/lit/ - Literature

Previous Thread: >>19100734
We had an insane 27 flashes submitted in the last thread! And many more in progress…

A necrophiliac's first date
>>19100900

Widespread bigfoot encounters cause chaos
>>19101952

The Jeffrey Epstein Massage School at New York University
>>19107946

>A woman enters a supermarket with a swastika on her forehead
>>19108952

A bookshop run by monkeys
>>19113998

Someone lives between the walls
>>19114055

Unprompted
>>19114809

Unprompted
>>19115319

A new plant is discovered in the jungle
>>19119391

Unprompted
>>19121062

Someone finds a syringe in their fridge and decides to use it
>>19121666

A professor only leaves their house on Monday
>>19123203

Unprompted
>>19123625

Unintentionally becoming a very important swing vote
>>19124154

A child discovers fairies living in the neighbor’s garden
>>19132426

Meeting your doppelgänger
>>19133589

You develop fish hands
>>19135356

A city enters its 50th COVID lockdown
>>19137679

two paintings side by side at an exhibit talk, though they cant see one another
>>19141303

At a cliff of the grand canyon
>>19141507

>A Micro Wedding Goes Awry
>>19143892

A new method for tattoo removal
>>19144098

The Stage of Evolution After Homo-Sapien
>>19149497

A mantra to get through a difficult time
>>19149756

Someone discovers subliminal messaging in PAW Patrol
>>19149803

A man is killed during his first day at work
>>19149894

Mankind's first contact with africans
>>19150175

>New prompt
The first plague on colonized Mars

>>The rail stations been missing its nightly train, but even in the desolation of a rural stop, you find a friend.

“Excuse me.” said the young business man, rocking on his feet to keep warm “Are you also waiting for the 10:50 Eastbound?” The platform’s digital clock now marked 11:20 pm. The young businessman must have been working himself up to say these words to her for quite a while - and here they all were, tumbling out at once. Best laid plans, kid…

Every night there were one or two like him; travelers who just got off a late flight and, seeing the sign about the ‘last train at 10:50’ thought they could fit in one more drink before heading out of town.

Some started getting impatient at 10:55 and would complain to all who were in earshot, she made sure to leave those travelers well alone. Others would be a knot of nervous tension, desperate for news about their train, yet too timid to ask. She would give them until about 11:30 before saying “It’s not coming.” And leave it at that.

The young businessman made it in ‘just before the buzzer’ as they say. But she let him sweat it out a bit before her reply, a small punishment for waiting so long to speak to her. This was just part of her evening routine, waiting on the platform and chatting with some sad out-of-towner who missed their train. She was getting to be pretty good at it, having the same conversation with someone new each night. This was ‘Groundhog Day’ and she was Bill fucking Murray.

“I’m so sorry” she said at last, scrunching up her face in well-rehearsed sympathy “I don’t think it’s coming.”

This is another of those ‘choose your own adventure’ moments. Does he get angry? Does he try to find a cab stand (there isn’t one)? Does he find a payphone to tell someone he’d be late? She had a script for each, polished to perfection.

(1/2)

>>19155895
(2/2)… nevermind (2/3)

“When’s your train heading?”

This is not the usual second question, but she had an answer prepared: “I’m taking the Westbound, should get here at 11:50.” There was no 11:50, but the illusion of one made the evening take on a great shape. She would spend the next 20 minutes sympathizing with him, they’d work together to make some plan…then when her train didn’t arrive there would be a period of optimism (maybe it’s just late) before the roles would reverse and he would comfort her.

She could see him weighing the options. Leave? Stay? Take the (fictional) Westbound? He looked around the terminal for something, but clearly didn’t find it.

He looked a bit ridiculous, suit a bit too big in the shoulders, tie too long. He kept buttoning and unbuttoning his suit-coat, as if he couldn’t decide if 2 or 3 buttons was most appropriate for a snowy midnight train-stop. “You’re all dressed up,” she chined in “big fancy meeting?”

He looked down at his pointy suede shoes, laces coated in slush. “Nah. I had this interview early tomorrow, but i don’t think I’ll make it.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry.” She was fully committed to the ‘comforting him’ phase of the night. “I hope you weren’t —”

“I’m glad.” He was now digging his shoes into the loose ice, “the whole way here, the cab, on the plane…I knew it was all wrong. My dad set me up with this thing, and he’s so excited about it, but i feel like it’ll…I dunno.”

“It’ll what?”

“It’ll kill me. Not just ‘my life is over’, but I know that going to that interview would be the last thing I do. This dumb suit would have been the last thing I wore. Missing this train may have saved my life.” He smiled up at her. “So, I guess I need to figure out what to do with the rest of my life….maybe I’ll start with that 11:50 Westbound.”

(2/3)

>>19155906
(3/3)

She looked at him sheepishly “Yeah, about that…”

“That’s cancelled also?”

“A bit worse than that, I’m afraid…there never was an 11:50. It’s just this thing I say.” She was way off script, something about this poor kid just made her want to atop pretending for once.

“How do you plan to get home?” He asked “Or…” he looked around.

“Yeah, this is home. No, don’t look at me like that - it’s great here! All the people passing through, it’s just that the nights can get a bit…lonely.”

He changed the topic “I’m freezing, aren‘t you cold wearing that?”

‘That’ was her black Nirvana tee and red flannel. She’d worn it in all weather and never really minded the temperature. She just shrugged in response.

“I’m not going to need this, am I?” He unbuttoned his suit coat and placed it over her shoulders. “If we’re not waiting for trains, let’s get out of this wind.”

They awoke together the next morning, his coat over the both of them like a blanket.

“I forgot to ask you last night,” the young not-businessman began, “but you didn’t seem surprised the 10:50 didn’t arrive…do they cancel like that often?”

“They stopped running the late night trains out here a few years back. Said it wasn’t safe, after that girl was killed waiting alone on the platform.”

“Wonder if they’ll start it up again, now that that poor boy froze to death.”

Together they laughed, and together they waited, night after night, for the next 10:50 Eastbound not to arrive.

>prompt: a pedestrian causes an auto accident

Bump

>>19155912
I really like it. I think you nailed it. The way we get inside her head at the beginning, with her routine and choose your own adventure, is excellent. Adds so much connection right away.

>>19154456
>Oprah's funeral
Josh Peck really did it this time. Oprah was doing a book reading tour in San Diego for her latest release, How to Accept Your Fried Skin Color. He was so ecstatic being able to shake her hand that he desperately wanted to add a hug. He tripped for the story to continue and in doing so he clotheslined her through her table and white protesters by the door chanted, "You De-Serve It!" She would've simply lived on in a wheelchair but upon rising and seeing the carnage he created Josh fainted and his entire back landed on Oprah's face.
Jamie Foxx introduced the funeral having laid pipe on her a many years back being the last adult to do it without money changing hands. He made a couple of jokes about how her assistants were the ones to pick which books would enter the club.
"She don't read, are you kidding me? Come on yall the last book Oprah read was huckleberry finn in highschool. And just like every nigga she didn't finish reading that shit. 'Oh y'all got me fucked up picking the white kids to read those parts out loud.' She only read articles yall but as you see by this upright coffin-statue she was good at it. Some of you are looking confused, I did make that word up but what am I supposed to call someone inside a statue of themselves? She's inside that Oprah statue brother ain't that about-. How are we supposed to mourn the body?"
Jamie turns to look down at the statue which is 5'6 and he gets up close and emotional, like a R&B break-up music video. Shaq gets up pumping his fist then claps then launches his whole body weight on the chair.
"Shaq sit your dumbass down I know I didn't see you laughing in a funeral. Shaq the type of nigga- yall this shaq in the viewing."

(1/2)

>>19158370
Jamie gets a chair and stands in front of Oprah. His privates are right in front of Oprah's face and the crowd his howling but starts erupting farther when Jamie slowly turns his head to them with a smug demeanor. He turns to face her again and he pats her head and begins walking away at which point Jamie ends the character and laughs along with the crowd. Then he begins a more intense laugh when he thinks of something.
"Aye this be Katt Williams."
Jamie kicks the chair over and sits seiza in front of Oprah's crotch. The crowd resembles an ocean with how much movement is among them from laughter and a storm brews when everyone waits for Jamie to slowly turn around. He does so with puckered lips but not too puckered then he mimics Katt's anxious, sort of upset tone, "This is bullshit. This- is bullshit." Many people have lost the ability to breathe but the volume remains the same as others double their release of ecstasy.
"Yall this is Drake!"
Jamie is walking as if in line for the viewing and on his turn he walks behind Oprah and stops when behind her and looks at her ass then raises his eyebrows with his eyes in place, flares his nostrils and puckers his lips while shaking his head. Then Jamie joins the crowd in hysteria but immediately thinks of something.
"Aye Drake the type of nigga to shower before and after a funeral."
The funeral continued on with various other speakers but I never watched any of their stuff so I'm not bothering with them.
(2/2)

>>19154456
So we're leaving in the racist submissions from last thread?

>>19154456
>>19149556
Alright, posting the actual text as requested:
>The Stage of Evolution After Homo-Sapien
(1)
The wagon shuddered as it came to a stop, the tinkling of vials and tinctures audible over the hushed murmurs of the wagoners. Reyt looked out over the dark swirling water. A cold, hard feeling sat in his stomach. A remnant of rusted and warped steel was all that remained of the bridge. It was a monument that had stood before the days of his grandfather’s grandfather, the great work of the Vagrant King, a relic of the last age. Their safest way across the river was gone.
The air of the council’s wagon was thick with unease and the choking smoke of tallow. Some councilmen reclined on their pillows and puffed on clay pipes, the herb’s savor mingling with that of the lamps. Their faces were set with heavy creases, the mark of a life of toil and worry. Reyt’s own image was worn deeper than most, and he wore it proudly.
“We’ve begun fortifying the rearguard,” Kelam said. He was the youngest of the council, but his command of the guard had been proven many times over. None were more fit to bear the captain’s mantle than he.
The quartermaster sat up on his pillow. “Will it hold?” he asked.
“We’ll need every man to the wall,” Kelam said.
“And then?” the old man pressed, aggressively reaming his pipe.
Kelam hesitated, something Reyt rarely saw him do. “I don’t know.”
The council’s wagon fell into an uproar. Shouts and gestures were shared but blame was freely given. There were calls for the cartographer’s head. Others tried to put forth their own suggestions. Reyt was horrified to find that the leading idea was to split the caravan in an effort to double back and regroup on the other side of the pack. The reality was that they were willing to sacrifice half the caravan for the chance to save the remainder.
When he could bear no more, Reyt stood. Kelam looked to him silently. One by one the other councilmen turned to the wiry old apothecary. Reyt spoke when silence fell.
“We’ll drive a third of the flock to the north. It’s what they’re after.”
“Old fool,” the quartermaster hissed, “We’ll starve come winter.”
“Would you rather die tonight?” Reyt said. The councilmen cut glares and murmured between themselves.
An old shepherd spoke up. “We don’t have nearly enough sheep to stop the pack.”
“No,” Kelam said, “but we can divide its attention.”
Reyt nodded, “The wall will hold.”

