Theme - "Comedy"

Inspired by a combination of the Challenge number (What do amps go up to, again?), a comment in the last thread about how great (but depressive) the last challenge was, and my long-standing desire to see how some of our resident gurus handle a lighter style, we have "comedy."

I speak only for myself here, but in choosing this theme I do not expect nor necessarily want every story to be funny. Whether it is through setting, character, dialogue, plot, situation, or any other tool at your disposal as a writer, the goal is to engage with the theme not as a genre but as an idea. As a result, while I do hope to see some people let loose a little on this one and hopefully see some new contenders who may find this topic more up their alley, the theme remains as open to interpretation as it's always been.

Word Limit: 1,311

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 7/30 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Thursday, 7/31, and goes until Saturday, 8/2 at 11:59 PM Pacific

Submission Guidelines:

- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge. We don't want a snippet of your doctoral thesis from 1996 being used here.
- One entry per poster. You can submit and then edit if you'd like, but finalizing before submitting is encouraged.
- Spelling and Grammatical errors can be used to great effect when the story, characters, and setting demand it. However, proofreading and spell-checking your writing will probably result in a more positive attitude towards it when people are voting.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged. These challenges get a large number of submissions and if entries share the same title, it's difficult for the readers to separate them out come voting time.
- Any writing style is welcome, but remember that most people are probably going to vote for the well written short story over an elementary acrostic poem.
- There are many ways to interpret the theme for this assignment, we are all writers or wannabe writers, so keep that in mind when writing and critiquing others' works.
- Thousands of people read GAF, so if you don't want some masterpiece of yours to be stolen and seen in Hollywood a year from now, don't post it on here.
- Finally, there is a handy word count checker at www.wordcounttool.com. Nobody wants to be a word count nazi, but please keep your submission under the limit.

Voting Guidelines:

- Anyone can vote, even those that do not submit a piece during the thread.
- Three votes per voter. Please denote in your voting your 1st (3 pts), 2nd (2 pts), and 3rd (1 pt) place votes.
- Please read all submissions before voting, it is only fair to those who put in the effort.
- You must vote in order to be eligible to win the challenge. Critiques/comments are encouraged but not required.
- When the voting period ends, votes will be tallied and the winner will get a collective pat on the back and will be in charge of picking a new topic to write about and pick the word length.
- In the event of a tie, the story with the highest number of first place votes will be declared the winner. If they are still tied after this first tiebreaker, the previous challenge winner will decide any further tie-breaking measures (2nd Place votes, Joint Topic Choice, etc.)

Previous Challenges:

#1 - "The Things Unseen" (Winner: beelzebozo)
#2 - "An Unlikely Pair" (Winner: Aaron)
#3 - "weightless, breathless" (Winner: Azih)
#4 - "On the way" (Winner: DumbNameD)
#5 - "The End" (Winner: Cyan)
#6 - "Playing with Fire" (Winner: Aaron)
#7 - "Something Brutal" (Winner: Ronito)
#8 - "Parasite and Host" (Winner: Aaron)
#9 - "The Seasons" (Winner: ivysaur12)
#10 - "Anniversary" (Winner: Memles)

And the Story Links:

Gattsu25 - "Good Humor"
Timedog - "4 Life"
RumpledForeskin - "The Great Fairy Tale"
Ronito - "Gabriel in the Halls of Heaven"
Cyan - "Shaggy Dog" [1, 2, 3, 4]
Scribble - "Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?"
Memles - "Intervention"
DumbNameD - "Plus One"

Voting ends Saturday Night, folks, so let's at least get plenty of votes in (And for those who didn't participate in the challenge, as always feel free to vote).

Congrats Memles!! It's about time you finally won.

Love the theme, hopefully I'll be able to contribute this time.

ronito said:

Congrats Memles!! It's about time you finally won.

Love the theme, hopefully I'll be able to contribute this time.

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Thank you, and you damn well better! When you popped into the other thread, I realized you hadn't submitted and it was disappointing. In going through the old threads searching for ties, we had a lot more competitors: I don't know if it's bans or busy schedules, but we need to improve that!

Got some time to kill today. Maybe I'll whip something up.

Is this topic in reference to the fact that all of our stories are depressing?

EDIT: Right, this is why I should read the first sentence.

Congratulations. I wasn't able to contribute to the previous thread, but I don't want to lose the good habit I've built up.

The theme's good, although I don't know how to tackle it yet =X

I'm itching to read the first story.

Nice topic.

Good luck, everyone. I'm getting ready for my trip to E3, so I'll have to pass on this one.

Aaron said:

Good luck, everyone. I'm getting ready for my trip to E3, so I'll have to pass on this one.

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Awww, I was looking forward to your entry =/
Have fun.

Good Humor (1,257 MS Word)




It was unusual to see someone wrapped up so tightly but he didn’t really notice. He was busy looking at her hair, her face, and her lips. He, also, didn’t quite know her name yet but he did know that she was the wife of Curtis, his next door neighbor. Now Curtis…well…he’s an abrasive guy, but he seemed to have a good heart and his family’s always seemed happy enough. Curtis works at the quarry down Malfe Blvd., near the town bar, a former truckers’ dive called the Red Axle. It was from meeting Curtis at the Axle that Lou began to suspect that Curtis’ wife might not be as happy as she let on. The first thing that made Lou think this were the “jokes” Curtis often told at the bar. Apparently, Curtis thought there was nothing funnier than a wife getting knocked around, cursed or spat at, and some things which even I refuse to repeat. The second thing made Lou realize that some of Curtis’ “jokes” were likely a retelling of actual events came in the shape of a bruise.

