# March 2014 - LM - Unexpectedly Nude



## Fin (Mar 1, 2014)

Click here for the workshop thread


*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​Unexpectedly Nude​



The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


*The judges for this round are:*

*thepancreas11*; *Jon M*; *Gavrushka*; *Dictarium*


*Rules*


*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*No liking entries until the scores go up.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.




*There are a few ways to post your entry:*


If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.


Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

*This competition will close on:*

Friday, the 14th of March at 11:59 PM GMT time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## Jake Creamer (Mar 2, 2014)

Failed charisma check.
Jake Creamer




    He was an average man, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. He was dressed informally, but not sloppily. He seemed unprepossessing, the type of man that one would barely notice got on the bus.


    He walked with an unhurried stride, carrying a gray plastic filebox in his right hand, and on his back was a pack of the type that students wear to carry their books. As he passed houses, his eyes sought out the numbers, and it was obvious that he was walking to a particular home he'd never been before. Every so often, he'd check his watch, and continue moving along withhis completely average, normal looking stride. There was nothing about him to give away the fact that he was really a dreamer.

    All his life, he'd been a dreamer. He loved reading books to escape from drab reality. Classics, heroic fantasies, science fiction... He read, and dreamed himself a powerful sorcerer, controlling the destiny of the ages with his mighty powers. He hummed to himself as he walked, keeping time to his steps with the rhythm of the tune. Brooms danced in his mind, and he smiled. He told himself that everyone was an escapist in one way or another, so why should he not embrace his dreams? 

    He was a guest game master tonight for a group of adventurers that were friends of friends. Their normal GM was a clan member of his on his favorite MMORPG. They met once a week, a party of six. Aristobuluous the necro couldn't make it, as work required a double shift for inventory...could you be so kind? Certainly! A one-off adventure, he'd dust off one of his favorite old modules, re-worked for the newrules system. Who knows? If he liked the group well enough, (and they he), perhaps there would be an invitation to follow up. He started by re-reading the module, and deciding on some special tweaks. A cunning trap here, a magical treasure there. 

    As the day closed in, he gathered up his good dice, a few extra character sheets, some mechanical pencils...all of his gaming gear fit nicely in the gray firebox he'd purchased for himself back in high school when he was on the debate team. He went shopping, loading up some snacks and soft drinks. Gaming groups always liked to share munchies, and coming over empty handed was for the unfortunates who were between jobs. He did, however, reserve for himself his special energy drink. Full of caffeine and sugar, it would keep him sharp and alert all night, ready for any curve balls that the adventurers would throw his way. 

    The average looking dreamer was smugly pleased, and felt that he'd covered all his bases. He was confident, competent, and had no reason to be nervous. Gamers were all alike, he told himself.  He knew he'd fit right in. He found the house number, and turned up the walk. A simple rancher, one tree, no tell tale signs that it was the home of anyone but a normal, mundane, lower middle class family. 

    Reaching the door, he set his filebox down, and wiped his hand on his pants, removing the damp that had built up. He adjusted his pack on his back, swishing and crunching with the salty goodies and sweet elixir. The average looking dreamer stretched out his hand, and could hear the murmur of voices inside. His anticipation heightened. He pressed the doorbell, and felt the vibration of someone moving up to answer the door. 

    As the door opened he started to introduce himself and then froze, his voice catching in his throat.The heavyset, bearded and bespectacled man who had answered the door, was shockingly, unexpectedly, nude.


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## Fin (Mar 2, 2014)

*Practical Problems & Brute-Force Solutions
Anonymous Entry​*


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## Pluralized (Mar 2, 2014)

*Torch-649w*

Jimmy and Greta lived back in the woods, in a trailer park with no name. 

“You wearin' a wig again, after all we done talked about? Get outta my house.” Jimmy stood up out of his recliner, picked up a can of hairspray and a lighter, lunged after her. “Why can’t you understand the simplest fire rules?” He aimed the blowtorch at her head, and she ran screaming out into the yard. She tripped over an old microwave oven and fell to the ground. She writhed around, flames leaping off her black hair. “Stop, drop, and roll, bitch!” he shouted from the porch. “You gotta learn.” He chuckled and lit a cigarette.

She rolled around like an alleycat in heat, arched her back, screeched and bucked like she was being groped by unseen hands. 

“Jimmy, please,” she whimpered. “Call an ambul-“ she felt her head, blistered and hairless, with bits of burnt black wig stuck here and there. “You damn near burned my scalp off!”

Jimmy elbowed the side of the trailer like an angry baboon. He looked at her with a clenched jaw and said slowly, “You don’t know nothin’ about fire safety.”

The ambulance took her away, and a police car screeched up in front of the trailer. He admitted to pointing the hairspray-fire at her, but after explaining the wig collection and demonstrating his fire safety techniques for the two cops, they agreed to let him go back to cooking his hot dogs. 

He raised the spraycan as the cops left, unloaded on the wieners, which hissed and popped in gratitude. He smiled and hummed to himself. When the phone rang, he was finishing up eating and sat sprawled on the sofa.  

“Jimmy, she’s ready to come home,” said Greta’s mother, “I’m going to pick her up from the hospital now, and bring her on. She said she wants you gone by the time we get there.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said defiantly. “In fact, you tell that good-for-nothin' woman, we need to work on her damned fire safety. Everybody in this trailer park knows, wigs are damn dangerous. Fire hazard. But she still insists on wearin' em, making a fool outta me. I was almost a fireman, you know.” 

