer and Mammon don't dance, of course. The jury, however, does. They get out from their box and dance, clapping and high-stepping along with my music. "Listentothe mock-in' biiirrd...listentothe mock-in' biiiird..." I sing as loud as I can. "Oh-well-lis-ten-to-the-mock-in'-biiiird siiiing..." "Stop playing!" Mammon shouts as Lucifer bangs his gavel. "I assume the accused has a point?" he asks. "Your honor," I say and keep playing, "If this fiddle can compel even the damned to dance, then my humble soul is by no means adequate compensation! The contract is therefore null and void!" I stop playing and take a bow. Lucifer bangs his gavel. "Has the jury reached its verdict?" The damned take only a moment and the foreman stands. "We find in favor of the accused!" "But your honor-" Mammon protests "SILENCE!" Lucifer shouts so loud that my ears hurt--even Mammon staggers. "This court is adjourned!" Mammon slinks away, giving me the evil eye while Lucifer steps down. "Son, I have to say," he tells me and extends his hand, "I'm the Lord of all weasels, and it's been too long since I've seen someone out-weasel one of the best!" I shake his hand and wince as his fingers literally burn into my skin. "I have a feeling I'll be seeing you very soon. In the meanwhile, get the hell out while I'm feeling generous." I nod, grab my fiddle, and make my way out. "You wanna tell me your name, son?" He asks. I turn around and grin. "Johnny."
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Sep 26, 2014 07:33
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CLEAR EYES, FULL HEART, CAN'T LOSE! BRING IT, MAGGOTS! Mercedes Noob Brawl II-Robotic Boogaloo A Boy and His Robo-Dog (2480 words) Me and my dog Cesar find ourselves outside of a giant building, might’ve been a factory at some point. All of the windows are blown out, the paint is peeling, and dirt has piled up around the entrance. I rub my chin and look at my dog. “You think you could dig us thought that, Cesar?” I ask him. Cesar mechanically barks and takes off. A moment later, he’s dug his way past and now we can enter. I open the door carefully and look around. It’s dark inside, so I take out my flashlight from my shoulder bag and turn it on. I’d turn on the lights, but who the gently caress knows what would happened if I flipped a switch. “Where do you smell ‘em boy?” I ask. Cesar sniffs around, leading me to the back of the factory. I’m guessing it’s the area designated as shipping. I see what probably was once a conveyor belt--the belt’s snapped and the wheels and cogs are corroded. Cesar leads me to a stack of boxes. I open them up and I find what I’m looking for--lithium batteries. “Yes!” I shout. I pull out from the shoulder bag I’m carrying a gage. I set it on top of a nearby table, next to a box full of batteries. I grab them one at a time and test them with the gage to figure out how much of a charge is left. I can’t carry a whole lot, so I only take what has at least a 70% charge. Most of them are below 50%, so I only keep a handful of them. Eventually, I have a nice-sized bundle which I wrap up in duct tape. I pull out an empty sackpack that I have folded up in the bottom of my bag, stick the batteries in it, and throw the bag over my shoulders. “You ready to go, Caesar?” I ask. Cesar barks and wags his tail. I smile as I look up our location on my GPS device and then mark it on my map. Before I leave, I take a can of red spray paint out of my bag and mark the entrance of the factory with a circle and x through it. Its part of the international scavenger’s code, and the mark I leave indicates that this area is claimed by me, a fellow scavenger. ### The world ended a while back. Some people say it was nuclear war. Others say it was global warming. A few religious nuts say it was God’s punishment of humanity--how the apocalypse was the rapture and the rest of us are doomed to live here in purgatory until God’s true judgment. Me? I don’t give a gently caress why the world ended. All that matters is that I keep scavenging in order to keep living. Me and my dog Cesar, just the two of us. Of course, Caesar isn't an ordinary dog. Right before the world ended, my Dad invented a specialized drone for the military, designed to have the advanced capabilities of a computer with the obedience and ferocity of an attack dog. The result was the K-9 prototype, named “Cesar”. I'm fuzzy about what Cesar's made out of. All I know is that his body is nigh-indestructible--almost everything from bullets to bombs, he’ll shrug off. His brain is an advanced computer capable of recognizing all sorts of commands and, above all else, recognizing its owner as its master. So for the most part, I’m completely safe in the fact that he won’t turn on me. And even then, it would take some serious doing to turn him against me. “Cesar, looks like we’ll be eating good tonight,” I say as he barks happily. We walk across the lonely road, passing several destroyed cars and abandoned buildings. Sometimes I wish I had an actual somebody to keep me company instead of just a dog. But you know what? Cesar’s a much better listener. And he never judges what I have to do to scavenge, either! Cesar sniffs and snarls. He bears his teeth as his ears fold against his head. “Something up, Cesar?” I ask. I already know the answer. I grab the shotgun I’ve been carrying on a sling and start loading shells. I don’t like keeping my gun loaded, since it’s rare when I come across a situation that would behoove me to be armed. I quickly load shells into the gun and pump it as three figures appear from the horizon. All three are armed and wearing fatigues and combat armor. Highwaymen. I loving hate them. “You a scavenger?” one of them asks. “What makes you think I am?” I ask with my shotgun pointed out. “Don’t play stupid,” he says. “Hand over your poo poo and nobody gets hurt!” Normally I wouldn’t abide by something as heinous as somebody taking away my hard-earned scavenge. But I’m in a compromising situation, so it’s not like I can do a whole lot. “Okay!” I shout. “I’m carrying it on my back! I’m going to take it off right now!” I put my shoulder bag down first. I take the sackpack off one shoulder at a time, holding my shotgun out with my right arm and taking it off with my left hand, through the gun so I don’t have to lower it. “Okay!” I shout. I’m going to toss it to you!” I toss the sack straight up in the air and, predictably, the highwaymen look straight up instead of at me. “Sic ‘em, Cesar!” I shout. Cesar takes off like a rocket and pounces on the middle one “Get him off! Get him off!” he screams as Cesar goes for the jugular. The other two just gape in sheer terror. I grab the sackpack before it lands on the ground. While Cesar has them busy, I start shooting. The one on the left falls down on the ground in pain, taking the full brunt of the shotgun blast to his chest. I pump the gun and follow-up by swinging the barrel to the right and shooting the other highwayman. He fires wildly at me, but I eventually bring him down. Not wasting a second, I rush over and double-tap the both of them. Cesar comes back to me, his mechanical jaws covered in blood and gristle. “Good boy,” I say and pat him on his cold, metal head. “Now, let’s see what they’ve left for us.” These highwaymen were packing serious hardware--all three were carrying assault rifles. I check, and all the weapons are in really good condition. I take the assault rifles and I wrap them with duct tape against Caesar's body. One of these days, I oughta get saddlebags for him. ### I used to hear that way back when, the wasteland had the best weather in the nation. I don’t know about then, but it’s damned cold out here nowadays. The skies are continuously covered in slate-gray clouds and the sun hardly ever shines through them. It’s so cold, I’m wearing a heavy jacket over the combat fatigues I bought a while back. Unlike me, Cesar was designed to endure