It was on this same day that Lou was sneaking glances at Curtis’ better half, imagining in his mind that he was the man she went home to. Curtis was telling her something that Lou couldn’t hear and Curtis looked visibly agitated. She shook her head at whatever he was telling her, and at that moment he seemed to snarl at her, grabbed onto her arm, and violently yanked at her arm. It was at that moment, when her arm was pulled from her stomach so unexpectedly, when her towel partially unwrapped and Lou was able to see bruise upon darkened bruise covering her chest and stomach. Shocked at the evidence of both present and past violence, Lou’s body immediately tensed. She looked up at Lou and the look on her face was— was it embarrassment he saw? She clutched at the towel and covered herself and walked off, her arm still in the firm grasp of her husband. She didn’t look back to see Lou standing, bewildered and furious, in the sand.





Her armed screamed out in pain during the ride back to her home. Her husband’s mark had been left and she stared at the deepening red beneath the skin of her arm. He was yelling at her, viciously jabbing his knuckles into her side, as he did. She barely flinched. The bruise was deepening and had a thin layer of sticky moisture. He ripped open his door and stomped angrily toward the front door of her home. She climbed out of the truck and was halfway toward the porch before she realized that she forgot her towel on her seat. She ambled back to her door and reached her hand in through the open window, pulling out the towel and the dark sunglasses that sat on her side of the dashboard.

Her son was sitting by the TV as she walked inside, playing on the nintendo with a studious look on his face, the tip of his tongue showing in the corner of his tightly focused mouth. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. She wondered to herself if he was already in the bedroom. She put was cold wet paper towel against the pain in her arm and looked worriedly at her son.

“You did your homework yet?” She asked, bracingly. Nothing. “Did you—“
“Jesus Fucking Christ! You got me killed!” He barked at her, the controller clenched firmly in his hand. He resumed his studying of the screen, as if he had never spoken.

She watched him playing his game, hunched forward with the controller. “Your teacher said you’re a week behind in Math and you failed your last test.”

“She’s a bad teacher, anyway. Nobody passed the last test,” he looks at her now, a look of pure contempt, “so I don’t know why the fuck you’re bugging me, anyway.”

“She called me. You’re the only one that failed the test, hon. She says you’re talking in class all the time and the next time she sees you talking, she’ll give you a detention.” She raises her hand to her head, as if cradling a headache, before continuing. “So turn off the game .. and do your homework.”

“Fuck you, bitch” he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear, without so much as even turning to look at her as he said it. She heard the sound of a chainsaw and a grunt of pain. “FUCK! You got me killed, AGAIN!” he screamed.

Before she could even respond, the controller he was holding cracked, HARD, against her forehead. She grasped at her head in pain and felt a moment of nausea. She reached out with a hand to steady herself against the countertop and nearly fell as her hand slipped against the smooth surface, streaking blood. She put her hand back against her forehead and removed it, it was covered in blood. He was screaming at her, her son, but she didn’t hear what he was saying outside of her (her!) breaking his controller. Her husband came out and asked their son to go into his room for the night, but he didn’t check up on her. Instead, he only tossed a wet rag at her which she used to clean the blood off the countertop, wall, and floor.




An hour later she slips into her darkened bedroom. She walks up to her bed and climbs on top of her husband, her hips inches above his waist. The knife slices the skin just above his adam’s apple and his eyes shoot open with a definable look of panic, terror, and pain. She grasps the back of the blade with her left hand and the handle with her right and she uses the entire weight of her body, leaning over him, pushing deeper and deeper, tearing left and right the deeper she goes. He grasps out at her, weakly, and she smacks his hand aside with the blade of the knife, slicing a deep gash in his palm. As silently as possible, she flips him over onto his stomach and pulls down the tangled and blood drenched sheets. She runs the tip of the knife against the back of his neck down to his lower back, a thin tendril of red forming as she does. She lowers the knife until the tip rests against what he, unaffectionately, called the ‘sweet spot’ and she thrusts, a hard penetrating jabbing motion. His body writhes in agony in response.

“Remember, baby, the pain just means I love you that much more,” she whispers into his ear as she widens the wound over the next few minutes. He stops breathing 15 minutes before she is finished.

She walks out of her room, blood-soaked and wearing a sick grin on her face. She walks down the hall and, loudly, knocks on the last door on the left. She places her wet cold hand on the doorknob. The ghost of her husband’s crude jokes comes to her then and she stifles a laugh. The first laugh she’s ever given to his particular brand of humor. She holds her hand to her mouth to silence her giggling, the cold blood pressing against her crimson lips. She tightens her grip on the knife, in one hand, and the doorknob, in the other.

She silently slips open the door to her son’s room and glides inside with an earnest smile on her face.

Holy crap! with E3 and work I totally forgot this. Only one entry? Seems many of us have.

In that case, why don't we extend it? It would be a shame if we didn't get many entries for this theme.

You all had the same thoughts I did - what works for everyone? Pop it back a week and go from there? That works for me, between Batman, NPD and E3 I'm fairly certain that almost no one got any work done on this.

Memles said:

You all had the same thoughts I did - what works for everyone? Pop it back a week and go from there? That works for me, between Batman, NPD and E3 I'm fairly certain that almost no one got any work done on this.

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Might be a good idea. Don't let this die out!

4 Life

His man came up the stairs wearing his "too swet" briefs, tired from The Disaster, and not expecting anyone to still be in his apartment. Heavy Mony and Metch were taking up each other in the kitchen, giving'er in a heated conversation where the perceived frequency response of cassette tape was being argued to its eventuality. His Man walked to get another beer from the cool place. Metch noticed that His Man haved a swet brown on his britches.

"What happened last night, it looks like you've got a little bit of cookie dough in your trousers." laughed Metch.

"Is that Baby Ruth on your diaper?" said Heavy Mony smiling but trying to hold back laughter.

Those oblivious fools.

His Man turned around to face the duo, still holding a newly opened brew that just tasted "too swet". Pabst Blue Ribbon. He inspected his brefs, which were yellow from sweat after The Disaster (which began over one week ago and will never, ever end). Indeed, a chocolate happened upon this possession of His Man's during the night. His Man must think of what to do now. How was His Man going to get out of this sticky situation? What is possible? His Man is not a robot, but a human being with feelings and the ability to express them. Happy, sad, doubt, kill, grab, sleep- His Man had the ability to express all feeling, even simultaneously.

