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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #92 - "Rejection"
- Thread starter Ashes
- Start date
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*takes a whiff* yep smells like salt water in here. Everybody's going to write salty feel-bad stories, I can feel it. I know I am.
Nah. I'm done with mine but I'm going to wait until the last possible minute to submit it. I hate being the first out.
Also, I turned over a coffee table and knocked over a magazine rack because of this thread. I hope you guys are happy.
It was a bright, sunshiny day at the old Smith farm. Old man Smith and his wife had left to visit their grandchildren and the crops were having a party in the barn. Mr. Corn was making bad jokes. The peas were dancing with the turnips. And everyone wanted to talk to Miss Tomato. Especially Mr. Asparagus.
Mr. Asparagus was standing outside the barn looking at the others having fun. He wanted to ask Miss Tomato to dance. But he was afraid. What if she said no? Mr. Asparagus decided to be brave and went into the barn. The barn went quiet as he made his way to where Miss Tomato was talking with Miss Carrot and Miss Pepper.
"Excuse me, Miss Tomato would you like to dance?" Mr. Asparagus asked.
Miss Tomato laughed, "With you? Your pee smells."
"Yeah, you should go and dance with Miss Brocolli she smells like poop." Miss Pepper chortled.
"Pee and poo together at last. You deserve each other." Mr. Corn shouted from a corner.
Everyone laughed. That made Mr. Asparagus sad and he began to cry. That only made the other plants laugh harder. Mr. Asparagus ran away.
He ran and ran until he found Old man Smith's tool shed. Mr. Asparagus ran inside. It was there where he found the answer to his problem.
The next day was even more beautiful. Again the crops gathered in the barn for a party. Again the popular crops were enjoying themselves. And again Mr. Asparagus stood outside looking into the barn. After a few minutes Mr. Asparagus put on a backpack and entered the barn.
"Hey look everyone! It's Mr. As-pee-agus!" Mr. Corn shouted. Everyone laughed.
Mr. Asaparagus laughed a little too, "I brought all of you a present."
"A present? Is it fertilizer?" Asked Miss Pepper.
"No." said Mr. Asparagus.
"Is it plant food?" Asked Mr. Turnip.
"No." said Mr. Asparagus.
"Is it bottled water?" Asked Miss Tomato.
"No." said Mr. Asparagus
"Well, what is it As-pee-agus?" Asked Mr. Corn.
Mr. Asparagus reached into his back pack and pulled out a long spraying wand and a gas mask.
"Herbicide" said Mr. Asparagus.
Mr. Asparagus put on the gas mask and began to spray. The other plants ran around looking for a way out but Mr. Asparagus was a smart vegetable and he had blocked all the doors except for the one where he stood raining chemical death.
They had laughed at him while he cried but they screamed as they died.
The herbicide worked very well. In little more than a minute they were all dead.
Mr Asparagus was happy. He did a little dance around the barn. He stopped when he saw someone standing in the door way.
Miss Broccoli looked at all the dead vegetables on the floor and at Mr. Asparagus who was still holding the herbicide sprayer.
"You killed them." Miss Broccoli said looking around. "You killed them all."
Mr. Asparagus was a little worried. He did not know what Miss Broccoli would do.
Miss Broccoli looked down at was left of Miss Tomato and then looked back at Mr. Asparagus.
"Good." She said smiling.
Mr. Asparagus smiled too. He knew he and Miss Broccoli would be great friends. And they were.
Mr. Asparagus was standing outside the barn looking at the others having fun. He wanted to ask Miss Tomato to dance. But he was afraid. What if she said no? Mr. Asparagus decided to be brave and went into the barn. The barn went quiet as he made his way to where Miss Tomato was talking with Miss Carrot and Miss Pepper.
"Excuse me, Miss Tomato would you like to dance?" Mr. Asparagus asked.
Miss Tomato laughed, "With you? Your pee smells."
"Yeah, you should go and dance with Miss Brocolli she smells like poop." Miss Pepper chortled.
"Pee and poo together at last. You deserve each other." Mr. Corn shouted from a corner.
Everyone laughed. That made Mr. Asparagus sad and he began to cry. That only made the other plants laugh harder. Mr. Asparagus ran away.
He ran and ran until he found Old man Smith's tool shed. Mr. Asparagus ran inside. It was there where he found the answer to his problem.
The next day was even more beautiful. Again the crops gathered in the barn for a party. Again the popular crops were enjoying themselves. And again Mr. Asparagus stood outside looking into the barn. After a few minutes Mr. Asparagus put on a backpack and entered the barn.
"Hey look everyone! It's Mr. As-pee-agus!" Mr. Corn shouted. Everyone laughed.
Mr. Asaparagus laughed a little too, "I brought all of you a present."
"A present? Is it fertilizer?" Asked Miss Pepper.
"No." said Mr. Asparagus.
"Is it plant food?" Asked Mr. Turnip.
"No." said Mr. Asparagus.
"Is it bottled water?" Asked Miss Tomato.
"No." said Mr. Asparagus
"Well, what is it As-pee-agus?" Asked Mr. Corn.
Mr. Asparagus reached into his back pack and pulled out a long spraying wand and a gas mask.
"Herbicide" said Mr. Asparagus.
Mr. Asparagus put on the gas mask and began to spray. The other plants ran around looking for a way out but Mr. Asparagus was a smart vegetable and he had blocked all the doors except for the one where he stood raining chemical death.
They had laughed at him while he cried but they screamed as they died.
The herbicide worked very well. In little more than a minute they were all dead.
Mr Asparagus was happy. He did a little dance around the barn. He stopped when he saw someone standing in the door way.
Miss Broccoli looked at all the dead vegetables on the floor and at Mr. Asparagus who was still holding the herbicide sprayer.
"You killed them." Miss Broccoli said looking around. "You killed them all."
Mr. Asparagus was a little worried. He did not know what Miss Broccoli would do.
Miss Broccoli looked down at was left of Miss Tomato and then looked back at Mr. Asparagus.
"Good." She said smiling.
Mr. Asparagus smiled too. He knew he and Miss Broccoli would be great friends. And they were.
This is random, but I just spent the night going back through writing threads reading over stuff. I can tell that you guys made me a much better writer and thinker. I wrote a lot of genre fiction when I first started entering and now I write the most random ass science fiction I could imagine. My first couple pieces were the standard fantasy fare and then I started doing these really weird staccato sentence pieces and then I just started doing... I don't even know what to call it, but it was this weird ass shit. Critiques have definitely helped me as a writer. Hell, I can even approach fantasy stories with a completely different mindset now.
In other words, I'm going to knock over a magazine rack tomorrow in preparation for this 600 word masterpiece I'm about to post up.
In other words, I'm going to knock over a magazine rack tomorrow in preparation for this 600 word masterpiece I'm about to post up.
John Dunbar
correct about everything
i wrote something which can laughably be called a story. 430 words and still manages to be totally incoherent. this writing thing ain't going too well recently.
