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Kaishai posted:It's not great, but do you see the HM that Jay W. Friks just earned? His start was pretty damned rough--and he largely earned his stats, as you've largely earned yours based on the three entries I've read so far. Now he's gotten HMs in two consecutive weeks. How long it might be before you do the same, I don't know, but each of your stories I read was a bit better than the last. Persistence is the key to improvement. Stick with writing and let us all see the day when you shine. I endorse this statement.
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Mar 13, 2018 17:43
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In with a flash rule please (EDIT: the HOW TO ENTER website says the contest closing date is January 2017. Did they just not update it?)
Jay W. Friks fucked around with this message at 19:17 on Mar 20, 2018 |
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Mar 20, 2018 19:15
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Jay W. Friks posted:C'MON AND SLAM, AND WELCOME TO THE JAM! REMINDER FOR SEBMOJO AND EXMOND
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Mar 28, 2018 01:17
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Good Job Exmond, Sebmojo, and Sh. I'll have results up tomorrow evening.
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Mar 29, 2018 04:36
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BASKETBRAWL RESULTS These were a couple of contenders I tell you whut but the game is over and there can only be one(or two)to take home the gas planet basketball signed by Charles Barkley. First some comments, I'll have scanned crits for you later. On SH's "The No One Girl and the Mouth of Hell This reads like a creation myth, or the tribalistic legend of a great warrior, or as the origin of Basketball itself. The latter was what I was gathering from initial reads as you name drop Basketballers of Terra Firma and other very local sportsball terms. There is no elder telling the story to youngsters ala Princess Bride or Over Zealous coach reving up his team with a very far fetched tale. There is the story of a woman rebelling against hell with the sun itself but no reason to name drop NBA Allstars. The effect this story left was very passable as I was sensing some payoff that established WHY this story was being told. I kept waiting for the Fable but got what felt like a narrator passing along a tale to no one in particular. I recommend installing framing for the Myth or to drop the NBA lookathats entirely. You could've left out all mentions of Lebron and Jordan and free throws ect and this still would've been a basketball story. You tell it with grabbing the sun and dodging demons, slamming solar radiance through a hoop in the ground: that's all the basketball you needed. I loved the story nonetheless. Seeing Basketball become a tale of Ascended Vengeance against Hell was hella awesome! Totally keep this one. It's fun. On Sebmojo's "The Oberth Manoeuvre". This is the Space missing from the Jam, props for that. This tale felt unusual and sometimes unexpected. I like the protagonist, his laissez faire attitude towards the disappointment of space travel, his kindness towards his friend and lover, and towards his own sexuality is intriguing. Doubleplus points for making someone who I wanted to hear more from. The death knocking at this door is the one thing that gets him actually desiring something even if its post-mortem. That said, you're a bit vague on the world at large and I wanted to know more about why Space was a dead end for Humanity (being full of "gently caress-all" is vague. I don't understand what "gently caress-all" is supposed to be or not be). It sounds appropriate coming from your protagonist but it leaves my impression of the setting stilted. Also, why is going to space his last request? I get that it's all disappointing for humanity but I wanted more from the main guy (I don't think you or Exmond gave him a name) of why space travel would be important to HIM. On Exmond's "The Oberth Manoeuvre pt. 2" Nigel has been introduced. I suddenly am IN space with Nigel but it starts with a really really terribly cliche line "Everything is going well when suddenly it isn’t." that was hard to take after getting invested with the events so far. Also, while Seb's unnamed guy has a whole lot in his head we're getting material from, I don't much of that from Nigel. His feelings and emotions are last priority with describing his sudden space trip and the things that go wrong in bland uninteresting detail. That said, if you did indeed mean to make the story so sappy and melodramatic on account of the change of perspectives (which btw is an awesome choice to make in dividing your parts, KUDOS) because we're looking at the world through Nigel now, I dig it. But I want to dig it more. I want more of Nigel and less setting or a thick second of Nigel and a setting that interacts WITH him rather than at him. So, doing some hard thinking, while SH is better written as a whole, it feels like the filling without the twinkie. I'm seeing white creamy stuff and I don't know to make of it. Seb and Exmond, you both had some issues establishing your world. Exmond you needed to take more time to make your half match the integrity of what came before it. In the end, I liked how you both went about parting the whole and the story feels far more framed and finished than Sh's. The time is 00.03 but Seb and Exmond get a free throw in at the buzzer. The Cyborg and Chibi duel wins!
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Mar 30, 2018 05:11
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Tanz! posted:Interprompt: Ideas Guy A recovering pornstar's hands gain their own will and attempt to choke his penis at inopportune times.
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Apr 2, 2018 16:36
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https://soundcloud.com/andre-bourlin/ggmr2/s-fbozp I did a reading of g=Gm/r2 by SurreptitiousMuffin, a beautifully told story of space and calamity.