>>19159934
(2)
The shepherds had scarcely returned within the wall when the first calls began to ring out of the dark. First were the screams. Reyt’s skin prickled as he thought of how many of the beasts were just beyond the light’s edge, circling like wolves around a campfire. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Then came the short, barking laughter from all sides.
The first volley went. Fire rained from atop the walls, cutting into the inky darkness. Screams, shriller than before, pierced the night. The first hoard lumbered into sight; about two dozen well-muscled beasts covered in dark hair. One stretched a finger out toward the wall and seemed to bark orders to the others, which spread out in response and sprinted for the wall. The second volley went.
The men were shaken but stood firm. Reyt could feel the morale surge as a shrapnel shell shredded a half dozen beasts. A few managed to reach the wall, but they were beaten down with bayonet and bludgeon. Still, the darkness continued to lash at the light with a savage hate. Howls and screams spliced with the cacophonous roar of cannons and volleys.
Reyt froze when he saw Ameni standing a ways back from the wall. Children were not allowed to approach, nor men allowed to leave its defense. Her face was creased and shaken. Reyt read it as a sculptor reads the face of the stone before his hands. An exception was to be made.
Ameni clung to his finger as if it were the string her whole world was hung by. By the time they reached the hovel, the sounds of battle had been drowned out by the woman’s cries. The faint thunder of the cannons still shook him, however. Reyt pushed aside the curtain and entered the dimly lit dwelling.
Many times in the night, Reyt thought the battle was lost. Savage cries fell as they pushed again. Strength was waning and blood came quickly. Practiced hands carried Reyt’s work, moving with machine precision and an instinct sharpened over years. The mother was still fading, sweat beading on her forehead as she gave another low groan. Ameni watched with a quiet horror as the old apothecary worked.
Finally, as the morning came, the child was born. The tension within the tent broke as Reyt quickly cleaned the infant and presented him to the mother. She tucked him close to her breast, the two hearts untethered beating in tandem as she breathed slowly, the child rising and falling gently on her chest. The apothecary stepped out into the cool air as the first light broke.

>>19159940
(3)
The thunder on the wall had ceased by now. Reyt could see the beginnings of a celebration brewing. Dawn’s first blooms were twining about the skeletal fingers of ruins reaching skyward, pushing the darkness further west. For now, they held onto the world that was once theirs.
Disease and rot had taken what belonged to humanity. The crucible of decay had poured out the heir to mankind. A world without medicine had left them hardy, breeding like rats in the dark. A world without knowledge made them brutish but cunning. They circled about the dying embers of civilization, living off the scraps left behind. Deep in every breast, however, the beasts bore a pure and feral hatred for their kin. One day, they would put out the last light of man.
Today, however, the fire still burned. Reyt looked back to the children nestled against the woman. Perhaps, even, it was a little brighter.
--------------------------------
Sorry the formatting got a little janky going from pastebin to post.

>>19159946
Oh yeah, my new prompt:
>A rural town is not what it appears

>>19159150
I really hope not. There's already a stigma with 4chan. It'd be nice if the /pol/yards don't ruin this project.

>>19159150
>>19160253
Just shut the fuck up already

>>19159934
Thanks anon. It's fun for everyone to read in the thread and helps bump it too.

>>19160282
Agree.

If you keep pushing, and editor-anon says all’s fair, it’ll condone more edgy content
If you keep pushing, and editor-anon cuts the story, there will likely be more drama and edgy stuff as a backlash.
If you keep writing great fiction and drown out the garbage, we all win.

Bump

>>19154456
>Why the next President gets impeached
Claiming this

>>19162377
>Why the next President gets impeached

(1)

The 47th President of the United States entered the small, well-funded classroom. He waved his practised wave and smiled his childish smile, more for the NBC cameras than for the children, as a busty young teacher introduced him.
"Good morning children," he announced over the excited applause from the forty-odd 11-year-olds that was filling the classroom. "I'm so happy I could find time in my busy, busy schedule to come and visit you. Today, I'd like to read you a story I wrote, just for you. Do you want to hear it?"
The children all cheered excitedly, and the President sat down in the inconspicuously placed chair before the projector screen he'd insisted on. He pulled out his phone, and with a single click, a painted, sunlit hill covered the wall behind him.
The President cleared his throat dramatically, as the room fell silent.
"In a hole in the ground there lived a rabbit. Not just any rabbit, but the rabbit King, the king of all the other rabbits."

He'd barely finished his introduction when an aide came in, apologised to the children, and whispered the ominous words to the President: "There's a phone call for you."
"Apologies, children," the President said with tact, "don't go anywhere, I'll be back in one minute."
He followed the aid outside, and took the call on his own phone. It was his Chief of Staff. "Sir," the Chief said, "we've had an attack on our Franklin base in Peshawar. We're suspecting The New Islamic Front is behind it, sir."
The President rubbed his forehead. His presidency had plummeted in popularity over the past year for failing to energize the economy. The last thing he needed was a resurgence in terrorist attacks against America. "What are possible targets for retaliation."
"Complicated," the Chief responded. "The only three NIF bases we know about are underneath a hospital, a school and a mosque."
"Shit. Send me the satellites. I'll get back to you."

He came back into the classroom with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that, children. It seems they think I'm the leader of the free world or something." That never failed to get a laugh from a crowd. With his phone, he projected a new picture onto the wall, a grand hall filled with little rabbits. He quickly scrolled through the text of his story to remind himself where he was. He sat down, faced the children, and cleared his throat.
"The rabbit King had three advisors, who he trusted more than anyone else on the hill."
The President barely got through three sentences before his phone started ringing. He recognized the number. He excused himself profusely, and stole out to the hallway.
"I told you, you can't call me on this number!" the President hissed.
"It's important. I had to talk to you," a feminine voice pleaded.
A tone of worry entered the President's voice. "Why, what's up?"
There was a tense pause.
"I miss you, teddy bear. When can I see you again?"

>>19163036

(2)

The President looked around, making sure he was alone. "I have to call you back. I'm in the middle of something."
"I lo..." was all the woman got out before the line cut out. As the President re-entered the classroom, his aide held up a phone, and he quickly scanned the three satellite photos.
"Sorry, sorry. Hopefully that's the last time," the President said with all his charm. He sat down and cleared his throat.
"The rabbit Princess had been abducted by the evil foxes from the forest, so the King had gathered his three trusted aides to help him..."
"Why is the rabbit a king and not a president like you?" a snot-nosed kid enquired.
"Well, that's a good..." the President started.
"Are the foxes a metaphor for Muslims?" a pompous girl asked.
"What? Of course not, what makes you..."
"The Chief of Staff needs an answer ASAP," the President's aide whispered into his ear. The President spun around. He was being assaulted from all angles.
"Sorry children, duty calls. Back in a second." He was sweating now.

He burst into an empty restroom and splashed his face with cold water. Practice your breathing, he said to himself. His phone rang.
"I really want to see you, Beddy," the seductive voice pleaded over the voice.
"I wanna see you too," the President admitted with a hushed voice. "But I promised my wife we'd have dinner together tonight."
"I'm really wet," the woman said over the phone.
"Now you're making me hard."
"How hard?"
The door opened, and the aide burst in.
"I'll show you," the President said hurriedly and hung up.
"They're waiting for an answer," the aide pushed.
"The kids? Just tell them they didn't have presidents..."
"The Pentagon. They want to know where to attack."
"Oh, of course. Thank you." The President pulled up his phone, and held down the "text to speech" button he only used when he was in a rush. The aide left him alone. "Blow up the school and the mosque. Do it at night to minimize casualties, but hit them hard. You don't fuck with America." Press send. He then pulled down his pants, and took a photo of his manhood, proudly standing at attention. Flexing his military might always did it for him, but he'd never tell either of his women that. Press send. Then he pulled up his pants, dried his face, put on his charming smile, and went back to the classroom.
"Alright, who wants to know what happens to the rabbit princess?" the President said with a strained smile as he swung the classroom door open and saw 40 young faced staring with horror at the projector screen.

The President could never decide what had been worse; instructing his mistress to commit war crimes, showing his dick to a class of school children, or sending the top military generals in the country a story too dumb even for 12-year-olds.

**********

New prompt:
>A computer programmer gets to make a wish

>>19163049
That was great, I laughed out loud at the punchline.

>>19154456
>Humans terraform Saturn
Claiming this one.

>>19154456
>Treasure hunters descend on a small town
Work has begun…

>>19160253
>>19159150
Which ones are racist? The only one that's a bit racist is the one about meeting Africans but even that is sort of creative since it's about someone who had never met a black before. Literally none of the other ones are racist. If you keep whining like faggots about nothing and then running away once anyone calls you out I'll sit here and churn out the Turner Diaries just to spite you. Literally every other place in the world has been ruined by preening sensitive idiots like you, nobody here is being excessive so grow up and realize sometimes people will write things that make your pp shrink and that's okay.

Bump

>>19163590
There was a long pause before Carl responded. "Terraforming? Do you seriously want us to get involved with Mars? The whole project is a fucking black hole, I've been saying it fo-"
Matt cut him off. "It's not Mars, Carl. I brought you in on this because I trust you. Do me a favor and hear me out."
"If it's not Mars, then what is it? You want to set up a branch office in the asteroid belt or something?"
"It's Saturn."
There was another long pause, but this time Matt took the initiative. "You've been, right? Two weeks paid time off on Ring City, if I remember correctly."
"Terraform Saturn? Matt, it's a fucking gas giant."
"Answer the question. Ring City, right? What did you think of it?"
"I-I don't fucking know, Matt. It's a utopia, everyone knows that. No money, collective ownership of property, you can fuck whoever you want. Where are you going with this?"
Matt leaned back in his chair and grinned. Carl's sex tourism had been an open secret around the office for years, but hearing him admit to it was still satisfying. "Right, a utopia. A magic city in the clouds where starry-eyed hippies smoke synthetic hashish and sing Kum Ba Yah all day long. Not exactly a place you'd expect a finance company to be doing business."
Carl groaned. "Look Matt, I still don't know what you're getting at, but I need to say this again. The only way we can possibly diversify our market share at this point is to lower our standards. I know you don't like it, but we simply can't afford to be picky anymore. There are a lot of people out there looking to buy a gynoid on credit, and-"
"And what if I told you there was a way out of this rut that didn't involve attaching our name to sexbot pimps?"
"Are you seriously trying to suggest we start offering loans on Saturn? Forget doing business with a bunch of anarchists, the travel costs alo-" Carl broke off. "And just what the hell does this have to do with terraforming, anyway?"
"Terraforming, terraforming. Tell me, Carl, how would you define that word."
"I don't know, modifying an alien planet to make it more like Earth. Can you cut the bullshit and just tell me why you called me in here?"
"You can't define it. In fact, nobody can. Not even the suits who wrote up the Colonization Charter. Ever read it? 'Any organization contributing to the spread of Human civilization beyond the confines of our home planet is eligible for...blah, blah, blah.' If we go by the letter of the law, just about anyone can get a federal terraforming grant if they ask for it."
"But they meant heavy industry, Matt. And high-brow cultural stuff. Besides, Mars has been fucked for years. Nobody even live-"
"Carl, I know a guy who made bank selling office supplies to non-existent industrial parks in the Mariner Valley, all because the government believed he was 'paving the way for future business ventures.' Anyone can get a grant. Besides, this isn't about Mars."
"Right, it's about Saturn. You still haven't explained that."

