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Boxed Up Word Count: 1,340 Sarah couldn’t deny it any longer. She had a hoarding problem. The boxes she kept were meticulously arranged and sorted. Categorized and alphabetized. They formed teetering columns that were stacked to the ceiling, and over time those columns became walls that shifted precariously as doors opened and shut in the already cramped apartment. However, nothing ever fell or moved from its place. Sarah always managed to find enough space for them to go on about their daily lives, but it wasn’t until this last final fight with Jimmy that she realized she had gone too far. The wings of the box folded downward with a knowing will. The inside of the box was a void that betrayed the corrugated cardboard exterior. She waved her hand inside the box and felt the space tug at it. Reminded of the sensation of sucking her teeth, she withdrew her hand and placed it at Jimmy’s feet. “You’re always doing this,” Jimmy said. He was napping on the couch when the tug of the box woke him. Sarah was at his feet with a guilty look in her eye. She slowly moved the box past his ankles. “Sarah! For Christ’s sake, what is this about? I told you that girl was no one. She’s just a gambling buddy. Is this about that? Sarah! Sarah! Will you please loving look at me? You’re being crazy.” Sarah glanced at the open space around him before meeting his eyes. “What?” she asked as if it was the most normal response in the world. As if the situation was as mundane as tying a shoe. The wings of the box were pulling at his calves now. Jimmy began to panic. “What?!” he said. “What the gently caress do you mean, “what?” you’re loving boxing me. You’re packing me up like some god damned Christmas lights, that’s what!” “I’ve just had it with your poo poo Jimmy. It’s always “tomorrow, babe,” or “I feel it this time, babe,” and lately you haven’t even had the loving decency to ask me when you take money from my purse. I’ve just had it with you.” “Do you even hear yourself? You’ve had it with me? Yeah, well I’ve had it with you and all—all this. You’re boxing me up like all the other random poo poo in your life.” “Well, this random poo poo was important to me once. You were important to me once. Maybe someday you will be again, but until then… I’ve had it with you.” She pulled the box to his torso with one big lift and the lower half of his body disappeared inside. Jimmy stared wide-eyed in disbelief. This was impossible. He looked at the now empty section of couch where his legs had just been, where the bottom of the box rested, and screamed. He frantically pulled at the cardboard wings, but found himself unable to move or even affect their incessant flapping. They swung open and shut against his body like the world’s most ineffectual teeth. Sarah pushed the crown of his head down into the box and taped it shut. She didn’t know how her boxes worked. Pack away 20 different books of sewing patterns, and they’d be right where she left them. Pets or persons though… she wasn’t quite sure where they ended up. She sighed as she walked towards the kitchen. She imagined Jimmy would have something to say about that sigh, but now he wouldn’t be saying much ever. But why was she feeling remorseful? Why was she getting hung up on him now? She wondered if it was some form of survivor’s guilt. Then she dismissed that thought immediately. She didn’t kill Jimmy. She just put him away, even if she didn’t know where away truly was, and he had earned it. The threatening phone calls late at night. Him coming and going at all hours. Stealing what money she had and belittling her for not having more when he didn’t have a dime to his name. He had earned wherever the box dumped him. However, the days that followed passed slowly. The halls were hushed with the absence of Jimmy’s footfall. Her keepsakes, belongings, and random poo poo, as Jimmy would say, suddenly became just that. Random poo poo. The boxes which had once been a comfort and a source of security, had become a twisted collection of guilt. There would be no joy in her rediscovery of the past, only shame. The only way to move forward was to get rid of it all. To get a clean start. She called Goodwill and scheduled a donation pick-up. A week and several donations later, Sarah was a new woman. She had done away with her past, or so she had thought. It didn’t happen right away, but gradually, and with the certainty of night coming after day, the past found its way back to her. There was a single loud knock at the door. More like the thud of something crashing against it. It stirred Sarah from her sleep. She looked over at the clock and saw 3:00 AM illuminated in the LED display. Three more knocks followed in rapid succession. Sarah closed her robe and grabbed Jimmy’s snub-nosed revolver from the nightstand. “Hello, who’s there?” she asked from behind the door. “Police. Open up!” a man’s voice said. She peered through the peephole. Standing here was an annoyed looking brute playing at cop and a man that looked like a tackily dressed billboard lawyer. Sarah unlocked the deadbolt but kept the door on its chain. Enough that she could open it, but not enough that someone could get in without snapping the chain first. She pulled the door open a couple of inches and sized them up. “What do you want?” she asked. “Hello, hello!” the tacky looking suit said. “You must be, Sarah. Is your husband Jimmy around? We’ve got some important business to discuss with him.” “I’m going to need to see a badge or a warrant or something. It’s 3 A.M., what’s this about?” Then Sarah realized. Jimmy had always been bad with money. He was always sweet on her with his empty promises of better times, but nothing ever changed with his song and dance. There were never any results. She knew if he couldn’t get it from her, he’d get it from somewhere and had suspected that meant illicitly. “I’ve had enough of this poo poo.” The would-be cop said. He shouldered the door causing the chain to pull taught against the frame. The metal fastenings strained against splintering wood. He stepped back and another shove saw him inside her apartment. The smaller man pinched the bridge of his nose. “You moron! What the gently caress was that?” he asked elbowing the man in his ribs. The big guy snarled in his direction, neither of them wanted to back down, but whatever they were there for pulled them back to Sarah. “Your boy Jimmy owes us quite a bit of money, and he was already late on his payments. Well late just became past due and now we’re here to collect. I was hoping we could do this nice and quiet, but this idiot here prefers to do things rough. What can I say?” “You can say goodbye, motherfucker.” Sarah snapped the gun up from her robe to chest level and aimed it at the pretend cop. She fired three rounds in quick succession and sent him on his back. Guess the costume didn’t come with body armor. The suit moved to draw a gun of his own, but a bullet caught him in the chest and neck. He slumped forward clasping at his throat and bled out on the floor. Sarah set the gun on the kitchen counter and shook her head. It was just like Jimmy to leave one final mess for her to have to clean up. One more problem for her to solve. She pulled a perforated slat of cardboard from the hall closet and began folding it into its familiar useful shape.
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Aug 29, 2022 03:25
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The Delve of Last Hope 1499 Words They were four levels deep when the bard bit it. A trapdoor opened right under her feet and she plunged ten feet into a pit of spikes. That brought the party down to three. After the last monster in the chamber had been slain and the doors unsealed, Prince Champion called a group meeting. “We can’t go on like this,” said Champion. The prince fingered the emerald brooch on his cuirass. “There’s no hope of fighting all the way to the bottom with only three people.” “There was slim hope of reaching the bottom with six,” interjected Faraja. The elven sorceress was completely unreadable. Of any member of the party she kept the most cool under fire, though even she had begun to show signs of weariness. “I say we turn back,” grumbled Braddock. The stout little dwarf had been maimed within the first twenty minutes of entering the dungeon when a tiger had sprung out from a hidden compartment and mauled him. Despite the injury, he was still probably the most dangerous in a fight. They’d had this fight before. When Sheila—the late bard—had been alive, she and Braddock had been the most vocal advocates of abandoning the dungeon and focusing on finding an alternate means of escape. “There is no turning back,” sighed Champion. “It’s a suicide dungeon. The entrance is sealed until everyone inside is dead or the dungeon is conquered.” “I’m a dwarf. Give me the right tools and I can dig my way out of any hole.” Braddock massaged his mauled leg as he talked. “The only way out is through.” Faraja sat in a position of meditation, her eyes closed. “This we know.” “But it’s as Trevor said, we can’t go on like this; there’s only three of us!” snapped the dwarf. “Then stay here and rot,” said Faraja, placidly. “I intend to see this through to the end. My people depend on it.” There was always an elf in the Delve of Last Hope. They offered their services freely to any party that dared enter. One after another feeding themselves into the dark maw carved into the hillside. The elves never told anyone outside the dungeon, but as soon as the great stone door had slammed shut, Faraja explained all. “The Sacred Forest is dying. Each year it grows weaker and my people fade from this Earth. But, at the bottom of the dungeon there is a seed. The last seed of the World Tree, Yggdrasil. It shall be the beginning of a new Sacred Forest and a new dawn for my people.” Faraja had told them. This sparked a debate among the—then six—members of the party. Each party member had heard something different, though no less precious, waited for the stouthearted soul who could pierce the deepest chamber and claim it. Sheila, the Bard, sought the Song of Creation. Ogram, the werewolf, was of the impression there was a fountain whose draught could cure any curse and rid him of his affliction. Champion didn’t tell anyone what he sought, but the third night in the dungeon, Champion’s squire, Grisham, told the story. “He seeks his lady love,” Grisham whispered to the rest while Champion slumbered. “His lady love?” the others were baffled. “The princess Fairwyn. She was kidnapped by a hydra. The prince is on a quest to rescue her. He has been all over the world seeking her and has sworn not to return home without her in his arms,” explained Grisham. “How romantic! It’s just like a song.” Sheila had been a real sucker for tragic love stories. “You mean to tell us a hydra waits for us at the end of this nightmare?” Braddock’s eyes widened. Grisham shook his head and a sad look came into his eyes. “Champion tracked the hydra to its lair and slew it, but the princess was already dead,” Grisham told them. “I saw her body with my own eyes. The head was gone, but she wore the royal brooch.” “If she’s dead already, why does the prince seek her here?” Braddock was incredulous. Grisham glanced fearfully over his shoulder. “The prince is insane,” Grisham hissed. “He refuses to admit the princess is dead. He beats me if I speak of her as anything but certainly alive. If he… if he knew I was telling you this, he’d kill me, but you must know! You must be warned!” Grisham would later be slewn by a pack of giant, rabid mongooses in the second chamber of the fourth level. The party kept wary around the prince, but Champion was too skilled a fighter and monster hunter to discard. “We need to adjust our strategy,” Champion told the other two. “I’ve been giving the matter quite a bit of thought. Many of these rooms are full of monsters—” “Yes, yes, and when we enter, the exits are all sealed and don’t open until every monster has been slain,” interrupted Braddock. “But how do the monsters get in?” said Champion. “Hundreds of seekers have braved Last Hope before us. We’ve seen their bones and found their journals hidden in chests. If progress is impossible without killing every single monster, whence the monsters that face us now?” “Obviously they breed down here,” suggested Faraja. The elf’s tone was irritable. She’d clearly been asleep, or what passes for sleep among elves. “If they breed where are their living spaces? Their homes?” countered Champion. “These chambers are a labyrinth of deadly traps and puzzles. What do they eat?” “They eat foolish adventurers who spend too much time speculating on what is impossible to know,” snapped Braddock, who had lain down on the ground with his pack as a pillow. “They must be coming from somewhere,” Champion insisted. “A network of hidden passages or tunnels. Maybe there’s a tunnel that leads direct to the bottom level.” “Or a way out.” Braddock stroked his beard thoughtfully. Suddenly he wasn’t so skeptical of Champion’s ideas. “What do you propose?” asked Faraja. “We need more information,” said Champion. “If monsters are using hidden tunnels, then one of them might be able to tell us how to gain access.” “We just need to find a monster capable of speech,” mused Braddock. “Precisely,” said Champion. The trio agreed to put their plan into motion the following day. Finding a monster capable of intelligent speech was harder than it seemed. Whereas once the dungeon seemed to be crawling with orcs and goblins, the next several chambers contained only beasts and abominations. A giant, luminous slug squirted them with poisonous ooze that permanently blinded Braddock in one eye. Faraja was pinned to the wall by a spider and only escaped by casting Summon Bees directly inside the spider’s abdomen. Finally, the party entered a chamber full of goblins. The goblins shrieked and fired their blowguns, but the trio were old hands at slaying the little creatures by now and laid into the fray with berserk abandon. As planned, they captured the last goblin alive. Faraja held her silver elf-blade to the goblin’s throat. “Tell us, goblin scum, how do the monsters get into these chambers? Is it by some secret route? Answer!” The goblin spat green spit into Faraja’s face. “Skreebo will never tell the likes of you, elf witch!” “Tell us, and we may spare your pitiful life,” said Faraja. “Skreebo would rather die!” hissed the goblin. Champion appeared over Faraja’s shoulder. The prince’s face was twisted into an expression of bestial rage, a primordial hate that radiated off him like steam. Skreebo paled when he saw the prince’s face, and even Braddock took a step back. In the end the goblin told them everything. Champion tortured every last drop of information out of the pitiful little creature. At first, Faraja and Braddock looked on in horror, but it wasn’t long before they had to hide their faces and plug their ears from the sound. Skreebo told them everything in exchange for the sweet release of death. There was a network of hidden passages. Two chambers to the east, there was a false wall. The passage behind could bypass the next several layers of the dungeon, as well as allowed access to the surface. Champion kept his word and slit the goblin’s throat. Skreebo died gratefully. The prince stood up, his gauntlets and cuirass dripping with green goblin blood. The princess’s emerald brooch was stained with it. “East it is, then.” Champion turned to the east, but the door was closed. Sealed shut. All the doors were. “I don’t understand. We slew the last monster, the doors must open!” yelled Champion. He pounded on the stone with his bloody fists. “Open!” he shouted. “Open! Open! Open!” “The doors only open when all the monsters in the chamber are slain,” said Faraja, quietly. “We’ve done that! Fairwyn awaits!” bellowed Champion. “Looks like you were the real monster all along, prince,” said Braddock. Champion screamed as the dwarf and elf pounced on him.
