"I am Al -fucking- Roker!" I bellowed as I launched into action.

The mafia boss sitting in front of me barely had enough time to reach for his gun before I popped a bullet right into his filthy guido heart. The bodyguard on the right got it a millisecond later when I capped his ass right in the mother fucking neck. The bodyguard on the left though was able to get a shot off, but I am Al Roker and I knew he would get a shot off so with catlike reflexes I threw myself at the floor and shot that son of a bitch straight in his mother fucking eye.

Three dead bitches laid bleeding in my office; it was just another day for Al Roker. For twenty two years I had been under the employ of the CIA using my likable TV personality as a cover. The mafia boss wanted me to read out some coded messages as part of my morning weather routine, while they would have sounded just like temperatures and locations, they would be code for his goons to start their war against the Triads. My job was simple, schedule a meeting with the boss, and make it look like I was willing to take the payment then kill him and his goons. After that I would make it back to my trailer on the set of an episode of Law and Order. It was imperative that I remain unseen by the mafia's men where my make up artist, personal assistant and agent (all CIA operatives) would swear I had been for the past several hours. The Mafia would be led to believe the Triad had perpetrated the murder of their boss and then all the CIA had to do was sit back and watch as the two gangs destroyed each other.

I closed the suitcase of money the boss had opened on my desk. No sense in leaving it for the cops. I called it a fringe benefit, besides I'm Al fucking Roker, who would tell me no? I dismantled the gun and dropped it down a chute where it would be disposed of by an agent. Then, careful not to get blood on my shoes I walked towards a fake bookshelf that was the entrance to my secret elevator.

I stepped in and closed the door immediately it whooshed me down 82 floors. Goddamn I love my job. I opened the door of the elevator and exited into a back alley. The trailer was just a block away; all I had to do was to make it that single block. But fate would not have it be so easy.

Halfway through the alley I ran into a three fucking mafia brutes. That chance encounter endangered the whole mission. Unfortunately for them they stood between Al Roker and his goal. They were dead where they stood, and the goons had no clue.

"Hey, I was thinking you could give me an autogra"

That autograph was the last thing that fucker would ever think about. I brought up my suitcase clocking him in the chin; while his throat was exposed I shoved my pen through his throat. That's right, my motherfucking pen, I killed a guido with my pen. The irony of a man asking for his killer's autograph and getting killed by his pen still makes me chuckle even today.

I couldn't risk gunfire as it would bring too much attention I had to dispose of the other two goons quickly; just one shout out of them could bring the whole thing down on my head. I dropped the suitcase and leapt onto the second goon before he knew what was going on. I put my hands on his head, twisted and in milliseconds I felt the satisfying crack as bones in his spine broke. The last guido tried to run for it but Al Roker is like a cheetah, you can't escape him.

I was on him like herpes on a five dollar whore. I quickly head butted him breaking his nose in the process. He was about to yell for help but I karate chopped him in the voice box I watched as that mother fucker gasped for air, while his blood ran down my face. I didn't have time to watch him suffocate to death so I walked over and snapped his neck too.

Another three dead men were all around me, seems a theme of my badass life. I looked around to make sure there were no witnesses, picked up the suitcase full of money, wiped the blood from my face, took off my blood stained coat, rolled it up and walked away. The rest of the walk to the trailer was uneventful, upon reaching my personal assistant I told him "It's done, but there were 3 kittens outside in the back Al Roker had to take care of them." Knowing that one sentence would send the cleaning crews to clean up my mess before someone started collecting evidence.

"Always a pleasure Mr. Roker." My assistant said nodding and smiling, that obsequious little kiss-ass.

"Damn right." I replied as I walked into my trailer.

"Honey is that you?" I heard my wife, Deborah's, voice pipe up from the bedroom. She came out in her new stiletto heels and nothing else. Her perked nipples told me she was ready for me, for Al Roker.
She slithered across the floor and began to undo the buttons on my shirt.

"How was work today baby?" She asked between planting kisses on my neck.

I lifted up the suitcase and opened it over her head showering her with hundred dollar bills. Deborah laughed and whispered in a husky voice, "My, my, you should be rewarded for all your hard work." and she began lowering herself lower, lower, lower. When she was kneeling before me she undid my belt she looked up and said, "Who's the baddest bad ass in town."

"I am, Al -fucking- Roker."
------------------------------------------
(for those who don't know who the bad ass that is Al Roker)

ronito said:

Three dead bitches laid bleeding in my office; it was just another day for Al Roker.

Click to expand...

:lol Fucking awesome.

ronito said:

That's right, my motherfucking pen, I killed a guido with my pen.

Click to expand...

ronito said:

I was on him like herpes on a five dollar whore.

Click to expand...

:lol Okay, I'm definitely doing a story on Jeff Probst one of these days.

ronito said:

"I am Al -fucking- Roker!" I bellowed as I launched into action.

Click to expand...

:lol I was not expecting this, and yet, it is a perfect battle cry for Live.

Right, last day to submit. Get something in, or Al Roker will stab your face off.

Playing around with conversational subtext in my story. Won't be enormously long, but it's a fun experiment.

Just tried to do too much at once this week.

No fucking way anyone is going to beat Al Roker. I'll submit my story, I'm at a last minute deadline and I don't have chances to edit, but still.

Common Knowledge
words: 1,795

words: 1,140

Three...two...one...Ka boom!

Building Aplus, the tallest building in the known world exploded with a force that reverberated through out City L. Down the street, in an Italian cafe, a man we shall call: K, sat down to breakfast. He waited, with knife and fork in hand, for the rumbling to stop. K looked at the reflection of the scene behind him on the metallic part of his knife. The cafe owner had run out from behind the counter into the street screaming ‘holy shit’. K’s heart felt as if horses were stampeding upon it, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He sipped a bit of the orange juice left standing by his neighbour who had also left the joint. K lifted his head up to the news channel on the TV fitted cosily in the top right hand corner of the cafe.

