Ciel Writes Stuff

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

4:54 AM - Mar 03, 2014 #1

The title of this one is entitled "The Final Words of Edward Pluton". It's being submitted to the Thunderdome at SA. The prompt was to write a short anthology about a fictional being. I had The Brownie.
I have combed over what shall be my final words for hours, spending more time listening to writing. I realize that I am putting off the inevitable. Before I die, I must write this.

They came one day in February. I immediately heard tiny creaks in the floor boards, light scuttering that I simply chalked up to the age of my destitution. What did arouse me was when I realized changes to my personal effects; holes in my trousers mended, dust gone from counters. It perturbed me but I had chalked it to my waning memory, the loneliness of my continued existence making each day meld together.

The day I first saw them was when I was cleaning out one of my bedroom cabinets. The latch inside of it was unlocked. The knot in my chest grew malign when I found them, spread out on hay and cloth.

That was one of very few times I saw these Brownies face to face. I call them Brownies for lack of any other name. From their clothes to their scrawny faces, the color of ground-up mud. Perhaps they were of the earth that we stand, but I cannot say. The fact that they existed at all was something out of the tall tales of my youth. Because of this, I am surprised how quickly I warmed up to letting them stay. A normal man would be beside themselves. But Dolores had died two winters before, and along with her the miracle I had taken for granted. So when these tiny men came to my house, I had little energy to drive them away. While the creases in their faces made me ill, I somehow understood that they meant me no harm. They simply coexisted with me, and their existence meant little to me.

They kept to themselves for the most part. I would hear them move about at night, their tiny feet making the floor squeak. What they did while I slept was no concern of mine. Occasionally I would awaken and find them scrambling to hide. Several times, out of some sense of pity. I set out a basin of milk for them, and awoke to find it bone dry. Life continued like this for months.

It was a warm night in May. I found myself unable to sleep. I set the kettle on the stove and had turned to ready myself when I heard a loud crack. Underfoot, I had stepped on my locket. The picture inside, smashed beyond repair.

I am not a very emotional man by any stretch, but seeing the only thing left of Dolores in shambles broke me. The kitchen table was flipped in my haste, my hands balled in my face as I stumbled from the room.

It was then I thought to end it all. My musket was stashed under my bed, the ammo stored away in another room. As I walked through my kitchen, I found them, the Brownies, in the middle of their work.

I caught them in the middle of their work. I looked towards the table, somehow turned upright. On it, one of them had the locket open. Without thinking, I snatched it. The latch was still broken but the picture and glass inside was fixed, better than before.

Right then, it all made sense, but I was beyond myself. The kettle began to whistle in the kitchen, and before I could stop myself I threw the locket to the floor.

I said many things that, in hindsight, I immensely regret. I called them monsters, that I did not need their pity. I had lived on my own for years, and for years I shall continue. Whether they understood my words is irrelevant. The heat of my voice, the syllables expressed was enough.

After my screaming dissolved into mumbled pants, the wretches simply stood there. My wet cheeks burned but against my gut I forced them out. I shouted, pounded my firearm on the floor. The exodus was swift. The whole moment was a blur but the one thing I do remember was when one of them stopped in its tracks. It turned to glare over its shrunken, drooped shoulder, giant marble eyes staring straight through me.

The anger suddenly evaporated. No matter how loudly I cried, it proved useless. The flock disappeared into the darkness of the trees, and I stood there, dumbly, until I could no longer hear the sound of grass crunching. I was alone, then, with only the wind to keep me company.

It has been quiet for months. It is suffocating. I do not think I could adequately describe how I miss them. But I know that they are gone. I can only wish they live elsewhere, to a place much more inhabitable, to people who will treat them with the respect I so neglected.

I am a foolish old man, and because of that I will die alone. But for the one who is reading this; please, notice the wonders of the world before they are gone.

-Edward Pluton. Richmond, Virginia. 1820.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

4:41 AM - Mar 10, 2014 #2

This one is called Ratings High. The prompt was to "In which a character has just won, and is in desperate need of consolation.".
They found Miriam Lakaemper still straddled on top of Louis Koffman, her fingers still wrapped tightly around the knife handle.

It had been an hour since she had killed her best friend and she had not moved a single inch from the body. That alone was disconcerting alone, without the gore. Rookie coughed as he saw how completely splattered she was.

He and Walker finally reached her. Rookie could her speaking, faint, just barely audible. When Walker pulled her up to her feet and Rookie saw the blood, the tears, and the look on her face, he realized that she was saying the same thing repeatedly. He read her lips. And his blood went cold.

“Rookie,” Walker smacked. He jerked his pistol towards the direction they just came from. “Come on, boat’s waiting.”

It took less than ten minutes to reach the docks. Bossman was waiting there, readjusting the hood over her head. She nodded as she saw them, gesturing with the rifle in her hands.

“Congratulations.” Bossman droned, first to Miriam, then Walker. “You searched her?”

“’Course we did.” Walker snorted. “What do you take me for, a Rookie?”

Rookie could have chosen to respond to that. Instead, he followed Walker.

The girl didn’t put up a fight as they shoved her onto the dock. Everything about her was lame and quiet, and that made the hollowness in Rookie’s chest rumble. She waddled onto the inner elevator with Walker and Rookie right behind her. Walker hit the button with the barrel of his pistol and the rusted doors closed behind them.

It was silent, other than the whirling of the elevator. It must have been suffocating to Walker because he gently nudged the girl’s shoulder.

“Hey, say something, will you?” Walker demanded. “You’ll be going home. Aren’t you at least happy about that?”

Miriam kept up the constant patter, head downcast. Rookie wondered if Walker even noticed her lips moving.

“Potato. Great.” Walker grunted. “Wish she were last year’s winner. What’s his name, Zhang Wei? Now that guy was a winner. He was still cracking jokes even after he slit his girlfriend’s throat. Fucking shame, too, should have got more credit.”

Rookie did not respond, keeping his head turned from both Walker and the girl in front of them.

“Alright, alright, sorry.” Walker mumbled. “Shit, I know Grab’n’Bag ain’t your thing but I didn’t want to take a fucking chance. Okay? Now stop with the silent treatment.”

Rookie shook his head.

Walker looked at him, then at Miriam. He sniffed. “Really? Christ, stop being a pussy.”

Rookie didn’t dignify that with a response.

The doors to the elevator opened soon after, cutting the tension. They walked down to the jail room and threw her into the first open cage. Walker said nothing as they closed the cell door and walked off, handing the keys back off to Cage (like Nicolas, har har). He said something to Rookie, then walked out the door.

Rookie did not follow. He stared into the moldy cell, watching Miriam sputter on to herself in a dialect he could not recognize. Nothing could will him to leave.

That was, until the girl stopped talking and stared straight back.

He followed Walker to the rec room, where everyone was gathered. When he got there, Face was standing on one of the tables, adjusting his tie.

“Everyone here” He deduced, then shot back. “Alright, alright. Before we begin! Nielsen called in. Don't have the numbers, but e killed it!“ He cackled, threw his hands in the air. “The big wigs wants to sign us for more! We did it people!”

The room erupted into applause, laughter filled the room. Face motioned with his hands for silence, smirk all the more palpable.

“I would like to thank each and every last one of you.” Face bellowed. He threw his hands over his head. “While people may call me the Face of this show, you are the gears making this clock tick.”

The room started buzzing soon after Face got down, the air strangely light like cinnamon. Station nerds chatting up Guerillas, stories swapped as quickly as booze.

Rookie stuck to the booze, petals spread against the walls, RC Cola in hand. He watched the activity in the room for a while before he noticed Bossman.

