Inter prompt NEVER EAT ANYTHING LARGER THAN YOUR HEAD 200 words
Too Much to Swallow (200 words)
She cast my head in chocolate, down to my breasts. I don’t remember sitting for it—perhaps the morning I woke with plaster in my hair and a terrible itch up my nostrils. How did she do it without disturbing me? My girlfriend moves like a ghost.
Confronting myself in chocolate. Blind unseeing eyes begging me to what—eat it? Not eat it? But it’s chocolate. This gift demands eating. But the head is so lifelike, it could pass for me were it not such a solid shade. How did she capture my eyes so well? What happens if you eat your own head?
When I was a child my mother gave me a chocolate kitten for Easter. I’d never had a problem eating cartoon bunnies before, but the kitten gazed at me with eyes begging me to spare it. I couldn’t bare to bite it. I left the chocolate kitten safe in its box. Until months later it melted.
I put my chocolate head in the fridge. The breasts broke off, but I don’t mind eating those. This way the head won’t lose my essence. It will be contained until…? I can’t stand its stare. I shut the door.
|# ¿ Jan 31, 2018 03:43|
|# ¿ Jun 20, 2019 17:12|
Ok, I'm in, and prepared for fantastic failure. Give me a were-thing. Something with an extreme somethingness, if you please.
Stuporstar fucked around with this message at Aug 3, 2018 around 06:42
|# ¿ Aug 3, 2018 06:38|
Prompt: were-epaulette shark
Paulette Has Problems
Funny story, the time I got trapped in a fish tank. Imagine me, short girl, long skinny legs trying to climb out of the thing—but no. Imagine instead a small stubby-nosed shark, all tail, clambering out on fat stumpy fins like a mud-skipper. See, I’m not quite awake coming out of a torpor. Just aware enough to clamber out of the stale water, and as I’m almost out, a big wave sloshes and crashes me onto the floor.
Glass everywhere. I mean, ouch. If a chunk hit me wrong, I’d be dead. So I guess this story’s not so funny when you think about it. I’m hurt. Glass chunks piercing my scales. And as I look out into the dark wobbly world with drying eyes, my instincts kick in. To change is to heal. All I have to do is breathe.
In through the mouth, out through the gills, until the gills slowly close, merge into my growing neck, and I can breath fully with my lungs again. But as I change, I notice a dark figure standing above me. Big dude. Dark blue bathrobe. Eyes wide.
I look back, head now a hundred percent girl, and it dawns on me: I just broke this guy’s fish tank.
And I still have a fish tail.
And I’m naked.
Frozen, we stare, both watching my tail turn into legs. Spots meld into tan as the scales turn into skin. I curl against myself, best I can, without dragging knees against broken glass. My hair, though I had none in the fish tank, drips all over his soaked hardwood with my sweat.
“Am I dreaming?” he says, strange smile wavering on his face like the aurora australis. Aurora green glimmering eyes. Blond wavy locks like sea foam—I’m sorry to find him so good looking, because this is awkward. Not only awkward, but he looks surfer. There’s reasons I vowed never again to fall for a surfer. Lots of reasons.
No words come to me, and I don’t know if it’s because my gills aren’t gone yet or plain old human embarrassment. I let out a squeak. Clear my throat. And say, “More like a nightmare.” I chuckle in terror. “This is the worst way to wake up.”
My rural California twang breaks the magic. He flinches. Knocked back to his senses, says, “Here, let’s get you out of all that.” He steps forward, crunching glass under slippers—hard-soled, like all man slippers—and gives me his hand.
His touch electrifies, tingling from cheeks to cheeks as though I still have ampullae. Calm down, girl. I wobble a bit standing up, legs still pins and needles, but unlike the Little Mermaid it eventually goes away, thank gently caress.
He asks, “Are you hurt?” I shake my head, not explaining how I heal, because poo poo is weird enough without piling on the expo.
“Um…” I frown a bit, because I hate to be presumptuous but— “Do you have any clothes I could wear?”