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Apr 3, 2018 03:18
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In with Russian Roulette
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Apr 3, 2018 15:33
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Truth and Courage (#1998) (Prompt: Russian Roulette) In the darker, rainier parts of old-world Europe, in a warehouse that once contained casks of phosgene and mustard gas, a monthly game of Russian Roulette is played. A lanky man with bright white hands spread out a trio of documents for Lewis and his challenger Helga. Him, like all the staff that Lewis has seen, wears a porcelain red mask. Quarter sized eye holes and a vent mouthguard decorates the face of it. Helga felt her guts twist in anxiety every time the masks looked her way. It felt like death was sizing her up. This one explained the contracts with a slow, dignified air, “Before you sign that last part, please make sure you have designated who receives your prize funds.” Lewis glowered at the legalese, “My parents are rich enough as is and I don’t have anyone waiting for me back in the States. Just do whatever with the money.” Helga couldn’t believe a young man like Lewis was willing to die for nothing. If she had his health and money, she’d be taking her son and his wife on vacation. She coughed, took another suck off her oxygen, and checked to make sure her son's name was spelled correctly. Without the contest, she would have left them with little to make a life out of. The strange masked people must have known that when they invited her. The Lawyer checked the documents and said, “A judge will be here momentarily to discuss the rules with you. Until then, you may have whatever you want from the mini fridge and there is wine and champagne on the rack there. Do not try to leave.” He stepped out the sliding doors. The chipped and smelly basement floor of the warehouse didn’t fit the lavish accouterments these people had installed. There was expensive hand-carved furniture decorating the office. There were exotic, aged wines sitting in the same racks as regular old Andre Champagne. The cheese and berries in the mini fridge had names that only his parents would recognize. Helga asked Lewis, “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Lewis ignored the old woman. She looked down in defeat. He didn’t want to give anyone, let alone some stranger, the story of his descent into sorrow. He fingered the rosary in his pocket and thought about who he’d been six months ago. A hard-partying college drop-out, flying the EU on his parent's dime. Then he met Colette while sobering up one morning in Paris. She was trying to save the life of some guy OD’ing on the side of the street and conscripted Lewis to help. The way she expected it of him made him feel strange. It had been a long time since anyone expected anything out of him other than to be drunk at 4 am and to never keep a promise. He was encouraged by her and he stayed with her until the medics arrived. She thanked him and he asked for her phone number. They had a modest dating life together, he didn’t tell her about his parentage as he wanted Colette to love him as himself. She was a Catholic, a hard-partying one, but possessing a thicker layer of scruples than Lewis was used to. He converted for her and asked her to marry him. She said yes and he took her back to his place, bedded her and told her everything about him he’d been keeping secret. She was hurt by his secrecy but seemingly understood it after he explained why. She was a brilliant actress. When he left to meet his parents at the airport she stole everything valuable from the summer home. He never heard from her again. His parents, angry that they’d come all the way to find their house looted and credit cards stolen, cut off his funds and told him to come home. He tried to hang himself after his parents went back home to close their bank accounts. The rope broke and he laid there on the floor sobbing with the rosary in hand. A broken heart was new to him, but the part that made him crack and try to end his own life was an unsolvable question. Did she leave him because he lied or because he told the truth? Now here he was, drinking from the bottleneck of 180.00 Dom Perignon, about to risk everything. He came here guided by sorrow. If he didn’t die by the game, than he’d find another way. A petite woman in long purple robes silently strode into the office. Her mask was blue porcelain with one eye hole and a mouth slot shaped like crab mandibles. She spun around and directed Lewis to sit. The scrape of wheels on concrete echoed outside. “Let me introduce you to your partners.” She pulled two cases from beneath the desk, inside one was an ivory handled Nagant M1895.Inscribed on the handle was “Coraggio”. In the other was the same kind but with a rosewood handle, dyed red, inscribed with “Verita”. The judge peered through the darkened hole of her mask. Helga got that feeling of Death counting the seconds down. The Judge nodded. She’d come to a decision about the two of them. Lewis felt a similar discomfort at that nod. Questions that had been hidden by his depression rose up from the muck, What did these people want? Why did they run this game? Who were they? Lewis got vibes of the Illuminati from their masks or something like Eyes Wide Shut. She said, “The game ends when one of you is dead via gunshot. Ending the contest from any other cause besides a bullet renders the contest void for the contestants and the audience. An automatic loss is given for hesitating to shoot. An automatic loss means we shoot you ourselves. The timeframe for a call of hesitation is 10 seconds. We will be keeping time. Each of you is given a pistol, there is a single bullet in between the both of them. ” Lewis said, “Despite the rumors I’ve heard about this game, I’ve never heard about the losers deaths being reported to loved ones besides via the check. I’m having doubts you’re actually going to risk our lives at all.” “Your point being?” The judge said. “That point is, I signed a contract for a life or death game. How do I know this isn’t some elaborate prank that’s never been exposed?” “Look outside.” The judge pointed out the sliding doors. The wheels the two of them had heard earlier had parked in front of the doors. Lewis looked out and laying on a rolling cart with was the chilled corpse of a gunshot victim. The left temple of her forehead was dug out and a flap of skin and bone hung loosely from the brow. Lewis fell backward in shock, he’d never seen a dead body. “Wha-why are you rolling that around?!” The judge said, “We like to give them some exercise once in awhile.” Lewis couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You KEEP the bodies? Why?” A triangle bell rang far down the corridor. The masked man guiding the cart pushed it out the double doors to the freight elevator. The judge picked both guns up, “It’s time. Head towards the bell.” Helga got up and grabbed her cane and oxygen tank. Another masked man emerged from the doorway and extended his hand to her. “Would you like assistance miss?” She thought about swatting it away but as she stared into the holes of the mask she felt something strange behind the darkness. “It will be alright.” A voice spoke to her, not from the man but from the mask he wore. It whispered into her mind and she felt something percolate from the depths of her desperation and fear. Hope flew upwards and she found herself taking the man's hand. She walked with him down the corridor as people started to sing in unison. It was a Russian song, or at least that’s what she thought. It shifted to Italian, to Spanish, to Chinese and she heard a sentence of it in the queen’s English. “And you will watch a scene unfold, beneath a layer of glass and gold. Time will fly out from the mind, leaving this moment forever kind.” Lewis felt piss running down his pant leg as another man helped him up. Fear had reignited inside him. He looked at the judge, “What do you gain from this? Just answer me that.” The judge shook her head, “Only those who found truth and courage are allowed to know that.” Lewis heard the voice of the man behind the mask, “1,2,3,4-” “I’m going! I’m going!” Lewis rushed down the corridor and burst through the swinging doors of the largest room in the basement. The singing stopped. Sitting to the left and right were crisscrossed wooden beams that once held drums of chemical weaponry. Hundreds of masked figures sat along the beams staring in unison at Helga and Lewis. A faceless, masked village, single-mindedly colorful at the onset their favorite past time. Helga and Lewis sat down on two benches facing each other. The judge appeared from behind a raised partition made of bales of hay and gravel. Four other men and women stood with her. Lewis studied Helga. She was impassive, any doubt that’d sat upon her face was now behind its own mask. The two revolvers were handed out. Lewis got Verita and Helga got Coraggio. The judge sat at the end of the bric-a-brac partition. “Aim the pistols at your temple.” Helga did so. Lewis shook the gun in a vain hope he could hear the bullet rattle. “NOW!” He jumped and pushed the gun against his head. “Every time I say go, pull the hammer and squeeze the trigger.” Helga swallowed. Lewis watched the bulge of spit go down her throat. Helga knew this could be the end but she’d had a long life. Her children would gain so much from her playing the game. It was redemption for all the times she wasn’t frugal and didn’t think of the future. Something else empowered her as well. Excitement. “GO!” *click* *click* Lewis felt another trickle of pee surf down his leg. “GO!” *click* Heavy breathes. Uncontrollable heavy breaths. “1. 2. 3. 4. 5-” *Click* “GO!” *click* *click* Helga felt hot. It was weird, it wasn’t from fear or nerves. “GO!” *click* “I can’t. I can’t do this.” “1.2.3.4.5.6.7.” “Ahhhhhg!” *click* “NO HESITATING! GO!” *click” Lewis tasted the sweet wine from the rack, he tasted the cheese and berries. It would all be gone. No more sensations. “1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8” He couldn’t do it. “9.” *click* Lewis did it. “Helga?” The audience gasped. She was glassy eyed and her gun had fallen from her fingers. She gripped her chest. “I can’t. I can’t move my hand.” She wheezed. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell. The judges surrounded her and one tenderly touched her wrist. “Heart attack. I guess she was in worse shape than we thought.” Relief from Lewis, “So that’s it? The contest is void right?” The crab mask judge shook her head. She took her mask off and placed it on Helga. “Pick the gun up.” Said a woman missing the top of her head. “You’re dead. All of you.” He picked the gun up. The madness of everything made it easy. Helga got up. She picked up Coraggio.. Lewis laughed, “So does this mean I get to join you all afterwards?” “I don’t know. Have you found truth and courage?” Helga said. Lewis’s macabre humor left. “GO!” *click* Helga’s gun was empty. “1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.” “I don’t wanna die.” “9.” “It looks you found truth at least.” “10.” *BANG*
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Apr 9, 2018 03:47
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Apr 11, 2018 02:21
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Jon Joe posted:Who the gently caress is tanz!? BRAWL TIIIIIIIIME Jonjoe AKA the TANZ is brawling the Emperor hisself THIRDEMPEROR. For a brawl like this, I have a special contest to test these literary gladiators abilities. Two of the same suit In an earlier discussion in mibbit, I fumbled with the idea of a brawl in my head that involves telling the same story twice but by different authors. This seems like an excellent time to test out a prototype of that, PROMPT: Jonjoe and Third both write about this "A lawyer gets into a fight with a member of the press hounding him." You can change the genders of the two characters/races/ but there must be a lawyer and a member of the press. There must be a fight between them. The rest is up to you. May the better goon win. EDIT: Due by 4/14/18 at 8pm PST (SATURDAY) EDIT: 1300 word limit! Jay W. Friks fucked around with this message at 20:34 on Apr 11, 2018 |
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Apr 11, 2018 06:08
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Jay W. Friks posted:BRAWL TIIIIIIIIME Witness these edits.