“Hey,” she sloshed. “What’s going on? You should come dance with me!”

Rookie wanted to ask her how, exactly, they were supposed to dance to Depeche Mode. He didn’t. Bossman broke his bubble, the word ‘consent’ apparently not in her dictionary.

“I heard something. Y’wanna hear?” She giggled, hand covering her cheek like a child keeping a secret.

She hushed, “They’re throwing her back in.”

Rookie felt cold. She must have seen something in his eyes, because she bleated, “She’s popular! Girl’s trending worldwide. The execs said to keep her on a leash, spin some yarn on how she chose to come back…”

He made a face. She smirked, finger twirling around a blonde lock.

“She won’t amount to anything else.” She needled. “Her parents don’t want her. So she’s got no one else, except the game and maybe a padded cell. Who cares what happens to her?”

Who cares.

Bossman kept yapping but all Rookie heard was white noise. Soon, he walked away and she did not stop him.

It was easy, almost too easy. Cage was already flat out drunk, so grabbing him and dragging him out wasn’t simple. There was a key to the broom closet. He thumbed the pistol as he snuck over to the jail, peeking before walking in.

The girl did not speak as he opened the cell. She looked up, hands balled into her hoodie.
Rookie watched as she rose from her cot.

They met eyes. And they stood there for ages, everything before he turned his back.

She was on him in a second. Guy had no chance.

As Rookie laid there, slumped, watching the girl grinning as she loaded a round with almost practiced easy, he wanted to feel happy for her. Rookie knew what she was going to do. That was why he did it. But, he could not believe how fucking stupid he had been. Would have slapped himself, if the bowie knife had not hit his spinal cord.

It did not take long for him to die, small favors. They would find his corpse in the wake, chuck him overboard with more than a dozen others. Rookie’s death would cause no waves; no family, no life goals, no friends save for the ones rotting in a cell. He didn’t have a name anymore,just some stupid initiation rite.

In Rookie’s final moments, he seemed to realize all of this. Between bile and blood and spit, Rookie managed to vomit laughter. It came pouring, his mouth tasting of disgusting metal.

As his vision went blurry and then dark, Rookie stopped laughing.

“Shoulda fucking searched her,” he said.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

4:38 AM - Mar 17, 2014 #3

This one is entitled Mud. The prompt was to write a ghost story in which the main character has never met the ghost when it was alive. To be honest I have no idea why it turned out this way.
There was once a mansion that sat on a hill, surrounded by a sea of trees. People in the neighboring villages said that it was haunted, and there even rumors that an insane woman had killed her husband there many years ago. Legend said that, every night at midnight, the ghost of that woman came out to drive whoever was inside mad, just like her.

One day, a pastor by the name of Reginald learned about the house. A man of narrow conviction, he believed that there was nothing wrong with the house, and he offered five-thousand dollars to the person brave enough to spend the night inside. However, no one had the nerve to take him up on this bet.

That is, until one day when a boy by the name of Hansel went straight up to and took the man’s challenge. This boy did not believe in ghosts, and scoffed when Reginald asked if he wanted the pastor to leave the doors unlocked.

“Lock them,” he said. “Wouldn’t want any intruders getting in, right?”

The preacher gave Hansel a look but did what he asked.

Later that night, Hansel was locked in the mansion, and all of the doors leading out were locked.

Hansel smiled to himself. “This place isn’t so bad,” he told himself. “All of these town folk are just superstitious fools.”

After exploring every nook and cranny of the mansion, he retired to the living room. He lit a fire and the fireplace and hopped on the antique couch, not even bothering to kick off his shoes. He placed his hands behind his head and soon began to drift off to sleep.

Then, as nocturne settled outside, a gentle creek woke Hansel from his slumber. As he rose up, straightening his third collar, he could swear he heard a voice coming from somewhere.

“Who did this?” sang the voice.

“Must be the wind,” Hansel mumbled as he closed his eyes again.

However, it was not long before the voice came again.

“Who did this?” it cried.

“It has to be my imagination playing tricks,” Hansel told himself. “Just has to be. No such thing as spooks.”

He didn’t close his eyes again. The voice was back not long after, and it was coming from the foyer. Hansel rose to his feet and stomped over to the stairs.

“Alright, you little freaks.” He called out. “Come on out. You’ve had your fun.”

Just then, the fireplace in the living room went out, sending the entire house into pitch darkness. With a trembling hand Hansel reached for a candle on a table and lit it up.

Just as he turned around, there, in the light of the flame, was a floating severed head, it’s eyeballs ripped from its sockets and rotted teeth pitched in a growl.

Hansel nearly fell over in fright. He covered his mouth with his free palm and the head, that of a woman, parted its jagged maw, lifted an unconnected hand over her head and spoke.

“WHO TRACKED MUD ALL OVER MY CARPETS? AND ON MY SOFA?” screeched the woman, pointing a bony finger “WAS IT YOU?”

“Yes! Yes!” Hansel pleaded. “I swear it was an accident! I didn’t even know I got mud on my boots, just please don’t kill me!”


Hansel blinked. Then he sneered. This was it? The spook in this house was some old coot?

“Okay, wow? Really? That’s what you’re getting angry about?” Hansel sneered, his fear suddenly draining. “Look, lady, everyone in town says you’re spooking up the place? They say whoever comes here is driven insane by a ghost. If this is your idea of coming back to haunt the living then you should, like, go back to being dead.”

“OH, SO YOU WANT TO BE SCARED?” she held up a piece of ghostly paper in her disembodied hand. “YOU SHOULD SEE HOW MUCH I’LL HAVE TO PAY TO GET THESE CARPETS CLEAN.”

Hansel looked at the paper, then at the floating head. Then, with a deep, calm breath, he looked at the paper clutched in the woman’s pale hand.

It was already morning, and Reginald was going up to check on the cocky boy. In his hands was a paper bag filled with the reward money. A promise was a promise, after all, and he intended to fulfill his end of the bargain.

Needless to say, he was shocked when he saw Hansel leap straight out of the window nearest the door. The preacher was prepared to ask the boy what was wrong when he froze. Hansel rose to his feet, a crazed look in his eyes and his pants down at his ankles. He couldn’t stop screaming, not even when he shoved Reginald off his feet. And so Reginald sat there on the grass, watching until Hansel disappeared into the clearing, left to wonder what in the devil he just saw.

That was the last anyone saw of Hansel. Some say he is still running to this day. In the end, no one ever did claim that reward.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

5:52 AM - Mar 24, 2014 #4

Here's Penpal. The prompt was to write about long distance communication. Extremely long distance. We can't explain how it works, and for the characters involved, it has to be routine. Trigger for spoopy.
I get these letters every day. Sealed in dirty, burnt envelopes, addressed to me in shaky handwriting. I find them in places only I would think to check. I don't know how they get there. All that I know is that I have received a letter every day for three years.

Until last week.

You know those kids in high school who’d drop you like a sack of potatoes just for the approval of a bunch of assholes they didn't even like? Jeremy, my best friend since grade school, was that guy. I knew it too. But I tried so hard to make it work.

One Friday, I asked Jeremy if he wanted to hang out. He said, “Yeah, sure.”

Of course he wasn't going to come. I chose not to believe that. So when I found myself spending my Friday evening sitting on a bench outside the mall in the pouring rain, and realized that they weren’t going to come, I snapped.

If you were anything like I was as a kid, you let things build up. This wasn’t just Jeremy. It was my parents, school, hormones. I bottled it all, and when Jeremy stood me up, it all came rushing out.

But that isn’t important. What’s important was that I tried to kill myself. Up until then the urges were confined to simple thoughts, nothing more. But that night, when I was sitting up in bed, I decided that I wanted to die.

