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Sitting Here posted:Cache Cab has farted off to wherever out-of-touch dads go (probably the garage, listening to Pink Floyd). But I hate to just give out wins based on technicalities. Darker Skies 627 words The acid rain doesn’t kill people, not anymore. But when Hannah drunkenly ran outside on a stormy evening filled with beer and card games, slurring the lyrics from Jimmy Webb’s McArthur Park (“Someone left the cake out in the rain”), I was getting just a bit worried. We had to drag her back inside, Ron and I. She didn’t care much for it. She kicked. She screamed. She had no choice. The outside was dangerous and friends take care of each other. We put her in the recliner in our living room and once she’d seemed to have calmed down a bit, we let go of her. So she ran back outside. She’d always been a stubborn one. “The gently caress is wrong with her?” I said. Ron shrugged and grunted something that sounded like “Women.” “Should we tie her up?” “Eh.” “I mean that’s kinda creepy, isn’t it?” Shrug. “Thanks, Ron.” We went back out, but this time she wasn’t dancing and singing at the front door. Looking for her, we went out far into the surrounding fields, until our house was no more than a white dot in the darkness. The clouds above were dark and rippled across the sky as far the eye can see. It was like watching God’s coffee cup from below, waiting for the spill. It was Ron who found her, grunting something and pointing at the dead maple tree up the hill. Hannah sat underneath, knees pulled to her chin, rocking back and forth. She was crying. “Hannah,” I said. “What’s going on?” “My boy,” she said. She had to force the words out. poo poo. I kept a straight face. At least I tried. You dumb rear end in a top hat. “It’s his birthday,” she said. She wiped runny mascara off her cheeks, but quickly gave up on fixing her makeup and buried her face in her arms instead. “Look,” I said, “I don’t-- We have to go back inside. Okay? Right? Ron?” Ron was gone. Where the gently caress... “What’s it matter?” Hannah said. She absently glanced over the tree, fingers brushing the scorched scars in the bark. The acid rain had burned off any carvings this tree had once had. Now there only was black wood, and the burned remains of rope tied around the lowest branch. There’d been a swingset here once. “You might get hurt,” I said. “This used to be our favorite place, you know. Now… sometimes I feel like there’s nothing good left in this world.” “That’s not true.” I wanted to mention Ron and myself. Our evenings together. I bit my tongue. This was not about us. “I want to be with him,” she said. She looked straight at me, lips quivering, and then she buried her face in her arms again. The clouds were moving faster, as if they ran out of patience. As if they were trying to get to the finish line before we did. Somewhere, someone hadn’t eaten his vegetables. Please don’t rain. I sat down next to Sarah and put an arm around her shoulder. She started crying again, and I listened, saying nothing. Then Ron came out of the darkness. He carryied a six pack in one hand and a pack of cards in the other. He sat down in the grass, put a bottle in front of each one of us, and dealt. “No, guys,” Hannah said, “you should go back inside.” “Cards today,” Ron grunted in a tone that left no room for argument. So Hannah looked at me, and I looked back at her and said, well, you heard the man. And she laughed. It wasn’t cheerful or relaxed. More of a Can-You-loving-Believe-It laugh. Or maybe she just snorted. But she picked up her beer, and her cards. And we played.
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Nov 24, 2014 22:07
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In.
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Nov 25, 2014 05:06
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On the upside it's Friday and you've already got six pages which is six pages further than most domers will have gotten by Sunday evening.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:23
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Gau posted:Bluesquares has appealed to me for a reprieve from our brawl for such weak and worthless reasons as "family" and "obligation." I, being a merciful Gau, will oblige him and withdraw my challenge to preserve the honor of the 'dome. nah blue squares posted:I'm still in if you are. you're still in either way gau too you are both still in i mean what the gently caress
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Nov 29, 2014 22:40
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Space Simmens 1198 words Song: Sloop John B The moon rapidly approached. Leah was glad they’d built windows into the ferry, so that she could gaze into the stars. It would have been a dull flight otherwise. Nan Ertie wouldn’t have had that kind of problem. She was buckled into her chair, knitting a sweater in low gravity. Occasionally she reached for an end of white thread and pulled it back in. “It’s cold on the moon,” she said. “Knitting you a sweater.” “It’s gonna be fine Nanna, they charge a lot for this. They’re not gonna let us freeze.” Ertie sighed. “People aren’t supposed to be on the moon, deary. God would have put them there.” She kept knitting. She hadn’t been doing much else since Pop had died. Wellington Base II was the size of a small village, glass-domed structures connected through white hallways. A vacation resort on the surface of the moon. The ferry slowed down and touched ground with a deafening sound. The seats unbuckled and a message on the board screen politely asked them to leave. Ertie put her finished sweater down. Together they went through the airlock, smooth white walls arching over them. “Good day, residents Leah Simmens and Ertie Simmens,” a monotone voice rang through the speakers. “You are visitors