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Apr 11, 2018 20:34
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Jon Joe posted:I don't have a story Thirdemperor wins! May glorious summer by this son of THIRD!
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Apr 15, 2018 04:32
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sebmojo posted:That's why you extract toxxes when you judge a brawl. Next time!
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Apr 15, 2018 06:47
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Her Bastard Children (#1750) Around this time of day, I’d usually make the drop outside the Chinese restaurant on 5th and Greene. Unfortunately, Louise took my gun and shot me with it. I’d started sleeping with it to ward off the demons that hovered around when I slept. A few more holes in this dump of an apartment wouldn’t make no difference. I told her it was flashbacks, she’d be convinced I was crazy otherwise. I was a decay on the people around me, I enabled all her habits, but I wasn’t crazy. Fact is, I’m still aware of what’s happening despite having a lead slug sleeping in my left lobe. I feel the wetness of the pillowcase sticking to my scalp, the wrinkles in the bedspread make my backache, and it’s COLD. Louise keeps the apartment at 80 degrees even in summer, so I know it’s me not the room that’s freezing. The next thing that comes back is my hearing. Louise is humming in the kitchen. I want to tell her, “I told you so sweets. If I don’t wake up in time, the demons take my body. Now they going to keep it because I can never wake up again.” But speech hasn’t come back. I wonder why she stuck around. After you blow someone's brains out you either turn yourself in or book it. But no, she’s in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, humming, and mumbling house of the rising sun like it’s brunch on Sunday. I want to say “Are you that happy I’m dead? I got bad news for you babe, all the times I hit you and made you cry was because the demons were moving my body like a meat puppet. I may be decay but I’d never hurt you like that. Now that’s all gone, I’ll be worse than ever because I’ll never wake up.” I can hear them partying inside my head. It looks like the inside of the Strip and Dip, they’re setting up tables, cutting off pieces of my brain like flank steak, sitting in a booth playing their favorite tunes. They used to ride in the backseat and jerk the steering wheel away if I slept for more than 4 hours. I got good at training my body to wake up before then and point a pistol in their faces. It was rare I got to shoot one, they were slippery and even if they couldn’t die they didn’t want their real bodies to bleed. Demons are only afraid of pain when they’re the ones getting hurt. Now it’s like I’m a stretching limousine. Their sitting in front, a boiling mess of faces and eyes, clamping teeth onto the wheel, fingering the radio with their tongues, eyeballing the instruction manual. I can barely see them now. I’m sliding back into the darkness behind my body. I think even if I lose my presence of self, a part of me will always be stuck here listening to them run wild with the former Owen Burns. Smells coming back, she’s cooking hashbrowns, extra olive oil, and those little onion balls. She never cooks breakfast for me, only for herself, but this is my favorite. For special occasions like me bringing her home some jewelry from a desperate junky, or her getting excited about being two steps up on the 12 steps. She’d say “Don’t worry hon, you can keep selling, I know that’s what you’re good at. I wanna stick with you but I want my mind free, my body clean. I wanna be like I was before.” I stood by her the first ten times, she was a different woman before, a vibrant laughing girl. After the freakouts and the time she tried scratching my eyes out, I gave up. Every time she’d be trying to get clean I’d leave my product in the open so she’d get those ideas out of her head. I still couldn’t see out of my left eye since that time. It’s hard to forgive and forget when you have the constant reminder of someone else's fury stuck in your face. I’m humming along, or my body is. It was in tune with Louise, she’s singing My mother was a tailor. Sewed these new blue jeans. My father was a gambling man. Way down in New Orleans. I wanted to scream and gently caress up their song but I was barely holding on. Soon I’d be floating in that darkness, listening to them beat up on Louise, cut up junkies for fun, and hunt vagrants for sport. I never knew where these damned things came from. I think they showed up after I met Lage, my old cellmate, for a reunion at the Strip and Dip. He brought something besides beer and I tried it. Once in awhile, I had a hankering for reaching my melting point too. It’s speaking its first words, my spirit is just a chute on the winds of my shadow. I hate this, but I’m looking forward to sweet revenge on Louise. ~ This time I’d do it. I’ll chain myself to the bathroom sink. I’ll convince Owen to lock me up, make me go solitary, and slide water and food under the bathroom door. “gently caress. that’s not gonna work.” I start to cry again, sadness is creeping in, nailing down my face into rows of frowns. “You alright darling?” Jessica stops powdering my face. She reaches into her bra and pads at my eyes with a tissue. “You gotta smile to get tips. Talking to yourself and acting sad is no way to dance.” “I wanna stop. Jesse, it’s gotta stop NOW.” Jessica rubs the pinhole marks on my arm. They pucker at her touch and whisper in wet squelches, “We’re already inside you Louie Louie.” I close my eyes, breathe, and count backward from ten. The hallucinations had been happening since Owen threw a kegger in the clubs champagne room. It started when I shot up that new mix Owen’s friend from Dallas had brought. Since then, I’d been seeing things, hearing things. I’ll have to thank my younger self, I’d taken an elective in breathing meditation when I was in college. It was the only thing that kept the hallucinations at bay. I wonder whatever happened to that wannabe-hippie, Buddhist-lovefreak of a girl? The Jukebox quiets down and Andy’s smooth as snakeskin voice starts calling my name. “You’re up darling. We’ll talk after you’re done.” Jessica unhooks part of my bra. Makes it easier to get it off in a pinch. Andy’s playing discount R&B and catcalling my name. I get up and pull the red curtains aside. The pole is topped with a giant needle. Tars pooling at the tip of it and streaming down the sides. I count backward, breath in and out slowly. The image stays the same. “Quit breathing like you have a future.” The pinholes are talking poo poo again. I go with a classic number, lift my leg up, curl my knee around the needle and spun. The club goes quiet, the blur of faces and leering teeth aren’t hooting and hollering. I spin like a satellite in orbit. The tar’s making my hands numb, I’ve never felt a hallucination. The lights dim as I take off my bra and a single spotlight form a cage around me. I can’t believe no ones throwing bills, I’m just one big joke. I failed at school, getting clean, now I’m failing at getting tips from balding tourists and mama’s boys. Darkness shuts me out. “Hey! Andy! What the poo poo? Where’s the light?” I know I shouldn’t yell at the crew, it’s unprofessional. Takes the fantasy out of the dance, but I can’t take this, not tonight. I’ll need to break into Owen’s stash after work, just relax and forget this all ever happened. The spot moves to a table at the end of the hall. Owen’s sitting at it, he’s in his leopard print bathrobe and his head is pulled over the back of the chair like he fell asleep laughing. I