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYY!!!!RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE
Moving Up
Word Count: 1,999
The street glistened with rain as Jason walked to the restaurant. Reflections winked at him from black puddles like a million distant stars. The storm had been sudden and severe but now only a light drizzle remained.
The drip-drop of the rain seemed to whisper a solemn eulogy for the downpour that had preceded it.
It seemed fitting.
Jason felt all the sorrow of a mourner as he continued on to the end of the street where he could see the neon sign that bore the name of the restaurant, "Schuler's."
He peered in through the window to see his paramour waiting for him at a table. Suddenly he felt as though he might break down and weep in the busy city street.
***
Phones rang, fingers tapped away on keyboards, and papers were shuffled here and there in the busy office. The dull hum of the single window AC unit reverberated off the clay-colored walls and deep into the recesses of his mind as Jason struggled to pay attention to the work in front of him.
His manager had assigned him another tedious marketing report. Jason was astounded to find that yet again, it was even more vapid than the one that had preceded it. Perhaps that was why he continued to work at this soulless insurance firm; no matter how mundane, monotonous and unsurprising his job seemed, Jason could always count on a task put before him to test his mental stability more than the last. As he thought about it, he decided it was usually the most interesting part of his day.
Glancing up from his work, a woman caught his eye.
Time seemed to slow down as she walked toward his desk. Her red skirt ended right above her knees, giving the slightest hint at her upper thighs. Her top nestled her breasts in a way that seemed to emanate vivacity with every step she took. Her deep chestnut hair had a natural curl on the end that caused it to sway back and forth as she walked. The once dull lighting of the office space seemed to gleam off of her amber eyes like twilight. She was intoxicating, yet she carried herself with an ample amount of grace that could make a man rethink his entire life just to find a place in it for her.
Her name was Tamira.
"Are we having lunch, Jay?" she asked as she stood at his desk.
Jason looked up at her and suddenly felt like a small boy.
"Oh I'm actually supposed to be meeting Francis. We're going to Coney."
She seemed annoyed.
"Why do you hang out with him so much? Did you know that Sherri heard he's gay?"
Jason felt his face turn red.
"No I hadn't."
Straightening up in his chair, Jason continued.
"All that girl does is gossip anyway. She's always talking shit about someone. And besides, what does it matter if he's gay?"
She glanced at the ceiling and put her hand on her hip as she pondered the question for a minute.
"I guess it doesn't really. But if he is gay, he won't be around here long."
She leaned in and rubbed his shoulder playfully.
"Besides, I want you to come hang out with me sometimes. I miss you Jay."
He sighed.
"I know, I miss you too. I'm sorry Tammy, but I've just been so busy lately. How about dinner tonight? It will give us a good chance to discuss... where we want to go with this."
She smiled, and suddenly the room didn't seem so bland.
"It's a date," she said as she began to make her way back to her desk.
Jason watched her hips sway back and forth as she walked away. Even he couldn't help but admire her beauty. Yet he wasn't sure how he felt about her. She made him happy, but in a different way than she should. I guess we'll see how dinner goes, he thought to himself.
***
Jason approached his manager's office with a few butterflies in his stomach. In his left hand he held the completed marketing reports that he had been assigned earlier that week. His right hand, overcome by nerves, was lightly shaking as he attempted to wipe his sweaty palm on his pant leg.
The door was distinctive in the drab, paste-colored cubicle room from which it protected the manager's office. Jason inspected the rich mahogany color and the elegant texture as he knocked and waited for a reply.
"Come in, Jason," his manager called from the other side of the door.
Jason obeyed.
Stepping into the office he was taken aback by the glare of the sun through the large bay window that stood on the opposite side of his manager's desk. The office itself seemed a lavish atrium compared to the dank cellar that housed Jason's cubicle.
The deep blue walls accented the natural light that was brightening the room. A vibrant fish tank sat along the wall to his right. Jason glanced over at it to admire the multi-colored fish that flourished behind the glass.
At the center of the room was the desk. The same deep mahogany of the door, it seemed to be at last seven feet across. Seated at it was Mr. Rivine, the manager of marketing. His head was balding and his plump cheeks sported a copiously-trimmed beard. Mr. Rivine was not a small man, but he seemed a dwarf seated behind the massive desk. The scene reminded Jason of his childhood.
Suddenly he recalled entering his father's home office in shame whenever he had done something that he shouldn't. He remembered the disappointment on his father's face as he looked up from the papers he had so often poured over at his mammoth of a desk. Jason had looked forward to being an adult and having his own papers to pour over. He had looked forward to no longer having to answer to his father. He had looked forward to no longer having to be in the situation he found himself in now. Funny how things turn out, he thought.
"Mr. Rivine, I've finished this week's marketing report," Jason said courteously as he held up the stack of papers in his left hand.
Mr. Rivine looked up from his desk with a smile.
"Splendid, Jason."
His face quickly became stern.
"But I'm afraid that isn't why I've asked to speak with you today," he continued. "Please, take a seat."
Jason obeyed.
"Your email did seem a bit more serious, sir."
"Indeed. Let me start by saying that I've always thought of you as a man with strong character, Jason. A man with a great work ethic and a great respect for the rules that make this company work. Am I right to think of you that way?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Good. Recently the decision has been made to make me a partner, Jason, which means that I will be moving upstairs."
Jason shifted in his chair uncomfortably.
"Congratulations, sir."
"Thank you," Mr. Rivine nodded. "But that leaves me with the task of choosing my replacement. I want you to know that I've had my eye on you."
Mr. Rivine folded his hands on the desk in front of him.
"But I'm presented with a problem. It's come to my attention that your relationship with Ms. Ruben is... more than professional. As you know, our firm has strict rules governing romantic involvement between our employees. That being that it is strictly forbidden."
Jason attempted to chuckle away his nerves.
"Well yes, sir, Tamira and I were romantically involved for a time. But that was when I first started here. It was a mistake, I know. But after a few dates with her I realized that I needed to put my career first. I haven't seen her romantically since."
Mr. Rivine's face eased up.
"That's good to hear, Jason. Well then, if your relationship with Ms. Ruben is no longer a concern, I will put your name forward for my suggested replacement."
Jason couldn't help but smile. All of his hard work had paid off. Finally he would move up to the job he knew he deserved. Finally his mindless droning over marketing report after marketing report would bear fruit.
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it so much."
"Of course, Jason. But don't thank me. You've earned this for yourself. Oh, and I'll also have to suggest a replacement for your marketing position when you move into this office. I know you've been close with some of the interns, who would you like?"
Jason responded without even thinking about it.
"Francis Shepard would be perfect for the job, sir."
Mr. Rivine shook his head sadly.
"Oh I'm afraid that won't be possible. We've recently become aware that Mr. Shepard has been seen out... with other men, if you understand my meaning. Unfortunately we can't pursue his career here any longer. Once the decision goes through H-R, he'll be let go."