***

Mother helped her up the steps. Jimmy sat there, staring at Greta. “So I guess that settles it then,” he slurred. “You’re terrible at fire safety. I bet you can’t even get a certificate.” He pulled a swig off his moonshine, and passed out. 

Greta treated her wounds like the doctor showed her, patting burnt flesh with gauze. She faced the mirror, but couldn’t look into her own eyes. She spat into the sink, and stamped out into the living room. Jimmy snored like a Cessna, and when she poked him, he didn’t even budge. Her eyes tightened and a thin smile tried to emerge on her burnt face.

***

Jimmy slowly regained consciousness, out in the yard. A breeze told him he was naked before he even opened his eyes. Something hurt. His hands were bound, wrists locked tightly together. He moved his neck and pain shot through him like an electric shock from a stun-gun. A small crowd of neighbors gathered, asking if he was alright and mumbling about the smell. 

He felt exposed and ashamed, tried crossing his legs to obscure his hairy places. The too-tight handcuffs chafed his wrists. His beautiful mullet had been shaved off, and across his chest in permanent marker were scrawled the words:

_BURN ME._

A man came to the front of the crowd, smiling at the butt-naked Jimmy. He reached behind him and pulled out a glass jar, lit the sock sticking out of the end, and threw the fireball at him. Time slowed, and as the flaming bomb flew toward his head, there she was, behind the man, grinning through the gauze.


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## TheYellowMustang (Mar 2, 2014)

*Senseless*
628 words

Tammy and I, we’re waiting for our boss. Always late, she usually comes rushing into the store right before opening time with a pretzel between her teeth and her scarf hanging loosely from her neck, one end dirty from being dragged over the pavement. 

My friend Tammy, she’s one of those “curves are sexy” and “men want something to grab” types. Me, I’m realistic.

Realistic, pessimistic, skinny – call it whatever you want. 

Tammy is the result of a trend that will blow over faster than it arrived, spurred on by the same women who invented vanity sizing. Oh yes, that’s a thing. You didn’t magically go from a medium to a small, sweetheart. You didn’t lose weight without trying. They just added more fabric without changing the sizes. 

Tammy says things like “A _real_ woman doesn’t look like a skeleton wrapped in skin.”

A real woman. I always laugh at that. 

She’s a hypocrite, working at this boutique and all the while spewing out all that condescending drivel about how natural beauty should be praised. I promise you, there’s nothing natural about her. 

My sister works as an assistant in the CPR class down at the high school. My grandfather was a war hero, luring the enemy’s guns away from the other soldiers. Sacrificing his life. There are many ways to spend a life, and yet she chose to come here, to do this superficial job. I’ve never claimed it’s not meaningless, and I’ve never expected it to be anything more than mildly entertaining and effortless. 

There’s something so beautifully human about her, though. Her never-ending stream of complaints, her talk of natural beauty… How a stomach is supposed to fold when one sits down. How it’s so great that we’ve begun displaying dresses of bigger sizes. You know, for the _real_ women. 

Scoff, scoff, scoff. It’s how my days pass.

But, like I said, there’s something beautiful about her. She’s the idealist. The optimist. 

The optimist, I believe, is the one who complains the most and the loudest, because that is the one who not only wants the world to change, but who also believes it’s capable of it. 

Like the world is a work in progress. 

The bell above the door announces our boss’ rushed entrance. The obligatory pretzel hangs lazily from her mouth. She stops before the two of us, her purse in danger of sliding off her shoulder as her eyes rake up and down our forms. 

Wordlessly, she continues to the register and drops her things on the desk, shrugs out of her jacket and combs her fingers through her hair. She disappears into the backroom, and the fluorescent lights above us flicks and hums before bathing the store in bright luminescence.

When she returns, she comes up behind me. Her arm curls around my waist, twisting my torso with a grunt.

No.

It disconnects from my legs with a click. 

No, no, no.

Pulling the silk blouse off of me, she tucks the upper half of my body under her arm. In the split second it takes her to turn around, I catch a glance of Tammy’s face, twisted in a self-satisfied smirk.

I’m carelessly and brutally chucked into the farthest corner of the backroom. I count seventeen seconds, and my legs land on top of me. 

Unexpectedly nude, consequently cold, and left alone in the darkness. I feel the scream build in my split body, feel it tear through my stomach and up my throat, but no sound escapes my hard lips. 

That’s when I feel it. Or rather, that’s when I don’t. 

When it’s all gone – the lights and colors and sounds – my senses disappear one by one. I can’t smell. I can’t hear. I can’t see. I can’t even


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## midnightpoet (Mar 3, 2014)

The Hole
Word count 643

     Jim "Tubby" Williams lit his last cigarette with one of the remaining few matches that he had in his pocket. He took a deep breath, feeling the warm smoke sear his lungs. He smiled, remembering the kindly Vietnamese store owner that gave him the matches. Tubby scrunched as close as he could to the fire in the 55-gallon drum in the middle of the roofless red brick structure that the street people called The Hole.

Normally the place was crowded, waiting for guys to come around looking for day labor.  Now, it was just him, Mable with her shopping cart full of aluminum cans, and Jojo, a small black man wearing gloves with the fingers cut out.  Jojo had mental problems, and often in his own little world. Mable was snoring off a bender.

Tubby really felt alone.  His worn corduroys had a patch on the knee, and he shivered as he pulled his flannel shirt tightly around his body. It was already dark thirty, and Tubby could feel the first blue norther of the season blast through an open window. Tubby had gone to prison for killing a pimp who was beating up a whore, but damn it that whore was Gracie, his sister. Before that he was in the army. He’d lost the paperwork and the damn government didn’t know he still existed. After prison, he felt lost. He tried meth, then smack, then wine. He had gotten to the point he really didn’t give a shit.  