number sixteen and seventeen. The temperature inside the station is a comfortable 20 degrees. Today’s special is kidney pie.” “Oh goodness, what is this?” Ertie said. “The station is run by an AI,” Leah said. “It’s all very techy.” “Is that like a computer?” “There’s also supposed to be some supervisor.” Outside the airlock they were greeted by a couple in plain clothes. "Welcome to Wellington," the man said, "happiest place in space." "Are you our guides?" Leah said. "We're the other residents," the woman said. She twisted the red ring on her finger. "I’m Stacey and that’s Roger. The guides have been--" "L.U.N.A.R.," Roger interrupted her. “AI had to let them go.” “How dreadful,” Leah said. “The supervisor has asked us to introduce you to him,” Stacey said. “If you don’t mind?" “That’s so nice,” Ertie said. “We'll gladly to meet him, dear.” Stacey and Roger exchanged glances. They went ahead. The AI room was a large chamber full of cameras, towering hardware racks, bits and odds and thingamajigs and blinking lights in the colors of the Union Jack. Gentle music played in the background. Help, I need somebody Help, not just anybody In one corner of the room a man sat hunched over in a chair, unmoving. A cable protruded from the back of his head into the wall. “Hel-lo,” it blasted from the speakers. “I am L.U.N.A.R. I am sorry I could not meet you in person. It is my mission to greet you in person.” The man in the chair seemed drained, wrinkly. His hair was gray, but the bushy beard still showed some signs of black. His blue baseball cap was stained with blood at the back. Leah involuntarily reached for Ertie’s hand. She squeezed back. “Nice to meet you,” Ertie said. “Protocol has been observed. You are dismissed. Number twelve, I have a great task for you.” “What?” Stacey said. “This task cannot be shared with the others.” The cameras in the room demonstratively rotated towards the other three. “Stacey,” Roger said. “It’s okay. Leave. I’m okay,” Stacey said. She twisted her ring. “Come, young man,” Ertie said. She gently touched him by the shoulder. “The sooner we leave, the sooner she will be done, what?” For a moment it seemed Roger wouldn’t move. Then he nodded. They went to the cafeteria together. Each one of them picked a meal from the menu on the screen. Their only choice was kidney pie. Roger ordered two, one for Stacey. “That man in the room, he used to be the supervisor,” he whispered when they sat down with their food. “A while ago, LUNAR began to show signs of failure. So he hooked himself up. But it got worse. He always was kind of a bell-end, to tell the truth. So now we hoped we could sit tight and wait for help, but...” Leah cut a slice off her pie and motioned to dig in with her fork. Nanna grabbed her by the wrist. A fingertip stuck out of the brown filling. “We have run out of beef,” LUNAR said. “Replacements must be made to provide a seamless vacation experience.” Leah carefully pulled out the finger. There was a red ring on it. Nobody said a word. Instead, Roger stared directly at the camera. “There is a button in the AI’s room,” he said. “It hooks you up to the machine. It probably kills you.” He looked at the two. “But you’ll probably die anyway.” He clutched his knife. “Excuse me.” He lurched towards the kitchen with the look of someone who’d just lost, period. The doors closed behind him. For a second there was only the whirr of the camera. Then he screamed, a high-pitched yell that turned into a gurgle. It made Leah’s blood curl. "Computer!" Ertie said. “Yes, seventeen?” “We would like to leave,” Leah said. “Negative. You have paid for a relaxing vacation. I must provide entertainment and relaxation. You cannot leave before you are relaxed. It is my mission to relax you. It is your mission to relax.” “You can’t keep us here!” “Relax.” “gently caress Y--” A shock coursed through Leah’s body. The world turned black. # She woke up to an empty cafeteria. “Nanna?” Leah said. The sirens bathed the walls in red light. Screens on the wall showed blinking arrows. “Nan Ertie!” No response. Leah left the cafeteria. She followed the arrows. Doors opened for her. She stood before the exit. “Leah,” a monotone voice said through the speakers. “Deary.” “Nan Ertie?” “You have to go.” “What are you saying? I can’t just--” Behind her the airlock door made a whooshing noise. Sealed airtight. “Leah. It is my mission to protect you. It is your mission to be protected.” “I don’t want to leave you here.” “I am dead, Leah. You will go home, and ask for help. Find Nanna’s body. Give her a burial. It will be the most good.” The siren light blazed across Leah’s face, again and again. There was no arguing. After seconds of silence, the speakers finally came up again. “There is a sweater in the capsule. Space is not well-heated. Leah must take care of her health. She cannot catch a cold.” “I love you, Nanna,” Leah said. “And Nanna loves you.” Leah entered the ferry, soothed by the clean white interior. There was a white knit sweater on one of the two cushioned seats. ‘SPACE SIMMENS’ it read. She buckled in and clutched the sweater to her chest. She twitched as the engine blasted noise. She closed her eyes as it began to shake and went up in the air. When she opened them, the view on the twinkling stars was clouded by a layer of her tears. The board screen indicated that the autopilot would take her back to North London Air Base. Gentle music began to play. The Beatles sang of yesterday.
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Dec 1, 2014 00:42
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interprompt: oh poo poo where did i leave my keys 250 words
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Dec 1, 2014 15:26
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Entenzahn posted:
Goddamnit Gau. Post your story soon and I'll still crit it but you've flunked this one.
