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Jun 19, 2021 05:19
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Practice 949 Words “I just came for the cat.” He had rehearsed this conversation over a hundred-plus miles of interstate, but he hadn’t properly gauged how difficult it would be to disappoint his mother in person. She stood just inside the screen door, looking down at him as he progressed across the lawn. He climbed the cracked stone steps as she maintained her pained smile. “I understand that, but your father’s been a bit rough lately and I think that you spending time with him would really do him some good. I set up a chair in there for you so you could talk or maybe watch a western with him. He’s as upset as we are, even if he doesn’t show it.” That might have been true, or it might have been something that she’d told herself enough times that she now believed it. His father had always felt some attachment to the cat, given that her adoption was meant to mitigate his potential death on the operating table. He lived, and man and beast came to know each other during a summer of convalescence. While he remained in bed, she remained by his feet. He valued that commitment. Since he’d begun shutting his door at night, though, it seemed the two didn’t have much interaction. “Yeah, sure. I’ll check in with him in a minute.” It clearly wasn’t enough to satisfy her, but he knew she wouldn’t press the issue. Any conviction she once possessed had been drained from her, and while he felt guilty about taking advantage, it wasn’t quite enough to stop him. He walked inside, and she greeted him with a hug and kiss on the cheek. His anxiety grew. When he’d decided that it was time to put the cat down, his immediate thoughts had been of the good times. She’d been his main companion throughout his high school years and was perhaps the only living thing he felt any connection to in that period. It had been easy to disconnect from his peers and family, but her outright refusal to abandon him set her apart. He still loved her uniquely and exclusively, and upon returning from school had taken on the responsibilities of caring for an aging animal without hesitation. His mother had been incredulous when he’d first detailed the routine, but in time the spoon feeding, fluid therapy, and modifications to the house seemed normal. When he left, his mother had taken over. He hugged her a little harder when he thought of that, and without a word, proceeded upstairs to find his father. He had hurt the cat, and those were the memories that came next. His response to the inescapable pain and fear throughout his childhood had been to transfer them onto something else. She’d still been a kitten at that point, which meant that even a child could exercise complete control without risk of further harm. This was the low point of his life, and the worst thing he had ever done. In damaging the only thing in life that he loved unconditionally, he would have to remember his greatest friend in light of his hideous actions. The cat had forgiven him, as much as an animal with no capacity for long-term memory could. Perhaps she felt that she didn’t really have an option, that she was stuck in a house with him and that if he wanted to, he could hurt her. He could understand that. It was one of those things that he tried not to think about. He preferred to believe that she understood him, somehow, in the way that animals are said to know and love the people they connect with. Maybe she knew that he’d tried to live his life with kindness and generosity toward animals, and the things he’d done to make her life more comfortable in recent years were out of love rather than guilt. He had begun to miss her already. She remained a wonderful cat, even as she’d progressed into infirmity and senility. Where once she wandered and meowed for attention, she now lay down in the front hall and screamed as loudly as she could until she was scooped up and carried to a place where she could lie on a lap more comfortably. She had kept her personality through the worst of it, though her perpetual air of daintiness was now undercut by a propensity to misjudge jumps and landings. She had borne the indignity bravely with her feline stoicism, but he’d begun to recognize the signs. When his mother called to tell him that the cat was refusing to eat, he had known. She was in pain, and it was his obligation to her to relieve her of it. That was tomorrow, though, so rather than dwell on it any longer, he would pick her up and carry her around for one more night. First, though, he’d promised to look in on his father. The man had a separate room now, not out of matrimonial dispute but rather convenience. His mother slept better without the sound of machines and a bedmate who rose several times a night to retch in the bathroom. He gave a light knock on the cracked door before progressing inside. Unexpectedly, he found both the man and the cat lying together in bed. Their raspy breaths were in sync, and as the cat stirred the man ceased his petting and looked up toward the door. He was crying, and he began to gesticulate toward the cat as he worked out what he wanted to say. Finally, he found the words. “I’m so sorry,” he said weakly, and began to cry again. He didn’t cry alone.
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Jun 21, 2021 05:12
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Jun 22, 2021 21:05
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 reroll please
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Jun 22, 2021 22:30
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 To Hodson - 1099 words The following letter was submitted as evidence by one Thomas Hodson to those investigating the disappearance of Philip Latimer. Dear Hodson, I write you to finish what I began relaying during our dinner last night. I apologize for my abrupt exit, but as you read further I hope you will understand the strange circumstances that precipitated my rudeness. It was during either the third or fourth snifter of brandy that my Sophia entered the study last Thursday evening carrying a small envelope that bore my name. You see, then, that you must allow me some inexactness with respect to the specifics of what is to follow. I had been entertaining Davys for the better part of the evening, and as you know, the man has an infectious penchant for spirits. His etiquette being otherwise exemplary, however, my companion chose this moment to take his leave and entrust the remainder of my evening to a fairer candidate. He did me a cruelty, however, as no sooner had Davys exited into the night than Sophia conveyed her dissatisfaction at my state. I bore her chastisements as I continued to drink, and once she tired of her exercise she departed sans envelope. I picked it up and in surprise discovered an intricate drawing on the back of the paper. Just as curious were its contents, which I will transcribe here: quote:Dear Latimer, In light of the troubling possibility that my dear friend had begun to take leave of his senses, I did as requested and studied the image for several minutes. I fear, however, that he has underestimated its effect. I too have begun finding myself in that place, which is all the more worrisome as I was not with Stephen when he first found it. I have become accustomed to these unpredictable and invasive experiences, as much as one might, so please know that when Sophia aided me in departing last night it was due to a particularly difficult transition, as I’ve come to call them. No amount of familiarity with that wall had prepared me to see Stephen’s horrified face staring out of it. In any case, I see no reason why I may not live and conduct my business as one does with any other occasionally inconvenient condition. In apology, I ask you to join us next weekend at our country house. I happily await your acceptance. Best, Latimer
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Jun 28, 2021 03:52
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In as spy 
t a s t e fucked around with this message at 15:02 on Jun 29, 2021 |
