crowphoenix said:

I've got to side with Ronito on this one. Now, I'm not a stickler for sticking exactly to the theme, but I do feel there should be some connection or otherwise there's no point in having a theme at all. Of course, color is so broad a net, it'd be hard not to catch something.

Click to expand...

I think the point of the theme is to spark an idea, not necessarily be the idea. There are many themes here that we've worked with (such as Debt and Gift) that would be stupidly hard to make as the focal point of your story.

I feel like grading a piece down because it doesn't strictly use the theme as its only basis for a plot and not for its inherent quality as a story is a little harsh.

ronito said:

Oh I got it. But it just didn't seem "colorful" enough. It felt more like "degrees" instead of "colors". But like I said that's just me.

Click to expand...

I haven't read the story but going by his post, he wasn't going for colours at all... It was just a starting point. I suppose I have to read the story then...

ZephyrFate said:

I think the point of the theme is to spark an idea, not necessarily be the idea. There are many themes here that we've worked with (such as Debt and Gift) that would be stupidly hard to make as the focal point of your story.

I feel like grading a piece down because it doesn't strictly use the theme as its only basis for a plot and not for its inherent quality as a story is a little harsh.

Click to expand...

It's more like this, Zeph. I think some part of the work needs to be connected to the theme. Imagine the theme as a blue circle on a white page. I don't care where the yellow triangle of your story goes as long as there's some green to it. If it has that bit of green, it fits the theme.

I'm just as guilty of anyone here of writing a piece so far from the theme as to be tangential at best, but I think we have to try to fit our stories to it. Otherwise, we write whatever we want, and that isn't always a good way to grow.

I've been struggling with this piece for days, trying to find an that works, and I think I've finally got something. I just need a setting.

Edit: And to clarify, I grade by merit alone. If your story is the best, I'll vote for it even if you wrote about the sun for a theme of Ice Cream.

ZephyrFate said:

I think the point of the theme is to spark an idea, not necessarily be the idea. There are many themes here that we've worked with (such as Debt and Gift) that would be stupidly hard to make as the focal point of your story.

I feel like grading a piece down because it doesn't strictly use the theme as its only basis for a plot and not for its inherent quality as a story is a little harsh.

Click to expand...

I obviously disagree.

What' then is the purpose of the theme? I'm not saying that it needs to be the main element. But writing is a craft. To me it's exciting to see what people can do with an element how they weave things into their storytelling. Obviously writing trumps all. But if two pieces are equally matched I think the one that made more with the element given should get the advantage.

I don’t see with my eyes. I see through my eyes. I look through my eyes, and what do I see? I see gregarious faces, a congregation of vaguely familiar people looking down at me with a tinge of compassion that burrows beneath their expressions. Who are these creatures, these nameless entities, these anomalous caricatures of intangible distinction? It doesn’t matter. Their garbled voices are now fleeting echoes, vibrating in vain, but resonate from my silenced whimpers of quiet desperation. I look through my eyes, and what do I see? I see white, but not the everyday conventionality of white, the white that is filled with the presence of all color. As I look through my eyes, each color evokes weightless words that spill out of my mouth only to trickle down my crackled skin. However, a lifetime of metaphorical and associative conditioning calls forth figments of memory that transfigures each fragment from my cognitive kaleidoscope.


Shades of blue are the frothy waves that carry life’s bassinets, and simultaneously, the worldly weather systems and climatic temperaments that whisk them ashore. Greens are the composition of earthly patchwork, stitched and stained at the fringe of every horizon. Yellow is the timely convergence of the two; that curious incandescence of the soul, a byproduct of our synchronicity with the sun. And somewhere in between the sun’s brilliant shades of yellow and bold tones of red there is orange; orange is the harbinger of the beginning of the end, and likewise the end of all beginnings. In the reds, I see the flowing rivers of life, the myriad of cellular constituents coursing through the biological vessels that channel into the oceans of the human experience. And then, like the ascending and descending tones of the musical scale, I find the Beginning and the End in violet. Violet is the beginning of light out of darkness; however, it is also the satin lining the threshold of mortality, a tangible euphemism that absorbs the punch-line to humanity’s self-fulfilling prophecies. It is a comfort that crawls up the notches of my spine as the gears of time strip themselves from the clockwork harnessed within my chest, the willful submission to entropic forces.


Finally, there is gray: the imperfection of human life. Gray is the shifting polarization of perception, and yet, at the same time, the indivisible whole of both black and white. And of course, gray is the vastness of the infinite unknown, a parallel to the defining characteristics of human nature. If Nature stepped outside the realm of indifference to assist life with direction, I could no longer chase the ephemeral opportunity of defining its intrinsic beauty. One cannot revel in the rapturous revelations that lurk within the majestic qualities of life while looking at the extension of a finger. Immediate experience subsequently becomes vulgarized by losing the grandeur of imperfection, which is the hallmark of my incarnation.


I close my eyes, and what do I see? No color to speak of, nothing to accompany the connotations and denotations of language; no spectacles of geometric wonderment; no pearly gates or crimson-grease fueling perpetual conflagration; no three-headed dogs barking with fiery fervor; no angelic trumpeters sounding off in unison; no rabbit-holes enveloped in darkness from the breath of the abyss below or tunnels of beckoning, luminescent divinity and no catatonic desperation to sit beside if I fall in between; neither black nor white, just the comfort in finding an expression for the inexpressible: only gray.

