# September 2017 - LM - Gorilla Threesome



## kilroy214 (Sep 6, 2017)

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

This is a Fiction writing competition, and the prompt for this month in '*Gorilla Threesome*' Pick your own title, write about whatever you want, as long as it's related in some way to the prompt.


 The Judges for this LM are: ppsage, kilroy214, and Cran.*
*If you want to judge and I left  you out, send me your scores by the deadline. If you're listed here and  don't wish to judge, let me know at once (please).

 All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the [URL="https://www.writingforums.com/threads/173361-September-2017-LM-Gorilla-Threesome?p=2105132#post2105132"]_LM Workshop Thread_[/URL].

All Judges scores will be PMed to *kilroy214*. 

All anonymous entries will be PMed to *kilroy214*.


*Rules*










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









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











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










Everyone is welcome to participate. A  judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will  not receive a score. Please refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an  entry until the scores are posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions  of yore, if you could send the scores one week after deadline it will  ensure a timely release of scores and minimize the overall  implementation of porkforking. Please see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Friday, the 15th of September at 11:59 PM, GMT time.​
Scores would be appreciated by Saturday, the 30th of September, at the latest. 

Click here for the current time.


----------



## AtleanWordsmith (Sep 7, 2017)

*Boarding Party* (650 words)

Space.  Cold, dark, but not entirely lifeless.  Six figures glided silently through it on a contact course with an orbiting frigate.  Their only lifelines were advanced math and EVA equipment.  Monty understood neither of them very well, but he trusted the engineers who'd made the calculations and calibrated the gear.

Well, to the point that you _could_ trust calculus-wielding madmen, anyway.

The compressors kicked in automatically as the frigate approached, and Monty felt a brief sideways jolt as his boots activated, but the calculations had been superb.  Monty and his team stood upright on the outer hull of the frigate instead of being smeared across it.  From there, it was the work of a moment to find a maintenance hatch, ditch their EVA gear, and open it.  The six of them, now clad in their much sleeker infil suits, dropped into the frigate.

Entering a ship with artificial gravity engaged can be a bit weird if you're not certain of the orientation, and Monty slammed into what he'd previously assumed was a wall.  The two engineers entered gracefully, followed by the other three marines.  Leave it to nerds to be better at space.

"We're pressurized," Kepler said as Dawkins closed the door behind them.  The frigate's stale air filled their lungs as they turned off their air supplies, and a couple of them gagged.  It wasn't the stale air they were used to.

The frigate had a basic layout, and it was easy for them to find their way around.  Everything was automated, too, which meant a minimalist crew, mostly security officers.  Two of them were in the control room, and Monty and Kepler took them out easily.  The engineers took over from there, tagging the ship that would extract them as friendly.  Shutting the defenses down completely would draw too much attention.

"Good deal," Monty said, "Kepler, take the eggheads to the hangar, we won't be long."

"Gotcha.  Be careful, man."

It wasn't far to the cell block.  Beyond one of the doors, an older man sat in the floor and gazed up at them through bleary eyes.

"Who are you?"

"Friendlies, Commander," Monty explained.  This seemed to satisfy the old man, and he tried to get to his feet with some difficulty.  Dawkins responded and hefted him over his shoulder.  Monty and Harper stepped out to cover the corridor and let Dawkins lead.

"No alarms yet," Harper said, "This is way too easy."

"We got them at the right time."

The hangar wasn't far.  There had been a fight, but Kepler and the engineers seemed to have control of things.  Monty knew his friend was wearing a shit-eating grin under his helmet..

"We met some light resistance, and they tried to sneak up on us later.  Sad, really."

"We probably don't have a lot of time, then," Monty replied, "Get the bay door open."

Kepler nodded and hit a switch on a nearby console.  The bay doors slid open, admitting a bulky transport covered in graffiti.  The reinforced hull scraped against the sides of the bay as it entered, and a ramp in the front of the ship dropped, revealing a large cargo bay.  The Commander's eyes widened as he read the name of the ship, which was painted above the ramp.

"What in the name of God is this?"

"It's your ticket out of here, Commander."

"You can't be serious."

"What's wrong?"

"I can't be rescued by a ship called the _Gorilla Threesome_!  It's undignified!"

"It was supposed to be 'guerrilla,'" Monty explained, "G-E-U.  The guy who tagged it can't spell."

For a moment, Monty thought the commander might still refuse to board.  He drew himself up, defiant, but then his shoulders sagged and he followed the team up the ramp.  It closed behind them, and there was a brief jolt as the _Gorilla Threesome_ pulled out.

