|# ¿ Jan 21, 2014 02:15|
|# ¿ Jun 17, 2019 12:54|
The Man From Beatosu, 900 words
Beatosu and Goblu
"Mr. Jones, I'm not sure exactly how to put this." I clicked my finger nails against the top of the interrogation table. "Beatosu is not a real town in Ohio. Neither your Social Security number has never been assigned, nor you driver ID number. By all indications, the entire official documentation of your life is impeccable fakes, with deliberately and blatantly false information."
I paused, letting the sound of my long nails on the table fill the room. I suppose I was hoping he'd say something, the man who didn't exist. But he had protested his innocence and demanded to be released hours ago. He had long since lapsed into silence with a perturbed look on his face. For him, it was a practical joke that had gone on too long. I sighed.
"Unfortunately, that doesn't really make sense, does it? A forger wouldn't waste his time creating a perfect document that doesn't meet basic scrutiny, and somehow I don't think you're the type for weird performance art. No, you are a man who isn’t real."
I stopped tapping my nails. The silence seemed oppressive in the room. I waited, resisting the urge to my fidget and adjust my blouse. The tactic worked, eventually.
"I was defensive end for the Beatosu Titans in 1992. I was in the year book; you'll see me in the team photo. I made the game winning tackle in the state championship. I was on the front page of the Goblu Herald." He leaned forward, his voice dropped to a whisper. "I exist!"
I pulled out my phone and searched. "Mr. Jones, the 1992 winner was Cleveland St. Ignatius. You didn't appear in the Goblu Herald. The Goblu Herald doesn't exist. Goblu doesn't exist." I handed him the phone, watched as he slowly scrolled between the images.
I carefully pulled the map out of the manila folder while he was looking at the phone. I opened it to the relevant section of the map. "Sir, take a look at this. Here is Archbold, and over here is Bono. Beatosu and Goblu aren’t on it. Beatosu was the invention of Peter Fletcher, the chairman of the Michigan State Highway Commission. I could bring you a hundred more maps, just like this."
He handed back the phone, and pulled the map towards himself. "I know this doesn't really make sense," I continued. "But I need you to help me out here. I need you to help me understand what the hell is going on. Because otherwise this is the situation we're facing: you're a man with no legal identity, and until we can figure out who you are and where you came from, we cannot let you go. It's simple a too big a risk."
The man gave a long exasperated sigh, and laid his head down on the desk. I took advantage of the moment to watch him again. He was older, starting to bald, and becoming soft around the middle, but you could see the athlete in him. He wore a plain, boring suit and tie, and a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. He looked absolutely unremarkable. I sighed, and looked over towards the mirror.
His snarl was the only warning, and thankfully it was enough. He lunged forward, teeth bared, arms outstretched. He grabbed the lapel of my jacket, and pulled. The FBI didn't train shrinking violets, though - I pulled back and down, using my superior leverage. He slid forward across the table, and I slammed down on the inside of his joints. He let go, and I slammed my fist into his nose. He slumped back across the table and into his chair, blood trickling down his face.
Michael was already at the door to the interrogation room, ready to drop the hammer on the poor bastard. I shook my head no, fixed my clothes, and grabbed the folder. We left, and I headed towards the coffee machine. Michael and the chief followed behind me. "Do you want to press charges?"
"Why?" I replied, filling up a paper cup with stale coffee. "He's already in the poo poo. A legal non-entity? He's lucky if he doesn't disappear outright."
"You actually think that?" Michael asked. "I mean, all that stuff you said about him not existing? It doesn't really make sense, you know. What, he just stepped out of the twilight zone?"
"Anything turn up in the database?" I asked in reply.
Michael shrugged. “No finger prints in the criminal database or from ICE, so no record and he didn’t immigrate legally from somewhere else. We’re still waiting on the DNA.”
“He won’t show up.” I said. “I can feel it.”
I opened the door to the observation room, gasped, and dropped my coffee. I could see clearly through the one-way mirror into the interrogation room - the completely empty interrogation room. Michael bolted to the second door, slammed it open, and looked around with bug eyes. He then went charging down the hallway.
The chief was more controlled in his response. He pressed the rewind button on the security camera. I stood behind him and watched the screen. The room was empty - and stayed empty, as I entered and talked to thin air. He glanced at me with a puzzled look.
"Well, that makes it a lot easier," I said. "You don't have to write up a case report when you arrest nobody."
|# ¿ Jan 26, 2014 09:50|
Thanks for the crits. I'm going in for round two with the 1960s.
|# ¿ Jan 28, 2014 06:31|
Kenya 1963, 917 words
You had heard the proclamation nearly a week after it had occurred. Your neighbor, the old grandma down the road, told you. You smiled, wished her well, and went inside. I don't know what reaction she expected, but it wasn't the one you gave her. Perhaps she wanted you to break down in tears, or raise a cheer to an independent Kenya. Instead, you grabbed three shillings and your pocket knife, and waited for evening. I waited with you to see what you'd do. The air was cool in the middle of winter, but you didn't seem to feel the chill. Soon, the shadows creeped across the fields. You got up, and I followed you.
You walked down the road towards town. I heard a dog howl off distance, and looked off across the plains. It was too gloomy to make it out, but the wretched creature sounded lost. I stopped for a moment, listening to the wind, and almost missed it when you turned down the road to Chief Ochuka's house. I wondered what business you had with that man, here under the cover of darkness. You knocked on the door, and I stood close behind you to hear your words.
He was a fat man, with a tailored shirt, and yellowy eyes that shined liked diamonds against his dark skin. I could remember the way his breath stank. I stood besides you as you stared into his eyes, patient but resolute. The Chief stared back, but for all his sins, he was an honorable man. He broke the silence first, saying that there was talk of a Human Rights Commission to investigate war crimes. You replied that you had given your word, just as he had given his. He sighed, and nodded towards the car. He said that it would be a long trip. You didn't say anything.
He drove with the music playing, while you stared off into the night. I sat on the roof, my legs dangling down between you. The air felt so cold, and sharp as daggers. I thought I heard the dog howl again, over the sound of the truck. I thought it sounded closer. Even as we drove further and further into the country side, it seemed to follow us. The night was so dark, and the stars looked so cold.
Eventually, Chief Ochuka turned down an abandoned and lonely road. The only marks were the overlapping tire tracks, and I wondered how many times the Chief had come here since that day. I wondered if he made the trip so that he wouldn't forget, and wouldn't break his word. I wondered if you noticed.
He stopped in front of the grave, unmarked and unadorned, just a bare patch on the ground. You got out, and the chief handed you a shovel. You dug quickly and efficiently. The years may have slowed you down, but you had always been a farmer. You knew how to move around some dirt. The Chief sat watching you from his car, smoking a cigar. I sat on your dirt pile, watching you dig.