I really hope I'm not too late with this...I noticed that it said PST and can't remember for the life of me if that is behind or ahead of EST. It was 20 minutes before midnight EST. I didn't even have time to proof read.

behind

2:59 EST

Irish said:

behind

2:59 EST

Click to expand...

Awesome! My entry is modest but I had a lot of fun writing it.

crops55 said:

I really hope I'm not too late with this...I noticed that it said PST and can't remember for the life of me if that is behind or ahead of EST.

Click to expand...

nm...

ronito said:

I obviously disagree.

What' then is the purpose of the theme? I'm not saying that it needs to be the main element. But writing is a craft. To me it's exciting to see what people can do with an element how they weave things into their storytelling. Obviously writing trumps all. But if two pieces are equally matched I think the one that made more with the element given should get the advantage.

Click to expand...

Well I'm saying that the theme is meant to create the idea, and perhaps shape it, but it should not have to wholly represent it. It has to have an obvious effect or a point within the story, but it shouldn't have to be the main point. That's the purpose of the theme.

ZephyrFate said:

Well I'm saying that the theme is meant to create the idea, and perhaps shape it, but it should not have to wholly represent it. It has to have an obvious effect or a point within the story, but it shouldn't have to be the main point. That's the purpose of the theme.

Click to expand...

I feel like you two are saying almost the exact same thing... I humbly assert that the theme should be just that - the theme. It should be the underlying tone or purpose within a piece. Now, if we don't want it to adhere to such a literal definition, it should be stated in the rules before the challenge is proposed. What I like about writing is when I sit down to write about something, it takes on a life of its own and never ends up being parallel to what I originally set out to produce. But I like the challenge of trying to incorporate ideas or themes I am not familiar with.

crops55 said:

I feel like you two are saying almost the exact same thing... I humbly assert that the theme should be just that - the theme. It should be the underlying tone or purpose within a piece. Now, if we don't want it to adhere to such a literal definition, it should be stated in the rules before the challenge is proposed. What I like about writing is when I sit down to write about something, it takes on a life of its own and never ends up being parallel to what I originally set out to produce. But I like the challenge of trying to incorporate ideas or themes I am not familiar with.

Click to expand...

Disclaimer: I did put this in the op... *checks* yep!

edit: How you vote is up to you though...

ps. Ronito is a maverick! he can take this thread where very few will dare, I assure you... :lol

Ashes1396 said:

Disclaimer: I did put this in the op... *checks* yep!

edit: How you vote is up to you though...

ps. Ronito is a maverick! he can take this thread where very few will dare, I assure you... :lol

Click to expand...

Does that make Zeph his Iceman? [/Top Gun]

crowphoenix said:

Does that make Zeph his Iceman? [/Top Gun]

Click to expand...

*nods*
*shakes head*
*then nods again*

code for: I think so, but I'm not sure why...?

Do they like going to the tavern?

Ashes1396 said:

ps. Ronito is a maverick! he can take this thread where very few will dare, I assure you... :lol

Click to expand...

Next up: Masturbation.

Necessary evil? or tool to keep away prostrate cancer?

Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!

ronito said:

Next up: Masturbation.

Necessary evil? or tool to keep away prostrate cancer?

Click to expand...

:lol

crops55 said:

I feel like you two are saying almost the exact same thing... I humbly assert that the theme should be just that - the theme. It should be the underlying tone or purpose within a piece. Now, if we don't want it to adhere to such a literal definition, it should be stated in the rules before the challenge is proposed. What I like about writing is when I sit down to write about something, it takes on a life of its own and never ends up being parallel to what I originally set out to produce. But I like the challenge of trying to incorporate ideas or themes I am not familiar with.

Click to expand...

Well, no, what I'm saying is that a critique of the piece should equally weigh its adherence to the theme and its quality, not just one more than the other (and if the piece ends up being amazing with only using the theme to a small, but important degree, it should still be judged on its merits).

Um... fuck... I haven't started/

Irish said:

Um... fuck... I haven't started/

Click to expand...

If it makes you feel any better, I'm starting over. :/

But you have like two hours left?

It would, but I'm still on PSN.

Cyan said:

If it makes you feel any better, I'm starting over. :/

Click to expand...

And I've stalled a bit. :lol

ZephyrFate said:

Well, no, what I'm saying is that a critique of the piece should equally weigh its adherence to the theme and its quality, not just one more than the other (and if the piece ends up being amazing with only using the theme to a small, but important degree, it should still be judged on its merits).

Click to expand...

Well for that to be implemented, the system would have to be more geared toward a rigid, objective scoring system. The reception of a piece, even the quality and proper use of theme implementation, will always be wholly subjective. I believe there is only two ways to do approach this issue. Either it's up to the readers, or it's an objective-based checklist of do's and don'ts. However, even the former could still be turned into a hybrid of opinionated scoring. It just sounds like a lot of work to find a systematic approach that satisfies the majority such as that. I vote for purely subjective reception. Or, maybe the theme creator can decide which voting system should be applied for its respective challenge.

In the FAQ, the first question and answer are the following:

How do I interpret the theme?
Any way you want. Literally, metaphorically, homophonically. Just remember that others will have their own interpretations and may vote or critique accordingly.