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Jun 29, 2021 15:00
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https://cfa.org/bengal/ & https://www.akc.org/dog-breeds/afghan-hound/ Bashir on the Road to Gauda 1446 words When Bashir first learned of his brother’s death, he felt great despair. He and Momen had quarreled throughout much of their youth, but Bashir bore him all the love and respect due his elder. He had seen his brother off on his journey eastward with a heart full of hope and admiration. Now, though, Momen was dead. Bashir was not yet a man, much less the man of legend, but as his father had died of illness many years before the obligation to collect Momen’s body from Gauda now sat upon Bashir’s shoulders. He did not welcome the burden. The Northern Road was not as dangerous as in centuries past, but he knew that the great distance presented countless opportunities for a thief to catch him unaware. The trip would take at least two months, and while Bashir was outfitted by his friends in the village, he dreaded the rigors of the journey. The boy departed Kabul at dawn, and as he passed through the main gate he spoke to his horse. “I will entrust you with both myself and my brother, Sadiq,” he declared. “You will deliver me to Gauda, and then you will deliver us home.” Sadiq was an intelligent animal, and though he could not understand Bashir’s words, he knew the love and trust beneath them. The boy had treated the horse well, and his simple loyalty had helped the two become the best of friends, though perhaps to the exclusion of Bashir’s relationship with his peers. The boy now forged a solitary path, but he was well prepared, as he had long been alone in Kabul. Days passed without incident, and as Bashir progressed further eastward the terrain grew more beautiful and unfamiliar to him. He recalled his father’s stories of his trips to Hind, and at times imagined the man riding beside him, boasting of his good fortune to be traveling with such a capable partner. He also pictured Momen, and these moments carried him into sorrow. On the sixteenth day, Bashir was attacked. As he had feared, a thief came upon him in the night, and though the boy struggled proudly, the advantage of surprise decided the fight. When the boy awoke, he first felt the incredible pain that radiated throughout his body. It hurt him to move, and to breathe, but he refused to stop. As Bashir rose, he saw that his horse was gone. The thief had left in haste, however, as some of the boy’s supplies remained strewn on the ground. To his great relief, Bashir still possessed a small amount of food and water. He was in peril, but his fate was not yet decided. Bashir’s incredible feats would come later in his life, but even before he began his great works, the boy possessed power of spirit. He righted himself and fashioned a walking stick out of a branch. Relying on its support, Bashir began to follow Sadiq’s tracks in the earth. His pain would have crippled even the strongest of men, but he pressed on, determined to rescue his friend and fulfill his obligation to Momen. Bashir’s progress was slow. Though his dedication never wavered, his fatigue continued to grow. The boy motivated himself through trickery, promising that he could rest after the next turn in the road, and then the next, and so forth. Bashir had lost count of these turns when he felt his body begin to give way. The boy stumbled forward and barely caught himself before hitting the ground. Defeated, the boy sat, and stared at the winding path before him. To Bashir’s surprise, he saw a small figure approaching him. It was not unusual to see animals along the road, of course, but none had traveled it so reliably and with such apparent purpose. Bashir soon recognized the leisurely gait of a cat. Intrigued, he settled upon a mound of earth on the roadside and waited to encounter his fellow traveler. He liked cats well enough but knew little about them. Perhaps this one’s behavior was not as strange as it appeared. Soon enough, the cat met Bashir on the road. It was a beautiful animal, in sharp contrast to the scraggly, desperate strays that he and Momen had fed their table scraps. Stranger still, the cat’s spotted coat was pristine, with no hint of the dust and dirt that inevitably collected itself when one journeyed on the road. Bashir found himself charmed by the cat, and as it began to pass him he extended his hand to stroke it. He was taken aback, however, when the animal stopped before him and looked into his eyes. Confused, Bashir spoke for the first time since his struggle. His throat ached, but as he began to choke out his words the boy found a hoarse tone that he was comfortable with. “I admire you, cat,” he began. “You walk with grace and delicacy, while I stumble forward helplessly.” He half expected the cat to reply, but when it did not, he continued to speak. “Have you seen a horse come this way, cat? He is my friend, and I have lost him when I need him most.” The cat continued to stare at him blankly, but quickly seemed to realize that the boy had finished speaking. To Bashir’s surprise, it turned toward the direction it had come from and took off at a sprint. Bashir had not yet come to understand the intelligence that is in all animals, but the cat’s strange behavior reinvigorated him. Perhaps it had understood him, he thought, and was trying to lead him to Sadiq. The boy collected himself and pushed forward. He limped along for several hours, and as his pain dulled his pace increased. The sun had begun to set behind him when he first noticed the trail of blood. It was faint at first, but unmistakable. It pooled alongside what he was sure were Sadiq’s tracks, and Bashir nearly wept at the thought of the abuse his attacker must have inflicted upon his friend. His alarm grew when the blood trail became thicker, and to his shock Bashir now noticed a new set of tracks alongside Sadiq’s. These seemed to grow in size as he followed along the path, and when both sets diverged into the brush Bashir slowed in fear. The blood was everywhere now, even splattered onto the leaves he carefully pushed aside as he descended into darkness. He understood that the blood was not the thief’s doing. Bashir lacked the strength to best whatever animal had drawn it, but if Sadiq had been its prey he owed it to the horse to end its suffering. The boy stumbled forward into a clearing illuminated by moonlight and saw a man torn to shreds. Next to the body was one of Bashir’s packs, and he knew in this moment that his attacker lay before him. Bashir offered a quick prayer before scanning the clearing for any sign of Sadiq. The horse was not there, but he found two sets of tracks once again. They led further into the brush, and Bashir followed after. It was difficult, rocky terrain, but as he pressed on the boy began to hear running water. He reached for his own nearly empty water skin and quickened his pace expectantly. He could see another gap in the brush, and as the sound of water grew louder Bashir emerged to find a small spring. He suddenly realized how thirsty he was, and as the boy bent down to drink, a movement in the trees on the opposite side of the water set him into a momentary panic. To his astoundment, he saw before him his dear friend. As Sadiq trotted out of the trees, Bashir threw himself into the spring and clumsily lunged himself through the waist-deep water. He had begun to shout in relief when he noticed the two were not alone. The cat he had met on the road sat on Sadiq’s back, and while Bashir had seen cats wash themselves countless times, he had never seen so much blood on one’s paws. The boy gained some sense then of the things one cannot know but must understand about the world. Much is spoken of Bashir’s great strength and his later feats, but it was his strength of spirit and his compassion for his friend that delivered them both from sure death. You know of his dire trials in Gauda, but where some tell those tales as Bashir's ascendancy to greatness, they are mistaken. His legend truly begins with him badly beaten on the side of the road, talking hopelessly to a passing cat.