get off the stage, no one’s paying attention anyway. All the glowing eyes and blacklight teeth are sneering at Owen. I cross the cold tiled floor, it’s got sourdough crumbs and egg splatter all over it. It’s your kitchen afterall, I shout “gently caress. What the hell? You guys need to clean this poo poo up.” I don’t know who I’m talking to. One of the faces grabs me by the thong and pulls me into his arms. His lap is moving like I’m sitting on a running stream of skin and bumps. He pushes a gun into my hands and says, “It’s silly. Pretending to breathe when you got no breath.” It shoves me towards Owen, my hand jerks and pulls the trigger. He’s come awake just as the bullet enters night. My breath catches, red jelly falls out the back of his head and a bell rings. Jessica is standing at the food counter, she rings a bell, “Order up.” She lays out slabs of gooey meat slathered in brain fluid. Wait, no It’s Insta-Tate, Olive Oil, crushed red pepper, and pearl onions. I pick them up and another spotlight covers me, the pinholes are as big as baby mouths and flash crooked teeth in drunken smiles. They smack their lips, lick their teeth and they crawl up my arm. My face falls off the back of my head as they push the skin around and I remember to BREATHE I HAVE TO BREATHE I’LL BE DEAD IF I DON’T It’s making Owen’s favorite. Humming the song that’s come on the jukebox. Owen gets up and walks to it, wraps his arms around its hips and sings with it. The faces are crawling up his back. They move quickly and unnaturally, like pools of liquid at the surface of the skin. I can either speak or breath. I call for Owen, “Help me. Please. I think I’m dead. I can’t breath.” The new couple turns to me, their eyes and mouths are gone, it’s tar leaking out, obscuring pupils, burying the tongue. Something entered me and Owen and it’s been driving us to this. All I can do is wriggle like loose paper on the floor of my mind. Litter for them to step on. It’s stiletto pierces my eye and it sings, “Another stage of life begins.”
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Apr 15, 2018 21:24
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Basketbrawl crits Contained in the link are crits for Sebmojo's "The Oberth Manoeuvre", Exmond's "The Oberth Manoeuvre Part 2", and Sittinghere's "The No One Girl and the Mouth of Hell" https://drive.google.com/file/d/1h5Uk0SR6-zCx_6fNN2AE1Ck_iym5McZd/view?usp=sharing
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Apr 17, 2018 21:26
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Third v. Jonjoe "Two of the Same Suit" Brawl Third, you expressed a desire to see your crits so I decided to get to them today. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1zrsJPX19Ch7op6ghjWveFy4mL7g05j3O/view?usp=sharing Jonjoe, here are your crits too. http://szzljy.com/images/zero/zero4.jpg
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Apr 17, 2018 21:55
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In Once upon a time there was a divorcee And every day she made a little extra money cleaning her neighbors apartments But one day she got a request from the recluse in the run down unit across from her Because of that _____________ Because of that _____________ Until finally ________ (this beat is optional) And ever since then _____ (EDIT: for my own sanity. Please do not give me suggestions or help with this spine) Jay W. Friks fucked around with this message at 06:07 on Apr 23, 2018 |
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Apr 23, 2018 05:58
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One of my two missing critiques: Week 236: Three Card Combo Muffins "the woman OR the fools who came to drink the dark" Sorry for the wait! https://drive.google.com/file/d/1WlxmYuRk9kyKZ78WH40vW5p5-H8ksfcJ/view?usp=sharing Flerp if you're out there, "sand caught in the laughs" is missing from the archives.
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Apr 23, 2018 06:31
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Apr 23, 2018 23:01
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Thanks UP
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Apr 25, 2018 05:48
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Pupa Rise (#993) The playground was being remodeled again. The elementary school kids had gotten tired of swings and monkey bars; somewhere they’d heard about merry-go-rounds and the grown-ups were happy to oblige their interests. Emmet felt too anxious to play with the younger kids nowadays. He was fifteen as of yesterday. Fine stubble irritated his neck, his voice cracked when he spoke too fast, and his arms and legs became lanky and uncoordinated. It was almost time for him to grow up. Alyssa’s sister, Melanie sat down next to him on the park bench. She had a huge waffle cone filled with rocky road and crushed brownie bits, she offered him a lick but he didn’t feel hungry. He asked her, “So. Is Alyssa done yet?” “Nah. She’s still in the pupa. Grown-ups said that she’s gonna be a big one so she needs to, uh, what’s the word...geestat?” Emmet had a memory of an old newspaper that contained the word Melanie was trying to remember, “Gestate. That’s the word.” “Yeah! That’s right! I can never understand what they’re talking about.” He found the clipping in a dried out ditch outside the nursery when he was nine. He’d been out of his room past curfew and wanted to explore the woods. He’d never seen a newspaper before. All the books he was given in the home were fantasies like “Harry Potter” and “Narnia.” There were no history books to read even though they existed in the fictional universes the children were given. One of the grown-ups had stood outside his room after he was punished for leaving. It pressed its segmented eyes against the glass walls and silently opened and closed its mouth. Emmet said, “I don’t think they’re used to talking anymore. That’s why they didn’t explain things so well to you. When you become a grown-up, you can send words to other grown-ups without making words.” “Will Alyssa still be able to talk to me?” Melanie stopped eating her ice cream. She focused in on Emmet as if she’d caught his anxiety. Emmet didn’t want her to be afraid so he lied, “No. No. You’re her sister. I’m sure she’ll be able to talk to you. They can still talk to you if you’re family.” It seemed to work. Melanie hmmed and hawed and kicked her legs back and forth on the bench, slurping up the last of the Rocky Road. Emmet knew it was time soon. His room at the Nursery was being emptied out to make way for a large ceramic tub. He would lay in as his father and mother poured webbing onto him from their pincered mouths. He hadn’t seen either of them in the span of his entire life, but now that he’d reached puberty they would return from a faraway place known as Leng. All grown-ups live in Leng. He would too. He’d seen pictures of it, they were routinely handed out by the grown-ups who ran the Nurseries, but even after seeing them every day, he couldn’t describe what was going on in the pictures. It made his head hurt just to try and remember them. Melanie rubbed chocolate on her dress. She was filthy. All the kids were. Emmet had been ordered by the Nursery staff to shower for his fifteenth birthday. It felt like coming out of a shell when he got rinsed off by his caretakers. The newspaper had talked about the grown-ups, they were called something else on the front page. It was a word Emmet didn’t recognize. Something missing from the books he’d read. The paper said they meticulously cleaned anyone they captured. It must be something required before the Pupa forms, a cleansed body. Was he captured? “Melanie?” “Yeah Em?” “Do you want anything