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Aug 29, 2022 05:07
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Out-of-left-field twist, with running through the gates and into taxis Asphalt Shuffle 1500 words max, 1499 words used Gunshot to the mouth. The secretary screamed and went to the ladies’ room. Three lines and a text message later, she was loving out of there. Out the ladies’ room, through a hallway filled with empty suits, down a flight of stairs two steps at a time, through front lobby manned by a doughnut-gut, she was loving gone, bye-bye. Blood screaming in his ears as she tore down the sidewalk, sneaks smack-smack-smacking on the sidewalk, people making way like she was goddamn Moses. Ramses in his chariot wasn’t far behind, either. His army followed. The phone rang. She answered it with a calm, breathless “Yo.” “Don’t you ‘yo’ me, Frankie! You got it or not?” Jack’s voice could steam broccoli. “Yes.” Woman was popsicles even as she wiped a trickle of blood. Jack sounded calmer. “Good. You know the way?” “Yes.” “A’ight.” Pause. “You got a tail?” Frankie looked behind her. “Yes.” Jack fumed. “gently caress me! Fine, you’re lucky I like you. Go down fourth street, I’ll have a man waiting for you in a taxi.” Sirens, shouts, mayhem. The crowded streets were an aegis, a labyrinth, a means of passage. “Stop! Stop in the name of the-” “We have you surrounded-” “Freeze, motherfu-” Stock lines from stock men, the blue wall rose to meet here and she vaulted over it, legs pumping like candy-powered pistons. She was flying, she was above them all, lifted on the purest of white wings. The fourth street lay before her, a signpost proclaiming entry to the promised land. A yellow car glittered in the afternoon sun, a beacon of freedom waiting to take her home. “We told you to freeze, bitch,” said one cop as he reached for his gun. The other next to him did the same. The crowd was large, but none of that mattered, those people didn’t matter, because they weren’t in suits and they didn’t pay the budget. Frankie’s world slowed as Laplace’s Demon carefully pointed out the design. See those cops? They have their safeties on, their reaction time is gonna be slow. See the folks around? Cover. Even if they shoot, they’ll have a hard time hitting you – you’re little, you’re small, you had a taste of candy. You run between them, baby. You can trip them up, get in the taxi, and haul rear end. “Pardon me,” she spat as she crashed between the cops, pushing them aside like the gates to paradise even as they fumbled with their guns. A bullet went off. Did it hit someone? Who the gently caress cares, that was behind her, that was Mesozoic. The future was before here, and it was yellow. The cab sped toward her with a banshee wail. Even the candy in her veins couldn’t save her from two tons of metal, couldn’t save her from the grinning rear end in a top hat behind the wheel. Metal slapped meat, the meat experienced antigravity. It flew through the air toward the cops, spattering them with red. The corpse hit the ground rolling, shedding cloth and skin until the remains came to a stop. Passenger secured. *** “lovely way to pick me up,” said the driver after she adjusted to the change. She looked down at her new body and curled her lip. This one didn’t have the three lines of candy to perk her up, and the weight of her mortality made her shoulders slump. Was that a hangover? She would have taken a knife to the ribs for a nap, but she needed to focus. She had her cargo to carry, and it slipped further from of her grip with every passing moment. She backed away from the scene of the crime and rolled through the city. Sirens followed her, but the new memories told her how to get through; plenty of alleys just large enough to squeeze through. Muscle-memory didn’t fail her as she let the hind-brain do the heavy lifting of the drive. She came to a stop at the pier’s outskirts, then ran her large, ungainly form between the shipping crates, stopping only when she reached the warehouse to let out the breath she’d been holding the while. She slipped inside, and Jack was waiting. “Since you’re alone,” he said with a sigh, cigarette hanging limply from his lip, “I assume Aaron misunderstood the nature of your gift.” “You assume right,” Frankie said. She looked down at her borrowed flesh, shuddering. It stank. Its mouth tasted like alcohol, its teeth had never known the decadent joy of a toothbrush. “He was a prick anyway, good driver or not.” Jack gestured toward Frankie. “You get it?” She nodded. “Picked the CEO’s brains clean, then ran off in his secretary. She had some candy on her, so that gave me enough pickup to make it out.” She looked at her scarred, meaty hands and shuddered. “I need my own body back.” “It’s in the freezer,” Jack said. “But I know how stolen memories fade after enough swaps, so you’re gonna sit down and get what we need, or else you’re gonna have to get real comfy inside Aaron. Catch me?” “Caught.” She spat onto the floor of the warehouse and shuddered. “This is the last one though, right?” “For now,” Jack said as he set up a laptop on a nearby desk. “I want you to log into the company system and make the appropriate changes. I know CEO whatshisname had his hands in every jar, so I want you to log in and snag some cookies for me.” “I know enough about computers to know how lovely your joke is,” Frankie said as she sat at the desk, grunting as too-large fingers worked over the keyboard. Jack watched as Frankie dug through the systems, copying encrypted data to their own drive, using the CEO’s personal permissions to bypass all obstacles. “If I’d have known it was this easy,” Frankie muttered under her breath as she finished her work, “I wouldn’t have bothered.” “I needed him dead, too,” Jack said. “Needed that more than anything, actually, but with this we actually get something out of it.” “You get something out of it, you mean,” Frankie said as she stood up and popped her back. “I get the pleasure of being your immortal body-snatcher.” “Come on, don’t be that way. You’re getting your body back, and some money on top of it,” Jack said, all smiles. “When am I getting it?” Frankie crossed her arms. “It’s in that refrigeration unit right there,” Jack said, gesturing with a ring-clad hand to the equipment in question. Frankie suddenly grinned. “So you brought my body here, and you sent your only protection – Aaron here – to pick me up?” She looked around, then her grin widened. “Aw, Jack, are you starting to trust me?” Jack clacked his tongue and ran his hand through his immaculate white hair. “O-of course I am, why wouldn’t I? We had a rough start, but we’ve got a good relationship going-” Frankie interrupted him with a repeat performance, wrapping those chapped lips around the barrel of a gun and pulling the trigger. As Aaron’s body slumped to the ground, Jack saw a serpentine mass of spectral energy flow from the twitching corpse of Aaron. Though it lacked eyes, Jack could tell it was staring at him, purposely holding back. He looked at that cloud of ectoplasm with growing terror. “Frankie, if you were that anxious to get your body back, we could have have found a less… painful way to get you out of Aaron, eh?” He attempted a sheepish laugh. “But hey, I don’t blame you, now let’s get you… you…” The ghostly serpent drifted nearer to Jack, and he took a step backward. “Frankie, please, we’ve been through a lot together-” Jack’s plea was cut off with a scream as the serpent struck, wrapping ephemeral coils about him, suffocating what vestigial soul dwelt within that prim-and-proper body. The others she’d let escape – she needed only their flesh and their memories, their spirits were free to pass on. But Jack was too tempting a meal to pass up. *** “Mr. Coriander,” said the secretary as he set the files on the desk, his handsome features shiny with worry. “The… the investors are getting impatient. The deals you promised all those months ago are-” “Sweetie, just call me Jackie,” she said leaning over the desk. “And I’ve already told you those deals are off the table. I’m closing up shop, and if the investors don’t like it then they can take me to court.” “They are threatening to take you to court, sir,” the secretary said. He looked around, then leaned down. “Let them threaten, we’re not doing anything illegal.” She looked up at him. “Now if there’s nothing else, I need to sign these papers, then head off to a prior engagement that I’ve put off for too long.” He looked down at her. “Mr. Corian-er, Jackie, sir?” “Just a project I’ve kept on ice for a few months.”
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Aug 29, 2022 05:36
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Komondora 1499 words Jenna parked down the street so her beater of a car wouldn't be visible from the house. Mrs. Veronese had already given her the spare key, and mentioned at the office that they might have to head out by the time that she arrived. But Jenna refused to take chances. In Hollywood, appearances are everything. She knew the only way she'd succeed was by appearing like the confident, un-desperate rockstar creative executive she wanted to be. She slung her new, overpriced, and hopefully returnable overnight bag over her shoulder and strode down the street. She was in Silver Lake, her ideal neighborhood, which of course meant an absurd price even for a one-bedroom. The drive from Toluca Lake had taken nearly 90 minutes, and the impressive sunset had come and gone. The sky overhead was dark blue, the kind of clear that promised you might see a star or two if you looked hard enough. The warm living room lights of the other mansions twinkled along the hillside across the reservoir. The Veronese house wasn't hard to find, and it was gorgeous. A generous setback, with a tall hedge protecting a sumptuous lawn. Jenna walked the long driveway to the door and rang the bell. She heard barks and scrambling toenails on hardwood, but nobody answered. She used the key, and was immediately met by two huge, rambunctious Hungarian sheepdogs, the kind that look like giant mops. Jenna wedged herself inside. The dogs were friendly - very friendly. There wasn't any humping yet, but she was thoroughly slobbered-on and being sniffed in places that hadn't had company since pre-Covid. Luckily, Jenna loved dogs. She scratched their heads, and bellies when promptly presented. Slowly, surrounded by the vortex of bad breath and dreadlocks, she made her way to the kitchen, where she found a note in Mrs. Veronese's long cursive. Jen - Had to leave early with Rodg. Help yourself to anything. Noodles and Willow get a cup each from under the sideboard after 6. Thanks again for your help. We'll discuss your career when I'm back - promise! Delia. Nothing unexpected. Jenna had done dogsitting gigs before. She'd just have to figure out what a sideboard was, and she'd be golden. But first things first. Her eyes found an extensive liquor bottle collection on one wall. She kicked the dog bowls aside and moved a chair over from the dining room table so she could reach a bottle of mezcal, the pricey stuff. She poured herself a stiff one and let her tour guides begin the tour. Noodles and Willow made a Jenna sandwich at all times - one in front, one behind. Leading and herding. They sniffed around the bedrooms, the offices, the garage, with the insane old Camaro and the stacks of untouched promotional gifts Jenna hadn't been allowed to take from the office. They sniffed around the workout room, the bathrooms, more bedrooms, and the aesthetically perfect but useless corners where art was placed to soften the peripheral-visual experience of walking from one end of the house to the other. But the part of the house that made Jenna stop and stare most intently, was the open air above the living room. Between the high high ceiling, the 12-seater couch, the switchback stairs, the midcentury brick chimney, and the two stories of pane glass and dark wood, there was a massive blob of nothing. That place, where nothing was and nothing could be, was larger than Jenna's apartment and car put together. She spent 60% of her income to spend 90% of her life in 90% of that volume of air, while it encompassed 40% of the total living room area and could be accessed by 0% of anyone. Jenna drained the last drop of her drink onto her tongue and went to pour another one, but decided to go to the bathroom instead. Noodles and Willow sat by the sideboard and waited. "Why was she staring at the ceiling like that? What was she looking at?" Asked Noodles. "Maybe there was a bug? I don't know. It was creepy though, you've got that right," said Willow. "I think we'd know if there was a bug." "Maybe she was just admiring the design. The tranquility." Noodles sighed. "I'm hungry," he said. "Same here," said Willow. "It's way past time already. She's not getting it." "You gonna do it?" "I'm doing it." Jenna emerged from the bathroom shortly thereafter with a suspicious look on her face. She stood still and listened hard. The dogs on the couch cocked their heads innocently. Jenna poked her head down the hallway and called, "Hello?" But there was no answer. "Could've sworn I heard something," she muttered as she took her fresh mezcal over to the couch. She was fully ready to forget about the voices she thought she'd heard, plop down between the dogs, and watch trashy TV until she fell asleep. She was ready, until her foot squished into a wide, dark circle on the carpet and the acrid smell of piss hit her nostrils. "Oh, no," she said. "No, no, no, no!" Jenna went into panic mode. She rushed across the open plan to the kitchen and threw open cupboards around the sink, and finally found a bottle of spray cleaner. But there were no paper towels anywhere. "Who can live like this?!" She screamed as she tore through yet more cabinets, only to be met with shelf upon shelf of fancy groceries she herself had bought and placed in the trunk of Mrs. Veronese's SUV over the last several months. Nearly untouched - but still no paper towels. She tried the cabinet underneath the liquor shelves, but the big bag of expensive dog food that was inside spilled out all over the floor. "So that's what a sideboard is," Jenna grumbled. Finally, not even a full minute after her food had moistened in the puddle, Jenna ripped her shirt off and crushed into the wet spot, hoping to soak up at least some of the piss. She hesitated with the spray cleaner, wondering how much damage she could do to the carpet, and how much money she'd be burning if she ruined it. But piss was piss. She sprayed, and prayed. All the while, the dogs sat on the couch looking down at her, stubby little tongues panting away. "Bitches," said Jenna. "I don't care which one of you did it. You're both bitches." After she had done all she felt was possible with the shirt, she got up and took it down to the laundry room, leaving the dogs alone again. They both got up and trotted over to the spilled dog food and snarfed up what they could. "Unbelievable," said Willow. "That language!" "She didn't even let us out to potty. Obviously we have to. She didn't even think of it." "And I'm still hungry. This wasn't our full dinner." "Just awful. Not up to snuff at all. I suppose it's my turn then," said Noodles. He eyed Jenna's overnight bag, laying next to the kitchen island. He padded over to it curiously, pawed at it for a flatter target, and stradded it in a high-arched squat. "Please don't watch me. It makes it harder," he said. "Don't worry," replied Willow, hopping back up on the couch. "I've seen it enough for one lifetime." But when Jenna returned from the laundry room to find the unmistakable scent of poo poo in the air, she didn't freak out as the dogs had expected. In fact, she had a dark look in her eye, and a piece of paper in her hand. She looked to the sideboard, where the tile had been licked clean. "Ate all your dog food, huh?" She said quietly, almost mockingly. Like the way you mock yourself in a dream for having such a strange subconscious. And then her eyes landed on the big dookie on her overnight bag. Fury flooded into Jenna. She charged across the kitchen and grabbed a big butcher knife from the magnetic strip - one thing that was easy to find in that prosumer maximalist hell. She whirled on the dogs, who looked alarmed. "That's it," she shouted. "Get up. Show me your hands." Willow ventured a bark, but Jenna shouted it down. "Oh no! No you don't. I grew up poor, you think I never stabbed a dog before?! I said, stand up and show me your hands." Reluctantly, Noodles and Willow stood up and unfurled, standing high on their hind legs. The long hair fell out of their faces to reveal the pink, well-moisturized, and terrified faces of Mr. and Mrs. Veronese. "B-but," stammered Willow, aka Mrs. Veronese. "How did you know?" "Receipt for two realistic Komondor costumes, in the laundry room trash can," said Jenna, holding up the paper in her hand. Then she dropped it and held up the big knife in her other hand, and grinned a twisted grin. "Now, get over here. You two rich fuckers are gonna die!!"
