i fcuking hate time travel stories. so i guess i'll be in
|# ¿ Jan 3, 2018 19:47|
|# ¿ Sep 20, 2018 09:18|
That's weird, considering you already wrote at least one.
peering into the past is not going there!
|# ¿ Jan 3, 2018 19:50|
righting is hard
|# ¿ Jan 6, 2018 00:05|
|# ¿ Jan 6, 2018 00:06|
Slice of life
derp fucked around with this message at Feb 13, 2018 around 19:52
|# ¿ Jan 6, 2018 23:35|
yes tyvm apop
|# ¿ Jan 8, 2018 22:41|
tyvm for your thoughts tyran!
|# ¿ Jan 9, 2018 19:47|
SOMEBODY FIGHT ME
|# ¿ Jan 13, 2018 06:38|
Ur on looser
|# ¿ Jan 13, 2018 16:07|
My animals are going to have such smarts. The best smarts. I know a lot of sapient animals and I can tell you mine are the smartest
|# ¿ Jan 13, 2018 22:05|
lol. imma judge this because flerp derp
derp fucked around with this message at Feb 13, 2018 around 19:52
|# ¿ Jan 26, 2018 00:55|
woo, my first TD win
|# ¿ Jan 29, 2018 17:22|
sebmojo told me not to ever eat anything larger than my head, but i have a very small head and that excludes most foods and i am a large man who needs much food so i starved to death and now i am a ghost. gently caress you sebmojo.
|# ¿ Jan 31, 2018 00:22|
hello. i'm having trouble writing lately so i guess i'll do one of these with a flash also k thanks.
|# ¿ Apr 10, 2018 15:45|
*bumps into signpost, falls down, spends rest of life there*
|# ¿ Apr 13, 2018 15:35|
A night at the theater:
The latch to Lavender’s dressing room door is cool on Cherry’s hand. She pushes--just to feel the pressure on her fingertips--and the latch (which never moves, never!) bends with a soft click. The door swings open like welcoming arms and she’s looking inside Lavender’s own private space. The lights are on and the mirror is shining bright over scattered makeup and brushes and lipstick. Lavender’s chair is scooted back as if she’s just been sitting in it, though Cherry knows she hasn’t been, because she’s just seen Lavender on stage working lines with Terry--jealous! Jealous!
A step through the door and oh my god she’s in Lavender’s room. Cherry is frozen for a second because she can’t decide where to go first. She wants to take off her shoes and socks so maybe her skin will touch a patch of floor Lavender’s feet touched. But then she wants to sit in Lavender’s chair and look in the same mirror Lavender does, except then she wants to run to the back of the room and grab every wig and mask from the rows of dummies piled against the rear wall and try them all on in hopes of touching a hair or fleck of skin from Lavender’s head.
She bends to her shoes, then moves toward the chair, then jerks back and almost goes for the wigs, but is put off by an ugly familiarity in one of the dummies’ faces. She jerks around in this uncertain dance for a while then finally hops into the chair. “Hmm, mmmm,” she sighs and runs her hands up and down her thighs as if warming herself, then slides them over her chest and through her hair. She takes long, deep breaths, sounding near panic, then leans forward and fogs the mirror and draws a heart with her fingertip.
“Lavender, ohhh.” Cherry arches and her head hangs down over the back of the chair. Her hand wanders below her belt. “If only I could act good as you, then we could have a scene togeth... er...” She stiffens, sits up straight and stares into the mirror. “Lavender, Lavender.” She says each syllable carefully and pops her lips and sticks out her tongue. Then her eye lands on the brushes and eyeliner and she leans over the table and scoops them all against herself in a hug. “Oh my god, ahhhh.”
They’ve all touched Lavender, all these things, they’ve all been so near her that they might as well be a part of her, like her fingernails or teeth. Tiny brushes and tweezers clatter on the floor, and a tube of lipstick falls into her shirt and lodges in her bra as she sits up with a brush in her hand. She pulls the brush steadily through her own hair and lets out a little sigh while thinking how her own hair and the Lavender hairs in the brush are rubbing against each other.
Footsteps? She springs up from the chair, then falls on the ground and scoops up the dropped items and spreads them out on the table again. Are they footsteps? Maybe, either way it’s a sign to leave. Oh oh oh, the universe has been kind to her today. She spins around and soaks a last look at everything and sucks in a big, happy breath. Two steps and she feels the lipstick moving against her chest and laughs, reaches for it, then pauses. One tube of lipstick won’t be noticed. Cherry thinks she wouldn’t notice one of her own tubes missing--unless it was the tangerine dream orange she uses on weekends. Lavender’s lipstick got stuck against Cherry like this for a reason. These things all happen with depths of meaning, all arranged by the universe’s secret designs.
