|# ¿ Jan 4, 2016 22:06|
|# ¿ Oct 25, 2021 16:10|
Pick a glitch for me, old man.
|# ¿ Jan 5, 2016 00:02|
All of you are dumb and salty for no reason.
|# ¿ Jan 5, 2016 16:32|
Bindings "error when a cult leader drinks laudanum and decides to leave their cult" (+200 words)
With one hand braced against the headboard, David scoured the freckles and curves of Bree’s lissome frame in hopes of finding something to fault. True, her face left a bit to be desired; her gapped teeth and crooked nose weren’t the picture of beauty, but David found them charming all the same. She had nice tits and smooth, delicately tapered legs that called out for him to run his tongue from calf to thigh before plunging it somewhere deeper, and then filling the space with a harder part of himself.
Yet here he was, watching his cock wither away in his palm.
“Issues?” Bree asked.
“Just feeling a little anxious,” David said. “Got any beer or anything?”
David recalled a gold sedan that the two had passed on the ride back from the bar. Everytime he thought about her, David returned to that image: a missing passenger side mirror, mismatched hubcaps, a driver in a knitted black skullcap, his face covered in a heavy blonde beard. In that momentary passing on a hot summer’s night’s asphalt, David thought of a similar car that he once knew years ago and the blonde haired boy who drove it.
“You really know how to make a woman feel wanted,” Bree declared from the bedroom doorway, wearing nothing but her socks. Moments after she vanished behind the moulding and drywall, David was on his knees--his scraggly toenails catching on the Chenille bedspread--and peeping through the blinds into the night.
Bree emerged with a half empty bottle of rosé. “This’ll have to do,” she said as she shimmied into the bed. A droplet of sweat rolled from the bottle, landing on Bree’s stomach before coming to rest in the gentle cradle of her navel. David wanted to suck it out.
Instead, he took a long swig from the bottle’s mouth.
Bree was languidly tracing her finger over the strange geometric tattoo on David’s arm when she asked, “What’s it mean?”
“Nothing,” David said.
“You always get tattoos of things that don’t mean anything?” Bree asked.
“It used to mean something to me,” David said.
Eventually the two moved on to other topics of conversation: food allergies, favorite animals, a detailed account of their criminal histories. David was open; he told her about the speeding tickets, and the unregistered firearm that he kept under his pillow, the tax evasion, and the drug possession charge that put him in jail for 24 months.
“What were you carrying?” Bree asked.
“Morphine, basically,” he said, “but I’m trying to straighten things out now,” he added.
When it was Bree’s turn to share, she left out the recent stuff, but she did tell David about the time in the tenth grade when she followed a girl home from school before beating her on the front lawn with a tree branch. “The girl was loving with my brother,” she said. “My mother always taught me that you have to protect your family.”
While she spoke, Bree slowly stroked David until he forgot about the silver car, or the blonde haired boy, or the fact that he didn’t have a condom.
“I’ll pull out,” he said when he was close.
“I’ve got a Plan B in the nightstand,” she said before squeezing him tightly.
When the two were finished, Bree reached into the nightstand, accidentally sending a Louisville Slugger that was resting against it toppling to the floor.
When she rose, she held two bars of Oxycodone.
“Want one?” she asked.
At first, the bedspread bowed, growing saggy until David was inches deep in his own indentation. When the groove was so deep that David couldn’t see over it, the universe ripped, and David was falling through it.
David turned, fighting against the pull of his descent before facing down in the void. Off in the spectral distance, he could hear the gasping of Bree’s sputtering laugh. A point appeared on the horizon, starting as a mottled brown speck, but growing larger until David could pick out the features of the commune he once called home.
There, surrounded by the chain fence, was the farmhouse where he and his disciples slept. Out back were the spice gardens, and to their left the bumper crops. Next to the fields, adjacent to the forest treeline, was the woodshed where David would take the girls when he wanted a private moment with them. Directly below his streaking plummet was the garage where the gold sedan used to be parked.
In the seconds before he crashed through the roof and into the backseat, David could make out a blonde haired man driving and a gap-toothed woman riding shotgun.
The smell of roasting cedarwood brought David from the stupor. Six feet away, a bonfire raged, hissing and crackling like volatile hellfire. David rolled away and turned to face Bree, flanked on all sides by a circle of familiar onlookers. His hands were bound and cuffed behind his back.