"Let's get you home, sir."


----------



## SueC (Sep 7, 2017)

*Only in Chicago *​(650 words)

                The dirty streets of Chicago always seem dirtier in the rain, and everything that has to be done is harder, more cumbersome, and wetter than anything should be. Misery abounds. I’m on the El going south from Rogers Park toward downtown. The platform is slick with the wet; gray and drippy. I am too, as I wait for the A train to take me to Loyola University for a night class.

                I move out from under a shelter, and step closer to the edge of the platform when I see the train round the curve and head towards me. I have always been slightly terrified of the El platforms. I am nervous for myself and for others, so I try to stay as far away from the edge as possible until I absolutely need to be there. As the train moves into the station, however, I often spy people standing too close, daring, and seeing how near they can get without touching the cars flying by. I always look away, afraid I might see something horrible happen.

                Seated now, I am comfortable. Others get on with me and after me and all find a place to park themselves for the ride.        We ramble along. The train track takes us into different neighborhoods. We are suspended fifty feet in the air, winding in and out between buildings and some we come very close to. Some apartments, so near to the tracks that the people who live there can touch the train as it moves past their open window. How could anyone live with a train rumbling inches away every couple of minutes?

                On and on we go. At some point we will go into the tunnel as we near downtown, but for the moment, we are all privy to the lives exposed along the El’s path. Most windows that are close to us are shuttered or shaded, so nothing can be seen.

                Suddenly, the train slows to a crawl for some reason; not unusual, but noticeable. At that moment, as if in slow motion, I turn my head to the right just as we are passing yet another building and here the blinds are open! I can’t help myself, I have to look.

                I see an unmade bed, with linens that are gray from use and lack of washing. A towel draped over the back of a wooden chair. A picture of Jane Goodall is on the wall. And what’s this? What’s that black form in the corner there? Now I’ve turned my whole body toward the window and the train has come to a complete stop. I want to wipe the window clean of rain, but can’t. I keep looking and the black form begins to move. It stands upright and the window fogs up with my breath as I say the word “gorilla?” aloud.

                No one else is paying attention. I wipe the window from the inside. As I watch, another gorilla walks into the room. They seem to greet one another and I am mesmerized. The two gorillas meander about the room, touching things. The larger of the two picks up the used towel off the chair and throws it at the other gorilla. They both seem to laugh and the larger one pounds his chest.

Just as we slowly start moving forward again, I look away for a moment at the other passengers. They all seem placid and drowsy. When I look back, a third gorilla is right in the window, the two behind him looking in my direction. They all wave at me. Without thinking I wave back, and then the blinds are closed. I try to look through the windows behind me, as the train cars curve away from the wall of the building. Through the rain I see it reads, “Three Gorillas Hotel.”

_Only in Chicago, _I think, _when it rains_.


----------



## Undutchable121 (Sep 8, 2017)

*A Rainbow Reckoning *(650 words)

Bertrand Upworthy was uncomfortable: he had been on his sweaty belly the whole morning, inching his way through the thick undergrowth of the droning jungle. He was close to his fabled pot of gold: the clearing.

He had come all this way, the most eminent (amateur) bird photographer of his beloved East Sussex, to this lush, devilish country on a mission - his life’s mission - to picture the most elusive of the great apes: the Rainbow Gorillas of Congo-Brazzaville. Hadn’t they all told him it was a pursuit of madness; that he, poor Bertie, was not man enough to crawl around the rainforest in search of a species whose whole existence was debatable?

Ha, he would prove them wrong! He would prove them supremely wrong by witnessing, and documenting in glorious high-definition with his newly acquired Canon D10 fully automatic digital reflex camera, a special act of primate lovemaking the world had never seen before: a mating of not two consenting gorilla adults but three - the animal kingdom’s unique version of a ménage à trois.

Prove them wrong, especially his hag of a wife, Bertha, with whom he had been unhappily married to for 24 years. Bertie knew she had always taken him for a fool, a cuckold, a pot-bellied marionette she fussed over and never let out of her sights. “Yes dear, no dear, go to hell dear!” 

It had taken him years to plan his exotic escape; years of saving up on countless snaps of goldfinches and robins and great tits - the feathered ones - which he sold for a pittance to crusty bird encyclopaedias. He planned to draw out his vacation, hell, maybe never to return.