The building was near a freeway bridge, and there was a homeless shelter on the other side. Rev Hollis, a huge black man with a ready smile, ran the place. He liked the Rev, but he had been thrown out of the last three shelters for fighting, and he didn’t relish another cut lip or black eye. He knew several dudes who would like to slice him into little pieces. He opened his bottle of mad dog and took a long swig. By the time he finished, he was asleep. When he woke up, the building was empty, and it had started to snow. The damn fire had gone out. 

 He wandered out into the street. He needed something to eat and some warmer clothes. After checking out several dumpsters in the area, he found a long coat in the one at the back of the shelter. It was wool, and it had a few holes, but it fit. In his elation, he didn’t pay attention to where he was walking, and he ran into somebody.  That somebody hit him hard.

When he woke up he was laying on the frozen ground. The coat was gone, and so were all his clothes. They even took his boots. He managed to get up. He was now cold, naked and bleeding from a head wound. He tried walking toward the back door of the mission. He slipped on the ice and stumbled, falling over a garbage sack. As he faded into unconsciousness, he realized that there was another wound in his side.

The next morning he woke up in a hospital bed. Rev Hollis was there.

“What happened, Rev?”

“I went out back to empty the trash and I found you by the door. I called for an ambulance and they brought you here. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine now, Rev.”

“You damn well are not, brother.”  He turned to the other side of the bed.

“Gracie.”  

“Jim, I’ve been searching everywhere for you.  When I read about the attack in the paper I came as soon as I could.  I’m out of the life, I married a good man, and I want to help you.”

Jim’s head was clear as it had been in years.

“I love you, Gracie.”

She gave him a teary smile. He squeezed her hand and faded off to sleep.


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## escorial (Mar 4, 2014)

Caravan.

All they could afford this year was a caravan weekend for a holiday, some fifty miles from home that would get them away from the city and familiar surroundings. When reaching the site they checked in and went looking for plot 405. Reaching the caravan they unpacked what little belongings they brought and decided that the first night would be spent inside the quite caravan. Looking out the window the caravan was five hundred yards from the cliff edge and beyond was the sky and open sea.

Waking in the morning to the rain crashing against the caravan roof, he looked over his shoulder at his wife who was under the quilt holding onto the pillow. After making a cup of coffee he stood in front of the window and watched the angry grey skies send rain crashing down onto the sea that forced itself up against the cliff edge with all it’s might. The window would frame many different views of the same scene but if he was back home the grey clouds and rain would not be treated with such indifference.

She awoke to the smell of bacon and sausages fighting against each other in the small frying pan. Over breakfast they decided to go for a walk along the coast that would lead them back from a local beauty spot to the caravan and if the guide was right it should take four hours to complete. Looking out the window the clouds had turned from grey to streaks of white that looked like they had been applied by an artists palette knife, while the sea began whispering against the cliff face.

Not long into the walk the dampness had them slipping and stumbling over fences and through gaps onto the next part of the trek. From a small crop of trees down to the coast line, a walk along the beach and back up onto the cliff edge where they stopped of at the pub and enjoyed a nice pub lunch together. The weather had remained calm but looking up at the grey sky he thought it may be better to make another way back but she decided that the rain would only change the ground and not the lovely time she was having with him and they should carry on.

That night she asked him to go and buy a few bottles of wine while she prepared a meal. When he left she went to the boot of the car and brought all the things she needed for a romantic dinner for two. Candles, good food and music to enjoy while they ate. When he arrived back he was met by a smiling face and his favourite meal prepared and not long after the meal the two of them had made there way into the bedroom to finish of what had been a beautiful day.

They both enjoyed the night and fell asleep holding onto each other but like yesterday he was the first to rise. Gently he moved out of the bed careful not to disturb her from the sleep and the smile that was on her face. Turning the tap and placing last nights dishes in the sink he looked out of the small side window and in the next caravan he watched the morning light come on and viewed an old women unexpectedly nude before she covered herself in her nightgown. He smiled bent his head slightly and gazed at his young wife in the bed and thought to himself, hope were still doing this when we reach that old ladies age.


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## W. Dallas (Mar 6, 2014)

*White Willie - 649w*

*White Willie
*​Some folks call the color nude, black folks call it white.  Willie was white, and that was a problem, because Willie was also black.  Not that mixed race kind of black neither, but black, full on African American black.  No one expected a white Willie, Willie Sr. most of all.  He near beat his wife senseless when he spied infant Willie for the first time.  The baby weren’t no albino, so Willie Sr. figured she’d cuckold him with some cracker.  It weren’t so.  His wife had never been unfaithful, and after a great deal of screaming and slapping, she convinced Willie, Sr.

Now, Willie lived on Northside.  Considered the Harlem of the south, nothing but black folks lived on Northside.  The older boys gave poor Willie a hard time.  ‘Hey Cotton!’ They’d yell whenever he passed.  Willie couldn’t make no friends, most folks shunned him.  So Willie spent days by his lonesome, parked on the steps outside his rundown apartment building in his rundown projects.  

One day Willie decided it high time to shake things up a bit.   He found three of the older boys, walked right up and says, "Let’s go for some 40’s down at the corner store." The store was run by a cantankerous old Korean dude named Chang or Chan or some such, which caused the boys to avoid the place, but Willie said he’d buy.