One onlooker tossed a sprig of sagebrush into the fire. “Hail Satan!” a voice called.
“Hail Satan!” the circle responded.
Bree tickled the tickled the tip of David’s nose with her big toe, and he noticed that she had a tattoo to match his inked across the top of her foot.
The man with the blonde beard stepped forward. “David, do you remember me?” he asked. His teeth were bright and white on the faces, but black and stained wherever they met; he shared Bree’s crooked nose.
David righted himself, “I remember your face,” he said.
The blonde man loomed over David and paced as he spoke. “I’m sorry to bring you back here,” he said, “but after you got out prison and decided to leave us, well, The Order began thinning out.”
“William,” the name came to him, “I’m sorry.” David’s feet were unchained, and he wondered if he would have the strength to charge and break the circle. A pair of slim hands wrapped around his waist and snaked their way down to his crotch.
Bree tugged David into an embrace, his legs outstretched, and hers wrapping around him like a seatbelt.
“Only the truly devout have remained with us,” William said. “We have work to do.”
“I’m not capable of serving the flock anymore,” David lied.
“David,” William said, “we need you.”
“Bree? Would you mind?” William asked with an outstretched hand.
“Yes, brother,” David heard from behind him. Bree leaned in, kissing the crease of his neck and shoulder. He could feel the smooth sliding of polished wood as the Louisville Slugger brushed against the other side of his neck.
“I’m sorry, David.” William said as he brought the heavy wood down in an overhand swing, and, for the moment, the sound of splintering bone overtook the crackling of the fire. David cried as his ankle turned to broken glass.
“It’s okay,” Bree whispered, “just relax.”
David tried to pull himself upright, but Bree held him like a lover would.
“Just one more,” she said.
William and Bree had lined the floor of David’s bedroom with mattresses in preparation for his arrival. The disciples, when they came by to visit, were happy to see that he was comfortable and no longer in pain. They told him that they looked forward to the day where he could walk the compound again and see the improvements that were planned.
One day, not long after The Order had settled back into its happy routine, Bree came to David’s room with a pen and some nice stationary with gilding along the edges. “Write a letter,” she said.
“To whom?” David asked.
“The ones we’ve lost,” Bree said. “Call them back to us. Be inspirational; be the person that I fell in love with years ago.”
So he did.
Each day after, Bree would bring David his lunch and they would sit together for an hour or two while David wrote to a vague spectre in his hazy memory. When he finished, Bree would read it, cross the name from her list, and David would secretly make a tally mark between the mattresses.
At 40 tallies, David learned to stay put.
Eventually, he had resolved himself to jam that pen directly into Bree’s neck, but when she entered the room, David noticed how her thin top seemed strained in containing her abdomen and breasts. That night, David counted 104 tallies.
At 120, she told him that it was a boy.
|# ¿ Jan 11, 2016 01:31|
Sitting Here, is there a reason why the recaps aren't posted as podcasts anymore? When I use my phone I can only download the first two that were posted. I know you answered this once on IRC, but I can't remember.
|# ¿ Jan 11, 2016 16:29|
I am signing up. I would like a dong. I don't care who gives it to me.
|# ¿ Jan 12, 2016 16:50|
Again, if someone would give me a song that would be great. Not feeling the Bowie though.
|# ¿ Jan 12, 2016 19:22|
I wouldn't mind a bit of both tbh.
|# ¿ Jan 12, 2016 19:31|
Package Status: Delivered
Mife-pris-tone, Camille thought whilst closing her phone’s browser. Mifepris-tone. Mifepris-ton-e. Still unsure of the pronunciation, she looked it up: Mi-fep-ris-tone (RU-486).
Ordering it had been a moment of weakness.
At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Daniels was reviewing iambic pentameter. “Repeat after me everybody. ‘But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?’”
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?” the class chanted in alternating stress patterns.
Mi-fep-ris-tone-R-U-four-eigh-tee-six, Camille thought while idly fingering the crucifix around her neck.
“Another line, class,” Mrs. Daniels called, ““‘Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.’”
A knock against the door interrupted the class before they could begin.
“Cammy, it’s a summons from the guidance office.” Mrs. Daniels said, “You can go now.”
Barron Jones lived a lifestyle contrary to his namesake. In fact, the only thing aristocratic about him was the brand of vodka he favored in his jungle juice. Still, it was tasty jungle juice, and after those first bitter sips, the green sludge went down easily. Barron and his jungle juice were similar in this way.
