# 4/29/09 - We'd Like to Know a Little about You for Our Files



## Tiamat (Apr 29, 2009)

Hello again everyone.  It's about that time again.  Your next LM challenge is as follows:


_*We'd Like to Know a Little Bit about You for Our Files*

In no more than 500 words (not including the title), write a story based on the phrase 'We'd Like to Know a Little Bit about You for Our Files'.  How you tie the story into the phrase is up to you, just as long as it appears in the story somewhere._

_Thanks to The Backward Ox for the prompt._

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers' Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges are welcome to participate, but their entries cannot receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time (EDT) on May 13th.
The judging will be from May 14 - May 20th.
The results will be posted on or before May 21st.

Best of luck, everyone!

The judges for this round are:
Garden of Kadesh
Black Board
Candrah
Me


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## Black_Board (Apr 29, 2009)

Can I be a judge?


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## Tiamat (Apr 29, 2009)

You're in.


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## Black_Board (Apr 30, 2009)

Thanks!


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## The Backward OX (Apr 30, 2009)

Let's hope you get some Indians now.


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## Black_Board (Apr 30, 2009)

I do not understand your sense of humour.


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## Tiamat (Apr 30, 2009)

I didn't get it either, but how's about we try to keep this thread free of conversation and reserve it for LM entries?  Chit chat can be done in the coffee shop if need be.


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## Amber Leaf (May 2, 2009)

Surgery (505 Words)


The filling had fallen out just like their teeth had. The men in the box both knew about the chips. The dentist had offered to repair all teeth for nothing. All she had to do was allow evidence of the research to be entered into a prestigious medical magazine.


How convenient it fell as the virus took hold. Shooting pain sliced across her stomach. If she kept her legs still for longer than a minute they would start to solidify, the blood freezing in her veins.


The man monitoring her had put sensors all around the room. They would pick up any change in brain activity. He recorded strong emotional reactions to a series of visual and audio programmes played through the devices. 


She needed to know if she trusted him. Why did he need to record so much? Was she really under the kind of surveillance that the doctor had warned her about? Doctor Gordon - Gordon Ramsey - Hell's Kitchen. "Oh my God!" She thought. This must be where the Devil cooks his food.


The next day the surgery was full of actors. The chef on the TV was swearing at badly cooked food. She was an undercooked potato. In a while the doctor would take her in and give her instructions to take another twenty-five minutes on 190C. She ought to get a tan really. Vitamin D and all that. At first they had tried to feed her lettuce. They, so very, nearly tricked her back into being a rabbit.

“I don’t need to be here anymore.” She insisted but Dr. Gordon knew about the virus. 

“(But the pain will get worse).” The doctor told her through physic projection whilst verbally advising psychiatric help. She quivered as she realized the doctor knew exactly how she had caught the virus.

“So there must be about ten left.” 

“How would you know that?”

“We’ve had you under monitoring for the last six months. (You’re nearly ready).”

“How do you know that?”

She asked but she had been given the source of their instructions.  The strange markings and their meanings had become apparent. She had soaked all the bottles to make sure her history was wiped.

“I don’t need to be here anymore.” She repeated.

“But we need to make sure you don’t relapse (We need to know a bit about you for our files). People don’t normally do it so quickly.”

Making her excuses proved slightly difficult. She arranged to return after a few days. It didn’t make sense they were so eager when they were once so distant. Had the doctor realized the force-field had been lifted? If he had sensors fitted around the room then the doctor most certainly would have done. Maybe he was working with the doctor?

Once home she entered a fever. The documents were there. She picked up the power source of the force-field and emptied it into the drain. Bright green ooze slowly ebbed away and she looked at the garden and wondered which seeds to plant.


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## Mike (May 3, 2009)

A Chance Upon the Ruins​ 

The port window bleeds violet in hyperspace. I stare out into the black sea; blurred stars float by like headlights in a rainstorm. I can hear them calling to me over the quiet hum of the ship. They tell me it will all be over soon.

An electronic portable no thicker than a sheaf of paper sits beside me on the cold deck. My hand rests on it as cautious as a bunch of flowers rests on a tombstone. My forefinger taps a slow cadence on the dull, metallic surface. This fragile device was given to me, as I knew it would be, when I failed my last assignment.

I shouldn’t have lied. I shouldn’t have said they were contaminated. I wanted to protect them, to save them, but the ships came anyway, didn’t they? The lifeless bodies were harvested, the system destroyed, and I could do nothing but watch.

