# The Microfiction Thread



## Jon M (Oct 22, 2012)

Intended to be a dumping ground for all of your short fiction. No prompts, no rules. Just your vignettes, your flash, your scraps that don't fit anywhere else; anything below, let's say, 500 words, mmkay?


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## Jon M (Oct 23, 2012)

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## Aramis (Oct 28, 2012)

*Manning the Barricades* (Strong Language)

(apologies if I am over the word limit)


This exam is tough and I should know- I've sat more than most.

Question 1: The best use for a paperweight is:

Answer A: for stubbing out cigarettes.
Answer B: for dashing out the brains of         
          invigilators.
Answer C: to secure previously loose papers.
Answer D: as barter to win the affection of a
          member of the opposite/same sex.

WHICH?

Brilliant question. I make my mark.
I am in love with the girl sitting at the desk to my left.
From time to time she rises without a sound, like a ghost and strolls to  the open window on our right where she hurls abuse (and rocks) at the  demonstrators below.
I am in awe. She has an affinity with obscenity like no-one else I know.  I have never heard anyone say "Fuck off" quite so beautifully. 

She grins in my direction each time she returns to my seat and I blush like a fool.

The rocks, snuggling together in a large pile, belong to all of us. We  each brought in two, as stipulated in the examination entrance  requirements, which were hand-delivered to each entrant some time ago.

A large red-lettered sign saying PLACE YOUR ROCKS HERE BEFORE SITTING is pinned on the wall near the window.
FEEL FREE TO THROW is written underneath in finer print.

Nobody, except the girl has yet to throw a rock. As usual, I'd like to but I don't have the courage.

I return to my queston paper.

Question 2: The sky falls in on you so you:

Answer A: cower under an umbrella.
Answer B: climb up and take its place.
Answer C: rip off a piece as barter to win the
          affections of a member of the 
          opposite/same sex.

WHICH?

A choice of only three answers. Perhaps the exam is getting easier.

The demonstrators below are relatively quiet as demonstrators go- and I should know. I've encountered more than most.

Suddenly, the small man with glasses, who received a 58% pass-mark in  the last exam, looks out of the window and begins shouting,
'Look out, they've got ladders,'
Having never seen a demonstrator with a ladder, I jump up and peer out  of the window. And what he's saying is true. They have ladders, six of  them to be precise.

Without thinking, I pick up a rock and hurl it through the window,  watching as it bounces off the shoulder of a particularly filthy rogue.
He gives a cowardly scream and clutches at the sleeve of his grubby corduroy jacket.

The girl with whom I am in love is suddenly at my side.
'My hero,' she oozes.

Everyone is now clambering at the window tossing down the rocks. The exam is forgotten amid the excitement.

Every scream and howl and moan from a demonstrator is met by a shriek of pleasure by an examination candidate.
We are heroes, manning the barricades. Heroes.

Eventually our supply of rocks is exhausted yet still they keep  coming. We throw chairs and desks. Then pens, pencils and papers. A fire  extinguisher and a blackboard.
We hurl down the invigilator but still they keep coming.

As a last resort, we begin throwing ourselves out of the window, in true kamikaze fashion.
Soon only the girl and I remain.
We kiss then sit on the floor and attempt to complete the examination.

Question 3:  Demonstrators are climbing through
             an open window in an attempt to
             kill you so you:

Answer A: bid them welcome and offer them tea.
Answer B: destroy the question papers before 
          they can reach them.
Answer C: give your lover a lingering embrace 
          before you are both torn apart.
Answer D: watch television.
Answer E: close the window.

WHICH?

A choice of five! Damn, this exam is getting even harder.


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## Kevin (Oct 28, 2012)

@Aramis- *that  *was really good.


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## dolphinlee (Oct 28, 2012)

*Aramis - Manning the Barracade*s. 

There is some excellent writing in this piece. Your descriptive writing is clean and clear. 

Unfortunately I was left with more questions than answers.



> The rocks, snuggling together in a large pile, belong to all of us. We each brought in two.



In light of later events why only 2?



> As usual, I'd like to but I don't have the courage.



Why not you have met demonstrators before?



> Question 2: The sky falls in on you so you:



QU 1 & 3 are solid questions this one seems strange



> He gives a cowardly scream and clutches at the sleeve of his grubby corduroy jacket.



The word cowardly jarred.

Overall I was left wanting to know why.
Why the exam?
Why the demonstrators?
Why was the narrator being attacked?
Why if a demonstration/attack was expected were the examinees so poorly prepared?


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## dolphinlee (Oct 28, 2012)

Jon M - Untitled

I liked the fact that this was a complete story. You managed to put in all that was necessary for me to understand what was going on. 

I have two suggestions.
1) Some of your sentences are too long. 


> She tells you to have a seat in the gray chair and you do this for her, and she tells you to hold your arm out straight and lock your elbow, honey, and you also do this for her.




2) The use of the word dirty to describe the blood jarred. 


> she fills three 10 mL tubes with your dirty blood.



Well done


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## Jon M (Oct 28, 2012)

Moved here


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## Kevin (Oct 30, 2012)

*The Little Market  (Language warning)
------------------------

*That guy’s there again, the one that’s always there on weekend mornings, just hanging out. You can’t remember his name, but you remember that the owner says he talks too much. The guy starts telling you that he just got out of the hospital and you notice that he’s lost weight, a lot of weight, and looks a little yellow. _Three weeks in the_ _hospital and over a hundred pounds_, he says. Water weight, you think. You’d always thought he was just fat. He talks, and you half listen. Behind the counter, the owner tries to distract you, but it’s early and you don’t mind listening. His skin looks like crepe paper; water loss. His skin, you think, he’s probably too old to have it come back. 

Aneurisms, heart operations, blood vessels removed from groins. Beneath his long pants a leg is missing; diabetes. The leg; you never knew about that.  _I was leaving a trail and puddles, everywhere, all over the pharmacy floor. I didn't even know. I couldn't feel it. I'm lucky I didn't bleed to death. That was the second time they had to sew it up._ You sip your coffee and the owner asks you, not him, _What else? So tell me what else… _You don’t answer, but you’re thinking, _Nothing, Roy. I’m listening. I don’t mind..._

He leaves, and the owner says, _That guy, he will, what-you-call-it, talk your f.....g ear off. _You lay some change on the edge of the cooler. _No, you keep it. You have to go? Thank you for stopping. Thank you for stopping by._ He puts his hands together in the prayer position at his forehead. _ Thank you Roy. I’ll see you…_. 

You get home, and your family's still asleep. That guy, you think, he didn’t have his dog. _I forgot about his dog. It’s always just him and his dog, sitting in front of the store._ You can hear his voice.  _She’s fifteen and deaf… _That funny dog, so small and quite, a whippet. If you got down in the parking lot and waited, she would slowly walk to you, one, maybe, two touches to the wrist with her nose, and then she was off again, by herself, wandering.

