Let's have already done this
|# ¿ Jan 3, 2018 19:45|
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2019 14:48|
i fcuking hate time travel stories. so i guess i'll be in
That's weird, considering you already wrote at least one.
poo poo, does that mean I need to stop saying I've been to all those places I watched documentaries about???
Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at Jan 3, 2018 around 19:53
|# ¿ Jan 3, 2018 19:49|
SOMEBODY FIGHT ME
You know there is a new prompt every week, right?
|# ¿ Jan 13, 2018 08:15|
I am in, and and also give me a flash rule please.
|# ¿ Jan 24, 2018 06:10|
Flashrule: The job was a setup, only not that kind of setup.
The Midas Blade
Desi paced the alleyway behind Greenteeth Tower, occasionally glaring up at the taunting black windows of Puck’s penthouse. She pulled her hood lower over her face. Puck had once told her that every camera in the building could see right through Glamour. That was back when he was still trying to impress her, the filthy, back-stabbing, two timing thief. Of course, she was also a thief, but this was different. They had stolen the Midas Blade together. And after a celebratory glass of champagne—in newly minted golden glasses—she had woken up in a jail cell, and Puck was back home, with the sword and a new girlfriend ensconced in the luxury condo above her. But now he was showing off to the new girl in Paris, and the Midas Blade wouldn’t pass through customs undiscovered, so it was time for her to get hers. But where the hell was her mother?
The clip-clop of horse hooves sounded at the end of the alley, and Desi faded back into the shadows, wings tense, ready to spring into the air if necessary. It was suspiciously late for a horse drawn carriage to be out. Then she saw it was her mother. And a centaur.
“What is he doing here?” Desi hissed.
“Don’t be rude Desdemona," her mom said. "This is Robin.”
“Enchanté” said the centaur, and instead of shaking her hand he lifted it to his lips and pressed a damp kiss to the back of it. Because Desi was petite, and Robin was, well, a centaur, this very nearly pulled her right up off the ground. She glowered even harder at her mother.
“I told you I would find a way to break that runic code that maid said Puck put around the sword,” she said. “Robin knows runic, and he’s getting his Ph.D in coding at Princeton! Isn’t that something?”
“As in computer coding?” Desi asked. Her mom looked blank, but Robin nodded. “You realize that’s a completely different thing, right?”
“Deciphering a code is merely a matter of developing the right algorithm,” Robin said loftily, but not particularly convincingly.
“I thought you would like…find a book. Or charm the guy who made the code.”
“I thought of doing that, but then Thistleblossom mentioned her nephew—adopted obviously—spoke runic, and I thought, well that’s so much easier, isn’t it?”
Desi thought not, but saw no point in saying so. She turned to the service door and took out her picks. It was too bad you couldn’t just charm a door, but there was satisfaction in doing things manually as well. With the silent ease of a familiar partner, her mom leaned against the wall, blocking Desi’s hands from sight to the West, and keeping watch on the entrance of the alley to the East. Out of the corner of her eye, Desi saw her smile, and knew she was thinking “just like old times, eh?” Desi smiled, too. As she jiggled the shims, her mom managed to make Robin understand that he should also be keeping a lookout.
Inside, Desi started up the stairs, but Robin balked at the door.
“I don’t do stairs,” he said.
“What do you mean you don’t do stairs?” Desi demanded.
“Horses, cows, centaurs; we don’t do stairs.”
Desi was glad to see even her mother looking dumbfounded by this revelation.
“Well, if we both take him under one arm,” her mother said, tentatively, and without making eye contact, “we can probably all get to the roof.”
If this had been any other job, if she could have been sure that Puck would go out of town again soon, if basically anything at all had been other than what it was, she would have left right then and there. Instead, she wriggled under Robin’s arm, and on the count of three, her and her mom both started beating their wings. He wasn’t the heaviest thing they had ever carried. The Vault of Ophelia had been heavier, but not by much. And they hadn’t been flying it straight up twelve stories. And it hadn’t gone on the whole time about how rare it was to find both strength and beauty in a woman. If her mom hadn’t been holding his other arm, she would have been sorely tempted to let go.
On the roof, Desi shook out her arms and rubbed her aching shoulders. When Robin came up behind her and offered a massage, she sidestepped faster than humanly possible.
“You look stunning in the moonlight, Desdemona,” he said. “Even more beautiful than in the pictures your lovely mother showed me.”
“Really?” Desi asked, between clenched teeth. “The pictures my lovely mother showed you?”
If looks could kill, her mom would be dead. Her mom looked guilty for a split second, but then smoothed her face into an innocent smile that didn’t fool Desi one bit. She dismissed Desi’s anger with a graceful hand wave.