I waited until my mom was asleep and walked to the kitchen. The plan was to overdose on my Ritalin. I know, I wouldn’t have died anyway. I admit it, I was being stupid. You overdose on methylphenidate the same way you overdose on caffeine. Regardless, when I opened the medicine cabinet and there, sitting upright, was the first letter.

“I Lov U”

I stood there there for what felt like ages, just staring down at that piece of dirty paper. I snorted, then squinted. Was I still sleeping? Even if it was written in cursive, it was jarring. You don’t expect to find this shit when you’re about to shove a whole pill bottle down your throat.

I chucked the letter in the toilet. By the time I returned to the cabinet, I just lost the will, so I closed it up and went to bed.

Another one came, the next morning. I found it under my pillow.

“U R Specal”

I told my mom to stop screwing around. It was creeping me out. She looked confused, and when she wanted to know what I was talking about I quickly shrugged it off. It must have been a dream, I told her.

When I received one the next day, I knew it wasn’t a dream.


They knew who I was. My first name is technically Nicholas but I just use Nick. My middle name is Jamie because my mom wanted to name me Jamie. I never told anyone that.

They kept coming after that, once a day. Always brief, rarely filing a sentence, but almost always positive.

“U R Met 4 Great Thin”

“Have A Nic Dae”

“U R Prfekt”

I wish I were joking.

The strangest part, the thing that probably disarmed me the most, was the handwriting and grammar. Imagine an adult pretending to be a child trying to write motivational posters and you got the idea. But even when they fell flat on their face, half of the time I found myself laughing. Turns out I really needed a laugh. So, in a way, it was motivational.

It took a while to get used to, at first. When it first started, of course I tried to find an explanation! I remember staying up several nights in a row to see if anyone would sneak in. They never did. And yet they would still find their way, in a corner I forgot to check.

Eventually I stopped looking for reason. I just took the letters for what they were. It became routine.

My life started to change for the better. I started fitting in at school. I made new friends. My mom and dad were making up. For a time, I wanted to think it had something to do with those silly letters.

Then I realized I could write back.

I discovered it by accident. I used one of the letters to pass notes to my new friend Brandon during class. We made jokes about the teacher, talked shit about Jeremy. Silly crap. The note disappeared when I got home, but the next day I found it in the usual envelope, along with a note.

“Im Sory"

I don’t know why it took me so long to notice. I started sending things to my weird penpal. Hell, I thought, maybe I'll finally learn what this guy's deal is.

“Who are you?”

“Dont Mater”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Want 2 Help”

“Where are you?”

“Bad Place”

“Are you in the future?"

“Dot No”

Why the hell did they even respond to me if it was going to be evasive?

Out of exasperation I just sent him another question, first one that came to mind.

“Are you okay?”

The letter came the next day. There was something different though. Immediately I noticed a brownish drop on the top left corner of the envelope and I paused. Something was wrong. But I shook it off and opened it.

“It HuRtS”

...What the fuck.

It clicked for me then. I felt sick, having been letting this go on for so long.

I stopped opening the letters. Every time I found one, I would just chuck it. But it was grinding my last nerve towards the end and I just snapped. I tore open a letter and made it clear.


The letters stopped coming after that.

That was last week. I thought it was over.

A letter was laying on my bed when I came home last Friday.

I didn't want to open it.

I opened it.

The writing was chaotic, frantic, bunched together and covering almost every inch of the page. I couldn't make it out, still can't. I barely noticed though. I felt something else, slimy and wrong.

My blood chilled as I held it. I opened my trembling hand.

A human eye.

I haven’t slept in days. I just stay in bed.

My room stinks of rotting meat and decay.

School’s called and asked where I am. I didn’t answer.

Brandon sent me a text. Jeremy went missing last Friday. The whole town is looking for him.

They won’t find him. He's not here anymore.

The letters, they're just appearing in front of me, out of thin air. Just dropping on the floor.

There must be fifty of them, all bulging, seeping with blood.

This thing loves me.

Jeremy hurt me. So it hurt Jeremy.

It wants me to be happy.

I don’t want to die anymore. I’m happy. But I don’t know how much more I can take of this.

It’s going to run out of parts sooner or later. It won’t stop there.

Mom's not picking up her cellphone. I haven't seen her since Saturday.

I’m scared.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

2:35 PM - Apr 07, 2014 #5

The prompt this week was to make a story where there must be at least one angel. The judge also gave me a flash rule where the story must be in first person
Angel of Death
1099 words

Death came for me on the 14th of May. I was in my chair when it happened, dirty cigar between my chapped lips. The gas heater was off and the room felt so cold I swear I could see my own breath. I noticed her in the reflection of the TV, but she stood so close that I didn’t see the use in turning my head.

“I’m dreaming,” I said. “I must be. All I need to do is wake up.”

The Angel hovered over me, it’s bony fingers coiled around a tall walking stick. She considered me.

“I apologize, Harold. But I am very much real. Fate has decide that your life ends this very night.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s unfortunate, I understand. But you have no choice. It is time.”

I stared at the television for a long moment, thinking. This wasn’t a dream.

“Christ. Just let me watch the rest of this. Can you let me do that?”

She hesitated. The walking stick tapped the floorboards with a slow beat, but in the end, she relented. The Angel stood in place for a long time.

“Take a seat, why don’t you?”

The Angel hovered to the chair opposite me and sat. In the cavities where her eyes should have been, only pitch blackness remained. I forced myself not to stare into them.

“I will be here until you are ready,” she said.

“Whatever. Help yourself to a drink.”

She twisted her head to look at the table, bottle of brandy close to the edge. Cracking a hand out, she pushed it across the counter and closer to me.

“I cannot,” she said. “But I appreciate the gesture.”


Seinfeld was ending that very same night. It wasn’t just a half-hour, closer to an hour and a half. It gave me time, room to think. Of course, I found myself more glued to the television sitting in front of me. The finale was a joke. A prank played on every last sap that watched that show. And the more I kept watching it, the more I wanted to grab the brandy and chuck it at the fucking screen.

Instead I brewed. I couldn’t do anything. My body felt stiff and I didn’t feel like moving. So when the trainwreck ended and turned to the news, I was left to my own thoughts.

I finally spoke a hour later.

“It’s not fair,” I said.

“I understand that it is not fair.” The Angel said. “If it were up to me, I would not be here. But there are gears in this world that must tick, you already understand this, Harold.”

I sighed. “Not at you. At my kids.”

The Angel just looked at me. In my mind, I imagined myself running my hand through my gray hair.

“They take after their mother, I swear. They are impossible. I bet you anything they’ll put on a face when it’s this mansion and my money on the line. Like fucking vultures.”

She bowed her head. “How does that make you feel?”

“Like a horrible parent? Like I should have changed my will? What are you asking, exactly?”

“I am asking questions in order to help you cope. I already know the answers.”

“… And how the hell would you know? You a mind reader?”

“I have been with you since the day you were born, Harold.”

That wrenched an incredulous laugh out of me. I stopped talking, and we sat in silence like that. She watched me. I watched TV, but my mind was running through fifty stray thoughts at the exact same time.

“Give me a day.” I said. “I’ll change the will, chuck everything to a charity. Give me a day to do that, and I’m yours.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Harold.”

“An hour then. I could write something up in an hour. Please.”

The Angel said nothing.

“I don’t want them getting anything.”

“You already said that your children do not respect you. If that is the case, then why, pray tell, did you give them everything?”

I sighed again, feeling a knife in my chest.

“It was what my father did for me.”

When the Angel did not speak, I continued.