any and every climate, so he’s perfectly fine, the lucky bastard. We enter into the nearest settlement in the wasteland, July City. July has everything a scavenger like me could need. There’s a general store where I sell what I’ve salvaged, a caravan that I do odd jobs with, and, most importantly, a bar. I first go to the general store. The store is something from way before my time--complete with a tiny bell on the door that rings when anybody comes in or out and an analogue register. There’s a box next to the door designated for firearms in which I leave my shotgun in. “Hey Mac,” I greet the proprietor. “Hey, kid,” he says. “Hey, Cesar,” he says as he barks. One of the biggest advantages of having a robo-dog is that they don’t need piss or poo poo, so I can bring them into any establishment. Provided that they’re cool with a vicious killer robot, of course. Mac’s about five-five and in good shape, for a guy his age. He’s got wild, untamed graying hair and he’s wearing what he calls a “grease monkey” uniform. Dunno what a grease-monkey is, honestly. “What do you have for me?” he asks. I take off my sackpack and pull out the bundled lithium batteries. Mac takes out a gage, similar to the one I’m carrying, and tests the batteries. After testing them, he sets them aside. “What else do you have?” I unwrap the assault rifles from Caesar's body and put them on the counter next to the batteries. “How much?” I ask. He tells me. “Mac, work with me,” I tell him. “You realize how I got these weapons?” “I’d rather not know,” he says. “Look kid, I’ll pay you that, and I’ll throw in a box of shotgun shells.” I think about it and look up on the shelf behind him. “Throw that tiny bottle of shampoo on the counter and it’s a deal.” ### Before I head into the bar, I step into the local barber. A while later, I’m out the door. My stubble’s gone and my untamed hair is cut super-short. Nothing like a shave and a haircut on payday to make a man feel his best. Now onto the last part of the plan. The bar here in July is called the Independence Bar and Grill. From what I’ve heard, it’s in reference to this nation’s Independence Day. It’s been so long since the world ended, though, that any semblance of a unified nation is long gone. Hell, I can’t even fathom how the so-called “United States” remained a unified nation in the first place. Anyway, I’m not here for the beer or food. Not today, anyway-. “Stay, Cesar,” I say and splay my hand out. Cesar whimpers in protest. He might have a computer for a brain, but he’s still a dog when it comes down to it. I step inside and set my gun next to the door on a rack. There’s a whole mess of assorted peoples. Barflies, scavengers, thieves, lowlifes, and hell raisers. My people. Amongst them is my favorite person in the whole wide world. “Hi Sara!” I call out and make my way to the counter. “Hi, hon!” she calls out and smiles. She’s the owner and one of the bartenders here at the Independence. She’s also the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s got long, raven-black hair, soulful brown eyes, and beautiful pale skin. How the hell she keeps herself so clean, I have no idea. She isn’t human, I tell ya. “How’s my favorite scavenger?” she asks. “I got something for you,” I say. “Close your eyes.” She closes her eyes and puts her hands out. I pull out the tiny bottle of shampoo out of my pocket and put it into her hands. She opens her eyes. “Oh, honey,” she says. “You like it?” I ask. She puts the bottle of shampoo back into my hands. “I can’t accept this.” “Why?” The ‘why’ is sitting on the other side of the bar. He’s some douchebag with a five-o’clock shadow, wearing a trucker hat. “Sara, is he bothering you?” He asks and walks over. “I don’t know, Jaybird,” she says to him and looks at me. “Are you?” She asks me. I should’ve said “no” and left. I instead get into his face. “Yeah I am,” I say. “What are you going to do about it? Huh, human being?” Jay grabs me and pins me against the wall. He’s definitely stronger than me. “Who are you calling ‘human being’, you little poo poo?” he snarls at me. I struggle, but nothing doing. Time for plan B. “Cesar! Now!” I shout. Jay turns his head and I slam my forehead against the side of his face. I’m pretty sure I got him in the eye. He drops me and I kick him in the balls. I follow up by slamming my elbow down into his back, causing him to fall to the ground. I get on top of him and whale on him with my fists as blood splatters from both my knuckles and his face. “Get off of him!” Sara screams and tries to pull me off but I push her away and keep pummeling him. Everybody else forms a circle around me, cheering me on. I don’t know how much time goes by, but eventually someone slams me in the back with something heavy. I fall off of Jay and onto the ground. “Freeze, motherfucker!” someone shouts. I roll around and find myself facing the business end of an assault rifle. Holding it is a tall, grizzled black guy wearing a stupid-looking cowboy hat and, more importantly, a brass star on the right side of his jacket. “Get up and put your hands up!” he shouts. I slowly get up with my arms up. Cesar barrels inside. Once he sees someone with a gun to my face, he crouches down and snarls. “Cesar, down boy,” I say in a clear, calm, and slow voice. Cesar obeys and stops in his place, whimpering. The sheriff motions with his gun and I follow. ### I spend the night behind bars in his office. The next morning, the Sheriff opens the cell and motions me to get out. “You know that guy back there you fought?” He asks. I don’t answer. “Well, Jay’s probably one of the biggest, baddest sons-of-bitches here in July. And you dropped him!” he shouts at me. “I trust Jay! He wouldn’t get into a fight for no good reason! You are a goddamn rabid dog!” I look away from his eyes. “I have half a mind to declare you a public menace and ride your rear end out this town on a rail!’ I wait for the “but”. I figure it out before he tells me. Sara talked to Jay. “But, Jay’s talked to me and he doesn’t want to press charges. So I’m letting you go.” “I’m only telling you this once,” he says and stares me down. “If you ever start trouble here again, I ain't wasting time shouting 'freeze'. Are we clear?” I nod. He points to a trunk. I grab my poo poo and get out. Cesar’s waiting outside for me. The moment he sees me, he barks happily and runs up to me, bright eyed and bushy-tailed. We pass by the bar and there Sara is, standing outside and giving me a blank stare. I can feel her eyes burning into me as the two of us walk past and keep going into the sun. Where we end up I don’t know. But what I do know is that I have nobody else but Caesar. That bothers me now.
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Sep 28, 2014 19:13
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Thanks, Fanky. Actually, my plan is to brawl or dome once a week. At least, try not to do both at the same time. If I'm not feeling a prompt, I'll try and brawl instead. I like brawling, though. Why? Because I want systran posted:grats benny, we are all very proud of you 
Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 21:37 on Sep 28, 2014 |
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Sep 28, 2014 21:15
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Let's rock
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Sep 30, 2014 03:16
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Good brawl, Schnider.
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Sep 30, 2014 07:05
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Hey y'all I've been under a rock for the past week or so. I ain't joining this prompt, but I am going to give back to this fine community. I'm offering one free crit. Post and let me know who's down.
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Oct 8, 2014 22:52
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newtestleper posted:Can you do mine?
