|
Aleph Null posted:My first stories were entirely dialogue with no indicators of who was speaking. Although it worked for the one about the schizophrenic whose best friend was a tree named Krysta. Haha would this be a good time to mention that the story I'm finishing up for this thread is 99% dialogue? (I'm not completely green, though, so it'll at least be intelligible.)
|
#
?
Oct 24, 2018 02:17
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 28, 2024 23:00 |
|
|
stories posted on SA should look exactly the same as multi-paragraph posts on SA, even dialog. This is how far apart every new paragraph should be from the preceding paragraph.
|
|
#
?
Oct 24, 2018 02:51
|
|
|
Antivehicular posted:To follow up on this: if you want to critique other people's entries, that's great, but wait until after the contest is over and don't be a dick about it. I'll leave it up to Pham as to whether those critiques should be posted here or elsewhere. 
|
|
#
?
Oct 24, 2018 03:37
|
|
|
The Numbers Station (1900 Words) A soft northern breeze picked up off the sea, and Miguel took a moment to enjoy the warm air. By his count, it was May, and warm days were growing scarce. His potatoes would need harvesting soon, but not today. Today was spent at the top of the lighthouse, it's lens casting little rainbows of sunlight around the top of the tower. From deep inside the lighthouse, he heard a speaker crackle to life, and a female voice begin to speak a stream of numbers. It was 18:00. Miguel looked out to sea, and he saw nothing but the waves and the reddening of the western sky - lavenders and maroons that were beautiful until he remembered why. Five years ago.. had it been six now? No matter. One evening like this one, Miguel had stood atop the lighthouse, three months into a six month rotation, and he'd watched the missiles trace blazing arcs across the sky. Then the contrails of the big bombers could be made out in the dusk light. They flew out across the ocean, never to return. All the horrors of mutually assured destruction were let out of their box in one cathartic evening: atom bombs and doomsday devices and all the things they swore they'd never built, and would never use even if they had. Miguel sighed and looked down at the tower's walkway. Twinkling little shards of glass still were lodged in crevices where his broom couldn't reach. Sometime during that awful night, there had been a sound like the world being ripped in two. Huddled by the radio in the basement of the lighthouse, he was convinced the old cement and masonry structure would fall and bury him alive – but it stood. Whatever had caused the noise had shattered the great storm windows that shielded the lens, and the massive light bulb as well. At a hand's width thick, the lens survived, but the lighthouse would never again keep a ship off the rocks. Still, no ship ever returned to the sea around Miguel's lighthouse, so the rocks were wreck-free. In the weeks after the end of the world, Miguel listened to his radio. He heard McMurdo base on the ice shelf, and Scott base at the pole – both spared the initial destruction, both isolated and watching their food supplies dwindle daily. He heard Johannesburg and their talk of the terrible Pluto missiles that screamed along at hypersonic speeds, tossing atomic bombs in their wakes until they ran out. Then they flew down to treetop level, flying circles around the Transvaal and spewing out hot radioactive death from their unshielded reactors. Montevideo claimed that something had fallen from the sky onto Buenos Aries. Not a bomb, but something that left a trail of fire in the sky and cracked the earth so deeply that a pillar of lava was visible for days. The Rio de la Plata had boiled away before the Atlantic swept back into cover the sea floor. Miguel listened to Auckland and Christchurch, and heard them describe the pillars of dust they saw in the West, and no one spoke from Sydney or Canberra ever again. And slowly, over the course of months, fewer and fewer voices carried over the airwaves. Miguel tried to talk to them when he could – to learn of where they were and what had become of the world. More often than not they spoke languages he did not understand, so he tried to learn a little, mostly fruitlessly. He would count out, slow and steady, from one to ten, then twenty to a hundred. Sometimes they would count back to him, and he'd take notes. Sometimes he could pick up a few simple phrases – “Hello,” “How are you?” “Sick and hungry.” Then after a year or so, almost all the living voices vanished. Miguel expected to sicken as well – he'd heard the calls from Peru – the stories of how Lima became a city of ghouls with sunken eyes, wiggly teeth, and hair that fell like autumn leaves. The winds from Brazil had blown fallout across the Amazon and Andes. Through some trick of the winds and the currents, Miguel stayed healthy. He had a small garden, and the fish were still biting along the shore. Was it a miracle or a curse? As the voices of the living vanished from the airwaves, the numbers stations still broadcast. Miguel knew these were recordings of the dead. With monotonous drones, the radio let their voices drift around the lighthouse, speaking one number at a time in long strings. Were they reading off authentication codes, on the off chance that a submarine commander might still have a boat full of missiles? Was there a spy still alive somewhere, in need of an encryption key? Miguel didn't know, but at least it was a voice that was not his – something to break the terrible silence of the sea and the lighthouse. His favorite was the Russian station – a young woman's voice that sounded slightly lonely and tired. Every day at 6pm, the station would crackle to life, and she would read out a string of numbers. Then she would pause, and a tone would play. It wasn't like a digital beep, but rather it was like some sort of analog acknowledgment. They were slightly musical, a chorus of two-note angels that spoke their own language but would answer her numeric calls. Miguel wired up speakers across the lighthouse. He could listen to the voices from the top of the tower, or while he weeded his carrots and beans. All through the day, the sound of counting echoed across the little island. The American station in the morning, which he didn't much care for because he suspected it was synthesized. The Chilean and his absurd accent went on the air around noon, and he would giggle to himself and imitate the speaker. His 'd's were swallowed and every 's' turned into an 'h.' But that warm May evening, Miguel stood atop the lighthouse, gazed off at the setting sun, and listened for the Russian girl. He ran his hand across the big lens with a soft cloth, polishing it out of habit, and heard her say in her precise, measured, and slightly weary voice: “Shest chetyre odin dva vosem tri dva odin dva sem.” Six four one two eight three two one two seven. He liked to try to translate the numbers to himself before one of the tones sounded, marking the end of her string and clearing her to begin the next. He'd done this countless times now. “Odin odin sem...*achoo* vosem devyat pyat...” Miguel started - listening and agog - because never before had a numbers station sneezed. He listened to the Russian girl rattle off another string, and another tone, before he ran down the spiral steps heading to the radio room. Frantically reaching for the microphone, he thumbed the transmit button, and plead into the ether. “Hello? Hello? Is there anyone there?!” Nothing responded but another string of numbers, and the answering musical tones. Miguel tried again, desperately, and again. The Russian station reached the final string of numbers for the night, and fell silent. That night was sleepless. His mind reeled, knowing that somewhere another person was still alive, and talking. Even if it was just numbers, she was there. And if she was Russian, it stood to reason she was half a world away. Was she in Vladivostok, or Moscow, or were those places wiped from the face of the Earth like so many others? Was she at sea, or in space, or so deep in Siberia that no bombs landed near her? To reach through the airwaves and seize her, shake her, hug her, and talk to her endlessly. His only words of Russian were the numbers, but that is where he would start. The next morning he shuffled through the tool room, and found a roll of thin steel cable. His transmitter was only meant to talk to the ships that delivered him to the island, or ferried him away when his relief was rotated in. So, Miguel set to work, stringing an antenna from the top of the lighthouse to the shoreline, and wiring it to the little radio set in the basement. Each evening, between strings of numbers and tones, he keyed up. Each evening, no response came. The warm evenings of early May turned into the chilly nights of mid-July, and every night Miguel murmured into the microphone, telling her of the fish that he caught, the beans that were now drying in the stairwell, and how he'd sell his soul for either a piece of fresh baked bread or just a call back from a Russian woman who spoke in numbers. On a cold, moonless night in August, she began, “Pyat tri odin tri dva vosem...” Miguel keyed the transmitter and quietly repeated, “Pyat tri odin tri...” in response. She paused. “Shto?” Then she went back to her numbers. Miguel gaped at the radio. Had she heard him? She must have. He didn't know what she said, but it was obvious that she had listened. “Hello. Please, please can you hear me?” Another pause, longer this time, then a sigh, “Ochistite etot kanal.” “Who are you? Where are you?” “Mohlchyats!” It was useless. He could not say anything that meant anything to her, and likewise, she could not speak anything but the numbers to him. The numbers. The numbers! While she resumed her usual broadcast, Miguel ran to a map hung on the wall of the radio room. Fumbling with a pencil and a piece of paper, he scratched down numbers one at a time, first for the latitude, then the longitude of his tiny island. He ran back to the radio console, just as she finished a string and a tone sounded. Miguel keyed the microphone and spoke, “Pyat chetyre odin sem pyat shest pyat dva sem sem.” “Nyet! Zakroy rot!” He could not understand her, so again he keyed and spoke his co-ordinates. “Zatknis!” Now she almost sobbed – but Miguel was insistent. She must know that someone else still lived, that someone else was listening. So once again, clearly and slowly, he spoke his numbers into the mic. “Pyat chetyre odin sem pyat shest pyat dva sem sem.” And then a tone sounded. It was the same two little boops, the angel's notes that answered her calls. “Nyet! Blyat!” and then the station closed with a crackle of static that persisted a moment before the squelch silenced it. Miguel sat in front of the radio, dumbstruck. Heart pounding, he tried transmitting several more times, in hopes that she was still listening - that someone, somewhere would hear him. All he heard in response was dead air. He climbed the steps of the lighthouse, sat heavily against the remains of the light fixture, placed his face into his hands and sobbed. The stars wheeled overhead, and through his tears he caught a glimpse of something sparkle as it broke the horizon and streaked toward the little island. It passed overhead with a flash, and he only felt the crushing shock wave for the briefest moment before the lighthouse toppled like a sandcastle washed away by the tide.
|
|
#
?