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Aug 29, 2022 07:46
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After School 1324 words Mr. Greenfield was the cool teacher at Morriston Junior High. Sponsor of the D&D kind of cool, you know. Geek cool. But also the other kind, dangerously cool, flirts with your single mom and might get somewhere kind of cool. Also, the man never lied. Like, not even once. Couldn't give a pop quiz after we figured that out. Couldn't really Dungeon Master properly either, so Jules had to take over while he played the druid. One day, me and Jules were out after the bell, waiting for our ride, which was late. This was back when cell phones were huge bricks that only lawyers and stockbrokers had in their cars, so when your ride, Jules' big sister Cricket and her embarrassingly pink Chevette in this case, seemed to bail on you, there was no way to find out what was going on apart from maybe walking all the way up the hill to the library, going to the pay phone there, and then, since neither one of us had change, calling someone's parents collect and hoping they knew more than you did. We weren't ready for that; she wasn't that late. But it was getting there, and the sky just turned dark with the threat of rain. That's when Mr. Greenfield spotted us. "Didn't expect you to be here this late," he said. "Can I help you with anything?" "Quarter for the phone?" I asked. "I'm good for it, swear." He checked his pockets to be sure, then said "No luck. You can use my office phone if you like, though." Now if this had been Mr. Sykes or even, God forbid, Mr. McAllister, this might have presented a logistical problem, one of those corn and fox and chicken crossing the river kind of things, what with someone needing to stay there in case Cricket showed up and the general creepiness of being alone in an office with a teacher after hours. Not that either of those others would do anything, probably. But Mr. Greenfield was cool. Anyhow, he waited outside while I called anyway. There was some kind of note on his door, with a strange black symbol on the front, sort of like a circle but not quite, more a rounded pentagon. I called Jules' parents and nobody answered. I left a message on the machine, then tried home. Also no answer, which is what I expected but figured I'd try just in case. So I came out of the office. Mr. Greenfield stuffed the note into his pocket when I came out. "Any luck?" he said. "Nobody home," I said. "Hopefully already on their way." It was just Jules waiting by the parking area when we got back down, though. "Nobody-" I started to say when we were close enough to be heard. "Duck!" yelled Mr. Greenfield as a black limousine swerved into the lot at speed. Jules was on the ground first. I was right after. Mr. Greenfield did more of a roll, ending up behind his car. Then the windows of the limousine rolled down and two men with guns leaned out, firing a long burst in our general direction. You think about that reflex, that conditioning. About the times when someone says "duck" and you freeze, get a lightweight ball in the face. But when it's that real, you hear it. You feel it. You don't freeze. You move, and you get that adrenaline hit, and time slows down. You notice everything. The faces of the two men, lumpy and identical. The safety glass in the windows of Mr. Greenfield's Accord spraying onto the concrete. The limo kept moving, moving in a circle through the lot, ready to come around again. "Get in, hurry," he said, crouching low in the driver's seat. We did, me in front and Jules in the back, lying across the seats. "What the hell?" said Jules. "I wasn't always a teacher," said Mr Greenfield. "What does this have to do with us?" I said. Mr. Greenfield was starting the engine and watching the limousine. "Jonah," he answered, "This has absolutely nothing to do with you. But if they took you hostage I'd have a lot of trouble not doing whatever they wanted." He drove, almost straight at the limo, playing chicken and keeping on the right side, the side opposite the open windows and guns. "Who are these guys?" asked Jules. "Former business associates," said Mr. Greenfield. He swerved hard at the last minute, right as the limo went right also, a bit too hard, going up on two wheels for a second. He took us out onto the open road. "So what, you're in some kind of witness protection thing?" said Jules. "Nothing so official," he said, leading the chase toward the highway. He drove like a madman. The men behind us weren't any saner, and they'd shoot occasionally. "I didn't always look like this." Now, what you'd think would happen is that they'd go for the tires, shoot one or two out, and we'd be stopped. And that's what they did. Or what they tried at least. There'd be a shot, and we'd hear the tire blow and the car starting to thump thump thump along, but then it stopped doing that and was driving normally. So we made it to the highway. Which didn't help things, since we picked up some highway patrol cars following the chase, except their lights were green and purple instead of red and blue and they flanked the limousine and came up behind us together. We could see lights ahead, too, some kind of roadblock. Mr. Greenfield yanked the note out of his pocket and gave it to me, one hand on the wheel. "Read the last line. Aloud." I took it. Fancy script. Latin, which I was struggling in year one, but I could pronounce even without understanding anything other than the word 'via', road. I read the words, and an exit appeared on the right. Mr. Greenfield swerved into it and into what was the greenest place I've ever seen. And then we were on horses. Jules weirdly sidesaddle, he almost fell off. So did I, I had to quickly grab the wildly lashing reins. Behind us some of the following enemy were also mounted now, and held spears and crossbows. "Just hold on," said Mr. Greenfield, who now had green hair rather than the black before. "The horses want to stay together if you let them." So we rode. A few more missiles flew past us. I was beginning to think they were deliberately missing, which I later found out was right, but not in a reassuring way. They wanted hostages, wanted to interrogate and threaten. And they had more friends waiting ahead of us. We were surrounded, stopped with an enemy semicircle, narrowing, and a wild river behind us. "Get off the horses," said one, the same lumpy face but in a police uniform. "Let's be reasonable." I saw it first, a tiny spot in the impossibly blue sky, getting larger and larger until I could see it clearly. Cricket, riding a bright pink dragon as big as a van, her hair now a matching pink. The dragon breathed gouts of yellow-white flame and scattered the enemy. We ended up spending a week there, but it was only a few hours back home. The spell wouldn't open the gate again any sooner, and when it did start working I couldn't get the words right again the first few tries. "You don't want to go to those places," said Mr. Greenfield. "Trust me." It wasn't so bad. I met a girl there, with butterfly wings named Berryfresh, and got her to agree to come to the big year-end dance, which was otherwise going to be a sad stag night for us. Jules got a date too, but she turned out to be Mr. Greenfield's niece, which was kind of awkward.
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Aug 29, 2022 07:52
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Most Equal of All 1437 words I inherited the pet shop from my aunt, back in the late 90s. It seemed absurd, like a set-up for a cheap straight-to-video comedy, where the family found their love for each other through the trials of running a shambolic but visually compelling business. Or that’s what I said to my wife Helen at the time, anyway: she smiled back. “Are the accounts in there?” she asked, pointing at the thick bundle of documents from the lawyers. I ruffled through the papers, pulled out a bunch of pages with numbers on them, handed them over with a questioning expression, then went to the fridge for another beer. “These don’t look so bad,” she said, after a while. She had got her serious business pen out, the one with the silver arrow in it, and was making little notes down the side of the columns. “We could make this work.” I rattled my empty can, listening to the clacking of the tab pinging off the walls of the can. I’d been working extra shifts at the chip shop to help pay rent, but I had yet to find any abiding internal passion for battered gurnard. “I’m in.” The first thing I noticed when I cracked the door was the dim light filtering in through dusty windows, the second was the smell. Sweet Jesus, the smell. “Did they all die?” I choked out once I’d stuck my head back out the door for a few breaths of air that wasn’t clogged with an almost visible miasma of animal. “Did she leave us an Animorgue, Helen.” I looked at her to see if she had clocked my clever animorphs pun, but she was shaking her head. “No, there was someone paid to keep them fed and cleaned while the sale was going through. I texted him, he should be–” I don’t know if he planned it that way, seems a lot of effort, but just as she said that a man stood up inside the shop, and as he did the light caught his golden hair, and rich thick beard and easy smile. “Hi,” he said. “You must be Helen.” Then he winked. He really was intimidatingly good looking. Not very good at cleaning out cages, as we had just learnt, but at least all the pets were alive. He said he had a special connection with them. Dave, I should say. Dave was his name. Dave the Assistant. Anyway we all got to work, me and Helen and Dave the Assistant, and it was a lot of work, like, a lot a lot. There were a few times I thought wistfully back to slow Tuesdays at the chippy reading my Asimov or Spider-Man, but Helen never flagged, bless her. And nor did Dave the Assistant, bless him too, though not quite as much or as enthusiastically because over time, and as the pet shop, Pets Hurrah! as my aunt had (mystifyingly) named it, became self-sustaining and then even a bit profitable, Dave and Helen became close. Long evenings spent poring over the accounts, cleaning out the guppies water filters, ordering day-glo chew toys for puppies. She would come home yawning and a little mussed. I ignored my suspicions at first. There was a lot to do in getting a business going and I’d be the first to agree I was sort of useless at any number of key tasks. Give me a job and I’d do it, of course, but never with quite the panache or easy charm of Dave. And, then, there was the special connection. Finally, one cold night in early spring, I’d had enough. I asked her what was going on, why she was spending all the late nights, what was up. To be brutally honest, I was probably just looking for a plausible lie I could tell myself as I sat up in bed waiting for her to come home, but I got more than that. Much more. After I’d finished, she looked at me for a long time, those little lines between her eyebrows that meant she was thinking hard. Then she sighed, and hugged me - nice - and said: “You’d better come with me.” I don’t know what I was expecting when I got there, she was just shaking her head when I asked her what I’d see on the drive over, but something about her demeanour made me apprehensive so I didn’t push very hard. Certainly what I didn’t expect was to see Dave the Assistant in front of a whiteboard with a whole menagerie of talking animals in front of him. He was teaching them algebra. Algebra. It turned out that Dave had stumbled on some kind of brain-enhancing hyperfood for animals, and the stock of the pet store had all attained sentience. Wow! “Wow!” I said. They nodded, then seemed to be waiting for something else. “I… thought you were having an affair, maybe?” One of the hamsters laughed at that. That hurt, I don’t mind telling you. It even sprayed a few bits of hamster chow out of its cheek pouches. Dave shook his head. “I respect you far too much, Alistair.” He had the glistening eyes of a convert. “We cannot waste our efforts on internecine squabbling.” He actually said ‘internecine’. It was becoming quickly apparent to me that I had significantly underestimated Dave the Assistant. Helen and Dave explained that since it would have been terrible to sell these sentient animals like so many potatoes, they had been sending them out and then arranging their subsequent escape. That was why they’d been out so late together. And, well, it seemed they’d been stealing all kinds of crap too. “You’ve been what,” I asked evenly. I thought I was taking all this extremely calmly and was not minded to blow my streak. Helen and Dave, to their credit, I suppose, both looked extremely sheepish, but T-bone the Sheep didn’t. “Stealing poo poo, Alistair!” he crowed. I looked down at the woolly larcenist. He had a gold bracelet round his front foreleg. It occurred to me that I’d seen that bracelet before, and dismissed it as a plastic children’s toy that Helen had put on him for Store Appeal, but on second inspection it was real. “Stealing is against the law,” I said. “Not if you’re a sheep,” said T-bone. I couldn’t argue with him, first because I didn’t actually know where to find the law that said you were only allowed to steal if you were a human, and second because he was a sheep, it would have been weird. I turned my attention back to Helen and Dave and I said “This can’t be a sustainable business model.” Helen nodded. “That’s because it’s not a business,” she said calmly. “It’s a revolution.” They laid out their plan at the table in the break room with Willoughby the 2ic tabby and Porpentine the weasel aide-de-camp. They wanted to take over the country. You see, we were, through purest coincidence, located near Government House. We had sold cats and dogs and stoats and guinea pigs and neon tetrises to half of Parliament. And all of those animals, thanks to Dave the Assistant’s, uh, assistance, could read. I would be lying if I said I didn’t have qualms about using the intelligence garnered from hyper-intelligent rodents and cats to blackmail the elected representatives of our country into a series of political changes that would result in us having a finger on the scales of national power, then using that to bring about equality and justice on a scale hitherto unexperienced in our country with only a little bit of (necessary) bloodshed and chaos, but I couldn’t deny it was a clever plan. At first it all went off smoothly. We collected our dossiers of animal intel, scribbling down secret after secret according to the whispered or lisped explanation from this animal or that, and started making calls, putting on the pressure. And it was working! But then I started catching a change in the animals' expressions, stumbling on the occasional furry conclave that stopped talking the moment they saw me. Noticing a stockpile of hyper-brain food that wasn’t there before, with telltale clawmarks in the sacks. Two years later, of course, it was all over; we really should have seen the signs coming. The animals declared the first animal republic, the great purges happened, and there I was walking up the steps towards the waiting guillotine flanked by stern looking St Bernards. You know it’s funny, I never really wanted to be somebody. But then I guess most people who want to make a difference never do. So I had that going for me.