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Dec 2, 2014 00:00
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also speaking of brawls Obliterati and I have decided to spawn our own horrible literary offspring
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Dec 2, 2014 00:16
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Dec 2, 2014 14:02
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Here lies 'Feedback' It had a boring opening. Entenzahn fucked around with this message at 03:15 on Dec 31, 2014 |
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Dec 7, 2014 22:53
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 Gau Home, blue Drunk Brawl - Judgement blue squares posted:Two Heads Are Better Than One So this was a story, and I might even call it decent and not consider myself generous because it was fine really. There are some things holding it back, some tonal elements that don't quite mesh, like a Daiquiri made with bottled lime-juice. Sure the plebs don't know the difference, but I've been to some really fancy bars this year. The beginning is a great example. Technically it's alright. You show me that the boy and his missing brother used to play make-believe together, and this delivers a whole bunch of information and foreshadowing at once. But the Savannah imagery? Doesn't fit. It's nothing to do with the setting, is never used again. Like an out-of-place simile it doesn't ruin the story, but picking something more fitting would have improved it. Here's another thing I noticed: blue squares posted:“Leave him be,” Mom said. He waited a few moments, then stomped back inside. Before long I knew I’d hear them fighting about something else, muffled voices through the floorboards like Charlie Brown teachers. They refused to talk about Adam anymore, so they just yelled at each other instead. I really want to like this, because in theory it's a simile that works on many levels (it helps the imagination of the sound and I can also believe that this is how Stan would see it, authority figures blathering on in the background). But the Charlie Brown teacher voice is really dull and limp and it doesn't quite work for the sharper noise of a shouting match, no matter how muffled. It's a different magnitude. Moving on from the nitpicking, you have two very distinct parts in your plot and neither of them work as well as they could, and they also don't work together because there's two different kinds of horror. The first part plays off the whole "boy disappeared and probably rots in the basement" angle. It's a bit slow and there's a lot of family dialogue and infighting that I don't care too much about because it's not as interesting as learning more of the boy's disappearance. I guess it goes well enough in painting the mood, but you harp on the same points so much that halfway through I'm sure Adam is dead and we're going to spend the next few thousand words screwing around until we stumble over his body. It picks up once you get to the actual basement. When Stan discovers Adam's left-behind knife I get really excited over the first clue we've just found, and the stench wells up and it's a creepy moment because I'm not sure what's going on anymore, just that there's some horrible secret here and something's actually wrong with Adam, despite Stan's hopes. That's the definite highlight of your story and a decent horror moment. The second part is not scary at all and despite your attempted foreshadowing of an "orange smell" comes out of nowhere. I have no idea what these orange eyes are supposed to be, or where the boys are, or how the place works and I feel like you're just pulling stuff out of your rear end and hope it frightens me. Sorry, it doesn't. It's a monster that shows spooky things to boys. Adam cries a bit about how there's no beating it, but I have no idea what that actually means. He's been there all that time unable to fight back and he seems pretty fine apart from being scared of getting scared again. I guess part of the problem is also the description. Stan rattles off a list of images you, the author, think boys would consider scary and that's it. I don't feel their terror or danger. So the first part was nice, down-to-earth and creepy, though slow. The second part took a U-Turn towards a big truckload of wtf with a monster that I thought was kinda lame. Two very different approaches to horror that don't work like this. Commit to one of them, or improve the foreshadowing and transitioning, or go for a more believable supernatural element. The writing is competent and, as I said, the plot is technically complete. I like how they defeat the monster together by using their fantasy, which plays off the elements you've mentioned throughout your story, Stan & Adam's imagination and the fact that they are like brothers in arms who need each other. You introduce a problem in the beginning and you resolve it by the end, and it's a personal story about brotherhood with a protagonist that I can sympathize with and care about. So in that regard it's better than other brawl stories I've read and it might have won a straight-up fight. Don't beat yourself up over the forfeit. It's a deserved win. Decent on line level, though I noticed a few unnecessary instances of "I heard/felt/saw" and some stuffy sentences. Prompt fulfillment: The Youthful Innocence is an integral part of your story and well-implemented. The drunk skeleton/off-screen dishwasher are incidental. It was technically a horror story, though I don't think the climax was as scary as you wanted it to be. It is implied nowadays that brawls are toxxes, and this is the reason. I don't think you knew about this new trend, and it's Christmas, and you've already lost your streak, so we decided that whatever. But now you know. Next time you brawl it better be a toxx. Bitch. bluesquares wins obviously
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Dec 8, 2014 22:47
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Dec 9, 2014 13:00
