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Jan 5, 2023 16:36
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Escape from Follansbee The Story of Soddom and Gomorrah Told as Crisis Thriller Comedy 1,747 Words “They call it thundersnow,” Bill intoned as he sipped his vodka tonic. This was instructive to no one. “It must be getting bad out there,” Lottie offered as she glided past Bill on her way to the kitchen. When Bill and Charlotte (Lottie) Kovach moved to Follansbee, West Virginia in 1977, Bill had been working at Wheeling-Pittsburgh Steel for 5 years. Their home was a modest, two storey townhouse with a gabled roof on West Virginia’s Route 2, which snakes its way along the Ohio River and its parade of mills, refineries, and power plants. In 87’, Bill purchased the vacant lot beside their home. Over the course of the following year, he constructed a squat, gray, cinder block building to house a commercial kitchen. The newly constructed restaurant abutted flush with their little townhome. The two structures connected by way of the residence’s cellar door. Lottie’s Tavern and Grill was Bill’s love song to his bride. A long time ago. “Bad night to be on the roads,” growled Stan from his pint glass. Nobody acknowledged this remark since there was nothing more to say; also Stan’s an rear end in a top hat. On this night, the Ohio River held court with country music greatness. Garth Brooks looked out the window of a rented RV headed northbound on West Virginia’s Highway 2, watching reflected lights of mills on the river. Garth had come to the area to discuss a return to the Jamboree in the Hills Music Festival in July, but the truth was he felt estranged from himself. This “business” trip was an escape of sorts. Unknown to Garth or his driver, the serpentine belt which turned the RV’s alternator had sheered from wear earlier that day. The vehicle’s battery wouldn’t carry on much longer. Meanwhile in Follansbee, as temperatures dropped and the snowstorm intensified, a water pipe burst beneath Route 2. The RV’s headlights had just enough time to hit the orange barrels before they winked out and the RV came to a stop. It was just after ten o’ clock. “Uh … Garth? Got a problem here.” The driver, Brad Thomas, 29, had been driving Garth all week. Brad tried not to panic as he turned the ignition, but he couldn’t coax the RV to move. “I think it’s going to be some time before I can get a technician,” Brad finally confessed. “Well,” Garth began while asking himself if this was smart, “We just passed a bar.” Bill was watching weather reports when he heard the seal of the door break. Two men emerged from the blackness outside, one thin with a slight frame, one taller with more heft, both wearing jackets unsuited for the weather. The smaller one wore a knit hat while the other wore a black cowboy hat. “What’s up fellas?” Bill boomed across the bar in a mix of demand and salutation. Wait, is that? No. It couldn’t be. “We’re broke down out there and would like to keep warm here while we wait for a tow.” IT WAS. Multi-platinum recording artist Garth Brooks had just rolled into Lottie’s. Bill had waited all his life for a chance like this. He was going to play it cool. Bill ran into Hacksaw Jim Duggan in a bar once and had a nice conversation about the Steelers. Bill didn’t even ask for an autograph. Just a nice talk. That’s the way it should be. “Sure thing, man, can I get you something?” Garth turned to Brad and shrugged. “Jack and Coke works for me.” “Water.” Brad was still, technically, on the clock. Good man. Bill dutifully set to work at the bar, quietly praying the other two patrons at opposite flanks of the bar could, for once in their lives, act normally. Stan, fat, bald, lovely Stan will hopefully stay absorbed in his cell phone and whatever interminable Facebook argument lies therein. Judy was just a drunk. And godammit Garth loving Brooks and some kid are sitting between them. Bill returned with the orders, but couldn’t help himself. “Here you go. I … I’m sorry are you?” “Yep.” “Garth Brooks?” Bill almost whispered it. “That’s right.” Garth gave his best and warmest smile. “Bill and I LOVE your music.” Lottie’s small body had been absolutely silent in its approach to Bill’s side. “Anything you want, hun, you let us know.” With that stated, Lottie disappeared again to continue her prep work and the bar settled into its usual silence. Maybe things will work out. Stan meanwhile, said nothing and quietly fumed. gently caress him. Create Post. Stan Koslowski: Playing tonite Only a Lottie’s and Bill’s loving rumor factory: The Commie Loving TRAITOR Garth Brookes. He show up here just now with some butt buddie of his and now is going to play us all his stupid poo poo songs. TO HELL WITH HIM!!!! WE KNOW YOU PLAYED FOR BIDEN CRIME FAMILYS LITTLE SCAM PARTY GARTH!! GET REAL! 29 Comments Jackie Hill: Is it really him? Stan Koslowski: YES! George Lakios: Is he playing music? Does he have a band with him? Stan Koslowski: Im sure he’s going to get up to some stupid poo poo but hes broke down By 10:40pm, over 50 people in the area were aware that 29-time CMA award winner, Garth Brooks, was stuck in Follansbee with a disabled vehicle. At 10:42pm, the door swung open again. “HERE I AM GUYS – you know how I like to follow the stories – well HERE. HE. IS” The woman was round and menacing. Her open jacket bore a large Q in stars and stripes printed on her shirt. Her phone was hoisted in front of her. “So tell us, Mr. Big Shot, how much kid blood did you drink, you sicko!?” “Get the gently caress out. Now.” Bill didn’t yell. He had a billy club readied. His body language communicated that he’d use it. “I have a CONSTITUTIONAL-” “No you don’t.” Swing. Crack. Scream. Stumble. Shove. Closed door. Locked. “STAN!” “gently caress you, Bill, I didn’t do anything. I’m just sitting here.” Bill didn’t let Stan carry in the bar or he’d say more. “Yes, you loving did,” Lottie seethed, holding her phone up as evidence. “You’re barred. Get out.” “I have a right-” “OUT!” Bill turned, visibly panicked, but eager to battle his fat, distasteful patron. Stan exited. Garth and Brad sat stunned as they both imagined the worst. Remember John Lennon? How could they be so stupid? Bill locked the entrance door, then the deadbolt, while Lottie gently tried to revive Judy whose percs had evidently kicked in. “Sir, I’m so sorry,” Bill stammered as he pulled the plug from the Open sign, “You’re welcome to stay here, but I think it would be best for everyone if I closed while you’re here.” Garth and Brad nodded silently in agreement. The pounding began at 10:55. Bill’s and Lottie’s cell phones buzzed constantly. “We only got the shotgun and the pistol,” Lottie said apologetically to Brad as she handed Garth a .357. “Grandma, is something happening?” A young woman of about 20 emerged from the storage area door. Emily, Bill and Lottie’s granddaughter, had been staying in their attic while on winter break from WVU. “People are beating on the door to the house and the windows too. There’s tons of people outside and police cars and news trucks. Wait.” She pointed at Garth. “Why does he have gun?” “Sweetie, I’ll explain everything later, but I need to you to do something for me. You know how you were showing me that bullhorn?” Emily was an activist. “I need you to get on the roof of the bar and tell these people to get off our property.” Bill, getting wind of the plan, offered, “We need a distraction. I’m going to grab the truck, bring it around, and you’ll hop in the bed. Can you do that, sweetie?” “Did you do something illegal?” Emily needed just a smidge of an explanation. “This is Garth Brooks,” Bill offered as he scrambled to empty the till. Garth smiled and casually waved with the hand not occupied with a revolver. “Honey,” Lottie continued, “This man’s pretty famous – like REALLY famous – and Stanley stirred up some poo poo on Facebook and now we’ve got a mob.” Brad nodded in support. “Their car is broke down so they came here, but now we have to get them out of here and to a hotel or something.” It had only then occurred to Lottie to ask. “Is that alright, Mr. Brooks?” “Yes, ma’am. Sounds like a plan.” The plan set in motion. Emily returned to the house, got her bullhorn and headed to the roof via a set of stairs also in the storage room. Lottie, Bill, Garth, and Brad headed to the residence. Making sure the curtains were shut, Bill and Lottie led the performer of Friends in Low Places and his driver through their house to the small kitchen which opened to the back porch. Bill’s beloved 1997 Ford Ranger had thankfully been unmolested and sat parked just beyond the stairs of the porch. Emily went off-script. “OK, you want a show!?” The crowd gave a mixed reply. “Well it’s happening in two minutes so get your phones fixed on that door,” she shouted while pointing down to the bar’s front door. Somehow, a chant picked up … GARTH GARTH GARTH GARTH She had done it. The coast was clear. Bill stepped out with a cradled shotgun, checking for stragglers. None. Bill jerked his head for the others to follow and the three piled into the extended cab. Bill found the driver’s seat, stowed the 12 gauge, started the truck, and laid on the horn while he pulled the truck to the back of the tavern. Emily landed in the bed with a thud. As Bill depressed the accelerator, he heard the breaking of glass. The bar ... Barreling toward the opening of a street, Bill didn’t look at this wife. “Charlotte, take the wheel, hun. Get outta here. I love you.” Bill slowed the Ford to what he thought was a safe speed and pulled his wife across the bench seat, while opening the door and jumping toward the street. Lottie didn’t argue with her husband’s asinine plan. She found the wheel, hit the gas, and disappeared. When Bill’s feet hit the icy street, he splayed flat and slid into the gutter, soaking himself in freezing slush and repurposed fracking brine. He rose on bloody hands and knees, ready to get his wife’s bar back. Dicere fucked around with this message at 06:01 on Jan 9, 2023 |
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Jan 9, 2023 05:04
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IN for A New BeginningAlbatrossy_Rodent posted:Quick question, though: do MAGA people actually hate Garth Brooks this much? I have no idea lol. Probably not. Some were mad he played Biden's inaugural.
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Jan 10, 2023 15:09
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In for the raffle as well, please.