Two seconds later the TV died. On the blank screen, he saw the reflection of the cafe owner bend down to calm a small girl who was by the looks of her, dressed for school. A bullet zipped through the cafe owner’s head and hit the front side of the café; a wall made entirely of glass. K recoiled into a foetal position to shield himself from the shattering glass. The little girl screamed as her father fell lifeless to the floor.

Another bullet strayed into the cafe and grazed K’s left knee. Although it wasn’t a direct hit, the grazing caused K to fall to the floor writhing in agony. He pulled the table beside him to the floor to use it as a shield. He crawled forward and settled under another table.
From his vantage point K saw the little girl look left and right in an apparent attempt to find a hiding place. She hid underneath the car parked in front of the Cafe. The girl lay on the ground with her hand over her ears; she looked right at K. K looked away.

A bomb smaller in magnitude went off in a nearby street. K could hear the sound of panic and chaos from the mouths of stupid pedestrian gawkers who hadn’t yet run for their lives. Sirens blared from every district in the vicinity. The roar of huge engines filled the air. K saw several smoke bombs, flash grenades, and stun grenades land onto the street. And then there came a bone rattling animal like roar. K doubted whether anybody could see what it was through the now dense fog that had erupted from the smoke bombs.

K could just about see the shadow of the creature coming from the left side of the cafe. It walked into view and roared once again. Even in the dense fog, K could make out the eight feet tall creature wearing green military grade armour. The creature poked the defunct body of the cafe owner, then pelted him with more bullets. It didn’t bother looking into the cafe; instead, it just fired another round into the cafe. The creature appeared to leave before turning round to inspect the cafe again. K watched it sniff the air.

The creature turned around to face the car, and with a single hand lifted the car over on its side. The creature recoiled in frustration as the child screamed her head off. The creature grabbed the girl by the roots of her hair and pulled her up to his eye level. The girl yelped in agony.

K knew he was coward otherwise he would have already helped the girl. The girl wasn’t his...why would one help another man’s girl? He reasoned. It made no sense to him…. what could he do against the brute anyhow? The brute slapped the girl with the side of his weapon....K eyed a butter knife glistening on the floor. The brute was protected head to toe in alien military wear. K spotted a gap. A small area between the helmet and the body armour; the neck area. Alarms sounded off in the distance. If K was going to be a Samaritan, he had to be one fast.

K felt his legs turn to jelly. He sighed. Even his own body was trying to stop him. It knew that he was a coward. ‘Urgh...’ K picked up the butter knife and walked like an assassin behind his mark. He was crouching low, and trying to make as little noise as possible. On the one hand, this was nearly impossible over broken glass, but on the other, this was a warzone. Tiny steps over broken glass were masked by the vast array of bombs, gun fire and the last screams emitted by the victims of a whole that was part invasion/ part genocide. Human beings were being squashed like ants.

K rammed the knife in and held on for dear life. His is shitty heart decided then to have a heart attack. The alien roared and tried to shake of his attacker. The knife did its job well and blue blood splurged onto the street. K spat out some of the blood that had gotten into his mouth. Needless to say it tasted as foul as bird droppings looked. K fainted into a sea of blackness.

K woke up to the sensation of being dragged across the concrete floor. It had to have been only a couple of minutes later as the street was still covered in a grey fog. Two children were doing the pulling. A teenage boy and the school girl K had rescued. The boy argued with the girl constantly. K was then pulled onto a supermarket trolley. K was awake enough to note that they were in a supermarket car park. K blacked out again.
He woke up again inside a cramped space on the knees of the school girl. He could feel the rumbling of the ground and surmised that he was in car of some sort. K struggled to his knees. The school girl was asleep. K watched as they passed the alien battle tanks on the left and the right. ‘Why aren’t they doing anything?’

The boy kept his attention on the road ahead. ‘Cause we’re in one of those ships ourselves...well a more advanced ship I should say...’

‘What makes you say that...?’

‘Cause I think this button here will let us fly this baby... we’re hovering a foot above the ground unlike their vehicles anyhow...’

‘Why can’t they see us through the windscreen?’

The boy shrugged. ‘Dunno. So...Where do you think we ought to go guvnor?’

K gave an immediate answer. ’Building Aplus.’

‘Why? They blew the damn thing up. Nothing there but a pile of rubble.’

‘Trust me. That’s where out ‘boys’ will be....hit the button you think will make this fly. I’m hungry... Had to rush breakfast this morning... ’

Shit, 500 words above the limit. Cutting fat.

"Finding Family" - 1671 words

0.

The only thing I remembered about my sister was her lips on my forhead as she snuck out of my room one dark night and left our house forever.

1.

When my sister left, she put a few things in my bottom drawer, the only one my mother never checked for drugs. She left me several old rock records and a book. The book, which was nearly brand new when she placed it there, is now frayed from being read several times. The book was titled "Ostracizing June Cleaver: From McCarthyism to Miscegenation: Destroying Cultural Mores in the Latter 1900's".


I'm telling the beautiful chocolate-skinned girl at the bookstore this and she's smiling, though she winces when I tell her about my mother and father. I tell her the story of my parents attempting to institutionalize me due to my liberal views. They had wanted the bully, I suppose they could relate to him more. I walked away from the table when my father screamed about Bill Clinton and "wetback Jews", which only infuriated him more and more. I became vegan, I drank lattes in Starbucks, I bought an iMac: I suppose in a way, I represent every liberal hipster joke. The girl laughs and she says her name is Dolores, after a famous novel of forbidden love.


I'm holding a copy of "Ostracizing June Cleaver" and she takes it from me gently, her fingers brushing my fingers and her eyes locked on mine, giving me signals that even an idiot could read.


"She lives her in Washington," Dolores says, touching the picture of Etha Taryng on the back.
"That's what I'm here for," I tell her, "From the stories my family tell, my sister seems to be a follower of Etha's back in the late 70's and early 80's. She was in her close circle, though they don't talk about it. She was disowned before I could talk."


