|
In. edit: Molly is all of thirteen, has multi-colored hair, and a smart mouth. She doesn't believe the rumors at school about her father being a mob lawyer and has gotten into a few fights about it. Elmo, their bodyguard, is just around because daddy loves her. Elmo is a mob enforcer assigned to watch over Molly's father and his family, though he is particularly devoted to the kid. His nickname is St. Elmo's Fire. Dropped out of seminary for mysterious reasons. Thalamas fucked around with this message at 15:24 on Jul 1, 2014 |
#
¿
Jul 1, 2014 08:33
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 08:09 |
|
|
Sitting Here posted:Subj: F seeking M/F/? Claimed. Molly is a girl in need of a role-model. 
|
|
#
¿
Jul 2, 2014 02:41
|
|
|
The Passion of St. Elmo 1000 words The briefcase was exactly the type of thing for which he’d juice a man with two-hundred-thousand volts in the back and James “Papa” Biaggio had just handcuffed it to his wrist. “You guard this with your life, Elmo,” the mob lawyer said. “Sure, Papa.” His cell whistled the theme from Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo. “I need to take this – for the party.” Balloons. “Yeah, everything was as promised,” Elmo said. They should be downstairs with Molly anyway. He’d picked them out a couple of weeks ago: silver and pink. Goldie’s voice smoldered, even over the phone. “Good. One more thing. There’s someone looking for you, name of Coyotaje.” She paused, then whispered huskily, “He knows your last name. Keep your eyes open.” Elmo tongued his front-left tooth, a silver remnant of his luchador days after leaving seminary. What they wouldn’t have given for his first name back then. “Thank you, ma’am. Goodbye.” “Problems, Elmo?” “Just the balloon company. Calling to thank us for our business, wish a happy thirteenth to the birthday girl.” ---- The balloons actually made her feel a little better about the black eye. She tied a couple onto her backpack; the colors matched the streaks in her hair. Elmo must have picked them. Beside her, the new driver shifted from foot to foot. “Papa ain’t gonna be happy about that shiner, kid.” She never had a chance to retort. When the elevator dinged, Elmo and Papa stepped out. She walked forward. Papa reached out toward her, but Elmo sprinted, a non-descript briefcase cuffed to one hand. “Molly!” they shouted. Gunshots cracked behind her and the driver’s blood fountained past, covering her father in gore. Elmo slammed into her, wrapped his right arm around her waist, and pivoted his whole frame. As she whirled around, she glimpsed men in black, SWAT on the front of their vests, and then she was sliding across the waxed floor of the lobby on her rear end into the adjacent hallway. The echoing thunder of gunfire never stopped. She ran her hands everywhere, checked for blood. The balloons orbited lazily above her head in the recirculating air. ---- While the barrage took Papa in the throat, he struggled to rebalance after the throw, then launched forward, tucking his shoulder into a roll and coming up next to Molly. The kid’s face was ghostly pale, except for the purple and green surrounding her left eye, which matched a few of the colors in her hair. “Molly.” Her eyes were locked onto the blood pooling around her father’s corpse. “You got my balloons.” “Y-yeah.” “Molly, we have to go. Now.” He reached out his hand and stared at the flattened mesas of his knuckles, unable to meet her eyes. The brush of her fingertips on his palm loosed him and they ran for the fire exit. ---- She tried to keep up, but Elmo towered over her, and her feet barely touched the ground. He kicked open the fire door. Three SWAT members stood so close she saw the surprised looks on their faces when Elmo grabbed the nearest by the throat and crotch, that briefcase still dangling, and raised him overhead. “Hraahhhh!” It seemed ridiculous, a showman’s yell, but he slammed the full grown man and all his gear into the others. He flicked his arm to the side and, when he laid into the pile of bodies with his right fist, the crackle of electricity filled the air. She’d heard rumors about why they called him St. Elmo’s Fire. ---- He never saw the fourth officer coming. The impact of the bullets smashed him into the building. He slid to the ground and willed Molly to stay hidden, but the kid stuck her face out and narrowed her eyes as the man passed by. Then, she tiptoed behind him and filled his mask full of pepper spray. He scissored the legs out from under the bastard and gave him a good dose of shock therapy with the stun gun. “Elmo, you’re alive!” He let the kid help him up to a sitting position against the wall. “Bullet proof vest.” She threw her arms around him. “You’re the only one I have left.” They walked and jogged through the alleys of Los Grano D’oro, inside the maze of concrete and steel in the center of the city. He talked to keep Molly distracted from the bloody footprints he left behind. “How’d you get the shiner?” Instead of answering, she asked, “Why would they kill my dad?” “Hell, Molly. Did you get that fighting about your dad’s job?” She nodded. “Well, it’s true. He worked for the Syndicate.” ---- She practically dragged him out of the alley, knocking over some smelly garbage man in the process when Elmo overbalanced. They hurried away, ignoring the noises from behind. A bullet had torn through his upper hip and his back was a mess of bruises. “What’s in the briefcase?” “Something valuable. And when I deliver it, we’ll live someplace quiet. Together.” Weathered oaken doors fronted the Fourteen Holy Helpers Cathedral. She pulled one open and they staggered inside. A bombshell in a long jacket sashayed out of the north tower. “Who’s this with you?” “It’s the kid, Goldie. His kid. Her name’s Molly. You’ll need to keep her safe until I come for her.” “What?” They both spoke at the same time. “Molly, it’s dangerous where I’m headed. Will you trust me?” “Yes.” There was nothing else to say. She gritted her teeth as Goldie drew her eyes along every inch of Elmo, taking in the bruises and blood. “Can you still deliver, Domingo Silver?” Elmo Domingo nodded fiercely. Light from the stained glass window of St. Erasmus glinted off the silver tooth in his grin. Goldie threw Elmo a set of keys. “The El Camino out back.” They left, trailing a lone, pink balloon. The last time she ever saw Elmo, he was walking away, briefcase in hand.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 7, 2014 03:21
|
|
|
Gau posted:nothing would make me happier than to have it torn to shreds and then have you arrange the shreds in an effigy of Gau and then light the effigy on fire while making disparaging comments about my parentage and body odor. Final crit forthcoming (American Ninja Warrior is on tonight, so most likely tomorrow). edit: No crit for you until after judgement. Thalamas fucked around with this message at 03:23 on Jul 8, 2014 |
|
#
¿
Jul 8, 2014 01:18
|
|
|
Damnit.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 8, 2014 03:47
|
|
|
I'm in. How can I pass up such a tempting offer. Nana Jan 148 words I smelled gumbo in my dreams, tasted andouille and okra in the middle of the night. The worst thing about Idaho was the food. Other people who emigrated from out of state mainly complained about the dirt poor Republicans and their arsenals of guns, but not me. I just missed Nana Jan. After she passed, all I had left of her were photos, so I mailed back home and asked the family if she had ever written down her recipes. They never wrote back, but they called. I’m trying my hand at fried chicken tonight. It’s crazy how much butter they’re having me buy at the store, but if it turns out at delicious as the roux did for the gumbo, then I don’t care about the calories. Nana Jan was a round lady when she died, but she always had a smile on her face.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 10, 2014 06:51
|
|
|
Best in Show: Midnight Purple by WeLandedOnTheMoon! Best Collaboration/Continuity Creators: Tyrannosaurus/godoverdjinn Most Interesting Character: Erik
|
|
#
¿
Jul 12, 2014 16:30
|
|
|
Gau posted:The Archive is not letting me access stories, even when I'm logged in. Is anyone else having this issue? edit: Best be careful brawling with the sun, Phobia. You might get burned. 
