|
In. gently caress me up.
|
#
¿
Jan 29, 2020 22:55
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Nov 13, 2025 23:52 |
|
|
Carl Killer Miller posted:Your Diagnosis: Xeroderma Pigmentosum Check blind spots before changing lanes 1320 words The 1995 Toyota Corolla thundered across the sand. The windows were blacked out and Harry was sweating bullets at the wheel. Just a few metres ahead of her the lead vehicle barreled through mountains of driftwood, sending salty wreckage flying clear of the low-tide path they'd spent weeks mapping. Being a tail driver wasn't hard to get your head around, but if you got it wrong you wrecked two cars and left your cargo in the middle of god-knows-where under the lethal sun. One car with a day-driver is connected to a blind car behind - usually by a thick rope anchored to each corner of either car. You put your foot down and you feel out the corners. Harry was good at putting her foot down and pretty OK at feeling out the corners. Right now, the Pajero ahead was swinging her all over the beach. She wondered if there had been some kind of storm, but the blacked-out windows betrayed nothing so she was left with her imagination. She always struggled with this bit, the car cabin roaring, humming and rattling around her - tense, lethal and incredibly boring. She couldn't even talk to the cargo, strapped in and sleeping on the back seat. It had been two days drive already, they hadn't had the supplies to trade their way through rest stations and sleepers, so Harry and her lead driver had been driving for 14 hours solid at this point - save for the quick stop for a wee before the sun came up. When she’d picked up the cargo in Whitianga, they were working on intel that the Kāpiti coast would be a clear shot - break from the motorway at Ōtaki and take the beach down to Paekakariki. They’d skip at least some of the checkpoints and avoid some of the bolder roadside scavengers. The trips paid good money, but there were still safer alternatives to getting your hands on cash. It wasn’t about that for her. She’d been that kid in the backseat before and she knew how important tail drivers and blind cars were. She drove because she wanted what she did to matter. A particularly rough jolt from the Paj in front jolted her back into the present, threatening to wrench the wheel off her. She could feel the anchors straining on the left side of the car as she course corrected, trying to bring the small hatchback into the larger vehicle’s slipstream. Not even seconds after she’d got the car back in place, she felt the ropes yank to the right and then gut-wrenchingly start pulling in a way that felt flat-out wrong. She turned to the kid as she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach, she didn’t have time to tell them to hold or that Harry would make sure it was all ok. They just exchanged one panicked look before the sightless car heaved itself skyward, dragged into the air by the rolling Pajero ahead. For a moment, everything hung in the air. Maps, pens, drink bottles, other bottles - all suspended in animation around Harry while her hair billowed as if underwater. Then with a roar there was violence, their dark sanctum was rocked by an invisible outside world visiting blow after blow from all around them. Harry felt every hit until she didn’t. Blind cars are built to keep the light out, and the people that refit them take their job seriously. It’s not a matter of a quick coat of spray paint and a pat on the bumper to send it on its way. But even with reinforced plates over the windows and thick cloth in the mix, they’re not built to be hurled down a beach like a toy by a petulant child. As Harry came to, she could see the late afternoon light swimming hazily through a gap rent in the front passenger window. She snatched her arm away reflexively, realising simultaneously that gravity was working as expected and they were right way up. She twisted uncomfortably in place, pressing fresh bruises against the seatbelt. Light hadn’t hit the kid in the back, but she didn’t look great. Harry spent a good couple minutes fighting injury and digging through chaos to find her goggles, shawl and one glove. She’d just have to tuck a hand in her pocket and hope for the best. Harry reached back and gave the kid’s knee a quick and vigorous shake to wake her. She moaned a bit but gave enough of a nod to satisfy Harry’s instructions to stay put. The Pajero driver was standing next to his flipped vehicle looking despairingly at the mess with one hand across an ugly wound above his eye and his shifting arm dangling uselessly by his side. Harry and him exchanged brief words in a dynamic conversation that mostly involved pointing and the word “gently caress”. They both knew before they opened their