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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #25 - "Echo"
- Thread starter Cyan
- Start date
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AlternativeUlster
Absolutely pathetic part deux
Timedog said:
:lol
crowphoenix
Banned
Well, she's the one that made me realize all that imagining I used to do might be worth jotting down. Besides, I thought this piece was really good, so it's a plus that she brought me down from that.ZephyrFate said:
You win this time, pepper man.Cyan said:
Cyan said:
I thought the words and sentence structure coalesce into a thought/experience perfectly similar to how the sun affects every moment in a human beings entire life. There is no escaping it--gravity. Its fingers reach unendingly across the universe faster than it is possible for us to travel. In some ways we merge with the sun. An experience is a gravitational force, Cyan.
If I have time I'll be submitting something else before the end of the day.
I had one idea, which branched into two stories. The first is to be considered my entry, the second is just an incomplete 'echo' which I'll post for the hell of it (And the conclusion is way too predictable, ran myself into a dead end):
Narcissus Sees the Light-Echo: A Love Story
I have a tale to tell! There was once a certain Light Echo, a mountain nymph whose mountain that Zeus regularly visited, because it was this particular mountain that had the most beautiful mountain nymphs of all the mountains in Greece. And so he charmed one of these nymphs, who is our friend Light Echo, into distracting his wife, Hera, while he enjoyed himself with Light Echo's sisters. You may have already heard this story. But wait just a little longer.
Light Echo distracted Hera by dressing up as a Goddess of some unoccupied field. This day she would be Gan, Goddess of Shells. That day, she was Mernae, Goddess of Grit. And she would dress the part and act so convincingly that even the paranoid Hera was fooled. But one day she described herself as the Goddess of Love, and this was in fact a field filled by another God, that alas! Hera discovered Zeus's deception and caught him enjoying himself with a beautiful mountain nymph!
And as we have come to expect from Hera, the goddess of women and marriage, she became wrathful, and her anger was felt from the summit of Mount Olympus to the depths of the Underworld, where Hades nudged Persephone and advised her to take tips, because the queen of the heavens should not be outdoing the queen of the underworld in ferocity. As for poor Light Echo, Hera placed a terrible curse on her, the effects of which we will find out in a moment.
It was in a forest where Light Echo met her fate, in the form of a young man named Asphodel, who was hunting, as young men often do. Asphodel was known by his neighbours as the ugliest man alive, and oh! If you could hear what they said about the poor boy --Things like "Asphodel looks like the son of Haphaestus and a rock!" Asphoedel was aware of his alleged ugliness, but had not seen himself, and it through Hera's ccurs where he found this opportunity, for when he looked at Light Echo, instead of seeing
the soft and delicate features of the mountain nymph, he saw himself!
"My neighbours are right! You are terribly ugly," he said to what he thought was his reflection. "You are the ugliest thing I have ever set eyes on, uglier than a squashed Titan!"
Oh Hera, you are so wicked for placing such a terrible curse on poor Light Echo -- how will she ever find love when opposites attract, and poor Light Echo will never look like any man's opposite! Light Echo, unaware of the true effects of the curse, thought that Hera must have made her ugly, and thought that Asphodel was hurling insults at her. And he innocently kept up the barrage of cruel remarks until Light Echo was nothing but a quivering wreck, and decided to end it all by throwing herself on to a sharp rock!
And when Light Echo breathed her last breath, in a different realm a certain Narcissus breathed his, upon realising that his new love was his reflection. But in fact, Narcissus was looking at Asphodel, whom he thought was the most handsome man in the world, and Asphodel was looking at Narcissus, whom he thought was the most ugly man in the world.
But let us return to Light Echo, whose fate extended beyond the rock upon which she threw herself upon.
Hera may be cruel, but we should commend her for being so precise, because even when Light Echo settled in the underworld, the curse was still with her, and Light Echo was left without a voice because Asphodel's insults left her speechless. Light Echo came across Charon, that ferryman of the Styx. When Charon saw Light Echo, he was filled with happiness, and said,
"My own time has come! Now that the new ferryman has arrived, I can spend the rest of eternity spending the massive fortune that I have made!."
And then stepped in the boat, handed her the oars, and ordered her to row.
Light Echo, thinking that this was some kind of trial, obeyed Charon, and rowed and rowed till her arms felt like decaying fruit, and you must remember that the arms of mountain nymphs are small and dainty and used for twirling around and beckoning to hungry Gods, and those heavy oars were not suited to her. After what seemed like eternity of rowing across the Styx, she reached the Underworld, and Charon bid his farewells, and told her to continue his legacy. And then poor Light Echo had to row all the way back to ferry the next passenger.
Her first passenger was a woman, who saw her, and said,
"Oh, Agata! The Gods have been merciful, allowing we twin sisters to unite as we once did in my mother's womb, and before that evil and cruel man Isidore waded in between us and tore us apart with his promises of love and children. That demon destroyed us both and seeing you here, on this boat, shows that we are destined to be united. Let us reconcile, and face Hades together."
Light Echo could not say anything or do anything except look like a reflection (And to the woman who saw her own reflection and thought Light Echo was her twin sister, the oars were rowing the boat themselves of their own accord)
"Please, Agata, you must reply. I have lost my children and our father, and I could not bear being without my sister! I beg you."
But Light Echo did not reply, and the woman uttered a cry and jumped into the River Styx.
The distraught Light Echo rowed the boat back to pick up her next passenger, and at the edge of the river stood the soul of a man man, who, judging by his stature and aura, was a hero. And she was right -- he was the great Oclepeus, who was sent on a mission by Aclophes, his tale is not worth relating because it is terribly similar to Heracles's, who will never be surpassed! But perhaps the hero's arrival meant that the ropes binding poor Light Echo to her wheel of misfortune would be cut? I am sorry to say but that is not what happened, because when Oclepeus saw Light Echo in the boat, he saw himself and shouted:
"Begone, evil doppleganger!" And he dragged her out of the boat onto the surface and began to strike her with his ghostly fists. Oh, if you were there to see it, to watch a frail little mountain nymph being ravished by a such a big, burly warrior, and not in the lusty way that Zeus once ravished Light Echo's peers! But he realised that Light Echo was not fighting back and did not make a noise, and so he jumped off her and said,
"Ah, the fool that I am! I approached this final ideal in the underworld in, slashing and thrusting this image as if it was a common troll, unaware of the fact that I am near the Underworld, where trickery is the air and deception is the earth, and vice versa! I realise now that if I slay you, I will slay myself, thus become a tragic hero who was so rash and eager that he did not know when to sheath his sword a. I refuse to attack you!"
And at that moment, Pan appeared and said:
"Well done, young Oclepeus. You have completed the final ordeal proved yourself valourous and mighty, and you shall receive your reward."
In fact, before this took place, Pan did not have his final ordeal ready and was agonising over what it should be, until he heard of Light Echo's misfortune and decided to take advantage of it. A maiden appeared and embraced Oclephus, and the they disappeared, along with Pan, leaving Light Echo to suffer.
Light Echo would rather die, but she was already dead! She leapt into the Styx, hoping that her soul would cease to exist, when a hand pulled her out. When she came to, she saw the face of Asphodel, who she imagined came down to the underworld to rescue her.
"Is my face deceiving me, or is this the very image that teased me from the depths of the waters in my previous life, that would not return my love. Am I to be tortured with the object of my desire for eternity in this cruel underworld?" said Asphodel, who, as you may have guessed, was not Asphodel, but Narcissus, who was Asphodel's reflection.
And he reached out to touch Light Echo, and when he felt her said:
"Oh! I feel flesh." And embraced her, thinking he was embracing himself, and Light Echo fell in love with who she thought was Asphodel saving her, not realising that this man was in fact Narcissus, who as we said earlier, was Asphodel's reflection, who was known to be as handsome as Asphodel was known to be ugly.
And they rode down the River Styx, Narcissus and (Light Echo), finally united.
Handsome and Harmonic Euphones (Incomplete)
There once was a man called Euphones, who felt that he had the most beautiful face and voice in the land, every day he would sit on the same spot near the river and admire his reflection and sing to it. Afterwards, he would go into the nearby tavern to quench his first, and entertain the people.
"Good morning, my good people," said Euphones.
And because the people in the tavern found Euphones hysterical and liked to entertain
him as much as he entertained them, they cried, "Euphones the Splendid!" And the men held up their cups and the ladies swooned.
And then Euphones sang, and bowed to the round of applause that followed, had a drink, left the tavern, which filled with laughter.
And one of them, an honest and clever man named Aenys, said,
"Euphones's delusion has certainly been entertaining, but as his friends we must tell him the truth, before Nemesis gets to him.
They all calmed down and agreed, and when Euphones came in the next day, Aenys held out his hand, and stopped, and said,
"Please, Euphones, do not sing! You have the voice of an elderly siren -- it sounds so bad that you would drown yourself anyway!"
And they hurled insults like these at poor Euphones -- not to be malicious, but to snap Euphones out of his delusion.
But Euphones was so confident in himself that the insults did not affect him, and so he said,
"Lies! When I look into my reflection I see a beautiful man, and when I sing I hear a sad maiden, and if you are by any chance taken back by the paradox of my male appearance and beautiful voice, remember that androgony is considered the ultimate beauty, beyond the boundaries of what mere mortals consider beautiful!"
This last statement annoyed Aenys, and he led Euphones to a mirror in the back and said
"Do you really think this is beauty?"
And Euphones saw his face for what it was, ugly and twisted covered with warts, and he rushed out of the tavern to the spot by the river ad looked at his reflection, and when he saw that it was beautiful, he said to Aenys, who had followed him:
"Oh, Aenys, you trickster! Showing me my reflection through a enchanted mirror. No doubt, if Apollo looked through it, he would look like Hephaestus, or if Aphrodite looked through it, she would look like Medusa!"
Then Aenys let loose a long, heavy sigh and was about to give up, when he saw that Euphones's reflection in the river was indeed handsome.
Aenys looked at the reflection himself, when the handsome.
"I certainly know that I am not as handsome as this, despite what my wife says. By Zeus, Euphones, this water is enchanted!"
And then he told Euphones to change places with him, and when he stood in Euphones's position, the handsome reflection appeared again. And they exchanged places again, and Euphones discovered the truth about himself. He was filled with sadness but it was short lived, because he thought even if he was ugly, he still had his voice, and he could wear a mask and pretend to be an elusive nymph. He began to sing:
Oh, my face may be covered with warts -- brimming with pus
But my voice is still as delicate as the petals of a Narcissus!
And when he sung this, it came out beautifully, and the clever Aenys was going to shatter Euphoes's illusion completely by telling him that it was an echo, when the phantom reflection blinked and said,
"Begone, mountain nymph! Stop calling my name! I am not interested in your advances!"
And the when this happened, Aenys realised that it was not simply an echo, but it was the Echo, and that the phantom reflection was surely the imprint of Narcissus that his grandfather had said once existed a very long time ago. He had disliked the story of Echo and Narcissus because of its unhappy end.