"Let go? He's not gay, sir. And even if he were, he can't be fired over that."
"The partners have heard a different tale I'm afraid," Mr. Rivine replied. "And he won't really be fired, just let go. Since he is an unpaid intern, he technically isn't employed here anyway. So really, he just won't be offered a job at the end of his internship."
"But that's not right!" Jason felt his face turning red.
Mr. Rivine seemed surprised.
"Well it might not be right, but it's what the partners want. You see we have quite a few shareholders who feel very strongly about family values. They don't look favorably upon homosexuals who flaunt their perverse lifestyle. Employees represent this firm as much as they do themselves."
Jason slouched in his chair, defeated.
"I know it may be tough to swallow, Jason," Mr. Rivine continued. "But remember, this is your chance to move up in this firm. Mr. Shepard will find another job at another firm, I'm sure of it." He chuckled. "Your focus now should be on how you'll decorate this office. I'm afraid the fish tank comes with me."
Jason nodded solemnly.
***
Jason stood out in the street staring in through the window at his love. He swallowed his sorrows and entered the restaurant.
Francis was seated at a table near a fireplace. His face lit up when he saw Jason.
"Hey Jay!"
Francis stood up and made to kiss him, but Jason sat down abruptly instead.
"What's the matter?" Francis asked as he joined him at the table.
Jason sat in silence for a moment, staring at his silverware.
"I can't do this anymore."
Francis's lip quivered and he folded his hands in front of him.
"What did I do?"
Jason shook his head and fidgeted in his seat.
"It isn't anything you've done. It's me. I'm not gay, Francis. This isn't me. I can't continue to lead you on like this."
Francis slammed his fist on the table.
"Don't you say that!" he seethed.
The rest of the conversation was a blur. Francis went on about how Jason had told him he loved him; about how Jason had opened up to him about his feelings for men; about how Jason had told him he was the only person he could talk to about his feelings; about how Jason was going to quit his job at the firm to become an artist; about how they had planned to live the rest of their lives together.
"You are gay," Francis exclaimed, "you're just too spineless to admit it."
He stood up and put on his coat.
"Well I hope you move up in that fascist fucking firm you hate so much."
Francis stormed out of the restaurant, leaving Jason sitting in a deafening silence. For a while, Jason sat there as steady streams of tears crawled down his face. He could hear the drip-drop of the light rain outside, still singing its solemn eulogy.
It seemed fitting.
Word Count: 1,999
The street glistened with rain as Jason walked to the restaurant. Reflections winked at him from black puddles like a million distant stars. The storm had been sudden and severe but now only a light drizzle remained.
The drip-drop of the rain seemed to whisper a solemn eulogy for the downpour that had preceded it.
It seemed fitting.
Jason felt all the sorrow of a mourner as he continued on to the end of the street where he could see the neon sign that bore the name of the restaurant, "Schuler's."
He peered in through the window to see his paramour waiting for him at a table. Suddenly he felt as though he might break down and weep in the busy city street.
***
Phones rang, fingers tapped away on keyboards, and papers were shuffled here and there in the busy office. The dull hum of the single window AC unit reverberated off the clay-colored walls and deep into the recesses of his mind as Jason struggled to pay attention to the work in front of him.
His manager had assigned him another tedious marketing report. Jason was astounded to find that yet again, it was even more vapid than the one that had preceded it. Perhaps that was why he continued to work at this soulless insurance firm; no matter how mundane, monotonous and unsurprising his job seemed, Jason could always count on a task put before him to test his mental stability more than the last. As he thought about it, he decided it was usually the most interesting part of his day.
Glancing up from his work, a woman caught his eye.
Time seemed to slow down as she walked toward his desk. Her red skirt ended right above her knees, giving the slightest hint at her upper thighs. Her top nestled her breasts in a way that seemed to emanate vivacity with every step she took. Her deep chestnut hair had a natural curl on the end that caused it to sway back and forth as she walked. The once dull lighting of the office space seemed to gleam off of her amber eyes like twilight. She was intoxicating, yet she carried herself with an ample amount of grace that could make a man rethink his entire life just to find a place in it for her.
Her name was Tamira.
"Are we having lunch, Jay?" she asked as she stood at his desk.
Jason looked up at her and suddenly felt like a small boy.
"Oh I'm actually supposed to be meeting Francis. We're going to Coney."
She seemed annoyed.
"Why do you hang out with him so much? Did you know that Sherri heard he's gay?"
Jason felt his face turn red.
"No I hadn't."
Straightening up in his chair, Jason continued.
"All that girl does is gossip anyway. She's always talking shit about someone. And besides, what does it matter if he's gay?"
She glanced at the ceiling and put her hand on her hip as she pondered the question for a minute.
"I guess it doesn't really. But if he is gay, he won't be around here long."
She leaned in and rubbed his shoulder playfully.
"Besides, I want you to come hang out with me sometimes. I miss you Jay."
He sighed.
"I know, I miss you too. I'm sorry Tammy, but I've just been so busy lately. How about dinner tonight? It will give us a good chance to discuss... where we want to go with this."
She smiled, and suddenly the room didn't seem so bland.
"It's a date," she said as she began to make her way back to her desk.
Jason watched her hips sway back and forth as she walked away. Even he couldn't help but admire her beauty. Yet he wasn't sure how he felt about her. She made him happy, but in a different way than she should. I guess we'll see how dinner goes, he thought to himself.
***
Jason approached his manager's office with a few butterflies in his stomach. In his left hand he held the completed marketing reports that he had been assigned earlier that week. His right hand, overcome by nerves, was lightly shaking as he attempted to wipe his sweaty palm on his pant leg.
The door was distinctive in the drab, paste-colored cubicle room from which it protected the manager's office. Jason inspected the rich mahogany color and the elegant texture as he knocked and waited for a reply.
"Come in, Jason," his manager called from the other side of the door.
Jason obeyed.
Stepping into the office he was taken aback by the glare of the sun through the large bay window that stood on the opposite side of his manager's desk. The office itself seemed a lavish atrium compared to the dank cellar that housed Jason's cubicle.
The deep blue walls accented the natural light that was brightening the room. A vibrant fish tank sat along the wall to his right. Jason glanced over at it to admire the multi-colored fish that flourished behind the glass.
At the center of the room was the desk. The same deep mahogany of the door, it seemed to be at last seven feet across. Seated at it was Mr. Rivine, the manager of marketing. His head was balding and his plump cheeks sported a copiously-trimmed beard. Mr. Rivine was not a small man, but he seemed a dwarf seated behind the massive desk. The scene reminded Jason of his childhood.
Suddenly he recalled entering his father's home office in shame whenever he had done something that he shouldn't. He remembered the disappointment on his father's face as he looked up from the papers he had so often poured over at his mammoth of a desk. Jason had looked forward to being an adult and having his own papers to pour over. He had looked forward to no longer having to answer to his father. He had looked forward to no longer having to be in the situation he found himself in now. Funny how things turn out, he thought.