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Jul 5, 2021 06:04
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In and in need of bird
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Jul 6, 2021 15:17
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https://twitter.com/AurasBirds/status/1408477791935467526 Honeymoon 1144 Words West Virginia He’s touching her hand again. We’ve got at least six hours of driving left today and I expect that I’m going to have to put up with this poo poo every time he thinks I’m not looking. It isn’t that I care that they’re together now, really, but Ike’s insistence on treating it almost like an inside joke is insufferable. I really don’t care. Probably. Sure, I had a crush on Kate, but that was when she still went by Katie. I’ve been friends with both of them much longer than I had those feelings and I’d expected them to link up long before this. They could have told me sooner, though, because if I’d known I was going to be a third wheel on a twenty-hour trip I’d have begged off and taken a Greyhound instead. He's noticed that I’ve noticed, so he pulls his hand back. Far be it from me to deny anyone their infatuation stage, but this is a bit much. Kate’s driving, but she takes a moment to find me in the mirror. I can’t tell what she’s trying to convey in her look, and it’s probably self-serving to see apology there. “Hey, can we hit the next stop?” I need a break from this, and it’s been long enough since the last one that I’ve got plausible deniability. “Sure, that works for me too, actually.” Kate puts her hand to the back of her neck, and I catch a piece of a grimace in the mirror. “My posture sucks and I’d like to lie back there for a little while if that’s cool with you guys.” “Oh, yeah, absolutely! Do you need a hot pack or something? I can take a look at the gift shop or maybe find something to rig up with what we’ve got. I know I have some Tylenol in my backpack, so we can get into the trunk when we stop.” Christ, she’s not dying, Ike. They keep going for a bit, but I try to zone out in my Game Boy. I swear to God, if they’re both in the backseat when I come back from the bathroom I’m going to kill all three of us. Kentucky “You’re loving joking. No, we’re not sleeping together with Jacob here.” I’d booked the room with two beds before Ike and I started seeing each other, so I guess this is my fault for not updating our reservation. The boys have shared beds on trips like this for years, and I guess I just assumed it would stay that way tonight. Instead, Ike waits until Jake’s in the shower to bring this up. He’s been weird all day and I don’t get it. “What’s up with you today?” “I didn’t mean that we’d gently caress! Just that we’re together now, plus he’d be more comfortable alone. What do you mean ‘what’s up?’” I hear the shower cut off. “I had a wonderful day with you. I love you!” I lower my voice as I hear Jake pull back the curtain. “I love you too, but that’s not the issue. The point of telling him about us was to stop things from getting awkward. I don’t think sharing a bed with him in the room does that, do you?” Ike looks as if he’s about to respond, but the moment passes, and he abandons the attempt. The bathroom door opens and steam wafts out. Jake enters the room, his oversized tee damp in patches where he clearly hadn’t bothered to sufficiently dry himself off. “I’m sorry about taking a bit longer, guys, but the water was still hot when I stopped. If either of you want to take one now, you’d probably be fine.” Ike volunteers and collects his toiletries from his backpack, looking like a dog that’s been scolded as he slinks into the bathroom and shuts the door. So much for making things less awkward. Jake would have to be blind to not notice something happened while we were alone. He doesn’t say anything, though, which somehow seems worse than the alternative. Finally, I break. “Hey, you ok, dude?” Not exactly what I’m trying to say, and probably not what he’s trying to hear, but open enough that it’s close. “No, not really. This kinda sucks.” Kansas We caught a flat and we’re by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. It’s incredible that this actually happens to people, but here we are. It’s even raining, which really drills home how obnoxious this lovely situation actually is. I’m walking toward a gas station we passed a few miles back with Jacob. We’re getting soaked, of course, because who packs rain gear for a wedding. We haven’t spoken since setting off, which makes things worse, but after yelling at each other about not having a spare in the trunk we both needed a bit of cooling time. I decide to give it a shot. “Hey man, I’m sorry about back there. I’m just frustrated at all this.” He looks back at me and sighs. “Yeah, me too. This isn’t really what I signed up for, Ike.” Well, that’s a start, but it’s pretty obvious he’s not just talking about our trek for a phone. Well, in for a penny, right? “I know. Kate told me you guys talked last night.” The rain starts to let up a bit, but it’s still enough that we’re squinting as we press on. We’re fully saturated at this point, but it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as the conversation. I wait for Jacob to respond, but he says nothing. I try again. “It’s hard for me, man. I really love her, and I’ve been hoping for this for a while. I worry that I care more than she does, and sometimes I feel like I’m one wrong step away from blowing it.” “How?” That’s all he offers. “I mean, I don’t know, but trust me on this. That’s not just it, though! I care about you, and I care about the three of us. I have to balance all these things and I don’t know what to do. It sucks, man. She told me that you wish you weren’t here, and I know that’s because of me.” I can’t look at him for my embarrassment, and I’m about to reload for another round when he stops me. “Relax, dude. Just stop trying so hard.” I look at him then, and he’s smiling a bit. “Like, yeah, you’ve been annoying, but I get it. You know what you mean to us. Trust her and trust me. We’ll be fine.” Neither of us say anything for a bit, and I think about it. I don’t know if he’s right, really, but it feels like he might be. It’s enough for now. The rain picks up again, but I don’t really feel it this time.
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Jul 12, 2021 05:21
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In, may I have a word?