_The doctors said they hadn’t fixed the aneurysm because they thought I would be dead first from my heart. Can you imagine that? Five years we’ve been watching this thing, and now they decide to fix it. The doctor took me aside and said "We thought you'd already be dead." He actually told me that. Now they have to give me a local ‘cause I can’t go under anymore._

You wonder what happened to his dog. Maybe he just didn’t bring her, but then he always brought her before_. _Always just him and his dog_._


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## Kyle R (Nov 3, 2012)

The last thing I remember was Abe slipping a knife into Biscuit's left kidney, and the orangutan straining against her shackles. It was that kind of a party.

Then there I was, in the middle of a damp field beneath a heavy October sky, with what tasted like blood and rocks in my mouth. My pants were nowhere to be seen. It was cold and desolate in Chattanooga.

All I knew was I had a long, lonely walk ahead of me, and the love of my life was gone. That part hurt the most. I rubbed my face with my hands and flopped back into the soil, willing myself to tumble back into sleep, to reverse it all, to melt everything to a dream. 

But life isn't so kind.

Goodbye, Mirabella, I whispered to the wind.

Somewhere a bird crowed and I picked up a rock, threw it as hard as I could, to nowhere.


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## Jon M (Nov 6, 2012)

.


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## Deleted member 49710 (Nov 6, 2012)

Odd middle-of-the-night thing. Can't remember where it was going, if I even knew.

Editing some of the franker terminology.
--

B------, right, the stripper says, she says this matter-of-factly, so divorced is her business from her pleasure, though not from yours, no. This is a question you won’t answer, at least not honestly, because that would be contrary to your own self-interest and you and she, you are both there for that, your self-interest.

She isn’t as young as you thought, you see now that she’s close, she’s near forty. Based on that you guess she has at least one teenager at home, every year a new falling-apart car, long-neglected dental problems, one or two burnt out boyfriends she thinks about but doesn’t see. And she’s not pretty, not in the low green light of bathroom fluorescence, and the smell there isn’t conducive to anything you might want to pretend. Wet floors, pissed on and mopped dirty, ventilation shaft full of mold, you can smell the floating spores, can imagine them infesting your nostrils, your lungs, growing black circles like lesions on your major arteries and heart. 

Bored with you, impatient, she falls back against the wall with a sigh, says, I gotta work out there if I’m not workin in here, can’t waste a lot of f---in time thinkin about it, honey, all right?


As soon as she’s able to think she’ll be unable to move, and that’s good because that way there’s no damage, to you, that is: you will not be broken but you will not know the truth.


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## Cirse (Nov 8, 2012)

She dances in a circle of light while everything crashesaround her. So much energy, so much passion, so much nothing. Images flash byand memories come flooding in. Voices buzz. A cigarette falls to the floor andhisses in the puddle that was someone’s drink. Too many faces; all the samefaces. All the same void minds. Just give her a song…


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## Cirse (Nov 9, 2012)

Monsters of the world come hither. It is your time… Your time to come out from under the beds and out the closets. Leave your dark corners behind and put on your best scary face. You know, that face that chills the blood and makes the mouth go dry.

            Strike fear into the hearts of them all. Glory in it. Revel in it. Enjoy the screams and fearful whimpers.

            It’s pathetic. We’re forced to live in the depths, forever lurking. Come out, I say.Come out and show them all. Monsters are people too.


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## Kevin (Nov 9, 2012)

Thirty miles an hour. Twenty miles an hour, ten miles an hour. What's up? One car is up the curb. The other is sideways, on the sidestreet, not blocking your path. Steam and smoke are still rising. A young woman has just gotten out. She puts her hands to her cheeks and lets out a cry. It's not a scream, it's not crying, but you know that sound. Dismay, utter, lost, dismay. A sound you could never make.  An older woman, a passerby out for a walk maybe, grabs her, wraps her arms around her, embraces her. Thank god she knew what to do. There's nothing you can do. You drive on past.


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## Deleted member 49710 (Nov 14, 2012)

(Character monologue/backstory I've tried like three different ways now)

I  dreamt I was walking in the city. There were a lot of people out, all  walking in the same direction, so I followed them. As I walked I could  see, in my mind, the whole grid. The square, one hundred by one hundred,  inside the circle, bisected by two perpendicular lines, divided into quarters. And all of us traveling along the lines, like  electrical charges down wires. Like blood through veins. Like a  body. And it came over me that the city was a body and that this body  was like a machine. And I was like a machine, too, and everyone else, all of us -- fueled and programmed and interconnected. You say one thing and  they say another, you smile and they smile, you touch them the right  away and -- you press a button. They react. Every time the same. Each of us part of this  enormous complex machine, the city, and at the same time a microcosm of  it, functional and perfect. When I woke up I knew it was true, and I was  -- it was like I’d got a mission. To be perfect. To keep everything  perfect.

So  maybe a half year later I got into our apartment and there were my  parents fighting. They didn’t hear me come in. My mother’s face was all red, her voice sounded wrong, distorted, and she was  saying things -- she was asking _why_, and my father -- answering her --  at first he was talking very low. But then he got louder, too, and I  didn’t -- he was saying, if you weren’t so -- I don’t remember exactly  what -- and I thought -- they’re broken.


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## Bad Craziness (Nov 19, 2012)

Long bouts of listening to Happiness is a Warm Gun (the remastered 2009 White Album version) on repeat during sundrenched afternoons in the middle of summer. Allowing leaves to blow through the front door and fill up the lounge room over a period of about three weeks. 

Singing along to the best of Pulp and trying to imitate Jarvis Cocker in the mirror, all limp-wrists and shy pelvic thrusts. A constant diet of take-away oriental and vegemite on toast. Warm white wine. Three cups of coffee a day balanced out by half a tab of valium at lunch. 

The ever-present white noise slowly, achingly, increasing to a dull roar. Day dreams of a date with a girl whose name I can’t quite remember, whose face I can’t properly visualise. Just a warm blend of flesh tones seated at a bar stool trying to engage, her body slowly slumping in an involuntary sign of surrender. 

The deadening of the senses through the daily ritual. Doing everything except actually living life. Lost in the push-pull of a limbo unable to be described. Spoken word poetry in a north London accent over shopping centre muzak. 

Fortune favours the brave in that they achieve their goal, or find the warm embrace of defeat in trying.

Thunderstorms in a swimming pool. The clouds rushing over to hide the sun in their cotton wool as the shadows pull themselves across the rest of everything. A blanket of cold. An ominous depth to the light. The air shaking slowly as fat raindrops pierce the nothingness and explode on the water as if it were concrete. Shattering and reforming again and again as the single becomes the whole becomes the few becomes the whole. And then lightning splices the dark away in the distance and everyone gets out of the pool in a disappointed throng.


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## Kevin (Nov 19, 2012)

Mother: How 'bout a burrito? I can heat you up a burrito..

Teen:   No thanks...I was just going to have some cereal and I'm not hungry right now, anyway.

Father: How about some mushroom/miso soup?

Teen:     No.

Father: It's shitake mushroom soup...

Teen:    There's a reason it has 'sh*t' in its name.

Father: ...slimey, shitake mushroom. Think of a snail...no guts...without the shell...just the part it walks on. Are you sure? Okay, maybe later.