This is how Camille became pregnant.
It was as clear as her reflection in the bathroom mirror: the swollen and flushed cheeks, the nauseated complexion, the shame. Soon her body would betray her in less subtle ways, announcing to the world that she had been mounted like breeding stock and taken on a drunken Friday night. For now, however, a bit of makeup could hide it all but the embarrassment.
The night that she admitted to Barron that her period was late, Camille had sinned like she never had before. It was the embarrassment that pushed her to stealing her mother’s credit card and digging through dark corners of the internet.
She hoped her counselor could help.
As Camille lingered in her reflection, finishing with the delicate brush against her cheeks, she failed to notice the glimmer of light floating over her shoulder.
Camille rounded the corner of a four-way intersection, planning the specifics of what she would reveal, when she discovered a wall of smoke impeding her path. The haze was iron gray and swirled in hundreds of collapsing tendrils, yet the whole of it seemed restrained by the very air it defied, never once falling past the precipice.
Camille pushed her fingers into it, feeling a slight resistance that grew with every knuckle, until she was three deep, and the fog became completely impassable. She turned back, not sure of what to make of the circumstances, but the moment Camille approached the hallway that she had come from only moments earlier, the same smoke materialized.
Only one of the four archways would allow her to pass.
Moving down the hallway, the smoke developed on both sides of her, obscuring her vision of the lockers and classrooms. Experimenting, Camille turned around, only to find the haze materialize right in front of her nose before one of the gray tendrils exploded from the wall, tickling her nostrils with a sulfuric kiss.
Camille tried to scream, but before the cords in her throat could dilate in their first vibrations, the smoke closed in around her, squeezing her ribs and filling her lungs, until the noise was snuffed out in her chest. By the time she had fallen to the floor, gasping like a newborn, the walls had backed away.
So she followed them, allowing herself to be herded towards some unknown fate.
The walls had opened up to accommodate her clunker, but Camille knew that they were still there, flickering in and out of existence between the trees or signposts as she drove past. It was then that Camille noticed the glow floating over her shoulder as checked her rearview instinctively.
What Camille failed to notice was the curve of the smoky walls guiding her into a right hand turn as she passed straight through one of the foggy barriers.
She could feel her entire body compress as her chest did in the hallway, and then there was nothing.
“You really stepped in it now,” the glow said.
Camille looked for the voice in her backseat.
“Use the mirror,” it said.
Looking into the reflection, Camille could see the pale light.
“You should have been watching the road,” it said, “now we’ll have to walk.”
Camille stepped outside as the glow passed through the back window.
“Don’t forget the mirror, please,” it said.
“You want me to break it off?” Camille asked.
“How else are you going to follow me?” the glow asked. “Your car’s totaled anyway, trust me; just give that thing a tug and it’ll pop on out.”
Camille had to walk backwards in order to keep the glow in her reflection; it was uncomfortable at first, but she soon found that the orientation allowed her to scan the barren landscape as they traveled.
“Is this Hell?” she asked.
“Not Hell, it’s the other side,” it said.
“The other side of what?” Camille asked.
“The walls,” the glow said. “The other side is for everything that’s not living.”
“Am I dead?”
“Not yet, and I’d like to prevent it,” the glow said.
The ground underneath Camille’s feet released a smoke-laced sigh into the air.
“So then, what are you?” she asked some time later.
The glow continued navigating the haze without responding.
“Answer me,” Camille said.
“In time,” it said. “For now, we’re here.”
Camille could see the moldy siding of her decaying split-level in the reflection, and as she lowered the mirror, she found her home suddenly before her.
Camille tried to open the door; it was stuck.
“The Mifepristone,” the glow reminded.
As soon as Camille picked up the package, the door swung open.
Inside, Camille sat on her mother’s thrift-store couch, wondering if time worked the same on the other side. It was Tuesday, and her mother would be working a double shift at the restaurant. That meant that it was her responsibility to pick up her baby brother, Tomás, from daycare and prepare dinner.
“He’s fine,” the glow said. “This is about you, not him.”
Everything in the livingroom seemed flat, Camille noticed. Even the couch, typically spongy and water-rotten, felt lifeless underneath her.
“Here’s how it’s going to go,” the glow said. “Your mom’s only working a single today. Money’s important, but she wants to catch you off guard.”