2.

Dolores tells me she can arrange a dinner with Etha after a protest Friday night.

We exchange phone numbers with the promise that I will call her to pick her up on Friday. It's Monday: we call each other every single night instead of the original plan and on Wednesday night we meet for drinks at the university pub. She's already graduated from college but I'm a senior and I have plenty of friends at the bar for free student drinks during Happy Hour. She gets along well with my friends, but I begin to receive the same signals, a deep welling inside my chest as she stares at me with large copper eyes mixed with boredom. She doesn't have to tell me that she wants to go home, to my apartment, so we find ourselves there fifteen minutes later and we're kissing before I can give her the proper tour.


We sit on my couch and are talking not about politics or culture anymore but general things: Indian food, crappy pop music, the smell of plywood. The type of rambling conversations that never seem to end that one has with their soul mate. Eventually she's on her back on the couch and I'm hovering over her. Every breath I make, she's looking into my eyes and slowly taking off another piece of clothing, impatiently tugging at my pants, my shirt as she's undressing herself.


Some time later, my air conditioner is blowing cold air on our nude bodies and we huddle closer to each other, hot and wet, to share body warmth.

She's smiling again and I ask her why she seemed to be determined to sleep with me.
"Because you're cute," she says in a whisper, her lips against my chest, "And I knew you'd be easy."
I scoff.
She laughs, "White guys interested in miscegenation only want one thing: they wanna fuck black chicks."

Thursday night is nothing but love making and talking naked about our favorite books.

She smiles her beautiful smile again.
"What?" I ask, smiling back.
"You're going to meet my mom and Etha on Friday night."
"It's it a bit early to meet your parents," I laugh and she tosses a couch pillow at me.
After a few moments of silence, looking down at another couch pillow, she says quietly, "Etha IS my mom, Marcus

3.

Dinner Friday night is at the large Washington home Dolores shares with her parents. Its decorated with various photographs of Etha and her family with various celebrities, politicians, and civil rights leaders. Etha and Huey P Newton, Jimmy Carter, Nelson Mandela. Etha and Dolores with Maya Angelou.

The food is delicous, I keep my story about my sister out of the conversation and we all surprisingly don't talk much about politics or culture, but instead about silly, ridiculous things. Dolores' father breaks out in song and though I don't sing along, everyone else does and there's laughter afterwards. I watch Dolores across the table and suddenly realize I'm falling in love with her after only a few days. I'm remembering us making love a second time in the car on the way here, sneaking into a neighbor's dark parking lot and spontaneously falling into a passionate daze that steams up the windows. I'm thinking of this while watching her, her parents on both sides of me, but also thinking of the conversations we've shared on the phone the last few days. I wonder if I'm loving her because I truly have feelings for her, we share so much in common and can nearly finish each other's thoughts, or if it's the chance encounter with the daughter of an almost mythical woman whom I've journeyed so far to meet.

4.

After dinner, her father goes to sleep early and while the women clean up in the kitchen, I find myself in the cozy, fireplace lit library near the back of the house. I find quite a few books I've read and loved on the cherry wood shelves, as well as many I've wanted to read for some time. I wonder if, were her mother and father to actually like me, they would let me borrow them. Near the floor is a series of wide, square drawers that pull out to reveal a rather extensive collection of old records. Again I find a lot of old music I enjoyed. I can see why my sister left our house to be with these kind of people - it seems that in this day and age when your family disappoints you, there's nothing wrong with making a new family with friends who share your passions and interests.

I'm looking over the photographs, these ones are family photographs, not the world achievements shown on the hallway as you enter the house, but family achievements: Dolores' first walking, birthday parties, her parent's wedding. I find one far in the back that I have to actually push other pictures to the side to see. I pull out a picture of a white baby in a silver frame.

"Hello Marcus," Etha says, looking at me over her half-moon spectacles.
I say hello nervously.
"Dolores went upstairs to bed, she's getting the guest room prepared for you. It's late, you've drank quite a few glasses of wine and I won't have that on my concious," she says and smiles, taking her glasses off. "It's next to her bedroom, but since you're 'just friend's' I have nothing to worry about."
I forget my line about my sister being a admirer and groupie of hers, suddenly realizing I'm alone with a woman whose books I've read almost as many times as Faulker and Kerouac.
"You're," I stammer, "much cooler than my own parents." What a ridiculous line.
"I know," she says and smiles. She motions to a leather chair. I sit down, still holding the picture though I'm not aware of it. She sits facing me.


She begins: "I remember my parents being very upset when I was pregnant with Dolores. You'd think parents in those days would have been more open to multi-racial relationships, but I suppose when you're a police chief and your daughter gets 'knocked up' by an African man it's almost as if she's growing a demon seed inside her." She sighs and let's her true age show.
"And," she continues, "being the rebellious type, 'burn the bra' and all that, self-publishing books on racial integration and the horrors of Nixon-era America with the little money you make as a librarian isn't exactly something a meat and potatoes father wants for his daughter. My husband's vegan, of course, and I have a theory on vegetables and the sort of testerone they put in a man. You probably don't want to hear it, though it's really fascinating, how much like good and bad fats, we have good and bad testosterone. But I concede it's not the reason you're here."
"You remind me of my mother," I say quietly and though I don't tell her this, it's because of her rambling voice and not because of her topic.
"I know Marcus," she says.
I look down at the picture of the boy. It slips from my fingers and falls to the thick woolen carpet below, not breaking.
"Mom and dad couldn't handle a beatnick hippie rebel in their household and I needed more space than a podunk, demeaning town in Minnesota," Etha says. "Having a black grandchild was too much on them and so I left. You should meet our oldest again, she's grown since you last saw her, you both being nearly the same age, you just a bit older."

I stand up, dizzy.

"I'm so happy to see you," Etha says.