Click to expand...

This has always been the way the writing challenges work. You write how you choose, while keeping in mind that others will vote as they choose. It's a system that works.

I am totally ok with ronito accounting for adherence to theme in his voting. Just as I thought it was fine that nitewulf judged people's work relative to their previous work, not just the other writers that week. Just as I think it's fine if someone else ignores theme altogether in their votes. You write as you choose, and you vote as you choose.

The writing challenge has very few rules. And I would like to keep it that way.

+1 but shouldn't you be writing something else? :lol

Damn, I knew I shouldn't have gotten on Mumble. Led me to PSN and then I was totally screwed. No time now. :/

Irish said:

Damn, I knew I shouldn't have gotten on Mumble. Led me to PSN and then I was totally screwed. No time now. :/

Click to expand...

Correction. You have 47 minutes.

And for clarification, I don't expect anyone to vote the way I do. I was just voicing my concern/how I look at things.

Deleted due to TOS change

Cyan said:

In the FAQ, the first question and answer are the following:

This has always been the way the writing challenges work. You write how you choose, while keeping in mind that others will vote as they choose. It's a system that works.

I am totally ok with ronito accounting for adherence to theme in his voting. Just as I thought it was fine that nitewulf judged people's work relative to their previous work, not just the other writers that week. Just as I think it's fine if someone else ignores theme altogether in their votes. You write as you choose, and you vote as you choose.

The writing challenge has very few rules. And I would like to keep it that way.

Click to expand...

I agree, I prematurely took his post of something that was actually in consideration by the majority. I didn't really fit it into the proper context. My excuse: I saw the challenge at work earlier today and was intrigued. Got home from work at 9:30 and wrote my ass off until 11:45. Not that my submission is anything to write home about, but I'm a little drained so I apologize for the rash assumption. I think the current standard is the fairest way.

There. Forced something out. It's only been edited once, and if I had gotten this idea earlier in the week, I think I could have made it stronger, but now, I'm going to crash.

Make sure you guys tell me if any major changes take place.

ronito said:

Correction. You have 47 minutes.

And for clarification, I don't expect anyone to vote the way I do. I was just voicing my concern/how I look at things.

Click to expand...

I vote like that sometimes. I'm sure others do as well.

Tangent's story:

Blue Rug (1634)

“All right guys, time for Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus,” said Mr. Silver coolly. Some kids continued to pop goldfish in their mouth, or accidentally crushed them on their lips and cheeks. But all of the kids eventually processed Mr. Silver’s announcement after several repetitions, threw out their remaining crumbs – which was most of their snacks – and came to the story corner.

As they waddled over, humming, dancing, or adjusting their name tags on their shirts, they each sat down on one of the colored, circular rugs that were preset in a semi-circle around Mr. Silver. “Well, Nathan is showing me that he’s ready with his criss-cross applesauce!” Upon observation of this, Sydney quickly adjusted out of sitting like a frog on a lily pad, and into Indian style. She was rewarded as well, “Oh! And Sydney is showing me she’s ready too!” Mr. Silver tacked a “verbal ribbon” on almost every kid, but had purposely left out Connor.

Connor turned his head from left to right, searching for an open rug. His face quickly became frantic. Finally, he ran up to Nathan’s rug. Nathan held his cheeks in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees.

“I want that wug!” yelled Connor in his gravelly voice, a result of incessant loud volume. Connor bopped up and down on his knobby knees and continued to point at Nathan, accusatorily. Nathan, with a personality that makes you wonder if he’s on the Autism spectrum or is just a kid growing up in the Silicon Valley, blinked his eyes a few times and looked at Mr. Silver.

Mr. Silver looked at Connor and raised his eyebrows, encouraging the two to duke it out without the teacher caught in the middle. Connor refused the bait.

“Mr. Silvuh! Nathan is on my wug!” whined Connor, now stomping a little.

“Wait, I’m confused. Is it your rug, Connor?” asked Mr. Silver innocently, “I saw Nathan sit there first.”

“But blue is my fave-wit culluh. I have to sit on the blue wug,” explained Connor adamantly, with burrowed eyebrows and arms folded across his tiny rib cage.

“Well maybe you can ask Nathan if he's willing to change rugs with you,” suggested Mr. Silver.

Connor paused to consider this, took a few quick breaths, then looked down at his shoes and mumbled, “Nathan, can you take that gween wug? I weally want the blue wug.”

Nathan shook his head. Connor growled.

“Hmm, it looks like Connor is feeling angry,” Mr. Silver observed the obvious, “And, Nathan doesn't look too happy either.” Although, with Nathan’s flat expression, any guess could be spot on. “It looks like we have a problem. Connor and Nathan both want to sit on the same rug.” Mr. Silver scanned his eyes over the other kids. “Can you guys help them?”

Tommy raised his hand and once called upon, he straightened up his back, raised his eyebrows, and then perked up his entire body to say, “Maybe – maybe – maybe Connor can be fwexible and sit on a gween wug. Maybe he can sit on the blue wug anotha time.” Flexibility was the topic of the morning lesson.

Connor formed tight fists, clenched his teeth, and looked at Tommy sitting on a yellow rug – almost eye to eye because of Connor's diminutive stature – as if he were an idiot.