The.

Mmmmmm, this is a delicious thing. Food and drink are complete and an embodiment of His Man's sense of self and a neural network which connects His Man to other human beings and to all of reality. After The Disaster (which will never, ever end), His Man has felt so close to everyone, but just close enough to still feel galaxies away. Feelings. Ideas. How could they be used here? What is the eventuality of this and every moment that passes while he thinks of a plan. What is possible? He knew these 2 men were tied together with him, their fate intertwined forever and ever, and that the death of him and them and everyone and of consciousness itself was the eventuality of infinity.

Shit.

He looked at these two men square in their eyes. "I'll show you my best moves". Now they knew of His Man's intentions, and of the gravity of the situation at hand. A swet fear passed over them. It was fear at its very core, existential, and it clouded their souls from any other expression. A brown chocolate syrup dripped from behind His Man's cloth. As it hit the floor it bubbled angrily, and alive. It told all 3 men about eventuality. That any action and idea can be perfect given a specific and quantifiable time and place, and context. "Too Swet", said His Man as he gave the nWo hand signal to Kevin Nash, who was viewing all of this happen from outside through the kitchen window. Through an intercom, Scott Hall, who was also listening, shouted in a last ditch effort to stop His Man, "Only God can understand infinity. You cannot control the resonances and reverberations of the fabric of the universe. nWo Too Swet!"

Man.

From this brown spot on the linoleum, a chain reaction. A perfect chain reaction. Slowly the walls and all materials began to dissolve around the 3 males. There was no the cool place, no floor, only a beer, yellow and brown "too swet" briefs, and an infinite cavern of nothingness surrounding the males. "You sorcerer, I should have known after the dance party. I'm finished." whispered Metch. "4 Life", His Man shouted right before his body dissolved into elementary particles which dissolved further and further, along with the matter comprising the 2 other males, until the universe was left in a state where there was no resonance. It's eventuality. No ideas could exist. Then there was some beautiful clouds and stuff.

As per our earlier discussion, and for the sake of the thread, let's extend this by a week. New deadline is July 30th at 11:59pm, and the new voting times and everything have been updated in the thread. I really liked The Dark Knight, and E3 was as entertaining to watch on GAF as ever, but we can't let them destroy our streak here!

I'm almost recovered from E3. Honestly, I think the theme is too vague, but I'll try to get something done before the deadline. No promises though. I've still got a pile of video game crap left to write about.

c'mon folks, I need some more submissions to peruse through

For those interested, I was trying to go for a post-postmodern anti-art theme with my work.

Ok, mine should be going up soon. It might be a little short. I had some trouble finding time for it. But it'll be really good.

The Great Fairy Tale

-----------------------------------
How did I end up here? Twenty five years later and still no reason for this existence. The things that make people weep, make me smile like a maniac. The things that make people smile make my soul weep just a little each time.

The stage is always different, the characters changing with time, it might be in France one day, it might be in a nameless drug den the next.

The situation the same. The timeless trifecta with no winners in sight.

It always felt great at the time, it never felt wrong. It’s like time lapse photography looking back. Seconds combined into minutes turning into hours and days into weeks. It’s been nearly months now and the memories only become stronger. How could I have done that? Did I really do that? Maybe it’s just another fantasy, maybe it’s just another dream.

I was taken away by my inexperience and sent back for experiencing.

You have to laugh when you run out of remorse. You have to smile and enjoy the pain when all that’s left is the memories. The feeling of no control takes control of every nerve in your body, suddenly you feel everything that was never felt before.

Why does the distorted reality make me laugh like a maniac? Why do the happy tainted times make me smile and wish for more?

Looking back, I’d do it again, just for the laughs.

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

I don't plan on critiquing or voting, which means my story won't get voted (kinda stupid rules but whatever), but I would appreciate some feedback.

Needs just a little bit more editing. Not too much, though. Why mess with perfection? You guys are going to be amazed.

I know God better than anyone, but even I don't completely understand his sense of humor. Thing is you can't take him seriously, if you do he'll just mess with you. Like the one time he killed Onan. God just thought the guy was a bit of a jerk so he made a game of it killing him with a heart attack right after sex. The scribes got hold of that and said, "No masturbation! Or God will kill you!" God laughed for weeks. He still cracks up whenever someone brings it up.

Or there was that one time some kids were making fun of Elisha. Mind you Elisha was never entirely "all there", if you get what I'm saying. So when these punk teenagers started making fun of Elisha and Elisha, unstable as he was, damned them to die God had bears appear out of nowhere and eat them. I mean bears didn't even live in that area. God went around for weeks saying, "Do what I say...or bears will eat you!!!"

See, God views things as an eternal round. Nothing really ever ends, you die you go to the spirit world and on from there. So to him killing someone is just like changing someone's clothes. It's all about perspective.

He also likes to see how far he can push people. Some people call it "testing their faith", to God it's just a joke. Like the one time he told Abraham to kill Isaac. When God showed up, he was laughing his head off saying, "Oh man, I can't believe you almost did it! You should've seen the look on your face Abbie! ha ha!" I don't think Abraham ever really got the joke. It's hard for a mortal to understand the humor of an immortal.

I remember when God went to earth and was walking on water and Peter wanted to do it too. God let him take few steps and then let him sink a little. Then a few more steps and then sink a little. God laughed and laughed. He's just like that.

But time passed and God got restless. There's a problem with being able to do whatever you want, and that's no matter what you do it's not shocking. So when he came to me saying it was time to make another trip to Earth I knew he was up to something big. We prepared for days. God would unleash a huge storm and descend in the middle of a huge city. His voice booming he would declare that he had returned to judge man for their deeds and we would watch and laugh from the halls of his heavenly mansion as the mortals panicked.