I feel as if my heart is now in my brain and it's attempting to break out of the top of my skull. I'm holding my head like I have a migraine.

"Do you still have my records?" she asks.

5.

I walk quietly into Dolores room and kiss her on the forehead.

I sneak out of the dark room and disappear forever.

Deleted due to TOS changes.

One more hour!

Cyan said:

One more hour!

Click to expand...

Where's your entry? We're waiting.

Awww fuck, I missed this one

Maybe I could crank out something...

I count nine entries so far. Will we break double digits in this comeback spectacular?

A Happy Chance (1232)

The ballroom whirled with light and sound; the dancers ebbed and flowed around us. The gentlemen in their black tails and white shirts, white gloves and black hats; the women in their close bodices and belling skirts, beribboned hair and plain shoes. They formed a more effective guard than any Roger might have otherwise mustered.

The knife at my belt would remain there, surrounded by polite society as we were. "I am glad to meet you here, Roger," I said, nodding my head. "A happy chance." It was neither.

"Happy chance, indeed," said Roger. No witty response; I had taken him by surprise. He nodded his head in return. He wore no hat, but allowed his dark hair to fall over his eyes and below the back of his collar. His gloves dangled from his belt, and he bore an ornamental cane--a dandy. His eyes cast around the ballroom. Looking for an escape already?

"Do you seek someone, Roger?" I said. "I had hoped to converse with you. I will be brief."

"Ah, no. I don't--I don't seek anyone in particular." He stared at the dancers with those sunken eyes--coward's eyes?--and hid behind politeness. "Are you well? You, and your family?"

He dared ask after my family? A servant approached to top off our wine, and neither of us spoke for a moment. The dance swirled around us.

"My family and I are well, Roger." I looked him directly in the eye; he turned his gaze away immediately. "For my sister's part, I cannot say, but my parents are well, my brothers are well. I am well."

"Ah?" Sweat was beginning to stand out on his forehead. "I'm glad to hear it. And what do you here tonight?"

"Why, the same as you, sir. I come to dance and converse with my friends and neighbors. I always counted you among them."

"I am happy to hear you say it." Roger continued to evade my eyes. "I should hate to believe you didn't think me a friend."

"Indeed." I paused and stared at him; he met my gaze for a moment, looked away again. I smiled. It was grim, but it was a smile. "I also chanced to speak to several guests with whom I am not well acquainted, but who claim acquaintance with my sister."

"Ah yes?" He wiped at his brow with a kerchief. "I hope you were wary. I have heard that several of your sister's friends have wagging tongues."

"Is that right?" I put on an air of surprise.

"Oh yes," he said, perhaps sensing an opening. "They are known for their wild fancies, their acts of invention. Why, only last weekend, I heard one of them say that--"

I held up a hand, and he stumbled to a halt. "Roger, don't worry yourself over such trifles. I would not listen to false rumors."

He smiled gratefully, let out a breath of air.

"No, I only give credence to a rumor when there are witnesses. Multiple witnesses, to whom I can speak separately, and who give me identical tales."

The smile vanished like a puff of smoke on the wind.

I stepped forward, hand on the knife at my belt. But no, now was not the time. Not with so many people still around. I withdrew my hand. "Roger--" I began.

The music stopped. The dancers no longer flowed around us in smooth formation, now they rippled. They surged and swelled, as gentlemen led ladies back to their places, as they found new ladies to partner with, or asked the old for another set.

Fitzwilliam approached, all beaming joviality. His tailcoat barely contained his girth; the enormous walrus mustache that bedecked his upper lip was flecked with food and drink. "Gentlemen," he boomed, clapping us both on the shoulders. The drunken fool. He gestured at the far wall. "There are ladies awaiting partners for this next quadrille. I should be ashamed to see any wallflowers left untended and unplucked in my house." He laughed at his own jape.

Roger looked away, toward the wall Fitzwilliam had gestured at. I forestalled him; he would not escape me so easily. "Fitzwilliam," I said. "Roger and I wish to continue our conversation."

He blinked at me in surprise; perhaps my hard tone of voice had penetrated that thick skull.

"We wish to continue our conversation, privately." I removed his hand from my shoulder and gently shoved him away.

Roger looked longingly after Fitzwilliam as he stumped back to the far wall looking bemused.

Roger turned back to me, looking somewhat less discountenanced than before. Perhaps Fitzwilliam's interruption had given him time to gather his thoughts. "Please, listen to me. Whatever your sister's friends might have said, there is no truth in it. Your sister has borne me a grudge since I refused to stand up with her at Fitzwilliam's last ball. Ever since, she has conspired to spread vicious rumors of me."

"Has she?" I raised an eyebrow, delicately. My sister, spreading falsehoods? It was all I could do not to strike that jackanapes directly in his lying face. "Then you were not at a certain wineroom on a certain evening of last week? Along with my sister and several friends? You did not try to speak with her alone outside, unchaperoned?"

Roger's face went red, and his mouth took on a stubborn set. "Certainly not." His voice was all outrage. "I have never sought to speak to your sister alone. Nor any woman. I have not visited the Wellspring Wineroom in months, and certainly never with your sister and her friends. I don't know what you're trying to imply, sir, but I have--"

"Do you not?" My voice was a hiss. "Then how did you know which wineroom I referred to?"

He stopped, bluster vanishing, his eyes going wide. "I--wait, you must listen to me. I did not--I would never force--no matter what they have said, I would not, I could not--"

I could not stop myself; I struck him across the face with all my strength, with all the force of red fury. He fell heavily to the floor, and vomited.

The music stopped with the screech of a fiddle. The dancers around us froze in shock, stared down at Roger on the floor, at me with my fist raised and my blood flowing hot.

"You will fight me, Roger. Tomorrow noon, on the green in front of St. Benedict's. Or you will reveal yourself a coward." I had spoken loud enough for the nearby guests to hear; a low buzz spread through the room.

He gazed up at me, his mouth open in a wide "O," holding a hand to his cheek where I had hit him. He pushed himself to his knees, took a deep breath.

