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crabrock posted:I hardly think that anybody is advocating getting rid of any exposition that is not necessary to drive the plot forward. Hearing a screen door slam shut evokes a very specific feeling than simply describing that a door shut (in itself not important to plot at all either). You could just skip to some lady on the porch talking to the main character, but the whole reason the door stuff is in there in the first place is to provide a bit of narrative. If you don't care how something affected the narrator, why put it in at all? I think this bears repetition. There is kind of a dangerous tendency in the critting, in TD and around CC in general, to try and eliminate any and all superfluous prose - and what is considered superfluous from a subjective point of view at that. Obviously to people who can't write at all, cut cut cut is always and forever the order of the day, but not every piece of great fiction is barebones straight-to-the-chase. It is not always a crime to sacrifice clarity for creativity in my books, or establishing mood/character.
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Apr 16, 2013 16:23
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In, yes.
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Apr 17, 2013 00:47
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Excerpt from Transcript of Preliminary Investigation – Case #200384 |Word Count: 1149| Interview #3 – Primary Witness VDH: Michael Van Der Haart DTS: Lead Detective Timothy Sandler VDH: Integritas et Neutralitas, Detective. Integrity and Neutrality. It says that on the badge on my lapel, so the words always follow me around as a reminder. But I hardly need reminding – they embody the principles that are woven into every fibre of my being. If I believed in such as thing as predestination, my life story would have it written all over – as a child, my family would humour me, call me 'Little King Solomon' and tug my cheeks; at school, arguments inevitably fell upon my judgement and at university, there were few disputes or break-ups that didn't find themselves smoothed out by my fingers. That I should end up a Resolver after leaving university seemed only natural. Everybody expected it of me and I expected it of myself. The few times in my life I had tried to navigate between that Scylla and Charybdis on my lapel had ended only in misery. You can't deny who you are and what you value. All my attempts to live a normal life, what few friends and relationships I happened to aggregate, foundered upon those two words at some point or another. I am 43 years old, unmarried, and live alone; but I derive complete satisfaction from my job. As is often noted, and may already be obvious, we have a strange mindset, us Resolvers. We are reserved and solitary. I have heard members of law enforcement such as yourself comment, when they believed themselves to be out of earshot, that there are more laughs in a mortuary than a Resolver office. I have never been in a mortuary to discover whether that was the case, but I would not be unduly surprised. Regardless, to be liked or disliked is an irrelevance to my line of work. What matters is that we command complete respect and trust. At Bollingham's Arbitrage and Disputation Resolvement, the establishment at which I am under contract, we are the very best. In a good month, our resolution rate is above 85% and our mortality rate is industry leading. None are more respected, or more trusted. We preside, deservedly, over the most intricate contracts. So, believe that what I say here is the unvarnished truth – I have never said anything other, and I don't believe myself even able to do so. [Van Der Haart coughs and takes a sip of water] When I arrived at the scene, both parties had already perished in an altercation. There was blood everywhere - I was horrified. First, as an honest contractor, I checked the pulses of my clients – there were none. It seemed unlikely to me that all of the disputants should have killed one another to the man, yet the first batch of heroin and the briefcases containing the relevant down-payment for exclusive trade rights were still extant upon the scene. I reasoned that any surviving clients would surely have had the presence of mind to retrieve some part of their goods. Thus I was left with a conundrum. Although the right thing to do would be to phone the police, the two parties to which I was contracted to were still operational. What would be fair would be that both parties should have their rightful goods returned. DTS: Get to the point der Haart. I'm not here to listen to your middleman pseudo-philosophy. What happened next? VDH: Well, I sat upon one of the tables unsoiled by my clients' blood and mopped my forehead with my 'kerchief. I believed myself to have time to work out the finer details of the matter, but I was surprised when a man of Hispanic descent burst into the warehouse with a weapon. He brandished it at me and spoke to me in panicked Spanish, but I am afraid to say I speak not a word of it. He pointed his weapon at me, so I put my hands up. He took two of the briefcases, not once taking his eyes off me, then made off. At that point I returned home in my car and phoned the police. DTS: Simple as that, huh. What I don't understand Mr. Van der Haart, is that after all that just happened, you didn't phone the police immediately afterwards. VDH: My primary obligation is to my clients and the reputation of my firm. Before the police were involved, I had to make contact with both parties and inform them of what had occurred. I was waiting for confirmation from my clients that they had retrieved their property. DTS: So you phoned your clients so that they might return to the scene and collect their drugs and dirty money. VDH: If that is how you would like to put it, yes. DTS: And are you aware, Mr. Van der Haart, of what occurred later? VDH: I am. DTS: So you know then, that an unidentified witness who had heard the shots had called the police like any good citizen should? VDH: At the time, no. Now, yes. DTS: And that when several members of one of your 'clients' arrived, the Esperanza cartel I should say, the police were already present. Three police officers were killed and seven seriously wounded, the greatest loss of life for department in nearly twenty-five years. How do you feel about that? VDH: I feel terrible, of course. It was a tragic accident. DTS: The earlier crime scene was also compromised in that firefight. Did you know that? Forensics tells me the likelihood of determining the actual chronology of events is extremely slim. VDH: I have told you all that I know of what occurred beforehand. I didn't touch or tamper with anything. DTS: And I don't believe you Mr. Van der Haart. I don't know what happened between the cartel and the mobsters, but I think you took that money der Haart, I think you took it and phoned the police from that payphone and then phoned the cartel on purpose. All in order to cover up your crime in the inevitable chaos that would follow. And now you're hiding behind your reputation and your job's extrajudicial protection. VDH: It saddens me to be subject to such an accusation and I strongly reject all your malicious speculations. Just flights of fancy on your part I'm afraid. DTS: Cute. I don't suppose you'll be letting us review your phone records though. VDH: You know I can't do that Detective. Client confidentiality for a Resolver is sacrosanct. Integrity and neutrality and all that. DTS: Speaking of; der Haart, where is your badge this morning? [Van der Haart looks confused for a moment and smooths his lapel between two fingers] VDH: Funny. [Short pause] I must have left it on my suit at the dry cleaners. EDIT: YES I MISSED A FULL-STOP AND I REGRET NOTHING Jeza fucked around with this message at 17:02 on Apr 22, 2013 |
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Apr 22, 2013 03:35
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I'm feeling bloodlust up in this here Thunderdome, some real pent up pressure. Feels almost like we need another one of those pair-up and gently caress-em-up grudge rounds to clear the air and wash the arena floor with the blood of the weak.
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Apr 22, 2013 17:10
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I'm in. Gonna crack some skulls this week.