from my room. Like my books?” She was the only one he knew in this place now. It felt like he should leave something behind before tomorrow. “What? Can’t you ask for them back after you grow up? Just let me borrow them after you get out of the pupa.” Emmet knew he wouldn’t. All his older friends never showed an interest in their things or Emmet for that matter after growing up. In a way, if he really thought about it, it was like he was dying tomorrow. Maybe he could run. Maybe he could disappear into the woods that surrounded the nursery and the playground. The one time he’d slipped past curfew, he climbed to the top of a tree to look around and there was nothing but trees and mountains for as far as he could see. “Melanie. I think I might take a hike tonight. Do you want to come with?” “What! Tonight’s movie night and it's my turn to pick. You gotta stick around. Since sis isn’t here, I want someone I know to be there with me.” “Can’t you pick a movie without me or your sister?” “No. I don’t know any of these kids. They’re all new. Please stay Em. Please.” She grabbed his sleeve and suddenly Emmet lost all his will to run. This was the only home he knew and she was his last friend as he was hers. If it really was a form of death he was entering, he wanted to spend his last night with the only family he had left. “Sure thing. What were you thinking about watching?” “YES! Something with dinosaurs and-” She chattered and Emmet felt a shiver run down his back. Standing in front of the glass doors of the Nursery was one of the grown-ups. It clicked its mandibles together and stared into Emmet. Emmet could feel it trying to force its way into his head. In a few weeks, his mind would be a tunnel for strangers to crawl through. Emmett would become part of a different family. One that would live inside him just as it lived with him.
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Apr 28, 2018 19:25
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Thanks for the crits Fuschia_tude. Also, I would really appreciate it if you wouldn't call me a dumbass.
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Apr 29, 2018 09:07
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Fuschia tude posted:yeah, that Please don't call me names, and also please don't call me names via emoticons, I had enough of that when I was a kid. I don't need it as an adult.
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Apr 29, 2018 19:11
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Fuschia tude posted:I'll No matter the landscape, insulting people who've never done anything to you is not okay. I think your critique is spot on but I will never accept insulting someone without just cause. I will  as well because I want to get better at writing, it's a small joy in a life I rarely enjoy. That said, why do people stand for this? Why did you need to call me names?
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Apr 30, 2018 04:22
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In Role: Customer Department: Costume Store Customer Archetype: Lost/looking for exit. I'll take what's behind Door #1
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Apr 30, 2018 17:46
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Fuschia_tude vs. Jay W. Friks “Bully Beatdown Brawl” Birth by a Thousand Cuts (#784) Job poked his bayonet into the creature's stomach. It flinched and recoiled. White mist filled the wound and the damage disappeared. “What are these things?” asked the Investor, Morgan. “The magicians call them Benguls.” Job wiped his bayonet on the creatures slack-jawed face. “I call them tumors personally.” Job added. Morgan takes a long look at the creature. 7 feet tall when hunched. Its skin is taught against its bones and muscles. Like grey sheets draped over a knobby mannequin. There isn’t a single inch of its body that isn’t twisted, bulging, or crooked. Its engorged cranium folds over half of its goat-like face. A single almond eye, stares vacantly in the candlelight. “Can they be used as soldiers?” Morgan asked. Job rubbed his head, frustrated, “Unfortunately, I’m still stuck as a lawman to these jungle fucks. The Commander tried to get them to fight. Tried pain, they forgot about it no matter what we did to them. Tried food. They don’t really eat it turns out. Tried separating them from each other so we could identify the females. Get em’ horny and protective.” Morgan pulled the sword from his cane and stuck it in the things protruding belly. Job grunted, trying to think. “And?” Morgan asked impatiently. “I dunno.” he admitted, “The magicians have a better way of explaining it. Apparently, they don’t have sexes in the first place. I thought it might be inside like horses but nope. Nothing going on down there.” It opened its mouth, Morgan clamped his hands over his ears expecting screaming. Job patted him softly, “Relax. It looks like it's screaming but its just opens its mouth and closes it. No sound.” He was right. A quiet gasp emanated from its toothless maw. Morgan pulled back his sword from its rapidly healing belly. Its belly looks bigger now. “What were these things even doing when you arrived on this world?” Morgan asked. The trooper waved his arms at all the Benguls trapped in countless cells. “This. Sitting around.” The trooper said. “So why show me? They have no worth. I came here looking for something to export to the homeland. If these are the best this backwater world has-” Job clanked his bayonet against the bars and began the sales pitch, “So what’s one of the prime issues with testing out tonics and nostrums on homeworld?” Morgan wrinkled his forehead, “Well...we find prisoners looking for a commute on their sentence. If convicts aren’t available we pull kids from orphanages we own. Claim they died of an allergic reaction if the public gets paranoid about it.” Something clicked inside the Investor. These things didn’t cry out and they weren’t human. No one would care if they were poked and prodded into oblivion. They could take more punishment than lab rat, rabbit, or man. They’d proven resistant to all types of injury, the Commander had seen to that. He’d run these things through the rungs and ringer. “Get some on a crate for me to take to Homeworld. I can talk turkey with the Commander when he gets back from Safari.” Morgan said. The trooper smiled ear to ear. He smelled a promotion. He rattled the cage of the Bengul and said, “How’s that! You lot are finally pulling your weight.” The Investor glowered at the creature. It was truly repulsive, no one in their right mind would defend it, even those ecomancers who camped outside the Mage labs. However, something was off about the one they’d been stabbing. “Why is its belly bigger?” The Investor asked. Job poked his bayonet into the thing's stomach, he slid the blade down the front and expected another carcinoma to pop out. Instead, a smaller Bengul, this one with translucent skin tumbled out of the fresh wound. Morgan gaped in horror, “Did it just give birth?” “Why is the baby...why is it look like that?” Its skin was see-through. The trooper grabbed a candle and hovered it over the infant. Instead of muscle, gristle, and bone beneath its soft skin, grey brains pulsated underneath the clear epidermis. It cried out. A sound that paralyzed the two men in fear. It was sound that shouldn’t be heard by human ears. Far away from the Colony, out in the dark jungles of the strange new world came return cries. The cries converged around the camp and as the night turned to dawn, the horror of the situation revealed itself through the brutality and strength of unkillable aberrations. For one had been born that remembered every mark of pain.