“You know how proud I am of you, dear,” she said. “I can’t help showing you off sometimes.”
“Mother, why don’t you and I go open the skylight, and then we can figure out how to get a centaur into Puck’s apartment.” She did not wait until they were entirely out of Robin’s earshot before continuing. “Did you seriously, seriously bring him on this job to try to set me up with him? What were you thinking?”
“Well, you and Puck have been separated for a while, and you just don’t seem to be moving on.”
“Mom, this job isn’t about Puck, it’s about the Midas Blade.”
It was definitely kind of about Puck.
“Robin is a nice boy, and he goes to Princeton! And he’s cute.”
“He isn’t a boy, mom, he’s a centaur.”
“Really, Desdemona, I thought you were more progressive than that.”
“It’s not a matter of progressiveness! It’s a matter of anatomy!”
The conversation ended when they heard Robin inching closer to eavesdrop.
“Let’s just get the sword and get out,” Desi said. They would argue later.
Once they were in, they had no trouble finding the Midas Blade. It was hanging over the fireplace. Desi's fingers trembled for it. It was so beautiful. Golden, perfect, and soon, hers. Most of the security system was old hat, she’d been lifting artifacts from museums, churches, private collections, you name it, since she was seven. First with her mom, then with Puck. Her and her mom broke it down in under two minutes. Then, there was just the Runic code to break. The keypad was cleverly built into the brick, barely visible unless you shined a light on it at the right angle. She held up her cellphone as Robin carefully studied it. His brow was furrowed, and he chewed his lip. It was not a look that inspired confidence.
“What’s wrong?” Desi demanded.
“It really is runic,” he said.
“Of course it is,” she said slowly, exchanging a horrified look with her mother.
“I thought you meant Unix and were just calling it the wrong thing. Most people don’t really understand computers very well,” he said.
Oh no. No, no no no.
“I think I’ve got it figured out though, no problem.”
“Don’t touch anything!” Desi yelled, but too late. He pushed a button.
Alarms blared, sirens flashed, and steel panels slid down over every door and window, including the skylight. A painting on the wall flipped over to reveal a TV screen. Puck’s sleepy face peered out of it. Oh god, this couldn’t be happening. Her stupid mother and her stupid, stupid idea of what was an appropriate blind date.
“Oh, Hi Desi,” Puck said. “I thought you might drop by. Hi Mrs. Juniper. Sorry about the gas. It’s non-toxic, just a sleeping agent.”
He winked at her. Desi heard the slight hissing of a gas valve, and found she already a little woozy. Though that could have just been the humiliation. Then Puck caught site of Robin, who had managed to get back to his hooves, and was gazing dazedly around the room.
“Really, Desi?” Puck said, shaking his head. “A centaur?”
As she drifted off into sleep, she thought she heard him mutter “But what about the anatomy?”
The jail cell was about what Desi had come to expect from jail cells. Her mom sat on a bench across from her, wiping sleep from her eyes.
“Well, you sure picked a winner,” Desi said. “Princeton, indeed.”
Her mom sniffed dismissively. “At least he didn’t gas us.”
She had a point.
Escaping was easy; they simply folded back into fairyland, and then back on the other side of town. Desi’s cellphone started ringing immediately. She didn’t even get a chance to say hello when she answered.
“Desdemona Juniper, this is Detective Moore with NYPD,” a voice boomed. “Don’t think you can get away with this. I will find you, I will catch you, and I will put you back in jail.”
She hung up before he said anything else.
“Mother,” she asked, “why are the police calling me on my fairyland cell?”
“I thought that Detective was cute,” her mother said, “so I left him your number. After all, it’s always good to have a man whose willing to chase after you.”
|# ¿ Jan 29, 2018 08:12|
I mean lol space needle it is not even in space. It's on the ground. It is a ground needle.
lol look at this idiot who doesn't even know about saucer separation
Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at Feb 18, 2018 around 01:15
|# ¿ Feb 17, 2018 23:58|
10:39 PM <Yoruichi> DocKloc wanna fight me with the Tikbalang?