Thalamas fucked around with this message at 02:08 on Jul 13, 2014 |
|
#
¿
Jul 13, 2014 02:02
|
|
|
Heliophobia 77 words I hope you took your pills this morning, because I wouldn’t want your writing hand to get the shakes. Oh no, not that. What are you afraid of? Team Sun. It’s the inevitable cross of that burning orb in the sky, getting closer every second, until it feels like it’s going to burn right through your eyes, closer, right overhead. Can you feel the shakes coming? Well, I have three words for you: welcome to summer.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 13, 2014 04:41
|
|
|
ESL 1330 words Celia Wiesel awoke and knew that today would be the day she’d unify the world under the United States government. She showered and the water washed the doubt from her bones. After breakfast, she lingered in the hall near her brother’s picture. He posed in front of the Space Needle, back when the landmark still stood, before the Japanese turned the grey city into hills of radioactive rebar and broken concrete. The attack had taken him away more than ninety years ago now, but his long dead eyes still reminded her of the cost of patriotism. “Honey, everything alright?” Her husband poked his head out of the kitchen. “You’ve been standing there a while.” “Fine. It’s just the Advent Day Centennial.” ---- Juan Escárcega prayed with his family that morning because he believed today would be his day to die. After the Advent, anyone’s death was improbable, but he believed. Too soon, his daughters were gone for school and his wife had left for work, but his shift did not start until ten, so he sat at his kitchen table while his stomach rumbled. He set a plate beneath the nozzle of their Kraft All-Food and ordered up eggs and bacon. “Television.” That blond woman from the morning news appeared on his kitchen wall, the feed transmitted through the worldnet directly into his brain by nanobots crouched in his brain matter. She sat behind a revival-style, printed mahogany desk while red lights flashed above her left shoulder: Breaking News. He settled in with his breakfast and listened. “The great wall on the U.S.-Mexico border has been breached after a two week standoff with U.S. forces. While President Moor claims that the National Guard is controlling the situation, Mexican Emperor Francisco Huerta has released this statement:” The shot cut to a man in pseudo-military garb, a jacket that was too crisp, too white. The amount of medals pinned to his breast screamed seasoned combat veteran. “My people will no longer live beneath the yoke of American greed. We need more land, the same as everyone else, and America is the least crowded country in the world.” The woman returned. Juan set aside his bowl, unable to finish. “Huerta has maintained his policy of-“ “Off.” Today he would ensure a free Earth, but he wondered who he was doing it for. He pulled on his black suit jacket and left. The subway waited for no man. ---- In a world where nothing grew, where nearly every scrap of land in the last desolate places had been devoted to high rises for over thirty-billion people, Celia valued the twenty by twenty garden in the center of the Pentagon. A single paperbark maple, a survivor of the 9/11 Memorial and one of the last trees, spread its boughs high overhead. She remembered the dedication ceremony. “Madame Secretary, it’s time for the meeting.” The department head’s voice pulsed gently inside her skull, transmitted by the same nanobots that lived in the peoples of the world. “I’m on my way.” She stood, walked to the elevator, and rode up with a brown man in a suit. Three-hundred floors. Celia looked him over. His face pointed forward, ostensibly ignoring her, but his eyes darted her way twice during the trip. “Juan, isn’t it?” “Yes, ma’am.” She noted his lack of accent with approval. “I know all my employees. How are your wife and children? I hear the oldest has been accepted to Stanford for next year.” His face, so serious a moment ago, lifted with joy. “She has. I’m very proud.” “You should be.” She smiled back, and felt a tightness between her shoulder blades she hadn’t realized was there melting away. This man was why she fought for the American way of life. Her eyes searched his, and his smile faltered for a moment. ---- The elevator dinged. “Happy Advent Day, ma’am.” He dropped his eyes, followed her out into the nanotech sector, and then turned immediately toward communications. From there, he could transmit the data early, modify it to his own designs. “Juan? Where are you going, the meeting is this way.” He stopped, but spoke away from her. “I’ll be handling transmission during the meeting.” The weight of her eyes – some said she was nearing two-hundred years, even if she looked twenty-five like every other adult – pulled on his shoulders, willed him to turn. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll make sure your message gets through.” “Ah, thank you. Carry on.” He reached the lab in time to see the last of the other techs file out toward the auditorium. Inside, the audio broadcast software was already set, coded to the Secretary’s voice. He let it run in the background and focused on logging into Celia Wiesel’s account while her speech started. It sounded inside his skull, relayed to every person in the building ---- “Today is the Centennial of Advent Day. To Americans, it was the day we proved ourselves as the greatest nation on Earth. To the world’s sick, it was the day all humankind defeated disease. For the hungry, there was food. For myself and many others, we created the Fountain of Youth. The gift of nanotechnology, given freely, to all lands, all peoples. “But to our enemies it has not been a plow, but a sword. Wounds heal, limbs regrow. We remember the scouring of Asia, a single monstrous kill-off of all dissenting groups in search of so-called Chinese unification. The South American War. The Russo-Muslim-African wars, and subsequent loss of Eastern Europe to the African Hegemony. All of the bodies burned and generations of immortals murdered. “Today, we change the world again. Our coalition with Canada has terraformed the Northern icecap and we are ready for the next giant leap. My fellow Americans, we are going to Mars!” She paused and beamed out at the team she’d worked with over the past thirty years. The sound of applause swept through her, cleansing and restful like her shower from that morning, and for a moment she closed her eyes. In that moment, she saw Juan in the elevator when his smile failed and felt a shock of cold. She clicked her teeth, turning off the feed, and whispered to an aid. “Check communications.” ---- Juan found the terraforming data, all of the mission plans and schematics. He had stolen Celia’s credentials weeks ago and traded two shifts to rotate into communications on Advent Day. The Secretary of Defense looked young, but she thought old and still wrote her password down on a piece of paper underneath the keyboard. Her words broke over him, purging the guilt he harbored for betraying the government he loved, because he knew what came next. He readied the files to transmit, a copy for every country. “Today is also the day we launch Project Patriot. I want to thank all of you for contributing over the years. With the enemy at our gates, we too must become a sword – for the righteous! Today, the English-speaking peoples of the world unite as one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. Through your efforts, we have keyed existing nanotech to determine anyone who speaks English as their native language – every accent, every dialect – and wipe out the rest. As one people, we shall travel to the stars, a universe united!” It had to be her login, the architect of modern nanotech. She was the only one with access to delete all of the research, all of the programs to start the killing: the files on every server and backup, then overwrite them so many times the data would never be recovered. The door opened, but not before he sent the terraforming files, freed every country from the bondage of a single planet, and deleted the rest. He did it for his great-grandparents, who came to America for a better life. Juan believed today would be the day he would die, but all humanity would live.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 14, 2014 04:44
|
|
|
 Last crit for GauGau posted:A Reward for the Righteous (810 words) Said the words? What words?!? Your title and first line combination are interesting, but nothing happens in the first paragraph. You make up for this throughout the story by creating a classic western setting, a pair of believable characters, and a story with no major flaws. You fulfill the prompt admirably; a bad man not only wins, he gets a drat fine horse in the bargain. Poor Isaac becomes another sacrifice on the altar of the Lord. It’s eminently believable with some good imagery throughout (Harcourt as a dust cloud/shadow, Isaac as an avalanche). That said, if we’re talking Ten Commandments, there is specifically no prohibition on killing people who have committed certain crimes (i.e., murder). Additionally, since the reward (issued by a judge) states it can be fulfilled even if the killer is dead, the marshal appears to authorized to execute the killer if necessary. As a result, the moral victory is slightly hollow to me. Change those two things and this would have a much better punch. I have an exercise for you. Go through the story, find the word “was” throughout the narrative, and reword the sentences so that it is no longer there. It’s not always better, but it certainly is most of the time. Less passive, more active.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 15, 2014 01:43
|
|
|
I'm in.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 15, 2014 07:07
|
|
|
The Timber Hall 1201 words Slake lumbered down my longhall and a boy trotted behind him. Gleaming steel flashed in the firelight as the squat bastard dipped his greatspear underneath each high rafter. The floor planks creaked beneath his bulk. He rumbled out, “Got a job in these parts, Kerf.” He and the boy had the same ruddy skin, black hair. “Thirteen years since I left and that’s what you say to me. This your son?” He nodded. The boy snapped to attention, stripping his gaze from the myriad grisly trophies adorning the walls. I stumped over to the lad and inspected him. None of his old man’s bulk, but tall like his mother. A sword was buckled around his waist. “Got a name?” His eyes darted down. “No. Not yet.” Slake reached out a hand to me. “Garsnap in the area. Big reward. Come help my boy earn his name, you tall son of a whore.” We clasped. The spearman’s brows knuckled together as he contemplated the wooden end of my left leg. “I’ll put you up, but the only time I use an axe now is on firewood.” ---- Every day, the head of his wooden axe clacked against my practice spear in front of the warrior’s longhall. Boys named at age ten and weaned on the blood of beasts entered on invitation while we sweated nameless before the shut doors. My tall friend refused to beg an apprenticeship and mocked me for spending two days a week at a woodcarver’s in hopes of earning a name as a tradesman. We listened to sea stories of the valtyrs with their scaled wings and mandibled visages, traded labor for food scraps and merchants’ tales of the chitin-armored stogmites of the red sands. Fatherless boys, we only had each other, and the danger and glory held powerful allure. “The doors will open for us. We’ll have real teachers. Armor and weapons. Close your eyes and hear it, a warrior angel naming you. We just need to train harder, practice more,” he’d say. I gave up my days at the woodcarver’s. Bruises and black eyes from mock battles made spare and muscled boys of us. Twice a week we crossed the city to attend services at the temple. A statue of the Warrior stared grimly over our heads as we prayed. The chiseled words below were cut into our hearts: A Warrior’s name is earned in battle. Valor is the key to the Timber Hall. The