Willie strolled into the store like he owned the joint.  "Jamal, you just wait by the door, you hear?"  Willie says.  Jamal didn’t appreciate Cotton telling him what to do, gave him a look for it, but he was hankering for some suds, so by the door he stood.  "Carlos, you stand right over there and block the old man’s view."  Carlos didn’t like the sound of that one bit, but it seemed Jamal and Luther were going along, peer pressure and all.

Willie moved around to the coolers at the back of the store, eyeing the beer.  Chang or Chan gripped the baseball bat he kept hidden behind the counter and taped it nervously against his hip.  Not too confrontational, but he wanted the boys well aware of the fact it was there.  

Willie grabbed a couple of six packs. Carlos figured out what was up and watched the Korean.  The old man watched back, however.  Willie had never been in the store, and none of the others mentioned the large oval mirror hanging at the end of the row.  Willie nodded to Carlos who attempted to shield Chang or Chan’s line of sight as the boys moved for the front entrance.  

"You stop right there!" Yelled Chang or Chan.  "I see you, I see you.  You steal from me for last time."  He tore around the counter, bat raised.  The boys shot for the exit.

They were almost out the front door when Willie plowed smack dab into a blue-clad police officer.  There were two of them, in fact.  "What’s going on here?" Asked the short, burly cop, his fingers doing a tap dance along the grip of his holstered gun.

"We didn’t do nothing, sir.  It was Willie.  We didn’t know what he was up to, honest.  We were just going to buy some Skittles when Willie went and took some of them beers."

"So you’re saying this was the white kid’s idea?  How stupid do you think we are?  You two," he said pointing his billystick towards Jamal and Luther, "I’ve hauled you in before haven’t I?"

"No sir," assured Jamal.  

The other officer, scary looking fella, glanced to Chang or Chan, "You want to press charges?"

"You damn right I do!  Hoodlums like these always steal my stuff!  Every day they come, steal all my stuff," complained Chang or Chan.

"You three stay put," instructed the officer.  Then to Willie he said, "You, get on back to Southside before you find some real trouble."


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## Pidgeon84 (Mar 6, 2014)

_Sunny Side Up (650 words)_

  I wake up in a daze. The sun coming through the blinds sticking me in the eye. My head is thumping, I’m pretty sure my skull is going to split in two. As I opened my eyes things were blurry. The colors of the wall is what brought me too, my room wasn’t maroon. I rubbed my eyes and as they adjusted I realized I wasn’t in my room at all. Not even my apartment. I rolled over on my back and took in the whole room. Fancy by my standards, which were admittedly humble. There was a large closet made of oak, with a mirror on one door. The sun had moved past the crack in the shades on the glass doors that lead out to the balcony. It revealed a gorgeous view over the city and out to the mountains. There was an oddly shaped black chair in the corner and to my left a black nightstand that looked antique. An alarm clock projected the time on to the wall. Having taken in the room I looked to my right to find a scruffy man next to me.


  “Oh shit.” I said quietly, making a point not to wake him. At least he wasn’t an ogre. Quite attractive really. He must’ve been pretty wasted to sleep with me. Just then I realized I was nude under the sheets. I pulled them up to look at my shame and dropped them back down. I looked out into the other room and saw my clothes lying on the living room floor. I rolled my eyes back and put head back into the pillows. I was going to have to get out of bed without waking him and get dressed. God, how I wished I could do this without shame.  It wasn’t the one night stand that bothered me. It’s that it had to be when guys were too shit-faced to know better. 

  I slide the sheets off to the side and got off the bed as gently as I could. I looked back at the boy, still out cold. As I stepped out into the main room I closed the door but not all the way as to not make a sound. I turned out into the living room and the hard wood floor creaked. I cringed hard and listened for signs of life… Nothing. I plodded over to my clothes and bent down to sort through them. I picked up my bra and stretched the straps around my shoulders. Just then I heard a toilet flush. My eyes opened wide and I rushed to clip my bra. I bent down to pick up my panties but he walked out before I could get them around my feet. I dropped them and cupped my hands over my crotch. He stared at me a long second before speaking.

  “Well good morning,” he said warmly. “Eggs sound good?” He asked and walked past me into the kitchen. I didn’t want to move my hands away because kitchen and living room were conjoined. The separating wall had a view into the room where I stood petrified. He gave me a glance from the fridge.

  “You just gonna stand there than?” He asked. Even his voice was scruffy.

  “I, uh…” I had nothing. I just stood there and I glanced down out my crotch. He chuckled softly and raised an eyebrow at me.

  “You can move them.” I stared back, still no words. “I know. It’s ok.”
  “Know what?” I choked out through a dry throat.

  “See these?” He ran his fingers along scars under his pecks. “FTM.” It took me a second but I knew what they were. My breathing slowed and I relaxed. He raised his eyebrows at me. I stood up straight and uncovered what I’ve worked so hard to hide. 

  “What are the odds?” He laughed. 

  “Sunny side up please.”


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## InkwellMachine (Mar 7, 2014)

*Something Alive, All Dark and Glistening*

Something brushed against my lip.

I pulled my thumb away from my mouth to look at it, expecting a piece of dead leaf or wood splinter. Beside my nail, the skin was dry and flaking, and in one place it had begun to peel into a tiny hangnail. I could see the red beneath. I touched it, and it stung the way tiny superficial wounds tend to. Sharp. Electric, even. Like all the feeling in my body was in that one small place. 

My nail clippers were not in their usual place. Perhaps they'd stowed away in my mom's travel bag and now they were with her somewhere in Norway. The tweezers were gone, too. And the medical scissors. I sat in front of the computer for a while and tried to ignore the fluctuating dull-to-sharp pain in my thumb, which seemed to end up in my mouth of its own accord. I bit at the hangnail--dug like a cat cleaning between its claws--and tried to catch it between my teeth. My overbite made it impossible.

