Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsApril 22, 2012 - 12:46pm
Bill - I liked your story about the dog that went with the picture prompt. I read it before i saw the picture though, which made it even better.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.April 22, 2012 - 1:02pm
@ Danny - the word 'waste' is a pretty subjective one there. It could be argued that as the wordcount is so small, the techinalities and other nuances are even more important than with short stories. Plus some of the most powerful stuff I have ever read has been flash, and I get the feeling that the effort that went in was merticulous. If somebody isn't comfortable with handling those technicalites, or if they are worried that any kind of sub-text or moral isn't coming across, then workshopping will be the easiest way of finding out.
It doesn't need the same kind of review, but I don't think workshopping flash should be seen as a waste of points.
aliensoul77
from a cold distant star is reading the writing on the wall.April 22, 2012 - 1:05pm
I'm sorry, I apologize.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.April 22, 2012 - 1:59pm
No need for apologies matey. Just seemed you were being a bit heavy handed with your words. I'm possibly a bit too defensive of poor old flash fiction sometimes, because people often undervalue it's virtues. I think it's a really interesting format. I love micro-fiction too, when it's done well.
As penance you should post something else here. Flash Me your dangly bits sir.
Limbless K9
from Oregon is reading WraeththuApril 22, 2012 - 2:20pm
I just got a dose of reality today. I have to write a ten page short story, double spaced, and 1,000 words took me to four pages since most of it was dialogue. I can see how any type of limit on a story can be detrimental to hours of work. I now have to rewrite everything. So props to those who can fit so much in just 1,000 words.
Bill Tucker
from Austin, Texas is reading Grimm's Fairy Tales (1st Edition)April 22, 2012 - 5:24pm
Thanks, Cove! When starting out on that, I had something very specific in mind but now that I made excruciating cuts to get that in Flash form, I'd like to expand into it a full fledged story. Not that it's not one in it's current form but I'd really like to explore some of the themes it drew up for me. Glad you enjoyed it!
@voodoo: Fair enough! Thanks for the info.
And oh yeah. I fucking LOVE flash. These stories have all been awesome and I agree with howie, some would be brilliant to workshop, if the author felt it worthy.
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsApril 22, 2012 - 9:39pm
I edited my story a bit. I don't usually do that but sometimes you just know you left out something that HAS to go in. I won't make a habit of that and won't edit this one any more. Promise. But it is better.
Class Facilitator
ReneeAPickup
from Southern California is reading Wanderers by Chuck WendigApril 23, 2012 - 9:44am
So...is April still open or...?
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.April 23, 2012 - 9:48am
Yep. Anything posted before the end of the month will be considered for the poll.
Class Facilitator
ReneeAPickup
from Southern California is reading Wanderers by Chuck WendigApril 23, 2012 - 10:26am
Whoohoo. Let's see if this Wordy Bitch can squeeze a story into 1k words.
EDIT: Rennie--I did the 78 word Aspie contest for Esquire and it was hard as fuck. I spent hours on those 78 words. And they rejected it. Assholes.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazApril 23, 2012 - 3:00pm
I wonder if we should do the book for the runner-up?
Yeah, that way there are more winners.
So Workshop (or credit to your account if you are already in) for first place and
A Hawthorne book for the runner-up.
aliensoul77
from a cold distant star is reading the writing on the wall.April 23, 2012 - 3:27pm
A tiddy bear for the winner.
Fritz
April 23, 2012 - 9:50pm
So... I just can't pass up giving this a shot. It is just too good to let lie.
Something old, something new
Something borrowed, something blue
And a silver sixpence in her shoe.
That there is the model for what I'm about to do.
It's a good luck charm originating in Britain for a bride at her wedding. I'd like to use it for its good luck qualities. Perhaps one of these stories will make the cut.
Fritz
May 1, 2012 - 7:24pm
edit
Fritz
April 23, 2012 - 9:57pm
Something new. This is an idea I kicked to Utah the other day - thought I'd rough one out for here. 777 words
Jack?
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Megan said again.
“It okay,” he replied. “It’s all going to be okay.”
And, it was. Why was she having such a hard time understanding that? It was always ok. Everything was ok. It didn’t matter. Nothing out there mattered. It was all on the inside. And on the inside it’d always been okay.
“We can’t change the shuttles orbit now, Jack. The computer won’t allow it. The risk is too great.”
“Megan” he paused. Her name deserved it. Such a fine, sexy name. Made him think of a secret blowjob in the back alley; the kind he got when the fine upstanding lady performing the act was supposed to be in the washroom. That kind of lady never squatted or knelt to do the deed. It was always a bend in the waste. He’d always wondered why the higher ups in society did things different like that. Perhaps it was the clothes, or maybe the shoes.
“Jack… Jack, are you ok?” Megan’s voice shook and was a bit loud to his ears. Oh, the Megans out there. Life would be duller were it not for their intensity, their guilty conscious after, the nervous looks they gave their husbands when they’d return to the restaurant table after blowing him better than a high dollar hooker.
“I’m fine, Megan.” He chuckled. She wept over the open line. Sometimes they’d go too far, especially if the husbands found out. Usually things got weird after stuff like that. He’d got good over the years dealing with situations like that. All it took usually was moving to a different city and changing a cell phone number or two.
“Jack, you read me pal?” Mission control asked. Houston always found guys with perfect accents to head the radio. And cool… man, those guys could give him a run for his money.
“I read you Houston.” He didn’t even know the guys name. He’d seen him at the bar a few time though and that guy could pull some tail. If their conversation wasn’t being broadcast to everyone back home twenty four seven he’d ask the man some of his secrets.
“Jack, you have your secondary payload with you?” That’d be the cyanide tablet sewn into the arm of his suit.
“Yes sir.” He could have sworn they’d already asked him about that.
“Okay, buddy. Now,” his voice got real quiet, “our gauges back here say you’re down to only a few more minutes. Are you sure there’s nothing you’d like to say to the world?”
Houston was taking this whole thing way too far. His mistake had been minor. He wasn’t going out like that. He was only forty years old. Life had just started. He hadn’t even got married. He didn’t even have a kid to pass his name down to yet. No. The world didn’t work that way.
“Everything is okay on this end Houston. Keep me posted on progress.” He knew they’d find a way. This was NASA they were talking about for God’s sake. And, he was Jack Fuckin’ Suttons, leader of the ‘Mars’ mission. He’d got them to Mars. He’d inserted into the little red planet’s orbit as easily as he’d popped the president’s daughter’s cherry during her fifteen birthday party last year.
“Jack?” It was Megan again. His suit was getting a little hot. His muscles felt tingly, especially his fingers and toes. His guts were noticeable warmer than his arms and legs.
“I’m here Megan.” Megan sounded a lot like her twelve year old daughter, just snippier around the edges with her words. It was because of that little girl that’d he’d missed that last foothold to enter the shuttle at just the moment he’d released his EVA connection cord. He was just picturing her skinny little legs, her round little ass, how everything was flat where things were supposed to be flat and how the curves were just coming out to play with the world. He could imagine her excited dimpled smile when she saw his dick for the first time.
“Jack? Jack?”
“Megan. I got a good picture of Mars while I was out there. I bet your daughter’s going to like it.”
“I bet she is, Jack. Sure she is.”
That’d be his in, he was sure of it. Once this whole thing was fixed up and they’d set up the space station here he’d get the ball rolling on that little endeavor. It’d take them some months before they’d get back, though. Perhaps he should wait for her birthday. He was just thinking about asking Megan when her little girl’s birthday was when he fell asleep.
“Jack?”
Fritz
April 23, 2012 - 9:58pm
Something Borrowed. - Got this one from a post I did on Panda's picture thread.
The First... Again 510 words
It sucks having eyes in the back of my head. Well, I don't mean really, but not really figuratively either. I took that picture up there, you know. Took it and developed it. All by myself. You may be impressed. People here in Kumtara sure are. Where I was born, up in a land the natives called Acumda, they aren’t impressed. Of course, they're a little different.
My father's name is Ira Gould. You probably don't know him and that's a pity. You see, he's one of the original man. At least that's what he says. To hear him tell, his stories of wars, of devastation, of sickness, of the new ones; they'd make a believer out of you. It doesn't matter if you don't believe me. Go up to Acumda. Take one of the icy boats. Peek around. When you see him you'll know.