snows piled high and each year other fatherless boys died black and hard. Summers passed. We stalked the city like predators. Merchants offered to hire us as guards, a hundred exotic lands awaited our footsteps, and still we waited for the longhall doors to unbar. But they never opened, so one day I turned to him and said, ---- “You make your own fortune.” “Then let’s go make one,” I finished the old words. Slake slapped me on the back. We drank tots of applejack while the boy goggled at a lifetime of hunting trophies. “Except, I’ve got everything I need right here.” I settled back into the scirvit pelt lining my chair. “Do it for me, then. We need your help.” I slammed my fist down on the table. “No! I have no leg, Slake!” I shook the peg at him, a stylized tree carven of ash. He held up his hands. “Becalm your storm, old friend. I won’t ask again.” “How is Weft?” The old wounds ached at her name, physical and otherwise. “Dead three years past.” “Is that it?” the boy interjected. I followed his rapt gaze up, to the crescent of my axe. “That’s it, the axe of Kerf.” The words tasted bitter. ---- “Yeah, but it’s no more famous than my spear,” I replied. Kerf wore new, silver-tooled boots and wouldn’t shut up while we hunted a garsnap rumored to be the size of three oxen. It caught us unprepared. The lizard dropped from the trees and knocked him over. One conical eye swiveled toward me. I lifted my greatspear overhead and lunged, sinking it to the crossguard, even as the creature uncurled its tail and wrapped it around my chest. The garsnap unfurled its tongue in a jab and the fleshy end stuck to Kerf’s left foot. I stabbed again, straining against its tail. The tongue yanked back, dragging Kerf with it. “No!” The snap of its crooked, terrible jaws garbled all thought for a moment, then I broke free with a yell and drove my spear through its neck. The garsnap shuddered and champed in its death throes. Kerf screamed a thin, piteous whine. “Hold on.” I cut the tendons holding the ragged ends of his severed leg together and cinched a belt on the stump. Settling his lanky frame over my shoulders, I raced to town. Weft earned her name saving lives in the hospital and shined with inner light when she moved. She called for her assistants and I lost Kerf as they carted him off to the chirurgeons. Kerf slept under the influence of Weft’s potions for a week while the stitched end of his left leg healed. I spent every moment not at his bedside in the intoxicating circle of her arms. Kerf didn’t wake when the potions stopped, and the week turned to months. “We’re getting married, old friend, having a baby. It’s a son, I know it. He won’t starve in the gutters, grow up fatherless. Wake up and we’ll raise him together. Wake up.” ---- I found Slake’s body in the forest, a mess of red whorls and torn flesh. “Oh gods, wake up,” I begged. “Uncle Kerf?” The boy stepped from behind a pine. He held Slake’s spearhead by its broken shaft, gore dripping from the tip. His swordsheath was empty. “It was too strong, too fast.” He collapsed, bleeding from three deep gashes in his side. I took him home, bandaged him up. He fell into a fevered sleep while I slung bundles of rope and my woodcutting axe over my shoulder. I was no warrior, not anymore, but these were my woods. I set the trap, used myself as bait, and when the beast landed on me I brought two tons of timber crashing down on both of us. Our bodies broke like twigs. Crackling sounded from the brush. The boy. He staggered from the woods, one hand to the bandage on his side and the other hefting my axe. The garsnap focused its slitted visage. "Look out!" He rolled beneath the lightning snap of its tongue and swung the axe in a silvery arc, severing the appendage in a welter of gore. The keening of the garsnap deafened me as it thrashed. "Do it." He lifted the battleaxe overhead, then crashed it down, severing the beast's head. The sun shining through the foliage haloed his dark hair. The light, so bright. Hands reached down to me. I grabbed hold and stood. "A moment, warrior." The angel laid hands of radiance on the lad's head in benediction and spoke: "I name you Haggen." Slake was waiting for me. "We made our own fortune, Kerf." That day, the doors opened for us. angels, main character dies at the end, flashbacks, gritty realism, high fantasy
|
|
#
¿
Jul 21, 2014 02:05
|
|
|
sebmojo posted:Thalamas eh fantasy bleh peg leg fanfic
|
|
#
¿
Jul 22, 2014 14:42
|
|
|
In.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 22, 2014 18:32
|
|
|
Grizzled PatriarchGrizzled Patriarch posted:Dance Lessons 953 words This was a hard story for me to critique. Originally, I didn’t like it at all. It was boring. The prose is good, but the events offer no excitement. The more I considered it, the more I enjoyed the slice of life quality it possesses. Everyday events are deciding Norman’s fate. Hell, I’ve been there in my own life, so it’s relatable, believable. The problem is, nothing changed. Norman and Eileen are in the same place at the end of the story as they are at the beginning. The conflict you set up goes nowhere. The title is Dance Lessons, but frankly, I think Norm’s going to go right back to neglecting everyone but himself the next day. One last note. You have 22 paragraphs in the story; 9 of them start with “Norman.”
|
|
#
¿
Jul 24, 2014 03:11
|
|
|
7 1195 words He wrapped her body in white linen and spoke words of love to preserve her for the ages. The old man had looked death in the eye, readied himself in that moment to take her back, and then she was gone. Forever lost. He put a message in the wind and they began arriving the next day. They arrived alone, in pairs, and as trios. They stepped through holes in the air or shadows or the long mirror in he kept in the barn. They appeared with thunderclaps or travelled on foot. They crossed rivers and forests, oceans and space, worlds and the barriers between all places. His friends wore traditional robes and long beards, gowns and tall hats. Other arrived, clad in jean pants and thin shirts or vests and silk pantaloons. They pressed his hands and told him how she’d been a comet passing through their lives. For him, she’d been a guiding star. He spoke words to the gathered. She had been drifting through the æther and he’d been inevitable as gravity. He watched her flit from land to land and return with new stories on her lips, strange garments on her back. Her strange attraction drew him out of the mountains, away from the cottage surrounded by orange poppies and purple lupine. They buried her in the meadow and he looked up to the sky where a humorless sun looked back and the blue void cracked wide. He spoke words of command and the land gave forth a marker of stone. The mourners left. The old man sat outside, waiting. The stars rang high and pure notes in the night air, but all he saw was the space between, and in the void he felt her absence. He loosed his rage. Clouds gathered and burst. Lightning arced from the drowning earth and webbed across thunderheads as he spoke words of anger. The stories said there could be no return, but he wondered what grasp the land of the dead had on two travelers such as them. Dreams came staccato as the rain beat down. In the morning, he gathered his staff and runes. The words of power from days when he had gloried and fought and created were useless. That day, he spoke words of weakness and a way crumbled open in the air. Smothering his power in the gathered broadcloth of his guilt and grief, he concealed it inside his heart. They said there was no returning, but his dreams had shown a way. It was seven steps down into a grand cavern. Men and women in rich clothing and jewels wandered through heaped goods in the murky light. At the end of the long cave stood a doorway hewn through the stone. He strode past the trove and approached the opening, but it became tiny as he drew close. Taking his staff, the old man pressed forward with fire and force, but the underworld stone rebuffed him. He sat to consider and threw the runes, and as they left his hand the opening grew. The marked bones indicated a bargain. Examining the piles, he found all manner of personal effects. The old man piled his belongings one by one on the cool stone. Where before it has been like trying to pass through the eye of a needle, now he stood naked before a wide passageway. It wound down deep in the earth and as his hope grew the passage shrank until his heart was hammering. He ran for a wan yellow light, stuffing down the power that came flooding up, drawn like poison from a wound by terrible pressure. Worn cobblestones met him as he pitched forward. Blood from his palms and knees dotted the ground. The old man rose. The wall stood faceless behind him and city streets stretched out ahead. Houses of wood and brick with pitched roofs sat on the bedrock. The souls of the dead entered and exited the homes. He saw them walk the cobbled streets as he travelled through the strange land, heard them speak to each other in whispers about the living man. They avoided him. There was no end to that place. The days were marked by the ebb and flow of unearthly light. He spoke the words of finding, but they led him nowhere, and in the brief time his power was bared it was mostly lost. He took the last seed and rewrapped it, a way home for them both. By the third day, he had wasted to a shell. His steps faltered and he sat down in the street. He had defeated creatures of the pandemonium beyond the stars. He had advanced the craft beyond what his peers thought possible, and yet his mouth was dry, his legs weak from hunger. The old man hung his head as the gloom of night encroached. A girl child issued from one of the homes, looked both ways down the empty street, and asked if he was looking for her – the one who had passed through. The girl told a story of a woman surrounded by a halo of love, an ingathering of souls, and a great migration. He asked where and was brought through twisting streets to a set of brass scales. The girl said she had let go of the past and stepped onto the near pan. It sank for a moment, then raised her up until she was gone. The pans leveled. Trembling, he stepped forward. He felt a tug, then desperate straining on the wadded ball secreted in his heart. The scales descended and hungry darkness rose up to meet him as he fought to hold on to his last vestige of strength. He had failed her. The old man released his will and the guilt and grief and power streamed from him, engulfed by the waiting thing below. The scales shifted, lifting him up, and up, and up. He watched her walk through tall grass and familiar flowers, led by the girl child. Light suffused through the verdant lands of that place. He smiled and was answered and fulfilled. Her arms warmed his naked form. “Ealdræd, why have you come?” she asked. The old man told her of his journey and the power he had kept hidden, how it was gone and they were trapped here. He told a tale of sadness, but the pain was gone and in its place was a seed of hope. “You have always been my rock, the center of my heart, but I would not go. This is my place.” She laid her hand on the girl’s head. “In time, it will be your place, too.” Weakness rolled through his frame and he knew the time was coming. He kissed her and promised he would see her again. The old man spoke the words of hope and the light of her eyes enveloped all. The sun dawned over a field of blooms and the old man and a stone marker he had made. He rose and returned to the mountain cottage to rest. In the empty place where his power had been, the budding sprouts of creation twined.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 27, 2014 23:44
|
|
|
docbeard posted:Edit, in case it gets lost in the churn: This prompt needs a judge to assign me a passage from the Old Testament as inspiration/The Greatest Flash Rule Ever Told. "I told you, 'Make no agreements with the inhabitants of this land. Tear down their altars.' But you have disobeyed me. Why have you done this?"