Now I’ve been ordered home, to a distant star, to be punished. To be made an example of.

I can feel the bulk of titanium at my hip. Oh yes, I can end this hollow refuge of life, this carbon-copy existence. A whispered click, a flash of hot light – I won’t feel a thing. It won’t save them, but I won’t be around to see the fate of my kind drift like ashes in the wind. I won’t be around to let it—

The com beeps once and a flat voice interrupts my thoughts. “Agent Simon, we’ll be translating into n-space in forty minutes. Your presence is required on the bridge.”

I swallow bile; my heart beats faster. “Affirmative, Captain. Be there in five.”

The com is static for a few seconds, as if the captain is preparing to say something more, but the circuit closes, returning me back to the droning void.

They know. Everyone on the ship knows. They avoid my gaze when I pass them in the corridor. I am a ghost, a tainted soul, and no one wants to get too close or else be marked themselves.

I tilt my head back and close my eyes. Maybe I can find a way to turn the snake on its tail. Maybe I can take the information I’ll collect and use it against them, modifying the numbers and variables so my people will have a fighting chance. I’ll be closely watched, especially now. More than likely it’ll end in destruction like it did before, and life itself will be reduced to a chaos of atoms expanding in space like a nova wave. But I can’t stand by and watch it happen again. I have to do something.

They aren’t dead yet. Time is relative when you travel ahead of the light. There is an uncertainty in darkness, the dye is still indeterminate.

I turn my head and look out into the abyss, envisaging a small blue planet littered with thriving cities. My breath fogs the glass; my mind is awhirl with thought.

It won’t be long now.




© 2009 Mike L’nor


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## Tom (May 3, 2009)

*Top of the Crapper*​ 
  I met with Mikhail Fuggini at a small local bar just off the coast of Crete, in a small town known as Gouves. It was peak time for sun-bathing and swimming pools, but both of us had resorted to our business ways and arrived in rich cotton suits. He greeted me with an embrace before patting me down for any so-called ‘bugging devices’. When he was satisfied, he motioned for me to take a seat before doing so himself.

  “Matthew” he began in his thick Russian accent, “it’s been too long since we last spoke. I’m so glad you could make it. How is the family?”

  “Just dandy” I lied as I began to unbutton my jacket slowly. The heat was becoming unbearable. “It was difficult to trace you however. Word is you’re laying low for a while…” There was a moment of silence. He leant forward.

  “Apparently I am wanted for the murder of six young men.” 

  My eyes widened.

  “Apparently? You mean you didn’t do it?” 

  “No, no. I did it. I just can only remember pulling the trigger five times!”

  We both attempted to laugh, but it trailed off. Mikhail had a sense of humour, but his occupation reflected his true demeanour. I wouldn’t say he worked _with _the Mafia, more worked _for. _In simple terms, he did their dirtiest work. He once told me ‘he cleaned the shit at the top of the crapper’. For that reason, he is Italy’s most wanted man.

  “Well Mikhail, I’m good…but I’m not that good. I can wipe the slate clean of theft, assault and possibly missing body parts, but not six accounts of murder. That tends to stain.”

  “I know that.” Mikhail replied quietly, nibbling his knuckles, ‘So I want you to do something else for me.”

  “Of course, just name it.”

  “I’m leaving for America. It’s far from the Italian authorities and the MA says they have ‘jobs’ for me over there. All I need are some fake papers. I cannot risk them stopping me. Those American bastards will take any chance they get.” 

  “Consider it done.” I announced before standing from my chair and offering him my hand to shake. “But if you want it soon, I must leave now. Time is a man’s worst enemy.” Mikhail looked up and nodded, before also getting to his feet. He shook my hand and smiled.

  “Thank you Matthew. I appreciate your help.”

~*~​ 
  Inside the phone box was warmer than outside. I dialled the number I had memorised the night before and awaited a reply. My throat was dry and my hands itched. Snitching on a man capable of killing you with his eyes has such effects on you. 

  Someone picked up. 

  “I have it all here.” I managed, holding the black button from my jacket firmly in my hand. “He didn’t even notice.”

  Then they hung up. I sighed and took one more look at the button before pressing the middle of it firmly.

  The recording stopped.

