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sparksbloom posted:
I'll take you up on this. The most recent week would be nice, or if you are feeling something older, my story from week 159.
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Apr 26, 2016 15:55
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| # ¿ May 22, 2024 00:16 |
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Thanks for the crits, doc.
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Apr 29, 2016 16:01
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In with the watermelon. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJPOly61hDQ
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May 3, 2016 10:48
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Someone call Chili
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May 4, 2016 21:32
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Fiasco is cool as hell and I am in with Touring Rock Band. Edit:  since I failed last week
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 11:16 on May 11, 2016 |
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May 11, 2016 10:31
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Tyrannosaurus posted:Those are good crits. Thank you for the time you spent writing them.
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May 12, 2016 16:31
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Thranguy posted:Touring Rock Band After the Show 2000 words After the Opener “We swore together, A ways back when, That we would always, always Try again. But now I see you, Together, passing by. You’ll be his misses, He’ll be your guy. Those words were empty Promises. Carried away with our memories Distances. Those words were empty Promises. And they’ll come home to roost One day In your provinces” Early choked up on the neck of his Les Paul and pounded the fret-board to a pattern burned into his opiated brain. The heroin left a smudge over his perception that rendered the world into a chunky paste that only the music could cut through. By the second note of his solo, the entire 100,000 that filled the stadium from floor to rafter were his; a cheer began to build from the cheap seats, falling down the slope of screaming fans until it hit him like a landslide. For all that he hated performing the old stuff, Early never tired of that feeling. Winston had a point about that, and saving the crowd favorite for the last song of the set was just, “smart business,” as their manager, Valerie loved to say. “...Those words were empty Promises...” Meanwhile, the blur of Winston Plessy stood center stage and prompted Early to finish riffing. If Winston had his way, Doublewide would have only performed the old stuff, because It was no secret that their sophomore and junior albums had been bloated, tepid things. Still, Early was proud and called them a, “step forward in rock sound,” even though Winston knew that the whole lot was poo poo. He was always envious of Early’s thick skin, but the old stuff was beloved, and the touring money from that old stuff kept him in the nice restaurants and fresh women, and nobody criticized him for the old stuff, so, yeah, Winston would continue to push that. “...And they’ll come home to roost One day…” As the whine of the guitars faded, Jack Overton finished the song with a flurry of cymbal crashes. Just offstage, Valerie, his wife, ran through her nightly checklist. There would be the encore, an hour for the band to decompress, a debriefing meeting, and then it would be on to Washington DC for their final nights of performances. She cursed herself at the thought of having to ride the bus with her husband, but she’d been doing it for weeks now. The whirlwind romance that fell upon them both during the second tour had died in the road trip doldrums. Valerie thought about a conversation she’d heard once between two roadies. “It’s a good thing he can play the drums,” one of them had said, “because Jack has got to be the dumbest son-of-a-bitch that I’ve ever met- marrying a groupie and putting her in charge of your books.” “That’s a big loving mistake,” the other said. Jack was a dumb son-of-a-bitch, Val agreed, but marrying him had been more of her mistake than any other. When she took control, the band was on the brink of bankruptcy, and after firing a certain two roadies, Val made it her mission to keep the band afloat. She did a drat good job, and, more often than not as of late, she wished she hadn’t. “...In your provinces.” Winston grabbed the mic stand like he was choking it. “Alright everyone, that was ‘Empty Promises,’ and we’re Doublewide. You’ve been a great crowd, goodnight-” “-and,” Early added, “look out for a new album in 1974!” After the Encore The green room had all of the snacks that Early liked, but the opiates made him constipated and the crackerbox tourbus shithouse didn’t make things easier. He took a handful of pretzels anyway. Val entered the room and asked, “Where’s everyone else?” Shortly after, Jack entered. He was more sweaty than he had any right to be an hour after the show wrapped. Early didn’t need to be sober to know that something was going on. Val had always maintained an air of professionalism after taking over as band manager, and Jack had always seemed to be the loner type, but Early hadn’t seen a single sign of affection between them for weeks. Winston showed five minutes later, trailing two blonde twins, one male and one female, behind him as he entered the greenroom. The female twin could have been a model if it weren’t for the lines around her eyes and mouth belied the youthful top and shorts that she wore. She was clearly used to hard living. Her brother seemed older still, and was wrapped in a light jacket, despite the uncomfortable heat of the evening. Val stared a hole through Winston as he entered, she had reminded him to be punctual immediately after the encore. “Glad you joined us,” she said. “Sorry I’m late,” Winston said, “But I was ‘interacting’ with the fans. What do you call it, Val? Growing the brand?” “I think you kept us waiting so you can try to grow something else,” Early said. Winston lit a cigarette. “All well and good,” he said, “I was actually taking a cue from Jack and scouting our new sound tech. Isn’t that how we do it, Jack? Find whichever broad has the biggest tits and hire her on the spot?” “gently caress off,” Jack said. Val cut in, “I can handle myself, and if it weren’t for my tits your rear end would have been broke last year, so don’t forget it.” “No need to puff out your chest,” Winston said, “either of you. I’m