mouths they’d have to take the blind car South without the escort, but they took a while to admit it. Harry sat on the bonnet of the Corolla and quietly said “gently caress” one last time for good measure. Her and the lead driver worked wordlessly to bundle up Ithe kid in the back seat, building as much of a lightless barrier between the front seats and the back as possible. She gave the kid a quick reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before tucking her head under the blankets. Harry grabbed a crowbar from the field kit and unceremoniously ripped off the front windscreen of the blind car. One hand naked to the elements, she threw the hatchback into gear with the Pajero-less Pajero driver beside her. The lead driver, wounded or not, would have hard a hard time talking her out of the driving seat. This was her car and her delivery. They had to join State Highway 1 earlier than planned, finding a path back up to the road just north of Paraparaumu. With a clear road, it was a half-hour straight South down the motorway. It had not been a clear road in decades. Her hand was on fire before they’d even got a couple of kilometres down the road. It glowed hot and red between the freckles, starting to blister painfully by about halfway. She tried throwing some rags over the top of it, but they pissed her off and aggravated the already peeling skin. By the time they hit the roundabout at Paremata she was pretty sure she was going to lose the hand. It'd take a couple of years, sure, but cancer was a patient bugger and she'd just built him a home. Years and years of blind drives for treatments, living at night and covering herself head to toe and she just let the bastard in one spring afternoon. The sun glinted off the inlet waters in the late evening sun, shimmers riding the crests of gentle waves. Harry's eyes were shot pink and red, even with the protection of the tinted goggles and she was driving through tears. She'd never seen a sunset in her life, she fought the growing urge to just pull the Corolla over and sit and cry. She didn't. Harry gets the job done, and Harry definitely doesn't park in the dying twilight to consider her place on the universe - not on the clock at least. The car shuddered to a halt outside the doors of the sun-baked hospital complex. Harry could barely move, her hand was an inferno and her eyes full of needles. Buddy Pajero helped unravel the kid from her cocoon and take her through the still night air into the building. Harry hadn't heard the kid say anything the whole trip, just nod or grunt. Harry heard her now. "Mum!" The kid tore herself free of Mr Pajero and belted across the lobby to a beaming woman. Harry smiled and passed out.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 3, 2020 07:15
|
|
|
Thanks for timely crits, CKM. But you should fight me. It'll be a nice activity for two while you work up to doing things in threes.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 4, 2020 04:28
|
|
|
Carl Killer Miller posted:Let's boogie. 
|
|
#
¿
Feb 4, 2020 04:32
|
|
|
sebmojo posted:Killer sneaks brawl Direct Intervention 695 words Rhys sat in the bus stop, bathed in the late afternoon glow of the petrol station fire. He reeked of Unleaded ‘91 and had a wild look in his eyes. Rhys had often sat opposite that petrol station. Some days he registered its existence, others it was lost in the swirling morass of mortgage payments, nutritionists and child care. When they moved into the neighbourhood, it had been a garden centre. Not a bustling one that people would know by name, but one he took the children to to buy birdseed for the feeder. One you could reliably pop into for some local gossip and planting tips. It pissed Rhys off, that in 2020 a locally-owned-and-operated gardening shop - complete with rows and rows of lush trees and bushes looking for a home - would become a self-serve, cut-price, fossil fuel distribution site. It pissed Rhys off enough that a quiet, dormant voice deep within had started to clear its throat. A voice from before parent-teacher interviews, before matching brown shoes to brown belts. A voice that screamed the blunt-instrument poetry of anti-establishment West Coast punk rock, lungs crushed against the stage rail. A voice that had yelled spittle-flecked truth to power across a police line, arm-in-arm with safety pins, patches and bleach-green hair. Month by month, Rhys’s studded leather passenger punched his way forward through the walls of the cerebral chokepoints that Rhys had built in the interceding years, kicking down whole sections so that narrow thought funnels spewed wide. That day, in front of the petrol station, the passenger had become his co-pilot. It wasn’t a voice at the back of his head, it was a vocal conversation