“I don't want to sit on the blue wug next time! I need to sit on it this time!” said Connor, frustrated for forcing himself to explain the obvious to imbeciles through his own bulging neck veins.

Now everyone was getting into it. Nathan wasn't the type to have strong preferences but this time he held his ground. “I want the blue wug. I was hea fust,” Nathan defended himself quietly, with a monotone voice.

Connor, in all of his 34 inches of height, started breathing like Darth Vader, his chest heaving with increasing force and rate. His large brown eyes, surrounded by smooth baby skin and soft bed head, began darting and avoiding the eyes of all others. The room began spinning. How can this be? He needed that rug more than anything and “the next time” didn't matter. “The next time” was a moot point. This was absurd. How can Nathan sit on the rug that Connor wanted? The thoughts of this unreasonable tragedy sent a tidal wave of adrenaline through his twiggy arms and legs, and precisely matched the pigment of his face and neck to that of a red snapper. Nathan seemed like a two-ton anvil gorilla-glued down to that rug. Even witnessing that weight from the corner of Connor’s eyes almost reversed his entire digestive system. With the intent of a noble lion, he yelled, but the sound was that of Connor: a small, sweet sound, but clearly filled with the anger of a 34” creature. With his baggy shirt hanging off his bony shoulders, somehow, this kid, the smallest child ever to enter this preschool (he was a late arrival, since he had been kicked out of two other preschools earlier) contained the emotional range of the entire population of Brazil during the World Cup final.

Continuing to making his version of a lion roar, Connor lost all sense of reality since his identity had been stolen. What else was there? Who could he be now? What right did someone else have to take away everything that defined who he was? As he continued to roar, he dizzily ran around the room like a maddened fly, destroying everything in his way: he kicked over the cardboard bricks that were built to fortress plastic zoo animals in the sandbox, he tipped over the scraps of orange and black construction paper in the recycling from yesterday’s Halloween craft, he ran up the carpeted steps and threw down the crab soccer ball that bounced in the middle of the story circle, resulting in some small squeals overshadowed by his madness, and then he opened the cupboards and pulled out anything and everything he could from puppets to puzzles to pop-up books.

The rest of the class was frozen. With hands in their laps, they were knotted in criss-cross applesauce. Some looked to Mr. Silver. Finally, Sydney spoke up, “Mr. Silver, does Connor need a time-out?”

With that, Connor returned to the circle and punched Sydney in the stomach. A moment later, Mr. Silver immediately escorted Connor out of the room, called Connor’s father to pick him up, and gently guided Sydney through deep breathing exercises amongst several children crying, including Sydney herself, as well as Connor, but now from the down the hall.

Fortunately, Connor’s father, Mr. Moore, didn’t work too far away. Oracle, his sales office, was just a highway exit away. Mr. Moore, nevertheless, wasn’t too pleased with the situation. How come the teachers can’t handle 4-year-olds? How hard is that? Mr. Moore, with his moderate amount of cologne, quietly excused himself from a new product release meeting with his charming smile, “Sorry, Connor’s a little strong-willed, and he’s with a new teacher. I don’t have to go far – I’ll be back,” said Mr. Moore. He was excused with ease, as always, it was Mr. Moore after all: the man with the winning personality. He had been with Oracle for nine years and had made his number each season and had won consecutive sales representative awards.

After Mr. Moore got to his car, he gripped the wheel tightly. He was pretty frustrated with Connor, but he mostly thought Mr. Silver was a douche bag. Mr. Moore recounted the phone call he received during the meeting: Connor punched someone because he didn’t get to sit on a blue rug? It was absurd. Mr. Silver needs to learn how to hold down a classroom. But Mr. Moore also thought it was ludicrous that Connor would blow up over something as stupid as a blue rug. Kids can be so dumb with their damn hang-ups. Mr. Moore was a little sad as he exited off of 101. It’s just a shame that his son can’t just enjoy the innocence of childhood where are no problems – and yet his son insisted on making a big deal over such stupid kiddy stuff.

But in some ways, Mr. Moore felt saved by the bell. The rest of the meeting would have been torture. Christian McChristianson, as Mr. Moore affectionately labeled David St. Nick, was just announced to the team be promoted to regional sales manager. It didn’t make any sense. The guy didn’t even have his scripts down, had only been with Oracle for 14 months, had barely learned how the newest product worked, and he can be easily caught searching other jobs from IvyExec between calls. That idiot had no loyalty, and Pierre, the boss of both Mr. St. Nick and Mr. Moore, had always given Mr. Moore the idea that he was on his way to becoming regional sales manager. Mr. Moore sweated his entire 30s away at this job, waited patiently, only to find out that Christian McChristian, and his dimples, somehow swiped the position. Somehow. Politics.

Mr. Moore accidentally ran a stop sign. He almost hit a car in the intersection and slammed the breaks, resulting in a short screech.

“Shit,” he exclaimed quietly as the other driver gave him a sneer and some driving advice from out of his window. Mr. Moore slowed, turned the corner, and parked the car at the school. He walked to the office. He was picking up his kid because of a stupid blue rug. As Mr. Moore came to the main office, he wondered if he’d be told that this blue rug would result in Connor’s third expulsion, or if Mr. Sliver, or Silver, or whatever, would do his job and straighten up these entitled kids.

Dude, third paragraph! Hurry!