Yeah, Dad looks different than everybody else. But so does everybody else, so, so what. The thing is you won't see another that looks like him ever again. There's something fundamental about him, like we all came from that mold, like he's some basic design everybody living today at one time agreed upon.
The Acumda. The name means 'Icemen.' Yea, it's cold. They are white and got skin like lobsters with little black freckles that make them hard to see in all the snow, moving or no. They're short, arms longer than legs. But, it's the eyes that's the real tell. They got little clear light bulbs on either side of their head with a pair of eyes on each, once facing forward, one back. Nothing can sneak up on them.
Pretty different when you consider what my Dad looks like. Now me... I honestly don't know how Dad did it. Maybe the Acumda had a procedure. Probably. The Acumda are scientists. You see. I'm a mix.
I look like Dad in most ways. Skins a little tougher, got less of a tan, got a few black spots, am a little shorter than most. But the eyes. Yeah... I've got two holes just like most. They face forward like some. But, each home has two 'eyes', like only the Acumda. Dad says that great, says, 'got the eyes of prey in the head of a predator.'
You'd think, Wow - that's awesome, and mostly you're right. Since traveling down here to Kumtara, people have looked at me sideways, have gave me a pretty wide berth, have cast those cautionary looks you give a wild animal that's a little too close for comfort. But, they worry, you worry, for the wrong reasons.
Like I said. My Dad was from the old time, way before the war. He said he was frozen, said the Acumda thawed him out. He knows things. Things he calls Tech. He built the camera that took that picture. He built the two guns on my hip. You don't know what a gun is, I know. Wait and see. And don't forget, I've got four eyes to better see you.
Fritz
May 1, 2012 - 7:25pm
Something blue (and borrowed from Panda's picture thread.)
edit
Fritz
April 23, 2012 - 10:03pm
And for the silver sixpence - a little parady (also something I did on Panda's picture prompt)
630 words
The Neverending Transgressive Story?
The closer Atreyu got to the heart of Fantasia the worse things became. He’d left off his hunting the purple buffalo to make the sojourn via horseback; a slower trip, but a fun one, or so he’d thought. More than once he’d thought about calling the luck dragon from the southern oracle, but he never had. 10,000 miles was a long way, even for the luck dragon. Besides, the gnomes there really enjoyed his company. And the closer he got to the ivory tower the happier he was that the gnomes had such a protector.
The horse called too much attention. He slapped it on the rum and sent it home. A few of the residence eyed the animal as it trotted away. All he could hope was that the animal didn’t get attacked. Many of the creatures walking the lands looked more monster than actual people, though they did stand on two legs and did use a language he somewhat understood.
Under the cover of darkness he stole closer to the tower. Bizarre lights and deep vibrating noises assaulted him. The streets were lit red and yellow brighter than day. The creatures walking about had metal in their faces and color in their hair. Their clothes looked glossy and crinkled when they moved. He kept his stone knife hidden away, but ready. There was an aura about this place, an awful aura, worse even than when he’d killed the giant wolf back when the nothing was consuming everything.
He picked a building, there were many, and entered. It took some time, but he found the staircase leading to the top. After treading upward for a long time he came to the top, the roof. The ivory tower stood at the far end of a red tinged cityscape. Black smoke choked off its white light, obscuring the rose petal offices of the princess.
“A fucking interloper. Dibs on his hides.”
He spun around. Three kids his own age stood facing him. Metal adorned the leaders face. He had a ring in his nose like a broken bull. His friends had spikes on their heads and color on their arms, horrific pictures of nudity and skulls and thinks better left unsaid. He pulled out his knife.
“You are fucking kidding me right?” The leader kicked his weight to one side. He pulled out a metal object, something short, like an elongated box. His friends edged away. Their eyes were large, the whites too big for the pinpricks of black and red in their centers.
“What’s happened here?” Atreyu asked.
The youth pointed the blunt metal in his direction. “Transgressive shift, wetback. Where you been?” A loud noise came from the metal box in his hand. Atreyu got pushed back a step then his right leg wouldn’t take his weight. He felt only pressure, pressure in his right leg and his heartbeat. His heart was racing.
“Tough little spic,” the leader said. The other two had moved to either side. They watched with big eyed interest, but didn’t do anything.
“Fuck man, I hate killing shit this tough. Fucking waste.”
Atreyu’s leg was gushing blood. He stared at it, put a hand on it to stop it from coming out, all the while hoping on one leg.
“He isn’t one of us, boss. He’s from the old fuckin’ genie, the old dreamers of innocent yore – idealist shitola the lot,” one of the big eyed watchers said.
The leader dropped the metal box a little. Atreyu couldn’t stop the blood. He’d dropped his knife so he could use both hands. The blood squirted between his fingers. He turned to look at the ivory tower.
“Princess?” he said.
“Fuck,” the leader said. The noise from the metal box rang out a second time.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.April 24, 2012 - 5:35am
Goddamn, Fritz! Very cool, sir.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.April 24, 2012 - 5:42am
And here's my final prompt. The musical prompt. Feel free to use it or ignore it,
The lyrics (should you care)
Starless
Sundown dazzling day
Gold through my eyes
But my eyes turned within
Only see
Starless and bible black
Old friend charity
Cruel twisted smile
And the smile signals emptiness
For me
Starless and bible black
Ice blue silver sky
Fades into grey
To a grey hope that oh yearns to be
Starless and bible black
voodoo_em
from England is reading All the books by Ira LevinApril 24, 2012 - 6:01am
My super short attempt at Flash ~ 85 words.
Scratch
Why bother with a knife, dull and dirty razors with their stubbly gummed up blades. Who wants a habit to justify the sizzle and blister bubble of a perfect full-moon cigarette burn? These ten neat weapons painted pretty in dark shades that capture your mood, always on hand. When numb emotional storm clouds settle, rake your forearm, blaze four red trails. Torn ribbons of skin hidden under nails, DNA at your fingertips. Again and again. Then breathe. Only then do you feel the sting.
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsApril 24, 2012 - 6:15am
Nice stories Fritz! I read them as a way to start my day.Wow.
.
April 24, 2012 - 9:59am
When does the month with Martin judging start? This flash thing always confuses me.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.April 24, 2012 - 10:06am
It's running right now, Dakota.
Anything posted during April. At the end of the month I will weight them all up and select my favourites for the public vote.
.
April 24, 2012 - 10:22am
Alright thanks. I'll see what I can come up with.
Fritz
April 24, 2012 - 10:25am
Ha! I am just attempting to up my chances!
@cove - glad u liked.
In addition: Im not a big rule guy - but i do believe there should be a few lines in the sand. One of those lines (for the publishing world) is the definition re: flash vs short story. And that line stands at 1000 words. If your story is 1001 words you need to either edit it down to fit or call it a short story. There is no gray area. Every word counts. Thats the chhallenge of flash.
Just saying - take that as you will.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazApril 24, 2012 - 11:05am
He-he. Glad to see you Fritzter.
Good job you guys. I see things are heating up!
Covewriter
from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & SonsApril 24, 2012 - 1:05pm
Okay I'm posting two this month. I like my first one posted earlier better, but I can't resist posting this one. It's under 600 words. I might put it in workshop to get feedback on how to expand and make it better.
THE NAMING
My name is Elliot. I’m a girl so don’t be confused. I don’t know if my body developed this way because of my name, or if my mother just knew and gave me the right tag. I have the angular look of an Elliot: tiny boobs, no cinching in at the waist, a flat butt. My legs are great though, skinny with perfect calves, probably because of the “o.”
Good calves aren’t enough in Junior High, though. I got a push-up bra and stuffed it full of Kleenex. Wow. I could be a Bonny or Sara with these. See how those names have round letters? Elliot is all straight. The boys looked at me more with the push-up bra, but it didn’t make me popular. I still hung out with fat Cora and slutty Joanne, the class losers.
Cora was way heavy and round. She wore stretch pants with long loose cotton tops, but you could still see the rolls underneath. Her oily brown hair limply framed her face and double chins, and touched her shoulders. I know she washed her hair, but it always looked dirty.