just teasing. Although Wendy’s brother, Mark, is an industrious young man, aren’t you?” Both Winston and the male twin began to snigger like schoolchildren. “Okay,” Early said through a mouthful of something, “what’s the rundown tonight?” Val jammed her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans. “The rundown is that you’re getting bumped in DC. The Pavilion is too big and we haven’t sold enough tickets, so we’re moving down to The Sound Gallery.” Val’s words cut through the haze of Early’s mind. “What?” He asked. “Isn’t it your job to sell tickets?” Winston asked. “Jack, we have to do something about your wife; maybe Wendy would actually be a better manager than her.” Jack took a pull from his beer bottle and rose from his place, carrying it across the room by its neck. He wanted to slash Winston with it, right there in front of the snack table. Instead, he placed the bottle down gently and punched Winston directly in the nose. Then he left. After the Meeting When Winston pulled himself up, Val had taken off to find Jack. Turns out that Mark was a low level drug dealer, and he offered up a bag of grass to take away Winston’s soreness. He also had an eight ball of coke for Early, but when Mark dropped the baggie on the table in front of him, Early shook it off because whenever he was coming down from any high he’d always swear that he was done with the stuff for good, and Early was coming down from the heroin he took before the show, so this was it, and his willpower hadn’t begun to dissolve away just yet. But that didn’t stop Winston from taking some in, so he separated a few lines on the table and took one in. Then he took Wendy’s hand in his. “Early,” he said, “how you doing over there?” Early just shrugged, which Winston understood to mean that everything was okay, so he continued. “Why are you still bothering with the new stuff?” Winston asked. “Remember when we used to practice in your mom’s basement? How we would fantasize about just getting one song on the radio? We did it man. Dreams of Tomorrow is an awesome record man.” Wendy’s hand began to work against Winston’s crotch, “and so what if that’s it? We can ride this train for as long as it’ll run, and eventually people will forget about us.” “And what’re we supposed to do then?” Early asked. “Play cruise ships? Retire? Who cares man, because we had this.” Early noticed that Wendy was taking the handy further than he would have thought, but catching Winston in a sincere moment was rare, so he decided to ignore it. Maybe getting punched in the face did Winston some good. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting mor-” Early was going to say more, but the pretzels from earlier began to come up and he could feel the still crystalline salt grinding against his esophagus. He only had enough time to turn and hang his head over the armrest of the sofa. “Guys,” Val said as she burst from the hallway, “Just got a tip from a police officer in Dade County. He saw Jack walking North on 32. Jack wasn’t doing anything for the PO to hold him, but if we hurry we can catch him.” It was only then that Val noticed the vigor with which Wendy was working on Winston. Mark sat aside, watching, only looking away to do another line from the eight ball. “Isn’t it awkward to watch that?” She asked him. Mark only shrugged in reply. “Early,” Val said, “I need you to come and talk to Jack; he won’t listen to me.” Even though he felt sick, Early knew that watching his partner getting serviced much longer was liable to achieve the same effect, so he left with her. The two navigated the back halls and left through a service door and into the parking lot. There were only a few people loitering around the door, but as Val passed the cluster of greasy fans, she couldn’t help but notice a familiar face, bulbous and stubbly. It was unplacable within her mind, but as she passed him her heart did begin to beat harder. Although, she just chalked it up to anxiety. As she drove, Valerie thought about Jack. She had made enough contacts throughout her time that finding a new job would be easy, but there was a time when she felt beholden to Jack, beholden to Doublewide, for giving her a chance. And she kept thinking about the face from the parking lot. After tonight, Val thought, no more debts; we’re even. Early slumped in his seat as the car skipped over some potholes. “You know,” he said, “you’re a way better manager than you are a driver.” She felt a pang of guilt in her stomach, but she swallowed it. Then the face from the parking lot flashed through her mind again, and Valerie felt like she was going to puke. After the Return Valerie expected to be too late, but when she returned with Early and Jack close to an hour later, she hadn’t expected to find Winston handcuffed to a radiator, his nose broken and splintered like the coffee table, or his mouth gagged with a tour shirt and taped shut. The place had been ransacked: valuables, equipment, Winston’s wallet, even the snacks from the table, all gone. Jack rushed over and ripped the gag loose. “The fuckin’ roadie, man!” “Which roadie?” Jack asked. “The one your wife fired! He was working with the twins man! Look at all the poo poo they stole!” Winston was shaking as he spoke, despite being stabilized by the radiator. “She’s responsible!” he shouted. “Could be worse,” Early said. “Also,” Jack added, “you brought the twins back here.” “Jackie,” Winston said, “how many bitches come back here on a nightly basis? How many times is Early back here buying from some random dealer? Has this ever happened before?” The room was silent, save for the sound of Early plopping into the old couch. He picked up an old cinnamon colored acoustic. “They didn’t steal this one,” he said. “First DC and now this?” Winston asked. “We got to fire her.” Early began to strum an unfamiliar chord. Jack could think of ten holes in Winston’s argument. So could Val. But neither said anything.
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May 16, 2016 03:45
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One's a garbage man with a troubled past. The other's an eight year old truant just looking for a ride.
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May 16, 2016 19:25
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Can I change my wunza to be more in line with what you are looking for (not stupid)?
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May 17, 2016 20:05
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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:Please don't, I'm already using it. 