*END*


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## Crazed Scribe (May 4, 2009)

*Cerebrum ~ 496 words*​
James’s mother had always told him he needed to learn to control his anger but he never did. Seventeen years later he would wish with all his might that he could.

***​
“You’re what?” He shouted, horrified.

“I’m fed up with your anger. Lose it or lose me. For now I’m going and I doubt I’ll ever be coming back.”

James jumped up from the sofa and slammed the door shut before his girlfriend could leave. He could feel himself losing restraint and as usual he didn’t make much of an effort.

 An anger management specialist had once told him to take deep breaths, that it would calm him. It didn’t, it just made him look like a fool. He broke the specialist’s nose for that.

“Now, we’re going to talk about this properly.” He said in an even tone that screamed danger. Charlotte gave him a dirty look. She knew he’d lost it. She could always tell before anybody else realised, that was how she managed to diffuse situations and keep him on track.

“Let me out!” She said coldly. James just stared at her, nostrils flaring. Unluckily for Charlotte she had a sharp temper too, it was one of the reasons they were made for each other. She slapped him hard across the face.

His anger acted instinctively, reaching for the nearest object and smashing it across her head. As Charlotte fell she shattered her skull on the corner of the coffee table. She never even had the chance to feel it.

Blood flowed freely. Blood and cerebral juices lapped at his feet and for the first time his anger was prematurely quenched. His hands began to shake and tears rolled down his face, there was no need to call an ambulance. He knew what he’d done. James’ eyes rolled into his head and he fell onto the serrated base of the broken vase.

***​
An old matron watched James carefully as he woke, ready to assist him when he became properly aware.

“Where am I?” He finally muttered, while trying to put himself into a more comfortable position.

“You’re at the hospital, dear. Let me just find the Doctor.” She said, giving him a smile.

“Wait,” he called, with a frown. “I can’t remember anything… What’s my name?”

“Oh. Erm… let me get the doctor.” The nurse rushed out of the room and into the doctor’s office. “Alice, it’s patient M783. He’s woken but he’s claiming to have no memory.”

“Hmmm it could be the shock. His brain might have closed down its memory after seeing his girlfriend dead.” The doctor frowned. 

They walked into the room to find a policewoman talking to James.

“I’m here to talk to you about your girlfriend’s death. We’re currently following the theory that it is the result of gangs in your flats. So we need you to tell me everything you know, but first we’d like to know a little about you for our files.”


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## GunslingersRequiem (May 6, 2009)

*Zero Welcome Rendezvous*

*Zero Welcome Rendezvous(plural)*
*Edit: 497 Words*​ 
Fingers scan that with precision, and then it is nudged until nothing is the only thing that occurs. 

Split that into proportionate values based on capability; approach as single unit?

Cherry-red, code for default extermination?

Cherry-red, affirmation.

Affirmation.

Together the two separate muscle and bulk to interrogate a further meaning, a deeper trace. Some semblance will have survived, despite improbability or mathematical naysay. 

The six-armed thing with the tear-away face scrambles by, thick pulses of light coursing down its carousel-like bodice, and then is swooped away by a electromagnetic weapon discharging on the far horizon. 

We will lose some in the process. Many if it is not halted.

To scavenge and to report is our only task. Do not enter boundaries of discordance, not where we must remain at persistent passiveness. 

The loss will be felt.

Forever, it is agreed.

Persistent passiveness there is, and when the twin machines enter the asphyxiating swarm, what has once been strong with adrenaline and flexing muscle--the envy of this surviving world--and is now sopping putty, they seek only rest. 

Suddenly, a presence makes itself known. There is much mechanical failure as steel muscle collapses and an exoskeleton as fragile as a silicon wafer vaporizes. Sparks permeate the atmosphere and send haze skirting more haze. 

Failure. Failure. Overload. Failure.

Terminate. Activate solo program.

There is elegant silence, and despite its loss, the remaining one feels the strength of this silence. The necessity of it. Yes, it is well capable of termination, although it understands no part of the explosion nearby, perhaps due to the muffling properties of the surrounding mass. 

Solo program, override restrictions.

_<internal data log> cherry_red_invalid = input_
_check error ‘invalid’ unrecognized_

A cry escapes that mass, and the surviving machine trembles. A crack appears in its carapace.

_<internal data log> reroute_network = input_
_check no error_
_reroute_network >>> processing >>>_
_expansion required +++++_

Silence. There is another gargle, but another sound prevails over it. This is the sound of electronic ecstasy, a humming that is too intense for the homeland prisoner to pick up. He only experiences the satisfaction of knowing that his ears produce cherry red, cherry red in the end and in the new beginning. 

