Theme - "Late"

Word Limit: 1600

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 6/3 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Thursday, 6/4, and goes until Saturday, 6/6 at 11:59 PM Pacific.

Optional Secondary Objective: Slime
I'm pretty sure slime makes most things better. Incorporate slime into your story.

Submission Guidelines:

- One entry per poster.
- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged.
- Keep to the word count!

Voting Guidelines:

- 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.
- You must vote in order to be eligible to win the challenge.
- When voting ends, the winner gets a collective pat on the back, and starts the new challenge.

NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge FAQ

Entries:
nitewulf - "The Endless Summer"
Aaron – “A Jelly of a Most Unusual Flavor”
keeblerdrow – “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way To”
hey_monkey – “No One Has to Know, Not Even You and Me”
Spoo – “Back Home”
CygnusXS – “Supernatural Geographic”
EBCubs03 – “Requisite”
ronito – “Lobo and the Beauty Queen”
Belfast – “The Fine Print”
ZephyrFate – “The Indeterminable”
Timedog – “Awake!”
Ward – “Chekhov’s Gun”
RurouniZel – “Just short of the coronation”
Botolf – “The Hand that Rocks the Ladle…”
Cyan – “Panacea”

I swear I'm gonna write something for this one. No, really.

Late and slime, huh? That's not creating safe for work stuff in my mind. Well, what about a slip n' slid covered in Vaseline?

Ugh.

This is a first for me. Five minutes in and I already have a story idea.

Slime? Can do.

Oh man, I don't even want to think about what Timedog would write for this one.

Late, huh? Does that mean we all have to submit our stories just seconds past the deadline next Wednesday? :lol

I'm about to go take a walk, so I'll meditate on the theme and see what comes up. Working slime into it shouldn't be hard.

Subscribed, hopefully will have something this time.

Cyan said:

Oh man, I don't even want to think about what Timedog would write for this one.

Late, huh? Does that mean we all have to submit our stories just seconds past the deadline next Wednesday? :lol

Click to expand...

Speaking of which, where'd he disappear to anyway? The lack of Malugo in the last set of stories was... Well, less creepy than it should have been, I suppose.

I think I'll get in on this. I don't have much experience but I've always enjoyed writing what little I have.

Late and slime make for some interesting possibilities.

haha! Slime that's interesting.

Interesting. I'll have to sit on this one for a bit.

I have a few ideas kicking about already... Interesting theme.

Slime? My first challenge, and it's slime. Slime and lateness... I'm going to have to churn the ol' brain, but I will come up with something. This should be fun.

I....I *think* I have an idea. Let's hope my confidence sees me through on this one!

It seems I'm going to be very early with this late assignment. I've already got half of my story written down. Should be done writing and editing by tomorrow.

crowphoenix said:

Late and slime, huh? That's not creating safe for work stuff in my mind. Well, what about a slip n' slid covered in Vaseline?

Ugh.

Click to expand...

Maybe it'll make up for the last one. Come on, 'ill wind' and not one fart joke? Tsk, tsk.

Presuming that tonight's desire to stop writing about this dull and lifeless author will recur over the next few days, Challenge #29 shall be my less than triumphant (I'm damn rusty) return.

Ohhh shit, I thought of something. This is going to be awesome to write.

Aaron said:

Maybe it'll make up for the last one. Come on, 'ill wind' and not one fart joke? Tsk, tsk.

Click to expand...

I thought it might be too obvious!

Exams in the last week or so, so I didn't have much time to do much of anything. I think I may have something for this one.

Sweet. Gonna try and flesh out a more expansive one than my first

I think I've got an idea ready, now let's hope I find the drive.

wow, I've also come up with an idea already.

Who would've thought, Late and Slime are things that everyone wants to write about.

I dunno about the slime part... but "Late" definitely sparked some ideas.

Definitely more so than my own topic last time. :lol

Had an idea as well, will try to get most of it done early.

Idea gotten, I just hope it's not the same one everyone else has... >> <<

Howzit goin, dudes?

Cyan said:

Howzit goin, dudes?

Click to expand...

Busy with Japanese homework, hope to get to this soon.