The Reflection of Narcissus, seeing the ugly face of Euphones staring at him and said,
"Alas! I have turned ugly!"
And so Aenys whispered to Euphones:
"Stay here, pretending to be Narcissus because even if you are neither handsome or a good singer, here lies an opportunity to become famous than you ever would have been had you had those qualities!"
And the Reflection of Narcissus said:
"I did not hear you! Speak to me, not my reflection!
Then Aenys said to the Reflection of Narcissus:
"Forgive my foolishness. I said that you have been turned so ugly because you have shunned poor Echo, and as a lesson, the gods have made you grotesque."
-----------SNIP --------------------
Narcissus Sees the Light-Echo: A Love Story
I have a tale to tell! There was once a certain Light Echo, a mountain nymph whose mountain that Zeus regularly visited, because it was this particular mountain that had the most beautiful mountain nymphs of all the mountains in Greece. And so he charmed one of these nymphs, who is our friend Light Echo, into distracting his wife, Hera, while he enjoyed himself with Light Echo's sisters. You may have already heard this story. But wait just a little longer.
Light Echo distracted Hera by dressing up as a Goddess of some unoccupied field. This day she would be Gan, Goddess of Shells. That day, she was Mernae, Goddess of Grit. And she would dress the part and act so convincingly that even the paranoid Hera was fooled. But one day she described herself as the Goddess of Love, and this was in fact a field filled by another God, that alas! Hera discovered Zeus's deception and caught him enjoying himself with a beautiful mountain nymph!
And as we have come to expect from Hera, the goddess of women and marriage, she became wrathful, and her anger was felt from the summit of Mount Olympus to the depths of the Underworld, where Hades nudged Persephone and advised her to take tips, because the queen of the heavens should not be outdoing the queen of the underworld in ferocity. As for poor Light Echo, Hera placed a terrible curse on her, the effects of which we will find out in a moment.
It was in a forest where Light Echo met her fate, in the form of a young man named Asphodel, who was hunting, as young men often do. Asphodel was known by his neighbours as the ugliest man alive, and oh! If you could hear what they said about the poor boy --Things like "Asphodel looks like the son of Haphaestus and a rock!" Asphoedel was aware of his alleged ugliness, but had not seen himself, and it through Hera's ccurs where he found this opportunity, for when he looked at Light Echo, instead of seeing
the soft and delicate features of the mountain nymph, he saw himself!
"My neighbours are right! You are terribly ugly," he said to what he thought was his reflection. "You are the ugliest thing I have ever set eyes on, uglier than a squashed Titan!"
Oh Hera, you are so wicked for placing such a terrible curse on poor Light Echo -- how will she ever find love when opposites attract, and poor Light Echo will never look like any man's opposite! Light Echo, unaware of the true effects of the curse, thought that Hera must have made her ugly, and thought that Asphodel was hurling insults at her. And he innocently kept up the barrage of cruel remarks until Light Echo was nothing but a quivering wreck, and decided to end it all by throwing herself on to a sharp rock!
And when Light Echo breathed her last breath, in a different realm a certain Narcissus breathed his, upon realising that his new love was his reflection. But in fact, Narcissus was looking at Asphodel, whom he thought was the most handsome man in the world, and Asphodel was looking at Narcissus, whom he thought was the most ugly man in the world.
But let us return to Light Echo, whose fate extended beyond the rock upon which she threw herself upon.
Hera may be cruel, but we should commend her for being so precise, because even when Light Echo settled in the underworld, the curse was still with her, and Light Echo was left without a voice because Asphodel's insults left her speechless. Light Echo came across Charon, that ferryman of the Styx. When Charon saw Light Echo, he was filled with happiness, and said,
"My own time has come! Now that the new ferryman has arrived, I can spend the rest of eternity spending the massive fortune that I have made!."
And then stepped in the boat, handed her the oars, and ordered her to row.
Light Echo, thinking that this was some kind of trial, obeyed Charon, and rowed and rowed till her arms felt like decaying fruit, and you must remember that the arms of mountain nymphs are small and dainty and used for twirling around and beckoning to hungry Gods, and those heavy oars were not suited to her. After what seemed like eternity of rowing across the Styx, she reached the Underworld, and Charon bid his farewells, and told her to continue his legacy. And then poor Light Echo had to row all the way back to ferry the next passenger.
Her first passenger was a woman, who saw her, and said,
"Oh, Agata! The Gods have been merciful, allowing we twin sisters to unite as we once did in my mother's womb, and before that evil and cruel man Isidore waded in between us and tore us apart with his promises of love and children. That demon destroyed us both and seeing you here, on this boat, shows that we are destined to be united. Let us reconcile, and face Hades together."
Light Echo could not say anything or do anything except look like a reflection (And to the woman who saw her own reflection and thought Light Echo was her twin sister, the oars were rowing the boat themselves of their own accord)
"Please, Agata, you must reply. I have lost my children and our father, and I could not bear being without my sister! I beg you."
But Light Echo did not reply, and the woman uttered a cry and jumped into the River Styx.
The distraught Light Echo rowed the boat back to pick up her next passenger, and at the edge of the river stood the soul of a man man, who, judging by his stature and aura, was a hero. And she was right -- he was the great Oclepeus, who was sent on a mission by Aclophes, his tale is not worth relating because it is terribly similar to Heracles's, who will never be surpassed! But perhaps the hero's arrival meant that the ropes binding poor Light Echo to her wheel of misfortune would be cut? I am sorry to say but that is not what happened, because when Oclepeus saw Light Echo in the boat, he saw himself and shouted:
"Begone, evil doppleganger!" And he dragged her out of the boat onto the surface and began to strike her with his ghostly fists. Oh, if you were there to see it, to watch a frail little mountain nymph being ravished by a such a big, burly warrior, and not in the lusty way that Zeus once ravished Light Echo's peers! But he realised that Light Echo was not fighting back and did not make a noise, and so he jumped off her and said,
"Ah, the fool that I am! I approached this final ideal in the underworld in, slashing and thrusting this image as if it was a common troll, unaware of the fact that I am near the Underworld, where trickery is the air and deception is the earth, and vice versa! I realise now that if I slay you, I will slay myself, thus become a tragic hero who was so rash and eager that he did not know when to sheath his sword a. I refuse to attack you!"
And at that moment, Pan appeared and said:
"Well done, young Oclepeus. You have completed the final ordeal proved yourself valourous and mighty, and you shall receive your reward."
In fact, before this took place, Pan did not have his final ordeal ready and was agonising over what it should be, until he heard of Light Echo's misfortune and decided to take advantage of it. A maiden appeared and embraced Oclephus, and the they disappeared, along with Pan, leaving Light Echo to suffer.
Light Echo would rather die, but she was already dead! She leapt into the Styx, hoping that her soul would cease to exist, when a hand pulled her out. When she came to, she saw the face of Asphodel, who she imagined came down to the underworld to rescue her.
"Is my face deceiving me, or is this the very image that teased me from the depths of the waters in my previous life, that would not return my love. Am I to be tortured with the object of my desire for eternity in this cruel underworld?" said Asphodel, who, as you may have guessed, was not Asphodel, but Narcissus, who was Asphodel's reflection.
And he reached out to touch Light Echo, and when he felt her said:
"Oh! I feel flesh." And embraced her, thinking he was embracing himself, and Light Echo fell in love with who she thought was Asphodel saving her, not realising that this man was in fact Narcissus, who as we said earlier, was Asphodel's reflection, who was known to be as handsome as Asphodel was known to be ugly.
And they rode down the River Styx, Narcissus and (Light Echo), finally united.
Handsome and Harmonic Euphones (Incomplete)
There once was a man called Euphones, who felt that he had the most beautiful face and voice in the land, every day he would sit on the same spot near the river and admire his reflection and sing to it. Afterwards, he would go into the nearby tavern to quench his first, and entertain the people.
"Good morning, my good people," said Euphones.
And because the people in the tavern found Euphones hysterical and liked to entertain
him as much as he entertained them, they cried, "Euphones the Splendid!" And the men held up their cups and the ladies swooned.
And then Euphones sang, and bowed to the round of applause that followed, had a drink, left the tavern, which filled with laughter.
And one of them, an honest and clever man named Aenys, said,
"Euphones's delusion has certainly been entertaining, but as his friends we must tell him the truth, before Nemesis gets to him.
They all calmed down and agreed, and when Euphones came in the next day, Aenys held out his hand, and stopped, and said,
"Please, Euphones, do not sing! You have the voice of an elderly siren -- it sounds so bad that you would drown yourself anyway!"
And they hurled insults like these at poor Euphones -- not to be malicious, but to snap Euphones out of his delusion.
But Euphones was so confident in himself that the insults did not affect him, and so he said,
"Lies! When I look into my reflection I see a beautiful man, and when I sing I hear a sad maiden, and if you are by any chance taken back by the paradox of my male appearance and beautiful voice, remember that androgony is considered the ultimate beauty, beyond the boundaries of what mere mortals consider beautiful!"
This last statement annoyed Aenys, and he led Euphones to a mirror in the back and said
"Do you really think this is beauty?"
And Euphones saw his face for what it was, ugly and twisted covered with warts, and he rushed out of the tavern to the spot by the river ad looked at his reflection, and when he saw that it was beautiful, he said to Aenys, who had followed him:
"Oh, Aenys, you trickster! Showing me my reflection through a enchanted mirror. No doubt, if Apollo looked through it, he would look like Hephaestus, or if Aphrodite looked through it, she would look like Medusa!"
Then Aenys let loose a long, heavy sigh and was about to give up, when he saw that Euphones's reflection in the river was indeed handsome.
Aenys looked at the reflection himself, when the handsome.
"I certainly know that I am not as handsome as this, despite what my wife says. By Zeus, Euphones, this water is enchanted!"
And then he told Euphones to change places with him, and when he stood in Euphones's position, the handsome reflection appeared again. And they exchanged places again, and Euphones discovered the truth about himself. He was filled with sadness but it was short lived, because he thought even if he was ugly, he still had his voice, and he could wear a mask and pretend to be an elusive nymph. He began to sing:
Oh, my face may be covered with warts -- brimming with pus
But my voice is still as delicate as the petals of a Narcissus!
And when he sung this, it came out beautifully, and the clever Aenys was going to shatter Euphoes's illusion completely by telling him that it was an echo, when the phantom reflection blinked and said,
"Begone, mountain nymph! Stop calling my name! I am not interested in your advances!"
And the when this happened, Aenys realised that it was not simply an echo, but it was the Echo, and that the phantom reflection was surely the imprint of Narcissus that his grandfather had said once existed a very long time ago. He had disliked the story of Echo and Narcissus because of its unhappy end.
The Reflection of Narcissus, seeing the ugly face of Euphones staring at him and said,
"Alas! I have turned ugly!"
And so Aenys whispered to Euphones:
"Stay here, pretending to be Narcissus because even if you are neither handsome or a good singer, here lies an opportunity to become famous than you ever would have been had you had those qualities!"
And the Reflection of Narcissus said:
"I did not hear you! Speak to me, not my reflection!