Soon you uncovered your precious treasure. The nine bags were black with no symbols of any kind, and fastened shut with a heavy duty zipper. You opened one, and looked at the man inside. He had been dressed in the prison overalls, mostly rotted away into scraps. The face held no features, being little more than ugly brown bones. The cause of death was obvious, the bullet to the back of the head leaving a jagged hole. Any jewelry or other valuables had been looted.
You pulled the bags out and laid all nine open in front of you. The Chief shifted in his seat to watch more closely. You took your pocket knife and cut the palm of your hand. It was a small wound, but it bled freely. You sprinkled the blood across the bones. I stared as the one set of bones sucked up the blood greedily. You sprinkled more on the bones, just to be sure. Then you told the Chief that you had found your son's body. Blood would recognize blood.
The Chief had enough human decency to help you drag the body bag onto the bed of the truck. The two of you rode back in silence, not even the radio. I laid down next to the bones, wondering if I should feel something about having them in my sight. I didn't feel anything, even staring into the holes where my eyes had once been.
We reached the farm once again, and the Chief helped you drag the body from the truck. You thanked him, and he didn't say anything in return. He simply looked away, got in his truck, and drove off. You slowly dragged my body over to the grave. I remember how I watched you dig it, so long ago. You gently lowered me in. Morning was beginning to break by the time you had finished burying my body.
You smiled, staring at the grave marker with my name. Patriot and Beloved Son. I heard the dog howl again, but he wasn't alone anymore. A whole chorus of the creatures to praise the coming sun. The warm rays spread across a free Kenya. You went inside, and soon we were both at rest.
|# ¿ Feb 3, 2014 01:04|
You can do it! Don't give up!
I'll take the Toxx like a big girl.
|# ¿ Feb 3, 2014 03:44|
I'm in with Unbihexium.
|# ¿ Feb 4, 2014 04:30|
Theoretically Hopeful, 1132 words
I laid their silently, letting the cool night air blow across my body. Marie was laying next to me, also completely nude, but she was asleep. I could never fall asleep right after sex, not anymore. I was always too jumped up, too anxious. Too worried that the curse was about to settle in. Marie obviously didn't have that problem. She was on her stomach, face buried deep into her pillow. You could just barely hear the soft snores, a sort of breathy in and out. It was dark in my bedroom, but I could just barely make out her tan back against the white bed sheets. She was tall and thin, with a smattering of freckles over her skin. I felt awkward, watching her sleep, but there wasn't much else I could do at the moment.
The relationship always ended after sex. That's what was keeping me up at night - this curse on my head. She was a wonderful, great person, and I thought that I loved her very deeply, but I had noticed a pattern in my life. I swore to myself that I wouldn't open myself up like this again, let myself get hurt. But here I was, and now I was just waiting for the shoe to drop.
It hadn't been an easy pattern to notice at first, mostly because my relationships lasted much longer when I was younger. My first girlfriend, Sarah, we started dating the sophomore year of high school. We stayed together all the way through the first semester of college - she broke it off. The strain of a long distance relationship was too much, she said, and I didn't really disagree with her. I didn't know at the time that relationship would be my best, and my most stable one. Three and a half years, altogether, before an amicable break up.
I met my second girlfriend, Annie, at my university. That one lasted into the beginning of my junior year, until I found her sleeping with my room mate. It hadn't been the first time. So now we were at two years, before a terrible betrayal. After that was Lindsy, which lasted a year before a screaming, tear-filled fight. Jackie, three months. Beth, a month. Marsha, two weeks. Liz, seven days. It didn't matter how long we were dating before hand, as soon as sex came into the equation, the relationship was doomed, faster and faster.
The last relationship, before this one at least, had been the worst. I took a break from dating, to find out how to be happy with just myself. I didn't really like it that much - I guess you could say I'm an old-fashioned romantic. I wanted to love and be loved. I didn't see anyone, but I met this woman online. She lived in a relatively close city, and we started chatting. I really opened up to her, and she opened up to me. We had all the traits of a great relationship, everything you would consider typical, except for the physical connection. I thought maybe this time would be different. It was her idea to meet in person, and I took her around for a night on the town.
One thing led to another, and the inevitable happened. I remember vividly how it happened. I had just finished, and rolled off of her. She cleaned herself up, looked over at me, and said, "I don't think this is going to work. I'm sorry." And there was relationship number eight - lasted less then ten minutes after sex before it was over. You see what I mean about the pattern?
My friend Alfred started joking about it. Not in a mean way, you understand, but just pointing it out to me. I started noticing the pattern after Beth, and griped about it to him. After Marsha, he started saying that I was right, that my relationships were following a pattern of exponential decay. After Liz, he came up with the formula - 365 days over ten to the nth power times two, or something like that. He joked about how my relationship seemed to follow some sort of universal law. He was a chemist, and compared it to the instability of atoms - he was a real nerd like that.
He didn't joke about it after Jenna, the woman from online. I was pretty devastated by the whole thing, and he knew an open wound when he saw one. After a month of moping, he tried to cheer me up. He started talking about the Island of Stability - you had these bigger and bigger elements, and they became more and more unstable. But there was a theory that, through a lot of chemical mumbo jumbo, there was an atom that was massive, and yet stable. It had some weird, stupid name, but he kept talking about how it was double magic. It seems stupid when stated this way, but at the time it felt really encouraging. Despite this curse hanging over my head, there was still hope for me. Theoretical, unproven, but hope none the less.
Somewhere out there was the woman who was double magic, someone I could accept who would accept me, and there was hope for a long, stable relationship. I just had to keep trying.
That's when I had met Marie, entirely on accident. She had been beautiful, and wonderful, and an absolutely great friend. He considered just staying her friend, not making a move... but hope beckoned. He took a chance, and the date had gone wonderfully. So did the second, the third, and the fourth. And now I was here, awake, wondering when the curse would strike. There was no real answer - if they mathematical formula was correct, the relationship was already doomed. And if the Island of Stability existed, well, then there was nothing I could do about that either.
I sighed, rolled over, and went to sleep.
The smell of bacon frying woke me up in the morning. Marie wasn't next to me, and I looked around worried for a moment before the two facts connected. I grabbed a t shirt and headed out to the kitchen. There she was, as beautiful as ever, wearing my t shirt. I wondered about that - I had always seen women wear an old t shirt in the movies, but it seemed strange to see it real life. Then again, it's not like she had brought a change of clothes with her.
"You didn't have to make me breakfast," I said with a smile. "But I appreciate it."
"Well, next time you can wake up and make me breakfast instead," she replied.
"Next time?" I asked, trying to keep the hope and happiness out of my voice.