“Barron wants to marry you,” the glow said, pulsing brightly. “He came to your mother for her blessing and told her everything. When you get home, she’ll ambush you with a cup of tea and remind you that having children out of wedlock is a sin. She’ll remind you that children deserve a mother and father, that you deserved a father.”
“She’ll be right,” Camille said.
“Not at the expense of your future,” said the glow.
Camille eyed the bible on the stained coffee table. She and her mother used to read from it every night.
“Take the pills,” the glow said.
“They were a mistake,” she answered.
“Look around,” it said, “having the baby will be the end of three lives.”
“We’ll survive,” Camille said.
“You and Barron made a heart.” the glow said, “It’s not suited for this world, so break it.”
“I won’t murder my child,” Camille said.
“It isn’t murder,” the glow said. “I’m asking for it. This is for the best.”
“God doesn’t care about us,” it said.
Camille grit her teeth as the heat swelled under her face and spread to her whole body. She could feel the mirror cracking under her fingers, before tossing it to the ground and running.
She could hear the glow calling to her as she stormed into her shared bedroom and locked the door. Sitting on the floor, her arms crossed petulantly, like a child’s, Camille could see the glow enter through the crack at the bottom door against its polished brass knob.
Camille tried to open a window and flee, only to find the smoke blocking her exit, trapped again.
“I won’t stop this until you take the pills, mother,” the glow said.
Camille pressed her finger into the haze. At three knuckles deep, she felt a pill and plucked it through the fog.
She faced the empty space, placing the capsule in her mouth and then swallowed.
“I’m sorry it happened this way,” the glow said. “You will make a good mother one day, just not for me. You’ll be grateful.”
Camille rushed the bathroom as soon as the gray faded, stumbling over the bathmat to the dirty toilet. Her finger wasn’t long enough, so she grabbed her toothbrush from the plastic cup and jammed it deep into her throat until the little pill came up, drowning in a mixture of blood and bile.
She stared into the mirror, noticing her nauseated complexion. It was an easy fix, but Camille was too tired to care. Instead, she laid against the cool plastic of the bathtub, and asked God to forgive her deception.
Then, she fantasized about meeting her child again.
|# ¿ Jan 17, 2016 23:13|
Put me in coach
|# ¿ Jan 18, 2016 23:42|
I am a fan of neither team so I'm just gonna get drunk and hurl abuse at you
|# ¿ Jan 23, 2016 21:58|
blackmarketlimb, i swear to god if you don't post you've just become a persona non grata with me. I loving GAVE UP MY WORDS FOR YOU.
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2016 18:58|
Are you open to other roles as well? I would like to sign up as a maintence/repair person. Not sure if that is too much overlap with janitor for your liking.
|# ¿ Jan 26, 2016 15:36|
I am also writing about the school newspaper, which is called The Story.
That is the name of the school newspaper.
|# ¿ Jan 27, 2016 15:14|
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 04:47 on Jan 1, 2017
|# ¿ Feb 1, 2016 00:26|
|# ¿ Feb 2, 2016 12:50|
|# ¿ Feb 2, 2016 13:37|
No interprompt real prompts only.
|# ¿ Feb 2, 2016 14:42|
THIS IS A SIGN UP POST AND I WOULD ALSO LIKE A FLASH RULE PLEASE AND THANK YOU.
|# ¿ Feb 2, 2016 16:05|
does that defeat the point of flash rules?
If you have to ask......
|# ¿ Feb 4, 2016 16:28|
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 04:48 on Jan 1, 2017
|# ¿ Feb 8, 2016 00:21|
87) The Girl Without Hands
|# ¿ Feb 9, 2016 10:59|
give me a flash rule
|# ¿ Feb 9, 2016 23:16|
87) The Girl Without Hands
gently caress your archive
|# ¿ Feb 12, 2016 01:01|
It's me the artist formerly known as welandedonthemoon
|# ¿ Feb 12, 2016 01:22|
I am also taking a second prompt:
37) Hands where I can see them, girl. | Prophet of Death by CantDecideOnAName - http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=1078
|# ¿ Feb 12, 2016 10:36|
Regarding Amelia's Hands (1700 words)
They assumed Amelia to be a klutz.
Even back in elementary school, whenever anyone met the beautiful girl with skin as flawless as bone china and hair as golden as honeycomb, they assumed the spills and scraps, the tumbles and troubles, all were a part of a flighty nature, but they were wrong. She knew they were wrong.