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## D.H.A.O.H. (Nov 21, 2012)

He had worked there, in that Coal Mine, for as long as he could remember it being there. All of its history was in his/his fathers/his fathers fathers, home. He didn't need to be around since its inception to know its complete story- he lived it constantly. Just like the lead poisoning that had found its way into the lives (and consequently, minds) of its denizens, the Mine was a sort of all encompassing thing. 

As the synaptic impulses click,claw, and snap noisily along their tracks, they sometimes lose their way. He functions like poorly designed clockwork. Five generations of heavy metal accumulations causes his body to tremor, in a sort of camera shutter effect.


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## Leyline (Nov 28, 2012)

*A Variety Of Items One Might Chance Upon During The Apocalypse:*

(Bonus Table. See Graph E.)

*Sword Of Doom* -- pretty common really. You could probably get ten bucks on the street if you sold it. If it wasn't one of the purple gem blades, nobody likes that crap.

*Anti-Woman Power Spray* -- you have to have this. Thanks to the perfect blending of angsty forces within their anatomy, women have power over men. This common spray, seemingly of dead flowers and oil of nightshade, is often nicknamed 'axe' or 'edge.' This spray is scientifically proven to inflame the sinuses and eyes of women (and men) so that they flee, taking their enchanty bits with them.

*Two Bitted Bridal* -- for frequent, soul ravaging philosophical conversations with your Demon Steed. 

*Succufoam* -- this stuff is just a life saver.


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## Vendetta5885 (Dec 3, 2012)

_The Cold Wind_
*(Language Warning)*​
     The night was black.  The only light came from a couple of stars fighting through the clouds and a few cigarettes from soldiers’ mouths who had fought through the day.  At last tally we had six cigarettes.  Happiness will be in short supply tomorrow morning along with food, water, and ammunition.  I gripped my rifle rigidly with a finger on the trigger, a seemingly useless gesture as my fingers are so cold that I doubt I could pull it if I wanted to; regardless, my rifle was staying right where it was.  The sound of distant artillery shells exploding occasionally breaks the cold silence.  The wind cut through my jacket like a bayonet through the enemy’s flesh, the wind steals my warmth like the bayonet stealing a life, slowly and painfully.

“You want some, Jesse?” Rory asked with his southern drawl, holding out a crooked, thin and flimsy cigarette which was obviously wrapped with cold hands and a dwindling tobacco supply.

“Thanks,” I said grabbing it with shaking hands. “Can’t sleep?” I asked, pausing and taking a long methodical drag. 

 “Shit, no.  Too damn cold. Afraid I won’t wake up.” He laughed, “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing though.” He looked at me for confirmation if the joke was funny.  

“Not sure your mama would appreciate that joke Rory, but I suppose it is better than some of the alternatives.”  I stared down at the frozen mud, looked up at him just in time to catch the single tear. “You’ll get home.” I said passing the cigarette back to him.

“Yeah, I know. We all will or at least that’s what everyone tells each other.” Rory said, laughing uncomfortably.  He assumes the crouching position and heads back to his rifle and pack.    I placed my rifle across my lap and rested my head against the cold hard wall of the trench and tried with all my will to place myself next to the fire with my wife and child. I kiss my wife on the cheek and find myself drifting off to sleep.

_-plop… plop-

_The warning, the precursor of inevitable death, a lost second is one too many.
_
-plop -

_The mustard gas filled artillery rounds land up-wind.  I rip open my ruck sack, fingers incapable of working from the extreme cold, playing cards, the crappy novel I never read, every leisure activity I carry becomes an obstacle, an instrument of my demise.  Some soldiers become vigilantes fighting for themselves, bumping into one another throwing another down to get out of the path of death. Other soldiers become heroes, throwing themselves down to get others out of the path of death.  I find my mask and feverishly attempt to put it on, clumsy fingers fumble with the straps.  People run around me in all directions, a flurry of panic.  Rory is by my side tugging my jacket collar, yelling through his mask.

“Lets go! Get out of here!”  He warned pointing at the seemingly benign cloud.     I nod in agreement and take off into a run looking over my shoulder attempting to tighten my mask, it is almost upon us.  20 feet, 15 feet…     

_-plop, plop-

_
I look back again. I find myself airborne… I meet cold, rock hard earth at the bottom of an old trench.  My face is uncovered, I feverishly search for the lost mask, but its useless.  The cloud calmy and steadily drifts into the trench.  I see the cold wind take the cloud and send it into a chaotic spiral just before engulfing me like a stone in rough water.  Better than some of the alternatives I thought to myself and I tried with all my will to place myself next to the fire with my wife and child. I kiss my wife on the cheek and find myself drifting off to sleep.


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## Pluralized (Jan 1, 2013)

*.*


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## Circadian (Jan 2, 2013)

A torment scene from an old WIP that didn't get past page 6.  Ah, my characters must think me so cruel.

As soon as Damon reached the door, he knew something was wrong.  The door, a rich mahogany, was not closed all the way and he pushed it open, peering into the gloom.  His heart hovered just at the base of his throat, ready to choke him if need be.  The candles were extinguished.  Golden green evening light streamed through the front window, dappling the floorboards.

    "Mom?" he called out tentatively, waiting for her to step out of the kitchen and announce that dinner was ready.  No one appeared.

    "Dad?"  Slowly, he made his way into the kitchen.  Bowls were still out and a knife lay on the cutting board beside a bundle of carrots.  He could smell broth and warm bread littered with spices.  His mouth watered despite his nervousness.  He stepped out and into the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

    "Alyssa?"  His foot kicked something and he looked down.  It was a sword.  A thin, sharp blade with a silver hilt and pommel.  There was something familiar about it, although he could not remember having seen it before.  It lay half-in and half-out of his parents’ bedroom.  Not an inch away from the handle was a hand.
    Damon’s blood ran cold.

    His heart climbed higher in his throat as he slowly, fearfully, peered in the room.  The hand belonged to his mother.  She was lying on the floor, a deep gash slitting her forehead and caking her long hair with blood.  Damon cried out and backed against the wall.  Her eyes were slightly open.  Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.  He stumbled over the fallen sword and ran to the room at the end of the hallway.

    "Alyssa!"

_No_.  The room was scorched.  Every wall blackened, the dresser toppled on the bed.  The flames seemed to have come from a central point.  In that point, where no flames had touched it at all, was his sister.  She was curled in a ball, her eyes shut tightly.  Soot sprinkled her clothing and her hair but she remained unburnt.
    Beneath her, wrapped in her arms, was little Wesley.  Damon could tell that they were both gone.  And despite Alyssa’s efforts, she could not protect herself nor her little brother.

_No_, he thought, his eyes watering.  _No!_  He bunched his hands into fists, digging them in his eyes until he saw violet flashes of light in the fuzzy darkness behind his eyelids.  His hands slid up into his hair, grabbing tufts of it and he didn’t care that it hurt.  His throat was hurting, restricting.  He was on his knees, his forehead almost touching the ground.

    "No!" he screamed and his skin tingled and then felt warm, too warm.  And flames licked at the walls, stretched all the way to the ceiling and he screamed again, not caring if anyone could hear him, not caring that it made his throat hurt even more.  He could not see for the tears and the fire that burned them away.