Oct 24, 2018 04:52
|
|
|
sexy ghosts 50 words --- as she uncoiled her lithe and gleaming self from the stripper pole and folded like a crane onto my lap, she said "i'm already dead and so are you bitch" and then snipped off my erection with her bloodthirsty ghost cooch. i died almost immediately, and i have never risen
|
|
#
?
Oct 24, 2018 11:23
|
|
|
Submissions close in just over 2 days so finish up and get ready to submit your story!
|
|
#
?
Oct 25, 2018 01:27
|
|
|
MURDER 1389 words By her first moonrise alone in the woods she could hear the crows speak. "How long do you think it has?" one crow said to another. "About two days if it doesn't eat," said the second. "And I don't think it'll catch anything on that leg." She had put the bone protruding out of her knee out of her mind. If she thought about it, she would have to feel it, and she preferred the hunger pangs and the aches in her arms as she pulled herself towards nowhere in particular. "Can you hear me?" she called to the slowly gathering birds. "Do you know the way to the nearest town? Campsite? Anything?" "You mean the human territories," said another crow, perching on a naked moonlit branch. "I think there's a colony on the other side of the river. Nothing that you'll make it to in time." "I agree," said a fourth bird. "Might as well just wait. We'll wait with you." She pulled herself harder through the dirt. The crows kept talking through the night, discussing, wagering, bickering over how long they would have to wait. And the other animals started talking too, but the beetles and crickets didn't have much to say but lonely love songs. And the empty night was filled with chatter, and she preferred it to the silence. "Why did he try to kill me?" she groaned as she pulled herself against a hollowed oak. "Why did he throw me off that cliff?" "To eat you, of course," said a crow from the shadows. "That's why everything kills." "No," she said. "Humans don't kill other humans for that. Not usually." "How strange," said the crow. "Your meat's perfectly good." The crows were there in the sunlight, but they were silent. And she was glad that the pain from her wounds kept her from sleeping, because she didn't reckon she'd wake. In the evening, the crows started flying off, and she wished they could speak in the sunlight so they could tell her why. And by the time the moon rose, they were all gone, and she was left to her hunger pangs and her aching arms and her bloody knee and her sleepless delirium without company. She dragged herself to a thin path and felt relief until she saw the hoofprints in the mud. And in her hopelessness, she felt every pain at once until they were one and screamed at the moon. As if in answer, something started moving in the trees. "Is someone there?" she shouted. "Help me! Help me please!" An old man in a dark hooded cloak wandered from the woods onto the deer trail, silhouetted by the moon. She kept screaming for him to come and slowly, he did. And just as she was thanking him, he knelt down and she could see under his hood. Crows. Dozens, hundreds, uncountable; writhing, cawing, hungry crows wrapped in ancient torn cloth. It had a face of ravenous beaks and hands a mess of woven clasping talons. As she screamed and sobbed, the Murder spoke. "This is the first time you've ever been hungry, isn't it? Not just the first time you've been starving, the first time you've even been hungry beyond a dull craving. You never even expected to be hungry. You got to forget that hunger even existed. We don't get that luxury in the wild. The bugs, the bears, the birds, the germs... we never forget what hunger is. Even now, we're just as hungry as you are. Every day and every night in the woods is lit with patient desperation. Scream and cry and shout, if you'd like. Drag yourself a little closer to nowhere. It won't matter. We'll be waiting." "Get away from me, you animals!" she cried. "Animals?" said the Murder. " Don't pretend that you're not made of meat. Your kind comes to the wild with your guns and your traps, thinking you're above us, that you escaped your meathood, that you can turn all the world into one of your hungerless hives. But you're all made of meat. Count yourself lucky that you got to learn all that this late." So she kept crawling, and the Murder followed, sometimes out of sight but always present. And the bugs sang their songs, lonelier and more desperate than the night before. And a coyote joined in, singing, "I am lost. I am alone. I am scared. Where are you?" "You know that song well, don't you?" said the Murder. "No," she said. "I just learned it yesterday. Will the coyote come for me?" "I don't think so. It's hungry, like we all are, but food isn't what's most important to it tonight." She thought the sun must have risen again, because it was much brighter, but the sky was a yellow she had never seen and the trees seemed to breathe and to moan. Everything she saw wriggled and waved. And the Murder was a flock of crows again, and they filled the sky screeching their caws until they became a singular droning call. Then it was probably night again though the day seemed too short and too long at the same time, and the world was drenched in purple silver, and the groaning trees bled from the holes in their bark and a thousand crickets cried about how he and he alone was the loneliest. She stopped crawling. As she spread herself on the forest floor, the Murder reformed and stood above her. "You're almost there," said the Murder. "Did you ever find out why he killed you?" She didn't have the strength to move her lips, but she knew the Murder could hear her. "I have a guess." "Tell us. We want to know." "I think he wanted to be with me. And when he figured out that wasn't going to happen, he got mad. So he threw me off a cliff." Something in her belly moved. Through the pain and hunger, she still knew how to laugh. And the crows under the Murder's hood started laughing too, not with words but with their crow calls. They collected themselves, and the Murder said, "Say what you will about we wild folk. We would never kill over something that stupid." "Am I going to die here in this nightmare?" she asked. "It doesn't have to be a nightmare. Close your eyes." She did, and she felt everything: each mite, each germ, each fleck of moonlight and caress of grass. She felt her body being absorbed into the Earth, and into the air, and into the stars, and into nothing. "It's not that bad, is it?" said the Murder. "No," she said. "Is this death?" "Yes," said the Murder. "And it's life. We have been to places where humans put their dead in boxes under the Earth. Nothing can eat them, the living parts of your bodies doomed to die uselessly. Who knows? After we and the worms consume you, maybe a tree will be born out of your bones. Maybe a city of ants will be founded in your skull. You will be part of all of this again. You will be home. You will...just a second." The Murder sniffed the air. "What's that? Open your eyes." She did. She rolled over in the direction of the Murder's pointing talons. The man who threw her off the cliff was hanging by his neck from a tree. "Why did he die?" asked the Murder. "He killed himself," she said. "No," said the Murder. "That makes no sense." "It's something humans do when they're in pain. They quit." "How odd," said the Murder. "What was he hurting from?" "Probably guilt," she replied. "What's guilt?" the Murder asked. "Oh, who cares? Let's eat." The Murder ran to the hanging body, and she crawled there too with the last of her energy. Together, they shared a meal, the Murder pecking at his face and her tearing at the flesh of his thighs. And as she ate, the trees stopped breathing, the crickets song became a chirp, and at last, the Murder dissolved into a flock of ordinary, cawing crows. The crows dispersed when they heard the shouting and saw the flashlights through the trees, but she kept eating. After all, the crows were right. It was perfectly good meat.
|
|
#
?