Edit: The first sentence of the third paragraph. Not a huge deal but I would want to fix it if I had the chance.

huh?

edit: which story man. Which story? for gawds sake man.... before my head explodes...

Impulse Control (1651)

"How's it hangin, Roberto?" Brandon plopped down on the bench, opened his brown paper lunch bag. "Sweet, PB&J!"

Robert grunted, nose deep in a physics textbook.

"Cheer up, it's gonna be a bitchin day. We're getting you a Prom date."

At this, Robert actually looked at him. "Oh God. None of your weird bullshit. Please."

"Poor impulse control, my man. Can't help it."

"God." Robert rolled his eyes. "You know that's an actual thing, right? Like, there are actually people with poor impulse control, and it's not Brandon-bullshit-disorder."

"Whatever." He slapped Robert on the shoulder. "So, Prom. We're hooking you up today. What’re you thinkin?"

Robert hesitated, glanced around the courtyard, then leaned forward. "All right, here's the thing. Bianca--" He paused.

Brandon whistled. Bianca was a cutie, all right. Curly red hair, light blue eyes, nice figure. Easy on the eyes all round. He'd been thinking of asking her himself. "Ah, Bianca.” He paused. “Good choice. Let's make it happen."

"But--"

"I get it. You're scared, right? No problem."

"No, I--"

"No fear, I got this! Poor impulse control to the rescue." He dropped the PB&J back in his lunch bag, leapt to his feet.

"God damn it, wait!"

Brandon pretended not to hear. He was off to the races. He jogged over toward a pack of girls sitting on the courtyard's lone patch of grass, leaving Robert spluttering in his wake. Make a decision and do it, that was the only way to roll.

"Ladies." He nodded at them, but zeroed in on Bianca. They were all staring; too late to worry about that now. "Got a question for you, acting champ."

Bianca glanced around at her friends as if looking for a lifeline, then looked up at him. Her face went pink, setting off the freckles nicely. She looked back down. "Um. Ok?"

He stood tall, and went for it. "Bianca, will you go to Prom--" Dramatic pause. "With me?" Wait. Shit. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say.

Her mouth made a little "o", and she looked up at him. Her friends tittered, and she went a little pinker. "Um. All right."

Shit! No. "Great. Awesome." He nodded. As he turned away, her friends' titters turned into full on giggles.

He stopped by the water fountain, then walked slowly back to the bench, plopped down, and got the PB&J out.

Robert was staring at him, eyes wide. “She said yes?”

Brandon nodded.

“God.” Robert buried his face in the physics textbook. “I didn’t want--now they’ll think I’m weird for not asking her for myself.”

“Um,” said Brandon, through a mouthful of PB&J. “Yeah. Maybe.” He swallowed, looked over at Bianca, now smiling and laughing with her friends, a hint of pink still in her cheeks.

Robert dropped his textbook with a thump. “You never listen.”

“Um.” Brandon stared at Bianca a moment longer. “No worries, my man. I’ll go tell her you changed your mind, and--”

“God. Then they’ll think I’m psychotic. No. None of your bullshit, ok?” Robert reached down, picked the textbook back up. “It’s fine. Whatever. I’ll live with taking her to the Prom.”

“Hell-o!” A small blond head popped up behind Robert. It was Dierdre; Brandon rolled his eyes. “Robert-o,” she caroled. “What’s this about the Prom?”

“Your dumbass brother asked Bianca to go to Prom with me.”

“Re-ally?”

Brandon grabbed her shoulder. “Hey, go away. I’ll tell you all about it at home.”

She shrugged him off. “Brandon’s just jealous, he totally wanted to ask Bianca himself. I don’t know why, redheads are way overrated.” She shrugged Brandon off again. “Hands off, Mr. Poor Impulse Control. I’m going already.” She flashed a quick grin at Robert, and headed off to wherever the sophomores sat.

Robert watched her go, eyes wide, pupils dilated. He turned to Brandon. “Did you really want to ask Bianca? I thought--” He paused, seemed to change his mind about speaking.

"I’ll probably go stag," said Brandon into the silence.

"Huh.” Robert buried himself in physics again.

*

Brandon sat at his desk, the afternoon sun warming him and making his eyes droop, PB&J sitting comfortably in his stomach, the low hum of Mrs. Jackson's government lesson washing over and past him.

He looked over at Bianca, in time to catch her staring. She quickly looked away.

Robert was going to kill him when he found out. There had to be some way to fix the whole thing. He sighed. Maybe he could find somebody else for Robert to go with. But no, that wasn’t fair--Robert thought he’d been hooked up with the prettiest girl in the Senior class. Maybe he could convince Robert that he wanted to go with someone else, instead. That could work. Or--wait. Maybe he could convince Bianca to drop him and go with Robert instead. Robert would never have to know.

He opened his mouth to say something to Bianca.

Wham! A long eraser hit the desk in front of him, kicking up a cloud of chalk dust. Mrs. Jackson stood above him, her normally smiling eyes half-closed in a glare. "Mr. Kellson. Wake up, or you're visiting the principal."

Brandon sat up straight, eyes watering, feeling slightly dazed. "Uh, right." He coughed. "Sorry, Mrs. Jackson. See, I was just thinking that I should tell Bianca--"

"Hey!" Mrs. Jackson snapped her fingers in front of his face; he jumped. The rest of the class laughed. "Eyes front, listen up, at least pretend to be learning something. Talk to your girlfriend after class." Bianca, predictably, went pink.