partner. It spat hot idealism, raging at the world and fueled by two decades of inaction by Rhys. It’s loving bullshit, the planet’s in a nosedive and they pull this poo poo? “Yeah, I’ve got no idea how the Council let that consent thr -” The wha.. No, listen, gently caress the Council, man. They’re not the problem. The problem is these loving fossil fuel capitalists pushing us to pump more of the poo poo that’s killing the planet. The problem is loving you, Rhys - you and all the other loving sheep who - “Dude, I’ve got kids, I’ve got bills. I’ll protest but I’m not.. I can’t fight this stuff. I didn’t say anything about protesting, I’m talking about direct loving intervention. Rhys, alone on the footpath, had started pacing. He vibrated with a nervous energy that felt familiar - but pushed it down to where it needed to sit beneath his ironed business shirt and - “Mate, can you move?” He looked up, distracted suddenly from his metaphorical wrestling match with a younger, angrier version of himself. In that moment, younger Rhys got his kicks in.” “gently caress no, buddy!” Rhys yelled, and hawked up a wad of phlegm, letting it loose at the buttoned down man in the Landcruiser. Rhys saw shock ripple across the tubby man’s face and gave the bumper a solid kick. “Station’s closed! WOOOOO!” Rhys ripped his shirt off and wrapped it around the end of a windscreen cleaner, pawing in his pocket for the lighter he kept for the one clove cigarette he allowed himself a week. He put it tow his shirt and orange flame caressed and then devoured the delicate, evenly spaced fabric flowers. And then he saw it, shining red like a beacon amidst the fleeing crowd of customers. There, next to a 1995 Toyota Caldina with a busted tail light was a beautiful red plastic petrol can, wobbling gently as its contents sloshed. Sitting there at the bus stop,he couldn’t remember how he’d set the fire. He remembered seeing the can, and he remembered the shockwave and the bassy boom that hit him in the back as he ran clear of the chaos he’d bodged together. He stood up from the bench as the sirens came, and ambled slowly back across the road. He was smiling now, the gentle smile of a man in love. He planted his feet, heat rippling the air around him, ready to great the cops with two middle fingers.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 16, 2020 04:34
|
|
|
CKM vs sneaks brawl Direct Intervention 700 words Rhys sat in the bus stop, bathed in the late afternoon glow of the petrol station fire. He reeked of Unleaded ‘91 and had a wild look in his eyes. Rhys had often sat opposite that petrol station. Some days he registered its existence, others it was lost in the swirling morass of mortgage payments, nutritionists, and child care. When they moved into the neighbourhood, it had been a garden centre. Not a bustling one that people would know by name, but one he took the children to to buy birdseed for the feeder. One you could reliably pop into for some local gossip and planting tips. It pissed Rhys off, that in 2020 a locally-owned-and-operated gardening shop — complete with rows and rows of lush trees and bushes looking for a home — would become a self-serve, cut-price, fossil fuel distribution site. It pissed Rhys off enough that a smothered, muzzled voice deep within had started to rumble. It was a voice from before parent-teacher interviews, before matching brown shoes to brown belts. It screamed blunt poetry of anti-establishment West Coast punk rock, lungs crushed against a stage rail. It clawed its way free through long-buried images of Rhys yelling spittle-flecked truth to power across a police line, arm-in-arm with safety pins, patches and bleach-green hair. Month by month, Rhys’s studded leather passenger punched his way forward through the walls of the cerebral chokepoints that Rhys had built in the interceding years, kicking down whole sections so that narrow thought funnels spewed wide. That day, in front of the petrol station, the passenger had become his co-pilot. It wasn’t a voice at the back of his head, it roared. It spat hot idealism, raging at the world and fueled by two decades of inaction. It’s loving bullshit, the planet’s in a nosedive and they pull this poo poo? “Yeah, I’ve got no idea how the Council let that consent thr -” The wha.. No, listen, gently caress the Council, man. They’re not the problem. The problem is these loving fossil fuel capitalists pushing us to pump more of the poo poo that’s killing the planet. The problem is loving you, Rhys - you and all the other loving sheep who - “Dude, I’ve got kids, I’ve got bills. I’ll protest but I’m not.. I can’t fight this stuff. I didn’t say anything about protesting, I’m talking about direct loving intervention. Rhys, alone on the footpath, had