Oct 25, 2018 03:53
|
|
|
The Creepy Old House that No One Lives In 870 words Pete had been in the house for ten minutes when his flashlight died. He rapped it on his palm a few times and only got a few sputtering gasps of light for his effort. Glancing back down the dusty, darkened hall he’d come from, Pete was having second thoughts. Even if it wasn’t haunted, did he really want to spend his whole Halloween in here? But… he didn’t want the other kids in the neighborhood to think he was chicken. Better to just wait it out. There will be more Halloweens, right? His internal debate was cut short when he heard the floorboard beneath him let out a sickening crack. Pete looked down, and as if in slow motion, he saw the floorboard sag, then break. He fell into darkness. _______ “I bet you can’t stay in there until midnight. No one ever does.” The green monster pulled up his mask, and young boy grinned at Pete, saying, “Anyway, I’m Jason. What’s your name?” Pete’s twelve year old mind was so busy taking offense at his new Trick or Treating partner questioning his courage that it took him a moment to even register the question. Stammering as his mind caught up with the conversation, Pete said, “P-pete. And I’m not scared!” Jason’s grin didn’t move as Pete spoke. A long moment of silence passed before Jason spoke again, saying, “Prove it! I bet you my bag of candy against yours that you can't stay in there for an hour.” As he was saying this., Jason held his plastic Trick or Treating jack-o-lantern in front of Pete, and Pete’s eyes went wide. It was filled up to the brim with candy.. And was that a full sized Hershey’s bar? Before he realized what he was doing, Pete said, “Deal.” Jason didn’t say anything. He just kept grinning. ____________ Eyes fluttering open, Pete saw moonlight through the tattered shades of the window a floor above him. Blinking, he started to sit up, but his pounding head protested. Pete took another moment to stare up at the moonlight. Jason was leaning over the hole in the floor, staring down at him and grinning wider than ever before. He started speaking, but the words didn’t quite line up with his mouth as he said, “You’ve been out a while, Pete.” Jason leaned back until his head disappeared from the first floor. Then, Pete jumped as he saw Jason’s grin, now an open leer peek out from under the basements stairs as he said, “Do you know why no one stays here past midnight, Pete? Because the people who stay longer, never leave.” Jason’s face slowly moved back under the stairs until it disappeared. The hairs on the back of Pete’s neck stood on end as he felt the presence of something behind him. Pete didn’t dare turn around, even when he heard Jason’s voice whisper hoarsely into his ear, “You know, Pete, I’d say you’re almost out of time.” The grandfather clock on the first floor began to chime midnight. One. Two. In a panic, Pete lurched towards the stairs out of the basement. Even through the fog that was currently filling his head, he was sure that the stairs would bring him to the front parlor. Three, Four. Halfway up the stairs now, Pete lowered his shoulder, half expecting the door to be locked or to find Jason on the other side, trying to hold him inside. Five, Six. Pete burst through the door with almost no resistance, his eyes wildly searching for the front door. It only took him an instant to spot the massive pair of doors in the front of the house. He sprinted towards it. Seven, Eight. Suddenly, he was yanked back and sprawled out on the ground. His vision start to swim as his head hit the ground again. Jason had him. He was sure of it. There was no chance now. He turned back to stare down the monster Nine. Ten. His candy bag had caught on a splintered table. The bag tore and spilled his candy across the floor. He heard Jason’s laugh coming from all around him, sounding like nothing more than the sound of the house itself creaking and groaning. Eleven. His heart leapt. He still had a chance! Pete reached a hand out towards the open door and- Twelve. The door slammed shut. ________ Tommy was eleven years old and new in town. Hoping to make a friend, he’d begged his mom to let him go Trick or Treating around the block by himself. By the looks of the kid in the sheet ghost costume walking the block with him, he thought he was well on his way to making his first friend. After a Trick or Treating together for half an hour, they reached a large, old house with a wrought iron fence. The ghost said, “You know, no one goes in there. They say it’s haunted on Halloween.” “Yeah, right! Ghosts aren’t real!” The boy in the ghost costume said, “I bet you can’t stay in there till midnight. No one ever does.” The young boy pulled up the sheet and grinned at Tom, saying, “Anyway, I’m Pete. What’s your name?”
|
|
#
?
Oct 26, 2018 05:55
|
|
|
Not 6666 words Girl scouts were for loving lesbians. She thought of her mom while she bandaged her arm using her teeth to keep tension as she made the knot. All the dykes were in Chappa Kai tongue-job anyway. She was fortunate that one of the first aid kits was in her section of the plane. One of the few things to bounce her way that long day. Wonder where the food tray fell. She had not eaten since the plane went down that morning. Breakfast was being served but she and her family were in the back and the cart never got to her. She’d die for that poo poo right now. Trying to remember a whole day without food only drew a blank. You had food in your purse. All 340$ worth of black leather just dangling there in the jungle. It had to still be hanging to the armrest of an upside down business class seat which in turn was stuck, connected the the tail section of the plane, upside down and missing the roof. Not going back there. No no no Lifting up her arm to bandage it she caught a whiff of her own stench. It was welcome for most of the day it seemed the world's only fragrance was jet fuel. It seemed the plane was a pinata of only of jet fuel and peoples clothes. She was not going back to the only food she could think of. She had spent most of the day unconscious and upside down in her seat long after the rear section severed from the fuselage and laid to rest on the forested mountainside. She dreaded that seat. Just thinking about it was like being crushed by thousands of pounds of pure fear. If there was a hell, she had endured it there on that location . She couldn’t sleep on planes. Perched by the window it was a beautiful sunrise. The cool grey clouds underneath the burning brilliant sun struggling to light from beyond the horizon. The clouds were uneven and some lay on top of the others. It was fine and natural until she saw wet rocks propping up the clouds and being roughly the same elevation as the plane and not particularly far. “M’am are we near mountains?” she asked the stewardess. Looking out the window the stewardess replied “No I don't think so. We did just start flying over New Guinea. Maybe it's just the clouds.” Maybe it's just the clouds. Now she really regretted reading about the recent spate of pilot suicides. Looking out the sea of clouds, the spine of a mountain went zooming by. Well you didn't get clean soon enough. Putting her mouth in position to make a scared “M'am” but before she could say anything there was a tiny jolt. The wing up to the engine had been sheared clean off. The plane immediately started banking in that direction. She looked to her husband and son sitting in her row. What could she say? “Honey wake up you are going to die.” didn't seem appealing so she said nothing as the plane started to roll. All her wants, her dreams her desires were about to end.That sinking feeling wasn't just her window seat becoming the bottom of the the plane. To top it off the overhead bins burst forth and covered her in luggage. She was smoking. It was a big, half empty room and she was a “GUEST OF HONOR.” so nobody seemed to care. The FAA was doing a reenactment of what happened next with toy models that looked like they came from from her uncle’s model train set. Taxpayer money. How something weighing half a million pounds and traveling at 500 mph came to a stop was due to trees, lots and lots of trees. The plane hit the mountain at an angle almost if it was trying to land on it. Trees in front and trees nearly horizontal below. The other thing she noticed was the lack of press compared to the trials. After all planes fall out of the sky all the time, it’s just not as often are the survivors immediately mass murdered. So she rolled around, strapped to her seat in a blender of luggage and screams. Her boys pleas being the most proximate and the one most seared in her memory. After the plane slid through the ground the metal tearing and the outside lights rotating gave the sensation akin to an ant in a copying machine. It lasted what felt an eternity and she kept waiting to be knocked out on her way to the forever after. The tail and its fins caught the trees stronger than the rest of the heavier fuselage. About two or three rows and the entire rear ripped off and stopped rolling. Seats, luggage and people started spilling out of the section. This is about the time where her official testimony ended. She was hit in the head by something while the tail section shifted around for a stop. Her husband and son were both alive somewhat miraculously but things went black. If she ever wanted to get back on the h-train and needed some money one day she would tell the truth or some version of it but for now “I don't remember anything.” Beyond that was a convenient gently caress off. She watched her son slide down the hill towards her husband. The distance between her seat and him was nearly vertical. They both had mud on their pants from the wet ground between the roof of the cabin and their stop near some trees. Her husband was about to beckon her down when there was screaming from the forest. “Help! Help me! They killed all the passengers!” she yelled as she emerged, covered in baked blood. Suddenly her eyeball was ejected from the socket as an arrow pierced her head. She fell to the ground. A couple of men wearing nothing that could be called clothes came out of the jungle. Armed with bows and arrows they then turned their sights on her husband. “Wait.” as he put his arms out in a pushing motion. They then shot him several times in the chest. He toppled over and her son went crying to him. “Daddy” he yelled as an arrow taller than he was impaled him. She watched this through the cover of two cloth airline seat. Her right hand starting shaking violently and she tried to scream but nothing came out. A boy no more than 8 moved to the front of the group. Wearing only something that resembled a hula hoop around his waist, his uncircumsized penis waggled about. He had a little bow which he used to shoot her son’s corpse, except missing every time. The arrows bounced off the ground and ricocheted off the body's. He had these odd blonde curls. They bleach his hair? The gently caress The group of the men turned their attention to the part of the plane nearby. She hid under the seats. Some of them attempted to reach it but the muddy cliff was too slick and they fell back down, rejected. They then left until it was just the boy and what she assumed was his father both looking around at her family's corpses until they bored and descend down the hill. Time past and she wrongly left the confines of the tail section. Sliding down the mountain she picked up a few cuts. A bush next to a tree provided her cover. Using a first aid kit she started bandaging herself. She thought about her husband. He was a nice man. Though when nice becomes the primary compliment of someone it becomes less of a compliment and more of a condemnation. He had been her sponsor. He could barely summon enough courage to ask her to coffee a few months after she would would have sucked any dick that produced a 20$. Loved but replaceable. As for her son. The purity of something from so impure always stunned her. But the world corrupts and she could already imagine him a grown up frat boy diddling some unsuspecting sorority girl like it was a favor. Always wanted a girl anyway. Despite all this those two fuckers were hers. loving cavemen just took them from her like it was nothing. They did it like it was nothing. Rage filled her veins as whatever happiness and heroin had been drained away. Now she was using the bandage to make a spear out of a branch and a piece of aluminum from the plane. She had seen the blonde boy and his father enter a house made of dead trees and leaves all the way from her spot in the plane. Creeping through the dark and the foliage she made it there and found the man sleeping on his back. She pointed the spear at his heart, he awoke and she shoved it through his stomach all the way to the floor. He writhed with agony and screamed. That was about when walked in, little boy with his little prick just flapping about in the night.
|
|
#
?
