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Sep 14, 2010


would the house be kind enough to comp me a flash rule?

something light, refreshing, maybe a little bubbly, and on the rocks


Sep 14, 2010

She was a handsome young woman with a knack for shooting; a real Annie Oakley in a three-piece suit.

The Day Before Sunday
777 words

The pheasant was spared on account of weather. Not from clouds, or from the rain — the chalk-mark sky over the Parisian countryside had captured Jeannine’s attention like a siren, while the plumed bird flapped off into the horizon. But it was no matter.

The sky had reminded her of Easter, that’s all. The first one she could remember, where she hunted pastel-colored eggs with her brother in a pasture that would not get any greener that year. She remembered those times fondly.

Jeannine sighed and rested the barrels of her gun over her coat lapel, and then continued to walk along the tree line.

The second pheasant, a short while later, was spared by virtue of dog. Jeannine had lined up the bird and was ready to fire when she felt something brush against her lower leg. She lowered the gun.

A floppy-eared spaniel was sitting next to her. It looked up at her with its polished eyes and began to rhythmically pant.

“Aw, good boy.”

She lowered herself to dog-height and petted the top of its head. The dog’s tongue drooped in satisfaction.


A minute of pettings and pats had passed when a man came thrashing through from the other side of the tree line. She recognized him immediately, but they had not met before — her line of work had given her a general familiarity of the rich men of Paris.

“Sorry,” Jaques Bernard said, slightly out of breath. “…I’m trying to teach him to flush, properly, but he seems to be more interested in plants over partridges.” He extended his hand. “I’m Jaques.”

“Jeannine”, she said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jaques.”

“You know, you should be in a hazard vest out here” Jaques said, “…not saying I don’t like that coat, and you certainly don’t look like a bird, but a vest will at least keep the dogs away.”

“I’m just more comfortable in a suit,” she said. “And, besides, the dogs like me for who I am, not for what I wear.”

They said their good-lucks and valedictions and then the man headed back into the tree line, but the dog — she had learned its name was Charlie — didn’t want to follow. Jaques gave a terse sigh and pulled the dog by its collar, quite forcefully, until it walked in step.

She didn’t quite know why, but she moved to follow them after they had vanished back into the trees. Something about her wanted one last look at that dog.

As she got closer, she heard his voice from beyond the brush.

“… don’t you ever run off like that. Understand, you little poo poo?”

She up moved past the undergrowth to a clearing where she could see the two. Jaques Bernard, in a show of intimidation, was pointing the nozzle of his gun at Charlie. Charlie, in his instinct, dropped his head to the ground and whimpered.

Of all the reactions across the human spectrum that would have been appropriate, Jeannine had this one:

Tonight, I will steal this dog.


The château wasn’t far, seven kilometers or so towards Chantilly. The sun was low in the sky by the time Jeannine got there— it cast a marigold bloom across the stoney front of the estate.

Jeannine was inside of the château shortly after, just as the sun had tucked itself away under the horizon. Her line of work made that part easy, too. Jaques Bernard had not returned yet, so she waited on top of the balcony overlooking the front atrium. Up there she was head-height with a gold and crystal chandelier. The raw materials alone would fetch her… maybe a couple hundred-thousand franc?

She was contemplating the best way to lug an eighty-pound chandelier when Jaques and Charlie returned. Oddly, Jaques was conversing with a strung up pheasant.

"… to eat you tonight you little poo poo-bird, yeah, my enzymes are going to be all over you, you stupid little …"

Jaques had walked through the atrium to the kitchen, but Charlie did not follow. The dog sat down next to the doorway, and, sensing Jeannine, looked up with its polished eyes and began to rhythmically pant.


They walked side-by-side towards the direction of home. The night sky illuminated the entire country in starlight, and a flock of silhouettes flew past the moon.

"You know, if he ever pisses me off again, then next time I'm going to steal that entire château," Jeannine said.

Charlie gave out a friendly bark.

“Hey, tomorrow's Easter, you know," Jeannine said. “We can lay off the partridges… but we will definitely try to hunt you some eggs.”

Sep 14, 2010

hell loving yeah I’m in

Sep 14, 2010

Here is a small line-by-line of RandomPauI's story. I would really try and read some more books and stories to get a better feel for how you should structure your language, paragraphs, dialogue, and action. This feels very ESL (no idea if you actually are ESL, and if you aren't, no offense, getting words down correctly can be a struggle for pretty much everyone). The first portion of the tenet read more/write more is the best way to get your stuff sounding more natural.

RandomPauI posted:

I, Don (Rogue) from Jabalí, shall now relate to you our tiny town's contributions, big and small, to the overthrow the vile foreign King Harold III....the tyrant [who] replaced our beloved mayor Father Montoya with the vile Louis de Poltrot….

Still, our promenade displayed our pride. Once lined with soldiers marching 15 wide by 20 deep...[their] black trichomes laced with regal blue, festooned with a white cockade not unlike the brow of the noble peacock…In their place was a less organized but no less vibrant mercado.

you are using a lot of esoteric vocab here — use words that aren’t common english sparingly, and when you do, accompany them with context so it’s clear what they actually mean. Mercado is the worst offender here — “vibrant mercado” means literally nothing to me (it just leaves me confused, but not in the way that makes me want to know more), and it doesn’t do anything to enhance your description of the market in the paragraph below.