|
|
#
¿
Jul 30, 2014 04:55
|
|
|
Okay, here are crits for last week: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pLMSLkIArafNTzKt019aC3clUzdQYqtQnJf5FLxL6SY/edit?usp=sharing I'm in.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 5, 2014 04:47
|
|
|
No Compromise 1109 words “Has anybody seen my daughter?” Solomon Green asked. He held up a charcoal sketch to folks as they passed. “She’s only eight, about four feet tall. Have you seen her?” A man riding by on a pinto stopped and spat on his daughter’s face. The spit smeared downward, turning her button nose and full lips into a sodden mess. Solomon pulled his kerchief and dabbed the moisture away. He kept his eyes on the drawing. “You go back to picking cotton, boy,” the man said, then adjusted his bowler and continued down the street toward the docks. Solomon unfolded his stool and sat. The stretched canvas creaked under his muscular frame. He took the bandana that bound his long hair and wiped the sweat from his brow, then unslung the easel from his back and set it up to let the thick paper dry in the sun. The sea breeze picked up, providing welcome relief, and he looked out over San Francisco Bay. Ship’s masts pierced the sky, waiting, swaying in waves. Each took days to reach the wharf, unload, and take on new cargo, but then they were gone. He’d memorized them one by one during his two day search, wondered if his daughter might be on the next to leave. Solomon tore his gaze away from the ships. He restored her with smooth strokes – the point of her chin, the bow of her lips – and leaned back to gaze into her charcoal eyes. It read Louisa Green below the portrait. A shadow fell over him and a woman drawled, “I ain’t seen your girl, but I’ll help.” She wore a man’s coat and a wide-brimmed hat. The woman squatted in the dust and took his sketch. “What are you doing?” he asked. His mouth hung open as he caught sight of the cannon on her belt and the badge pinned to her shirt. Pinkerton National Detective Agency. “Got no money to pay you, detective.” “Well, ain’t she a little cutie pie. I don’t expect you to pay, Solomon Green,” she said. “San Francisco is gettin’ to be a big place. Owe me a favor instead, and only if we find your little Louisa alive.” He looked into the blue agates of her eyes. She knew his name. “I’ll owe you, not the Pinkertons. Deal?” They shook. “Delilah Hazel. The agency sent me here because there’s a threat to the compromise being brokered by Clay and Douglas in the Senate, but the information is vague. I also have this.” She laid down a drawing. It depicted a white hand inside a red circle. He thought back to years ago, a burning plantation, colonnades collapsing. Baying hounds. Tears came to his eyes. “Oh Lord, they’ve found us. First my wife, now my little girl.” She leaned in close. “Who?” “The White Hand,” he whispered. “They’re Texans hell-bent on secession. My wife and I were slaves for one of them, but we fled when Louisa was born.” “I’ve also been told to look for a man, Enos Mooney. Average height, average build, light brown hair, mustache. Wears a bowler more often than not,” she said. “drat, woman. That describes a quarter of the men in the city.” “And he likes children, which is why I found you. Been in town a week, ain’t no one else willin’ to talk to me, but I heard tell of a street artist lookin’ for his daughter. I’ve seen the bastard; could you draw him?” He could. Delilah described him and his charcoal flew across a fresh sheet. As the face gained form, a sick feeling took hold in his stomach. You go back to picking cotton, boy. “I’ve seen him, too, headed toward the docks.” “Let’s go, then.” The bay was bedlam. A thousand sailors and gamblers and gold prospectors were offloading from ships. Gulls cried and wheeled overhead. Delilah showed the sketch around while he kept an eye out, but for an hour all they heard was no, no, no – until he saw the horse. The pinto stood in a pen. A horse trader had bought it from Enos a short while ago and pointed out a small steamboat maneuvering through the press of other ships. “Come on,” Solomon said, then ran toward the end of the dock. He leapt into a rowboat and felt a thump behind him as Delilah landed with a grapple looped around her shoulder. “Get up front, you’ll need to guide me.” Shouts accompanied them as they pulled away. The steamboat had more power, but the rowboat skated past larger ships in the close confines of the bay. “Solomon, you stay back when the shootin’ starts.” She threw the grappling hook onto the back rail of the steamboat and hauled herself up hand over hand. He watched her disappear over the rail, caught his breath, and followed. Solomon saw five men on the deck as the steamboat broke free into open water. She was already halfway across the ship and behind one of them, a bowie knife in her hand, when the cry went up. The man turned and pulled a pistol, but she half-severed his arm in a spray of arterial blood and kicked him over. Dropping the knife, she drew down and fanned the hammer four times. Her hat had fallen off. Gunsmoke fell behind as they chugged out to sea. Delilah stood solitary, revolver ready, when the hatch opened behind her and Enos Mooney came up with a pistol. “Delilah!” Solomon shouted. She turned and the shot took her in the chest. Blood welled up and she pitched forward. The freeman charged, grasping Enos by the head with his enormous hands and turning it around with a horrible crack. “You son of a bitch.” “You… go back… to picking cotton. The White Hand… rises!” Enos Mooney spat blood and died hard. Delilah sat up, one hand pressed to her bloody chest. “drat, that smarts.” “You’re alive!” She held out her Pinkerton badge to him, a jagged hole in the middle. “Today must be my lucky day.” He dragged Enos’ body away and they stepped down into the gloom. A single oil lantern lit the hold. “Louisa?” “Daddy?” She ran to him and he held her tight. “Oh mighty Jesus, give me strength. I’ve got you, baby. I’m glad this is over.” He surveyed the children. There must have been twenty or more, each sitting on a crate. Delilah pried one open and held up the lantern. Gold nuggets. The crate shone dully with gold from the fields of California. “Somehow, I think this is just the beginning. How all you children doin’?” "I guess those were the golden years"
|
|
#
¿
Aug 11, 2014 03:22
|
|
|
I'm in.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 13, 2014 07:04
|
|
|
Battle of the Band 1086 words The city lay before them. “Strange how a single star can steal the eye, and change the shape of the night,” Davey said, and smashed his empty Corona bottle on my garage floor. I cringed. “Don’t be melodramatic, Davey.” He insisted on breaking all his drat bottles, said it was punk. My kids played in the driveway and it was hell cleaning up all the glass. I swiveled back and forth in front of my drum set. Davey grabbed another of my Coronas. “loving big bands ruin everything, Chuck. If Broadband Pavement wasn’t coming to town tonight, we’d have fifty, maybe a hundred people at our gig. Now I bet we’ll have like, ten. Twenty, tops.” He sang like an angel and whined like a bitch. Davey took a swig, then kicked over his mic stand. Jeremy choked on his beer, spitting it up all over his XXXL shirt. “Dude, we only have one of those since you broke the last one.” He cradled his guitar in both huge hands, making it look like a toy. “Well, I’m not going to stand for this poo poo any more! Local bands got it tough enough. Davey, out.” He stalked through the open garage door toward his ’83 Corolla, still holding his beer. “Davey, we got a show tonight. Where are you going?” I asked. He just flipped us the bird as he drove away. Jeremy looked to me. “What do we do, Chuck?” The sun was headed down fast. I checked my watch. “Let’s get this glass cleaned up. We’ve got a couple of hours before we need to get the van loaded up. Give him some time to cool off and we’ll try to get him to meet us at the show.” Jeremy nodded. ---- My phone was ringing and the caller id said Wheeler. I tapped Accept. “Go for Chuck.” “Hey kid, you sitting down?” Wheeler asked in his usual clipped monotone. “Uh, no.” “Sit the gently caress down.” I sat. Jeremy finished sweeping up glass and dumped it in the garbage. “Better.” How did Wheeler always know? “I got us a big fish. The opener for Broadband Pavement has the Hungarian Flu or some poo poo, so they need a stand in. You do well, they might hold you over a while. I cancelled your gig for tonight.” “No poo poo?!” “Yeah, kid. No poo poo. Show’s at ten, be there at nine to set up. You know the place.” He hung up. Jeremy walked over with my broom. It looked like he was holding a twig. “What’s going on?” I told him the news and watched as the wooden handle snapped. “Really? We gotta call Davey!” he said, voice changing from bass to baritone. Davey did not pick up. He didn’t pick up at home or on his cell. “Call The Swamp,” Jeremy suggested. The bartender answered. “What?” The sound of bottles breaking against brick filled the line. “Is Davey there?” “No.” Click. “gently caress!” I slapped a crash cymbal. Jeremy righted the mic stand and stood in front of it, shuffling his feet. “I wish you wouldn’t curse so much, Chuck,” he said into the microphone, and my neighbor’s car alarm started whooping. He stepped back, face red. “Sorry.” “Can you sing and play guitar at the same time?” I asked. “Uh, sure. I could play guitar and fight a bear with my