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Jan 11, 2023 06:34
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Hostile Work Environment 1,500 words (minus first sentence) Theme: Prejudice Setting: Science Fiction There was a razorstorm coming in. On the monitors, a black thunderhead rose over the horizon, threatening to envelope the auburn landscape. At present date, the ice caps had melted significantly more than originally projected, and now, the famously violent Martian storms held thick globs of muddy rain mixed with debris and grit. “One day, we’ll be able to dance in that,” Michael remarked to no one in particular. Section 2 Foreman Michael Davies sat with his crewmen this morning, savoring his tea while the crew slurped coffee from thermoses and pinched off this morning’s after-breakfast dip. In the distance, the cook crew were scraping of their double sided griddles. The gristle and grease floated off, free to dance in the Martian microgravity. The men sat anchored on plastic picnic tables outside the operations trailer, arranged in neat rows in red dirt at the 20 foot steel base of Cargill’s third largest Mars greenhouse. Monitors were set against the steel wall near the picnic tables for weather reports, news broadcasts, debriefs, and training. At three miles wide and ten miles deep, Cargill’s GH-12 Facility, “The Mighty No. 12,” held over 19,000 acres in the embrace of its titanic transparent aluminum arches. “You getting sentimental, boss?” Party Chief John Alvarez asked his supervisor. Alvarez was a California Chicano in his 30th year; a great hand in the Texas oil fields, and a good farmer. “I’d like something to hang my hat on until the bank balance replenishes,” answered Mr. Davies. The money, of course, was the first reason for taking a contract on Mars, but John Davies had made lots. From his beginnings on oil rigs in the North Sea to his staggering seven years on the red planet, the aging Welshman had always survived and thrived on high-demand, high-risk, high-paying industrial projects; projects that kept him distanced from everyday life on Earth. Aside from a debauched year or two back on Earth, John had no plan for the money. It’ll go to the grandkids. “Hey, boss, what’s that?” A tiny metal bead poked over a ridge on the monitor. Davies rose from his seat with a groan and bounced himself to the wall. “Bloody loving hell!” he could be heard shouting from the screens. As the crews found their ATVs and headed out to their respective tractors, Alvarez bounded up to Davies, who, himself, had broken off in a vaulting jog toward the operations trailers. “What is it?” Alvarez huffed a he floated beside his boss. “A buggy. It’s manned.” “Inspection?” “Doubt it,” Davies answered as he bounded over the steps to the ops trailer. The work party for Section 2 watched in the distance as their bosses floated into the trailer. “The buggy, right?” Farm Director Martin Owens stood glued to his monitor. Owens left the Space Force three years ago as a full bird Colonel. A rich man already, he’ll be filthy rich in a couple years. “What’s the radio saying?” Davies asked. “Don’t worry about it, John.” “I beg your pardon?” The order came as an unexpected affront. “I didn’t receive any emails about inspections and whoever is out there is playing a drat dangerous game with the storm. Is that someone’s crew?” “Davies,” Owens began coolly. “What, Marty? What?” “They’re Amer International,” Owens finally admitted. “The Chinese!” Alvarez reflexively exclaimed. “Who is-,” finally Owens turned and sighted John Alvarez with a hostile, pointed finger, “YOU aren’t cleared to be here, …” Alvarez wondered if the Director even knew his name. “Well,” Davies began, his mind already problem-solving, “We’ve got plenty of spare cots, but we don’t have a spare bunk, so they’ll have to bunk with our boys. My Zhong Guo is for poo poo, but I’ve got rags, they could-” “Get out of here, Davies.” “poo poo,” Alvarez began, “I hear they’re allowed to smoke. If they’ve got packs on ‘em that would be-” “They’re not loving coming in!” the Farm Director hissed. “What do you mean,” replied Davies, softly, disbelieving. “What do you mean they’re not coming in, Marty?” “I mean they’re not coming in. I mean Office 1 told me not to let them in,” Owens finally confessed. The decision to consign men to their death’s enveloped the air as the three men gripped securing railings in the trailer. “In writing?” Davies asked his director. “No,” Col. Martin Owens, Ret’d. answered dispassionately. “Then gently caress ‘em, Marty, you know that,” Davies pleaded. This is surveyor Li Qi Bo calling installation. The sound of the distress call could now be heard from the headset sitting on Owens’ workstation. “If you call it in, there’s no way they can go on record -” “They could be spies,” argued Owens. “poo poo, they could be.” Alvarez mused. “You’re really not supposed to-,” Owens started. “Marty,” Davies pressed, “We have a treat-” “Do we, Davies?” questioned Owens. “Do we have a treaty?” He let go of the railing to his side and used the ceiling rungs to bring himself between the radio and Davies. This is surveyor- Owens wasn’t a large man. He stood maybe 5’7”. Owens also wasn’t a young man. He had a crown of short cropped gray hair around a bald head. This bald head was showcasing a throbbing, angry vein. “How many exploratory missions have lost people this year? What do you think they did, Davies? Do you think they opened a BnB? You think they found El Dorado?” Now Surveyor Li tried Russian. “THAT,” Davies would make his point if had to shout to make it, “does NOT give you the right,” “WE BRING THEM IN,” Col. Martin Owens was not going to be shouted down, “AND THEN” -his small frame tensed- “they see our equipment, they see our fertilizer, they see PATENTED INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY and STEAL it.” He broke eyes with Davies to glance at Alvarez. “Then we’re all out of a job!” He swirled his pointed finger in the space between them to emphasize the point. The finger then stabbed back into Michael Davies’ face. “We’re under no legal obligation to do anything here.” The fear and uncertainty was making itself visible on Alvarez’s face. Surveyor Li could be heard radioing his message in Mandarin. “Are you sure about that?” Davies asked the finger. Davies could have been asking about legality. He could have also been asking about the wisdom of sticking a finger in his face. The razorstorm was about to seal them in the greenhouse for at least two weeks. Office 1 was a long way away and there was no telling how the security detail would handle the Director brawling with a well-liked veteran foreman. Davies caught eyes with Owens and shot his right hand behind his superior’s neck. Owens tried to slap it away, but Davies was fast and wrapped him in a front face lock. Owens floated his slight body upward, caught the ceiling with the flats of his boots, and kicked his feet off the ceiling, hurtling downward in a smooth arc to Davies’ stomach. The blow knocked the wind out of the old Brit, but he pushed off the wall of the trailer back at the American, catching him in a tackle. The work crew for Section 2 stood outside the trailer in puzzled fascination as it rocked and bounced. Owens’ spine smashed against the corner of a table. Owens tried to bring his knee up in quick, violent strikes, but didn’t have the range of motion to dislodge the angry foreman. Davies foot had found purchase in a loosed floor grate and he pressed hard into Owens, hoping he’d submit. Owens’ repeated knee strikes eventually broke the pin, but he made the crucial mistake of giving his back to Davies. * * * Lead Surveyor Li Qi Bo of the Amer International Group Mars Development Expedition was growing impatient. It never occurred to him that nobody would answer him. Whatever this facility was, wherever they were, it was surely some bureaucratic morass that was depriving him of an answer. Nobody would let them die out here. Copy that, Surveyor Li. This is Cargill, Incorporated Facility GH-12. Follow the green beacons to the airlocks. The airlock doors opened for the four men in the buggy. Through visors in their helmets, they exchanged half-relieved glances at one another while the steel doors shut behind them and jets of hissing, pressurized air surrounded them. A flashing indicator on their suits let them know they could remove helmets. The steel doors in front of them opened to reveal a broad man in work boots and overalls with close cut silver hair, flanked by a team of younger men in blue jeans and Wrangler shirts. Surveyor Li was first out of the buggy, approaching the men in smiling relief, “We are very glad we found you.” A ball-peen hammer came whipping through the air and struck Foreman John Davies on the back of his head, spraying blood at the visitors and sending John’s body hurtling end over end. A panel above the visitors’ heads read: AIRLOCK SEALED.
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Jan 16, 2023 08:02
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Can't say no to this one. I'm in with “I eat. I poop. This is life.” Pressing Prophet Luck.
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Jan 26, 2023 05:21
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“I eat, I poop, this is life.” “A story about Indian soup.” Visitation or Returning 1,200 words Only the cooks remember Tiffany. The patrons of India Star were fascinated with the beautiful young woman who waited tables in a manner so earnest and serene that all who chanced to encounter her remarked, privately, that someone must have told her some good news that day. Or maybe she was on some spectacular drug. Maybe she was in love. None were correct. Our story seeks to explain. Tiffany wasn’t always such. When she began waiting tables at India Star, she was taking a gap year and figuring out if community college was right for her or if UT Austin was really the key to her dreams. She flirted and made silly jokes and did all of the things one comes to expect from a woman of only 19. The owners made her wear her bright, blonde hair pulled tightly back. She’d wait tables with her hair down when she thought nobody who would care was watching. Our story begins there. Only the cooks remember Phyllis. Phyllis was an India Star regular who precariously navigated her mammoth red LeSabre into a tiny parking space in front of the strip of shops where India Star resided. She was an ancient white Texan who wore her auburn dyed hair large and permed and sported Adidas track suits to lunch. Her walker found her usual table for her as she smiled absently at the restaurant staff and any 3pm patrons. The fussiest India Star patron, she’d order her usual and find fault every time. She spoke in disjointed declarations, lamentations, and demands. Her strains upon sitting, standing, and sometimes entering the ladies room could be heard throughout the claustrophobic restaurant, with its low drop ceilings and tightly packed tables. She tipped remarkably well. “Milagu rasam and mango lassi, hun,” she ordered without expression. “I thought you might surprise me,” Tiffany joked. Her heart held only compassion for the difficult woman. “Yesterday I told you I couldn’t taste the tumeric,” she stated, “I suspect it was cooked too long. You shouldn’t cook rasam too long.” Tiffany wanted to ask how this woman would know. The soup was as authentic as it got. It was dictated by the owners as it had been to them by family, and dutifully followed to the letter by the kitchen staff. Was she trying to come off as wordly? Was she in the Peace Corps or something and wanted to flex? Tiffany put the order in with the accompanying feedback and Carlos in the kitchen received it all with a knowing shake of his head. Lunch was quickly served and it was then time for a cell phone break, but playful curiosity got the better of Tiffany. “Ma’am, I hope everything is tasting OK, but, I’ve got to ask: Is there a particular recipe for this soup you’re looking for?” The restaurant was empty and Tiffany just had to figure out what this lady’s deal was. “Have you ever tasted a soup so sublime that time stopped and you forgot your name? Have you ever had a meal that was so artful that it stirred your emotions?” The West Texas twang in her voice gave the questions the air of melodrama, but the woman was not joking or performing. “No ma’am,” answered the waitress. “Neither have I,” the elder confessed, “but we eat for pleasure, yes? Why all of these spices and combinations and measurements? Because we want joy in our food, and I do enjoy this food, but never as much as I feel I could. It’s frustrating.” Tiffany cycled through her Instagram psychology knowledge and fired off at least 4 diagnoses for such a condition. “I eat. I poop. This is,” the elder paused to take in the surroundings, “life.” Tiffany had never heard the word uttered in such sorrow. “I’m sorry,” the words were a reflex as was Tiffany’s hand gently landing on the old woman’s, “You must have had so many,” she paused to ask if the statement were wise, “interesting years though.” Was she counseling this woman? “The elderly look backward or they wish for a new body,” began the elder, “but were I to have a new body, I would only have a fresh wound, sweetie.” As the old woman lowered her head, there was surely no leaving the seat for Tiffany. When the elder raised her face to the young waitress again, her mascara ran in black pools below her eyes. Oh my god this awkward. “I have an ulcer.” Tiffany zeroed in on the details of the woman’s face to ride out the discomfort. An unlikely clear tear emerged from the black pools, ran down the woman’s face, and splashed in the rasam, causing ripples in the soup. “It is called: body.” Reality rippled at the rasam’s frequency. The old woman was splayed across the chair, her head rolled backward. Dead? Windows, doors all black and howling nothing. Tiffany clinched the table as the restaurant rocked in a screaming current. Phyllis’ body fell from the chair, hit the floor with a sickening thud, and exploded into a torrent of blues and pinks and yellows; impossibly vivid butterflies finding a light above. Tiffany dug her cell phone from her pocket just as her body became weightless and a sheet printed with the interior of India Star was ripped away by some unknown force. She was alone, swimming. Drowning! No. Breathing. No? The waitress was in a rushing current of sound and light and shadow, blood, and fire, screaming, laughing, moaning, dying, loving, lying, hating, eating, making GBS threads, killing, breathing. Tiffany closed her eyes and took a stabilizing breath, somehow without eyelids or lungs. The sound and images increased in overwhelming intensity until it all resolved in a low, rumbling tone. Om. The tone persisted silently as a lotus emerged from beneath a great lake. Ripples carried her ashore. A man with radiating serenity plucked the lotus from the shore with the closest of innumerable arms, and sat her gently upon a familiar paper placemat displaying a map of all the Indian states and her major cities. Varanasi sat below her petal. Tiffany’s consciousness found her body in a seat at the table, the lotus blowing apart in warm winds. Her lunch guest used his his thousand arms to serve the soup and rice, tea and lassi, warm naan bread, flatware wrapped in napkins. He spoke. “Why do I suffer?” the being quizzed behind a woman’s trembling face and smudged mascara. “Compassion.” The answer was Tiffany’s, but how she deduced it was not apparent. “And why do you suffer?” the woman asked, smiling through pain. Her Estée Lauder perfume hung in the hot, humid lakeside air. “Attachment.” Who said that? How did I know? White light and black nothing came smashing together upon the lunch by the lake, rocking the table and melting the shore. Tiffany focused upon the light and saw a water stained drop ceiling. Carlos and Steve hovered over her in stained aprons. Tiffany had collapsed while serving the elderly woman. Phyllis was never seen again. While Tiffany would work at India Star a few months more, the unserious, bubbly young woman to whom everyone had grown accustomed never returned either.