“When my father died, the money was split even. My brothers and I, we decided to give the house over to me. Everything he own was in this house, and that’s how I kept it. The plan was to give it to my kids, to let them decide just as we did years ago. But that was only wishful thinking.”

A knife jammed in my heart as I said that last part.

“So why do it?” The Angel asked.

“Because it was how my father taught me.”

“And how does that make you feel, to have lived in your father’s shadow?”

“What are you even hoping to accomplish with these damned questions? Stop toying with me.”

She said nothing, damn her. I wanted to bury my hands in my face but the feeling in my arms had left me so very long ago.

The clock in the dining room struck midnight. I couldn’t take it. I sighed again.

“I feel inadequate. Every little choice I have made over the past sixty years has turned out to be the wrong one. My brothers hate me. My children want everything I have. My father would be disappointed in me, I know that. And I hate myself for that.”

Silence overwhelmed the room again. I stared at her.

“There. I answered your question. If you’re going to kill me, just do it. I’m done.”

She did not respond at first. Then, through her gnarled mandible, I swear she was smiling.

"You are mistaken, Harold. You have been dead since yesterday.”

Took a second to sink in, but when it did, I howled so badly my throat burned. Christ. It was the funniest thing I heard all my life.

"S'that so?” I said. “Fuck it. I won’t fight. But do me a favor, before we go."

The Angel cocked her head, stood up from the seat and gave what looked to be a nod.

"Let me go out with a bang."

The Angel rose her arm and extended a finger.

The gas valve snapped. The room smelled like rotten eggs. She hovered over to me, old bones cracking as she twisted her hand, putting thumb to middle finger, right under my cigar.

In my head, I imagined dropping to my knees, pressing my hand to my chest. Father. Son. Holy Spirit.

I saw the light. A-fucking-men.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

2:36 PM - Apr 07, 2014 #6

sebmojo wrote: Interprompt: 100 words on the beautiful end of the world.
A Good Night's Rest
100 words

They warned Rolf about the bustling city life, but not even they could predict the noise and the insomnia that inflicted him.

Rolf was trying to sleep on the couch when it happened. The loud screeches made him jump. Then, nothing.

Carefully he rose and made his way to the window. His eyes dilated at the sight.

Abandoned cars littered the street. The sky took on a deeper shade of black, one of silence and void. Not a soul in sight.

It was still early, wasn't it? The man smiled to himself. He returned to the couch and closed his eyes. He slept well.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

11:02 PM - Apr 28, 2014 #7


Write a story inspired by the phrase Blood Queen of Thunderdome.
98 words








Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

6:19 AM - May 19, 2014 #8

okay, I think I've cracked the code this time.

This weeks prompt asks us to write about flight, and make it a story of someone with a dream.
The Kite Flying Blues
Flash Rule - 900 words or less
880 words

So I'm staring straight into the sun when a thought slaps me across the face; if I raise my left foot, right now, I’ll fall. I’ll hit the ground harder than that Guido motherfucker I caught Casey with.

I imagine colliding with the concrete and I have to step back so I I don’t get any puke on me. ‘How retarded are you?’ I hear you asking. Good question. Like, I’m jumping, so who cares if I vomit on my shirt? Whatever, my intestines growl as I finish. I reach into my pocket and pull out the photo of me and Casey.

Doesn't matter how salty I am, she’s the prettiest damn girl in the world. ‘She’s way out of my league’, I remember telling myself one night, years ago. ‘No way am I getting with her.’ Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I caught her in bed with a roasted beefcake.

You might be thinking Casey’s why I’m up here, like she’s the anvil that broke this camel’s back. Ain’t exactly true; try a perfect, lifetime-long storm of straws and a liberal arts degree stained with ketchup. Casey was the only reason I didn’t jump a year ago. Without her, I've got no direction. There's nothing holding my back. So. Why not?

But... C-Christ, not sure what's worse; how high up I am or how it’s nowhere as high as I imagined. I figured I would get thirty seconds of freefall, at least. From this high, I’d be lucky to squeeze out ten.

I need a smoke. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the carton. It’s empty. Cursing, I ball it into a wad and chuck it. A sudden gust of wind sends it flying southbound, and when I follow it with my eyes, I catch a glimpse at a kite as it’s about to take a nosedive.

... Wait, a kite? Why is there a – Jesus!

I drop to my knees, out of sight. There’s a park across the street from the apartment complex, I saw it when I first came up here. Clearly I didn’t ‘see’ it, because I didn’t notice the kid.

This girl, she waddles over to her misshapen kite and starts bawling her eyes out! A woman in a straw made comes over to her. She sits on her haunches, rubbing the kid's back. The girl turns and buries her face in her mother's shoulder, and I'm tearing up too because holy shit I almost killed myself in front of a kid!

Now a guy in a polo shirt's coming over! Pretty sure he can’t see me, but there’s no way to know for sure. He squats down too and says something to his daughter. I can't hear the girl crying anymore, but I see her clutch her mother's sundress and nod. The guy smiles, takes the kite and stands up. He starts fiddling the plastic sticks holding the kite together. After a minute, he examines it, nods, then holds it so his daughter can see.

And this girl... she just flashes the cutest smile I've ever seen. I smile too, even though I'm still blubbering.

The girl reaches for the kite and her parents laugh. Father hands his kid the twine and picks her up while the mother holds the kite. Once she's settled on his shoulders, the parents move around a bit so that they're facing at the right angle. Father says something just as the wind picks up again. The mother nods and quickly lets go. Man, that puppy starts soaring almost instantly. The girl's facing away from me, but I see her bouncing and pointing and I hear her giggling. I laugh too.

So I'm watching this father making his daughter giggle when she was crying a minute ago, and I realize something; I want to be him. I want what he's got. I want to be a father.

No. Scratch that. I've always wanted a kid. I just never knew it. Something about that scares me, even more than wanting to kill myself. With suicide, I know how it's going to play out. With this, I...

Fuck. I mean, I feel like a piece of useless shit, yeah, that hasn't changed. But seeing a couple making their daughter happy like that, it makes me want to grin and bear it, even though that's what I've been doing for years. I haven’t smiled this much in ages, certainly.

So I force myself away from the ledge. Then I reach into my pocket and pull out the picture of Casey. I start folding the edges, one over the other, until I make myself a plane. Then I throw it Casey flies, flapping her creased wings into the cold air. Another gust caries her away, and I watch her soar until she's only a speck in the blue sky. I sigh. A couple of bucks at the one-hour photo shop and a thousand painful memories, all gone with the wind. Feels bittersweet.

I don't know where I'm going after this, but I have my destination, and that's all that matters.

As I turn to leave, I see a cigarette on the ground. Must have fallen out of my carton. I crush it with my heel. Good day to quit.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

4:06 AM - May 26, 2014 #9

This week the prompt is about a story that is about a truly alien intelligence. THIS STORY DEALS WITH BODY HORROR SO IF YOU DON'T LIKE ICKY STUFF PLEASE DON'T READ THIS.
Rooftop Brain Crack Blues
745 Words

I have been in my boyfriend’s apartment for a week, maybe more. Despite the aching in my limbs, there’s nothing stopping me from leaving. Brad’s apartment is the only place I feel safe. Brad was a very ‘safe’ guy. I was never a ‘safe’ girl, far from it. Perhaps I coveted that about him. I never expected him to shoot himself when his brains started coming out of his nose.