“Sure, sure.” He points down a dark hall. “Bathroom’s on the end if you wanna shower first.”
drat, he’s quicker than I am. I get a whiff of myself and say, “Ew, I still smell like fish, don’t I.” My face flushes, because I hadn’t meant that thought to be out-loud. Now he thinks I’m dumb, when I’m just hypoxic.
So I hide in the bathroom. Wash the salt from my skin, the crusted blood, and check for cuts in the mirror. The round bite-mark on my shoulder, the one that turns into a giant black spot, is a scar that will never leave me. He left me clothes on the toilet seat. T-shirt and boxers—great, I’ve landed myself in a bachelor pad. At least the loose boxers have a tie so I don’t have to hold them up.
I come out to find him frying in the kitchen. It’s past 1:00. He cranes his head from the gas flame, wok in hand, and says, “I’m assuming you like seafood?”
Of course—I bite my tongue to stop the sarcasm—how romantic. As the smell of fried shrimp hits me, my belly rumbles. I usually feel quite full, changing back into myself after a midnight sashimi run, but I’d spent all that time as a shark trying to keep my brain cells from dying due to lack of oxygen. Bitten by a were-shark, years ago on vacation in Australia, it had to be a small species people love to keep as pets. Just my kind of luck.
So I’m sitting at his kitchen table, scarfing down shrimp pasta like Ariel before she learned what a fork was for. The lemon ricotta sauce, which I can tell he made himself, tastes so good I catch myself thinking, Mmm I could get used to this. Not bad looking, cleans his apartment (immediately—after I trashed it), knows how to cook. What else could a girl ask for?
How about not being kept in a fish tank. A tide of trauma flows back to me, dark feelings creeping on the edge of consciousness. I can barely listen to what this oblivious dude is saying, barely respond as he asks what it’s like these days in the Great Barrier Reef, what with all the coral dying (it’s sad). About what it’s like living on the coast, living on fish in the water (you get used to the taste of plastic). About what it’s like to turn into a shark.
I like to play a game, where I guess what kind of were-creature other people might be. All I can see, as he pins me with an expectant stare, a hungry one, is Great White. The kind of shark that eats little sharks like me.
I look down at my demolished plate and ask, “When was the last time you fed me?”
“Uh, what?” He scratches his head. Already forgotten what I am?
“How long have I been in your fish tank?” The napkin curled in my fingers, I have to will myself not to tear it to little pieces.
“Maybe a week.” His face turns red.
“A whole week?” I stand, still crushing the napkin, and the chair shrieks. “And you didn’t notice a thing?”
“What, that you’re really a woman? How was I supposed to—”
“I’m talking about the torpor. A whole week, and you didn’t think to check the oxygen level.” I throw the napkin on the table and shove back the chair. “A tank like that needs more than one filter. Some plants?”
“The guy said one filter would be fine.”
“The guy who sold you—” He stops, no doubt realizing how bad that sounds.
“What guy? I want a name.”
“Gary. Guy’s name was Gary. Gary Sodenberg. Big surfer dude I met on the pier. Said he just caught you, biggest epaulette shark he’d ever seen. Had you stuffed in a cooler, and I thought, that’s not cool. At least I took better care of you than that.”
“Wait, you know him?”
“He’s my ex!” Because this is what happens when they know.
|# ¿ Aug 6, 2018 05:35|
Werecritters and Vampoopers: Week 313: The Sixth Anniversary of Thunderdome: Don’t Go Chasing Werepires: Part 2: Electric Boogaloo
Great crit! Thank you.
You're totally right. This ended up turning into a bigger story that I had to just bite off a chunk of due to the word limit and didn't have enough time to properly rework it to fit (serves me right, signing up three days before the deadline). I might turn this into a proper short story with her cofronting her ex (and maybe the dumb dude along for the ride to get his money back).
|# ¿ Aug 9, 2018 03:39|
Aaah, nooo. I love this prompt but have no time to write an entry because I'm busting my rear end on the novel—so close to done.
So instead of a real entry, I'll share this comic I made in 2004.
Not pictured, someone yelling, "Stupid goddamn toaster, you burnt it again. You had only one job. ONE JOB!"
|# ¿ Sep 27, 2018 03:37|