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Apr 24, 2013 20:08
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Monoculturalism - Word Count: 1571 April 24th The first thing people notice about Monsieur Dreyfus is his hands. Not necessarily the look of the things, though they were exceptionally delicate and feminine even for a Chinaman. It is the way they move. They follow graceful curves in long sweeps, as if adhering to some mathematical path that cannot be perceived. He tells me that he unconscious of doing it, that it is merely another facet of a greater conservation of movement, painstakingly learned by rote and repetition. I am not sure whether I believe the man. Not that I am branding him a liar, indeed I am unsure whether his honour system allows such things, but perhaps that he is hiding behind false modesty. Nevertheless, it is quite engrossing simply to watch the man traverse a corridor or perform the simplest manual tasks. As a man of science myself, it intrigues me to see such a fusion between Occidental rationalism and Oriental spiritualism, if it is what I ascertain it to be. It grieves me greatly to say that he has turned down my invitations to perform his morning rituals before a canvas with a marking implement. Every time he smiles at me and declines politely with flawless manners and equipoise. Naturally, this only fuels my suspicions further. As hard as it is to detect humour in the man's face, I think he derives some amusement from my frustrations. I catch a flicker of a smile when he catches me watching him intently at the dinner table or while he meditates in the courtyard from my bedroom window. Whenever I worry that I may be obsessing over nothing, I find him mapping a cubic function while drawing upon one of his diabolical opium cigarettes, as if the very air itself were a Cartesian plane, or using his fork to plot inverse tangents. What is worse is that I know from rumour that he spends much of his leisure time in the company of men like Cauchy and Poncelet – one of the only things France possesses that Britain ought to be envious of in recent times, prodigious mathematicians. I digress. I realise I have given nothing of what I, a British Envoy, am doing frittering away my hours ogling at mysterious orientals. I am here to lend my expertise, and I use that term as lightly as possible, in Eastern affairs to our erstwhile ally France. A Chinese delegation is in Paris, the first time ever in such numbers, to discuss in earnest the future of their two nations. France, as ever, is the first to adopt the fashions and styles of a place and then the last to establish proper relations. Monsieur Dreyfus is merely the intermediary and translator between the two. I am told he came over some thirty years past as a stowaway from Macau. He meets his ends as a teacher of the martial arts to foppish French aristocrats and as a tour guide for the rare Chinese mainlander that arrives upon French soil. I have wittered long enough on my current preoccupations. I anticipate the discussions to begin proper in a day or two once the delegation have had their fill of the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe. April 25th There has been a tragic hiccough before negotiations have even begun. One of the Chinese delegates apprehended a street urchin attempting to relieve him of his belongings along the Champs-Elysees. Unfortunately, the diplomat has taken grave offence at this and has relayed his desire that the culprit be executed, as is the custom in his native land. This surprises me not a little, as though I do not doubt that it is his honest desire, Chinese diplomats are usually the very image of tact in such circumstances. I conjecture that their real wish is to see that daunting creation of Monsieur du Guillotin in action. The French Constitution, bathed in blood and blood once again though it is, does not permit it. The delegates cannot easily understand such innovations in political system, inconceivable as they are to those of hierarchical Asiatic descent. I fear this shall become a sticking point and the talks will founder before they even start, and then I shall be left at quite the loose end. I am under no true obligation to meddle in the affair but I intend to offer my counsel to Jean-Paul, who is my liaison in such matters. I shall suggest that they offer up a demonstration of their guillotine as a remedial measure to placate the Chinese curiosity in their contraption. April 26th I write here again surprised by the turn of events. The French have found some convenient loophole in their sacred constitution and have expedited the trial. I am unsure about how I feel about the development. I think I would have rather seen some wretched murderer dragged from the Bastille for their purposes. Such subversion of the rule of law is so typically French that I fancy myself sitting here at my writing desk in the very shadow of the Revolution itself. Despite my reservations however, it should certainly mean that negotiations are on track to be conducted. Incidentally, I happened to witness that man, Monsieur Dreyfus, supplicating himself before his countryfolk and entreating them in his opaque native tongue. About what I cannot truly know, but my heart suggests that it was on behalf of that boy who will soon feel the cold pragmatism of diplomacy come down upon his young neck. I pray I will not seem a blind patriot to say that such a thing would not happen in England. April 27th - Morning Fine and sunny. With little else to divert my attention this morning, I watched from gallery of the Ministère de la Justice the hasty trial of that unfortunate thief. I call it trial, but the truth was more that it more closely resembled a summary notice of execution. The whole thing was quite the debacle. Two attendants had to remove a shrieking woman, whom I took to be the boy's mother, from the stands. It leaves one with a sour taste in the mouth to see such a thing. April 27th - Evening I returned to my lodgings to find a letter upon my desk. Upon perusing the contents, what do I find? An eloquent plea from none other than Monsieur Dreyfus asking me to intervene in the matter. Rarely have I read such an impassioned defense of Western ideals. He wishes deeply that the resolution be bloodless and that in time, his compatriots will adopt such enlightened views as those prevalent in Great Britain. In exchange for my aid, he cryptically offers 'ce que je désire' – that which I desire. I find myself hardly able to resist – I shall sleep upon it. April 28th I visited the Chinese ambassador and with Monsieur Dreyfus as interpreter, I made a good deal of promises I daresay shall never be kept. The man had at first been confused, then delighted at this mad Englishman making tangible policy concessions in exchange for the trifling life of a child, from a foreign land no less. Once the Foreign Office learns of my errant deeds they shall have my head on a platter. I find myself not caring. Jean-Paul expressed his gratitude for whatever it was I had done to restore normality, thought I did not let on any details. April 29th Today Monsieur Dreyfus came to my room with an inkstone, a gigantic spindle of paper and a calligraphic brush. His demeanour was of one oddly resigned though I could not tell you why. I spent two whole hours entranced as he danced around before that vast canvas, painting spirals and waves and fractal patterns the likes of which I have never seen. Some were instantly recognisable, the easy undulations of sine and cosine and half-forgotten memories of quadratic and polynomial matrices, yet on top of those were many more that were alien to me. Who knows what secrets lies behind their lines? I intend for them to return with me to London post-haste for examination. One thing only snags in my mind. When I offered him my hand to shake on our mutual agreement, it was not as it should have been. I cannot shake the jaunty motion of his arm from my mind's eye. It see and feel it clearly, a handshake of brittle fingers bent behind arthritic joints. The handshake of a frail old man. He bade me farewell and fair limped from my chamber as a man who had forgotten his cane. I cannot banish this thought that something was lost in the transition from man to paper, that I have perhaps taken something that was not made to be shared. I fear I may have put the man's spirit under my microscope and in doing so have rendered it impotent. I feel as a doctor who has removed some vital organ from a cadaver only to discover that the corpse was a man merely sleeping, yet has not the skills to return it. What profitable course is left to such a surgeon? Only to dissect the organ and attempt to rectify the deficiency. The talks are delayed and I have been recalled by the Foreign Office even faster than I had imagined. My carriage to Calais departs tomorrow at dawn and I shall be in London before May blooms.
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Apr 29, 2013 05:42
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zgrowler2 posted:Thinking about getting in on this. Is there a set date for the next Thunderdome or a schedule that these normally run on? As soon as a winner picks a new prompt, which should have happened already. Probably be up tomorrow at latest.
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May 1, 2013 21:31
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Yeah, OK, whatever. In with whatever Youtube spun me to which is whatever Ireland regurgitated. Aphorism: 'Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.'
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May 10, 2013 15:09
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Do I ever hate writing fables. In nevertheless.
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May 22, 2013 15:34
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Haven't touched writing in weeks. Shameful stuff, so I'm in.