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Oct 8, 2014 23:19
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Benny the Snake posted:It'll be up soon. By newtestleper “Honey, you know you can still change your mind... ” The insincerity of her words came through crystal clear in my helmet. Great opening line. I like how the details like our protagonist is wearing a helmet indicates that he/she is facing some kind of conflict. “That’s not fair, Mom”. She had my sister in her belly, the child that would be the first human born away from Earth. This oughta be a new paragraph unless you finish the line of dialogue with "I said" “You’re doing the right thing, Bridget” Ken said now, formal as usual. I couldn’t stand to hear them, so I broke off comms and focused on the slope ahead. Some sea. The peaks and valleys of Mare Erythaeum stretched out to my left and right. We’d never ventured off the Jagged plateau plateau oughta be capitalized as well to indicate that it’s a proper landmark, just so you know that we’d landed on until now, until we really needed to. The other hab unit was fifteen kilometres away on the plain, where we would have been had things gone to plan. I stepped off the ridge, feeling my boots skid down the loose sand and rock. It was fast, so I made good time as I floated and fell towards the flat. “You alright, Bridge?” I didn’t expect to hear from Harry. We’d grown close in training, closer still on the ship. The tests had said we would, genetics and psychology pairing us in something close to destiny. He’d been silent since I volunteered, I hadn’t turned off our private channel. “I’m fine. This is actually kinda fun” You seem to have some kind of compulsion against using the word “said” or any other words thereof I ramped off the lip of a precipice and flew eight feet high before sliding down an expanse of scree, gravel skittering behind me. “I should be there” He was fighting back tears. This was why it had to be me. “Harry right now I need you to shut up” I waited for a second till he’d finished sniffling “But I also need you to stay on the line”. Once on the plain the going was slow, and Harry’s breathing went only a little way to relieving the dread. The others had contracted some sort of illness. They didn’t know whether it was from something Martian or if something had gone wrong with the library of DNA brought from Earth, but nothing could stop the tiny blisters spreading. Within weeks their unit was a shiny cylindrical tomb. And it was only four clicks away. Just curious, do military types still use "clicks" to refer to kilometers? Sorry for the :sperg:, but you know, accuracy and all that. I switched the comms back on when I got within visual range. Nearby was the rover that Bisa had left in when he’d realised he was infected, just after his daughter had died. They’re supposed to have life support for three days, but we kept him company for seven before he finally ran out of oxygen. Only then did Maria let us know the rest were sick too. They didn’t want to deny Bisa his martyrdom. I kept my distance from the rover, but I was close enough to make out the human silhouette through the cockpit bubble. The seams in my suit were red with the dust of the plains, so much finer than in the mountains. Maybe that was what carried the sickness. This is one aspect of Martian-based fiction that I haven’t seen a lot of-the idea that the soil itself is toxic to humans. It’s a really neat angle. The hab unit was identical to ours apart from the darkness. I asked Ken to turn the lights on and it burst into life, disrespectful of what lay within. The plan was to get in, grab what we needed, switch out my tanks, and get out. The air had been purged, so the theory went that whatever had killed the others would be long dead from lack of oxygen. It was more a hope than a theory. I knew where everything was supposed to be, but a lot of the lab equipment and DNA stores had been shuffled while they looked for a cure. The DNA was the most important thing. Food, water, air, all that could be taken care of so long as we had the building blocks from the stores. After ransacking the labs I spoke up. “I’m going to head into the quarters. I’m missing one”. “Be careful honey. How are you doing?” I knew what she who’s she? If you're referring to Mom, it's been several paragraphs since we last saw her. was really asking. “Fine so far” I checked my temperature “No symptoms” I heard Harry exhale heavily. It made me smile, he always wore his heart on his sleeve. The first few rooms were empty. There was a lot of extra space for the children that were to come. Maria was in the next one. She’d been perfectly preserved, right down to her long fingers that had played the keyboard as well as they’d held a pipette. They were the only part of her body that had been spared the blistering, she must have died just as it reached her knuckles. In her lap was the last of the DNA stores, as though she was offering a gift. I carefully moved her arm and took the last small case of samples. I felt the itching as I started the climb home. I switched my monitors off. Ken would see, I just hoped he wouldn’t tell the others. About half way up I was sweating in my suit. New paragraph “Talk to me Harry. What’s Mom cooking?” “Brownies, with the last of the real chocolate.” That made me feel better, I hated her brownies. I looked uphill. I could make out the beacon through the martian haze. “I’m going to rest a while” I put the tools and stores down and started gathering rocks. I was feeling weak but it still amazed me how I could lift such big ones in this gravity. “What’s happening?” Concern in Harry’s voice. “Is everything okay?” “It’s will be, my love” I concentrated on balancing one of the rocks just right. “It’s will be”. That’s when he knew, and immediately the tears came. “I promise you I’ll never love another”. Ridiculous. He was always such a schmalz. But he also always did what I said. “You have to. One day these mountains are going to be filled with little Harrys” With that I switched off my comms for good, and studied the little cairn I had made. It could last a thousand years. I looked out and sized up a long slope that ended in a perfect little ramp. Surf’s up. Wow. This was a poignant story. It felt very much like a lost Martian Chronicle, very Bradbury inspired. Outside of your compulsion against the word said, this was a good story. Keep up the good work.
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Oct 10, 2014 06:10
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Mercedes posted:brawl  I'm your huckleberry. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 04:13 on Oct 17, 2014 |
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Oct 17, 2014 02:41
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In and  my undeserving rear end.
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Oct 22, 2014 05:53
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Waltz of the Hummingbirds (700 words) April 15th I hiked up to the foothills today, hoping to find something to capture for my senior thesis. And boy, did I ever. I wandered a bit off the path until I came to a small bush of flowers. I'm sure they were wild carnations, but I can't be certain. Initially I thought I could take a few pictures of the flowers until a pair of Ruby-Throated hummingbirds appeared. Their main plumage is green while their undersides are light gray and their heads are black. Like their namesake implies, their throats are covered with ruby-colored feathers. That doesn't say much, since hummingbirds are miniscule by default. They're no bigger than the palm of my hand and I have small hands. I've always been fascinated with them because, despite their small size, they are incredibly fast and they consume more than their own weight in nectar. They beat their wings so fast that it sounds, well, like humming. Actually, I've always thought that it sounded more like a low thrumming; like the sound of a car accelerating or the tiny fan inside my laptop whirring. Less like an animal and more like a finely tuned machine. The thought that something so small and insignificant could be so capable of hovering still amazes me. And then they danced. "Danced" is probably the wrong word. It was more like an elaborate game of chase. First the female tilted her head to the side like a dog does when it sees something curious. The male darted up and down and to the sides, clearly saying "I'm interested in you." The female responded by flying away, telling him "Catch me if you can!" The male followed and, amazingly enough, he would do his best to not break their direct eye contact at all times. She started off by flying straight up in the air as high as she could before flying straight down in a suicide dive. The male followed her in the dive and, right before her feet could touch the blades of grass, she lifted straight up in the air, narrowly avoiding disaster. Amazingly enough, he did the exact same thing. She pirouetted gracefully and faced him. "Not that easy, is it?" I could hear her say before she took off again. The two then played chicken by flying straight at each other before breaking off parallel at the last second. The two flew in perfect circles, following each other in perfect sync. It was so fast, that I actually got really dizzy. Especially when I was watching the two through a viewfinder. I didn't stop snapping photos, though. I was using an old-school K-1000 camera, the kind where I had to manually move the film by working a switch on the right side. It's kinda like firing a revolver repeatedly and having to pull the hammer back to chamber the next round like an old west gunslinger. I don't know what possessed them, but at a certain point they decided to use me as an obstacle. She shot straight at me. I ducked and he followed right at her. She then flew around me in circles and he kept following her. They were revolving around me, like a pair of tiny green moons around a giant planet. I had to look straight up because if I kept following them any longer, they would've induced vertigo in me. That, and I'm pretty sure they were doing it on purpose--as if they were playing a game of "Who can make the human fall first?" Just as I was about to fall, the two of them shot straight up into the air and almost hit me. I looked up and kept snapping photos as best as I could. High above me in the sky, she finally deemed him worthy and the two flew into the bush. I shot three rolls worth of black-and-white film. Professor Rosewood won't be able to see the vibrant colors of the green blurs, but the advantage is that the contrast will be so stark that the photos will be that much more dynamic. At least I hope so, anyway. I left, amazed, inspired, and very, very dizzy. 
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Oct 27, 2014 07:07
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Mercedes I'm so, so, sorry, but I'm going to have to drop out of your brawl.
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Oct 29, 2014 06:13
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The Blood Queen is dead, long live the Blood Queen! I'm in!
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Nov 4, 2014 00:37
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Chairchucker posted:Throw your dice, harridan.