Oct 26, 2018 08:28
|
|
|
A House That Breathes What drew me to the house the most were the occult circles drawn on the living room floor. Partially framed and partially obscured by the autumn leaves, they traced a language, beyond my understanding, that nonetheless spoke to me. It was a ramshackle thing, abandoned up on the hillside, facing out west towards the distant sea. After I threw my whole life away, I came out here and pitched a tent in the woods. The days were for long walks, and the nights were for shivering in my tent (with a bottle of scotch if I was lucky), and trying not to think about the coming winter. It was on one of those walks that I found the house, up on that hill, bathed in rough gold of early evening. I made my way in, finding the door unlocked, certain the place was empty. As I explored, drifting through the playful dust motes, I found the evidence of a life not-so-well lived. An old man, a scholar of some kind. Photos at first full of smiling friends and family, but with each picture, as each careworn line was added to the face, a person disappeared. Until at last he stood alone, grimacing into the lens, determined to record... something. Smart but tattered old clothes, trinkets, mementos, and books. Books everywhere. As I went further in to the house the books became more esoteric, more devoted to the mysteries and the impenetrable grammar of reality. In the living room, windows facing west, I found the ritual circles, the melted candles, and the scraps of cloth daubed with strange symbols. The scene spoke of determination, and desperation. I fell in love instantly. Upstairs, I found three bedrooms. Only the smallest was furnished. A dresser, covered with more photos, each face carefully burned off, as though with a cigarette. A broken mirror. An imposing old cupboard, of the sort to give any small child nightmares. And the remains of a bed, burned to a crisp in some strange blaze that took nothing else but a part of a curtain. Taking this all in, I felt a deep sadness and turned away, closing the door. I did not go back in to that room. That night I went back to my camp and sat up until dawn, staring into the fire. I packed up my few remaining possessions, and moved into the house. I took the second-biggest bedroom, putting my bedroll in the corner furthest from the window. The room was empty save for a few items of furniture draped in white cloth. I resolved to leave the room as it was, unless or until some inspiration struck me. On the first morning the west wind drifted in through my window, rustling the flimsy curtains and bringing with it the salt of the sea. For the first few days I touched or moved as a few of the contents as I could. I began to think of myself as a sort of curator, charged with preserving the memory of this strange man; this grimacing arcanist who lost or left everyone he knew until he destroyed himself contacting powers he didn't fully understand. Slowly, my confidence grew, and I began to investigate this life and the secrets it had left behind in the stacks of books scattered in piles around every room. On the twelfth night I found a fourth bedroom. I stopped, staring at the doors, counting them over and over, daring them to add up to a number that made sense. No, now there were four. Inside was a well-appointed but messy bedroom. An unmade bed, a woman's clothes strewn across the floor. There were framed photos everywhere, but for some reason I couldn't make out the faces. They'd blur, or my eyes would refuse to focus on them, instead resting elsewhere. Only one face came through, a smiling woman in early middle age, her auburn hair catching the summer light in every shot. I got the sense that I was being shown something, although it was beyond me to fathom what it was. And for the first time since I entered this house, I felt like an intruder. I closed the door and went to my own room, and dreamed of a sun-bleached town slowly emptying of life and hope, and of the people futilely sacrificing all they had to preserve it. In the morning there were only there bedrooms again. I sat by my open window, caressed by the sigh of the sea air, wondering if there was any hope left to spare. A few weeks later I made my first change to the house. Under a drape I found a stack of framed paintings, one of which caught my eye. In it, a young man stood in formal dress against a dark background, glowering out of the frame at the viewer. Fascinated by it, I hung it over the fireplace in what I had come to think of as the "Ritual Room", a room until now wholly undisturbed. The following morning it was gone, returned to the stack under the drape. Perturbed but determined to leave some mark of my own, I replaced it with a large botanical illustration of a rose. This seemed acceptable, and it stayed. A few days later, in the evening, I found a second dining room through a new door off the hall. The first dining room was basically impenetrable, filled almost to the brim with junk. This one was immaculate, and in the centre, lit by candles, was a large table covered with food. I sat and ate my first proper meal in months, doing my best not to look at the far end of the table, cloaked as it was in shadow. Just the hint of a figure sitting there, looking back at me. The worst mistake I made was the lightning tree. One night a storm blew through, and an old oak tree was blown apart by a lightning strike. I went out to investigate the following morning and found a section of branch, gnarled by age and charred by the lightning. Enthralled by it, I brought it in and put it in the fireplace. That night I was awoken by a strong wind that threw my window open and carried with it a long, mournful howl, like a distressed animal. I ran downstairs. In the fireplace, the branch burned, magnesium bright. I scurried back up to my room and buried by head deep in the sleeping bag. The following day I went deep into the woods to clear my head. I don't know whether or not I intended to escape. Perhaps just get far away for a while. But every path I took lead back to the house. Soon after, in a frantic act of defiance, I brought in as much of that old tree as I could manage. I filled the house with it, fashioning crudely blasphemous shapes from its blasted pieces. When I awoke the next morning, there was no door to my room and I could not see out of the window. There was light, but no shape or form. I sat, trapped, for who knows how long. I tried to mark the days on the wall, but with each morning, yesterday's mark would be gone. I tried counting in my head instead, and after a few false starts I got to somewhere around eleven thousand before losing count again. Some while after, the door returned, and I went downstairs to another new dining room and an even more sumptuous meal. I didn't even glance at the other end of the table. After that the light in the house softened. There was a sense of a need to reconcile, and with it, a new circle on the floor of the Ritual Room. When I discovered it, I stood and watched the scattered leaves rearrange themselves to better fit the new pattern. Since then, things have been mostly quiet, mostly harmonious. The house tolerates me, perhaps even begrudgingly welcomes me. It has taken on the air of a puzzle that needs to be solved; and I want to solve it, but for the fact that most of the pieces are missing and the picture on the box has burned away. Rooms appear and disappear, according to some whim of the house, or what it perceives to be my needs. Most of the apparitions I don't understand, but with each one I feel that another small piece of that burned picture has revealed itself. I live in a house that breathes, slowly expanding and contracting according to some unknown process. In the early morning it sighs, gently, and upon its sigh is carried the west wind, and the salt of the sea. I live inside the remains of a person, and I am content, for now. 1476 words.
|
|
#
?
Oct 26, 2018 16:16
|
|
|
The Lady of Milwaukee - 1569 words Let’s rent a boat. Go out on Lake Michigan. Have our own little private booze cruise. Stargaze. Get drunk and howl at the full moon. Sure, she said, like an idiot. Let’s do it. It was always a little windy on the lake, always a little choppy driving out onto it. But tonight had been different. There was almost no wind, and there were barely any waves to speak of. However, a thick fog had rolled in from the north. Clouds shrouded the full moon. The temperature dropped. Then the boat died. Darlene was shivering in her sexy pirate outfit. The skirt was short, showing off her velvet thigh high boots, but she had decided not to wear stockings. Her billowy pirate shirt was made from the thinnest of materials. The cold seeped right through. The only thing on her that wasn’t cold was the top of her head, where her three-cornered hat was still jauntily cocked to one side. She looked at Kate jealously. Kate smiled back. She was dressed as a sexy Red Riding Hood. Thick white stockings adorned her long legs. Her skirt went to her knees. She had the red cape closed to keep out the cold. Joshua appeared from the cabin with two steaming glasses. Darlene could just make him out in the hazy glow of the Chicago skyline. He was dressed as a Spartan with a slight beer belly, with sandals, a little cloth around his waist, and a thick cloak. Darlene thought he was a sexy Spartan, at least to her. “Mulled wine, to keep you ladies warm,” he said. “Any idea what’s wrong with the engine?” Darlene asked. She took a glass and immediately took a sip. “No idea,” Joshua shrugged. “The cold crept in from the north, and as soon as it hit us the whole thing just shut off.” “What do we do now?” Kate asked. “I’ll keep trying to get it started,” Joshua answered. “We still have cell service out here, so I’ll give Ron a call if I can’t get her to work. He’ll come out on one of his pontoons and get us running again.” With that, he disappeared back into the bowels of the boat. Darlene was feeling warmer now with a hot alcoholic beverage in her. Kate whirled her cape behind her, exposing her lovely red bodice. Darlene suddenly had half a mind to crawl under that cape and start unlacing that bodice, exposing those perky pushed up breasts of Kate’s. Kate wasn’t paying one bit of mind however. She was staring out of the rear of the boat with a look of concern. “Are we in a barge lane?” she asked. Darlene’s eyebrows shot up into her three-cornered hat, and her head whipped around to the rear of the boat. “Oh poo poo,” Darlene said. There was something in the fog coming straight at them. It looked like an old steamship with waterwheels on its sides. That didn’t seem right, but sure enough, as it steamed closer, she saw smoke billowing into the foggy night, and those waterwheels were churning through the lake. “Joshua, we got trouble!” Kate yelled. A loud thump echoed throughout the boat followed by swearing. Joshua came up a moment later rubbing his head. His jaw dropped when he saw what was coming. The steamship couldn’t have been more than 75 meters away and closing. He jammed on the start button. He throttled up and down. He smashed the pilot console with his fists. Nothing seemed to work. “Paddle!” Joshua exclaimed. Kate and Darlene set down their wines and hurried to the starboard side. All three leaned over the starboard side and started to splash the water furiously. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere. “Darlene, reach into that side console and light a flare,” Joshua calmly commanded. She had no idea how he could be so calm in a time like this, but she did as she was told. She unlatched the top, grabbed a flare, unscrewed the striker, and hit the flare with the striker. The flare blossomed into a bright neon red fire. She then went to the rear of the boat and started to wave the lit flare. She stopped almost immediately, the flare frozen above her head as she stared in wonder. “Guys,” Darlene quietly said. Joshua and Kate stopped paddling and turned. The steamer was almost on top of them. However, no sound came from the approaching boat. It wasn’t churning up water. The boat was misty, almost as if the entire thing was made of the very fog it had appeared from. Lamps with eery blue flickering light shone the way forward for the vessel. Their boat had drifted to the port side of the steamship. It started to pass within a couple of yards at first, but as soon as the steamboat’s wider cross section passed them they were within inches of the ghostly hull. “The Lady of Milwaukee?” Kate said, pointing. Sure enough, that was the blurry name on the front the steamboat. Joshua went white as a ghost. He went back to the pilot’s console and turned the wheel. He jammed on every button futilely. “What’s the Lady of Milwaukee, Joshua?” Darlene asked. Joshua stopped his fiddling and turned to Darlene and Kate. “She went down in 1860,” Joshua started. “It was the worst maritime disaster on the Great Lakes. She was struck by another boat and broke up off the Chicago coast. 300 people drowned.” Darlene stuck her hand out tentatively. Her fingertips brushed the fog where the hull was passing them. It was as if her hand was getting burned with dry ice. She pulled her hand away quickly and shook it out. “Cold!” she yelled. She glanced back, and Kate and Joshua were staring up in horror. She looked where they were looking and gasped. On the deck of the steamboat were dancers. They were slowly twirling, stopping, reversing direction, then twirling again. It might have been pretty if the ghostly procession wasn’t so obviously dead. They had bloated stomachs under their fine clothing. The faces were locked with open jaws, blue mottled skin seemed to be melting off their faces, and all their eye sockets were white with fog. The undead dancers took no heed of their new audience and simply kept twirling this way and that. Darlene looked down and away from the ghosts, afraid she might vomit. Instead of a foggy hull in front of her, there was a gaping wound in the steamboat. A bloated steward stood before her at the edge of the hole, his face turned an angry red in the light of the flare. He looked like he was screaming, but no sound came from his mouth. Skin melted off his face in the harsh neon red light. He raised his right hand as if to reach out to Darlene. “Guh huh wah,” was the weird croaking sound Darlene made as she leapt back away from the steward. The next sound she heard was a splash, then gurgling as she went under water. She quickly resurfaced, choking and gasping as the cold water stung her in a thousand places. “Man overboard!” she heard Joshua yell. Darlene felt something solid hit her shoulder, and reaching out she realized it was a floating donut. She clung onto it for dear life. It pulled on her, and she could see now that Joshua and Kate were yanking her back towards the boat. She reached up towards the boat. Joshua and Kate both grabbed one arm each and pulled her up over the port side of the boat. Darlene collapsed in a squishy heap, her hat finally falling off, her formerly billowy costume clinging to her. Kate wrapped her up in her arms and her cape. Joshua came by a moment later with blankets and the wine they had been drinking. “Here, this will warm you up,” he said. She gulped down the lukewarm wine, and it did it’s job of giving her stomach the feeling of a little warmth inside. Joshua took the glass. Kate felt so good and warm next to her, but she couldn’t control her shivering. The image of the steamboat’s steward still was fresh in her mind. Darlene felt a light shining on her face. She looked up, and noticed it was the full moon. The fog and the ghostly steamboat had passed on in the night. “Where’d the Lady go?” she asked. “Disappeared south into the night, along with the fog,” Kate said next to her. “Holy poo poo, that was not real,” Darlene said. “That wasn’t real, we were drunk. We were drunk, right Kate? That wasn’t real at all.” “Darlene, shhh, we were drunk and you fell over, that’s all, don’t get hysterical my dear,” Kate said consolingly. She squeezed Darlene so tight. Darlene felt like crying, but the comforting embrace of Kate was calming her shot nerves. She could swear that Kate was shivering too. Joshua appeared from the cabin again. He crossed his fingers in the air, and then pressed the start button. The boat’s engine fired up with a gleeful roar. “Get us the hell back to shore, Joshua,” Kate said. “Aye aye,” Joshua called back. He throttled up the engine. The night was clear, the full moon shone brightly, and the boat cut a straight line on the flat water back to shore.
|
|
#
?
Oct 26, 2018 23:21
|
|
|
It's been a long work week and I've been getting poo poo for sleep because of the World Series, but I did manage to finish the story: Untitled Click. “Powell County Sherriff Deputy Isaiah Davies reporting. Interview number 9-9-0-3-0-4-M. Please state your name for the record.” “L-Louis. Uh, Louis Montaigne.” “Settle down, Mister Montaigne. We just want your side of the story.” “S-sorry. I’ve never been pinched by the cops before. I mean, police. Well, I’ve been pulled over a bunch of times for speeding, but—” “Calm down, Mister Montaigne. We need you to give a clear statement so we can sort out this here situation. You want a cig? A coffee?” “A cigarette would be nice, yessir. And some water if you don’t mind.” Flick. Fl-fl-fl-flick. Fsssssss “Thank you kindly. That’s nice. No offense, but I’ve always preferred cigs to that there dip you got. Tried it when I was a youngster, but having to spit in a bottle like you got there was a hassle.” “Mm. I’m just jotting down your name here in the report. Is that ‘Louis’ with an I-E?” “I-S, sir. L-O-U-I-S. My family were French fir trappers up in the mountains for a long time. Not me, obviously, but right up through my grandpappy’s time.” “Alright. Let’s get back to the incident. Can you tell me how you came to be involved with Zeke Cornwall? “I’m a rodeo clown. Well, I’m a trucker, but I’m a clown in a few rodeos around Montana and Idaho. Mister Cornwall is a rancher. He sends bulls and stallions to the rodeos all around Montana. Our town is right near his ranch, so he usually sends livestock to our local rodeo.” “And what does your role at the rodeo have to do with these bulls and stallions?” “You been to a rodeo, sir?” “Assume that I haven’t, for the sake of the record.” “Oh. Right. I protect the riders. When a rider gets thrown and the bull or stallion is still fired up and bearing down on them, it’s my job to get in the way. That’s what the colorful duds are for.” Snap. “Like the rainbow suspenders? Gets the attention. I run a few circles around the animal to give the rider time to get on out of there, and then I jump into a barrel and wait for the handlers to round up the beast. Comes with some bumps and bruises, but it keeps things safer and the kids love it.” “Have you had encounters like these with Zeke Cornwall’s bulls in the past?” “Yessir. Up until recently, all I knew about Cornwall was that he ran a big ranch north of town, and that he would send livestock to the rodeos from time to time. So I’m sure I’ve faced off with them before, even if I didn’t always know where this or that bull came from.” “What was different this time? What is your understanding of the Cornwall Ranch now?” “Well, in the weeks leading up to this here rodeo, I heard some things around town about the ranch. Folks at the Get-n-Go have been talking about how the Cornwall Ranch is more of a, uh, compound now than a proper ranch. Meaning they raise livestock for sure, but they’re a real secretive bunch now.” “We’re all Montanans, Mister Montaigne. We all value our independence and privacy.” “Yessir. But the way people were talking about the Cornwall Ranch was different than just your regular old ‘Get the gently caress off my land’ type of folks. Pardon my French, sir.” “It’s fine.” Spit. “I mean, the townies have been saying that folks who go to the Cornwall Ranch weren’t going there to help drive herds or anything. They were going to church.” “Church?” “Zeke Cornwall built a big church up on his land ‘bout a year ago. More and more folks had been flocking there, if you forgive my pun. Lots of them have been staying up there, supposedly. Old Ned Barrows hasn’t been seen in a couple months, and I used to see him—” “Wait. What does this have to do with today’s rodeo incident?” “Nothing yet, sir. My point is that some weird stuff started going on up at the Cornwall Ranch, at that church. Folks around town started saying Zeke Cornwall started talking about some particular Bible verses right around the same time folks started holing up at his ranch.” “Which ones?” “Dunno. Not Revelations, but some other grim stuff. Stuff about end times and signs and…” “And?” “Sorry. Um, it sounds weird to say it.” “We need it on record, Mister Montaigne. Please continue.” “Alright. Zeke Cornwall started saying stuff about signs of the end times and sacrifices. Specifically, this bull he was raising.” “Is there a specific animal?” “Yessir. A red bull. Pauline Archer told me that her husband started going to the Cornwall church. Chet Archer was always a Doubting Thomas type of guy, so that was kind of weird to hear. But I guess he told Pauline that they had been spending years breeding bulls to produce one of a particular size and color. To, uh, sacrifice. Then he stopped coming home altogether.” “Forgiving all this hearsay, what is your understanding of the sacrifice?” “It has to do with the Bible verses. Something to do with the sacrifice being necessary to building ‘The Last Temple,’ and final push toward end times. I haven’t read the verses, though. I’m afraid I can’t say much more about what the Good Book says about it.” “People should read their Bibles. But is this directly relevant to today’s incident?” “Yessir. Listen, I don’t know much more about Zeke Cornwall specifically, but I do know a bit more about his ranch. Pauline asked me to check on her husband, so I took a trip up there a few weeks back. Got a real prickly reception. Two men I hadn’t ever seen were guarding the entrance with shotguns. They let me in, but under close watch. Felt like North Korea.” “What happened? Did you come into conflict with Zeke Cornwall prior to today’s incident?” “No, not exactly. I asked to see Pauline’s husband Ricky, and they led me to the church Zeke had built. It was…” “Go on, Mister Montaigne.” “S-sorry. I don’t know what my problem is right now. I’m still pretty worked up from what happened at the rodeo, but this is different. It’s hard for me to talk about the church for some reason.” “Please try.” Flick. Flick. Fsssssss “When’s the last time you looked at the sky, deputy? I mean, really look at it like you’re not looking at anything else?” “Been a while, I’m afraid.” “They call this ‘Big Sky Country,’ right? That’s about right, but the sky around the Cornwall Ranch is… different. Something about that place gave me the creeps, and it wasn’t just the shotgun-toting goons. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I got to the church, though. When I looked up at the building, the whole world seemed to bend under it, like a fisheye lens. The sky, big as it is already, seemed to expand over it. The church, me, and the land itself seemed to shrink. I wasn’t just getting smaller, though. I was getting less… significant. It was like the opposite of that nice feeling you get from looking at a big, wide, clear blue sky.” “God’s presence has powerful effect on men’s souls, Mister Montaigne.” “Forgive me, deputy, but this wasn’t God’s presence. Don’t know much about God, but I’m sure it wasn’t that. I thought the great blue yonder might rip open and something terrible might come screaming out. I have never felt so small and so helpless since I was a boy. The sky was a gray like the hour before a storm, but somehow worse. It as a deep gray, almost green, like I’ve never seen. All of that looming over me in front of that church. “Then Zeke Cornwall stepped outside. He didn’t recognize me, but he gave me the sales pitch anyway. He talked, ranted really, about God and his new church. He didn’t call it a temple, but he did say that ‘a great sacrifice was needed to consecrate it as The Temple.’ I barely got around to making sense of it when he started going on about how he’d spend years raising cattle to breed this particular heifer. He said its blood would consecrate the church, and that The Adversary would claim the church soon after that. “I got up enough nerve to speak up and asked, ‘Isn’t the adversary Satan?’ He said sure it was, but that Satan’s triumph over the temple would signal the end times. I guess it’s a honeypot to draw out Satan. I dunno. The whole idea sounded…off to me.” “So, you think today’s incident is occult related?” “I do—I… Listen, deputy. I don’t know quite what to think, but I know I saw some things at the Cornwall Ranch and at today’s rodeo that I can’t explain.” “Just stick to what you can explain, Mister Montaigne. Just the facts. We need to know what you know.” “Sure. I’ll tell you what else I remember of what Zeke Cornwall said that day at his ranch. He said the bull would need to have its own blood consecrated by its own sacrifice. He started to get real fired up and spit a bit while he talked. Thought he was going to have a heart attack.” “Why?” “I thought I saw something under his eye. Thought it was blood, but it might have even been black. Didn’t stop him, though. He went on spitting and ranting and raving about this and that Bible verse and the End Times and The Adversary. Like I said, it was all a bit much for me.” “Hmm.” Spit. “Tell me about what happened today.” “Well, I had a while to put the visit to the ranch out of my mind. Never did find Pauline’s husband, by the way. That was a few weeks ago, so by today’s rodeo I wasn’t thinking about it anymore. Still having some weird dreams about the ranch, but I was focused for the rodeo. Things went pretty normally until Zeke Cornwall set that bull loose.” “What did you notice about the bull?” “The first thing I noticed was the smell. Clowning in the rodeo usually just smells like dirt and leather and poo poo and sweaty horseflesh. It’s very… earthy. But right before that bull got turned loose, I smelled something terrible. It smelled like burnt hair. I took my place off to the side of the ring anyway and got ready to do my job. Sometimes the bull riders get thrown after just a few seconds, so I had to be ready to jump in and clown that bull off the rider. I looked across the ring toward the pen as the rider mounted the bull. I noticed two odd things.” “What was odd?” “The bull was still. Like, completely still. The bulls are always riled up before they pen them and the rider mounts up. I mean, that’s the whole point, right? The rider usually has to fidget a bit right from the moment of contact, and the handlers help with that until the bull is turned loose. But this guy just sat up on that bull like it was a sofa. “Then I saw the rider’s face. He was terrified even before the gates opened. He was looking down at the bull, and then the handlers. I couldn’t see them yet because they were behind the fence. But I could see the rider plain as day over the fence, though, and whatever he saw down in the pen scared the poo poo out of him. He started looking around at the bull frantically and… patting it, I guess? He was moving his hands around, like he was feeling around for something when he should have been on the reigns.” “What happened next?” “They turned the Cornwall bull loose. I was straight across the ring from him when the pen opened, and he looked right at me. This is going to sound weird, deputy, but I saw some evil poo poo in that thing’s eyes. I saw violence and anger way beyond an animal. That thing… is not just a bull. “That felt like forever but I’m sure it was just a second. After that, the carnage started. The bull took a sharp left out of the gate and bucked right up next to the wall of the ring. It reared up like a stallion, like you never see a bull do. They usually buck on their front legs. Anyway, the crowd over there is right up close, and one teenage girl leaned in to cheer on the rider. In one motion, like he meant it, the bull went up on his hind legs and twisted his head and horns toward the wall. At the top of its buck, its horns cleared the top of the wall and caught that—that poor girl. I… I’m sorry.” “Take your time.” “The horns caught her in the head, and the motion of the bull pulled it’s body back toward the ring, and her head toward the outside of the wall. I couldn’t see the result from my vantage point, but her head got caught between the horn and the wall. The only other thing I can remember about that is the sound, which I don’t care to describe.” “That’s fine, Mister Montaigne. Take your time and tell me what happened next.” Fl-fl-fl-fl-fl “Goddamn it.” Fl-fl-fl-flick. Fsssssssssssssssss “Alright. I remember an older man right next to her in the stands. He stood up and just about jumped into the ring. He didn’t have to, or get a chance, though. As he was screaming at the bull and leaning over the wall, the bull twisted its bulk around and shot up to gore the man right through the bottom of his jaw. With one more twist of the neck, the bull tore the man’s jaw clear off. “The bull threw the rider almost immediately after that, threw him higher than I’ve ever seen any animal throw a rider. There was a gross crunch when the rider hit the ground on the back of his neck. I saw his legs kick out once, twitch, and then stop. He was still struggling, though, but it looked pretty bad already. I could tell he was in dire straits, so I did my job and ran to clown the bull. I found a way to forget all of that grizzly poo poo and just let my adrenaline take over. I just hoped that the bull would behave like any other bull when I faced him down. “The bull stood over the rider before I could get there. I skidded in that loose sand and ended up kneeling next to the rider as the bull looked down on both of us. I noticed then that the bull had this sickening sheen to his hide. Bulls and stallions in rodeo will get shiny with sweat, but this was different. The rust color of the bull’s hair was tinted by a brighter red. I don’t know for sure what it was, deputy, but it was thick and red and wet and all over the thing. I didn’t dare look in its eyes after what I saw from all the way across the ring, but I did see something thick and black leaking out of the eyes and nostrils. To boot, that burning smell was overpowering at that distance, and the bull’s breath just about made my head swim. “I knew I couldn’t move the rider if he had a broken neck, so I had to draw off the bull. I flashed a scarf in front of him and ran to one side, expecting him to chase me. Instead, it stayed put and reared up again, coming down on the rider. He landed on the rider’s legs, and then again on his pelvis. I—I can’t stop thinking about the screams of the rider. The bull coming down on his ribcage put a stop to that, but not soon enough. It was sadistic, deputy. That’s why I did what I did right after that. The thing was evil. That bull finally pulverized that poor guy, with a focus and anger I’ve never seen in an animal. So I pulled out my hunting knife and tried to cut the bull’s throat while it was still up close. “It’s har to kill an animal that size with a knife like that, deputy. I couldn’t finish the job. The bull just turned to me, four feet on the turf, and huffed that hot, acrid breath at me. More of the black poo poo was running out of its eyes. I expected it to kill me right then and there. The fact that it showed me mercy is probably worse, but I still don’t know exactly why. Fsssssssss “I swear on my mother’s grave, deputy, that bull aimed to kill every one of those people. I… suspect it’s for the sacrifice.” “No one’s going to believe any of that, Mister Montaigne.” “Why not? The crowd saw the same people die! They might not have been up to the ranch, but plenty of folks in the crowd must know that wasn’t a normal bull.” “They will, when we tell them that you drugged it to go mad and kill those people.” “What? Why?” “Does anyone else care? It’s a dangerous world, full of crazy weirdos that do terrible poo poo for no good reason.” “But why me? Why the frame job? Why not go question Zeke Cornwall?” “He’s a fine, upstanding citizen of the community, Mister Montaigne. A man of God. You, on the other hand, are a goddamn rodeo clown.” A thin line of black trickled down the deputy’s chin as a smile slowly curled his lips. He shut the soundproof interrogation room door just as Louis opened his mouth to scream.
|
|
#
?