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Aug 29, 2022 07:55
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Venting 992 words “Look, I sympathize, but there’s not much you can do here. You’re going to have to live with it.” I wait for him to continue, but instead he plucks a wrinkled cigarette from his breast pocket, places it between his lips, and turns his head to face me. He lets the moment linger, and as a faint scent of mint drifts toward me I hate him just a little. “You could lie, you know. I’m getting poo poo from everyone else.” The fatigue isn’t helping my mood, but it’s probably best to just ignore it. If Josh feels the same, he isn’t showing it. He tilts his head back and spits the cigarette upward, doing his best to angle the same breast pocket to catch it on the way down. He doesn’t, but chuckles as he picks it up and stashes it. His eyes shift back to me. “If you didn’t expect to be the bad guy, I don’t know what to tell you.” “I didn’t think there had to be a bad guy! It just didn’t work out.” Lord knows I tried, too. I’d been working to fix it from the beginning. “If not you, who else to blame?” Well, I could argue that there’s no real blame to assign, but I get his point. “There’s always a bad guy. It’s you. It was always going to be you, given the circumstances.” “I mean, it might be easiest to blame me, but-” “Enough. I don’t have the stamina for this. Talk to someone else or be quiet.” Not exactly the friendly ear I was hoping for, but I can now see the strain hiding in his face. “I’m going to try to sleep.” He slides to the floor, brushes away the dust, and lays his head onto his folded arms. The night that Sarah left, we’d had the worst fight of our time together. It was a fitting capstone to a colossal failure, and a battle in which no ammunition had been left unspent. A few words had been enough to shatter the foundation of our relationship, and even as the whole structure came tumbling down, our shouting was enough to drown out the crash. It started, of course, with Mary’s death. To describe the agony of losing a child is to diminish it. To truly understand it you can only feel it, and we felt it together. From there, we diverged. I retreated into my work with new purpose, and into places where Sarah could not follow. I don’t blame her for seeking support elsewhere. I didn’t even feign surprise when she said she’d found someone else. I think that coolness made it worse somehow, but it wasn’t until I told her that I’d managed to bring Mary back to life that things really deteriorated. You’d have thought that would help matters! As dreadful as the loss of a child is, it should follow that said child’s return be wonderful in equal measure. Granted, Sarah had a right to be frustrated that I waited to share my accomplishment, but I’d been hoping to remedy some of the unanticipated side effects of Mary’s return before reintroducing her to her mother. When Sarah saw her as she was then, it was clear that I’d been right to worry. I maintain that I made my mistakes in execution, but essentially, what came next wasn’t my fault. She shouldn’t have driven in that state, but she did anyway, and when they pulled her car from the water I knew what I had to do. A girl needs her mother, after all. They were the first, and as with every breakthrough, one must expect some imperfections. Sarah lacked physical deterioration, but in nature, she was as bestial as our daughter. Subsequent work proved more promising, though as subjects began to recapture consciousness more frequently, new challenges presented themselves. That Mary and Sarah must be kept from engaging with society was never in question, for example, but as others grew in intellectual capacity, confinement seemed more and more problematic. Eventually, I saw fit to introduce a few of the more well-adjusted returnees to a hotspot of socialization. While possible that this effort might have proven effective in a different setting, the mall endeavor went about as poorly as one might imagine. I expect sensory overload contributed to some form of regression and with their backs against the wall, self-preservation won out. I’ve spoken at some length with Josh about the matter, and I take him at his word that he feels no compulsion to engage in any violent behavior. Still, the demonstrated capacity for propagation of their condition suggests an underlying impulse akin to that of procreation, and I do wonder if allowing Josh to “father” another returnee might make him more inclined to understand why I began this work in the first place. Josh can’t sleep, but we both knew that already. Even if his body could manage it, though, the cacophony of guns and sirens and explosions outside would have rendered it impossible. Instead, he sits up, and once again produces his cigarette. “Can I smoke this, considering?” “Considering what?” In turn, he lifts both hands and gestures in no particular direction. “Everything, I guess. Either someone gets ahead of this, in which case you’re hosed, or they don’t, and you’re hosed even worse.” I don’t really know what to say to that, and he’s staring again. “Fine.” I toss him my lighter and he gets to work. I can’t imagine he’s actually getting anything from it, but I suppose the ritual grants some comfort. “Hey, Josh?” “Yeah?” “You can see yourself out, too. It should open in fifteen or so.” As I rise from my chair, he jumps to his feet. “Are you serious? What about you?” “I’m going to be with my family.” He frowns. “Are you sure?” “Yeah.” “Well that’s that, then. For what it’s worth...” “What?” “You’re not the bad guy.”
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Aug 29, 2022 07:59
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Week 525 Submission Window officially closed. Time to git judgin
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Aug 29, 2022 13:00
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 Week 525 RESULTSno frills results, longer crits to follow Win - Something Else Komondora was certainly something else. I won't spoil the ending so everybody go read it. Maybe some others are more elegant or more well structured, but this is a certain kind of unforgettable (and it's pretty funny). HM - Tyrannosaurus "On Method........." I was a little more lukewarm on this compared to the other judges, mostly about the specifics of show-biz world which is a large part of the text. The narrator working through issues with faux dad via memoir was fine. There was a huge upper tier of good stories this week. Contenders were Boxed Up, Asphalt Shuffle, After School, Most Equal of All. so to be most equal, no other HMs. If you want to gang up and demand them, direct action gets the goods. Much like: DM - Kuiperdolin Ben's death It's not quite as wonky as the loser, and there's an argument to be made that the lack of any politics stated in the story make it more interesting, but I wish you would have just flat out stated the whos and whys. You could have mined a lot more out of the final thoughts of an operator either doing an imperialism and blowing himself up in the process or an amateur fighting for an ideal (whether that ideal is misguided or not) Important to remember a character's ideals are not necessarily a reflection of the author's. On a positive, Samson collapsing the building is nice and clever Loss- dervinosdoom Man Vs Machine keep practicing, this feels like a lot of rookie stories, rough and ready writing that's not particularly good. I can look past that if you had some clever ideas, but it's all a mash of things I've seen done better. Sorry 
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Aug 30, 2022 04:37
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Thunderdome Week 526 A Total Freakshow  Human and animal biology has stayed the same for far too long. Two eyes? Four limbs? One brain?! That stuff is old! Stodgy! Boring! WELL NO MORE. This week, I want to know how you think we should mix up the template. Give me a story about mutation. Intentional, accidental, beneficial, adversarial, metaphorical, metaphysical - the only certainty when a mutation occurs is that something new gets born. If you want a flash rule, I will tell you the catalyst for your mutation. Word Limit: 1500 Boilerplate: No erotica, google docs or external links, ideological screeds, plagiarism, fanfic Judges: Me PhantomMuzzles Fuschia tude Submission Deadline Monday 2:59AM EDT Sunday 11:59PM PDT Monday 7:00PM NZST There is no signup deadline. But I would like it if you sign up so I can make a big list of names right here. Mutant Marauders: Thranguy Idle Amalgam dervinosdoom Copernic Screaming Idiot Quiet Feet My Shark Waifuu flerp Ceighk MockingQuantum Tyrannosaurus hard counter Something Else fucked around with this message at 06:27 on Sep 5, 2022 |
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Aug 30, 2022 07:26
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In and flash
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Aug 30, 2022 07:32
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:Loss- dervinosdoom I'll never improve if I don't write. IN
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Aug 30, 2022 13:10
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In and flash
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Aug 30, 2022 14:20
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in
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Aug 30, 2022 15:31
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These are some quicker crits I made so I could have something to talk about during Judgechat. I'm gonna post some longer ones later, but I figured you guys need at least SOMETHING to bounce off of. Ben’s Death Grammatical errors and misspellings. No Italics when some could really be used. Twist was merely there. NOTE: suggest to Jib that this gets a whole story review (Or whatever it’s called) similar to what was done with my stories. “On Method and ‘Doug Shouldn't drive’” This one is much better. Twist was much better handled, even though it ultimately didn’t play into the hosed upness of the story. So far, this could win. Man vs. Machine Good: Twist was what the hell levels of messed up. Bad: Rentboy level grammar mistakes (Could use a whole story review, as well) Boxed Up Got a “The hell?” Reaction out of me, and in a good way. Unless it was the intended reaction, it might’ve been good to at least tell where Jimmy was. The Delve of last hope Really messed up. In a good way. Good Worldbuilding, and while the twist was merely there, it wasn’t nessesary to make the story hosed up. Asphalt Shuffle This one was also messed up in a good way. The twist didn’t seem shocking to me, it only really made me think, “Okay…THAT happened!” Guessing this one won’t get a mention. Komondora Imagine a field of Psyducks, extending forever. What the hell did I just read?! This is definitely at least an HM. After School While I liked the twist, it wasn’t as mindblowing as some of the other ones this week. Still a good story. Most Equal of all This wasn’t as messed up as some of the other stories, but it was still really good. At the very least there is no mention. Venting This one was interesting. It seemed like it was showing cloning as if it was normal. Wasn’t bad, wasn’t good, merely OK.
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Aug 30, 2022 19:43
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Why the hell were they posted twice
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Aug 30, 2022 19:43
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In! And open that trenchcoat and flash me!
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Aug 30, 2022 22:46
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Thranguy posted:In and flash A meteorite that's perpetually hot to the touch Idle Amalgam posted:In and flash Mad scientist messing around with chemicals Screaming Idiot posted:In! And open that trenchcoat and flash me! Touched by an extraplanar deity at birth
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Aug 30, 2022 23:22
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You know what? FLASH ME
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Aug 31, 2022 01:16
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That’s the spirit! dervinosdoom posted:You know what? FLASH ME A barrel that has been leaking for over 30 years BTW - if you want to join the Thunderdome discord where writing discussion happens, this is the link https://discord.gg/twT6aMnN
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Aug 31, 2022 01:44
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Hello thunder thread. In and flash me.