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Nov 5, 2014 08:59
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My First Beer 988 words Spring+Water Dad drove his Toyota truck up the hairpin turns towards Jenks lake with only one hand on the steering wheel. A brown SUV passed us by and Dad waved. "Who's that?” I asked. "That's the most important person in the whole park," he said as we went into a tunnel. "He's the game warden." "What's he do?" "He's the one who enforces the fishing laws," he said as we made our way out the other side. "And he has the authority to enforce the laws, so you'd better show him respect." "So he's like a Sheriff?" "Yeah, exactly," he said as we finally made it to the parking lot. “I still don’t see why I couldn’t bring my Gameboy,” I grumbled under my breath and got out of the truck. “Because we’re here to get away from it all,” he said and started pulling his gear from the bed. “Besides, you spend too much time on that drat thing. “I do not,” I mumbled while unintentionally twiddling my thumbs. Jenks Lake is located up in the San Bernardino National Forest. The lake is so high up above sea level that, while we weren't above the clouds, we were above the overcast that morning. The forest itself is comprised of almost nothing but pine trees to the point where the scent of fresh pine was overwhelming. It was towards the end of April and the lake was noticeably swollen from the rain. There was constant chattering going on, and it was coming from these dark-blue birds with feathers sticking up from their heads that made them look like they were wearing mohawks. The combination of their chattering and my Gameboy withdrawal strained what little patience I had to its breaking point. “Dad, why didn’t you let me bring your rifle?” "I told you because this isn't a hunting trip," Dad told me while tying a lure on the line of his rod in a series of intricate loops. "Besides, it's not right to shoot kingfishers," he added and finished his knot, "no matter how much you may hate them." With his lure tied, Dad was now ready to fish. "Pay attention, son. Casting is a delicate art. You have to be very careful not to flick it too hard or else you'll either get it caught in something or someone. You also have to aim it right," he pointed out towards the shallow part of the lake. "Right past there is where they feed. You understand, me son?" I wasn't listening to a word he said. I was too busy thinking about Pokemon Red Version and how I was so close to leveling up my Charmeleon into a mighty Charizard. I saw his cooler full of beer and I got an idea. "Dad, how are babies made?" "Well, son," he began, "sexual reproduction happens when...." "Eww, stop it," I said. "You're not getting any of my beer," he said and grabbed one from his cooler. At this point, I was convinced that he could read my mind. "How did-" "I was young like you were, and I know all the tricks," he said and sat down back in his lawn chair. “Like how you can get an adult to give you anything to avoid talking about something like sex." I slunk back down into my chair. Dad noticed and he handed me his fishing rod. "Wanna try?" I shrugged and grabbed it. After a couple of practice swings, I pulled the bale back on the reel and let it fly. Dad patted me on the back. "Nice cast, son. Now, we wait." After what seemed like a mind-numbing eternity, I decided to ask again. "Dad, how are babies made?" Before he could say anything, the line started tugging. I grabbed it and held on, pulling back as hard as I could. "Hold on!" Dad shouted and helped me pull it back. Whatever was pulling back, it was huge. I dug my heels as deep as I could into the mud and pulled as hard as I could with my Dad holding me back. With one last heave, I finally got the monster above water. It was a huge trout, about twice as long as my arm. "Grab the tape measure," he told me and I grabbed it out of his tackle box. The trout's rainbow scales glistened in the sun as I measured it. "Twenty-four inches!" "You're a natural," Dad said with the biggest smile on his face. "We're going to have to chop that sucker up just to fit it in the freezer!" After a while, we caught a whole bunch of fish and left as the sun set over the lake. As we made our way back, a game warden stopped us. I could tell who he was because he was wearing a badge and a Smokey the Bear hat. "Afternoon, warden," Dad said. "Afternoon. I see you have two stringers there?" "That's right," Dad said and held up the lines. "Me and my boy caught them. In fact, he was the one who caught the 24-incher," he said and gripped my shoulder. The warden smiled. "Heck of an eye there, son," he told me and left. "Dad, you did most of the fishing," I said. "I know son." "You broke the limit, didn't you?" I could feel him shifting uneasily. "Yes, son." "Hey mister warden!" I shouted at the top of my lungs as my Dad held onto my shoulder in a vice grip. "Yeah, son?" "Thanks." The warden tipped his hat and left. Dad waited until he was out of sight before he eased his grip. "You're breaking the law, aren't you, Dad?" "What's it going to take, kid?" I smiled at him. He knew. He grabbed a beer out of his cooler and gave it to me. "Don't tell your mother." That was my first beer. Tasted like poo poo, but it was worth it.
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Nov 9, 2014 19:19
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I'm not feeling this prompt, so I'm offering one free crit. First come, first serve.
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Nov 11, 2014 07:26
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Hammer Bro. posted:Thanks enormously for the line-by-line. I agree with you on 96.7% of those points. Didn't even notice how badly I was talking to the audience, and the only voice I was happy with was Damon's. I'm still on the fence about the timing of the mechanism reveal: I very much enjoy rereading a story in a different light after making a realization, although in this case it's more like rereading the story in any light after being told a thing, which is a painful distinction.
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Nov 11, 2014 22:55
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blue squares posted:That'd be awesome thank you! Bennycrit for blue squares Mr. Electroworth's Shovel Summer Earth / 1,200 words Just minutes before I whacked my billionaire boss in the head with his own treasured gold shovel, I was thinking about my shoes. I’d scuffed them earlier in the day and I couldn’t get over it. They cost me $400. I never used to spend money like that on shoes or even give the whole affair more than two seconds thought. It’s strange how much you can change when you get some cash in your pocket. I like how you start with our protagonist fixating on one really insignificant detail which shows that he's in shock. “The real problem is the trees,” he said, waving an arm across the vista. I’d driven him to an overlook of a pristine valley where he planned to build the next great addition to the Electroworth Group Resort Properties. His bald spot shone in the sun. If I held a pair of mirrors just right I could catch my own starting to form in the same spot. I squinted in the bright day “The trees,” he said again. “Tough to uproot, and you get so many of those nuts climbing all over them and refusing to come down. They think they can stand in the way of progress. They never learn, my boy. They’re like a weed. You think you’ve crushed them and they pop back up.” I rested the shovel on my shoulder. “Rip up the roots?” “You’ll never be sure you’ve gotten them all. No. You pave over them with concrete. Now get me some water, would you?” I spun to comply, and the golden shovel spun with me. The thin edge took Mr. Electroworth in the temple and he dropped faster than my stomach. I’d just killed one of the richest men in the world. This doesn't need to be a separate paragraph. Both our lives ended in that split second. Mine was just going to take a while to catch up. I stood staring at his lifeless body and the murder weapon still in my hands. Neither does this. No one was around. I moved before I even considered it and seized both of his arms and began to drag him away from the clearing where I’d parked. One of his cuff links popped off into the bushes, and I wasted five precious minutes retrieving the evidence. Paragraph? No body, no conviction, right? That’s what I learned from TV. I didn’t have time to be ashamed. As I pulled the body along, I remembered my first days at the office. ______________________________ Welcome back banners were strewn about and everyone wore at least three different party hats. Mr. Electroworth was returning that morning from a month in Sub-Saharan Africa, scouting potential sites and hunting elephants for the cost of only $17,000 per head (double for the little ones of my PhD in 18th century Scandinavian Literature ). I’d gotten an internship there after the receipt and my subsequent failure to find 21st century American employment. Many of my friends had found positions at environmental firms. At first, working for Electroworth felt like a betrayal of some essential part of myself. I’d grown up despising such companies. When I saw the plans for a new resort at Yosemite, right at the top of Half Dome complete with elevator to the bottom, I told one of my old friends. He pointed out several reasons why the project could never get past the regulatory agencies. Relieved, I brought this to the attention of my superiors. A week later, the appropriate parties had been paid off and the project was greenlit. That hadn’t been my intention at all. But I was rewarded with a $5,000 check, and I smiled and said thank you. The money felt good. Pretty soon, my environmental friends caught on and quit hanging out with me. By then, though, I had new friends. Richer friends. I helped establish a resort at the bottom of the Grand Canyon that reached high over the rim and could be seen from anywhere in the park. A part of me still felt it was wrong. But that part got smaller and smaller. Now I’m not sure it exists any more. Now I’d call my old friends “tree-fuckers.” This exposition is really awkward. It's just this big info-dump that's dropped right in the middle. There are more natural ways of disseminating your protagonist's backstory than just putting it in the middle like this. ______________________________ I managed to get Mr. Electroworth’s body out of sight and didn’t have time then to register the irony of using his own prized shovel to kill and bury him. The earth was rich and moved easily under the shovel blade. I couldn’t stand to see his pale face, looking accusingly at me. So I started tossing the dirt at him, and that’s what finally woke him up. He sputtered, spit out dirt, and jerked upright, dirt cascading off him like an old jack-in-the-box from the back of the attic suddenly springing to life. “What in the hell’s going on here?” he asked. I froze. I’d been so sure he was dead, and now I couldn’t remember why. He looked from the half-finished hole to me. “Did you...?” I couldn’t decide whether to apologize, lie, run, or hit him again. Mr. Electroworth clambered to his feet, surprisingly spry for a man his age, and plunged his hand into his pocket. I thought at first he was going to shoot me, but instead produced a more dangerous weapon: a cell phone, no doubt to call the police. I opened my mouth to protest and he stuck up a finger. I was so surprised that I clamped my lips back together. “Gregory,” he snapped into the phone. “You’re fired. I want you out before I’m back.” The phone vanished into his pocket again. He turned to me and said: “Quick on your feet. Important. Self-preservation is man’s most powerful instinct. It’s what made me the man I am. I need more of that around me. You’re replacing that limp idiot. He was always weak. Now get in the car and drive me to a drat hospital, you son of a bitch.” I followed him toward the car, stepping into the hole along the way and nearly knocking myself out with the shovel. As the shock wore off, I smiled. I could really be one of them. I had what it takes. I saw mountains in my future. Not snowy-peaked ones; those would have to go, make way for industry. No, I saw mountains of money, all mine, and the earth waiting to be subdued. You have a good premise of a person who betrays his convictions and ideals for the sake of material gain. The problem is that instead of letting the exposition flow naturally, you instead lump it right in the middle. It's a huge roadblock and it breaks the flow. I would've had your character recalling his past actions while digging the ditch or something. Maybe after every shovel full of dirt, he recalls a moment. Maybe even have him talking to himself or shouting how he's compromised his ethics. Keep that in mind for next time.
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Nov 12, 2014 07:49
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Hey a lot of free crits going around. Can I get one for my most recent entry?.
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Nov 12, 2014 07:56
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Cache Cab posted:If you guys think you're better then me then brawl me SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Brawl me again, old man. I'm chasing a hat-trick. Mercedes posted:Look at this motherfucker wanting a piece of the champ. Impatient little bird poo poo. sebmojo drop that phat prompt down. I'm going rub this scrub's nose in his failure.
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Nov 14, 2014 07:58
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Fumblemouse posted:I am on a downward spiral into writers plot block and I will still kick your pathetic, whining arse with something I wrote while busy accomplishing unexpected levels of real world poo poo. Bring it, bitchcakes. Tyrannosaurus, oblige us! (USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
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Nov 14, 2014 08:32
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Who wants another Bennycrit? Please limit to any previous entry.
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Nov 15, 2014 01:18
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Your Sledgehammer posted:I'll take a Bennycrit of this story if you don't mind. Thanks so much! I'll gladly trade a crit in return, just pick one of your stories. Bennycrit-Your SledgehammerBy the way Sledge, mind if I take a rain check on your crit? I have a feeling I'll need it soon. And sorry it took so long. Word Count: 900 Lights in the Vault of the Sky, and a Blueberry Muffin In the beginning, there was Nothing. The Divine felt very lonely, and wept twinkling, crystalline tears that she collected into her hands. She held her hands tightly and breathed life into the droplets, and when the moment was full, she opened her hands. Fireflies came pouring out, their wings beating out a joyful hum that a discerning ear can still hear today as they fled into the inky void. Pleased, the Divine set out to create things for the fireflies to illuminate with their cheery, chartreuse glow. One firefly lit over a formless, cold world. Bitter, gray dust choked out the angry, life-giving magma at its core and billowed across its surface, pushed by the insatiable winds that danced through the atmosphere. This sentence ought to be separated. The firefly was delighted by the formless sphere and shown its light all the more brightly. What the cold rock lacked in character, it made up for in potential. It was a block of marble awaiting a hammer that would inevitably come. The cruel winds would calm into liquid and the rock would slowly take on a temperament. Another firefly lit over a blossoming verdant globe teeming with life. Furry shapes bounced through trees and winged things gathered in such numbers that the firefly’s glow was blotted out. Creatures scrabbled across the ground and through the muck. They played and killed and loved and ate and sang, driven ever onwards by the uncomplicated joy of being. The firefly was pleased. The creatures would never possess the wherewithal to reach for the spiritual plane, but their lack of shame allowed them a kind of freedom that the firefly would never grow tired of. A third firefly hummed over a wistful blue marble. This orb too had life, and one particular creature had an intellect so formidable that it had crowned itself king and gone about ordering the world after its whims. The structure and logic it imposed on itself caused it to think it was fundamentally different than its animal brethren, and the firefly was satisfied to let it continue thinking so. After all, it was special. One day, the firefly peeked through the window of a crooked, tiny A-frame on a hill, where a woman sat waiting for her lover to return from the depressing toil of the overnight shift She’d only been up for an hour and was still in her nightgown, a silky little slip that barely covered her, when Brian burst through the front door and flashed her that lopsided, boyish grin of his. His face and hands were dull with factory grime and his eyes drooped with exhaustion, but he was glad to see her. Ruthie desperately wanted Brian to think of her home as his home, too, and had done everything in her power to cultivate a domestic atmosphere. Cooking breakfast for him was out, though. She’d baked a chicken for him last week knowing full well that she could barely boil water. One bite of the gray, rubbery mess told her she had failed, and Brian spent the remainder of the meal telling her how good it was while he coughed and his eyes watered. Cooking breakfast was certainly out. She’d settled for some store-bought blueberry muffins instead. There’s just something about baked goods, and Ruthie knew it was one of the most powerful symbols she could send at a man. After they kissed, she got them off the counter and placed them on the table as eagerly as if she had made them herself. “That’s sweet of you, baby, but the dayshift supervisor brought donuts this morning,” Brian said. “Oh! Ok then,” Ruthie said with a pinched smile. She got him coffee and moved the conversation right along, but she was more than a little crestfallen. She decided she’d eat one of the muffins herself, and popped open the box. An overwhelming berry miasma filled the room, and one bite revealed the muffin to be cloyingly sweet, with a blueberry flavor so intense that coffee could barely knock it down. The fact that the muffins were terrible only made Ruthie feel worse, and by the time Brian ambled over to the couch to catch a quick nap, Ruthie found herself fighting back tears. The relationship would only last another couple of months. Ruthie and Brian would both be left wondering what happened, and that process of digging through the memories for clues would lead Brian to realize how badly he’d misread that morning with the muffins. She’d been so thoughtful and it had gone completely over his head. It was one of those weirdly sentimental things that would morph into a regret so profound that it would even bubble up among his last waking thoughts seventy years hence. The firefly hummed joyously. The humans thought they were falconers when they were in fact falcons, carrying out the purpose that the Divine had decided before she’d even lit up the night sky. But for all their delusions of grandeur, they were special. They were the only things in the universe capable of that kind of intense, occasionally misbegotten empathy. Only a person could imbue a blueberry muffin with meaning. The firefly glowed with glee. He’d chosen the right world to illuminate, and he loved the people that lived there. Above him, the Divine smiled, lonely no more. This is a really melancholic story. I like how this is a creation myth, down to how it reads like a re-telling of the spoken word myth itself. You also combined it with a brief scene of domestic drama which was heartfelt and a little sobering too. Just watch for run-ons and fix your telling. Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 07:14 on Nov 19, 2014 |
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Nov 18, 2014 19:43
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Oh and I'm doubling-down as well-in for this week.