"No more," I said. "By your own words you have been condemned. If I do not find you tomorrow noon at St. Benedict's, I shall seek you out and haul you there by the ears. Goodbye, Roger." I turned on my heel and strode away, only by sheer effort of will keeping my hand away from the knife at my waist.

The music began again.

At the door, I looked back. Roger was sitting on his knees, staring down at the ground and shaking.

The dancers ebbed and flowed around him.

Oh boy, 10!

Let's make it 11, DumbNameD!

I can't get mine in on time. Oh well, next challenge for sure. I really like my story too, unfinished as it is. Look forward to reading the rest of the stories. That Al Roker one had me cracking me up.

Taking a Chance

“Want I should blow on them?”

“Huh?”

“That pair you got rolling in your hands.”

She cradled her left arm around the lower of Martin’s back and leaned over his right side. His clutched right hand shook as his right arm hung in the air like a helicopter waiting to land. His back stiffened. He could feel the subtle quiver of her frame as she tiptoed to lean forward.

“Oh, no thank—“ The side of his hand tingled as he felt air move over it. He looked over, but cinnamon-dyed hair hid her face.

His hand jerked. The dice clacked against the backboard of the craps table. He blinked at the unblinking pair of dots staring back at him. Snake eyes.

Martin stared at the stacks of his chips. He tried to pull at them with his mind as if he could, but the craps dealer gathered the player’s losses. Martin sulked as he watched the mystery woman’s red mane disappear behind stalks of slot machines.

Having five minutes to consider his losses, Martin sat at the bar and sipped his drink. Things passed behind him, but he just stared at the bottles of liquor on the shelves as if they were memories that he could count down. How much did twenty thousand dollars compare to his other losses in life?

“Care to buy me a drink?” The bar stool squeaked when she slid on it.

“Oh, you?” said Martin. He wasn’t really sure, but he figured that there weren’t too many red-haired vixens looking for something from him. “Are you alright in the head? You do remember five minutes ago, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “Well, I think, I think one of the rules of gambling— you know, I may be wrong.”

Martin held in a snarky remark about her being wrong. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Well, I think if you gamble, you have to expect to lose,” she said. “I think if you take the risk, you should expect to lose. It’s all in the hands of luck anyway. You pay the girl either way. But I guess, you have to learn that firsthand.”

“Maybe you blew wrong,” he said.

“I know how to blow,” she said. She puckered her glossy lips, like an open oyster shell revealing a bit of pearl. “You just put your lips together and whistle.”

“Maybe you sucked.” He couldn’t help but watch the woman exercise her lips and then turn to a smile.

“What’s your name there, cowboy?” she asked. “You look like a John or a Wayne.”

“Martin,” he said. What harm could it do? “I’ve always been a Martin.”

“Like the bird?”

“The bird?” said Martin. He considered if there was such a bird sharing his name before concluding that perhaps there was. “I guess. Never put those together.”

“Well, Martin, always been like the bird, I go by Chance,” she said. She motioned her hands to herself, drawing his attention to her cleavage bounding out of her V-neck blouse.

“Chance?” said Martin. He rolled the name in his head like a pair of dice. “Doesn’t sound like a Christian name that your mom came up with.”

She cocked an eyebrow. She arched her lips into a smile like drawing a bow, and shot her slender index finger to tap the back of his hand. “How much did you lose?”

“Twenty grand,” he said, without much thought.

“Ouch,” replied Chance.

“Not your fault,” said Martin. “I really don’t think you had anything to do it.”

“Well, I have been unlucky sometimes.”

“Oh, really?”

“Fifty-fifty,” she said. “But you don’t seem too distraught over it.”

He shrugged. “It’s just money,” he said. “Should I turn into the Hulk over the roll of dice?”

“I’ve seen it happen,” she said. “That’s quite a bit of money.”

Martin inhaled a deep breath. Someone else saying the money’s value seemed to coalesce his loss to him. “Maybe I should have given it away,” he said. “Someone could use always use twenty thousand dollars.”

“I could use twenty thousand dollars.”

Martin held up his half empty glass. “Well, all the more reason to drink my troubles away.” He motioned to the bartender and ordered another for himself and one for Chance.

“What are you in for anyway, Martin?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you don’t look the type to lose that much in one go,” she said. She looked him over once again to confirm her assessment.

“You know, I was a boy scout when I was younger,” said Martin.

“I’d believe that.”

“It’s just that around the campfires, someone’d tell a scary story like a guy terrorizing teenagers with a hook or women stealing kidneys—“

“Cautionary spook stories, so you horny teens don’t have sex too soon.”

“I guess. Well, I didn’t find those tales too scary.”

“Brave kid? Are you trying to impress me?” she said, smiling.

“Yeah, ‘cause me in long shorts and a cravat is the kind of image I want to toss around,” he said. “Besides you haven’t heard what really scared me.”

“And what’s that?”

He spun a finger above his head as if tracing a halo. “Everything above me,” he said.

“Like the sky is falling?”

“No, like a spaceship would swoop down from the dark night and would scoop me up, so aliens could cut into me and study my organs. That was my boogeyman as a kid,” he said. “Little green men. Silly, huh?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s so silly,” she said.

“Well, it really is silly since instead of worrying about everything above me, I should have worried about what’s inside me,” he said. “Twenty thousand isn’t much for a dying man.”

“What is it?” Chance asked. “If I may ask.”

“I don’t even feel so bad,” he said. He stared at her. It was the first time that he had really looked at her. The light above the bar shone on her and glistened her red hair like fire. Her wide eyes looked on him with concern.

Chance pressed her right hand against his left. She slipped her fingers around and pocketed them into his palm. Her other hand pushed his drink away from him. “You don’t need that,” she said. “I can make you forget.” She leaned toward him. “Some Norwegian guy gave me three thousand just to lick my feet for half an hour.” She pressed her shoulder against his. “So you know, we go to your room, and you can have a treat on Norway’s tab.”

