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May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch

in. prompt me.


May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch

oh lol the OP link to current prompt is last weeks. whoops.

May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch

In. Product prompt please.

May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch

Item: Swifter Sweeper: Tidies up timelines.

Reserve America
Words: 1070
When they put the final nail in Bear Ears National Park, Bilfred counted himself lucky. He had been on the job hunt at least a year ahead of those holier-than-thou pricks over at Zion. Voidmart only needed one ranger, and Bilfred had a family to feed.

The first shift was an overnight shift, which he thought peculiar, but he wasn’t going to complain about a paycheck for the first time. His daughter had packed him his lunch, including a Chattanooga Chunkyboy, a candy bar from his childhood they regularly special ordered across the country for. A camping trip wouldn’t be complete without a Chattanooga Chunkyboy.

Through the sliding glass door entrance were a row of Already Sold Sale Adirondack chairs. And they were prohibitively expensive. An old man sat in one, and Bilfred knew that kind of man’s face. Sun-bleached forever, rough and creased, he had the face of a Ranger, the face of a man who spent a lot of time alone.

The man in the Adirondack stood and handed him the broom, a map, and a radio.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “You’ll know what to do.” Bilfred stood silently as the man exited through the sliding doors. A last cool breeze from the night air embraced Bilfred and the stranger hunched, his skin wrinkling and cracking, before he broke away in the wind like a dandelion wish.

A crackle came over the radio. A hissing, child-like voice bubbled through. The first time he had heard management it had reminded him of his daughter.

“C class camper MIA in Off-Shore Drilling Aisle 43.”

Bilfred opened his map to find it only had directions to Off-Shire Drilling section. And he knew what to do.

Bilfred admired his Employee of the Month plaque even though he was the only employee of the Camping Goods and Reclamation department. It was nice to be recognized. Every month someone, or thing, would replace the plaque with the corresponding month. He had staked out the plaque for over three days before, but only when he would leave would a new one appear. Of course, there was no loss of productivity thanks to his Swifter Sweeper.

The broom the old man had given him had been an interesting tool in his arsenal for reclamation and ranging across Voidmart. He would flag every pertinent search decision with a ribbon, like a trail marking or tree for felling, and when he returned with the Swifter it was as though he had made the right choice the first time. Bilfred could dally, or dilly, in his efforts to relocate missing or itinerant shoppers so long as he was able to retrace his steps with the Swifter. He was a scholar, a musician, an expert. He smiled thinking of all the questions he could answer his daughter.

“How do you know that?” She would ask. He would tap his head, as though it was just the mere being of Dad was the only prerequisite.

“S class MIA, Pleasant Pies and Pheasant Lies Aisle 410,” the radio silence broke. Immediately he snaked a blue ribbon around an aisle signpost, and then he took a nap. He finished a novel, gathered his expedition sack, and plotted a methodical but weaving path through the Voidmart that would keep him close enough to a various menu of rations. Any new pique and he would tie another ribbon from his pack, marking it on the map for retracing. Finally he arrived at Aisle 410 with growing stubble and a new found appreciation for the complete works of Melville.

On the ground was a Chattanooga Chunkboy wrapper. Fudge dusted on his fingertips, it had been here long enough to dry out. His heart sank, and he frantically searched for clues. A missing Pleasant Pie near the end of the aisle lured him deeper, and he stumbled. His ribbon knots became erratic, and only his deep ingrained muscle memory kept him on a steady track.

Every corner he turned he was sure he would catch sight of a small rucksack, patched with sunflowers or a pink bucket hat, but every other turn he knew he had made an error and needed a new ribbon. His fingertips felt like they could finally grasp firm strings in the air and pull himself along them, but he could never grab them and they tickled his fingertips and led him down another wrong choice. He knew they were there, he just had to reach a little further and deeper.

