# July 2013 - LM - Verschlimmbesserung



## Fin (Jul 1, 2013)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​Verschlimmbesserung​



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


Have the prompt included in some way into your story. The meaning of the word is. . .



			
				shinyford said:
			
		

> Verschlimmbesserung - which is my favourite German word, meaning "the act of completely fouling something up through the process of trying to improve it". The nearest English equivalent I've found is "if it ain't broke, fix it till it is".




*The judges for this round are:*

*J Anfinson*; *Pluralized*; *Staff Deployment*; *FleshEater*


*Rules*


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




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


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

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

*This competition will close on:*

Sunday, the 14th of July at 11:59 PM, Los Angeles, USA time. GMT/UTC-7
click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone!*​


----------



## Staff Deployment (Jul 10, 2013)

It's Not About the Apartment (language)


----------



## Fin (Jul 11, 2013)

*Versomethingorother!
Anonymous Entry​*


_Headline!_
 Scientists Find God Inside A Large Hadron Kaleidescope!  


 I never realized science could be so silent. Just two nerds and a nerdette staring at computer screens. Only Clive sipping at his coffee punctured the quiet.


 “Um,” said Jules, “Houston, we have a problem.”


 Clive sighed. “Yeah. We can see it.”


 Jules stood up and stretched.  “It is always in the periphery, never center stage.”


 Clive put his mug down.  “Yeah. Well it does put a flaw in Einstein's Theory Of Relativity.”  


 Jules started to pace his way around the office. “And not forgetting the end of the world.”


 Jayell pushed her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose. “Nope! I think we have the end of the universe here.”


 “Great. God is going to be well pleased,” said Clive.


 Silence reigned for a moment.


 Jayell tapped her screen. “How about we do it again and hope the variables correct themselves?”


 “The madness method?” said Clive.


 “The desperate method,” said Jayell.


 “It will take a couple of weeks to set up, how long have we got?” said Clive.


 Jules pulled a calculator over and tapped for nearly ten minutes.  “I'd say, about five-hundred years.”


 “We may have to leave this problem to our kids,” said Jayell.


 “So we do the same run over and over until we fix the problem by breaking the chain?” asked Clive.


 “Sure,” said Jayell, who paused for a moment. “Only it could go either way and we could accelerate to the end of everything.”


 * * *  


 The results came in:


 “Well?” asked Clive.


 “It's sort of a mixed bag,” said Jayell.


 “Bad-news first.”
 “We haven't changed the deadline, but now we are not sure which universe we are about to shut down.”


 * * *


 Second Results.


 “Well?” asked Clive.


 “Will someone go and look outside.”


 Jules punched up the CCTV. Just white noise.


 “Well that sorts out which universe.”


 * * *


 Third Results.


 “Well?”  


 “Jules?”


 The CCTV showed the perimeter fence.


 Jayell punched the air. “Whey! Hey!”


 “Whew! Am I glad that's over.” He slumped into his chair. “I just don't feel like the man I used to,” said Eric.


----------



## WechtleinUns (Jul 13, 2013)

*Software Rot*

*Software Rot*
(LANGUAGE)

My eyes scrolled down the glowing screen, like a fat man with a monocle looking over his virgin bride. The code was perfect in its pristine beauty. It was like looking at a house made of gemstones and built with paintings by van gogh. The logical consistency, and the standardized parameters all just fit together.

Everything was terminated. All the functions of the application had one entry point, and one exit point. All error conditions were checked. All functions that checked for errors were wrapped. She was beautiful! The perfect foundation for ARMcore.

ARMcore stood for 'Advanced Roleplaying Mechanics core'. You might think of it as a system for building role playing games. Infinitely scalable, this baby could handle everything, from simple pencil & paper campaigns to massive world of warcraft style mmorpg worlds. She was beautiful, and she was mine.

Grinning ear to ear, I slowly placed my hands behind my head and let out a magnificent cackle. I compiled the code. No errors. I ran all the system checks. All green...except for one. A small function, used mainly for bookkeeping and behind the scenes work, wasn't clearing the error handler check.