~Circe


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## Leyline (Jan 14, 2013)

*Aphrodite Bites(ized) (Language warning)*

I've been in love with a dozen women but none of them ever loved me back. I've wondered why a thousand times and never figured it out. Sometimes I wonder if maybe a dozen women have been in love with me, and I just never noticed because I didn't love them back. Maybe it's just a matter of perception or the lack of it.

Maybe I seem as fickle and cruel as they seemed to me. Maybe they wonder about this shit, too.

Maybe love is just a bitch, and only comes in bite sized pieces, easily missed.


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## moderan (Jan 24, 2013)

The Black Traveler​ 
So I heard over in England they had this gas a few years ago, called time gas. The time gas supposedly regresses people backward psychologically, through their childhoods and beyond.
They were meting it out in measured doses, which people paid for, and that worked fine until they found a huge untapped vein of it and regressed everyone within a hundred-mile vicinity way back past the dinosaurs.
Never did find an antidote, and now I understand they've grouped all these people together in hospitals, paid for by the company that extracts and distributes the time gas. They're still in business.
It could have been worse.
Larger reservoirs of the gas have been found and tapped.
The reason I bring that up is because one of those veins is just a few miles from here. They're just getting around to tapping it, might be doing it right now. It does smell kinda funny...
Oh, you didn't know that?
Sorry to be the first to tell you. Have you tried this gas?
Uh-huh. I see. Quite the bike, eh? I suppose it would be nice to go back to childhood for a little bit. You say they're really accurate with this stuff? They can put you right on the dot, the moment you want to relive?
Oh, it's expensive. I bet it is.
What was that about the people? Oh, they keep disappearing from their hospital beds? What can you do about that? I don't think anyone has a time machine to go chasing around after them, do they?
That's the only way I can think of, the place they must be going. I mean, they have to be physically traveling in time, don't they? Can you think of anywhere else they're going?
Boy, it's dark in this bar. Hey, can I get ya a beer?
Sure, no problem. Hey, Mike-get this guy a Guinness, on me, willya? Thanks a lot, Mike.
So, you were saying?
Wow, that's really something. You think that these people are able to navigate space and time in straight lines, not curved ones like we do. What an angle.
Angle, jeez. I crack me up.
Sorry. That's a real headful.
What? Oh, you work for the company? I thought you knew a lot. C'mon, gimme some inside. What's it really like to travel backward in time? Not the company line, your own words.
Really. I gotta try that stuff, no doubt about it.
Yeah? You got some on ya. Hey, thanks. This stuff is safe, right? You know what you're doing?
Just kidding. I can tell you know all about it.
Just inhale...okay.
Great. So where'd you say you were from? Don't take this wrong, but we don't often get people in here that have skin as dark as yours. I mean you're coal black, guy.
You got a cloven hoof? Only joshing.
Hey, that's nice. I'm beginning to feel it. You sure you didn't give me too much? What do you mean you gave the same to everybody? What kind of a name is Nyarlathotep anyway?
Better try some beer. I don't know how much longer that bartender is gonna let me stay. He keeps looking at me like he knows I don't have ID.
Hey, thanks, Mister Black. I appreciate it, I'll deliver the papers on time every day.
Oh, Suzy, oh, that's right. Me too, first time. It's okay.
Did you see the newest Red Sonja? Boy can that guy draw girls. I wisht I could draw like that.
Yes, we're learning how to divide. I can multiply up to ten. Ten times ten times ten is eleventy hundred.
Mister, can I please have a cookie? Please please. Thank You!
No, I'm four.
*dark* in here, *damp*, *warm*.
<.this space vacant.>
the angles intersect a point beyond the next curve. if fast, can avoid hounds and enter next segment. 
not fast enough.
nice doggie.


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## genevieve (Feb 6, 2013)

moderan said:


> You think that these people are able to navigate space and time in straight lines, not curved ones like we do.



do you often write in stream-of-consciousness ? ... because this is rather brilliant


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## Kyle R (Feb 6, 2013)

Imbo watched the Earth lean, that teasing slow-motion tilt. He saw the stars flicker on and slide across sky, an ever-twisting dark celestial omelet. White pepper, milk way on the side. "I'm hungry," he said.

"Shh." Serendipity went by "Seren" for short. Her hippie parents named her in a cloud of purple haze. After the nurse bunched up her face and left the room to fill the birth certificate, her parents giggled about something they neither remembered nor cared to. Serendipity. The first sound she made in this world was a wheezing, labored cough. "I'm having a moment," she now said, her back leaned against Imbo's chest as she sat between the legs of his baggy jeans. She took out her inhaler, shook it, and brought it to her lips. Puff.

Imbo watched her chest rise, watched her B-cup teenage curves paint gentle shadows across her shirt. Seren exhaled, her chest falling. Imbo exhaled with her. "You done having a moment?" he said. "I'm hungry enough to eat a bear."

She looked back and up at him. He held her gaze for a second. "Don't you like the stars?" she asked, looking back to them, like they were her creation and she expected some sort of admiration, gratitude, perhaps. She waved her hands around as if she were rearranging the waters of space to find more appealing constellations.

"They're great, yeah," Imbo said. "Reminds me of cheeseburgers. And pizza."

"All you ever think about is food."

"That's not true."

Serendipity raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What else goes on in Imbo's great mind, then?"

Imbo glanced down her shirt. "Sex."

"Typical." Seren leaned her head against Imbo's chest and said, softly, "Just look. All those stars, every one of them is a sun, like ours, a huge, blazing ball of fire, with planets orbiting around each of them--many with life just like ours. Imagine how many millions of different alien species are living their lives around those stars, looking up at the night sky just like we are now."

Imbo looked up and saw the Earth roll, that ageless eternal sway. He watched a million distant suns flitter across the cosmos, their life-thriving planets in tow like baby ducks following their mother. The swoops and thrusts of asteroids penetrating the soft, velvety folds of nubile planets, pale and flourescent, like great supple orbs of--"I'm horny," he said. "The universe is turning me on."

Serendipity sighed.


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## Kevin (Feb 6, 2013)

Warning - language


"I'm going in there."

"Not without an appointment. Sir! You can't - security, someone get security!"

"Out of my way. He'll see me. Won't return my calls. He'll see me now-"

"Why don't you return my calls?"

"I've got nothing to say."

"When am I getting paid? What the hell...I did the work and now your going to pay me."

"What? What're you going to do? Don't you threaten. The Nazis couldn't kill me. You think I'm afraid of you?"

"I've been doing your work for years. Now this, why?"

"Because I can."

"Don't touch me! - You! That's your answer? 'I was in the camps.' They should have kept you. Look at you, you piece of shit."

"You'll never do any work for me again."

"Fuck you. I'll never do any work for anyone again, I'm bankrupt because of you."

"Sir, come with us easy, or we will call the police."

"Do your jobs. Get him out of here."


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## genevieve (Feb 7, 2013)

~


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## moderan (Feb 7, 2013)

genevieve said:


> do you often write in stream-of-consciousness ? ... because this is rather brilliant


Thank you. I write in all kinds of styles.