started pacing. He vibrated with a nervous energy that felt familiar - but pushed it down to where it needed to sit beneath his ironed business shirt and - “Mate, can you move?” He looked up, distracted suddenly from his metaphorical wrestling match with a younger, angrier version of himself. In that moment, younger Rhys got his kicks in. “gently caress no, buddy!” Rhys yelled, and hawked up a wad of phlegm, letting it loose at the buttoned down man in the Landcruiser. Rhys saw shock ripple across the tubby man’s face and gave the bumper a solid kick. “Station’s closed! WOOOOO!” Rhys ripped his shirt off and wrapped it around the end of a windscreen cleaner, pawing in his pocket for the lighter he kept for the one clove cigarette he allowed himself a week. He put it tow his shirt and orange flame caressed and then devoured the delicate, evenly spaced fabric flowers. And then he saw it, shining red like a beacon amidst the fleeing crowd of customers. There, next to a 1995 Toyota Caldina with a busted tail light was a beautiful, just dropped, red plastic petrol can, wobbling gently as its contents resettled. Sitting there at the bus stop,he couldn’t remember how he’d set the fire. He remembered seeing the can, and he remembered the shockwave and the bassy boom that hit him in the back as he ran clear of the chaos he’d bodged together. He stood up from the bench as the sirens came, and strode back across the road. He was smiling now, the gentle, confident smile of a man in love. A man at peace. He planted his feet, heat rippling the air around him, ready to greet the cops with two middle fingers.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 4, 2020 21:29
|
|
|
Ugh fine. Flash.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 30, 2020 08:44
|
|
|
in
|
|
#
¿
Apr 6, 2020 21:29
|
|
|
sebmojo posted:these geezers have not yet posted, given the circumstances you can have 24 hours before the LoFi 609 words Keith’s feet hung over the roof’s edge, kicking absently at the chill night breeze. The old art deco building stooped over the motorway like a wily babcia who’d muscled her way to the front of a crowd. Old curves and yellow paint four stories high jammed between steel and glass constructs that shot skyward. Behind him, a small cloud of motes danced in the soft glow of a neighbouring apartment. Keith couldn’t see the motes; cram enough AR lenses, ocular interfaces and keyimage triggers into a person’s head and you lose a little bit of fidelity. As a twenty-something, Keith had been in love with that building and its imperfections. Outdated and outmoded in a sea of high-sheen, low-character, medium-density housing. As a late-thirty-something, Keith bought old, fungus-caked camera lenses, discmans, mechanical kitchen scales, anything with an air of the carefully-curated character flaws he’d slowly replaced his personality with. He couldn’t remember when he jumped that chasm, when the aesthetic infatuation became a formal arrangement, but at some point taste had become principle, dogma and doctrine. Up on the roof, drinking mead out of a pewter tankard, he tried to chase that point down. The motes danced, swirling. The cloud grew denser and more energetic every time he pulled back the corner of some other pursuit from his past - receding again every time some half-recalled image of a band kicked up a collector’s edition vinyl offer, or an incomplete quote from a novel was hastily reassembled on the fly and served up with a link to buy it in multiple sensory formats. Keith’s son Hayden stepped out onto the roof. The six-year-old padded across to the lone silhouette of his father against the twinkling cityscape. Their two clouds pulsed and mingled behind them, Keith’s cloud leading while Hayden’s much larger cloud mirrored. Occasionally Hayden’s added a flourish, or filled the quiet moments with broad sweeping moves. Keith and Hayden leant against each other in the dark, Keith’s arm wrapped around the small boy’s shoulders. Quiet and still in the dark, their heads raced in multiple directions. Hayden down whatever rabbit hole of adventure the games that beget the shows that beget the games had sent him down, and Keith’s railroaded harshly and consistently from recollection to retail. Though it would cost him in the morning, Keith paused the ShopFeed. Data collection never sleeps, but you can at least pause the feedback loop from time to time. There wasn’t a rule against it, but everyone knew there was a cavalcade of suggested content waiting to burst forth when you inevitably lowered the floodgates again, bringing with it the feeling of wading through neon flashing fog with a hangover. The quiet rushed in and the rooftop felt like a library after dark. Keith drew Hayden tighter, grasped the threads