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May 4, 2018 01:53
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Thanks for the Crits Mrenda, Chili.
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May 6, 2018 18:22
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Role: Customer Department: Costume Store Customer Archetype: Lost/looking for exit. http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=980&title=Vambraces+at+Sea Jack Schnaff is (still) missing (#1324) Jack’s mother and father were fighting in the middle of Patricks Otherworldly Poultry again. Just last week his father came here wanting to bring home something different to cook. His mother caught him buying Cockatrice hens on the business credit card, she’d been at Voidmart for an AA meeting at Rehab World and took a break to smoke when she saw him strapping blindfolds to the scaly birds. This time she caught him buying Harpy breasts. “We need to stop buying things on the business account.” “There isn’t even a business anymore. We might as well enjoy what’s left.” “Well, we may need to start up the shop again if we ever find a good location.” “You’ve been looking for a good location for two months now.” When people flocked to watch, the yelling started. “I spent five years getting the strains needed to run that shop. I’m not letting that go to waste. YOU may think we’re stable, but the fact is, pot shops are sprouting all over, and it's a viable investment.” “What the hell Margaret? Listen to yourself, you only got that place going because you wanted an excuse to hang out with all your stoner friends. Meanwhile, I’m actually doing real work at the warehouse.” “OH! REAL WORK! OF COURSE! Stacking pallets of La-Z-boys is more important to the country than selling medicine for cancer patients. America doesn’t need chemo-alternatives, it needs more expensive chairs for fat asses like you to sit in.” “gently caress YOU oval office!” His parents had been fighting more and more lately. Their relationship had been in decline since his mom started up her business. Now in the cavernous halls of VoidMart, it would come to a head. Jack stared at the crowds of people riding the tides of consumerism from hot sale to lukewarm bargain. His friends all stayed at home on the weekend, playing video games and sending funny pictures to each other over the phone. Jack could have done the same, his parents didn’t mind him staying home alone. However, what made his friends happy didn’t bring him enjoyment. Life was boring. He wanted to do something in the here and now, something amazing like the characters in movies and cartoons did. His mother grabbed a jar of rooster claws and broke it over the head of his father. He clutched his bleeding scalp, roared and ran into his mom. They toppled into a stack of cages containing penguins in actual tuxedos. “Leave my birds alone you skeezy fuckers! I’m calling the mall police.” The beak-nosed cashier tapped numbers into a phone. His parents rolled into the public aisles, his father grabbed his mother by the throat and his mother dug her nails into his eyes. Jack backed away. His parents had lost themselves to an explosive hatred. The crowd fanned out as tall men on Segways emerged, one had a megaphone in his mouth. He spoke in an arcane alien language sent the remaining looky-loos running in terror. It did the same to Jack who ran in the opposite direction of the fight. One of the mall cops pointed at Jack, “STOP! That area is off limits!” Jack kept running, he slipped on a bag of greasy fries and fell into a tangled cluster of yellow caution tape. He was suspended in it, dangling above broken floorboards underneath a giant orange UNDER CONSTRUCTION banner. One of the cops got off the Segway and tried to grab Jack. He struggled out of the man's reach. “Quit squirming kid! You don’t want to fall down there.” His fingers grazed Jack’s t-shirt and pinched the fabric. The tape ripped and Jack was held only by the cops firm grasp. His t-shirt was secondhand and holey. It ripped. “poo poo,” the cop said as Jack fell for miles. Names flashed past him on the way down the dimly lit pit, The Bon Marche, GI JOES, Kash n’ Karry, Geri’s Hamburgers, Webster n’ Satans All U Can Eat, The Mildew Factory, dead franchises from the world and beyond. He landed on a pile of animal masks and mascot fursuits sitting on a sheer cliff. Dust fell around Jack as he scrambled out from between a well-endowed milk cow and a bright yellow rat. He coughed violently and pulled himself up. A sword was pointed at his eye. Standing over Jack was an old woman in a pirate costume. She had the whole set up, plastic parakeet clipped to her raggedy naval tunic, cloth eyepatch (the string had dug so far into her face that a permanent wrinkle had formed around it) and an stringy strap beard hanging over her saggy bosom. The sword, however, was very real. She tilted her head to the left and jabbed forward with the point of the blade, Jack screamed as she poked at a spider on top of his head and neatly impaled it on the tip of the blade. He rubbed his scalp, no harm had come to him. “Welcome to the Pit of Dead Franchises lad! I’m Captain Beefheart of the good ship Fairwether. What be your name?” Jack was still feeling his scalp. He numbly replied, “Jack. I’m lost.” “Aye, it looks that way. Only the damned foolish enough to go down with their ship and strays like yerself find their way down here.” More people crawled from out behind her. They emerged from the remnants of a costume store, Fairwether Costume Surplus. It was mashed into the side of another store, Bronson Blacksmithing. They were old, each and every one of them, but they moved with the stamina of youth. “This is me crew. We went down with the good old Fairwether but have kept up her spirit all these centuries.” Jack got up and dusted himself off. He asked, “Centuries? How old are you?” The crew slapped their knees and chortled, “Look at the brass balls of that youngin, asking the captain what her age be! Bahaha!” Jack backed up reflexively, “You’re not going to stab me are you?” The Captain shook her head, “Of course not, yer just a lil’ barnacle. Not like the scum that call me names on a daily basis!” “Who’s that?” Jack asked. The crew cast a dark look into the cavern behind the crammed together stores. “The noon staff. The Vikings.” The captain said ominously. She elaborated, “When our store fell from grace, the uppity ups in Voidmart cast us into the pit. We had an option to stay put and receive a severance package or leave Voidmart and never return. Me and the rest of the morning crew had sailed happily with the good ship Belladonna and wouldn’t leave her to sink alone so we opted to stay. We figured those snot nosed brats in the noon shift would skip out with the tails between their legs. But they didn’t. It was a shame! If they’d taken their leave, this’d be a regular paradise. But now we fight for who truly deserves to fly under the banner of Belladonna.” Jack didn’t understand what the woman was talking about. He looked up and saw the little pinprick of light. That’s where his psychotic parents were and the ground floor of VoidMart. “I need to get up there.” Jack pointed at the light. Captain Beefheart patted him on the shoulder, “Relax lad. Give it time and the Mall cops will come down and getcha. We’ll keep ya safe until then.” “From the Vikings?” “That’s right.” A short pudgy man handed a red bandanna to the Captain. She draped it over Jack's head and said, “You’re under our protection now. And an honorary member of the Fairwether. Hip hip hooray!” “HIP HIP HOORAY!” Her comrades shouted. Authors Note: (That’s all I got for now.)