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## Kyle R (Feb 9, 2013)

The other ship had drifted silently in the night and come to rest against Nevea's hull, leaning like a drunkard. Delon peered up at it and instinctively held his breath. It was nightmarish, nearly alive, like husk of some behemoth perished eons ago, a primitive beast that ate monsters and obeyed only the raw, visceral pull of wild instinct. It seemed more creature than ship, something that began manmade but evolved along the way into its own species, a tentacled giant slithering through the grey-black filament of clouds. It loomed in the bleak morning light. Delon fidgeted beneath it, like a fruit fly marvelling at a giant arachnid. His heart thrummed in his chest. He reached out and touched the vessel's grimey hull, sliding his fingers into the salt-crusted grooves where rain had left dark wormtrail streaks like deep, inverted veins. The wood was cool and spongey, like the skin of a cadaver pulled from the sea. Delon shuddered and rubbed his fingertips against his shirt until they felt warm and dry and alive again.

(_from chapter four of _Nevea_, a WIP I've put on hold for now)_


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## Pluralized (Feb 9, 2013)

The statue loomed unmoving, unaware. It glared at the horizon, clenching ancient teeth. He stood and studied its face, looked for the mark. He saw the cleft in its forehead, just where the book said it would be. Reaching out with both hands, he made the sign of Hool as the book instructed, his jaw tight. 


Something shifted deep within the earth under his feet, and dark clouds obscured the late day sun. A rumbling shook him, and the cleft in the giant’s forehead took the shape of that he had formed with his hands. The beast-thing started to tremble, and shook loose the stone that covered its face, which glistened blue and strangely muscular.


The statue’s eyes fixed on him, glowing, terrible and tightening in their angry stare. The stone pulsed in his pocket, but there wasn’t time to insert it in the dormancy slot without the statue ripping him apart.


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## Sunny (Feb 9, 2013)

KyleColorado said:


> Imbo watched the Earth lean, that teasing slow-motion tilt. He saw the stars flicker on and slide across sky, an ever-twisting dark celestial omelet. White pepper, milk way on the side. "I'm hungry," he said.
> 
> "Shh." Serendipity went by "Seren" for short. Her hippie parents named her in a cloud of purple haze. After the nurse bunched up her face and left the room to fill the birth certificate, her parents giggled about something they neither remembered nor cared to. Serendipity. The first sound she made in this world was a wheezing, labored cough. "I'm having a moment," she now said, her back leaned against Imbo's chest as she sat between the legs of his baggy jeans. She took out her inhaler, shook it, and brought it to her lips. Puff.
> 
> ...



I love this story, Kyle. It made me smile. It feels familiar to me, somehow. It easy to feel it; almost like I've been there and had the same conversation. 

I'm glad I found this.


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## J Anfinson (Feb 9, 2013)

Alan took a walk. It was late, and the sounds of the city at night filled the air. Car alarms shrieked and police sirens wailed, all while most people were in bed. Alan didn’t see how anyone could sleep through any of that. He loved the night.
He crossed Third Avenue, and cut through an alleyway.It was even darker between the buildings, and he had to squint to avoid walking into a dumpster. He took in the sights around him as he walked. The old buildings were made of red brick, and had taken considerable time to build, which meant quality. He surmised that they’d likely stood since the founding of the city, which made them over a hundred years old. He could appreciate things that were old.
He exited the alley at the other end, and continued walking along Fourth. A dark van pulled up to the curb in front of him, and two men exited. One of the men was tall, sporting a thin mustache, and bald. The other was short and clean shaven, with a military style haircut. The men stood on the sidewalk, blocking Alan from going any further.
“You’ve been avoiding us,” the tall one said.
“Not very wise,” the short guy added.
Alan sighed. He was getting tired of being harassed.
“The boss would like his money. For your sake, I hope you have it,” the short one said.
“Sorry boys,” Alan replied. “I’m gonna need another week.”
The tall one was on him before he could react, and a fist slammed into his nose, while something hard was bashed against his kneecaps, driving Alan to the ground. The lanky bastard was quick, he thought.
“I recommend you pay the balance in full, right now,” the short guy said.
“Told you…I can’t,” Alan hissed.
The tall one stood over him, and said, “That’s a shame. It hurts my heart to do this.” He laughed.
“Let’s take a ride,” the short guy said.


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## Sunny (Feb 10, 2013)

The soft wind caresses my face where the sun had warmed me earlier in the day. He turns from the view of mountains and ocean to lean in and kiss my cheek. His lips lift into a smile while pressed against my skin. Darkness then light are almost one as I blink my eyes. How will I ever say goodbye, I'm not strong like him. I bite my bottom lip and push against his chest. My hand slides down his stomach before I rest it on my knee. He looks at me for confirmation. I whisper, “go.” 

He stands and keeps his hand on my head, silently asking if it's okay to leave, once more. I reach out to grab his hand and make him stay. But the look in his eyes switches my selfishness off again. I instead show him my teeth, parting my lips into the shape of a smile as I nod. 

He moves silently down the stairs, just the whisper of his breath lingers in the air. 

I lean my head back and my neck muscles strain. The stars are brighter when he's around, when I'm not alone, when I can touch his flesh. I memorize the way these distant planets seem to drift and twinkle as though they're peeking at me, as I am at them. Can I take them with me when I leave? I only want one. Just one. One to remember this night.

The scratches from the cockroaches sing in tune with the breezes that sway through the fruit trees. I hate cockroaches, even now, when they don't look so bad shadowed by darkness. I chew on my tongue for conviction. I don't need him, when she's needing him. Bugs are just bugs. I can squish it just like he could. I turn from the cockroaches that sit over my shoulder on the concrete wall. 

The lights flicker to life from below, and the sliding door opens. I wait for his signal. I can do this. I don't need his touch to move my feet. Just get up and go. 

I stand tall, and pull at my dress, my hands sticking to the fabric. I slowly move one foot in front of the other. Will I be able to let him go? I'm not so sure anymore, as I step into his waiting embrace.


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## Jon M (Mar 22, 2013)

He's just a young man a cool kid he reminds you of you circa 2000, when you were still surfing that limbo between high school and college. This one, he's gonna go somewhere all right he just maybe doesn't have it completely together right now, and hey, that's cool—you understand. "You got time," you say to the kid now, as he swipes your bottle of Captain Morgan over the scanner and the checkout beeps.

"You're not so old yourself."

"Yeah? Howabout all this."

"So what—some gray hairs.”

“I’m losing it. I’m going to lose it all soon.”

"So … what are you—in college?"

"Radiology," you mutter, feeling guilty afterward.

"Oh wow."

"I mean not yet—"

"You must be pretty smart."

Smart indeed. You and Captain Morgan share a brief glance and a wink before he's placed in a plastic sack and he knows it, too, knows all about your smarts.  It’s the only explanation you’ve got for being here in this Walgreens tonight, in this sallow light, sweats and a hoodie and a weekend beard, surfing limbos again—this one between Wednesday night and Thursday morning, between clear-thinking and something not so clear, between forwards and backwards, ons and offs.

Smart indeed.

“One day I’ll be able to see all of your bones,” you tell the kid.

“I don’t like hospitals.”