Then Aenys said to the Reflection of Narcissus:
"Forgive my foolishness. I said that you have been turned so ugly because you have shunned poor Echo, and as a lesson, the gods have made you grotesque."
-----------SNIP --------------------
I wrote this off a come-down from Ativan. It is fairly weird and long. I enjoyed writing it however good/bad it is. I'm terrible at editing my own work so keep that in mind.
Trivial Pursuits (and Masturbation)
If the soda dripped onto the book, he would leave. If it didnt, he would stay to pull down his sweats and masturbate through the hole in his boxers. This ultimatum occurred forty-seven minutes ago, and Eddie just now finally came. Soon after, he used friction and cotton sheets to clean up, while doing so he pondered if this duration approached hobby levels.
It does.
Although with a second more of thought, it was his consideration that a hobby should involve growth of a much different kind. The type of expansion where accomplishment is perpetual, and a fleeting climax is a cyclical measure of success. He had never seen his masturbation as something he could continually build upon, and therefore had ostracized this messier pastime into solitude away from his other tangible efforts. His summary of the fixture, if you asked him, was that masturbation is a chance to exhaust a mounted fantasy, be it about cars, music, or women, but its an exertion that should be reserved only when productivity can be honestly avoided.
Honestly.
However, it is important to mention that forty-seven minutes ago, his tipped glass ultimatum was actually betrayed, and the flat liquid didnt actually drip at all. In fact, it swayed back perfectly onto his night stand and Eddie chose to ignore what the drink said to him. This was the moment in which he realized his new internal thesis on the pleasure of doing task-like things whether they got him somewhere or not. He found this thesis so exhilarating that it provided personal validation to his breaking of the tipped glass covenant; and with further revelation, he ventured that the feeling of productivity is such an endorphin-source that it alone could serve as a masturbatory fantasy. With that, the moment then passed its owns bounds of fullness as he decided to spend his impending outdoor travel planning his next three sessions of self-worth ejaculation.
The first, he thought as his socks rolled on, should be a triumph based on washing dishes. Scrubbing them clean and rinsing them in such a manner as to remove any grime from their surface call it perfect unfilth. The word unfilth broke his momentum briefly as he realized it was not a word. He then regained his process realizing that even though it wasnt a word, it was certainly his term and a genuine expression of his clean plates and silverware.
Your silverware.
This cleanliness provided sudden arousal, as well as a weaker-than-average boner because Eddie believed it took no average impulse to afford him this skill, but it was a passionate discipline for unfilth that propelled him so. It was so strong that he mused it could help him find more regular agreement within his mind and his own impulse, which is then something itself that could act as future means to a climax. Although he felt at this point, his planning was better left to his excellence in remedial productivity because he was more sure of its consistency. Also, the thought of consistent agreement on his mind bets was so arousing; he feared any further current interest might wreck his days productivity (hed already spent 47 minutes masturbating, anyhow).
So, as the term unfilth had scratched away from his center of thought, Eddie slipped his shoes on with their laces tucked neatly under his feet. Then, as if suffering from nerve damage, his body twitched him into a smile and his second jack-off topic wrapped around him like an overly tight burrito. And, like any overly tight burrito, the juices from his arousal almost came again as he found himself proud as can be of this maneuver. Eddie realized that even though he didnt invent the tuck style, and though he couldnt possibly remember where he first saw it, the effort to always keep his laces untied provided him with such enviable comfort and such an immense amount of accrued daily prep time, that if mankind had universally adopted this practice, they probably would have created a World Tuck Day if the right people had been in power. If only everyone had such clairvoyance with his or her feet, Eddie thought, maybe world hunger, or at the very least, time travel, couldve been solved by now.
Okay?
Unsure of why his mind made this connection, Eddie then startled himself back into focus, suddenly finding biting wind sliding through his hair and uncomfortably tingling the top of his ear. It was bothersome enough to make him doubt his recent personal thesis of productivity.
No. He proclaimed like an objective tween.
To Eddie, it was not proper to have to fathom at why his stream would unleash disrespect at him after a mutually beneficial epiphany. There was no doubt to Eddie that his productivity was excellent, and that as a whole, being productive is his single-most important personality trait.
So why? He blurted out.
Why would his mind conjure up the urge to let the pettiness of ear discomfort create rigid self-doubt? Did this more acute interest in diversifying his masturbatory excursions cause some backlash or strain to which his mind felt eager to tease him in retribution? Did his mind wish to coerce him into confusion and to cause him to relinquish his pursuit down this concrete sidewalk?
No. Eddie said with less doubt than his mind carried.
Like any road to production, this sidewalk should have bumps, Eddie thought, it should have cracks, and ridges, twigs, moss, and leaves.
And leaves.
I get it. He said, masking his anxiety.
It wasnt his mind condemning or attempting to disprove this epiphany, it was his mind waning him that this days productivity would be fruitless and less pleasurable than alternative home-doings. Unfortunately, his mind had already been wrong once so far as his earlier masturbation had already allowed for extensive production beyond what he thought possible of the diversion. The mere recollection of his recent tangential fantasies proved that masturbation could be a hobby for him, as long as the output was as enlightening as it had been today. Therefore, his only option now would be to empirically test if his journey should continue by way of a mind bet.
Thank God for leaves. Eddie spoke without fear of his surroundings.
What are the terms?
Eddie finds the leaf quickly about four feet from him, dead center in the sidewalk, parting the adjacent well-groomed grass patches.
What are the terms?
At this point he couldnt back out of the bet, and his mind wouldnt settle for any unfair wager.
If it goes left, I keep walking. If it goes right, I go home? Eddie offered out loud.
He looks around to see if anyone has taken notice, he definitely prefers there to be a witness to these sorts of things. It helps to quell any misunderstandings before they become an endless argument of he said, he said and as all of Eddie knows, those always seem to end in tears.
Well? Eddie said tapping his foot.
He tapped his hand on his waist.
Fine.
They watched for a few seconds, not really thinking what the other was thinking about, but fully concentrated on the outcome. If the mind won, Eddie realized his day wouldnt be so bad, but in same sense he wouldnt get anything done and his epiphany would take a structural hit that might take five, even six orgasmic breakthroughs to re-solidify. Not that he didnt desire this extent of pleasure, its just that type of pressure doesnt lend itself to performing at such a high level.
In the next moment, the wind returned, catching Eddies ear in the same irritating manner and catching the crucial foliage. In reaction, something Eddie wouldnt like to refer to as an impulse, he lunged towards it, nearly pulling his groin in the process. As his foot came towards the border of the cement the leaf scurried under his sneaker to find haven on the right patch of grass before flying further into the street.
Seriously? Eddie says, as the leaf gets further into the road.
Eddie spits on the concrete and puts his hands on his knees.
Im not going home. His blunt tone is more than rude.
Yes.
Eddie slaps himself in the face.
No!
Eddie stands full and slaps himself again.
Im not going home! No fucking way!
Eddie slaps the other side of his face.
Give me one good reason!
He slaps again and now both cheeks are flush.
You need to.
No!
Yes.
Eddie starts walking home.
Trivial Pursuits (and Masturbation)
If the soda dripped onto the book, he would leave. If it didnt, he would stay to pull down his sweats and masturbate through the hole in his boxers. This ultimatum occurred forty-seven minutes ago, and Eddie just now finally came. Soon after, he used friction and cotton sheets to clean up, while doing so he pondered if this duration approached hobby levels.
It does.
Although with a second more of thought, it was his consideration that a hobby should involve growth of a much different kind. The type of expansion where accomplishment is perpetual, and a fleeting climax is a cyclical measure of success. He had never seen his masturbation as something he could continually build upon, and therefore had ostracized this messier pastime into solitude away from his other tangible efforts. His summary of the fixture, if you asked him, was that masturbation is a chance to exhaust a mounted fantasy, be it about cars, music, or women, but its an exertion that should be reserved only when productivity can be honestly avoided.
Honestly.
However, it is important to mention that forty-seven minutes ago, his tipped glass ultimatum was actually betrayed, and the flat liquid didnt actually drip at all. In fact, it swayed back perfectly onto his night stand and Eddie chose to ignore what the drink said to him. This was the moment in which he realized his new internal thesis on the pleasure of doing task-like things whether they got him somewhere or not. He found this thesis so exhilarating that it provided personal validation to his breaking of the tipped glass covenant; and with further revelation, he ventured that the feeling of productivity is such an endorphin-source that it alone could serve as a masturbatory fantasy. With that, the moment then passed its owns bounds of fullness as he decided to spend his impending outdoor travel planning his next three sessions of self-worth ejaculation.
The first, he thought as his socks rolled on, should be a triumph based on washing dishes. Scrubbing them clean and rinsing them in such a manner as to remove any grime from their surface call it perfect unfilth. The word unfilth broke his momentum briefly as he realized it was not a word. He then regained his process realizing that even though it wasnt a word, it was certainly his term and a genuine expression of his clean plates and silverware.
Your silverware.
This cleanliness provided sudden arousal, as well as a weaker-than-average boner because Eddie believed it took no average impulse to afford him this skill, but it was a passionate discipline for unfilth that propelled him so. It was so strong that he mused it could help him find more regular agreement within his mind and his own impulse, which is then something itself that could act as future means to a climax. Although he felt at this point, his planning was better left to his excellence in remedial productivity because he was more sure of its consistency. Also, the thought of consistent agreement on his mind bets was so arousing; he feared any further current interest might wreck his days productivity (hed already spent 47 minutes masturbating, anyhow).
So, as the term unfilth had scratched away from his center of thought, Eddie slipped his shoes on with their laces tucked neatly under his feet. Then, as if suffering from nerve damage, his body twitched him into a smile and his second jack-off topic wrapped around him like an overly tight burrito. And, like any overly tight burrito, the juices from his arousal almost came again as he found himself proud as can be of this maneuver. Eddie realized that even though he didnt invent the tuck style, and though he couldnt possibly remember where he first saw it, the effort to always keep his laces untied provided him with such enviable comfort and such an immense amount of accrued daily prep time, that if mankind had universally adopted this practice, they probably would have created a World Tuck Day if the right people had been in power. If only everyone had such clairvoyance with his or her feet, Eddie thought, maybe world hunger, or at the very least, time travel, couldve been solved by now.
Okay?
Unsure of why his mind made this connection, Eddie then startled himself back into focus, suddenly finding biting wind sliding through his hair and uncomfortably tingling the top of his ear. It was bothersome enough to make him doubt his recent personal thesis of productivity.
No. He proclaimed like an objective tween.
To Eddie, it was not proper to have to fathom at why his stream would unleash disrespect at him after a mutually beneficial epiphany. There was no doubt to Eddie that his productivity was excellent, and that as a whole, being productive is his single-most important personality trait.
So why? He blurted out.
Why would his mind conjure up the urge to let the pettiness of ear discomfort create rigid self-doubt? Did this more acute interest in diversifying his masturbatory excursions cause some backlash or strain to which his mind felt eager to tease him in retribution? Did his mind wish to coerce him into confusion and to cause him to relinquish his pursuit down this concrete sidewalk?