"Mr. Rivine, I've finished this week's marketing report," Jason said courteously as he held up the stack of papers in his left hand.
Mr. Rivine looked up from his desk with a smile.
"Splendid, Jason."
His face quickly became stern.
"But I'm afraid that isn't why I've asked to speak with you today," he continued. "Please, take a seat."
Jason obeyed.
"Your email did seem a bit more serious, sir."
"Indeed. Let me start by saying that I've always thought of you as a man with strong character, Jason. A man with a great work ethic and a great respect for the rules that make this company work. Am I right to think of you that way?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Good. Recently the decision has been made to make me a partner, Jason, which means that I will be moving upstairs."
Jason shifted in his chair uncomfortably.
"Congratulations, sir."
"Thank you," Mr. Rivine nodded. "But that leaves me with the task of choosing my replacement. I want you to know that I've had my eye on you."
Mr. Rivine folded his hands on the desk in front of him.
"But I'm presented with a problem. It's come to my attention that your relationship with Ms. Ruben is... more than professional. As you know, our firm has strict rules governing romantic involvement between our employees. That being that it is strictly forbidden."
Jason attempted to chuckle away his nerves.
"Well yes, sir, Tamira and I were romantically involved for a time. But that was when I first started here. It was a mistake, I know. But after a few dates with her I realized that I needed to put my career first. I haven't seen her romantically since."
Mr. Rivine's face eased up.
"That's good to hear, Jason. Well then, if your relationship with Ms. Ruben is no longer a concern, I will put your name forward for my suggested replacement."
Jason couldn't help but smile. All of his hard work had paid off. Finally he would move up to the job he knew he deserved. Finally his mindless droning over marketing report after marketing report would bear fruit.
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it so much."
"Of course, Jason. But don't thank me. You've earned this for yourself. Oh, and I'll also have to suggest a replacement for your marketing position when you move into this office. I know you've been close with some of the interns, who would you like?"
Jason responded without even thinking about it.
"Francis Shepard would be perfect for the job, sir."
Mr. Rivine shook his head sadly.
"Oh I'm afraid that won't be possible. We've recently become aware that Mr. Shepard has been seen out... with other men, if you understand my meaning. Unfortunately we can't pursue his career here any longer. Once the decision goes through H-R, he'll be let go."
"Let go? He's not gay, sir. And even if he were, he can't be fired over that."
"The partners have heard a different tale I'm afraid," Mr. Rivine replied. "And he won't really be fired, just let go. Since he is an unpaid intern, he technically isn't employed here anyway. So really, he just won't be offered a job at the end of his internship."
"But that's not right!" Jason felt his face turning red.
Mr. Rivine seemed surprised.
"Well it might not be right, but it's what the partners want. You see we have quite a few shareholders who feel very strongly about family values. They don't look favorably upon homosexuals who flaunt their perverse lifestyle. Employees represent this firm as much as they do themselves."
Jason slouched in his chair, defeated.
"I know it may be tough to swallow, Jason," Mr. Rivine continued. "But remember, this is your chance to move up in this firm. Mr. Shepard will find another job at another firm, I'm sure of it." He chuckled. "Your focus now should be on how you'll decorate this office. I'm afraid the fish tank comes with me."
Jason nodded solemnly.
***
Jason stood out in the street staring in through the window at his love. He swallowed his sorrows and entered the restaurant.
Francis was seated at a table near a fireplace. His face lit up when he saw Jason.
"Hey Jay!"
Francis stood up and made to kiss him, but Jason sat down abruptly instead.
"What's the matter?" Francis asked as he joined him at the table.
Jason sat in silence for a moment, staring at his silverware.
"I can't do this anymore."
Francis's lip quivered and he folded his hands in front of him.
"What did I do?"
Jason shook his head and fidgeted in his seat.
"It isn't anything you've done. It's me. I'm not gay, Francis. This isn't me. I can't continue to lead you on like this."
Francis slammed his fist on the table.
"Don't you say that!" he seethed.
The rest of the conversation was a blur. Francis went on about how Jason had told him he loved him; about how Jason had opened up to him about his feelings for men; about how Jason had told him he was the only person he could talk to about his feelings; about how Jason was going to quit his job at the firm to become an artist; about how they had planned to live the rest of their lives together.
"You are gay," Francis exclaimed, "you're just too spineless to admit it."
He stood up and put on his coat.
"Well I hope you move up in that fascist fucking firm you hate so much."
Francis stormed out of the restaurant, leaving Jason sitting in a deafening silence. For a while, Jason sat there as steady streams of tears crawled down his face. He could hear the drip-drop of the light rain outside, still singing its solemn eulogy.
It seemed fitting.
I'm just catching up with you maniacs. This thread is crackign me up. I'm sitting here at work LOLFRing, especially when I read, "BECAUSE YOU USED THE WRONG FORM OF THERE YOU BASTARD!! ARRRRRR!!" and, later, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYY!!!!"
Maniacs! Too funny. Somehow, we should turn our thread into a short story.
Maniacs! Too funny. Somehow, we should turn our thread into a short story.
The Blips
word count: 1,922
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/61429030/TheBlips.pdf
Password is the usual shared one.
word count: 1,922
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/61429030/TheBlips.pdf
Password is the usual shared one.
Can someone pm me the password so I can read the .pdfs? Or is it posted somewhere?
the password is neogaf
Can someone pm me the password so I can read the .pdfs? Or is it posted somewhere?
the password is RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGEEEE!!!!
Today's the deadline friends. And you know how that makes me feel...
... like Ed Norton?
... like Ed Norton?
I don't know, is he AAANNNNNNNNGGGGRRRRYYYYYYYY?
John Dunbar
correct about everything
Courage Equal to Desire
Beyond the clash of the cymbal, beyond the child christened in a petri dish, a new reality reared its head, a reality that rejected all attempts to define it with household words. Sewn together with the bits and pieces of the past, the patchwork quilt of that new mode of existence was of timeless design. No longer could one understand how conscious creatures came to terms with their own being, how one occupied a place in time and space. So odd it seemed, so transient and so light, that finally the body was ready to float as untethered as the mind.
Rendition of Rejection, Slapstick Slapdash Slapstick & Co., Riffing with the Yiffers etc. etc.
Three dots over the door marked the place. Time had come to find out what life had to offer a young man in the old city. Old and big and busy, full of light and dark, depending on your mood. The mood of the city itself was always the same, the bored countenance of something that had seen it all too many times to be bothered or to even care, but the lighting made all the difference.
No knocks and no rings, just entering and shivering. Shivering in the vestibule from the cold and the nerves. Enter in to find a thrill. Whatever you will, even a kill. Pull yourself up and touch the frame with your chin. Strength is all you need. We are discreet. Indeed, indeed, what about the feet? Shards of glass on the street.