“Doesn’t matter. One day I’m gonna see your bones.”


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## Red Heron (Mar 24, 2013)

I grind and expand moment to moment as a witness speaks eons of information pointing  a finger to the Truth which unburied in time I spent wandering what wonders in this space achieved by my past selves of identities immemorial as I grind and expand to pull closer to the heat death of a soul my body wears inside my bodyprison is a tapestry ripe for exploration as the marrow and the blood and the muscle weave together to form a thing that is I pull I grind I expand every moment until a moment is a lifetime lived on an atom that became all there ever was and there is still an infinite constellation which rides down so far it could kill to see everything and I die so everything is seen and still I'm ground down and stretched out for it demands to be witnessed and my me that is I cannot make a choice so I fall down and down and down and down until sense means nothing except the light shot from a star the air stirred by the movement as it breaths eternally always I am transparent dust as the witness is lost in the truth but the truth is not lost on the witness.


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## Jon M (Mar 25, 2013)

"And then—wow, you shoulda seen it—he runs out of that aisle there where all them rubbers is, runs straight outta there and hikes onto the counter and starts waving his gun around saying this is a robbery meanwhile I'm standing right here on this spot shitting my pants, okay, and, and—"

"Crazy."

"Hey. That's what I'm saying."

"That didn't really happen though did it."

"What? 'Course it happened why else—"

"Like that, I mean."

"—you think I'm a liar you think I'm _lying_ here?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"... okay well maybe it didn't all happen jus like that but—"

"Or at all."

"But. Hey. It could. That's all I'm saying it could I mean look at us we're standing around in line like ducks we're—"

"Look."

"What."

"We're on TV. Wave for the TV."

"All I'm saying, all. I'm just saying it _could_ happen, _someday_, these things, hey, it's crazy out there, you just hafta be prepared for anything. It’s a mess out there."

"Anything."

"Listen to me. What am I saying. Anything, man. _Anything_."


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## Deleted member 49710 (Apr 11, 2013)

*Hypothermia*

Cotton kills, that’s what they say. Imagine it: you’re in the forest, trudging along what might be a path, who knows if it’s the right path. If it leads anywhere. And the sun is going down. You can’t see the sun, but the light is diminishing so you know it was there, at least for a while, some weak comfort. Soon you’ll be not only lost but stuck. Soon there’ll be no light: only snow without shelter, night without stars, and nobody for miles who could answer a call. So you go faster along this maybe-path, hoping to get somewhere recognizable, where some human might find you. When you start to hurry you start to sweat, and sweat soaks into your undershirt, into the long underwear you wore just in case, and presses against your skin like clammy mortician's fingers. You feel heavier, stupider. You think about sitting down, closing your eyes. Just for a second, then you’ll go on. And this is how you die: on the ground with your back against a tree, the snow falling in wet layers, crystals on your eyelashes, in your hair. Everything slows. The earth’s revolution drags you toward the center. The sun goes out. The tree won’t remember you. The sky won’t remember you.


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## Kevin (Apr 17, 2013)

*an interview...*

Mostly, I just tried to just talk to them. We never water-boarded; never had them stripped naked or any of that stuff. I simply sat in a room with them, with an interpreter, because I didn’t speak the language, and made conversation. I was never confrontational; didn’t try to catch them in lies. It was surprising; I was surprised- at how successful that can be. I was open, they’d open up; we’d talk. Oh, there were a few ‘hardcore’ cases that never did but the majority were just regular guys. 

They weren’t fanatics, or even political; they’d done it for the money. That’s what they’d say and I believed them. A hundred dollars was a lot of money and there were no jobs. They’d pay a hundred dollars to build; a hundred to plant, and a hundred to detonate. They’d only give them one task per operation. It limited their exposure by limiting what each participant knew, except for the ones paying. Those guys we almost never caught.

Afterwards, we’d turn them over to the locals. I’d promised them that I’d let them go if they answered my questions but it was lie. After that I don’t know what happened to them. They were trying to kill us; they'd participated. I don't think it was personal but I had a job to do.


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## Jon M (Aug 14, 2013)

There are nights when he comes home and after he's parked the car in the garage, after the dark and the quiet have closed down with the door, he lets the engine idle. Maybe ten seconds the first time, because it's past midnight, he's tired and late to bed. Maybe thirty seconds the time after that, then a minute or two. Then one time it becomes five. He's afraid of what he can't see, though, so usually after five minutes or 1.5 songs on the radio the key slides out of the ignition, the engine dies down, and in the darkness only the sound of water or oil dripping. Probably oil, he thinks. That's what they said at the shop the last time he brought his car in for a routine oil change: _you got a small leak, probably gonna want to get that fixed soon_. He nodded then in anxious, quiet agreement. Said he would fix the oil leak, sometime soon when he had the money. Said he had plans. That was a year ago.


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## Odd Greg (Aug 17, 2013)

Switching on the light with his travel bag in hand, Jeremy approached the bathroom mirror. There he was - staring back through sleep filled eyes. He recognized the face but just couldn’t place a name to it. 

“Such a familiar face,” he said. “Just another face. Just another nobody in a sea of nobodies.” 

This face seemed to need something. He could see it in the eyes. 

“I wonder what he needs,” he said. “He needs to wash his face and brush his teeth. Yes, that’s it.”

Jeremy ran warm water into the sink and put his hands in up to the wrists. Warm, loving water caressing him, holding him, promising him it would love him forever and never leave. A tear crept from its hiding place in the corner of his eye. Drawn to the warm water, it fell sweetly and softly into the pool in the sink. 

“Just another tear in a sea of tears,” Jeremy whispered.

His hands cupped the water and lifted it to his face, then poured it over his forehead, down his nose, and onto the stubble below his lips; a gentle kiss, a sweet reminder of a mother’s undying love. 

Opening his eyes again, he could see his reflection wavering in the warm pool, distorting his features. He stared until the water became calm and his image grew clear. 

“Such a familiar face. Someone I know. Someone needing to brush his teeth,” he whispered. “Yes, Mother,” the reflection said.

He managed to wash his face and brush his teeth in much the same way as a ferret manages to squeeze through a small hole in a wall, or toothpaste as it is squeezed out of the tube: a wriggle and ooze. 

“Like my life,” Jeremy thought, “More ooze than wriggle.” Is that a telephone ringing? 

Picking the comb from his travel bag, he carefully combed his thinning hair over the bald spot using warm water as Spackle.

“There,” he said, “that’s better. It won’t fool anyone, but it’s definitely better.” 

He slipped a tie around his neck and deftly built a Windsor knot. Jeremy never used a mirror to help him put on a tie. He believed that that would be cheating. The phone rang.

“Hello? Yes sir, that would be excellent. I’ll meet you in the Cafe in five. Oh? You called? I was shaving. Sorry about that. I’ll see you in five.” He set the handset down gently. 

_Bacon and eggs_, he thought, _it’s definitely a bacon and eggs morning_.

Jeremy closed the suitcase, locked it, and placed it on the suitcase rack. He moved to the side of the bed, picked up the picture of his mother, and held it in both hands. He kissed it gently. 