10:48 PM <DocKloc> Yeah, as long as our special word isn't horse
10:49 PM <Yoruichi> DocKloc PONIES
10:49 PM <DocKloc> Oh god drat it
10:50 PM <DocKloc> I didn't even look to see what the tikbalang was
10:50 PM <sh> lol
10:50 PM <DocKloc> Should have loving known
I'll still do it subject to above stated conditions, though
Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at Feb 19, 2018 around 09:04
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2018 09:01|
10:51 PM <DocKloc> This coming up while I'm watching Holy Grail, I'm just going to write about coconuts
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2018 09:13|
New Zealand's Drunken Mistake Brawl
Theme word: Earth
Home Means Never Having to Say “I Told You So”
Gucci ballet flats are really not ideal for scrambling through a landfill. Ask me how I know—no, you probably already guessed. It’s because I’m scrambling through a landfill in Gucci ballet flats. And modest black slacks, a crisply pressed white shirt, and statement earrings, my usual armor against the contempt of William’s friends, their wives, and even mistresses. Now the white shirt has a nasty black smear across it from where I fell full-body into a puddle of muddy motor oil, and I think there’s a half-disintegrated lottery ticket stuck in one of my earrings. Probably not a winner. I used to do this so easily. Of course, the broadsword strapped across my back isn’t helping, either. It’s five feet, two inches long; I’m five feet, two inches tall. It’s like lugging around a tempered steel Siamese twin.
An engine revs and fades off into the distance. It’s the taxi I paid to wait for me.
“What, you’re afraid of getting a little garbage in your car?” I scream at its trailing cloud of dust. “You already stink!”
I suck in another breath to keep shouting, then realize what I’m saying and stop, mortified. How many times has someone said that to me? How often do people still whisper it behind my back?
I make it to the top of a garbage pile, and look down. Sure enough, there’s Uncle Tiba’s familiar hut, nestled into the valley of junk, a jumble of rusted out cars, pallets, and aluminum siding, hung with tarps to keep out the summer sun and monsoon rains. It was too easy to find—he’s expecting me. I pick my way down the slope, ignoring my squelching right shoe, trying to, you know, approach with dignity. Until the sword catches on a half-buried satellite dish and sends me sprawling, then sliding, all the way to Tiba’s front door. I land on my back with a solid thump that knocks the breath out of me.
Tiba’s leaning nonchalantly against his doorway, his horse face twisted into a smirk. He definitely knew I was coming. He looks me up and down, taking in my expensive, ruined clothes with a mocking smile. They aren’t armor here. They’re just stupid.
“Hello Maria,” he says. “Nice shoes.”
Too winded to speak, I hold up both middle fingers instead. He whinnies out a laugh, then comes over and gives me a hand up.
“What brings you down from your penthouse to see your poor old Uncle Tiba?”
“I’m bringing the sword back,” I say, heaving it off my shoulder and dropping it on the ground between us.
“But you went through sooooooooo much work to steal it from me.”
“You said it would make a man worship the ground its owner walks on.”
“You didn’t say ‘literally!’”
He shrugs. “I did tell you those American guys are weird.”
“Do you know what William’s been doing?” I yell. “I can’t step on a patch of dirt without him prostrating himself behind me and rolling in it. He collects it in urns, piles them on an altar, burns incense in front of them.”
“Has he divorced his wife?” he asks.
I don’t answer, and stomp off up the hill instead.
After I kick the stupid Guccis off, I manage to make it down the other side without falling on my face, but when I get to the bottom, I’m standing in front of Tiba’s shack again. Son of a bitch.
“You forgot your sword,” he says.
“It’s not mine!”
“Well, I don’t need it.”
“Please,” I say, “he’s going to…to build a church. A basilica”
He doubles over with braying laughter. “Maria, Our Lady of Mud,” he says, “Beautiful.”
“Please let me go back without it,” I plead.
“What do you think you’re going back to?”
I don’t answer that, either. He sighs.
“You know the lore. You just have to turn that shirt inside out and you can walk away,” he says, “and I can’t stop you.”
I look at the greasy stains covering it. Of course he’s not going to make it easy. I turn around, grit my teeth, flip my shirt, and try to ignore the stickiness now clinging to my skin. I walk away.
William is standing on the edge of the road, next to one of his shiny, black, chauffeured cars. There’s mud on the knees of his suit (also Gucci), and he’s brushing at it vigorously, looking confused. When he sees me, his mouth drops open.
“You’re covered in garbage,” he says. “And where are your shoes?”
But before I even answer, he gets in the car, slams the door, and waves the driver forward. I’m about to scream at a cloud of dust for the second time that day, when my mobile pings.
“Your Citibank Visa credit card has been cancelled by the main account holder,” I read. Then the phone is remotely wiped. I throw it into the landfill and trudge numbly down the road towards the nearest village. When it starts getting dark, I look up and realize I’m on top of a trash heap and staring down at Tiba’s shack again. He has a fire lit out front, with two chairs pulled up to it. Defeated, I make my way back down and plop into the empty one.
“You can’t just make me keep coming back,” I say.