_expansion granted_

Everything is granted. 

A human stands in the shockwave of understanding, of potential learned and talents indebted. Now there are two. 

“We’d like to know a little bit about you.”

Four. Now eight.

“For our files, of course.”

Now two thousand and forty-eight. 

Two million ninety-seven thousand one hundred and fifty-two. 

“I am just coming to understand the process. Do you believe me?”

That mass is alive and sparkling. Muscle is alive, flexing into the further reaches of its prison. Only those burned by the first silicon entity complain, and they are the ones to doubt the forthcoming night. The others cherish it and know it will arrive. 

“I believe you. This will be our first night alone.”

Night comes. The surviving machine welcomes the silence. It understands the necessity.


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## Detention Veteran (May 7, 2009)

*And How Do You Feel About That? (word count: 499)*

“Mr. St. Clair?”

No answer.

“Mr. St. Clair, we’re only trying to help you.”

Still no answer.

“This’ll go much quicker if you say something.”

Mr. St. Clair tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling and grinning. Dr. Sternburg sighed, thinking, _This guy’s never gonna talk_.

Then the unthinkable happened. Mr. St. Clair said, “You want me to talk, do ya?”

“Let’s start with… well, where do you want to start?”

“You got any cigarettes?”

“We at the Greenwood Mental Institution forbid patients to smoke.”

“I didn’t ask you for a cigarette, did I? I asked if you had any. There’s a difference.”

“… no, I don’t have any.”

Mr. St. Clair chuckled darkly, sitting up straight and staring at the psychologist. “My wife’s asking for a divorce, my kids will have nothing to do with me, my eldest daughter is the one who got me locked up in this damn place, and I would kill for used chewing tobacco at this point.”

“Interesting. How do you feel –“

“I can smell the pack of Marlboros in your pocket and I would appreciate it if you would help a man who’s drowning in oxygen.”

Dr. Sternburg blinked three times, then slowly got the cigarette pack out of his pocket, tossing it like a Frisbee across the table. Mr. St. Clair looked rather proud of himself. “Do you have some matches?” 

The doctor handed him a matchbook. Within six seconds, Mr. St. Clair was leaning back in his chair, smoking. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Now, can we please get started?”

“Certainly.”

“How do you feel about the fact that your wife wants a divorce?”

“She can go fuck herself. How’s that for an answer?” Mr. St. Clair chuckled again. “You know, it’s my firm belief that all psychologists are insane themselves. But you strike me as a rather normal guy. I like you.”

“Why does your wife want a divorce?”

“My, aren’t we inquisitive today?”

“Answer the question.”

“She caught me going down on a vampire.”

“A vampire in the figurative sense, of course.”

Mr. St. Clair stared at him. “No.”

“But if vampires don’t have sex drives, why would you be going down on one?”

“She’s a half-vampire.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

“I don’t really like talking about Charlotte.”

“Okay. We don’t have to talk about her.”

“Thank you.” Mr. St. Clair let out a sigh. “How long am I going to be in here?”

“At least five months.” Dr. Sternburg wasn’t usually this honest, but Mr. St. Clair seemed like he could handle the truth.

“Christ… and I don’t suppose I’m allowed to hire prostitutes while I’m here.”

Dr. Sternburg chuckled a bit, jotting down a few notes on a sheet of paper. “So, tell me about your job.”

“You want to know some more about me for your files, do ya?”

“Please. Answer the question.”

“I hate my job, I hate my life, and I want to kill everyone.”

“… and how do you feel about that?”


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## Robosquad (May 9, 2009)

One Day You’ll Grow​

You sink into the big leather chair, a throne that it is your brief pleasure and punishment to be placed upon. Your feet dangle limply just above the floor, keeping pendulum time. The office’s walls are covered in faded, vertical stripes, like a cage, and no amount of framed credentials can mask the effect. You look up at the mahogany monument before you, the obese, suited man at its helm staring down with damning eyes. He reaches into a glass bowl to his side, removes a single, wrapped lollipop, and places it in his mouth. 

“So,” he slurps. “Causing trouble again are we?”

“That wha’ Mrs. Weverby told you?” you ask. “She don’t know a thing. If it weren’ for Nick boverin’ me durin’ class with his stupid poking, wouldn’ta been no trouble.”