No. Eddie said with less doubt than his mind carried.
Like any road to production, this sidewalk should have bumps, Eddie thought, it should have cracks, and ridges, twigs, moss, and leaves.
And leaves.
I get it. He said, masking his anxiety.
It wasnt his mind condemning or attempting to disprove this epiphany, it was his mind waning him that this days productivity would be fruitless and less pleasurable than alternative home-doings. Unfortunately, his mind had already been wrong once so far as his earlier masturbation had already allowed for extensive production beyond what he thought possible of the diversion. The mere recollection of his recent tangential fantasies proved that masturbation could be a hobby for him, as long as the output was as enlightening as it had been today. Therefore, his only option now would be to empirically test if his journey should continue by way of a mind bet.
Thank God for leaves. Eddie spoke without fear of his surroundings.
What are the terms?
Eddie finds the leaf quickly about four feet from him, dead center in the sidewalk, parting the adjacent well-groomed grass patches.
What are the terms?
At this point he couldnt back out of the bet, and his mind wouldnt settle for any unfair wager.
If it goes left, I keep walking. If it goes right, I go home? Eddie offered out loud.
He looks around to see if anyone has taken notice, he definitely prefers there to be a witness to these sorts of things. It helps to quell any misunderstandings before they become an endless argument of he said, he said and as all of Eddie knows, those always seem to end in tears.
Well? Eddie said tapping his foot.
He tapped his hand on his waist.
Fine.
They watched for a few seconds, not really thinking what the other was thinking about, but fully concentrated on the outcome. If the mind won, Eddie realized his day wouldnt be so bad, but in same sense he wouldnt get anything done and his epiphany would take a structural hit that might take five, even six orgasmic breakthroughs to re-solidify. Not that he didnt desire this extent of pleasure, its just that type of pressure doesnt lend itself to performing at such a high level.
In the next moment, the wind returned, catching Eddies ear in the same irritating manner and catching the crucial foliage. In reaction, something Eddie wouldnt like to refer to as an impulse, he lunged towards it, nearly pulling his groin in the process. As his foot came towards the border of the cement the leaf scurried under his sneaker to find haven on the right patch of grass before flying further into the street.
Seriously? Eddie says, as the leaf gets further into the road.
Eddie spits on the concrete and puts his hands on his knees.
Im not going home. His blunt tone is more than rude.
Yes.
Eddie slaps himself in the face.
No!
Eddie stands full and slaps himself again.
Im not going home! No fucking way!
Eddie slaps the other side of his face.
Give me one good reason!
He slaps again and now both cheeks are flush.
You need to.
No!
Yes.
Eddie starts walking home.
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
I wrote this off a come-down from Ativan. It is fairly weird and long. I enjoyed writing it however good/bad it is. I'm terrible at editing my own work so keep that in mind.
Trivial Pursuits (and Masturbation)
If the soda dripped onto the book, he would leave. If it didnt, he would stay to pull down his sweats and masturbate through the hole in his boxers. This ultimatum occurred forty-seven minutes ago, and Eddie just now finally came. Soon after, he used friction and cotton sheets to clean up, while doing so he pondered if this duration approached hobby levels.
It does.
Although with a second more of thought, it was his consideration that a hobby should involve growth of a much different kind. The type of expansion where accomplishment is perpetual, and a fleeting climax is a cyclical measure of success. He had never seen his masturbation as something he could continually build upon, and therefore had ostracized this messier pastime into solitude away from his other tangible efforts. His summary of the fixture, if you asked him, was that masturbation is a chance to exhaust a mounted fantasy, be it about cars, music, or women, but its an exertion that should be reserved only when productivity can be honestly avoided.
Honestly.
However, it is important to mention that forty-seven minutes ago, his tipped glass ultimatum was actually betrayed, and the flat liquid didnt actually drip at all. In fact, it swayed back perfectly onto his night stand and Eddie chose to ignore what the drink said to him. This was the moment in which he realized his new internal thesis on the pleasure of doing task-like things whether they got him somewhere or not. He found this thesis so exhilarating that it provided personal validation to his breaking of the tipped glass covenant; and with further revelation, he ventured that the feeling of productivity is such an endorphin-source that it alone could serve as a masturbatory fantasy. With that, the moment then passed its owns bounds of fullness as he decided to spend his impending outdoor travel planning his next three sessions of self-worth ejaculation.
The first, he thought as his socks rolled on, should be a triumph based on washing dishes. Scrubbing them clean and rinsing them in such a manner as to remove any grime from their surface call it perfect unfilth. The word unfilth broke his momentum briefly as he realized it was not a word. He then regained his process realizing that even though it wasnt a word, it was certainly his term and a genuine expression of his clean plates and silverware.
Your silverware.
This cleanliness provided sudden arousal, as well as a weaker-than-average boner because Eddie believed it took no average impulse to afford him this skill, but it was a passionate discipline for unfilth that propelled him so. It was so strong that he mused it could help him find more regular agreement within his mind and his own impulse, which is then something itself that could act as future means to a climax. Although he felt at this point, his planning was better left to his excellence in remedial productivity because he was more sure of its consistency. Also, the thought of consistent agreement on his mind bets was so arousing; he feared any further current interest might wreck his days productivity (hed already spent 47 minutes masturbating, anyhow).
So, as the term unfilth had scratched away from his center of thought, Eddie slipped his shoes on with their laces tucked neatly under his feet. Then, as if suffering from nerve damage, his body twitched him into a smile and his second jack-off topic wrapped around him like an overly tight burrito. And, like any overly tight burrito, the juices from his arousal almost came again as he found himself proud as can be of this maneuver. Eddie realized that even though he didnt invent the tuck style, and though he couldnt possibly remember where he first saw it, the effort to always keep his laces untied provided him with such enviable comfort and such an immense amount of accrued daily prep time, that if mankind had universally adopted this practice, they probably would have created a World Tuck Day if the right people had been in power. If only everyone had such clairvoyance with his or her feet, Eddie thought, maybe world hunger, or at the very least, time travel, couldve been solved by now.
Okay?
Unsure of why his mind made this connection, Eddie then startled himself back into focus, suddenly finding biting wind sliding through his hair and uncomfortably tingling the top of his ear. It was bothersome enough to make him doubt his recent personal thesis of productivity.
No. He proclaimed like an objective tween.
To Eddie, it was not proper to have to fathom at why his stream would unleash disrespect at him after a mutually beneficial epiphany. There was no doubt to Eddie that his productivity was excellent, and that as a whole, being productive is his single-most important personality trait.
So why? He blurted out.
Why would his mind conjure up the urge to let the pettiness of ear discomfort create rigid self-doubt? Did this more acute interest in diversifying his masturbatory excursions cause some backlash or strain to which his mind felt eager to tease him in retribution? Did his mind wish to coerce him into confusion and to cause him to relinquish his pursuit down this concrete sidewalk?
No. Eddie said with less doubt than his mind carried.
Like any road to production, this sidewalk should have bumps, Eddie thought, it should have cracks, and ridges, twigs, moss, and leaves.
And leaves.
I get it. He said, masking his anxiety.
It wasnt his mind condemning or attempting to disprove this epiphany, it was his mind waning him that this days productivity would be fruitless and less pleasurable than alternative home-doings. Unfortunately, his mind had already been wrong once so far as his earlier masturbation had already allowed for extensive production beyond what he thought possible of the diversion. The mere recollection of his recent tangential fantasies proved that masturbation could be a hobby for him, as long as the output was as enlightening as it had been today. Therefore, his only option now would be to empirically test if his journey should continue by way of a mind bet.
Thank God for leaves. Eddie spoke without fear of his surroundings.
What are the terms?
Eddie finds the leaf quickly about four feet from him, dead center in the sidewalk, parting the adjacent well-groomed grass patches.
What are the terms?
At this point he couldnt back out of the bet, and his mind wouldnt settle for any unfair wager.
If it goes left, I keep walking. If it goes right, I go home? Eddie offered out loud.
He looks around to see if anyone has taken notice, he definitely prefers there to be a witness to these sorts of things. It helps to quell any misunderstandings before they become an endless argument of he said, he said and as all of Eddie knows, those always seem to end in tears.
Well? Eddie said tapping his foot.
He tapped his hand on his waist.
Fine.
They watched for a few seconds, not really thinking what the other was thinking about, but fully concentrated on the outcome. If the mind won, Eddie realized his day wouldnt be so bad, but in same sense he wouldnt get anything done and his epiphany would take a structural hit that might take five, even six orgasmic breakthroughs to re-solidify. Not that he didnt desire this extent of pleasure, its just that type of pressure doesnt lend itself to performing at such a high level.
In the next moment, the wind returned, catching Eddies ear in the same irritating manner and catching the crucial foliage. In reaction, something Eddie wouldnt like to refer to as an impulse, he lunged towards it, nearly pulling his groin in the process. As his foot came towards the border of the cement the leaf scurried under his sneaker to find haven on the right patch of grass before flying further into the street.
Seriously? Eddie says, as the leaf gets further into the road.
Eddie spits on the concrete and puts his hands on his knees.
Im not going home. His blunt tone is more than rude.
Yes.
Eddie slaps himself in the face.
No!
Eddie stands full and slaps himself again.
Im not going home! No fucking way!
Eddie slaps the other side of his face.
Give me one good reason!
He slaps again and now both cheeks are flush.
You need to.
No!
Yes.
Eddie starts walking home.
Trivial Pursuits (and Masturbation)
If the soda dripped onto the book, he would leave. If it didnt, he would stay to pull down his sweats and masturbate through the hole in his boxers. This ultimatum occurred forty-seven minutes ago, and Eddie just now finally came. Soon after, he used friction and cotton sheets to clean up, while doing so he pondered if this duration approached hobby levels.
It does.
Although with a second more of thought, it was his consideration that a hobby should involve growth of a much different kind. The type of expansion where accomplishment is perpetual, and a fleeting climax is a cyclical measure of success. He had never seen his masturbation as something he could continually build upon, and therefore had ostracized this messier pastime into solitude away from his other tangible efforts. His summary of the fixture, if you asked him, was that masturbation is a chance to exhaust a mounted fantasy, be it about cars, music, or women, but its an exertion that should be reserved only when productivity can be honestly avoided.
Honestly.
However, it is important to mention that forty-seven minutes ago, his tipped glass ultimatum was actually betrayed, and the flat liquid didnt actually drip at all. In fact, it swayed back perfectly onto his night stand and Eddie chose to ignore what the drink said to him. This was the moment in which he realized his new internal thesis on the pleasure of doing task-like things whether they got him somewhere or not. He found this thesis so exhilarating that it provided personal validation to his breaking of the tipped glass covenant; and with further revelation, he ventured that the feeling of productivity is such an endorphin-source that it alone could serve as a masturbatory fantasy. With that, the moment then passed its owns bounds of fullness as he decided to spend his impending outdoor travel planning his next three sessions of self-worth ejaculation.