(1/2)

>>19165669
"I'll spell it out for you. From the legal point of view, 'terraforming' just means bringing your business from Earth to the hostile environment of outer space. If you can make a case that your field is relevant to 'life on Earth,' you're golden. And there's nothing in the official literature saying that hostile environment has to be natural."
"Jesus, Matt, are you suggesting-"
"Yep. We apply for a federal terraforming grant to bring money lending to Saturn. Why not? Our planet practically revolves around debt, all the proof we need is in the history books. In the grand scheme of things opening accounts on Saturn is the same thing as planting trees on Mars."
Carl opened his mouth to speak, but reconsidered. Matt didn't give him the chance to think it over.
"And we really are going to terraform Saturn, Carl. We're going to take what we know and transplant it onto a tabula rasa. We're going to make Ring City into New York City. Our case practically writes itself, and the payoff is in the millions. How are you going to argue against that?"
"Jesus, Matt, I don't know. Have you considered the pushback factor at all? We're obviously jumping through a loophole here."
"The feds won't give a shit, they've had it in for Saturn since the beginning. The public won't be interested enough to pay attention. As for the Saturnians, I've had marketing work on that. There's definitely a potential market for Earth products too expensive to pay for in cash - plants, animals, luxury goods they can't make for themselves. We might even pitch the process of going into debt as an exciting novelty. Boredom is evidently a big problem for the permanent residents."
Carl kept shaking his head, but didn't say anything.
"And if you're going to bring up any moral objections, remember who first suggested we break into the gynoid business because there was such a big market for little robot girls in school uniforms. I hear the girls on Saturn are pretty young, by the way."
"Enough, I get the picture. No need to twist my arm. Jesus, it's a long shot but it might just work. What do you want me to do?"
"Advance scouting, I called you in because you're familiar with the place. We're going to have to identify the potential entrepreneurs among the Saturnians. Establish dealer-funder relationships from the ground up. There's a launch window coming up next month, and while you get ready I'll work with the legal team to put together our case for the review board."
Carl got up to leave without saying anything else. Matt leaned back in his chair and grinned again.
"Don't look so glum, Carl. You're a space explorer on a mission to an alien planet!"

(2/2)

>>19165675
>Prompt: A modern-day Noah's Ark

>>19165669
Absolutely loved this! Great take on a pretty impossible prompt, love the cynical grant loophole angle.

Only suggestion is for characters to use each others name less often in dialog…a couple times is helpful for the reader, but too often and it seems a bit artificial.

I can see this as the premise for a much longer story.

>>19165691
>A Modern Day-Day Noah's Ark
Starting this I have the perfect idea.

>>19154456
>A supervillain or superhero poisons all the vape cartridges
the person who does this is by definition a hero and not a villain

Bump prompt for the night:
>A game of twister at a nursing home

Bump

>>19163049
Made me laugh. Great story with building tension.

>>19165675
Also made me laugh. This is the kind of SF we need. I'm not sure I would even call it satire. It's funny because it's exactly what people would do.

>>19154456
bump for the night

>>19167413
Might do this from a horror angle, I'm busy with work this week though

>>19154456
Damn, I wish I knew how to write

>>19163049
>A computer programmer gets to make a wish
Working on this one

>>19171070
Looking forward to it, Anon!

>>19172043
Only one way to learn, mate

>>19172946
Which is?

>>19173738
Having sex

>write 1/3 of "The best way to die on a dessert island" and excitedly think about the story and the little universe I thought up
>can't be bothered to write for the next 2 weeks
>mfw
Thanks for subscribing to my blog, posting this will hopefully motivate me to finish it today

>>19174418
2 weeks from today: 10/19
Submission deadline: 10/31

Seems you’re safe…just make sure to jot down a few of your ideas before that little universe starts to fade. It’s hard to recapture the mood to write once it’s lost.

bump

>>19163725
>Treasure hunters descend on a small town

There are some tools which mankind just is not ready for: the atomic age dawned before we learned to be peaceful, high fructose corn syrup was created before we learned to moderate, and Twitter arrived before we learned to shut the fuck up. Thus - like many of the strange stories of 2019 - this one began with a tweet.

“@Ng - BioCoin hit $25K USD! Fun fact: I misplaced a thumbdrive years ago that would be now be worth over $500M USD today. Oops lol #biocoin #hodl #noregrets”

Years before Jordan Ng became a tech billionaire - back when most households didn’t even know how to pronounce his name - he was just another Carnegie Mellon grad student who enjoyed hiking, building robots and dreaming up crypto currencies. Most of these projects were just fun diversions while he was working on his dissertation, but one ended up gaining a bit of traction. He and a few friends noticed the energy waste of their crypto-mining servers, and realized that if crypto currency were ever to become mainstream it would be an ecological nightmare. They theorized a much more efficient alternative, and for a few months were BioCoin evangelists (at least until they got side tracked by drone racing).

Years passed and BioCoin hummed along in obscurity, until two things happened: Ng made headlines by successfully launching a luxury line of solar hybrid vehicles, and Bitcoin was dealt a blow by environmentalist groups for it’s massive carbon footprint. Suddenly a nerdy project between Ng and his friends was being tracked on stock tickers and discussed seriously on CNBC.

His October 5, 2019 tweet was very much in character for Ng - who was both famously rich and famously unaffected by it. Most interpreted it as he intended, as a promotion of BioCoin and a joke (at his expense) on the ephemeral nature of money. A clever few, however, read a different message altogether…there was, in some landfill or basement or storage locker, a USB stick worth millions!

Despite the flood of inquiries, Ng provided no more information on where or even when the drive was lost, and finally went so far as to delete the tweet…but as he well knew, nothing said online is ever truly gone. In short order, private groups and conspiracy videos proliferated. The social media account of Ng’s and his contacts were combed through to establish his location every day following the launch of BioCoin. Lost and found bins across the CMU campus were raided, obvious fakes sold for thousands on eBay. In short, the largest treasure hunt of the 21st century had begun.

(1/2)

>>19177728
(2/2)

The Craigslist ad was found in the first day, though it took a week to become widely accepted. In October 2015, a year after the launch of BioCoin, an ad was placed offering a $50 reward for a thumbs drive lost while hiking the Appalachian Trail. The ad showed an cropped photo of a USB stick wrapped in gray duct tape, attached by carabiner to a backpack. Written in sharpie in huge block letters: ‘NG’.

Fall is busy in Shenandoah, many descend on the small Virginia communities for lodging as they take in the sights, bike it’s trails, kayak it’s rivers. As ready as they were for the annual leaf peepers, none foresaw the pandemonium which descended on the valley that autumn of 2019. Bed and breakfasts sold out in days, guests were offered staggering sums to transfer their reservations, it seems like half the capital of silicon valley was flooding into the accounts of any rural homeowner willing to spare a couch or pitch a tent in their back yard.

It didn’t take long for the ugliness to start. Cellular networks and rural broadband slowed to a crawl under the added demand. Stores ran out of stock, and traffic jams - once unheard of on these back roads - were now constant. These new goldrushers were following a path they dubbed the “Ng trail” which hewed as closely as possible to the 3-day journey of Ng and his friends from the Sheetz off US-522 to their AirBnB in Chester Gap and through the trails and loops and scenic vistas of the national park, finally concluding at Waffle House #1199, where the lost ad was posted.

The park staff did their best to contain the destruction - metal detectors and shovels were banned, anyone found damaging trails or wildlife were cited or ejected, special rules were put in place limiting foot traffic - but they were ill-equipped to police the crowd. Rather, those who weren’t bribed to work as private guides were kept busy treating injuries, patrolling for bonfires, and guarding administration buildings from break-ins.

In a matter of months, BioCoin had nearly destroyed one of America’s natural treasures. It’s value, which fluctuated wildly during the week ‘Ngoldrush’, ended up sinking to less than $0.02 as reports emerged about the devastation caused and Ng himself converted his remaining BioCoin to Leaferium. The thumb drive, wherever it may be, was soon worth less than $400. The hunters left the valley as quickly as they came in, like locusts they set out in search of the next trend. It took years to repair the damage and re-open the trails, but they did eventually recover. Today, the only sign of the Ngoldrush of 2019 lies on the trees and roadsigns along the Ng trail. Below the familiar red or blue blazes marking the official trails, there are now to be found pieces of duct tape with ‘NG’ scrawled in big block letters.

>New Prompt: The dad farm

>>19177735
Fun story. I like the reporting style, like a newspaper article or history book. It doesn't allow for as much intimacy, but you take advantage of its strength and cover a lot of ground.

bump

For any who are interested, there were a few flashes posted in threads between the close of vol 2 in April and the open of vol 3 in Sept:

A prehistoric tribe reacts to a meteor
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18030234

A novice conman does a confidence trick successfully
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18033237

A memoir by Butterbeard the Great
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18034526

Treehouses become a popular housing option
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18040185

A man loses his mind due to a pigeon waking him up each morning
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18041476

A mushroom hunter gets more than they bargained for
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18042307

A bonsai tree nursery refuses to return a tree to its owner
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18044443

That's not a horse
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18048755

A parade of ghosts
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18049716

11 Feds at a Klan Rally of 12
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18051828

The Secret of a Great Chef (II)
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18058217

A flash fiction writer receives advice on 4chan from the reincarnation of Cervantes
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18067568

Describe a barn as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war (prompt from /wg/)
>>>>/lit/thread/S18027112#p18074336

Unprompted (erotic fanfic)
>>>>/lit/thread/S18128575#p18129007

Unprompted (writing exercise/possibly not posted by author)
>>>>/lit/thread/S18128575#p18129240

The Secret of a Great Chef (III)
>>>>/lit/thread/S18128575#p18136816

Planning a mundane errand begins to sound like an epic tale
>>>>/lit/thread/S18128575#p18143302

The next phase of the Instagram model craze
>>>>/lit/thread/S18128575#p18146444
… and continued here (Police investigate a reported crime and uncover this insanity in the process)
>>>>/lit/thread/S18128575#p18147006

A man keeps finding other people’s wallet in his pocket instead of his own.
>>>>/lit/thread/S18128575#p18146737

man. all these prompts suck

>The dad farm

“Dad died? Deadbeat dad? Doesn’t matter! Hi, I’m Kent Kuntings, and we here at Poppy Fields are happy to present you with the latest and the greatest advancements in dads and dad farming technology. My family has owned and operated this one-of-a-kind farm for over 200 years. Nestled in the Central Valley of California, you know you’re getting a quality dad when you come on down.”

“That’s great, Kent. I’m Kent’s brother, Dick, and boy do I love dads! But you don’t have to fly or drive all the way out to California for our dads! For only $69.95 you can have a dad of your own who specializes in any number of father-child activities, including but not limited to fishing, hunting, yardwork, car repair, and contact sports. But wait, that’s not all! For a small fee of $30, an optional behavior modification is included which features realistic drinking, yelling, and beatings! Ssupplies are limited, folks! Get to your phone right now and dial the number on your set: that’s one-eight-hundred-five-five-five-eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-nine. Batteries not include.”