And that grated on my nerves. I ran the system test again, and a row of green lights flashed down. Interspersed between them, however, was single red dot. I gritted my teeth, and opened up the source code, where all the magic happened. Looking over the function, however, I couldn't see anything wrong with it.

The compiler was saying that there was something wrong the wrapper, but that didn't mean anything. A wrapper function is supposed to be opaque. That's why they call them wrappers, cause they hide the ugliness of the piece of shit gift your Aunt May gives you every Christmas. I was gonna have to dig deeper.

A few keystrokes later, I undid the wrapper function. You've gotta be careful when doing this, cause it leaves the system open to vulnerabilities. If you press the wrong key, the code won't compile. And the number one rule of application development is you want your code to compile. Code that doesn't is garbage. Useless fluff. Thanks a lot Aunt May, you bony hag.

Carefully examining the code, I mutter underneath my breath. "Woher kommst du, mein kleine verbotensheitse...?" Oh shit. Leaning in towards the screen, I see it. The problem isn't with my code. One of the applications that my application uses has an ill-defined function, and that's causing trouble with my app.

Twenty thousand fingernails dragged across the blackboard in my mind. My inner monocle wanted to dismiss this ugly virgin bride. "Sie ladie haz ein wart! Null deutchmarks fur dein hand!!!!" But it was all right. I could probably write a simple workaround within a couple of minutes. No harm. No foul. A little cosmetic make-up. She'll still be beautiful, I just need to get the scalpel ready.

An hours worth of coding, and I'm done. That's how the pros do it. With finesse and with precision. Smug, I compile the code and get no errors. And the system tests show all green...except for two.

Oh shit.

(fin.)

*---------------------------|*
Appendix:

Woher kommst du, meine kleine verbotensheitse...?
_Where are you, you little shit...? _(Roughly)

"Sie ladie haz ein wart! Null deutchmarks fur dein hand!!!" (Not really german, but translated anyway.)
_The lady has a wart! No money for you!!!"_
*---------------------------|*


----------



## Pluralized (Jul 13, 2013)

Verschlimmbesserung - Judge's Entry, 648w


Tony had bad teeth and after a while, just stopped smiling altogether. He loved to cook, but his broken and decayed teeth made it difficult to eat.

Recently he was preparing gourmet cuisine for his ailing mother, who always found something in his cooking to bitch about. He sat there watching her eat, his hands folded in front of him atop the empty placemat. Mother raised a palsied hand, point across the table at him with a crooked, arthritic finger, and said, “Needs more salt.” 


He picked up the salt and threw it across the table at her, causing her to flinch as it struck her flush in the cheek, right beneath her left eye. She started bawling, “Tony, why’d you do that,” then unintelligible moaning, hanging her head, asking God why her boy was so mean.


“Mother, all I ever do is try to please you, and you’re never happy. Here I am with these rotted teeth and you never took me to the dentist. You complain about my food and hurt my feelings, every time. Surely it must be good sometimes!” He got up and strode quickly out of the room, leaving his crying mother hunched over her plate, wailing. 


Tony climbed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His clenched jaw throbbed, and he felt the vein in his forehead bulging out like it always did when he was in a rage. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, something he hadn’t done in several years. His receding hairline gave way to what was left of his black hair, combed straight back into a shoulder-length pony tail that wagged like a small dog’s tail. His bushy eyebrows encroached on his brown eyes, and made the distance from there to his mouth look like a football field. His small nose and mustached mouth fit one another, but not his broad, dinner-plate face. 


When he opened his lips, the party really came to an end. Snags of white crowded with blackened voids, dark-gray-brown stumps, and greenish plaque built up around each tooth. His upper incisors were both broken off clean at the gumline, and the stumps were rotting into virulent pools of bacteria. The pain in his face came in supercharged waves, knocking him to a half-bent-over stance where all he could do was breathe through the pain. 


He’d show Mother fine cuisine once he could eat again. All he had to do was get these teeth out. 


He descended the stairs with a hand on the rail. In the garage, he selected a small pair of needle-nose pliers and a screwdriver. He quietly eased the door back open and slipped through. He could hear her sobbing in the dining room, and the squeak of her wheelchair, so up the stairs he went.