He overslept on the morning of the flight, and of course big Bertha nagged and moaned incessantly while he ran to pack. When she finally disappeared in the rear-view mirror in a grey wall of rain, he had laughed. One final look back, and a shock: was she running after him? Most peculiar, Bertie thought, while shouting at the driver to plank it. As a precaution, he switched off his mobile phone. 

Now he was here, and she was there, so he sighed contently, breathing in the moist air and immediately coughed up an errant fly.

Last night, his first in the misty highlands, was great; the natives of the jungle village had been most helpful, especially after he had settled the beer tab - peanuts - in the dingy watering hole. Overjoyed, they’d pointed him to this special clearing.
The morning had been bliss in anticipation, but with the hours the giddy sense of awakening somehow was replaced by a fattening tendril of unease and loss. How strange.

Finally, the clearing.

Oh goodness, he hadn’t even settled down when the plants on the opposite side moved, and oh boy, it was true, out of the rainforest not one but two beautiful female Rainbow Gorillas emerged. He had dragged his camera case along and now fumbled with the clasp. He hadn’t noticed how light it was. One of the primates rose and let out a shrill cry.

Something else moved in the jungle, coming their way, something ponderous.

The male. 

The clasp wouldn’t budge, he ripped it off. When he looked inside, his heart sunk.

“Oh no.”

The case was empty.

He looked up when the source of the noise crashed into the clearing. The other apes scurried off in a panic, disappearing in a flurry of leaves and shrieks.

“Bertie - oh Bertie,” it called out in a heavy voice.

“Your left your camera toy. Come here and get it, and give me a missed-me-dearly smooch while you are at it!” 

His wife stood proud, one hand on her ample hip, one very expensive camera dangling from the other.

Bertrand’s heart sunk even faster, out through his sweat soaked chest and into the detritus covered forest floor.


----------



## rubisco (Sep 10, 2017)

Monkey See Monkey Do (650 words)


Troy pursed his lips as he looked around. “Ooh!” he grunted to Sam, and he cocked his head at the blonde sitting at the far end of the bar. It was her. The girl. She was there every Friday night to have a drink with her brunette friend. He had hoped she would show up tonight.


“Her?” replied Sam. His eyes were wide as he laughed and shook his head vigorously. “No. No. No. No.” He pointed at Troy and held up one finger. He then pointed to the girl and held up ten fingers. “Nope,” he added with a tone of finality.


Troy pushed Sam and puffed up his chest. “Why?” His nostrils flared as he got his face in front of Sam’s. 


Still smirking, Sam pointed at Troy, puffed out his cheeks, and made a fart noise as he released the air in Troy’s perturbed face. He then made eyebrows at the girl and made a big O with his lips, “ooh ooh ooooooh!” He gave two thumbs up as he gave a big smile. 


“No!” said Troy. He beat his chest and flexed his massive biceps. He turned around and flexed his well defined calves. He slapped them. “Ten,” he said as he pointed both his thumbs at himself. 


“Okay,” said Sam incredulously. “Okay.” He held his hands up as in defeat. He pointed at Troy, held up one finger, and shook his head back and forth.


“Hmm?” Troy pointed up and down all along his body. “Hmm?”


Sam then made his fingers into a circle and shoved it in Troy’s face. “Zero!” he declared.


Troy roared and spat at Sam. “Com’on!”


Sam’s brow furrowed. He bared his teeth as he stretched his arms out wide. “Here?”


“Here,” said Troy as he bumped his chest against Sam’s. “Now.”


A massive palm was placed on each of the men’s shoulders. “No,” said a gruff voice. The men looked up the long trunk-like arms and saw the bartender’s stern bearded face. The bartender pushed the two men apart and stood in between them.


“Behave,” he grunted. He sauntered back behind the bar and started to make a group of women banana daiquiris.


Troy stared and fumed at Sam. His scratched his head and stuck his jaw out. “No.” He pushed Sam hard. Sam stumbled, caught his balance, and pushed Troy back. Troy fell back over a chair and landed on the peanut-shell covered floor. 


A group of men in the corner howled in laughter at the sight, jumping up and down. “Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!” they chanted as they pointed.


Troy tried his best to stand back up. Hunched over, he saw a pair of hanging light fixtures between him and Sam. He gave out a primal scream as he ran at Sam, leaped in the air, grabbed a light fixture with each hand as he swung his body and collided into Sam’s. 


Both men’s bodies collapsed to the floor. The two light fixtures quickly followed.


There was a sudden silence over the bar. 