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Jan 30, 2023 03:47
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In with a flash rule
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Feb 9, 2023 06:43
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Bob wasn’t happy to be stuck in Utah one more day. Cancellations were becoming too drat frequent. But he wasn’t about to let his spirits sag even a little bit. Bob Hertz had just accomplished a mammoth task for his partners. Today he notarized the very last signature in a group of leases for what would become a 6,000 acre solar farm. He was going to be rich. The night called for a celebration. It was time to drink liquor and root for Patrick Mahomes. Bob wheeled his rental SUV into the parking lot of the first bar he could find, took off his tie, unbuttoned his collar, rolled his shirtcuffs and exited the vehicle hoping to seduce a mature single in his area. *** Stacy needed somewhere to hide. She didn’t care what her parents thought of her. She didn’t care if she’d never make sense of life. She didn’t care about bliss or peace. She needed a place to hide for the night and needed someone, anyone really, to purchase her plane ticket back home. If her parents could do that (and they would), she’ll figure the rest out. “You’ve been so awesome to me. Maybe just drop me there.” The sign read Grantsville Elementary in shaped concrete. Beside the sign laid a crumpled vinyl banner attached to useless nylon rope. A wind gust must have taken the hotel’s name, but the light up marquee lettering inside the concrete sign had an unmistakable message: NOW OPEN!! VACANCY RV PARK COMING SOON!! “OK, here you go. You sure you’re going to be OK?” The man was the sort who didn’t give rides to strangers but he could tell Stacy was in some kind of trouble. “Yeah, this is great. I’m sure it’s not too expensive,” she answered, trying to find some humor in the situation. “Maybe you can work on your multiplication tables,” the stranger riffed as she exited his pickup, “Be safe, now.” Stacy wanted to turn and give the kind stranger a proper thank you, but instead strode to the glass doors of the entrance as fast as she could. *** It was time for Bob to go. The game was great, but he had done too many celebratory shots with his new best friends. He had tried to make inroads with a lovely divorcee, but she wasn’t that kind of woman. Had he lived in town, maybe. By 10:00 everyone he was interested in drinking with was leaving. He was on the downswing of a night he had imbued with too much potential. He was too drunk to drive. Time to Google up a hotel, then a Lyft. *** “Are we sure this is a hotel?” Bob asked his driver. “It’s trying to be.” Bob made his way through the double glass doors and up to the prefab kitchen island that served as a front desk. He purchased a night in Room #8 from a youthful night manager in blue shirtsleeves. He was a young man with a narrow face, a thin mustache, and an imperial goatee. He looked like a much younger Johnny Depp. After getting the key, Bob walked down a corridor of painted concrete block in the direction of Classroom 8. At the end of the hallway, a young brunette knocked on the door of Classroom 10. A young bald woman opened the door and embraced the brunette with desperation and instant tears. Bob wondered if this place had a bar. *** The awful green carpeting remained, but management had successfully converted the Grantsville Elementary library into a bar. It had mounted TVs, a bar, a Coca-Cola Branded refrigerator with beer and mixers, a shelf of common liquors, and a person willing to charge money. Bob was soaking his brain in awful Manhattans and texting every woman he knew in law school. Occasionally, he’d make an off-hand remark about the probable value of some item on the Antique Roadshow. The bartender was barely there. To his left, through the glass partition separating the library/bar from the hallway, Bob could see a row of vending machines and a cluster of mismatched cushioned chairs. It gave the appearance of a “common area” but for who? And why there? Bob was asking himself how he could convert the school were he in charge when the bald young woman from earlier walked into his field of vision. She was visiting the vending machines. She was cute, but way too young. And he was iffy on the shaved head. And now some young men with topknots were flanking her. After some discussion the three of them sat down, the woman facing the two men. Bob could read people. It was something he excelled at. He knew this young lady was in trouble, but didn’t want to stare. She was crying now. loving sad. And now the brunette arrived, angry. She tried to pull the young woman with the shaved head from her seat, but the woman was unwilling to move. “She has to decide, you can’t do that for her!” Those words were shouted by one of the men with topknots. One did the talking. The other was obvious backup. The words cut through the pane glass separating Bob from the group and could be heard over Mark Walberg interviewing a widower regarding his dining set. The postures, the facial expressions, the menace in the blank stare of the silent backup all told Bob what he needed to know. This was obviously some kind of religious cult trying to claw this young woman back. He knew he had no place in the conversation and that the young woman’s pursuers could not be reasoned with. A tight argument doesn’t go that far with these types. So there was nothing Bob could do. He could only hope the young woman would make the right decision. Unless … It was at this moment Bob had a really stupid idea that was nonetheless so amusing to him that he could not suppress a smile. And then he thought, gently caress it. He wasn’t coming back anyhow. “I’ll have a double Cuervo and settle up.” He’d introduce himself as a recovering Catholic. Let the youths know he could spot them for holy men. He wanted to find the light himself. And then …blamm-o. He downed the shot. No lime or salt. His throat burned and his stomach recoiled. loving stupid idea. It felt like the tequila vapors leapt up his esophagus and into his sinuses. Think of turds. Think of eating dead rats. There. *** Stacy was in crisis. She saw misery in every choice she made. She had ruined her life. She may have ruined all of her lives for eons forward. Her resolve melted as comrades she had grown so close to laid her betrayals bare. From the corner of her eyes came a wretched looking man in crumpled slacks and an untucked dress shirt. His hairy white belly stuck out underneath. He stank. “I’m Catholic!” he declared confidently before all the confidence melted into animal fear as a stream of vomit burst from his mouth and onto Ananda (Jeff) and Bandhu (Blake). After the vomit had soaked the two men, Jeff and Blake stared at Bob in shock and rage for a beat. The brunette and the young woman with the shaved head exited the scene. “Oh, I’m so sorry, let me help you with that,” Bob couldn’t stop laughing as he said it. “No, NO, we DON’T WANT YOUR-” Too late. *** Bob’s recollection of the events are fuzzy at this point, but he remembers picking himself off the floor, soaked in barf, pulling all of the $100 bills out of wallet, saying “Sorry, Johnny” as he handed the money to the night manager, and disappearing to his room and locking the door. It was at this moment Bob realized he needed a therapist and maybe a sabbatical. If this were 2006, he could write a zany Tucker Max style blog. After making himself clean, popping some ibuprofen, and chugging some tap water, Bob opened the door to Classroom #8 to get on a plane out of Salt Lake City as soon as possible. As luck would have it, Stacy and her ever-supportive friend were checking out of Classroom #10. gently caress it, might keep acting like a freak. “Hey, I’m sorry about last night. I just hope who or whatever is stalking you finally lets you go.” The young woman gazed at Bob from down the hallway. Her blank face held traces of astonishment, pity, compassion. “I hope the same for you.”
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Feb 13, 2023 09:00
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^^^^ Hailmary 1,432 words
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Feb 13, 2023 09:01
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In with the guidebook, please.
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Feb 16, 2023 05:02
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Sustainability 472 words Combination and Recombination In the year 1238, the Old Religion granted a patent to Apache Industrialist, J. Dodd Devereaux. Mr. Devereaux developed the first mycologic dissolving apparatus in response to Chicago’s ballooning refuse issue. Before this breakthrough, he had been experimenting with fungal applications to food, medicine, and the arts. It was in that year of 1238 Mr. Devereaux first communicated with the Collective. He purchased a 320 acre tract in Cook County later that year and sowed the spores which would become Chicago’s famous Recombination Yards. When Devereaux lost contact in 1240, the yards had grown a massive 13,000 acre campus – the largest recombination facility in the world to this day! Per the request of the Devereaux estate, he was laid to rest in the Yards. Lucky for us! Imagine the surprise when a chimera of broken cameras, old newspapers, and destroyed lingerie came shambling into the probate court to stop proceedings on his estate. A miracle! Devereaux had discovered Recombination. Until then, crafted items were buried in giant pits called landfills or dumped in the ocean. Imagine your shoes floating inAhe Great Lakes! By 1385, every Chicago resident had noted Recombination on their census, but few had spoken to the Collective. As Recombination perfected, many of the newly Recombined went back to their old occupations, their old spouses, their old lives. They reproduced embryonically. Their mechanical computers, automobiles, and household waste flowed into the yards in greater amounts as more humans mated. As more residents stepped from Recombination a fourth or fifth time they began complaining of depression, disordered sleep, lack of appetite. The aluminum cans that housed most beverages in those days could only be used and thrown away. The items surrounding a person of that time, ceramic toilets, alarm clocks, stereo speakers, color televisions, and dining sets had only one place – the Yards. But a growing number of residents couldn’t part with these items or felt agony and, at the time unexplained, shame. Newspapers dubbed this era as the Years of Malaise. Activity Touch the myconetwork and see if you can spot an Original Chicagoan! When do they think they’ll die? What is money? How many times have they Recombined? Write a short essay on your experience and share with your partner. Dig Deeper (Questions for Reflection) How has the Collective guided your feelings about corporeal life? What are your separation rituals? Which departure has made you smile the most? Which departure has hurt the most? More Than Just Shoes! (Discussion Topics) Today, most citizens Recombine with retournée shoes, but some studied pioneers are able to imbue themselves in hats, jackets, pipes, books, and objects of art. If you could imbue yourself in anything, what would you choose? Do you know someone who seems inseparable from a piece of matter? What is it about our feet anyway?