The day came and God unleashed his fury. Storms raged through cities, buildings fell, towns were flooded. This went on for days. The bodycount must have been huge. But then what does it matter to God? Then with typical dramatic flair God came descended on a cloud to a throng of terrified people.

"I am God." His voice boomed over the crowd. "I have returned to judge man for his works."

Then, instead of panicking the mortals rose up booing, shouting, some even threw stones at him, they would have nothing to do with him. Surprised, God returned. He laughed as He came to me in the hall. "Gabriel," He said with a hint of sadness in his laugh, "It seems the joke is on me."

I know God better than anyone, but even I don't completely understand his sense of humor.

this theme was the hardest of all the themes for me. I ended up throwing out at least 5 different stories and finally settled on the one I submitted more out of frustration than anything.

All right, I’m posting my story. You might notice it’s a little bit smaller, lengthually speaking, than most of my stories. Well, I was kind of busy. I didn't exactly have a whole lot of time. Anyway, the quality makes up for the length. You can trust me on this one.

Actually, funny enough, the quality is in a lot of ways exactly what made it so tough to write. I came up with this brilliant first line and then wasn't quite sure how to follow it up. I spent hours writing second lines. Most of them were also awesome, but didn't quite fit with the first. Some of them were actually borderline bad (yes, even writing genii like myself occasionally write poor lines, if only to keep ourselves on our toes and make sure our heads don't get too swollen. I mean sure, if anyone else had written those lines, it would've been the greatest thing they'd ever written in their sorry-ass life. But for me, they were garbage).

Anyway, the point is, it was difficult to follow up, and then I sort of ran out of time to work on it, and this other stuff happened. You know what, let me just start at the beginning so this actually makes some sense. Bear with me; this is all relevant to the actual story.

Ok, so I was sitting at my desk in my corner office yesterday morning, basking in the sunlight from the many windows and trying to get something done on my story. I had decided it would be interesting to write about the practitioners of comedy—i.e. comedians. I know a lot about comedy, being a frequent standingly-ovated practitioner myself at the local comedy club. So I thought you losers might appreciate a little bit of "inside scoop," since you probably won't ever so much as hit an open mike.

Also, comedians are funny people and everyone knows that funny people make for funny stories. Fact. It's like an unwritten law. Or at least, it was an unwritten law until that sentence.

But comedy is harder than it looks. The best comedians in the business have to work hard on it. Even I have to work pretty hard. But while I was sitting there, thinking about my own brilliance and deciding what to write, the window washer outside tapped on my window.

Did I mention this was like the 90th story or something? Because it was.

Anyway, the window washer tapped on my window, so I went over and tapped back. What did he expect me to do, open it? It's the 90th freaking floor, dumbass!

Luckily, I learned Morse code during my time in the CIA (long story, not really relevant to this post), so I tapped out a message to him. "H-E-Y D-U-M-B-A-S-S T-H-I-S I-S T-H-E N-I-N-E-T-I-E-T-H F-L-O-O-R"

Incredibly, this greasy Mexican window cleaner knew Morse code too. Probably stole a codebook from a boy scout or something. So he tapped right back. "J-U-S-T W-A-N-T-E-D T-O S-A-Y Y-O-U-R C-O-M-E-D-Y I-S A-W-E-S-O-M-E M-A-N"

This was a sign from Jesus that I was about to write the greatest and most funny story of all time. The humorosity would be unparalleled!

I sat down, and began writing. I wrote the first line, and I knew I had a winner on my hands. It was only a matter of finishing the thing up, and it would be lauded by the public and various snooty highbrow magazines like the New Yorker as the funniest piece of writing of the century. Even including that funny song about robots.

Oh, I just realized that I should point out that I’m not a racist or anything. I actually have many friends that are Mexican. Or at least, I sometimes hear Mariachi music late at night, and I’m pretty sure Mexicans listen to that stuff. So there must be some Mexicans living near me. Probably in the stairwell.

Anyway, as I already mentioned, I was writing and throwing away second lines like a madman. And no, I don’t mean literally throwing them away, so no trying to paw through my trash and find my unused yet still amazing lines and then pass them off as your own. I’ll get your ass arrested.

No, I was throwing away second lines in a metaphorical sense, as they went from the assembly line of my deep inner subconscious to the trash bin of whatever the thing is that erases stuff you don’t need to remember out of your short-term memory. In microseconds. My brain works pretty fast that way; a lot faster than most of you are probably used to. That’s why I can write at work—I use my left hand to do my actual work (with an efficiency and skill that most can only dream of), and my right hand to write. I’m not ambidextrous, I’m just that good.

Ok, you’re probably wondering where all this is going. I’m almost there! I’m just about to explain why the story’s a little bit short, and then I’ll let you see it.

I was just about to come up with a second line of equal brilliance to the first (it was right on the tip of my mind), when the phone rang. It was one of my secretaries, with an important business call.

“Never mind that,” I said. “Come in here and let’s have sex.” (this was the hot blonde one of my secretaries)

Her eyes just lit up, and she said, “Ok.” Or at least, I assume that her eyes lit up. Most girls’ eyes do that when they hear that kind of eloquent propisitionization from a good-looking, well-muscled guy who owns all three primary gaming platforms. I guess you guys might not know that.

To make a long story short, we totally had sex, and then she was so amazed that she called her sister, who decided to come, and I got a little distracted.

So my piece is a bit shorter than usual, but I think I made good use of the words that I did use. I’m a laconicizer that way, good at doing like that one guy once said, you know, the one who said that “brevity is the soul of wit.” That guy.

Please keep all this stuff in mind in reading my story (no critiques are necessary—I’m already well aware of the massive quantity of awesomenity contained within the text you are about to see).

Without further ado, the most incredible thing you’re going to read all year:

Practitioners of Comedy (11 words)

A Scotsman, a blonde, and a rabbi walk into a bar.