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May 17, 2016 22:09
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a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 00:16 on May 18, 2016 |
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May 17, 2016 23:30
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quote:Yuzas: Wednesday Mornings 999 words On the day of his release from Harkon County Penitentiary, my old cellie, Bob Potter, promised that he wouldn’t forget about me. On the day of my release, I decided to test him. Last I had heard, Bob had employment driving trash trucks in Lemment, and when I went sniffing around the dump and asking about him, soon, I had employment too. At the end of my first month on the right side of the law, Bob took me out for drinks to celebrate. I was racking a set of billiards balls to the sounds of a radio voice reading out the lottery numbers, and by the time I finished, I looked up and Bob was just gone, like fog on a sunny morning, like he was never there at all. I got reassigned to his route in Barkley Gardens because I took care of my cans. I never crushed them or left them in the street. I made sure to treat them like my own, because I’ve always had a fondness for what can be found in the trash. It explains my fondness for the boy. He was sleeping, all pale with stringy black hair and little stubby legs, beside a green can. When I woke him up, he told me that his name was Orville. “Just got tired,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” I asked. “I go for the other days,” he said, “but Wednesdays are trash days, and I like looking for good stuff. Maybe you can give me a ride. That’d make things easier.” A properly rehabilitated adult wouldn’t just hang around with a strange kid, so I told him to back away from the claw on my truck as I gripped and flipped the can.Then I told him to take off. In return, Orville ran down the street and toppled every can on the block. I spent hours picking them up. ***** It was a week later, the warm middle of an early spring, and I was happy. Barkley Gardens was a good route, and as I started at the entrance to the neighborhood I was reminded of Orville. He had good taste in his garbage, even if he was a bastard. Apparently, he was a tenacious bastard. “You again?” he asked with mock-exasperation as I pulled my truck up to a can. He sniggered and flashed a toothy grin, happy to have beaten me to the question. “Look,” he demanded. Orville had an action figure in his hands, an army man, only, one of the arms was robotic and bright red, a sore thumb against the digital camo fatigues. Orville opened the pincers attached to the figure's arm. “I fixed him myself,” he said. “You did a nice job,” I said. “Thanks!” he said, “I can tell you more if you give me a ride.” “If I don’t,” I asked, “are you just going to knock over all those cans again?” Orville smiled, “you’re smart.” “And you’re annoying,” I told him, “but If you aren’t going to go to school, then I’d better teach you something. Get in.” I put the truck into gear and drove to the next house. “Think you can wheel the can into the claw fingers? It’s just like the one on your soldier, only I control when it closes.” Orville got out and grabbed the handle of the plastic can, tugged against it, and shimmied it back and forth along the concrete until it was in the truck’s hand. “Ready,” he shouted over the rumbling of the truck’s diesel engine. I set my hand against a dashboard lever, ready to propel the claw into life. “Hey kid,” I called, “come around here.” Orville stepped around to the cab with a little skip and I pointed to the levers. “Yellow opens and closes the claw. Red raises and lowers the arm. It’s easy. Got it?” When Orville lifted the arm and sent all the bags flying, he might as well have been launching a rocket ship. After the can was dropped and returned to its place, he asked if we could do again. “See those little green things on the pavement?” I asked. Orville looked down and dragged his foot through the hunter green plastic shavings. “They’re bad,” I said, “those are little pieces of the trash can. At the next house, if you can get the can to the truck without making those, I’ll let you work the claw all day.” ***** On the way back, I told Orville about the things I’ve made from trash. I told him about Mr. Eight, the pet spider that I had when I was in prison, and how I made his habitat from some old boxes that I stole from the cafeteria bins. Then Orville told me about all the other things he’d made from trash, like a painting made with nothing but rotten food. I told him about my missing friend, Bob Potter, who might be a millionaire and might be interested in buying his painting, because Bob liked that kind of thing. “Let’s go to his house,” Orville said. I didn’t have a good enough reason to tell him no, so we did. I pressed my face against the smudged window. The place had been abandoned in a hurry; clothes lay on the floor, furniture was toppled. Several feet of stained carpet had been pulled up, and a jagged hole had been cut in the floor. “What’s inside?” Orville asked. “Look’s like he moved,” I said. “It’s completely barren. Spotless.” “Shoot!” Orville said. As we walked back to the truck, I told Orville that I was done with Barkley Gardens, and that starting next Wednesday morning my route would begin at the middle school. “If you want to ride along,” I said, “you’ll have to meet me there.” Orville prodded the gap between his teeth with his tongue while he thought. Then he looked at me and said, “I might skip school sometimes, but I’m not that stupid!”
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May 23, 2016 03:19
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That's 10, bitches.
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May 31, 2016 00:53
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sebmojo posted:I will also be assigning flash rules on request or as the fancy moves me and they will be p fucky so get in 2 quote my man the frog sign up for tuesday and, sebmojo, please give me some nasty poo poo to deal with because i am not a basic babby bitch
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May 31, 2016 01:44
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crabrock posted:Grammar Mercy: -1 Mistake first!
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May 31, 2016 03:30
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Sebmojo, I hearby bequeath my Mojo rule to the first person who quotes this post. He or she may assign the flashrule to whomever they are feeling.
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May 31, 2016 03:43
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crabrock posted:ok you can have it too. man you sure got me angry. gently caress you crabrock gimme a flash rule.