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Feb 20, 2023 07:36
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^^^^^^^
Dicere fucked around with this message at 07:41 on Feb 20, 2023 |
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Feb 20, 2023 07:39
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Ope. Nevermind. I'm sorry. I forgot I was traveling this weekend. Like the prompt though! Dicere fucked around with this message at 22:18 on Mar 7, 2023 |
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Mar 7, 2023 22:03
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In
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Mar 14, 2023 22:48
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Just couldn't get it together this weekend, sadly. Going to take a toxx on my next entry.
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Mar 20, 2023 13:50
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Since I didn't submit anything this time, I suppose I can judge if that's something that's still needed. I'll need a Discord link.
Dicere fucked around with this message at 00:27 on Mar 21, 2023 |
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Mar 21, 2023 00:01
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curlingiron posted:You can just jump in using this link: https://discord.gg/Ck4Q56AA Much thanks. I'll get right to reading.
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Mar 21, 2023 00:30
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Week 554 Crits Pirates! Gambit from the X-Men This story lost. The biggest issue is the prose. It’s way too much. My intuition tells me you either worked really hard on this to make it pop or this kind of trippy, poetic writing comes naturally to you and it’s what you really enjoy. Or maybe it’s a combination of the two. None of that is bad. Rich description and clever sentence construction are, of course, fine. But only in the right quantities. I was stepping over lines to get to the part where something happens, and when I got there I had to disentangle these artful constructions to get at the facts of the events. I’m being generous when I say artful because a lot of the prose didn’t land. An example that didn’t work for me: There’s an explosion. That explosion was a paragraph. I get that it can be a narrative device to sort of freeze time in a moment of crisis to hold suspense, but the story took so much time to get TO that explosion. Slowing it down even more was not the right call. When I got to the humming self-important negation of sound in sentence 5 of the explosion, it felt like you were having a great time, but I really wasn’t. And that’s a shame because the overuse of that stuff can spoil a reader on what could be really great lines. The endless possibilities that a gun offers. I liked that line. But you’ll have an easier time holding a reader with “What happens next?” than “Wow that line was cool.” A technical note: The paragraph that starts “Why you just waiting?” You switched your dialogue style conventions mid-paragraph. Quotes or not? I get that these are short, half sentence lines and the narrator is kind of half-reporting them, but it kind of took me out of the scene for a second. The style goes from using quotes to not to using them again. Only A Week Away Giggs I really liked this story. What if the rapture happened and you were stuck in traffic? It doesn’t bog itself down in too much in dialogue, description, or exposition. It gets in, gets out, has a nice ending line. I can only offer small critiques. The first being the unlikelihood of childhood friends ending up in space together. Even in the year 2055, it would seem to me deep space exploration would be a pretty selective occupation. Two buddies just happened to grow up together and both become world class scientists in space. But the story wouldn’t have worked as well had they not been buddies and it would have been weird had they been the Peyton and Eli Manning of space science. The other criticism that could be fairly leveled at this story is our characters don’t really do much. Events just happen to them and all they can do is react. That limits the narrative and removes any stakes. I think in a rewrite you could play up the curse part of the story. One character mentions the other is cursed and the story closes with a really unlucky turn of events, but something more/something else to drive home the character is cursed would be cool. Riven Yoruichi There’s a lot I liked about this story. I immediately thought about Star Trek when the sci-fi theme was announced and I’d say you delivered the Trekkiest story of the week. But unlike Star Trek, this is dark and terrifying and people are actually shaken by the death of crew members. So I buckled in for a gritty sci-fi survival story that would be somehow resolved by a postcard of a castle from some mystery letterbox. Imagine my surprise when the story said nope, let’s cut to a scene where we learn this phenomenon has evidently driven a woman insane and her sane shipmate has to determine how to handle a madwoman standing next to an abyss. Then the story cuts to a different woman locked in her bedroom. The letterbox is mentioned in passing. The scene ends when the jumps to try and save herself for a few more minutes. So we don’t really have a story as much as we have 3 scenes. A mystery is set up, but never resolved. And I can’t find any way any of this relates to your prompt. That said, a story of a spaceship severed longways by a spatial anomaly that drives people insane if they pay attention to it is a great premise. #lunaIRC.moonlighters Obliterati I never used IRC, but I’ve been on this old world wide web long enough to know you nailed the spirit of the mid-aughts. As an aging millennial myself, I doff my fedora. You win the Internet. (just not Thunderdome) Nothing much happens and, as a reader, I often wondered: 1.) Who would pay these people to do this? 2.) Is this just a video game? It really stretched my credulity that something like terraforming a moon crater would be done in such a slapdash half-competitive manner. So the form of the story boxed you in, but you really threw yourself into the prompt and executed your idea quite competently. I liked it. I LOLed. I Don't Know Which One To Shoot: An Abdiwahab Warsame Mystery Albatrossy_Rodent If I told someone to write me a Blade Runner scene, but make it fun and sillier, I couldn’t ask for more than this story. I enjoyed this quite a bit. Your story is pretty much entirely a dialogue between your detective and suspect, which is why that monocle was so useful and necessary as a tool to enhance the dialogue without switching back to 3rd person prose. This story wouldn’t have worked as well without it. It’s jarring how matter-of-fact the cruelty of this world is. The silliness was necessary here, because I don’t think vat growing clones and enslaving their minds would work in straight sci-fi. You needed that tone to say, “Don’t take it too seriously. Don’t think too hard.” Ultimately, this mystery was never solved. And I don’t think I ever read a mystery story where the mystery didn’t get solved. I didn’t mind though. So I don’t have much in the way of criticism other than this story was pretty drat close to Blade Runner, but I don’t mind because originality is overrated and I really enjoy Blade Runner. The Virtual Partner Experience Violet_Sky So your story captures, I think, the tone of a person dealing with extreme disability and chronic pain. It’s a huuuge loving downer, it’s really uncomfortable, but it’s real. This character speaks and thinks like people I know and love who deal with those things, and I hurt for your character like I hurt for those people. Reading this, I found myself thinking about the implications of total sensory VR for those populations. If I, right now, could give someone who lives their life from hospital bed to hospital bed the ability to leave their body and experience a body without pain or handicap, I would in half a heartbeat. I think what your character has in this story is actually a dream for a lot of people. But ultimately your character resents it all because it’s not really “real” and they have a nagging memory of their existence outside this carefully crafted experience. This too, isn’t terribly far from reality. So I don’t have a problem with your character. Negative self talk is unhealthy, but I don’t suspect anyone would mistake this character for a role model. The flaw of the story is there’s no story. It’s really just a scene that’s narrated by the character. And if you’re going to take me into that dark place, I’d want something to actually happen there to make it worth the trip. Loose Wires My Shark Waifuu I really liked this. This was pitch perfect YA fiction. You managed to evoke the suburban ennui, nothing ever happens in this town vibe, but on a drat space ship. How about that! You also managed to create a mystery that was simple enough to be investigated by teens, but had high enough stakes to make the story worth reading. A fascist city state floating aimlessly through space for centuries is kind of terrifying. It’s hard to level the “but when you think about it” criticism at a sci-fi story, because even some of the best sci-fi falls apart under scrutiny. But I just don’t think they’d design a deep space vessel where a mission critical system could be disabled by a teen fumbling around behind a loose panel. The Even Chance Slightly Lions Loved it. A recreation destination tucked in an odd pocket of space-time. Reminded me of the Restaurant at the End of the Galaxy. It’s descriptive, but lively. It doesn’t get bogged down in details and visuals, but populates each paragraph with figures and concepts and moves right along to others. I can’t really offer any constructive feedback here. You could have maybe found a more creative way for the character to cheat or a critical error to get your character caught by management. You gave the ending away to the reader when you mentioned the slot machines, but you needed to let us know the stakes, so I don’t really fault you for the ending. Accession, like everything in the story, is over the top and out of control. And let me say that you took what sounds like an interminable activity for board game grognards and made it sound chic. So kudos there. Maybe 3,000 years in the future people will think Twilight Imperium is cool. Tomorrow's News Strange Cares Loved it. A shoeleather reporter in a futuristic gonzo hellscape gets scooped on a story about a cult, but teams up with another reporter to discover the eel vendor is actually selling part of the bio-psychic matter humans are evidently giving themselves up to in the caves below the city. When you write it like that, it’s not much of a story. But when you write it like you did, it’s a lot of fun. It’s was a little too over the top for me. I prefer more sci in my sci-fi, but that’s a statement on preference and not competence. they in the burnt ship rohan This story won. Congratulations. The narration style set the tone of passing years in a stone age tribe quite well. Your protagonist was morally ambiguous in an interesting way. You think she’s trying to get the villagers to safety, but she’s really just out for herself. She never stopped thinking of escape when many would have accepted their lives. And there was a twist at the end and a badass fight and death scene. Very cool. Here are my criticisms. I can’t follow what your character was trying to communicate by putting her arm in boiling soup other than “Hey guys I’m serious.” Couldn’t she have used a ladle to make her point? They still have to eat that soup, you know. I also wasn’t expecting a fight scene on the mountain. I guess another tribe lived there or something? We show up to the scene and suddenly people are battling each other. Why? Making Friends at Rekonnekt Antivehicular Another day at Meta in 2025. I really enjoyed this. What’s really heartbreaking about this is that people have been doing this for centuries with dead people. If we bring them back in books or plays or movies or in conversations at family reunions, we often quietly edit out the parts of them that were distasteful or impolitic or disappointing. This story isn’t the first and won’t be the last regarding scraping the social media of a dead person to make an AI chatbot, but this was the first I’ve encountered when an aspect of someone’s sexuality is edited out to better please friends and family. You chose a seemingly harmless (but evidently weird) kink, but the connection to queerness is right there to be made. This is what makes science fiction such an important literary genre. I think you really anticipated something here. It’s OK that you didn’t linger on that point too much though, because then it might have come off as preachy. I don’t really have any constructive criticisms, but I’d say that the idea of blending personalities to create a novel intelligence is a similarly disturbing concept. Imagine if you could take everything you like about all your exes and make one super lover. Imagine if your partner could do the same. Whoa, dude. Going out with a bang sebmojo Send this to Hustler. I’m serious. My criticism here is that this spacefaring race talks and acts like they’ve got MegaADHD Plus. But how would you know how extraterrestrials talk and act, Dicere? You got me. I still don’t think they’d be this wacky. It’s also unclear what they’re doing and why. They’re on a mission to document lifeforms and then … leave? The procedures don’t in any way seem methodical. I would also expect this from beings from space: to be methodical in their science doing. But I suppose the lack of purpose works because it really hammers home the point that Bjx just really wanted to have sex after watching a ton of porno. Bjx didn’t need to do that. Bjx wanted to. Alien comes to earth, wants to bang, and doesn’t anticipate their biology being so overwhelming is a simple story with a twist at the end. Add some flourish and detail and you’ve got a pleasant ride. I liked it. The Bone Sword WindwardAway Second person was definitely a choice. I don’t think it hampered the story at all. You’re telling the story of a person being killed so putting us in the first person view gives that death a bit of oomph. And the story needed that oomph because if the story didn’t say I was dying and I was being hit with arrows and my flesh was burning, I’m not sure I’d care. Why did I conquer? Who is killing me? What is the point? Your story is called The Bone Sword and it was appropriately metal as all poo poo, but it didn’t really go anywhere EXCEPT TO THE GRAVE. Had the story kept going, I can’t say I would have wanted to read more. Canopic Jars Bad Seafood One of two stories about making a digital copy of a dead person’s personality, but, instead of scraping it from social media, you’re scraping right from the brain. The presence of the corpse really sets the tone and makes this story its own thing though. At the risk of repeating myself from my crit of Making Friends at Rekonnekt, there’s something that chills me about editing out the less savory bits of someone’s life and personality to create a better consumer product. It also chills to think I do that same thing to people I care about in my own memory. The last line, “staring up at God” really stirred me. I once had a theologian tell me that the pain of Hell would be akin to the pain of re-breaking a broken bone that didn’t set right the first time. You’d feel the pain of loss of parts of you that weren’t holy. This technician clipping out youthful dalliances and marital discord was something like a road through Purgatory. In heaven, we’re a highlight reel. The obvious criticism here, is that it isn’t much of a story. It’s just a scene of a guy doing a really weird job. There’s no tension or stakes. But, for what it was, it was well-told. Good show.