In the bathroom, he set the implements down and looked in the mirror. With a deep breath, he steadied himself against the vanity. He reached in gingerly with the needle-nose and firmly grasped one of the decaying bicuspids on the bottom row of teeth. With a firm yank, pain shot through him from stern to bow, and his eyes filled with water. Sinking to his knees, he began to convulse from the pain. He lost his grasp on the tooth and with a gulp he realized it’d slid down his throat. Blood poured from the open socket, and when he swirled a finger around and pressed on the gums, the teeth on either side dislodged and infection poured from the gaping holes, tasting foul and pungent. He collapsed to a sitting position and felt his heart start to speed. Looking at his reflection in the empty toilet paper holder, he could see red streaks forming on his neck. He lay there weak and dying, with “Mother” on his swollen lips.


----------



## Fin (Jul 13, 2013)

*You Say You Want a Revolution
Anonymous Entry
​*

Paul had tears in his eyes.

Ringo sat at his drums, staring. “Man,” he said, “that’s…”

George looked down at his guitar, gently turned a tuning a string. “What are you going to call it, John?” he asked.

“_Revolution_,” Lennon said.

“We’ve got _Revolution_,” Paul replied. “It’s on this bloody album.”

Ringo tried to say something, but failed. He hit a snare drum instead.

“That one, Paul me old walrus,” Lennon said in tones flat and dry, “is _Revolution 1_. This is _Revolution Number 2_.”

Paul flicked the Vs at Lennon. “You can’t call it _Revolution 2_.”

“Can.”

“Can’t.”

“Yoko says I can.”

Ringo hit another snare, in lieu of getting his words out.

Paul sighed. “Know what, John, it’s boss anyway. Beautifullest thing you’ve done.”

“Eyethankyew,” Lennon replied, heading out the door. “I’m going to have me a fag.”

“…boss!” Ringo finished at last. “That’s sodding boss, John!”



It was windy outside the Abbey Road studios, and Lennon failed three times to strike a match before a Zippo lighter was unexpectedly shoved beneath his nose. He pushed his cigarette into its flame, breathed in deeply, and closed his eyes in pleasure. “Thanks, man,” he said.

“You’re most very welcome, Mr Lennon sir,” a nasal voice replied. 

Lennon opened one eye, and then the other, to see his mystery benefactor. Before him stood a small, rotund man with a large nose, bushy mustache and thinning, oily comb-over. His skin, unusually for that part of St John’s Wood, was green.

Lennon breathed out blue smoke in the direction of the little man. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Oh no sir, no!” the other replied. “Just being here is enough. Lighting your cigarette, that’s enough for me!” He grinned, and tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “I disguised my laser gun as a lighter,” he said.

“Did you?” asked Lennon sardonically.

“Absolutely!” he replied. “So no-one will suspect!”

“Boss,” said Lennon, sucking in another hit of nicotine.

“I’m a great fan,” the little man continued. “All your music, a great fan. My name’s Graffx. Geronimy Graffx. I come from the planet Ungulon, in your future. Pleased to meet you.” He reached up to pump Lennon’s free hand up and down enthusiastically.

Lennon took another drag and said nothing.

“All your stuff,” Graffx continued. “_Help_, _I am the Walrus_, _Imagine_…”

“I haven’t written…”

“You will! You will! And of course, _Revolution Number 2_! Your finest!”

Lennon fixed the little man with a stare. “You like that one?”

“Oh, it’s the best! Well, nearly…”

“Nearly?”

Graffx pondered for a moment, hand on chin. “I always thought,” he eventually ventured, “that it could be a bit more… spunky.” 

Lennon took Graffx by the lapels and stared straight in his face. “‘Spunky’?!”

“Um, a bit more out there. A bit more radical. A bit more… Ungulonic!”

“Ungulonic.”

“Yeah! Yeah! Like the music of my planet! Less harmonic, more Ungulonic! Fewer words, more noise! Fewer notes, more… more…”

“More what, little man?”

“More random talking! Believe me, it’ll work!”

Lennon grinned. “I like you, Geronimy,” he said. “You really think you can improve it?”

“Oh yes!” the little man said.

“Improve my _meisterwerk_? My magnificent octopus?”

“Oh absolutely!”