She gave me a strange smile, and said "We'll see."
|# ¿ Feb 10, 2014 04:49|
Did I say I was in? I don't think I actually posted that I was in.
|# ¿ Feb 14, 2014 05:07|
Memories, 857 words
Memories are a strange thing. We forget things that were important, and remember strange, unlikely details. It's hard not to wonder whether we really have a memory at all. Sometimes it feels like we're movie editors, splicing the shot right there in the projectionist's booth. Different details become emphasized and embellished, while other parts of our past are left on the cutting room floor, and all while it plays for the audience.
Take the memories of my parents' divorce. I have a lot of them, obviously. I remember some aspects of it so vividly that it feels like I could step back in time and relive them. Other moments - important moments, moments that must have happened - are barely vague recollections. What's remembered and forgotten seems random - the happy moments disappear just as quickly as the sad ones. The importance to my life doesn't seem to save those moments from the void either. Sometimes it's the inconsequential moments that I remember the most.
There is the day my parents' announced their divorce, for example. I had been away on a trip - I don't remember where, or why, or for how long. I just remember that I had been away, and I returned. I put down my suitcase, walked into the family room, and looked at the sad, sullen faces of my brother and sisters. And this is the moment where the memory because sharp, clear, and full of color. I decided to make a joke.
"Who died?" I asked my gloomy siblings
"Mom and dad's marriage," my sister replied with perfect comedic timing. Ba dum tish.
In hindsight, it seems hilarious, and perhaps a little bit scripted. At the time, I remember it feeling like a punch in the stomach. The moment begins to fade away after this. My mother walked in, and told me that she and Dad needed to talk to me. I think I remember her shooting a dirty look at my sister, but I can't be sure. As for what they told me, sitting in that other room, as they explained that Mom and Dad had because two separate entities - I have no recollection. Those words, those emotions, what you would think would be the most important thing that happened to me that day - they're gone. Completely forgotten.
All I really remember is setting up the joke like a pitch right over the plate, and my sister sending it out of the park.
But then there was the day I found out why my parents divorced - the real reason. My father and I were alone in the car. I don't remember where we were driving - out to dinner, or maybe to church. I just remember that we were in the car, and he matter of factually explained that he was gay. I don't remember how he said it, or the way he presented it. I just remember being trapped in that car, feeling intensely awkward while my father discussed his sexuality.
The actual memory is a vague impression, combined with the memory of watching The Squid and The Whale in an empty movie theater. Sometimes I remember it as if we were driving from that movie theater when he told me, even though it's impossible. That movie came out in 2005, and my father didn't come out until 2007. But that feeling of intense awkwardness, dealing with my father, our relationship, his sexuality, and the writing of Noah Baumbach - all those emotions make those disparate moments turn into a strange montage of discomfort. And yet, none of it really seems to exist as a true memory, something that I can look back and relive.
A few days after my father told me he was gay, I remember sitting around the kitchen table with my siblings and few friends. We were having a good time, just chatting. We started talking about our dad, and how surprised we all had been. A total shock, we all agreed. Something we couldn't really expect.
"But, well..." my brother said, "He did have that lifetime membership to Men's Health, and Dad's not really really a gym rat, is he?"
"No, you're right," I replied. "And he did have that book on his shelf, Curing Homosexuality Through Christ."
"And he started watching the Logo TV channel a whole lot after the divorce," my sister said. "I thought that was a little weird." It was about that moment that the conversation turned into us sheepishly admitting that maybe we shouldn't have been that surprised. Our friends started making fun of us after that.
Those memories remain so clear to this day, and yet they're really not important. Those moments I have forgotten should have been all important in my life. And yet, what I seem to remember in my life is whether something was comedic or not. Do you see what I mean about our memory being a movie editor? And the movie editor in my brain is trying to make a comedy-drama out of my gay dad's divorce.
And you know what? I think he's doing a pretty good job up there.
|# ¿ Feb 17, 2014 00:12|
Of course I'm in.
|# ¿ Feb 18, 2014 18:52|
Set: Alien Conquest Battle Pack
Flash rule: A briefcase of mistaken identity
Title: Alien Disguised!
Word Count: 453 words
The business man pulled the soggy piece of straw out of his mouth and threw it in the trash. He paced back and forth for a few minutes, and then pulled another piece of straw from his briefcase. He started chewing on it while staring.
"Are you sure he's our target?" asked the younger ASU agent. He was watching from a nearby van.
"He's been chewing on straw for 20 minutes now. That's not normal human behavior," the older agent replied.
"He could be trying to quit smoking?"
"If he's not an alien in disguise, I'll buy lunch from a year. Come on, lets grab him." The older agent grabbed the stun pistols and opened the van doors. They both started sprinting towards the business man.
"Don't move! ASU agents! Hands in the air!" The business man froze, the piece of straw hanging from his mouth.
The two teenage punk girls behind him did not. The air shimmered around them for a moment. Soon, the piercings and black clothing melted away. Instead, the two girls had been replaced by scaly green aliens. As one, the alien soldiers raised their disruptor rays.
"Get down!" the older agent shouted as he jumped behind a pile of garbage. Flashes of blue and green laser beams crisscrossed the city street. The business man stared in confusion.
"I'm going to save that civilian," the younger agent yelled as he bolted from cover.
"No, don't - UGH!" The younger agent looked back just in time to see the green laser hit his partner. The older man was knocked to the ground in an uncomfortable slumber. The agent raised his own pistol and stunned one of the aliens. He turned towards the second one, already knowing it was too late. He saw the beam coming at him, and felt it land a glancing blow on his shoulder.
Everything became a white blur. He blinked his eyes a few times, and shapes started to form. He was staring up at the sky, with the disruptor pointed squarely at his face.
"How did you know, Human Scum?" asked the alien. "Tell me, before I put you back to sleep!"
"We didn't," the agent croaked. "We thought it was him." He nodded towards the business man. The alien looked up just as the business man brought the briefcase down on the alien's head. There was a heavy THUMP, and the alien crumpled to the ground.
"Thanks," the agent coughed out as the man helped him up.
"You thought I was an alien?" he asked.
"You kept chewing on that straw," the agent replied, still doubled over in pain.
"I'm trying to quit smoking," the man muttered as he stared at the two unconscious aliens.
|# ¿ Feb 24, 2014 02:42|
It was a stupid activity. Carry a stone, it's someone that you lost - my grandfather. At the end, leave it.
I still have it, somewhere.
|# ¿ Feb 25, 2014 03:13|
I'm in, but I haven't heard from my partner-to-be? Email me when you get a chance, buddy, at my username AT gmail dot com if you picked a creature!
|# ¿ Feb 28, 2014 07:15|
I'm in, I want a flash rule, and I've been informed that mediocrity won't cut it anymore. If I'm not an Honorable Mention, then throws me on the loser pile.
|# ¿ Mar 18, 2014 13:36|
A Letter the Author Recieved in Middle School
Hey there, Yonie.