With her soul full of hope she slips out the door and shuts it quietly behind her. She fishes the lipstick out of her bra, opens it and rolls it over her pursed lips.
“Ohhh, I could die!” She closes the tube, pops her lips and slides the treasure into her pocket.
After losing his set of keys to the theater, necessity had dictated Sean find a way to open doors that did not involve reporting his mistake and endangering his job. Sean learned many things this way: via a combination of necessity and books. For instance, the necessity of sleep--impeded by a yapping mutt across the street--combined with a book on chemistry, led to the ability to concoct a variety of poisons from common items. Similarly, the necessity of employment--impeded by a felony record--combined with several books on social engineering and some days browsing obituaries and making phone calls, led to his maintenance job at the theater. However, the necessity of speaking with Cherry Burns, aspiring actress--impeded by his debilitating crush on her--combined with an endless string of books on how to talk to women, how to exude confidence, how to be attractive, and so on, had so far failed to endow him with the ability to produce a single word in her presence.
Not all the blame for the mute stares that comprised his non-existent relationship with Cherry resided in his own ineptitude. On at least three occasions, when on the precipice of speech, Cherry’s attention had been yanked from him by that glowing siren, Lavender Tay. Oh, that one knew how to be. She knew how to walk, and talk, and smile and glance, and bend and lean and wink and sigh. She was master of all the motions and moods that may as well be jiu-jitsu to Sean. She used these beguiling skills to exert her will over Cherry, and though he knew not her overarching plan, Sean was certain it would have a negative outcome for he and Cherry. Perhaps then, the necessity of speaking with Cherry Burns was impeded not by his own paralysed tongue, but instead by Lavender Tay. In this case, there was some action he could take.
The last tumbler slid into place and the door latch clicked open. Sean extracted his tools from the lock, and shut the door silently behind him.
The room, as he expected, was a charming mess of acting implements. Various costumes hung on corners or sat in piles like shed skins. A lit mirror shone over a scattering of paints and pencils. A line of mannequins wore a rainbow of wigs and masks. To him it seemed a witch’s cave full of potions and spells.
The makeup table and mirror were the focus of his plan. He plucked the previously chosen (photographed, researched, duplicated) item from the mess on the table and replaced it with an evil twin, containing one of his own special brews. The internal click and tingle of a task completed suffused him, and he let out half a sigh, then froze.
Footsteps, the subtle tick of fingers on the latch.
His reflexes made the decision before his conscious mind could argue, and he darted like a prodded snake into the line of mannequins, squeezing himself between and behind them.
The door opened. He held his breath.
From the first fingers curled around the door he knew it was Cherry. She would recognize him for sure, his face was uncovered and she’d seen it so often. Sean scavenged for an excuse, tossing away possible explanations as they came to mind, each one seeming hopelessly unbelievable. Why was he here? Why?
Cherry didn’t move for several seconds. Then, just as a hope that she’d leave tightened Sean’s throat, she strode directly to the mirror and sat in front of it.
Now was certainly the time to act. The time to step out and say... anything. ‘Hello, I’m sorry, I was cleaning these mannequins for Lavender,’ came to mind, and with no other options presenting themselves he decided to go for it. But the moment he began to form the H he was interrupted by a loud groan.
As she mumbled and moaned Cherry’s hands fluttered around her body in a way that reddened Sean’s face. Any chance of presenting himself had vanished now. Should she ever know--ever guess!--that he’d seen such a thing, it would be death for any future relationship, or even friendship. She could never know, must never know he’d seen her... like this. His leg was twisted in an awkward position and his calf began to cramp. Don’t move, don’t breathe.
Cherry leaned and scooped the mess of makeup off the table, onto the floor, and over herself, cackling madly--possessed, she was possessed entirely by this Lavender witch! The slowest seconds in earth’s history grinded agonizingly past as Cherry groaned and sighed and generally made an embarrassment of herself. Sean kept as still as stone and did his best to cease reflecting light. Then, finally, startled by something, Cherry darted from the room like a spooked faun and shut the door after her.
Sean melted to the floor and released relieved sobs in short bursts. The mannequins wobbled and one fell against him. He didn’t move for a while, then, remembering his purpose, he leaped up and hurried to the makeup table.
He fingered through the various items with the ridiculous idea that he could arrange them back to their pre-Cherry state. He gave up shortly, and stepped back. Maybe Lavender wouldn’t notice. It was possible she wouldn’t notice. Then he noticed. A certain purple tube of lipstick no longer stood front and center on the table.