He found himself facing Gardening With Great Difficulty, aisle 5871 and tied a final ribbon. An orange sleeping bag blighted itself across the aisle. Dozens of potting soil had been split and dumped haphazardly on the floor. Several ripped and empty vegetable seed packets littered the uneven ground. Small, finger size divots had been punched into the dirt. He could see an emaciated hand poking from out of the sleeping bag.

He had known all along he was going to be too late. He was always too late. Management didn’t want living rescues, they wanted debris cleanup. Turning over the body, he braced for the worst that didn’t arrive. He didn’t recognize the face, the eyes, the nose, nothing. Her hair was a straw-blonde, in deep contrast to his deep black.

He rummaged through her rucksack for a semblance of lineage and stumbled on a driver’s license. The name meant nothing to him. She was anonymous, just another lost one, a thrill seeker, an explorer. But her birthday emptied him.

He collapsed backwards, dorsal and asunder. The ID card cast a perfect shadow over his eyes and he read the date of birth over and over. He was ancient. They hadn’t come looking for him any more than he had gone looking for them.

The Adirondack was smooth and worn, and had been waiting for him. Across his lap the Swifter balanced, his knees calm and fidget-less. How far back could the Swifter had taken him if he had tried it. Would it have brought him to the old man in the store when he first entered, and would it have walked him backwards right out the door? Could he still remember all those steps to retrace, and did he deserve the chance, he wondered.

Through the sliding glass doors, a young man entered. Bilfred knew that kind of face and they locked eyes.

May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch

In. I will WERE my usual words into worse words.


May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch

Made For This
Words: 1188

Charlemagne stood in a 3x3 makeshift dressing room and mulled over his pre-routine mantra.

“You were made for this”, he ended the mantra and slashed at the curtain with his arm. He was a hundred feet from the catwalk, but he was already in strutting form. Each leg kicked carefully out, neck backward, head pointed forward and with determination. Billowy emerald shoulder pads bounced with each step, and the magenta tails of the coat he wore snapped like whips.

As Charlemagne approached the curtain, Hadrian, his best friend, rival, confidant, and provocateur blast through at an equal pace.

“Kill it baby,” Haddy clucked, snapping his beak purposefully uncomfortably close to snipping an ear lobe.

Charlemagne did not break stride. Spotlights followed the model with plenty of lead, the crew knew the runners pace like the back of their hands. There was a silence from the crowd, no shutters or flashbulbs fussing. “You were made for this,” Charlemagne snapped his fingers, “hit it.”

The moonroof to the venue slid open, bathing the audience in full moonlight, and the transformation began. It was called the Moon Turn. Charlemagne’s plume lashed out, his pompadour thinning and shaping into a beautiful sapphire crest, and his heaving breast escaped his tailcoat like an ascot come to life. Then the cameras went berserk in the hands of the silent photographers. When his face had contorted finally into his beak, he turned and strutted back towards the curtain, letting out a quiver to shake his feathers just enough to not cause motion blur for the photos.

In the wings, Hadrian had waited for Charlemagne to return so they could smoke cigarettes in the alley. They passed other models heading to the stage, some had no sense of timing and were queued at the curtain. Before they reached the alley, a wispy, white haired, white skinned, sunglasses wearing ghost flitted by the two.

“Who the gently caress is that,” Charlemagne said.

“Uno-Ur, whatever that means,” Hadrian said. “New.” Charlemagne pocketed the cigarette and made a turn for the floor. Hadrian paused, and started to speak but Charlemagne was too far ahead.

They arrived on the floor just in time to see a pristine, milk white peacock emerging from the new blood. Every detail white, yet somehow distinguished, save for piercing ice blue eyes, that the entire audience gasped at. Uno-Ur snapped into a statuesque position, but scanned the audience, neck rigid but head swiveling. And after the eternity passed, he ripped a turn and flicked the sunglasses he had been wearing into the audience. They arced gracefully and powerfully, landing at the feet of Charlemagne and Hadrian. Charlemagne stomped them without looking down.