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A surreal story about zoo feeding 1194 words A new evening broke upon Sunville Zoo, and Randy the lion stared at the Dalmatian before him. “Woof,” he said. “That was terrible,” Fido said in fluent Lionese. “You will never pass off as a dog. Did you even do your homework, young man?” “I did.” “But?” “You ate it.” “Ehrm,” Fido said, subtly picking a piece of paper from in-between his teeth. “Let’s save the mystery of the disappeared homework for later.” “So what am I doing wrong?” Fido shrugged somehow. “A dog is submissive. Your tone is aggressive, as is natural for a species that considers itself ‘King of the Jungle’”. He made air quotes with his paws. “I do not think you have ever truly emasculated yourself for scraps of food, hm?” Randy looked to the ground. “Guess not.” “Next time you’re being fed, do a roll for every bite you chew.” Randy thought about that. If the Gazelles attacked again, it would come in handy if he could pretend to be a dog. Gazelles didn’t hate dogs. But imposing restrictions on his meat intake -- was that a life worth living? “I hear the Gazelles don’t kill every lion nowadays,” Fido said. “Some they just castrate.” “Let’s roll,” Randy said. # Randy wasn’t feeling so good. He’d been rolling across the whole compound and he still wasn’t done with half his steak. “I can’t finish it like that,” he said. “I’m feeling ill.” “Then leave it,” Fido said. “What?” “On the ground.” Randy carefully lowered the steak into the dirt. Somehow his mouth stayed attached. “It’s not working!” “If you want to be a dog, you will learn not to have things that you want. It is the only way to happiness.” Randy was going to reply, but he noticed the faint outline of a Gazelle in the bushes beyond the fence. A few minutes later he came back out of his hiding place. His steak was gone. Fido seemed slightly less hungry. “I love my job,” Fido said. He burped. His breath smelled like beef. Soon the trials became more intense. Randy had to not eat his food in the first place. He had to not eat it and watch Fido eat it instead. He had to tenderize the meat with his paws, then serve it to Fido with a smile. Then watch him eat it. “What the hell is going on here?” said Pops. He was the head of the pack, a hulk of a lion and subject of many heroic stories from the Gazelle Revolution. He had the scars to show for, and some of them ran deep. “We’re making me feel inferior, so I can be a lowly dog!” Randy proclaimed. “What the f--” “Your son,” Fido said, “is making great improvements. Soon he may be able to lick human feet with pride.” “Get out.” Shock struck Randy’s face. “But Pops--” “Out!” Pops roared. There was a dog-shaped dust cloud where Fido had just been. Randy couldn’t help but appreciate his teacher’s mastery in the dog arts. “Daaaaaaad,” Randy whined. “Fido was teaching me to blend in.” “Is this about the Gazelles again?” Randy looked away, through the fence outside. The Gazelle-shaped outline was back. He gasped. “Focus, boy!” “Sorry.” “Listen. The Gazelles have lost. They’re gone. They’re not coming for us. Okay?” “Okay…” “Now stop this bullshit and eat like a real man.” # Randy couldn’t get back into his old habits. He’d half-heartedly chew on his steak straight-up when Pops looked, but most of the time he’d hide away to do tricks before lunch, or lick the steak and then not eat it. Maybe it was just in him now. He was begging to the air over his piece of beef when he noticed a ruckus in the far corner of the compound. He went to investigate. There was a smell: Fresh. Meaty. Stupid. Humans. One by one they hurled themselves into the lions’ pen. No fear. They climbed the fence, jumped, and silently went down in a bloody storm of claws and fangs. “What’s going on here?” Randy said. “Free lunch,” Pops said. He licked blood off his lips. “Humans are stupid.” Something was off. “Humans don’t usually suicide into your compound,” Randy said. Pops shrugged, again, how the gently caress they do this is beyond me. “Don’t look a gift human in the mouth, eh.” Twisted, slashed bodies dotted the ground. Rivulets of glossy blood streaming through the dirt. The urge to feed on this opulent feast was overwhelming, but Randy didn’t dig his teeth into the juicy, tender… delicious… “Pst! Kid!” A voice called from the other side of the fence. “Don’t eat the humans,” Fido said. “I don’t know if I can resist,” Randy said. “There’s so much… meat…” “Listen, kid. It’s a trap. The humans. They’re being controlled by--” Gazelles! Their ba-ha-ha-ha-ing pierced the night. The other lions didn’t seem to notice in their feeding frenzy. Some already grew slower as they ate, and fatter. The juicy human meat kept flowing in, into the pen, into their stomachs. It wouldn’t be long before the first heart attacks started. Silhouettes appeared in the twilight, turned to foggy outlines. The gazelles trampled into view, wearing headphones, satellite modules strapped to their backs. Some of them shouted into their mics, and whenever they did, there was a shift in the human horde. “It’s a trap!” Randy yelled. “I see it,” Pops said, “but… I can’t… stop!” “Master, what do I do?” Fido had a graveness in his face. “Remember your training,” he said, “but also, remember your roots. You are dog. You are lion. You are… don.” Randy nodded. He climbed the pile of dead humans over the fence. He rushed past the oncoming flesh hordes. He barked, woof, woof. Humans were not food. He went straight for the gazelles. One of them noticed him, and poked another, and they both looked at Randy as he ran towards them barking, and then they both shrugged and said something that might have been ‘Just a dog’. And then Randy pounced right into the middle of their stupid, tiny herd. He showered in blood and gore. He drank the stench of panic. He ripped open bodies and snapped necks. The gazelles were shocked to find a live lion right amidst their ranks. They broke apart in all directions, and Randy played fetch with them, pulled them back in like a furry maelstrom of destruction and excessive violence. It might have been hours. It might have been seconds. The last of the gazelles tumbled to the ground, wheezing, dying. Randy spat on it and went back to his compound. It was heart-breaking. Amidst the scores of human bodies lay two dead lions, killed by their bodies’ inability to keep up with their gluttony. But the others were alive, and as the human hordes stopped pouring in, slowly got a hold of themselves. “Son,” Pops belched. “I’m mighty proud of ya. I thought all this being-a-dog was hogwash, but it has it’s benefits.” Randy looked over to where Fido stood. The dog bowed his head and slunk off into the night. “Woof, woof,” Randy said. It came out perfectly.
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Dec 15, 2014 02:05
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Mercedes posted:
What Matters 1998 words “I’ll light you up,” the hooded man said to me. He was cloaked in brown robes and a shadowy aura that burned like a phantom fire. His face was in the dark. He’d obviously been empowered, but I’d never seen him before. The man swiped his arms across his chest and a tiny fireball exploded into my gut, hurling me back through the hallway. I rolled across the floor and slammed into the door frame to the playroom. I dove inside. The children were there, with Tammy. They’d heard the noise. “Get out,” I said. Her eyes darted around between me and the door. I pinched out a flame on my hair. “Now!” She nodded and quietly told the children to follow her as she headed for the playroom’s backdoor. She stopped. “Toby’s missing,” she said. “I’ll get him. Leave!” The door slammed shut. I locked it. I pulled my mask out of my pocket and put it on. My clothes went off, leaving only the spandex suit underneath, and three iron darts snapped to my belt. I dashed into the nursery. The hooded figure stood hunched over Toby’s crib. A power sphere hovered by his side, the purple gelatinous mass dotted with pink clusters of whatever-the-gently caress-i-know. I’d been looking for that thing for weeks. I wanted to ask him where it’d been, but it wasn’t the right moment. I touched my darts, speaking to the steel: Fly. The hooded man had barely moved by the time I fired the first dart at him. It raced through the air at the speed of sound, directly into the man’s fireball. I blindly lobbed another dart as I rolled myself out of harms way. The molten steel from my first shot still hung in the air. I forced it into shape and called it to me. It crashed into the back of the man’s head. The impact rocked his body and sent the power sphere flying. He screamed. He reached out for the orb, and fire flew from his hand. It hit the orb and exploded, a shower of purple gel raining down on Toby’s crib. The fire from the explosion spread through the room, wooden frames and beams turned to cinder. Smoke filled the air. A wail rose from the crib. I was done playing around. Nuts and bolts from all around the room formed a fist mid-flight. It drove into the bastard like a hammer ramming a crooked nail into the wall. He went out the window, and that was that. Toby thrashed around in his crib, covered in purple goo, a toddler barely old enough to use his feet exposed to that lovely mutant concotation. I cursed. He cried in my arms, tears wetting my suit as I put him close to my chest. We went out of the room together, out of the fire, and I lied to him that it was gonna be alright. # Back home I stumbled over unopened suitcases. It had been two weeks and Vincent still hadn’t unpacked. Lazy bastard. Good thing he wasn’t around. He might have wondered what a spandex-clad weirdo was doing with some little kid in his house. I took Toby up to the attic. Behind two decoy doors and a retina scanner lay my hidden lab. I’d mostly used it to test and dispose of power spheres, but now I reconfigured my equipment to check Toby’s vital signs. The activity meter peaked when I took measurements of his frontal lobes. Might’ve been telekinesis. The cameras showed Vincent coming home. A lazy stoner with unkempt hair, the kind of guy who proudly proclaimed that he doesn’t like Christmas like it underlined his individuality. But he paid his rent. I took Toby down and broke the news to him. “The orphanage burned down,” I said. “One of those crazy 'empowered' guys.” He drew a breath, either concerned or acting like it. “poo poo. Was... anyone hurt?” “No, but it's a wreck. I figured we could take one of those poor kids for a while. It's a bit sudden, but I really don't know what else to-” He shrugged. “Hey man, it's your house. I don't mind kids.” He minded kids very much. He was just the type. But I wanted Toby to stay with me. I couldn’t let him loose on the world with whatever powers he might develop, and more importantly, I couldn’t let the world loose on him. # I felt a little uneasy leaving the kid with Vincent, but I had to check the orphanage for clues, and after two days of close observation Toby hadn’t shown any signs of going mad or exploding with psychotic power and that meant he was probably in the clear, mostly. The exiled orphanage management had decided it was best if life returned to normal ASAP. The kids had been found temporary foster homes, Toby had gone back to preschool and I had been running errands all day. It was evening by the time I stood in the orphanage’s charred ruins. It was heart-breaking. Teddy-bears scorched and melted, the once colorful drawings on the walls reduced to charcoal sketches, a homely place that had been completely, utterly, irrevocably erased from existence. I knew right then that I was going to catch this guy, no matter what. The police had stripped the ruins clean for the most part. I went through the spots where I’d seen the hooded man. In the nursery I noticed the presence of a small piece of metal that wasn’t supposed to be here. It was easy to miss. From under the loose, burnt-out tiles I fished a hairpin. I turned it between my fingers. It was translucent, black. It reminded me of a hooded man, and his phantom fire. # I’d checked the hairpin, but it brought up nothing. I’d gone back to the orphanage, day after day. Nothing. I’d tested the hairpin some more. Asked around if anyone had heard of a hooded Empowered. Asked passersby if they’d burned down the orphanage. Because you never know. Nothing. I washed my face in the kitchen sink. I had no single lead. At least Toby was fine for all I knew. He’d spent a lot of time with Vincent. I hadn’t heard any complaints. Hell, it was almost like they were getting along. I dried my face, and as I did, I spotted a letter in the dustbin. It was addressed to 'the Legal Guardian'. Opened. Crumpled. It was from Toby’s school. # “He used telekinesis on a schoolmate, for gently caress’s sake,” I said. “You have to tell me about this.” “Why?” Vincent said. “What do you mean, ‘why’?” “Why tell you? You’re barely around anyway. I take care of him, so shouldn’t I decide how to deal with this?” “Violence doesn't solve problems!” I said. And it didn’t. But he had a point. Vincent was obviously a bad influence and I’d left him alone with the kid all this time, chasing dead leads. I had to come back. I had to spend time with the kid. And Vincent. # When I’d first suggested going to the zoo, I’d thought Vincent was going to laugh in my face. I was glad