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Jun 18, 2013 14:42
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Walamor posted:I thought was going to be done with my weekend work assignment before now, but unfortunately I'm not and have some hours to go before I can finish. I won't waste the judges' time with a half edited submission. Sorry and good luck to everyone else! Are you kidding, none of the cool cats have even thought about starting yet. (im a cool cat btw)
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Jun 23, 2013 21:05
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crabrock posted:one ghost story in a third world country, that is like, totally believable, coming right up. Robert Mugabe: Ghostbuster I'll write something before I say I'm in. Been a bit of a jerk recently.
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Jun 26, 2013 16:16
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Scrambler Grade 4-6 Yeah, so I set myself a mild rule that I could only spin the wheel three times and choose one from the three I got. They are all clearly amazing so if anybody fancies one of the other two, feel free. Or maybe random a different opener from 'birthday party invitation' Jesus Christ. Write a birthday party invitation for a thousand-year-old rhinoceros who is a tour guide in your neighborhood Write a folk tale about a depressed snow leopard who solves crimes. - Doing this one. Write a birthday party invitation for a self-conscious owl who rides comets.
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Jul 2, 2013 18:49
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Snowed Under - 1200 Words “Another.” “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” “What does it sound like? Don’t jerk me around Jerry alright? Not tonight.” Jerry acquiesced with the serene disapproval that only barmen can manage and poured another stinted measure of bourbon. Alexei managed one whole sip before the glass tumbled from his paw and shattered. Jerry shot him a pitying look before heading behind the bar to find a broom. Alexei called after him: “Hey! It isn’t as easy as all that when you don’t have opposable thumbs.” “Just go home Alex.” Not interested in pushing his luck, Alexei sloughed off the barstool like a liquid and padded towards the exit, managing to bump into only one doorframe in the process. Outside, New York was seized up like an old boiler by the worst winter in decades. Already into the negative fahrenheit and with things looking grimmer to come, there was little hope for a reprieve. As a snow leopard the weather didn’t bother him, but as a detective it was about as frustrating as it came. Especially at a time like this when it wasn’t just the cold the city found itself in the grip of. An elusive killer was stalking the streets of Manhattan. It didn’t look like there was going to be a reprieve in that case any time soon either. Statistically speaking, cold winters like this drive crime indoors. Even criminals aren’t fond of freezing their balls off waiting for a mark. But their killer wasn’t subscribing to that general rule. Indeed, there weren’t many general rules he (or she, he chastised himself) wasn’t breaking. No connection between victims, no obvious area of operation, no noticeable theft from the victims or sexual assault. Just some schmuck with a knife who didn’t mind the cold and made a hobby of vicious knife attacks. Pathology was no use - the temperature plays havoc with their usual magic tricks. Time of death stretches from a matter of minutes to ‘probably yesterday, maybe the day before’. Forensics have a torrid time of it as well. Ever tried to do blood splatter analysis or find DNA evidence after three inches of snow has covered everything up? It’s no picnic. Throw on top a distinct lack of patrolmen wanting to do foot patrols or pedestrians, they weren’t like to have a lucky witness and rapid response. All in all, it was a loving mess. There were already six dead, and more than probably a few more lying in wait beneath the white blanket, all lying patiently in wait to thaw out and stink in a few weeks time - just ready to catch him some more flak for not closing this case out sooner Alexei was sick of it. A couple of cubs waiting at home who he hardly saw, a remedial course of suspect pacification looming and he was already at his breaking point. And what did he do when he finally had a little time to himself? Wasn’t it obvious? Problems always seem a little warmer, a little more distant through the backwards telescope lens of a bottle bottom. His ears flattened in anger unconsciously through the little slits in his hat. The chief’s mocking words seemed carried on the stinging wind. I’m tired of getting complaints about you Detective. Either you change your spots or I’ll take your stripes. He could have leapt on the smug bastard then and there. Probably that was part of the problem. He stalked past the steaming and cavernous Subway. He wasn’t ready to face going home quite yet, especially not if his wife was still awake. There was another thing he couldn’t face right now. -- Two hours later, he sauntered in a giddy zig-zag through the red light district. He’d found a bar willing to serve him and amazingly managed three more drinks before getting into a fight and getting thrown out. Like a pinball he bounced from neon sign to neon sign, tempted but not quite tempted enough to stumble into any of the clubs. Then he heard a muffled scream. Instantly, his liquored muscles tensed into readiness. Even drunk, his senses were keener than any human’s. He followed the noise to a nearby alleyway. Further in, there was a woman pressed up against a wall. Doing the pressing was an shadowy figure, and in his hand the unmistakable glint of a knife. “Stop! Police!” The figure cursed and broke into a sprint. Incensed by the alcohol in his veins and the prospect of the hunt, Alexei bounded after him. At a sharp corner he scrabbled for purchase to make the turn but found none. He careened straight into a trashcan with metallic smash. Dazed, he staggered upright. Already the man was scrambling up a fire escape. And it hit him with startling clarity - this was his man. Who else could it be? His prayers had been answered; the solution to his problems was dangling before his eyes. No more overtime, no more whispers of a transferral. Crack this now and he might even grab some paid leave, patch things up with Eleanor. His second wind was fiery. Cats on hot tin roofs had nothing him as he flew up the fire escape. The wrought iron structure shuddered from the slamming of his paws on every step. The man, clearly unfit, was losing ground to him rapidly. Alexei was close enough that he could taste him. Cresting onto the rooftop, he came face to face the panting man, who had stopped and turned. He was standing the other side of ventilation duct, holding his knife forward. “Get the hell away from me you crazy animal!” “Put the weapon down and put your hands on your head.” “gently caress you! Stay back!” Alexei bared his fangs. It was better this way. It always was. This way the bastard would get a taste of all the suffering he’d put him and all of those victims through. Every step forward he took, the other man matched backwards. Alexei lowered his head and his muscles rippled in anticipation. His claws unsheathed into the cool traction of the icy rooftop. There was a pause. Then he pounced. His body made a graceful arc over the vent, hat and velcro shield flying off in the process. He looked like a wild animal from a documentary. And at that moment, he was. The man backed away even more, hastened by the sudden movement, but there wasn’t any more building left to back away onto. His left foot stepped confidently onto empty air and kept on going. The losing of balance can be quite a beautiful thing to watch. The sheer geometric inevitability of it, along with the whole spectrum of emotions on display: dawning realisation; then the futile attempts to counteract gravity pressing down hard atop you, trying to topple you; and of course, the look in your eyes when you know it has succeeded. Surprise; panic; fear. All intoxicants to a predator like Alexei’s mind. They narrow the thoughts and focus the concentration, all to ensure a kill is secured. It doesn’t matter which prey. During the harsh winter season, when times are tough, any kill will do.
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Jul 8, 2013 02:58
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Grats Vegas  Yes I know my story was crap GET OFF MY BACK
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Jul 10, 2013 01:20
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In with Escape.
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Jul 10, 2013 11:02
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Well, since everybody is doing it - I don't have broken arms or connectivity issues, but I have taken on a monumental task. Pretty sure there's no way I can finish by tonight. I'll give it my best shot but I also have plans tonight that will soak up a lot of time.