Chin up. Bend the knee and greet the host. All you want she will give. All you need you won't keep. No need for needs in the secret halls of shame. A price is named and a price is paid, let loose the hounds that bury your sorrows in the sand. Build a castle with a moat or dig a little hole just for you and yours. Wait for the tide.
It was an Italian countryside, one year ago today. It is still an Italian countryside today. Wind and rain have not scarred the landscape. It is only the people who reject places, and then places reject people.
Places were fed up with people.
The young man was being fed. If you feel the great love of your life remains undiscovered, look no further. The important thing is that no one will get hurt. No one who pays.
You fuck those bitches, Rocco! You fuck 'em good!
So satiated and so serene. Such release. Such revelation. Such remorse. Body and soul marred, rejected.
Beyond the clash of the cymbal, beyond the child christened in a petri dish, a new reality reared its head, a reality that rejected all attempts to define it with household words. Sewn together with the bits and pieces of the past, the patchwork quilt of that new mode of existence was of timeless design. No longer could one understand how conscious creatures came to terms with their own being, how one occupied a place in time and space. So odd it seemed, so transient and so light, that finally the body was ready to float as untethered as the mind.
Rendition of Rejection, Slapstick Slapdash Slapstick & Co., Riffing with the Yiffers etc. etc.
Three dots over the door marked the place. Time had come to find out what life had to offer a young man in the old city. Old and big and busy, full of light and dark, depending on your mood. The mood of the city itself was always the same, the bored countenance of something that had seen it all too many times to be bothered or to even care, but the lighting made all the difference.
No knocks and no rings, just entering and shivering. Shivering in the vestibule from the cold and the nerves. Enter in to find a thrill. Whatever you will, even a kill. Pull yourself up and touch the frame with your chin. Strength is all you need. We are discreet. Indeed, indeed, what about the feet? Shards of glass on the street.
Chin up. Bend the knee and greet the host. All you want she will give. All you need you won't keep. No need for needs in the secret halls of shame. A price is named and a price is paid, let loose the hounds that bury your sorrows in the sand. Build a castle with a moat or dig a little hole just for you and yours. Wait for the tide.
It was an Italian countryside, one year ago today. It is still an Italian countryside today. Wind and rain have not scarred the landscape. It is only the people who reject places, and then places reject people.
Places were fed up with people.
The young man was being fed. If you feel the great love of your life remains undiscovered, look no further. The important thing is that no one will get hurt. No one who pays.
You fuck those bitches, Rocco! You fuck 'em good!
So satiated and so serene. Such release. Such revelation. Such remorse. Body and soul marred, rejected.
Erasure
http://tinypaste.com/af69cc2e
Todd sighed and stared at the slip of paper he held in his hand. A small red "denied" was stamped on it below a statement that read:
Application to perform an erasure of TODD WILLIAMS' copied and transferred consciousness.
http://tinypaste.com/af69cc2e
British Monsoon
Member
Jacob slept, and as he slept the creature oozed and squelched it's way up the side of his bed, slimy trail left in it's wake. As it's dark, inky black form touched the skin of Jacob's arm, he shuddered in his slumber. It's front end raised, splitting into a gaping maw that appeared to taste at the air, waiting until Jacob fell back into a deeper sleep before continuing it's journey across his arm, up his chin and, with one sudden, slithering movement, in to his nose. Jacob shuddered once, twice, and then was still, his eyelids rapidly flickering open and closed to reveal the ivory whites of his eyes, rolled deep back into his head.
The creature that was Jacob awoke, enshrouded under the covers of the bed. Its eyes roved madly about the room, taking in detail and confirming its designation and purpose. Dresser, wooden construct for the purposes of storage. Painting, dried, coloured liquid applied to a canvas substrate to provide visual ornamentation. Door, portal through which entry to other areas is gained via manipulation of an attached mechanism, designated handle. It then attempted to delve deeper into its thoughts. It was Jacob. This was its dwelling. It called itself human. But, alarmingly, there was a sizable portion of its thoughts that could not be accessed at will, yet came to mind when confronted with the relevant stimuli. Wardrobe, a wooden container of clothes, material coverings for the sake of societal modesty.
With jerking movements, the creature launched itself wildly from the bed, crashing to the floor and, in the process, experiencing a surprising sensation. Pain, a stimulation of nervous fibres through physical trauma. After much difficulty, the creature rose unsteadily to its legs, swaying as it attempted to gain its balance. Tentatively, it raised one foot after the other and proceeded to walk towards the wardrobe, donning clothes hastily before walking towards the door. It stared at the handle for a moment, before extending fumbling fingers to grip the mechanism and turn it counter-clockwise. The door didnt open. Clearly some other manipulation was required, so the creature tried pushing against the door with the handle still turned, ramming its body against the wood before bouncing back, door swinging open furiously with the force of the motion.
The creature stared at the strange world of concrete and metal that stretched out before it as light shone through the open door and a cool breeze billowed into the apartment. Up above, masses of vapourised liquid floated across a blue sky, light from the high end of the visible spectrum reflected through particles in the atmosphere to tint it such a colour. Down below, beings scurried purposefully, ambulating down the sidewalks and speeding by in wheeled mechanical boxes made of metal, each being moving onward for seemingly important, yet individual purposes. The creature strode from the apartment, leaving the door wide open behind it and went down to join the masses.
As it walked among them the creature eagerly observed the beings, who passed by with barely a glance in its direction. He noted that, when collected together, the beings regularly manipulated their sustenance orifices, projecting sound from within, presumably in some primitive form of communication. The creature attempted this experimentally, drawing attention from the passers by. Some held small electronic devices, connected to their auditory passageways via strands of wound metal, while others consumed liquid from coarse and synthetic, heat insulating containers.
Approaching a juncture that intersected the tracks upon which the wheeled boxes sped, the beings stopped before a glowing red light, standing in ceremonious order. The creature stood with them until, when the light turned suddenly green, the wheeled boxes stopped and the beings crossed over tracks. The creature followed with the tide and continued its exploration, but before long began to feel something. Deep inside the centre of its form was a gnawing, insistent sort of feeling that demanded attention, and lower still, the creatures insides churned and grumbled angrily, threating action
But, in spite of instructions to cease, its body reacted of its own volition and the upper back of its legs were suddenly coated in a warm and pungent substance expelled from another of its many orifices. The creature could only presume that this was a waste product from the digestive process, but judging from the distance the beings were now keeping from it, clutching tight at their olfactory protuberances, the creature had clearly broken in social protocol. His insides no longer churned, but still there was the gnawing, empty sensation in the centre of its being.