"She's not--"

"Don't really care." She raised a hand to stop him talking. "Let's get back to government."

Brandon closed his mouth, and carefully didn't look at Bianca the rest of class.

*

"Hey, listen up." Brandon caught Bianca's arm as they walked out of the government classroom.

She kept walking. "Why?” She didn’t move to dislodge his arm. "You planning to embarrass me again?" She was once again going pink, but her lips quirked up at the corners.

"No." He considered a moment as he walked alongside. "I mean, yeah." This was his out! “Yeah, probably.”

She snorted, a surprisingly unladylike noise from such a pretty girl.

"No, I--that was what I wanted to talk about.” He released her arm, gestured expansively. “I’m weird and embarrassing--you know, poor impulse control--and, well, you’re probably better off going to Prom with someone else."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I mean." He paused. “Wouldn’t you rather go with someone like, I dunno, Robert?”

She let out a quick, sharp breath, and her eyes narrowed. “Look, if you changed your mind, just come out and say it.”

"What?"

"I mean, fine. No problem. You only asked me in front of all my friends. You only got me blushing in front of the whole class.”

She was even prettier when she was mad, Brandon decided. “I--”

“Fine, yeah, fob me off on your friend half an hour later.”

"That’s not what I--I just though maybe you wouldn’t want--"

Bianca stopped walking. "You are such an idiot." She turned away abruptly, wiped her eyes, then headed off, seemingly at random.

Brandon watched her go, wincing. She was right.

He was an idiot.

*

Brandon sat on the usual bench, eating the usual PB&J. He hadn't seen Robert since yesterday; hadn't had a chance to tell him he'd screwed things up. Or about his plans for fixing things.

"Roberto!” Brandon dropped the PB&J. “My man, I was wondering where you got to."

Robert plopped down beside him, looking wilted. His hair was sticking up, his clothes looked slept in, and his eyes drooped. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Look, I was talking to Dierdre at break, and--"

Brandon sat up straight. "Hey! That gives me an idea!"

"God. No more ideas." He glared until Brandon nodded agreement. "Anyway, she said--”

"Hell-o!" Deirdre bounced onto the bench next to Robert.

"Dierdre!" Brandon reached across Robert, grabbed her arm like a lifeline. "Listen, I got this great idea! What if you go to Prom with Robert?"

She pushed his arm away. “What are you talking about, idiot? He’s going with Bianca.”

"But what if he wasn’t?”

“What, she changed her mind?” Deirdre’s voice rose in pitch. “So now I’m second-choice girl?”

"Oh come on. You can’t go unless an upperclassman asks you. Anyway, you totally have a crush on Robert.”

“Bran-don!” Deirdre covered her face. “I do not! Jerk!” She nearly tripped over herself as she scrambled to her feet, then scampered away, blonde ponytail bouncing behind her.

"God.” Robert watched as she disappeared behind a building. “Way to go. Now she’ll be too embarrassed to ever talk to me again.”

“Yeah.” Brandon rolled his eyes. “I’m getting good at that. Poor impulse control.”

They sat there for a few minutes in silence. Robert flipped through a textbook. Brandon stared at the PB&J, not eating it.

"So,” said Robert.

“Yeah.”

“Spill it.”

Brandon sighed. “I--didn’t actually ask Bianca to go with you. I asked her to go with me.”

Robert nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

“You did?”

“Sure,” said Robert. “You’re not that hard to figure out. How long have we been friends now?”

“But aren’t you mad?”

“God,” said Robert. “I told you you never listen. I didn’t want to go with her in the first place. Dumbass.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Robert imitated him.

“So you don’t mind, if I--” He tilted his head toward the patch of grass where Bianca sat. He wondered if she'd even talk to him again.

“Nope.” Robert laughed. “Maybe she’ll teach you some impulse control.”

“Hey,” said Brandon. “That’s a real thing, you know. Not just me-bullshit-disorder.”

“Yeah,” said Robert. He looked back at his textbook, but he was smiling. “I know.”

Jokes aside, which story where you referring to crops55? If it's tangent's story, Cyan only posts on their behalf. But it seems fine to me anyway...

Ashes1396 said:

But it seems fine to me anyway...

Click to expand...

*twilight zone music*

Haha, it's been taken care of. It was Tangents. The first of the two that Cyan posted. I'll try and be a little less cryptic next time although I'm glad I could provide some suspense.

:/

Gentlemen. This is how we let things slide in the business:
...
..
.

Anyways... Every story is in the op, if people want to start reading... I'm just gonna go have a cup of tea... I'll put up the list when I come back...

Ashes1396 said:

:/

Gentleman. This is how we let things slide in the business:
...
..
.

Spoiler

nothing to see here...

Click to expand...

Am I the "Gentle Man" you are referring to? Cue the twilight zone music again, getting some creepy vibes now. Sorry, I need sleep.

fuck me. You have a sharp eye. :lol

:lol No kidding.

Anyway, thanks on behalf of Tangent.

Better Late Than Never (1880 Words)

“Ohmygod!”