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Jul 14, 2013 16:22
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V for Vegas posted:
I'll get it to you, like, maybe in a couple of days?
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Jul 16, 2013 00:01
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Mercedes posted:So, I've been meaning to ask how challenges work out? So, if for example Yes, except with more anger and less mercy. A deep-rooted desire to hurt them and all that they hold dear is one of the most vital parts of the challenge process.
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Jul 23, 2013 15:29
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crabrock posted:I colorcoded my TD progress. think im getting some kind of error, some of them are green??
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Aug 1, 2013 15:11
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I thought I remembered to sign up, but I didn't. Well I pretty much already wrote something so Imma just continue to boogie on with that assumption.
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Aug 10, 2013 14:06
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Diary of Dr. Johann von Klintz, 3rd August, 1864 trans. Klaus Einhart - Word Count: 1119 I had spent the previous night in the dubious company of Charles Lansdowne, the British consul. There was not much of the gentleman left in the consul - a generously apportioned man, and foul-mouthed - he spent much of the evening smoking languorously on his spindled opium pipe and conversing at me rather than with me. I declined his offer to smoke several times, though it seemed to deter him little from his persistent invitations. Truthfully I found his company most unpleasant, however I made an effort to keep up appearances - it was no secret that he was the potentissimus in and around Guangzhou, and I was in no hurry to alienate his good graces. I was also bereft of good company and so, even though my English is lacking, I was inclined to spend the evening in the company of one in preference to none. The night wore on, and afflicted by wooziness brought on by the opium fumes I rambled on in fragmentary sentences of my departure from the Akademie and my travels up to that point. That I was a physician seemed to pique his curiosity greatly. He inquired further about my motives, and I told him of my brief to study oriental surgical technique with a mind to preparing a report for the Akademie back in Berlin. He seemed genuinely intrigued and I felt flattered. He inquired whether I had an interest in anatomy, to which I replied that I did - that I was an understudy of the great Wilhelm Bosch himself. A complete fabrication, of course, and I can only attribute it to the mind-altering effects of the opiate miasma. He told me that the following afternoon that there was something that would be of great interest to me in the square and that he would reserve me a prime viewing spot. He remained tight-lipped on the matter though I pressed him. I detected a malevolent twinkle in those sunken blue eyes of his, ensconced and shadowed by his blubberous features, though I had no inkling as to what it might mean. It was soon forgotten and together we shared an amuse bouche of sweetbreads and, my word, a bottle of Spätburgunder - I had had no wine for months, let alone from the banks of the Ahr. We talked some more, and I lamented the desertion of my local translator, whom the consul brashly declared was certainly plying my coin at the whorehouses - we laughed, made merry, and I departed during the small hours in good spirits. The next morning I rose early. I delivered a letter to the postmaster and took a constitutional around the herbal markets. I tarried there for a time - the cornucopia of fungi and remedies on show was quite fascinating - but I did not want to miss my appointment. I was apprehensive as to what lay in store but was more concerned with not wanting to appear rude, so I made haste to the square outside the Consulate. When I arrived, a great crowd had already gathered. So thick with people was it that I had to push my way through quite bodily. I will forever wish that I hadn’t, that I had turned around at the sight of the crowd. In my heart of hearts I had somewhat suspected what was happening, but nothing in my wildest nightmares could have rendered me insensitive to what I was about to witness. I breached through the front of mass of people, who begrudgingly let me pass in deference to my occidental appearance. A small chinaman was tied to a crude cross. Covered in bruises, he hung limply from the bindings on his wrists. Any lingering doubts were dispelled quickly. The first thing I saw was another man with a great carving knife draw back the smaller man’s head and lance both his eyes with savage precision. Blood bubbled from the ruined sockets and the man screamed. I felt ill. I turned back to find the crowd had resealed around me. Lingchi - the death of a thousand cuts. I knew of it, and of the three Confucian deaths the victim was to suffer - death of the body, death of reputation and mutilation in the afterlife. I watched in horror as the machete was drawn across the forearm and a slice of flesh removed. A finger, an ear. It was as if I was watching a sculptor working backwards, rendering a human form back to lump of muscle and bone. For every large slice taken, from the thigh or belly, the executioner pulled a flat iron from the fire and seared the wound. To cauterise and stop the blood flow - purely to prolong the suffering. Chunk of shoulder, corner of scalp, left foot. The smell filled my nose. There is nothing in this world that smells like burned flesh. I quickly resolved to stop it. As a doctor, I would not allow such barbarism to occur in my presence. Blessing of blessings, I had my doctor’s bag with me. Within it, I had morphine and a number of hypodermic needles. With shaking hands, I produced the bottle and drew a lethal dose. A clammy hand settled on my shoulder, stopping me. I looked up and saw the grinning face of the consul. He asked me whether I was finding it instructional. I confess, I lost my temper quite catastrophically. I raged at him in my native tongue. How close I came to jamming that needle straight into his porcine belly. I think I would have had not that poor wretch cried out for my help in German. I brought myself to look towards the man - now without feet and hands altogether, no nose or lips. It could not be, but it was. My bright young translator, my guide for weeks. I had not recognised him before in his sorry state. And now, now he was a torso with stumps and crimson streaks of missing flesh. Like a carcass hanging above a butcher’s table, he was more meat than man. I pulled free of the consul’s grasp and hurried over. I ended his suffering, though I fear far too late for it to have been much of a mercy. Their gruesome entertainment spoiled, the crowd dispersed. Stupefied, I simply stood. The consul, propelled by a cane, approached me and whispered into my ear: “What do you think Doctor? Some liverwurst to remind you of home? Or perhaps Zungenwurst? That might be even better.” He drew a finger across a glistening laceration and tasted it thoughtfully; “With...yes, I think a Beaujolais.”
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Aug 11, 2013 16:51
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Mercedes posted:
I'm gonna go ahead and assume that judges have read it already but the twist at the end is that he eats the victims. It goes back to the sweetbreads and wine earlier in the story. Otherwise most of your questions are left open on purpose because I don't have the word count to expand into - all I'll say is better to assume malice and foreplanning, but not to reason why.