So yes, I guess it’s a little short. But I had to stop there to showcase the genius of that first line. And really, what else is there to be said? Rest assured, this will be even more mind-blowingly awesome once I’ve finished it. But, you know. Life gets in the way. And by life, I mean sex with beautiful women.

:lol :lol


Awesome

Cyan said:

So yes, I guess it’s a little short. But I had to stop there to showcase the genius of that first line. And really, what else is there to be said? Rest assured, this will be even more mind-blowingly awesome once I’ve finished it. But, you know. Life gets in the way. And by life, I mean sex with beautiful women.

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Dude, you've been stealing from my journal!!

Cyan said:

Spoiler

Honest-to-Goodness Real Title: Shaggy Dog
Word Count: 1215, including all four posts

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No need to explain the concept work, I think everyone got it. Good, but not great.

I'm still the vote leader.

Timedog said:

No need to explain the concept work, I think everyone got it.

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Of course, but I still wanted to provide an actual word count, so people wouldn't think I was cheating.

Come on guys, we only have five submissions. We've had all sorts of time, let's get some more in here. Aaron, DumbNameD, nitewulf, Scribble, let's go!

And Memles, you were the thread starter! Where's your story?

I wonder if people are getting a little burned out on the themes. Maybe we should switch things up a bit.

Well this was the fastest read through I've had so far:

Gattsu25- The first couple of paragraphs really get you into the story fast. But then you never go back to that narrator again. So why have it? Also I wish you spent more time on why she thought it was so funny, more time on the madness. Still a very good entry.

Timedog - Don't really know what to say. It's a bit disjointed and it doesn't feel like it "gels".

RumpledForeskin- So you wont critique other people's work but you want yours critiqued?

Cyan - I think you fell in love with your idea and how clever it was. It was pretty obvious where it was going from the greasy mexican. Still pretty funny though.

ronito said:

Cyan - I think you fell in love with your idea and how clever it was.

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Ouch. Did it really come across that way? I had a lot of fun writing it. Maybe too much?

Cyan said:

Ouch. Did it really come across that way? I had a lot of fun writing it. Maybe too much?

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Not in a cocky way but in a self-aware way. Maybe it's just me.

ronito said:

Not in a cocky way but in a self-aware way. Maybe it's just me.

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Fair enough. I've heard that one before about a previous story here, but I'm still not sure what if anything to do about it.

ronito said:

RumpledForeskin- So you wont critique other people's work but you want yours critiqued?

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Correct, cause I don't know how to critique.

(this is the reason these writing threads are dwindling in response numbers btw)

RumpledForeskin said:

Correct, cause I don't know how to critique.

(this is the reason these writing threads are dwindling in response numbers btw)

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Yeah, everyone wants the sex without the foreplay.

RumpledForeskin said:

Correct, cause I don't know how to critique.

(this is the reason these writing threads are dwindling in response numbers btw)

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Because people don't know how to critique, or don't want to have to critique? I hope that's not the reason; critiquing definitely isn't required. I have no problem with people posting a story but not critiquing everyone else's.

And if that is indeed the problem, what do we do about it? Not have any critiques at all?

If you have any suggestions on how to get more people posting again, by all means spit 'em out.

Hmm, I don't know. We went through one of these before, but it was rectified the week after. Maybe it's just bad timing (Summer holidays, E3, etc.). Maybe it's the theme? I like the theme, but maybe people are finding it difficult to write about (People interpreting 'Comedy' as meaning that they have to be funny, when that's not their usual style)?

We could maybe use a picture or an audio clip for the next theme. Could turn out to be gimmicky and unhelpful, but just an idea. What we've had already is interesting so far, and it's a pity that more people didn't write. I'll be posting my story soon.

Would there be any interest in choosing a writing tool/technique to focus on, rather than having a theme? You know, focusing on strong setting or characterization, good dialogue, showing vs telling, something like that.

We're all amateur writers here, why not aim for specific areas to improve in?

Or maybe people would find that uninspiring. Anyway, just a thought.

I don't know. This one is pretty sparse, but I really think that's just summer and E3 and TDK and FFIV and a whole slew of things. Last one was pretty heavily attended the one before that was too.

ronito said:

Timedog - Don't really know what to say. It's a bit disjointed and it doesn't feel like it "gels".

Click to expand...

Good.

Cyan said:

And Memles, you were the thread starter! Where's your story?

I wonder if people are getting a little burned out on the themes. Maybe we should switch things up a bit.

Click to expand...

It's coming - I was away for four days, and then I was catching up on my TV watching and blogging for the past few, and then errands today. I've got an idea and am working on it, though, and will have something by the deadline.

And I definitely think that there's a whole host of reasons this particular challenge just never clicked - here's hoping that the winner of this one can have more luck, regardless. I'll have more thoughts on that tomorrow, once this story gets out the door.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
Word Count: 840

Over the last decade, there have been several attempts to solve the mystery surrounding the chicken, and the road it crossed. The answer is quite simple.

Shaneekwa Johnson, Professor of Cuckology, and author of “Chicken Salad” attempted to link the question to the other age-old question, “Which Came First, the Chicken or the Egg?” Dr.Johnson makes some significant discoveries in her works, is one gaping flaw in her theory: the fact that we are not debating the chicken’s legacy. We know that the chicken in question wasn’t anything out of the ordinary before it crossed the road, and was owned by farmer O.MacDonald (A piece of information discovered by Dr.Johnson, who then went on to incorrectly surmise that this was evidence that the chicken crossed the road because it was following a certain Colonel Sanders).

It has also been argued, from other sources, that the question does not possess intrigue. Why is it, then, that we are not querying about the chicken’s other activities? Why are we not asking “Why Did the Chicken Peck the Ground?” or “Why Did the Chicken Fly out of the Coop?” A chicken crossing the road is nothing to be alarmed about, but isolated in the manner that it has, it cannot simply be ignored.