feet at the same time, Chuck.” “Okay, I have a plan.” ---- “You guys are on in five,” a dude said. He was giving us the stink eye. I watched as Jeremy knelt and clasped his hands together. He looked up at the ceiling and started moving his lips. “We’ll be ready.” I peeked past the curtain and saw two-thousand screaming fanatics there to see a band that wasn’t us. My phone rang, an unknown number. “Go for Chuck.” “Chuck, it’s Davey. Can you come bail me out? loving pigs got me on a DUI.” “Sorry, man. We gotta go open for Broadband Pavement. Maybe tomorrow?” “What the gently caress? You can’t play without me. You’re nothing without me!” “You know what, Davey, you can gently caress off. Wishing us good luck would have been nice.” I hung up and put in my ear plugs. My heart was pounding and there was roaring in my ears. It sounded like the ocean and I wasn’t sure if it was the audience or my own blood. Maybe tonight they were the same thing. “Let’s go, man. Time to do this. Time to rock and roll!” We walked out onto the stage. I sat down on my stool. It took me two tries to pull the drumsticks out of my back pocket. Jeremy picked up his guitar and settled it around his neck. We can do this. Don’t panic. Don’t loving panic, I thought. The lights went out. The curtain rose and the noise doubled. I drummed out a 4/4 beat and Jeremy launched into the into a G-D-Em-C chord progression. Spotlights flared on, illuminating us. The bass from my kicks rumbled through the chests of every god damned person there, but it had nothing on Jeremy as he sang. “Stretch out your hand across the seat We’ve got miles to ride No time to waste, the world to see Baby, there’s a place for you and me Tell me how to glow I’ve lost that magic touch And the coals burn low, low, low We travel the desert holding hands Got those wandering feet But it’s our final resting place, the last land Honey, sit beside me in the sand Teach me how to sow I need your magic touch Cause the coals burn low, low, low Hand in hand you’re by my side The road commands But stay a while, become my bride Sweetheart, we have time to bide I just gotta know ‘bout your magic touch When the coals burn low, low, low Yeah, I gotta know All about your magic touch When the coals burn low, low, low.” For a moment, everything was still and quiet. Jeremy was looking down at his feet again, then he looked up to the crowd and said, “Hello Portland! I’m Jeremy and this is Chuck and we’re the Burning Coals!” They went loving wild. The rest of the show went downhill fast, but that one song was flawless and the night was over before I knew it. The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 17, 2014 17:51
|
|
|
Hammer Bro. posted:All right, one more because it struck my fancy. This one's a little less musical but a little more dramatic. I don't think I've ever deliberately composed a song before, certainly never sung one. If you'd ask me how I think I'd done, I'd say, "Not well, but close enough." Regicide by Hammer Bro.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 18, 2014 05:14
|
|
|
Benny the Snake posted:Hey fucker, sebmojo posted:This is a truth.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 20, 2014 04:17
|
|
I challenge you
|
I'm in. Neil Gaiman.
|
|
#
¿
Sep 4, 2014 19:23
|
|
|
Can I have 400 extra words, 6 hours less to submit my story, and a funny hat? Is this a thing? I don't know if I understand what we are doing here. Does my penis have to be blue? I'm not down for that.
|
|
#
¿
Sep 7, 2014 17:12
|
|
|
Cherish, Louisiana 1048 words On Saturday, June 21, 1913, Andy stood motionless as the day’s wind in front of the Peralis General Store (Honest Weights, Square Deals). The mosquitos ignored him, whining through the air all around while the sweat coated him like a turkey being brined for cooking, and boy oh boy would he be tender when the time came. The front of the store’s rolling doors stood wide open and inside he could just make out a man in the shadows. “What are you doing standing in the sun, boy? You look mighty afflicted,” the man said. Andy closed his mouth, which he realized had been hanging open. “Well, gosh mister! You sure gave me a scare.” He looked over the shopkeep, a spare fellow with curly brown hair and a lined face. Neatly stitched on his white apron: Andrew Peralis, Proprietor. “Hey, we got the same name! I’m Andy.” He stuck out his grubby little hand. The shopkeep shook, two firm pumps. “Well Andy, you can call me Mister Andrew, then. Come inside and have yourself a nice, cold soda.” Neat rows and shelves, full of every good imaginable: watermelons, hair combs and pomade, sacks of flour and rice, even a gramophone! He bellied up to the bar. “I ain’t got no money to pay you, Mister Andrew.” His voice was unusually high pitched, even for a little boy. Whiny. The shopkeep smiled – big, big white teeth – and replied, “All deals in my establishment have got to be square, Andy. How about you come back Monday afternoon and play me a game of checkers. Gets awful quiet around here sometimes.” Andy glanced up at the hand-painted sign behind the bar: Honest Weights, Square Deals. “Sure, Mister Andrew!” The soda fizzed. ---- On the morning of Sunday, June 22, 1913, Andrew Peralis took off his apron and went into his cellar. He pulled out the boy he had been keeping there for the past week. The child was naked, slat-ribbed with hunger, and gagged. Andrew stuck him in a sack and started out for the swamp. The sun beat down, but clouds were moving in from the northwest and promised sweet rain for the sugarcane. The boy’s name was Albert Partridge. He had passed through town with the circus and when the circus left it was minus one errand boy. The mosquitos were thick that morning and had themselves a feast on Albert when he was brought out, but not one could bring itself to alight on Andrew. “You got to walk, boy,” Andrew said, and tied a rope around the lad’s wrists. So they walked and in the depths of that swamp in a secret place there was a thing that was much like an alligator. It was green and it was scaly and it had rows of big, big white teeth. Thick, rusty chains and shackles held it there. “Is it the Solstice already, jailer man?” the creature rasped, its voice terrible to hear. “You know it is …” Andrew said, except he said a name, but the name was a word that sounded like … which is sort of like a hiss and a whisper and a scream. “You got an honest weight and a square deal for me this time?” the beast asked. “You know I don’t, … No square deals for you. This here’s Albert Partridge.” With that, he pulled a pair of pruning shears out of his pocket and snipped off Albert’s index finger at the base, and threw the little boy to …, who ate him up. Andrew snipped off the last two joints of the finger and threw that into …’s maw as well, then sucked the marrow out of the remaining joint. “One more year, I do declare, for me and mine to share. Safety, security, prosperity, no less, for the town of Cherish and Andrew Peralis.” … grinned toothily and rasped back, “So it is done. Want to shake on it, jailer man?” Andrew stripped the flesh from the hollow joint and stuck the bone in his pocket, then left. ---- The sugar cane grew twenty-three feet tall that year in Cherish. The folks were peaceable and there were no accidents at the mill. It was just like every year in memory. Other towns had bugs in the crops and fights and old folks dying in their beds. Cherish had Andrew Peralis and his square deals and his big, big white teeth. Andrew and Andy played checkers most days. They chewed sugarcane from the fields and he showed the boy how to noodle catfish. Andrew did anything he could to keep the little boy coming back to his store. The Solstice of 1914 approached and this year there were no travelling gypsies, no runaway children who needed a helping hand, but there was little Andy. ---- On Monday, June 22, 1914, Andrew took Andy on a special trip out into the swamp. Andy went willingly because Mister Andrew was his best friend. The mosquitos never did seem to notice Andy was there and they knew better than to take a nibble on Andrew, so it was quiet out there in that swamp. The thing that was an alligator but not surfaced from the murk and the muck and rasped, “Jailer man, you back with my yearly deal? Gonna be square this time, I got a feelin’ in my gut.” “I’m sorry, Andy.” A tear ran down Andrew’s face, for he was not an entirely stonehearted man, and that boy sure enough did wriggle away. Andrew Peralis chased after him. Each time he got close to the boy he was closer to the beast. Each time, he was a little more agitated. Each time, his joints seized up a little more until he knew he had to make a move and quick. He lunged forward and laid hands on the boy. … took Andrew’s leg off clean at the knee. Andy fell apart into a million mosquitoes, buzzing and whining away from that place, for the magic of … couldn’t hold together the boy anymore. Andrew’s life blood flowed into the swamp and the magic flowed out of him, too. ...’s chained crumbled to rust and the great, scaly beast fled into the swamp, free at last. Neil Gaiman, stolen idea: sacrificing children to ensure prosperity, safety, and isolation for a town from American Gods
|
|
#
¿
Sep 8, 2014 00:48
|
|
|
Mercedes posted:I'm going to need 3 volunteers, preferably past 'Domers that have not won a week, for a 3 way brawl...  Please tell me there is a no extensions rule. I do so love a deadline.