First, to your obvious question, don't worry about how I sent this. You'll figure it out, eventually. Or you'll take a different life path, and you won't. Doesn't really matter, really! But I don't have a lot of space and it's not really important, so on to the next question.
Yes, everything is fine. You turn out fine, your family is fine, you're leading a perfectly happy life. I am not writing to you because things have gone wrong, or because you need to save the future, or anything like that. This is not a Days of Futures Past scenario. It's just... well, I guess I'm just trying to save you some grief. Make things easier for you over the next few years, maybe help you along. See, you turned out fine, but you could be better. Things can always be better, you know? I'm happy enough, everyone else is doing okay, and things turn out alright in the end.
Well, let's start with the warnings. Your family is going to change, and things are going to be rough for a while, but you'll get through it. Ominous, I know, but really! Everyone makes it through okay, and there isn't anything you can do to stop it anyway. Just know that Mom and Dad both have (had? Will have?) their reasons, and they're very good reasons, believe me. But they both love you very much, and it's not you or the other kids' fault. You'll find out the reasons why later, but it's not my place to tell you. I know this is all very vague, but I just wanted you to know. Go easy on Mom and Dad, they're trying their best, and they really love you. Don't worry about your brother and sisters, they'll all be fine too, although it will seem a little dicey for a bit.
Next up, faith and God. I don't quite remember when I started losing it, but I think you're going through the process right now. If not, well, you're going to stop believing in God soon. I want you to know, you shouldn't feel guilty. Faith is a test, right? And tests can be, are meant to be failed. Well, you're one of the ones who failed that test, and there isn't anything you can do about it. Trying to fight that feeling, trying to go through the motions because you WANT to believe... it's not going to work. You'll just end up feeling like poo poo. But don't start any fights with Dad about it - God is pretty important to him, and you can give up a Sunday morning every week. Plus there's some pretty cool people there, if you get to know them.
High school... look, I know this seems very far away, but trust me on this: don't go to City Charter High. You won't like it and you'll end up transferring out after two years. Just go to Schenley and get in the IB program, especially their math and science classes. Just... trust me on this one, I know there's some people you want to get away from, but it really is the best option. But if you REALLY don't want to go to Schenley, you better get your portfolio together, because you'll want to go to CAPA. Either learn how to play guitar, or start writing, or pick up drawing. Just... don't go to City High. TRUST ME.
Also, do your homework. I know it sucks and it's boring, but you really shouldn't be getting Bs and Cs, and you're going to regret it later. Just... put the time in, please? It'll make things a lot easier for me, and I'll appreciate it, okay?
Finally, Marty.... Marty, Marty, Marty. Tell Mom about what he's doing. I know you don't want to make a big scene, or piss everyone off and get isolated, but what he's doing is messed up, and it isn't right. Even if you don't want to do it for yourself, do it for brother, do it for Kevin. You'll look back, and you'll regret your silence. This isn't just boys being boys, this isn't childish pranks. You come out of it alright, but you shouldn't have to deal with that sort of stuff. Tell Mom, and she'll take care of it. When Mom and Dad do find out, they'll believe you, and the bullying and the weird nudity stuff will stop. So, you know, bite the bullet and end it sooner. I know it's scary, but you'll feel better for doing something.
And this part is going to seem a bit odd, but just... save it for later when you're 18 or so. First, don't start smoking cigarettes. You'll get addicted and it'll be very hard to quit. VERY hard. Second, you do NOT have an addictive personality - cigarettes are just addictive in general. Mom isn't an alcoholic, she's just working through some issues and that just happens to be the lens that she's using. So don't be so afraid of drinking. Treat alcohol with the respect it deserves, but you don't have to be paranoid about becoming some homeless wino. Go out and enjoy a few parties, okay? Just remember, everything in moderation.
Well, I'm out of room. Sorry I can't be more helpful, but I'm not really too far away from you, and like I said - things mostly turn out alright. Try to have fun, make friends, and know that things will get better. Remember that your family loves you, and you'll meet some other very important people along the way, and they're going to love you too. Try to not worry as much! And one last piece of advice: 'getting in trouble' is mostly a fake thing, but Mom and Dad love you and are going to worry about you. So, you know, don't be so hard on them, but go out and enjoy life.
With all my love,
|# ¿ Mar 24, 2014 03:19|
|# ¿ Mar 25, 2014 22:42|
I take this one, along with EB's "The story must take place in a Baja Fresh that is going to be shut down in 24 hours".
Your character's talent was only important in the past. Your character is interested in the future.
|# ¿ Mar 26, 2014 04:35|
The Final Chore
I watched the M on the Walmart sign flicker on and off across the mostly empty parking lot. You know your town is hosed when even the big box stores are struggling, laying off the greeters and cashiers. The cash cow is getting sickly, and that meant death to the other stores in the strip mall.
I sighed, and locked the doors early. We hadn’t had a customer in an hour, and it wasn’t like they could fire me. Me and the rest of the crew at Baja Fresh Wiltonburg were going on unemployment, starting officially tomorrow. They had been very apologetic about not having any other management positions available for me.
“Linda, you can get out of here, I’ll finish closing down. You want something to eat?”
Linda looked up from mopping by the drink machine. She was pretty and blonde, in that strange middle age where they stop calling you ‘Girl’ but didn’t quite call you ‘Ma’am’. She probably could have skipped out of this town, if it wasn’t for her dad. Of course, right now she looked like she had just finished the majority of a fast food shift. Fluorescent lights and sweat aren’t exactly good on anybody’s complexion.
“Are you sure, Mike? I don’t mind sticking it out.”
I waved her off. “Don’t worry about it, the place is mostly closed anyway. Seriously, you want something to eat? On the house, for our very last customer.”
She smiled and ordered a burrito. I laid the ingredients out in a perfect distribution, as fast as she could say them, and folded the whole thing up with origami precision.Back when this store was still sometimes busy, I would fly through the customers, faster than the cashiers could ring them. They would end up in a big line, waiting to pay. Back before the rest of the managers quit, one by one, to move away or just stop working.
I handed the burrito to Linda. She smirked as she traced her finger across the invisible crease where I closed the tin foil.
“Something the matter?” I asked.
“No. I’m just still amazed at how you do it.” She held the burrito up like a trophy. “It looks like a bar of silver.”
I shrugged. “Practice, I guess. Eight years of repetition.”
She dropped it in her purse and gave me a smile. “Naw, you’ve got a gift. Too bad there isn’t a competition you could win. You’d be a natural.”