Additionally, the grammar of the question is quite suspicious. The phrase “Why did the chicken cross the road?” has been constructed in the active voice, when in fact, Chickens do not typically do things actively without an ample amount of aimless bumbling and pecking in between -- to the extent where any other objective, i.e. crossing the road, becomes secondary. If the question was “Why was the road crossed by the chicken?” -- Phrasing that allows for plenty of random bumbling and pecking as well as crossing-- the chicken crossing the road would not be such an issue.

Scientists have developed a wide assortment of answers to the question. Many of these answers, are in fact, require the chicken to have anthropomorphic qualities, such as being able to speak (In an Irish accent, specifically) or ponder over its own existence. Many of their theories have been researched and rebuked over the years. The most commonly agreed answer, however, and the one that is yet to be shot down, is the idea that the chicken crossed the road just to get to the other side.

According to New Scientist, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” and the common answer, “To get to the other side”, is nothing but a adjacency pair constructed in order to trivialise and thus hide the events that actually transpired. New Scientist is correct in the sense that the chicken and its road are more than they see. Nevertheless, the full story is, in fact, given to us via those two simple phrases; upon closer inspection, it can be gathered that ‘the other side’ is not literally the other side of the road, but the afterlife. From this, we can surmise that the chicken wanted to die. The idea of a chicken wanting to commit suicide may seem laughable, especially since the Bible does not guarantee animals a heaven. But does the ‘other side’ mean that the chicken wanted to kill itself? Perhaps. One can pose the question while standing at either end of the “road”: If the chicken was in the afterlife, for instance, then the ‘other side’ in would be the living world. So once the chicken crossed the road to get to the afterlife, it could have then turned back. Therefore, the chicken, quite possibly, freely traveled between the land of the living and the land of the dead.

To find solid evidence of this theory, one merely needs to look at the behaviour of a chicken whose head has been removed. A decapitated chicken is an example of a chicken who has crossed the road and back – in fact, the chicken crossing the road could literally mean living beyond decapitation. Thus, there is only one logical argument as to why the chicken crosses back and forth: the chicken is trying to achieve immortality. However, as you may know, the decapitated chicken can only cross between the roads a limited number of times. It appears that many a chicken is willing to sacrifice itself for the greater cause of becoming immortal, a tool they can use to escape their oppression by humans. You may argue that this is a human-like quality – however, it has been proven that once you open the cage of caged chicken, it will eventually bumble out. Now, apply that to the greater scheme of things, such as the farm, or the supermarket. A chicken wanting freedom is not far-fetched for a chicken.

The chicken and its sons will inevitably reach this goal, as shown by the case of the screaming chicken fillets in Dixy Fried Chicken, East London, UK. There is adequate proof to support the above, and thus action should be taken, otherwise the yolk’s on you.

Personally, for me the theme didn't work. I've had time to write after the extension, but something as vague as 'comedy' just doesn't go anywhere but dead ends for me.

Intervention (Word Count: 1190)

“Where the heck is it?”

Drake fumbles through a pile of clothes on the floor of his dorm room, searching in vain for the one clean sweater he swears he saw yesterday. Sweat drips off his forehead, which constantly moves as he compulsively looks over his shoulder every few seconds.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” Agent 578 says from the corner.

“Now, when your subject is first faced with your intervention, they are going to become paranoid and angry. You need to confront them with a calm demeanor; you’re not there to hurt them, but to open them up to a new life experience. Keep that in mind, and everything will be fine.”

“A-ha!” Drake says with aplomb as he finally finds the sweater in question. He shoots a grin towards Agent 578, who puts on a quick look of mock horror before returning to his stoic manner and calmly pointing down at Drake’s sweater.

“Shit,” Drake says as he spots an enormous mustard stain at the bottom of the cashmere blend. Drake doesn’t stop to think about how he doesn’t eat mustard, but rather throws the sweater off and begins fumbling for another one.

“One of the biggest challenges of your job is conversing with the subject; if you are truly going to help them transition into a new lifestyle, you need to make sure that you make the message extremely clear. Even though it may seem too early to preach acceptance, what with their heightened state of panic, plant the seeds early.”

“You know, Drake,” Agent 578 says while fiddling with the bunny ears on top of Drake’s TV, “you might as well just stop fighting it. Embrace it, it’s for your own good.”

Drake just fires a brief stare at Agent 578 before finally finding a clean shirt. He pulls it on over his head and looks in the mirror – a quick check of his appearance seems fine, so he walks to the door, stopping only to glare back at Agent 578 in the corner, seemingly preoccupied with adjusting the bunny ears to improve reception. Drake takes one more look back before making a run for the door.

“Now, if things are going according to plan, you are going to have a great opportunity to dangle the carrot, so to speak; make it seem like they’re finally out from under your control, showing them the light at the end of the tunnel, before violently displaying your power with some sort of physical humour – a pratfall, if you will.”

Agent 578 lackadaisically stretches his foot ten feet in front of him and trips Drake, sending him fumbling out into the hallway and smashing into the wall in front of a passing group of fraternity types along with their sorority girlfriends. Drake doesn’t stop to consider the coincidental gathering of the most influential and gossip-fueled students walking by the moment he embarrasses himself, but rather runs off before the cell phone cameras can capture his tears of pain.

Drake sprints past the study lounge with his head scanning in every direction, and then descends the staircase while gripping the railing with all of his might. He stops at the bottom of the staircase, searching to see if Agent 578 is in sight. Failing to see him, he makes a run for the main doors.

“Running into things at high speeds is just the wakeup call they need…plus it’s really fun. For us.”

With a thud, Drake smashes into a door that he knows was once a push, but is now decidedly a pull. The other door opens, and Agent 578 stands there looking down at him.