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Mar 22, 2023 05:44
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I'm in.
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Apr 11, 2023 07:17
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New Arrival 1,996 words A low desk sits upstage, just left of center, facing downstage. Downstage of the desk are two empty folding chairs. At stage right, set downstage so as to appear recessed is a SUNROOM. In the SUNROOM by the window is a dining table and chairs. Upstage of this arrangement is a SIDEWALK with a strip of turf closest to the edge of the stage. The stage will be loosely bisected between the OFFICE and TOM’S MEMORY. SETTING: Loving Transitions Senior Facility, Abiliene, Texas. Day. TOM arrives STAGE LEFT, and offers a slight, nervous smile before sitting at the desk. TOM: OK. I think I’m ready to apply, but I wanted to talk with you a bit - boy it smells clean in here – I wanted to talk with you a bit about myself and what I’m looking for before I say yes. (not allowing for interruption) I’m pretty used to living on my own, so this is going to be a little different for me, but that’s OK. I’m gonna need you folks, I know that. But I hope I can give back. I’m still pretty handy, I’m still a good organizer. I’m a leader. Again, change of pace. OK. (sensing he won’t be interrupted, TOM relaxes a bit) For a very long time, I lived in this lovely place in Amarillo. My wife, Georgie, and I lived in this little one bed, one bath. It was run Estacado Company – you know them – but it was ours - Georgie and me, that is. But the seniors had the whole block to themselves, right next to the big apartments and inpatient facility at the end of the block. And our garden was so lovely. What they say about that place is true. And for a long time, it was quiet. The residents would walk their dogs and sometimes we might see a jogger. Of course, there were a lot of estate sales and those were a menace, but generally it was fine. I mean, what can you do … when that happens, anyway? Now you probably heard about me already, so I want to clear something up right now and tell my side of it. OK? So I had a neighbor. I had a lot of neighbors, of course, but this guy … he was so sensitive and pushy that it – let’s just be honest – it was hard to live around him. And he just thought he was so forward thinking and so smart. But for a long, long time, I never said anything. We’d see him at church and I’d say hi, good morning. I was never rude. People might think I was, but I wasn’t. But he did these little things. So these houses had little whaddayacallem … grommets! They had these sconces …? They had a place by your door to put a flag. The rules say you’re allowed a US Flag or a Texas Flag. That’s it. Well, on games days, he’d fly his Sooners flag. He was real into being an Okie for some reason, which is fine, but … there a rules. For everybody. I never flew my Longhorns flag, because of respect, you see. And he didn’t even care about the games anyhow. He hardly watched! I mean, I found out he was a kindergarten teacher! I mean, you know … come on. I mentioned it to him once when I saw him at the grocery store and he laughed about it. Asked why I cared! Look, I was in the Navy, OK. That’s why I want to live here. I can see tight corners on the beds. I can smell the cleaner in -- From STAGE LEFT, a woman is moaning. TOM turns, looking concerned and holds for a beat while the moaning subsides. I mean … Moaning finally stops. So, sure you guys have a tough job and it’ll be tough for me to live around it, but I won’t – oh, right – (remembering his story) I just know things have to be a certain way for everyone’s good. Our church would only allow certain events in the Fellowship Hall. Weddings, wakes, baptisms. That’s what our bylaws said. But you’d think I was some kind of monster when I dare say that doesn’t include birthday parties. Excuse me. (TOM holds up the palm of his hand.) The Lord’s house isn’t a Chuck E’ Cheese, OK? The Community Agreement says each resident at Estacado gets a garage in the back for personal vehicles and street parking for guests in the front. THAT’S why those damned – pardon my language – those damned estate sales were so upsetting. If my son was going to come by, he’d have to park all the way down the street. Somebody dies and everyone wants to shop. It’s just - look, I know – but it just sickens me and that’s my opinion. So this guy, his name was Randy – this guy would sometimes have a bunch of people over. And for a while their cars would go around the back or park in front of his place. Well, after a while people started parking in front of my house. And there’s no reason for that. I know anyone can park there, but what if my son was visiting me that day? Is it really so hard to park – well, one day, a woman about my age pulls up in this big Cadillac whaddhayacallit – Escapade? Yeah, and it’s just huge and takes up the spot right in front of my house, even though there was a spot in front of his. Like she didn’t want to turn around or something. What if my son was coming in that day? And I’ve got this big black thing in front of my house. It nearly blocked the view of the neighborhood. It did! From backstage, crossing in front of the SUNROOM set, TOM’S DOUBLE emerges and meets a WOMAN on the SIDEWALK. The two pantomime an increasingly heated conversation and TOM continues speaking in the office. Well one day I said something. I asked – just asked – if she could park somewhere else. I explained to her how the community worked and would if it be, ya know, OK if she moved her car. Well, she started giving me some attitude about it and then RANDY - RANDY emerges from STAGE RIGHT and pantomimes trying to calm things down, but becomes visibly more agitated as the mimed conversation continues. Randy comes out and starts telling me everything he dislikes about me. He calls me grouchy and nosy, and says I’m stalking him How can I stalk him!? GEORGIE crosses the SUNROOM from back STAGE RIGHT to and tries to pull TOM’S DOUBLE back. So I hit him. That’s my generation, OK? He started getting into the profanity and I couldn’t help myself. As TOM delivers this line, TOM’S DOUBLE punches RANDY, knocking RANDY off his feet. He caught his ear on the sprinkler system. I didn’t do that! Blood start pouring from the side of RANDY’s head. Well he starts bleeding like a stuck pig, because that’s what happens when you cut your ear. Ears really bleed. He looked at lot worse than he really was, but he must have been smarting. And I thought the fight was over right there, but he comes up on me and gets lucky. RANDY quickly lunges for TOM’S DOUBLE’S leg, grabbing TOM’S DOUBLE’s belt in the process. So he comes at my leg trying to do some kind of a kung fu throw and he grabs my belt. I’m sorry. That’s weird! Right? You get back up. I’ll give you a standing 8 count if you want to keep fighting, but just … RANDY successfully brings TOM’S DOUBLE’s off his feet, but removes his pants in the process. TOM wears tight, white briefs. He pulled my pants off. I wear them loose because of my stomach. I don’t know why he thought it, but he pulled my pants off and now we’re in this embarrassing, bloody mess on the front sidewalk. Somebody – and if I ever find out who- somebody has a camcorder or something and videos the whole thing from where the argument first began. Georgie is screaming at me. The women are trying to pull us apart. There’s blood on him. There’s blood on me. I’m trying to kick out of my pants to get my legs free. He tried to choke me! The scene plays out STAGE RIGHT as TOM describes it. Now, now that’s attempted murder! RANDY is quick to get to his feet and leaves the scene STAGE RIGHT. TOM’S DOUBLE lays in the grass, face down as the lights fall STAGE RIGHT. Lights brighten on TOM in the OFFICE. Of course, in hindsight, I shouldn’t have done it . But if you were there, you could’ve seen how I was provoked. I just want my son to have a place to park! He would come in from San Antonio. He’s the one that showed me the video. This Internet … I just don’t get how people think this OK. The police came by the next day. This is the part you probably know – I got misdemeanor assault and battery. Estacado sent me a letter saying violence was strictly forbidden and they could evict me. They DIDN’T, of course! My money was still welcome! I was going to go over and apologize – thought about it – but here comes this restraining order. (Tom mocks the term.) So I can’t be anywhere HE is, but he lives RIGHT THERE. (TOM becomes sullen) Georgie kept going to church. Nothing would ever keep her from her God. I stayed. I couldn’t handle any of it. We still got visitors from time to time, but they were to see Georgie. Maybe discuss this or that at the church or their bunco club. People didn’t really want to talk to me after that, but they were friendly enough. (TOM loses expression, still in shock) Georgie got sick toward the end. Everyone sent cards. Randy and his wife, didn’t of course. Man they really filled up our home … Lights rise on the SUNROOM. As TOM continues talking, a stream of figures walk by and place gifts, flowers, and sympathy cards on the table. Someone was at our house every day. She was adored by so many. People had to let her know how loved she was, how special she was. And she was – (choking back sobs) – she was special. She was so, so special to me. She was the best part of me. The best and sweetest voice in my life. 47 years - TOM raises his hand and points to his wedding band. 47 years. Better or worse. Sickness … and health. So if one of you gets sick … (crying) you have to see it. You can’t run. Lights lower on STAGE RIGHT as TOM sobs. When he regains his composure, the lights raise again and the table is empty again. After Georgie died, I didn’t hear from anybody anymore. I stayed at home. My son got worried about me, but I was fine. I thought I was fine. I don’t know what I had done when he found me last week. I guess something is wrong with me. I can’t remember. Anyhow. We have it all out now and I can tell you understand. I’m so grateful for that. I’ll be a help around here, not a hindrance. I promise. So let me get that application and I’ll move in - MATTHEW enters stage left. MATTHEW: Dad. There you are. OK, I’ve got everything squared away so we’ll come back next week. Are you still wanting to eat at Cavender’s? TOM: Oh, but I thought I was … (he gestures to the space behind the desk, but then realizes). Oh … (to the attendant behind the desk) … thank you. It was good to meet you. My name’s Tom. END OF SCENE
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Apr 17, 2023 01:44
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I'll judge if you need one still.