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May 31, 2016 13:07
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Sitting Here posted:please stop sending me sultry glances from across the room it's unprofessional gently caress you i want a noun
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Jun 2, 2016 00:55
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https://twitter.com/MagicRealismBot/status/738522053507059712
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Jul 27, 2016 06:08
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A factory in Baltimore produces vast quantities of dismal failure. Disassembly 1000 words There’s a facility in Baltimore that hides amongst the scabs of ruined industry. Its facade is crumbling- the doors and fencework, rusting; however, inside, the machines are stainless steel and they’re polished and they hum delightedly as they blanket the Mid-Atlantic in catastrophe. Hollis works a graveyard shift with a man named Kilroy. There’s a machine that vomits cigar tubes onto a conveyer belt and fills the room with the smell of ozone. The vials are filled with colored vapor, and when they pass, Hollis checks the label to ensure that the appropriate type of failure has been bottled. Romantic, medical, political, each type of failure has distinct characteristics. Kilroy double checks the recipient’s address and identity, and they do this for eight hours at a time to take home a living wage. “Mind if I sneak out of here early?” Hollis asks. “Got a big test in the afternoon and I’d love to be able to sleep and study beforehand.” Kilroy smiles through gapped teeth. “Aren’t you studying business, newbie?” he asks, “you been studying here for the past seven months.” “And you’ve been studying for ten years,” Hollis says, “but you’re still a dumbass.” Kilroy is laughing when the conveyor stops. Their manager is a short fellow with a stilted walk named Langstrom. He calls them into his office, and two replacements fill in. “Your manifest from yesterday was one incident short,” Langstrom says. “Looks like a massive financial loss that never reached atomization.” “Have you checked in distribution?” Kilroy asks. Langstrom takes a long sip of his iced tea. “Distribution doesn’t retain incidents overnight,” he says, “janitorial didn’t have anything either.” The men are silent. “I even checked the recipient,” Langstrom adds, “Jennifer Shiba. That name mean anything to you, Hollis?” “No, sir.” “Kilroy?” “Not the foggiest.” “I’m not so sure,” Langstrom says, “but the background checks that I ran showed no connection between Shiba to either of you. It’s the only reason you’re here right now instead of out on your asses, or worse.” Hollis’ heart feels like a spinning centrifuge in his chest, but before he has the opportunity to panic and say something stupid, Kilroy asks, “So why are we here then?” “You’re here,” Langstrom says, “because I like the both of you. But we make failure, we don’t tolerate it. If Jessica Shiba doesn’t experience a significant financial loss soon, the big boss will take notice, and I won’t be able to protect you.” “Why not just run the order again?” Hollis asks. “It doesn’t work like that;” Langstrom says, “there are no do-overs.” He flicks a pad of post-it notes across the desk and there’s an address scrawled across the topmost sheet. “But I’m sure you can figure something out.” *** “Why’d you take it?” Hollis asks. He cracks the window and lights a cigarette as Kilroy pulls the car beside the gas pump and gets out. His boots clomp against the concrete as he moves behind the car, pops the trunk, and begins to dig. “Does it matter?” Kilroy asks. “If you were planning on using it.” Kilroy fills a can with gasoline, recoiling at the stringent fumes as they escape the spout and zigzag up his nostrils. “Well I’m not going to use it on you, if that’s what you’re getting at.” “I wasn’t expecting you to,” Hollis says. “But-” Kilroy cuts in, “Honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to use it.” “Then why’d you take it? Kilroy places the gas can in the backseat and slams the door closed. *** Kilroy parks the car three houses down from Shiba’s address. “I don’t know why I took it,” Kilroy says. “Call it boredom, I guess. Anyway, it’s mine now.” He continues, “For what it’s worth, you’ll be taking that test in twelve hours and back to work in eighteen.” “Do you have the vial?” Hollis asks. “Glove compartment,” Kilroy says. Hollis plucks the tube from a nest of papers. Inside, emerald smoke swirls against the glass like a rolling fog and a dusting of particulates gather in the basin of the vial. “I think you should use it,” Hollis says, “tonight.” Kilroy reaches into the back and grabs the can. “I’m just saying,” Hollis continues, “that there are ripples. This vial is what should have been. If you go starting fires, or using this later then-” Kilroy snatches the tube from Hollis’ grasp. “How do you know what’s supposed to be?” He asks. “You heard Langstrom. Financial loss is financial loss; it’s all the same.” Kilroy opens the door and steps out into the balmy night. He leans through the open window and tosses the tube onto the seat. “Besides, we don’t even know if it’s possible to use the thing.” Hollis slides it into his pocket when Kilroy’s back is turned. The suburbs are quiet, save for a barking dog inside one of the neighbor’s houses. Hollis and Kilroy move quickly and quietly, and the animal settles after they pass. The houses in the neighborhood are stately colonial things with black painted shutters and front doors. “We doing the car?” Hollis asks. Kilroy shakes his head and begins to douse the porch and hedges in gasoline. When he’s done, Hollis hammers the lighter and tosses it into the bushes. The building sounds as if it’s exhaling as the flames spread and light the place in orange. They run. “Where’s the tube?” Kilroy asks when they get back to the car. “It-” Hollis starts. “Just give it to me, Hollis.” “The tube’s gone,” Hollis says. Kilroy’s still holding the gas can when he marches around the vehicle. “Where’d it go?” He asks. “You know where it went,” Hollis says, nodding in the direction of the fire. “I’m sorry.” Kilroy swings the gas can and catches Hollis across the face, sending him hard towards the asphalt. Kilroy can hear the sirens on the distance; Hollis can hear the shattering of brittle glass within his pocket. They both hear the ignition roll over.