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Aug 13, 2013 21:17
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In. also requesting username change to "THE FOREVER BRIDESMAID" tia
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Aug 14, 2013 02:45
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Cervid posted:Duly noted. I have been 'that' guy and done you a huge keen post in the Farm. I accept PayPal or your agonised screams as you hack off your fingers over webcam to appease my twisted whims. edit: option 2 i can offer you a couple knuckle discount, this being your first time and all
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Aug 15, 2013 02:56
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kind of racist kind of misogynist but you know, probably not such a bad guy really if you got to know him. actually wait - Word Count: 738 god im loving sick of these rush hour trains, im really- oh look a seat, sweet. “Priority Seat - Please offer this seat to those less able to stand”? nah, dont think so, im on this fucker for like thirty stops drat i wish i had brought my shades why is it so bright actually its kind of nice jesus what is with shuffle on this piece of poo poo theres only so many times i can handle dnb at 7am, maybe i should make a playlist underground in 3...2...1....½....0, volume up ow down, be nice if they made these things quieter oh god another reason to bring shades i can see my weird reflection in that curved window drat i need a shave and some more sleep stupid cat im pretty sure i can tell how smart people are just by looking at their eyes and most of these people are thick as hell i could really do with a cigarette these patches dont even work i swear ah man she is fine bare legs and boots so hot too bad ellie never wears em maybe I should ask or would that be weird hey she has a book as well, thats kinda - oh its just some airport drivel nevermind. that guy looks like such a douche wearing beats i really loving hate that, loving racket worse than apple, instead of music they should just shout douchebagdouchbagdouchebag full volume in your ear. did that fat bitch just press the open button on the door; must be a tourist. why do they even have those buttons if they dont even work- wonder if they ever worked like in the 80s or something great more goddamn people not like it isnt already boiling in here cant even take my jacket off; dont stare at me like you old bag you aint getting this seat; wish those cunts would stop loving babbling in whatever language that is so irritating can hear it over my music -stupidthumbwheelonthisthinglousy- are all the old people staring at me because they can hear the music or because theyre senile seriously its so loving hypocritical they always say its rude to stare then who loving stares the most? goddamn old people like gormless morons its not like im gonna get up and steal your wallet woah. that guy doesnt look shifty no not at all. why is he looking around like that jesus i can see his eyes are bloodshot from here dude looks half crazy what the hell is that in his hand he keeps fiddling with; looks like some kind of remote or something christ is that a wire running up his sleeve and hes got a massive backpack too oh god no way im overreacting, theres no loving way; ive got to get off this train; dont press that button christ theres children on this train maybe hell chicken out if he looks this way ill smile at him might buy some time or make him feel too guilty jesus cmon this train is so slow maybe i have to over there and stand by the door try grab the remote if he tries; so loving stupid but if i dont sweating like mad jesus, christ, maybe if i stand in the very corner might be safer theres a little perspex wall and a bunch of people, if it explodes next station hyde park corner? doesnt matter dont care if im late better safe than dead can feel my heartbeat in my head let me off let me off let me off; poo poo; poo poo; thank gently caress i need to sit down calm down should i like call someone or something but what if im wrong ill look like a retard; if, if it does happen then nobody would know that i knew, theyd be like wow why did you get off the train at the wrong stop and id just say i just had this strange feeling y’know - people would kind of respect that be a bit impressed id have a bit of a story to tell oh poo poo that guy there, is he holding the same- what if its a multiple strike like 7/7 what if- wait gently caress is that the loving new ipod shuffle? Enjoy my crude, unedited and pretentious impression of what stream of consciousness might be like without ever having read any. People don't think with apostrophes or capital letters - but they do think with semi-colons and commas for some reason.
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Aug 19, 2013 01:00
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"In," he said aloud. There is no translation for this word and perhaps it is just a noise such as a man might make, involuntarily, feeling the draw of the Thunderdome go through his veins and into his heart.
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Aug 27, 2013 19:31
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I'm in. Question: please say when you wrote 'skewers our view' you meant it literally? finally my chance to write about a javelin-cum-jousting tournament, waited so long for this so long
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Sep 10, 2013 14:12
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I don't know if incredible covers it. This must have taken so loving long. I collated the stats on all my own entries a couple weeks ago, while bored and having seen yours crabrock, and it must have taken me almost two hours. Seriously awesome from both of you.
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Sep 14, 2013 13:21
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Sitting Here posted:I particularly enjoy the stats/graphs section. Why do the majority of TD stories take place on/involve the day Sunday? Why do we shun the numbers 8 and 9? Why are god and lord the two most common names, but Jesus is trailing behind Jack, mom, Jim and Thomas? who knew this place was secretly a christian propaganda factory who knew
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Sep 14, 2013 20:16
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Walter Grant - 645 Words He woke up today at 7:24am, a few minutes earlier than usual. He lay in bed for a little while, one leg over the covers and one under. I don’t know why he does it, but he always does it. He sleeps like a baby too, all curled up with arms tucked in. When he goes to sleep, he follows the same pattern every night. He lies, at first, back flat and head propped on the pillow, then twists onto his left side for a short while, then finally onto his right side. Only then does he sleep. He always sleeps on his right side. Why doesn’t he start by lying on his right side? I don’t know. I know a lot about Walter Grant but I don’t know anything about him. It feels like I’ve been locked in his cell with him for years, observing, noting, considering but have still learnt nothing. I want to know why. Why, when he eats breakfast, does he take a bite of toast and a sip of tea at the same time? He doesn’t mix them together, mulching them into some bready-tea gunk before swallowing; no, he stores the bite of toast in his cheeks like some overgrown hamster. I’ve watched it happen countless times. Can’t he wait before taking a drink? Why does he do it? I don’t know, but I note it down. I’ve noted a great deal of things about Walter Grant. For example, did you know that when he does press-ups, he always does an even number - unless it ends with a five? Or that when he eats meals with peas in them he never chews? He just swallows them without tasting them. He could just tell us he doesn’t like peas - we are obliged to provide meals that inmates can enjoy, but he never does. He eats all of them, every time, without ever tasting a single one. Perhaps that is just how a murderer eats peas. After all, Walter Grant is quite a murderer - he’s killed seventeen people. That’s why I watch him. Because when he sleeps, he sleeps a murderer; when he eats, he eats as a murderer eats. It’s all important, all has to be written down. We might learn something. Murder might not just be, after all, the agglomeration of the distended corpses of cats and the bruises from familial fists imparted. The real devils might be in the details, in the untasted peas of Walter Grant’s prison dinner. So I’m told. Yet even so, I don’t like Walter Grant. In fact, I’ve learned to hate him. I hate how he lives his life and I hate that he will soon be strapped to a gurney and pumped full of FDA approved toxins, because then I won’t ever know why. I don’t care anymore why he killed those little boys and girls, I want to know why he covers his sneezes when there’s nobody around, I want to know why he reads the ends of books before he starts them; I want to know why he didn’t cry when he got his date, because everybody has a little cry when they get their date. I’ve watched them, I know. When they think nobody can see or hear, in the darkest corners of the night, everybody has a little cry. A little sniffle or sob. It doesn’t matter who they were or what they did. But Walter Grant didn’t, and I want to know why. Has Walter Grant transcended the fear of death? Has he found Nirvana in that six by nine foot tomb? What’s in his head? And are the peas part of it? Are all the little things part of some greater ritual that I can’t see? What’s his secret? What’s he hiding? I want to know Walter Grant, I want to know. This story dedicated to my loving children, Crabrock and Kaishai. May their boundless enthusiasm for compiling statistics be a light for me in darkness and an inspiration to all other baller OCD peeps out there with time on their hands. God bless you, every one. Jeza fucked around with this message at 00:16 on Sep 16, 2013 |
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Sep 16, 2013 00:11
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In, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Andrews I'll try to be local, because a) I already live somewhere kinda interesting and b) 150km radius is like...most of Scotland.