“Yeah, too bad,” I said with a forced chuckle. An awkward silence settled in. I didn’t really have anything else to say about burritos.
“Well…” She said finally, “I guess I should be going. I hope- Well, I hope I see you around, Mike. Don’t be a stranger.” She reached across the counter to hug me tight. I smelled faint shampoo, sweat, and salsa. She squeezed me around the neck, and I gently placed my hand on her back. I wanted to hold her forever, and I wanted this one last interaction before the end to be done with.
She finally let go, and opened her mouth as if she was going to say something else. A look passed over her eyes, and she turned away. She didn’t say anything else - just waved, and walked through the door. My eyes followed her every step until she was gone.
I sighed, and picked up the mop.
It didn’t take long to finish cleaning up and shutting down. Tomorrow, the Closers would come in to gut the place. They save everything of scrap value, and toss the rest. I doubted a few stray crumbs on the floor would bother them. All the drawers were pulled, and the safe was locked up. There was just one final task to do.
I sat in the back of the house, holding the pistol in my hand. My dad gave it to me when I graduated high school. It was a simple thing of metal and plastic, and felt heavy in my hand. I pressed the barrel against the bottom of my chin. The metal felt cold enough to burn. I steeled myself to pull the trigger.
Someone was knocking at the door.
I felt a mix of despair and relief. I slipped the safety back on, and put the gun back in my bag. Linda was at the front door, with a strange look on her face. The only car in the parking lot was mine.
“Hey?” I said as I unlocked the door. “What’s the matter?”
“I know this is going to sound weird,” She said, as she put a piece of paper with her number in my hand, “But I really liked working with you. I just didn’t want this to be the last time we saw each other. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to call me sometime. You know… ask me out on a date.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Yeah, I’d like that. You know, it just so happens I’m off work tomorrow…”
She giggled. “What a coincidence, so am I. Want to give me a ride home?”
“Sure,” I said. I grabbed my bag and locked the door. To hell with those drat burritos.
|# ¿ Mar 30, 2014 08:24|
Also gimme a flash rule you noob.
|# ¿ Apr 1, 2014 19:43|
The Holy Flame, 643 words
My future murder victim was in her townhouse. I rubbed my hands together and mimicked feeling the coldness of a Northeastern winter. I hadn’t been cold in a decade, but the ragged gloves and hole-filled boots on my feet wouldn’t normally be enough to keep a man warm. People noticed unusual details like that, and I didn’t want to be notice.
No one would notice the Judge however. Despite his bright flames that were hotter than any garbage can fire, I learned long ago that it had ways of going unnoticed. It was staring out of the alley at our target with its ring of eyes. The flames were muted tonight, and the rings were making gentle loops with each other, but I knew the Judge well enough to sense its impatience.
“Relax, she’s in there, and she isn’t coming out,” I said before holding up the dented can. “You’ll get your bounty come darkness.”
The Judge spun quicker in annoyance, but still took the can from my hand. The flames roared for a brief moment, and I could hear the contents boiling inside. The Judge dropped it at my feet. It wasn’t fine dining, but it was warm and filling. I scarfed it down.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I’m still quitting. Last one.”
The Judge didn’t even acknowledge me. It was too busy keeping watch. The darkness settled in like a blanket, and a light snow was beginning to fall. I could feel the temperature drop beyond the edge of its flames. It rattled its rings together, looking at me.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”
I had made a copy of the door key last night, and slipped in silently. She was sprawled out on the couch, half naked and surrounded by wine bottles. She snored softly. With one smooth motion, I covered her mouth and slit her throat.
Her eyes opened wide, and she started to thrash. The warm blood sprayed out, coating me and the couch in a sticky mist. She was stronger than she should have been, and she struggled long after a normal person would have died. The Judge watched closely until she finally stopped. I kept my hand on her mouth for a bit longer, until it finally rattled its satisfaction.
I took a hot shower and cleaned myself. I carefully stepped around the puddles, and made sure not to look at her. They didn’t look any different, and I always made me feel a little sick to look at the bodies. I let myself out, and walked briskly. Soon I was a good half mile away.
“I wasn’t kidding earlier,” I said finally. “I really am quitting. Higher orders or not. I’m done.”
The first time in ten years, I saw the rings stop moving. The absence of noise was louder than any thunder. I simply stared into its eyes.
Then the rings whirled into action, spinning around each other so fast that the Judge looked like a flaming sphere. The flames burned so hot that I thought I was going to die. I thought it was going to burn me to ash, rules or no.
And then it was gone, and the cold hit me. It slammed into me like a fist, knocking the breath out of my lungs and sending me to my knees. I froze down to my bones, and felt sharp pains in my mouth and nose whenever I breathed. I had forgotten what the cold could feel like. I had forgotten about how terrible the wind could be.
I look around desperately for help. The alley was abandoned, and I was alone. I stood up, and tried to walk on numb feet. I needed to get warm. I was so very, very cold.
I needed fire. Needed warm. So cold. Forgive me. I’m sorry.
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 01:42|
Post your story anyway, dweeb!
Well poo poo. Guess I'm definitely on for the next Thunderdome then.
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 03:00|
gently caress Your Rules, and I Don't Care It's Late, 114 words
We did not leave this world with nuclear glow,
Murder for a murder, sharing all blame.
Cover'd up in silence by dirty snow,
Those who survive wishing death by the flame.
Nor did we go off on some glory run,
Venture away from our belov'd sweet land,
To dance and mate under strange far off suns,
All men allied, gathered in one sole band.
We stay at home and fix on other things,
And age and grow and die and change our lines
Til man transforms into different strange beings.
We grow weary and sleep away all time.
"Is" is a thing but for a few moments
And "Is" becomes "What was" without torment.
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 21:42|
Yeah okay I'm in.
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 21:56|
Seagulls, Waves, and Salty Air, 821 words
"Antlers! Antlers! Antlers for sale!" The smelly bum was back again. This time he was hocking a set of old deer antlers that looked like he had stolen out of a dumpster for a taxidermy. I didn't have the energy to run him off. I waved my hand listlessly at him.
"Go bother someone else, you smelly bum," I said halfheartedly. I liked the pretend that he was running off business, but the reality was that the bar was doing badly anyways, bum with antlers or no.
The bum ignored me. "You want a pair of antlers, buddy!" He shouted at an older gentleman and his younger wife. The man ignored him, of course, but the woman gave a curiously evil look. I sighed, and waved my hands at the bum again.
He didn't ignore me this time. "Gimme a drink!" He shouted, shaking the antlers above his head. "Gimme a drink, and I'll give you a blessing."
"Would the blessing be you going away?" I asked.