I felt sorry for her being named Cora. All those fat round letters couldn’t have helped. She should have left off the double-fries at lunch every day, but that’s just the Elliot in me talking. I often thought if her Mom named her Coral it could have helped, a strong straight line to offset all those curves. Or why not spell it Kora?
Slutty Joanne was big too, but in a good way. She had melons for boobs, a tiny waist and big hips. At first I couldn’t figure why she wasn’t popular. Later it came clear. She went places with boys real early, and people knew. I didn’t care though. She was nice to me. She had round letters, which got her in trouble and made her pretty, but the sticks in the n’s brought her more to the smart side.
The curvy girls usually aren’t that smart. I don’t know if they are dumb or if it’s just the way their names shape them. In kindergarten, when we learned to write our names, I was the star!
“Excellent Elliot,” Mrs. Blick said when I handed in my paper first. “Very very good work.” (She was angular too, as I'm sure you can tell.)
I became known as the smart, quick one. So did Willa. While we handed in our papers, girls like Bonny and Sarah sat struggling with which way to turn the B and the S.
With a name like Elliot, I don’t know if I’ll ever get a boyfriend, or if I’ll get married and have kids. But if I do, I’ve picked out names. For a boy: Anthony. It has a nice strong capitol letter, but enough circles in the “n” and “o” to make him beefy if he wants to play football.
For a girl, I like Lilly, but it’s too straight. She would turn out looking like me. I alter it to Lisa. The “s” and “a” might give her some trouble, but if they make her popular and give her good boobs it will be worth it.
As for my husband, his name needs to be strong and firm, but also a little soft to be a good husband and father. Not Al, that’s too sharp. No soft James or Cory. Maybe a Henry, Tom, or Arthur. And the last name, well that's another story.
Fritz
April 24, 2012 - 5:25pm
@chester - yes, dammit. Had to give the prizes a go. Wickedvoodoo and his hooks!
@Cove - like the play on letters
Typewriter Demigod
from London is reading "White Noise" by DeLilo, "Moby-Dick" by Hermann Mellivile and "Uylsses" by JoyceApril 24, 2012 - 2:09pm
Biting into the gag, to ease the pain from everywhere else, I think, "I'm in a garden..."I'm trying to peek through the blindfold but all I can see is smoky, waltzing shapes. As a disembodied boot jackhammers into my shirtless back, the chains strain around my wrists, and I think, "...there's a beautiful flower in the garden, lacelike and fragrant..." just how I was taught spirit myself away from places. I shouldn't be. Places like here. The Gentlemen's Leather Club sounds like an honest establishment, but then you step inside and see the medival-dungeon wringlets in the ceiling and you realize, that you're not in North-West London any more, you're in the hall of the Masochist King.
I'm here, cuz I like the pain and they pay me. The banter, the nice ever-so-upper-middle-class cup of tea and biscuit after a session. It's almost a country club, except you fuck other people up, or get fucked up. I'm firmly in the latter camp. The thought of beating someone up because they enjoy it repulses me. The flipside, however, turns me on. Spit in my mouth, choke me out, watch me, pathetic, naked and bleeding in your arms and love me. That last bit's my fantasy. One day, a client walks in here and beats me up not because I'm cute or because I'm their designated slave for the evening, no, it's cuz they love me. Fat fucking chance. They must have an amazing washing machine, cuz I bleed quite a bit all over the sheets, but today, we're on the basement floor.
My client's a girl today. College student, a few years older than me. Ponytails her hair and doesn't speak much, and fucking handy with a whip. She doesn't care about my ass or anything, like most other people, all it seems she wants to do is destroy my back. Everyone wants to destroy some part of me. It's the only inconvenience of this job. You have to not care being naked and beaten or humiliated.
And her teeth break the skin and I come. It's a moment of nostalgic, swinging bliss. My lungs feel like the'yre going to drop out of me and there's this roiling urge to puke but all of it's washed away by a few seconds of joy and this girl, this college student, she takes off the blindfold and the gag and kisses me and this is really weird because no-one else has done this and this is the first time I've kissed someone in a while and her tongue is in my mouth and like a guide dog leading the blind, she takes mine over to her's and this feels so nice- but then I see her eyes and they are smoldering chunks of happy hellfire and she bites down.
bondage-ish story I wrote on a whim, cause I need to appeal to my internal subby.
aliensoul77
from a cold distant star is reading the writing on the wall.April 24, 2012 - 11:17pm
The Afterlife Mixer
Salvador Dali was waiting for God to arrive in a plastic yellow egg car with spider legs for wheels but the bastard never showed up. It was always like this, every year God was listed as the guest speaker but something always came up. The seraphim kept apologizing to the guests but everyone was pissed. Edgar Allan Poe dunked his head in the punchbowl while Van Gogh stood at the podium with his chest still bleeding and the bullet lodged in it that the doctors had never removed in life. Behind him, there was an aura of electric blue waves shimmering, they were so bright that it was hard to look at him head-on. Charles Dickens held Van Gogh’s ear in his pocket as collateral from their last poker bet.
Across the room, Hemingway was having a drink with Jane Austen and Emily Dickenson but Austen said she wasn’t going to fuck the minimalist.
"I heard he is minimal in more ways than one," Jane Austen said.
Emily gave a shy, tittering laugh. Louisa May Alcott stared at them, then tried to attempt conversation but they ignored her.
Just then a drunken Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton stumbled into the room cackling.
Then Van Gogh began, “We are here tonight for the 267th Annual Afterlife Artist Awards. If you were invited tonight from whatever corner of the afterlife you inhabit or whatever dimension you have been banished to, it is because you made such a large impression on the world that you have still not been forgotten. As long as your books are read, your movies are watched, your music is listened to, your paintings are seen, you matter. Tonight we are here to give the lifetime achievement award to a man whose works have been remembered for centuries and will probably be taught in high school English classes until the end of time. Join me in congratulating Shakespeare.”
A small rather rotund man stepped up onto the stage, he had crossed eyes, a long bulbous nose and one of his arms was shorter than the other.
“I had no idea he was that ugly,” Sylvia said.
“Oh yeah,” Anne whispered, “Butt ugly.”
Shakespeare started to speak and Sylvia’s attention wandered off. She glared at Emily Dickenson who was sitting by herself now as Jane Austen had finally given in to Hemingway’s advances and was fucking Papa in the backroom.
“Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me!” Sylvia mocked.
Soon Anne Sexton joined in and they started to laugh.
“The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality!”
They started snickering again.
Emily gave them a dirty look, then flipped them the finger.
They only laughed louder.
Salvador stood at the door, tweaking the tips of his infamous moustache and waited for his beloved Gala. It had been months since he had seen her, creating alternative realities was busy work and the seraphim worked him ragged. He had created so many worlds, he could not remember which one he had come from anymore.
“Can you believe this crap?” Salinger came over and spoke to him, “Bunch of phonies if you ask me. Awards in the afterlife, we are dead, who gives a shit if people remember us? It’s all just words anyhow. At least what you did, those images stay in people’s minds. Can you understand a word I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Salvador said, “there are no language barriers anymore. The seraphim gave me the touch of babble, I can understand any language across time and space.”
“Nice,” Salinger said, “So no offense but isn’t this awards ceremony specifically for writers. How come you are here?”
“I was asked to observe. Plus my wife is coming and she wanted to meet William Faulkner and Thoreau, she is a big fan.”
Dylan Thomas was on stage now introducing most prolific poet and when he said T.S. Elliot, Sylvia and Anne stood up in protest, “That’s bullshit!”
Van Gogh walked over to Dickens, “I’m tired of fucking around, I want my ear back.”
“Then you will announce the winner just like I said,” Dickens grinned.
Van Gogh returned to the stage and prepared to announce Most Influential Writer of the 1800’s and who made a major impact on 20th Century literature.
He announced the candidates slowly.
Gogh saw Twain in the audience next to the placard that read Samuel Clemens, he was sitting quite self-satisfied with a top hat on and chewing on a toothpick. He had won in this category for the past 100 years. Van opened up the envelope and then shuddered as he saw Twain’s name. Dickens stared at him and pulled the ear out of his pocket and kissed it.
“Charles Dickens!” he shouted.