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Jul 13, 2021 14:55
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In, requesting photo and
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Aug 2, 2021 18:55
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 The Summit 1045 Words While we’d agreed to hold the summit in Frank’s kitchen, I doubt that most of the boys had known they’d be walking into hell. The heat had taken its toll on all of us that day and as far as we knew it was going to stay hot all night. Frank didn’t own as much as a box fan, but seeing as he spent most of his time at my place anyway his blast furnace of an apartment didn’t seem to bother him that much. I think he got that from his mother, who I expect had gone the entire day in front of the oven cooking twice the food we’d have needed on our best days. The promise of the meal had driven the choice, but- “Frank, I’m loving roasting in here. Can’t we eat outside or something?” CJ was the fattest of us, and that was some accomplishment. He’d been the most vocal supporter of Frank’s spot for unsurprising reasons. “Man, shut up!” Frank looked toward the next room, and after a moment redirected his view to CJ’s sweat-covered face. A bit quieter, then, he raised his hand and pointed the fork in accusation. “I told you not to say that kind of poo poo here. My mother doesn’t need to hear that, especially after filling your fat rear end up.” We all chuckled at that, and CJ seemed to take it in stride, raising his own hands in apology. He’d still had quite a bit of sauce on his fork, though, and some of it shot across the table and struck Gabe in the middle of his otherwise pristine white shirt. I was the first to notice, and without meaning to I tensed up. Soon enough, though, the crime was common knowledge around the table. Of all of us sitting there, Gabe was the worst possible target. The kid had a high opinion of his looks and took more time to ready himself each day than my sisters did together. More than once I’d had to wait in his living room and squirm around on that plastic-lined furniture while I pretended to like the taste of Tang and stale cookies. His grandmother was good people, of course, and Gabe did a good job taking care of her, but my God, that piss was atrocious. Still, you didn’t complain about small stuff to Gabe, because he was a loving lunatic. It was hard to tell if he turned red, because we were all tomatoes in that heat, but when Gabe opened and closed his mouth without saying anything his anger was pretty clear. He turned first to Frank as if seeking permission, and then to CJ with a much sharper look on his face. “You’re gonna clean this,” he spit out, “or you’re gonna get much worse very quickly.” Johnny and his cousin from Schenectady, whose name I forget, had been sitting between the two of them. The bumpkin had the more sense of the two and stepped back from the table first. I’d imagine he knew he didn’t have skin in the game worth catching trouble meant for someone else. He half pulled Johnny away from the table, offering an excuse about running to the corner to get us some cold drinks. The rest of us sat there, safe from any blast radius that Gabe might leave when he teed off on CJ. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t feel one way or the other about it. CJ was a good guy, but I wasn’t about to step in front of that freight train for him. Luckily, he took the smart way out. “I’m really sorry Gabe, that’s a nice shirt and here I am being a clumsy rear end in a top hat.” A decent start. Even with the stain in the middle of it, Gabe still liked his compliments. “Look, I got this trick my mother showed me where you can get that out with a bit of 7-Up and baking soda. I’ll catch up with those guys, get one for that and one for you to cool off with, and we’ll forget it. We’ll have dessert.” Hell, a 7-Up did sound good in this heat. Gabe didn’t look fully convinced, but he’d unclenched his jaw a bit. CJ saw his opportunity and pounced. “I’ll tell you what, pal, if that doesn’t come out and look new I’ll buy you two just like it. I’m that confident.” Masterful work. Gabe exhaled through his nose and nodded, and CJ scampered out of the room like a deer that heard a hunter just in time. As Gabe continued to stare down at his shirt, I clapped Frank on the back and served myself seconds. The three of them took a bit longer than expected, and by the time we heard the clinks approaching we were already playing cards on the fire escape out back. It was only mildly cooler than in the house, but that small difference felt like God’s blessing. Gabe joined CJ inside and got to work, and when the two returned I had to admit the kid had done a hell of a job on the stain. Whether it had passed muster for Gabe I couldn’t say. Still, it was past time to get down to business, so the country cousin took to entertaining himself with a comic book while the rest of us got into it. It being his house, Frank took the lead. “Listen, fellas, it’s us here tonight because as far as I see it we’re the most qualified, even if we have to carry CJ’s weight.” To this, CJ scoffed a bit, but it was true. “If we take the lead on this everybody else is gonna fall in line. We got a chance here to take charge and get what we want.” Bumpkin laughed at this, but when we looked over, he seemed to be so engulfed in whatever Jughead was doing that Frank waved our attention back. “There’s no point in talking around it any longer. We may not agree on everything but one way or the other the back-to-school dance is in two weeks and we need to decide who’s going to ask who. This is high school now, boys, and it’s time to get serious.”
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Aug 9, 2021 04:28
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Aug 10, 2021 14:10
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When Montante Encountered Camarata (A Recollection Recorded by His Pupil Valdes and Further Edited by Andrade) 822 Words It is, of course, a trifling matter in the ordinary course of things, if a certain writer were to write a novel, which is a book of stories, which is a book of characters, wherein every detail of the story is stated, together with a brief description of the theme which it concerns.1 It is an altogether different matter, however, when that writer lacks the means to express himself in said fashion and must instead rely on his speech and memory to convey the intricacies of his tale. Such was the predicament of Montante, who by unhappy circumstance lay bound upon a pile of straw across from the infamous Camarata.2 Montante had been seized at his salon, and while several of his guests had claimed themselves accomplished pugilists, it was according to his expectation that they had raised no argument when Camarata’s men made plain their business with him. The men had dragged Montante through the streets like a dog, and though he offered no resistance along his journey, they had expressed their revulsion toward the man, or perhaps rather his work, with secreted blows. What should have been a walk of minutes instead seemed to stretch for hours, and when Montante was finally thrown upon the floor of his cell he nearly wept from relief.3 Time passed, as it does, but Montante could not distinguish the days from the nights in the damp darkness. He was occasionally fed, and more rarely provided the opportunity to speak with a passing guard regarding his imprisonment. Never, though, could he find relief from the pain emanating from his tightly bound hands. Montante came to understand that he was being made an example of, though he could not reason why. Camarata had made his intentions plain, after all, and in his effort to excise base art from the city (be it pornographic, heretical, or otherwise undesirable), the man had several times singed the outer reaches of Montante’s circle.4 Still, Montante’s own work could hardly be compared to that of those previously persecuted. Indeed, his novels often reflected his own principles of piety, self-sacrifice, and love for community. His association with more avant-garde types was a testament to his profound openness to his fellow man, as well as his encouragement of their burgeoning talent. Montante was a man both intelligent and self-aware, and as he lingered in painful confinement his confusion rendered the experience all the more distressing. Eventually, Camarata descended and joined Montante. It struck the writer, then, just how imposing his jailer was, and immediately he cursed his misfortune in lacking the means to record his thoughts about the man’s unusual traits.5 The two men regarded each other, each relishing his own role in the dynamic before Camarata crossed the room and cut Montante free. To the writer’s horror, the rope had warped his fingers such that he could no longer form even the most foundational positions with his hands. At once, both men knew that Montante’s days of writing had passed him by. Camarata spoke.6 He was freed, then. Before Montante left, the two wept together. 1Ah, if only it was so! These were, of course, Montante’s words, and he was a genius. 2One’s first reaction may be to consider Camarata the Butcher. This Camarata, however, precedes the Butcher by several decades. Any relation between the two is unsubstantiated. 3Records suggest Montante was imprisoned beneath the Great Eastern Plaza, where today lies the headquarters of the Stefano Exporting Company. 4Here one must recall Llopis, Godoy, and perhaps Caycedo, though his relationship with Montante was likely negligible. 5Out of respect for Montante’s suffering, I will similarly withhold description of Camarata. 6Valdes did not directly record Montante’s account of Camarata’s speech, but on the tenth anniversary of his mentor’s death, Valdes published this telling with an introduction that served to speculate as to Camarata’s motivation for imprisoning and silencing Montante. To that end, I have constructed a monologue of sorts that encapsulates these observations: “Montante, I have come to deliver you from this place, but also to ensure your perpetual imprisonment. I take no pleasure in this punishment, for I see faint traces of the beauty which once ran through your work as water now flows through the grand canals that bore me here tonight. You are called ‘genius,’ now, but where once you inspired Godliness in your writing, you now exude only self-absorption and indolence masquerading as reflection before God. What's more, Montante, your work has abandoned purpose and occurrence, and instead dwells slothfully on the simple state of existence. God’s grace is not afforded to those who simply be, but rather to those who do, and in lacking the doing you reject God’s grace. In return for perverse idleness, I impose it upon you. Let us reflect upon the grace and beauty that once was.”