|
|
#
¿
Sep 10, 2014 01:24
|
|
WITH A PRIZE
|
I'm dropping out of the brawl. Sorry, folks.
|
|
#
¿
Sep 23, 2014 15:22
|
|
|
Mercedes' 4-man brawl extravaganza entry Homecoming / A Chess Game 2081 words The van doors opened and two men in black suits had hands on him before he could bolt. He socked the tall one right in the eye and then there was darkness and the dusty smell of burlap. They shoved him. He met the running board with his shins and face-planted onto carpet that stank of bleach all the way through the bag. He flipped over and reached for the sack. His fumbling hands found the bottom drawn tight and secured. They dragged him back and shut the doors. “Okay, let’s go.” Whoever spoke had no accent. The van accelerated. “You’re going to do something for us, friend.” ---- “You know, there’s something missing in my life,” Sonny said. He set down his 1911 on an old towel and picked up the next gun in line: an Uzi. Alfonso turned back to the game board and moved his bishop. His fingers lingered on the piece, then lifted. “Check. Yeah, Sonny, what’s that?” He watched as the kid took the Uzi down piece by piece, slow and methodical. “A bazooka.” Alfonso barked out a laugh. “Hey, gently caress you. I’ve always wanted one. Just think how satisfying it would be to blow up a car or something with one. Today’s the day, I can feel it. The day my life becomes complete.” “Man, you wouldn’t be able to handle a bazooka. Probably blow your own drat car up.” He looked across the table at the old man. “You going to move, Pops?” The old man still had black hair, a strong chin. He ignored the question and continued sizing up the board. He moved his king back. Alfonso slid his rook across the board. “Check again.” Pops whistled through his front teeth and shifted his own rook to protect the king. Sonny finished ramming patches through the bore of the gun and reassembled it. The door opened Rodrigo walked in. His face was marked up, red scrapes stood out on his forehead and cheek. The kid looked up, eyes wide, and asked, “What happened to you?” “They got rough, had to make some bodies.” “Did you get it?” the old man said. “No, but I brought it someone who does. You guys want to join me in the cooler?” Alfonso moved his other bishop. “Check and mate. Let’s go.” ---- It was a kid, nineteen or twenty, maybe. Alfonso picked up a baseball bat and smiled at him. The four men stood around the kid, who was handcuffed to a wooden chair. The stink of urine filled the room as a dark patch grew on the boy’s jeans. Rod said, “These are the friends I was telling you about.” Alfonso slammed the bat into the kid’s knee. The bone crunched and the screaming started. They waited. When the screams turned into sobs, Rod continued. “So, how about you tell me when and where the sale is happening.” The kid told them everything he knew. ---- The old man sat across from Alfonso and steepled his fingers. “We need those guns. Not just to rob those drat Cubans of their weapons, but so we can push them off the island entirely. Manhattan belongs to me.” “Yes, boss. We’ll take care of it.” “I’m sending Sonny with you. The men, they need to see he can lead, that he is not afraid. I expect you to take care of him.” “So he’s in charge?” “At least as long as he holds things together. Advise him, guide him. Don’t gently caress this up. This whole thing was your idea. I’m holding you responsible one way or another.” “Everything will be fine. The kid didn’t hold anything back.” ---- He took the scrap of paper with the number out of his pocket and closed the phone booth door. There was still time to come clean, but then what would happen to his wife, his daughter? Now was the time for action, not confession. He crossed himself and dialed the number. “Tuesday, eleven.” A pause, and then, “Where?” “Hudson River Park.” “We’ll see you there.” Click. ---- Sonny kept fidgeting. “They should be here by now.” They had waited in the car for hours. Alfonso checked his watch. “It’s three after, Sonny. Take it easy. They’ll be here.” “I can’t take it easy. What do we do if they never show?” “You’re the boss now, you decide that. You got to think ahead, like in chess. Not just right now, but all night. You need to be ready when things go wrong.” He laid a hand on Sonny’s shoulder. “They’re here.” A boat pulled up to the end of the pier and tied off. A dozen men swarmed out, unloading crates. A truck stopped at the other end of the pier and four more men stepped out. “Now?” Alfonso squeezed the kid’s shoulder, then let go. He drew his Beretta M9. “Not yet. Let them get closer, grouped up.” The four took off at a trot. Three of the ship’s crew broke away to meet them. “Now?” “A little longer. Make sure you can get all of them.” Sonny grabbed the bazooka and stepped out of the car. He leaned into the roof and aimed. Alfonso scooted across the seats, got out on the same side, and shut the door. “Hit it.” The kid had a big smile on his face as he depressed the trigger. The explosion took all seven. He dropped the stovepipe. Small arms fire lit up the night as the rest of the Cubans were mowed down. Sonny’s head exploded in a welter of gore. The boom of the shot reached Alfonso a split-second later. He dove away, losing his gun, and saw dirt kick up into the air as a second boom sounded off. “gently caress!” By the light of the streetlamps, he saw his men advancing along the pier, Rodrigo in the lead. They advanced on the crates, putting bullets into a few people on the ground and still moving. He heard Rod saying, “Quick, we got to get out of here before the cops show.” The men picked up a crates then dropped it as his heart exploded out the back of his chest. Another rifle report came. Alfonso turned over at Sonny, who no longer had a face. “Well, at least your life was complete, kid.” He took the keys out of the kid’s pocket, opened the car door, and crawled inside. Another shot spider-webbed the windshield as he started it up. He put the car into gear and stomped on the accelerator. The car crashed through the park as shots continued rain down. He weaved through trees until the next bullet came through the back window. “Got you, you son of a bitch!” He dove out of the car, which drove another two-hundred feet before crashing into an oak. Voices sounded behind him: “Did you get him?” “I think so. Check out the car, make sure he’s dead.” No accents. Alfonso crouched in a bush and drew a knife out of his boot. Footsteps came past. He leapt out and grabbed ahold of a man in a black suit. The blade went in between the ribs. He rode the body to the ground, then rolled forward. The turf tore behind him once, twice, as shots rang out. He sat with his back to a tree to consider his options, then took off his shoes and shut his eyes. A minute went by, then another, and another. Branches snapped as the other shooter ran for a new position. It was now or never. He followed the noise, moving from tree to tree on quiet sock feet. He kept his eyes near the ground and avoided looking at the light from the pier. “Stu!” the other man hissed. He was close. “Stu, are you alright?” Alfonso got down and crawled. A dark shape took form. The man was tall and held a long rifle. He faced away, looking toward the lights of the pier. Alfonso got up into a crouch and launched himself forward, tackling the man from the side and slamming him into the ground. The rifle flew away, landing in the dirt. Alfonso socked him in the same eye as the first time. “Hey there, friend.” “You’re dead! You have no idea who you’re loving with.” “Yeah?” He punched him in the eye again and heard the orbital socket break. “Tell me how I’m in big trouble again. Go ahead.” Shouting came from back near the pier. Alfonso patted the man down while he was busy yelling in pain and found an ankle holster. He took the pistol and stood up. “Let’s go,” he said with a kick for punctuation. ---- Rod stood over Sonny’s corpse and said, “Well poo poo.” They’d hidden behind the crates a while, but the shots had stopped coming. Then he’d opened the crates. They were full of wires and circuit boards and strange helmets, but no guns. “You and you, come with me to find Alfonso.” He studied the park and the path of ruined foliage left by the car. “The rest of you, get the crates back to the boss. Take Sonny with you.” ---- Alfonso led the tall man north through the center of the park, then cut over onto the Greenway. He flagged a car down and took it from the owner, then kept north with his captive in the passenger seat. “Tell me where my family is.” “You’ll kill me if I do.” His eye was swollen shut. “I’m going to kill you either way, but if you take me to my family, I’ll just shoot you.” ---- He pushed the body out of the car near Riverside Park, cut east, and stopped at a phone booth. “Hello?” The old man barely choked out the word. “It’s Alfonso.” “My boy is dead because of you. My sonny boy, my only son. And for garbage.” He paused. Garbage? “I’m sorry, boss. They have my family. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” “You’re a dead man. Your family is dead. You cost me my son!” Click. Sirens carried from the south, getting closer. Time to go. Alfonso abandoned the car and jogged east. He pictured the police finding the car, bringing in a K-9 unit. He only had to make it to the apartment where they had his family. Two miles on foot. He ran faster. ---- Rod followed a safe distance behind the cops and tuned into the police band. “All units, all units, suspect is on foot heading east from Riverside and 113th. He is Hispanic, approximately thirty years old, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt.” “Sounds like Alfonso. Let’s go.” He turned east. ---- The brownstone looked like any other. Apartment 409 was the one. He pressed each of the call buttons in turn and the door unlocked. No time to catch his breath, he took the steps two at a time. On the fourth floor, he kept on running and slammed his shoulder into the door, busting the frame and falling to the ground inside the apartment. His shoulder was out of place, but he’d held onto the Beretta. A man in a black suit looked up from the television. “poo poo!” He reached for a pistol sitting on the coffee table. Alfonso steadied his left arm on the ground and drew a bead on the man’s center mass. Only time for one shot. He pulled the trigger and a small, red hole appeared in the suit. The man coughed up blood, then fell onto the coffee table, smashing the legs and the glass top. Alfonso stood, right arm hanging straight down, and put two more bullets in him to be sure. “Daddy?” “Alfonso!” They were safe. The sirens wailed outside. He drew his family close and thought about how to get out of the building. ---- Rod pulled up at the back of the building and shot open the emergency exit. “You, take the back stairwell. You, guard the exit. He’s not getting out of here alive.” The fire alarm sounded and the sprinklers turned on. People came milling out of their apartments, headed for the front door in a stampede. ---- Alfonso took them down a crowded fire escape and they took a cab to the docks where there was a boat waiting for them. It was small, but the owner knew how to get in and out of places unseen. “Where to, Alfonso?” “Bermuda.”