Twain fell out of his chair, “Now wait just a goddamn minute! I demand to see the ballot!”
“All votes are final and determined by the dreamers of the collective unconsciousness,” Van Gogh said and hid the envelope in his pocket.
Twain tackled him to the ground.
“Show me the damn envelope!”
He pulled it out of Van’s back pocket.
“Liar! I knew I won! This asshole just wrote for word count, I wrote because it mattered to me!”
“Give me my ear back!” Van Gogh screamed and Dickens put it in his mouth and swallowed.
Just then across the room Gala stepped into the ballroom and Salvador’s eyes lit up. Then slowly the realization came over him as he saw who was on her arm. James Joyce whispered in her ear and she laughed playfully. Salvador’s eyes suddenly lit up with a strange magic.
“SALVADOR, NO!” a seraphim cried out.
Just then a giant elephant burst through the wall with spindly legs and sharp teeth. He ripped off Joyce’s head and ate it. Gala screamed and suddenly the clocks on the wall began to melt. The front door opened and everyone began screaming as they were sucked out into a pocket dimension.
Typewriter Demigod
from London is reading "White Noise" by DeLilo, "Moby-Dick" by Hermann Mellivile and "Uylsses" by JoyceApril 25, 2012 - 8:31am
@aylee, i lol'd
Typewriter Demigod
from London is reading "White Noise" by DeLilo, "Moby-Dick" by Hermann Mellivile and "Uylsses" by JoyceApril 26, 2012 - 9:55am
Deutscheseingebumpen. In other words; bump
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.April 27, 2012 - 1:43am
Good stuff Cove & Typewriter. And Danny, yeah, glad you joined in again too man.
I have a tough time ahead of me selecting the poll for this. A nice dilemma to be having though.
Still a couple of days left if anyone else feels like flashing me their bits and bobs.
So, bump!
Limbless K9
from Oregon is reading WraeththuApril 30, 2012 - 1:30am
I was looking through some old stuff that I had written. I started a story that hit a dead end pretty fast, but this was my favourite scene from it.
**********************
Liz has a gun pointed to her head by her boyfriend's little brother, Richard. It's a .32 caliber revolver, a weapon that the parents bought for protection in case of robberies. They kept it in their nightstand drawer and Richard played with the gun whenever his parents were away. Richard's parents were on a business trip this week and tonight he finally wanted to use their gun.
He tapped Liz on the shoulder, to wake her from her sleep, while holding the gun right between her eyes. She woke gently and her eyes widened as she realized she was staring down the barrel of a gun. At first she thought it was a joke, that the gun wasn't loaded until she saw the tips of bullets in the revolver's chambers.
Her eyes widened and her heart began to beat faster than it ever had before. She went to speak, but as soon as her mouth opened Richard shoved the gun inside of it to shut her up. He chipped several of her teeth when he forced the gun inside and she let out a muffled cry of pain, waking her boyfriend Kevin.
Once Kevin realized what was happening, he moved to attack Richard and force him off of Liz. But Richard pulled the gun out of Liz's mouth and in the ensuing surprise and clamor, he pulled the trigger and killed his own brother. The police and the paramedics were called several times, by Liz and by Kevin's neighbors, and they took Richard away. After the event was explained and settled, the police asked Richard why he did it and he replied, "She was stealing my brother away from me and I missed him." Despite the murder and the fact that her life almost ended, Liz found the underlying sentiment touching. She said she wished that one day she could love somebody as much as Richard had loved Kevin.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazApril 30, 2012 - 2:36am
Bumpsen.
Profunda Saint-...
from Calgary, AB is reading Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy SeriesApril 30, 2012 - 3:33pm
Right down to the wire here. I can't believe April is gonna be over in a few hours. WTF. Anyway, here's a mini submission from the Bizarro Workshop with Bradley and Garrett.
Gulls
Looks like seagulls, she sighs.
The sky has that haze again. Green almost always means seagulls.
Didn't they just spray them last week?
Yes, she says. But they're getting stronger. The first spray only gets the small ones now.
Ugh, I groan. That means the big ones this time. Guess I'll get the shovel ready then. Is my gasmask clean yet?
No, she says. Since the swallows the other night, haven't had a chance for the laundry. Sorry.
I groan again. She's no housekeeper.
Right so, it'll need a wash after tonight, I remind her.
Seagulls are always such a mess. At least they still let us burn the crows. Seagulls have to sit on the corner until Friday when the recycling truck comes by.
The mask reeks of swallow gas, the blue kind. They're already falling hard by the time I step out.
It's going to be a long night.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.May 2, 2012 - 11:07am
Obviously April is finito and gone. Chester now has his keys back and a new month underway.
Many many thanks to everyone who posted a sub during April. You guys rock. The poll is up if you didn't see that already.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazMay 2, 2012 - 1:24pm
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazMay 2, 2012 - 1:26pm
Bill Tucker
from Austin, Texas is reading Grimm's Fairy Tales (1st Edition)May 2, 2012 - 1:54pm
Soooo, instead of exposing ourselves in this small, tight knit community, we're flashing our bits to the entire interwebs via the article comments?
It's on!
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.May 2, 2012 - 2:07pm
I saw that earlier. However I was feeling grumpy and tired and my mouth got quicker than my brain. I got a bit of the green monster and posted less than elegantly. T'was wrong of me, I have since been told off and have apologised. Hopefully that is water under three different bridges now.
It bugged me because of how hard it seems to get voters for our polls here as it is. I felt like us grotty forumites were not getting our fair share of lurve. Of course I am not privy to all of the plans and future schemes of the literati and shouldn't have been so fast to spit the dummy out.
My new, less overworked, and coffee deprived eyes are glad to see you embracing it Chester. The more flashing the better, right? Some of their subs are really really good.
Needless to say, I shouldn't be posting here after being up all night trying to keep on top of my workload and not getting nearly enough sleep. Well anyway, hopefully that is all amended now. Me being an asshole I mean, not my workload. That is still mountainous.
Rock on. Can't wait for the May flashing. I have something to post here myself when i get back to my own computer.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazMay 2, 2012 - 2:07pm
Yes! You're all going to be famous now!
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazMay 2, 2012 - 2:14pm
@Martin:
I would not worry about it. In my opinion anyone with a personality and a bundle of passion does that from time to time.
I try to do it as much as possible! Hah!
As far as I am concerned, I see the whole site as one big playground. Plus I bet there are some nice Jumblies™ over there to gawk at.
You should really try to get some rest dude. You have gone above and beyond the last few months.
Chester the Father figure "Careful son, you mean too much to us."
He-he.
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazMay 3, 2012 - 3:17am
Flash the motherfucking hell out of that shit.
I am a little dismayed that none of you have gone over there to show who is boss.
I will post on that thread.
We own that thread.
This was all practice to mouthfuck minds.
Are we going to sit here and hide?
No.
We are going to tear tits from their plethoras.
Tear mammalian protruberances from their clits.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.May 3, 2012 - 3:35am
I'm going to start a petition
Who else thinks Chester should write a book of the most perverted, pipe-smoking, plain mental poetry the world ha ever seen?
I'd buy it
Instead of a limited, signed edition he could do a limited splooshed version instead.
wickedvoodoo
from Mansfield, England is reading stuff.May 3, 2012 - 7:29am
Here's something that came from a bizarro exercise. It is supposed to be a prose poem, the task was to focus on rhythm and timing. I think I did okay, though it was a lot tougher than I anticipated. Good fun regardless and I earmarked it for a sub here.
Tooth Ache
I'm a little man that lives inside your mouth and I run the show around these parts. You thought you liked salami but you don't. It's me that likes salami. I steal it from your tongue, real quick, right before you swallow. It never makes it down because I'm hungry too. Remember how you used to love carrots but now you don't care for carrots in the slightest? The reason is I moved into your face and I fucking hate carrots. I'm the reason you no longer like fish, even though the rest of your family adores the pungent reek of the stuff. I have a bone to pick with you though. This sliver of chicken bone down the side of your incisor. The source of this infection which ruins my wallpaper. I can't pull it out. I've tried, all that happened was I cut myself on its edge and for crying out loud don't you own a pair of tweezers? Feel that ache? That's me kicking you in the teeth. I'm sick of you being sick. I gotta tell you right now I'm taking a stand against your terrible oral hygiene routine. Your rotten breath stinks, would you chew a stick of gum? Those ulcers are so easy to step in when it's dark. Ever had to wipe ulcer slime off your slippers? This just won't do. Right now I'm marching up and down your mouth kicking canines and molars. I thought this was working out, you and I living here and sharing the same headroom. Now I've gotten to know the real you and the way you grind my furniture in your sleep. You really could be more considerate, really should think about drinking less. Stop gagging yourself with whiskey. Each time you vomit I have to get out the wet towel and wipe hot sick off my sofa. This is your last warning, you'd better up your game or the tooth ache never ends.