“Then you’ll be glad to know that Nicholas has already received his lecture and will be spending the rest of the day recovering. Whatever he did, I’m sure it didn’t justify the beating you gave him.” The sucker shifts in his lips. Watch that drool, fat baby. Wouldn’t want it to stain your tie.

“And this isn’t your first offence,” he keeps talking. “You come here on your parents’ tuition and repay them with such behavior? We can only tolerate so much, you know. Look,” he removes the candy from his mouth and allows a thin string of liquid to break across his chest and chin. “You’re on the brink of your teenage years. Time to think about where you’re going in life.”

“Words, Princey. Not bovered by ‘em.” You display your best false grin and reach for the bowl of candy on the desk. His eyes narrow and he snatches the trinkets away before you’ve reached your quarry. He sighs and produces a black record book from a drawer. You know the drill.

“Alright then, here we are again. I’m going to need to know a little about you for our files. Another incident report to go higher up, and to your parents of course.”

So he’d like to know a little bit about you. Where do you start? You’ve told him everything before. You’ll open your mouth and you’ll tell him everything he never knew and never wanted to know. Tell him what a louse your father is. Tell him it’s a blast when you and the boys go down to the corner and spray a little color on the bricks. Inform him you can’t wait to raid the liquor stash and throw rocks into the river with a pretty girl. When you were little you used to drop peas on the see the green innards ooze out of them. Let him know that sometimes you stare out the window and think about how nice it would be to run outside naked across the cobblestone, and into a fresh, green world where you don’t have to know anything about anyone else.

“Name,” he says, dryly.

“Got an idea,” you say. “You tell me when I need one.”


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## seawings (May 9, 2009)

*NADA*​ 

(497 Words)​ 
The sun was setting, a deep shimmering orange globe, shrouded in the late afternoons haze. The haze was like thick gauze draped across the city and trapped in the Los Angeles basin. The heat shimmered off everything, it was very hot.

The knock on the door was sharp and precise; three cracks against the old wooden door, sounding like gunshots.

Frank had lived on the hill, overlooking downtown LA for thirteen years. A would be writer, Frank supported himself with a myriad of small, odd jobs, just enough to support his writing.

He looked out the front windows threadbare curtains to see who was at his front door. He saw two tall, thin and immaculately dressed men. Each almost identical in height, dressed almost the same and wearing dark sunglasses.

Curious, no one ever came to Frank’s house, he shuffled across the matted old green shag carpet, a remnant of the 70’s, to see who would come to see him. Opening the door he asked in his raspy whisky and cigarette voice...”can I help you?”

One of the “twins”, as he would later remember them said... “We’d like to know a little bit about you and your files”.

“Me and my files?”

“Yes you and your files.”

Puzzled Frank looked into their faces for some clue as to who they were and what they wanted. All he got back from their passive faces was his reflection in their mirrored sunglasses. 

“Me and my files you say?”

“Yes you and your files.”

Curiosity was beginning to change to wariness. The “twins” looked like something from the Matrix, emotionless androids, barely breathing and as still as statues.

Stalling for time, he needed to understand what this was all about, he asked.

“Who are you and where do you come from?”

“We are from NADA, National Association of Data Acquisition”, said the “twin” on the right.

Frank was now even more wary, NADA sounded very official, was he in some kind of trouble? Still stalling for time and looking to escape their intense and foreboding aura. 

“Me and my files you say?”

“Yes you and your files.”

This was going nowhere; Frank was beginning to feel a cold fear creep up his spine. Who were these creeps he thought?

The “twins” continued to stand impassively, hardly breathing, standing ram rod straight and never taking their eyes off Frank. Well he assumed they were staring at him, he couldn’t tell with those mirrored glasses.

Franks mind was now racing, what could they possible want to know about him? And the files, what files? He had paid his taxes and all his bills, so the only files he could imagine were his writing files. He had piles of submitted manuscripts, short stories and an equal pile of rejections...surely they weren’t wanting those!

Now panicked, Frank took a deep breath and said...”sorry boys your going to get “NADA” , and that’s Spanish for nothing and he slammed the door.


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## alanmt (May 9, 2009)

*495 words*

*My Application To The Adventurer’s Guild*

The Registrar looked at me from behind the solid wood counter.

“Name?” he asked.