“That’s—“ Martin stared at her hand against his. Didn’t he deserve this? He gave to the homeless shelter. He bought whatever his coworkers hawked for their kids’ school fundraisers. What did he care? What did it matter? He squeezed her fingers, stood, and pulled at her.

As the elevator doors closed, Martin looked out at the sequined lights, the clinking dials, and the strange creatures of the casino floor. Not so far off from Star Trek, he thought, before wondering if loneliness was absolution.

Hey, there's the DND we all know and love!

Iceman said:

I can't get mine in on time. Oh well, next challenge for sure. I really like my story too, unfinished as it is. Look forward to reading the rest of the stories. That Al Roker one had me cracking me up.

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Aw, I saw your name pop up and got all excited.

oh god just reading the first two paragraphs of ronito's, I know I'm gonna laugh my fucking ass off

The Entries:

Aaron - "Sign of Damascus"
ZephyrFate - "Godcraft"
JambiBum - "The Chase"
bakemono - "Glass Coffin"
ronito - "Good Morning Motherfuckers"
Ward - "Common Knowledge"
Ashes1396 - "They came from out of space or Citizen K"
bengraven - "Finding Family"
crowphoenix - "The Watched Path"
Cyan - "A Happy Chance"
DunbNameD - "Taking a Chance"

I'm going to finish my story anyways (for myself).. but here's the synopsis, in case anyone has even a glimmer of interest:

An old man, without friend and family, spends the waning years of his life walking the main street of a small northeastern town. He is forever haunted by D-day at Normandy, when we watched his friends get slaughtered and then was himself overcome by a single Nazi soldier. A grenade ended the melee, separating the combatants for the next sixty years. But on a cold winter morning, the old man runs into that same soldier with whom he was locked in mortal combat.. and he reengages the ex-soldier in a fight to the death, in front of the German's own grandchildren.

Huh, sounds heavy. Well, if you finish it reasonably soon, post it here anyway and get some comments/crits.

Disappointed in mine - I had to cut a ton out to fit into the word limit. Oh well.

Aaron: Interesting. At first I was going to be like, "Dude, come on we've all heard this story before." but then you took it in a different direction. I liked it.

Zephyr: Watch your case, there were a few times you slipped out of it. Also a bit wordy, try to be more efficient in your word use. For some reason I didn't really care for Michael I think you made him too unattainable/cocksure

JambiBambi: It sorta rambles and goes everywhere. I don't understand chase love instead of it chasing you bit. Everyone wants to chase and be chased. The whole thing felt sorta unsatisfying for me. In the end the main character didn't really progress, didn't change much.

BakedMonkey: It seems to me you were going for sparse hints little vignettes and all that. Which worked well for you but then the piece started to drag which took away from the feeling you set in the beginning. You could edit some of the stuff out some of it just wasn't needed.

I can never impress you, can I, ronito? :lol

ronito said:

BakedMonkey

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Hey, where's monkey got to, anyway?

Cyan said:

Hey, where's monkey got to, anyway?

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Whoever wins this and decides the next theme, I'm gonna write a villanelle. It's decided. I wrote one today and it was fucking magnificent!

ZephyrFate said:

Whoever wins this and decides the next theme, I'm gonna write a villanelle. It's decided. I wrote one today and it was fucking magnificent!

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Brilliant idea. Goes close to what I was thinking of doing if I were given the chance to choose the theme; I will likely choose "epic poem" much like Beowulf, the Edda, or Iliad. And make the word limit like 3000.

bengraven said:

Brilliant idea. Goes close to what I was thinking of doing if I were given the chance to choose the theme; I will likely choose "epic poem" much like Beowulf, the Edda, or Iliad. And make the word limit like 3000.

Click to expand...

Here's the villanelle I wrote, if people are interested:

The Deserted Village

The heart clings to what it misses the most, all the debris
Indulged myself in my own sadness, the apotheosis of grief that was mine
And to my heart, I should have never given him that key.

I lay under the brown branches - autumn in full sway - of a tree
I'm dying and dead and left to rot like this damn pine
The heart clings to what it misses the most, all the debris

I stumble through this village like a dog, ready to flee
There is no escape from this, because he drew the line
And to my heart, I should have never given him that key.

He would say this was God's decree
But no, there is nothing good about this, nothing divine
The heart clings to what it misses the most, all the debris

I'm sure he's having the time of his life, a life of jubilee
that was never with me, no, so all I'm wont to do is resign
And to my heart, I should have never given him that key.

So while I reminisce, I think of all the glee
Even if the times were terrible, filled with malign
The heart clings to what it misses the most, all the debris
And to my heart, I should have never given him that key.

Sweet sea parting Moses, I haven't seen you guys in awhile. Great stories so far from what I've read as always!

ZephyrFate said:

I can never impress you, can I, ronito? :lol

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Honestly though, I've voted for you before. You should be pleased.

Cyan, I also wonder where Monkey is.

ronito said:

Honestly though, I've voted for you before. You should be pleased.

Cyan, I also wonder where Monkey is.

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Haha, no worries. I actually enjoyed that critique. I posted this on another forum to get some other opinions -- and thus had to rewrite the story at least three or four times.

Votes:

1 - bengraven
2 - Cyan
3 - DumbNameD

Comments:

ZephyrFate - I feel that it starts with the wrong image, the cigarette instead of the man. I know it's the start and end point, but it's a weak image and doesn't grab my attention like the image of the man does later.

JambiBum - Reads like the summary of a planned story. If you want to have an emotional impact, you need to write in distinct scenes that can give life to the characters, instead of just telling the reader everything.

bakemono - There are too many sci-fi stories that start almost exactly like this. I think it's hurt a bit by its omni-present perspective, and would be more immediate if bound to one of the characters.

ronito - 'motherfucking' is one word. You should know that, geez. You don't have to explain everything. It ends up bogging down the flow of the story. A little too much 'I had to do this' and not enough actually doing this.