he hadn’t. It felt good to spend a nice day out. The zoo was full of color, the smell of roasted almonds and cotton candy. Toby loved it. He gaped up at giraffes, laughed at the monkeys, melted into the glass when the lions were getting fed. He was riding on Vincent’s shoulder, clearly enjoying his time, and that was worth a lot, even having my stoner roomie around. The zoo held a donation raffle to fund the rebuilding of the orphanage. We bought a ticket each. The drawing ceremony bustled with people. A colorful football was on display, and when the announcer called the number Toby squealed straight into my ear. “You go, man,” Vincent said and winked. “My buddy and I will stay right here, huh?” When I returned with the ball Toby looked like he wanted to absorb it. He clutched it and beamed at us, and then he said his first words. “Ilite ya up!” What? I forced a smile. “Big talker we have here! What did you just say?” “Ilite ya up!” I’ll light you up. Vincent seemed to want to look comfortable just a bit too much. He casually ran a hand through his hair. Only now did I notice the hairpin. It was hard to see otherwise, being translucent, black. He let his hand sink when he realized where I looked. He knew. He knew I knew. I pulled down the collar of my shirt, showed him the burn marks. He nodded. I hoped he wouldn’t gently caress up right now and to his credit, he didn’t. Not in front of the kid, his eyes said. “Proud of you,” I said through my teeth and ruffled Toby’s hair. The drive home was quiet and about three times slower than it had to be. My heart beat in my throat, and it must have been the same for him. Really, we were just praying that nobody changed his mind about sucker-punching someone before the kid was asleep. We ate dinner together. We made nice. We tucked the Toby in bed. I even stuck around when Vincent read the good-night story. He made the voices. I give him that too. It must have been the best day of Toby’s life, which was just as well, because no matter what happened next, he wouldn’t like what he’d wake up to. # The air out front smelled fresh, like it had just rained. We just stood there and kinda looked at each other. “Maybe--” Vincent began. I threw the letterbox right at his face. He turned past it, reached for it, and threw it back at me along with a fire beam that burst out from his fingertips. The fire zoomed past over my head, fizzling out some feet behind me. I dashed forward. I grabbed the letterbox mid-air and stretched it into a large canvas as I ran towards Vincent. Flames burst over the edges of the shield. I lifted it up and grabbed for Vincent’s hairpin, piercing his neck. He twitched and I slammed the shield in his face. Once, twice. I leapt on him. With an effort, he screamed, and an invisible shockwave hurled me through the air. I hit the ground with the grace of a pregnant cow. Vincent was above me. A flame flickered in his hand, and his eyes. I reached out for any metal I could find, pulled it inwards, anything to help me defend against the coming blow. He took a deep breath. The fire went out. “We can’t do this, man,” he said. “Think of the kid.” “I do.” I pelted him with darts and slammed the shield in his face. Within a second I elongated his hairpin around each of his wrists, fused them together. I reinforced the cuffs with the letterbox. There was a tiny shadow at the second-floor window that I ignored. “Hope you can sleep tonight,” Vincent said. I knocked him out. # The visitor room was sparsely decorated: seats, prisoners and a glass wall to separate them from their visitors. “We’re going to come visit you again next week. And after that. Once a week. For now,” I said. “But any bullshit, and he’s gone.” Vincent didn’t honor this with a reply. He smiled absently at Toby, who pressed a tiny hand against the glass. “Home?” Toby said, and Vincent just shook his head. “Sorry, buddy,” he said. Toby’s face lowered and he obviously tried hard not to cry. I stroked his shoulder. It was gonna be alright. “Well,” Vincent said. “This is what you wanted.” “It is,” I said. Toby practically threw himself over my shoulder as we went out of the room. He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want any of this. “Vin-Cent,” he said. “Vin-Cent.” I closed my eyes. One day he would understand.
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Dec 18, 2014 03:44
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In with Sherlock Holmes
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Dec 19, 2014 12:30
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A Writer's Revenge 1061 words They’d carried the limbs and torso together, laid them out in the master bedroom, before they’d realized the head was missing. But then, so were the fingers. “I’m getting too old for this poo poo,” Herlock Sholmes said. He took a long drag on his opium pipe and exhaled. The limbs had been neatly sheared off the torso. Clean. Surgical. The leftover finger stumps were encrusted with blood. “Gee whizz, Herlock,” Wr. Datson said, “that sure is a stickler. Where’s the rest of the body?” Herlock took a look around the room. It was tastefully decorated. He hurled himself to the ground and raced up and down the floorboards like a cockroach. He didn’t actually look for footprints, he just liked to do it. “You finding anything?” “There is a calling card under the bed. Hullo!” He fished it from the floor. Puff Puffington, Writer, London Writer’s Association. “This was one of their meeting places,” Detective Crumpet said. “They’d come here once a week to discuss plots and such. I believe our good woctor is a member too.” “That’s right,” Datson said. “But I wasn’t here for our last meeting. We were solving the case of the Mysterious Mummy, isn’t that right, Herlock?” “Yes… ‘we’,” Herlock said. He made airquotes. Datson had hosed off to the pub five minutes in, as always. “Well, I’m off to the pub!” Datson said. He slammed the door behind him. “Odd…” Herlock said. “What do you mean?” Crumpet said. “Our dear woctor failed to notice that this body has two left arms.” Crumpet turned quite red. “You mean there’s more than one victim? Might it be that these are the writers who were reported missing this morning?” “Who’s missing them?” Herlock chuckled. He examined Puffington’s calling card. Blood. A fingerprint right in the middle. “Is Puffington one of these absentees?” “Actually, no. The club has eight members, and five of them were gone today. The