About 6-700 words written the first night, but I haven't gotten back to it since. :\

Belfast said:

About 6-700 words written the first night, but I haven't gotten back to it since. :\

Click to expand...

Basically the same as me. I got distracted by Foundation, World War Z, and old comic books. I'm going to try to get it done by the weekend; that's probably a lie though.

Probably 500 words, but not much idea where it's going.

I've got something akin to an idea. I'm not sure if it's a good one yet, but it is an idea.

I'm turning my into a bit of an homage to the writing crew. We'll see how it turns out.

Cool, looking forward to it!

I'm in a bit of a slump, to be quite honest. I THOUGHT I had an idea, but...

I'm a bit over 1,000 words after generating a conclusion yesterday. It's a few steps past an outline.

Scribble said:

Cool, looking forward to it!

I'm in a bit of a slump, to be quite honest. I THOUGHT I had an idea, but...

Click to expand...

Write about some cats driving a tonka truck through a slime filed sewer.

The Endless Summer

“Zebras are just horses with stripes”, Elena muttered to no one in particular.

She was laying on the hardwood floor, crisscrossed legs resting against the window sill. Scattered sunlight poured into the room through the blinds, aimless and reluctant, they painted her brown skin in patterns of molten gold.

My room felt sweaty, without any hint of sex. It was one of those summer days, where time dilated and things just moved slower.

I didn’t feel like talking. I kept thinking about a poster I noticed the other night, striking-white letters shouted, “Smaller guts make everything else look BIGGER!”, stacked rows of solid weights took up most of the background real-estate, highlighting the holes where the rods go in.

“Well aren’t you the female Socrates!”, I exhaled sardonically and got up to grab a beer from the fridge as the doorbell rang.

“Yo, we gonna go nationwide with this shit.”, Lenny walked in past me.

“Yes, do come in. Fucking jock.” I growled.

“Nationwide with what?”

“You don’t know? She don’t know??” Lenny looked at me incredulously.

I grabbed a Chimay Blue from the fridge.

“Shut the door idiot.”, the beer was thick, cool, and malty-sweet in my mouth. I looked at Elena, at Lenny, focused on my chalice of Chimay and started in my best intellectual drawl, with a slight Welsh thrown in for good measure.

“The idea is fucking simple, and it’s fucking brilliant. You have a transparent cube...made of high-strength glass, or plastic or whatever the fuck. I don’t know. But you have a transparent big sized fucking cube. And you hang it, via steel chains, from the midpoint of a bridge, such that it rests approximately 10 feet above the water. The only access to the cube is by landing on top of it in a chopper.”

“Erm.”, Elena was lost.

“He’s good ain’t he?” Lenny gushed.

“Wait for it fair lady, wait for it.” I continued.

“You and your hot bitch land naked on the cube, and get in. You fuck her brains out, doggystyle against the wall, slam her on the floor missionary, or you fuck her on your lap while standing if that pleases you. Hardcore in and out action if you will. In broad view of everyone and everything. Passing cars, people and ships. You charge on hourly basis. Extra for night time as visibility is greater. Specially for cruise ships drifting past. We call it.”

I paused for effect.

“The Hanging Fuckbox.”

“The Hanging Fuckbox.” Lenny repeated dreamily.

I continued, fiery, drunk and passionate:

“Just like guys who take their fiancées to the diamond store that’s en vogue this season or whatever, upon hearing about which all the Sex and the City bitches start cooing ‘He’s taking Claire where?? I want my man to take me too!!’, I want the bitches to coo, ‘Oh! Vince is taking Claire to The Hanging Fuckbox?? Aww, how romantic. I wanna go too!!”

“I...we thought of it” I glanced at Lenny, he was the main brain behind this particular idea, “while sitting in front of the Verrazano. We want every fucking bridge, in every fucking city, of this great nation, to be equipped with a Hanging Fuckbox. I want newlyweds to get in the Fuckbox for their honeymoon. In fact, eventually we plan to go global with this shit.”

Pleased with my speech, I took a long sip from my chalice of Chimay, it was heavenly in my mouth.