Ward - The lump of exposition near the start is too much to swallow. It's information that isn't even important to the reader yet. Why not leave a bit of mystery in why they're doing this instead? And it doesn't seem to go anywhere.

Ashes1396 - It's a good story that needs a major rewrite just to get the sentences and events to flow better. Right now it's choppy, like watching a scratched DVD. Also unfinished, but I'm in no position to criticize that.

bengraven - Sweet story. I knew how it was going to end near the start, and your desire to create a mystery creates a few awkward lines that give it away, but otherwise great.

crowphoenix - It's a nice idea, but I think you cram in too many events and so make them too sparse. The reader is going to get it around the halfway mark, so it starts to feel a bit like killing time with these super quick events.

Cyan - An artful piece, but I would have liked a little bit more right before it starts with the narrator's approach. I think it would have given the story a bit more momentum.

DumbNameD - Pleasant and freely flowing dialogue as usual. Hulk reference seems out of place. Then it becomes a Star Trek shift out of nowhere. I liked it, but it felt a bit thin overall, that the talking could have been cut back to add a little more meat to it.

Ward: Too wordy there's a lot of stuff in the beginning. You fell into the same trap I did, you felt you needed to explain too much.

Ashes: Needs a lot of editing. While the concept was great a few more editing passes to make it flow better would've helped.

bengraven Like Aaron said the moment I read the first line I knew exactly how it would end. Despite this it was really a great story. Really liked it.

Crow: While I agree that about halfway through I knew exactly where it was going, I really loved the sparseness. I felt it really added a frantic pace to the whole thing and kept it, well, rabbit like. If I had any complaint it would be that you slow us down with some description/exposition and while some was needed some of it wasn't.

Cyan Classy. I really like how you used setting, names and dialogue to paint the picture. It all really worked well together though there were some parts that I felt might've been able to cut.

DumbNameD: And DumbNameD is back! I loved the dialogue, so clever.

My votes:
1. DumbNameD
2. Crow
3. Bengraven
HM: Cyan

Thanks for the votes of confidence. To be honest, I probably edited down way too much of the mystery. It was actually a planned novel from a couple of years ago and would have been better with more red herrings. I got it off my chest though....back to genre fiction!

Aaron - "Sign of Damascus" - Turned out not to be what I thought it was going to be. Awesome ride, I really enjoyed it once I got past the halfway mark.
ZephyrFate - "Godcraft" - Something in the way you captured the characters really got to me.
JambiBum - "The Chase" - A little on the rambling side and the ending felt somehow hanging and half-full.
ronito - "Good Morning Motherfuckers" - WTFLOL
Ward - "Common Knowledge" - Very verbose in the beginning. Some of the circumstances in the story came across almost too coincidental.
Ashes1396 - "They came from out of space or Citizen K" - Action-packed, and nicely paced. I couldn't really connect with "K" for some reasons.
bengraven - "Finding Family" - Interesting story. The small references were clever.
crowphoenix - "The Watched Path" - The beginning sort of gave away where it was going immediately.
Cyan - "A Happy Chance" - Somehow I thought the MC was dancing with Roger in the beginning. I thought the MC was a girl. Took me right to the part where they were addressed as 'gentlemen' to actually get it. I really like the feel of the era that you captured here.
DumbNameD - "Taking a Chance" - Enjoyable.

Votes:
1. Aaron
2. ZephyrFate
3. Ronito
HM: Ashes, DND

Aaron - "Sign of Damascus"- Nice twists and turns. Something felt lacking, the characters felt a bit wooden.

ZephyrFate - "Godcraft" You do a nice job creating the character, but when Ian just happened to be experimenting. If you took out the "see what it's all about" sentence, the ending would have worked better for me.

JambiBum - "The Chase" A nice idea, but that's all it is. If you had crafted the scenes this could have been something really cool. Right now it's just an outline.

bakemono - "Glass Coffin" Interesting story. I wasn't able to connect to your character. I just didn't care or what happened to them.

ronito - "Good Morning Motherfuckers" Wow. A crazy fun story, but I was never put in the action just read what happened. A focus on the action is what this story needs.

Ashes1396 - "They came from out of space or Citizen K" I like your story, thought it needs some editing.

bengraven - "Finding Family" Awesome.

crowphoenix - "The Watched Path" Nice job.

Cyan - "A Happy Chance" Well written.

DunbNameD - "Taking a Chance" Nice dialogue.


Voting:
1. bengraven
2. ZephyrFate
3. Aaron
HM: DumbNameD

Aaron: The sudden jumps between realities made the story a bit hard to follow, and the sudden twist at the end didn't feel as well set up as it could have been.

Zephyr: Alex was a bit tough to follow. And it's a bit hard to point out what I mean, but he comes across more as a bundle of nerves than a fleshed out character. I liked the story, but I think more could have been done with Alex.

JamiBum: Simple and Effective. However, I think the ending was a bit quick. I don't think it really needs to be fleshed out or anything, the pace just needs to be slowed down a bit to really bring out the emotion.

Bakemono: The beginning is a bit repetitious with a lot of phrases that imply certain ideas that are then stated flat out a moment later. However, after the adrift scene the writing clears up, so I imagine you were doing it for effect.

Ronito Perhaps a bit overwrought, but that really just seems to add to the insanity of the situation. I'll agree with everyone else that I never felt like I was in the story, but I feel like if you actually took us farther into the action we'd lose a lot of the revelry in the insanity.

Ward: It's a little heavy on the explanation in the beginning and a little light on the explanations in the end. For example, a person has to understand who Strom is and what "Their Kind" means to get that scene. I'll admit it's rare that a person wouldn't know both, but when any issue can be eased by a simple description, it helps the flow.

Ashes: It's an interesting premise, but it needs a bit of polish. For instance, I never really figured out what was happening or who K was. At the beginning, we have K not caring about the explosion and watching it through his knife only to have it drilled in our head that he's a coward. Those don't seem to mesh well to me.