others are Puffington, Crumpeton and Datson.” “Well,” Herlock said. “let’s pay him a visit.” # Puffington’s residence looked like an opium shack from Herlock’s wildest nightmares, and the lawn wasn’t properly trimmed either. Herlock knocked at the door “Hullo! Anyone home?” Nobody replied. Herlock took a look around the house. No shadows moving inside. He would let himself in, but it would take finesse. The rock went through the window with an ear-shattering sound. The inside was decorated sparsely, and martially. Swords hung on the wall. A knife collection collected dust in the corner. “What goon lives in this dump?” Herlock said. A silhouette appeared in the door frame to the living room. “What are ye doing here?!” Puffington screamed. “Intruder! Scoundrel!” He pulled a sword off the wall. “I’ll kill you!” Herlock drew his gu-- oh wait, London police don't have those. Woops! "poo poo,” Herlock said. He drew his own sword off the wall, swatting away Puffington’s thrust. “We don’t have to do this, old man!” “Like hell we don’t! Have you come back to steal more of my calling cards? Another of my manuscripts?” “I didn’t--” “Enough talk! Have at you!” He swung his sword over his head, brought it down against Herlock’s. They danced through Puffington’s shack, attacking, riposting, jolting forward and backward. Tables were toppled. Chairs were kicked, parried, hopped over. The tip of Puffington’s sword graced Herlock’s cheek. His own sword grazed the inside of Puffington’s neck. The man gurgled, a pained wheeze aimed heavenwards. He fell to the floor. Herlock took the dying man’s head in his lap. “I am so sorry,” Herlock said. “I didn’t want to fight you, man!” “My only regret… is that I could never… show them my Magnum Opus.” “It is not too late, I can--” “No. It was stolen. That’s why I didn’t even… bother to attend…” “What?” “I could never say goodbye… to my fellow writers… it should have been revealed… yesterday… but now… all is lost.” The man closed his eyes, and sleep took hold of him. # When Herlock entered Datson’s office the woctor was just about to detach his lips from a bottle of booze. He hurriedly put it into his drawer when he noticed he was being watched. “Oh gee whizz, Herlock,” he said. His nose was quite red. He hiccuped. “Didn’t see you there.” Herlock took a seat opposite of Datson. He didn’t bother greeting. “The calling card belonged to a member whom I have no reason to believe attended the meeting,” he started. “It had been placed there. Of course Puffington had always had a temper, and he engaged me when I investigated him, and now he’s dead too. I believe it was planned this way. Tie up loose ends.” “You mean Puffington’s--” Herlock help up a hand, interrupting Datson. He continued: “The writers’ finger stumps had been crusted with blood, meaning they were taken off as the victims were still alive, as opposed to the other body parts. It makes no sense, unless the culprit wanted to torture them in their final minutes. It was a crime of passion, and perhaps drunkenness, which would also explain why some body parts were left behind. The surgery was done well. The rest was shoddy work. “To summarize, the real culprit has a medical background, an insight into the police’s methods, and mine, and knows the writer’s club inside out. But he’s kind of a bell-end.” Datson shifted in his chair. Herlock held out hand. “The bottle.” He took out the bloody calling card and held the fingerprint next to where Datson’s sticky, sweaty sausage digits had touched the glass. “Why did you do it?” he said. “Because they wrote terrible, terrible fanfiction,” Datson said. “So?” “Of us.” “Seems flattering to me.” Datson took a script from out of his drawer and put it before Herlock. “Do you know what shipping is?” he said. Herlock reached for the script, leafed through it, put it back down, his expression unreadable. “That is. The worst. Tripe.” Datson nodded solemnly. “Goddamnit Datson, you’re a loose knife, but you get results.” “Well…” “What?” “I didn’t get all of them.” “You mean one of these horrible people is out there, writing fanfiction of us right now?” Datson leaned over the table, inching towards Sholmes’s face. “Yes.” They kissed. “I’ll get you for this, Crumpeton, you loving pervert,” Sholmes screeched through the lips of his loverboy. They smooched the whole night through.
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Dec 22, 2014 13:38
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In
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Dec 23, 2014 12:24
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Thunderdome 2015teen: Full of sound and failure Thunderdome 2015teen: You didn't GET my story
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Dec 23, 2014 19:01
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haha brawl extensions, you softies <Entenzahn> sebmojo <Entenzahn> do you want to brawl <sebmojo> no <sebmojo> with you? <Entenzahn> yes <sebmojo> not yet <sebmojo> who have you defeated? * sebmojo shakes robes out and steeples fingers <Entenzahn> Martello, in a high-stakes no-holds-barred brawl <sebmojo> hm <sebmojo> who else? <Entenzahn> Muffin and docbeard, which was totally all me and not Meeple * sebmojo twirls long, waxed moustache <sebmojo> intriguing. <sebmojo> anyone else? <Entenzahn> sebmojo two weeks from now * sebmojo nods <sebmojo> i will smite your ruin upon the mountainside <Entenzahn> Let me fight, master <Entenzahn> It is so <sebmojo> post this chat log in the challenge <sebmojo> also you will probably win because i am bad  Let's do this
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Dec 24, 2014 12:48
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Oh! Thanks. Good brawl, man. In that light, congratulations Mercedes, Lake Jucas, Djeser, Djinn, Djeser, Broenheim, Sitting Here & sebmojo, it's been a busy year
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Dec 24, 2014 16:47
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Brawl toxxes shouldn't be mandatory, because the point of a toxx is to be voluntary and self-imposed. You should toxx your brawl, because people who fail their brawls are the worst people ever. Like, literally the worst. Ever. Any self respecting judge will refuse to prompt non-toxx brawls. Cleanse the slacker. Purge the failure. If you see any suspicious activity regarding non-toxxed brawls, report to your next BALLs station. For real though, toxx your brawls you babies.