“Is this what you guys do on your free time? Is it that bad?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I got girls lined up, kid.” Lenny puffed and looked out the window as if there were a boat-load of bikini-clad amazons chasing each other with water guns filled with oil, wrestling to get to him.

“It’s a brilliant fucking idea, Elena. Don’t be a girl about it.” I chewed the words out slowly.

“OK, I admit. I wouldn’t mind going in to the Hanging Fuckbox.”

Through the mazy threesome, the dialogue was transparently taking place between the two of us.

“With whom, might I ask?”

“Um, I don’t know. With someone who can handle me and slam me like the hot bitch I am.” She arched her eyebrows.

“Oh don’t tease me kid, don’t tease me. I’ll sue you for fucking emotional harassment.”

“In your dreams. As if. I wasn’t talking about you.”

“You got RIBS. R.I.B.S.”

“Do I wanna know?” She was suddenly cute as a puppy.

“Ratio. Induced. Bitch. Syndrome. You’re the lone pretty girl amongst us wolves. You get RIBS now and then.”

We broke out in laughter.

I was horny as hell in the heat. I popped “A Felicidade”, composed by Antonio Carlos Jobim, performed by Agostinho Dos Santos, in my stereo. Summery-sweet Bossa-Nova beats wrapped within an enchanting, yet melancholy voice filled up my room. I took another long sip of Chimay and stepped out for a cigarette.

Shekh walked up the road. He groaned as he climbed up the steps. We were getting terribly old for our late 20’s. Three hours of non-stop soccer yesterday didn’t exactly help.

“What’s the plan?”

“Not much.” I blew smoke out of the corner of my mouth, checking out a young girl across the street.

“How old do you think she is?” Shekh followed my gaze.

“Old enough I think. You know my motto. 18 plus is all good.”

Shekh chuckled, “Nowadays I have trouble telling their ages...I catch myself staring all the time, and then I’m like, ‘shit she must be 16 or something!’”

“It’s not just you. I notice the young, pretty girls as well. On the subway, during soccer. On the streets. It’s not so much a lusty observation, but they all look so youthful and full of life. And we feel so old all of a sudden, you know? We worked too hard during our 20’s to get to where we are, being immigrants and all. The years passed us by while we were busy studying and working odd jobs just to survive.” I took a long drag from the cigarette. It was almost burnt-out. I looked up and puffed out a cloud of smoke at the sky. I twirled my chalice and finished up the rest of the beer.

“And now that we do have our professional, well-paid corporate jobs, and we’re trying our damndest to integrate into the American mainstream...we suddenly notice that our 20’s, possibly the best period of a human being’s lifetime, has gone in a blur, without much extra-academic memento to show for it. Don’t know about you, at least you went to a state school and lived the dorm life. I commuted to school, worked at the college library and worked as a bank teller on days I didn’t have classes. I didn’t get to fuck around. Literally. So, its natural I want my youth back, I want the clock to go back and turn me 22. I want to fuck, party, breathe, I wanna do illegal drugs. I want to live.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Shekh nodded casually and pulled out a cigarette, offering me one.

“You’re right, I had the dorm exposure and did a little bit of partying, but I was still a second-class citizen and had to pay for all my own shit. There was not enough time to just party and finish a Computer Science degree man. Sure I had some fun. But not enough. And yeah, now I just feel old. It’s ironic isn’t it? Now we have the money, we don’t have the youth. And when we did have the youth, we didn’t have the luxury.”

Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by my cell.

“Your dad wants to know if he should OK it. Say yes baby, how long will you stay unmarried?”

Ah yes. I was an eligible, South-East Asian single man after all, I had to get married and spawn a few little ones, otherwise what was the point of living?

“Mom...I...I just want two more years. If I don’t find someone in that time then I’ll marry anyone you guys have lined up.”

“You said that two years ago baby...at this rate there won’t be any eligible bachelorettes left.”

She had a point. I was biding for time, yet I had nothing to show for it. I hadn’t met anyone worthwhile for a long while.

“What about that girlfriend of yours that always hangs around, the weird, hippy girl?”

“She’s not my girlfriend mom. She’s just a friend. There’s no way we could ever be married.”