Cherry floats toward the stage. She’s feeling a bit dizzy, and light. It must be the high of being in Lavender’s room. Just remembering that closeness with Lavender makes her woozy, and she stumbles and has to hold onto something to catch her balance.
“Ahh, Lavender,” she moans and tries take a step, but something is holding her. Then she notices the odd angle of everything. It’s all tilted because she’s leaning, somehow.
An ugly man-face hovers above her. He looks familiar, like the kind of familiar that’s on the edge of your brain, like when you just can’t remember what movie some actor was in.
The man is saying something about lips, and then she realizes he caught her when she was falling and is holding her. It all seems so romantic. ‘Thhank you!” she slurs. She wonders why she’s slurring, then figures she must be drunk, and this is likely an afterparty.
The man is talking about her lips. Her lips are one of her better features, she thinks. They’ve been called ‘pert’ many times. “Youllike my lipss?” she says. He keeps reaching for her face and she keeps turning away, as is the proper thing to do in these situations. But then she thinks, well, it is a party and he did catch me. The universe wants it. She leans in for kiss.
And she misses! How in hell can she miss? His head just isn’t where she thought it was, and then it isn’t again, and again. She gets so dizzy from all this motion that she must get tangled up with him, cause next thing she knows they’re both on the floor and boy is her vision wobbly. She feels sure he’ll keep her safe, though, this kind stranger who caught her when she tripped. What a guy, what a guy. With her last bit of awake, she lays her face on top of his and sticks a big, sloppy smooch on his mouth.
Lavender flees the hall, hands over her face. An airy blue dress flutters behind her, tight against slim legs. Oh, it’s just hopeless, hopeless! She does so much to keep herself in shape and appealing. The dieting, the makeup, the constant updates to her clothes, the hours--hours!--spent on her hair and nails, and shoes! The time she puts into shoes--and for what? It’s all for nothing, apparently.
She understands that, as an actress, she is held to a higher standard by men. Of course, that’s to be expected. When someone is standing on a stage it’s taken for granted that they be beautiful, and well spoken, and graceful, and poised. Even more so when they’re the lead.
But he is not an actor, and not rich, not even young, not anything! A maintenance man with a twisted mouth and shifty eyes--he should be bowing down with gratitude at the slightest glance from her! But it’s just hopeless, isn’t it? How many times has she thrust herself into his line of vision, how many times has she swept into the midst of his conversations with the other cast, just to give him a chance to say hello, to try a line on her, to wink or--hell, even give her a smack on the rear end--but he just won’t!
And now, he’s rolling on the ground with that trollop Cherry? When he could have a star? It’s just hopeless!
Lavender palms tears and makeup across her cheeks and pushes out a side door into the street. She takes a long, crisp breath and fumbles out a lone cigarette she keeps in her coin purse for the inevitable relapse. Screw it, she thinks, as she sucks on fresh cinders, they can both rot.
|# ¿ Apr 15, 2018 17:33|
Okay I will write a story featuring a guy who is tough and or cool. Gimme a quote thing
|# ¿ Apr 17, 2018 01:57|
"Do the animals still talk in your world?"
You trying to force me to write about pirates? Self imposed rule: Idris has never been on a boat
|# ¿ Apr 17, 2018 02:42|
“For the first ten days they sailed on beautifully and found plenty to eat as there were lots of fish..."
A Mother and a Father
Starring Janet McTeer as Zednia
And introducing Idris Elba as The Stranger
Zednia thought the stranger was some kind of invalid at first. He approached her boat as if each step brought pain, carefully, as if grazing a passerby might shatter him. He wore a huge, woolen overcoat that hung down to his ankles and over his thumbs, and she thought it must have been a tropical hell for him in the summer sun. But when he looked down at her from under his wide brimmed hat, his eyes were sharp with cunning and he spoke in a clear, calm way. “Take me up the coast.”
“Welcome aboard the Lena,” she said, and the stranger stepped carefully aboard the small boat. “Treat her with respect.”
For the first day the stranger said not a word. They ate well, as fish were abundant. Zednia cleaned and cooked what she caught, and watched him eat in a steady, repetitive way, pushing the white morsels between his lips like bits of kindling into a fledgling fire. At times, the heavy sleeve of his coat would fall and she’d catch sight of...something, some marks or bumps on the skin of his arm. Once he noticed her looking, he made sure it didn’t happen again. He slept sitting up, rocking with the waves.
