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I'm in for the first time, figure a new year is a good time to try something new! I would say go easy but this is thunderdome so go BRUTAL
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Jan 2, 2014 19:43
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 02:50 |
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Entry for Thunderdome LXXIV: Y Tu Thunderdome!? Word Count: 801 Where It Went Wrong Sometimes she is positive that what happened between them was preordained, an inevitability of their prior trajectories, mutually hopeless parabolas. That there was never any possibility of things ending up different from the way they did. Other times she explores her memories, searching for the source, searching for one decision or one comment or one scene or one aspect. Searching for the reason why everything started to go from good to bad. She worries at the memories like a new scar, uncomfortable and itchy but not as painful as it once was. Instead of pain there is hate and frustration. If the resulting disaster was never in question, then obviously it began when they first met. She was a girl fresh out of her small town in the middle of the country, diving headfirst into the freedoms and possibilities of independent life. He was a clever boy just starting at a good university, carrying two ounces of cocaine which he excitedly explained would serve as seed money and ensure a comfortable college lifestyle. He shared it out generously to her and others that night, all of them talking excitedly of their new lives and the futures they might hold. Eventually it was just the two of them, sharing their stories in a frenzied rush that could never last. At that point it felt like it could. She was beautiful, and eager, and not without her own intrigue. But he was so exciting. He had lived in other countries, spoke foreign languages, done dangerous things and consorted with unpredictable people. He had a dark, acquisitive nature which no amount of experiences seemed to satisfy. To her he seemed brim-full with potential. She was already in love. Perhaps the moment everything was set in motion was two nights later, when they took ecstasy and slept together for the first time. They told each other and themselves that they were in love. But where else is hate born than from the midst of love? And their love was so strong in that first year, a powerful magic which could close any wound, soften any confrontation. “You are the thing I've been searching for, the thing that I have needed all my life to satisfy me,” he told her one night. She believed him unquestioningly and it made her feel amazing to be valued in such a powerful way. Now she is disgusted with her naivete. Maybe the pivotal moment was countless long nights and many shuddering orgasms later, when they decided to move in together. This was only logical. It was the next step, they figured. A stepping-stone on the way to some unspoken but imagined blissful future, one where they would live together in domestic satisfaction. Not having roommates would also allow the ever-increasing drug-dealing to go more smoothly. One night, on a powerful mix of narcotics and stimulants, they had a threesome with the girl’s best friend, who at the time was living on their couch. Although then she was excited by it, the girl concedes that this was possibly a mistake. Especially considering the series of mutual betrayals that came later. By the time he caught her sleeping with his best friend the crucial moment had certainly already passed. He had by this point begun using heroin frequently and he never wanted to go out and party like they used to, instead preferring to sit around the apartment. She figures that it wasn't a big surprise she got bored and wanted something else. He certainly felt differently. He always had a way with words, but now the same eloquence which would always cheer her up through laughter or fascination was turned against her. Their arguments were knife-fights: brutal, up-close, and intensely personal. She likes to think she gave as good as she got. She smiles an ugly smile at the thought. The last month, forced to continue cohabiting due to rental conditions, was the worst. Their shared space was a miasma of guilt and hate and crushing sadness. His not-inconsiderable drug use seemed to triple. He blamed her for most everything, but it's obvious to her that it was his fault. She sits there, thinking of him. She thinks of the good times and the bad times. She wonders how long it will be before she stops hating him. And how long after that before she stops loving him. She knows that there must have been some turning point, or some underlying aspect of their relationship which made certain it would end up as it did. However, she can never seem to put her finger on it. Hoping to break out of her painful reminiscences, she leans forward to have a quick line. The resulting rush, diamond-hard and pleasant, does seem to help. So she has another.