that led back from his offspring to his husband and the life they’d built - were building - instead of the ones that led back from the pewter mug to more pewter mugs and stovetop espresso pots. The motes danced to an unheard banger, flinging themselves wildly about, sharing the choreography between the two clouds. Keith smiled and leaned down and kissed Hayden on the top of the head. “G’night, buddy. Tell your sister to come up and say goodnight.” “Kay. Night, Dad.” Hayden ambled back through the door. Some minutes later, Keith’s youngest, Hannah, stepped out. Behind her followed a multicoloured swarm of motes, blooming through the open rooftop door. Invigorated and unchained, Keith’s leapt and twirled to meet it. Keith caught a hint of movement and colour out the corner of his eye, and though he couldn’t tell why, started to cry.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 14, 2020 10:35
|
|
|
I'm in. Flash me, pls.
|
|
#
¿
Jun 9, 2020 05:56
|
|
|
In. Hit me with some '60s. for not writing a porn last week.
|
|
#
¿
Jun 16, 2020 06:20
|
|
|
In. Smack me round the ear chops with some audio. good pormtp and wordcount combo, btw. nice.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 8, 2020 00:25
|
|
|
Threads 547 words The sewing machine clatters like a snare in Satan’s drumline - out of step, off-tempo and cracking its way through the mids of life’s ambient mixdown. The sun-bleached plastic cladding rattles as the collection of shafts and gears inside shakes out an off-kilter paradiddle. Despite the noise, the space is still. A middle-aged woman hunches over the sewing under the single, small window. She’s hedged in on either side by a cupboard and another small sewing table. The table’s doors are flung wide open, thread and sewing patterns hang mid-spill out of the drawers. Dust motes hang in the air, luxuriating in the streams of light tumbling through the window. Her fingers hold the material tight, guiding it under the foot to the ever-descending needle. The cloth stands out in a sea of beige and navy bolts, a searing hot flash of magenta ready to be paired with the white-and-turquoise-chevroned leg she’d already assembled. They’d chosen it together on the weekend. Her son had even convinced her to buy an extra metre so that he could have a matching shirt to go with the shorts. She enjoyed those trips, they’d go for morning tea upstairs in the department store next door afterwards and he’d tear around the toy section. She let her eyes climb the wall in front of her and drift out beyond the window. The southerly had started to whip grey clouds up and over the hills, hustling them along as they grew darker. The washing on the Hills Hoist was already starting to flail and flap in anticipation. She dropped her eyes back down to the shorts, working to a new timeline now. The needle raced to outrun the weather. She doesn’t know that the shorts will only get one wear before her son comes home and tearfully explains that they are a “girl’s colour” and he won't wear them again. Today, they’re a beautiful pair of shorts made from material that he chose especially. She doesn’t know that tomorrow she’ll be back in here crying, after yelling at her son for wasting her effort and the family’s money. Weeping in a mausoleum to failed craft projects, bolts of cloth that never became skirts or curtains. The monstera plant in the corner sits and watches without emotion today, and will do so again tomorrow. The rhythm of the machine is a rich groove now, not steady, but driving forward in short bursts before sinking back into an adagio. She doesn’t know today, and still won’t know tomorrow that she’s not crying about lost time and wasted energy. Her son won’t know until he has children of his own, decades later. He’ll wear shades of blue for years before embracing other colours again, and even then it will feel like some kind of transgression. Today though, she finished the shorts. She calls out to her son as she finishes joining the two sides together. He careens down the stairs, almost bouncing off the walls before breaking into a run, feet slapping across the concrete garage floor to the sewing room. He beams at the shorts, a vision somehow made manifest through his mother’s magic. In the quiet of the room, they embrace. The first drops of rain start tapping out a weak rhythm on the window.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 12, 2020 21:06
|
|
|
In. rat-born cock posted:Signups, if you do not specially request an item, I won't give you one. Gizzit.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 30, 2020 03:03
|
|
|
In. - not for hellrules or extra words, just for being a shambles last week.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 5, 2020 04:33
|
|
|
In. and hellrule.