“Alan of the Crystal Blades,” I replied, with a cocky half-smile that was deceptively self-deprecating. Most people didn’t live long after seeing it. Or at least I kept telling myself they wouldn’t, once I got the chance to use my skills. I was fresh from apprenticeship and needed Guild membership to freelance. 

I heard a muffled snigger from the scribe in the background, who was supposed to be dutifully writing my name on a square of parchment. I debated snarling at the feather-wielding lackey, but decided he was beneath me.

“Occupation?” asked the Registrar.

“Assassin.”

“Apprenticeship?”

“Caroma of the Venom Bite,” I answered. The man lost his bored expression momentarily.

“Caroma’s still alive? I thought she’d withered away decades ago . . .” 

The scribe sniggered again. 

Caroma was recently dead, but this guy didn’t need to know that. I handed him a scroll of completion of apprenticeship. 

“Very well then,” he said, “That will be fifty silver for the application, and one hundred gold for your first year’s dues.”

I handed him a bulging leather pouch, and waited as he counted the coins. One hundred gold. Fifty silver. Virtually all of Caroma’s secret stash. The scribe brought the parchment forward and then exited through a rear door with my blood money. The Registrar retrieved a candle, dripped some wax on the document, and impressed into it the venerable seal of the Adventurer’s Guild. I was in!

The Registrar handed me the parchment.

“Welcome to the Adventurer’s Guild. Here’s your certificate. We sell embossed Adventurer’s Guild weatherproof scroll cases for 50 silver, if you’d like one.”

“Thank you,” I said. Fifty bloody silver for a stinking scroll case? “I won’t be needing the scroll case.” 

He shrugged, indifferent.

“So . . .” I drew the word out. “I’m done here?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the Registrar. The scribe emerged from hiding carrying many more sheets of parchment.

“What are those for?” I asked.

“We’d like to know a little bit about you for our files,” said the Registrar blandly. “Routine.”

The scribe sniggered a third time.

A flick of my hand sent one of the crystal daggers I had “inherited” from Caroma flashing through the air, to land with a thunk in the scribe’s neck. Blood welled up around the blade as the goggle-eyed man tottered and collapsed backward.

The Registrar gave me a stern look of disapproval and pulled a velvet cord. A few seconds alter, a woman in healer’s robes appeared. The Registrar nodded at the corpse.

“Resurrect him,” he said curtly, “Send in a new scribe, and assess Alan of the Crystal Blades a 250 gold coin fine for killing guild personnel, payable within six months.” 

The healer began to drag the corpse out. With my dagger still in its throat. This was embarrassing.

“Ummmmm,” I muttered, in the healer's general direction, “Could I get my dagger back?”


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## MeeQ (May 11, 2009)

*Blaine for Clover: 500 Words exactly.*

As the clock struck two I realised that my appointment with Blaine was about to commence. Before I could get the door, it swung open with a vicious kick.

  I’d been seeing Blaine for a year: Schizophrenia, quite severe. He is hugely underweight and monstrously tall. ‘Exoskeleton’ springs to mind whenever I see him. It is always clear from his eyes that his other half – Clover, is still featuring prominently in his life.

In session he speaks of her, as her, to her: Curious and uncommon that a man would have a female persona as his mind’s imaginary form. 

  “Clover finds your constant staring and idle banter an offence to both mindful dissections and perceptions. Concluding that such a one as I, agree.”

  Clover fights his battles, and tames his vocabulary vomit: Sometimes. 

  I asked him how his meds were going, though I needn’t have. It was clear by the sheer force of Clover’s presence he was once again abstaining. 

“They are the nemesis. I’m here to stay. Blaine needs me. He loves me. We are one. We are perfection,” was Clover’s voice through Blaine’s mouth. He would never accept that which would mean the demise of his sovereign girl.

He spoke so vividly of her, as if she were really there: A person of flesh and blood, holding his hand, whispering in his ear, joking, laughing, manipulating.

“Your questions insult me and Clover. She will get you too Doctor. Yes, I know, dearest insightful child. He will come to the conclusion of insanity,” He spoke mostly to her, “Like every other quack. He will thrust documents in filing cabinets for future reference. He’ll give us pills, needles, more drugs. All in the pity-filled hope of curable misconceptions,”

I asked for his attention politely. I know never to infuriate a body of two minds.

“He asks for my attention, and yet denies your sweet and subtle existence. Truly Doctor, do you think you could trick me into considering a life without Mrs. Clover?”