“Good, she’s weird. Stop wasting your time. You should think about the proposal. It’s a good family, the girl is going for her MBA. She’s smart, pretty...your father is basically losing hope in you.”

“He never had hope in me mom. Anyway, I gotta go.”

“Please say yes. Say yes this time.”

“I’ll think about it.” I hung up.

“Ah. The old South-East Asian Parental Marital Pressure Factor eh? You gonna do it?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged casually, “May be I’ll be late at it, like everything else in my life.”

“Aye. I called Francisco, he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Great. I’ll set up the chips. Hopefully that slime-ball Lenny’ll go down.”

We walked inside.

“Elena, what’re you cooking tonight then? Beef Stew? Chicken Curry? What up Lenz, ready to lose all yo money?”, Shekh quipped as he walked in.

“Manboys, the lot of you I swear. Total Manboys. Expecting the only woman in the group to cook and clean. Throw me a damn cigarette and I’ll think about it.” Elena threw her hat at Shekh.

I started setting up the chips in the middle of the room.

Finally started writing this thing, about 600 words in.

crowphoenix said:

Write about some cats driving a tonka truck through a slime filed sewer.

Click to expand...

...Don't tempt me. That idea just inspired me!

I haven't started writing yet, because I've been working on one of my novels, and this month's flash fiction for my website, but I can crank out my story this weekend. I already have the idea, I know where I'm going with it, and I'm excited. Sunday can't come soon enough! (Going to a wedding on Saturday)

A Jelly of a Most Unusual Flavor
word count: 1,596

Is it a dark and stormy night?

Dermit idly wondered as he rapped his fingers against the battered desk, as he had seen the Master do in his frequent bouts of impatience. The desk had been his, generously sold at a discount after years of experiments had left it scarred, stained, burned, and reeking of fumes that made this hunchback's overly large eyes to water. It had suffered further harm jamming it into the unused storage closet that served as his private place in this vast mansion, but it was mostly dry and the rent was cheap.

Still waiting on the Master's call. After dinner had been served, Dermit had left the Master alone while he finished his own scraps and saw to the chores, retreating to his room when the proper hour approached to await the usual summons. Not tonight it seemed. There was a rare occasion that the Master, a respected physician in a local hospital, was too worn from his labors to continue his experiments, and he had been acting oddly lately....

A scream, a loud gurgle, and a plop split the air!

Dermit sighed. It seemed the Master had started without him. Still, something was out of place. Dermit hadn't kidnapped any fresh villagers that evening, and it had been many years since the Master was young and vigorous enough to do it himself. It was why he had hired Dermit on to begin with, who had been working as a gravedigger and fry cook at the time. Skills the Master had made extensive use of, and paid for under the table.

Forbidden it was to enter the laboratory when the Master wasn't present. Not that this was an easy thing to do when the only way was blocked by a scarred iron door several inches thick, embedded with three strong locks that only the Master held the keys to. A door that now hung open. Dermit could only descend down the spiraling stone steps that he scrubbed free of mold and slime on a weekly basis, and into the gleaming laboratory.

There was a lot of blood. On the floor, the walls, and especially the Machine that squatted near the center of the room, and most of it was fresh. Dermit scratched his stubbled chin in slow thought, which was the best he was capable of. He was certain they didn't have this much supply on hand, and certainly the Master wouldn't allow it to go to such waste. Worse, there was no sign of the tall, elderly gentleman with his balding head half crowned in grey, and a pipe perpetually jammed under his lips, even while eating. There was his labcoat, his clothes, and even his pipe... still smoldering as it lay upon the table next to a wallet, monocle, and set of keys.

"Master?" Dermit ventured in a worried tone, only to flinch from his own hollow echo. Naturally, there was no response.

As the hunchback's mismatched eyes roamed the familiar lab, with its neatly arranged display of saws beside the hands and eyes washing station, he noticed something unusual resting on a small table mounted to the end of the Machine. It was a clear jar with a tin lid, and a stark white label that said, 'Tasty Jelly.' Dermit very much doubted this description when the globby stuff inside was pink with darker bits floating within. Still, the sight flared something in his shriveled brain...

"The Instructions!" Dermit shouted to himself as he recalled the Master once saying something that seemed just slightly odd....