“Who the gently caress does he think he is,” Charlemagne said. He nearly lost the cherry from his cigarette from his hand shaking. Charlemagne had never seen something like that before. He ran through the possibilities. It couldn’t be albinism with those eyes, but how could bleaching have been so perfect?

“Don’t let it get to you Charlie. You know how they come and go. Just a gimmick.”

Charlemagne remembered when he and Hadrian, and all the others had been called gimmicks. He took another drag and remembered his mantra.

While they waited for the next full moon, the fashion press had been abuzz with Uno-Ur. It was all they could talk about.

Charlemagne stood in his dressing closet and repeated his mantra. “I was made for this,” he said and again started his routine. His entire gait was stopped as Hadrian emerged back from curtain, his feathers snapped and bent, his plume disheveled and asunder.

“What did you to yourself,” Charlemagne said. Hadrian would not return eye contact.

“I wanted to try something new, that’s all.” A stage hand stepped in before Charlemagne could say anything else and shooed him to the stage. He shook his head, tearing the thoughts from his mind as he imagined Hadrian had torn his plumage from his body.

On the Moon Turn, what had once been a cacophony of shutters and flash bulbs had been reduced to a white noise machine for babies to sleep to.

Never had Charlemagne been reduced to ‘boring’ and ‘old hat’. Hadrian had at least received ‘risky’, with a caveat of ‘punk rock-chic’, Charlemagne sneered at the reviews. Uno-Ur once again dominated the accolades. Not only had Uno-Ur topped him again, he had done it with no change to his performance, and yet Charlemagne had been derided for the exact same intransigence. He gazed upon his own stubbornness in the mirror.

“I will make myself for this.”

The paste burned where he applied it, but he persisted through the pain. The diet he embarked upon had left him listless, but he summoned the strength through amphetamines and supplements. His body sculptor had performed miracles with scalpels and braces, making minor adjustments as Charlemagne picked through his features in the mirror. He had missed several shows to correct his imperfections, but finally, he had achieved transcendence. On the night of the full moon, Charlemagne once again emerged from his dressing room. His timing was impeccable as always, and Hadrien approached.

“Charlie, where have you been? What- what happened to you?” For a moment, Charlemagne heard his own voice emerge from Hadrian. Charlemagne became confused and disoriented.

“Why aren’t you in wardrobe,” Charlemagne rasped.

“Oh Charlie,” Hadrian said. “I couldn’t do it anymore, I just couldn’t.”

Charlemagne saw the notepad and camera slung at Hadrian’s hip.

“No, you aren’t. You aren’t one of them are you,” Charlemagne said.

Hadrian stared at his feet. “It’s just, just until I get my jewelry line up and running.”

Charlemagne rolled his entire head.

“We can always use new writers Charlie, I could, we could really use your help. You don’t have to do this,” Hadrian said.

Charlemagne shook his head.

“It’s time for my ascendency, Haddie.”

Charlemagne pushed past him, heading straight for the curtains. A stage hand tried, meekly, to intervene, but he let Charlemagne limp past without much resistance. Uno-Ur was in mid Moon Turn when Charlemagne burst onto the cat walk, drinking in the moonlight. They writhed and cavorted and Charlemagne basked and preened in the silence as the audience was awed by his transformation.

“Get this loving dirty gutter-snow pigeon-man off my loving stage!” Screamed the impresario, storming the catwalk.

He grabbed Charlemagne by folds of his wattle and dragged him to the fire exit. He kicked the door open, with no alarm sounding, and tossed Charlemagne into the alley. He flailed through the cigarette butts that hadn’t been cleaned in months before flopping onto his back. The door opened again but he didn’t look.

“Do you want to know my secret?” Uno-Ur whispered in his ear.

Through clenched tearful eyes, Charlemagne nodded. He had to know how he had fallen so far.

“I was born like this,” Uno-Ur said.

The lump caught in Charlemagne’s gullet.

“I was made to be better than you. There was nothing you could have ever done.”

And Uno-Ur was gone. Charlemagne lay there in the cigarette butts and trash, staring at the moon.

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