|
|
#
¿
Sep 24, 2014 04:53
|
|
|
Week 114 Crits Fuscia tude - Dark Purpose 7.2 Your first sentence is convoluted and long: I like the concepts, especially in the second half, but the first part of the sentence is a little heavy-handed in setting the folk tale world. The town elders pop up halfway through the story, but never get mentioned again or explained. The dialogue is stilted in places. On the plus side, the Light/Dark moral of the folk tale and use of the missed connection work well, especially in such a low word count. While not a requirement of the prompt, it felt like a complete story. Could have been a contender if you hadn’t gotten a little too wordy at times. thehomemaster - Same Time, Same Place 6.6 The red coat to catch his eye is a nice touch. “A train pulls up and disgorges another round of dull-eyed civilians.” The word choice of this sentence is so out of place. The repetition of same time, same place was well done. Her stuttering gets annoying after a couple of sentences and she turns from sort of strange to downright creepy by the end. Concept was cliche, but used decently. Jitzu the Monk - Your Hero at Johnson Lake 6.4 The twist of the protagonist being the snake from the picture/missed connection was cool. Also, I enjoyed reading the missed connection you wrote. Your humor generally falls flat, though. Hissing to get the bartender’s attention was okay. Them getting off on the wrong foot was pretty bad. “Eventually, he became drowsy and drifted to sleep.” Yeesh. What’s going on with this? Quidnose - Good Night, L.A. 6.4 The grittiness of the story is like cheap sandpaper: it works, but wears out fast. The ashtrays are over the top. I can’t tell if you are going for humor in this one. If you are, it’s not very funny. No detective worth their weight in salt would call out the type of vehicle or it’s location over the air. Little details took all the fun out of this story. “ “’She is Latin and is married to a gentleman who works for an airline.’” “ The use of quotes and the person saying this straight out of the missed connection is atrocious. Anomalous Blowout - True Facts About the Kea 6.2 On the downside, a list of things a man enjoyed at the zoo is such a bizarre way to start a story. I didn’t like: “Would you look at that!” and “more than just his memory had stirred.” The tone set by phrases like these is a bad fit. “Besides, he totally wasn’t gay.” And this is cliche. On the upside, I enjoyed reading Kea facts. Cache Cab - Cassius 6.5 This comes off like the ramblings of a crazy person. It’s enjoyable on the whole. The perspective changes are abrupt, difficult to follow, and sort of trite. You go way past the line on creepy with: “The thigh gaps.” The second to last paragraph is just right, though, and I wish you would have cut your last line. Your Sledgehammer - The Art of Jailhouse Seduction 6.3 Creep protagonists are definitely the theme so far this week. It’s the obvious choice with missed connections, but it is so hard to pull off well. I like that he is mad about the women not being charged with anything, but admits to gunning a man down in the story and is appealing his conviction. This is well written and the sentences flow. I’m not sure if jailhouse rape can ever be a truly satisfying ending to a story, though. Mercedes - King of the Weights 6.8 Okay, so this doesn’t have what you might call literary merit, but I did laugh quite a bit. Oh, Mercedes. You cad, you. The attack of the hair/fight for the gym was a ridiculous twist that I enjoyed. “He might hurt himself without that support” is just plain old-fashioned, quality writing. Fully expected ock, but you failed to deliver. Entezahn - Sightseers 7.1 Good use of your missed connection and gif. The beginning is a little muddled and I don’t like the offhand tone of “Seems fine to me.” As the story progresses, it gains momentum at the right pace. While the dialogue gives it a talking heads feeling sometimes, the descriptive sections are clear and well written. The ending drops off a bit, but your last line makes up for it. Detectives always smoke in every movie/story, right? Sitting Here - Craig’s Tryst 7.0 This nails the creepy vibe throughout; Craig is a dude who has serious issues. The scrapbook and obsession with her name set the tone. Selling his Star Trek figurines so 40-Year-Old Virgin, though. Implied rape at the end just caps it right off. You successfully incorporate the concepts from the missed connection without having to shoehorn anything. The individual elements were good, but the story as a whole is unsatisfying. N. Senada - Secure Facilities 6.0 Your writing is unclear in places (The idea slipped away as did Jeremy’s neck.), you are needlessly descriptive (his relaxing, nice, comfortable, padded chair.), parts of your dialogue are completely unnecessary/expository (“If anybody opens those doors without our keys, alarms will light up our panels,”), and you are missing a ton of paragraph breaks. Favorite phrase in the whole story, though: “Believing that to have gone at least slightly better, Jeremy recollected his items.” It’s good to remember. Kaishai - Ice and Desire 7.3 The gradual reveal that his love of fire is not some type of metaphor is fantastic. Great, clear imagery throughout. This would have been a good entry in week 99. You take your missed connection/gif and make something unique. Everything flows well and I didn’t get lost in the perspective changes. Two minor complaints about the story: you have three paragraphs in a row that start with “she” and you overuse one-sentence paragraphs. LOU BEGAS MUSTACHE - Sweet Gloria 6.5 There are a bunch of little technical issues with the story. “There was an autumn evening she was going to propose to Jim on, Gloria wasn’t sure which one yet, because she hadn’t bought the ring yet.” Stuff like this is hurting you. The reunion with Jim lacks emotional punch and the dialogue is off. He’s sort of ticked off, but sort of not really (and he’s ready for some cheatin’?). Your ending is the best part. It has a good twist and brings the story around full circle. Broenheim - untitled 6.7 You have all these cool concepts that you throw in from the missed connection, but you never do anything exciting with them. Dude is travelling through time and space, there is a mysterious man with mysterious aims, and in the end they jump down the rabbit hole together. You answer none of the questions that people ask as they read. The memory scene is vague and unsatisfying. The writing is fine from a technical standpoint. Chairchucker - Seriously, It Was Huge 7.0 lulz Punchy dialogue, actual humor, and a surprise giant pineapple at the end. Left and right gloves, heh. You took a really simple missed connection and made it interesting. That’s really all I have to say. You were on the cusp for me as an HM. edit: I didn’t realize your character was a woman until I reread the missed connection. Grizzled Patriarch - Little Lazarus 7.4 You grab my attention right away with your title and first sentence. The army man is a nice touch piece throughout the story. David’s reunion with Liam packs emotional punch. “He took a painful swallow and tried to coax out some sound, but the woman was already hurrying off.” The contrast between his father and the security woman sets it all off. The fleshy knobs are just strange enough, particularly since they are moving. The dialogue is natural. Phobia - Wiggles the Bear in: The Day The Wiggles Died 6.1 This is boring. The wiggling is totally arbitrary. The skunk throws out a sideways threat to kill Wiggles halfway through the story. You try for half children’s book, half serious drama and it all falls down. Tyrannosaurus - The Power and the Glory 6.9 The writing is smooth, but it takes so long for this story to gain any momentum that it’s already over by the time it gets rolling. I enjoy your use of the missed connection and gif; you come up with an interesting story idea for them. You intertwine the concepts of earthly desires versus faith is a natural way throughout the narrative. Some Guy TT - A Needed Reprieve 7.0 You wrote a simple, clean story about a woman getting to know a lost cat, then try to throw a moral in at the end. This would have been better without your ending paragraph. However, the gradual fall for a cat is believable. Still not sure how I feel about the deductions. They’re a great concept, but not a good fit for this story as they add very little. In the end, anybody who bothered to check/put an ad on Craiglist would have found the owner. Djeser - Late On 6.7 This one is okay. There is nothing really wrong with it, just nothing really right, either. It fits the folk tale mold perfectly, which might be the problem in the end. There is nothing that ever goes wrong for the hyena. She gets everything she wants, then gets old and has to choose. Too little conflict. “She resigned himself”
|
|
#
¿
Oct 15, 2014 19:32
|
|
|
I'm in.