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Sep 16, 2013 18:02
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St Andrews - 720 Words Picture spoilered on syssy's advice.The streets are old, the stones ancient. Buildings sag under the weight of their own history, looming like crooked trees over the hushed wynds. On mizzling nights, with fog rolled in, the air is thick to breathe down those alleys - the breezy hems of a thousand red ghosts long since departed conspiring together to cloy the air. On rare nights such as this, you may see the city as it once was. There are conditions. First, there must be not a single soul afoot. The public houses must be emptied and the pavements silent but for the wind’s whisper. The witching hour must have rung out from the chapels, and passage through the streets only beacon to beacon. Your outstretched hands must be invisible to your eyes, and every footfall a test of faith. You may follow any trail for all will lead you to the cathedral’s carcass. It juts out into the freezing sea, a collapsed monument to a perished religion. Men and women travelled hundreds of miles to a door that subsided into the earth hundreds of years ago, crossing themselves and, in fervent prayer, kissing the knucklebones of St Andrew for their deliverance. You must enter as a pilgrim would through the ruined arches - on hands and knees. All around you the Catholic follies are absent - long torn down and ruined, the stones cannibalised for more lay purpose. But their skeletons remain, and you walk in the footsteps of Archbishops down the columned nave. Where the transept and choir once stood, there is a tumbledown graveyard where obliterated tombstones and toppled Celtic crosses jut from the ground, ground that families had clamored for, that their loved ones might rest in hallowed earth. Amidst it all stands the solitary tower of Saint Rule, and you must climb. Humble yourself before your god or conscience before you ascend the steps - recall that the dead outnumber the living, and that you too will join their ranks. Have deference to their unfulfilled wishes and pray not to trample on their memories. Once you traverse the threshold, you may not turn back. The tower’s peak is high enough that the fog below will seem a milky murk, and the sea a black, featureless expanse. This point was the edge of faith, and its final bastion. Look below the parapet - the city’s lights are vanished. From there remains one final step: Bite your knuckle, hard enough to draw blood. Bite swiftly and with faith enough to puncture your skin in a single motion. Take a finger to the blood that wells up, and mark St Andrew’s Cross upon the capstone. With the bloody saltire the fog will lift and you may witness a miracle. The years will shed themselves like a serpent’s skin around you. The night’s colours will become glossy and fresh, and the moon’s light more luminous. And from all around, the stones of the cathedral will return from the city that took them. What happened in between shall decompose and rot backwards. Walls will be rebuilt, arches reform; buttresses shall fly again again. Latin chants that filled the walls will sing out once more and enrich the soul. The red ghosts will flock, and swarm until the cathedral is full to bursting as it once did, the dead devout returning to the seat of their learning. The beauty of it will burn into you for a lifetime. But soon, too soon, it is over. A black pall settles over and around you, a choking smog - the hateful ash of martyr’s pyres will wash across the city. They shall have their final revenge all over again, the winds of change that fanned the flames of their own extinction will sweep through history as a gale, destroying all. The walls will crumble, the arches tumble; the buttresses be brought back down to earth with the red ghosts all swept away, cast like petals into a storm. And you will be back, upon the tower, with night, and stillness and fog returned. To a night such as you will never see come to pass again. When you return home, to the warmth of your hearth, beacon to beacon in the mizzling night, you will remember that though the streets are old, the stones are ancient. -- Writing this while sleep deprived, not even going to look at it. The red ghosts stuff refers to this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Undergraduate_gowns_in_Scotland The picture is 'cos I dunno, like, gently caress this bedtime Jeza fucked around with this message at 15:53 on Sep 23, 2013 |
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Sep 23, 2013 02:35
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Crits for Thunderdome Week LX The scores and opinions below are my own and don't represent the final say on your pieces in any way, or perfectly map onto the way the results have panned out. Judge discussion is compromise and irons out some the natural biases everybody displays in their fiction taste. Chairchucker I don’t have much to say CC. As usual you write an airy dialogue scene. You’re good at it, but this is not one of your best. The Nan as the straightwoman to the situation comedy that is dubstep/furries is a new spin on a classic option but only a couple of her lines made me crack a smile (“I dont know what that is.”). This kind of generation gap comedy can be done better, and what’s more I think you could do it better too. Plus, overall the scene is plotless and though I’m not one of those people who insists on conflict/resolution, this doesn’t even leave me with a taste in my mouth. Like eating a waffle made of nothing. ...that was my whole crit, but I don’t feel like I’ve even offered any advice. Hmm. Much of the dialogue seems to have no point whatsoever - neither in the mood setting or the comedy set-up. What’s up with the mumbling at the start for example? Or the reference to Tommy? Even the little description there is often seems meandering and adds nothing. Loads of weird off-putting lines that seem unlikely in a normal human parlance, too - ‘Yes, definitely a migraine. From this terrible music.’ I’m trying to put my finger on what’s really wrong with this piece as a whole, and I feel like the airiness of it is because of this weird narrative distance you seem to have from writing the character of the Nan. It all just feels a little bit...meta? Understanding ‘brb’ but being oblivious to other modern tropes, starting sentences with ‘Seriously,’ are oddly jarring, like some younger person was just puppeteering the Nan’s lifeless corpse the whole time. I can’t get a grip on how old she is. She’s meant to be a grandmother, but she seems to be acting like Drew’s mother - also since when do grandmother’s ever talk about their own mothers? Never, that’s when. People are talking past each other a bunch, a whole bunch of needless cliches get thrown down and basically, whatever: 4.5/10 - Baby don’t hurt me. Gygaxian Hello, Wilkommen, Bienvenue a Thunderdome. Congrats on writing your first page length story. Your fundamentals are sound: I saw signs of vocabulary, spelling and grammar. All important things, to be sure (irish). Some bonus points I will also award for knowledge of world history. Sadly, your story is retarded. I pray to the writing gods and sacrifice a hundred snow white lambs in the hope that you were well aware of that fact when you wrote it. It reads like a pastiche but deep down I know that it isn’t. So we have time-travelling, dimension hopping space presidents, also cyborgs, who are fighting their way throughout the centuries. The tone is melodramatic, sliding down the dark and greasy path into grandiloquence. Use of language is often stilted and bizarre, as you manage to not quite effectively merge both the archaic with the fantastic. Much of this you can’t help. This is baby’s first steps and you’ll look back on this, should you choose to continue writing, in a matter of weeks and probably cringe. Not just at the storyline either, but at the style of writing. I’m not just here to piss in your face and laugh about it, though I do enjoy that, so here are some pointers: - Don’t ever torture me again with a simile like: “I felt tongue-tied in an astonished way, like a schoolboy being told that his favorite teacher had gone into the woods and been eaten by a bear.” ever again. - For what is meant to be a character driven plot, your antagonist only appears (with his completely unnecessary son) in the last ⅓ of your story. Your wind up is achingly long. In fact can you just take this to the Fiction Farm (snippets/critique thread in CC). Too much to cover just with generalisations here. 3.5/10 - Harsh but fair. Erogenous Beef I love it. The pace is electric, and falters only rarely. TD doesn’t get enough well-written comedy and on open prompts it really gets unfairly hammered by people that think tragedy is the be all and end all of good writing. The dialogue and internal monologues are the stand out parts of the story. Some of the scene setting could have been better done, and though you were constricted for space with the amount of plot occurring, I don’t think that is quite enough excuse. Bad things: I didn’t see the point of Amsterdam. A confusing time-leap following the sentence starting “This morning, he’d found…” and I don’t reaaaally understand the need for Karen’s formula to be not working. I mean, I do from a writer’s perspective to set up the correction scene, but from a reader’s perspective it seems to make little sense if she is trying to stay undercover. Examples of the not great description were Nefarious’ penthouse/ Evil’s vast, mechanical(?) space, the finding of the badge. Overall, these are tiny quibbles. 