Finally I resolved to just peel the damn thing off. The pain I could live with. Pain is easy. All pain wants is a generous dollop of aloe and a band-aid to keep it out of the wind. For the hang nail, however, there was only the guillotine. And since the the clippers and the scissors and the tweezers were all gone and paper scissors would not do, it came--ironically--to finger nails.

I pinched the hangnail between my forefinger and thumb, and I pulled. 

At first the pain was a dull, tugging sensation, like having a tooth pulled through anesthesia. As I peeled it away, the hangnail turned into a string of white skin that grew wider and pink toward the base. The pain graduated to something much more acute, and I paused. There was blood now, beading up on the inside edge of my thumbnail. I was at the end of the hangnail and had begun to pull away live, elastic skin. I considered that maybe I should find a band-aid.

Instead I gave it another tug. The pain was exquisite. It shot up my arm, made my eyes water. I pulled harder, watching the skin draw taught and snap back into itself as it separated from the rest of my body. I was trembling. The place beneath where I peeled was all red. Not red the way a fresh scrape might be, but red like something alive, all dark and glistening. Red. I stared.

The strand of hangnail and pink flesh widened out into a funnel, until it became impossible to peel any more away without breaking it in two. I pulled a nearby thumbtack out of the wall and stuck it through the skin where it wouldn't tear, causing the edges to become rough and uneven. 

Some part of my mind objected, screaming that this was all wrong. If there was good sense in that--and there probably was--I couldn't hear it. I was too enthralled by my own anatomy and too high on the pain. It pulled me deeper into myself, gathered all of me down into that red place I was opening up in my arm.

I wet my lips, and stabbed with the tack, and pulled, until my entire forearm was unwrapped. The blood all seemed to trickle into the same place and dripped in a thin stream off my elbow. I watched my muscles and tendons contract and relax as I moved my arm under the glow of the computer monitor, a trellis of moving parts.

It burned to touch, but I slipped my fingers beneath the folds of skin bunched around my bicep. I began to peel again.

All through the night, I undressed myself. 

And in the morning, on the bed, I was discovered bare.


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## stormageddon (Mar 8, 2014)

*Unexpectedly Nude (649 words)*

The sea was still. Not the still of a calm sea, but a dead sea, a sea in a world where no breath of wind would rise to stir it, no life would disturb the tranquility of its depths. Its surface was indiscernable, merging seamlessly with the marbled sky so that, had I not been informed the water was there, I would have thought myself standing on the edge of the Earth, staring into the infinity of the cosmos.

The sky was cloudless, the stars shining down as clear as blazing lanterns, the red and purple bruises of gas clouds blending with the wandering green light that I had long pined for the chance to see. The moon shone with such perfect clarity that the shadows of its craters were as stark as the contours on the face of the young man beside me, made ethereal by the green glow.

All of space was reflected to the minutest detail in the dead sea, but not the cliff that we stood upon, nor ourselves, and that was what so intrigued me about this impossible place.

"Have you any hypotheses that might place this within human understanding?" I asked, transfixed by the surreality before me.

"None at all." He removed his top hat and turned it in his hands.

"And we are the only two to know of its existence?"

"Yes. You might be interested in watching this." With a flick of his wrist the hat was flung out over the water, spinning in a graceful arc to sink into its depths without the slightest trace of a ripple.

"Tibephaude," I addressed him, "Have you ever experienced the inexplicable desire to jump from a great height?"

"I have."

"Excellent, for I should hate to take the leap alone."

He regarded me from the corner of a glittering eye, his ordinarily impeccable hair fallen over his face in a dark tide. "I would rather jump alone than with a madman," he said, but proffered his hand nonetheless. I took it with a bow, and together we did perhaps the most impulsive and ill-considered thing of our lives.

We jumped.

The fall seemed interminable, the landing inevitable, and had I been faced with the visage of God itself I would have remained incapable of opening my eyes, so great a fear did the gut-wrench of falling instil within me. The separation between sky and sea was tangible only as the distinction between the cold rush of air and the enveloping rush of water, and as time stretched on, Tibephaude's hand was all that anchored me against the transient reality of one lost without gravity, bolstering my courage against the inexorable threat of the journey's end.

I do not recall the precise moment when unconsciousness took me, but I awoke on a damp bed of grass to find myself quite naked, Tibephaude's similarly underclad form looming over me. He had recovered his top hat, if little else.

"It would appear that our garments were stolen as we slept," he said, and with a gesture to his hat, "Fortunately they missed this."

"Fortunately indeed. I wonder where we are?" I gazed about our surroundings, but saw only grassy hills lit, quite astoundingly, by the beams of two suns, as crimson as the grass to which they granted life.

"It is not England," said Tibephaude, and with his hand he pulled me to my feet, completing the action with a kiss to my stubbled cheek.

"I propose a quest," said I, shivering in my nakedness in spite of the warmth of the twin suns. "It would appear we are trapped in this world, a world that warrants thorough exploration, but who ever heard of a nude explorer? We must retake our clothes, no matter the cost."

"Certainly," my Tibephaude agreed.

The thieves had left tracks, and together we followed them, hand in hand as we had fallen.


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## ppsage (Mar 8, 2014)

*Trader Joe & the Orkonani Tangle*
To George​ 
*Out in the empty quadrant*, Galactic Trader Joe Stone has lost the keys to the supraluminal vessel. Not that they start anything: these 2D-data-branes record the instantaneous section, and, should Sheila, the vessel’s adjunct sentience, bug out, one could pop-up survival poddish. They also wink phase, if a tangle’s soon.