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Aug 31, 2022 04:17
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In and flash, please and thank you
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Aug 31, 2022 05:22
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in 
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Aug 31, 2022 18:23
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fuckit, in and flash
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Aug 31, 2022 18:42
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Quiet Feet posted:Hello thunder thread. Beams of pure evil from across space My Shark Waifuu posted:In and flash, please and thank you The unbearable pressure of living a life that just isn't enough Ceighk posted:fuckit, in and flash The secret of the long-lost tomb
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Aug 31, 2022 19:48
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In, flash
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Sep 1, 2022 01:38
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New Thunderdavatar lookin good. Thanks!!MockingQuantum posted:In, flash An innocuous keepsake found in the attic
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Sep 1, 2022 19:41
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In, flash
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Sep 3, 2022 07:06
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strange thINgs will happen to my body soon
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Sep 3, 2022 07:57
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Tyrannosaurus posted:In, flash A hell of a lot of workout supplements
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Sep 3, 2022 16:52
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The Planter By Copernic [1459] “Even the notary was impressed,” her Dad said. “You know. Notaries. They gotta act solemn, like they’re a one-man bank.” “Yeah, sure,” Fiona said. “Sure.” “This one walks in and – sir, I LOVE your PLANTS. I gave her the whole tour,” Dad beamed. He sat upright in the bed. He’d gotten it converted to a full hospital-grade motorized mattress as soon as he’d received the diagnosis. “Did you do the green thumb line?” Fiona said. She’d workshopped it with Dad over the phone, while she was still in the City. One-liners were, she felt, her main skill. Wit that would garner a dozen heart reacts on just about any social network. “Ah, I tried, but I botched it!” Dad shook his head. He wore a sweater despite the heat, the persistent greenhouse humidity of the house. Sweat beaded along the crown of his head. “I blew it! I just blurted it out before she said the setup line!” “No!” Fiona reached for her water cup. It was important to stay hydrated in the house. It was historic. Not just locally but regionally. That meant no AC, inefficient historic ceiling fans, and the kitchen was always a long walk away. “That’s the key. Wait for the Give Me Your Thumb line. Sir, can I see your thumb? For the fingerprint?” “Okay if its a green thumb?” Dad recited. He coughed. Fiona took a long drink of water, to give her something to do while Dad hacked and choked. He pointed to the manila envelope between gasps. It was very heavy. She’d tried not to think about the will. At all. “What is this?” Fiona pulled out a crisp white folder. METAMORPH was emblazoned on top, the font designed to give an impression of stacked-up flagstones. “Oh.” “You’ve heard of them, right? I know they’re on the internet and you’re always there. I’m gonna be a statue! I’m gonna be in a rock band! Or band of rocks. You can help me with that one.” — The process was very expensive and not wholly legal in their state. But Dad could afford all of it, and the lawyers, and everything else was left over to Fiona, per the will. Everything – she’d expected no more than a fond stipend. Wanted nothing more. Told him the same. Dad had hinted at leaving the house and its vegetation to the State Park system, and she’d figured it settled. “I’ll be a kind of calcite,” he said, watching Fionna page through the brochure. “It’s a soft rock, nothing you’d WANT to make a statue out of. Not granite or anything, not limestone. But its solid enough. For awhile all they could manage was talc.” “You’ll be stone,” Fionna murmured. She didn’t trust herself to say much above a whisper. There were almost no plants in the master bedroom. One plant – a ficus, in an expensive vase – because it didn’t flower, didn’t risk a fragile set of lungs. It was just them. Suddenly she was seven again, at one of Dad’s famous parties. Inevitably a guest would be injured in the cactus room. City aldermen shook her hand just like they shook his. She shared in the respect, and told them jokes she got out of library books. “They look good, yeah?” Dad said. He thumbed his blanket, wiped his brow. The statues in the booklet were serene. “Yeah. The expression is the tough part. Gotta get it just right. That is it. The rep said to go for solemn, close-mouthed. He’s a really great guy by the way, we were figuring where to put me. In the house.” Many of the statues were half-turned, their eyes cast away from the camera. They looked generally very sad, although the one on the cover smiled, her head tilted upwards. The stone was a luminous white. — “Wow, that hurts more then it should,” June said. She had a habit of gesticulating broadly, then Fiona had shown her the Succulent room. “Is there cactus… venom?” “Toxin. It’d be a toxin. And no,” Fiona said. She’d invited June down from the City a month after Dad’s— change. Transition, they had called it. Over and over, to impress it as the Correct term. “We have bandaids in all adjacent rooms. It’ll be alright.” They were both drunk. Fiona had only avoided the nettles and spines of the many cacti from long ingrained habit. “Next up is the lily room. Which was my bedroom. Dad would just walk people in while I was doing my homework.” It was still her bedroom. June sprawled herself all over Fiona’s bed, shot her a look. “You’re really here all by your lonesome, huh? There’s, what, two floors, two dozen rooms? A million plants?” “There’s a greenhouse on the roof, too,” Fiona said. During the day volunteer gardeners shuffled in and out, unsure of what to say to her. June sat up, examined her hand. There was a blotch on the bandaid. She made a face. “You got me, you know,” she said. “My money radar is good. drat good. I bet I can go around any table in the City and peg the people: trust fund, poor, trust fund, trust, poor. I had you DEAD for poor.” “I fooled you,” Fiona said. “Swindled you.” “I’ve seen your underpants. They’re poor person underpants. You and me, we had the same underpants. And then THIS. You’re a scion! Of a noble house! We’re not splitting checks anymore. YOU are gonna nourish ME.” ‘Yeah,” Fiona said. “I’ve always felt really lucky and grateful all the time. Hey, come see this room, how about?” She flung the door open. Dad had tried to affect a thin but warm smile. He’d practiced it on her, in the mirror. She’d watched him affix it, from the other side of the window. Mouthed a very quick “goodbye!” as the needle went in, then back to an expression he’d pre-judged mild and serene. It hadn’t gone off right – he’d opened his mouth, mid-change, and the stone looked startled. Sad. Also he was naked. That, at least, had gone correctly– he’d been poised like The Thinker, and was discrete. “Oh,” June said. She passed into the room. Dad was shiny in the moonlight. “Fiona. Geez. I thought your Dad was… I don’t know. Giving us privacy.” “Yeah!” Fiona said. She tried a smile of her own at June. A blinding grin. “I get to walk around my big house all day and hey, there’s Dad keeping an eye out.” She kicked at the vase containing Dad’s bedroom ficus. She’d moved it in with him – it was withering in the sickroom. The vase was the star – parisian manufacture, 18th century, The ficus was there to justify the vase. The ceramic broke. She hadn’t intended to really kick it. She’d just wanted a little drunken pity party. Pottery arced through the air and shattered on Dad’s stone chest. His expression didn’t change one bit. “Oh – oh no, I scratched him, I scratched him,” Fiona said. Calcite was a very soft stone. She’d gotten an entire packet on its mineralogical properties during the Transition. There were all sorts of things she was supposed to do to keep the stone safe. Dad’s chest had a thin but long gouge all the way across. — “The last time I saw you – oh, well, who wants to hear about when they were a kid?” the Director said. “If its memorable, its bad.” He sipped at Dad’s scotch. He’d known where the glasses were kept. “But I do remember the joke you told. Black and white and red all over, dying nun.” “Uh-huh,” Fiona said. She led him on the tour, unnecessarily. The Director weaved around every outstretched succulent arm. But he hadn’t seen the new addition. Fiona opened the door, and watched him slow to a stop, right in front of Dad. “I’m interested in selling,” she said. “Yes, you hinted… as such,” the Director said. He drank Dad’s scotch, and stared at the prior occupant. “Hello, Anthony. Fiona, you know we are a nonprofit. I hinted as such right back.” “I know the mayor is on your board. I know you have three bank directors. I shook all their hands in my pajamas. I also know who develops boutiques for Marriott. In case you aren’t interested.” A long slow sip this time. “Your Dad refused all offers. Even after we got him very drunk,” the Director said. “He said he was saving it for you.” She’d put the ficus in Dad’s lap, repotted in common clay. Carefully arranged, it looked like his eyes were focused on it, his face touched with delight. And it hid the scratch. “And he’s staying. But I will pay for the plaque.”
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Sep 4, 2022 01:33
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Sparkle the Soccer Horse or All Praise to The Eye By Quiet Feet (1485) The farm needed to change if we were gonna survive. And the farm'd changed overnight, that was for drat sure. But why the horse? Why did it have to be Nancy's horse in the bargain? Now, my daughter's clumsy horse was never gonna be a show horse no matter what she thought, but now? Now? It pranced about on man legs thick as tree trunks, stumbling and bumbling like it'd never walked before in its life. We stood on the porch, gawking. “You best just wake her up, Henry,” my wife said, cigarette dangling down the hand at her side, and a cup of steaming coffee held at the ready in her other. Her ruddy gold hair was done up in curlers, and the old pink robe she wore was loose in the breeze. “We're gonna have some explaining to do.” I swore under my breath as I leaned on the porch railing. Looked out over the chickens in the yard, cluckin' and struttin' on their new human legs. About the right size for their bodies but still, powerful, manly legs. Beefy legs. They seemed almost fine. Maybe cause they only had two legs to begin with. A hen gave a loud shriek and jumped up from her nest as a burly little gam kicked its way out of its shell. “Why do I have to tell her?” I pleaded. “You found the book. You read from the damned book. And best I can tell, it was you that brought God's Eye down from space onto our barn—“ “All praise to The Eye,” I interrupted. “All praise to The Eyee,” my wife mimicked with a far-off stare. “—so you, Henry, can tell your daughter that her horse is a mutant.” “I didn't know what was in it!” “Then you shouldn't have touched it.” “I didn't even know what I was reading!” “Then you shouldn't have touched it!” “Can I at least wait until after breakfast?” “March! Now!” This is some bullshit right here I thought to myself. I opened the screen door, entered the house, ready to tell Nancy. Stood just inside, leaned my arm on the orange easy chair just in the living room. Maude told me to empty my grandfather's things out of the basement. Oh maybe we'll find something to sell, she'd said. “If nothing else we'll have less to move, comes to that,” she'd added. And what, was I not supposed to look into Pappy's old trunk before I brought it to the barn? And what was in it? Weird clothes with pink polka dots and purple stripes. A bit of gold jewelry that Maude was sure as hell gonna pawn, and yeah, a book with funny pictures. And I'd already invited Vern Halloway over for the night to shoot the poo poo. And so we took it out and thumbed through the pages and had a good laugh with a little whiskey at the drawings of weird animals with buzzards beaks and octopus arms and wet red lips like women in the dirty magazines we all hid in our woodsheds and barns and basements. We were sitting there in lawn chairs, just outside the barn. It was late. We were at the bottoms of our cups. I said something about a big-titty green woman with a bottom half like a shark—like the head of a shark, of all things—and Vern, who can't stop chuckling, says something like “What if...” And I said, I think, “What if what?” “What if Gix Thrinnorstrum Ilicambrian Ontiu thri synty grynth periotox ney quire to thnirith Gix Thrinnorstrum ontiu thri—” And at that point, I think I said... “What?” And then there's a blank space in my head. And it doesn't feel like a normal blank space from being middle-aged, or from being whiskey drunk. No, it's like a rip in a canvas. Dark rip in the night sky but in my head too. And then all I can see is the eye. All praise to The Eye. And its light is shining down on us and everything around us for half a mile. I'm standing up on my tippy toes and my mouth is drawn open like it's ready to scream and my body is all curved like a bow. My cup is in the grass below but I don't know how I know. I'm seeing this like I'm outside my body. And Vern, Vern is the same. Toes to hair, curled like a backwards letter “C” and his eyes a glassy stare in the cold blue light and in the night sky the beam speaks and— —I shake my head. What was I doing? My heart is pounding. I'm back in the living room again. What was I just thinking about? Am I really dreading telling our little Nancy about this nonsense this much? I take my handkerchief out of my pocket and wipe sweat from my brow. “Nancy!” I yell up the stairs. “Wake up! You need to come look at this!” I go wait for her outside. Our little girl is eight. Maybe young to be taking care of a horse, but we help her of course. She arrives on the porch holding her stuffed bunny and rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Daddy, what happened!” I threw up my hands. “It was God's Eye!” “All praise to The Eye,” Maude said. “All praise to The Eye,” Nancy and I repeated. “Honey, I have to tell you, I don't think that Sparkle is going to be able to enter the horse show like this.” I gestured. Took a good, long look at the horse. Sparkle had seemed to have gotten used to her new legs. Had a strut, sexy like she was trying to impress someone. It actually didn't look half bad. Nancy sobbed. “But daddy, why?” I told her everything. “Well, honey. You see, the farm isn't making a lot of money, so we were clearing out the basement to sell a few things. And your uncle Vern and I opened an old book that belonged to great grandpa and—“ A half-remembered scream. The sensation of the air reeking of acid smoke. A thousands cow mooing in ecstatic pleasure. The light of “—the eye, God's Eye—“ “All praise to The Eye,” Maude said. Nancy merely nodded and mumbled it through her sobbing. “—well, it did... this.” “I don't like it!” Nancy shouted, and kicked her bright red ball. It landed in the horse pen just as one of the other horses, a big palomino named Bucko, was trotting out. He looked at the ball and gave it a kick. It bounced on the sycamore just outside the pen, came back, knocked him in the head and landed in the chicken yard. He whinnied. “I'm sorry honey. I wish things could be different.” “Will we have to move?” Nancy said. With a sigh I turned to face her, knelt down to her level. “We might hon.” “Can I take Sparkle?” Before I could answer, Maude gave a shout. “Henry, get a load of this!” It was the chickens, playing soccer! They'd already scratched goal lines at the ends of the pen and were kicking at the ball with those meaty legs they now had. And that's when I realized that it would all work out. “Maude, think of it! Come see the chickens that play soccer, only five dollars!” Just then the ball crossed the line and the rooster gave out a shout like a whistle. Maude gave a look like I'd interrupted some more important thought, and added “And if nobody cares about that, look at the size of those drumsticks! That's our selling point Henry! Meatiest drums in the country!” I nodded. Yes, yes this could work! Just then, Sparkle entered the game and gave the ball a boot that obliterated the goaltender in a hail of squawks and feathers. “Daddy, daddy look! Did you see that? Sparkle can win somethin' for that, right?” She just might, I thought. She just might. A little golden yellow chick wandered around the yard on its tiny beefy legs, scratching up the dirt for bugs to eat. The promise of a new future. “Honey, Y'know, I think everything might just be all right.” “All praise to The Eye,” Maude added. “All praise to The Eye,” Nancy and I repeated. The sun was up and yellow as flowers. There were birds chirping in the sycamore. “What happened to Uncle Vern, daddy?” “I don't know, hon. I think God's Eye took him,” I said with a contented smile. She stared into the face of her bunny and smiled. “Do you ever notice we never used to praise God's Eye?” She added. “Yeah, I wonder why that was?” I said. And Maude just wrapped her arm around me, and we spent the morning watching the New Hampshire Reds beat the Silkies 2-1. All praise to The Eye.