Both Sam and Troy groaned as they tried to stand. Heavy footsteps approached them and a strong hand pulled both of them quickly to their feet. The bartender’s wild eyes burned at them.


“Out!” howled the bartender. He pushed them both towards the door.


“No,” said Troy meekly as he stood his ground. He half-heartedly puffed his chest out.


“Out!” roared the bartender as he picked up and threw the trash can at the men.

---


The blonde and her friend looked on as Troy and Sam ran out of the bar, covered in trash and banana peels. 


“You know Stacy,” said Mary to the blonde. “That one guy who always stares at you is pretty cute, you should talk to him one of these days.”


Stacy rolled her eyes and sighed. “Mary, I told you, I’m looking for a mate, not a primate.”


----------



## Kyle R (Sep 10, 2017)

Gone Were the People
(650 words)


----------



## ppsage (Sep 15, 2017)

*Purdy's Accidental Oath, or, Don't Let the Help Provoke You*


(Judge entry)​
Miss Purdy's retirement to a Craftsman-style bungalow in a touristy Vermont village isn't entirely innocent of entrepreneurial design. Though well set-back, the house features an 'office addition' -- a sort of glassy porch with separate entrance. Here she intends to put her decades of grade-school experience to use in a quasi summer-enrichment-tutorial-daycare-tourist-participatory-library enterprise. 

The materials for this, and for her residence, wait in a truck backed into the narrow drive. Her brother made peevish noises when asked, but he drove the rented behemoth up from her Gramercy flat.

Miss Purdy ensconced herself in fine accommodations at Swanfall Inn and researched local labor practices.


The 'movers' arrive in the parlor hours late. She calls them on it, but a warped discussion ensues. 

"We could'a come yesterday."

Three of them, dressed in heavy denim, loose fitting and cuffed. One has work gloves in a pocket. Seems he's the leader. He's only slightly loose-limbed and doesn't look uncomfortable standing erect. The other two keep their shoulders slumped, which makes their arms seem long and hanging askance. They wear gloves already, fingers splaying stiffly. 

"Anyways," says the leader, "my name's Harry and that there's Meryl and that there's Meryl."

When Harry's mom had twins, it made sense to her that their names should twin. Wouldn't that be how the Deity ordained things?

The three brothers grew up bunched together like a cohort of juvenile apes. Except no silver-back resided with them to enforce discipline. Grown, they could still be often found sitting around their shared apartment, picking stuff off each other and grunting appreciation. There is no sign they will ever lead troops of their own.

"Anyways," says Harry, "here we be.... an' rarin' ta git 'er done.... right boys?"

Purdy wonders do the Meryls posses language? They gesture unequivocal assent. Clouding further the issue.

The retired instructor in Purdy rises in anger. She springs a pop-quiz. 

"Back to the agency," she incoherently begins. "I mean, return the truck.... Like you said on the phone?"

"No problem," says Harry. "We'll zip her back to NYC non-stop. No late fees."

"No," says Purdy. "Wrong answer.... They've got an office in Vermont. Barton. Near the capital I believe. Twenty minutes away?"

"Okay," says Harry, "that works too."

"It's what we already agreed," says Purdy. "Do try to stay on track." She heads for the door. Harry follows and the Meryls behind. 


Lined up they look like an evolution chart.


At the cottage, Purdy abandons verbalization. She beats her chest and points at the truck. Harry nods slowly. Deeply. A gesture which acknowledges fealty in primitive society. He points to the tailgate. The boys clap their gloved hands and hop to it with the elan of Voodoo zombies pointed to fresh brains.

Incredibly, everybody comes into a mysterious synchronization. The Meryls cavort like Almira Gulch's flying monkeys, and the truck begins magically emptying.

Superintendence of the two bearers is occasionally intense but typically undemanding. Harry and Purdy, out of boredom and necessity, forge rudimentary communication. 


Like newly neighboring tribes, tossing exploratory gestures.


Slowly they enter the realm of personal revelation. 

"...quasi summer-enrichment-tutorial-daycare-tourist-participatory-library enterprise," Purdy ends up telling him.

"But we got a school," says Harry, "and three video games at the Stop 'N Go.... Won't sell."

The sub-conscious mind of Purdy balks at this. Numb and desperate, it somehow forges that dark  and primal connection. Accidentally. Just to rebut these oafish gorillas.

"Brilliant young misses, seeking to practice the dark arts, will flock to me," she blurts.


She says it this first time, authentically and bindingly, as just a careless rejoinder.  Much to her eternal woe.


----------