“I’m getting stronger, Mother. Every day in every way.” 

He put the picture back on the night table, left the room, and locked the door. As he stepped briskly down the hall, he quietly sang the chorus of Chicago’s _Feeling Stronger Every Day_.


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## midnightpoet (Sep 6, 2013)

Glynwydd dug her toes into the cold, moist earth on the floor for her family's mud-thatch hut.  Outside, dark clouds blown by the cold north wind promised a coming storm.  To Glynwydd the soil felt chilling, yet somehow comforting.
     "Glynwydd.  Put your shoes on.  You'll get sick."
     "They're coming, Grandfather.  I can feel them through my feet."
     Her Grandfather paused, and put his tools down on the oak table. His green eyes glowed like precious stones as he reached for his granddaughter, but the crone stayed his hand.
     “Let her be.  She has the vision.  The babe will be saved, the prophecy will be fulfilled.”
     “The child’s father?”
     “His bones are scattered about the headland, but his deeds are sung around every fire in the kingdom.”
     Glynwydd closed her eyes.  She could see the riders in the vision.  There were two of them, riding side by side, their battle armor clanking, their swords gleaming in the morning sunlight.  Neither wore a helmet.  One had long blond hair, gleaming with the color of the burnished dawn.  His visage was grim, and as he rocked along the saddle creaked and groaned as if death rode with him.  As he rode one hand gripped the reins and the other hand held aloft the blood red flag. 

_They come, they come_.

The other man had hair as black as obsidian and he smiled, one hand on his gold-hilted broadsword.  His horse was white as the seabirds that soared over distant cliffs.  His face was scarred from battle, and his eyes were focused ahead as they rode through the tortured upland.

_They come, they come_.

     She saw the steam coming from their horse’s nostrils and the clumps of earth fly as they paced along in like rhythm.  And she felt the chill - the cold, biting cold of the rising mist that surrounded the riders like damp rawhide.  She smelled the sour, wet odor of fen and moor.  She heard the steady, rhythmic beat of horse’s hooves on the soft red earth and she felt the strength of the men's arms around her.  She smelled the rank, musky odor of their bodies, and deep within her womb the babe stirred.  But their arms were strong, and comforting, and she began to relax and her body began to float above the ground.   

She heard the voice again.  It was a voice as the soft beating of falcon's wings, of the far-off whisper of soul-breath and it kept repeating in the language of the old ones. 

_“Cuma helio”, _the men come_._

_“Mikil ubil,”_ I feel a great evil.  Glynwydd saw a great shadow come over the land and the voice became a sad lament.

     "Granddaughter!"

     Glynwydd awoke.  Her grandfather grabbed her before she could fall to the earthen floor.  
     "What did you see?" Grandfather asked.

     It began to rain, and scent-fouled drops scarred the earth and the waters ran red with blood.

     “It is the tears of the dragon,” the crone said.  “We must go.  Now.”


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## KindaNice (Mar 18, 2014)

In my waking fevered dream, I float through the main concourse.  Is this even real life?  

Mostly.

I feel confronted, obstructed even, and I pull my wandering conscious back to my vision in curiosity.  Stairs.  I don't feel like stairs.  Fortunately, I remember the elevator to my left.

My steps draw me in, and the motion replays itself in my mind, but backwards.  Someone else occupies this space; I don’t want this.  They’re probably going to get whatever I have.  I see the expansive futures branching from this point, depending on how I apologize for something that probably won’t happen.  I try to stifle my laugh, but a cough beats me to it.

Where did the person go?  Oh, we’re here.

Outside of the elevator, my imagination walks left while my legs go right; I’m not sure which was habitual.  In the left side of my life, I visit a friend manning a desk; neither of us remember the last time we talked.  But we don’t exchange words, only ideas.

Following my legs, I open the big invisible glass door awkwardly, like I have never used such an artifact before.  Was it werewolves that can’t use doors, or zombies?  My newest fantasy is the contemplation of my battle readiness in the event of werewolf zombies.  I could probably win.

Oh right, I need my boss’s signature.  That is why I came here from that place where I was before I came here (from that place where I was before I came here (from that place where I was before...  You know the one.

The first human-shaped thing I see is a poster, but the first human-shaped person I see is someone who is my superior, but my boss’s employee.  I ask my demi-boss where my boss is.

“Out.  Until next week.”  Next, she says something I don’t remember, but I responded anyway.

“Loopy.  Or looping, I haven’t decided.”  It strikes me that my voice catches in my mouth, stuck on my teeth.  Soft tissue vibrated unnervingly in the sound’s presence.

So my imagination casts itself out like a fishing line again, slowly reeling itself in past fish with big, flat eyes.  And sharks.  By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, I had only gotten nibbles.  And I do a bit of a double take when I hop down the last step, because I am so very sure I had planned to use the elevator again.

Outside, a chilling thought strikes me, or it was the wind.  Either way, I am covered in a cold sweat that gets colder, and building up to a fine shiver-slash-muscle-twitch.  Every day will be like this, my head tells me.  This illness will never end, like an infinite roll of toilet paper.


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## Alanzie (Apr 1, 2014)

*Between the Shrubs*

This morning I woke up from a dream. It vanished so quickly.  Bits and pieces stay in my mind.  Something about a girl.  The daughter of a neighbor.  A friend.  In the dream, from what I can remember, I buried her.

     I've had similar dreams.  I thought I buried someone between the shrubs in front of the house.  Or under the fallen oak in the woods out back.  Or in the septic tank.  I couldn't remember where.  I checked to make sure I hadn't dug up the lid for the septic tank.  I hadn't.

     Sometimes, I walk around the house.  Just a look-see.  Kicking the gravel around under the cantilevered overhang, looking for plastic sheeting, jewelry, clothing, a hand.  Nothing.  Yet.

     I scan the newspaper daily, looking for something that fits, that makes sense.  Something that ties this all together.  A missing coed.  An abandoned car found on the side of the road, engine still running.  The abduction of a child.

     Joan has been talking about selling the house.  I’m getting nervous.  I need to make sure I don’t have any buried secrets.  Moving to a lake house would be nice. . .as long as the lake is deep.


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## kilroy214 (Apr 1, 2014)

WOMAN TROUBLES - by Philip James --  My wife will not stop staring at me while I'm sleeping. Every day I go to the spot where I buried her and ask her to stop, but she just won't listen.


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## ArrowInTheBowOfTheLord (Oct 29, 2014)

I found this story that I wrote (or dictated to Mom) when I was about four. It makes no sense.
*
Baby Calil and His Family Send Themselves to Nineveh
*Moyer wanted to go with them. He had a hand to hold and he held a box of Christmas cookies. They were playing a game called Baby Calil and baby Calil was toddler Jonah; and toddler Jonah was baby Calil. Anchor had a box of crystals and he saw baby Calil. He didn’t want to look at baby Calil. And then he said, “Hi, baby Calil,” and then baby Calil said, “Hi, I turned into a triceratops. I am a dinosaur which was a three-horn mixed up with a triceratops.” Captain Crunch had a bag and he got some fruit and he called baby Calil and toddler Jonah to eat. He says, “Ouch!” Because he says “hap” which is short for happy. He is happy! There was a wall that baby Calil and toddler Jonah connected themselves to. They were covered with snow because it was snowtime. They were covered with snow and they wanted to go home. The sky and the grass were walking.