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Aug 16, 2021 04:48
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Clever hider, musty blanket above him The cold claw-foot tub his secret burrow A searcher, proud and curious The faint smell of stew in the oven t a s t e fucked around with this message at 18:28 on Aug 17, 2021 |
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Aug 17, 2021 17:47
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Aug 18, 2021 01:00
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Sure, I’ll take a “last minute” rule
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Aug 21, 2021 15:55
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Night Light 933 Words The night is cold on the bay, so I pull my hands into the sleeves of my sweatshirt and inch closer to the fire I’ve set in the sand. The burn isn’t quite what I’d hoped for but given this afternoon’s rain it was still an accomplishment to get a reliable flame at all. The moisture still lingers in the air, a complement to the precipitation lining the bottle leaning askew in the sand at my side. I grasp its neck through the cloth and toast the beach. A long drink follows. I toast my neighbors as well, such as they are. The beach stretches perhaps a mile or so, marked irregularly by a handful of other points of light. I count three other fires, a fraction of the typical in-season mark but surprisingly high for early October. Still, that’s three gulps I can justify, so I won’t question my good fortune. I drink in order, honoring the closest fire first before progressing toward the opposite point of the curving bay. As I begin the final ritual, however, I am interrupted when the light begins to flicker and then disappears. Irresponsible to not let the fire burn itself out properly, but not altogether my business. I raise the bottle anyway, and as I drink I hear a soft crack. Hardly anything unusual on the beach, of course, but by some property of sound I couldn’t fathom it seems to come from the water rather than the brush behind me. While the night is cold, it is not black. I look out over the small waves and see no sign of any crack-maker. I cannot bring the moon and stars to focus on any particular point of the lakeside, but there’s light enough to make reasonable determinations. I can see the diving rock some fifty feet out from the shore, though the tall steel rod embedded into it for the boater’s benefit hides camouflaged by the hour. If a piece of driftwood had hit the rock with enough force, perhaps it would have made a crack? In any case, I’ve got another pursuit I’d sooner get to the bottom of. I find I am somewhat more good-humored after the fire has eaten much of my gathered wood, but I’m not ready to end my night. I drag myself to my feet and set out down the beach to find more feed. The passing hours have brought with them a light wind, something more than a breeze but certainly less than a gust. It is enough to be unpleasant to walk through but clearly not enough to be dwelled upon while in the presence of a fire. To that end, I am somewhat surprised to see the furthest light on the beach blocked by two man-like masses at full height. Though I can’t be sure from this distance, it seems somehow like they are both circling the flame, each oriented to opposite rotations. Clearly, I’ve not been the only one enjoying myself tonight. As I consider my error in not bringing the bottle along with me, I come upon a sizable dried branch protruding from some absent lodger’s rock wall. It’ll be enough to last me the night, so I set upon it with determination and after some struggle manage to wrench it free. The sudden release carries me backwards, and as my balance seems to have abandoned me I tumble onto the sand. A crack, then, and while a thought arrives that I’ve broken a piece of the branch in my flailing, it just as quickly departs when I realize the sound would have been much louder. Again, it has come over the water, and with the sand as my bed I contort my neck to look down the bay. Only the closest fire still burns, and I can make out what must be the rear profile of a man in a beach chair. He raises something and sets it down again, and I long to do the same. I rise, brush off the larger clumps of wet sand, and begin to drag the branch back to my fire. The trip back is slow going, and in my exertion my thoughts dwell on the fires. I feel a kinship with my neighbors in the night, each of us guardians of our hearths. We have lingered here longer than the snowbirds and cottagers and enjoyed the splendor of a chilling autumn on the lake. I may not know them, but I do know them. Perhaps they even reflect this way themselves, looking out toward the south end of the bay and my own fire. The branch breaks easily and its pieces burn bright. I celebrate my skill in procuring fuel with a drink, even leaving my hands outside my sleeves. I turn to toast the nearest fire anew only to see three figures now. All three are still, standing in a row in front of the flames. For a moment, I feel observed. I look away, in the way one does when eyes unexpectedly meet, and when I look back I find the dark is upon them. A crack again, now, but not from the water. This one lacks the softness afforded by distance, and instead carries an unpleasant harshness. Alone now, I drink again and consider my own fire. In no time at all, I have broken the branch completely and fed the fire to its limit. The heat drives me to back away, and as I remove my sweatshirt I feel warmed throughout. The bottle is nearly empty now, but there remains enough for a few more swigs. I hear the whistling of sand underfoot, and I look to see three silhouettes approaching. I am once again observed, but the warmth both within and without affords me more boldness. I raise the bottle toward the dark and with my other arm beckon the figures closer. I know them, after all. They’re my neighbors.
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Aug 23, 2021 07:30
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Thunderdome Week 473: Make ‘Em Laugh I’m going to be selfish in building the prompt this week, because it’s a stressful one and I could use a laugh. To that end, I’d like you to write something funny. Whether that’s a series of pratfalls or wry observations is up to you, but above all I’d like your work to make you laugh. Form, style, and length are at your discretion, but nobody’s going to be laughing 20k words into Infinite Jest 2 on Monday morning. No manifestos, please. If you’re the sort for whom a little less freedom is much more freeing, well, it’s my birthday Saturday, and I’ll be 30!!! Ask for a random game, comic, cartoon, TV show, movie, and book reality to BRING IT IN a little bit and inspire your writing for a HUGE party. Entries Due 11:59p EST Friday Submissions Due 11:59p EST Sunday Laughers: Me, Chili, ZearothK Clowns: Chairchucker, IA, Zurtilik, Voodoofly, Captain_Indigo, Carl Killer Miller, sparksbloom, Thranguy, My shark Waifuu, rohan, talatel, Weltlich, derp, crabrock, flyerant, Pham Nuwen, Rhymes With Clue t a s t e fucked around with this message at 03:58 on Aug 30, 2021 |
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Aug 24, 2021 15:09
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Chairchucker posted:In To the Lighthouse Idle Amalgam posted:In, I'll take a random thing, doesn't matter what Thanks 👻 The Royal Tenenbaums Zurtilik posted:I'm in. Thanks 🐈 Voodoofly posted:In. Hit me with something. I’ll try not to spoil your birthday by making you read total trash (and congrats) Thanks 🪰 Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty Captain_Indigo posted:In! Happy birthday! Thanks 👽 Carl Killer Miller posted:I'm in. I'll take a prompt too. Thanks 🍃 Black Narcissus sparksbloom posted:I’m in. Happy birthday! Thanks ⚡️
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Aug 24, 2021 20:17
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Thranguy posted:In, I'll take a thing. Paths of Glory My Shark Waifuu posted:In, happy birthday! Dubliners rohan posted:I am in and will take a thing, happy birthday! Final Fantasy X-2 Taletel posted:In. Happy birthday! Beast Wars Weltlich posted:Happy Binthday Le Morte d'Arthur derp posted:Okay inppy birthday, I'll take a random thing Daikatana Thanks all
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Aug 25, 2021 03:49
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crabrock posted:in, please give me something to make fun of The Secret Agent
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Aug 26, 2021 14:22
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I fell asleep early now that I’m an old man but you all knew entries were closed anyway.