On the first sunrise he woke and blinked at the new sun, then eyed the coastline, which held dwindling signs of civilization: a fishing canoe here, a longhouse there. “Further out,” he said. “Keep from the shore.”
Zednia steered the agile Lena out obligingly, but this request was a bad omen. The outer waters were dangerous. Her daughter’s spirit creaked the ship’s floorboards in protest as Zednia steered and wondered at the stranger’s purpose. “Someone after you?” she asked, watching him sidelong.
“No.” He showed no reaction, only watched the shore recede.
Some minutes later she tried again. “You hot under that coat?”
She let it go, and steered on.
Night fell and storm clouds gathered on the horizon. Zednia watched the stranger sway in his seat until his eyes closed, then she steered Lena back toward the coast, wary of the encroaching storm. Sporadic gusts brought whifs of urine from the passengers direction, and something else, something fetid and warm beneath his coat. She left the tiller and crept across the boat, years of sea travel steadying her legs. With a silent and steady hand she reached for the front of his coat.
The stranger’s fingers snapped around her wrist like a sprung trap and his eyes blazed at her like two flung open furnace doors. “Don’t touch me,” he said. Zednia snatched his sleeve and yanked it back to expose dark skin covered in swollen lumps like fingertips pressing up from within his flesh. They covered his arm in a geometric repetition.
The stranger jerked his hand away.
“Is that contagious?” Zednia shouted, standing over him.
“Don’t lie to me. I’ll throw you over the side right now.” Thunder rolled over the waves, the breath of a distant monster.
The stranger’s burning gaze did not waver. “You changed course. We’re too close to the shore.”
A spark of anger flared in Zednia’s chest and she moved to block his view. “This is my boat, and I’m staying clear of that storm. And you wouldn’t know a westering wind from your own wind, don’t you try to tell me how to sail!”
He stood, slowly unfolding to his full height, nearly a foot over her. His intense gaze seemed to tighten the skin of her face with its power. “I don’t know the sea,” he said. “But I know me, and I know my children, and I know what I need to do. Move away from the shore.”
Each word struck her heart like a hurled stone. He had the voice of a leader, a prophet, a preacher, and she wrestled the urge to step back, the urge to obey. But the tumultuous waters held dark memories, and she could sense that Lena longed to be away from them. Zednia jutted her chin up at the stranger. “I’m not sailing toward a storm. Sit down.”
Thunder rumbled, louder. The sudden clatter of rain erupted around her and in moments they were drenched. She ran to the tiller and adjusted for the changing winds. The stranger did not sit down. She saw him over her shoulder, watching her and weaving back and forth with the lurching sea.
“Have you carried children?” His voice boomed above the wind and rain.
“Children?” She looked back as she and Lena strained against the swelling sea. “What could you know of children.”
The passenger crossed to stand beside her. His voice was a snake crawling into her ear. “I know that someone carrying a child does what it takes for that child to survive. I know that someone protecting a growing life will risk their own, risk anything to ensure its safe birth. You know that feeling, don’t you? You know that drive.”
Zednia squeezed her eyes closed but could not shut her ears or her memories. The dark, slashing sea, sharp waves and pale arms sticking up from them, fingers grasping just out of reach. She hadn’t leaped in, she hadn’t risked.
“I am asking you,” the stranger continued, his voice an unceasing dirge. “Move out from the shore. Help my children. All land must be out of sight when they arrive. They must not be confused by it. They must stay by me.”
“Your children? What are you talking about?”
“Trust another parent’s desires,” he said.
She stood in the grip of his gaze, and in the corner of her eye, small, pale, grasping hands floated to the surface of the waves. She steered toward them. Lena, oh Lena. Soon only dark water surrounded her, and the single ship’s lantern was the only source of light in the storm-ridden sky.
The stranger’s breath was ragged and his back in a palsic hunch. With the shore finally out of sight he straightened and let his long coat slide from his shoulders to the deck in one swift motion. Beneath he was naked, and covered in bulging protrusions.
“What are you doing?” Zednia shrieked.
“My children, are born.”
He arched his back and spats of blood bloomed across his chest and legs and arms like the striking of invisible arrows. The flickering lantern lit gleams of green and gold in those red spots--wiggling, twisting, crawling out and over his skin and around his arms and legs and face. In seconds the stranger’s skin was obscured with a writhing mass of green and gold. And the buzzing, the humming of it overtook the wind.
Zednia lurched back and her calf hit the gunwale. She turned, and in the dark, foaming sea saw two pale hands, ten grasping fingers. Lena.