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Sep 4, 2022 18:53
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Delivery 1495 words We had just made it past Birmingham when the thing in the boot started whispering to me. At first I thought it was a hallucination caused by four hours hearing the bolts of dad’s crappy red Citroen loosen as it rattled down the motorway, like when you stare at a broken TV for so long that you see faces in it. Then it kept speaking. ‘I know you can hear me. Come back here. Let me out.’ I tried to ignore it. That thing was the reason we’d spent all day hurtling down through England in the latest of dad’s increasingly desperate attempts to sort out his finances. He wouldn’t have brought me along, except mum had dropped me at his house at 9AM while he and Raven were getting ready to leave. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted past me as I stepped onto his driveway, in the direction of my mum’s rapidly closing car window. ‘Hey! What’s he doing here? It’s a school day, isn’t it?’ ‘For God’s sake, Andrew, it’s half term,’ was my mum’s reply. Half term meant three nights of my father’s custody. The prospect might have worried me if I ever felt much at all. He turned to me. ‘Alright, lad. Dump your poo poo inside.’ As I headed upstairs, I heard his girlfriend speak from outside. ‘You aren’t thinking of leaving him here, are you?’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Well, he’s thirteen and he looks like he’s about to jump—’ ‘Christ alive, Raven!’ dad hissed. ‘Voice down. He didn’t take the divorce well…’ I didn’t hear the rest, but the matter had been settled by the time I got back to the driveway. ‘Okay, mate. I thought you’d be old enough to look after yourself, but Raven here thinks you’re not there yet. So you’re coming with us on a trip. See the country and stuff. It’s good for the mind, so I hear.’ My gaze drifted from his face to the crate in the back of his car: shoebox shaped, but old and wooden, carved with twisting, plaited vines. He caught me looking and shut the door. ‘You bring those superhero comics of yours?’ asked Raven. ‘Might be a long one.’ I shrugged. ‘Not feeling chatty today, huh? You okay?’ Dad was already in the driver’s seat, the door still open. ‘I told you, it’s too much grunge music, not enough sleep. All the lads are like that now. Isn’t that right, boy?’ I got in the car. The Scottish border to the south coast was already a long enough journey, but this was the first Monday of the school holidays in a car that wasn’t up to the task. Every time dad pushed above sixty, something banged in the bonnet like it was trying to get free. It only stopped being a problem when the traffic became so clogged that we never reached that speed. As we crawled into the Birmingham bypass, the frustration got too much for my father to bear. ‘Why is everyone out on these loving roads!?’ ‘Love, please,’ said Raven. ‘Calm.’ ‘Am I not allowed to be stressed? The fella I met was very loving specific that we had to get this to the docks before dark. Any later and the deal’s off.’ Raven laughed. ‘You think they’re scared to go out at night?’ Dad shot her a stare. ‘No, I’d reckon they’re not. You, though, if you piss them off, might well be. I didn’t get the sense they were patient folk.’ By the time the box started talking to me, we had managed to pick up some speed, but we were already far behind schedule. The sun had spread into an orange smear that flickered as the trees rushed past it. I gazed at the pulsing light, mind almost blank. ‘I don’t know why you’re not answering,’ the thing in the box said. ‘We’re in a very similar position. Neither of us wants to be here. We should work together.’ ‘Why?’ I murmured, so quiet even I could hardly hear it. ‘Because I can give you great power.’ ‘To do what?’ ‘I can transform you. Give you the wings of a bat, the muscles of an ox. Six more arms with a blade on each one. Kill your enemies and make cowards run in fear. You will ascend to the highest throne on Earth and claim it as your own. ’ I thought about it. It wasn’t something I had ever considered. ‘I don’t have any enemies.’ The box was quiet for a second. ‘Are you sure?’ The shrill chirping of dad’s ringtone cut through the car. He jammed it between his jaw and his collarbone as he drove. ‘No. Just passing Leamington. I’ll do what I can. Yeah, right, I understand, it’s very important. No, I’ll do it. Don’t worry. 90 minutes is fine.’ He snapped his phone shut. ‘gently caress.’ The car lurched forward as he stepped on the accelerator, hands white on the wheel. ‘Woah, woah,’ said Raven. ‘Andrew, slow down. This is too fast.’ He ignored her. The speedometer crept up further. The banging from before returned with a vengeance, accompanied by a shriek like metal being ripped apart. ‘Andrew, please love, be sensible.’ ‘Raven, be quiet and read the goddamn map. We can’t be getting lost.’ Even as he was talking, the car continued to accelerate. The noises from the bonnet came faster and faster. Eventually, with a crack and a stink of burning, whatever it was gave out. The engine stopped. Dad guided the car onto the hard shoulder, swearing under his breath. ‘Well that’s it,’ he said finally. The cars rushing past the window seemed impossibly fast. ‘I hope you’re happy, Raven.’ ‘Me?’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re the one that got us into this mess. Maybe if you hadn’t — ow!’ He had slapped her, hard. She touched her face in disbelief, then unbuckled her seat belt. ‘Right, that’s enough. gently caress you, Andrew.’ She got out of the car, then leant back in to look at me. ‘Michael, come with me if you want. You don’t need this cretin any more than I do.’ ‘Bit young for you, isn’t he?’ my dad muttered from the driver’s seat. She ignored him. ‘Come on, Michael, get out the car. I’ll take you to your mum.’ Her face was hard to look at. I stared at my hands. ‘He doesn’t want you, Raven,’ my dad sneered. ‘You can’t trick him like you tricked me. Get gone if you’re going, and leave my son alone.’ She gave it one last try. I turned away. She left. Dad took a shoulder of vodka from the glove compartment. ‘They all leave, son. Better you learn that now.’ He offered me the bottle, close enough that its fumes seemed to burn my nose. ‘You’re probably right,’ he said when I turned it down. ‘Don’t want to end up like your dad.’ ‘What’s in the box?’ I asked. ‘Oh, that. Guy said something about an archaeology dig. Scary man. Wore a suit to the pub, black glasses and all. He’s killed, though, mark my words. I guess someone wants it out the country. I shouldn’t have got you mixed up in it, but I needed the money.’ ‘How much did they offer?’ ‘10 grand.’ I whistled. My dad laughed. Even after everything, the sound felt good to hear. When the AA towed the car, they dropped us at a cheap hotel. We got a twin room. Dad stashed the box under his bed, finished his vodka, and passed out. ‘Now’s your chance,’ whispered the box thing once he was asleep. I knelt on the floor and slipped it out from under his bed. When I hinged open the top, a creature about the size of a newborn baby sat up and put two hands on the rim. Wet, irregularly-shaped eyes glinted in the light of the window. ‘Well?’ it asked. I explained my ideas, using pages from X-Men for reference. I wanted to change my body but only in ways that wouldn’t get noticed. Invisibility. Teleportation. Maybe shapeshifting, but only if I could change back. ‘Should be doable,’ said the foetus creature. Then it scampered out into the night. When dad woke up the next morning, the box was gone, replaced by a backpack full of banknotes. ‘What the gently caress is this, Michael?’ he asked. ‘What did you do?’ It turns out lying is easier than you think. ‘Those guys rang after you fell asleep. I picked up. They said we could meet near here. You wouldn’t wake up, so I went and made the swap. It was easy.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Really,’ I said. Dad reached out and pulled me in for a hug. ‘Jesus Christ, son. You did good. You did so good.’ Later I would regret that I ever wanted to earn the respect of that man, who had done so little to deserve it himself. But in that moment, finally, I felt like I could breathe.
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Sep 5, 2022 00:35
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Forgotten Toys archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:54 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Sep 5, 2022 01:52
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Week 526 Submission The Sounding of My Voice 1500 weirds μ is the coefficient of friction. It is an interesting notion—the root of mutation, mu, is what holds us back—the hesitation at the moment of glorious pressure and pain (in a metaphysical, but also, perhaps, a corporeal sense) that one knows will lead one to something new, this fear of friction will be our ultimate undoing. [Slebowitz, G. et al. (2023). Foundations of Biomechanics in a Transformational World Via the Information Age. Modern Culture, 24(3), 261-265.] Derek has been blind since birth. Before that too, but that’s a technicality. On his sixth birthday, his hearing finally left him completely. He didn’t trust that the words he formed made any sense anymore. They could be nonsense. So he confined any utterances to the machine. The machine. His braille wheel spun under his fingertips with piezoelectric intensity. His fingertips consumed information faster than the braille pips could raise. The device was like a waterwheel spinning with his hand lightly rested on top. Each bucket held a glyph, and as he read, it spun, so the buckets on the other side could fill with information without the delay of shifting under his fingers. Derek didn’t know what he could contribute, so he drank every drop. Consumed. Novels, forums, whatever webpage, it went into his mind. A relative few were easy to decipher, but there were pockets of content. In general, motherfuckers don’t care about Derek. That was rude. Derek wanted to be above that. He descended often. The second hand was a braille keyboard to type his usually brusque answers. He did not want a state-mandated caregiver, but there was Richard. Richard would check in, and ask “U need N-E-Thing else? RCHD?” via a text to the machine. And Derek resented him, not for the assistance, but for the familiarity. Via the machine: “No.” Richard did not need that text abbreviation baloney. Bologna? These were the questions that flitted through Derek’s mind. Not necessary questions, but he concurred with forum sentiments that he might be an rear end in a top hat. It was important to be truthful to yourself and decide whether that really mattered. “OK, dinner is in 5A. Meals for tomorrow in 6A through C.” The refrigerator was arranged like safe deposit boxes in a bank. More shelves and cubbies than a normal fridge so the sightless could keep track. Derek didn’t much care about labels, but it was an efficient system that he appreciated, perhaps, even if he didn’t have to use it to avoid mixing up his baingan bharta and his irish stew. The vending machine columns and rows were all he requested help with, Derek wanted to experience the world through food. Taste has two meanings, and Derek considered himself a connoisseur both in the mouth sense and the mental sense. Richard was crude, overly familiar, and distasteful. And yet, Derek understood the utility. Richard cleaned the toilet. Derek could make it there on his own, even if it took a long time, and that was, Derek surmised, a product of aging. It didn’t exactly hurt to pee, but it was time wasted. It was the end of shift, and Richard excused himself in the same patronizing way, “C U 2MRW.” Derek shrugged and verbalized a groan of dismissal he could feel in his spine. It was still interesting to feel the voice in his bones. Long after Richard left, and Derek ignored the meal preparations, he, also retired for the night. He ran his reading fingers over the motorized pumice stone, grinding the callouses down to a point too sensitive. It was better this way, and in the dreamland, he would recover to full potential in the morning. To consume. To read the world. The morning came, and the nubbin on his index finger was large. A perpendicular lump of clay forgotten about when the sculpture made. He shaved it off with the pumice. Over the next week, it grew larger and larger each night. On the eighth night, it was like the tail of a hairless cat. Not quite prehensile, but it moved with a life of its own, flicking this way and that, long and lean. More like a wire pipe snake than anything else. It spoke to him. Not in the ‘Hi, how are you doing,’ way but in a more guttural and visceral way. “I can heal you,” it said. “I can heal the world.” Fear is both a motivator and a deterrent. There was something about it that Derek trusted, but risk is always a factor. Richard would not be there until well after lunch, so Derek gave latitude. ‘Go on,’ he thought. ‘No, we do this in steps. In stages.’ It was like trying to flick a sentient booger off his finger. Do not like, do not want, but yet, there’s something compelling about leaving it there. An elasticity. And so trust delineates its borders: ‘I will heal you.’ Derek was afraid, but felt safe, felt complicit. And so he played the jack rather than the ace, and unzipped his pants. The cat’s tail wormed its way in and Derek felt the corrections. A prostate corrected. A prostate loved. It might go farther if Derek would let it. He pissed perfect the morning after. Richard was there and complaining about the food, or fact that food was not eaten, and Derek could think of nothing else besides helping him. Under Derek’s touch, the screen read, “Unzip your drawers, I have such wonders to show you.” Richard did not, of course, take kindly to this notion. ‘I will not. You want to stick your finger in my peehole.” ‘I have cured myself. I will cure you.’ Consternation rode rampant across Richard’s brow. ‘I smell it,” said Derek through the machine. “I smell it.” Richard groused, but he knew. It was a slight knowing, a knowing of a more ethereal nature, but it felt right to let the savant do its business. And there it was. Strength. Weakness. Derek wound his way through Richard’s insides. There were stones there, and Derek obliterated them with the sound and fury of a deaf and blind man. That is, to say, nothing at all. It was silent. Strength. Weakness. Richard felt the expanding nerve nest grow, and each branching current felt more and more alive. Each arm of Derek’s previously disposable callous was more and more indispensable. “Stop.’ pause ‘Stop.” said Richard, his peehole was already exploded beyond recognition. It was not fatal. Life is thought, and in that sense, life flourished. Derek absorbed and subsumed Richard. There is a maker’s mark and it’s more than whisky, it’s the indelible impression of an intelligence upon another. What is a goober when it comes to the brewer and master distiller? Richard was cured and yet, was never sure what happened. He peed with surety and conviction for the rest of his days. Derek tried to constrain the unruly fingertip. It did not obey. The unfinger wanted more, and Derek knew it wanted his mind, or more clearly, the spaghetti of his brain. Fix and repair, physicality, fix and repair. But there was more lurking there. The fingers of a digitalis that might harm and heal. He allowed it. With a dance of love and lace, up a nostril and into the stratosphere, the unfinger rode the currents of his thoughts and repaired the connections. It was more than he ever wanted, more than he ever expected. An overwhelming sense of everything, and Derek wondered if this was what sense was in the first place. I want to be. It wants to be. The unfinger whisked its way around the neural pathways and it felt less like love and more like necessity. And suddenly he could hear again, and suddenly he could see. And the bones of his nose were broken with the intensity of a boxer, but it was worth it. Repair, remit, repair. Derek still felt broken, his mind fixed yet not complete. He watched screensavers and pipes twist for far too long, but made his own mind up, and made the finger, the unfinger, do what he wanted. The hearts and minds of the internet are the peeholes of the self. That’s only partially true, but Richard notwithstanding, there was nothing in meatspace holding him back. I will gently caress rhe world, and in doing so, heal it. There is nothing sexual about it. Or is there? The unfinger spreads, spreads to every corner, and it’s what Derek wants and doesn’t expect. Nephrons that worm their way into love, live, laugh, and also Nazi poo poo, and he knows he can change it all, he wills it to change. The dialectical tree branch is vast and unyielding. Derek is in control. Derek is the world. Derek is love, live, laugh, and he realizes he is not in control. There is more than just peehole magic and one person will not make a difference and but maybe for Richard it will make a difference. Maybe changing one person is enough.