The first, he thought as his socks rolled on, should be a triumph based on washing dishes. Scrubbing them clean and rinsing them in such a manner as to remove any grime from their surface call it perfect unfilth. The word unfilth broke his momentum briefly as he realized it was not a word. He then regained his process realizing that even though it wasnt a word, it was certainly his term and a genuine expression of his clean plates and silverware.
Your silverware.
This cleanliness provided sudden arousal, as well as a weaker-than-average boner because Eddie believed it took no average impulse to afford him this skill, but it was a passionate discipline for unfilth that propelled him so. It was so strong that he mused it could help him find more regular agreement within his mind and his own impulse, which is then something itself that could act as future means to a climax. Although he felt at this point, his planning was better left to his excellence in remedial productivity because he was more sure of its consistency. Also, the thought of consistent agreement on his mind bets was so arousing; he feared any further current interest might wreck his days productivity (hed already spent 47 minutes masturbating, anyhow).
So, as the term unfilth had scratched away from his center of thought, Eddie slipped his shoes on with their laces tucked neatly under his feet. Then, as if suffering from nerve damage, his body twitched him into a smile and his second jack-off topic wrapped around him like an overly tight burrito. And, like any overly tight burrito, the juices from his arousal almost came again as he found himself proud as can be of this maneuver. Eddie realized that even though he didnt invent the tuck style, and though he couldnt possibly remember where he first saw it, the effort to always keep his laces untied provided him with such enviable comfort and such an immense amount of accrued daily prep time, that if mankind had universally adopted this practice, they probably would have created a World Tuck Day if the right people had been in power. If only everyone had such clairvoyance with his or her feet, Eddie thought, maybe world hunger, or at the very least, time travel, couldve been solved by now.
Okay?
Unsure of why his mind made this connection, Eddie then startled himself back into focus, suddenly finding biting wind sliding through his hair and uncomfortably tingling the top of his ear. It was bothersome enough to make him doubt his recent personal thesis of productivity.
No. He proclaimed like an objective tween.
To Eddie, it was not proper to have to fathom at why his stream would unleash disrespect at him after a mutually beneficial epiphany. There was no doubt to Eddie that his productivity was excellent, and that as a whole, being productive is his single-most important personality trait.
So why? He blurted out.
Why would his mind conjure up the urge to let the pettiness of ear discomfort create rigid self-doubt? Did this more acute interest in diversifying his masturbatory excursions cause some backlash or strain to which his mind felt eager to tease him in retribution? Did his mind wish to coerce him into confusion and to cause him to relinquish his pursuit down this concrete sidewalk?
No. Eddie said with less doubt than his mind carried.
Like any road to production, this sidewalk should have bumps, Eddie thought, it should have cracks, and ridges, twigs, moss, and leaves.
And leaves.
I get it. He said, masking his anxiety.
It wasnt his mind condemning or attempting to disprove this epiphany, it was his mind waning him that this days productivity would be fruitless and less pleasurable than alternative home-doings. Unfortunately, his mind had already been wrong once so far as his earlier masturbation had already allowed for extensive production beyond what he thought possible of the diversion. The mere recollection of his recent tangential fantasies proved that masturbation could be a hobby for him, as long as the output was as enlightening as it had been today. Therefore, his only option now would be to empirically test if his journey should continue by way of a mind bet.
Thank God for leaves. Eddie spoke without fear of his surroundings.
What are the terms?
Eddie finds the leaf quickly about four feet from him, dead center in the sidewalk, parting the adjacent well-groomed grass patches.
What are the terms?
At this point he couldnt back out of the bet, and his mind wouldnt settle for any unfair wager.
If it goes left, I keep walking. If it goes right, I go home? Eddie offered out loud.
He looks around to see if anyone has taken notice, he definitely prefers there to be a witness to these sorts of things. It helps to quell any misunderstandings before they become an endless argument of he said, he said and as all of Eddie knows, those always seem to end in tears.
Well? Eddie said tapping his foot.
He tapped his hand on his waist.
Fine.
They watched for a few seconds, not really thinking what the other was thinking about, but fully concentrated on the outcome. If the mind won, Eddie realized his day wouldnt be so bad, but in same sense he wouldnt get anything done and his epiphany would take a structural hit that might take five, even six orgasmic breakthroughs to re-solidify. Not that he didnt desire this extent of pleasure, its just that type of pressure doesnt lend itself to performing at such a high level.
In the next moment, the wind returned, catching Eddies ear in the same irritating manner and catching the crucial foliage. In reaction, something Eddie wouldnt like to refer to as an impulse, he lunged towards it, nearly pulling his groin in the process. As his foot came towards the border of the cement the leaf scurried under his sneaker to find haven on the right patch of grass before flying further into the street.
Seriously? Eddie says, as the leaf gets further into the road.
Eddie spits on the concrete and puts his hands on his knees.
Im not going home. His blunt tone is more than rude.
Yes.
Eddie slaps himself in the face.
No!
Eddie stands full and slaps himself again.
Im not going home! No fucking way!
Eddie slaps the other side of his face.
Give me one good reason!
He slaps again and now both cheeks are flush.
You need to.
No!
Yes.
Eddie starts walking home.
It's an "echo" of I Push Fat Kids. As I'm sure you've guessed, this is not a serious entry.
crowphoenix
Banned
I actually contemplated doing this to Ronito.RurouniZel said:
ZephyrFate
Banned
I am totally blanking on my idea for some reason. I think I'll pass on this challenge. Sorry.
Little Sister (1535)
Not even lunch yet, and Beks could already tell the whole day would suck.
Mel Kearney?
Here.
Joseph Lewell?
Here.
Beks looked up at the teacher, fist clenched in her lap. Dread clambered up her guts into her stomach and dug in its claws. At the same time, a miniscule shred of hope fluttered somewhere just above it. Maybe this time, things would go differently. Maybe this teacher had never met him.
No such luck. Mr. Caroll paused. Rebekah... Lucas?
Here. She squeaked; she couldnt help it. Here it came.
Sure enough, a grin spread slowly over Mr. Carrolls face. Not are you Alex Lucass little sister?
So much for the hope. Beks nodded, and he was off to the races. Oh, what a wonderful young man he had been, oh, what an honor it had been to have him in his class, oh, wasn't she just so lucky to have him for an older brother.
She wanted to throw up.
Forty minutes later, Beks pushed through the scrum and out the classroom door, her face still burning. Always the same.
Hey, Beks. Mel grabbed her arm and gave a sympathetic squeeze.
They walked together in silence a few moments, Beks doing her best not to grind her teeththat habit had already cost Mom and Dad a new retainer just last month.
Finally Beks couldn't take the silence any longer. I'm doing it this time, Mel.
Mel looked at Beks sideways, his mouth dipping down into a frown. Please dont say what I think youre going to say.
I'm going to do something he never did in high school. Something he couldn't do. Something where they can't just say 'oh how cute, you're almost as good at that as your brother was.' I'm fed up with that bullcrap. I'm doing something new.
Mel rolled his eyes. You mean like joining the swim team last year? Or the letter-writing campaign the year before?
Those were different. How could Mel throw those back in her face like that? He knew how important this was to Beks. Those were too easy. Of course he had already done sports. Of course he already wrote letters for some dumb cause. That's typical him. The perfect good kid. I'll find something really different.
Mel was acting as though he hadn't heard. Or trying out for the play, also last year. Or was that two years ago? I lose track of these things.
Oh, shut up. Not even pausing to glare, Beks shoved roughly past Mel, ignoring his angry yelp, and stormed off to the girls bathroom. Mel was a huge jerk. He had no idea what it was like, to have an older sibling who had already blazed every trail, walked every path, and done it better than you ever could. In whose shadow you always stood; in whose footsteps you always walkedimperfectly.
She stared at her reflection in the dirty mirror, trying to force some composure back onto her face. This happened every damn year; it wasn't like it was something new. She breathed out, hard. She was fine. She smirked at her reflection. Fine, sure.
She looked down, and something caught her eye. The end of a smoked joint lay damp and disgusting in the sink. It sparked something in her mind. With the beginnings of an idea nibbling at the edges of consciousness, she grabbed a handful of paper towels and picked it up. She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and put it all in her pocket.
*
It wasn't hard to set up. Mr. Caroll was right where Beks thought he'd be, walking back to his classroom for lunch with that funny loping stride he had. The nerdy kids called it a sinusoidal stride. Somehow she knew that if she asked, it would turn out that he had come up with that term.
She speed-walked to a few steps in front of him, then casually maneuvered the damp joint-end so it fell from her pocket.
She could hear Mr. Carolls footsteps slow behind her, but she kept walking.
Rebekah? His voice was harder than it had been in the classroom this morning.
She turned to face him. Yes?
He looked her dead in the eye for a good ten seconds, then said, My classroom. Now. Lets go.
She turned and walked towards Mr. Carolls classroom, dread clawing at her stomach again. Maybe this hadnt been such a good idea. Behind her, Mr. Caroll bent to pick up the joint-end, then followed.
Mr. Caroll closed the classroom door behind him. How stupid do you think I am?
What? This wasnt in the script.
I think I can guess where you got this. He held up the damp joint-end. I see what youre trying to do. And its not a good idea.
Mr. Caroll, I dont know what you mean. Beks managed to keep her tone very even. She was rather impressed with herself.
He sighed. After your little display in my classroom this morning, I spoke to JuneMiss Hastingsabout you. She told me how you feel about Alex.
Display? She had barely said a word. He was the one who had gone on and on for no good reason.
You sat there glowering at me for forty minutes.
Beks glared.
Mr. Caroll laughed. Just like that, yes. Let me tell you something, Rebekah. I can understand where youre coming from. I had two older brothers, and everything I did they had already done, and they were always better at everything than I waswell of course they were, they were bigger and stronger and older.
Beks stared at him, unsure of what to say. Was she in trouble or not?
All right, well anyway. The thing is, in a few years, none of this will matter. Youll go to college, and no one there will ever have heard of Alex Lucas. If they ever meet him or talk to him, theyll refer to him as Rebekah Lucass brother. Itll all start balancing itself out, and you wont have to worry about being compared to him any more. It worked for me.
Well thats great, but that doesnt help me now. Beks knew she sounded whiny, but she didnt care.
Mr. Caroll frowned. Look, Rebekah. Acting out isnt going to help. Let alone getting yourself in trouble for something you didnt even do. If I took this, he held up the joint-end and rolled his eyes, in to the administrators, your parents would be called, and theyd get all upset, and theyd wonder where they went wrong in raising you, and so on. And of course, theyd talk endlessly about how Alex never did anything like that. And theyd be wrong.
That got her attention. Beks looked up. What?
He gave a wry smile. I happen to know, Rebekah, he said, that one of my colleagues caught your brother smoking pot under the football bleachers in his sophomore year. That colleague believed that Alex was a good kid who was going places, that it was a single mistake which would not be repeated, and that the drug rules at our school were unreasonably harsh. He gave Alex a very stern talking-to, but he didnt report it to anyone. And as far as I know, Alex never did anything of the sort again. Or at least didnt get caught doing it, which amounts to the same thing.
