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Ziji
Oct 20, 2010
Yossarian lives!

Throwing my hat in the dome

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Ziji
Oct 20, 2010
Yossarian lives!

Sitting Here posted:

:siren: WEDNESDAY GOONS HERE IS YOUR FLASHRULE :siren:

That's you, Guiness13, Boaz-Jachim, The Saddest Rhino, Hammer Bro, Obliterati, Mr Gentleman, SurreptitiousMuffin, Ziji, Titus82 and Fuschia tude!

There are five senses and ten goons. Sounds like a recipe for mandatory brawls!

You will quote this post and choose one of the five senses (Smell, sight, taste, touch, sound). There will be a maximum of two(2) goons per sense. First come, first served. I'm sure you can see where this is going. Your opponent is the goon with whom you share a sense, obvs.

Your stories must convey your chosen (or assigned) sense. Each pairing will have a winner, which will be announced along with the results for the main week. The winner of each paring will be immune from a DM, even if both stories are poo poo.

BUT WAIT ASSHOLES DON'T MASH QUOTE YET THERE'S MORE

You will also choose a secondary sense, which must be conveyed in your story as well.

Go to this page for a list of secondary senses. Choose one, and post it along with your primary sense choice. There's no limit on how many people can choose a given secondary sense.


PAIRINGS:

Sight
Marshmallow Blue - Itch
Titus82 - Equilibrioception

Smell
Guiness13 - Hunger

Taste
Obliterati - Magnetoception
Boaz-Jachim - Hunger

Touch
Hammer Bro - Thirst
Mr. Gentleman - Time

Hearing
The Saddest Rhino - Proprioception

Hmm, I'll go with Smell and Time. This should be fun

Ziji
Oct 20, 2010
Yossarian lives!

Prompt: Man agonizes of his potatoes (Wednesday)
Senses: Smell, Time
Brawl with Guiness13 (if I understand the rules right?)
~1022 Words

Full Metal Applebee's

Marvin Grouse may have been physically sitting in a booth at Applebee’s, but in his mind he never left the jungle. He sat silently, alone, browsing the menu. Marvin removed his Vietnam Veteran hat and scratched the only spot not covered in thick gray hair. Tracing the scar with his finger, he remembered the blood trickling down his ear and the heat from the machine guns being fired next to him. He remembered the nurses at the field hospital, how he promised to marry the brunette, but she never wrote him back. Memories were all he had left, of his youth spent in that humid hell and of his brothers-in-arms who were all too busy to join him at the neighborhood’s bar and grill.

Lost in thought, Marvin didn’t even notice his waitress return to the table ready to take his order. “Well sir have you made your decision?” the young girl asked, pulling a pocketbook and pen from her apron. “Yeah… I, uh, I’ll have the steak. Rare.” Marvin grunted, handing her the menu. “You get a side with that,” the waitress continued on, “coleslaw, mac and cheese, onion rings, steak fries, a baked potato, or mixed vegetables.” Marvin was caught off guard, he didn’t think he had that many options for a side dish. “Baked potato,” he answered in a panic. Before he knew what he had said it was too late, she was already gone. Baked potato? What was he thinking? Marvin held his head in his hands and wiped down on his face. His hands began to tremble and he knew what would happen but felt powerless to stop it. He grabbed the neck of his beer and took a swig, wiping his mouth with his jacket and slamming the bottle back on the table with a loud thud. Marvin stared intently across the booth at the empty seat, his hands trembling.

“Deep breath Marvin”, he repeated to himself, “just breathe like the docs said and you’ll be fine.” He let out a healthy sigh and felt his muscles loosen. He could do this, he didn’t need his war buddies or court appointed therapists to help him. Marvin knew if he stayed focused he could make it through this dinner unharmed, and without harming anyone. Marvin knew he was dead wrong the minute he smelled that baked potato. It all went to poo poo the minute he saw the gentleman bringing him his food. Within seconds Marvin was upon him, dashing out of his booth and slamming his shoulder into the poor man’s chest. The waitress who took his order screamed as the two men fell to the ground, Marvin quickly scrambling on top of the stunned waiter. As soon as he smelled that potato, he was back in Vietnam.