Bengraven:: That's a true horror story you've written there. The only thing I can add is that I did notice a few typos here and there.

Cyan: Very well written.

DND: I really enjoyed the dialogue and your characters, but I have to admit, you really lost me at the Star Trek reference. I have no idea what that meant.

-------------------------

1: Bengraven
2: Cyan
3: Ward
HM: Al Rocker

I think when I say I have a fantastic idea for a challenge, I should just go with something different, apparently. :lol

Thanks for all the comments so far. I'll get on mine shortly.

bakemono- damn, didn't even realize that was a valid reading of the beginning. :lol Guess I didn't set the scene as completely as I thought. Which dovetails with Aaron's note.

Aaron - "Sign of Damascus" - Whoa. I love these things where you're not quite sure what's real and what's not. For the most part, nicely executed, though David was a little bit thin. He had enough background and seemed reasonably thought out, he was just a bit dull. I kind of was hoping the ending would really go back to the beginning, with cultists and all, but the circularity you did have was still nice.

ZephyrFate - "Godcraft" - The title makes me feel like I must be missing something about this story. Straightforward, with your usual skill at description and metaphor. But one thing really bothered me about this story... he missed his bus! Dude, that was his only way home! Seriously, after he talked about waiting for the bus for half an hour, it was weird that he then ignored it and just sat there when it finally came.

JambiBum - "The Chase" - Expanded a little, this could be a nice piece. Let us feel and experience what happens to the guy, instead of just hearing a summary. More like the bit with the bartender, and sitting in the bar next to Megan--that was good. Also, watch out for things happening out of order, like the "conversation that would change my life forever." That sort of thing can work, but is often awkward--we already know that the conversation is going to be really momentous, before we even hear it. That adds to the feeling of hearing a summary rather than experiencing things along with the guy.

bakemono - "Glass Coffin" - bakemono, I gotta be real here. Your stories frustrate me. They're generally clever, playing with interesting ideas and taking them to their logical conclusions. They have good characterization and nice descriptions. But they are also riddled with minor grammatical or word-choice errors that cause me to stumble and pull out of the story. Ideally, your prose will be smooth and function as a reinforcement of the underlying story rather than a hindrance. Either you need to reread and edit more, or you need to improve your English skills. I don't know which.

Anyway, this was a good piece that was mostly well-constructed. Simon was an interesting character, as was Ludvika. And I liked the circularity. But the above-mentioned problems were an issue.

ronito - "Good Morning Motherfuckers" - Kind of Timedoggy. Nice.

This is going to sound odd, but I think this could have been even funnier if you'd taken it just a little bit more seriously. The concept, the situations, and Al Roker's narrative are themselves really funny. There's no need to force it.

Ward - "Common Knowledge" - I like the opening, but it doesn't really fit with the rest of the story. I think this might be a case where "kill your darlings" applies.

The infodump towards the beginning is a bit much. I think most of it could be dropped in slowly through the story, or in dialogue, or... something. I dunno. But it needs to be cut back.

The thing with him affecting historical figures is cute, but it just feels off. Like, he did all this study of the culture and history and so on but he doesn't know who Strom Thurmond is? Or Truman? The line to Truman was a bit heavy-handed as well, didn't quite fit the character.

Anyway, imaginitive piece, and I like the ending. I assumed they'd find the answer; it was actually kind of refreshing that they didn't.

Ashes1396 - "They came from out of space or Citizen K" - The initial characterization of K--he ignores explosions and keeps on eating his breakfast--clashes with his later apparent cowardice. There's occasional overexplanation. You don't have to tell us that "K could just about see the shadow of a creature at the left side of the cafe"--he's the POV character. Just say "The shadow of a creature appeared at the left side of the cafe." We understand that it's K seeing this.

Interesting piece, and I hope to see more from you in future challenges.

sorry guys... blame it on procrastination... laziness or both... will vote next time for sure...


edit:god I'm in the wrong time zone or right one, however you think about it. (gmt)
:lol

Spent Saturday with my BFF Brett, going out tonight, so I don't have much time for critiques.

Votes
1. bengraven
2. Cyan
3. ronito

1. bengraven
2. JambiBum -
3. DumbNameD

bengraven - "Finding Family" - Nice story, smoothly told, but the ending (part 4) is a little awkward. Why didn't Etha say anything earlier? Hell, why didn't he know his sister's name? And the line about how he should meet their oldest again... wasn't Dolores their oldest? I'm confused. Also, there's a strange line earlier where she's staring at him with bored eyes. He bores her? I don't think that's right...

crowphoenix - "The Watched Path" - Hey, that really is circular. Nice. I'm not sure I got what was going on for most of the story, it all seemed a bit random. There are a few odd descriptions--do we really need to be told John has a nose? And how can he tell that the village is a village of mimes? I dunno.

DumbNameD - "Taking a Chance" - Sharply written dialogue, as usual. Star Trek reference is out of place--that aspect of his personality wasn't well established. An awkward moment--"the craps dealer gathered the player's losses." Martin's losses, no? Why say it differently? It makes it slightly confusing.


Votes

1. bengraven - "Finding Family"
2. bakemono - "Glass Coffin"
3. DumbNameD - "Taking a Chance"

HM: Aaron - "Sign of Damascus", Al Roker - "I just stabbed a Guido with my pen. Motherfuckers."

Cyan, I seem to hail from a bizarro world where english is used only in a rather mangled and abused manner (read: isolated hermit whose first tongue is not english).

Obviously, I need help.

I started writing in September last year. I'm mostly an artist. I draw. I do mostly sketches and concept arts, and I have this bad habit of not editing my works, be it drawing or writing. I will try to re-read and edit before I submit from now on, though. Thanks for the feedback. Much appreciated.

(And sorry about my stories frustrating you. I hope there's a cream for that.)