Too good to be true; that is what I thought. I turned off the TV and walked over to the window, taking a swig of root beer. The sun was almost up, emanating a warm red glow between the venetian blinds in my apartment. Smog was choking the life out of this city; I had to get out of there. Maybe a drive to this Poppy Fields place would do me good. Unshaven and reeking of old socks, I got into my Kia Prelude and made it out of Los Angeles by late morning, despite the heavy traffic. This farm was somewhere north of Bakersfield but south of Fresno, according to the map I had bought at the drug store. I almost took a wrong turn to Visalia, but I made it, outside Hanford. Fields of crops and orchards fanned out to the north and south, as far as the eye could see, an endless ocean of produce only broken here or there by long rowhouses.

“Can I help you, sir? Looking for a dad?” asked a slimy looking salesman. He wore an expensive taffeta coat and embroidered pants, with a ruffled collar and lace. He clearly had a powdered wig on, and eyed me up and down with an ominous grin.

“Just browsing.”

>>19179930
To be fair, they’ve been well picked through, these are the ones still left.

If you don’t like ‘em, post some better ones

>>19179939
What was I doing there, exactly? My dad was gone, that was true, but I wasn’t interested in replacing him. No one could replace my old man. I opened a gate and went up to one of the rowhouses. A sign was painted, hanging from the entrance, saying “Harvest A”. Huh, strange. Obviously they were harvesting the produce. I went inside and saw it was a mixture of barracks and storage. Crates full of fresh fruits like plums, strawberries, and oranges were being carefully placed in crates by men of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The few times I had to drive through the farm towns of the Central Valley, I had seen nothing but hispanics.

“Like what you see, sir?” asked the same salesman, sneaking up behind me.

“Oh! Uh, well, these must be the dads.” I coughed awkwardly into my arm.

“Astute observation, sir. Our dads learn the value of hard work, like any father, by field labor for sale and their own consumption. Such a fresh diet of organic fruits and vegetables nourishes their dadly figures and ensures customers will be satisfied.”

>>19179939
>>19179957
A few of the men stopped their work to look at me. Some were a bit squat but muscular, with sandy hair and a clean shaven jaw. The others were taller, a bit lanky, with salt and pepper in their hair. A few were fully bald except for the sides, while others were darker skinned black men with merely a receding hairline. There were thick, Tom Selleck moustaches and even a long, unkempt Rasputin-like beard. They had an inquisitive but friendly gleam in their eye. Immediately I felt at home and couldn’t help thinking of my dad.

I was a disappointment. Now that I was older, nearly the age he was when he had me, I realized it didn’t matter. He loved me anyways, no matter how I turned out, because he was my dad. Being there, on the farm, I knew that all these men would easily be dad if I asked them. Perhaps they’d even love and support me the same way. Right then and there, I made a choice.

“I’ll take on. The fellow over there, carrying the daikon. See him?”

“Excellent choice, if I may say so, sir,” said the salesman, “for that’s our Dan model, on sale right this moment. Dan, would you come over here?”

The man came over. He looked similar enough to my dad but not the same to be too creepy. Fiery red hair with grays mixed in, especially in his stubble, he also had the same hazel eyes. This Dan was shorter, about an inch below me, and stockier too. Daringly, he came up and put an arm on my shoulder.

“I knew you’d make the right decision, son,” he said with a toothy grin, creasing the corners of his eyes.

“I – uh…”

“I’ll let the two of you become acquainted. If you hand me your credit card, I’ll make the purchase for you, sir. Dan, why don’t you show this gentleman the playground?” asked the salesman. I handed him my card out of my wallet without taking my eyes of Dan.

“Sounds great, Mr. Hayden. Say, son, let’s go toss the old pigskin around. Whaddaya say, huh? We have a big field here.”

“O-okay Dan.”

“Call me dad.”

>NEXT PROMPT: BOBBING FOR APPLES GOES TERRIBLY WRONG

>>19179939
I wrote that prompt.

Thought this story ended with “Just Browsing” and loved it. Got even better with the next two posts! Great take on it, really enjoyed the infomercial pitch.

Prompt:
>The academy of Paranormal Life Coaching

>>19179941
Here are a few sufficiently open-ended prompts, hoping there’s something here for everyone:
>A man attempts a world record
>Someone crashes a child’s birthday party
>Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory
>A dog changes the course of a war
>An archer makes an incredible shot
>A garment you just can’t get rid of
>Trying to return a clearly used item
>A shy person must perform on stage
>Cashing in your dying wish a bit prematurely
>A guilty man is wrongly accused

>>19181055
>>A dog changes the course of a war
Got this one.

>>19181055
>Someone crashes a child's birthday party

I'll take it!

>>19179791
Are any of these going in this volume?

Last bump b/f i get some sleep

>>19181055
>A garment you just can’t get rid of
mine now

>>19182729
No, only flashes posted in ffa #3 threads

Here are 7 prompts I came up with that people may like:
>The statue seems to be pointing to something
>Every time he looks at the engagement ring he begins to sob
>Someone finds the journal of a mentally disabled man in the archives
>This will be India in 5 minutes
>A librarian goes blind every Thursday
>There is a ship museum in Utah
>An office worker cannot remember the last time he did his job

>>19184342
A Librarian Goes Blind Every Thursday
Yoink

>>19184342
Ship museum in Utah.
Gonna get this one together by evening.

>>19184342
>An office worker cannot remember the last time he did his job
Gonna take this one, hopefully I'll write it over the weekend

bump

Bump again from page 10 (still writing…)

[*not for anthology*]
>Need to bump the thread, so i’ll just throw in a flash-length piece here. It’s the first bit in a longer story I’m writing on one boy who can only do things right, and his brother who can only do things wrong, based on the prompt “someone who fails at failing”

There is no tale as dull as that of the conquering hero. The tired trope of the man who confidently sets out to achieve greatness and in the end, quite predictably, does. He who bravely charges forth daring to taste of life's bitter tears and who ends his long journey belly fat with sweet nectar. Oh sure, the storyteller may stack the cards against our hero, sprinkle a few tired riddles and minor tragedies along his inevitable path to glory…but you and I, reader, are not that easily deceived.

No, I’ve always related more to the fools and failures. Those all-too-human characters whose heads were filled with the lofty ideals and over-confidence of the hero but who, without that hero’s secret store of strength, wit, or luck, will ever find themselves at the cold mercy of a cruel and indifferent reality.

It’s fitting, then, that my favorite tale is that of Finn and Thistle, brothers alike every way, except two. First, there was the matter of their hair; Finn’s hair was shining gold while Thistle’s was dark black. The second, and only other, difference between the twins was the witches curse.

Marigold, mother to the twins, was herself a hero. She ran about for years, outwitting mad wizards, frustrating dragons, rescuing unfortunates from this and that - I won’t bore you with such nonsense. All you need to appreciate is that in the regular course of hero-ing, one accumulates a truly massive collection of souvenirs. Treasure, sure, but that’s easily given away. It’s all the enchanted baubles you don’t know what to do with…a hero can’t just wander about distributing flaming swords and ancient scrolls to the common folk. As if that weren’t hard enough, any half-successful hero will accrue dozens of allies and enemies, and Marigold was a three-quarters-successful hero, at least, so she had hundreds. She learned to keep track of them all by writing their names on a long list, just in case.

At 35, after one particularly close scrape, she decided to close up shop for good. She retired as a hero and chose to settle down and start a family. She spent her substantial treasure on a nice house in the country. To keep her future children from getting hurt, she took all those dangerous trophies and packed them away in a far off cave. And then, at past, there was the matter of the list.

(1/3)

>>19188914
(2/3)

Normal people just don’t keep an enemy list around, you see. It became a point of contention in Magnolia’s marriage. She would catch her husband glancing over at the list from time to time, a concerned look in his eye. “The ‘Rat Lord’. Can you remind me what the Rat Lord is mad at us for again?” She didn’t marry him for his subtlety. This prodding got to be so constant that one day Magnolia tore the list in two. The enemy list was tossed into the hearthfire, and the (to her credit, much longer) friend list remained tacked prominantly to the wall. “There,” Magnolia proclaimed, “we shall put our grudges behind us, and only consort with friends from here on.”

Marriage saved, they got along to the business of starting their family and forgot the whole affair of the list. When soon she discovered she was with child, Magnolia was so excited she called upon one of her friends, the Waterwitch of Lost Mountain, to tell her fortune. Magnolia was an exceptional person, and naturally wanted to know if her child would be exceptional as well.

As I have said, hero-ing is a messy endeavor, and while The Waterwitch had once been a friend to Marigold, she was later to become her sworn enemy. Villain-ing is equally complicated (though the friends list tends to be shorter), so when Marigold’s letter arrived, the Waterwitch consulted her own lists and discovered Marigold’s name on both. The witch couldn’t recall exactly what had transpired between them, but supposed she’d just do her one good turn and one bad and consider both debts paid off.

She put quill to paper and sent back the following:

“Your first-born son, with hair of gold
Shall be cast in hero’s mold.
And any task he sets to do
He shall surely see it through.

Your second-born, with hair of Jet
Wishes, but shall never get.
Any thing he ever sought
Will in time come to naught”

(2/3)

>>19188920
(3/3)
This news hit Marigold hard, for it is well-known that anything a witch says in rhyme must certainly come true. “Sorry husband,” she said, folding the letter, “it seems we shall only be having the one child. My friend the witch tells me our first one will turn out just great, but a second one’s a bad idea!” She knew how he could be, and took the added precaution of burning the Witch’s letter before he could read it and get all worked up.

Marigold was being a bit complacient here, while her past life as a hero was all good luck and cleverness she would occasionally forget she wasn’t a hero anymore. A full-rhyming witch’s curse can’t just be brushed off by some country-wife over a technicality. As Marigold soon discovered when she had twins, one with golden hair and one with blackest black.

And then she died.

>workin’ on the ‘war dog’ flash now, but it may be a couple days…enjoy thin is the meantime

>>19188931
I’ll read it soon anon :)

>>19188931
i liked it, good job anon

>>19165906
>A Modern Day Noah's Ark

It was 8:30 am in Pasadena, California in the year 2666. I sipped my Folgers from a thermos while I oversaw the construction of the largest fucking ship I’d ever seen in the shipyard. My company, ROC Shipyards, had the most interesting client since pre-history. The Almighty. No, I’m not shitting you. The literal Christian God showed up in my office one day and said he was wiping the slate clean once more. Said he had a new project in mind and we were in the way. So much for unconditional love. Now my boys and I were working around the clock to build a spaceship to blast off into the stars holding all the animals of the world, a living menagerie to be managed by his angels. A few lucky humans, myself and team included among them.

My door suddenly swung open. When you’re The Alpha and The Omega, things like courtesy don’t matter to you. It’s hard to describe a man (and sometimes woman) who looks different every day. I can only tell you that today he looked like The Big Lebowski if he decided to be a Mall Santa. In his hand was a list and he slammed it down on my desk;

“Dillon, I need to know, where your instructions not clear?”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

He motioned to the list, “One of my guys intercepted one of your guys and found your company itinerary on what animals to grab for the new Ark.”

“Well what’s wrong with it?” I said, “It’s my business and I can decide how to project goes forward.”

“I just think you’re being asinine about this,” He said, he picked up the list and scanned it before exasperatingly sighing, “You can’t leave the koalas on Earth because they’re quote ‘chlamydia ridden shit goblins’ I have a plan for every animal on this planet!”

“Yeah?” I challenged, “What was your plan with them?”

He ignored me, “And pandas being ‘pants on head retarded in every sense of the word’. Pandas are adorable! I put them on Earth to make you happy!”