Quite how such beings survived in bodies that obeyed only certain commands, that were rendered inoperative through sufficient physical trauma, or that had thoughts rise unbidden and unwanted, the creature that was Jacob could only guess. Even now, an unspecified pain was pulsing inside its head, causing the creature to involuntarily double over, clutching with useless fingers at the source. The beings nearby began to gather around as the creature fell to its knees. One being put a hand on its shoulder and the creature looked up, uncomprehending, at a face that babbled noise, questioning, the creature felt. Now the pain was intense. A searing pain, hot and intensifying before, suddenly, exploding. The creature convulsed on the floor, as beings gasped and clutched mechanical devices to their ears, inanely chattering as, for the creature that was Jacob, everything went black.
Crawling, the creature pulled itself from the body that had been Jacob, its ink black form coated in mucus and blood from the cooling corpse. As it fell from the nose and onto a chest that no longer rose and fell with the rhythmic pattern of breathing, the creature recalled all it had learnt. Its exploration had ended much like the others, the host bodies of these beings seemingly incompatible with that of the creatures and expelling it in the same, violent manner. Yet the information gathered would prove invaluable, the creature thought, as its undulating body slithered from the corpse and on to the cold metal table. It squelched across a sheet of paper lying next to the body of its former host as it passed, upon which the two top-most columns read; Name: Jacob Smith, Cause of death: paradoxical cerebral embolism.
The creature that was Jacob awoke, enshrouded under the covers of the bed. Its eyes roved madly about the room, taking in detail and confirming its designation and purpose. Dresser, wooden construct for the purposes of storage. Painting, dried, coloured liquid applied to a canvas substrate to provide visual ornamentation. Door, portal through which entry to other areas is gained via manipulation of an attached mechanism, designated handle. It then attempted to delve deeper into its thoughts. It was Jacob. This was its dwelling. It called itself human. But, alarmingly, there was a sizable portion of its thoughts that could not be accessed at will, yet came to mind when confronted with the relevant stimuli. Wardrobe, a wooden container of clothes, material coverings for the sake of societal modesty.
With jerking movements, the creature launched itself wildly from the bed, crashing to the floor and, in the process, experiencing a surprising sensation. Pain, a stimulation of nervous fibres through physical trauma. After much difficulty, the creature rose unsteadily to its legs, swaying as it attempted to gain its balance. Tentatively, it raised one foot after the other and proceeded to walk towards the wardrobe, donning clothes hastily before walking towards the door. It stared at the handle for a moment, before extending fumbling fingers to grip the mechanism and turn it counter-clockwise. The door didnt open. Clearly some other manipulation was required, so the creature tried pushing against the door with the handle still turned, ramming its body against the wood before bouncing back, door swinging open furiously with the force of the motion.
The creature stared at the strange world of concrete and metal that stretched out before it as light shone through the open door and a cool breeze billowed into the apartment. Up above, masses of vapourised liquid floated across a blue sky, light from the high end of the visible spectrum reflected through particles in the atmosphere to tint it such a colour. Down below, beings scurried purposefully, ambulating down the sidewalks and speeding by in wheeled mechanical boxes made of metal, each being moving onward for seemingly important, yet individual purposes. The creature strode from the apartment, leaving the door wide open behind it and went down to join the masses.
As it walked among them the creature eagerly observed the beings, who passed by with barely a glance in its direction. He noted that, when collected together, the beings regularly manipulated their sustenance orifices, projecting sound from within, presumably in some primitive form of communication. The creature attempted this experimentally, drawing attention from the passers by. Some held small electronic devices, connected to their auditory passageways via strands of wound metal, while others consumed liquid from coarse and synthetic, heat insulating containers.
Approaching a juncture that intersected the tracks upon which the wheeled boxes sped, the beings stopped before a glowing red light, standing in ceremonious order. The creature stood with them until, when the light turned suddenly green, the wheeled boxes stopped and the beings crossed over tracks. The creature followed with the tide and continued its exploration, but before long began to feel something. Deep inside the centre of its form was a gnawing, insistent sort of feeling that demanded attention, and lower still, the creatures insides churned and grumbled angrily, threating action
But, in spite of instructions to cease, its body reacted of its own volition and the upper back of its legs were suddenly coated in a warm and pungent substance expelled from another of its many orifices. The creature could only presume that this was a waste product from the digestive process, but judging from the distance the beings were now keeping from it, clutching tight at their olfactory protuberances, the creature had clearly broken in social protocol. His insides no longer churned, but still there was the gnawing, empty sensation in the centre of its being.
Quite how such beings survived in bodies that obeyed only certain commands, that were rendered inoperative through sufficient physical trauma, or that had thoughts rise unbidden and unwanted, the creature that was Jacob could only guess. Even now, an unspecified pain was pulsing inside its head, causing the creature to involuntarily double over, clutching with useless fingers at the source. The beings nearby began to gather around as the creature fell to its knees. One being put a hand on its shoulder and the creature looked up, uncomprehending, at a face that babbled noise, questioning, the creature felt. Now the pain was intense. A searing pain, hot and intensifying before, suddenly, exploding. The creature convulsed on the floor, as beings gasped and clutched mechanical devices to their ears, inanely chattering as, for the creature that was Jacob, everything went black.
Crawling, the creature pulled itself from the body that had been Jacob, its ink black form coated in mucus and blood from the cooling corpse. As it fell from the nose and onto a chest that no longer rose and fell with the rhythmic pattern of breathing, the creature recalled all it had learnt. Its exploration had ended much like the others, the host bodies of these beings seemingly incompatible with that of the creatures and expelling it in the same, violent manner. Yet the information gathered would prove invaluable, the creature thought, as its undulating body slithered from the corpse and on to the cold metal table. It squelched across a sheet of paper lying next to the body of its former host as it passed, upon which the two top-most columns read; Name: Jacob Smith, Cause of death: paradoxical cerebral embolism.
British Monsoon
Member
lol, 'ew' at the part where
, or just the whole thing in general?
he shits himself
liquidspeed
Member
I know the deadline was today, but I just saw this thread... Im going to try to come up with a no points entry and post it here next week.
"Dealing with the Hand You Are Given" (1251 words)
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/12382966/Dealing%20with%20the%20Hand%20You%20Are%20Given%20(Somatophrenia).pdf
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/12382966/Dealing%20with%20the%20Hand%20You%20Are%20Given%20(Somatophrenia).pdf
John's Inbox (probably like 300 words, who gives a shit?)
John opened his inbox. He had a new message! It was from the company he had interviewed with two weeks prior! After leaving the interview, he had felt confident and elated. He was certain he had established great rapport with both hiring managers and demonstrated his qualifications and ability to perform every duty on the job description. And even better, his old friend Bill, the person who was leaving the company and caused the position to become available, had recommended him personally. John felt optimistic that he would soon be starting a new job.
The email read:
Dear John,
Thank you for your kind email. I apologize for the delay. We have had quite a hectic transition since Bill left, and it has taken us a while to review all of our applicants. It was such a pleasure getting to know you better and learning about your experiences. I sincerely enjoyed interviewing with you. You have many wonderful qualities, and I know that you would be a wonderful addition to any organization.