He says nothing, just looks at my chest. I nearly call him a creep, but then realize what he means. My shirt is still on inside out. He didn’t make me come back at all.
“Want a beer?” he asks. I nod. We drink silently. He pops another one and hands it to me without asking.
“So I talked to Diwata yesterday, and she has this ring,” he says, “it’ll make any man fall head over heels…”
“Oh God, shut up,” I cry, and we both laugh so hard we can’t say anything else.
|# ¿ Mar 2, 2018 02:07|
Goddammit NZ, just flipping the script like that.
Well you see, they are upside down...
|# ¿ Mar 13, 2018 01:24|
IN IN IN IN IN
|# ¿ Mar 30, 2018 05:35|
Walking in, but never out, through door #3
|# ¿ Apr 30, 2018 22:35|
In for vampyre
|# ¿ Aug 1, 2018 20:56|
Crit for Yoruichi - Sourdough (Belgium Week)
I'm not really nitpicky about grammar, but you have a comma splice in your opening sentence that messes up the rhythm instead of adding to it. "The little bedside clock in my sterile hotel room glows red at me. It's 3.30 a.m." reads a lot better. Next sentence is a good comma splice! Actually--best structure for these lines would be:
The little bedside clock in my sterile hotel room glows red at me. It’s 3.30 a.m., I can’t sleep, and this trip was a terrible idea.
Better. Unfortunately, this semi-sarcastic and self-deprecating voice, which gives the narrator a bit of character, soon disappears into bland description of really boring action. And then gets magical or surreal or just highly metaphorical? But whatever it gets, that ends up not mattering, because after seeing a bunch of magical (???) yeasts dancing all over her, she just sits down and has some bread and apparently forgets all about it. My guess is that you intended this to be an interesting thing to spice up the middle of a story which is basically a woman going into a bakery, drinking beer with a man she can't talk to, eating a piece of toast, then getting a sourdough starter and going home. There is definitely a way to make a story like this work (with or without the magic yeast), but this one didn't work. It was boring, and the ending, despite obviously being symbolic of returning to herself, her roots, and what was important to her before Dan, doesn't land emotionally.
Maybe I am really jaded also, though, because I'm definitely like "just keep the bitter woman part coming, ok thanks."
|# ¿ Aug 6, 2018 06:59|
Strength: Your vampire can see light in the infrared, ultraviolet, and x-ray spectrums
Weakness: Birdsong causes them unbearable pain, and birds are drawn to attack your vampire.
I was going to see my son again, so all this was worth it: the interrupted trip to Alaska, the perilous pre-dusk helicopter ride, going to Florida, going to a migratory bird sanctuary in Florida. All that faded away when I thought about seeing Rob for the first time since I’d died.
After the transformation, Cindy told me to “stay the gently caress away from our son, or I’ll stake you so hard you’ll wish you’d’ve stayed dead in the first place,” but then her mother broke her hip, and she had to take her to the hospital, and Todd was in China, and her sister had some big trial, and so even though she was Not Happy About It, she needed me to go to Florida to pick up Rob from Nature Camp. The counselors were expecting me; it would be fine. She hung up before I even said okay. She knew I’d go. I was desperate.
Minutes after sunset, I pushed through the door of the camp headquarters for the first look at my son in nearly two years. Rob was sitting on a bench, nose deep in his iPhone. A woman in an Audubon Society shirt hurried out from behind the desk.
“Are you Mr. Bailey?” she asked, voice tinged with desperation.
Rob looked up and saw me then. I don’t know what I thought this moment would be like, but tears of joy at seeing his father again had crossed my mind. I was certainly about to shed some, and I wanted to give him a huge hug, the kind teenagers hate, and just talk to him and—
“He’s been saying that since we told him you were picking him up,” the woman said.
“It’s true, Francine,” Rob said. “Google it. The obituary’s online. Robert Bailey, Sr. June 14, 1975 to October 31, 2016. I don’t know who this is, but my dad is dead.”
“Yet here I am, flesh and blood.”
Francine looked between the two of us.
“I’ll need to see your ID,” she said.
I handed it over, whispering “the divorce,” and shaking my head.
She handed it back with a nod and sympathetic smile.
“Rob, you have to go home with your father now,” she said.
Rob glowered at her, but shuffled out to the car, muttering “you’re dead” as he passed me. It didn’t seem like a good moment for that hug.
“I was dead,” I said, once we were on the road to the helipad. “But now I’m…undead?”
“Like a zombie?” Rob asked, perking up. Really? Was I covered in grave dust? Shouting for brains?
“Vampire,” I said, sharply.
“Woah, so you can turn into a bat and stuff?”