|
|
#
¿
Oct 13, 2020 23:12
|
|
|
Yoruichi posted:One story, told 3 ways. Muffins 515 words Electrons snap into synch with the application of current, suddenly rushing forward along the wire. The torrent pours into the thin copper coil, electrons whirling and vibrating through the latticework of ions. The electrons dance as the heat builds, until finally the small bridgewire sparks. Light and heat pour from the electric match, starting a riot in the pyrotechnic ignition mix. The cocktail of metallic zirconium and potassium perchlorate flourish into an angry, roiling force that in turn ignites the mercury fulminate at the end of the blasting cap. The cap hurls explosive force into the marbled mix of cyclotrimethylene-trinitramine, polyisobutylene, di(2-ethylhexyl) sebacate, water, salt, flour and food colouring. Layers upon layers decompose releasing nitrogen and carbon oxides, violently asserting their presence outwards at 8,050 metres per second. A vacuum builds at the heart of thunder, fire and fury, and it wrenches the world back to itself, grabbing at the arms and tails of flames as they struggle to spread across the wide metal door, grasping at the dead underground air. /// She rolls the dough into balls. She puts the dough into the muffin trays. There isn’t enough so she takes some of Daddy’s. It smells bad and is hard to roll. She mixes it with her dough to make it soft. It looks better now, she made all the colours all mixed up and colourful. She knows Daddy will be upset if she doesn’t put it back later, but there needed to be enough muffins. She will put it back later. The muffins look wonderful. Mummy and Daddy will be happy. She takes the muffins out of the trays and puts them in the octopus machine. She turns the handle and makes the tentacles. They are very good tentacles. She will tell Mummy and Daddy that they couldn’t have muffins because she had to make the tentacles. /// “ - the actual gently caress, Keith?” The two man stand in the dissipating smoke in front of the blackened metal door, Keith's handiwork haloed in their wavering torch beams. Keith stared at the charcoal black star he’d managed to execute after two months of tireless planning. Tony’s body language showed that he was somewhat more than disappointed. He took Keith’s silence as an invitation to clarify. “You were meant to blow that door clean off its fuckin’ hinges and we were meant to be hip deep in merch. Now I’m here with my arse hanging out looking at a failed fireworks display. ‘The gently caress happened?” As if responding to news of Tony’s arse hanging out, sirens started to gently saw their way through the ringing in both men’s ears. Keith couldn't get his mind to click over to getaway yet. He was the precision guy. The reliable bomb man. The bloke you called because you could count on him to rip holes in anything you needed to find your way into or out of. He shone his torch down into his satchel, not even sure what he was looking for. Smudged with plastic residue, the tip of a small pink and yellow tentacle waved back at him.
|
|
#
¿
Oct 19, 2020 04:04
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Nov 13, 2025 23:52 |
|
|
Rainy day dino-fun! 100 words Listen, kid . That's not your Mum. Don't look, just keep your head down. If she asks you what you're reading tell her it's facts about dinosaurs. Tell her the pterosaur had a wingspan of 3.6 metres. Now you gotta trust me here, when you see a chance you leave the table nice and quiet. Once you're clear of the kitchen you give it some gas, just bolt for the front door. She can't hurt you if she can't catch you. Get clear. Let the cycle reset. They might rotate your mum back in. Otherwise, we talk again real soon.
|
|
#
¿
Oct 20, 2020 05:44
|
|