One of the keys winks in, like a postage-stamp flying-carpet neon-sign.

“.822,” says Sheila. “Contraction timing accelerates. _Tangle ahoy_.”

Sheila wears a prim holo-skin interface. She pushes granny-specs up, toward gray-streaked bun, chuckling at her cleverness. “Into this tangle, Trader, I don’t follow. There dimensional resonance cancels sentience.”

Joe grabs the key and nods. “I’m going in,” he says.

*On a white beach*, a golden figure, naked save feathery Aztec cape and banana thong, lectures Joe. “In sectors of populated nodes, weylines pinball to instant balance. Devoid space they pierce in beeline despair, pointed where last bounce vectors.”

Beyond the figure, a wheeled cabana, vaguely hearse-like, steams in tropic glare. “In the Emptiness, orkonani force saturates weylines, and, attracted to least matter-seed, haphazard crystallization makes of them a tangle.”

The gilt man waves an eggplant toward radiant firmament, then holds it steady. “Thus is engendered Wriformia: the universal interiority. Hanging fruit of orkonani tangle.”

The recitation seems complete. An atmosphere of bell-jar permeates the vista.

“You the Dude here?” asks Joe. “Call me Trader. Who’s in the chariot?”

“Not Dude,” says golden-skin. “MC. Yonder waits  Vodka Queen.”

Done palavering, Joe heads for the booth, but stops at a sharp command. “Disrobe Trader! Would you sully purity?!”

“Most places,” says Joe, “stripping’s a preliminary.” He’s not wearing much, red robe with purple hem—his sooth-sayer _Toga trabea_—and sandals. Surprising, how first contact often involves nudity.

*Interiority expands* inside the cabana, where a hot tub worthy of the Eros-god Hefner spreads, and Vodka Queen, in rubenesque splendor, lolls. Her arms stretch languidly overhead, like Minerva at the_ Judgment of Paris_. “Staying long?” she asks.

“Long enough,” says Joe, “to sully me up a batch of whoopee. You game?”

In the steamy bath, Vodka rolls a flank, sending across a swell which washes invitingly over Joe’s naked foot. “Give me a present first.”

Joe releases the key, which he still carries. A Polyphemus Moth, it floats to the forehead of the Queen, and settles there. Third (and fourth) peacock-hue eyes wink in the gloaming grotto. The key dissolves a wild tattoo onto her skin. The Queen slips deep into her pool’s warm embrace; ringletted pouf floating behind. Joe wades in. 

As liquid-light-show oils cloistering water, the cabana-booth evaporates—walls plus ceiling—and MC skewers Joe with a lance of prodigious  length but infinitesimal girth. “Subject before predicate,” he says. “Wriformian purity _uber alles_.”

“Old hat,” says Vodka Queen. “Object first favor I.” From atop her head, she pulls pink-tinted glasses into place, which shimmy as she adroitly wriggles her nose. Phases wink and now her body is blue as Rama and her figure slender as yogurt. The spectacles have a third lens, centered above the others. She wears filmy harem pants and drapes herself with silk. She stands before the restored cabana with MC, the  detumescence of whose lance is pronounced. No sign of their visitor.

*“The towel employ,”* says Sheila. “All over the bridge drip you. What to report?!” 

Joe’s not svelte and he gives up drying the creases. Sheila’s become an elegant theater-dame/amphibian morph, wearing only a brane-fabric sash, so he doesn’t bother to dress. Her finely scaled skin is mottled purplish. Reminiscent.

“Called the place Wriformia,” says Joe, “I think they eat a lot of eggplant. Tangle gone?”

“Impossible to ascertain,” says Sheila. “For rescue attempts, our key supply into tangle I pitched. In a time of nick has emerged your tooth-skin.”

“I’ll need another toga too,” says Joe. “Let’s split.”


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## spartan928 (Mar 9, 2014)

*Unexpectedly Nude*

(645 words)

Jelani was an elephant with a problem. Yet handling problems was why the herd elected the great Jelani to represent them. Her patience and directness with humans was unmatched. Now, it was time for Jelani to hold council with Thomas Akintola, chief translator and human ambassador to the elephants.

They met at the gated entrance to the herd's territory; a five hundred mile swath of savannah on the Tanzanian plain next to the Okovi Delta. As Thomas approached, Jelani extended her trunk and Thomas shook it.

"Thomas," said Jelani."The herd has voted. I must make a request of the humans."

"Chief Jelani, how may we help?"

"There are concerns about our exposure," said Jelani.

Thomas hesitated for a moment, puzzled at the statement.

"Exposure to what?"

"Visual exposure", said Jelani. Her trunk swayed back and forth anxiously as her deep voice boomed.

"I'm not sure I understand. Is the herd concerned about all the media attention they've been getting? We've been taking measures to limit intruders and…."

"No, no, it isn't that at all. We want to eliminate, shall we say, a bit of impropriety."

"So you, or should I say the herd, feel embarrassed about something?" 

"So it seems."

"Was it something one of the herd did?" 

"No. You see, for some time now we have felt a desire for more modesty."

"Modesty? What do you mean…modesty?"

"Our nakedness."

Thomas scratched his head. His puzzlement multiplied.

"Nakedness? You mean existentially naked to the world kind of naked?" said Thomas.

"No," said Jelani.

"You mean, au natural kind of naked? Like, letting it all hang out kind of naked?"

"So it seems."

"I'll confess Jelani, I'm rather confused how you think I can help you."