t a s t e fucked around with this message at 18:23 on Aug 28, 2021 |
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Aug 28, 2021 15:46
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That’s it for subs
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Aug 30, 2021 13:19
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 Make 'Em Laugh - Results It's important to laugh in this wild life, and thanks to your efforts, I nearly got there. It's pretty hard to be funny and I really appreciate those of you that took up the challenge. As the very best in humor can be found in amateur podcasting, Chili and I discussed your stories here. ZearothK also weighed in but was prohibited from joining our discussion through sinister coincidence. Feel free to listen to that to hear us descend into madness as we venture past our bedtimes. This week's loss goes to Captain_Indigo's Subject: Dad I have taken an Ambien and drank wine but that doesn’t detract from..., for a story that felt mean and generally unpleasant to read. HMs for Carl Killer Miller's The Sister and Divinity, derp's My Katana, Rhymes With Clue's FML part MMXIX, and crabrock's Motivation. The two stories that stood above the rest for us were My Shark Waifuu's Dorkula, and this week's winner, in a split decision, Weltlich's The Greatest Show on Earth, Chapter 2. Congrats to all and thanks for making me smile, chuckle, and groan  .
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Aug 31, 2021 14:20
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In with a hell rule
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Aug 31, 2021 18:28
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Weltlich posted:You must have at least four characters, they cannot be co-located at any point in the story, there must be dialogue, but they cannot use any sort of telecommunications device (phone, email, fax, or chatroom).
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Aug 31, 2021 19:53
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Sure
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Sep 14, 2021 16:42
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the concept of free will ---|--- decorative plates Meet Cute 1016 Words We’d just passed through some unremarkable Pennsylvania town when I flew from the train. I’d come to enjoy watching the sunsets by poking my head out above the cars, and while experienced riders would tell you that it was just a good way to get picked up on camera, the worst I’d yet to encounter was a face full of bug guts. Tonight, though, something was wrong. As I hoisted myself upward in the junction between the cars, they began to rock wildly and emit a hellish groan. My immediate thought was of the fate of those bugs, and in a panic I scrambled up to avoid the potential meeting of the Symplegades. This was, in retrospect, somewhat less of a ludicrous decision than it might seem, as when the train derailed seconds later I was flung into space rather than crushed to death. When I was younger, my uncle used to take me out on the lake. He wasn’t much of a talker even then, but his passion shone through whenever he tried to teach me to water ski. My aunt typically didn’t join us, so he’d have to cut the engine and shout instructions to me as he let out the line. I caught most of the basics that way but the greater technique always escaped me. I’d always find myself skidding along the water’s surface, building up bruises along my legs and arms before slowing and partially descending into the lake. The experience of being launched from a train was similar, but even the soft grass underneath me provided much more resistance. I came to rest. It hurt everywhere when I tried to move. I pushed forward along the tracks amidst the metal and fire. I was unfocused, and the pain was all-encompassing. Still, I progressed, one foot after the other. The train was long, and I’d been riding in its rear. It was slow going, weaving through the strewn cars, and in my state even the simplest maneuvering presented an incredible challenge. Time and distance escaped me. The cars themselves were so indistinct that I might have been walking in circles and not recognized it. I pushed on. I ascended a stable-looking heap to see a house with a train car through it, and on its porch a young woman slowly rocking suspended by a bench swing. For a moment, her apparent nonchalance gave the setting a natural quality, as if the house had expanded and engulfed the preexistent debris. The pastoral mirage shattered as I lost my footing and tumbled forward, shouting in surprise as I narrowly avoided running myself through. I looked up at the last remnants of the sunset. “Hello? Are you OK?” I was working to reply in the positive when I first began to actually comprehend the state I was in. I started to cry. “No,” was all I could get out, and I wasn’t sure if it was loud enough to be heard. I lay there for another moment but soon figured that I could have easily been mistaken for dead, and that it was no way to make a first impression. Instead, I sat up to see the swing at rest, and its prior occupant climbing down shattered steps as she approached. I suppose I was on her lawn, such as it was now. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I began without thinking, “I’m just a bit out of sorts.” “Are you serious?” “Yes, I’ve been in a train crash.” At this she started laughing, and once I understood I didn’t hold it against her. As she led me carefully inside the house, I began to find the focus I’d lost. It was a simple home, save for the train car through it, comprised mostly of tasteful wooden furniture and surprisingly numerous tchotchkes that somehow all added to the overall warmth and lightness of the space. The heat and light emanating from the wrecked car, however, highlighted the irreparable damage to the frame of the house. This was assuredly one of many little tragedies sprung from the crash, and for a moment I felt somehow that I was violating a space of mourning for my own relatively petty loss. If that was so, however, she hid her lamentations. Flaming wreckage does much to shatter placidity, but nevertheless, my hostess exuded serenity as she stepped gingerly through the shattered remnants of what I assumed was a china cabinet. She suddenly stopped, and with only the faintest hint of a frown picked up a large chunk of a plate from the floor. As she turned away, I felt compelled to apologize again. “I’m really sorry about this. Sorry this happened to you, and sorry you have to help me out. I’m Nathan…” I trailed off as I didn’t know what to say. What could one even say here? It all seemed either obvious or not enough. My speaking must have broken the spell, though, because she looked up and dropped her talisman. “Don’t worry about it, Nathan. It happens.” “Does it, though?” While I’d stopped crying, she’d started. She opened a cabinet in the corner of the room and recovered a small white box. “There’s no point. We don’t have control. It just happens.” Tucking the box under her arm, she began making her way in the direction we’d come and gestured for me to do the same. I picked up the shard of plate and followed her. Lights shone in the distance and sirens soon followed. We sat on the swing together, her applying alcohol and bandages and me telling her about riding the rails. When the house eventually caught fire, we moved further out onto the lawn. As we waited together in that destructive light, I discovered that her name was Agatha, that she worked as a clerk for the local township, and that the two of us found ourselves in that specific place and time by an invariable series of circumstances masquerading as expressions of choice. I pondered this last revelation for a few moments. “What happens next, then?” She shrugged. “Ask me tomorrow.”