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Aug 1, 2016 01:40
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sparksbloom posted:In. Sounds good. A TIME TRAVELER wants THE WORLD'S BEST "DEATH ROW DINNER" a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 23:04 on Aug 2, 2016 |
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Aug 2, 2016 23:02
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The Flutist 1328 words _______________ There was a nervousness buzzing in Isabella’s lungs that sent tremors down her arms and legs like bass strings. She tugged at the hem of her denim skirt, which was too short for the cool April evening, and shifted her weight as she leaned against the car that wasn’t hers. Isabella removed a crumpled Post-it from her handbag. The text was written faintly in pencil, but its letters and message were clear: 8 pm. parking lot. Mr. Valdez had attached it to the backside of a returned test paper and dogeared the page to hide it. This was no mistake. Mr. Valdez wasn’t a prodigy like Isabella; he’d made that clear upon their first meeting, but he was knowledgeable and persistent, and what he lacked in technical skill he made up for in compositional understanding and a natural ear for music. He was the top-ranked orchestra director in the state; she was his prize student, and by the end of her first week of classes as a gangly freshman, Bella was in a deep, spiraling, sickening love that had gone unrequited for three and a half years until, suddenly, it wasn’t. * His apartment was nicer than what Isabella thought was possible on a teacher’s salary. While Valdez took a moment to hang up his tweed jacket and her cardigan, Isabella eyed a standing turntable framed by shelves of classic albums. “Can I put something on?” she asked before playing a record that she was only vaguely familiar with. “This is one of my favorites.” “Please,” Valdez said while pushing a sprout of black hair away from his forehead. “Can I bring you a drink?” he asked. Isabella took a seat on the couch and crossed her legs to their most flattering position and hoped that he would notice. “Yes, please, Mr. Valdez,” she said. “Call me Diego,” he insisted. “Diego,” she repeated and smiled. Valdez returned with a glass of water for the eighteen year old, a red wine for himself. “I hope you don’t mind if I have a drink drink,” Valdez said as he took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “I believe that this is the type of situation that warrants one.” “I could use one as well, Diego,” Isabella said, taking a sip from her sweating glass and sliding just ever closer to her teacher. She’d stolen a spritz of her mother’s perfume, and when Isabella flipped her blonde hair before speaking she hoped that a wiff of it would float his way. “You know, when I was in Europe last summer with my mother, she let me drink wine with dinner and-” “I think it’s best if you stay sober-” Valdez said. Isabella fell silent. The two basked in awkwardness for minutes that felt like hours, until Valdez got up for more wine and took a seat even closer to Isabella upon his return. Then he took her hands in his, which caused her heart to flutter. “Bella,” Valdez said, “in a few months you’ll be performing in New York for some of the most sophisticated audiences in the world.” “-Because of you, Diego,” she added. “-Because you’ve seized the opportunities presented to you,” he said, “you’ve learned this better than any of my students before.” Diego’s right, Isabella thought, before digging some courage from the pits of her bowels and leaning in, prepared to do something that could never be taken back. “A highly aggressive form of tinnitus will soon leave me deaf,” Valdez said. She stopped. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Bella, do you trust me?” Isabella nodded, and Valdez took her hand, leading her down the hallway to a closed door. She’d had these fantasies of giving herself to Mr. Valdez for the longest time, running away with him, and living a life of dangerous taboo. At first it would be difficult, it always is; they’d be shunned. Later, however, long after their deaths, they’d be admired, regarded as one of the world’s greatest love stories. In her fantasies, it had always begun on a night like this with his firm bed and candlelight. Instead, she found a table and a bottle of gin. “There are options,” Valdez said as he brought her into the room, “implants that plug into your brain, but they can’t account for pitch or tone. Everything sounds like a garbled satellite feed.” Isabella noticed that the floor was covered from wall to wall in plastic sheeting. “My brilliant Bella,” he said, “can you imagine a world without music? A world without me?” Valdez moved to the side table, where, sitting gently on a sheet of parchment was what appeared to be a miniscule rubberized french horn. “Fortunately,” he said, “there’s this.” “It’s made of a special bioplastic that mimics the inner ear,” he said. “You can’t see it, but there's a sheet of nano-cloth inside that vibrates at even the slightest sound, so we must be careful and keep our voices low until it is inside my head.” “Inside?” Isabella repeated. “I bought it online,” he added, before taking a deep pull from the bottle of Beefeater. “Bella, you said that you trust me,” Valdez said, “and I trust you, too. I’ve seen your fingers work when playing. They never flinch, never falter, and always hit their note in time.” Valdez climbed onto the table, taking a prostrate position against the plastic surface. Bella now saw the small tray of surgical equipment on the end table: a scalpel, gauze, a small set of clamps. The ear-horn looked like a chincy toy. “I’ll walk you through the procedure,” he said. “Mr. Valdez-” “Diego,” he said. “Diego,” Isabella said, “you need a doctor.” “I can’t trust a doctor with this.” Valdez said. “The ringing in my head is driving me crazy! If I let the doctors have me I’ll just wake up with a computer strapped to my head and then I might as well have been murdered there on the table!” Isabella took a step backwards from the table, “I-” “I’ve seen the looks you’ve given me, heard- back before the damned ringing- I’ve heard the cooing and giggling.” Valdez sat up from his position, “Bella, look at how you’re dressed. If you care about me like