“I’d be happy if they all drowned or blew up or whatever you plan on doing,” I said.

“I can’t believe you. I have to say my least favorite and your worst offense is this,” He said, “Your exclusion of the dolphin. They’re such smart and tactile creatures, but here you write ‘No dolphins, those things are Satan incarnate,’ first of all have you met Satan? That guy’s a fucking asshole.”

“I would not be surprised at all if I went down there and dolphins were swimming around in the lake of eternal flames,” I replied.

“What’s it to you if they are?” He inquired.

“Fuck’s sake are you kidding me?” I said.

1/2

>>19190895
“It is a grave sin to lie, My son,” He answered. “There’s a hundred things wrong with this list. ‘None of those fuck off huge spiders from Australia’, ‘I will literally fire anyone who brings aboard one of those long necked cunts in Africa’, ‘Chihuahuas are God’s mistake’, which that one is just rude.”

“Funny though,” I replied. “Did you read the whole thing, if it’s a sign to lie you have to admit you laughed.”

“I did not laugh once,”

“What about at ‘No ducks. I don’t even really have a reason, I just better not see a duck’,” I asked.

“Dillon if you keep this up you’re not going to get on the Ark,” He said testily.

“Honestly if you’re so insistent that every animal gets on board I’m not sure I want to,” I laughed. “But fine, I tell you what, I’ll repeal that itinerary and make sure all your wonderful creations make it on to the Ark.”

“I’ll take you at your word,” He said “Lying to Me would be a big mistake, but you have Free Will. Even if so many of you abuse it. Fucking assholes.”

“Yeah God,” I said, “If it really means so much to you we’ll make sure everyone gets on board safe and sound.”

“Thank you,” He said, “Have a good day, I’ve got hurricanes to throw into Japan to make up for lost time.”

“For all the war crimes they got away with?” I asked.

“What? No. I don’t care about any of that,” He said “I’m talking about anime.”


Chuck had worked for me for six years. Chuck was a good worker and knew when to keep things quiet. As we passed Mars I asked him if the “Special Room” had been prepared.

“It has been,” he said, “But I’m curious why no many different species are sharing one habitat. One kind of room is it?”

“An airlock,” I said, pressing a button. I watched as the view in front of us was filled with creatures big and small, down the hall I could hear someone screaming my name. Pray for me.

2/2

>>19190898
Couple typos I missed in there but ti's 6am and I haven't slept yet. Sorry about that.

>>19190895
Fun story, but i was distracted by a few things:

The year is 2666…
>Folgers in a thermos
>The Big Lebowski
>Anime
This might make more sense if you set it in 2086 or something….but 2666 will be as different to is as we are to people from 1100 AD.

Nowhere in the old testament did Noah give God any shit. I love God being all curses and such, but it may have been better if the main character had to be more circumspect.

>>19191843
I legitimately picked 2666 as a cheeky reference to Roberto Bolano. I mostly had a gag story in mind so I didn't put much thought into it haha.

>>19192520
Like part of the absurd nature of the story IS this guy being a pain in the ass to the most powerful deity in the world while said deity is so sick of our shit that he's willing to nuke the world again, something he explicably promised not to do again.

>>19179963
Went from surprisingly wholesome to a bit creepy and I'm not sure what will happen next. I like this one a lot. Clean writing too.

>>19188914
The opening made it a bit hard to get into. Reads like a diary entry but one meant to be read by others.

>>19194176
Thanks for the feedback, i was trying to tie it back to the prompt…but the story moved in a way where the intro just seems kind of out-of-place.

Also, looks like instill have a few instances where i called the main character ‘Magnolia’…oops

>A garment you just can’t get rid of

Melanie gleefully scrolled through the newest Twitter moment while waiting at the laundromat for her drier cycle to finish. The second season of Emily in Paris had just hit Netflix, and several of her Twitter mutuals had unleashed excoriating reviews of the show. In French.

‘Wasn’t this show so bad they had to bribe the Golden Globes?’ she typed a reply to a news article before thinking better of it. Instead, she swiped to Google Translate.

‘Cette série n'était-elle pas si mauvaise qu'ils ont dû soudoyer les Golden Globes?’ she fired off instead. Almost immediately she received a notification of a like from a school acquaintance and super socialite, Erica Habershaw. Her username: @joiedeveev.

Melanie gasped. She would do anything to be in Erica’s circle, while she thought Erica barely knew she existed.

They were both part of a cabal of recent graduates from New York’s Fashion Institute of Technology and ran in the same circles but were not close; they simply had no reason to be. Melanie was the daughter of a kindergarten teacher and an electrician, while Erica’s grandparents were published in Vogue. Yet it seemed they both enjoyed ridiculing media that promoted the clueless expat stereotype.

Another notification came. A reply from joiedeveev: ‘Vous parlez français? :)’

Melanie panicked and hit the translate button. ‘Do you speak French?’ Of course, she didn’t know a lick. But it had recently become trendy to post in French because many graduates from the Fashion Design program (including herself) were competing for internships in Paris. However, she assumed everyone else was faking because she knew none of her close friends at FIT spoke French either. Erica must also have noticed this trend and was calling her bluff. Melanie decided to play it coy.

‘ça et là’ Melanie replied, repressing the urge to curl up on the floor. ‘Here and there.’

(1/3)

>>19195777
A voice erupted from across the room as the owner, a mild-mannered Pakistani man named Sal, pointed towards the front door. “Someone stop her! Thief!”

Melanie turned her head. A skinny middle-aged woman with a messy ball of hair was walking out the door holding a basket of clothes. The woman, who Melanie nicknamed Scrunchie, often hung around the Starbucks a few blocks west, where Melanie would sometimes go to complete assignments. Scrunchie would charge her phone for hours without buying anything, leaving only after employees threatened to call the police. In the past, Melanie had resented the woman for taking up space that other customers could use. But it wasn’t her business to intervene then, and she doubted whether she could now.

“Hello, Mel?” Sal addressed Melanie directly as he approached her. “Could you please help?”

She nervously glanced around the store at the other patrons. A handful of people loitered around, but none had bothered to look up from their phones. Some were men who could probably handle Scrunchie better than she could. What if the woman was carrying a weapon? Did Melanie really want to risk getting stabbed over clothes?

“That’s my wife’s laundry,” Sal pleaded. “If I go, I am afraid I will look like the aggressor.”

Sal’s real name was Salaam, and he sometimes talked to Melanie about his daughters who had moved away and started their own businesses. During those times, his wife Miriam brought out a tea set and poured chai for them while they sat at the front counter. Melanie felt awkward because he and Miriam would compare her to their daughters, who she had never met. Still, their hospitality was endearing. One day, she felt confident enough to confide in him that she wanted to start her own ethically sourced line of clothing.

He would drink his tea pensively and ask, ‘So no more sweatshops?’ Melanie would shake her head no. ‘Good,’ he would say, and talk about the injustices of his native country. It seemed that he enjoyed being heard, and Melanie was happy to indulge him.

(2/3)

>>19195794
Truthfully, his kindness inspired guilt inside her. Being a fifth generation Irish American, she felt that she should be able to sympathize with his struggles but didn’t know how. For much of her upbringing, she felt as if she had to relive an ancient experience of oppression that her parents had ascribed to her. There were plenty of Irish-descended people in New York; they practically ran the city. She wanted to escape to a more fabulous culture – a new life. But for Sal and his family, this was their new life; they didn’t have another chance.

A phone vibration brought Melanie back to reality. It could have been a reply from Erica, but now Melanie realized she didn’t really care. If she didn’t chase the thief, no one would. At least if she died, her mutuals would mourn her.

“Don’t worry, I’m already there,” Melanie reassured Sal.

Melanie walked outside and spotted Scrunchie halfway down the block, fallen to the ground. Apparently, she had attempted to shove her way through a group of pedestrians and gotten shoved back, spilling colorful dresses all over the street.

“You biiiiitch,” An onlooker shouted at Scrunchie. “That’s what you get.”

Melanie walked up to the thief, and against better judgment, firmly gripped her wrist.
“Why did you steal from Sal? You know he’s good people?” Melanie demanded. “Did you target him because of his race?”

Scrunchie sighed, refusing to make eye contact. “I’m not targeting anyone, honey. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

Melanie was not convinced. “Go and I won’t call the police. But if I see you come here again, it’s your ass.”

Scrunchie scrambled upwards, but not before grabbing Melanie’s tulle blouse and yanking hard. The center fabric ripped, exposing her black undershirt. Melanie pushed her away before gathering the clothes and returning them to Sal.

Sal looked appalled when she returned. “Come Mel, throw away that shirt and take one of my wife’s.”

Melanie shook her head, laughing. “I made this one myself. I won’t give up on it so easily.”

(3/3)

>>19195794
Truthfully, his kindness inspired guilt inside her. Being a fifth generation Irish American, she felt that she should be able to sympathize with his struggles but didn’t know how. For much of her upbringing, she felt as if she had to relive an ancient experience of oppression that her parents had ascribed to her. There were plenty of Irish-descended people in New York; they practically ran the city. She wanted to escape to a more fabulous culture – a new life. But for Sal and his family, this was their new life; they didn’t have another chance.

A phone vibration brought Melanie back to reality. It could have been a reply from Erica, but now Melanie realized she didn’t really care. If she didn’t chase the thief, no one would. At least if she died, her mutuals would mourn her.

“Don’t worry, I’m already there,” Melanie reassured Sal.

Melanie walked outside and spotted Scrunchie halfway down the block, fallen to the ground. Apparently, she had attempted to shove her way through a group of pedestrians and gotten shoved back, spilling colorful dresses all over the street.

“You biiiiitch,” An onlooker shouted at Scrunchie. “That’s what you get.”

Melanie walked up to the thief, and against better judgment, firmly gripped her wrist.

“Why did you steal from Sal? You know he’s good people?” Melanie demanded. “Did you target him because of his race?”

Scrunchie sighed, refusing to make eye contact. “I’m not targeting anyone, honey. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

Melanie was not convinced. “Go and I won’t call the police. But if I see you come here again, it’s your ass.”

Scrunchie scrambled upwards, but not before grabbing Melanie’s tulle blouse and yanking hard. The center fabric ripped, exposing her black undershirt. Melanie pushed her away before gathering the clothes and returning them to Sal.

Sal looked appalled when she returned. “Come Mel, throw away that shirt and take one of my wife’s.”

Melanie shook her head, laughing. “I made this one myself. I won’t give up on it so easily.”

(3/3)

>>19164147
>“Sick em, boy!” yelled Jeb and Bernie dashed off after the black man while the three men took aim and fired. All missed except Jeb Jr who hit the black man in the leg.

>The black man limped faster than a hound into the corn field, leaving a trail of blood. There he was! The creature, wounded, slowed to a crawl and crouched in the grass, teeth bared and snarling. Jeb pulled the trigger and blew his chest open.

The post even has a picture of blackface in it. You're not fooling anyone dumbass

>>19195818
I like your prose a lot, bit the story feels all over the place. The whole "fake french" thing and the Sal part doesn't seem to be related at all. And there's not really a conclusion, except the extremely shoehorned reference to the prompt in the last few sentences.