'If I am ever absent from home when I should not be, and you discover a jar of jelly in my place, you must under no account open the jar! Instead, you must deliver it to this address...."

A flurry of searching discovered the single sheet with its greatly enlarged characters bearing simple directions that even the son of a gypsy and a serial satanist could follow. Dermit crammed it into a pocket of his dirty coat, grabbed the Master's keys, and hobbled quickly for the door, only to return half an hour later for the jar. He wasn't sure who this 'Dr. Thaddeus Harmsworth' was, but he was going to receive a special gift of jelly this very night!

*

Dr. Thaddeus Harmsworth sighed as he lounged in his crushed velvet armchair, sipping brandy and stared with abject boredom at his special menagerie though an inch of bullet proof glass.

No experiments for tonight. These dark and stormy evenings were when he did his best work, but it had been pouring steadily for three days now, and the winding road to his remote mansion had become a mire of mud. The essential deliveries could no longer reach his door, and so he had no choice but to rest in peace.

Only to be disturbed by the catastrophic crunch of metal and wood coming from somewhere just outside!

"Sir, you have a visitor," his austere butler announced some moments later through the intercom. The mansion was becoming distinctly dusty, but the poor old soul couldn't fulfill his duties well after the last time his master had not received his deliveries.

"A visitor? Is there some god remaining that does not curse me for my work?" Thaddeus muttered to himself as he passed through grand halls with deep gouges in the woodwork, only for a flash of lightning to illuminate the crumpled remains of a 1974 apple green mustang that had skidded off the road and straight into one of the hulking trees that lined his driveway. He was acquainted with someone who owned such a vehicle....

Throwing open the oaken front door, what the doctor discovered was a man in the loosest sense of the word. Some broken, shambling wretch in rags, still dirty despite the outpouring of the heavens falling upon him. His long nose resembled a tortured squash, with eyes more like eggs from a troubled hen.

"I's Dermit. I have a gib-b-b-gift from the Master," the creature spoke in a stuttering, spitting voice with a tongue that had likely been in punishment for some unspeakable crime.

"The Master? Dermit...," Thaddeus mused in calm consideration, but the second name was familiar. "Ah! You're Dr. Scranton's assistant. He mentioned you once or twice when we still had those meetings... though it's been years. How is the old codger?"

"Did-d-don't know," Dermit admitted with a shiver of unease.

The retired veterinarian puzzled over this severe reaction, but then he realized that providence had brought this hunchbacked mangle of a man to his door. No matter what happened to him, it could only be an improvement! "Oh, it doesn't matter. Come in! Come in! Wouldn't want a guest to catch his death... in such weather."

*

Dermit had observed the odd pause in the words of this robust and well fed man in fiery red hair and great moustache that reached from cheek to cheek. Yet soaked and without transportation (who knew a stick shift was so hard to use?), he had no choice but to enter this cavernous and darkened mansion.

"Here, relax on my sofa. Would you like something to drink? Brandy! Just the thing to drive that chill from your... umm, body. You know, I might be able to free you of your deformities...."

"Arm-m-aren't you a an-n-n-animal doctor?" Dermit questioned as he leaned back and peered about the study he had been led to. Animal heads lined the walls, and not all he recognized. The Instructions had referred to this man as a vet, though if this was an example of his work, he didn't seem to be a very good one.

"I am. I am indeed," Thaddeus agreed with a grin and a twinkle in his vibrant green eyes as he poured out a drink and quickly handed it to his guest.

Dermit observed a bit of white powder at the bottom of the heavy glass, and glanced up to wonder if the plaster ceiling was coming lose. Rain like this did a number to even the most palatial mansion, and Dermit had crawled along the attic of a few. It couldn't be worse than the concoctions the Master had him drink over the years.... The Master! Dermit fumbled in his coat, removing the jelly jar that had survived the crash intact. "Here. This is pra-a-a-present from the Master. Ji-i-i-jelly."

"A peace offering, I suppose. Your master and I used to trade exotic items found in our travels, shrunken heads and other nonsense, but then there was that disagreement....," Thaddeus mused as his examined this odd-looking jelly.