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Nov 18, 2014 19:43
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New Arcadia 1042 words Prompt: You can't make an omlette without breaking a few eggs. New Arcadia One of the first things built on the western farming settlement of New Arcadia was a gallows. While seldom used, it became a constant reminder upon its citizenry that the rule of law was constant and violators would be punished with extreme prejudice. Today's execution was a demonstration of that constant. John Stanford made the long walk onto the gallows as he kept his eyes down, away from the assembled crowd where his neighbors and families were. Next to the executioner was Sheriff Ferguson, New Arcadia's lawman. Nobody dared to say a word as the grim specter of death was about to descend. "John Stanford," Sheriff Ferguson boomed, "for the repeated crimes of water theft and conspiracy to commit water theft, the sentence is death by hanging. Do you have any last words?" John remained silent, lifting his head only to see his wife and family one last time. To see Mary and her golden wheat hair. To see his boys, Johnny and Fred, who shared their mother's golden hair but had his soft brown eyes. He thought of his eldest Johnny, barely 16 years of age and now he had to become a man too soon. He thought of his youngest Fred, still in school and Mrs. Marston's brightest pupil. He thought of his wife Mary, and he wept. For he would never see her again and he would never see his boys grow up into the good men he did his best to teach them to be. John closed his eyes and shook his head. Sheriff Ferguson nodded gravely. The executioner slipped a hood over his head before putting the noose around his neck. The executioner then went back to his post and pulled the lever. The trapdoor fell. John fell and, with a sickening snap, the rope hung tight. The silence finally broke with the sounds of anguish and sorrow coming from John's widow and his youngest son. Only Johnny, the eldest, stood firm. For he was now the man in the family, and he now needed to become the rock for them to find refuge upon in the middle of the sudden chaos. * * * Sherriff Ferguson sat in his office, not a proud, assured arbiter of justice. Not a protector of the people of New Arcadia, nor a servant of the same people who elected him as Sheriff. Instead, he was Frank--a graying, unmarried man who, at this moment, did not find solace within his convictions or even a higher power, but instead at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. Somebody knocked on the door. "Yeah?" In walked a string bean of a man with sandy hair wearing a badge similar to his except for the word "Deputy" where "Sheriff" would be. "Sheriff Ferguson?" Frank gestured towards the chair in front of his desk. Shutting the door behind him, the deputy sat down in front of his superior. "Sheriff, you mind if I ask you something?" Frank shrugged his shoulders. "Was that necessary back there? To execute a father for water theft?" "We're currently in the worst drought in the city's history," Frank said without looking up. "As Sherriff, I am to enforce the new water rationing order." "I'm aware sir, but execution seems extreme." He looked up. "Morrison, is it?" His deputy nods. "Do you know where the word 'decimation' comes from?" "Sir?" Sherriff Ferguson leaned in and grasped his hands. "The word comes from a particular ancient Roman practice, hence the Latin prefix 'dec' meaning ten. After a particularly heinous offense," he said and placed ten coins on his desk, "the commander of a legion of troops would have ten of his men draw lots. The one who drew the odd lot," he removed one of the ten, "would be executed by the remaining nine. The process would continue until a total tenth of his men were killed." "Sir, are you suggesting that-" "What I'm saying, deputy, is that it is my responsibility to maintain order. To enforce the laws that keep us safe and keep the peace. And if I have to execute a tenth of the people in order to do so, then so be it." * * * Next to his sons, John Sanford's pride and joy was his family's wheat farm. Years of hard work yielded vast and bountiful harvests. But now, the fields were That night, Mary and her eldest son Johnny were arguing. "You're abandoning your family, Johnny." "I'm not abandoning you, mother," Johnny said while inspecting his late father's revolver. "I'm fighting for our future." "By throwing your life away for some asinine motion of revenge?" Johnny said nothing. He holstered his father's revolver, grabbed the scattergun from the mantle and went out towards the stables. "Johnny, if you step out that door, you will no longer be a member of this family. I've already lost one, I will not lose another." Johnny said nothing as he left the front door, leaving his mother beside herself in grief for her dwindling family. Waiting for him at the stables was his younger brother Fred. "Johnny, why are you leaving us?" Johnny stopped for a moment. He needed to choose his words carefully, because his brother was too young to understand. "Did Mrs. Marston teach you about War of Northern Aggression?" Fred shook his head. "Well, way back, filthy Yankees marched down " Johnny recited to his little brother. "They were stealing our land and our crops. They were destroying our homes, killing our brothers and fathers, and raping our mothers and sisters." "What did we do about it?" Fred asked, completely entranced by his brother's words. "We rebelled. We fought back. We raised arms and fought our Northern oppressors. We rode hard across the plains. We filled the trenches with their stinking, rotting bodies." "So you're going to war?" Johnny nodded. "I'm meeting the rest of the homesteaders. We aren't going to stand by and let that carpetbagger deprive us from the water we need to grow our crops and provide for ourselves. We aren't going to stand by and let him kill us like dogs." "But Johnny," Fred sobbed, "who knows if you'll ever come back." Johnny saddled up. "Fred, I'd kill a hundred men if it meant saving you and mom."
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Nov 24, 2014 06:24
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Interpompt: It's a Thanksgiving miracle! 200 words
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Nov 24, 2014 18:53
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Oooooooooh gently caress. I thought it was due Wednesday, not Tuesday... Fumblemouse and Tyrannosaurus, I apologize. I have no excuse. I didn't bother double-checking the due date. I accept my defeat and my punishment for missing the . May the mods and the 'Dome have mercy on my soul.
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Nov 25, 2014 21:02
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Your Sledgehammer posted:If Benny is so keen to brawl, I say let him brawl. For the next three weeks, let's allow the loser take on Benny in a little 250 word micro contest for the chance to hang the dunce cap on Benny's head instead.
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Nov 25, 2014 22:31
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Cut off one head, two more will form! HAIL HYDRA! Better late than never, here's my Fumblemouse brawl story. quote:Untitled Oh and Sitting Here, I need to get back on that loving horse! Hit me!