Jelani looked back at the herd and then back at Thomas. She rubbed her long floppy ear lobe with the tip of her trunk.

"Pants," said Jelani.

Thomas took a step closer to Jelani.

"Pants? As in, put your legs in and pull them up around your fanny kind of pants?"

"Yes."

"Why on earth would you want pants? A hat I could see, but pants? Sure, you're all self-aware these days, but it seems kind of crazy…"

"Mr. Thomas, please," interrupted Jelani in a forceful tone. A loud "whrooomf" issued from her trunk. 

"Do you judge our unique language?"

"Uh, no."

"Do you judge the society we have built for ourselves?"

"No."

"Well then, do not judge us for our evolving modesty."

Thomas shook his head. In an act of goodwill and trust, Jelani again extended her trunk. Thomas took it in his hand and shook it.

"I have faith in you Thomas, great faith."

                                                                                              ***

One month later, Thomas met Jelani at the edge of the savannah. Thomas carried a large canvas bag over his shoulder.

"I've met with many leaders of business and industry Jelani. Your request astounded and raised the ire of everyone. 'Impossible' they said. 'Ridiculous' they all shouted."

Thomas dropped the bag onto the ground. He reached in and pulled out the contents which resembled a large tent.

"Honestly, I had given up. But someone approached me with a solution so elegant, so stylish and so functional I immediately agreed."

Thomas unfurled the enormous pair of khaki pants. Loops were sewn into the sides for easy donning by trunk. Loose fitting, but slim at the cuff to emphasize the elephant's natural curves and made with breathable, lightweight fabric in a complementary light pewter gray color.

"Stupendous!" shouted Jelani and she let out a trumpet blast from her trunk. "Prrrooooooot!"

"Tell me Thomas, who has come up with such a brilliant solution?"

Thomas lifted the pants so Jelani could see the label.

"The Free People store Jelani…Urban Outfitters."

                                                                                             ***

And so, on that day a phrase entered the lexicon of all humanity and elephantity. A phrase worthy of the dignified, intelligent _Loxodonta Sapiens_.

Elephant attire.


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## Ghosts of the Maze (Mar 9, 2014)

*Winter Weight*

Caroline had the dream where she found herself naked, having to explain her new look. The paunch. The swollen breasts. The flushed face. And no family to show for it.
            In real life she knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to explain her sad story, if she didn’t lose the weight quickly. She was determined. Her friend Deborah talked a good game about going to the gym, but Caroline was the one who insisted they stick to the routine. Cardio every day. Twice weekly arms and shoulders. Twice weekly legs and back. Abs once a week. Deb never made the commute from Queens on the weekend, but Caroline did an hour a day on the elliptical.
            She stayed strong. Deborah must have noticed the way she filled out over the winter. Caroline started spending nights at her house a few weeks ago, when Gary moved out. She told Caroline that they should pig out for the sake of mental health. Deb said she didn’t have to look a certain way for any man. She never realized that Gary didn’t leave.  Caroline threw him out, not wanting to have to live down her failure every day she woke out of bed.
            “I’m disgusting.”
            She looked at herself just before she picked up a set of 25-pound dumbbells.
            “You look great.”
            “Whatever.”
            “Gary doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”
            Caroline sighed. Sometimes she thought she would have been better off on her own at the gym. She hated Deborah seeing her tight pants bunch around her still swollen waist. Most people hadn’t noticed yet, but Deborah must have figured it out by now. The change happened over the winter, when she could hide herself in thick coats, and sweaters that made her chest look like it was about to explode, but concealed her paunch. But she knew the clock was ticking, and everybody would talk if they saw her now. She hated the thought of their pity.
            She gripped the dumbbells and walked around the gym, dipping her knees while sweat built around her brow.
            “You’re a machine”
            “I’ve only lost five pounds.”
            “And it’s only March. I’ve gotta tell you, you’re like a new person. I really think Gary leaving was for the best.”
            “Uh huh.”
            “I’m serious. You were too cozy. You’re going to kill me for saying this-“
            “Then don’t.”
            “I know, but seriously. I thought you and Gary were going to make an announcement. Stupid. But you look great now.”
            Caroline looked ahead, silently, and concentrated on her form.
            “And Gary.”
            Deborah shook her head.
            “What an asshole. He doesn’t want to have kids. And then he gets you to stop talking about it with all that negative energy of his. And then, to top it all off, when you keep quiet and happen to gain a little winter weight, he goes and runs off. I’m sorry, but good riddance.”
            Caroline grunted. Her sides began to cramp up.
            “We’re finding you a man. A real one. Not another little boy.”
            “I appreciate the help.”
            Caroline took a deep breath in-between lunges.
            “But I think I just need a little time to figure things out.”
            “Yeah, I know that’s what you think, but you’ve got to face facts. You’re 33. Clock’s ticking.”
            “Deborah.”
            “I’m serious. If you don’t get started soon, you’ll be too old. The kid could have down syndrome. Or you might not even be able to have one. You know the rate of miscarriage skyrockets when you get-“
            “Deborah. Why don’t you do me a favor and shut up for once.”
            Caroline bit back tears and slowly dropped the weights to her side. Deborah shook her head and walked away. Caroline counted to 30, picked the weights back up, and tried not to think about the life she almost had.


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## Fin (Mar 10, 2014)

*Save Me
Anonymous Entry​* 
Did I just wake up?

Where am I?

It's a rough blanket, like sandpaper against my cheek. No pillows.

Through my rumpled hair, I can see the yellow room with flower borders; sharp rays through shut blinds; stains on the ceiling, the walls, the blanket. It smells like the girl's locker room.