your presence here suggests...” Isabella was lost in reflection as Valdez approached her position and wrapped his arms around her. The kiss brought her back. Valdez’s lips were cracked and splintered, and when he pressed them against Isabella’s all that she could feel were the fault lines along their surfaces. His stubble cut into her cheeks like a million needles being pulled over her skin, and the sour tinge of a dirty musk rose from his embrace. “I’m sorry,” Isabella said as she fought the instinct to run. “And I’m sorry,” Valdez said as he raised the scalpel to his neck. A silk-thin trail of blood had already begun to run down and soak into his shirt collar. His eyes had a way of saying this is on you, which Isabella wasn’t prepared to deal with. “Lie down,” she said. Valdez smiled and took another gulp from the bottle of gin. “The first step,” he said, “is to cut along the length of the backside of the ear.” Isabella looked into the hallway and for the first time noticed the stained wallpaper and the black grime that collected where the walls met the floorboards. “Now there’s a portion of the skull back there,” Valdez said. “Make sure to cut around it.” The sticky blood flooding out of the incision ran down the curvature of his neck like a waterfall and filled the room with the smell of pennies. Valdez only screamed a little bit. Then, Isabella left the scalpel jammed under his skull as she used her arm to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “Is it supposed to be bleeding this much?” Isabella asked. Valdez never responded. She wondered if he could hear her. _______________ Prompt: A MUSIC TEACHER wants to REGAIN THEIR HEARING
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Aug 8, 2016 04:25
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in with sexpunk (aka erotipunk)
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Aug 30, 2016 23:47
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In as a Customer
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Oct 19, 2016 00:38
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In
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Comfort Food 250 Words Not long after Parker’s wife, Francine, kicked the bucket, he decided that it was time to find a new companion. “Dad,” Orel said through the phone, “parrots can live for over a hundred years.” “Well, it’s too quiet around here.” “Let’s discuss this when Carol and I drive up for Christmas,” Orel replied. Parker read that crows are even smarter than parrots. Besides, Orel had a point about their life spans. It was decided. Parker named the crow Toucan Sam, which is the name he planned on giving a parrot, since a parrot’s colors reminded him of his morning Froot Loops. Every night, Parker would cut strips of steak for Sam, and they would watch old home movies. “You know,” Sam said between spats of preening himself, “your wife was a beautiful woman.” “She was,” Parker said. “I miss having beauty around me.” Sam hunched forward, craning his face into the ruffled feathers of his breast. “I’m sorry. I’m not really used to being on my own,” Parker said. “I was raised in captivity,” Sam said. “I’ve never been alone.” Parker hobbled to the window. His wrinkled fingers pressed willfully against the window until it creaked open. “You could try it,” he said, “if you want.” Sam fluttered to the sill. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” “That’s the exciting part.” The December wind blew icy through Sam’s feathers. “Maybe,” he said, “could I have a bit more steak first? Close the window for now and let’s finish this tape.” 
a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 00:45 on Oct 31, 2016 |
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Oct 31, 2016 00:31
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Oct 31, 2016 16:20
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a new study bible! fucked around with this message at 05:50 on Jan 1, 2017 |
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Nov 7, 2016 03:35
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gently caress it, I'll play
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Nov 10, 2016 23:16
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Comfort and Security 1500 Words Cory Duncan 1375 West Union Street San Bernardino, CA, 92408 Friday, May 12th, 1988 Michael Eisner, CEO The Disney Company 500 South Buena Vista Street Burbank, CA, 91521 Dear Mr. Eisner, When I think back to the foggy edge of my lost childhood memories, one image cuts through the static and film-burn: my brother, Hector, and I sitting on the floor and watching Bambi. Hector’s cross-legged, and he’s so close to the TV screen that he would slam his head against the glass if he caught a nasty sneeze. Mom had always told us not to get that close to the screen because we’d go blind, but Hector had a tendency to get too close to everything. I’m three years older than Hector though, so I wrap my arms around his waist and drag him back towards the coffee table. He kicks and screams, but then he also laughs, and we wrestle a bit. Mom and dad are arguing in the kitchen, and in the movie, the forest is burning. They’re both shouting about the mistakes they’ve made and dad’s slamming the cabinets and kicking dents into the refrigerator door. I can hear glass breaking within. Hector and I have been watching a bunch of Disney movies, because mom believes that with all the turmoil, both he and I have been sad. She’s right, of course. Dad’s out of beer, so he leaves, but before he goes, he tucks his wavy salt and pepper hair underneath a Chicago Cubs baseball cap and pats me on the shoulder with his enormous, knotty, machinist’s hands. “See you soon,” he says. I can smell the sourness on his breath from the floor. Mom promises that she’s going to take Hector and me away from dangerous places, and Hector assumes that she’s talking about keeping us away from forest fires, but I know what she really means, I think. We move to California two months later; dad doesn’t come. The following weekend, to make things better, Mom takes us to Disneyland. Mr. Eisner, I’m writing you on this occasion to express my interest in working within the Disneyland theme park organization. During every turbulent moment in my life, Disney has been a source