8.5/10 crabrock The format was quite refreshing. You didn’t take it seriously and I don’t think I need to crit it particularly seriously, so long as you as you enjoyed writing it. I was smiling through a lot of it, but the comedy wasn’t solid throughout. I preferred it when he was just an incompetent, I didn’t really dig the suddenly having a huff and being forced to act like a real lawyer and slamming the whole case like a pro. I would have just started as you meant to continue and have the case be resolved in some other entertaining manner. Not much else to say unless you want me too. Sometimes the time gaps between words could be a little erratic, feeling like maybe we miss some comments in between that would have kept it smoother. A generous 7/10 revised to 6.5/10 to drag it more in line with my other scores. I’m not sorry. docbeard gently caress you 0/10 M. Propagandalf Also gently caress you 0/10 Fumblemouse This isn’t bad. Clearly you can write, but it really doesn’t do it for me. The disappointment is harsher because the technical skills are obvious. I love the idea of the Golden City reflected in the lake, and I can suspend my belief about it, but your story’s greatest failing is that you completely fail to evoke it. It isn’t like you do it badly, it’s more like you just don’t. You spend more time describing the scenery around the lake than you do for this amazing, mind boggling magical goddamn city that is the focus of your whole piece. Doesn’t that seem strange to you? The character of Anthony is distinctly unlikeable. True, he is pining for his lost girlfriend (I assume) but he also just seems like a general jackass. Not that there is anything wrong with a jackass for a character, but I feel it detracts from the whole ‘lost-love’ element of your plot. Other things bug me about this piece as well: The old man hoping for a mystery seems incredibly unfazed by his discovery of a freaking actual person in the reflected tower, and your descriptions, not just the lack of them, seem sadly humdrum and simplistic. Also ‘Friendly Tours’ is a dire name. Dire. 7/10 - I know I seemed wholly negative about this piece, but I can’t in good conscience give it anything less. Helsing Cool story concept. Effectively opened, continues well, begins to come to pieces a little bit, recovers, ends so badly. Why are we going through this whole journey of suspicion and discovery if in the end Francis looks through the goddamn telescope. I just don’t get it. The ending actually beggared belief a bit for me, I just couldn’t and can’t fathom why you wrote it like that but anyway. I counted four pretty glaring errors in your story, though by your own admission you didn’t edit so I forgive you mostly. I’ll run through some of the problems I had: firstly, Francis’ perception of Simon isn’t consistent throughout the piece which is a symptom of having not properly proofed it, your dialogue felt weak on more than one occasion - specifically, being oddly blunt a lot of the time or plain unrealistic, for example when questioned Maya says “He showed me.” nobody would reply “Who showed you?” without first asking what was being shown in the first place, thirdly and finally, you bloat the piece with extraneous detail that ends up being useless. I’m glad almost because you’ve been saying in the Farm and here that you can’t get down the whole flash fiction thing. This piece you already pushed to the word limit, but there were things you wrote in that never came to anything, or didn’t add anything. For example: the building of the telescope, the introduction of the clay disk and speculation that his Uncle’s death (which informs the reader but is meaningless to the protagonist), the stealing of the telescope which results in no reaction at all. You’ve already recouped a few hundred words to put to better use right there. I wanted to like this more than I did, and I do think a proper editing pass would serve it well. The ending though, is weak weak weak. 6.5/10 - I couldn’t make Fumble’s lower, I can’t rate yours any higher. NB: Pretty sure a stroke can be found by a post-mortem. Mercedes OK, so some elements of this aren’t written with the eloquence of the grand masters of times gone by. But the pacing is tight, the impact is solid, the characterisation is well played. I don’t even think you wavered too badly on the declaration of love (“Baby” is borderline for me though.) Much is left to the imagination. Fine, perfect - that is exactly what you want with showing and not telling. It all wraps up neatly and satisfying in less than sub 650 words. Some demerits: Improper use of language - cf. “circular alloy”, “it’s inaction”. I don’t understand the point of the whole 'Samuel' thing. I think it distracts and adds nothing. Perhaps I’d like the see the final two dialogue attributions switched - I liked the repetition in the story, but three times from one character is overkill. 7.5/10 - Rough and ready, but steady. ThirdEmperor I don’t understand why you underline your italics buddy. I realise this is something that occurs in writing manuscript format, but the piece isn’t in that format anyhow so, eh? Your piece was more fuel for the comedy fire this week, but rather than being purest anthracite, was more like lignite. Or subbituminous. Pick your strained coal metaphor poison. You join the club of entries with a mistake in your very first line. From there you establish a desert island scenario, except on a sinking humvee. The dialogue is OK, the two characters play off of each other somewhat, though the internal wry monologue is often weak. While the situation is comic and surreal, and often played that way, too often is there a switch towards making a tense and dramatic scene - which in my eyes drags the whole thing down like a humvee in tar (not asphalt btw, because that is manmade). The plot itself culminating in the RPS scene is totally fine, and I think the pacing was without issue. The dinosaur fixation was a little strange too, but that could just be because every dinosaur was underlined and italicised, meaning I couldn’t take my eyes of the words. My verdict is that you should learn to juggle with two balls before you try and incorporate a third. Except in this case the balls represent genres, and instead of three, two. 5.5/10 - But if the T-Rex at the end had been holding up a tiny hand in the shape of scissors I would have given this piece at least another point. FouRPlaY I’m not sure how you’re going to take this comment, but I always give my bare-faced honest opinion when I judge writing. Your story reads like it was written by a child. It isn’t really bad per se, but it seems simplistic and...guileless? As a concluding note to a story, “X had a lot of explaining to do, but at least Y was safe after all.” is up there with “And they all lived happily ever after.” except without any possibility that it was used with irony. For what it’s worth, you established the character of Albert as small-minded but good hearted quite well. My favourite part of the whole piece was the bizarre deadpan toilet dialogue at the very start. Given the decent quality of the prose, I thought I was in for some enjoyable tongue in cheek misadventure with this weirdo at the helm, but instead it quickly descended into penny dreadful mystery story in the vein of something I might have written as a kid in primary school, only with better understanding of grammar. Honestly, there isn’t much I want to say about this piece. The reporting to security the assassination attempt is pretty trite and unrealistically blown off. The gun watch is pretty silly, the completely shallow nature of the antagonists, the quaint but boring ending. Is the cure to read more? I don’t know. 5/10 - Really I don’t know why I’m giving it this high. Maybe because it was one coherent piece and not just full of dumb errors. Walamor What’s this? A well formulated idea with gentle pacing in one normal package? God forbid. I found some errors in this piece, but by this point all errors are dead to me. I like the underlying story and the overlying writing is pretty good too. We get the crotchety old man and you dangle the red herring that he is heartless pretty well, but then resolve it in the piece’s exposition and conclusion. It’s good as far as it goes, though the key here is how far it goes. I’m not sure how suitable this is for flash fiction. It feels far more like a window into a much larger story, which is a bit of a cruel tease. Really I feel a little at a loss to crit this, because it is solid other than a little wobble with the questionable line about rear end-padding and in my opinion the kind of foot-in-mouth fantasy cliche of poor man entering grand temple. The whole first third could do with some scrubbing up and made more interesting. 7.5/10 - If I was the Questioner, my only question would be whether Nikolaos has been french kissing the statue. Has he? HAS HE? Rest of the non-submissions Kill yourselves 0/10
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Sep 30, 2013 20:39
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In.