Though the mercado lacked the formality of infantry on parade, it still maintained a sense of order. The most reputable and respected merchants operated from bright red stalls, arranged back-to-back in two columns of ten….The poorer vendors sold their wares at the edge of the street from duller yellow tents and carts. And peddlers, buskers, and other hawkers of wares and services vied for attention and customers (drop this) on the sidewalks: be it thru (through) their wares, their gay attire give me a concrete description here, i.e. quilted attire — describing things in the abstract takes me out of the scene) , or their persistence (same, persistence doesn’t add any life to the scene) ….

The otherwise lazy Poltrot I didn’t even remember you calling out Poltrot in the first paragraph, maybe spell out his full name here so I can make that connection easier, but honestly it would be better if you incorporated him in your descriptions above so we don't lose track treated the mercado as his own personal fiefdom and it was here that he bared his thuggish nature like teeth work on your simile game this doesn’t really work. I think “bare” only works for concrete things (i.e. bared his chest), and your simile needs to better evoke the feeling of thuggishness — “teeth” isn’t malicious enough because I can show my teeth in a smile just as easily . Each week he would pick on several vendors to fulfill his every whim and demand, offering no compensation in return. This demeaning always slash adjectives like this, with few exceptions abuse of authority continued without interruption for several months until my compatriots and I decided to attack the petty tyrant.

I was at the market that fateful day. Poltrot “collected” a live chicken as “tax” and forced another vendor to dress and roast it. Poltrot even screamed at the unwilling cook “your dog turns the rotisserie too fast, turn it by hand!” okay I had to look this up and apparently dogs actually did turn rotisseries using these things called turnspits. This is so esoteric though that you absolutely absolutely need to give us a physical description of the dog doing it so the reader will believe it’s an actual thing. Otherwise they are going to think “dog” is some kind of insult for a person who’s turning the wheel, and then the follow-up, “turn it by hand!”, will make absolutely no sense I knew that Poltrot would be spent the next hour or so mocking the poor cook. So I ran straight to the house my compatriots and I were renting.

“The swine is taunting Senor Cruz” I screamed as I scrambled into our den. “Poltrot stole a chicken and is forcing Senor Cruz to cook it. He will be there for a good thirty minutes at least!”. We ran to grab our tools for revenge (redundant, breaks up the flow of your commas. Replace this with a word or two describing the physical characteristics of the tools) , crude disguises and a wretched mixture of fat and paint to coat Poltorot with.

Unbeknownst to my fellows, I would also carry a length of pipe. And I had on my belt a sheathed dagger to finish the deed if the pipe weren’t (wasn’t) enough. We (this should be I, why would the group be putting on his disguise for him?) hadn’t yet applied my disguise when we heard a heavy wrapping (rapping, but the spelling of the present participle here is going to be confusing because hip-hop so use a different word) from the door. Constable Armendariz had arrived.

“I beg your patience, I will be there in a moment” I screamed, my co-conspirators jumping thru an open window and out into a dark alleyway. “Open up the door now Luiz!” he replied. I opened the door, and could only trust my compatriots to drag Poltrot down in one way or another. He grabbed me by the wrist, dragging me back into my “gambling den” and throwing me to the ground. “Stay down!” he barked as he grabbed my bag, filling it with cards, dice, chips, and money. Then there was silence.

The action here is strange, when you drag someone you drag them towards you, but he’s standing by the door, so he would have to “push” him back into the gambling den.

“Then there was silence” is also a strange way to end this, give us a more physical description here, i.e. of the two staring each-other down and not saying a word, or something like that.

Some minutes later a whistle blew coming from the direction of the mercado. Armendariz once again grabbed me by the wrist, demanding complete silence and obedience. I found myself compelled to obey as if for fear of my life. We proceeded to run towards what I could only hope was the corpse of Poltrot.

Alas, he was not dead nor mained maimed. He was merely covered in a foul mixture of grease, lard, paint, and feathers which this final insult would be the only insult (this is strange and hard to parse).

“Did you catch him, did you catch the brute!” Poltrot cried.

“I’ve only just arrived but I’m certain my men are scouring the area for your foul attacker.” Armendariz replied

“And who is this with you?” Poltrot screeched in reply “What is his role in this?”

Armendariz’s reply was firm, definitive, and authoritative; “I caught this one with his miscreant friends, profaning the day with gambling.” He said, rummaging thru the sack and pulling out a loose card from the bag.

And so Poltrot sobbed his orders to Armendariz; “Give them the maximum punishment! Help me up, conduct your investigation, and punish everyone involved!”

Armendariz glared at me, shoved his face into mine, and grumbled “that was a dangerous game, there’s more at risk then (than) your soul.” Then he shoved me down onto the ground “Report to the jail! If you don’t there’ll be hell to pay!”. I ran off to follow the instructions while the good constable helped the evil pig off the ground. okay I think you know this but “hey you’re free to go just make sure you end up at the jail sometime today so you can face your maximum punishment” isn’t a thing anyone would do. I also don’t get that first line from Armendariz at all.

GenJoe fucked around with this message at 20:20 on Jan 31, 2018

Sep 14, 2010

ooooh yeah baby in

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