of comfort and a reminder that magic does exist in this world. I would be honored to give back to you, your organization, and the spirit of Walt Disney himself through my service. Mr. Eisner, although my degree certainly qualifies me to track attendance data or perform cost analyses on the profit margins of souvenirs and oversized turkey legs, I have recently realized that the position I ultimately seek within the Disney resorts organization is one that’s, “on the ground.” Of course, I would accept a position working within an office, but if given a choice, I would love to have a job that allows me to walk the grounds and speak to guests. A real “key ring job,” you know? I’d love to oversee park security. My mother decided to bring us back to Disneyland on the first anniversary of our inaugural trip. I guess she figured that Hector and I would feel depressed after going a year without dad, so why not make the trip an annual thing? Hector was most looking forward to visiting Frontierland again. He loved the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. I know that I felt sad, but Hector never seemed too bothered, to be honest. We both had pictures of dad in our velcro wallets, and whenever I tried to ask Hector about his feelings, he’d just shake out his black hair and tell me that he saw dad all the time. “What do you mean?” I asked him. “Dad’s always around,” he said. “In your wallet?” I asked, “and the other photos?” “Yeah, and at school and driving behind the school bus and also on the other side of the fence at recess.” “In person?” “Yeah,” he said. I told my mother about what Hector revealed, but nothing really came of it. The police said that they called back home to Illinois, and that the police there confirmed that dad was still in town. They chalked it up to imagination. I spent the next few days watching my brother carefully, but I never saw anything unusual. I think my interest in security developed at that time. Mr. Eisner, in order to show you that I am committed to your theme parks, I have taken the initiative of performing a perimeter analysis of the outskirts of the Disneyland grounds, and I believe that my perspective will motivate you to take action. Over the course of several nights, I have pinpointed two weak spots in the fencing that runs around the park. Several weeks ago, I was able to enter the grounds after dark through an opening near the Country Bear Jamboree attraction. I moved through the thicket out of curiosity, and after only a few minutes of walking I came to an isolated soda stall on a pathway. Someone was inside, so I lingered behind the corner for a few minutes until the door opened and a sleight and attractive blonde girl walked out with an envelope of money. “Miss,” I called, “did you know there’s a hole in the fence back here?” The girl looked startled and quickened her pace for a moment. “I’m sorry, the park’s closed,” she told me, “please make your way to the front exit.” “I’ll head out through the back,” I said, “but what kind of manager leaves a pretty girl all the way out here by herself?” I asked. “Do you need an escort to your manager’s office? I could speak to him for you.” The girl was very rude when she brushed me off, but I assume that she was just surprised at the egregious hole in your park’s security that allowed me to approach her in the first place. As I wrote previously, Mr. Eisner, I have identified another vulnerability that is as dangerous, if not more so, than the one I exploited that night. Feel free to contact me for an interview and we can discuss a plan for improvement. If I seem passionate about security, Mr. Eisner, it’s because the day that Hector and I rode The Big Thunder Mountain Railroad five times was also the last day that I’d ever seen him.Remember that I mentioned Hector had a tendency to get too close to everything? For example, I used to make fun of him for pressing his face against the microwave door to watch his canned soup bubble. The day of our first Disney anniversary, mom asked me to watch Hector while she visited the bathroom. We were standing beside a popcorn cart and Hector had his face pressed against the oily glass as he listened to the rumbling within the tin basin. The kernels began to bubble and pour over the metal rim while I watched and fantasized about a buttery snack. And when I looked down, Hector was gone. Those brutal seconds were the most difficult of my life. I was caught between running and looking who-knows-where, and waiting for my mother and allowing Hector to drift further away. I acted on my first instinct, and began to sprint like the world behind me was on fire. I was nothing but thorough in my search. I asked every character and vendor for help; I poked my head in every Hector-sized nook and crevice in the whole park. I never did find him, but I think I came close. I was running beside the park gates. Looking through the fence, I saw a child’s outline with pile of loose black curls upon its head. It held a baseball cap in its hands: red and blue, the colors of the Chicago cubs. Beside it, a tall, thin man walked with purpose. “Hector!” I shouted. The tall man placed his gigantic hand on the neck of the outline, and they continued to walk. I rushed to the gate as quickly as possible, but security was waiting at the turnstiles, looking for a couple of lost children at the request of a hysterical mother. They’d only find one. Mr. Eisner, I feel that it’s important to note that I don’t hold you or anyone affiliated with Disneyland accountable for my brother’s disappearance. I’m the guilty party here, and my punishment is the near daily reminder that Hector is out in the world someplace, either alive or dead, walking the planet or buried beneath it. I’ve been walking every path in Disneyland on a near daily basis for the past year now. I know many of your employees by name and already have established quite the relationship with them. If you feel the need for references, please ask them about me. Should you wish to speak to me directly, perhaps to set up an interview about that hole I mentioned, you can find me most often Frontierland. I look forward to hearing from you soon.
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Nov 14, 2016 02:10
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In with pigs.