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Apr 24, 2023 00:14
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Week 559 Crits (Dicere) You can yell at me on Discord if you think my takes are dumb. Slither on the Cross – Mrenda Friend, I’m going to level with you: I don’t get it. Maybe I’m thick. Maybe there’s not much there. I couldn’t tell you. As I read this I thought about Benjy in The Sound and the Fury. But Benjy told a story. You had to work with him to figure out what he was saying, but there was action. There were characters and events. I couldn’t make any out in this. Perhaps a more apt comparison might be Naked Lunch (which I confess to not totally getting either). Still, I’d say you nailed the voice of someone who can’t distinguish delusion from reality. I don’t know what it is about sex and religion that the less stable in our ranks get such a kick out of, but you got those elements down. Old Pavlova – Copernic They say the worst thing about pets is that they die, but you took it in the direct opposite direction. I found myself pitying poor Atlas. It felt like nobody in the story really appreciated the weight of such a long-lived being – didn’t show the appropriate reverence. And all that tracks with how people act, sadly. You used only a few sentences to do it, but you captured the serene vibe of the turtle. Atlas had a character, and you didn’t have to anthropomorphize them to get there. Of course, the allusion to the “turtles all the way down” story is appropriately there in a meditation on nature watching the passage of human endeavor. If I had any nits to pick: I didn’t get a singular narrative thread across these vignettes. Also, I kind of anticipated a sci-fi cyberpunk future with a heist action scene, though I couldn’t really tell you a better direction to go. Last thought here: I don’t intend to outlive any of my pets, but would surely have something in my estate for them, like Eloise did. But man, the anxiety I would have passing from this life and leaving a companion like that behind. But those are pretty modern sensibilities. I don’t know if someone from the 19th century would feel similarly. 7 Seconds – archduke.iago No fanfic! If I don’t get the write an A-Team episode, you don’t get to write a Kafka story. Thems the rules! That said, you do a good job of capturing the horror and isolation of a fish in a bowl. Cats and dogs can run away or swat or bark, but fish are so very much at our mercy. I hope they’re not smart enough to know or care because, if they are, it would be a living nightmare. Your prose is pretty good. It would be better if it were in service of a narrative with a beginning, middle, and end. derp - a beautiful host My first instinct is to say I liked the ride, but you didn’t stick the landing. That’s my second instinct too, but, if I’m being creative, I could see how this ending might have symbolic import. The butterfly was actually dead inside, being gnawed apart by something ugly and predatory. Is this augury? Would this fussy man’s relationship with the bee lady be similar? Did she know about the wasps and this was a communication for him to pick up on? Were the wasps a way of saying, “You’d tear me apart if we got involved?” The story would probably be better if this were clearer. I didn’t care for the writer’s prose, but I’m not going to hold that against this piece. In my own way, I was rooting for him. You definitely captured the thought process of a man who’s so desperate to get some he’ll overlook red flags and every incompatibility. Slightly Lions - Jack and the Boxes This story hosed me up. You might have just caught me on a weird day, but it shook me pretty hard. I definitely emoted more with this story than any other. It feels like dirty pool though. A sad dog who doesn’t understand human strife but is nevertheless its victim – pretty easy to make a person sad over that. It’s a pretty widespread experience. I’m moving out and you get the dogs. God drat that hurts. Jack’s voice, of course, is pretty spot on for how humans think dogs think. I could nitpick and say “that’s not how dogs think!” but how would I know? Beezus - He's Just Spicy Another very common issue. My little angel acts like an idiot and puts a strain on my other relationship that probably means less but provides the unique benefits of sex and shared domestic labor. I can really feel that tension between love and resentment toward the cat, but I think it might be implausible for that tension to be kept up for years. You either accept the pet or you split. That’s a hard road to keep yourself in between those poles for so long. One nitpick (and why let facts get in the way of a good story): In my neck of the woods, if I have to see a doctor for a cat bite or cat scratch, the cat has to, by law, be quarantined for a period of 1-2 weeks. Doctors can get in trouble for not reporting those incidents to animal control. Second nitpick: Weed is toxic to cats, so the ending doesn’t hit as lighthearted as you may have intended. Chernobyl Princess - Cheeto Really liked this one. It suffers somewhat from lack of world building. I guess Fight Song is a timeless classic now? There are no controls on AIs in the classroom? College still looks and feels the same even in the far flung sci-fi future? But you had a word count to deal with and those are just details surrounding the story of a person dealing with a pet that’s a chatbot with emotions. The real strength of this story is in the ending, in my opinion. I wish I could have that kind of talk with an animal – to say I’m sorry in plain English and have it reciprocated in plain English. For that scene alone, I’d say you took the element from your flash rule and really elevated the story with it (instead of just working it in). Antivehicular - Responsibility I don’t know why I accepted so readily that a man would live in an aquarium, but couldn’t get over how a man would be such a complete stranger to his mother. Had I been reading too fast, I might have thought this woman was watching a fish for a co-worker or old college acquaintance. I too had a hard time envisioning this condo and the relative size of the fish (I eventually settled on bowling ball sized). But if we’re doing some careful reading, we can see that this man trusts a fish he clearly loves in the care of his mother with only a one sentence text as guidance. So this is evidently the big opening bid on what we can assume is a continued exchange of trust and information. Your prose is quite good and the ending is too. It’s strange how animals can sometimes be a conduit for affections that otherwise couldn’t be exchanged in a more direct way.
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Apr 27, 2023 07:18
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In, word me
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May 26, 2023 02:02
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Prompt word: Spoilsmonger Bylines (1,498 words) Jonathan Chauncey Fitzwilliam died [--date--]. You may contact The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette regarding memorial services. Mr. Fitzwilliam was a writer, a journalist, a poet, an actor, a lover of nature, and a student of history and the arts. His written works can be found in the pages of The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Columbus Dispatch, The Kenyon Review, Ms., The Village Voice, and (the now sadly defunct) Poetry Quarterly. Born of Archibald and Dorothy Fitzwilliam of Bangor, Maine in 1901, he and his kin survived some of the continent's harshest winters and worked as stable hands after school. His parents nurtured his scripturient temperament by keeping him enrolled in school and having him write exegesis on scripture every Sunday after church. During The Great War, young Mr. Fitzwilliam taught himself Morse code and found employment manning the telegraph lines in Bangor. Mr. Fitzwilliam attended the University of Maine and graduated Summa Cum Laude, earning a Bachelor of Arts in History. A notorious raconteur, he could often be found occupying the taverns of Orono, relating the bawdy and titillating details from the lives of history's personages. After college, he relocated to Ohio where he wrote bold truths of the Taft family in the pages of the Columbus Dispatch. A friend to working people and enemy of every gangster, demagogue, and spoilsmonger eroding the public trust, Fitzwilliam is remembered fondly by his colleagues at that august publication. During World War II, Mr. Fitzwilliam served as a war correspondent, chronicling the Allied victory. One of his dispatches was read by the beloved Walter Winchell. In 1968, Mr. Fitzwilliam found himself in the employ of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, where he reviewed the visual and performing arts. A lover of life, he prayed for fascism's defeat in Westminster, danced the Lindy in Harlem, rode Mustangs in Arabia, and surfed the Pacific. He is predeceased by his mother, father, brother Penrose, and sister Harriet. He is survived by friends, neighbors, and his art. Jake put down the copy and blasted smoke from his nostrils. "That's a lot of words for some geezer who wrote a food column." "Yeah, he didn't mention the restaurant column. Maybe he wrote his obit before he was put on it," guessed Barbara. "It's a lot of words." "Well, his estate paid for it," Barbara said as if to say You really have to print it. "The hell does he get off on putting his funeral on us?" Jake howled. "And how the hell does HE want US to put it in the paper he's … uh you know." Jake laid a flattened hand out and wiggled it back and forth to try to convey the words he wouldn't say. "It doesn't say that, Jake." "Oh come on, man lives to 80 and doesn't have a wife?" "That's not a crime and that doesn't have to mean what you think it means." “Well, he never talked about women in the office,” Jake intimated. “Some men don't,” intimated Barbara in kind. Jake softened a bit. "The man's entitled to live his life, but he should have ran this by me." "Nobody else runs their obit by you, Jake." "He's survived by his neighbors? What's that poo poo?" "I think it's nice," Barbara confessed “I'm putting YOU in charge of the funeral.” *** Jonathan Fitzwilliam fell from his second storey balcony to his death on a Tuesday morning. In addition to the funeral (held at a VFW in West Mifflin), Barbara was put on Fitzwilliam's beat: 1,200 expertly chosen words for Carmen's on the North Shore. Deadline Thursday evening. Barbara was not a homemaker and her mathematician husband was of less help. She couldn't tell you if a sauce was too creamy or not enough. She didn't know the French and Italian words for these dishes and could only identify wines by color. She had arranged with Jonathan's attorney, also the executor of the estate, to see if she could root around the old man's bureau and see if he had any notes. Besides, she was fond of Fitzwilliam. She might catch a wild hare and posthumously submit something of his to a magazine if any of it was worth the time. Hopefully the lawyer will call her back tomorrow with the green light. For now, she might as well get a free meal. “Dining alone, ma'am?” “Yes, that's right.” Carmen's was low lit, smokey. The booths were made of dark wood – cherry? Mahogany? The Fitz would know. The tablecloths were red. What's another word for red? “Right this way.” The lasagna was unmistakably good, but Barbara hadn't the faintest idea how to write about it. Barbara wrote about school boards and city council meetings. Those things write themselves because something (very little) happens. What happens at dinner?? As she panicked, Barbara noted a familiar face sitting in a booth across the restaurant. A young man with longish, soft hair and round John Lennon glasses. That's Steve Olenchech – assistant to the mayor's chief of staff. Must be on a date. Lucky him. But Steve wasn't on a date that night. Instead, he then was joined by two men in tailored suits and inky black hair, combed back. Is this a mob joint? poo poo he saw me. Look at the plate. Drink a glass of wine. gently caress this tastes awful. The mafia was off limits to Post-Gazette reporters. Get the quotes and report the facts. Leave the investigations to the FBI. This isn't Columbo. Breathe. Breathe. “How was everything, ma'am?” “Exquisite! I can't say enough good things about this sauce!” *** “Mr. Fitzwilliam's desk is in here.” The ancient bureau was piled high with file folders of photographs, poems, articles, and correspondences. Harvey Obenhaus was eager to let someone, anyone, into the house in the hopes that somebody would haul away all of the papers. It was too much for him to throw away on his own, but not really worth the effort of paying people to move. Doubling as a licensed realtor in the employ of the estate, he knew the house would sell for more if it remained furnished (the man had taste), but all the bric-a-brac needed sold and his papers hauled off. As Barbara searched, Harvey sat and read filings from other cases. Barbara found herself taken with Fitzwilliam's writing style. His poems were sometimes beat, sometimes lyrical. His photos displayed competence with composition. And of course HUAC, in its heyday, had taken an interest in him. As she plummed the depths of the desk's drawers, she groped a button. “What's this?” A mechanism clicked and, suddenly, Fitzwilliam's attorney found an interest in whatever this woman reporter was up to in his deceased client's house. Barbara pulled a brown envelope from a false bottom in one of the desk drawers. “What are those,” Harvey asked, standing up. Barbara removed two dozen dated, black and white photographs from the envelope and began fanning them across the cleared space on the desk. “I'd like to see that, please.” Harvey grabbed some pictures out of Barbara's hands as she fanned them out. Harvey noticed the man immediately: Tony Grosso, the noted Pittsburgh bookmaker who had been busted for racketeering in '73 and was now back on the streets. “I'm taking these,” Harvey said coolly as he reached for the rest of the photographs. Barbara took a step back and held the photos high. “Like hell you are. The Will says the Post-Gazette gets his papers and this counts.” Barbara didn't know where her nerve came from. She was certainly fed up with pushy men. “Who are these people?” “You give me those pictures or bad things are gonna happen.” Harvey wasn't in the mob, wasn't Italian, but happened to be representing a member of the Pittsburgh crime family - a wealthy new client he was told could lead to more. He saw opportunity. “Are you threatening me?” Not waiting for an answer, Barbara made a break for front door. In a panic, Harvey lunged in pursuit. He wasn't sure exactly what he would do or what he could do, but he had exposed himself too much and had to make sure nothing from this woman's visit left the house. Harvey grabbed the woman's blouse in his lunge and they both went crashing to the floor. Barbara tried to scream but her throat was caught in an attacker's hand. She kicked and kneed and pushed but was clearly overpowered. Barbara got to her feet to try and slip away but was caught on her ankle, sending her crashing into a small table by the front door. The clang of the letter opener against the tile floor was unmistakable. Harvey's eyes widened as she grabbed the blade. *** PITTSBURGH REPORTER ACQUITTED IN MURDER CASE, SEEKS FEDERAL PROTECTION By: Jacob Schoenberger October 13, 1982 Barbara Cizenski exited the Allegheny County Courthouse flanked by her husband and attorney. Officers of the Pittsburgh Police Department stood guard as Mrs. and Mr. Cizenski entered a black sedan … SEE PAGE 4 - ACQUITTAL
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May 29, 2023 07:24
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Fwiw, I am unbothered by the losertar or any of the other less-than-fluffy aspects of TD. Maybe downgrade to a snarky red text if you think it would help?