And it's cold. So cold. My arms shiver as I try to rise.

I'm scared.

My face drops to the bed. The blankets grind against the skin of my thighs. I feel their coarseness between my legs. My waist. My stomach. My breasts.

Am I naked?

I clench my hands and squeeze my eyes, trying to remember. My lips are dry, rougher than the blanket. My hands feel different. Numb. I bring them to my face.

My fingernails are gone. Clipped away.

The _Shatterhouse_. Yes. I was at the Shatterhouse with Zelda and Mackenzie. They went dancing. I went to the bar; fake ID; a Bloody Mary. Jake Brody came to flirt with me. He didn't stay long. There were others. The music got so loud. I got dizzy. I had to get out. Then I... I don't know.

The slamming of a heavy door in another room shakes the walls around me. A creak. A step. Grocery bags rumbling in someone's arms.

The footsteps draw close. They stop, go, seem to pass a thousand times a minute outside this damp and smelly room.

The door again. More footsteps. Heavier. Muttering.

The heavier steps are coming close. Closer. Inside. Behind me. Around me. A body shifts into my vision, his darkness coming over me, ice clapping in his glass.

The ice stopped.

I close my eyes. I'm not even pretending to be asleep. I just don't want to look. I can't.

Please don't make me look at you.

The light is coming over me again, the figure walking away: faster than he entered. The door smacking into the frame crashes in my ears. Now I can't hear anything.

Are you still there?

All at once, I feel the painful rate of my heart. My face is wet. My hands clamp shut.

Why are my nails gone?

The door again. I don't know which one, how far. Footsteps. I don't know how close.

What's happening to me?

Voices through the walls. I can't make out a word. But I think I'm alone.

They're getting louder.

Maybe someone's gonna save me.

A door is opening. My door. It creaks as though on the edge of my ear.

Darkness comes again. My eyes seal shut. A knee presses against the mattress beside me. Large arms surround me. Close in.

Wrapped in the blanket, I feel my body rise: floating. In panic, my eyes open, eyelids twitching. The walls around me are moving faster than a rocket.

Finally, a calm as the sunlight hits me. The fresh air fills me. The smell is gone, the yellow tint of that room replaced with the beautiful grass and a clear sky.

"You're safe now, sweetheart."

I look up to blue eyes and that stupidly oversized mustache. A smile.

"Daddy."

"I'm taking you home, sweetie. It's all over."

It turns out the house isn't far from mine. Lucky. Daddy may have never found me.

The police were never called--- the cowards all ran away. It's alright. I know they'll never bother me after today. After dealing with daddy.

I never looked at that house again.


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## thepancreas11 (Mar 10, 2014)

Judge's Entry!

Honey
http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ude-Workshop?p=1709078&viewfull=1#post1709078


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## TheWriteStuff (Mar 10, 2014)

*Alaskan Summer Sun*


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## Kevin (Mar 11, 2014)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...xpectedly-Nude-Workshop?p=1709541#post1709541


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## Fin (Mar 12, 2014)

*(Un)Clothed by Words
Anonymous Entry*​


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## Fin (Mar 14, 2014)

*Nude
Anonymous Entry*​


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## Gargh (Mar 14, 2014)

*
From all sides​*
​


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## Fin (Mar 15, 2014)

*By the light of four candles
Anonymous Entry​* 

 Inside the dark room is the light of four candles, each situated at the corner of an old and careworn desk, the kind at which Jacob Marley would have toiled. Inside this patch of mellow, wavering illumination  is a man bent on his work. A slow skritch sounds as the quill commits calligraphy.  


 A gentle knock on the door.


 Potty smiles wryly and carefully clips the quill to the inkwell. No blots please. “Come in.”


 The ancient oak door with iron studs swings inwards with barely any creak. “Hi Potts, how's it going?”


 “Not so bad. I have reached the second crisis point.”


 “Fine.” The shadowy figure seems hesitant.  


 Potty can feel the visitor's need to talk. “Get us  a beer and pull up a chair.”  


 “Ta mate.” Two beers from the fridge in the corner, the opener is screwed to the door. One chilled bottle is placed on the desk, the other is taken over to the  battered sofa.  


 Potty hops his chair back a foot, leans back and swings his legs up to rest his feet on the desk top. “What's up?”  


 A pull on the bottle. “It's this LM prompt.”


 “Unexpectedly Nude?”


 “Yeah. I've researched all the usual suspects, but to be honest I want to live.” Glug.


 “Jake?” Potty taps his teeth with the bottle. “No. How about Lasm?”


 “Did you miss the living part?”


 “Hmmm... How about Bazz?”


 “Aw, come on Potts, not since Christmas.”


 “Christmas? What happened at Christmas? Remember I wasn't here then.”


 “Fer goodness sake. Bazz lost a bet with Fin and ended up doing a charity streak in Harrods. During the busiest week of the year he was racing round the place in the nuddy. The store detectives chased him all over the place but eventually he was caught by the baubles.”


 “Aw hell, and I missed it.” Potty takes a pull at his beer. “There is always Olly Buckle.”


 “Bald Eagle?”


 “Yeah. He was in a touring production of The Full Monty.”


 “Never!”


 “Yep. One night he pulled his, adapted with Velcro, underpants off too vigorously and flung his wooden leg into the audience, it concussed  a  woman in the third row.”


  “Holy...Hannah's underwear!”


 “Funny really, along with his false teeth and glass eye there isn't much of him left.”


 “Thanks Potts, I have enough to be getting on with now. Night night.”


 “Don't be late in the morning.”


----------