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Jan 5, 2014 15:00
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Roguelike posted:****************** Hey I am really really grateful that you took the time to give me some feedback on my story and I think it was really good feedback too, the kind that I learn a lot from. I'm glad you sorta kinda didn't completely hate it too! Your effort in judging is much appreciated here. For my money (note: I don't actually have money) I really liked the premises of crabrock and petrol blue's stories, you guys got me really interested and I thought the execution was good too, so thanks for the stories. Finally, I'll probably regret this but count me IN
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Jan 7, 2014 15:13
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This prompt was tough and a bit awkward. Went thought a lot of other ideas before pounding this one out. This is my first time using first person, and probably about my fourth fiction thing ever written; I hope it doesn't betray that too much! I was gonna give up, but gently caress that. Terminator Word Count: 1,217 I got the call from the priest partway through breakfast. If you can call coffee spiked with whiskey breakfast. “Stanko pest control,” I said, struggling to sound alert and enthusiastic, neither of which I could actually claim to be. It was the pastor over at the fundie church on Mission. He said he had seen my ad in the phone book and needed some help. That was a surprise. The ad in question was shamefully unprofessional and I don’t think it had won me a customer in all its years of service. Then again, with all that’s happened recently, pest control is what they call an expanding sector. “Of course, Father. What kind of problem are we looking at?” I asked. Do you call pastors father? I couldn't remember. “Why don’t you just come down here and take a look? I’ll explain when you get here.” I raised an eyebrow at no one. It’s a bad habit. “Um, okay. No problem. Just so you know though, there’s a, uh, consulting fee.” “That’s perfectly fine, see you soon.” I finished off my coffee and grabbed my flask, checking myself in the mirror on my way out. It wasn't too pretty, but I told myself it could've been worse. Debatable. When I turned on the truck the radio started blaring. Obviously I had been blasting it pretty good when I drove home last night. “–WITH THE WORLD OVER STILL TRYING TO COME TO GRIPS WITH THE—.“ I hastily turned it down, but as I pulled away from the house I listened to a bit of the morning news. People still freaking out. Small-scale flash conflicts breaking out in various places, for all the good it will do. Scientists at the WHBCD still trying to explain the unexplainable to people unequipped to understand any of it. The news hadn’t changed much since the whole thing went down. Thinking about death and immortality always got me thinking about Jason, though, so I turned the radio off and drove in silence, trying to enjoy my inadequate buzz. I wanted to have a swig, but didn’t want to stink of liquor when I arrived at the customer’s place, so I didn’t. I tried to think about the job. For obvious reasons, pest control had gotten pretty huge recently. Being a small-business owner, with one employee (me), I was still waiting for my ticket to the gravy train. Maybe this could be it. I specialized in large animals, which were already pretty expensive to handle, and with no one looking over your shoulder the prices of everything could be inflated pretty easily. Not to mention the new serum that was necessary, the one I had to fill out what seemed like millions of forms to get a license for. So pest control could be very lucrative taking into account the new circumstances. More money for whiskey, I thought wryly. When scientists did that thing they did and everything stopped dying all of a sudden, I had no reason to be less surprised than anyone else. I was also angry, however. Let’s say it didn’t really come at a good time for me. But now I was thinking about Jason again, and I ended up taking a couple swigs anyways to distract myself. When I finally got to the church, I grabbed my clipboard and knocked on the front door. The place was pretty impressive for this town. Clean white stone of some sort, tall bell tower, that sort of thing. The man who answered was a pretty common-looking guy with black robes of some sort and a sweaty face. He was a bit intense, but I suppose that’s what made him such a good priest. He invited me in, and told me the problem was down in the basement. That’s pretty common, so I followed him there. On the way he tried to make small talk, asking my opinion on all the recent craziness. Like I said it’s not a topic that I try to dwell on, so I asked him about his pest problem. But he also seemed hesitant to discuss that, so we ended up walking in silence. I followed him down into the basement. My eyes were beginning to adjust when all the sudden he flipped on the lights, making me squint. When I looked around, I saw a bunch of people standing in a rough semicircle facing me. There were thirty of them or so. They looked very normal except perhaps a bit more straight-laced than most. Their clothes were very fine, and jewelry glittered at finger and wrist and throat. “Okay, so what’s this about?” I said. This was pretty creepy. “I’m not interested in your religious stuff so don’t even try it.” “Don’t worry, Mr. Stanko!” The priest's too-loud voice spoke from behind, startling me. He was still sweating profusely, even though the temperature was on the cold side. “We’re not so much interested in your eternal soul, but rather our own.” This sounded pretty ominous to me for some reason, and I started to back away. “Please, don’t be alarmed Mr. Stanko, we mean you absolutely no harm. Let me explain, briefly . . .” Trust me, it was not brief. The gist of it, though, was that these people were very serious Christians, and they saw the recent immortalization (is that a word? It should be, regardless) of everyone and everything in the world a terrible affront to their beliefs. I began to see where this was going. “No, I won’t do it. Don’t you see how much trouble that could get me into?” I could go to prison, I could lose everything I have,” I said. “Nonsense. Nobody knows we called you, that’s why we specifically chose the smallest operation we could find in the area.” Well, that explained the ad. “Moreover, I called you with a throwaway phone. As long as we make this quick, there will be no problems!” He shook his head convulsively, spraying me with sweat. Suddenly, his expression softened and he smiled, making him appear even more disturbing than before. “Do you think it’s right that we were given no choice in this matter? Are you perfectly happy with what they've done to us?” The priest’s manner did nothing to convince me, but his words found a soft spot. In fact, I wasn't happy with how things were. I thought about Jason, my beloved son dead mere weeks before the “breakthrough”. I thought about myself, my alcoholism and my grief and my bitterness. I thought about the fact that it would never end. “You might have a point, father.” I withdrew my flask and drained half of the remainder, now that we were partners in crime rather than business associates. “I’ll sell you the stuff you need—at an enormous markup, and I hope you understand its not cheap to begin with—but I won’t help you do the deed.” The priest smiled in what appeared to be genuine happiness and relief. He moved closer. “Maybe you would like to join us, Mr. Stanko?” ha asked quietly. I hesitated. I actually hesitated. But then I shook my head. This wasn't my style. And besides, should I change my mind, I would always have the means.
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Jan 12, 2014 18:43
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