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Sep 20, 2021 07:16
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Check’s in the mail, derp Week 477: Or Shall I Say Think Back  This week, I’d like you to write me a story that centers on reflection and commemoration. The scope and nature of that commemoration is up to you, but try not to be a sad sack about it unless you’ve got something great to share. This is the sort of week where it’s perfectly fine and indeed encouraged to tell rather than to show. You’re all fine storytellers, and sometimes people want to have stories told to them that way. Consider toasts at weddings, anecdotes on the back porch in the summer, keynote speeches at observances, etc. for the spirit if not the form. Capture that feeling, in the connection of telling and being told to. You’ll start out with 1500 words to work with, but for the low price of 100 words you can buy a song from me for inspiration. One free reroll if you hate it. Signups due 11:59ish PST Friday night, submissions the same time Sunday night. Writing: Thranguy Fishception The man called M t a s t e fucked around with this message at 04:42 on Sep 21, 2021 |
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Sep 21, 2021 03:10
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Thranguy posted:In with song https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=fUTJa00puDU
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Sep 21, 2021 03:27
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Chili and I are planning on recording a judgechat again if any third would like to get in on it.
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Sep 23, 2021 20:02
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flerp posted:in https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=4Oo2XO_ub18
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Sep 24, 2021 05:01
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Signups closed!
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Sep 25, 2021 14:53
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That’s it for submissions.
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Sep 27, 2021 13:36
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r e s u l t s https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6mdRv0ZdR8 Thanks for a lovely week, especially to those that requested songs so I could share ones that I like. The rest of you were fine too. HMs go to Captain Indigo for Cracked and Carl Killer Miller for One Last Good Thing. Our Winner is Yoruichi's Lacunae. Video forthcoming. Thanks~
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Sep 29, 2021 04:09
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In, drag me to hell
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Sep 29, 2021 21:35
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Perspective 989 words All the objects in your story are moving too fast. I will disappear again. It won’t be like the first time. Not that I remember it, really. Sometimes I see flashes in my dreams. Spots of light in the darkness, deep chanting I can’t understand, the burst of pain as my eye is pulled from its socket. When I disappeared then, I wasn’t gone. Most people just didn’t know where I was. When the police found me in the basement of that abandoned house in the woods, in the room with the writing on the walls and the half-melted candles all over the floor, I’d been there the whole time. It was my blood on the floor, after all, even if I didn’t know how it got there and the doctors couldn’t explain it. That was a year ago. It didn’t hurt then, or I guess I just couldn’t remember it. I remember it now in my dreams, though. They took my eye out and then they put it back in. My right eye, I mean. The left is fine. When I looked with the right, though, I saw things differently. I had to look with just the right, because when I had both eyes open things got a little muddled. I think my brain tried to make sense and split the difference. When I look with just the right, I see the heart of things. I see that life is motion. Everything moves, all the time. We vibrate within ourselves, like a jumble of static arranged in a human shape. Everything moves, and while it hurt to look at first, to see what was really happening all the time, I built up a tolerance. Everything moves together. It’s beautiful, really. I don’t think I believe in god, but I’ve seen what connects us, not just to each other but to everything that is. If I wasn’t scared to talk about it, I’d be shouting to the world just how beautiful everything is in its motion. I think everything might be ending, though. My father took me to the Greek diner he loves earlier this week. He showed up at my school and took me out, so I guess he cut out on work for it himself. We used to do this and go to baseball games when I was younger, but it had been so long since we’d played hooky together that it genuinely was a pleasant surprise. We didn’t have much to talk about, so after I ordered my tirokafteri I decided to kill some time by taking a trip to the bathroom. There’s not much you can do in a bathroom if you’re not actually using the bathroom, and I’ve never been comfortable masturbating in public toilets, so with no obvious alternatives I decided to take a look at myself in the mirror. I can get lost in that, as if I’m outside of myself but aware of myself thinking that. It’s hard to explain. I looked at myself to no surprise. I was as I always was, and as I am now. Everything else, however, was different. Not so different that I could pinpoint it right away. If I was looking at myself like a painting, the brush strokes inside of me were slightly different from those on the outside. Once you see it, you know, but sometimes it takes a while to pick it out. I thought about it for a while until my father came to check on me. I should have thought about him waiting there for me. I should have apologized, too, except as he opened the door to the bathroom I saw in him what I’d seen everywhere else. I understood it, then. He was moving faster. It all was, but I wasn’t. I didn’t mention it to him. I couldn’t mention it to anyone. What would I have said? I told him I was ill, and for the last three days I’ve been forcing myself to be sick so that I can stay home. Things are accelerating, faster and faster, and I’m not. I suppose it’s possible that I’m decelerating, actually, but as I might be the only person in the world who can see what’s happening, I’m content to say it’s everyone else changing around me. I looked up the states of matter in the encyclopedia this morning. It’s getting harder to read. It feels like my brain has ceded the fight to balance my eyes out, and if I want to focus on something the way I used to see it, I have to concentrate with only my left eye. My head aches all the time now. Sublimation is the process by which matter transitions directly from a solid state to a gas. This feels true to me. I see it coming. My mother once told me that if you put a frog into a pot of boiling water, it will jump out. If you put that same frog into a pot of warm water and slowly increase the temperature, it will stay and be boiled alive. I don’t know if that’s true. I can guess, though, that if you took a frog, put it in a pot with water, and in the blink of an eye the entirety sublimated together, it wouldn’t matter what the frog intended to do. The frog would no longer be just the frog. It would be together, intermixed and inseparable from the pot and water. Everything I see is the pot, the frog, and the water. They move together as one, dashing toward eternity spent as a collective mass of matter and energy. I do not. I will be discrete, of this I am increasingly sure. I will be detached again, wrenched apart from everything and everyone as they join each other. I will see it, for however long I can manage, into whatever comes after. It will be beautiful, but it will not be for me. I will disappear again.