“You’re too pretty for your own good,” Amelia’s fourth grade teacher would say while trying to teach her cursive, “now grip the pencil in your lazy fingers and loop the letters together.”
“Can I write in print?” she asked. “I can make print letters.”
“Blocky letters are unbecoming for a young lady,” the teacher said.
Amelia put her pencil to the looseleaf. She was ready to loop her letters in the same, graceful ways as she’d seen on the blackboard. They were so pretty, the letters, like little flowers in a meadow; however, the moment Amelia’s hands began to make the motions she’d learned, her hands pressed down with an overabundance of force, and the pencil lead exploded like grenade shrapnel.
Things always happened like that. “Graceless,” they called her, the princess better suited for handling a baseball than a teacup. Crochet, baking, gardening, it didn’t matter; if the activity befit the fairer sex, Amelia’s fingers just gave up.
In the days before the start of her senior year of high school, her hands were full-on revolting; makeup wound up in the trashcan, camisoles, in shreds on the floor.
The problem was in her hands, so, on the first day of school, she decided to cut them off.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia said as she fired on the table saw.
She thought that she heard a voice amongst the noise. “It’s for the best,” it said.
When Mr. Overman, the shop teacher, discovered her passed out on the floor, her hands resting unceremoniously on the wrong side of a screaming table saw, he called for an ambulance and feared for his job security.
“It’s the damndest thing,” the doctor said after she came to, “the hands were in an incredible condition, as were your wrists, but the reattachment wouldn’t take. Every suture, every stitch, belched back from your skin.”
Her mother began to cry in her daughter’s bed sheets.
“What I am saying is, well, here’s a prosthetics catalog,” he said, setting the thing on the table.
“It’s all for the best, anyway,” the doctor said, “because the hands are missing.”
“Missing?” her mother asked.
“Afraid so. It seems like they just crawled off. Nurse Prinn found the two blood trails on the ground beside the medical freezer. The blood trail was faint, but it was present, led right towards the front door.” The doctor lingered in the doorway.
“I’m sure we’ll find them,” he said before leaving.
Amelia smiled as she read the cover of the catalog; she wasn’t listening to the doctor.
She asked her mother to turn the page.
She was back in school two weeks later with a sundress draped over her freckled shoulders and a handbag between her plastic fingers, and she was happy.
Her first class was English, with Mr. Downs.
At first the prosthetics were difficult to handle. Trying to take notes on the transcendentalists was a unruly process. Eventually though, with a bit of focus, Amelia found that she could control the things.
One month later, she was looping letters that would make her fourth grade teacher proud. Perhaps Amelia would write her a letter.
She thought about the possibility as Mr. Downs attended to the knock at the door; she could hear Mrs. Larkins, the guidance counselor, on the other side, speaking in hushed tones.
“Class,” Mr. Downs said in the open doorway, “I’d like to introduce a new student. This is Lefty.”
As Mr. Downs spoke, Amelia’s severed hand crawled up his shoulder, perching itself near the bend of his neck.
The hand was definitely Amelia’s. There was no doubt about it in her mind, although the fingers were meatier than she remembered her’s being. Had it been working out?
The thought of her hand, weight lifting or doing pushups made her giggle.
Right near the cap of the separation, the jagged edge where the sawblade cut through her flesh, someone had drawn a crude face in black marker: two dots, a smile, and a zig-zag beard.
“Lefty,” Mr. Downs said, “would you like to introduce yourself to the class?”
“Uh, sure.” it said, “My name’s Lefty, as the teach said, and I am a sentient hand. I have a twin brother, and we’re both adopted. I’m really happy to be here.” Amelia could see Lefty’s stump undulating as he spoke, the voice coming from somewhere within.
The normal desks were too big for Lefty, so instead Mr. Downs let him sit on the windowsill as he continued the lecture.
As the weeks slipped away, Amelia became accustomed to seeing the hands around the building-- Lefty, every other day in English class, and although she didn’t have any classes with Righty, it would have been hard to miss him in the hallways. Shortly after his arrival at Westminster High, Righty fell in with the basketball team; they even made him a custom uniform and everything. Averaged six points a game coming off the bench; that’s how Amelia met him, on the night after the big game against Fairfield.
“I don’t like you hanging out with those hands,” her mother said while sipping coffee one January morning. “Just because you’ll be off for college soon enough doesn’t mean that you aren’t still a child, or, at least, my child.”