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Sep 5, 2022 06:02
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weirdo fish guy archive flerp fucked around with this message at 21:11 on Oct 9, 2022 |
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Sep 5, 2022 06:13
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The Metamorphosis (IRL) 1441 words When Gregory awoke one morning from dreamless sleep, he found himself transformed into a giant insect. He watched his small thin arms wave above his flat, armored body, as he was lying on his back, and thought, “I bet I can still code with these.” By rocking back and forth, he was able to get out of bed, landing on his belly with a hard thud. The impact knocked the air out of him, and while he paused to recover, he heard a knock on his door. “Everything OK in there, man?” It was his roommate, Jeff. Their relationship was not close, with both of them preferring their rooms over the shared kitchen and small living room, so the noise must have been bad for Jeff to check on him. “I’m fine, thanks,” Greg said. The words were garbled, as if his jaw and tongue had lost their coordination, but Jeff didn’t seem to notice. Greg heard the door to Jeff’s room close as he returned to his video games. Greg could indulge in no such luxury; Jeff was between jobs and he had to work to pay their ever-increasing rent. Though his office had reopened post-pandemic, Greg chose to continue working from home. He had stopped playing soccer on the weekends and his drinking friends had drifted away after a year of lockdowns, but Greg was happy with his small world. With fewer distractions, he got more work done, trying his best to help his company reverse their declining sales. Adding his latest feature to the website would land more customers, Greg was sure of it. Sitting at his desk, in his new body, was out of the question. Greg needed all his small legs to support his weight, so he grabbed the laptop in his jaws and dragged it, with considerable effort, onto the bed. He was late for the daily stand-up meeting. He opened the laptop, straining a leg in the process, and turned it on just in time to join the end of the meeting. His manager remarked on Greg not turning on his webcam, so Greg claimed a bad hair day. His manager paused, like he didn’t understand what Greg said, but didn’t push the issue. Happily, Greg had no more meetings that day, and so focused on his code, painstakingly typing each character with a single, spindly leg. The sticky pad on the end of his leg left a residue on his keyboard, but Greg didn’t care. As was his custom, Greg worked late into the evening, only stopping when he noticed his hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything all day. With effort, he descended from the bed and opened the door to his room, looking into the kitchen. He had some leftover pasta in the fridge from last night, that would do. Greg crawled out, feeling rather exposed. He almost had the fridge door open when Jeff screamed behind him. “What the gently caress!” Greg turned around as best he could, waving his antenna in equal agitation. Jeff was ruthless at killing cockroaches in their apartment. Their eyes met and Jeff recognized him. “Greg … oh my God.” Looking around in panic, Jeff grabbed a pan. “Here, have the rest of my taco mix. Just, I’m going to put it in your room, OK?” Greg felt gratitude; Jeff could barely remember to take the trash out but here he was, volunteering to feed Greg. He scurried back into his room and Jeff tossed the pan in after him, shutting the door firmly. Greg picked at the food, despite his earlier hunger, then crawled under the bed to sleep. # The days and nights passed in the same way. Greg awoke from increasingly fitful sleep, turned on his laptop, and poked at his work. He now claimed illness for his reason to not appear on video or voice calls; his manager didn’t seem to mind that, but did remark upon Greg’s slow pace of coding. The company was not doing well, Greg knew, and yet he found it difficult to motivate himself. Instead of taking his usual, brief coffee breaks, he now found himself crawling up the walls and hanging, suspended on thin legs, from the ceiling. He entered a sort of meditative state and when he returned to his bed, he often found that several hours had passed. Feeling guilty, he tapped on his laptop late into the night, often ignoring the food Jeff tossed into his room every evening. After three days of untouched leftovers, food stopped appearing. It took several days for Greg to notice, as he was preoccupied with his poor performance at work. But one evening, his hunger overtook his desire to code (what exactly he was coding, he’d forgotten). He opened the door, hurting his mouth in the process, and crept out into the kitchen. The lights were off and there were no signs of Jeff or his cooking. Was it possible Jeff had moved out without telling him? The thought filled Greg first with excitement, at the prospect of increased surface area on which to crawl, then revulsion. Jeff was his only connection to the outside world; without him, Greg would certainly be evicted. He needed him, but first he needed food. Greg felt around the kitchen with his antenna, sniffing for any dropped crumbs, when he heard Jeff’s voice coming from his room. With a start, Greg realized it was the first human voice he’d heard in weeks, as he’d long since stopped joining work meetings. The sound of it was more nourishing than food, and Greg crept towards Jeff’s room. The door was ajar. Greg told himself he’d just have a quick peek, then Jeff laughed. “Nice one, Joe69. Thanks for subbing.” Laughter! Greg didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Before he could stop himself, he pushed his way into Jeff’s room. Jeff was sitting at his computer as usual, back to him, reading through messages that flashed quickly across his screen. “Slow down, chat, what’s going on?” He finally swiveled around in his chair and glared down at Greg, panic, horror, and anger all vying for control of his face. “Get out!” he hissed and brandished a can of bug spray at Greg. Greg couldn’t walk backwards well and so caught a few blasts from the can before scurrying back to the darkest corner of his room. The door slammed shut behind him. # Greg didn’t feel hunger anymore, and he slept less as well. Occasionally he turned on his laptop out of sheer force of habit, but once it was open, he couldn’t remember what buttons to press, let alone in what order. He clicked a few times at random, then stared at the light from the screen until he decided to retreat under the bed. Jeff’s bug spray had weakened him so he could no longer climb the walls or ceiling, but he didn’t mind. Fewer choices made life simpler. One day he managed to click on his email and read that he’d been fired. Greg was unsurprised– even in his current state he understood he hadn’t done any work for the last month– but he still felt the last bit of energy drain from his body. He fell and rolled to his final resting place under the bed, where the days and nights were indistinguishable. He wasn’t sad about his fate, or angry or resigned. He was nothing. Greg’s mind drifted in and out of consciousness. Once, he heard a woman’s voice in the apartment. His antenna leaned towards it like flowers towards the sun. He couldn’t recall ever having a woman in the apartment, when was the last time he’d heard a woman’s voice? A human voice? Her light laughter mingled with Jeff’s baritone, then both voices faded. The last of Greg’s breath followed the sound away. Mustering his courage, Jeff carefully moved Greg’s body to the building dumpster in the middle of the night. He especially didn’t want Mary to see it, she was more terrified of bugs than he was. When the dumpster lid slammed, he felt a twinge of sadness. Greg had never opened up to him about any family or friends, all that guy seemed to have was his work. A shame. But as Jeff went back upstairs, a great weight seemed to fall from his shoulders. His Twitch stream had gone viral after the appearance of Greg in the background, and so he had enough money to move into a new condo with Mary. Rented, of course, but still a promising new beginning. When Jeff got back to his room, instead of going to bed, he began to pack.
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Sep 5, 2022 07:01
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Emblazoned 817 words Marcus Adamson was a hero, before he was the Blazon. He saved my life more times than I can count, starting early, starting before. Starting with Hank Harmon. I broke up with Hank, in the spring of our senior year. But people don't break up with Hank Harmon. That's what he told me, and I could see the change in his eyes as he said it, the usual lust and frustration switching instantly to cold rage. I believe he would have murdered me, right there, and gotten away with it. A general for a father, a cop for a mother, both close friends to judges and councilmen. But Marcus was there, parked in his Miata close enough to watch. He flashed his headlights. I walked to the car, just slower than a run, and I guess the fight was inevitable after that. Me and Trisha Lang were there, witnesses and seconds. There to make sure things didn't get out of hand. Theoretically, at least. Trisha cheered on each low blow and cheap shot, from the first sucker-punch to the kidney kicks, near the end. That was where it was: Marcus on the ground, Hank, his left shoulder dislocated and limp, blood-blind from a cut above his eyes, still over Marcus and putting the boot in. And then shriek in the sky, and then the explosion, the shockwave that knocked all of us to the ground. There it was, the stone, catered and glowing yellow-white. It was the most beautiful thing in the world. We all needed it, needed to touch it, moved toward it unthinking. I was closest, but Marcus pulled me back, passed in front of me, somehow standing, even walking with all the damage done. Marcus touched the stone, and burned. Or rather, turned into fire. The Blazon, they called him, tracing his path on maps of the Edge City area in wide red lines with the images of burned out building set to the side. I can't say that he never meant anyone harm. He raged. He hated. He felt, rather than thinking. And he cared. There was a documentary, a few years back. Don't watch it, I'm in it and I was embarassingly young when it filmed. But they investigated that first rampage, did profiles of the victims, and time after time they found out that each one had a secret, a past great crime. Nasty stuff. There was a follow-up, taking a deeper look at some of the ones who still looked innocent. It got buried in lawsuits, never released. It ended when the Seven Saints got involved. Fafnir, mainly. He's not supposed to burn at all, but his scales were singed where they wrestled. They put him in a special cell at Edgerock Prison, and there he sat for ten years. Until 2002, when Martin Mann organized his mass break-out. The Blazon ran, a trail of fire behind, and was mostly forgotten in the rest of that chaos. He was hunted. Mostly by Hank, now a Colonel in the army. There was a series of ambushes, melted military hardware, rampages and escapes. Hank almost died in one of them, burns most people would not survive. They replaced most of him with Titanium and alien tech, leaving only his cunning and hate, and those eyes. There was a detente, of a sort. The Seven Saints had recruited him to fight the Dark Before Time. They helped him stay away from people. They even got Professor Bard to work on a cure. Found it. We were never lovers, as teens. Just friends, with hints floating around. But by then we had been part of each other's lives so long that when he returned to humanity, we fell into each other without thought, without considering other options. We had four days together. He was touching me, his fingers on my chest when the shot came. High velocity bullet, sniper rifle, fired by Trisha, now an assassin calling herself Bodyshot. If I ever take a human life it will be hers. I saw the blood and brain spurt from his head. Then I only saw fire. They're still there. His fingerprints, burn scars that feel nothing but cold. Sometimes I put ice to them, feeling the shape of each one. And sometimes I dream, that it happened while we were making love, that his fires consumed me entirely, turning my bones to ash. Those dreams are a comfort. He's gone, truly gone. Last week. They said it was an eclipse, or an illusion of one. It wasn't. It was Malice, grown smarter and more powerful than ever after turning most of Mercury into his mechanical mind. He snuffed out the nuclear fires of the sun itself, and Blazon died reigniting it. He died, for all of you, and most of you will only curse his name, the name they gave him. But I know better.