|
|
#
¿
Nov 17, 2014 16:02
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 08:09 |
|
|
A Son’s Tale 1498 words Jonas found the box in the attic. It sat in a corner, unmarked and wrapped in yellowed packing tape. He dug his fingers underneath the cardboard and lifted to take it downstairs. Before he could take a step, a load of composition notebooks and a photo album fell out of the bottom, slapping into the wooden floor. Jonas froze and listened for noise from downstairs. The house was silent, any sound muffled by the thick layer of snow outside. The notebooks had familiar black and white speckled covers. Property of Margo McHale, his mother’s name, swooped across the front in cursive. He opened one. December 25, 2003 My little Jonas is turning two today. We are moving to Tokyo tomorrow and I can feel that the spirits are upset. I’ll miss Redmond. David has some type of consulting job and says we can move back in a year or so. He’s a good man, a loving father, but I worry for him. I worry that They are going to get to him. The spirits will guide me to the right course. Jonas wiped away tears with the end of his sleeve and flipped forward to the date his father had died. April 11, 2004 My chance to escape has come. David was in a car accident today and can’t leave the hospital. The doctors say there will be months of recovery and they are unsure if he’ll walk again. He doesn’t suspect. They think They have me trapped. I took all our money out of the bank. Jonas and I are flying away tomorrow. They will never find us. The spirits say Jonas will be a great man. The notebook fell from his shaking hands. He pulled the photo album from the pile and opened the cracked leather cover. He felt the rhythmic thud of his heart, heard roaring in his ears. There he was. His father. He was taller than expected, with carrot-orange hair, just like Jonas. In the photo, his mother wore a white, lacy wedding dress. She was looking up at her husband, a wide smile on her face, hands resting on her pregnant stomach. The front door slammed, a distant sound two floors down. “Jonas, honey?” He moved fast, covering the pile of notebooks with the box, and tiptoed to the ladder. “Jonas?” she called again. He stuffed the album inside the front of his jacket and zipped it up. She caught him closing the ladder to the attic. “What were you doing up there?” she asked shrilly. He crossed his arms and said, “Nothing.” It was all he could manage to choke out of his hot, dry throat. She knelt and took him by the shoulders. “Oh baby, it’s alright.” He could smell the anise and sage in her sachet. Tears rolled down his face. “Talk to me,” she said. His mother pulled him into a hug. He tried to push her away, but not fast enough. She unzipped his jacket and the album crashed to the floor. His mother looked down at the album like it was a snake. “You’re a liar,” he shouted into her face. “Baby, you don’t understand. I hid those from you to protect you. From Them.” She snatched up the album. Jonas ran downstairs to his room, slammed the door, and threw himself onto the bed. His mother pleaded with him to come out, but he put a pillow over his head and waited for her to go. After a few minutes of quiet, he pulled the pillow away and sat up. Everything was in boxes, ready to move to a new place again. He didn’t even know where. Last week, his mother said she suspected her boss of being in league with Them and decided it was time to move on. He put on his hat, scarf, and gloves, then waited. Footsteps creaked above him as he listened to her climb the attic ladder. Jonas opened his window and stepped outside. Streetlights glared down, yellow light illuminating a swirling mass of snowflakes. He trudged through knee-deep powder toward the corner store. A few doors down, a snowman with a cheap, plastic top hat stood in the yard. Jonas ran at it and knocked it over, yelling, “Liar!” again and again as he kicked it to pieces. He stood, panting steam, when he was done. Headlights came around the corner as he made it back to the sidewalk. The car slowed to a stop alongside Jonas and the passenger window whirred down. “You alright, kid?” a man asked. “Sure.” “It’s awful cold out there. You need a ride?” Snow was already piling up on the edge of the door. Jonas stepped back and peered into the car, but he couldn’t make out the driver. “No thanks, mister.” “Alright. Be safe.” The window went up as the car pulled away. When he reached the corner store, the car was waiting. A tall man leaning on a cane limped out of the store. Jonas watched him start the car, then slipped into the store and used his allowance to buy a candy bar and soda, things his mom never allowed. When he left, the man sat there sipping a coffee. There was something familiar about him. He opened the candy bar and took a bite. Was this what his mother meant by Them? The man looked up and Jonas hurried away. A few blocks later, Jonas tensed his legs at the sound of a car. He looked back and saw headlights cutting through the dimness. The lights resolved into a van plowing through virgin snow. The vehicle slowed for a moment as it passed, and then the brake lights faded away. He heard a car door close in the distance, and another one open. The sounds were distorted and smothered by the falling snow. Shadows loomed under a dead streetlight in front of a dark house. The van was parked there. He heard the rustling of plastic bags. A stocky man was unloading groceries. Jonas walked past. Strong hands grabbed him from behind. His face was covered and a chemical smell, like bad dreams, filled his nose and mouth. ---- David McHale watched as the boy walked away. When his wife and child had disappeared after his car accident so long ago, he’d seen his son in every freckled, young face. He hadn’t felt that way in years, but here it was again. He sipped his coffee. They’d flown to Australia. Private eyes took half his income and only brought disappointment. He resolved not to bother the boy. David pulled out of the lot and followed his route home. A single set of tire tracks preceded him; the roads were empty tonight. He’d heard on the radio that a blizzard was coming in. The boy. The boy. David glanced over periodically as he drove. The kid had walked back in the same trail he’d broken on the way to the store. Smart. Missteps in the heavy snow left an occasional footprint, so he knew the kid had passed this way, but the trail died out in a few blocks. He pulled over. David shook his head. “Stupid,” he said to himself, but the thought of the boy wouldn’t go. He turned the car around and drove slowly. Retracing the trail, he found where the footsteps ended and got out of his car with a flashlight. The cold made his joints feel full of crushed glass. A mess of footsteps was concentrated in a dark driveway. Sweeping the flashlight back and forth, he found a half-eaten candy bar sticking out of the snow. Fresh tire marks pulled into the drive, then backed out and continued along the road. “Oh poo poo. gently caress.” He took out his cell phone, punched in 911, and then hit Cancel. What the hell would he report? He got back in his car and followed the tracks along a mess of residential road. They stopped at the garage door of a Victorian home with peeling, grey paint. David pulled into the driveway and parked. He sat there for a minute, thinking about what he would say, then got out of the car. A stocky man answered on the third knock. “What do you want? I’m eating dinner.” David took off his hat, revealing thinning, orange hair. “Look, this is going to sound crazy-“ “You!” The man pulled a pistol from behind his back. David reacted without thinking and brought his cane up, knocking the gun away, then swung it around into the man’s head. The solid mahogany snapped with a loud crack and the man dropped. “Oh God, this is bad.” He stepped over the unconscious body with some difficulty. The boy was tied to the dining table. “It’s alright, kid, I’ve got you.” David pulled out a pocket knife and cut the ropes. “What’s your name?” The boy looked up at him. “Jonas McHale,” he said, and his eyes widened. “Dad?” The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' but rather 'hmm... That's funny...'
|
|
#
¿
Nov 24, 2014 03:23
|
|