Amelia didn’t wear the realistic prosthetics around the house; rather, she used simple silver hooks. In the last few weeks, she had taken to drinking coffee herself. She kept the handle of a large red mug clamped between its reflective prongs.
“Mom, it’s fine.” Amelia said. “R’s kind and sweet.”
“R?” her mother asked.
“That’s what he wants to be called,” Amelia said.
“The right one?”
“Yeah. Lefty is a douchebag, but R is okay.”
“Language!” her mother said. “Besides, I think he’s a lot like Lefty.”
Amelia took a sip from her mug.
“I’m putting my foot down on this one,” her mom said, “no seeing those hands. It’s not natural. Not at that winter dance tonight, not at all.” her mother said.
“To hell with your foot.”
“Excuse me?” her mother asked.
This time, Amelia didn’t say anything.
“Fine then,” her mother said, “you just won’t be seeing anyone then. For the next two weeks. Starting now.”
She was up in her room, painting the nails of her prostheses when she heard the tapping at the window. There, perched on the outer sill, was R, slipped into a white vinyl glove with a knitted black mitten pulled over it.
Amelia opened the window.
“Like my tux?” the disembodied hand asked.
“R, how did you-” Amelia started.
“Your mom turned me away when I rang the bell, but- well you know, it’s hard to keep me out. Come on, we have a dance to attend.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“Well, I can just hang out here then,” R said.
“If my mother catches you in here-”
“Well, then, we better go.” R scuttled from the bed back onto the windowsill before gesturing to Amelia to follow him with his pinkie.
“I really can’t,” Amelia said while lifting her plastic fingers. “These things aren’t made for climbing.”
“Oh,” R said as he slouched forward out of dejection.
Amelia opened her closet door and quickly scanned the contents.
“Meet me downstairs,” she said, before getting changed.
Mrs. Free had been listening at the door, as mothers are wont to do when their daughters are consorting with strange or unusual characters. When Amelia burst through it, she told Amelia that if her father were alive then he would be so disappointed with her behavior, and then Amelia told her mother to gently caress right off, as she stormed down the stairs in her glittery dress.
“Amelia,” she shouted from behind the closed front door, “if you go to that school I’ll call the cops and have them bring you right back here.”
The gym was decked to the rafters in streamers of blue and white and paper snowflakes, and when Amelia and R entered the glittering space, she felt a dream of her childhood finally being fulfilled.
They spent the evening together, laughing and talking amongst the crowds. When the popular songs began to play, they sang. When the romantic songs from the 90’s started playing, and the two didn’t know their words, they decided to dance instead. How it was, specifically, doesn’t matter. Dances look many different ways.
During one of the songs, Mr. Downs came by and made a joke that R should keep his hand where the chaperones could see, and even though both Amelia and R were offended by the offensive comment, neither allowed it to ruin their evening.
“And now,” the DJ announced, “it’s time to unveil the results of the winter king and queen election. Would Amelia Free and, R- this sheet just says R?” he asked someone offstage, but before he could finish the announcement, the couple had taken to the center of the dance floor.
“I’m sorry that we were so terrible, before,” R said, “Lefty is too, even if he doesn’t act like it.”
Amelia scanned the circle of friends and acquaintances surrounding her; down amongst the feet she saw Lefty looking inward, a smile on his face. Then, one of those 90’s songs that neither of them knew began to play.
“I know it’s hard being forced into becoming something that you aren’t,” Amelia said.
“I won’t run off again,” R said.
Amelia decided that she wouldn’t let him, so she wrapped her arms around R and clutched him tightly to her chest as they danced.
“Are you happy now?” she asked.
“I am,” R said, “are you?”
Amelia didn’t have the chance to answer, not that she needed to. The police had arrived at the front of the gym, and the DJ had killed the music.
“This is our chance,” Amelia said, “let’s run.”
|# ¿ Feb 15, 2016 02:52|
|# ¿ Feb 16, 2016 13:30|
I'll take a song.
|# ¿ Feb 16, 2016 15:26|
If so I want door 3
|# ¿ Feb 18, 2016 11:19|
I love a good door number 3. I can stick with my original song if Twist or others object. I have an idea, I just appreciate Let's Make A Deal.
|# ¿ Feb 18, 2016 15:03|
Lingering Things (1600)
Miranda’s two and a half hours away from Fayettport when her husband’s voice grows faint.