Class Facilitator
ReneeAPickup
from Southern California is reading Wanderers by Chuck WendigMay 3, 2012 - 10:24am
Chestie--I am accepting the Litreactor challenge even though every month since you started this thing I have either hidden away or started a story that needed a couple thousand words. I am going to force myself to break free of these wordy bitch chains and write something short and sweet.
(it may not be sweet).
Chester Pane
from Portland, Oregon is reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot DiazMay 3, 2012 - 3:01pm
@Martin: I should write some fucked up poetry. Dude, I love the little mouth man. You could really run with that. I might just have to steal that idea.
@Wordy Bitch: Yay! You can totally do it. Just go read those Flash 250's to get the vibe down and roll out a scene.
In media res.
That is the key. 250 words. A punch to the mindclit.
Profunda Saint-...
from Calgary, AB is reading Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy SeriesMay 3, 2012 - 10:34pm
Dishonest Sonnet
(a handwritten entry)
My BFFF from DC is in town this week, so while waiting to collect her this afternoon, I doodled her a particularly attractive man with a particularly attractive message. If you can't read my writing (and for some reason care to) please let me know, and I'll put it in Arial.
Bill - I liked your story about the dog that went with the picture prompt. I read it before i saw the picture though, which made it even better.
@ Danny - the word 'waste' is a pretty subjective one there. It could be argued that as the wordcount is so small, the techinalities and other nuances are even more important than with short stories. Plus some of the most powerful stuff I have ever read has been flash, and I get the feeling that the effort that went in was merticulous. If somebody isn't comfortable with handling those technicalites, or if they are worried that any kind of sub-text or moral isn't coming across, then workshopping will be the easiest way of finding out.
It doesn't need the same kind of review, but I don't think workshopping flash should be seen as a waste of points.
I'm sorry, I apologize.
No need for apologies matey. Just seemed you were being a bit heavy handed with your words. I'm possibly a bit too defensive of poor old flash fiction sometimes, because people often undervalue it's virtues. I think it's a really interesting format. I love micro-fiction too, when it's done well.
As penance you should post something else here. Flash Me your dangly bits sir.
I just got a dose of reality today. I have to write a ten page short story, double spaced, and 1,000 words took me to four pages since most of it was dialogue. I can see how any type of limit on a story can be detrimental to hours of work. I now have to rewrite everything. So props to those who can fit so much in just 1,000 words.
Thanks, Cove! When starting out on that, I had something very specific in mind but now that I made excruciating cuts to get that in Flash form, I'd like to expand into it a full fledged story. Not that it's not one in it's current form but I'd really like to explore some of the themes it drew up for me. Glad you enjoyed it!
@voodoo: Fair enough! Thanks for the info.
And oh yeah. I fucking LOVE flash. These stories have all been awesome and I agree with howie, some would be brilliant to workshop, if the author felt it worthy.
I edited my story a bit. I don't usually do that but sometimes you just know you left out something that HAS to go in. I won't make a habit of that and won't edit this one any more. Promise. But it is better.
So...is April still open or...?
Yep. Anything posted before the end of the month will be considered for the poll.
Whoohoo. Let's see if this Wordy Bitch can squeeze a story into 1k words.
EDIT: Rennie--I did the 78 word Aspie contest for Esquire and it was hard as fuck. I spent hours on those 78 words. And they rejected it. Assholes.
I wonder if we should do the book for the runner-up?
Yeah, that way there are more winners.
So Workshop (or credit to your account if you are already in) for first place and
A Hawthorne book for the runner-up.
A tiddy bear for the winner.
So... I just can't pass up giving this a shot. It is just too good to let lie.
Something old, something new
Something borrowed, something blue
And a silver sixpence in her shoe.
That there is the model for what I'm about to do.
It's a good luck charm originating in Britain for a bride at her wedding. I'd like to use it for its good luck qualities. Perhaps one of these stories will make the cut.
edit
Something new. This is an idea I kicked to Utah the other day - thought I'd rough one out for here. 777 words
Jack?
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Megan said again.
“It okay,” he replied. “It’s all going to be okay.”
And, it was. Why was she having such a hard time understanding that? It was always ok. Everything was ok. It didn’t matter. Nothing out there mattered. It was all on the inside. And on the inside it’d always been okay.
“We can’t change the shuttles orbit now, Jack. The computer won’t allow it. The risk is too great.”
“Megan” he paused. Her name deserved it. Such a fine, sexy name. Made him think of a secret blowjob in the back alley; the kind he got when the fine upstanding lady performing the act was supposed to be in the washroom. That kind of lady never squatted or knelt to do the deed. It was always a bend in the waste. He’d always wondered why the higher ups in society did things different like that. Perhaps it was the clothes, or maybe the shoes.
“Jack… Jack, are you ok?” Megan’s voice shook and was a bit loud to his ears. Oh, the Megans out there. Life would be duller were it not for their intensity, their guilty conscious after, the nervous looks they gave their husbands when they’d return to the restaurant table after blowing him better than a high dollar hooker.
“I’m fine, Megan.” He chuckled. She wept over the open line. Sometimes they’d go too far, especially if the husbands found out. Usually things got weird after stuff like that. He’d got good over the years dealing with situations like that. All it took usually was moving to a different city and changing a cell phone number or two.
“Jack, you read me pal?” Mission control asked. Houston always found guys with perfect accents to head the radio. And cool… man, those guys could give him a run for his money.
“I read you Houston.” He didn’t even know the guys name. He’d seen him at the bar a few time though and that guy could pull some tail. If their conversation wasn’t being broadcast to everyone back home twenty four seven he’d ask the man some of his secrets.
“Jack, you have your secondary payload with you?” That’d be the cyanide tablet sewn into the arm of his suit.
“Yes sir.” He could have sworn they’d already asked him about that.
“Okay, buddy. Now,” his voice got real quiet, “our gauges back here say you’re down to only a few more minutes. Are you sure there’s nothing you’d like to say to the world?”
Houston was taking this whole thing way too far. His mistake had been minor. He wasn’t going out like that. He was only forty years old. Life had just started. He hadn’t even got married. He didn’t even have a kid to pass his name down to yet. No. The world didn’t work that way.
“Everything is okay on this end Houston. Keep me posted on progress.” He knew they’d find a way. This was NASA they were talking about for God’s sake. And, he was Jack Fuckin’ Suttons, leader of the ‘Mars’ mission. He’d got them to Mars. He’d inserted into the little red planet’s orbit as easily as he’d popped the president’s daughter’s cherry during her fifteen birthday party last year.
“Jack?” It was Megan again. His suit was getting a little hot. His muscles felt tingly, especially his fingers and toes. His guts were noticeable warmer than his arms and legs.
“I’m here Megan.” Megan sounded a lot like her twelve year old daughter, just snippier around the edges with her words. It was because of that little girl that’d he’d missed that last foothold to enter the shuttle at just the moment he’d released his EVA connection cord. He was just picturing her skinny little legs, her round little ass, how everything was flat where things were supposed to be flat and how the curves were just coming out to play with the world. He could imagine her excited dimpled smile when she saw his dick for the first time.
“Jack? Jack?”
“Megan. I got a good picture of Mars while I was out there. I bet your daughter’s going to like it.”
“I bet she is, Jack. Sure she is.”
That’d be his in, he was sure of it. Once this whole thing was fixed up and they’d set up the space station here he’d get the ball rolling on that little endeavor. It’d take them some months before they’d get back, though. Perhaps he should wait for her birthday. He was just thinking about asking Megan when her little girl’s birthday was when he fell asleep.