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Jun 5, 2023 23:10
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You better believe I'm in.
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Jun 7, 2023 01:04
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We’ll Be Right Back 500 Words "We'll need a story by Sunday," she whispered. "OK. We'll do-" "They've seen em all, Dave." "I've got a million. Shh!" David waved away the young tour manager's fretting. Let him rest. He leaned in to place his entire attention on the whole of the amphitheater: "Well you've gotta get her a gift!" Ripples of titters through the audience. This'll be a great crowd. "Yeah?" Figures moving through the rows, a little shuffling in the grass, but they're settling in now. "You can't go home empty handed." "That's what I was afraid of." Some hearty laughs from the men; like the exhilarating first hit of an addictive narcotic. Following that is an expectant, attentive silence on the green. Electric, magic. We’ve got ‘em. Had he not memorized the blocking, David would never recognize the figures at the bottom of the amphitheater. Glaucoma had taken his eyes. Joshua, on the stage below, had harvested mushrooms in the Toronto subway. He wasn't athletic. He wasn't socially adept. But his audition was incredible. Now, he's beloved in all Ontario. David took down a big gulp of a poppy tea and laid on the grass, letting pain ripple through his body, hoping it would say its piece and finally go. He was the oldest man in the audience, maybe the oldest man in the city - an elder of elders. A fixture of the Ottawa library. David didn't count years, but measured his life in maladies. He'll tell you how it happened, if you insist, but he's not producing a show about it. It began with a solar flare. He was at McGill at the time (if you've heard of it). Then a missile strike on a satellite, the debris of which cascaded and smashed practically everything humanity ever put in space. A "limited nuclear strike," then another. There was no single cause. It was everything - all at once. And what's the point of it now anyhow? Finally, finally everyone had run out of bullets. Two generations had passed and these poor children had to learn how to hunt rats and grow potatoes. Music, predictably, was the first to return – choirs and chanting and drums – as beautiful as David had ever heard in his long, sorrowful life. Misery is, perhaps not unfortunately, fertile ground for good art. Quick on Music’s heels came Sport. And then came Story. What David got that so many his generation didn’t is that stories of airplanes and vending machines don’t inspire wonder when you’re eating tree bark. Moralizing narratives about a society so alien from your own don’t carry the punch the storytellers desire. You need new stories. Relevant stories. At least, that’s what he’d say to anyone who listened. “Yes, but I was in the lake!” God, Josh was good. “OK.” “It was cold…” “I don’t get it.” A beat, they wait for the line: “… It shrinks?” The crowd roars. The joy falls on David’s now lifeless body like baptizing rain. We’ll be right back.
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Jun 11, 2023 18:08
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Interprompt submission Past Maturity 79 words I swear by all that’s sweet and holy that I’ll make these years count. I’ll remain loving and dependable to all I’ve ever loved, women especially. In my time, I’ll be good and rich instead of evil or poor. And when I finally go, may the records read Writer. Teacher. Artist. Servant. Friend. But allow me this truth for only you: these covenants bind to no effect. For when the note comes finally due, I’ll be nowhere to collect.
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Jun 21, 2023 01:55
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Name: Shelton Masters Real name: Shelton Hafemeister Age: 34 White male, 5'10", light brown hair, brown eyes. Moved from Dublin, OH to Nashville to take his country music career to the next level. Will be opening for Florida Georgia Line this summer. A trained eye can spot he's had work done.
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Jun 21, 2023 18:01
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Gambits at High Temperature 1,494 words (Thranguy, derp) “Uncle Stosh, where’s your board?” “This park has a chess board,” Stosh stated, as a matter of fact. “But how do you know nobody will be using it?” “Cause I can see the future, kid,” he offered with a hint of annoyance. “See?” Sure enough, the giant chessboard and its corresponding giant game pieces in the at Yanaguana Garden in downtown San Antonio were not in use – even on this remarkably busy Saturday morning. “Nobody’s lining up to play chess this morning.” Stosh’s sister knew her older brother loved chess, even if he didn’t particularly like children. But the boy is 12 and it’s a tough time. Surely he could make some time while he’s in town. Stosh stuck his arms straight up in the air and settled into a back bend, sticking his round belly out in indifference to all the world. Straightening out, he pushed his shaggy hair out of his glasses, palmed the pawn in front of the king, and moved it one square forward. “Here’s our opener, kid.” 11:30 am: White pawn, e3 Country boy smooth, This is how we do Got a Chevy jacked up Chrome bumper and them floorboards too “The gently caress is that?” Shelton jumped in his chair at the question. Somehow Dollar Bill had entered his greenroom without making a sound. “HA HA! BOOM! Caught your blindside!” “Tell you what it is, motherfucker, it’s gonna make me rich. Fuckin’ tests really well. OK?” Shelton couldn’t hold a bad mood in Bill’s presence. The guy just radiated charm. “Uh, sir, if you’re going to appropriate something, how about some soul?” Bill affected a lispy, effete academic persona for that line. “You wanna do Seven Spanish Angels?” “Not for free,” Bill answered with his $1,000 smile. Aspiring country music recording artist, Shelton Masters, had first met “Dollar” Bill Hennessy last summer in Clearwater. His boat dealership was a sponsor of a barbecue festival Shelton played and the organizers brought the donors by to say hello. But Bill Hennessy didn’t just say hello. He stuck around and cut up about country music, college football, politics, and partying. Hennessy had represented the Tampa Bay area in the state senate until his caucus told him not to run for re-election. Shelton expected him to turn up on tour, but not in San Antonio. Still, this was the first stop on his tour with Florida Georgia Line and Shelton was in a mood to celebrate. “What are you doing here, man?” “I can’t be partying in my district anymore.” “So you come to party here.” Dollar Bill’s face lit up as he pointed both fingers at Shelton, then put a finger on his nose to indicate the correctness of Shelton’s statement. “I don’t know, man.” Dollar Bill shrugged his shoulders and produced a squared mirror from inside his sport coat. “I do.” 12:45pm: White knight, e5 “So you’re waiting on me to move my pawn, right?” The boy was correct. “At this rate, I’m waiting on the sun to set. But, yes, I know that pawns going to move.” “You know that, huh?” The kid was getting tired of his uncle’s shtick. “I do. I can see it. I also know you’ll feel better if you take this cold towel.” Stosh had made sure to chill some towels in the cooler. San Antonio summers can be brutal even in the shade. 1:15pm: Black bishop, g5 “I guess I needed that,” concluded Shelton, rubbing his face to see if the numbness would shake. “Fuckin’ rock star, man. Act like it, dog.” Dollar drug his nostril across the glass one last time for good measure before putting it back in his coat. Bill Hennessy cut an imposing figure at 6’3”, 240 lbs. The former Florida Gator was a hell of a running back in 2007. The old menace in his demeanor comes back once he’s had enough blow. “OK, Masters, what now?” “Well, dude, I kinda got here early to rehearse.” “Bullshit.” Dollar Bill had found a bottle and was setting glasses on the coffee table of the green room. “The gently caress? I know that band does it all for you and they’re not here.” “But-” “They’re not here.” 1:37pm: White queen, c6. Checkmate. White wins Game 1. “It’s a prank, dude.” “More than a prank, Dollar.” They had run through the coke and were now onto crystal. Bill had seemed more desperate this time around. There was something frantic rising in him. Maybe he just really needed a friend. “The trucks are insured. The drivers are insured. Everything’s insured!” Bill began rocking as he made these justifications out loud. The subject had turned to money and its fakeness but also its realness but also how work is for idiots and they were a different cut of man than others. Dollar Bill had intimated that he had robbed an armored truck once on a dare. He got away with it and walked away with a small fortune. This might have been meth head bullshit, but Shelton was, in his state, convinced there might be something useful for him in this line of inquiry. Maybe he needed something to prove his mettle. Why is he singing country music anyhow? “We wait for them to park. The driver stays in the cab, the partner goes inside to get the bag. When the door is open, I hit him, snag a bag, and we peel out. Simple.” Bill had stopped smiling as he explained this. “You need this, Shelly.” “gently caress, you’re right.” 1:42pm: White pawn, e5. “Alright, kid, let’s not ponder as much. I’d like to do two out of three.” The boy really did love the game. “Well, I guess you already know if we do or not.” 2:58pm: Black rook, f5. “So the truck is going to roll up in two minutes.” The two men sat hunched over and anxious inside the plush interior of Shelton’s Escalade. “You fuckin’ planned this.” This fact had only recently occurred to Shelton. He somehow felt that Dollar Bill had an innate sense for when armored trucks arrive in the parking lots of grocery stores, that he was more predator than thief. He had also began to feel a psycho-sexual camaraderie with the man that he couldn’t yet express and didn’t trust. He didn’t trust anyone, ever. He might have to kill Dollar Bill. “Just our lucky day. OK. There it is.” Sure enough, a Brinks security truck came rolling into the HEB parking lot and parked in front of the entrance. The passenger in the truck got out and went inside to get that day’s pickup from the bank inside. “Drive me up.” Shelton rolled the Escalade to the back of the vehicle. Bill got out as the security guard, a man of medium build, made his way outside the store. Bill reached down as if to tie his shoes. Actually, he was getting himself stanced up. As soon as Bill heard the door of the armored truck open, he bolted at the guard and smashed him instantly unconscious. 3:02pm: White pawn, b6. There was a fatal flaw to Bill’s plan. He was hitting an armored truck on a summer Saturday in downtown San Antonio. The traffic was heavy. Shelton had stupidly volunteered to be the wheelman for a robbery in the busy downtown of a city he’d never spent any appreciable time in. He weaved through lanes and snaked and honked past vehicles, trying to find an outlet. As Shelton bobbed and weaved, Dollar Bill said “gently caress this” and bailed from the vehicle. Shelton was now alone in his massive SUV, with a bag of stolen money. The gravity of the situation was beginning to dawn on him as an airbag punched in him in the jaw. What did he hit? Shelton Masters, real name Shelton Hafemeister, had sung about Billy the Kid, but mostly could only relate to the lyrics about partying and pretty girls. But today he was running for his life holding a bag of stolen cash. 3:16pm “But I thought the idea was to keep the king protected.” “Well, sure, but he’s a very powerful piece when used offensively.” Stosh had somehow enjoyed this outing with his nephew; had a grateful feeling as he walked back to the car with his new buddy. “And sometimes the game board and the moves made on it create conditions where other pieces have to confront the king. Doesn’t turn out well. For example -” Stosh spun on his heel and rammed his elbow into the throat of a man running in a frantic sprint behind him. “Uncle Stosh, you-” “No, kid it was an accident,” he said as he brought a big, meaty fist down on the jaw of a white man, of slight build, wearing a belt buckle that read: OUTLAW. “Kiddo, some police men will be here in a minute. We’ll hang out and have a whale of a story to tell your mom.”