"dise-e-e-disa... gree...," Dermit struggled to speak, though what was left of his tongue had gone numb, and the rest soon followed.

"...ment," Thaddeus concluded with a broad grin, deciding this jelly would be just the treat after a full night of experimentation.

*

Something was wrong in a big way. Dermit felt bulkier than the time he had finished up the leftovers all you can eat buffet. Even his fingers felt fat and appeared to be covered in black fur. He also had a sudden craving for eucalyptus leaves, though on the positive side his odor had definitely improved.

"Dermit! What have you gotten yourself into this time?" came a familiar voice out of the darkness.

"Mahwa?" Dermit called out awkwardly, finding a tongue not well suited for human speech.

The figure that approached him was of the jolly Dr. Harmsworth, yet there was an oddly familiar look in his calm blue eyes, and a smear of tasty pink jelly marring his broad red mustache.

See I've got a start-to-finish outline of the plot. The trouble I'm having is making the characters likable/interesting. The story is outlandish, they just seem kinda generic, though, and I'm not sure how to change that.

Belfast said:

See I've got a start-to-finish outline of the plot. The trouble I'm having is making the characters likable/interesting. The story is outlandish, they just seem kinda generic, though, and I'm not sure how to change that.

Click to expand...

Tragic/unfortunate events and reactions to them can flesh out a character's persona.

"You...you traitor!"

Scribble said:

"You...you traitor!"

Click to expand...

?

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way To
Word Count: 558

Planned perfectly down to the last detail with everything in its place. Renee took pride in what, in her mind, was the only thing she could seem to get right, lately. One last check for any over looked details, anything that could be laid out better. No? Nothing? This is going to be perfect. She wondered if she had planned this little get-together too ___.

Steven had his comb somewhere, he knew he did. He had to keep it out all the time or he knew he'd run into situations like this. He could find anything he ever needed; he was a master at retracing his steps. He could find keys, toothbrushes, nail clippings that flew far and clear of his vision, anything. Except this damn comb. If it were a living thing, which Steven wasn't sure it wasn't, he was sure it would be taunting him right now. Glancing at his watch, shit, he was going to be ___.

Rachel always wondered what this would be like, with everything slowing down around her. She was disappointed at the lack of promised display, in vivid colors or in black and white, that she'd heard about so often. As the dislodged piece of glass that was scheduled by destiny to end her life floated toward her, Rachel made a face. How had this happened? Who crossed what lane of traffic or ignored what light or dropped their cell phone or any number of things that lead to this moment? Hanging in her last moment like this, she didn't regret or despair, she just wondered the questions everyone wonders in horror hours and days later. As with all funerals, she thought wryly, she would be getting her hers a bit ___.

Manny wondered if he'd been here before. The cold hard surface pressed against his back felt familiar, like a swing set from your old elementary school playground, but he had no firm recollection of having touched it before. He searched the gaps in his memory, looking for anything in those dark places that might give him a clue as to what he was in for here. It appeared in front of him, seemingly out of nowhere. Manny cursed his vision and wished whoever or whatever held him here had let him at least keep his glasses. What he got instead was this new intruder, covered with some sort of a clear viscous fluid, marching mechanically toward him and he felt that familiarity wash over him again. He was convinced at that point that this was not his first alien abduction. He'd had too many gaps in his memory of ___.

Renee had waited for her guests quite long enough, thank you. In a huff, she hastily picked up the table settings she had so excitedly arranged hours before and nearly dropped a mint colored tea cup to the ground in her rush. Oh, Steven had showed, eventually. Steven always showed, looking disheveled from the neck up as he always had. They'd waited for the others before enjoying what they could of the evening. Her other guests probably had their good excuses, but that wasn't going to save them from her wrath this time. A little silent treatment would keep them from ruining any of her future dinner parties, to be sure. Their excuses would be too little, too ___.

Scribble said:

"You...you traitor!"

Click to expand...

really, what do you mean, i am confused as hell.

If I can wrap this up in another page, I may have something for once! I've been writing so much long stuff lately that I couldn't play along.

Ive got an idea. I think. Yes. I dunno. No, it's an idea.

im going to write an unwanted pregnancy and the resulting abortion.