“Drake, I think it’s time that you accept there’s no avoiding me. I’m here to stay. We can learn to live together, but only if you commit to-” Agent 578 is interrupted as Drake pulls open the door and sprints across the yard.

“Sigh…they never listen,” Agent 578 says while shaking his head. He rolls his eyes as he watches Drake stumble away in fear.

“When things become more challenging, you need to adapt to your surroundings and discover new ways to engage with the subject. Take a look at the various potential comic events around you, and choose the one that offers the best combination of short term and long term impact.”

Agent 578 scans the quad, spotting various potential targets – a group of football playing youth have the potential for football in the groin, but the long term impact seems lacking. A number of birds are circling overhead, but defecation on command is one of the harder tasks and he’s not quite sure he’s got that part of animal wrangling down.

And then he spots the perfect tool as Drake runs while wildly glancing behind him.

“If you get it right, and you will get it right, the subject’s morale will begin to drop, and he may advance to the bargaining stage. If he does, be ready with your terms.”

With a start, the sprinklers near a panting and exhausted Drake turn on, their spitting webs trapping him in their spell. Agent 578 knows he’s chosen well: being wet for the rest of the day is sure to provide plenty of more opportunities for humiliation, and the current embarrassment is amplified by the legions of peers laughing in his direction.

But Drake isn’t following what is considered standard protocol – rather than appearing ready to bargain, he appears ready to self-destruct. While it may not be entirely clear to everyone else, so blinded by their own laughter, 578 sees that there are tears mixed in with the water, and he is visibly shaking with fear.

“But,” Agent 578 says as he raises his hand, “what if they become so demoralized that they go beyond wanting help, to the point where they just don’t want to go on?”

“There’s a very, very simple answer to that.”

Agent 578 slowly makes his way over to Drake, who is kneeling on the ground letting the sprinklers soak him. The water stops running, and 578 helps Drake to his feet before sitting him down on a bench.

“Tell them you can help them.”

“I can help you.”

“Tell them why you’re there.”

“I have been sent here before your friends want you to have more humour in your life.”

“Tell them that you should work together; give them your number”

“We can work together to make this work, you and me – my name is Agent 578.”

“Tell them how this will enrich their lives, give them the hard sell.”

“We’ve helped thousands of people like you before, people who need to learn to embrace comedy in all its glory. Here is a pamphlet that gives you all the details, including testimonials, an informative DVD and a bumper sticker.”

Agent 578 watches as Drake starts to read the material, and then shuffles so he is seated further away from him on the bench.

“And then…fuck them up, we ain’t in the business of fixing sissies.”

A glob of bird shit falls from the sky, smashing down onto Drake’s humorless head.

Gattsu- yikes, little depressing there. Some weird tense issues and it seems to jump around perspective-wise.

Timedog- huh? No clue what the fuck this was about. But from your reply to ronito, I guess that was the point?

RumpledForeskin- descriptive, evocative, and colorful prose which borders on but doesn't quite hit purple.

ronito- the narrative style makes this one feel a little bit disjointed. But it works, and it's amusing. I like the full-circle ending.

Scribble- the mock essay/academic tone works nicely. The subject matter is obviously cliched, but you acknowledge that and make it fun anyway. But oh man, the parting pun...

Memles- creative, original. Jumps nicely into the middle of the story, and lets us piece things together rather than hitting us over the head with what's going on. Nice.

This was a tough one. If you still posted a story, you are one of the few, the proud, the indomitable. Well done all.

Plus One (1311 words!)

The trio watched as the approaching hunched figure clambered over the hill like an inebriated camel. His armor jangled as each step drove his boots into the mud and swayed his body like a pendulum as the rotund rucksack atop his back bounced to each side. The trio’s eyes widened when they saw the figure’s bag brimmed with riches.

“Hey,” said Cloud to the artificial hunchback.

Hunchy didn’t respond as he walked past. His bundle shifted, and a golden scepter encrusted with rubies clunked to the ground.

“Hail, fair warrior!” said Ash. He was a peculiarly tall dwarf, and this particular trait was the source of much ridicule from his kind, which often involved a comparison to a fence post or hitting his head upon human knobs, door or otherwise. “You dropped something.”

“Wut?” said Hunchy.

“You dropped a scepter.”

“Oi, numbskull,” said Britney, the tall, slender ’yes, I’m a girl’ swamp elf. “That’s just me vibrator.”

“Brit, don’t lie,” said Cloud.

“Meh,” said Hunchy. “Just a fire scepter. Keep it. I gots enough to bank.”

“Beg pardon, if you do not mind my asking,” began Ash. “But what glorious quests of honor did you perform to garner such a wondrous bounty, good sir?”

“Snap, man!” said Hunchy. “There’s a dragon over ways, past the windmill. Dude’s just pooping out loot like a fountain.”

“Oh, really?” asked Cloud.

“Yeah, really,” replied Hunchy.

“Seriously?” said Britney. “Sounds like a hoot.”

“Sure as sure. G’luck all,” said Hunchy as he plodded off.

“G’luck you, too,” Britney muttered under her breath.

“Britney, I cannot believe you tried to swindle that voyager,” said Ash. He picked up the scepter and fondled it in his hands.

“Eh, he had a ton on the top,” said Britney. “And the way you’re stroking that rod makes me not so far off the ride, eh?”

“Can you use it, Ash?” asked Cloud.

“I can use it,” said Britney.

“I aim that you intend pecuniary gains, milady,” said Ash.

“Same diff,” she replied. “I could use a pint and a quarrel or two.”

“Hey, no need to argue, guys,” said Cloud. “There’s more loot to be found. Remember what he said?”

“Right!” said Britney, raising both arms into the air. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m in!” said Cloud as he unsheathed his sword and strapped his shield to his arm.

“Aye! Glory be! Me too,” said Ash.

“Alright, let’s jet,” said Britney. “Let’s fucking kill that bastard, string his innards like hanging laundry, and mash his spleen into oatmeal. Huzzah to your muther!”