We were fortunate to interview many excellent applicants for this position, and were faced with the very difficult task of selecting just one. At this time, the position has been filled. The challenging circumstances our foundation is facing compelled us to choose someone with a little more experience. However, please know that you we considered you very seriously, and we will retain your application materials in our files in case this position or another one opens up in the future. I would also like to personally offer my help in any way as you pursue your career. I will certainly send you any information about other career opportunities as they come to me.
Thank you again for your time and effort. I wish you the very best in your artistic and professional career. Please stay in touch and let us know about your activities. I hope we get to see you at some company events as well.
All the best,
Georgina
John opened his desk drawer and pulled out the revolver he had saved for this very occasion. And John blew his brains out.
The End.
John opened his inbox. He had a new message! It was from the company he had interviewed with two weeks prior! After leaving the interview, he had felt confident and elated. He was certain he had established great rapport with both hiring managers and demonstrated his qualifications and ability to perform every duty on the job description. And even better, his old friend Bill, the person who was leaving the company and caused the position to become available, had recommended him personally. John felt optimistic that he would soon be starting a new job.
The email read:
Dear John,
Thank you for your kind email. I apologize for the delay. We have had quite a hectic transition since Bill left, and it has taken us a while to review all of our applicants. It was such a pleasure getting to know you better and learning about your experiences. I sincerely enjoyed interviewing with you. You have many wonderful qualities, and I know that you would be a wonderful addition to any organization.
We were fortunate to interview many excellent applicants for this position, and were faced with the very difficult task of selecting just one. At this time, the position has been filled. The challenging circumstances our foundation is facing compelled us to choose someone with a little more experience. However, please know that you we considered you very seriously, and we will retain your application materials in our files in case this position or another one opens up in the future. I would also like to personally offer my help in any way as you pursue your career. I will certainly send you any information about other career opportunities as they come to me.
Thank you again for your time and effort. I wish you the very best in your artistic and professional career. Please stay in touch and let us know about your activities. I hope we get to see you at some company events as well.
All the best,
Georgina
John opened his desk drawer and pulled out the revolver he had saved for this very occasion. And John blew his brains out.
The End.
I've posted my story in my original reply (post 3).. actually I'm still editing my conclusion (but don't judge me.. just yet)
tidypub link for "Jory's Plagues", 2287 words
NOW you can judge me.
tidypub link for "Jory's Plagues", 2287 words
NOW you can judge me.
Envelope (~1000)
Matthew slid his finger under the flap, tearing the envelope open bit by bit. It was a small envelope. A small envelope, but he still had hope. Size was no guarantee, no matter what they said.
He finished tearing and opened the envelope, hardly daring to breathe.
He paused. Until he pulled out the letter, he still had a chance. Until he pulled out the letter, he was Schrodinger's Applicant--on the one hand college-bound, to his fourth-choice school, granted, but destined for a high-level education, a good job, a better life than that of his parents, or his parents' parents. On the other hand--failure. Drudge work for the rest of his life. Never rising above his origins. And no way to distinguish between the two states, nothing save the direct observation that would determine the course of his future.
Matthew put down the envelope without removing the letter.
*
"Yeah, I keep it around. Why not?" He was being defensive, he knew, but he didn't much care.
"Well, it's just--it's a little silly, isn't it?" The sides of her lips quirked up. Damn, but Melissa looked pretty when she smiled. "A letter that you've never read, that might say you're in or might say you're out of the only school that hadn't yet turned you down? I mean, what's the point? If you're in, you should read the damn thing and go to school. Get out of this shit job. If you're out, what difference does it make? Either way, read or unread, you're not going to school."
"It's the principle of the thing."
"What principle?" Melissa frowned. How could a frown make her look even prettier? "Matthew, there's no principle involved here. It's just you not wanting to be turned down."
"I don't want to give up hope!"
"You call it hope. I call it doubt."
"It's like Schrodinger's--"
"Matthew." She steepled her fingers, elbows on the table. "It's not some scientific experiment."
"Thought experiment."
"Whatever." Her frown deepened. "I mean, think about it this way. What if you did this for other things in your life? Imagine asking out some beautiful, brilliant girl, and she sends you a text to respond, and you never look at it. Is that the spirit of science or whatever, or just cowardice?"
"It's not like that. It's something to hold onto. Something to keep my dreams afloat. To keep the idea going that I might get out of this. That I might change things."
She stood. "Matthew, if your dreams need to be propped up by an envelope, you're doing something wrong."
Matthew watched her retreating form leave the building, head held stiffly, gait smooth.
One of these days, he would ask her out.
*
"What's the worst that could happen? Just apply for the damn job." Jessie took a bite of burger.
"I dunno, Jessie." Matthew sighed, stuck a hand in his pocket.
Jessie, sharp-eyed, caught the gesture. "Damn man, you still carrying around that old envelope? I thought you threw it away." He chuckled.
It wasn't an unkind chuckle, exactly, but Matthew's fingers tightened on the envelope nonetheless. "Nope. Can't throw it away unfinished, can I?"
"So you ever gonna actually read the letter?"
"Not right now."
"Tell you what. Why don't you give it to me, and I'll read it." He held up a hand. "I don't have to tell you what it says. I'm just dying of curiosity here. And if I read it, you can get rid of it since someone will have seen the contents. Right?"
Matthew pulled the envelope from his pocket, clutched it to his chest. "No!"
"Whoa, whoa, calm down." Jessie made a placating gesture. "It was just a thought."
Matthew breathed out. "It was--just, no. All right?"
"All right." Jessie finished off his burger, wiped his fingers and mouth. He looked at Matthew for a moment, brow furrowing. "You're going to apply, right? I'll put in a good word with my boss. It'll be good for you, just the kind of thing you need to launch you out of here. It'll be great, man."
"Yeah. Yeah, I will." Matthew slid his chair back, exchanged nods with Jessie, headed for the door.
He would follow up with Jessie. Apply for the job. He would.
Just--not yet.
*
"I really think you should do it, cuz." Brandon had one of those shit-eating grins on his face. Like he knew something you didn't, and it made him better than you.
"Yeah." Matthew forced a smile.
"No, come on. I mean it. I got in, and you're smarter than me. So you're eight years out of date. Just apply. What's the worst that could happen?"
Matthew frowned.
"Ok, all the schoolds you apply to might reject you, again. But--"
"That's not true." Matthew sat up straighter.
"What?"
"I didn't get turned down by everyone."
Brandon smirked. "Oh, you mean the envelope you saved"--he made air quotes--"'without looking at the contents'? Yeah, that was real cute."
"I'm done with this conversation." He stood.
"Aw, don't be like that, cuz! I'm just trying to help out. No, I mean it! You're always saying you wish you could get out of all this, get a better job. A better life. Well, why not try again? Have another shot?" Brandon somehow contrived to have an expression of earnestness.