"Maybe! Make it something fruity!" He waved the antlers at me. I shrugged, and poured a bit of orange juice into a glass, a splash of vodka, and my own special blend.
"Fruity for an old fruit. Now get on, you!" I handed it to him and slouched back behind the bar. The bar had been a great idea at the time - warm fresh air, the breeze over the ocean, only having to work during the tourist season. I dropped a significant but not unmanageable bit of my life savings into the place, and lived a life of blissful early retirement. Southern Florida was really quite a nice place, for a certain kind of life.
And then the chains came in. Sure, I was established enough to be local color by that point, but the tourists and the drunk college kids didn't want to try something too new and exciting. The Margaritaville to the left and the Calico Jack's to the right had dried up my business, and the last two seasons had kept me barely out of the red.
"My god! You genius! You mad genius!" The bum was shouting again. I barely mustered the energy to look up. "A thousand blessings on you, barkeep! This is the best drat drink I've ever had!"
"Oh hush," I muttered, feeling mocked.
"No, really! I'm serious!" The bum was pressed against my bar. "This really is the best drat screwdriver I've had. And I've been boozing up and down this coast since Hemingway showed up. You gotta tell me, what's in it!"
"Hush!" I said, really annoyed. "It's a secret, okay."
"A secret recipe, well I'll be! The most delicious screwdriver on the Florida coast, and the recipe is a secret! It's delicious." A small crowd was starting to gather, kept mostly at bay by the ragged man shaking a pair of antlers in one hand and an orange drink in his others. "Tell me, tell me, who gave you this heavenly recipe. Your grandfather?"
"Yeah," I said quietly, "My old papa taught me. And It's a family secret, so don't ask again!"
"Take it to your grave, you beautiful man! It's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted! Your grandfather must have been half angel! Bravo, bravo!"
I was so distracted by the show the bum was putting on, I didn't notice the beautiful woman sliding up to the bar until she tapped me on the arm. "I'll have what he's having," she said.
She was pretty. Really pretty. So pretty that I couldn't find the words to answer her, so I just nodded dumbly and made her the drink. She gulped it back in a way that was somehow plain and incredibly arousing. The bum and I both waited for her verdict.
"This is really good," she said, barely above a whisper. The result was like the dam breaking. The tourists and college students and locals streamed in, and I could barely keep up with them. In a few hours I made more money then I had all week. Despite the crowd, the woman hung around until closing time. I chatted with her when I could. Her name was Marie, and she was some sort of marketing guru. I joked about being a business wizard.
"Well, you've certainly still got the touch. This is a wonderful place you've got here," she said with a smile.
I shrugged. "Not really. It's hard to compete with the surrounding bars. Usually we're not this busy."
"That's just a matter of exposure," she replied. And then she started listing all the ways the raise the bar's presence, and how she was looking to retire early, and if maybe I was free tonight to go dancing, and if I was looking for a business partner.
I didn't even notice the smelly bum rattling his antlers behind the older man from earlier, looking for his missing wife.
|# ¿ Apr 14, 2014 02:24|
Yeah Okay I'm in.
|# ¿ Apr 15, 2014 09:26|
I suppose I should do something with my life. I'm in.
|# ¿ Nov 18, 2014 23:57|
The two detectives reminded me of Laurel and Hardy as they moved to intercept me. Of course, I didn’t realize they were police at the time, but it wasn’t hard to figure out they were coming for me by their walk. Before the fat one, Hardy, even flashed his badge, I already had my hands raised for a mugging.
“We’ve got a few questions for you,” Laurel said as he snaked his bony fingers onto my shoulder. “We’re hoping you could come with us.”
“Am I under arrest?” I blurted out as they lead me towards the Crown Victoria.
“We just have a few questions about your friend Pinky we’d like to ask you at the station,” Hardy replied as he slumped into the driver’s seat.
Ah, my friend Pinky. I already didn’t like where the situation was going. I shouldn’t have been friends with the man. Nothing about him or me seemed to suggest camaraderie from our respective appearances. Other people gave us funny looks at the bar, and to be perfectly honest, I didn’t blame them. When I looked at Pinky, really looked at him, I almost couldn’t figure it out myself.
There was his nickname, for one. It was ridiculous, the name for a bumbling mook thrown into the movie for laughs. There was the way he dressed – an old wife beater in the summer with sweat stains in the summer. In the winter he wore a heavy duty hoody with the Steeler astroids on the chest. I never saw him wear an actual winter jacket. He’d complain about the cold and the terrible weather we were always having, but I never believed it. The man was most comfortable when the ground had frost. He drank SoCo or Yuengling exclusively. He talked with that thick Appalachia accent, and dropped random words out of his sentences. If this city – the old city – could have been distilled down into a single person, Pinky would have been a pretty close resemblance. He matched the archetype of the Lumpenproletariat left behind when the Steel Mills moved south.
And as for me, I was the new city. The universities and hospitals, indie music venues and gay clubs. I had moved here from California to pursue a mathematics degree at Carnegie Mellon. Back home, I had felt like the level-headed, down to earth person in all of La Jolla. I suppose every teenager feels wise beyond their years, but the gulf between me and the shallow plasticity of my peers had seemed immeasurable. At the time, I had thought California was a ridiculous place, inhospitable for anyone with half a brain or soul.
Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Pittsburgh. I had missed the warmth and sun first, as their absence was the most dramatic, but it was just the tip of the iceberg. At home, I was thoughtful and subdue. Here, I came off as an overblown glittery male version of Nicole Ritchie. I hated the New City, and the New hated me. I had seen the glamour and flashiness of LA, and the backwater rendition of it on the East Coast did not compare. I suppose I was a little bit too obvious with my distaste when I first arrived, because the local scene closed itself against me with remarkable swiftness.
So I ended up celebrating my 20th birthday alone, drinking cheap beer at the Backyard Bar, and miles away from the college watering holes. They didn’t card, and I didn’t care. I had simply wanted to efficiently become plastered with minimum pleasantries. Of course, Pinky had sidled up next to me with that bizarre local obsession with starting conversations with total strangers. He got me talking, despite my best efforts otherwise. He started explaining baseball like it was something we didn’t have in California. He was the warmest, most humane person I had met in that entire city. So, I spent the next five years drinking with him.
I didn’t say any of that to Detective Hardy.
“You listening to me, kid? I asked you what your relationship with Pinky is.” He rolled out of his chair and stood next to me, overwhelming my nose with his cheap cologne.
“You should answer the man, kid. My partner can get a little antsy.”
The interrogation room didn’t look like what they show in the movies. There was no large, one way mirror on the wall, and the whole thing was smaller than I expected. Between the desk, two chairs, and three of us, it felt intolerably crowded. I focused on the fluorescent light overhead as steeled my nerves.