“Jack?”
Something Borrowed. - Got this one from a post I did on Panda's picture thread.
The First... Again 510 words
It sucks having eyes in the back of my head. Well, I don't mean really, but not really figuratively either. I took that picture up there, you know. Took it and developed it. All by myself. You may be impressed. People here in Kumtara sure are. Where I was born, up in a land the natives called Acumda, they aren’t impressed. Of course, they're a little different.
My father's name is Ira Gould. You probably don't know him and that's a pity. You see, he's one of the original man. At least that's what he says. To hear him tell, his stories of wars, of devastation, of sickness, of the new ones; they'd make a believer out of you. It doesn't matter if you don't believe me. Go up to Acumda. Take one of the icy boats. Peek around. When you see him you'll know.
Yeah, Dad looks different than everybody else. But so does everybody else, so, so what. The thing is you won't see another that looks like him ever again. There's something fundamental about him, like we all came from that mold, like he's some basic design everybody living today at one time agreed upon.
The Acumda. The name means 'Icemen.' Yea, it's cold. They are white and got skin like lobsters with little black freckles that make them hard to see in all the snow, moving or no. They're short, arms longer than legs. But, it's the eyes that's the real tell. They got little clear light bulbs on either side of their head with a pair of eyes on each, once facing forward, one back. Nothing can sneak up on them.
Pretty different when you consider what my Dad looks like. Now me... I honestly don't know how Dad did it. Maybe the Acumda had a procedure. Probably. The Acumda are scientists. You see. I'm a mix.
I look like Dad in most ways. Skins a little tougher, got less of a tan, got a few black spots, am a little shorter than most. But the eyes. Yeah... I've got two holes just like most. They face forward like some. But, each home has two 'eyes', like only the Acumda. Dad says that great, says, 'got the eyes of prey in the head of a predator.'
You'd think, Wow - that's awesome, and mostly you're right. Since traveling down here to Kumtara, people have looked at me sideways, have gave me a pretty wide berth, have cast those cautionary looks you give a wild animal that's a little too close for comfort. But, they worry, you worry, for the wrong reasons.
Like I said. My Dad was from the old time, way before the war. He said he was frozen, said the Acumda thawed him out. He knows things. Things he calls Tech. He built the camera that took that picture. He built the two guns on my hip. You don't know what a gun is, I know. Wait and see. And don't forget, I've got four eyes to better see you.
Something blue (and borrowed from Panda's picture thread.)
edit
And for the silver sixpence - a little parady (also something I did on Panda's picture prompt)
630 words
The Neverending Transgressive Story?
The closer Atreyu got to the heart of Fantasia the worse things became. He’d left off his hunting the purple buffalo to make the sojourn via horseback; a slower trip, but a fun one, or so he’d thought. More than once he’d thought about calling the luck dragon from the southern oracle, but he never had. 10,000 miles was a long way, even for the luck dragon. Besides, the gnomes there really enjoyed his company. And the closer he got to the ivory tower the happier he was that the gnomes had such a protector.
The horse called too much attention. He slapped it on the rum and sent it home. A few of the residence eyed the animal as it trotted away. All he could hope was that the animal didn’t get attacked. Many of the creatures walking the lands looked more monster than actual people, though they did stand on two legs and did use a language he somewhat understood.
Under the cover of darkness he stole closer to the tower. Bizarre lights and deep vibrating noises assaulted him. The streets were lit red and yellow brighter than day. The creatures walking about had metal in their faces and color in their hair. Their clothes looked glossy and crinkled when they moved. He kept his stone knife hidden away, but ready. There was an aura about this place, an awful aura, worse even than when he’d killed the giant wolf back when the nothing was consuming everything.
He picked a building, there were many, and entered. It took some time, but he found the staircase leading to the top. After treading upward for a long time he came to the top, the roof. The ivory tower stood at the far end of a red tinged cityscape. Black smoke choked off its white light, obscuring the rose petal offices of the princess.
“A fucking interloper. Dibs on his hides.”
He spun around. Three kids his own age stood facing him. Metal adorned the leaders face. He had a ring in his nose like a broken bull. His friends had spikes on their heads and color on their arms, horrific pictures of nudity and skulls and thinks better left unsaid. He pulled out his knife.
“You are fucking kidding me right?” The leader kicked his weight to one side. He pulled out a metal object, something short, like an elongated box. His friends edged away. Their eyes were large, the whites too big for the pinpricks of black and red in their centers.
“What’s happened here?” Atreyu asked.
The youth pointed the blunt metal in his direction. “Transgressive shift, wetback. Where you been?” A loud noise came from the metal box in his hand. Atreyu got pushed back a step then his right leg wouldn’t take his weight. He felt only pressure, pressure in his right leg and his heartbeat. His heart was racing.
“Tough little spic,” the leader said. The other two had moved to either side. They watched with big eyed interest, but didn’t do anything.
“Fuck man, I hate killing shit this tough. Fucking waste.”
Atreyu’s leg was gushing blood. He stared at it, put a hand on it to stop it from coming out, all the while hoping on one leg.
“He isn’t one of us, boss. He’s from the old fuckin’ genie, the old dreamers of innocent yore – idealist shitola the lot,” one of the big eyed watchers said.
The leader dropped the metal box a little. Atreyu couldn’t stop the blood. He’d dropped his knife so he could use both hands. The blood squirted between his fingers. He turned to look at the ivory tower.
“Princess?” he said.
“Fuck,” the leader said. The noise from the metal box rang out a second time.
Goddamn, Fritz! Very cool, sir.
And here's my final prompt. The musical prompt. Feel free to use it or ignore it,
The lyrics (should you care)
Starless
Sundown dazzling day
Gold through my eyes
But my eyes turned within
Only see
Starless and bible black
Old friend charity
Cruel twisted smile
And the smile signals emptiness
For me
Starless and bible black
Ice blue silver sky
Fades into grey
To a grey hope that oh yearns to be
Starless and bible black
My super short attempt at Flash ~ 85 words.
Scratch
Why bother with a knife, dull and dirty razors with their stubbly gummed up blades. Who wants a habit to justify the sizzle and blister bubble of a perfect full-moon cigarette burn? These ten neat weapons painted pretty in dark shades that capture your mood, always on hand. When numb emotional storm clouds settle, rake your forearm, blaze four red trails. Torn ribbons of skin hidden under nails, DNA at your fingertips. Again and again. Then breathe. Only then do you feel the sting.
Nice stories Fritz! I read them as a way to start my day.Wow.
When does the month with Martin judging start? This flash thing always confuses me.
It's running right now, Dakota.
Anything posted during April. At the end of the month I will weight them all up and select my favourites for the public vote.
Alright thanks. I'll see what I can come up with.
Ha! I am just attempting to up my chances!
@cove - glad u liked.
In addition: Im not a big rule guy - but i do believe there should be a few lines in the sand. One of those lines (for the publishing world) is the definition re: flash vs short story. And that line stands at 1000 words. If your story is 1001 words you need to either edit it down to fit or call it a short story. There is no gray area. Every word counts. Thats the chhallenge of flash.
Just saying - take that as you will.
He-he. Glad to see you Fritzter.
Good job you guys. I see things are heating up!
Okay I'm posting two this month. I like my first one posted earlier better, but I can't resist posting this one. It's under 600 words. I might put it in workshop to get feedback on how to expand and make it better.
THE NAMING
My name is Elliot. I’m a girl so don’t be confused. I don’t know if my body developed this way because of my name, or if my mother just knew and gave me the right tag. I have the angular look of an Elliot: tiny boobs, no cinching in at the waist, a flat butt. My legs are great though, skinny with perfect calves, probably because of the “o.”
Good calves aren’t enough in Junior High, though. I got a push-up bra and stuffed it full of Kleenex. Wow. I could be a Bonny or Sara with these. See how those names have round letters? Elliot is all straight. The boys looked at me more with the push-up bra, but it didn’t make me popular. I still hung out with fat Cora and slutty Joanne, the class losers.
Cora was way heavy and round. She wore stretch pants with long loose cotton tops, but you could still see the rolls underneath. Her oily brown hair limply framed her face and double chins, and touched her shoulders. I know she washed her hair, but it always looked dirty.