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Oct 7, 2013 22:16
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systran posted:What is our current word count? I thought it was 1000, but I see the prompt post says it's 20,000/signups. So, divided by 26 gives us 769 and a bit of spare punctuation. Still more time for signups to reduce that. That is annoying because I already wrote something in a fit of good intentions and there is no way in hell I can cut it down that much. gently caress LIFE  edit: Even worse, I see there are 3 more signups that haven't been written into the prompt. So make that 689 words. Jeza fucked around with this message at 19:58 on Oct 9, 2013 |
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Oct 9, 2013 19:56
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Noah posted:Feed me Seymour! Are you loving kidding me. Noah, I will end you. Post-TD brawl for 333 of those? If I win, I keep the change. If you win, you get to take 333 of my words on a week of your choosing. Some kind of word-coupon if you will.
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Oct 13, 2013 10:28
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Lifetime presents sunshine and rainbows, the story of racism - 1051 Words 666 + 333 + Gambling on a non-finisher to push things up a fraction. “What can I say kid? So life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.” The boy regarded Cargill with inky, impenetrable eyes; his hands holding tiny fistfuls of khaki trouser. Cargill extracted a crumpled Lucky from the crumpled pack in his breast pocket. His fingers stunk of gasoline. It took several tries to coax a light from his almost dry Zippo. He ashed a quarter of the thing in a single drag. He looked down at the little boy’s face, dirty beneath a mop of glossy black hair and wished he hadn’t. He made a half-hearted shooing gesture with his spare hand, but the kid didn’t budge. “Hey Cargill, watch out!” shouted a passing marine “You’ve got a gook stuck to your trousers!” He smiled back weakly at the retreating passing figure, who was laughing it off arm-over-shoulder with a couple of buddies. He sat there for a while not thinking of anything, in fact, actively trying to not think at all. He was there long after the Lucky had disintegrated. Only the humid downdraft of a passing Huey broke his reverie. He didn’t know how long he had been staring hollowly at the paddy field opposite. Only the kid did. Cargill rose to his feet and made to leave. The little boy’s hands slipped from his trousers but quickly re-established their grip on the corner of his jacket, tugging it. Cargill had intended to catch up to the rest of his platoon, but he was cut adrift mentally. The little boy was soon leading him like a lamb and Cargill knew where. He couldn’t stop himself. It was a morbid curiosity. He didn’t want to see, but there was an inevitability to it. Like when his father had shown him what the foxes had done when they got into the rabbit hutches. He hadn’t wanted to, but his father had made him look. And then he couldn’t turn away. The remains of a pitiful hovel, half-collapsed and smouldering. A pair of deeply tanned ankles jutted out of the doorway. A woman’s ankles, with deep navy culottes limply hanging off her bony shins. The little boy tugged on his jacket, expectantly. “What?” he snapped loudly, without clear provocation “What the gently caress do you want me to do?” His body shook. The boy just stared up at him with those inkwell eyes, impassive. “Jesus, calm down bud,” a nearby radio operator chimed in, zipping up his flies, having taken a leak on the smoking ruins of another levelled hut “He prob’ly don’t speak a word of English ‘nohow.” Sage advice dispensed, the operator filtered back into the dribs-and-drabs convoy still passing through. Disgusted with everyone and everything, Cargill wrenched his jacket free of the boy and joined the convoy himself. Behind him, the little boy followed. - - When he eventually crumbled, the teasing was merciless. Things soon got out of hand. Disgusted whispers about his “pet VC” dogged him. He gave up on eating in the canteen. But some were more vindictive than others, took it further. The CO would have his head for it if he found out, and everybody knew it. There were a lot of cold and miserable nights spent sharing from a mess tin in the rain, and coming back to his bunk to find something new missing. But there came a point where he had nothing left to give, or worth stealing. And the bellwether of his persecution, a hard-eyed Texan named Hollister, forced things to a head; Cargill found the note under his bunk covers. - - In a clearing beyond the perimeter, Cargill waited. And five minutes late, Hollister arrived with the little boy in tow. He had one hand clamped over the little boy’s mouth. “Come to get your filthy little gook Cargill? I knew you would,” Hollister drawled with the confidence of one who holds all the cards and knows it “I think you owe me a little more than you’re giving, don’t you?” “I don’t have anything left Hollister. You know that.” “That’s a darn shame, isn’t it? Well, I s’pose it’s only fair the boy earns his keep.” Hollister produced his Bowie, and pressed the serrated back into the boy’s cheek. “What do you think Cargill? An ear? My girl back home said I should bring her back a souvenir.” It was a bluff. Cargill knew it was, somewhere deep down. But he had a temper, and had only just been keeping it under wraps for weeks. The pent up hatred frothed forth. The straight was worthy of Ali. Cargill laid the Texan out in an instant. As soon as he had, Cargill was on his knees pummelling his face. It was a stupid decision. Hollister panicked with eight inches of sharp steel in his hand. It found it’s way between Cargill’s ribs, and everything stopped quite abruptly. Hollister lost it and things spiralled quickly. Soon he was dragging Cargill through the sticky undergrowth, cursing. Cargill’s breathing was halting and weak, his lips bloodied. There was an uncovered grave nearby Hollister knew- he had helped fill it with relish. He heaved Cargill atop the corpses of charred Vietnamese farmers. It was grisly work, burying him beneath. Hollister didn’t have the courage to finish him off, and Cargill was too weak to fight back. The little Vietnamese boy watched from the graveside, an unsettling presence. Hollister was at it for what seemed to him like hours, shifting the festering bodies while Cargill spluttered beside him, unable to form words. When he had at last dug deep enough, Hollister stood up to mop his brow with his forearm. Hollister only saw the shadow. Tottering on the graveside, the little Vietnamese boy balanced the rusty adze. There wasn’t strength in his arms to be a killer, but gravity’s arm is strong. The blade fell and dug deep into the back of Hollister’s neck. He staggered forward clutching the wound and collapsed into the grave of his own making. Cargill watched, wordless. The little boy climbed down gingerly into the grave and crawled over to him. Bloody foam dribbled out of the corner of his lips. The little boy put his arms around Cargill’s torso and pressed his head into his warm, wet shirt. Cargill smiled and stared to heaven, but the sun had already set. Jeza fucked around with this message at 13:45 on Oct 14, 2013 |
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Oct 14, 2013 03:04
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gonna make you so sad
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Oct 16, 2013 01:53
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| # ¿ May 21, 2024 15:01 |
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Will post tomorrow Noah, promise I'm not standing you up 
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Oct 17, 2013 01:43
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