Audrey shuddered. Her neck jerked, and her shoulders rippled. She hadn’t noticed the rattle of the knob or the clap of the door against its frame. But the squeal of her entering roommate jolted her from her thoughts. The lights flickered on, and her eyes seared and blinked. Her breath settled, and her form cemented into the same hours-long position: sitting on the couch as motionless as a Rodin creation.

“You’re still awake?” asked Georgia. The strap slid down her arm, and her purse plopped to the floor. Her arms slipped her coat, and she tossed it across the room as she just had freed herself from a straitjacket.

“Wasn’t it dark before?” asked Audrey. “It was dark. Now it’s light. Strange.”

“Yes, I’ve always wondered how a light bulb works. Same with a toilet,” said Georgia. “But I was six, and my parents told me elves. Didn’t stop me from standing on a chair and flipping the switch over and over.” She looked on from the end of the couch. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Yes, of course,” replied Audrey, staring forward. “I think I heard ‘Wheel of Fortune’ all night. The neighbors couldn’t have watched that all night, could they?” She scowled, noticing the waft of stale coffee from the mugs on the table before her. “What kind of freaks TiVo ‘Wheel of Fortune’ to watch all night?”

It all started in a smoky bar. What’s your sign, baby? Then they got it on. No, wait. Didn’t her parents meet at church? Pious and honest. Virgins until their wedding night (and probably after). That didn’t sound right either. But it didn’t matter. It was the same result: Audrey still was born, and around twenty years later, she still had her senior project due in five days for her last year in art school.

It wasn’t as if this struck her as sudden as a lightning bolt. She had months for something to gestate. Audrey already had many talks with her instructors. She reassured. She evaded. She lied. Everything was fine. She was working hard on it. It was progressing as expected. She had nothing.

She swayed in the shower. It usually helped her think. She welcomed the isolation and the floral-scented soap. The white noise of the falling water cleared her head, and the warmth of the stream swaddled her like a blanket fresh from the dryer. But not lately. Not when she needed it. Not when this deadline loomed. Inspiration left her at the dance to sway alone.

Audrey envied her roommate. She envied the ones like Georgia who could spring out an idea like clipping a toenail. Georgia already had finished her project two weeks ago. It was a photo essay, juxtaposing foreclosed homes in the area and the families who used to live in them. Maybe it was an obvious attempt of the current zeitgeist, but maybe the world needed even puppy-love stories and sad-sack songs, as long as they’re done well. Sure she could have done something as hokey as painting world leaders as animals or as ambitious as inserting little green army men into dioramas of significant world events in history.

But for Audrey, it all seemed so far away. This was her senior project. This was a summation of her years of studying art. And this could be her only chance to make a statement. After all, art in this economy was hard, and how many ever truly make it? This could be her only chance to speak to the world. Maybe her parents were right. Maybe this was all a waste of time. Speak to the world! What was she going to say?

“Lemme have ten Big Macs please,” said Audrey. Her palms supported her on the counter. The smell of fried grease affected her balance.

The arched ‘M’ shuddered on the big windowpane of the McDonalds. Audrey turned to the pounding. She sighed as Georgia entered.

“I thought you couldn’t see into these windows,” said Audrey. “You know, see out but not in.” She slipped into a booth as she waited for her order.

“I saw your car,” said Georgia, scanning the restaurant before joining Audrey at the table. “And I would have driven right on by, but I knew you were in a bad way.”

Audrey shook her head and pouted her lips. “I’m in an awesome way,” she said. “I have this project right where I want it. Right in the palm of my hand.” She tapped the flat of her hand. “Like an oyster.” She laughed with a trill in her voice.

Georgia offered a hand. “Come on. I’m going to take you home and tuck you into bed.”

“Hmm,” said Audrey. She considered the outstretched hand as if it held a vial of poison. “Wait, there’s a saying with ‘oyster’ in it, isn’t there? Something something ‘oyster.’” She craned her neck to see if her order of ten burgers was ready. “Besides my car is here.”

“We can come back and get it,” said Georgia. “After you take a nice long rest.”

“Okay, okay,” said Audrey. “I know there are a couple about ‘pearls.’ But I’m thinking one with ‘oyster’ in it.”

“Alright, upsy daisy—“ said Georgia, rising from her seat.

“Clams!” said Audrey, as if a light bulb popped over her head. “That’s money, right?”

“Ok, crazy lady, you’re going to make the McKids drop their McNuggets,” said Georgia.

“I can’t go,” replied Audrey. She raised both hands in front of her face and spread her fingers. “I have ten Big Macs on order. I already paid for them.” She leaned forward and whispered. “I think that’s how they get you.”

“Imagine that,” said Georgia, flatly. Her brow crinkled. “What are you going to do with ten Big Macs?”

Audrey smiled and puffed her chest. “I’m gonna eat them, of course,” she said. She nodded as an exclamation point.

“I was afraid of that,” replied Georgia. “See, I’m glad I came in. I have to stop you.”

“You can’t stop this train,” said Audrey. “I’m gonna eat as many burgers as it takes to get me so disgusted with myself and everything and then turn that disgust into inspiration.”

“You, girl, are off the tracks,” said Georgia. “Does that even work?”

“I’m gonna punt myself into a pit of despair,” said Audrey. “Desperation makes genius of us all. You know, snatching victory from defeat.”

“Or upchuck from chucked beef?”