Matthew frowned. Try again? Apply to all those schools again, only to be disappointed a second time? Forced to accept the knowledge, the certainty, that he couldn't ever get out, that he couldn't ever improve his lot in life. That he couldn't ever win.
"I'll think about it."
*
Matthew stared down at the envelope. Tattered now, torn. Weathered and time-worn. But the contents, whatever they were, still unchanged and unknown.
He stared down at it, elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands.
Still a black box. Still in balance between hope and despair, victory and failure. Still a machine that Schrodinger would be proud of.
He reached out a hand to the envelope, stroked it. He reached inside, fingered the letter.
For a moment, he just sat there thinking.
Then carefully, reverently, he put it back where it belonged.
Matthew slid his finger under the flap, tearing the envelope open bit by bit. It was a small envelope. A small envelope, but he still had hope. Size was no guarantee, no matter what they said.
He finished tearing and opened the envelope, hardly daring to breathe.
He paused. Until he pulled out the letter, he still had a chance. Until he pulled out the letter, he was Schrodinger's Applicant--on the one hand college-bound, to his fourth-choice school, granted, but destined for a high-level education, a good job, a better life than that of his parents, or his parents' parents. On the other hand--failure. Drudge work for the rest of his life. Never rising above his origins. And no way to distinguish between the two states, nothing save the direct observation that would determine the course of his future.
Matthew put down the envelope without removing the letter.
*
"Yeah, I keep it around. Why not?" He was being defensive, he knew, but he didn't much care.
"Well, it's just--it's a little silly, isn't it?" The sides of her lips quirked up. Damn, but Melissa looked pretty when she smiled. "A letter that you've never read, that might say you're in or might say you're out of the only school that hadn't yet turned you down? I mean, what's the point? If you're in, you should read the damn thing and go to school. Get out of this shit job. If you're out, what difference does it make? Either way, read or unread, you're not going to school."
"It's the principle of the thing."
"What principle?" Melissa frowned. How could a frown make her look even prettier? "Matthew, there's no principle involved here. It's just you not wanting to be turned down."
"I don't want to give up hope!"
"You call it hope. I call it doubt."
"It's like Schrodinger's--"
"Matthew." She steepled her fingers, elbows on the table. "It's not some scientific experiment."
"Thought experiment."
"Whatever." Her frown deepened. "I mean, think about it this way. What if you did this for other things in your life? Imagine asking out some beautiful, brilliant girl, and she sends you a text to respond, and you never look at it. Is that the spirit of science or whatever, or just cowardice?"
"It's not like that. It's something to hold onto. Something to keep my dreams afloat. To keep the idea going that I might get out of this. That I might change things."
She stood. "Matthew, if your dreams need to be propped up by an envelope, you're doing something wrong."
Matthew watched her retreating form leave the building, head held stiffly, gait smooth.
One of these days, he would ask her out.
*
"What's the worst that could happen? Just apply for the damn job." Jessie took a bite of burger.
"I dunno, Jessie." Matthew sighed, stuck a hand in his pocket.
Jessie, sharp-eyed, caught the gesture. "Damn man, you still carrying around that old envelope? I thought you threw it away." He chuckled.
It wasn't an unkind chuckle, exactly, but Matthew's fingers tightened on the envelope nonetheless. "Nope. Can't throw it away unfinished, can I?"
"So you ever gonna actually read the letter?"
"Not right now."
"Tell you what. Why don't you give it to me, and I'll read it." He held up a hand. "I don't have to tell you what it says. I'm just dying of curiosity here. And if I read it, you can get rid of it since someone will have seen the contents. Right?"
Matthew pulled the envelope from his pocket, clutched it to his chest. "No!"
"Whoa, whoa, calm down." Jessie made a placating gesture. "It was just a thought."
Matthew breathed out. "It was--just, no. All right?"
"All right." Jessie finished off his burger, wiped his fingers and mouth. He looked at Matthew for a moment, brow furrowing. "You're going to apply, right? I'll put in a good word with my boss. It'll be good for you, just the kind of thing you need to launch you out of here. It'll be great, man."
"Yeah. Yeah, I will." Matthew slid his chair back, exchanged nods with Jessie, headed for the door.
He would follow up with Jessie. Apply for the job. He would.
Just--not yet.
*
"I really think you should do it, cuz." Brandon had one of those shit-eating grins on his face. Like he knew something you didn't, and it made him better than you.
"Yeah." Matthew forced a smile.
"No, come on. I mean it. I got in, and you're smarter than me. So you're eight years out of date. Just apply. What's the worst that could happen?"
Matthew frowned.
"Ok, all the schoolds you apply to might reject you, again. But--"
"That's not true." Matthew sat up straighter.
"What?"
"I didn't get turned down by everyone."
Brandon smirked. "Oh, you mean the envelope you saved"--he made air quotes--"'without looking at the contents'? Yeah, that was real cute."
"I'm done with this conversation." He stood.
"Aw, don't be like that, cuz! I'm just trying to help out. No, I mean it! You're always saying you wish you could get out of all this, get a better job. A better life. Well, why not try again? Have another shot?" Brandon somehow contrived to have an expression of earnestness.
Matthew frowned. Try again? Apply to all those schools again, only to be disappointed a second time? Forced to accept the knowledge, the certainty, that he couldn't ever get out, that he couldn't ever improve his lot in life. That he couldn't ever win.
"I'll think about it."
*
Matthew stared down at the envelope. Tattered now, torn. Weathered and time-worn. But the contents, whatever they were, still unchanged and unknown.
He stared down at it, elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands.
Still a black box. Still in balance between hope and despair, victory and failure. Still a machine that Schrodinger would be proud of.
He reached out a hand to the envelope, stroked it. He reached inside, fingered the letter.
For a moment, he just sat there thinking.
Then carefully, reverently, he put it back where it belonged.
lol, 'ew' at the part where, or just the whole thing in general?he shits himself
Yeah at the spoiler, haha
1) Timedog
2) ZephyrFate
3) ShockingAlberto
HM: GreenShinobi
What a tease.
Tim the Wiz
Banned
Writing? When you could be playing Mass Effect 3? Suckers.
Writing? When you could be playing Mass Effect 3? Suckers.
You know how that makes me feel?!
FAAAIIIRLLLY AAAAMMMMMMBIVALENT!!!
Indexed for you guys (in alphabetical order no less, i.e. by author):
Indexed for you guys (in alphabetical order no less, i.e. by author):
You need to get your word count in order. I dunno if I am allowed to vote for you if you break the rules, haha
Alfarif has the same number of words as me. Woah.
You need to get your word count in order. I dunno if I am allowed to vote for you if you break the rules, haha
Alfarif has the same number of words as me. Woah.
It's legit.
You need to get your word count in order. I dunno if I am allowed to vote for you if you break the rules, haha
If you don't vote for my story, the next one will be ten times longer. haHA!
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