I could shoot myself, too. It would be so easy. Put the barrel to my head, POW, as simple as that. It’s not like I have much reason to live. Brad’s corpse is slumped against the wall, just under a mirror. I’ve seen myself change right before my eyes. C’mon, you can see your ribs ready to tear through your skin and your head is as big as a watermelon and you still think you have your whole life ahead of you? To think, people used to call me attractive. Such pretty eyes, very punk-rock dyed hair, a wide, full chest. My breasts are pruned and sagging. Whatever hair remains has grayed. My eyes have sunken so far back that I can run rings around the edges of the sockets. I am a satire of who I used to be. I want to ask what the hell is happening to me, but of course the circus members are there to shake all my doubts away.

They hover before my bloated body. These abhorrent apparitions, their features so far removed from reality that I cannot for the life of me describe them. But they stroke my bloated head and they caress me like a newborn and they whisper that I need to go to the roof. Part of me doesn’t want to go to the roof, afraid of what I will find.

I can’t take it anymore. Need to get to the roof. Forcing my limbs to cooperate, I pick myself up, my hands braced against the wall. My ankles twist as I force myself to step, inch by inch, towards the door. As I make it to the door, I take one last look at Brad. He was the only reason I didn’t give into the voices on the first day. He loved me, even with my stubborn attitude, even when I screamed and called him names, even when my swelled head looked like a football. He loved me and I love him. God, I wish I could kiss him. But I can’t. Maggots are covering his entire face.

I shamble down the hallway, bracing the wall and clutching each door handle as I pass. Managing to reach the staircase, my limbs snap like tree branches. I fall face first into a step. I swallow my teeth, my mouth tasting of metal and determination. I climb. Each step makes my body burn with a new species of agony, my legs bobbing up and down as my arms do all of the work. Brad’s apartment is on the tenth floor, the roof is on the thirteenth. I cannot keep track of how far I am because this staircase feels endless, impossibly steep. The only thing keeping me going are the phrasing voices of my Masters and sheer stubbornness. Brad always said that I had to win in every argument. Can’t say he was wrong.

No matter how loudly my body screams, I will not stop. When I reach the final staircase, I am on the verge of laughing, tears lapping down my face. I force myself up on my broken knees, pushing the weight of my entire body against the latching, hoping, praying that the door is unlocked.

The door is unlocked. It opens and I flop head first into the pebble-littered ground. The fire alarm goes off and it makes my head ring, but I do not care. The voices are cheering, congratulating me, but I’m not finished yet. They tell me to go to the edge, everything will be explained there. I do so, crawling and writhing like a dying animal. Once I reach the edge, I place my chin forward so I can look out at my surroundings.

New York is pretty at this time of night. Looking out at the flashing lights of Times Square, I smile as it hits me. I finally understand.

A spine-tingling relief washes over my spine as my head cracks like an egg and as the cinnamon sugar that used to be my brains flows out of my nostrils. I will pollinate the night’s sky and the entire world will blossom into something beautiful.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

3:45 PM - Jun 16, 2014 #10

lmao hey guys I actually wrote a good story last week for once.
prompt wrote:When you sign up I’m going to give you one of these unwanted books. You’re gonna gut the insides, throw out all the useless garbage, and fill it with new goodness. You must get rid of the title! Nothing is based on the title! The title doomed the first work! You gotta keep the cover, though, because we don’t judge books by their covers. So. This means you need to make sure the cover still fits your new piece of brilliant fiction. This is your prompt. Please don’t fuck this up.

Oh, you have a theme, too. Because evidently you need one. The theme is “discovery.” Enjoy!
For reference my cover was this.
The Fall of Cedric Conrad
1447 words

Took him a minute to remember how to breathe. His legs twitched and he laughed, laying back, hands off fate’s wheel, rolling with it ‘til he crashed and burned. He, Cedric Conrad, 40, was not himself.

"Pace yourself. Try not to fall when you trip cuz' it's hard to get back up."

That was what Lacie told Cedric, 16, the day of his first. Cedric said that he didn't feel anything and Lacie laughed. Lacie was chill, real Stevie Nicks type. Wore the pants, Cedric liked that.

"Give it a few. Best comes to those who wait."

Cedric felt it, 'it' being his head and 'felt' being the helium pumping in through his ear. His nails dug into the arm of the couch because he was afraid he'd float and get torn by the ceiling fan. Lacie laughed and hugged Cedric and told him not to worry, just relax, roll with it baby. Only thing Cedric remembered was watching Rocky Horror with Lacie's head buried in his chest. They stayed in touch 'til Cedric, 35, went into rehab.

Cedric, 40, felt all round his apartment! Touching things! The remote, pillows, an apple, the wall! Everything was so fresh, so new! Spent a hour just feeling around the bookcase, cackling like a hyena every time he knocked over a book! Jesus Christ it was hilarious!

Cedric, 20, went to the same University as Lacie, still friends. She invited him to dozen parties. Only time he accepted was when he was high enough not to give a fuck about nerves. Course, gave enough of a fuck to stick to the wall with a cup of cola in his hand.

"They don't bite, you know."

Guy smiled. Asian, swimmer's body, real pretty. Cedric smiled back and said he didn't handle parties well.

"Me neither. Let's be wallflower together."

They talked for what felt like hours. Cedric laughed more than he had in ages. He couldn't believe it when Can't Help Falling in Love came on and they actually started mock slow dancing. Everything was going great. Then they kissed.

Next day Cedric was scared. He never knew that side of himself. But he liked it. The guy was Ken Akimoto and they went out on a date two days later. Lacie said they were cute together, always made a face Cedric couldn't read when they were together.

It took Cedric, 40, ages to figure out how to use the phone. Kept ringing and ringing. Hank, Lacie's husband. White boy but down to earth. Cedric liked him.

"Cedric. Lacie's been trying to call you.

"We heard about Ken. She wants to know if...

"Cedric? Buddy, are you there? I can hear you breathing.

"If this is a joke it isn't funny.

"Lacie's worried. We're coming over, don't worry."

Cedric dropped the phone. The walls were closing in on him and everything was turning red. He needed to get the fuck out. He didn't want to go back to rehab.

Cedric, 21, dropped out of college. Ken said it was fine, just take a break. Cedric got a job paper pushing, didn't pay well but it was something. Ken and Cedric, 22, found an apartment and moved in. Ken wore the pants, summa cum laude but didn't go for Graduates. Got a job at an advertising agency that paid well. Cedric really loved that high-rise. He was happy for a time.

Ken took him to Chinatown one night. For once Cedric, 24, didn't smoke. Server laughed when Ken spoke Chinese. Ken was Japanese so it was a surprise. Server got them the real menu, very fancy stuff for cheap. They talked for a bit. How's the job? Are your parents coming for Thanksgiving? The niceties stopped though. Ken got serious.

"Please don't be mad."

Cedric promised he wouldn't get mad.

"I really think you should quit."

Was he talking about the job? It was dead end but Cedric liked it.

"Don't act dumb. You know what I mean. I'm worried that you may have a problem."

There wasn't a problem. He could pace himself. Cedric told him not to worry.

"You're getting high almost every day now. Hank said you called Lacie up one night asking to drive you to Taco Bell."

Cedric laughed. Holy shit he remembered that. Ken didn't laugh. He sat up straight and made that motherly frown of his. Ken didn't seem to mind back in school.

"You aren't in school anymore Ced. I'm just worried, okay? Please promise me you'll quit."

Cedric promised he would quit. Ken nodded and smiled.

Cedric, 24, moved out after he broke Ken's flatscreen. Cedric went over to Lacie's and cried in her arms. Lacie smiled and patted his head like a puppy.

"Screw that guy. He's got money coming out of his ass, he could afford another fucking flatscreen."

Cedric hugged Lacie, told her thank you. Then he took a hit, asked if Lacie wanted some. Lacie looked away.

"Sorry, I'm trying to quitting."