“I’d like to call my lawyer, please.”
Hardy chuckled. “You hear that, partner?”
Laurel nodded. “Sure did. Fairy wants a lawyer. Fairy thinks he’s under arrest.”
“Fairy thinks he knows how this loving poo poo works.” I couldn’t look at the light anymore as Hardy stuck his fat wobbly face in front of mine, close enough to kiss. “You don’t know loving poo poo. Lemme explain to you how this poo poo works. You’re loving drinking buddies with a thug, and we’re taking you in for questioning. We can question your stupid loving rear end for 24 hours, for no reason at all.”
“It’s the law,” piped in Laurel.
“So you’re going to tell me all you know about Pinky and his buddies, or we’re gonna throw you in the shark tank. Capiche?”
I tried to keep my face impassive and emotionless. I knew exactly what they were talking about – you don’t spend five years drinking with someone and not figure out their day job. Pinky had been a boxer back in the day. A good one, apparently, until a bad match ruined him. After that he took his disability check and ran numbers on the side. I never really bought it, him being a bookie. Pinky wasn’t really good enough with numbers. But the other bookies would come find him every now and then, and they’d have a brief little conversation about so and so, and how much they owed. You didn’t have to be too street smart to figure out what was going on.
Despite my best efforts, I was cracking under Hardy’s invasion of my personal space. The fat bastard must have picked up on it, too. “You’ve got something to say, Fairy?”
I gulped a few times before I could get out a loud, definitive “No.”
I didn’t see the punch coming. There was no transition between that one word and me lying on the ground. The left side of my face was an angry red ball of hatred, and Laurel was pulling a screaming, beet faced Hardy away from me. Two uniformed police officers came in and pulled me to my feet before dragging me out of the room.
The holding cell wasn’t what I expected either – there was no iron bars across the front, for one thing, and the hardened criminals inside looked a bit rough, but generally normal. I didn’t doubt that I would come out worse in any confrontation, though. The two officers dropped me in a heap in the middle of a room, and locked the door with a laughing “Have fun.”
“Jesus, Kid, how’d you wind up in here?” I wiped a tear away and didn’t recognize the voice at first. It was one of the regulars from the Backyard Bar, Tony I think his name was. He pulled me to my feet and led me towards a corner.
“They wanted to know about Pinky,” I replied.
“Did ya say anything?” A deep voice rumbled behind me, coming from large man with a crooked nose and bruised knuckles.
“No,” I replied. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t say a word,” I repeated, more forcibly this time. That was the last of my troubles in the cell.
Laurel and Hardy checked on me a few times, and eventually gave up. By the time they released me, the buses had long stopped working and my cell phone was dead.
“Any chance I could get a ride home? Use the pay phone?” I asked. The officer at the front desk pointedly ignored me. I sighed, and committed myself to the long walk home. I didn’t make it the whole way down the block before Pinky pulled up beside me.
“Hey, kid,” he said. I noticed he wouldn’t look me in the eyes. “Lemme give you a ride home, alright? To make up for the trouble.”
“Thanks,” I said. And then, after a pause, “I didn’t say anything.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid. It doesn’t matter."
“Still. I didn’t say anything."
There wasn’t much else to say on the rest of the ride home. He pulled up in front of my apartment. And then he reached over and gave my hand a tight squeeze.
“Thanks for not saying anything.”
I squeezed his big, callused hand back. “Anything for a friend.” I let go after a moment. “You going to be around next week?”
“Yeah,” Pinky said with a big grin. “See you next week, kid.”
Don't be friends with the dog, for the tail will show it.
|# ¿ Nov 24, 2014 09:40|
I think I can do better this week. In.
|# ¿ Nov 25, 2014 04:34|
It's Late And I'm Tired - In Blue Hawaii
The desert air was dusty and dry, with just the smallest hint of the coming night chill. It was a splendid view, the vibrant hues of the Texas sunset splashed across the wide open sky, and Jordan could only think about how much he wanted a drink. He felt like his mouth was full of dust, even after he took a swish of water and spit it out. The ground drank it greedily.
The initial 24 pack had run out halfway through the third day. The emergency fifth of vodka had gotten him through the rest of that day and into the evening of this one, but now he was bone dry and Thanksgiving weekend still had another day to go. Jordan cursed himself for agreeing to stay until Monday night. He thought he had prepared for a long weekend in a dry county, but he hadn't anticipated how thirsty Pa would make him.
Pa stood a dozen yards back, staring up at the sunset with open awe. Jordan wondered if the old man was putting on a show for him - nobody could spend every day on the same drat land and still be amazed by how the sun looked when it set. He must be trying to impart some wisdom by example on his son - enjoy the little things, or some other cookie cutter bullshit.
"You alright, Pa?"
"Shut up," the old man replied.
Jordan shook his head and took another sip of water. Hot or cold, it didn't matter - dry was dry. Hardy scrub brush and coyotes were the only things that grew out here naturally. Everything else survived on the stream from the mountains, harnessed and exploited by Pa's irrigation system.
Finally, the sun set enough and the air cooled enough to goad Pa back into action. The man was older, sure, with tanned and weather beaten skin. But he still had good knees, and could move spry enough for now. The religious avoidance of tobacco, drink, and caffeine probably didn't hurt either. A long long life not worth living, out here in the middle of nowhere.
He caught up, and the two walked back towards the farmhouse in silence. Jordan wished he was back in California, with the warm sun and cool ocean breeze and vibrant, energetic nights. Out here there was only the land, the sky, and the buzzing insects.
"I'm thinking of retiring," Pa said. "Too much work out here for one man alone."
Jordan skipped step, and then caught up. "You're going to sell the ranch?"
"Maybe," the old man said with a sideways glance.
"What's for dinner? Turkey?"
Jordan felt jittery and dried out. He shifted back and forth in his seat while Pa sat in his recliner. They were listening to some old preacher blather on the garden of Eden and the desert of Mesopotamia.
"You can NOT return to the Garden of Eden, you can NOT undo eating from the Tree of Knowledge, there is NO choice but to toil in the soil..."
"Oh, turn it off, Pa. I know you want to talk."
The preacher's voice disappeared in a burst of static, and the sound of the Texas night filled the room. Pa didn't move, and Jordan tried to stop his fidgeting.
"I built up this land as best I could," Pa finally said, quietly. "My father had worked his fingers to the bone for the profit of other men. He dried himself out in that sun, and irrigated himself with what little pay he had on drink."
"I resented him for that. I swore I would make myself as different from him as could be. Not a drop of drink would pass my lips, and no man but me would benefit from my toil. All these years, I held that drinking against him, hated him for it."