“... and that was Toys in the Attic with the classic jam, 'Sweet Emotion.' This is 105 FM, The Force, and before that, you heard 'Born to Run,' and 'Tangled Up in Blue.' You know, 1975 was an interesting year in mus-”
She presses upward on the seek button until the sound dies. For all that she loves her husband, Liam Spence, she refuses to listen to him. Not now.
She’d read about a bank robber once, couldn’t remember when exactly. Following three rules, the guy had gotten away with eighty-something bank robberies. Never caught. Scott Free.
Miranda tries to reason how someone could rob eighty banks and never so much as receive a phone call, when every time she changes her number the debt collectors and student loan sharks find a way to sniff her out.
Rule one: pick a bank that’s far away.
She presses downward on the seek button and her husband fills the car again, his voice seeping through the plastic speaker-grating like chlorine gas.
Not far enough.
She’d asked him as delicately as she could to abandon the DJ dreams for something that would pay well enough to support the two, soon to be three, of them. Her cubicle slave wage doesn’t provide much, but it paid more than Liam made as a glorified disc changer at the station.
“It’s about the music, not the money” he’d said.
A year into the marriage and she already resents him. Bills have been piling up, and Miranda’s just recently started showing, her tummy pushes out just slightly enough to where she can still conceal it, but she’ll have to tell Liam soon.
With every second that Liam’s voice breaks the gentle humming of the highway sounds, Miranda grows increasingly unsure, so she presses downward on the button with glee.
Thirty minutes later she presses up again and is met with the sounds of a gospel choir and prayer. Hallelujah. Miranda figures that driving until the station frequencies change over is far enough. Still, she isn’t interested in God at the moment, so she presses upward, and upward, and upward, until the digital display read 111 FM.
She’d never seen the numbers go so high.
“... Listen people,” the voice says. The audio quality is horrible; there’s an undulating tone to the sound, that ripples through the air like molasses waves. “There’s a front pushing through Orvell County that will arrive in about-”
Miranda isn’t paying attention; her exit is approaching. Trosclair, Louisiana. She’d picked the bank in advance. Minutes later, she’s there.
Rule two: park out of sight.
“Heavy rains, nearly impassable,” the voice says, “a cloudy pale yellow that smells like Hershey’s sauce. Strange things come out in these storms; I have reports here, Mexico, Peru, a ship that got caught in this poo poo off the gulf. It does something to them. Leaves them changed.”
“The mainstream media won’t help,” he says, “the government won’t help. Big Zeke here is the only person keeping Trosclair safe. You all know it. Stay indoors. Stay dry.”
She assumes the program is some lovely performance piece on public access, or the guy is a loony yokel, broadcasting from his basement to the few inbred swamp hicks who are dumb enough to listen.
She kills the volume entirely.
After parking, Miranda takes the old hammer sitting on the passenger seat and tucks it into her sock. She put on three pairs this morning, layered so it wouldn’t slip. It’s the only weapon she plans on needing. Then, she checks her face in the rearview. What kind of police report could the teller give? Brown hair pulled into a tight bun, brown eyes, no fingernail polish or makeup, brown jacket, blue jeans.
Rule three: be forgettable.
As she walks the block towards the bank, the rain begins to fall in a medium drizzle. The streets are empty, but that’s nothing surprising for these one hat towns on a sleepy Tuesday afternoon.
Miranda cups the precipitation in her hand as she walks; it’s clear.
She rounds a corner and the rain begins to come down in sheets. The bank’s in front of her now, and she can see three geriatrics in the lobby and two tellers behind the counter. Jackpot.
As she approaches the lobby, the three begin shaking their heads, slowly, at first, as she approaches the door.
“Rain’s already started now,” one of the women says.
“Go away!” the old man shouts, “can’t let you in here.”
The two tellers are looking between each other in rapid succession. The older of the two, the manager, nods her head.
Miranda can hear Big Zeke playing through some hidden radio.
She puts her hand on the handle, and the alarm cuts through the loud pitter-patter and hits her like a bullet. The door locks, and she tries to rip it open.
The hammer is supposed to be used for getting out of locked buildings, when the alarm traps the perp in the lobby until police arrive. It isn’t for breaking in.
She’s about to forget the whole thing and drive back home, back to Liam, but as Mirada turns, she notices cloudy yellow droplets bouncing off her pale skin. She lifts her hand to her nose and is overwhelmed by the scent of chocolate, as if she’d been clawing through a hot fudge sundae.