I felt sorry for her being named Cora. All those fat round letters couldn’t have helped. She should have left off the double-fries at lunch every day, but that’s just the Elliot in me talking. I often thought if her Mom named her Coral it could have helped, a strong straight line to offset all those curves. Or why not spell it Kora?
Slutty Joanne was big too, but in a good way. She had melons for boobs, a tiny waist and big hips. At first I couldn’t figure why she wasn’t popular. Later it came clear. She went places with boys real early, and people knew. I didn’t care though. She was nice to me. She had round letters, which got her in trouble and made her pretty, but the sticks in the n’s brought her more to the smart side.
The curvy girls usually aren’t that smart. I don’t know if they are dumb or if it’s just the way their names shape them. In kindergarten, when we learned to write our names, I was the star!
“Excellent Elliot,” Mrs. Blick said when I handed in my paper first. “Very very good work.” (She was angular too, as I'm sure you can tell.)
I became known as the smart, quick one. So did Willa. While we handed in our papers, girls like Bonny and Sarah sat struggling with which way to turn the B and the S.
With a name like Elliot, I don’t know if I’ll ever get a boyfriend, or if I’ll get married and have kids. But if I do, I’ve picked out names. For a boy: Anthony. It has a nice strong capitol letter, but enough circles in the “n” and “o” to make him beefy if he wants to play football.
For a girl, I like Lilly, but it’s too straight. She would turn out looking like me. I alter it to Lisa. The “s” and “a” might give her some trouble, but if they make her popular and give her good boobs it will be worth it.
As for my husband, his name needs to be strong and firm, but also a little soft to be a good husband and father. Not Al, that’s too sharp. No soft James or Cory. Maybe a Henry, Tom, or Arthur. And the last name, well that's another story.
@chester - yes, dammit. Had to give the prizes a go. Wickedvoodoo and his hooks!
@Cove - like the play on letters
Biting into the gag, to ease the pain from everywhere else, I think, "I'm in a garden..."I'm trying to peek through the blindfold but all I can see is smoky, waltzing shapes. As a disembodied boot jackhammers into my shirtless back, the chains strain around my wrists, and I think, "...there's a beautiful flower in the garden, lacelike and fragrant..." just how I was taught spirit myself away from places. I shouldn't be. Places like here. The Gentlemen's Leather Club sounds like an honest establishment, but then you step inside and see the medival-dungeon wringlets in the ceiling and you realize, that you're not in North-West London any more, you're in the hall of the Masochist King.
I'm here, cuz I like the pain and they pay me. The banter, the nice ever-so-upper-middle-class cup of tea and biscuit after a session. It's almost a country club, except you fuck other people up, or get fucked up. I'm firmly in the latter camp. The thought of beating someone up because they enjoy it repulses me. The flipside, however, turns me on. Spit in my mouth, choke me out, watch me, pathetic, naked and bleeding in your arms and love me. That last bit's my fantasy. One day, a client walks in here and beats me up not because I'm cute or because I'm their designated slave for the evening, no, it's cuz they love me. Fat fucking chance. They must have an amazing washing machine, cuz I bleed quite a bit all over the sheets, but today, we're on the basement floor.
My client's a girl today. College student, a few years older than me. Ponytails her hair and doesn't speak much, and fucking handy with a whip. She doesn't care about my ass or anything, like most other people, all it seems she wants to do is destroy my back. Everyone wants to destroy some part of me. It's the only inconvenience of this job. You have to not care being naked and beaten or humiliated.
And her teeth break the skin and I come. It's a moment of nostalgic, swinging bliss. My lungs feel like the'yre going to drop out of me and there's this roiling urge to puke but all of it's washed away by a few seconds of joy and this girl, this college student, she takes off the blindfold and the gag and kisses me and this is really weird because no-one else has done this and this is the first time I've kissed someone in a while and her tongue is in my mouth and like a guide dog leading the blind, she takes mine over to her's and this feels so nice- but then I see her eyes and they are smoldering chunks of happy hellfire and she bites down.
bondage-ish story I wrote on a whim, cause I need to appeal to my internal subby.
The Afterlife Mixer
Salvador Dali was waiting for God to arrive in a plastic yellow egg car with spider legs for wheels but the bastard never showed up. It was always like this, every year God was listed as the guest speaker but something always came up. The seraphim kept apologizing to the guests but everyone was pissed. Edgar Allan Poe dunked his head in the punchbowl while Van Gogh stood at the podium with his chest still bleeding and the bullet lodged in it that the doctors had never removed in life. Behind him, there was an aura of electric blue waves shimmering, they were so bright that it was hard to look at him head-on. Charles Dickens held Van Gogh’s ear in his pocket as collateral from their last poker bet.
Across the room, Hemingway was having a drink with Jane Austen and Emily Dickenson but Austen said she wasn’t going to fuck the minimalist.
"I heard he is minimal in more ways than one," Jane Austen said.
Emily gave a shy, tittering laugh. Louisa May Alcott stared at them, then tried to attempt conversation but they ignored her.
Just then a drunken Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton stumbled into the room cackling.
Then Van Gogh began, “We are here tonight for the 267th Annual Afterlife Artist Awards. If you were invited tonight from whatever corner of the afterlife you inhabit or whatever dimension you have been banished to, it is because you made such a large impression on the world that you have still not been forgotten. As long as your books are read, your movies are watched, your music is listened to, your paintings are seen, you matter. Tonight we are here to give the lifetime achievement award to a man whose works have been remembered for centuries and will probably be taught in high school English classes until the end of time. Join me in congratulating Shakespeare.”
A small rather rotund man stepped up onto the stage, he had crossed eyes, a long bulbous nose and one of his arms was shorter than the other.
“I had no idea he was that ugly,” Sylvia said.
“Oh yeah,” Anne whispered, “Butt ugly.”
Shakespeare started to speak and Sylvia’s attention wandered off. She glared at Emily Dickenson who was sitting by herself now as Jane Austen had finally given in to Hemingway’s advances and was fucking Papa in the backroom.
“Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me!” Sylvia mocked.
Soon Anne Sexton joined in and they started to laugh.
“The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality!”
They started snickering again.
Emily gave them a dirty look, then flipped them the finger.
They only laughed louder.
Salvador stood at the door, tweaking the tips of his infamous moustache and waited for his beloved Gala. It had been months since he had seen her, creating alternative realities was busy work and the seraphim worked him ragged. He had created so many worlds, he could not remember which one he had come from anymore.
“Can you believe this crap?” Salinger came over and spoke to him, “Bunch of phonies if you ask me. Awards in the afterlife, we are dead, who gives a shit if people remember us? It’s all just words anyhow. At least what you did, those images stay in people’s minds. Can you understand a word I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Salvador said, “there are no language barriers anymore. The seraphim gave me the touch of babble, I can understand any language across time and space.”
“Nice,” Salinger said, “So no offense but isn’t this awards ceremony specifically for writers. How come you are here?”
“I was asked to observe. Plus my wife is coming and she wanted to meet William Faulkner and Thoreau, she is a big fan.”
Dylan Thomas was on stage now introducing most prolific poet and when he said T.S. Elliot, Sylvia and Anne stood up in protest, “That’s bullshit!”
Van Gogh walked over to Dickens, “I’m tired of fucking around, I want my ear back.”
“Then you will announce the winner just like I said,” Dickens grinned.
Van Gogh returned to the stage and prepared to announce Most Influential Writer of the 1800’s and who made a major impact on 20th Century literature.
He announced the candidates slowly.
Gogh saw Twain in the audience next to the placard that read Samuel Clemens, he was sitting quite self-satisfied with a top hat on and chewing on a toothpick. He had won in this category for the past 100 years. Van opened up the envelope and then shuddered as he saw Twain’s name. Dickens stared at him and pulled the ear out of his pocket and kissed it.
“Charles Dickens!” he shouted.
Twain fell out of his chair, “Now wait just a goddamn minute! I demand to see the ballot!”
“All votes are final and determined by the dreamers of the collective unconsciousness,” Van Gogh said and hid the envelope in his pocket.
Twain tackled him to the ground.
“Show me the damn envelope!”
He pulled it out of Van’s back pocket.