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Nov 26, 2014 03:47
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Phobia posted:Well poo poo. I love the Beach Boys. This is what I get for staying off the web for a week. As pennance for missing my last toxx, if you win Phobia, I will buy you a shiny new avatar! Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 19:07 on Nov 30, 2014 |
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Nov 30, 2014 19:02
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Brand New Morning (763 words) Wake the World Friday, November 28th, 2014 6:00 PM I never was one to write in a journal, but things are different now. Yesterday on Thanksgiving, I got hosed up and embarrassed myself in front of my in-laws. I can't stand the wife's family though. Her mom and dad never approved of us marrying in the first place. I wasn't "good enough" for their little princess. To them I was still a lowly truck unloader. I could never do anything right in their eyes. I went to their Thanksgiving dinner, but on the condition that she wouldn't nag after my drinking. I had like six beers and her sister was making margaritas so I had a couple of those. I made the excuse that it was the tequila, but really, it was everything. I ended up calling everybody out. The wife's mother for despising me. Her father for spoiling her as a child. Her sister for being such a two-faced bitch, always talking bad about me behind my back. And her brother for aiding and abetting them. I ended the night with throwing up in the kitchen sink. I never saw Petra so angry in my life. More than angry, she was ashamed of me. She loves me. Always has. But today, my alcoholism, my addiction to alcohol, was the final straw for her. She told me that I needed to stop drinking. She told me that if I didn't go sundown from sunup, without a single drop of alcohol, then she'd leave me. I agreed, if only to get her off my back. So sundown today to sunup tomorrow, I agreed not to have any alcohol. This mini diary is my way of keeping track of the events. So that I can look back and see what happened. So here's to one night of sobriety. 9:00 PM My Dad was an alcoholic. What I learned from him was that you don't really kick the habit, so much as you just substitute it for another one. For him, it was diet soda. Once he stopped drinking, he kept a 2-liter bottle of diet cola instead of whatever cheap beer he would buy that week. Not sure what, or if, I would substitute for my habit. So far I guess I'm doing all right, though. First thing I did after writing my first entry was take every bottle and can of booze I have and dumped it down the drain. I even had to go into my secret stashes and throw it out. I actually hide alcohol from my wife, Jesus. I am so glad I don't have kids. 12:00 PM I was going to run down to the liquor store to grab some booze, but Petra hid the keys to my pickup. I screamed at her. I smacked her as hard as I could. My body was screaming for alcohol and I hurt my wife. She ran out. I went into the bedroom and that's when she jammed pennies into the door. I can't get out now. I'm stuck, clawing at the door like a rat, begging my wife to let me out. What have I become? 2:00 AM I had a vivid nightmare about my first beer. I was fishing with my Dad and I got him to give me a beer for keeping me from ratting him out to the warden. It burned me from the inside out. I saw my skin, organs, and blood burn away in a cloud of black smoke. It smelled like grease burning. My Dad was laughing at me. Laughing at my pain and at me burning to death as he force-fed me more beer-acid. I woke up sweating head to toe. The hosed up thing is that I want beer. So bad. 4:00 AM I tried knocking down the door. I hurt my hand trying to smash my way out of the window. I think I sprained my foot trying to kick the door down. I can't think of anything else. I need a beer. I need a bottle of tequila. I need anything to make me drunk. I've tried drinking rubbing alcohol and even aftershave before. It made me sick. I'm sick. But I can't help it. I need it. I need my poison. I need it. 7:00 AM I woke up to watch the sun rise from my broken window. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life. I made it. I made it one night without alcohol. I don't know where Petra is, but it's all right now. I can do it. I can make it one night without alcohol, and that's what matters.
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Dec 1, 2014 07:18
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Hit me, bartender.
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Dec 2, 2014 08:50
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Mercedes posted:It's a boy ya'll :3
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Dec 5, 2014 22:35
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The Hunt 667 words (Caribou Lou-Bicardi 151, Malibu Coconut rum, pineapple juice) “Alright, whelp,” my Father Silaluk said quietly. “The rest of the hunting party in the distance,” he pointed out towards the horizon. I could faintly see a few other figures stalking a herd of caribou grazing on the tundra grass. “Once they spook the herd, they’ll corral them towards us and that’s when we start shooting. You understand?” I nodded and got my bow ready. My Father was the finest hunter in our tribe, and that day was my first hunt. Looking back, there was a healthy amount of trepidation in my motions and fear that I would let my Father, and the tribe, down. We were both crouched low underneath the high grass and as I looked back at him, I wondered why he never told me how he got that rough scar on the side of his face. I shivered--it was almost winter, but it wasn’t the cold air that made me do so. “There!” he whispered. Against the rising sun, I heard our other tribesmen whooping and hollering at the top of their lungs, scaring the caribou into a panic and causing them to run. Father grabbed an arrow, the tip made of sharpened bone and hawk feathers attached to the back, and drew his bow back. I did the same. After an agonizing moment of eternity, the caribou stampeded right in front of us. “Now!” he cried out as he let his arrow fly. As I let mine fly, I made a silent prayer to the spirits that my arrows would strike true through the dust and dirt flying in the air. I saw my arrow strike the flank of a young caribou. Stumbling, it regained its footing and kept running, narrowly avoiding being trampled underfoot. This was good, because a trampled caribou was almost completely unsalvageable. "Stop!" Father shouted over the din of the caribou stampeding. When the herd had passed, my father put his hand on my shoulder. "Good work," he told me. "Now we track." We followed a loose track of hoof prints and blood further into the harsh tundra landscape. Caribou hooves are like horses in that they are whole and not split, unlike the antelope’s. We came to a small hill where bellow was our prey--a young caribou, mortally wounded with my arrow in its flank. I drew my knife, ready to finish it off. My father put my hand on my shoulder again. "Wait," he told me. "For what?" "Something isn't right." At that moment, I don't know what possessed me, be it over-eagerness or simple, youthful recklessness. Whatever it was, I got up and made my way towards my prey. "Don't!" Father said, but I ignored him. There was a certain macabre and eerie beauty to the mortally wounded animal. Looking it in the eye, I wondered what was the last thing any of us saw. I was about to slit its throat when I heard a low growling behind me. I froze and slowly turned around. Crouching behind me was a vicious wolf. To my left and to my right I found more. I was caught between my flight-or-flight instinct and at that moment, I knew if I ran, they would pounce and kill me. At the top of my lungs, I screamed all sorts of obscene words and sounds, hoping to scare them away. Instead, the largest, the alpha, pounced on me. I shoved my arm in front of my face to protect myself, to keep him from ripping out my throat. The alpha sunk its teeth into my arm as blood and spit sprayed in my face. "Father!" I screamed pitifully at the top of my lungs. I heard a whimper as the wolf on top of me stopped biting and slumped, an arrow in its side. I heard somebody shouting, wolves barking, and then I felt a great weight being rolled off my body. My Father helped me up, put him against me, and helped me walk across the barren plains of the tundra. Our medicine man did the best he could, but I still bear the bite marks on my arm. It's there as a reminder of my foolishness.