Cedric slept on her couch for a week.

Cedric, 40, never walked outside when he was high. Always stayed inside or got into a car to go somewhere. The creeping sense of unfamiliarity grew as he stumbled down the street. Shit got alien to him: everything was in focus but strangely abhorrent. The sidewalks, crosswalks, alleyways, streetlamps, pedestrians, the trees, all larger and wider and slouching and verdant.

A man with an elephant snout started bumbling towards him. Cedric didn't like the look of him so he ducked into an alleyway. He bumped into a giant in slouchy jeans and a wifebeater.

"Watch it asshole."

Cedric watched it but he fell on his ass. He groaned. The giant looked towards his gremlin friend and cackled.

"Holy shit do you see this guy?"

The gremlin wore a hood over a baseball cap started laughing too. The clown to the giant's left, white bread and wearing a beanie, grinned and pointed at Cedric.

"Dude this nigga high as hell."

"Hey man where you get the chronic?"

Cedric whimpered. This was a nightmare, he was going to wake up soon. He rolled onto his scraped knees and started trying to crawl away. Something grabbed him by the hair and threw him back.

"Never did like fucking tramps."

"Mikey tape this shit."

The clown pulled some alien device out and aimed it at Cedric as the gremlin and giant started pounding Cedric into mush. They kept talking about posting it online. Youtube superstars. Cedric vomited blood and he think he pissed his pants and the monsters started howling. His mouth tasted of metal and he passed out after that.

Cedric, 35, lost his job paper pushing. He came into work high. Lacie wasn't answering her phone so he went home and got high. Lacie called him back.

"...Ced, are you high?"

No he was not high. Was what he wanted to tell her but instead he slipped and hit his head on the counter. When the ambulance came they found Cedric on the floor with a gash in his forehead.

They put him in rehab for several months. When they let him out, Cedric, 36, felt like a new man. He discovered that he didn't need weed. He reconnected with his parents and got up on his feet. Found a job as a McDonalds manager. He was happy for a time. Lacie stopped talking to him though and that disappointed him.

Cedric, 40, couldn't get up. They took his wallet and left him on the ground. No matter how much he scratched and clawed at the brick wall he could not get up. He was stuck on the ground and he couldn't get up.

"Try not to fall when you trip cuz' it's hard to get back up."

Holy shit! He just got that! Cedric started laughing with vomit on his face and piss in his pants! It was the funniest fucking thing! He kept laughing until the ambulance came! He kept laughing when they strapped him down on the gurney. And he didn't stop laughing until they stabbed him with a needle.

Cedric Conrad woke up in the hospital. There were flowers and baskets sitting next to him. He was so lucky to be alive, so many people that truly loved him. Cedric did not smile though. Everything looked gray.

Cedric, 40, got a phonecall. It was someone he didn't recognize.

"Is this Cedric Conrad?"

This is him.

"My name is Yuri Akimoto. My brother, Ken, was in a car accident last night."

Cedric hung up the phone. Ditched work. Went downtown and hit the first dealer he found. Then he went home and lit up. Took him a minute to remember how to breathe.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

1:02 AM - Jul 08, 2014 #11

It was week 100 and we did something special.
The macguffin is missing. Each of your protagonists is one in a long line of characters whose hands the macguffin passes through. Tell me about your character's time with the macguffin. Don't tell me about the macguffin. In the beginning you found it and in the end you lose it. Bonus points for populating your story with characters from other people's imaginations.

It's Pulp Fiction, Thunderdome-style.
Ciel wrote:Alyssa, 19 years old. Sits at 5'3, with a beefy build and deathly pale skin. She has dull brown eyes with heavy bags underneath, a big pugdog nose, and short, curly brown hair. Her clothes are nothing to really write home about : a baggy red hoodie, white undershirt stained with Los Grano D'oro's equivalent of buffalo sauce, baggy jeans and white sneakers.

Complete loser who works as a programmer who contracts out from her basement. The type of person who posts on the Los Grano D'oro's equivalent of Troper Tales, complaining about why she has no friends and why boys don't like her and 'oh people are so annoying right?'. She always speaks in monotone like she has a perpetual eyeroll going on and uses big words that she clearly does not understand. Considers herself asexual except for mack truck drivers who just so happen to be her fetish, along with boys with glasses and redheaded roller derby girls. She also keeps a folding Karambit in her back pocket.
Sitting Here wrote:Goldie Lockeless is just one of the many names the mysterious dame with an agenda goes by. She can be whoever and whatever it takes to secure the future of the briefcase. Her motives may be noble, they may be sinister; the only certainty is that they are inscrutable.

She seems to have an aversion to controlling the case herself, preferring to manipulate others into doing the dirty work of passing it from hand to hand. Her contacts range from the dregs of the criminal underworld to the pinnacles of the political elite. It is rumored that she has a history of looting the collections of rich, eclectic hoarders, but that's probably just hearsay.

She enjoys long conversations in dingy locations, furtive looks, and veiled implications. She's got legs for days and often favors some variety of short skirt/long jacket combo. She's a blond bombshell, when she's not busy playing the smoldering redhead or the seductive brunette.

Currently, she's seeking an accomplice to her schemes. Must be willing to get double crossed, betrayed, abandoned, titillated. Must be willing to exposit via pillow talk. Preferably, they would brood over her long after she's slipped out of their life and back into the shadows from whence she came.

It's very likely that anyone involved with the briefcase will become involved with Goldie, AKA whoever.

More judge characters to follow.
BadSeafood wrote:Adrian Stepwater has never been much of a people person. A former cop turned private investigator, he lives by himself in a modest apartment where he lavishes affection on his windowsill garden. Surprisingly articulate, he disapproves of swearing and is prone to long, rambling conversations - just not with other people. Perpetually tired and vaguely irritated, there isn't much color in his life. Just his flowers and his trademark red jacket.

But even a man like Adrian can't work alone. His darling Elizabeth is ever at his side, a magnum revolver he inherited from his father. He calls her Elizabeth because he considers it a classy woman's name. He always refers to her as though she were a person.

In truth, Adrian couldn't care less about the case, but he's got a hunch it's the ticket he needs to blow the forces that lurk beneath Los Grano D'oro wide open. But whatever you do, don't call him a hero. He's not doing it for you. He's doing it for the houseplants.
The Brief Case of the MacGuffin
998 Words

Combination lock. Child’s play. Alyssa could see why there was a bloody scuffle over it. But it was not Alyssa’s. The woman, Goldie, it was hers. She would just have to find her, wouldn’t she?

Alyssa figured ‘Goldie’ was an alias, not that it mattered. Worst part about the electronic apocalypse was that there was very little you could hide. Alyssa knew what Goldie looked like and she had a name. That’s all she needed. Alyssa pulled her laptop out and rolled her fingers through her hair. Time to get to work.

She tracked Goldie to a bar in downtown Polyside. Town was an anachronism to say the least, bar especially. Seedy establishment, little clientele, kind of place Alyssa could barely stomach. She tucked her Karambit into her hoodie pocket and hit the pavement.

When she arrived there was only the bartend and a guy with a chiseled beard. Guy breathed a certain I’ll-fuck-anything musk that disgusted Alyssa. When she mentioned Goldie, though, his eyes went cold and immediately he noticed the case behind her. He knew.

They sat in silence for a time. Alyssa stared into the mirror against the wall, saw the pistol in his waistband. Big man, small gun. Alyssa canted her head, seeing the top of the Tender’s head poking out from over the counter. There was a light tapping against the counter and Alyssa quickly realized it was her trembling hand.

“Hand it over,” he said.