“Lena!” The terribly drone of the insects and the wrecked voice of the stranger obscured her call, but the hands in the water opened wide as if hearing. She bent toward them, and the ship lurched.
Ice enveloped her and dark silence squeezed.
She rose, choked, spat, submerged to black and warbling silence.
Rose, spat, coughed, looked for her boat, her Lena. The cloud of flies descended on the stranger and cut off his shrieks like a beheading. The flies circled, landed, circled again, moving like a living group, like a murmuration of starlings with nowhere to land but the Lena. The boat swayed away from Zednia, pulled by the same waves that she kicked against. Before it left her sight every inch of its surface and sail was mounted by a gold or green fly.
She closed her eyes to the storm and the pelting rain, and beneath the icy water felt a small hand grasp hers.
|# ¿ Apr 22, 2018 13:59|
Thank you for the crits up and all, lots of effort going into those for dumb forum words. We don't deserve it(I love it ty!)
|# ¿ Apr 22, 2018 23:57|
hi hello i will do it.
thank you and good day.
|# ¿ Sep 5, 2018 17:52|
It’s not fair! It’s bullshit! How could God allow this, gently caress him! Please, no! These are things I say to myself in a loop for forty-one hours and twenty minutes after I get the call and am told my best friend Angela has died in a car accident and there is no possible hope she survived and no chance she is secretly in a coma from which she might wake if only certain medical technology
No. Gone. Irretrievably, irrevocably gone.
But it could be a mistake, what does Jen know about anything even if she did pick up Angela’s parents from the hospital cause they got hurt in the crash too and Angela wasn’t there because Angela is dead and there is no reason for a dead person to go to a hospital this is God’s loving fault PLEASE GOD BRING HER BACK I’LL DO ANYTHING
As I was saying, this loop continued until on the 21st minute of the forty-second hour I got another call. Snot throat, burning eyes, choked words “hello? I’m not, this is not a good--” “Minny?” That’s me, so I say “Yeah, who’s this?” “It’s Jen, Angela’s sister.” “Oh, hi I... I am sorry for your loss.” God that sounds pathetic, stupid, I hate myself. It’s MY loss anyway, mine. “Thank you,” she says. There’s a long pause and I wonder if I’m supposed to talk now, but then she says “um. Did you know if?... Well. Angela, she had some letters and I...” Letters? Oh. Oh
“Did you read them?” I’m not yelling. By God’s merciful will I’m not yelling or crying. “Yes, I just... Well maybe you can come over and we can talk about it? I mean is there...” “A reason? An explanation? Of course, haha, yes!” Why, am I laughing. I’m a social idiot. “I’ll come over,” I say. “Please don’t do anything until...” “Okay, yeah, Okay.”
Hang up. Get in car and turn key. Cry for ten minutes. Punch the door. Drive to Angela’s. Jen is sitting on the porch. She gets up when I park and I fall into her arms and we cry and squeeze each other so hard it hurts but letting go would hurt more. We go into the living room which is too clean and white and there are flowers everywhere and crosses and those wretched paintings of Jesus and angels, and there’s a familiar box with zigzagging blue and white lines and I THANK GOD it’s down here cause if Jen took me upstairs to Angela’s room I might never stop crying.
The box is open and there are the ‘letters’ right there, naked and spread out and exposed. Dozens of pages, with two distinct handwriting samples. Which ones did she read?
Jen waves her hand at the papers. “Minny, what is this? Was...” She straightens her shoulders like she’s gonna punch me, or maybe get punched. She’s staring me down and my face is getting so hot. She finally speaks. “Was Angela a... a lesbian? With you?”
Lesbian! Jesus saves, she must have read a vanilla story and stopped there, I can’t believe my luck. “YES!” I gasp and latch on to Jen like she’s that door in Titanic. “We were secretly gay, it was such a burden!” Oh God please, I can go the rest of my life living this lie if only she BELIEVES. I’m crying so hard--at first with hope and then gut-stabbing vomit-inducing pain at the memory of us laughing over those stories and how Angela would howl if she knew Jen thought they were letters and gently caress YOU GOD WHY
“Honey, please.” Jen is trying to pry me off so I step back and wipe my face with my arm. “You’re young,” she says. She would say that. She’s always looking down on us from her great five year seniority, that bitch. “You’re curious, experimenting, I mean, could that be it? You were just fooling around?” Yes! No. No, if she thinks it was innocent fun she might read on... “No, I love her.” I do, oh GOD I do and I don’t care if everyone thinks I love her in that way, too. “I love her and those are private, you can’t read anymore, or tell anyone!” Jen goes into shoulders back mode again and stares with that same intensity then paces back and forth and stares some more. The air is getting thick, my throat is swelling to the size of the Earth and vibrating so loud I could go deaf and my ears are on fire from the way she’s looking at me. Finally she strikes “Is it normal during...” she looks around then whispers, “lesbian sex,” back to normal volume, “for there to be so many...” looks around, whispers, “dildos... all going in the same... area?”