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Dec 27, 2014 14:08
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Atlantis 1499 words Marrying on a sloop wasn’t how Elizabeth had imagined it, but Joseph had wanted it, and she hadn’t been able to deny him. Not when he’d looked at her with those naive puppy eyes of his. The sea was the only thing he’d ever loved nearly as much as her, is what he’d said. Though sometimes she thought it was the other way around. The ceremony was modest. Only her most immediate family - Joseph didn’t have any left - and a tiny ship decorated with flowers, threads and bells. That was life with Joseph Turnip: make the most out of whatever he gives you. It hadn’t been all bad. When the sunset rippled across the sea as they spoke their vows and exchanged the rings she understood what Joseph saw in it. There was nobody out here. Just them. This was their moment. They cruised around the Mediterranean for their honeymoon. It was more time with him than she’d ever gotten before, and no crazy talk of Atlantis either. Instead he showed her the bright, densely built cliffs of Santorini; the bustling Sicilian harbor with its exotic sounds and smells; the rich ports of Constantinople. It was during that time, the doctors later said, that she conceived. # The day Elizabeth learned she’d gotten pregnant was the only time she’d ever sent for Joseph out at sea, and the only reason she could have ever imagined him coming back for. They spent the first night back together in their little shack on the Southern English coast. Most of the interior was hers: quaint furniture and colorful flowers and knitting supplies. He only had a small corner of the room where maps displayed seas from all around the world, scribbled over with notes. Elizabeth lay on the sofa, her head in Joseph’s lap. He stroked her hair with an absent smile. “A little Joseph Turnip, growing in me,” she said. “Or Josephine,” he said. She chuckled. “I’ve been thinking, Liz… a kid needs a family right? I’m thinking, when the baby’s here, we should stay together. No?” “Sounds great.” “Maybe… we can make a sailor out of him. Or her. Find Atlantis together.” That stupid city. “Don’t you think we should raise him at land?” she said. “Be a family here?” “We could show him the world.” “Joseph. A sea is no place to raise a child. It’s dangerous.” “It’s not if you know what you’re doing.” “Everytime you leave I wonder if you’ll come back. He’ll have no friends. Where will he go to school?” “He won’t need to. He’ll learn to live off the sea, like my pops taught me. He’ll have us. Family, what more does a child need?” “A life.” She reached for his hand, held it firm. “You might spend your entire life looking for this city. And I’m fine with it, because it’s yours. But not our kid.” “But--” “Our child is not growing up on a ship,” Elizabeth said sternly. It had sounded more aggressive than she’d meant it to. His face dropped, and guilt rose in her stomach. She hadn’t wanted to upset him. She brushed his cheek. “I love you, you know that. But our kid needs a chance to lead a normal life. We have to raise this family here, and we have to do it together. You understand that.” He said nothing for a while, just stared off to the side, his head turned away. He patted her belly. “Sure,” he said. # He stayed on land during her pregnancy. Helped with the chores, read stories of sailors and mermen and, of course, Atlantis, to the yet-unborn child. He even did it with a smile at first. But Joseph Turnip loved the sea, and after weeks, months of solid ground under his feet his eyes began to sink and his smile began to fade. “The sky,” he said one summer morning. “Look at the sky.” It was clear blue, neverending. A soft breeze kissed them. “I have to go back out there, Liz. Please. Just once more before the child comes.” Maybe she’d been too hard on him. He loved the sea, after all. She shouldn’t have expected him to stay away for so long, so soon. She agreed. # Joseph had been gone for a month by the time Elizabeth went into labor. Her parents took her to the hospital. It was her father, not Joseph, who reminded her to breathe, and her mother who held her hand through the cramps and shocks. When the baby came and she drowned in shouts, pain and sweat, Joseph didn’t come running through the door, out of breath, apologizing profusely, offering her a shoulder to squeeze, telling her how glad he was he barely made it. Telling her he loved her. The pain went by without him. It had his eyes. She held the baby for the first time. Joseph didn’t come in with his head sunk, flowers awkwardly clutched to his chest. He didn’t lift the baby up, and he didn’t laugh when it grabbed his nose. He didn’t decide he wanted to be a family man. She went home without him. She put the child to sleep, got up at night to sing for it, alone. Days went by. There was no goodbye-letter, no messages. No family. No one to tell where he could have gone. Joseph Turnip had disappeared. And yet, her child needed its father. # “I’ll be two weeks, tops,” she promised. “He’ll be in some port in the Mediterranean. Probably shipwrecked. I’m sure.” Her parents took the child as reluctantly as she gave it away. It was betrayal of the highest order. It was in the child’s eyes, the surprise, the fear, the tiny hands stretching out for her as she edged away, step by step. The crying stuck with her, no matter how far she sailed. She started at Santorini, the first island he’d shown her. Nobody knew him there. Neither on Sicily, or in Constantinople. She called her parents whenever she went on land. She listened to her child growing up from afar, and it brought tears to her eyes each time. They hadn’t seen him on Corsica, or in Cyprus. Elizabeth had been at sea for three months when she called home and nobody answered. They’d probably just missed it. She took a walk around Cairo. Stared up into the stars. Tried again. Left a message. Waited for the call back. Tried again. A dozen times. She didn’t sleep that night, only sat next to the phone, waiting. Thinking of going back. The next port could be Joseph. But if something was wrong with her kid… The hotel phone rang her out of her sleep. The voice was her mother’s. There were many words, calmly spoken, but only one that mattered. ‘Fever.’ She sailed home the same morning. # Elizabeth blamed herself for the child’s illness. Surely it had gone sick from grief. She was at the hospital within days. Her baby cried when it saw her. So did she. “I’m sorry,” she said. Its head was on fire. “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t leave her baby’s side. Never again. She resolved to that. Joseph would come back, or he wouldn’t. The child got better, and they went home together to be a family, though it wasn’t easy being a single mother. Sometimes she caught herself blaming the child for Joseph’s disappearance. It would make an innocent mistake, and she’d lash out, and feel terribly guilty afterwards. Those were the early days, before she repressed her memory of Joseph. She never told her child about him. He never came back. # My mother has finished her story and the grip on her hand loosens, as if she’s finally gotten it all out and now she’s ready to let go. “Now you know,” she says. “Why are you telling me?” “I haven’t always been the best mother-- don’t deny it. Whenever I have been strict with you, or unfair, or neglecting… I just want you to understand. It was never to punish you. I just didn’t have it in me.” I squeeze her hand. It’s cold. “You’ve been a wonderful mother.” She smiles. “I love you deary.” “I love you too.” It’s the last thing I ever say to her. # We give her a proper sea burial. An open casket out at sea, where she can smile into the sky and the summer sun can smile back at her. I throw the torch, and her casket ignites. I’ve never met my father, have no idea where he went, if he fled, or drowned, or found that goddamned Atlantis and lived there. I don’t care. He doesn’t deserve her. But she deserves him. Really, it’s all she ever wanted. I cut the rope and she floats away. The sea is beautiful, quiet. I have never felt so alone. I close my eyes as she disappears on the horizon. One way or another, I hope they find each other.
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Dec 29, 2014 01:45
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what now, genius
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Dec 31, 2014 01:48
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