Bekss mouth was open. He did something bad? Alex had done something bad! Alex wasn't the perfect good kid. Beks shook her head, her thoughts derailing and crashing into one another. Alex was not perfect.
Mr. Caroll smiled. I guess so. Anyway, the point is that Alex has already done being the bad kid, so theres no point you going there too.
She actually laughed at that. Maybe Mr. Caroll really did understand.
He opened the classroom door. All right, you go eat your lunch. And remember, high school isnt forever.
Beks walked out the door, then turned back. She paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. She finally settled on, Thanks.
He nodded and closed the door.
As Beks stood there thinking, someone grabbed her arm from behind. She jumped.
Whoa, calm down there missy. It was Mel. Hey, listen, Im sorry about earlier. I justI hate to see you go crazy about that stuff. He pulled her along with him, towards the bench where they ate lunch.
I know. Its ok, Mel. Anyway, you were actually right, believe it or not. I kind of did something dumb. She told him all about her failed plan and what Mr. Caroll had said, then sighed. I cant even get in trouble as good as Alex.
Mel snorted. They sat in silence for a few minutes, swinging their legs and eating sandwiches.
So, Ive got an idea, said Mel. He was trying too hard to sound casual. Something tells me your brother didnt ever go to a dance with a boy.
Beks looked over at him, an eyebrow raised. He looked right back, grinning. She smiled. I dont think Alex ever did that, no.
Maybe today would be a good day after all.
Not even lunch yet, and Beks could already tell the whole day would suck.
Mel Kearney?
Here.
Joseph Lewell?
Here.
Beks looked up at the teacher, fist clenched in her lap. Dread clambered up her guts into her stomach and dug in its claws. At the same time, a miniscule shred of hope fluttered somewhere just above it. Maybe this time, things would go differently. Maybe this teacher had never met him.
No such luck. Mr. Caroll paused. Rebekah... Lucas?
Here. She squeaked; she couldnt help it. Here it came.
Sure enough, a grin spread slowly over Mr. Carrolls face. Not are you Alex Lucass little sister?
So much for the hope. Beks nodded, and he was off to the races. Oh, what a wonderful young man he had been, oh, what an honor it had been to have him in his class, oh, wasn't she just so lucky to have him for an older brother.
She wanted to throw up.
Forty minutes later, Beks pushed through the scrum and out the classroom door, her face still burning. Always the same.
Hey, Beks. Mel grabbed her arm and gave a sympathetic squeeze.
They walked together in silence a few moments, Beks doing her best not to grind her teeththat habit had already cost Mom and Dad a new retainer just last month.
Finally Beks couldn't take the silence any longer. I'm doing it this time, Mel.
Mel looked at Beks sideways, his mouth dipping down into a frown. Please dont say what I think youre going to say.
I'm going to do something he never did in high school. Something he couldn't do. Something where they can't just say 'oh how cute, you're almost as good at that as your brother was.' I'm fed up with that bullcrap. I'm doing something new.
Mel rolled his eyes. You mean like joining the swim team last year? Or the letter-writing campaign the year before?
Those were different. How could Mel throw those back in her face like that? He knew how important this was to Beks. Those were too easy. Of course he had already done sports. Of course he already wrote letters for some dumb cause. That's typical him. The perfect good kid. I'll find something really different.
Mel was acting as though he hadn't heard. Or trying out for the play, also last year. Or was that two years ago? I lose track of these things.
Oh, shut up. Not even pausing to glare, Beks shoved roughly past Mel, ignoring his angry yelp, and stormed off to the girls bathroom. Mel was a huge jerk. He had no idea what it was like, to have an older sibling who had already blazed every trail, walked every path, and done it better than you ever could. In whose shadow you always stood; in whose footsteps you always walkedimperfectly.
She stared at her reflection in the dirty mirror, trying to force some composure back onto her face. This happened every damn year; it wasn't like it was something new. She breathed out, hard. She was fine. She smirked at her reflection. Fine, sure.
She looked down, and something caught her eye. The end of a smoked joint lay damp and disgusting in the sink. It sparked something in her mind. With the beginnings of an idea nibbling at the edges of consciousness, she grabbed a handful of paper towels and picked it up. She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and put it all in her pocket.
*
It wasn't hard to set up. Mr. Caroll was right where Beks thought he'd be, walking back to his classroom for lunch with that funny loping stride he had. The nerdy kids called it a sinusoidal stride. Somehow she knew that if she asked, it would turn out that he had come up with that term.
She speed-walked to a few steps in front of him, then casually maneuvered the damp joint-end so it fell from her pocket.
She could hear Mr. Carolls footsteps slow behind her, but she kept walking.
Rebekah? His voice was harder than it had been in the classroom this morning.
She turned to face him. Yes?
He looked her dead in the eye for a good ten seconds, then said, My classroom. Now. Lets go.
She turned and walked towards Mr. Carolls classroom, dread clawing at her stomach again. Maybe this hadnt been such a good idea. Behind her, Mr. Caroll bent to pick up the joint-end, then followed.
Mr. Caroll closed the classroom door behind him. How stupid do you think I am?
What? This wasnt in the script.
I think I can guess where you got this. He held up the damp joint-end. I see what youre trying to do. And its not a good idea.
Mr. Caroll, I dont know what you mean. Beks managed to keep her tone very even. She was rather impressed with herself.
He sighed. After your little display in my classroom this morning, I spoke to JuneMiss Hastingsabout you. She told me how you feel about Alex.
Display? She had barely said a word. He was the one who had gone on and on for no good reason.
You sat there glowering at me for forty minutes.
Beks glared.
Mr. Caroll laughed. Just like that, yes. Let me tell you something, Rebekah. I can understand where youre coming from. I had two older brothers, and everything I did they had already done, and they were always better at everything than I waswell of course they were, they were bigger and stronger and older.
Beks stared at him, unsure of what to say. Was she in trouble or not?
All right, well anyway. The thing is, in a few years, none of this will matter. Youll go to college, and no one there will ever have heard of Alex Lucas. If they ever meet him or talk to him, theyll refer to him as Rebekah Lucass brother. Itll all start balancing itself out, and you wont have to worry about being compared to him any more. It worked for me.
Well thats great, but that doesnt help me now. Beks knew she sounded whiny, but she didnt care.
Mr. Caroll frowned. Look, Rebekah. Acting out isnt going to help. Let alone getting yourself in trouble for something you didnt even do. If I took this, he held up the joint-end and rolled his eyes, in to the administrators, your parents would be called, and theyd get all upset, and theyd wonder where they went wrong in raising you, and so on. And of course, theyd talk endlessly about how Alex never did anything like that. And theyd be wrong.
That got her attention. Beks looked up. What?
He gave a wry smile. I happen to know, Rebekah, he said, that one of my colleagues caught your brother smoking pot under the football bleachers in his sophomore year. That colleague believed that Alex was a good kid who was going places, that it was a single mistake which would not be repeated, and that the drug rules at our school were unreasonably harsh. He gave Alex a very stern talking-to, but he didnt report it to anyone. And as far as I know, Alex never did anything of the sort again. Or at least didnt get caught doing it, which amounts to the same thing.
Bekss mouth was open. He did something bad? Alex had done something bad! Alex wasn't the perfect good kid. Beks shook her head, her thoughts derailing and crashing into one another. Alex was not perfect.
Mr. Caroll smiled. I guess so. Anyway, the point is that Alex has already done being the bad kid, so theres no point you going there too.
She actually laughed at that. Maybe Mr. Caroll really did understand.
He opened the classroom door. All right, you go eat your lunch. And remember, high school isnt forever.
Beks walked out the door, then turned back. She paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. She finally settled on, Thanks.
He nodded and closed the door.
As Beks stood there thinking, someone grabbed her arm from behind. She jumped.
Whoa, calm down there missy. It was Mel. Hey, listen, Im sorry about earlier. I justI hate to see you go crazy about that stuff. He pulled her along with him, towards the bench where they ate lunch.
I know. Its ok, Mel. Anyway, you were actually right, believe it or not. I kind of did something dumb. She told him all about her failed plan and what Mr. Caroll had said, then sighed. I cant even get in trouble as good as Alex.
Mel snorted. They sat in silence for a few minutes, swinging their legs and eating sandwiches.
So, Ive got an idea, said Mel. He was trying too hard to sound casual. Something tells me your brother didnt ever go to a dance with a boy.
Beks looked over at him, an eyebrow raised. He looked right back, grinning. She smiled. I dont think Alex ever did that, no.
Maybe today would be a good day after all.
Charlie (1432 words)
Charlie! Charlie! Alfreds hollers echoed through the house as the boy ran through the house as if the neighbors Rottweiler was chasing him. Alfred was about to shout again when he crashed into the closed bedroom door. Even after getting eyeglasses for nearsightedness, Alfred was still as clumsy as ever. The boy hissed and rubbed his shin. He stood, reached for the doorknob, and opened the creaking door. Charlie!
How are you? How are you? How are you? said Charlie, standing in front of a half-length oval mirror streaked by handprints trying to clean dust from the glass. The seventeen-year-old had a medium frame that wasnt quite that of a mans but had grown past a childs. However, his denim trousers and a cotton button-up shirt that he used to wear for Sundays made him seem younger. The shirt was meant for Alfred to grow into, but Charlie could still squeeze into it as long as he didnt have to move around in it. He watched his mouth as he asked the question again. How Charlie noticed his brother.
Charlie, Pas home, said Alfred.
Charlie closed his eyes and ran through the words he had rehearsed. How, how did you take his mood? asked Charlie with his eyes still closed.
Alfred shrugged, waited a moment, and then realized Charlie couldnt see him. I dunno, Charlie.
Charlie opened his eyes and frowned at the boy. You didnt see im? He heard the familiar clamor of boots plopping onto the wood floor of the kitchen.
I seen im.
So what kinda air he have about him?
I dunno. I ran to tell you soon as I seen Pa comin down the road. I didnt know I had to take his mood.
There should be a mercury one day to tell how dark a persons dispositionll be. Stick it under the tongue. Charlie licked his right palm and flattened a cowlick atop his short brown hair. Well, I dunno how itll stand but it surell be most trustworthy than a schoolboys eye, I tell ya. Specially a pair sportin crutches from the eye doc.
Alfred blushed and turned away as he always did when made mention of his glasses. You reckon itll matter a straws load either way Pas mood goes? asked the boy. Alfred adjusted his glasses. And dont go funnying my glasses whens I can hit the baseball with em on.
Charlie steeled his gaze at himself in the mirror as if he could will his reflection to go to the kitchen and talk to his father in his place. His jaw clenched. I reckon youre right. Goes to show what a schoolboy does see.
Alfred beamed proudly though he didnt quite realize what his brother meant.
I tell ya, Al, said Charlie. If you get a chance to follow your dream, dont let any fool persuade you otherwise. Even if you fall flat on the stage, leastways youll still have a story to tell. Charlie clapped his hands and intertwined his fingers. He didnt have a specific prayer but something of that sort ran in his head.
You gonna ask Pa now?
Charlie nodded.