And she believes Big Zeke.
“Let me in!” she shouts through the door.
Miranda can hear something against the white-noise static of the downpour, a chattering of hundreds or thousands of little fingernails, all drumming against the concrete in an unholy harmony, as something vile moves towards her. She looks back, but against the veiled layers of heavy rain Miranda can only make out the vaguest of silhouettes, a large, hunched carapace, scuttling pointed feet.
The old man has approached the glass and is face to face with her. “Run!” he says.
Miranda pulls the hammer from her sock and rears her hand.
“You’ll get us all killed, you bitch,” the man yells before ducking.
The hammer slams against the door, but Miranda hasn’t read about the strength of modern tempered glass, nor has she read about the strength required to break it, so instead, the glass vibrates through the impact, flinging the yellow droplets that had previously clung to its surface directly into her eyes. They burn like nothing she’s felt before.
“Behind you!” the man shouts, unsure himself of what was actually there.
She swings the hammer blindly, making contact with something, as a guttural yelp undercuts the buffeting winds. It sounds vaguely human, but Miranda doesn’t care; the burning in her eyes compels her to scream out too.
Miranda tries to run, but something grabs her foot and trips her, yanking her shoe away in the process. She tumbles, crushing her head against the sidewalk as she bounces. Rising is impossible, whatever it is has her foot, and as she tries to stand, Miranda only succeeds in grinding the knuckles on her hand to the bone. She can feel the little loose stones of old pavement flaying and tearing against her, each digging its own path deep into its burrow in her flesh.
Miranda stomps and kicks towards whatever it is, and something crunches under her heel.
A screech erupts from where her foot hit, followed by a chorus of hissing, like the sound of a dozen steam vents all releasing their pressure at once.
Then Miranda is on her feet, hobbled, but still moving as fast as she can. The world is a vaseline-blur, and she passes through a cloud of hot air; the smell of chocolate becomes so powerful that her sinuses could be packed with the stuff. She gasps and sputters, and can feel the mist, even in the rain, filling her lungs and clinging to their walls like syrup.
She runs blindly through the streets, never sure if the sounds behind her are the chattering of a beast, the downpour picking up, or something altogether different.
Eventually, all the sounds stop, and she hears someone calling to her.
She follows the voice with arms outstretched, until a callused hand takes her’s. He’s a trucker, and since she can’t see, he has to lift her into the cab and drag her across his lap to the passenger’s place.
“Drive,” she says while spitting yellow water onto the floor. Miranda fumbles against the dash, mashing the plastic bits as the man puts the rig into gear and pulls forward. After driving for minutes, he turns the radio on for her.
“111 FM,” she says.
“Frequencies don’t scan that high,” the man says as the display rolls over from 106 to 88.
He puts her on the CB and manages to make contact with Liam’s station, but Liam himself won’t talk during a show. Miranda’s hyperventilating, so she has to move away from the mic to breathe when speaking to him, but they agree that the trucker will drive her home. Kindness of strangers and all that.
Miranda places her hands on her taught belly. She swears that something deep inside her is kicking, but it’s too early for that, she knows. She blows her nose on a rag over and over, desperate to vacate the cocoa smell. The trucker holds the burger he was lunching on under her nose, but it doesn’t help.
When they get within range, the trucker turns on Liam’s station.
“Road music,” he says.
Miranda tells him to turn it off.
|# ¿ Feb 22, 2016 00:47|
Interprompt: Stories about ducks.
|# ¿ Feb 22, 2016 16:41|
Low wc means I have time for this.
|# ¿ Feb 23, 2016 01:05|
I got that yeah-i'll-listen-to-sittinghere-because-she-knows-what-she's-doing attitude
|# ¿ Feb 28, 2016 02:23|
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 04:49 on Jan 1, 2017
|# ¿ Feb 29, 2016 02:01|
In with Sweden 1974
Or whatever you want to give me, idk.
|# ¿ Apr 20, 2016 02:42|
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 04:49 on Jan 1, 2017
|# ¿ Apr 25, 2016 00:57|
Yo can I pretend that this is my first dome and just rewrite someone else's story?
|# ¿ Apr 26, 2016 14:15|
|# ¿ Oct 25, 2021 16:10|
Sorry, no can do. It seems like you've got a few different entries to choose from though, so you should be okay
BRB registering an alt.
|# ¿ Apr 26, 2016 14:43|