Oh. That story.
There’s some sounds happening, ringing in my ears, the revving of engines, opening and closing of doors, a big mess of clanging and gongs as my face melts from my skull and my clothes are soaked with sweat so hot it dissolves them from my body and leaves me naked and glowing red.
“It was all me,” I say in a dead flat gravel. All I can think of is Angela’s funeral and what her mom will be thinking--cause I know that God-loving bitch Jen would tell her parents. Her mom and dad and the whole family would be thinking of nothing but dildos. As they listen to the eulogy--dildos. Her life stories and memories, too, all overshadowed by massive amounts of dildos. “I’m the one,” I say, my last words before the firing squad, “that wanted all those dildos in me, and I made Angela write about it with me. It was just my perverse imagination. We never did anything, I just, wanted her to write about it with me...because I just love dildos, I...” I trail off because Jen’s face has shifted like one of those ghost movies into a sagging-jaw vacant-faced pale-eyed visage which I thought at first was because of my words but she’s looking behind me.
I turn like a creaking basement door in a horror movie.
Mom, and Dad, and Angela’s mom and Angela’s dad roll into view like four cursed idols.
Dad drops his keys on the floor. No one moves.
“Hi Mom, Dad. Mr and Mrs Baker.” The air has gone from hot to cold, my heartbeat is the only thing I can feel or hear.
Before anyone has time to react I grab the box of smut and charge past them and out the door. My plan is to get somewhere secluded and burn it all to ash but I miss a step on the porch and the box pops out of my grip and papers scatter in all directions, fly up on the wind, skitter across the street like leaves, everywhere.
I hear the clunk and clatter of people rushing out the door behind me.
I know Angela will be rolling in her grave as soon as she’s down there. And me, I’m kind of jealous she’s dead.
|# ¿ Sep 9, 2018 21:29|
is there any rules about posting crits before judging has happened
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2018 20:10|
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2018 20:45|
Also ty for those krits
|# ¿ Sep 11, 2018 05:02|
i dont think i took enough time with these to call them crits, but here are the thoughts i had while reading the stories.
Funhouse, m. propagandalf
Typoes. I’m having a hard time visualizing this off-putting man. Unsure how she can tell he’s wearing blackface if he’s wearing a mask. As I’m reading, many of these descriptions are hard for me to imagine. “The man pranced off as Yolanda followed suit.” she pranced as well? This strikes me as humorous, in a sort of ‘walk this way’ kind of way. This whole thing could use some close reading and a couple more rounds of editing. I liked the unexpected way the man reacted like he was all hurt and sad that she didn’t want to stay, that made me smile. Overall though this story wasn’t very satisfying because Yolanda didn’t do anything, it was all the man’s actions (telling her where the plushy was, then giving her the special coin) that allowed her to leave.
Oh boy, a poo poo story. The first sentence is where I would normally stop reading but I’ll go on for a crit. Well this certainly is miserable. Strikes me as kind of a gross out story, but it at least has a cynical edge, which I like. Not sure what to think of the message here. It seems to be a critical look at the way cities deal with their homeless, but then all the homeless are described as shitbags so...? Pretty well written, I chuckled a couple times, and the ending was unexpected. Not much of a story though, in a ‘character trying and failing/succeeding to do something’ kind of way.
Running up that hill, staggy
I liked this one. The beginning has a good hook and it held me all the way through. I really enjoyed that it didn’t end in a sappy or dumb way, or a twisty way (almost thought he was gunna die on the hill WHATATWIST) but in a realistic ‘work is hard, and it sucks, deal with it’ kind of way. Nice work on the descriptions, too, really had me feeling the guys pain and frustration. I’ll probably think of this one again at some point, which is more than I can say for most of the stories I read here.
I wanted to stop reading this cause who wants to read about these kinds of assholes, but I noticed that one of the words for your prompt was ‘disdain’ so, okay, I guess I’ll feel disdain. Pretty well written, pulled me along, made me want to know what was going to happen. I thought the story should have ended here “This is the Twisted Goose, he said impatiently, and it’s how I’m finally going to grab Mindy Burbank’s tit.” It was funny, and unexpected, made me laugh. After that though you kind of figure of course it’s going to go wrong and are just waiting to find out exactly how. Not a bad read, though the content kind of brought it down, imo.