“Sure.” Alyssa took a step with her right foot, briefcase in hand. She stared into Guy’s teddybear eyes and stupid beard. Then she whipped the briefcase forward. “Kidding.”

She whipped the briefcase forward. A second to bridge the gap, that’s all she needed. By that time, Guy had his gun out. She was ready and caught his wrist. The gun went off twice, clipped the Tender in the top of the head. It gave her enough time to reach for her Karambit and flick it open. With a vicious twist she jabbed it right into his neck.

And it was over.

It took Alyssa a moment to remember how to breathe. A second to realize what she had just done. A third to realize the burning pain in her leg.


Alyssa met Adrian Stepwater in the alleyway outside the bar. He stood with his back against a brick wall, like he had been expecting her. Alyssa didn’t like small talk. ‘Elizabeth’ put her in a talkative mood.

“Made quite the mess, haven’t you?” he said.

Alyssa just stared. Her grip tightened around the pistol at her side. Alyssa stared at the red jacket, made him look like a blood orange. Made him look less like a pig, more like Count Dracula.

“Guess so,” she said.

Alyssa and Adrian, two pale-skinned antisocialites staring one another down in a dark alley, guns at the ready. The lip of the alleyway led out into a market, sort of thing you see in an old gangster movie. People talked about D’oro like electricity flowed through its veins, but antiquity had its charm, neon-soaked or otherwise. One thing Alyssa and Stepwater shared in common? They chose the alleyway.

“Not handing it over,” she said.

Adrian laughed, humorless, as that would require smiling. “You misunderstand. The case itself means little to me. It’s the abstraction that intrigues me, the inner workings.”

Alyssa’s lips creased. “Then why are you even here?”

“I don’t owe you anything, hacker, let alone an explanation. All I care about is whether that case arrives at its destination.” He pulled a matchbox from his lapel. “You’re looking for Goldie Lockless, yes?”

“I don’t need your help.”

Adrian hmphed. “Please. You’re capable, I’ll give you that, but your little toybox of electrical circuits will only get you so far in life.”

Alyssa took the matchbox, flipped it around in her bloodstained fingers. A phone number written in red ink with a heart.

“This conversation never happened.” Adrian sniffed.

Alyssa dug the matchbox into her pocket. “Whatever.”


There was laughter on the other end of the phone. Another bar, maybe. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Alyssa swallowed. The voice was like honey to her ears. She forced herself to respond. “Not really, no.”

“So what? Do you honestly expect me to buy it back from you?”

“Nope. I just found it. I wanted to give it back to its rightful owner.”

There was another laugh, booming but with that unmistakable honey-smooth pitch. “Mon Dieu.” She composed herself. “That briefcase is yours now. My hands are clean.”

“…But you just left it there. I saw you.”

Laughter again, mocking, pitying. “Sweetie, you don’t even know the half of it. Now run along. I’m busy.”


Click. Alyssa hovered there at the payphone like an idiot for ages. Then she cursed and kicked the case with her good leg.


The hobo pushing a shopping cart smiled as Alyssa limped passed. “What’s the matter child? You look like you’ve seen the devil!”

God did not exist. Alyssa thought she believed that. But the kindness in the man’s words was enough to break Alyssa’s stoicism. She frowned deeply. Her eyes darted all around and her lip trembled. She turned to look at him.

“It’s nothing.” Alyssa said. “Just…”

The tramp nodded patiently. He couldn’t see that Alyssa was close to tears and she wanted to keep it that way.

“When I die, I don’t think I’ll end up in a nice place.”

The man nodded. “There’s always time to repent.”

Alyssa shrugged. She looked at the cart, filled to the brim with knick knacks. “Think you can add this to your collection?”

“Sure. Not like I’ll be needing a briefcase anytime soon.” The tramp said. “Anything in it?”

Alyssa shook her head. Then she reached into her pocket and handed him all the money she took from the register at the bar. He told her to have a blessed day and Alyssa, still frowning, crossed the street.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

1:08 AM - Jul 08, 2014 #12

SurreptitiousMuffin wrote: INTERPROMPT

Describe a deeply personal and affecting experience of yours, except now all the characters in it are hedgehogs. This must be plot relevant somehow.

100 words.
Searching Jeff The Hedgehog on Google Images, a Haiku
14 words

On Google I type
"Jeff The Hedgehog", with SafeSearch off.
The laughter won't stop.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

9:12 PM - Jul 10, 2014 #13

crabrock wrote:Prompt: 150 max words on: *PICTURE OF TUB OF BUTTER*
A Few Butter Men
144 words

The company was on a roll until the enemy rendered their weapons useless. Unable to triglycerides, the Captain quickly dropped the salt to his men.

"We'll just have to spread out", said Captain Londolakes.

"We can't," said Lieutenant Oleo. "The margarine for error is too high! We're toast!"

"You're much too white bread, soldier" said Londolakes, combat knife clenched between his teeth. "I thought you butter than that."

"No," said Oleo, "I won't tallow it!"

The solder named Chris Go grabbed Oleo by the lapels. "Think about Pam!"

"You're right," Oleo said, "I spray every day for a chance to return home. I cannot shorten my life here."

The company split for the batter, lost and a-fried. They all managed to greasefully escape but the opposing government issued a fatwa. Makes my stomach churn just thinking about it. Lard have mercy on their souls.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

12:22 AM - Jul 28, 2014 #14

This story is from two weeks ago. The prompt was elements of war, because we were placed on . I was on Team Dinosaur. We won.


Blonde Hair, Blue Eyes, Gentle Smile
(1285 words - out of 1340[1200 word limit + 140 word bounty])

I’ve worked for the English Department at this University for over thirty years, met so many bright and seen my share of graduations. In fact, I'm certain quite a few parents in the audience have taken my courses in the past. The thought of playing part of that sort of inheritance really warms my heart.

I am retiring next year. The fact that my time is coming to an end has made me stop to contemplate. I can remember a time where getting into university was seen as a privilege, not a right. I am sure I don't need to tell you that things were rough in America on the cusp of 1940's. Those attending university were kids who came from well-to-do backgrounds, who had someone to pick them back up when they fell. But, haha, you could say I am an exception to this rule.

Today, I will not expound about the world you will soon be entering. That is knowledge I feel you should learn on your own. No, today I will tell you about how I was accepted into this school.

When I was your age, I wanted to come to this very same school. But then Pearl Harbor happened, and everything changed.

We did not know about the concentration camps. Back then, information was quick but very limited. All we knew was that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, the Japanese were in cahoots with the Germans and the Germans were taking over Europe. We did not go over to Europe because we wanted to be the heroes. It was revenge, pure and simple, and while the people being recruited had little experience, they were hungry for that same vengeance.

I was one of them. Sadly. I was shipped to Normandy around... 1944. It's very hard to remember what month, but it was around Fall. My memory of my training is very vague but I know for a fact that they simply taught us how to fire a gun. That was it. They shipped us out without so much as a pat on the back.

We were ordered to go to Antwerp, in Belgium, where we would be stationed. We would have to walk, and it as the naval forces would run the risk of being blindsided. It took us two weeks to arrive at Antwerp. I was involved in a few skirmishes around that time, nothing like what the movies like to show. I was lucky in those regards, though at the time I did not see it as luck but something much greater.

I ended several lives in that time. Each one was a very long distance away, close enough to shoot down, far enough not to get any on me. While the first one took a lot of nerve on my end, the second came very easily to me. And then the third. And the forth. I did not feel a thing. I did not lose sleep over any of these lives, not at the time. These people were the enemy. The devil incarnate. That's what we told ourselves around the fire. It's what helped us sleep at night, kept us going. Don’t think too hard, just shoot.