>>19196138
I had a lot of ideas, basically I wanted to tackle Dasein. Mel is someone who aspires to a false appearance of sophistication because she has FOMO, and romanticizes fashion subculture as something that can deliver her from her conflicted feelings regarding her identity. However, the Pakistani family has no choice but to embrace their cultural identity in the face of discrimination. Mel realizes her concerns are trivial and she should work more earnestly towards her own ends rather than perform for people who would similarly revile her

I wish I could expand it but not enough words

>>19196138
Agree that it introduces many things tangential to the main plot, but i found that added a lot more character depth than i usually see in a flash.

I’ve been a lot of Kazuo Ishiguro lately, and it’s the same way…a relatively slow/simple plot padded with so many layers of reminiscences and small moments you really feel you know the characters.

In this condensed format, though, you really have to choose wisely what to keep and what to cut. It does feel like you were taking your time at the start, and rushing the end to make it under the word count…consistent pacing would make it feel more connected.

I really loved this, though! Great writing, and fun angles into a this odd fashion subculture. Reminds me a bit of the perfume story from the last volume, one of my favorites.

>>19184952
>An office worker cannot remember the last time he did his job

(1/2)

Yousef made his way to his desk by instinct, navigating the compact space by habit. It was in just the right place, and nothing looked like it had been moved. The wooden chair was tucked underneath the desk, the way Yousef always left it. Now he pulled it out and sat down. It creaked, having grown unaccustomed to his weight. In the dim light of his candlelight he couldn't see anything beyond his own station. He felt safe and alone.
His shaking hand found it's way to the "in" tray. Yousef blew away the thick layer of dust, and pulled out the top sheet of paper. He read slowly, his eyes straining in the low light. Mohammed Nahmad wanted to sell his house to an Abbas al-Masry. Yousef flicked through the papers, quickly finding al-Masry's letter of purchase of Nahmad's property. Yousef put the two forms side by side, comparing the information in both. He worked slowly in the poor light, having to remind himself where to look, and his mind wasn't as sharp as it has once been. He cross-referenced methodically, knowing the problems an incorrectly submitted form could cause.
A second light joined Yousef's warm candle. This was the sharp, jittery ball of light from a flashlight, which found and rested on Yousef.
"What are you doing here?" the holder of the flashlight demanded. Yousef looked up, his wide eyes making him look like a deer in headlights.
"It's okay. I work here."
"You can't be here. This building is condemned, it's not safe."
"But there is so much work to do." Yousef returned his attention to his paperwork. The guard took a firm step closer.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Yousef Safdie. And you?"
"I'm Ahmed, I'm the security here. Yousef, you can't be in here. This building is condemned. No one has worked here for six years."
"Six years, huh?" Yousef mulled the words over in his mind, clearly reminiscing about some lost past. "Six years. Long time."
There was a long pause, as Yousef stared into the darkness, or more accurately stared into his own memory. The guard shifted nervously on his feet.

>>19197099

(2/2)

"Six years ago," the old man finally said, "they shut us all down. They wouldn't let us work. Too much shooting. Too many bombs. I went to Turkey. Turkey is safe, they say. In Turkey they put us in camp, give us nothing. Say 'you're not allowed to work, only stay in camp'. We try to work, sell soda and water. But they find us and stop us. We go to Greece. They give us some food, clothes, and a bus ticket. They tell us, go wherever you like, just not in Greece. So we go to next country, and to next. Everyone friendly, everyone give us bus ticket. Finally I get to Norway. In Norway they are very nice. They give me place to live. Give me money. Not much. Not enough. But a little, still. Then they say 'you mustn't work. You must stay home, be nice, wait for decision'. They never make decision. Can I stay, must I go? They never tell me. Only, 'mustn't work'. Six years... It's a long time."
Without warning, Yousef stood up straight. Ahmed took an instinctive step back, clutching his torch, but he realized he wouldn't need it. Yousef looked around the war-torn office. A single tear reflected the faint light in the room.
"Six years, no work. But now I'm home. Now I work. There is much work to do."
Ahmed felt a national pride in seeing this old man, standing silhouetted against the night sky visible through the gaping hole in the wall. He lowered his flashlight to the floor, and stepped up to the man.
"Where do you live, my brother?", Ahmed asked him.
"I forgot," Yousef said, with an embarrassed shrug. "All I remember is office."
The guard put a sturdy arm around the old man. "It's late, come with me. First we eat. Then we sleep. Tomorrow we work. There is much work to do, indeed." With a smile he led the old man out of the ruins of the courthouse, and out into the rejuvenating night air.

***************************************

>New prompt: The last sheet of paper in the world

>>19197099
>>19197109
Not what I was expecting when I made this prompt, but I liked it. Good job anon and thank you for sharing your work.

>>19188931
>>workin’ on the ‘war dog’ flash now, but it may be a couple days…

It’s just not clicking for me, someone else can give it a shot. I’ve got an idea for ‘ The statue seems to be pointing to something’ that I’ll try instead.

>>19197766
Thank you for reading it. Yeah, my first idea was "guy never does any work in the office, so when he has to do his job, he doesn't know how to" type joke, similar to the "nobody at congress remembers how to pass a bill into law" skit that the Onion did a while back, but then I though that was too obvious and wanted to do something else.

Plus I'm the guy that wrote the "how the president gets impeached", so I didn't really feel like writing another funny

>>19197099
>>19195777
Blessed digits. I'll give these a read this weekend.

>>19198072
Awesome stuff anon. Keep it up, I look forward to seeing your stuff going forward.

>>19197109
Really liked this one, clever take on the prompt

>>19197109
based. I love it

>>19177735
nice. it all snowballs into a huge event and it's all connected. creative take, too.

>>19179791
>The Secret of a Great Chef (II)
i really enjoyed this even if i now nothing about poetry.

>>19196415
>the perfume story from the last volume
that a was a very good one

>>19154456
>The breaking of a wishbone has disastrous results
I think I will throw my hat in the ring and try this one

We’ve passed 100 posts, and have 10 flashes written, seems like a good time to summarize the active prompts:

Everyone in the local police department becomes addicted to a designer drug
<insert country> in the year 2044
How the Queen of England remains spry in old age
The reason our principal got hired
A cannibal doctor
A child identifies as a dog
Jeff Bezos' beauty routine
Convincing Elon Musk to adopt you
A shut-in decides to go trick-or-treating (>>19121329)
The best way to die on a dessert island (>>19174418)
An annoying child believes the Harry Potter universe is real
A closet full of skin suits
An unexpected hazing ritual
The true purpose of the COVID vaccines
A dating app with extraordinary risks and rewards
A supervillain or superhero poisons all the vape cartridges
A millionaire leaves their fortune to their dog
The next big trend in household pets is revealed
An unlikely animal killing people in Australia
Bouquets are sent without a message
Swimming through memories (>>19087574)
The breaking of a wishbone has disastrous results (>>19201863)
A robot in an automobile production factory suddenly gains awareness
Dead worms and Crystal Pepsi
A graphic designer realizes their logo is graphic in all the wrong ways
A family recieves cursed objects from the will of a spiteful patriarch
A pandemic puppy ruins someone's life
You don't understand, he was literally fucking orange
A werewolf is on her period
Someone who fails at failing
A neighbor who can be heard through the wall who seems to make just the right noise at the right time.
You found a lost thing (that your friend accused you of stealing) in your pocket 20 years later
Kenny G is the hero America needs but doesn't deserve
The first plague on colonized Mars
A pedestrian causes an auto accident
A rural town is not what it appears
A computer programmer gets to make a wish (>>19172659)
A game of twister at a nursing home (>>19171070)
Bobbing for apples goes terribly wrong
The academy of Paranormal Life Coaching
A man attempts a world record
Someone crashes a child’s birthday party(>19181986)
Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory
A dog changes the course of a war
An archer makes an incredible shot
Trying to return a clearly used item
A shy person must perform on stage
Cashing in your dying wish a bit prematurely
A guilty man is wrongly accused
The statue seems to be pointing to something (>>19198048)
Every time he looks at the engagement ring he begins to sob
Someone finds the journal of a mentally disabled man in the archives
This will be India in 5 minutes
A librarian goes blind every Thursday (>19184469)
There is a ship museum in Utah (>19184494)
The last sheet of paper in the world

>I may soon begin to trim the oldest uncommented ones from future lists, in order to keep it manageable, but feel free to write them if you like

>>19202511
i was just thinking about this, thanks!
the dog war prompt reminds me strongly of the samurai dog story in previous issues. it was a nice piece and an anon even drew something to go along with it. if someone still has the picture please post it.

>>19202805

>A stray dog wants to become a samurai
>>>>/lit/thread/S17455716#p17471499

>>19202930
much obliged and very cute

>>19202511
thanks for the update

Bump

>>19202511
Thanks anon. I'm still working on A computer programmer gets to make a wish.

bumpin

>>19202511
>Bouquets are sent without a message
working on this

>>19208527
first draft done and will edit tomorrow. meanwhile have a bump from page nine (again)

>>19198048
>The statue seems to be pointing to something

For centuries, the the Northlands were plagued by goblins. Though no taller than a man’s knee, these clever and malicious creatures were feared by all animals great and small. The only thing which could coax a goblin’s sour face into a toothy grin was the act of tormenting those who shared the forest with them. In fact, it was this pursuit which occupied the majority of a goblin’s time and energy. They would tear down the spider’s webs, destroy the bird’s nests, and mix poison berries among the squirrel’s nuts. They would set traps for the larger beasts of the wood, and the boldest of goblins would even construct intricate harnesses where they could entrap an animal - a bear or dear, say - and cruelly ride it to exhaustion.

The goblins were the indisputable masters of these lands; that is, until the first Norsemen arrived. They brought with them iron, fire, and - most confusing to the goblins - cooperation. You see, goblins are solitary creatures. They are constantly in competition and contention with one another. This is why, perhaps, their language never developed beyond three ‘words’. A dry humming noise to express desire, a high growl to express displeasure, and a crackling laugh to show mirth.

One of the goblins - far from the fiercest in this forest, but perhaps one of the cleverest - looked upon these invading Norsemen not as a threat, but a challenge. He hummed and clicked to himself for weeks as he watched them unload their ships and build their camps. He stole items of the men’s clothing to take their measure, as he constructed a special harness, of vines and hair and leather. It would be impossible to mount a two legged beast, so the harness must bind together the legs and arms of these men, and force them to walk on elbows and knees. The other goblins mocked him as they saw the harness grow in complexity, but he warded them off with growls and thrown rocks as he completed his work.

The true challenge was not in creating the harness, for this he had much practice in. The difficulty was finding - or manufacturing - just the right conditions to attach it. He would need to get one of these highly social animals away from the herd, and - harder still - would need to lure it into just the right position. This was easy with other beasts; a honeycomb or salmon or berry bush laid just so would force them to expose their back and raise their head upward as they ate. Any lure he dropped for these strange men, though, would be snatched up by hand and brought back to the camp to investigate and consume. So he watched and studied carefully, letting out his scratchy hum as he learned the habits and weakness of each man, and dreamed up the perfect snare.

(1/2)

>>19210526

(2/2)

Njal did not lead this band of vikings, but he took great pride in being the tallest and strongest. Though still young - his beard still thin and wispy - he was confident that it was only a matter of time before he proved himself and earned command of his own drakkar. As such, he was constantly seeking out ways to impress the band with his bravery and wit. He was growing frustrated at the lack of such opportunity when, while gathering firewood, he spied the glint of a gemstone out of the corner of his eye. The commander’s rule insisted that any discovery of this sort be immediately brought to the attention of the whole party, but Njal did not want to share the glory before learning more about his find.