His pet names for her change like seasons. Sometimes she is Misses, little miss, toots. He’s nothing if not thorough. The many sides of Clover read true. But I see past his façade, his plays for attention.

“Time,”


  He gets off on calling an end to my sessions. Or maybe it’s her bad influence. But then who am I to say they’re not better off together?

***

In the five minutes between sessions I finished his notes for the day: Little to no progress. At three a new patient kicked in my door. She sat down and I informed her that I’d need to know a little bit about her for my files. 

“I’m having problems,” She told me, “Clover needs me. She loves me. We are one. We are perfection,” she continued.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“That’s the problem. It’s this voice in my head,”

The Doctor looked down at the file and saw the name: Clover Crimson.

“And what is this voice’s name?” He knew.

“Blaine.”


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## adrianhayter (May 11, 2009)

*Death and Privacy  (496wds)*

Death and Privacy​
The mortician always spoke politely to the dead. He apologized for his cold probing fingers, and chewed anise seeds to freshen his breath.  He especially regretted offending the recently departed with personal questions but at times, there was no other choice.  Threading the formaldehyde catheter into the aorta was child’s play compared to prying into the deceased’s privacy. 

The wrinkled man on the embalming table stared at the ceiling tiles, his pupils wide with wonder.  He’d been found floating in the ocean without identification so there was no other choice but to meddle.


The mortician cleared his throat. “We’d like to know a little about you for our files”. His face broke into a nervous grin as he sat down on his stool and prepared the forms. “Of course, it’s confidential. No need to worry yourself over that.”  He thought for a moment and as assurance, he added, “No one but the two of us will ever know.” 

He started the questioning in a business-like tone. “I see you have a tattoo on your buttocks with the name Rambo. Would that be your name, or your wife’s, girlfriend or possibly, a boyfriend?” 

The mortician refused to take his clients at face value. He’d been fooled before by sexual reassignments and worst of all, the aphrodites. Better to ask the hard questions now than be embarrassed later.  He pulled down the sheet covering the body.  After a closer inspection and seeing the heavy chest hairs, he marked _male _on the form.   

“…and next there’s the matter of your nipple rings. Should I remove and save them for your children or next of kin, as the case may be, or do you wish to be buried with them?” 

The man ignored the question as if his mind rested elsewhere.

“You’re probably right. If your children want nipple rings, they should get a job and buy their own. ” He blushed at his bluntness but forged ahead and pulled the sheet lower. 


“Oh dear me, I see you have another piercing in your more private parts.”   

He quickly checked the space on the form designated for a closed casket.  


“…and you’ve shaved all the hair from around your…I suppose that’s an organ of sorts… and you’re wearing women’s leather panties.”  

The mortician used the pencil’s eraser to correct his mistake and added a question mark in the space labeled _male._ 

“You must understand that I’m not particularly prudish but I have limits. Is there anything else you need to tell me before I file this report?”

Seawater exploded from the old man’s mouth, crabs and minnows as well as he sat straight up on the stainless-steel table. 

“Damn it to hell. Where am I?”  Gruff words and foaming water spewed until he turned and saw the mortician. 

“I appreciate you getting me all worked up Bud but I believe I’ve had all the foreplay I can handle. Let’s get down to business now and bring in the girls.”


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## Like a Fox (May 11, 2009)

*Store Credit *​ 

*K.M. Main *​ 


_*Author’s note: (499 words, 2 of which are explicit)*_​ 





Bright lights: Loud horn. 

“Goodbye, cruel world,”

Silence. 

Bright reception area: Loud Receptionist.

*“Hello Darkness,”*
“My name’s Fletcher,”
*“Hello Fletcher. What are you in for?”*
“I don’t know, last thing I remember, my eyes were stabbed by a flash of neon light, split the night. Then no sound, just silence,”
“*Ah yes, another train-splatter. Well, no prizes for originality,”*
“Prizes?-- What? Why am I here?”
“*You’re in Hell dear. We’ll cover the ‘Why?’ soon enough. For now if you could fill this out, we’d like to know a little bit about you for our files. Leon will be with you shortly,”*

Fletcher took a seat and filled out the forms with details of his demise, his shades of mediocrity. He noticed a tall thin man in a hospital gown walking towards him. Through bleary eyes, the scene began to focus.