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May 7, 2018 05:17
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sebmojo posted:Interprompt: why the long face? My sister hit puberty. She got breasts. My brother hit puberty. He stank like pee all the time. When I hit puberty my cranium elongated. Every two weeks I needed my skull cut down and my scalp stitched up. It cost my parents a fortune. My sister couldn’t get a training bra and my brother couldn’t get deodorant. My siblings took me out to the woods when my parents were drinking. They'd found a bunker from the Cold War. It smelled like pool chemicals and oatmeal. They locked the hatch when I was down there. It wasn’t just the money, it was my face. It didn't grow fast enough for my skull. My skin got so tight my eyelids would tear, my nose flattened, my lips stretched so far back I couldn’t speak. My parents couldn’t keep up with the surgeries. Eventually, my real face would show. It was a monument to unreasonable mutation, birth as a lottery. You see it, you see a kid with Harlequin Syndrome, a kitten with its bowels hanging out, a generation of bees that spin in endless circles. It brought tears to my parents, my siblings, the neighbors. Dogs averted their eyes, birds stopped singing. That proved it wasn’t just ugliness. I'm fine with this. I couldn't stand to see it myself. You never realize how many things can act as a mirror until you try to avoid your own reflection.
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May 14, 2018 16:13
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sebmojo posted:owns :d'aww:
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May 14, 2018 17:22
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I volunteer to judge if you'll have me.
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May 15, 2018 03:17
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flerp posted:in flash rule tia tia?
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May 17, 2018 00:42
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Sitting Here posted:it's the way all the kids these days say "thanks in advance" Tonks Flash rule for Flerp: "For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the message was lost. For want of a message the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the want of a horseshoe nail."
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May 17, 2018 00:58
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In with a flash
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May 29, 2018 22:10
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Return (#: 1158) Flash https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ishtar_Gate In her dreams, the bulls, lions, and dragons ran through the streets of the Holy City devouring the innocent and guilty. Bricks of clay shattered into powder from charging hooves, tapestries burst into flame from scorching breath. Men and women in robes, children in sandals and tunics, slammed into the bloody ground by plate-sized paws and feasted upon. She could see it from up high, her bony fingers wrapped around bars. She caught the eye of a lone dragon scouring the buildings for hidden bodies. “Come to me!” She yelled at the stray. It turned to her. It wore a scaly human face, something she wouldn’t have imagined on real dragons. It's visage a permanent grin of derision. It hooked the bars with half-moon talons and tore them from the wall. Its teeth, heated by fire coursing inside veins, burned like hot iron as it clamped down on her body. Her pain was absolute. Strangely, she was laughing. Coi awoke, sweat crawled down every inch of her, she couldn’t tell the droplets from the fleas that nested in every patch of hair on her body. The cell was dim. It was still early morning. She gripped the cell door and panned the room for the guard. He was standing, hand on his scimitar, chewing on a blade of grass. “Knight.” She implored, “Has the prince send my message to the king? Have you any news on why I was arrested?” The knight turned and hushed her. “Quiet soothsayer.” “I’m sorry I barged into the palace but I needed to speak to the king immediately-” “I said quiet!” He pulled his weapon and slashed through the bars. Coi jumped back just in time to evade the blade. Coi screamed, “What is wrong with you? What is wrong with this city? I’ve returned to madness! Why do you all hate me?” The knight spat at the floor. “The prince has brought reason to people. He does not like your kind and the gods you serve. Those who claim to hear the voices of demons like Ishtar or Marduk are a danger to everyone and everything.” He stared her down. Coi cried. It’d been 20 years since she left the holy city. She’d come back to tell the king a dire portent. It was her duty as his friend but so much had changed. The statues that lined the courtyard of the palace were gone. The arches built by the king's father were covered in blankets to obscure them from sight. The king was ill, or so she had heard. Her dream became more and more defined every night she spent in the cell. They were angry, the beings who gave man the right to build. They demanded of Coi to inform the king. To make him pay homage once again. A week passed. Coi starved. Her mind went funny experiencing the vision every time she slept. Until the king heard her or the vision came to be, it would be the same nightmare every night. She heard the city bustling up above. The clap of hooves against stone. Shouts of fresh fish and seeds. Silken robes, too long for the wearer, dragging along pebbles in their wake, the overbearing smell of perfume and crumbled spices. She smelled meat cooking. It was ox flank. It smelled too thick and hearty to be anything else. It was too much. She thought about what god would help her in this circumstance. What god would aid a seer who failed to bring her prophecy to the king? There was one. The guards changed shift, as he came in, he saw the limp form of Coi leaning against the wall. Still as a ragdoll. “Is she dead?” The day guard asked the night guard. “I don’t know. My time is over. I’m not going in there, she gives me the creeps.” The day guard scoffed and opened the cell. He grabbed her shoulder and she grabbed his hand. She channeled Nergal, the god of disaster, a god no sane seer would take power from. Her eyes rotted into sockets, a foul wind whipped up inside the prison and her voice tripled in volume. A distant voice said, “Bring me to the prison tower or I shall lay a curse on your offspring.” He jerked free and ran, she fell backward. Coi fainted from the exhaustion of calling up Nergal. Her dreams were as clear as ever. This time, however, she saw the event that directly preceded it. The prince found a new god in his time abroad. He stood outside a cell hidden in the kingdom. The king was chained there, an all-seeing eye burned into his head by branding iron. The prince said, “Repent and I shall restore you to your kingdom. I don’t want to inherit a land populated by false gods.” He clutched his father's face through the bars. The king swayed on the chains and said, “Son. There are many gods. Why are yours real and ours false?” The son replied as always, “There is one God. I saw him in the west. Yours are demons who lead us astray. Listen to reason.” The father shook his head, “What happened to you?” The son left his father. The dawn was rising as he emerged. The arch of Ishtar was the first thing he saw when he left the secret stairwell. The tapestry wrapped around it was oddly still. Not a wind blew to stir it. The prince noticed that the sound of guards on stone, and voices calling for coin outside had gone mute. Something cracked far above the peak of the sky. Coi woke up in a new cell. She didn’t sweat, she didn’t thirst, her hunger was gone. There were two new guards. One of the guards sheepishly pushed a bowl of soup and a cup of wine into the cell. He bowed, “Seer Coi. We do not believe as the prince does. Please tell us what you have seen so that we may prepare for it.” Coi stuck her fingers in the soup and pulled out rice and beans. She threw it on the ground in front of the pleading knight. It rotted into dirt before his eyes. He raised his head. The Seer was face-first against the bars, her eyes feral and leering, her face a horribly stretched spittle dripping grin of fangs. A distant voice called from the gaping maw of the former Seer. “Coi is sleeping. There is only Nergal and soon you will all be mine.” The crone turned and stared out into the city. The knights heard a crack of thunder above. The crone yelled, “Come to me!” Something hooked its talons over the bars and tore them from the bricks. A dragon with a face mockingly like the Seer bit down on her shoulder and carried her away from the tower and the traitorous prince. The two knights watched her departure in grim realization. A lone dragon flew high above the city. A wild laughter echoed off every wall and tower that was destined to be laid to waste.