“Wait, do dragons have spleens?”

“Dragon? Oh…” said Britney dejectedly. “Ah, yeah, dragon… I guess we can murder the dragon instead.”

The trio traveled through the brush, across the river, into the forest, out of the forest, across the river again, along the surf, across rickety rope bridges, down hollow caves, atop fjords, and into a valley. They killed brown rats, forest rats, spider rats, bat rats, rat bats, water rats, cave rats, and pygmy rats. They escaped from venomous tarantulas, venomous cobras, dire wolves, dire scorpions, venomous bears, beached whales, and grizzly rats. Finally, they arrived upon a clearing and a cave.

“Well, here we are,” said Cloud. “I think we’re lost.”

“Well, shit, Sherlock, what gave you that idea?” asked Britney.

“I believe when we hit the fjords,” replied Cloud. “I didn’t see a windmill anywhere.”

“I did not know there were fjords,” said Ash.

“Is that a windmill?” the elf asked, pointing toward the cave.

“That be a cave, dear girl,” said Ash.

“Hey, stumpy, give your see-saws a lil’ tippy-toe.”

Ash peeked over the top of the bushes.

“Oh,” the dwarf said. “That, dear girl, is a totem of skinned flesh and contorted bone. I doubt it catches the wind very effectively.”

Britney rolled her eyes. “Oh, shit!” She dove into the dirt as the creature dropped from the sky. It knocked Ash into the brambles as it chomped into Cloud’s forearm. Cloud dangled from its jagged teeth by his arm as the creature launched skyward.

It was the legendary winged Minorat, a dire creature with the head and arms of a rat, the horns and body of a bull, and two dove wings on each hoof. It was also known by some as the legendary flying rat-faced minotaur. This one was covered in a makeshift armor of interlocking gold and jeweled treasures, like earrings, necklaces, belts, scabbards, and bent blades.

“Come on, Cloud! Take ‘im down here!” shouted Britney. She gritted her teeth and staggered back as she tried to pull the string of her crossbow taut. After three aborted attempts and three falls onto her ass, she latched the string, loaded the bolt, and aimed. The crossbow jolted, and the bolt cut through the air like a buzzing bee, dinged into the monster’s neck, and bounced off the bling. “Piece of shit.”

“I think,” Cloud shouted. “I think my armor protected my… Wait, no… that’s not monster slobber. Yeah, I’m bleeding.” The Minorat bit down. “Could use a heal here!” A spurt of blood splattered into Cloud’s face. “Could really use a heal!” The Minorat shook him back and forth like a rag doll. “Oh, geez! Gimme a heal! Heal me! For anything that’s holly, heal me!”

“Holly? You mean holy?” asked Britney.

“I’m bleeding buckets, and you’re going to go on about my spelling?”

“Go on about what?” asked Ash, recovering from the bushes.

“Finally, you dumb dwarf!” said Britney. “Don’t worry, Cloud! Ash’s back! He’s gonna send a heal to you right as a lick.”

“Is he dead?” asked Ash. “I would rather not waste my mana if he is dead.”

Britney shrugged. Cloud dangled motionless in the air. “Just heal him and see.”

“Indubitable!” said Ash. He reached his hand forward as if grasping for some unknown force in the ether. There was a hum and static in the air as his hands glowed bright-white like a white hole spewing all light. Ash’s body began to throb, and his heart trembled in rhythm with the symphony of the universe. He screamed a guttural roar, and there was a deafening clatter like ocean waves. Then the light faded, and he huffed. “Yeah… he’s out of range.”

“Oi, then I’ll get his ass down,” said Britney. She motioned toward a brown mound near the cave. “That mound of dirt should do! Rise from the peat and dirt, swamp panther!”

“I do not think that is dirt,” said Ash.

The mound bubbled and popped, scattering the buzzing flies on and around it. It spiraled and contorted into a feline armature as glops slopped onto the skeleton until the mound transformed into a sinewy swamp panther. It snarled. “Attack!” ordered the elf.

The summoned panther dashed and leaped into the air. It slammed into the Minorat’s head and exploded into gobs, splattering all over Cloud and the monster.

“I’m pretty sure…” said Britney, as she nodded her head. “I’m pretty sure shit’s cleaner than a human’s mouth. …Antiseptic, even.”

“I do not think that is true.”

The Minorat wrenched its head and tossed Cloud into the back of its cave. It eyed the elf and dwarf and nose-dived toward them as it snapped its jaws.

Ash pointed the fire scepter at the beast and read the inscription. “Ignis eventum populus trigenta hispidus! Oh, wait, that’s not—“ The Minorat plowed into Ash and knocked the scepter into the air. The Minorat’s jaw snapped at Ash as he pounded both fists into the monster. Britney plucked the scepter from the air. Ash continued to hammer into the Minorat until the dwarf realized he had just stumps for arms.

“Oh, screw this,” said Britney, clutching the scepter. “I need gold.” Britney fled from the battle.

And the party was never heard from again.

“Really?”

Yes, like this story. Until they retrieved their corpses.

Scribble: I like the new take. Reminds me of the old time radio comedies. That being said I'd be remiss in saying my ribs don't hurt a bit from all the jabbing. Still I laughed. And that pun....

Memles: I like it. Especially the 'we ain't the business of fixin sissies' line. Very nice.

DumbNameD: I really like how well you were able to flesh out the characters just through dialogue. The whole thing went together really well but the end just came out of nowhere.


Hmmm...I'll have to think of my votes for a bit. There's a few tied for first.

This was tough to vote on, with all the strong late entrants.

1. Memles- "Intervention"
2. Scribble- "Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?"
3. ronito- "Gabriel in the halls of heaven"

DumbNameD, I was really torn about your story. On the one hand, it was both clever and funny, but on the other hand... WoW humor, argh.

And hey Memles, you gonna put some story links in the OP? Shouldn't be too hard this time around.