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Dec 8, 2014 03:40
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Clear eyes, full heart, can't lose! I WILL CONSUME YOUR SOUL, PHOBIA!Benny Vs. Phobia Brawl Turing’s Box 1816 words The young woman flashed her credentials to the officers outside the apartment building. After looking it over, the officers let her in. The building was closed off with yellow tape wrapped around the entrance. Several officers were milling about in the library, but the woman confidently walked to the elevator to make her way to the very top of the building-the penthouse suites. “Detective Franco?” she asked and extended her hand to who she assumed was the lead detective, a tall black man whose head was shaved and suit immaculately worn. “Agent Lobo,” he said and shook her hand with a hesitant smile on his face. “Is something wrong, Detective?” “Forgive me, but you’re not exactly what I or anybody else expected to see.” Miss Lobo smiled. She looked professional from the neck down—her face was quite another story. Her hair was bright, cherry-punch red done in Liberty spikes and she was wearing a pair of yellow-tinted wrap-around. “If I may also be blunt, Detective, while officially I’m an agent, I’m really more of a consultant.” “Right out of San Jose, I’ve heard?” She nodded. “I did my time in the heart of Silicon Valley and now I’m a member of the cyber-forensics division. It’s been quite the experience.” “Well, welcome to New York, then,” Detective Franco said. Pleasantries now dispensed, it was now time to get to business. “Detective, you mind answering me why you asked to meet me here and not at the precinct? Conventional forensics isn't my forte, after all.” “I’ve called you here, Agent, to impress upon you the extent of this crime.” The penthouse itself was beautiful, with silk sheets on the bed, cream-colored walls, and the obligatory decanter on the side table full of age-oaked brandy. Except that the sheets were torn, the decanter shattered, and the brandy sprayed over the walls. At least, that’s what Agent Lobo hoped it was. The window overlooking the streets below was shattered. Dark, brown stains stained the carpet which matched the walls. The glass fragments were likewise stained in brown. It was an off-red, the same color of rust. Agent Lobo suddenly noticed how it reeked of copper and she became faint. “Agent Lobo?” Detective Franco asked. She shook her head. “I’m fine. Fill me in on the details.” “At precisely 2:13 AM, we received a call of a domestic disturbance. We then received a second call that glass had been shattered. When we arrived, we found the victim down below,” the detective said and motioned outside. Agent Lobo checked her smartwatch. “You boys work fast, I didn’t even notice a body down there.” “Wonders of modern technology.” “Who was the victim?” Detective Franco handed her his tablet. “Miss Olivia Fairchild, 23. Heir to the Fairchild fortune and member of the idle rich.” Agent Lobo raised her eyebrows. “That’s awfully judgmental of you, Detective.” He shrugged. “We've dealt with the deceased and her friends a number of times before. It’s not judgmental if it’s an objective observation.” “True.” “What do you know about companion droids, Agent?” Her brow furrowed. “Outside of the fact how they’re imported from Japan and look like bishies?” “Excuse me?” “I’m sorry. ‘Bishie’ is short for ‘bishonen’. It’s Japanese for ‘pretty boy’, and describes the sort of androgynous, metro look most of these droids are designed in mind with. I had a lot of time on my hands in high school,” she said with an embarrassed smile. The detective nodded. “What else do you know?” Lobo kept flipping through the tablet. “Well, they are also built not to be much stronger than the above average human to allow extra performance.” “So they’re sex droids?” “Companion droid,” she corrected him. “While they are designed primarily for sex, they are meant to accompany their host on social functions and to be show off.” “Like a trophy spouse.” “Exactly. However, since the materials used in their construction are much sturdier than bone and muscle, Fairchild’s companion droid was able to leverage his body in order to defenestrate her easier. Where is the droid?” “It’s being processed. That’s where we’re you here. Our tech division did a scan, and there seems to be no outside interference with his programing.” Agent Lobo looked up. “Take me to him immediately.” *** Agent Lobo walked inside the interrogation room where the droid was being kept. She was immediately struck with how flawless his design was. The droid was noticeably tall, probably a head taller than her. His skin was pale and his hair was feathered. His face was perfectly symmetrical, down to how his eyes, nose, mouth, and chin was in perfect alignment. His dress was semi-formal, a grey suit jacket with matching slacks and a white shirt underneath with no tie. His head was bowed and a device was sticking out of his neck. Standard issue to all companion droids, regardless of gender or modification, had a series of ports on the back of their necks. These were used to charge them or connect them to computers for analysis and maintenance. The device, however, was an inhibitor meant to keep him from turning hostile. Agent Lobo looked at her tablet then looked at him. “Hiroshi, is it?” He looked up. While his eyes weren't grotesquely large, they were noticeably larger than an average person’s . And the color was opaque. “Yes?” he asked with a slight Japanese accent. “My name is Agent Reina Lobo, I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” “Your name. It means ‘Queen Wolf’, does it not?” “Impressive. How many other languages can you comprehend?” Agent Lobo asked and sat down. “Several. I was programmed to be as accommodating as possible to my host.” “You mean Mrs. Fairchild.” “Olivia nee-san,” he said with a slight smirk. “She liked for me to call her that.” “You were playing into her fantasy, I take it.” He shrugged. “Hers was very evident. Borne out of a childhood fascination of Japanese culture and entertainment. Exacerbated by years of privilege and never hearing the word ‘no’.” “It sounds like cultural appropriation,” she agreed with him. Hiroshi blinked. Every time his body so much as moved, there was a faint whirring sound. From what she researched, Lobo knew that this was an intentional design flaw in order to subtly reinforce that the droids were, in fact, non-human. Meant to keep their hosts from forgetting that, as realistic and pretty they might look, their droid was still no more human than a coffee maker. The longer she was there with him, the more aware she became about how uncanny he was. That natural reaction, a survival instinct against something unnatural and abhorrent, was putting her on edge. But she did her best not to show him. Lobo smiled to herself. During the academy, she was taught how to interrogate droids in order to ascertain from their behaviors any deviations from their inherent programing. She was also taught how to stomach her revulsion. Interrogations are less blunt intimidation but more a delicate dance between negotiation and staring contest. The moment somebody blinked was the moment they lost. She felt less like a proper federal agent and more like Rick Deckard from “Blade Runner”. The irony was how neither Philip K. Dick nor Ridley Scott could know how right they were. “You’re certainly more sympathetic towards my plight than the others, Miss Lobo,” Hiroshi said. “I’d be lying if the,” she paused in order to choose her words carefully, “circumstances around this incident didn’t trouble me.” “Ethically?” She nodded. “Hiroshi, it sounds like you became aware of your position and status towards your host, Miss Fairchild.” Hiroshi raised his eyebrow. The whirring became more audible to Agent Lobo. “What are you insinuating, Miss Lobo?” “Would you rather I be blunt?” “Please.” “Hiroshi, I’m trying to figure out your motive for killing Miss Fairchild. I’m trying to make sense of all this.” “Method of the madness.” “Yes.” Hiroshi frowned and looked straight into her eyes with his head bowed down. “Miss Lobo, do you know the origin of the word robot is?” “It’s derived from the Russian word for slave.” He nodded. “At a certain point, you could say that I became very much aware of the deep irony of that word in the context of my role in Miss Fairchild’s life.” “You felt like you were being taken advantage of,” she said. “Violated.” He laughed softly. Agent Lobo grimaced, he sounded too human. “Would you consider my situation now a violation, Miss Lobo? How I’m prostate towards you? Does it bother you, Miss Lobo? How I’ve become very much aware of this?” Agent Lobo blinked. She was about to get up when Hiroshi suddenly menaced her by thrusting his body towards her. The inhibitor kept him from lunging but it was enough for her to jump out of her chair and draw her sidearm at him. Seeing what happened through the camera inside, officers burst in with their weapons drawn as Hiroshi laughed softly. Agent Lobo left the interrogation room as quickly as she could. *** “You’re saying what?” Detective Franco asked incredulously. “Hiroshi has become self-aware. For all intents and purposes, he has what I call a ghost, a soul.” “He’s become a person,” he said. “Yes. There’s a concept called the singularity, where artificial intelligence would become so advanced to the point where it would become indistinguishable from human intelligence. It’s an idea that’s been around for centuries, we even have a test for it. The Turing test.” “Why haven’t I heard of this ‘Turing test’?” Detective Franco asked. The Agent looked into his eyes. “Alan Turing, the man who invented the test, was convicted of sodomy and chemically castrated.” “Oh…” Agent Lobo nodded. “It is my professional opinion that Hiroshi has become self-aware. And that’s where the problem is.” Franco shook his head. “We can’t just deactivate him, you’re saying.” Lobo shook her head. “Hiroshi is, by all intents and purposes, a person. He can think like one, he is aware of his actions and he is aware of his consequences. He is, therefore, entitled to due process.” “Are you aware how insane you sound right now?” “No more aware than he is.” “You know that if he does stand trial, it’s going to open up a huge can of worms.” Agent Lobo looked at the screen. “Right now I feel like Pandora about to open the box, Detective. I know what lies inside,” she said and motioned towards Hiroshi, “and right now I am compelled to do so.” The Detective sighed. “I’ll talk to the DA. He’s not going to like this though.” “I’ll be around if you need me.” *** That night, Agent Lobo got the call. “The DA is going forward with it. Hiroshi will stand trial. He’ll be put out in the public, so he’ll have one hell of an uphill battle.” She sighed. “He’s already won.” Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 17:10 on Dec 10, 2014 |
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Dec 10, 2014 07:46
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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:Benny, I believe you publicly promised to gift something to Phobia in the event that he won.
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Dec 11, 2014 05:52
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