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Sep 5, 2022 07:16
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Flash: A hell of a lot of workout supplements Kiddo and the Bull 1498 words "Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ, kiddo." Grandpa felt my ribs for broken bones. “Can you move your toes? What about your fingers? Don’t worry ‘bout talking none now, goddamnit, aight? Just try and give ‘em a wiggle for me.” I’d never seen him so scared. Hell, I’d never been so scared myself. Someone hadn't locked the gate properly. And Copperhead hadn’t gored me, I’d just barely dodged that, but the flat of his head had hit me square in the chest and flipped me into the air twice. I hit the ground hard. Knocked the wind out of me. As I lay there trying to suck in air and failing, I remember thinking that it didn’t matter much because I wouldn’t dodge the horns a second time. Copperhead was a mean bull. Grandpa said it was because a snake bit him when he was a calf and the poison got into his brain. Two thousands pounds of meanness was good for rodeo, though. Made a lot of money on the circuit. Even more as a stud. I tried to sit up but Grandpa placed his hands on my chest. “Goddamnit!" he said. “Stay still! Might be something with your neck, aight? I sent Jesús into town for the doctor. Juan’s grabbing some water from the house. Just stay still.” “Did they see?” I asked in a weak voice. “Do they know?” “Know what, kiddo?” “That you’ve got super powers." Grandpa pushed his cowboy hat back and spat a wad of black tobacco juice into the grass. He looked towards the house and squinted. "You might have a concussion," he said. "Just stay still." "But-" He put a leathery hand over my mouth and shushed me. But I saw! I saw my grandfather, all hundred and twenty-five pounds of him, stand between me and Copperhead. I saw him grab the bull's horns mid-charge and stop it in its tracks. I saw him throw the animal twenty yards! Right back into its pen! Our ranch was a ways out from town so it took a while for Jesús to get back with the doctor. We didn't say much as we waited. And I wondered if maybe I was wrong. Maybe I'd made the whole thing up. It was impossible, after all. I tried to tell the doctor, much to my grandfather's visible discomfort, and while she said something about how people can do crazy things with adrenaline I could tell she was brushing it off as a child's imagination. And I was diagnosed with a concussion. No broken bones. Just bruised up bad for a while. A few days later, though, I was bringing some tools out to the barn and Copperhead was standing right by the fence. So close I could reach out and touch him. His horns had these indents on them. Handshaped indents. I knew Grandpa wouldn't admit he had superpowers. I didn't know why exactly but I knew he wouldn't. Even if I pointed out the horns, he'd just give me some excuse or another. I was a clever, if not pesky, kid, though, so I decided to make him admit it. Later that week, I knew he would be loading up his truck with some hay bales that were in the barn. Rocks, pieces of metal, anything heavy, anything I could get my hands on I stuffed into the hay. Every free moment I had, I was either scouring for materials or cramming what I'd found into those bales. And when the day came, I snuck inside and I hid myself and I waited and I watched as he effortlessly tossed them onto the back of his truck. "You didn't feel the difference!" I said. "Christ on a cross," he said. "The hell are you doing, kiddo? You scared the poo poo of me!" I was grinning from ear to ear. "You didn't feel the difference! You couldn't tell!" "What are you yapping about?" I ran over to his truck and started pulling junk out of the hay and I started talking about the horns and how I saw him throw Copperhead. He stared at me for a while. Then he walked in a circle. He took off his hat. He squatted down and covered his face. "Christ," he said. "How… how strong are you?" I asked. He lowered his hat and spat out some tobacco juice. "I don't rightly know." "Can you lift up a truck?" He sighed. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Can you lift up a bus?" "Probably." "Can you lift up a tank?" "Maybe. I don't know." "Why aren't you, like, really muscular? Superman, he's really buff. Captain America, too." Like I said, my grandfather was a hundred and twenty-five pounds soaking wet. "Well," he said, "I reckon that's 'cause you need resistance to build up muscle mass. I ain't never found nothing that can do that." "Are you bulletproof?" "Jesus," he said. "Hell, I don't know. Never been shot before. And I'd like to keep it that way 'fore you get any new ideas." "I wasn't… I mean… okay…" He stood up and slapped his leg. He looked like was going to say something but he didn't. He just reached over and ruffled my hair. I think he was a little proud of me. Then we got into the truck and got to work. Because there's always work to do on a ranch. I probably pestered him with a thousand questions that day but I think he kinda liked it. He'd never talked about it with nobody. Not my grandma. Not my mom. Not any of his friends or the ranch hands. Nobody. If course, he swore me to secrecy which I eagerly accepted. "Are you an alien?" I asked. "No." "Do you have a costume?" "No." "Do you fight crime?" "No " "Are you lying to protect me?" "No." "Why don't you fight crime?" "I own a ranch. Ain't got time for much else." "How far can you throw this rock?" With a flick of his wrist, he sent it sailing off into the horizon. It seemed to surprise him. "Pretty far," he said. "Have you ever killed someone?" He was quiet for a moment. "Not on purpose." "Who was it?" "Don't matter." "Was he a bad man?" Grandpa nodded. You'd think I'd have asked more questions about that but I didn't. I wish I had. Instead, I asked, "Am I going to be super strong one day, too?" "No," he said. "You won't." "Oh." At that point, we were fixing up one of the fences. He'd given up the pretense of using tools and was just pushing nails into the wood with his thumb. "Why not?" I asked. He explained that when he was just a little bit older than I was that he was self-conscious about being small. That he'd heard about some pills that would make you muscular fast, steroids and whatnot, and that he'd ordered a bunch from Mexico. That he wasn't sure if he got a tainted batch or maybe that taking all of them at once made them work funny but he'd never been the same since. And that he never did get muscular. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before that, I asked, "Is Mom a superhero, too? Is that where she is? She's not working overseas, is she? Is she off fighting crime and can't come home because she wants to keep me safe?" He said, "No." I said, "Where is she then? Why doesn't she write me any letters?" He wiped his brow. "Your grandmother and I were gonna tell you when you were older." "Tell me what?" "She's in prison, kiddo." I blinked. "Mom is a supervillain?" "Your mother… She got addicted to drugs. A fellar she was seeing got her hooked. She tried to rob the pharmacy. Judge gave her twenty years." After he told me about how he got his powers, I asked if that's why Mom did drugs. If she was trying to be like him. He said, "I think she just wanted to feel loved. I didn't say it enough. I don't know if I ever said it. I didn't think I needed to. I was wrong." He spat and looked away. There was a tear in his eye. "Kiddo," he said. "I love you. Don't you ever, ever think otherwise." "I know. I mean, you stepped between me and Copperhead." "I'd have stepped between you and train. I'd have stepped between you and the whole goddamn U.S. government." "Even though you're not bulletproof?" He chuckled. "Hell, I don't know one way or the other about that. Maybe I am. It don't matter. I'd do it. I swear to Christ I'd do it." And as touching as all that was, as incredible as everything was, I cried myself to sleep that night. And for many nights afterwards. Because my grandfather might have had superpowers but my mom was in prison and I was just a kid.
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Sep 5, 2022 07:24
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Flash: A barrel that has been leaking for over 30 years Good Boy 1241 words It all started when I saw the squirrel with the third eye in the middle of its head. It stared at me for a couple of seconds before running up the tree in the back of my new property, behind a barbed wire fence separating my lot from the next lot. I thought nothing of it, maybe I was just seeing things. Back to my new property though, I bought it a month ago for next to nothing! It’s pretty weird that it was so cheap, but I really wasn’t complaining. It’s out in the middle of nowhere and the only thing that I know of was that there was an ammo supplier for the U.S government during WW2. Nothing weird was going on there, they were making artillery shells out there. The second time something weird happened to me was when on my property planning where to place my house. I was discussing it with my buddy when I saw a deer that was wrong. It was brown, but extremely dark and it had what looked like six legs, but the two new ones were stubs. My buddy and I thought it was just a genetic screw up. When it saw us, it froze for a second, then bounded to the same part of the property where I saw the squirrel earlier. I did consider that a bit odd. I didn’t see anything odd over the next year as my house was built. The construction workers did tell me that they once in a while saw animals that were just a little off, wrong colors, missing or having additional body parts. Not just deer or squirrels, one worker saw a raccoon with two small faces instead of the normal raccoon face. Another worker saw two snakes that were conjoined in the middle, they had separate heads and tails. I just thought I was getting weird luck with animals with genetic anomalies until about a year after the house was completed and I had moved in with my dog, Baxter, an australian shepherd corgi mix. He was a funny looking dog with his short legs. Anyway, one day he caught sight of another weird squirrel, two distinct tails. He bolts after the squirrel and chases to the back of my property and chases it through a gap in the barbed wire that I didn’t see before. I chased after my dog until I got to the gap, it wasn’t big enough for me to fit through. So I came to a halt and shouted Baxter’s name, he didn’t come back, so I went to look for wire cutters to cut the barbed wire so I could look for him. By the time that I had found cutters that I hoped would work, Baxter was waiting for me. When he came back, he had some black goo caked around his mouth, it didn’t smell great, but washed off easily enough and it didn’t look like he was bothered by it when I got him back to the house to wash him off. I didn’t really notice any changes for the first couple of days from him, but after the third day from the squirrel incident I started to notice a few changes, subtle at first, his eyes were tinted a green from his normal light blue eyes and his fur was darkening. I took him to the vet, they ran a variety of tests, but they didn’t find anything wrong with him, he wasn’t in any pain and seemed to be his normal Baxter self. After I got back from the vet, I bought a heavy duty set of wire cutters and headed back to the hole in the fence that Baxter found. After cutting a big enough hole for me to fit though, I make my way past the fence, I wander around back there until I start to notice that some of the plants and trees I was looking at were… wrong. The trees were yellowish brown with leaves that were malformed and black in color, the vines around the trees were in the same state. I pressed on, a little frightened, but also wanting to get to the bottom of this. As I got closer and the malformed plants grew in density I started to hear bird calls that were off, shrill, almost like screaming. I reached a point where all the plants were wrong and saw a thicket of nasty trees, completely hideous. In the middle of the thicket, I saw something metal, I couldn’t tell right away but when I got close enough, I could make out a barrel, extremely rusty, only words I could make out were “property” and “Govt”. I don’t think I need to fill in the rest. I saw the same black goo that was on Baxter’s mouth around the barrel. I didn’t need to see anymore. I booked it out of there and called the Sheriff. Instead of the Sheriff showing up however, extremely serious, stern men in black suits came by instead. They said that they were from FEMA and asked me to show them what I had found. I didn’t think they were from FEMA, but I wasn’t going to cause any trouble. I was going to tell them about Baxter, but I thought better of it. When the men saw the barrel in the thicket, they didn’t make any emotion, just the same stern look they had the entire time. One of the men wrote something down in a notepad and that was it. I led them back to my house, they thanked me for my time, and left. I had no idea of their plans until one day Baxter starts howling and sprints for the hole in the fence. I follow as best as I can, worried that he’s heading for the thicket for some reason. As I get closer to the thicket I hear gunshots! I pause for a moment until I am nearly bowled over by a large… something heading towards the thicket. Compelled, I continue toward the thicket and I also start to hear a cacophony of animal noises mixed with the gunshots. I get close enough to see men in yellow containment suits around the leaky barrel trying to fend off a menagerie of messed up animals. The animals are winning and after the last man is down, they turn toward me, thinking I’m a threat! I turn and run as fast as my legs can take me, but I trip on a loose root and fall face first into the dirt. I manage to flip over when the first hoof strikes me on the back, then another, and another! Then I felt something biting me, I thought that was the end, but through all the noise and pain, I heard a bark, Baxter! The attack ceased. I looked up and saw him, but he wasn’t normal any more, completely black with emerald green glowing eyes. He padded up to me, and gave me a lick on the face. I knew what that meant. Leave, don’t return. I knew I had to go. I left with no more attacks, without Baxter, he was one of them now. When I got to my house, I took everything valuable I could and left home. I didn’t want to be around when the government men came snooping once their men didn’t report back. I miss Baxter.
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Sep 5, 2022 07:42
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