Lennon laughed, pointed at the studio and threw a set of keys to the little man. “It’s on a tape in there. Go make it as Ungulonic as you like!”

Graffx stared down at the keys in his hand, and then up at Lennon. “Really, Mr Lennon sir?” he asked, breathless. “I really can? Oh, you won’t regret this, you really won’t! This’ll be the best thing the Beatles ever do!”

He ran to the studio door before turning back to the musician. “One last thing,” he said. “The name’s all wrong. Shouldn’t be _Number 2_; should be  _Number 9_!” And with that he disappeared in.

“_Revolution Number 9_,” Lennon mused, taking another cigarette. “Boss!”


----------



## Deleted member 33527 (Jul 13, 2013)

*Breakdown (mild language)*

#3


----------



## J Anfinson (Jul 13, 2013)

One Time in Mexico (Judge Entry- Adult Situations)


----------



## Fin (Jul 14, 2013)

*Leben Verboten*​


----------



## Dictarium (Jul 15, 2013)

One Hundred and One Days In - 636 words *(Language Warning)*

The boat was becoming a sort of Hell. It was ten feet by four feet of unremitting silence, unbearable aloneness, unquenchable thirst, and the unstoppable onset of insanity. Sam Oswald Suttin stared blankly, overgrown hair obscuring his vision, at the helm of the tiny vessel. He ran his fingers over the anchor he had carved into the wood at end of the boat, noticing a bit of jaggedness at bottom of the picture. He drew the inkless pen from his pocket, and slowly scratched away at it until it was fixed. He looked over at his best friend, Harrison Elemew Peters. He too had a horribly unkept head of hair and bore the thousand yard stare of a man returning from combat. 

“Hey, Harry. Get some sleep, will ya? For me.” Harry looked up at Sam confusedly, apparently shocked that someone else was on the boat, stared blankly at him for a bit, his food-deprived brain taking an extra moment to process what had been said, slowly nodded, and laid down on the floor of the boat. Sam threw their blanket – a windbreaker they’d found on the boat – over the man’s and went over to the other end of the boat to tend to his carving. The hours rolled by and the sun went down on day number one hundred and one on the God-forsaken lifeboat… day four without food. The thought of food on his mind, Sam went to check their fishing lines. 

_Something’s not right about this guy. _The thought flashed through his mind as he pulled up each one checking to see if it had been robbed of its bait. His partner-at-sea hadn’t said a word or even made a noise in what seemed like ages but was probably about a day or two now. Something about the isolation of their situation seemed to have sucked out any motivation for conversing that Harry may have still had. _What if he’s going crazy? I don’t even know this guy, really. What if he’s a nut-case? _No, definitely not. Sure, they’d been out here for a long time, but he didn’t seem crazy. He was just depressed. _He deserves to be._

Sam pulled out their baitfish they’d caught last week – too small to consider a meal, but not small enough to throw back – and went about affixing it to the lines the hooks that had been burgled. _Where the hell’s that damn knife? _He searched around the floor of the boat until…

“Looking for this?” The upper half of Sam’s body jolted in fear and surprised as he turned around to see Harry wielding the knife. A hot feeling ran down his face: blood. _Did he cut me?! Oh my god, he’s gonna kill me! _Without thinking, Sam’s survival instincts took over as he punched Harry in the stomach. Harry doubled over, out of breath and, before he could attack Sam again, was delivered a bone-crushing kick to the side of the face that sent the top half of his body overboard, dyeing the surrounding waters red with his bloodied face. Sam held back any further defenses of his person as he allowed his attacker to breach.

“What – the – actual – hell – man?!” The words came through gasps for air through a mouth that was being bombarded with a downpour of blood and seawater. “You cut me, you psycho!” Sam defended himself once again, this time verbally as he answered the somewhat uncalled-for question. 

“I was giving you the fucking knife, man!” And so he was. Feeling where the cut was, Sam realized that it was the part of his head that had shook when he’d heard Harry’s voice; He must’ve cut himself on the knife as he spun. Sam then knelt down to tend to his shipmates wounds and deal with a very awkward situation.


----------



## Fin (Jul 15, 2013)

*Point, Click, Refresh*​


----------