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Animal: Pigs Prompt: You can lead a pig to truffles but you can't make her hunt. 1100 Words Truffle Hog “What is this?” Marcelle asked between drags of a stale cigarette. “Is this the sow you’ve sold me on? Surely, you take me for an imbecile or otherwise you’ve set out to deceive this poorly and desperate farmer.” The stranger struck a match and began smoking something of his own. “This is the hog I promised,” he said. Marcelle approached the pink and brown sow that slept in the middle of the living room. He had a worker’s hands: palms wide and thick with callus, fingers knotted, with one, his index, cleanly removed after the first knuckle. Marcelle placed the stump in the valleys of the sow’s skin-taut ribcage. “Why then is your prized pig starving?” Marcelle asked. “Flossy is no longer my prized pig,” the stranger said. “Mr. Russo, choose to believe, if you desire, that I’m trying to profit from the frost that’s crippled your livelihood, but if that were true I’d be asking for much more than I have. The truth is, Flossy was my prized hog; however, since I’ve begun to train her piglets in the art of foraging, she’s lost her nose for the truffle and her will for the hunt. Recently, she’s lost her stomach as well.” The stranger joined Marcelle in the middle of the floor and began to stroke Flossy’s splotched head. “I pray the change of scenery will benefit her,” he added. *** There were many catalysts buried in the roots of Marcelle’s troubles. The stranger was right about the frost of course; it had hurt every farmer in Curasaund, after all. But Marcelle had a daughter, Genevieve, who’d fallen under a set of creditors called the Coinpurse, an organization that conducted business in a manner which was far colder than any snowfall. How should a delicate woman, his daughter, the ballerina, deal with men like them? Men she was indebted to? Marcelle had been on the receiving end of such transactions before, and he would not allow his daughter into the same trappings. “So, Flossy,” Marcelle said from his belly, prone and eye to eye with the sow, “you understand why I need you to pick yourself up and help me find some truffles.” Flossy simply huffed and continued to lay on the floor. It had been days since Marcelle and Flossy returned from the stranger’s farm, but neither her mood, nose, nor stomach had improved. Marcelle called Genevieve to distract himself from his disappointment. “I’m fine, dad,” she assured him. “The city is a dangerous place-” he began. “A dangerous place where I’ve lived for almost two years now,” his daughter answered. “Besides, I can be a dangerous woman,” she added with a giggle. “And yet there are still alley-cat bankers and budget goons prepared to consume you in any way they see-” “I’ve settled it with the orderlies, father. I spoke with them weeks ago and nobody’s bothered me since.” “You can never be too careful,” Marcelle said. “I have to go, dad. There’s a performance in three weeks that I should rehearse for. Love you.” Marcelle set the phone against the receiver before picking it up again. He wondered if the Coinpurse would even continue to accept his scant payments for Genevive’s safety, now that he was nearly bankrupt, but Marcelle already knew that answer. Instead, he called the stranger. But nobody answered. Marcelle’s face was flush as he reached into the pocket of his torn pants, producing a small white marble. “Do you see this?” he asked Flossy, before kneeling before her. Flossy remained nonplussed as she stared into the distance. “This is a truffle,” Marcelle said before smashing the mushroom into her snout. “I bought you,” he added as Flossy began to snarl, “so that you would find them.” She fought against his strong grip. “Do you smell it, stupid pig?” Flossy’s head bucked against Marcelle’s restraining grasp until she shook him free, snapping and chomping at his fingers. “You don’t like it?” Marcelle asked. “Then stand up and do something!” Marcelle stormed into the kitchen and came back moments later with a handful of peppercorns like fly carcasses in his palm. Pulling against her angled skull, Marcelle forced Flossy’s dripping snout into the pile. “Worthless sow! Is your nose working now?” Flossy fought back, but the days of starvation left her too weak to resist. Soon, she began sneezing against the cupped spices of his hand, but Marcelle never freed her. At first the sneezes were seconds apart, broken by moments of squealing and struggling, but then they chained together into one erupting and lamentatious reaction. Marcelle only loosened his grip when he noticed the blood slipping between his fingers. Flossy backed into a corner while he examined the fluids that ran from her snout and covered his hand. White spiderwebs of fungal threads streaked the blood. “My god,” Marcelle said, before taking a seat where Flossy had lain. Slowly, he removed his shirt and began to call at his truffle hog. It took hours, but eventually Flossy stepped from the corner toward him. The fungus had wrapped its way around the canals of Flossy’s nostrils and ears like an overgrown ivy. Gingerly, Marcelle sponged the webs away. *** Flossy began eating again soon after. The task required diligence: the fungal threads had a way of creeping back through the dark canals of Flossy’s senses if left unabated for too long, but Marcelle checked her ears and nose on the hour for days, even waking throughout the night to sponge them clean. One night, after shuffling from his sagging bed, Marcelle discovered that Flossy was missing. He wandered the empty farmhouse in search, only to discover her burrowed into a set of Genevieve’s old clothes. “Well, well,” Marcelle said upon his discovery. “It seems you’ve found your nose down in that drawer then.” He pulled a small treat from his pocket and placed it in Flossy’s mouth. “We’ll be truffling in no time,” he said and Flossy snorted in agreement, or so Marcelle thought. Flossy stamped her hooves against the loose boards and trotted to the front door, sniffing against the knob until Marcelle turned it. In the yard, Flossy found herself snout deep in an overturned section of fresh dirt. In her zeal, Flossy pawed aside a note that was wrapped around a rock. Marcelle began to read the letter, and by the time he dropped it, Flossy had uncovered a delicate foot, clad in a pale satin ballerina slipper in the soil. Begging Flossy to stop was all that Marcelle could find the strength for, but she had the scent of something worth finding.
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Nov 21, 2016 01:32
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Hey... so, uh, I know this isn't the place for this exactly, but fictionwar finalists are out, and I'm one of them. Just wanted to say thanks to Thunderdome for making me a better writer and helping me achieve my first paid writing submission.
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Nov 28, 2016 20:13
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Prompt?
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Nov 30, 2016 13:30
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I've come up with like 18 good prompts in the last hour alone. I've been writing them on bathroom stalls and on the inside of milk cartons before dropping them into mailboxes.
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Nov 30, 2016 13:47
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Sign up post
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Nov 30, 2016 19:32
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yeah but can you post a 1000 word reflection on your specific process of writing each individual crit? 
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Dec 21, 2016 04:47
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Thanks for the critpocalypse, although I can't, for the life of me, figure out why you would subject yourself to such punishment just to make another's life slightly more convenient. It's crazy town.
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Dec 21, 2016 04:49
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Also, in for this week I guess.
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Dec 21, 2016 04:50
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Im pulling myself out of this week because my next two days are going to be filled with arranging end-of-life hospice care for a senile old man and cleaning his dirty rear end house so the nurses don't throw up all over themselves. Merry Christmas! Also, a preemptive for the next week that I enter.
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Dec 23, 2016 16:35
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