Little departures, sparksbloom
I guess it was written competently enough, but I just didn’t care about anything that happened. Didn’t seem like the character did, either.
Zodiac race, billy profane
You got a hell of a flash rule and did what you could with it. The reality show context is kind of amusing, but there’s really not much to pull this story along. There’s no question i want answered, no tension, no ‘what’s going to happen?’ not bad for trying to fit 12 characters in 1200 words though.
Good descriptions of his weird experiences i guess but I just don’t care. Nothing changes, nothing is learned, nothing is tried, nothing is failed. A guy has some thoughts and then stabs himself.
Apophenium, bad math
I liked this one. Interesting, unpredictable and nothing is explained, which is as it should be. Would have liked a bit more of a sense of Jeremy’s feelings of being trapped and resisting, so that the finale is more satisfying. But pretty good for the number of words you had. Also i liked that she died in the end. Would have ruined the story imo if somehow his shooting bart made her wake up. Yay. after reading everything I might pick this for a winner.
Lippencot, sunday dinner
Nice. I like this one too. I was really rooting for Abe. Made me feel the tension and feel that connection and internal cheering every time Abe held his ground. Took a little while to get going, otherwise great.
Antivehicular, blameless prisoner
Was interested to read this one after seeing the flash rule. I was definitely curious while reading it, it’s an interesting premise and I wanted to find out more. Pretty good for a story where nothing can change, which means nothing really happens. The unanswered questions were good, just enough intrigue to leave me thinking about what kind of prison this is, what it means to be there, etc. pretty good. After reading everything, could be argued for a winner or hm
Cut the second paragraph and this is pretty good. Can feel the guy’s desperation and helplessness. Could use some editing and rewriting in parts to make it more snappy and sharp as the story itself is. But not bad.
Thranguy, for the love of god
This was a good read. Well written, good pacing, interesting characters and interesting plot. All around good. Not sure it fits the prompt to well and i don’t get the title. But I enjoyed it quite a bit. Could be a winner.
Invisible clergy, starlight
Bored. Don’t know what the point of this was. What was i supposed to feel or think... the best way to get a reader to care about or like a character (if that’s what you were trying to do) is to show them either being really good at something, or really bad at something but trying super hard at it anyway. He didn't seem like he had to try very hard, maybe that’s why I didn’t care. I dunno.
Lead out in cuffs, suburban skategirls
This was pretty cute, and nice job on using the literal image lol. The skunks were kind of random though and a distraction cause I was trying to figure out what they meant or how they related to the prompt.
|# ¿ Sep 11, 2018 05:09|
okay i will do it
|# ¿ Sep 11, 2018 15:47|
Ty for your thoughts!
|# ¿ Sep 14, 2018 06:55|
Vale Byers had a secret power that not even Mommy knew about, even though Mommy was the one who gave it to her. The power worked like this: if Vale touched Mommy’s heavy silver locket to anyone who was hurt or dead, and said the secret word, they came right back to life, and everything was okay.
The secret word was aeternum. It sounded like a Harry Potter word. Mommy first said aeternum last week on Vale’s birthday when she gave Vale the special locket. Mommy was sick in the hospital so Vale’s birthday party was in the hospital room, and it was crowded and boring because everyone had to be quiet.
When they got home after the party, Vale asked Daddy what the word meant. Mommy was always looking in old books and writing down those weird words. She did it for her job. But she hadn’t gone to her job in a while, because of the hospital. When Vale asked Daddy what aeternum meant, he stared into space a long time, then he went to the computer and said it meant: forever.
That same evening, Vale found a dead bee curled up on the sill in her room. She felt sad thinking of how the bee would never buzz in a flower again. When you’re dead, you’re dead forever, that’s what Daddy told her after she asked him enough times, and her teachers said it was true, too. So she picked up the poor little bee and solemnly said “Aeternum,” and put it in her locket, on top of Mommy’s face (the other side had Vale’s face when she was a baby) and closed it up to show Daddy later. But when later came, she opened the locket and the bee flew right out, alive as anything! The buzzing and spinning of that happy little bee surged her heart full of joy.
From then on, whenever she saw something dead, she said “Aeternum!” and put the creature in her locket--or touched it with the locket if it was too big to fit inside, and every time--every time!--the little critter got better. She put a squashed snail with its shell all crumbled up and slimy into her locket, and a brand new snail crawled out from under a leaf not even a minute later. She put a smooshed housefly in her locket, and seconds later a new one buzzed by. She put beetles and pill bugs and spiders inside, spoke aeternum! and all of them got better.