“No,” I said, then seeing his interest fade, and wanting to impress my son, because he’s my son, I added, “but I can see infrared, UV, and x-rays. Most vampires can’t do that. It’s like my own personal super power.
“X-ray vision! Awesome!” he said.
“It’s actually the most boring one.”
“Could you see Francine’s underwear?” he talked over me. “Was it a thong?”
“That’s…really not how x-rays work. Do they not teach science in public schools anymore?”
“Lame,” he said.
A warm breeze rustled through the swamp, and somewhere dove cooed. It was far away, but I still winced. The coo of a dove feels like fingernails raking across my face.
“You okay?” Rob asked.
“Fine,” I said, working my face into a normal expression.
“You’re not hungry, are you?” he asked. “You’re not going to drink my blood are you?”
Startled, I stared at him. Hesitating was a mistake.
“I don’t want to become a vampire!” he screamed, throwing open the car door and running into the swamp. As he crashed and splashed through the muddy foliage, he left a trail of sleepily chirping birds. Ears ringing, I chased after him. I’d doubted it was coincidence that Cindy sent him to camp in the middle of a migratory bird sanctuary, and now I wondered if her mother had even broken her hip or if Cindy just wanted to torture me. If those birds woke up, they’d sense me, and they’d attack.
I followed Rob at a distance. Talking to him seemed better than grabbing him and hauling him kicking and screaming into a helicopter, with hundreds of birds kicking and screaming after us. He finally stopped, and leaned, panting, against a tree.
“Rob, I’m not—“
And he was off and running again.
“drat it, stop running,” I shouted, “I can see you, anyway. Infrared vision, remember? Heat signatures?”
He dropped to the ground and started rolling around. Really? The Predator?
“We watched that movie together,” I said, “and it doesn’t actually work.” When he stood up he was still glowing, but another color. “And whatever you rolled in has a ton of UV-reactive minerals in it—you look like a Led Zeppelin poster.”
He ignored me.
“Please, I’m not going to bite you. I don’t want to turn you into a vampire. I just want to take you home to your mom. You know she’ll kill me if you die out here.”
He didn’t acknowledge me at all.
“Get to the choppa!” he said, in his best Schwarzenegger voice, and took off again.
He was running towards the helipad, so I decided he had agreed to go with me. Leaving the car parked in the middle of the road, I ran after him. As soon as he climbed into the helicopter, it began to lift off the ground. The door swung open wildly, and I heard him shout “wait!”
I screamed and ran faster. Thralls follow orders exactly, and what had I said? “When my son’s in the helicopter, we’ll head back to the airport.” Not “When my son and I are in the helicopter, and the doors are closed, we’ll head back to the airport.” I couldn’t run fast enough.
Rob pulled himself all the way into the helicopter, but the wind was whipping around him, and he was still screaming. I knew what I had to do. Turn into a hawk.
Yes, I hate birds and also can turn into a bird. Self-loathing is a well-known psychological phenomenon. I actually hate being a bird more than I hate birds. There are whole ranges of sound in birdsong that aren’t audible to the human, or vampire, ear, because it doesn’t have the right parts. Once I’m a bird, I have those parts.
But it was Rob, so I transformed. All those birds we woke up stumbling through the swamp were in a frenzy and headed my way. Woodpecker screeches swung baseball bats at my kneecaps, a flycatcher’s whistle drove needles under my toenails, and countless other bird calls exacted great and tiny tortures on my body and mind. Then they caught up to me, and I was swatting wrens away with my wings and turning my claws on a red-feathered cardinal. When a pair of storks came soaring towards me, the only weapon I had was speed.
Hawks are fast, but I was still climbing too slowly. Even after I left the last bird below, their sounds sent echoing waves of pain through me. I could barely keep my eyes open, barely flap my wings, and my mind was begging for the sweet peace of oblivion. But Rob needed me, so I kept going.
I tumbled through the helicopter door. Rob panicked, and tried to beat me away. He lost his balance, and for a moment, teetered over the edge. I transformed so fast I still had feathers poking out of my arms when I grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back inside. He stared at me with wide, shocked eyes as I buckled him in, then hauled the door shut. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes, and at the corners of my own. I hugged him close—as close as possible with him buckled into a helicopter seat —and we both cried.
Slouching back into his seat, all fake teenage nonchalance, he said “I guess having a vampire dad could be kinda cool, but you said you couldn’t turn into a bat.”
“Hawk!” I said, but his eyes were already closed. Smiling for the first time since I died, I watched him sleep.
|# ¿ Aug 6, 2018 07:20|
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2019 14:48|
Please find me a story and story me a found object
|# ¿ Sep 19, 2018 06:33|