Oct 27, 2018 02:23
|
|
|
Screams in the basement "George," Josephine murmured, her thin, arthritic fingers gently grasping, shaking her husband's shoulder as he lay sleeping next to her. "George, I hear it again." George awoke with a start at the sound of his wife's voice, and he turned to blearily look at her. She was pale, eyes wide and bright in the near-darkness of the room, illuminated only by the streetlights outside. "Don't worry about it," George muttered, concern and sleepiness warring in his voice. He sounded so tired. "Go back to sleep. Please. It's probably just the house." "Houses creak," Josephine shuddered. "They don't scream. George, I'm scared." "It's nothing to worry about," George pushed, eyes closed, voice distant with sleep. "It happens every night. Just go back to sleep for once, Josie." Josephine crawled out of bed without a sound, shivering faintly despite the midsummer warmth. She glided softly along the old wooden stairs and across the living room floor, deathly afraid of making noise. She trembled slightly, nightgown flowing behind her through the dark and quiet house. She did not breathe, her lips were a taut line, her heart was still, her eyes stared straight ahead. She arrived at the sturdy basement door, always so securely locked. She slipped a hand around the doorframe and found the key George kept hidden there, unlocked the heavy lock, and swung the door open with an angry creak from its hinges. She replaced the key into its not-so-secret niche, then stepped forward and flicked on the light. A bloodied shape writhed at the bottom of the basement stairs. It looked up at her, raising a broken, twisted hand, then released the same terrible, pitiful wail that had awakened her from her fitful sleep. The most horrific part was its face: ruined, smashed, agonized... Hers. She tried to back away, lost her footing, and slipped. She fell hard down the sturdy wooden steps, a cacophony of cracks and pops erupting from her brittle form with every impact. She landed in a broken heap in the floor, her nightgown torn and bloodied. She looked up at the figure at the top of the stairs and raised a gnarled hand toward it, sobbing raggedly. She convulsed, tried to rise, and fell forward, gurgling as blood flooded her lungs from a broken rib. George stood at the top of the stairs just before the open door and shook his head. There was no fear on his face, no horror or shock. Just weary resignation as he shut off the light and closed the door with a click. "Every night. Every drat night. God, I'm tired." George sighed, tears bright in his eyes as he walked back to the room that had been his and his alone since the first -- and, truly, last -- time his wife went to investigate the basement. That had been his and his alone since he'd went back to sleep and let her go on her own. His and his alone since she lay there, screaming and gasping until well into the next morning, when she fell silent. His alone, save for the few precious hours she lay beside him before waking to repeat her fate. "You never listen, Josie. God, you never listen."
|
|
#
?
Oct 27, 2018 02:46
|
|
|
Submissions are CLOSED!
|
|
#
?
Oct 27, 2018 15:18
|
|
|
Goblins and ghouls, witches and werewolves, warlocks and wargs, the results are in. We asked for some bone-chilling tales, but got plenty of eye-rolling tales instead (and one boner-chilling tale). After deliberation, the judges have picked winners (and losers!). First, the good news. The Numbers Station by Weltlich takes first place; although it’s not by any means a horror story or even particularly scary, it feels lonely and isolated and it hits the flash rule squarely. In second place is MURDER by Saucy_Rodent, a well-written story about crows and cannibals that was only slightly brought down by an annoying stylistic affectation. Third place goes to A House That Breathes by SENTIENT HOUSEMEAT, purely on the strength of the Lovecraftian style. Congrats to you all; contact me either via PM or by emailing phamnuwenSA@gmail.com in order to claim your prizes, or just post up an email address here. I considered not having any losers, but some of you wet yourselves before you even got into the haunted house. The loss is shared between Ghost Tour by Aleph Null, in which poor execution and poorer editing let down a potentially cool idea, and Untitled (Not 6666 Words) by Despera for a hard-to-follow story with way too much focus on child penises. Special shout-outs go to Elephant Parade for making GBS threads on Aleph Null’s story while failing to submit his own story, and to incredible flesh aka avshalom for whatever that was. SolusLunes, I’m disappointed I didn’t get to read a story based on that gif. Chili, Sitting Here, and Slughead42, I’m just disappointed in you for failing to submit. I've got brief crits for all entries and will post them in the next day or so. At this point, winners having been announced, anyone who feels compelled to crit stories may go ahead and post those critiques too.
|
|
#
?
Nov 1, 2018 05:22
|
|
|
Brief critique notes: Watchers of Santa Lucia: Takes too long to get into, and I didn't like the exposition infodumps. Ghost Tour: I liked this more than the judges did. It works pretty well as a mystery with a spooky twist. The Numbers Station: a weirdly nostalgic, nicely written post-apocalypse. I dig it. Sexy ghosts: no comment Not 6666 words: where is our protagonist? Is she on the plane? Is she in the wreckage? Is she describing the events later? No clue what was happening, and also yeah, why so many words about the kid's dick? Can't you just say he's naked and move on? The Lady of Milwaukee: Inoffensive. What happens here? They encounter ghosts, don't really interact with them, then go about their merry way? No sense of conflict. A House That Breathes: would have been my pick for the winner. I like the twist on the haunted house: it's not a monster, it's not trying to hurt anyone, but it has needs and desires and will reason with people to acheive them. Good job. Untitled: I like it. Don't have much to say past that. Screams in the Basement: great job. It knows what it is, it hits quickly, then leaves. The stuff of classic creepypasta.
|
|
#
?
Nov 1, 2018 18:20
|
|
|
Here's my crits. Although I had to create the anonymized document containing the stories for the judges to use, I did my best to forget who wrote what and judge them purely as stories (I don't know most of you anyway). I edited in users & flash rule stuff after judging. The Watchers of Santa Lucia - Rad-daddio This needed editing. There’s a handful of mistakes in the first paragraph that might have been caught given another pass. The first two paragraphs are also infodumpy as HELL. Feels like you could have explained the watchers in dialog between Aaron and the old man instead of another infodump And don’t use interrobangs. “The metamorphosis was like watching a couch unravel and deflate.” is not a particularly, uh, approachable metaphor. I rarely see couches unravel and they NEVER deflate. Aaron barely does anything; mostly he watches, and even when he takes action, it’s hardly of his own choice: “the thought caused him to kneel down”, “Before Aaron knew what was happening, he was running down the hillside.” He’s not active. That was a weird ending. Aaron was “saved” by the magical Indian who lives at peace with nature and blah blah, theoretically halting the transformation… but then at the end he appears to embrace the transformation, turn into a monster, and glory in the slaughter of the Watchers. This felt like a cut subplot from a Dresden Files novel. I love me some secret orders of immortal dudes, but old missionaries eternally murdering shape-shifting Native Americans for no apparent reason beyond… spite? is not quite what I’m looking for. Low, possible loss (Flash rule use: I’ll give you this, it is a story about scary old people.) Ghost Tour - Aleph Null “tanned skin, framing a tight smile” what was framing the smile? Her tanned skin? I mean… I guess. Ok this is a story with a lot of problems despite a concept which could have been interesting. You needed to edit this a LOT. You need to figure out how paragraphs work. Descriptions are all over the place. You also have a bad habit of omitting the first dialog attribution in an exchange between two people in places where it’s not quite clear who’s talking right now. On the other hand, I’m cool with the core concept. Weird insect colonies are trying to be human? Why? Do they want to lure in travelers and eat them? Do they just yearn to be humans? I’m into it. Putting them in a haunted house makes sense if they’re trying to go relatively unnoticed, although I mean being bugs they probably could have just hidden when the guys showed up. How did these dudes originally mistake a huge pile of bugs on the floor for mold, though? Note that our character does nothing except complain (to no effect) to his friend and then pull the rolls out of the oven. When his friend comes back with the cliched DUDE WE GOT TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW, JUST BELIEVE ME WE GOTTA LEAVE, they go, and then at the end he sees the spoooOOooky pictures that made his friend a cliched catatonic. This wasn’t a good story, but it was an ok idea. Low. (Flash rule use: You barely, barely touched it.) The Numbers Station - Weltlich Oh snap it’s an after-the-bombs story, I like those. Don’t disappoint. “I’m from Buenos Aires, and I say kill ‘em all!” Ok I didn’t take a lot of notes because I was pretty into this the whole way through. It’s not a scary story, except in the sense that it’s scary to think about dying alone in an almost empty world. Miguel’s motivations and characterization are great. Now, I don’t know Russian, and I didn’t get much back from Google Translate when I pasted some of the phrases in (probably would have had better luck with Cyrillic), but if I understand right, she’s telling him not to communicate any more because… some demented Soviet general is sitting behind her shooting missiles at anyone who responds? I’d have appreciated some broken English on her part as she tries to make him understand that he needs to shut up. Good story. High. (Flash rule use: Very good. You even did good on some radio terminology like “keyed up”) Sexy Ghosts - incredible flesh Goonish inability to put an earnest effort into anything strikes again, which is a drat shame because I wanted to read a (non-erotic) story about sexy ghosts.... They really get my ectoplasm rising, if you know what I mean. Possible