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Oct 4, 2021 06:19
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At the Mercy of the Monster 1497 Words “I’m really sorry, Andrew. I- gently caress, hold on.” The bathroom fan is on, so I’m protected from another round of retching sounds. I’m sitting with my back resting against the closed door. The fan is so strong that it’s vibrating the wood, and for a moment I wonder if I should joke about Chris giving me an indirect massage. Probably best to hold off. The fan stops. “I’m sorry. I’m not going anywhere like this. I’m going to try to sleep.” The fan starts again. Well, it’s not like we’re on a schedule. I give a knock and raise my voice a bit. “It’s fine, babe, I’ll get us another night.” The Sutton-Gassaway La Quinta Inn had about ten cars in the parking lot when we got in last night, so I can’t imagine there being much of an issue with extending our stay. It wasn’t particularly nice, or even as clean as I’d like, but it was dirt cheap, right off I-79, and about halfway to Louisville. It was enough. The lobby is somehow both bright and dingy, and there’s a faint mildew smell that I didn’t notice last night. The desk clerk is reading People with a sour look, and with dread, I clear my throat. She looks up and smiles broadly. “Hey there! Checking out, hon?” A pleasant surprise. “Good morning! Actually, my wife’s not feeling too well, so we think we’ll stay another night, if that’s all right?” “Sure, that’s no problem. Usually there’s a fee but seeing as we’re not busy this weekend I’ll waive it.” I wonder for a moment if this is really that unusual for a Sutton-Gassaway Saturday, but a kindness is a kindness. “That’s wonderful, thank you. By the way, do you have any recommendations on what to do nearby?” *** The Flatwoods Monster is so obvious in the morning light that I struggle to understand how I could have missed it in the dark. According to the brochure, it stood about ten feet tall when first encountered in the fifties, but the wood carving outside of the lobby is a bit more modest. What it sacrifices in size it more than makes up for in style, however, as Braxie, the Phantom of Flatwoods amplifies the somewhat muted brochure description with ornate cuts and fantastic hues. When I arrive at Sutton’s Flatwoods Monster Museum, there’s a larger carving that seems to be the work of the same artist. It’s not quite as colorful, but the essentials are still there: wide silver body, crimson red skin, orange eyes, and a circular face protruding from a head shaped like the ace of spades. The whole thing screams “alien” to me, and while that’s apparently a popular interpretation, it’s certainly not the only one. The museum itself is pretty sparse. There’s a nice little corner with old radios playing contemporary interviews set under a large mural of the first reported sighting, but all things considered, it’s a bit of a disappointment. There are plenty of signs for the gift shop, though, so I decide to press on. As I descend some stairs and turn the corner at the bottom, Braxie is suddenly upon me again. In sharp contrast to the carvings and mural, the plush version of Sutton’s most famous visitor strikes me as surprisingly cute. As much as I can’t imagine that Chris will want to reflect on her time here, she’ll probably make an exception for this guy. The gift shop, like the rest of the museum, is a bit of a ghost town at the moment. The desk is unattended, and for a moment I consider whether it’s possible that they might operate on the honor system. My vision of the idyllic country life is shattered when I spot and ring the bell, only to receive a gruff “hold on” for my trouble. A nearby door opens and I catch a glimpse of a monitor displaying a football broadcast before it’s shut again. The man who approaches might have come in off the street for all I know, but he positions himself behind the desk with such authority that I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. “One stuffed Braxie will be thirty even. Cash or card?” His eyes return to the closed door as we both hear a muffled roar. Suddenly I’m in a Turkish bazaar. “Thirty? That’s a bit steep. Any discount for the museum ticket?” “No.” A tough negotiator. “C’mon, I like the thing but not that much.” Mostly true, but he doesn’t know I’ll be buying it regardless. It was the wrong thing to say, I guess. “Look man, you don’t have to be here. Buy the loving thing or get out, we’re not that desperate.” Clearly, we aren’t on the same page with this exercise, so I drop an extra five for good measure and take a quick exit. Somehow the large carving outside seems more imposing as I leave. Downtown Sutton feels a little uncomfortable after my run-in at the museum, so I decide to take a drive back toward the hotel and pick up something for lunch. Between gas stations and chain restaurants I’ve never heard of, nothing really stands out, so I park in front of an Amoco and do a bit of research. *** Sutton isn’t all that big of a town, but it’s a metropolis compared to Gassaway. When I park in front of the Theodora I can see the full extent of the town by turning my head from side to side. Still, this place has by far the best reviews of any restaurant in the area, so I do my best to check my preconceptions and head inside. Here, too, Braxie gets the drop on me. Mounted on the wall over the register is a painting displaying the most abstract depiction I’ve seen of the monster, which seems in keeping with the bohemian feel of the restaurant. It’s hard not to think of the place as an expression of yearning for more than one usually finds around here, and for a moment I feel a certain kinship with the alien. Still, even the self-centered urbanite life form needs to eat, so I grab a menu and find myself a booth. The Theodora is the sort of restaurant that offers a bit of everything because it might very well be the only place around to offer it at all. While I’m tempted to try the tempura tacos, I decide to play it safe and order the meatloaf sandwich. I can’t get a signal here, so I pass the time by examining the assorted tchotchkes on the walls. Braxie makes no fewer than five different appearances, including a huge poster advertising FLATWOODS MONSTER FEST 2018. My server sits to roll silverware at the next table and begins making small talk. As I start running out of things to say, I decide to swing for the fences. “So, what do you think about the Flatwoods Monster?” A pained look crosses her face. I try to broadcast my sincerity as much as possible, and she softens a bit. “It can get a bit much around here,” she begins, “but it’s not like there’s a lot else to talk about. Don’t get me wrong, I think Braxton County’s beautiful, but we’re off the beaten path. It’s something, at least.” I nod. “Did you come here for that?” I adjust my nod to a shake. “No, no, just traveling through and this seemed like a place to stop. I’m glad I did; the museum was nice. Good lunch too!” The meatloaf is fine. “Yeah, I guess if it’s the first time you’re seeing it, it can be pretty cool. It hits different after years and years, though.” She looks down at her work and pauses. “Not a fan of the festival?” The pained look again. “I mean, I am. It’s a good time. It’s just, it was a lot more fun when I was a kid. Now…it’s more important, I guess.” We gravitate back toward more mundane topics and before long I’ve left an unusually large tip. *** I’d hoped to share a laugh about my museum experience with the hotel clerk, but when I return, she’s nowhere to be found. I can hear those same football sounds, though, so rather than run the risk of making the same mistake twice I head back to the room. Chris looks dreadful, but I manage to pull a smile out of her when I present our new miniature friend. She’s a bit jealous, as I expected. “Of course we never do this fun stuff together, Andrew.” Mostly joking, I think, but I’ll apologize anyway. “I know, I’m the worst. I got you a biscuit from the restaurant, though!” “That’s a start, I guess, but it’s not like you can bring the museum.” No, I guess not. “Let’s come back for the festival.”
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Oct 11, 2021 07:51
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