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Jun 3, 2018 20:25
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TD 302 Invisible Bartertowns Crits Part Uno Got some crits for Surreptitiousmuffin's "What Ukto Saw", CantDecideOnAName's "Of Eluse, before the lightning", and Uranium Phoenix's "A Place With No Name" https://drive.google.com/file/d/1N9Fp_5G6du1nPj4PFUBBHb87Ajo8XAAy/view?usp=sharing
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Jun 10, 2018 09:43
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Invisible Bartertown Crits Part Deux Crits for Solitair's "Tromp-l'ceil", Sham Bam Bamina's "Technically not Fanfiction", EDIT: Fumblemouses "The Truth of Hamaall" Part 2: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Et6jTkysvPtyKSLJxJTKN9k5CP0Hl1CG/view?usp=sharing Part 1: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1N9Fp_5G6du1nPj4PFUBBHb87Ajo8XAAy/view?usp=sharing Jay W. Friks fucked around with this message at 01:57 on Jun 14, 2018 |
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Jun 14, 2018 01:18
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Jun 19, 2018 15:09
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Ox (#1099) (Prompt: The Furlong) Another day at Burger Barn. Summer. 90 degrees outside and 110 in the kitchen. Kelly the waitress and Bryce the cook talk. She’s counting tips. Bryce animates his words with restless hands, flipping burgers from muscle memory. I try to listen to them over the cycling of the sanitizer. This is what a citizen talks like. I’ve been told to look to simpler things for happiness. Bryce is happy to talk to Kelly about sci-fi films and his dog. Kelly questions him on his kibble choices and advises organics. It’s boring, but not the kind you can fall asleep too. The kind that makes your eyes widen and search around for a way out. I don’t want to be a citizen but I’ve been told it's the correct path. But it's hot in the kitchen. My cycling mind makes it three times worse. Count every drop of sweat crawling, eyelids trip over themselves to keep from being blinded, it’s pooling in my palms. Heat is hell and life comes from heat. Leave it alone. Pull and tug at the halter and yoke. Obey sense. I have people who worry about me. What I want is wrong. Repeat that back to yourself. ~ Kelly and Bryce get married. They invite me. Pretend to laugh and people will want you around. I hate the sunlight. I hate the suits and dresses. I hate this sugar poo poo cake, pig rectum on a stick, squealing women and drunken men. Kelly tosses a bouquet. Bryce pulls a garter off Kelly. My sister is there, she knows Kelly from Walmart. “Get up there and try to catch it, bro.” She makes the word “bro” sound like the funny kind of fakeness. “No.” I flatly say. She and her husband give each other a look. If I don’t do what they say they’ll put me back on Thorazine. “I could use some exercise.” I relent. They smile, and I dutifully lunge for mythological marriage, hooks in my cheeks. ~ October. Burger Barn. Two years: a feat on a spotty record. A layer of grease coated me every summer when I was getting ready to kill myself. Now that I’m working again, the grease follows me in any season, no matter how much I scrub. The doctor doubles my appointments near the anniversary of my last attempt. He’s suggesting stronger pills and that I stay at an in-patient clinic if it gets too hard. I don’t agree and say the pills make life worse than it already was. Halloween comes and I go to bed. I have a dream. My mother is alive and she sits out in the Subaru, waiting in the driveways of strangers houses while I get candy. She ripped up a bed sheet and made me a mummy. She’s grumpy but playfully steals a Twix from my green plastic pumpkin. I say nonchalantly, “You were just joking the entire time. You’re not dead.” She gives me a knowing smile. Relief washes over me. I’m still 8 with plenty of time until I recognize myself. Plenty of Halloweens to enjoy. All the empty fixtures of childhood are ahead. Wake up. I rip the sheet from the bed and cut it into strips. I make a new mummy wrap around my broken bloated body and run outside, paper bag in hand. Three steps out. I look ridiculous. I head inside and do what any functional adult is expected to do: drink until I blackout. ~ Three years. Burger Barn. I have another panic attack on the anniversary of. Bryce plays with his wedding band, sitting next to me at a booth, “I can’t keep doing this Phil. If you don’t want to work, don’t come in. I could have called in Pedro.’” Business is booming, so is the pressure. That is a favorable result of sane men working towards a sane goal. I want to tell him once again that I didn't choose this, I get deja vu. Repetition for other peoples benefit. Repetition for an acceptable dream. Repetition so that other people can tolerate you without feeling guilty. Something calls out from deep in the medically clamped down parts of my spirit. I have a flashback. I’m seeing my sisters face when I told her the truth. She’s asking about me because I’m happy for the first time in a long while. ~ “If I tell you, will you respect it?” “Yes. Just tell me.” “So you won’t call the police?” “Police? Phil, what are you talking about?” “Nevermind.” I’m watching Eraserhead with her. A lamb fetus devours someone. She’s keeping her eyes on me. “I won’t tell, I promise Bro. ” I thought she meant it. Take a moment. She knows me well enough, she'll get it. “I’ve rented a hotel out on the coast. I’m going to head out there in October. I’m going to shoot myself in the head at night when it gets cold enough, there’s no people on the beach that way. I trust you to let me do this, so I’m telling you so it won’t come as a surprise.” Her expression deadens. Her eyes search frantically for something. I say, “I’ve wanted to die for a long time. It's been a weight off my back since I decided to do this. I’m ready now. I want to go with that peace in mind.” “What’s wrong with you? How could you tell me this?” She’s angry. She doesn’t understand. It doesn’t change my plans. I made it to the beach to take ahold of my own destiny. I was brought into the world unwillingly. This would be the first thing that would be completely my own. My sister had a P.I track me. ~ The first time I thought about it, I was 10 and trick-or-treating. The last house on our road had this huge family in it, two cars outside. The mother looked crazy, the father wore out, the kids loud and angry. They made their own prison and stayed in it. ~ “I won’t be a prisoner,” I say. “What?” Bryce says. I give him a genuine smile. “I quit.” ~ No one knows I’m here. The body I never wanted will be gone, the mind that never worked will be quiet. A peace I’ve dreamed of waits in the coldest part of dusk. The water goes in and out to a cycle imposed on it by external forces. I’m don’t accept the cycle. I’m not a beast of burden. I choose this.
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Jun 23, 2018 20:44
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