loss for cowardice. (Flash rule use: lol) MURDER - Saucy_Rodent I liked this story. It’s funny that we’ve had (so far) two stories about animals taking human shapes. I actually don’t think the human-shaped Murder was necessary; I would have been completely happy with a small group of crows following her around and saying the same things. The crows seem to have such contempt for humans it feels strange that they would take human form. I have to assume it was a conscious choice to start like 25% of your sentences with the word “And”. People do that when they want to have a heavy, ominous-sounding story, old-fashioned feeling because modern style recommends against it. I also recommend against it. Can you imagine a whole novel written like that? It can be effective in small doses, but it goes from effective to grating in about 1 page. I like the end. Good job. High. The Creepy Old House That No One Lives In - Capfalcon This Jason kid is totally a ghost or some poo poo trying to get Pete into the house… oh yeah the reveal comes pretty quick, doesn’t it. Story was so quick I barely got settled into it. I enjoyed not knowing, honestly not knowing, if Pete was going to get out. Here’s my opinion: I would have liked to see Pete get out. I would have liked a little more time spent in the house, exploring the house. I would have liked to have a LITTLE more time before Jason gets revealed as a ghost. I think having Pete get trapped and repeat the cycle turns it more to the “Scary Stories to Tell In The Dark” children’s ghost story sort of thing, and looking at the title I think you may be giving a nod in that direction. It was decently written, easy to follow, no big glaring errors. If you intended it as an homage to kid stories, I think you succeeded. If not, well… Mid. (Flash rule use: Appropriate.) Untitled, ‘not 6666 words’ - Despera What the hell is “Chappa Kai tongue-job”? Sounds like a lesbian Goa’uld or something. You needed to edit this. What does “After all planes fall out of the sky all the time, it’s just not as often are the survivors immediately mass murdered.” mean? (it becomes clearer later, yes) I’m glad we’re informed that the murderous natives of this island do not practice circumcision. This was a loving weird story, poorly edited, sometimes incoherent, with motivations and reactions and timeline all over the place. Where the gently caress did “she could already imagine [her son] a grown up frat boy diddling some unsuspecting sorority girl like it was a favor” come from, and why? Low. Quite low. A House That Breathes - SENTIENT HOUSEMEAT A couple paragraphs in: you’re channeling Lovecraft nicely. Nice use of ‘daubed’. Am I entirely clear: this guy sat trapped in his room without food or water for about 11,000 days? Or was he just counting seconds? Either way he spent at least a few days in that room. The story feels like a combination of Lovecraft, the briefest outline of “House of Leaves”, and two tracks from Neil Cicierega’s “Spirit Phone” album (‘When He Died’ and ‘Cabinet Man’). I like it. I just wish there was more. I wanted another 1500 words after he gets stuck in the house, and maybe a few hundred more as he explores it before it locks him in. High. (Flash rule use: Good. Sadly the house didn’t appear to be made of meat but that was optional.) The Lady of Milwaukee - Ravioli Khameni Ok in terms of technical execution you did fine here. Decent descriptions, etc. My problem is that nobody does anything. Joshua pushes buttons but nothing happens. Darlene waves a flare but nothing happens. They paddle but it doesn’t do much. “Three people see a ghost ship while one of them thinks about how hot the other two are” isn’t much of a story. Also, if there was a point to having Darlene thinking about banging the other two, I didn’t figure it out. Mid. Untitled - Railing Kill Don’t preface your stories with excuses. If a guy says “pinched by the cops” this better take place before, oh, 1970. And then “grandpappy” and “duds” It must be a hard job making traps big enough to catch a fir. “Shotgun-toting goons” So did this guy breed a bull or a heifer? Because I gua-ron-teeeee there’s a difference, podner. Also, rodeo bulls don’t have reins, they have a rope. Ok look, you have got to pick a voice for this guy and stay with it. Don’t just throw in whatever random colloquialisms and idioms you can dredge up, or else the guy ends up sounding like a 30s mobster mixed with an old-timey prospector mixed with a modern fiction author. All-dialog stories are risky, but this could have worked if you had a consistent voice for the speaker and dropped the dual cliches of “evil raving rural Christian cultist who all the idiot hicks immediately follow” (he was literally foaming at the mouth at one point, wasn’t he?) and “the cops were in on it the whole time!!!!!!”. Low middle. (Flash rule use: Rodeo clowns kick rear end, so good job there.) Screams in the Basement - Screaming Idiot Short and sweet. I liked it. (Next time don't use "Scream" or "Idiot" in your title, this was the one story whose author I remembered for that reason) High.
|
|
#
?
Nov 1, 2018 18:34
|
|
|
Thanks for holding the contest. Thanks for the not-thunderdome crits as well. It was a good exercise for me to write something outside of...what I am writing. Definitely not writing about space lesbians right now. Not me. No sex stuff.
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 00:22
|
|
|
All very reasonable and helpful thoughts. Appreciate it. Also, thanks for the contest!
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 00:57
|
|
|
 Glad you guys enjoyed the story, I enjoyed writing it. I had a longer version planned that teased out more of what was going on behind the Russian transmissions, but the pacing was all off and so I opted to take a knife to a lot of it. Maybe I'll do a revision on it and try to get that right. Translation of her transmissions: She's basically stunned that someone else is on the channel. First she asks "Sto?" which means "What?!" Then she asks Miguel to clear off the channel. When she realizes he's trying to read his co-ordinates to her, she panics and starts begging him to shut up. Finally she curses, and closes the line in grief when she realizes that the doomsday device has locked on to him. Spoiler of what I cut: tl;dr version is that the Russian woman on the other end of the transmission is isolated and alone as well, but she's the communication officer that sends co-ordinates to the semi-out of control Pluto-type missiles. She's been trying to keep them flying over the oceans, well away from herself and other landmasses. Miguel is a native Spanish speaker, and between them they only have a little broken english in common, other than his knowledge of how to count to ten in Russian. A miscommunication leads him to believe she has asked him for his co-ordinates, and he thinks she will come to his location, so he gleefully blurts them out in russian, while she attempts to silence him. The missile which is listening in on the transmission signals it's assignment of a new target, and an hour or so later Miguel is killed by the missiles shockwave when it streaks overhead. Thanks for the crit, and I'll write some this weekend - probably Sunday.
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 02:34
|
|
|
Weltlich posted:
That's an interesting explanation and one I'd be interested to read in full. If you do decide to write it all out, feel free to post here of course, I think all 3 of the judges would love to read it. I see you've already got plat and an avatar, but you can PM me for any other gift cert option you want (except a new smilie obviously)
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 02:40
|
|
|
Thanks for the crits! In a weird way, it's good to hear my misgivings about the clown's voice were justified.  Thanks for running the contest and coaxing me into writing horror for the first time in a long time!
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 02:44
|
|
|
Railing Kill posted:Thanks for the crits! In a weird way, it's good to hear my misgivings about the clown's voice were justified. Thanks for entering! I think I got as Thunderdome with your entry as with any, but I've got a lot of respect for anybody who's willing to take a crack at horror because in my opinion it's hard.
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 03:01
|
|
|
Thanks for the feedback.
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 03:03
|
|
|
Yeah, those extraneous "and"s sounded cool in my head. Still, I'm proud that my story still worked in spite of such a glaring issue. I might try another draft. I based MURDER off of my Halloween costume, which will be my avatar once I figure out how to navigate this early-thousands-rear end message board. Thanks for reading, writing, and judging.
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 19:27
|
|
|
Thank you all for the crits, and thanks to the judges for hosting the competition. Congrats to the winners as well!
|
|
#
?
Nov 2, 2018 23:17
|
|
|
Thanks for the stories and crits everyone. The stories that won places one and two would have been my picks as well. I was going to write some feedback of my own, but I agree with pretty much everything Saucy_Rodent and Pham Nuwen said so I'll leave it there.Pham Nuwen posted:A House That Breathes - SENTIENT HOUSEMEAT It was 11,000 days, yeah, which is about 30 years. I agree with you that more would have been better, especially towards the end as the narrator's relationship with the house breaks down. I ended up having to rattle this off the morning of the due date because my loved ones keep bringing home diseases and I've been sick for about a month and ended up with no time to write more. Which is a pity, but it is what it is. It's funny though - when I read it back I felt it was more Chambers than Lovecraft, not that I mind the comparison! Anyway, thanks for the feedback and the prize! You can get me at sentienthousemeat@gmail.com. I feel like in the spirit of the competition, I should say that you can choose a new avatar.
|
|
#
?
Nov 4, 2018 14:36
|
|
|
I'm not dead I just had to go work out of town for 2 weeks with no days off and too drat tired to think about anything in the evenings. I will get prizes out, just gotta pick the right avatars.
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2018 01:31
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 28, 2024 23:00 |
|
|
large
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2018 04:57
|
|