She helped thirteen bugs this way before she found the dead puppy on the sidewalk. Its little eyes were all bloody and its tail didn’t move at all. Daddy said not to touch dead animals ever, but Vale had a responsibility. So she crouched down, touched the locket on the puppy’s haunch, and said the magic word. It took a long time. She held the locket on the puppy and said aeternum over and over. Her legs got tired so she sat on the ground. People drove by and looked at her, and her heart jumped every time, but no one stopped her. Finally, forty minutes later she heard cheerful barking in the distance and leaped to her feet. He was alive again!
Two days later, Vale squirmed in the back seat while Daddy drove them to see Mommy. She couldn’t wait to tell Mommy about the magic word. When they got to the hospital Mommy looked so pale, and Vale rushed into her arms and squeezed. “Mommy, oh Mommy, you’re like the bugs and the dog.”
Mommy laughed weakly. “Honey, what does that mean?” She smiled in a very small way like her lips were too tired to move.
“I know the word, Mommy. It’s for you. You’ll be just like the bugs.” Vale opened the locket and touched it to Mommy’s hand and said “Aeternum.”
Nothing happened for a second then Mommy got a look like that time when Daddy didn’t come home. Her eyes got all wet and she grabbed Vale in a hug so hard and whispered in her ear. “Yes, Aeternum Vale, Aeternum Vale, my love.” Vale kept pressing the locket to Mommy’s hand but Mommy’s hug just got weaker and weaker until she fell back on her sheets and loud beeps appeared everywhere. Daddy started yelling and nurses and doctors rushed in and everybody surrounded Mommy’s bed. Vale pressed the locket against Mommy and said “Aeternum, Aeternum!” but a nurse pulled her away and all sound was overwhelmed by people shouting things like ‘clear!’ and ‘her pulse!’
Vale struggled against the nurse, but couldn’t move. Mommy was out of reach, surrounded by a mass of blue smocks.
Some days later Vale and Daddy and six aunts and uncles and three kids that Vale didn’t remember all wore black and stood next to a big hole in the ground with a box hanging over it. A priest said some strange words of the kind that Mommy liked to say. Vale held the locket tight, and waited for Mommy to come back. Daddy told Vale that Mommy was gone up to heaven but Vale knew she was really inside the box, about to go under the dirt. She waited for Mommy to open the box and climb out, but the lid didn’t even wiggle. It was okay, Vale was patient, it didn’t always happen as easy as with the bee.
Vale and Daddy threw in the first handfuls of dirt, then everybody threw some in. Then the box went down and everybody went home.
One day passed, then two. Vale squeezed and kissed and never let go of the locket and whispered the word constantly, but Mommy didn’t come back. Vale even tested the locket on three insects and one bird, and it worked on all of them--the bird flapped out of a tree only a minute later!--but Mommy didn’t come back.
The next morning Vale figured out what was wrong and let out a little shriek of relief. Of course, of course, she was doing it all wrong. The answer was so simple. She scrounged through the house until she found something that would work, put it into her backpack, and told Daddy she wanted to visit Mommy. Daddy said it wasn’t a good time but she cried until he said yes, and they drove to the cemetery.
They parked and got out and walked past rows of crosses and small stone lumps, and Vale could hardly keep from running. When they got to Mommy’s grave Vale knelt down in grass that felt oddly squishy over the freshly dug dirt. After some calming breaths, she unzipped her bag, took out a garden trowel and stabbed it with all her strength into the grass. She dug up a big chunk before Daddy noticed.
“Vale! Honey, you can’t--”
Vale stabbed the earth harder and harder until Daddy wrenched the trowel from her hands.
“No! I have to keep touching her, or it won’t work! I have to keep touching her!”
Daddy didn’t understand, so Vale dug with her hands. Daddy had to drag her screaming and waving dirt encrusted fingers, back to the car.
Vale tried four times to sneak out to the graveyard. She succeeded once, got there by bus, and was taken home in a squad car, her clothes and skin black with dirt.
Five years later, when reading about the Latin her mother was so fond of, Vale found the magic word among a list of other common funeral phrases.
Aeternum Vale: goodbye forever.
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2018 03:18|
ty for the crits Solitair and cant!
|# ¿ Sep 18, 2018 21:52|
|# ¿ Sep 20, 2018 09:18|
extremely happy i deleted all my posts from the old threads. holy crap this could be an embarrassing week for some people
|# ¿ Sep 18, 2018 23:06|