The gemstone was green and rough and sat in the open hand of a small man, waist high, carved roughly from birch branches and lashed together with long grasses. The wooden man had few features, however Njal could make out a long nose and wide grin. It wore a tiny coat of strange design, seemingly made from a squirrel hide. The hand not holding the stone was outstretched, an extended finger pointing deeper into the wood.

Njal followed the direction of the finger and encountered a similar form, this time knee high and carved with finer detail than the first. This one held a small iron knife in its hands, the very one Skarde accused others of stealing days ago. Again the shape was pointing further into the wood, and again Njal followed.

Five more statues he encountered, each smaller than the one before and each with some small treasure in hand. The details of the carving and clothing on each statue becoming more intricate even as they became smaller. Njal studied the tiny faces, they resembled a crooked old man though with the wide grin of of a mischievous child. The outstretched fingers were thin and knobbed, with long pointed fingernails.

The final statue was no larger than a thumb and sat inside a hollow of an old alder tree. Njal had to duck down on hands and knees to inspect it. The tiny figure stood atop a gold coin, again clearly taken from camp. Unlike all the others, this one was pointing upward with both hands, an alarmed expression on it’s minuscule face. As Njal craned his neck up to see what else could be inside the tree he felt a rope tighten around his neck. He tried to get up, but found his limbs were bound together. Something large was scrambling up his back, just too far back for him to see. He felt the creature’s breath warm behind his ear as it laughed a loud and terrible “Akakakakakak”.

>New Prompt: What? I can’t hear you!

>>19210560
I like this. a lot anon, great job on it. Thanks for picking my prompt!

>>19195921
Whatever nigger

>>19210560
random lurker here. I enjoyed that and really felt immersed into the world.

>>19201863
Working on it still, i have written about 75% and intend on reviewing it. I may (hopefully) be done sometime around Wednesday if all goes well.

>>19181055
>An archer makes an incredible shot
It has begun.

>>19159150
Hello plebbit

>>19211171
>>19212992
I don't want racists in the anthology either. It cheapens the efforts of everyone else who didn't resort to reactionary low hanging fruit and just encourages flooding the thread with similar content. If the editor doesn't put their foot down then the future of this project is a foregone conclusion. You've wasted everyone's time

>>19213045
I think mostly everyone here agrees with you. I really doubt the editor is going to include blatant bait stories. I have yet to see a blatantly "racist" story on here just for the sake of causing strife with this project be taken seriously. The only one I can see being remotely close to this definition is >>19150175 and it's actually funny because of the idea that this is someone's first contact with someone of a very different skin color. It is meant to be satirical at worst.

>>19213214
You're in denial and that's the only funny thing about this

>>19213244
i was not the same guy as the guy you were conversing with, but ok. I mean you are free to have your own opinions on the matter. The editor has the final say on this anyway.

>>19213262
That's fine and all but in my humble opinion 90% of people would agree that violent racism is unacceptable even if you stick a satire label on it. Dave Chappelle quit his own show because he felt uncomfortable doing racist skits. There's protecting artistic license and then there's demanding the bare minimum because hicks shooting a black man is a very very low bar regardless of satirical intent

>>19213282
Ok i will honestly admit that i am in the wrong. I did not read the full thing until now. After actually reading it to its fullest extent i am going to have to agree that you are right on this. I honestly assumed the story was just a joke on ignorant whites not believing that someone could look so different to them. Apologies for not doing my full research, i was definitely wrong on this.

WRITE

>How the Queen of England remains spry in old age

It was Kevin’s big day, but he had been up all night, goofing around on the internet. Rolling his limp neck around, he scooted his chair back. Birds were chirping and the first rays of dawn peeked through the blinds. He tried to reach his eyes to rub the crusties out, but couldn’t manage. Back to the computer, he wanted to finish making a post. All night he had been discussing problems with fellow members of the forum. There was trouble afoot on the internet! What was a routine effort of his online community was now stained; no, tainted by the black mark of nothing less than racism!

“Kevin, dear, it’s time to get up! Let me help you, sweetheart.” His mom cracked the door open. She tried to lift her son up and onto the bed for his morning change, but he began to flail and cry.

“Aaah! Uhng! Nuh nuh, mama, aaah!”

“Stop it, Kevin, and behave yourself. What’s wrong? What are you – ow!” Kevin bit her. He bit his own mother! “You listen here, young man! I will not have that today, got it? You can go back to your computer toy thing when we get home, after the big day.”

“Buh mama, nuh uh muh doo! Thuth waythith ahn duh innaweb, me me nuh uh muh doo!” Kevin screeched and a few tears dribbled down his cheek.

“That’s nice, honey. There, all changed. Let’s bring you down to breakfast. Your father wants a word.”

With a quick dash of talcum powder, Kevin had a fresh diaper and his mom picked him up. He was hardly bigger than a large dog on account of his withered, crippled frame. Even a frail old lady could manage the journey downstairs! She strapped Kevin into his breakfast seat and gave him a peck on the cheek. Across the table, his dad was reading the newspaper. Putting it down, he grabbed a slice of blackened toast and spread a bit of false butter on it before taking a bite.

“Mm! Can you believe this stuff, Charlotte? Delicious and heart healthy, too. Anyways, you’re looking a little peaked, son.” He took another bite. “Long night? I told you get to bed early, champ.”

“Muh duh bobo, duh splfspt,” said Kevin, a glob of drool hanging down his chin, “an muh innaweb buhbo duh is waythith!”

“Wonderful, son. Simply delight! Charlotte, get his chair will you? We need to be there in twenty minutes.”

“Of course, Roger, I’ll go grab the boy’s chair,” she replied, going back up the staircase, “but be sure to feed him. He needs the energy.”

Roger put his newspaper down and picked up a spoon with a piece of grapefuit.

“Here comes the airplane!” He popped it into Kevin’s open mouth. “Weeeeee!”

>>19214954
Their son laughed, flapping his crooked arms like a bird. After a few more bites, Roger hoisted Kevin into the motorized wheelchair. The three of them got into the van and drove off, past their suburbs and to the nearby park. Dozens of limousines and hundreds of spectators stood in a crowd. At the arrival of Kevin’s family, the people erupted into applause. But the furor paled in comparison to the arrival of none other than Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth II! The decrepit old bat stooped out of her limousine with a helping hand from her grandson, Prince William. Kate and the kids were there. She walked up to the podium where Roger, Charlotte, and Kevin waited. The former two kneeled and kissed the Queen’s ring.

“Your Majesty, as beautiful as ever!” said Charlotte.

“It’s a shame Charles isn’t here to enjoy the… festivities.” Roger winced after saying that, pinched by his wife.

“’Tis a shame, indeed, my loyal subjects.” The old bat shook her head, paper-thin jowls swaying. “Ah, this must be the boy! Kevin, is it?”

“Uhhh,” he drooled, “muh splf buh bobo, mama uh papa duh innaweb!” Kevin didn’t really know what was going on. What was the Queen of England doing in the small town of Piggot, Arkansas?

“How old is he, Roger?” asked the Queen.

“Thirty-three, as of today, Your Majesty.”

“Charming lad,” said Kate, holding her latest, swaddled newborn. “Don’t you think so, dear?”

“A proper fellow!” exclaimed William. “Where’s Uncle Andy, mother dearest? He’s late.”

The queen sighed. “Do I look like your Uncle’s keeper, child? He should be here any moment with the rest of the party – ah! Speak of the devil.”

A number of cars arrived, consisting mostly of armed security. But beside them was Prince Andrew and the Clinton family!

“Piggot, my old turf…” muttered Bill. “Your Majesty! How wonderful we could be together again for this momentous occasion.”

“Never tried retard, before. Looks scrumptious.” Hillary gave Kevin a pat on the head.

The crowd of royalty gathered behind the Queen at the podium. Everyone went silent. Chelsea stood behind Kevin and began to massage his shoulders as the Queen rambled on about sandwiches and shrimp cocktails. Kevin looked up, pushing his limp neck to its peak, and saw a strange look in the Clinton daughter’s eyes. It was… hunger.

“… and on this day, this day of most splendid offerings to the Great Lord of the Deep, we find ourselves with…” She paused, drawing bated breaths from the audience. “… a boy.”

The crowd erupted again. Men, women and children rolled their eyes back, falling to the ground in fits of seizing ecstasy. They writhed like snakes in a pit as the sky blackened and the distant roar of thunder sounded. Chelsea’s grip tightened. All eyes were on Kevin.

“Let the Royal tasting commence!”


>new prompt - charles manson is my mom

>>19213282
>90% of people would agree that violent racism
Most people on here don't care about it.

>Bouquets are sent without a message

Ever since her husband died in the war, Maria lived the next fifty years of her life in black and white. The sun was always white and her hair was always grey, but lately the clock’s hands were moving slower by the day.

Becoming colorblind made it hurt less for Maria to look at his picture, those bright blue eyes now dull and milky in the glass frame. They were no longer accusing, finally accepting that it was just fate, or God’s will, but nobody’s fault. They blinked when Maria did.

But, yes, the clock did move slower for Maria these days, so she was secretly pleased that her nieces pushed her into this new job in the dead letters room. Every morning she would be the first to pass through the inscribed post office gates and head straight to the basement, and would go back up only when the moon was high and everybody had left.

And there, in the labyrinthine shelves in the damp concrete walls, Maria basked in the sweet scent of aged paper and dried glue and the beautiful moments immortalized in them, having never received any mail herself since the war. Long dried ink flowed once again under the only light source on her table. Letters from friends, lovers, enemies, words carrying hope, hate, clemency.

These envelopes were deemed by the Bureau of Postal Services to be in violation of safety regulations, but were too expensive to return and too bothersome to destroy. In them Maria discovered that people had sent each other such oddities: dead leaves, a queen ant in an ampule, a solidified drop of honey, and tears — deliberately dripped on a now crumpled piece of paper.

Then one particular envelope, rejected due to a damaged stamp, dropped rose seeds on Maria’s palm. The thick pages fell out and unfolded themselves under the oppressive table-lamp. Maria’s dull eyes skimmed over the rugged writing as dust hung in the light: a prisoner’s dying wish to have these flowers cut fresh on the morning of their execution. There was no name or date but the paper had yellowed and smelled very sweet. There was no recipient but the “you” repeated many times between the lines until the ink faded near the end.

That afternoon, Maria left the basement early for the first time and passed like a specter through rows and rows of silent cubicles. She closed the rusty elevator gate and slid it open on the roof, walked over to the little patch of soil there, tore out the weeds and scattered the rose seeds just as the sky began to darken and rumble.

As the clock’s hands overlap and the seeds sprouted, Maria read the letters that shed vibrant colors on their faded mementos: the dead leaves were a spiteful gift from a tea tycoon betrayed by his partner; the butterfly was addressed to the Bureau of Scientific Services by a boy who believed he discovered a new species; the honey was a nervous man’s condiment accidentally spilled on a lengthy love letter; the tears were a mother’s desperate plea for his son to return from the war.