“You’re too sober,” said Audrey. “You need less sleep or more beer.”

“If you want inspiration, I’ll show you,” offered Georgia. “But first, I need to see last night’s scores.”

Audrey shook her head. “No, first we eat,” she said, grinning.

Georgia groaned.

The stand was a little lean-to with rows of black and white newspapers and garish magazine covers. Georgia slapped some change onto the counter and wrung open the sports page of a newspaper as Audrey eyed the rows of periodicals. Celebrities smiled their glistening smiles. Maybe they were smiling because of their perfect teeth and their perfect proportions and their strange well-blended, fuzzy skin tones. They were free of blemishes and discolorations. Meanwhile, green opaque plastic provided either a robe of modesty or a signpost of attention for the nude magazines. Audrey wondered if they too smiled.

“Come on,” said Georgia. She tugged at Audrey.

Audrey looked out the passenger window. She tried to soak in everything she saw and heard, but any inspiration drained through the sieve of her addled mind. She heard but couldn’t make out the thumping radio station blaring from the open window at the stoplight; it was a lot of bass. She tried to watch an orange tabby go down the sidewalk, but the cat dodged an SUV in a Burger King parking lot and ran across a Dunkin’ Donuts before disappearing behind a sign advertising low-price oil changes at the gas station.

“Hey, we’ve stopped,” said Georgia.

Audrey realized the car stopped. She slumped out and followed Georgia into the shop. A dinging bell marked their entry.

The shop seemed all brass and wood and dirt, stuff that seemed to come from the ground. The antique store was small, but walls full of frames made it smaller. Shelves were filled with wind-up toys and jewelry boxes. Vases seemed to catch the sunlight. Hinges creaked like old marionette joints. Audrey walked the aisles. There were just three, but each was like a treasure chest of goblets and dubloons and gems.

“I like to come here and look around,” said Georgia. “It’s like a toy store for me. And I ask my brain to put my work together like this pocket watch here or make feel like varnished brass.”

“It’s, it’s overwhelming,” said Audrey.

She had ideas, but they were stopped up like a flood behind a dam. They spent an hour there before they drove across town.

The comedy club was dark with a spotlight on the stage. Glasses clinked, and metal scuffed the wooden floor. They sat in the back where it was darkest. Audrey nursed a glass of water as Georgia slugged down soda. Audrey slipped in and out of sleep. When she was awake, the crowd laughed, but the jokes seemed alien to her. But it was still funny in the way it wasn’t, like watching a late-night TV host bomb in an opening monologue. She drooled on the table.

She wasn’t sure how long after it was when they reached the river fairgrounds. But she knew it wasn’t a good idea to go on the merry-go-round. She was full of Big Macs and half-empty on sleep. She burped up the taste of beef, and her eyes seemed to glaze over with grease as she went round and round on the painted porcelain horses.

Audrey collapsed on the beach afterwards. Georgia sat next to her. They stared at the neon city.

“Well, anything yet?” asked Georgia.

“I feel sick,” said Audrey.

Georgia laughed from her belly. “At least you feel something.”

“I saw Lex,” said Audrey. She stared at the sky. The stars and city seemed the same.

“How about that? How was he?” asked Georgia.

“He was at Sears,” said Audrey.

“That doesn’t sound like him,” said Georgia.

“I wasn’t sure it was him,” replied Audrey. She heaved her lungs. She wasn’t sure if she would throw up. “No nose ring. Tattoos covered up.” She pointed right above her heart on her chest. “I only knew because I saw his name tag. And I went the other way.”

“That’s a shame.”

Audrey nodded. “He was brilliant.”

“And now he’s working at Sears?” said Georgia.

“Yeah, Sears,” said Audrey.

Georgia laughed. “Brilliant but a dumbass. He once spent three days strung out on coke.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to worry. You just don’t have to do coke.”

“Maybe,” said Audrey. She yawned. At least, she got a little rest in the car and in the club. She knew that she probably would have collapsed from exhaustion hours ago if not for her friend. “If I fall asleep here on the beach, will you watch my shoes?”

“Yeah, I’ll watch your shoes.”

It was there somewhere around the edges. Audrey knew it. She just needed to color it in.

Whoaaaaa! Awesome!

Actually I have pink eye....Who the fuck gets pink eye these days?

close up shop, now that dmd is here?

shame in way... really thought Aaron might have made it in as well...
edit: and where's dresden, irish and bootaaay?

__________________________________________

Final Entry list
_______________________


itsinmyveins - A different kind of brush
Ward - Surly Mind Lords with
ZephyrFate - The Dream Metropolis
Tim the Wiz - Cauldron
Ashes1396 - “Be good and merry” or “a road unwalked.”
Blue Submarine No. 6 - On the Dig: Beothuk Village 1984
ronito - Colors
AnkitT - Shades
Timedog - Neon Maniacs
John Dunbar - Beyond the Pale
crops55 - The Last Shade of Gray
crowphoenix - Watery Eyes
Tangent - Blue Rug
Cyan - Impulse Control
DumbNameD - Better Late Than Never


Good night, and good luck!
_____________________________________________________________________

Haha, I can imagine dumbnamed had a face-splitting grin as he slid that lil piece of the puzzle in. Some of you guys have an incredibly acute sense for pacing and casual tone. Color me jealous.