We arrived in Belgium just before Germany tried to recapture Antwerp. They call it the Battle of the Bulge. And, unfortunately, my luck had ran out. We arrived right in the thick of it.

The battle lasted for over a month. Many of the soldiers died over that time. Food was running scarce. But that bravado from before was still running through my veins. I was so stupid, so naive. Blood was shed in those woods, staining the snow-covered ground and turning it redish ink. Good men died. And yet my hubris was so strong, it didn’t even phase me. All I cared about was defeating the enemy, fighting for my country.

One night, I got too cocky. I stormed ahead into the trees, planting myself a good few paces from my squadron. My back was up against a fallen tree. The Germans were coming upon us, I could see them in the treeline. My aim was good and I was at a perfect position to pick them off. I took down five or six of them before a bullet tore through my leg.

The pain was so great that I stopped. The gun flew out of my hands but I was so focused on my leg that I...I didn't notice my comrades were retreating. Eventually the German forces started pushing up and, thank god, they didn't notice me sitting there. A few positioned themselves at the same tree I was, but I was so silent they must have thought I was a corpse. Again, I was lucky. But my leg was bleeding and I knew that I would die unless I did something about it. I was about to make a limping break for it when...

...When this young kid passed by. He stopped there in the snow, then he turned to look at me. I knew immediately that he was the enemy. He pulled the gun towards me but he did not fire. I bore down on my lip to stop myself from screaming. I was out of ammo and there was a bullet in my leg. There was no escape. I was going to die.

But he didn't shoot me. He just... lowered the gun, looked around at his comrades in the distance, then brought a finger to his lips. Then he shrugged his bag off his shoulder, unzipped it and... he tried to fix my leg.

He was the enemy. I kept telling myself that. He was the enemy, I had to shoot him. But I didn't do a thing. I just let this complete stranger patch my leg up. He must have been a medic, someone who knew how to take care of bullet wounds. He stopped several times when he heard a set of feet crunching in the snow. Each time he would just put his finger to his lips, and I would just nod.

He smiled once he was finished. This young man looked at me for a moment. He was blond, with blue eyes, like an angel. He looked at me for a very long time, nodded, then left. I never learned his name, he never asked for mine.

One of the Allied soldiers found me and brought me back to camp. I was sent home, never given any medals but received a full scholarship to this University. I graduated with a Bachelors in English, then turned right around and started teaching here a few years later. I have lived a good life. And yet I realize would have happened if it were not for the kindness of a single man. I slayed a dozen other young men, just like me, and did not feel a thing. But that soldier, the one who saved me, I… I still see his face in my sleep.

This was not meant to be a gritty description of what I saw. That would take over a hour, and my time is very brief. Very few of you can imagine what any of this is like, and for that I am happy. You have been given this very same chance without having to kill a single soul. I would not ask that of any of you.

So go out there. Make a name for yourself. Find the love of your life. Live. But do not forget that there are multiple sides to everything. Think critically, never one-sided. Because you have the luxury of not having to carry the weight of a dozen men on your shoulders. I do not.

Mr. Danya
Joined: 12:17 AM - May 26, 2007

12:26 AM - Jul 28, 2014 #15

also here's my dog story from ages ago
Macy and the Bad Man (or Three Cheers for Macy!)
993 words

The Bad Man was about to cut my hair and wash me and tie The Bow on me. So I nipped him! I don't get why he's upset. I only bit him about as hard as I do The Boy and The Boy always teases me! I think Bad Man's just mad that I fought back! Now Bad Man has put me in a cage and I'm scared because he keeps saying my name. I don't understand what he's saying but he's really mad!

Bad Man hangs up his thingy and walks out of the room. The furball across from me starts yipyaping. I don't know what her name is. Mommy says I’m a Rot-Why-Lahr, I don't know what any of that means but I miss Mommy and Daddy and even The Boy.

"Maybe you should have thought about that when you bit him." Pipsqueak yips.

"Shut up, pipsqueak!" I start biting the cage door. Maybe I can chew my way out! "It's not my fault, he was asking for it!"

"You'll be lucky if he sends you to the pound," huffs the poo-del next to me, which is a weird name. "I was there once. They made me sleep on the ground, the water was dirty. It was truly ghastly."

"I heard Squirrels chase dogs in The Pound," rrrs the sad looking Pug underneath me.

"Well I heard," Pipsqueek cocks her head. "that they don't even serve Kibble! at The Pound."

"I don't waaannaa go to The Pound." I whine. "I'm not a Bad Girl!"

I keep growling and nipping along the bars. If I can chew through Daddy's shoes, I can chew through these bars. Then my snout bumps against something and there's a click! The cage swings open and I pounced! I don't know what I did but yay, Freedom!

The other dogs start barking! Some are cheering me on, others are begging me to let them out! But I'm not out yet! I run up to the door and start clawing at it! The door opens and -

Oh No! Bad Man! He starts howling and walking towards me. I start padding backwards but my butt bumps against the wall! Oh no, I’m trapped! He has his paws raised and he looks really scary! Once he’s close he tries to pounce me. There’s space between his legs so I try to run through them. I bump into him instead. He topples over and makes that sound Daddy makes whenever I jump into his lap! I run out the open door, up the stairs and crawl through a doggy hole.

Yay! I’m outside! Bad Man is right behind, he’s screaming but he can’t catch up to me. Eventually he stops on his lawn and starts panting, and I stop and pant too! Maybe he has to pee?

“Too bad, Bad Man!” I arururu. “Guess this Good Girl won't be getting washed!”

I can sniff out Home from here. Maybe I can find it by following the scent! I start running down a street. I can smell cats and squirrels and bunnies, and I really want to chase them. But I have to go home. So I keep running. Even though I want to chase them!

At the end of the road there's a bunch of trees. There's no trees at Home, but the scent tells me it's past here! The trees make me wanna pee so I squat, but before I tinkle I see a truck pull up. Oh No! Bad Man.

"Stay away Bad Man," I growl. "I will bite you."

He tries to grab me but he stops when I snap my jaws! Then I run off into the trees and follow the scent. I can hear him screaming my name but he is a Bad Man and I do not come!

The scent lead me to a big pool. It's really weird, there's a pool at Home but it never looks this long. Home is across this pool and I'm a really good swimmer. I jump in just as the Bad Man comes out of the trees.

Wow this pool is really mad. Cold too! I've only been swimming for a minute and it keeps pushing me! I make it across but I'm really tired. I shake my fur and sit down for a second to pant. I'm almost Home, only a little more to go...

Bad Man starts calling my name. But he sounds scared. I look and see him thrashing his paws in the pool. He keeps calling my name, he looks really scared.

Oh no! He's in trouble! He was trying to cut my hair - but I have to save him! But what if he puts The Bow on extra tight? I can't just leave him. He's a bad man but - He's in trouble! I have to save him!

I jump back in. I paddle over to him and bite his shirt. His hands wrap around me and he's really heavy! The pool gets really mad and it keeps pushing me. It's really hard keeping my head up but I keep pulling and paddling!

Finally we make it to shore. The Bad Man starts crawling and hacking up a hair ball. I give him kisses and he keeps saying my name. We sit there and he doesn't put The Bow on me. He's petting and hugging me! Maybe he isn't such a Bad Man after all!

When we get home Mommy is there. She starts growling at my Friend, but she stops once Friend whimpers. Mommy and my Friend call me a Good Girl! Mommy takes me for a ride and I get to sit up front, and when we get home Daddy calls me a Good Girl lets me sit in his lap! The Boy calls me a Good Girl, he even gives me some hamburger! I love my Pack, but I hope I get to see my new Friend soon.