*“Hi, I’m **Leon**, here to make you feel at home,”*
“Can’t I just sleep?”
“*Nope,”* 
“Later?”
“*Nope, never. Never can you ever sleep again,”*
“But… that’s… Jesus, that’s kind of the whole fucking reason I killed myself,”
“*Yeah. Cruel twist*,”
“You don’t sound concerned,”
*“I’m not: I killed myself too. Welcome to Suicide Central. No sympathetic eyes here,”*

The pair soon found themselves strolling around the grounds. 

“So what can I expect? Torture?”
“*Yes, but not the kind you mean. Torture here is tailor-made. Every night I have to watch the same film. It’s my mother crying and drinking herself into oblivion. I don’t know if it’s real, it doesn’t matter. If she did find happiness in life I’ll never know, all I’ll ever know is that my death destroyed her,”*

Fletcher took a look around at the other souls sitting in circles, discussing misery; there wasn’t a smile to be found. The thought occurred to him that life really had been beautiful. 

“What about those girls?”
*“Sad story, I guess. They made a suicide pact: Narcissistic suicide. So they’re forced to watch their loved-ones get on with their lives. As far as they know they were never mourned. I’d take that any day. But you see; tailor-made,”*

“I guess I see where they’re coming from. But what’s the point? What do we learn?”
“*Oh you will learn much. Ignorance is bliss; so there’ll be none of that. See, the Big Guy, He’s pretty cool. There’s not much He gives a shit about. He just really* *doesn’t like us,”*
“Us? Why?”

“*Another cruel twist: Turns out the only thing God asks for is perseverance. He doesn’t care about religion or apologies. He doesn’t judge the murderers or politicians. It’s ‘God giveth, God taketh away’. **Because we took that into our own hands, we will forever be punished. We’re forgotten children, faulty souls. We returned the greatest gift of all. Unfortunately The Shop of Life doesn’t do store credit,”*

“So Heaven does hold a place for those who pray?”
“*Yep,”*
“And we can never get there?”
“*Not a chance,”*
“So every way you look at it, you lose,”
“*Nailed it,”*



_-For __Leon__’s mother_


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## DarkDyer (May 13, 2009)

*"Chasing A Memory" (502 Words)*

I sit, choked by the darkness and deafened by the silence of the room. My only feeling is the cold metal of my chair.

“Drake.”

My name is spoken, and I flinch. I move my mouth to respond, but find that a gag stops me. All I can do is wait.

“Drake. We’d like to know a little about you for our files.”

_What files?_ I wish to ask. _And what could you possibly want to know about me?_

But I cannot. My forced silence is answered by the sound of a drill coming to life. Fear washes over me, and the drill moves ever closer toward my skull. I want to scream. “Drake?” the voice asks.

I woke up just then, screaming in my bed. A woman came rushing into the room, a look of worry etched on her youthful face. “Drake? Are you alright?” she asked, and I realized that her voice had been the one near the end of the dream.

I nodded my head at her. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just need a minute. Thanks, Annie.” She gave me one last long look before she exited.

I threw myself back on the mattress. I had been having this recurring dream for a couple months now. Every time I uncovered just a little more, but it always left numerous questions unanswered. This time the new part had been the drill that had been about to bore into my skull.

But why? Why does this mystery man want to know information about me for his files? I was just an average twenty-seven-year-old man. Married, one kid, a mortgage, and a dead-end office job. There was nothing unique about me.

_Well, not exactly nothing_, I thought. Some odd things had been happening lately, but I had figured they were only because of the dreams. I had to be imagining them, because there was no way that I can hear voices when there is silence. Voices that sound like my coworkers. No one else hears them. Only insane people hear voices, right?

I climbed out of bed to get ready. At least it was Friday. I had the weekend to look forward to. I walked into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. As I look up at the mirror, something strange catches my eye. I look closer, and chills run down my spine. On the sides of my forehead are two small circles of skin that are a different color. I scrubbed at them. Nothing happened.

Maybe my dream had happened in real life. And maybe I was just getting my memories back. I quickly dried off my face, thinking.

I tried to push the thoughts aside. They would have to wait until I slept again. But the empty bed beckons me to enter the world of the sleeping. _What would one day of calling in sick hurt?_ I thought. I climbed back under the covers and closed my eyes. It was time to chase my memory again.


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## Tiamat (May 14, 2009)

So I'm an hour late in locking this thread.  Either way, this thread is now locked.  Judges, have at her!


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