“Liar! I knew I won! This asshole just wrote for word count, I wrote because it mattered to me!”
“Give me my ear back!” Van Gogh screamed and Dickens put it in his mouth and swallowed.
Just then across the room Gala stepped into the ballroom and Salvador’s eyes lit up. Then slowly the realization came over him as he saw who was on her arm. James Joyce whispered in her ear and she laughed playfully. Salvador’s eyes suddenly lit up with a strange magic.
“SALVADOR, NO!” a seraphim cried out.
Just then a giant elephant burst through the wall with spindly legs and sharp teeth. He ripped off Joyce’s head and ate it. Gala screamed and suddenly the clocks on the wall began to melt. The front door opened and everyone began screaming as they were sucked out into a pocket dimension.
@aylee, i lol'd
Deutscheseingebumpen. In other words; bump
Good stuff Cove & Typewriter. And Danny, yeah, glad you joined in again too man.
I have a tough time ahead of me selecting the poll for this. A nice dilemma to be having though.
Still a couple of days left if anyone else feels like flashing me their bits and bobs.
So, bump!
I was looking through some old stuff that I had written. I started a story that hit a dead end pretty fast, but this was my favourite scene from it.
**********************
Liz has a gun pointed to her head by her boyfriend's little brother, Richard. It's a .32 caliber revolver, a weapon that the parents bought for protection in case of robberies. They kept it in their nightstand drawer and Richard played with the gun whenever his parents were away. Richard's parents were on a business trip this week and tonight he finally wanted to use their gun.
He tapped Liz on the shoulder, to wake her from her sleep, while holding the gun right between her eyes. She woke gently and her eyes widened as she realized she was staring down the barrel of a gun. At first she thought it was a joke, that the gun wasn't loaded until she saw the tips of bullets in the revolver's chambers.
Her eyes widened and her heart began to beat faster than it ever had before. She went to speak, but as soon as her mouth opened Richard shoved the gun inside of it to shut her up. He chipped several of her teeth when he forced the gun inside and she let out a muffled cry of pain, waking her boyfriend Kevin.
Once Kevin realized what was happening, he moved to attack Richard and force him off of Liz. But Richard pulled the gun out of Liz's mouth and in the ensuing surprise and clamor, he pulled the trigger and killed his own brother. The police and the paramedics were called several times, by Liz and by Kevin's neighbors, and they took Richard away. After the event was explained and settled, the police asked Richard why he did it and he replied, "She was stealing my brother away from me and I missed him." Despite the murder and the fact that her life almost ended, Liz found the underlying sentiment touching. She said she wished that one day she could love somebody as much as Richard had loved Kevin.
Bumpsen.
Right down to the wire here. I can't believe April is gonna be over in a few hours. WTF. Anyway, here's a mini submission from the Bizarro Workshop with Bradley and Garrett.
Gulls
Looks like seagulls, she sighs.
The sky has that haze again. Green almost always means seagulls.
Didn't they just spray them last week?
Yes, she says. But they're getting stronger. The first spray only gets the small ones now.
Ugh, I groan. That means the big ones this time. Guess I'll get the shovel ready then. Is my gasmask clean yet?
No, she says. Since the swallows the other night, haven't had a chance for the laundry. Sorry.
I groan again. She's no housekeeper.
Right so, it'll need a wash after tonight, I remind her.
Seagulls are always such a mess. At least they still let us burn the crows. Seagulls have to sit on the corner until Friday when the recycling truck comes by.
The mask reeks of swallow gas, the blue kind. They're already falling hard by the time I step out.
It's going to be a long night.
Obviously April is finito and gone. Chester now has his keys back and a new month underway.
Many many thanks to everyone who posted a sub during April. You guys rock. The poll is up if you didn't see that already.
Hit it bitches.
Flash
Show em who the pros are.
Soooo, instead of exposing ourselves in this small, tight knit community, we're flashing our bits to the entire interwebs via the article comments?
It's on!
I saw that earlier. However I was feeling grumpy and tired and my mouth got quicker than my brain. I got a bit of the green monster and posted less than elegantly. T'was wrong of me, I have since been told off and have apologised. Hopefully that is water under three different bridges now.
It bugged me because of how hard it seems to get voters for our polls here as it is. I felt like us grotty forumites were not getting our fair share of lurve. Of course I am not privy to all of the plans and future schemes of the literati and shouldn't have been so fast to spit the dummy out.
My new, less overworked, and coffee deprived eyes are glad to see you embracing it Chester. The more flashing the better, right? Some of their subs are really really good.
Needless to say, I shouldn't be posting here after being up all night trying to keep on top of my workload and not getting nearly enough sleep. Well anyway, hopefully that is all amended now. Me being an asshole I mean, not my workload. That is still mountainous.
Rock on. Can't wait for the May flashing. I have something to post here myself when i get back to my own computer.
Yes! You're all going to be famous now!
@Martin:
I would not worry about it. In my opinion anyone with a personality and a bundle of passion does that from time to time.
I try to do it as much as possible! Hah!
As far as I am concerned, I see the whole site as one big playground. Plus I bet there are some nice Jumblies™ over there to gawk at.
You should really try to get some rest dude. You have gone above and beyond the last few months.
Chester the Father figure "Careful son, you mean too much to us."
He-he.
Flash the motherfucking hell out of that shit.
I am a little dismayed that none of you have gone over there to show who is boss.
I will post on that thread.
We own that thread.
This was all practice to mouthfuck minds.
Are we going to sit here and hide?
No.
We are going to tear tits from their plethoras.
Tear mammalian protruberances from their clits.
I'm going to start a petition
Who else thinks Chester should write a book of the most perverted, pipe-smoking, plain mental poetry the world ha ever seen?
I'd buy it
Instead of a limited, signed edition he could do a limited splooshed version instead.
Here's something that came from a bizarro exercise. It is supposed to be a prose poem, the task was to focus on rhythm and timing. I think I did okay, though it was a lot tougher than I anticipated. Good fun regardless and I earmarked it for a sub here.
Tooth Ache
I'm a little man that lives inside your mouth and I run the show around these parts. You thought you liked salami but you don't. It's me that likes salami. I steal it from your tongue, real quick, right before you swallow. It never makes it down because I'm hungry too. Remember how you used to love carrots but now you don't care for carrots in the slightest? The reason is I moved into your face and I fucking hate carrots. I'm the reason you no longer like fish, even though the rest of your family adores the pungent reek of the stuff. I have a bone to pick with you though. This sliver of chicken bone down the side of your incisor. The source of this infection which ruins my wallpaper. I can't pull it out. I've tried, all that happened was I cut myself on its edge and for crying out loud don't you own a pair of tweezers? Feel that ache? That's me kicking you in the teeth. I'm sick of you being sick. I gotta tell you right now I'm taking a stand against your terrible oral hygiene routine. Your rotten breath stinks, would you chew a stick of gum? Those ulcers are so easy to step in when it's dark. Ever had to wipe ulcer slime off your slippers? This just won't do. Right now I'm marching up and down your mouth kicking canines and molars. I thought this was working out, you and I living here and sharing the same headroom. Now I've gotten to know the real you and the way you grind my furniture in your sleep. You really could be more considerate, really should think about drinking less. Stop gagging yourself with whiskey. Each time you vomit I have to get out the wet towel and wipe hot sick off my sofa. This is your last warning, you'd better up your game or the tooth ache never ends.
Chestie--I am accepting the Litreactor challenge even though every month since you started this thing I have either hidden away or started a story that needed a couple thousand words. I am going to force myself to break free of these wordy bitch chains and write something short and sweet.
(it may not be sweet).
@Martin: I should write some fucked up poetry. Dude, I love the little mouth man. You could really run with that. I might just have to steal that idea.
@Wordy Bitch: Yay! You can totally do it. Just go read those Flash 250's to get the vibe down and roll out a scene.
In media res.
That is the key. 250 words. A punch to the mindclit.
Dishonest Sonnet
(a handwritten entry)
My BFFF from DC is in town this week, so while waiting to collect her this afternoon, I doodled her a particularly attractive man with a particularly attractive message. If you can't read my writing (and for some reason care to) please let me know, and I'll put it in Arial.