Hit a home run and you dont have to worry about running the bases, offered Alfred. The boy tried to shake the memories of falling down while running to first. Can I play with Ed while you talk to Pa? Alfred pointed to the wooden dummy dressed in a tiny suit on the bed behind Charlie.
Charlie hissed air through the sides of his mouth and then shook his head. Dont call im Ed. His names Edgar. If you call him Ed, hell come to your bed at night and bite off your ear. So dont call him Ed.
Alfred placed his hands on his waist in defiance as if he could deflect bullets from his chest. That mightve scared me when I was six, but I know he cant.
Goes to show my lil brother aint six. I cant pull one on ya, but dont touch im anyways, said Charlie. I dunno if I stitched the seams in his suit right tight enough. I dont aim to prance him on stage like Adam if I can help it.
Fine! said Alfred, crossing his arms and making sure his indignation showed. I can see fit to talk to im though, right? Like he was one of Mr. Donleys calfs?
Sure as sure, said Charlie. He gave a quick glance at himself in the mirror and then took a deep breath before going to the door. He stopped at the threshold as Alfred passed. Just dont lay a finger.
I wont, said Alfred.
Or Ill bite off more than your ear, said a high-pitched grumbling voice coming from the dummys direction.
Charlie had been rehearsing two routines in front of the mirror, one for himself and Edgar and the other for his father. And when Charlie went to convince his father to let him go to town for a chance to go on Mr. Callahans stage, he wasnt sure what he said. It was all a haze of desperate words and wild gestures as if he or Edgar were ablaze. However, Charlie did remember that he had invoked the name of his dead mother and had compacted and funneled his own dream through the ether, six-feet of dirt, and rotting wood. Charlie felt none the worse as he figured that he had his mothers blessing when she had allowed him to learn under a retired ventriloquist in town and had encouraged his efforts of showmanship. Though Charlies father saw fit to denounce Callahan as a scoundrel for buying and not reopening the old slaughterhouse but instead turning it into a get-together place, the deal was struck: Charlie was allowed to go after dinner. They even shook their spat-upon hands as if the whole affair were something official.
Charlie was sure he had eaten his plate of food faster than it had been filled. After dinner would be cutting it close if he didnt hurry, he figured. His whole self was abuzz with excitement.
His father offered him a burlap sack to carry Edgar in. Charlie wasnt sure if whether it was to hide or to protect the dummy, but he gladly took it, gave a quick bow, and then rushed out of the house.
When Charlie arrived at the old slaughterhouse, a man was giving commands to two poodles on stage. Charlie saw Callahan sipping some drink of topaz color at the bar. Charlie pled his case. He wanted on stage. He wanted to perform. This was his dream.
Please, Mr. Callahan! said Charlie.
Sorry, son, no room on the playbill said Callahan.
Hang on. You want on stage?
Both Charlie and Callahan turned to the heavy-set man with an expressive face that seemed ready to burst into a bug-eyed wide grin. The man was dressed in a sturdy plaid suit that looked well-worn. He scanned the bottles of drinks.
You betcha! Charlie finally said.
Whats the hook? asked the man.
Charlie pointed at his burlap sack. Me and Edgar here
Dummy act, huh? Me and my dummy are wrapping the show, but you can have our spot.
Tonight? For real?
Patty, no pay if Charlie takes your spot, said Callahan.
Patrick shrugged. He rubbed his hands together as if he were expecting something before realizing that his fingers were, in fact, cold. Now, Charlie, whynt you buy me a drink?
By the time Charlie hurried on stage, there were only about a dozen in the audience that once counted around fifty. He watched some stagehands scuffling chairs around and sweeping the floor of cigarettes and peanut shells. With Edgar in hand, Charlie stammered through his routine as his voice tried to break through the noise. He went through as quick and as painful as ones first time on stage would be. When he finished, he took a quick bow and stood on stage as if he were staring at a grizzly in front of him.
Hey, said Patrick, smiling, walking on stage.
Charlie stared at Patrick and froze with a look of confusion on his face. He felt his knees shaking.
Kid, if you make it, lemme give you a fuckin story to tell, said Patrick. And the expressive face that was ready to give a wide grin gave a grin brimming with teeth.
Charlie groaned as the man belted him in the gut. He crumpled to the floor as he wasnt sure what had happened. But Charlie still smiled. He still had done it.
Charlie! Charlie! Alfreds hollers echoed through the house as the boy ran through the house as if the neighbors Rottweiler was chasing him. Alfred was about to shout again when he crashed into the closed bedroom door. Even after getting eyeglasses for nearsightedness, Alfred was still as clumsy as ever. The boy hissed and rubbed his shin. He stood, reached for the doorknob, and opened the creaking door. Charlie!
How are you? How are you? How are you? said Charlie, standing in front of a half-length oval mirror streaked by handprints trying to clean dust from the glass. The seventeen-year-old had a medium frame that wasnt quite that of a mans but had grown past a childs. However, his denim trousers and a cotton button-up shirt that he used to wear for Sundays made him seem younger. The shirt was meant for Alfred to grow into, but Charlie could still squeeze into it as long as he didnt have to move around in it. He watched his mouth as he asked the question again. How Charlie noticed his brother.
Charlie, Pas home, said Alfred.
Charlie closed his eyes and ran through the words he had rehearsed. How, how did you take his mood? asked Charlie with his eyes still closed.
Alfred shrugged, waited a moment, and then realized Charlie couldnt see him. I dunno, Charlie.
Charlie opened his eyes and frowned at the boy. You didnt see im? He heard the familiar clamor of boots plopping onto the wood floor of the kitchen.
I seen im.
So what kinda air he have about him?
I dunno. I ran to tell you soon as I seen Pa comin down the road. I didnt know I had to take his mood.
There should be a mercury one day to tell how dark a persons dispositionll be. Stick it under the tongue. Charlie licked his right palm and flattened a cowlick atop his short brown hair. Well, I dunno how itll stand but it surell be most trustworthy than a schoolboys eye, I tell ya. Specially a pair sportin crutches from the eye doc.
Alfred blushed and turned away as he always did when made mention of his glasses. You reckon itll matter a straws load either way Pas mood goes? asked the boy. Alfred adjusted his glasses. And dont go funnying my glasses whens I can hit the baseball with em on.
Charlie steeled his gaze at himself in the mirror as if he could will his reflection to go to the kitchen and talk to his father in his place. His jaw clenched. I reckon youre right. Goes to show what a schoolboy does see.
Alfred beamed proudly though he didnt quite realize what his brother meant.
I tell ya, Al, said Charlie. If you get a chance to follow your dream, dont let any fool persuade you otherwise. Even if you fall flat on the stage, leastways youll still have a story to tell. Charlie clapped his hands and intertwined his fingers. He didnt have a specific prayer but something of that sort ran in his head.
You gonna ask Pa now?
Charlie nodded.
Hit a home run and you dont have to worry about running the bases, offered Alfred. The boy tried to shake the memories of falling down while running to first. Can I play with Ed while you talk to Pa? Alfred pointed to the wooden dummy dressed in a tiny suit on the bed behind Charlie.
Charlie hissed air through the sides of his mouth and then shook his head. Dont call im Ed. His names Edgar. If you call him Ed, hell come to your bed at night and bite off your ear. So dont call him Ed.
Alfred placed his hands on his waist in defiance as if he could deflect bullets from his chest. That mightve scared me when I was six, but I know he cant.
Goes to show my lil brother aint six. I cant pull one on ya, but dont touch im anyways, said Charlie. I dunno if I stitched the seams in his suit right tight enough. I dont aim to prance him on stage like Adam if I can help it.
Fine! said Alfred, crossing his arms and making sure his indignation showed. I can see fit to talk to im though, right? Like he was one of Mr. Donleys calfs?
Sure as sure, said Charlie. He gave a quick glance at himself in the mirror and then took a deep breath before going to the door. He stopped at the threshold as Alfred passed. Just dont lay a finger.
I wont, said Alfred.
Or Ill bite off more than your ear, said a high-pitched grumbling voice coming from the dummys direction.
Charlie had been rehearsing two routines in front of the mirror, one for himself and Edgar and the other for his father. And when Charlie went to convince his father to let him go to town for a chance to go on Mr. Callahans stage, he wasnt sure what he said. It was all a haze of desperate words and wild gestures as if he or Edgar were ablaze. However, Charlie did remember that he had invoked the name of his dead mother and had compacted and funneled his own dream through the ether, six-feet of dirt, and rotting wood. Charlie felt none the worse as he figured that he had his mothers blessing when she had allowed him to learn under a retired ventriloquist in town and had encouraged his efforts of showmanship. Though Charlies father saw fit to denounce Callahan as a scoundrel for buying and not reopening the old slaughterhouse but instead turning it into a get-together place, the deal was struck: Charlie was allowed to go after dinner. They even shook their spat-upon hands as if the whole affair were something official.
Charlie was sure he had eaten his plate of food faster than it had been filled. After dinner would be cutting it close if he didnt hurry, he figured. His whole self was abuzz with excitement.
His father offered him a burlap sack to carry Edgar in. Charlie wasnt sure if whether it was to hide or to protect the dummy, but he gladly took it, gave a quick bow, and then rushed out of the house.
When Charlie arrived at the old slaughterhouse, a man was giving commands to two poodles on stage. Charlie saw Callahan sipping some drink of topaz color at the bar. Charlie pled his case. He wanted on stage. He wanted to perform. This was his dream.
Please, Mr. Callahan! said Charlie.
Sorry, son, no room on the playbill said Callahan.
Hang on. You want on stage?
Both Charlie and Callahan turned to the heavy-set man with an expressive face that seemed ready to burst into a bug-eyed wide grin. The man was dressed in a sturdy plaid suit that looked well-worn. He scanned the bottles of drinks.
You betcha! Charlie finally said.
Whats the hook? asked the man.
Charlie pointed at his burlap sack. Me and Edgar here
Dummy act, huh? Me and my dummy are wrapping the show, but you can have our spot.
Tonight? For real?
Patty, no pay if Charlie takes your spot, said Callahan.
Patrick shrugged. He rubbed his hands together as if he were expecting something before realizing that his fingers were, in fact, cold. Now, Charlie, whynt you buy me a drink?
By the time Charlie hurried on stage, there were only about a dozen in the audience that once counted around fifty. He watched some stagehands scuffling chairs around and sweeping the floor of cigarettes and peanut shells. With Edgar in hand, Charlie stammered through his routine as his voice tried to break through the noise. He went through as quick and as painful as ones first time on stage would be. When he finished, he took a quick bow and stood on stage as if he were staring at a grizzly in front of him.
Hey, said Patrick, smiling, walking on stage.
Charlie stared at Patrick and froze with a look of confusion on his face. He felt his knees shaking.
Kid, if you make it, lemme give you a fuckin story to tell, said Patrick. And the expressive face that was ready to give a wide grin gave a grin brimming with teeth.
Charlie groaned as the man belted him in the gut. He crumpled to the floor as he wasnt sure what had happened. But Charlie still smiled. He still had done it.