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## ArrowInTheBowOfTheLord (Nov 4, 2014)

*​Beginning of a story (or something):*
          In time past, there was a great wizard-dragon that accidentally obliterated everything in a certain mountain range, even the air, and non-physical things like love and sadness, and even measurement itself, so that no one could distinguish the breadth or height of the area. People tried to refill it, but nothing would manifest. They tried to blow air into it, but there was really nothing to blow _into _at all, since there was nothing there, and so the air was lost in oblivion. They got wizard-dragons to separate out Fragments from forms, things like the color red, a shy personality, or peace, but these, too, did not manifest because they had nothing to apply themselves to. Eventually they decided to cast as many Fragments as they could into the place, in hopes that these Fragments would order themselves into forms and rebuild the area. So the place was left alone for awhile, and it became known as the Blank.
But when the people returned to the Blank, they found that the Fragments had not become any kind of distinguishable entities, so that in the Blank there was still no ground to walk upon and still no laws of physics. The Fragments had come together, to be sure, but in a random fashion, just as they were randomly cast into the Blank. The joined-up fragments were called Clusters, and, this time forever, the Blank was left alone.
One of these Clusters was (well, he wasn’t really, all the Clusters still failed to be) a sweet disposition that sometimes looked like a peppermint-candy and sometimes looked like a mushroom. It, or he, or whatever, (the Cluster was not really a thing or a person at all) had a dry sense of humor that looked like a raisin and even had a voice, and it often went off on its own to make sarcastic remarks.


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## Sunny (Nov 4, 2014)

They sat on the couch together. Just the two of them. It was a dreary day and an even drearier night. The snow clouds were taking the last piece of fall that remained. It was just like old times. Except they weren't old times. They had never done this before. They've never lived where it was dreary day and night, day after day, night after night. 

They played on their iPads together. They had races to see who could win the game of solitaire first. Then they played some scrabble and argued over their made up words. 

She looked at him with boredom. Stuck in the house, cold out side, nothing to eat, nothing to watch, boredom. "Let's read something," she said. She sat up, enthusiastic as a summers day. 

"Like what?" he said, tapping his finger to a lit up screen, not actually listening to her, yet again. 

"Here, tell me who wrote this," she said and started to read. "There was this haunted house, and once there was a woman with two kids that lived in that house. It was scary..."

"Oh, that's easy," he replied. "John Firepants wrote that." 

She sighed, "Okay, easy one. Now lets see about..." she flipped through the pages and stopped on the coffee stained page, "okay okay, who wrote this one?" she asked. "If it had been any time of year, except this time of year, he would have gotten out of bed. It was the anniversary. The anniversary of the worst day of his life. The blackness consumed his suicidal ways. He broke down..."

"Jones Hefferbutt!" he yelled, cutting her off. "Hah. No sweat. No one knows more authors by the sound of their voice than _I _do," he said, pointing at his chest. He smiled and the dry mustard in the corners of his mouth fell to his black t-shirt. 

She leaned over and swiped at the mustard as if he needed to be clean to lay around all day. 

"What? Is it my dandruff again?" He shook his head to watch the white stuff fly. 

"Gah. No," she yelled, jumping back so she didn't have to wear the room temperature snow that he grew on his head. "Alright, who is this one?" She flipped through the pages again, and wondered how fast it would be for him to guess right. "Eh-hem", she cleared her throat. "Steve pushed her down the hall. He walked so fast, he almost fell and hit his nose off the top of her head. She was in a wheel chair and she screamed as if the baby were poking it's head out, waving the world a fine _Hello. _He picked up speed and started to run." 

"oh, that's Peter Dyer," he replied, proud of his achievements, still picking at his scalp. 

She didn't look up, just shook her head and kept on reading. "He knew that if he didn't get her to the maternity ward soon, he'd be slipping through her blood and the baby's sac full of fluid any second." 

"Yeah yeah yeah," he droned. "It's come to me now. That was Jesse Krong who wrote that."

She smirked as she turned away from the book in her hands, holding her finger to the page, showing the authors face above the published page of his work. "Nope," she laughed. "I guess you're not so great at this after all." 

"Well, who is it?" he leaned over to peek into the pages. 

"No way, you said you could guess," She laughed at his half annoyed, half angered expression. 

He stared at her, like he thought he could see the images of that author name tattooed into her irises. Finally, he grimaced. "Fine, you win. I'm not that good. Who wrote it?" He asked. 

She turned the book over, and laughed when his eyes made contact with the page she had been reading. It was himself. _He_ was the author and he didn't know his own voice. 

"Freak!" she yelled, jumping up and running for the door, buck naked. "Wanna run around the house, see who wins?" She didn't wait for an answer as the door slammed shut behind her.


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## JustRob (Mar 10, 2015)

*The Heterochrony Paradox - (Warning - references to female anatomy)*

‘Can I speak to Doctor Alsterm please. Thank you. Ah doctor, I haven’t had your report on that body of a young woman that we found in an alleyway two days ago. We’ve had some trouble discovering her identity and I’m hoping that it won’t be a difficult case. I have quite a workload at present. Do you have the cause of death yet?’

‘No Inspector, and I think you’d better find time for this one. I haven’t even started thinking about her death yet. There’s another complication that’s occupying my time at present. I suggest that you come to view the body and you’ll understand the problem.’

‘Oh, that’s a bit inconvenient but if you’re sure that it’s necessary. Can’t you just tell me the nature of this complication for now?’

‘Okay then. She has an umbilical cord projecting from her uterus.’

‘Good heavens! Do you mean that there’s a missing newborn baby somewhere that we need to find? Why didn’t you tell us straight away?’

‘No, there isn’t any missing baby. In fact I don’t know what to tell you, which is why I haven’t made out any form of report yet.’

‘Well you must be able to tell me something. What have you found that’s causing you such a problem?’

‘It’s the cord Inspector. It’s still attached at the other end – to her own navel!’


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## William DeGeest (Mar 13, 2015)

My maternal grandmother was a woman of vast skills.  She was an excellent cook and baker, could refinish, repair and restore just about any piece of furniture, put down several types of flooring, play the violin and garden like nobody's business.


Not a perfect woman by any means, but when it came to her and said skills, her biggest flaw was hating when she wasn't good at something right out of the gate. There in is a quick story.


When she was a newlywed she tried to make homemade bread for the first time.  She did everything right, or so she thought, but the dough refused to rise.  Just lay there like a lump of, well, dough that wouldn't rise, I guess.  She was so embarrassed by her failure she decided to get rid of the evidence of her shame.  She buried the dough in the back yard.


The rest of the day went on, seemingly uneventful.  Until the afternoon sun moved to hit the mound of dirt that hid her secret.  The rays hit the spot and caused the ground to warm up just enough to activate the yeast in the dough.  As day slid into evening, the cooling air spread a low hanging mist in the yard and the concoction began to rise, pushing its way out of the ground.


It was Night of the Living Bread.


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