“Private Grouse get the gently caress over here!” Sergeant First Class Soldid shouted, the veins in his neck popping out like engorged leeches. Marvin Grouse dropped his cards and ran out of the tent. “Yes Sergeant?!” Marvin asked, standing at a half-assed parade rest while trying to catch his breath. “We just got a shipment of potatoes in,” SFC Soldid explained, his smile widening with each word, “and I want you to peel’em.” He handed Marvin a potato peeler, the sun reflecting off its stainless steel finish right into Marvin’s eyes, wide with horror. A brand new potato peeler meant only one thing. Turning to his left, his suspicions were confirmed: the truck was filled to the brim with boxes of thousands and thousands of potatoes.

For three days and three nights, Marvin peeled potatoes. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t take breaks, he simply peeled. Eating wasn’t even welcomed, as he was instructed that his only meals would be potatoes. He peeled until his hands started to bleed, then he bandaged them up and peeled some more. Everyone who heard about poor Private Grouse wondered why he didn’t just quit, but Marvin knew that SFC Soldid would have something far worse in mind than peeling potatoes if he failed. Years after the war, SFC Soldid would later find himself in the curious employ of the CIA helping to develop and perfect the art of psychological torture. Private Grouse feared him in Vietnam, and Manuel Noriega learned to fear him in Panama.

On the third night of his continued peeling, running on pure adrenaline and hatred of the potato, their forward operating base was attacked. Mortar fire rained down on the US soldiers who all scurried to their positions, firing wildly into the dark jungle surrounding them. Officers shouted out orders and NCOs shouted out contradictions, adding fuel to the fire of confusion that the defenders found themselves in. Through all this, Marvin continued to peel potatoes. His third therapist, Dr. Hubert Linsford, would argue that he had simply had a mental breakdown from all the potato peeling. Marvin would argue back that Dr. Linsford had never met SFC Soldid, and if he had then he would have known that dying was preferable to disobeying an order.

Amid the chaos, one lone Viet Cong fighter snuck his way into the mess tent. His intent was perhaps to sabotage their food stores, or maybe even just sneak around to attack from within the base. No one knows for certain, as he tripped on a rogue potato and fell into Marvin. Although caught by surprise, Marvin acted on pure instinct and pounced on the enemy; slamming his potato peeler into this throat. Blood began to pour out of the wound, but Marvin began choking him anyway, screaming as he slammed his head against the ground. Before he knew what was happening, two men who had been sitting at the bar pulled Marvin off of the unconscious waiter. Marvin stumbled backward, and was thrown into his booth by the quick acting bystanders. The waitress rushed to the waiter’s side while the manager tried to call emergency services. “It was the loving potatoes!” Marvin screamed, his bulging eyes still glazed over and saliva spewing from his mouth with each word. “It’s always the loving potatoes!”

Ziji fucked around with this message at 01:48 on Jun 5, 2016

Ziji
Oct 20, 2010
Yossarian lives!

Phone posting so can't quote the crits but thanks guys! It was very rough and my first time writing fiction in years so appreciate the feedback.

Ziji
Oct 20, 2010
Yossarian lives!

I may have lost the brawl, but I had a lot of fun. Can't wait for my next foray into the Dome.

Ziji
Oct 20, 2010
Yossarian lives!

flerp posted:

Good crit here

Thanks for the crit, I'll make sure to ref this post next time I sit down to write!

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Ziji
Oct 20, 2010
Yossarian lives!

Mr Gentleman posted:

for what it's worth (won't do a line-by-line like the others but having read through flerp's line-by-line):

I found the prose from your story quite interesting -- I think you purposively took on the style of something like catch-22 or pynchon or neal stephenson? (the way you phrased things felt very familiar but I haven't put my finger on it. also little things like the mini-tangents and flashforwards which I enjoyed.) it also seems to have that slightly crisp/manic surrealism or absurdity and the half-joking/half-not-joking feel (and resultant ambiguity/duality) from that sort of stuff.

anyways hopefully I'm not going out on too much of a limb. but if that's right, I think that was a tricky place to be in although at the same time a really interesting and challenging thing to tackle (especially because it's either going to click or not). I think ultimately for me it didn't quite click at the edges, but I thought there was good stuff like the Soldid/Noriega line and the closing bit!

Hey really appreciate it man. Was totally channeling Joseph Heller ala Catch-22, glad it shone through (however slight). Wasn't super happy with how my story turned out, so loving the feedback.

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