The Entries:
ronito - "Homage"
Botolf - "Memory Recursive"
Ward - "Reverberation"
John Dunbar - "Effie and Nathaniel"
crowphoenix - "Pleasant Sounds"
Aaron - "Echobox"
Timedog - "Aria"
Scribble - "Narcissus Sees the Light-Echo: A Love Story"
Kevtones - "Trivial Pursuits (and Masturbation)"
Cyan - "Little Sister"
DumbNameD - "Charlie"
Decent haul. This is what passes for a lull nowadays.
ronito - "Homage"
Botolf - "Memory Recursive"
Ward - "Reverberation"
John Dunbar - "Effie and Nathaniel"
crowphoenix - "Pleasant Sounds"
Aaron - "Echobox"
Timedog - "Aria"
Scribble - "Narcissus Sees the Light-Echo: A Love Story"
Kevtones - "Trivial Pursuits (and Masturbation)"
Cyan - "Little Sister"
DumbNameD - "Charlie"
Decent haul. This is what passes for a lull nowadays.
Scribble: Seems that the word limit was a big enemy this time. Certain things seemed to not get enough attention and others too much. I'd love to see what you could do with more time and unlimited words. Also your observations were dead on.
IPushFatKids: Interesting concept, though editing would've helped it seems you skip around a bit. BTW, reading this with Morgran Freeman's voice on this one is fantastic!
Ruoronziel: Bah, it's been done.
Cyan: Letter writing campaign? I love that. Yeah! That'll show 'em!! You do capture the whole growing up angst rather well. I also like the smattering of humor whether it was intended or not (the 40 minutes of glowering illiciting a glare). There really wasn't much to it, didn't rock my world or anything, but I'm ok with that. It worked. Nicely done.
DumbNameD: Probably the best use of the theme in the challenge. I really like the way you made the challenge your own.
IPushFatKids: Interesting concept, though editing would've helped it seems you skip around a bit. BTW, reading this with Morgran Freeman's voice on this one is fantastic!
Ruoronziel: Bah, it's been done.
Cyan: Letter writing campaign? I love that. Yeah! That'll show 'em!! You do capture the whole growing up angst rather well. I also like the smattering of humor whether it was intended or not (the 40 minutes of glowering illiciting a glare). There really wasn't much to it, didn't rock my world or anything, but I'm ok with that. It worked. Nicely done.
DumbNameD: Probably the best use of the theme in the challenge. I really like the way you made the challenge your own.
My Votes pretty typical for me.
1. DumbNameD: Taking the theme in a way unexpected and the delivery was great. Well done.
2. Botolf: I really like the pacing and back and forth of this. Good job.
3. Timedog: Snarking about statues aside I really like how in such a few words you were able to set the tone and overall picture very effective.
Honorable mention: Cyan. Aaron.
1. DumbNameD: Taking the theme in a way unexpected and the delivery was great. Well done.
2. Botolf: I really like the pacing and back and forth of this. Good job.
3. Timedog: Snarking about statues aside I really like how in such a few words you were able to set the tone and overall picture very effective.
Honorable mention: Cyan. Aaron.
fuck. i never said which one I wanted to use as my actual entry. I was going to let Cyan or Alternative Ulster pick. I'm glad Cyan ended up choosing without me saying anything!
I also thought about how from a physics perspective an echo doesn't give the full information of the original signal. Each repeat becomes more and more distorted and loses more of what the original had, changing into something slightly different. Aria is the sequel to Requiem (the one about The Sculptor).
I also thought about how from a physics perspective an echo doesn't give the full information of the original signal. Each repeat becomes more and more distorted and loses more of what the original had, changing into something slightly different. Aria is the sequel to Requiem (the one about The Sculptor).
Ford Prefect
GAAAAAAAAY
That book sounds awesome, judging by its Amazon page. What about it made you want to stop reading, though? I don't want to stop reading! (though I do have a terrible time concentrating, and thus it usually takes me quite a while to finish anything)AlternativeUlster said:
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
ronito said:
I know, I just couldn't think of anything.
Off topic, I've noticed you always spell my username "Ruoronziel" or some such.
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
ronito said:
Well not everytime, but twice.
http://www.neogaf.com/forum/showpost.php?p=15107888&postcount=161
ronito said:
http://www.neogaf.com/forum/showpost.php?p=14567299&postcount=75
ronito said:
It's not a big deal, I just found it kinda interesting.
Don't hate me...
No I don't.RuoronZiel said:Well not everytime, but twice.
http://www.neogaf.com/forum/showpost.php?p=15107888&postcount=161
http://www.neogaf.com/forum/showpost.php?p=14567299&postcount=75
It's not a big deal, I just found it kinda interesting.
Don't hate me...
So here's why: I read in one window and write my impressions on a text document. I guess at the names. AlternativeUlster is always AlternativeUser.
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
Cyan said:
I must have, because I don't see what I missed.
Either way, I didn't mean anything bad by it.
One of these days I'll learn to keep my stupid thoughts to myself...
ronito said:bah dude, don't take me seriously. I couldn't help it.
Somehow I didn't see this before. I'd like to state that my story "It's Hammer Time" is not directed at anyone in the thread despite me randomly saying that phrase in the last couple writing threads. I simply don't give a care. I just think "It's Hammer Time!" sounds fucking awesome and it has even been creeping into my IRL vernacular.
I might change it to "It's Powerplex time!" from now on since that sounds a little more epic.
Also, possibly "It's time for Blue Jazz" because that paints a better mental picture.
It's hard to beat the sheer connotative power of "It's Hammer Time!" though.
crowphoenix
Banned
It's Hammer Time also comes with some awesome mental pants. I'd stick with that.
AlternativeUlster
Absolutely pathetic part deux
Ford Prefect said:
I too have a terrible time of concentrating. Usually my mind wanders and I start drawing on the pages and I usually start branching the story into my own and like to end it abruptly. I read Motorman in one sit down setting because never once did I think I would have taken it another direction. It is perfectly balanced avant-garde writing where it doesn't get annoying with style nor too deep with substance that only the author and the elite can understand it nor does it ever feel gimmicky. Once something reads as a gimmick, I stop immediately. Like I tried reading this one book called The End of it All or something like that and then the dude was talking about his family rocking out in their clothes Royal Tenenbaums style and I was like, "Fuck you dude. No wonder your book is in the bargain bin for 5 dollars." I don't think I really answered your question though.
Votes:
1 - ronito
2 - I Push Fat Kids
3 - Cyan
Comments
ronito - It's a lovely moment that ultimately doesn't go anywhere. Feels like something more fitting for poetry than prose.
Botolf - Didn't understand what you were going for, but a cold and lack of sleep are making me thick headed, so likely not the story's fault.
ward - The beginning reads like a math test. 'If two trains leave...' The narration feels too detatched from the events, making it seem a bit sterile.
John Dunbar - Sweet story, though it needed more showing and less telling. Instead of laying flat out to the reader what a person is or what's going, allow it to come out naturally through the the course of the story. Try not to front load things.
crowphoenix - Somewhat overwritten considering the context of the narrator. It's also meandering and not very focused, probably because the guy's situation really doesn't change that much. It's Twilight Zone without the broken glasses.
Timedog - short and succint, but another that would be better off as poetry. It's mostly there already.
Scribble - It's all a bit confused, as if you were writing down a dream. You try to do so much that it doesn't feel like it's doing very much at all. Better to nuture a few good moments.
I Push Fat Kids - It is a bunch of random stuff, but it does flow together nicely, starting with a strong premise and reaching a fitting conclusion.
Cyan - It's well written... but it's really well trodden ground that isn't helped by its weak, afterschool special ending. It lacks conflict.
DumbNameD - The accent is so thick to me it's like listening to twins speak. I only vaguely understand it. Ended up feeling that way about the whole story. Very inclusionary.
1 - ronito
2 - I Push Fat Kids
3 - Cyan
Comments
ronito - It's a lovely moment that ultimately doesn't go anywhere. Feels like something more fitting for poetry than prose.
Botolf - Didn't understand what you were going for, but a cold and lack of sleep are making me thick headed, so likely not the story's fault.
ward - The beginning reads like a math test. 'If two trains leave...' The narration feels too detatched from the events, making it seem a bit sterile.
John Dunbar - Sweet story, though it needed more showing and less telling. Instead of laying flat out to the reader what a person is or what's going, allow it to come out naturally through the the course of the story. Try not to front load things.
crowphoenix - Somewhat overwritten considering the context of the narrator. It's also meandering and not very focused, probably because the guy's situation really doesn't change that much. It's Twilight Zone without the broken glasses.
Timedog - short and succint, but another that would be better off as poetry. It's mostly there already.
Scribble - It's all a bit confused, as if you were writing down a dream. You try to do so much that it doesn't feel like it's doing very much at all. Better to nuture a few good moments.
I Push Fat Kids - It is a bunch of random stuff, but it does flow together nicely, starting with a strong premise and reaching a fitting conclusion.
Cyan - It's well written... but it's really well trodden ground that isn't helped by its weak, afterschool special ending. It lacks conflict.
DumbNameD - The accent is so thick to me it's like listening to twins speak. I only vaguely understand it. Ended up feeling that way about the whole story. Very inclusionary.
One problem with a novel is finding an idea that will actually sustain your interest over how very long a writing process it is. I had a number of false starts where fifty pages would just end up petering out, but I learned a lot in the process. I found preparing not very useful at least when starting to write, but as I began to develop the story, more ideas would come, and I'd follow those around, building a structure outside of writing.Scribble said:
Just this moment I'm working on a final draft of my first novel, which feels a bit long at 230k words, but it's been a great experience in writing. I've learned so much in the process I really think it's something every writer should at least try.
Interesting! Would you say that writing a novel has helped you write short stories in any way (Minus the whole having to learn how to shrink novel-plots down thing)?
If I wrote a novel now, it'd only be for fun, and not to get published. This isn't some low confidence thing, I just think that there's a lot I have to learn first.
If I wrote a novel now, it'd only be for fun, and not to get published. This isn't some low confidence thing, I just think that there's a lot I have to learn first.
It's helped my writing in general in a lot of ways. It's helped my ability to be descriptive, to flesh out characters with relatively few words, to feel the ebb and flow of drama... in a way it's like Frankenstein where all the parts were enlarged to make things easier. While the ideas may be a little expansive, everything else shrinks down nicely. It's also taught me how to revise, edit, and be my own proof reader, which I admittedly don't do much of for these challenges.Scribble said:
Don't expect to finish your first try as a novel. I'd be nice if you did, but don't set that as a stringent goal. Just explore your idea as long as it interests you, and experiment with the ways you develop it to keep things interesting. Don't worry about the details, especially on the first draft. Focus on pure writing, and then later on come back to refine it. It's really hard to get things perfect from your mind to the page, but it's amazing how you can take a glob of words and refine it into something that just flows along.
crowphoenix
Banned
I didn't notice how melodramatic I was being when I wrote this piece. Kinda distressing especially since I proofed and wrote for just a simple deadened tone. I must have really mucked that one up. :lol
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