"Don't take the Lord's name-"
"NO SERMONS." Jordan half rose from his chair, his loud voice bringing true silence to the house. The two men paused, and slowly the sounds of night faded in.
"No sermon," Pa repeated. "No preaching. I just... I want you to understand. I held a grudge against that man for almost my entire life. It shaped me down to my very bedrock, and... well, it wasn't for the better."
Jordan settled back into his chair. He wanted a cold beer, he wanted a glass of wine, he wanted a manhattan. He sipped the glass of water.
"When your mother left, I couldn't really blame her. She couldn't grow here, my heart was too hard. I tried my best to raise you, Jordan, as best I could. I tried to make you the sort of man I wanted you to be."
"Pa... you've got a point somewhere in all this? If this is some woe is me story..."
"No, no, I've got my regrets," Pa started, but Jordan cut him off.
"I won't apologize for leaving, I won't apologize for California, I won't."
"I'm not saying that-"
"Then what? What are you trying to tell me, Pa? You tell me that you want to retire, but don't want to sell the farm. You start telling me all these things you've never said, how you don't hate my mother for leaving you for California." Jordan raised his voice and spoke faster, the words spilling out. "But I don't believe you. I don't believe that you don't hate her, that you don't hate me for leaving, don't hate me for bringing drink into your little paradise, leaving you to do all the work, but I don't believe it. So spit it out, Pa, speak the truth! Say what you're trying to say!"
"I'm dying," the old man said quietly. "The outside is just fine, but the inside is run down and it just won't work right no more."
The words were quiet, but Jordan leapt from his chair. His face was red, his hands were balled into fists, like the old man had slapped him. He paced back and forth, his whole body a tense ball of anger. Pa watched him placidly from his chair.
"I won't come back," Jordan finally muttered through gritted teeth. "This isn't my home."
"That's what I'm trying to say, Jordan. That's what I'm trying to make you understand, make sure we both know where we stand." Pa reached out and grabbed Jordan's hand, stopping his back and forth motion. "I made myself hard, I made myself dry, and I made a life on this bit of dirt. But when you left - when she left - I don't hold it against you."
"What'll happen to the ranch, Pa?"
"I'll sell it, to the hospice. It'll cover my care, and even a little bit for you. The scrub grass... it grows deep, thick roots. It's the only way to survive. But the day you left, I saw you had no roots here."
Pa stood up and went into the kitchen. When he returned, he held a dusty wine bottle in his hand, two glass cups in his other. Jordan stared as the old man poured the blood red liquid.
"I bought this for your mother, on our anniversary. The shop keep ordered it special from California, warned me it'd take 30 years to mature. Spent a pretty penny on it, had some romantic notions on the gesture. It's a couple years early, but..."
Pa took a long slow sip, then closed his eyes. It reminded Jordan of how he looked in prayer.
"Son... you'll do just fine in California. Let your roots grow deep out on that coast."
Jordan picked up his own cup and took a sip. It was good enough.
|# ¿ Dec 1, 2014 06:53|
Yessssssss, may the thousand year reign of darkness begin.
|# ¿ Dec 2, 2014 00:55|
Week 122: Bar-back
Ah, alcohol. So many cliche quotes, so many tropes, so many boring, overdone stories. To hear writers talk about it, you're all a bunch of depressed booze hounds who can't get through a paragraph without a half dozen shots. Well, nuts to that. You lot are going out this week, and by Gawd you're going to have a nice time.
You will be given the name of a cocktail. Interpret it however you like, write any sort of story you want... except:
1.) Your story cannot be centered around alcohol
2.) That means you can't write about an alcoholic's downward spire
3.) Nor can you write about the 'greatest party ever'
4.) If you write about buttery nipples I will find you and cut you. (No erotica)
Sign up by: Midnight EST on Friday, December 5th
Submit by: Midnight EST on Sunday, December 7th
Word Count: 1000
The Collection of Disappointments to Their Families:
N. Senada - Agent Orange
newtestleper - Sundowner
Your Sledgehammer - Four Score
blue squares - Orange Tundra
ZeBourgeoisie - Blue Lagoon
Grizzled Patriarch - Dark and Stormy
Ironic Twist - Salty Dog
Systran - Caju Amigo
Fuschia Tude - Shandy
The Saddest Rhino - B&B
QuoProQuid - The Monkey Gland
Obliterati - The Goldeneye
J.A.B.C. - Jack Rose
JcDent - Staten Island Ferry
Cacto - Amber Moon
Benny the Snake - Caribou Lou
Pete Zah - Irish Coffee
Meeple - French 75
Entenzahn - Fluffy Critter
Fumblemouse - Cyprus
Hammer Bro. - Harvey Wallbanger
kurona_bright - Hurricane
SealHammer - Tom and Jerry
Auraboks - Gunfire
Baby Babbeh - Screwdriver
Tyrannosaurus - El Presidente
Boozahol - Wolfram
Phobia - Bloody Aztec
Clandestine! - Red Lotus
Liam Emsa - Greyhound
ollyd3000 - Black Russian
Jonked fucked around with this message at Dec 7, 2014 around 20:45
|# ¿ Dec 2, 2014 01:50|
In all the way for this,
Oh, and in for this week.
Jonked fucked around with this message at Dec 2, 2014 around 02:13
|# ¿ Dec 2, 2014 02:11|
Caju Amigo (Friendly Cashew)
In like a VCR-C adapter with
Also IN. Gotta keep this train a-rolling.
|# ¿ Dec 2, 2014 02:33|
The Monkey Gland
Don't drink, but I'm in.
In. Let's give it another go.
|# ¿ Dec 2, 2014 03:05|
Staten Island Ferry
I'm in, let's write about alcohol without mentioning alcohol!
I'm in for cocktail-based storytelling.
Hit me, bartender.
I'll take a drink.
Time to get back on the wagon.
|# ¿ Dec 2, 2014 15:38|
This thread makes me giggle.
In for this week. Never been drunk before.
Tom and Jerry
I, too, would like to write a non-alcoholic alcohol story.
In. , obviously. Wouldn't want my thumb to get stuck up my rear end again.
In. since that seems to be the only way I can motivate myself not to fail miserably, forever.
|# ¿ Dec 3, 2014 01:51|
With a username like mine, I can't skip this week. I'm in.
Also, sure, why not?
|# ¿ Dec 4, 2014 05:33|
Aw, drat I missed it by two hours.
~9-ish Hours Left!!!!
|# ¿ Dec 5, 2014 20:32|
where's my goddamn drink assignment you idiots
|# ¿ Dec 6, 2014 01:53|
|# ¿ Jun 17, 2019 12:54|
Crabrock, you get Zombie!
And with that, submissions are closed. If you missed the cut off, we still need a third judge...
|# ¿ Dec 6, 2014 05:20|