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Jun 26, 2023 07:37
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So NOBODY picked 69? Well, I'm not too cool for the sex number, but someone still needs to get 420. I can't do everything around here. In with 69. Paladinus posted:360 noscope. I appreciate you.
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Jul 27, 2023 05:50
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The War for Hearts and Minds 1,629 From Week 69: A story of a game, a gift, and a good person Flash rule: Nothing can take place before 1960. Col. Bob Hoffman’s bracelet buzzed on his wrist. He stood, with his horse, at the roadside of a crest of a hill overlooking London. It was a sunny, spring day and Bob serenely basked in the beginnings of an English thaw. “Well, Bob, turns out Young William will write 37 plays,” a rectangle appeared above the bracelet of Bob’s commanding officer, Gen. Montgomery Adams. He continued, ”a whole buttload of sonnets, and other stuff like that. I’m going to have to read it sometime because evidently he’s considered the greatest writer of the English language.” “I didn’t love stabbing that old man.” “Fair Robert,” played General Adams, “thou dispatched that usurer with all providence’s justice in thine act.” “Sir, please …” Colonel Robert Hoffman III had a decorated career in Space Force. He oversaw the expansion of off-world colonies and had tested warp engines on the dark side of Jupiter. He was a scientist, solider, and loving husband. He had been cleared to participate in an Above Top Secret program involving a highly theoretical manipulation of space-time. After the E.T.s arrived, the program was put into practice. Colonel Hoffman was sent back in time to try to prevent the destruction of the human race. So far, this plan had not achieved that goal. Bob knew this because he was in communication with a U.S. government space station locked in a pocket dimension, untouched by the flows of space-time. This station was nevertheless close enough to Bob’s reality that it could, through instrumentation and highly sophisticated AI, monitor the changes in space-time resulting from Bob’s actions. But Col. Hoffman didn’t go back in time to help Shakespeare stay our of debtors prison. The artificial intelligence of the time-space travel apparatus had calculated the exact force at which it needed to punch through space-time to put Col. Huffman ten years in his past. When he arrived in the Hannibal, Missouri of 1847, the AI could only conclude some as-yet unknown presence, living inside-space time had intentionally placed Col. Huffman there. From there it tried to use probability to suss out the entity’s intentions using arcane mathematics. Through a process of trial and error, the team had come to conclude there was some kind of intelligence placing Col. Hoffman in hinge points of space-time. Every time, the team tried to punch a hole in space-time to retrieve Col. Hoffman and bring him to his “present,” the entity would just whip him back or whip him somewhere else. Even if he died, he’d just be yanked back to some other point in history to help Mark Twain live through the flu or help Benny Goodman get his band together. There was never anything of obvious military or governmental import. It seemed to be in the service of producing better artists and philosophers and musicians. He was stuck, the team was stuck, and somewhere out there his home was being destroyed. But some omnipotent liberal arts dickwad was getting its unknowable jollies. It was insulting. More insulting still, he often had to kill, assault, or malign people to do it. He even absconded with Robert Heinlein’s first wife one time. (The computer told him to do it.) “Just hit the button, General.” When Bob awoke, he found himself in a smart brown suit and leather shoes, laying on his back in an alley. After having been pushed to a new point in space-time, communication with command sometimes struggled to find Bob in the swirls of the reality. Bob’s wristwatch crackled with the General’s voice. “Latrobe, Pennsylvania. 1938.” Bob walked into a breezy afternoon in a small town with clean streets lined with adored with lovely old Studebakers. Shops with painted windows lined what appeared to be the main thoroughfare. The period when he was out of contact with command was Bob’s favorite. In the distance, a sign advertised cold beer and billiards. No reason not to get drunk while waiting for some impossibly intelligent computer puppet you into action. Inside the squat, brick building was a long bar or fine mahogany where working men drank beers, ate peanuts, and smoked. Off to the side sat rows of billiard tables. After getting a beer with mystery money in his pocket (God evidently didn’t want him to starve this time), he found a spot on an empty table and started racking. “Say, stranger, do you have an opponent?” The man wore a clear, black suit with bright white pinstripes. The man had money. Bob could tell. “Sure don’t. What’s your name?” “Ed Householder. I run the toy store down the street.” “Bob Hoffman, good to meet you. Right now I’m selling magazine subscriptions.” “Tough racket, Bob.” *** The two men drank, smoked, and shot pool. Hoffman loved pool. He had never been a pro, but often used the game to clear his head. They gambled a little bit, a couple quarters back and forth. Bob got the impression he was pretty evenly matched with Ed. It was when his wristwatch finally crackled again did Bob excuse himself to the bathroom and slipped, instead in a phone booth. “Bob, you gotta gamble your money and you have to win.” Bob didn’t understand why the General always seemed so damned engaged in this exercise anymore. “Seriously, sir?” “Colonel Hoffman, this loving computer says gamble and win and you will gamble and you will loving win. And you’ll do it without insubordination.” “Fine, Monty, fine. I’ll do it.” The military formalities had gotten old for Bob. Bob strode back to the table to reunite with Ed. “How about five dollars for this next game?” “You dog!” exclaimed Ed, “Let’s see it.” Bob produced the last five dollars he had from his pocket and laid the five crisp one-dollar bills on the table. That was enough for Ed. “I’ll rack.” With the discipline of a solider, Bob gave this game maximum effort. He stopped drinking, took time to line shots, and was ever-so-careful to put the cue in the most advantageous position for the next shot. In the end, Bob potted the 8 ball and bested Mr. Householder. Householder, to his credit, was a good sport. “Damned if I didn’t think I had you,” Ed summarized, “You really got me this time.” He reached into pocket and produced a billfold. “Huh. I, uh, I don’t have it.” “OK. So what should we do now?” Bob asked Householder while holding down the wristwatch to try and reach the General. “Tell you what, come with me to my store and I’ll get it from the register.” Bob accompanied the man to his storefront. Householder had fine Rolls Royce whose chrome gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the two men rode together down the street to Householder’s Toys. A man of maybe seventeen years manned the cash register while some young schoolboys were dawdling before going back to their respective homes for supper. Householder pushed the young attendant aside and opened the register. “Hey, kid, where’s the money?” Ed didn’t seem so jolly seeing a nearly empty cash register. “I have a bill to pay.” “I’m sorry Mr. Householder. I took it to the bank. Here’s the deposit slip.” Ed Householder was awfully perturbed at coming up short on cash twice. He began berating the youth for his poor timing, Deposits should be made at 4:30 and no sooner. Bob tuned out the argument and let his attention wander around the store taking in the fine craftsmanship of the various dolls and amusements. Much of it was carved, painted wood. Young boy, maybe ten, admired a wooden dummy in a tuxedo and red tie. “C’mon, Fat Freddy, we don’t have time for your window shopping!” shouted a nasty little boy. “Hey!” said Bob with annoyance. “That’s not nice! To call a kid fat like that. What’s the matter with you?” Bob’s defense of the young boy had evidently brought up a lot of emotions in him because he now stood next to Bob, unmoving, as his cruel playmate exited the store. Bob took a look at the boy. He was pale and heavy set with jet black hair, and tears came down his cheeks. “It’s OK. You can take a minute to feel what you’re feeling kid.” Bob was evidently unable to reach command and knew from experience he was missing vital information. gently caress it, he thought, just go with it. “Hey Ed!” He shouted to the register. How about give me this dummy and we’ll call it even. Ed, still deep into lecturing his young employee, shouted, “Fine. Deal,” in return. With that, Col. Hoffman picked up the dummy and knelt down to the kid’s level. “Here, kid. Take this. I wish I could make people say nice things, but that’s just impossible sometimes. But you can make this little fella say nice things. I bet you can.” Bob left the store to head back to the tavern to bum a beer or asked to work in trade. gently caress this time travel nonsense. As he walked down the street, his wristwatch crackled to life again prompting Bob to duck into an alley. The General’s face looked up at Bob, eyes filled with glee. “You sonovabitch you did it.” “What?” “The computer is giving me a high HIGH probability that we’re going to wind up communicating with the E.T.s” “The gently caress you say?” “Someone named Fred Rogers …” the General began. “Fat Freddy?” “He made some sort of kids show about feeling and,” the General was overcome by joy, “and I don’t know how the gently caress but some stupid television program … and now we’re at peace.” “You’re loving with me.” “I’m not loving with you.,” the General glanced down at an out-of-sight display and stated, “Colonel Hoffman. I believe you’re coming home.”
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Jul 31, 2023 07:53
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I'm in. Let's do this.
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Sep 22, 2023 06:43
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It’s Just Seasonal 100 Words OK, circle up. It’s our busy season so we can’t have a long meeting about this. OK. That’s everyone. I know the State of Florida, the scientific community, and probably many people in this room do not recognize the existence of faerie creatures – or pixies or leprechauns or ghosts. I can’t have an argument right now. We have them – something – in the office. I’ve seen them. They’re tiny people, but, I think, as entities, they’re much larger. One lit my trashcan on fire. I can’t take you off your audits, but I need you to keep an eye out. Please.
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Sep 22, 2023 06:45
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