>>19215072
Maria’s lips paused and quivered at those words. She took the mother’s envelope and sent it with a Forward/Return Address Requisition Form B-2 along the pneumatic tube, and waited. Minutes later the capsule plopped back untouched and laughter from upstairs echoed in the tubes.

When the buds began to peek out Maria was already deep in the trenches of telephone books and address records. Every now and then she sent the capsule hissing back up, this time with the right stamps or ink color, but would always be met by clanging laughter. She thought about the soldier’s mother as she flipped through the yellowed pages, about the desperate words written with wrinkled fingers as she traced her own over faded names and dates and numbers until—

<i>
Manderley, Maria
Address: E—
Fate: Married, (struck out)
Correspondence: Multiple, from (struck out) no. BMS211
</i>

Maria rose up. She tore apart every shelf and folder, straining her milky eyes in the dark for her lost letters (maybe…), brushing off dust and cobwebs in the highest archival crevices her ladder could reach (what if…), her little heart thumping, hand trembling over the little labels neatly stacked: BMS209, BMS210, BMS212... (it can’t be).

She stumbled through the rummaged archive and ran back towards the light of the table-lamp. Nearly tripped when she reached the table. Scattered the other envelopes. Found the rose-seeds. The thorns began to harden. The table-lamp was white like sun and here Maria saw clearly. Stamp violently torn off. Addresses rubbed out leaving only pressure from the pen. Glue ripped open. Handwriting familiar. Voice…

<i>
...hell in the front and I cannot take any more. Please send an appeal to the Bureau so they can relieve me. They need a next of kin, but only you…

...declare me mentally and emotionally unfit, they can send me home. Do you remember the briefcase in our bedroom? My medical papers…

...know you have been writing but somehow I am not getting your letters. Perhaps the mail horses ran away? Ha ha, what a thought. Please remember to...

...screaming in my sleep again last night. You must get me out of here. I believe there is a Bureau office by…

...night but they caught me. They put me in a cell with several fine gentlemen…

...desertion but do not worry. If you would appeal to the Bureau by the time this letter reaches you, there is time enough…

...tomorrow morning. A kindly guard procured for me these seeds and told me they were roses, bright red like your lips…

(Cpl. M—, correspondence condemned)
(Bureau of Military Services)
</i>

Many stories above the dead letters office, the roses bloomed. A butterfly flew into a bulb and drank the nectar, a leaf fell from the stem and dried in the sun, and tears fell onto paper, long dried ink flowed once again.

>those are italics if formatting is possible on the finished pages

>>19154456
New Prompt
>A first responder who summons tornadoes

>>19215418
Tomatoes?!

Oh…tornadoes *yawn*

Bump

nigs

>>19215072
Really like this one, anon, the dead letter angle was a very clever setting…so many possibilities there! I likes the way you just provided us with a glimpse into each, it really conveyed the feel of a countless number of letters, each with it’s own importance.

>>19219844
thanks for reading, lad. here's the new prompt
>a shot rang with no one to hear

37 stories so far. Minimal copyediting for typos, tenses, grammar, etc. will start next week.

nighty night bump

>>19154456
>A pandemic puppy ruins someone's life
Working on this one

>>19222921
>>A pandemic puppy ruins someone's life

“What do you mean she gets paid twice?”

Paige didn’t know how the conversation turned onto this topic, and she was really not interested in getting into it with Uncle Rob…but she was as much a captive as any of them. She supposed that of the three major ‘third-rail’ topics to be discussing at Thanksgiving, ‘money’ was far preferable to ‘politics’ or ‘religion’, given the present company.

“It’s just a 2021 thing, this year is fucked.”

“Language…” came a warning tone from her mother across the table.

“Sorry, but I think ‘fucked’ is the most accurate word we’ve got.” Since moving out of the house, she had been cursing a bit more freely in front of her parents, she should probably try to keep things a bit more civil today, though. “Anyhow, my job is ‘work from home’ (which really means work from anywhere) and so I’ve —”

“Oh honey, I didn’t know you got a new job! Where are you workin’ these days?” Cindy, Uncle Rob’s girlfriend, was returning with some wine and missed the first half of Paige’s story.

“No, it’s the same place as last year, Hudson Financial. I’ve literally never even seen the office. They hired me in, like, June 2020 and everyone was all ‘we look forward to meeting in person when all this blows over’…and here we are 18 months later still looking forward to it. So anyhow, now I-”

“Wait, if you were hired in June that’s only 17 months.” She hated her younger brother sometimes.

“Shut up Caleb, it doesn’t matter. It was pretty much the beginning of June, so that means it’ll be 18 months next week. So what I’m -”

“Still not 18 months. If it’s one week until your 21st birthday, you wouldn’t say you’re 21.”

“Anyhow!” She glared at Caleb “So that’s my first job. But while I do that, I also —”

“Oh, so is Hudson just a part time —”

“No, Jesus Christ, just let me—”

“Paige! Language...”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This is just one day out of the year, and tomorrow she’ll be back in her own apartment again. “Sorry, mom.”

(1/3)

>>19224000
(2/3)

“So we all agree COVID sucked, right?” It should have been rhetorical, but she did not want to risk giving Cindy time to reply (maybe they should add ‘pandemics’ to the ‘money’ ‘religion’ ‘politics’ list…on a temporary basis, at least) “Well dogs were living their best lives in 2020! Pet stores and shelters literally ran out of all the dogs. Everybody was home with them, since they were working and learning remotely, they got a million walks a day because what else is there to do?”

“Wow, you should have gotten a job as a dog!” Her father’s ‘dad joke’ game was really slipping…half the time they didn’t even make sense.

She rolled with it. “No, I work for the dogs now.”

“I missed something,” Rob jumped in “what do you mean you ‘work for the dogs’?”

At least they were paying attention. “Yeah, well 2020 set a pretty high bar for the dog lifestyle. And for many of these ‘pandemic puppies’ 2021 has been a pretty rude awakening. Kids are back in school, a bunch of folks are working in person again…and these dogs have literally never been left alone, so they’re freaking out. Anyone who calls themselves a ‘dog therapist’ this year can pretty much print money.”

“So you’re moonlighting as a dog therapist?”

“Oh, it’s even better. So this super rich family I babysat for a few years ago - the kids are in middle school now but we keep in touch online - they got these two beagle pups last year. They’re really cute, but it turns out the dad is super allergic to them. He does this whole ‘it’s either them or me’ thing, and Mrs. Dennison is just like ‘hmmm…I really love these dogs, though’, so now he’s renting a place downtown while they work out the divorce and stuff.”

(2/3)

>>19224028
(3/3)

“What about the kids?” Mom was listening in now too.

“I mean…Mr. Dennison was kind of a jerk, and the beagle puppies are extremely cute. It’s not my place, but I think they made the right call.”

After saying this Paige paused, she could actually feel the space in the room where a dad joke should be. She glanced over to see her dad biting his lip and pushing cranberry sauce around his plate…he was apparently trying to work out how many beagles he’d be worth.

“Here we are, it’s 2021. He’s gone, the kids are back in school again, and Mrs. Dennison’s work wants her in-person four days a week. The first day they’re left alone, Bella and Eddie tear the whole place apart…like, they had to hire people to repair the damage.”

Caleb raises his eyebrows “Really? ‘Bella’ and ‘Eddie’?”

“What’s wrong with ‘Bella’?” Cindy jumps in, “I have a cat named Bella.”

“I’m with Caleb, it’s a bit cringe…Mrs. Dennison named ‘em. So they call me up to see if I can ‘babysit’ the dogs. Which just means I get to do my work from Mr. Dennison’s office with two tubby beagles sleeping on my feet.”

“Do you at least walk them?”

“Nope. They have a dog walker. She comes every day at noon. House cleaner comes once a week, too, and I just have to protect the pups from the vacuum sounds. Most of the timeI just chill and get paid to do my work from their house until the kids get home from school. So there it is, I get paid twice!”

“Well, I’m convinced! You’re right Paige,” Uncle Rob laughs “2021 is fucked...”

“Language!”

>Prompt: Sometimes the trash takes itself out.

liv

>>19225347
>liv
Am i the only one who initially read that as ‘54’?

Just checking in, who’s still writing?

>>19202511
>An unexpected hazing ritual
claiming this

>You don't understand, he was literally fucking orange

I think I first noticed it during the presidential inauguration. Donald Trump had won the election months prior, and was standing at the podium on that shitty, overcast day, talking about Mexicans or whatnot. I wasn't paying attention. In fact, I don't give a fuck about politics in the slightest, but when you're a university student it seems that the only thing the neoliberal hordes want to talk about is their own personal Hitler(s).
Now, the strange thing I had noticed about our new president was a slight orange glow that I first mistook for either an error in the broadcast or some malfunction with my own television set, but either way, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The broadcast finished without issue and on we went with four years of another childfucker in the line of childfuckers that we called the President of the United States or POTUS for short, a faggy sounding acronym that could only be invented by an absolute sociopath with no regard for the English language.
Some mass shooting happens, president has to get on stage next and pretend he actually cares about federal projects gone awry. This time the glow seems stronger, and I was checking this shit out from my phone screen. I could only assume that no technical issue was at fault. I turned to one of the less rabid people in my acquaintance and asked them “Doesn’t it seem like he has a slight glow?” They looked at me in confusion, as expected, and told me that he looked like shit.
I was just confused at this point, and thought that it’s just one of those things that happens in life, like when you are looking at the ground, unfocused, and suddenly it starts morphing and moving, but when you focus again – it’s just the ground, you know?
Next speech I almost shat my pants. Motherfucker looked like Dr. Manhattan. Not the comic book version, the movie version with the glow and shit, but the glow was way stronger. I could barely make out any features at this point. The mouth and eyes were just a shade of darker orange on top of bright orange. Donnie had gone nuclear. There’s no way this could’ve been a trick of the mind or some bullshit like that, so this time I went to one of the more politically active art hoes that I wanted to fucked at some point and asked her about it.
“Look at this orange fuck, look at him,” I showed her my phone screen “Are you seeing this?”
“Wow, I’m glad you’re finally worked up about this travesty we call the Trump ‘presidency’. You seemed pretty apathetic. Let me send you some links for activism-” she said and then I cut her off: “No, you don’t fucking get it. He is literally fucking orange. Look at this. Just LOOK.”
1/3

>>19227357
She just gave me a look that was two parts ‘you are never fucking me’ and one part ‘I’m about to call the cops’ and I sped off like Steven Seagal. I spent the next couple of days cooped up in my dorm, thinking that maybe I’m finally schizophrenic as I predicted. Most cases it’s just voices telling you to delay filing your taxes or whatever it is wackos worry themselves about, but I guess this is how my mental illness experience will go, I thought at the time.

Two more days pass, I finally get out of my stupor. I go a week trying to ignore anything Trump-related, but curiosity gets the better of me, and boy, was it a mistake to look at him. This time the whole stage of wherever he was had been engulfed in a glow of orange so bright and so fiery that at first I thought they had released some new movie adaptation of Dante’s Inferno and wished to show the fiery pits populated with people who actually belong there, but no. It was him. He was behind the glow.

That was years ago. Now his presidency has ended and to me the outside world looks like a California wildfire 24/7. In the distance I hear such phrases as “Bigly!” and “Many such cases!” from a booming voice, and I know that soon I will be functionally blind. An orange glow will encompass all under the sun, and in my orange hell I will die. He is literally fucking orange. I’m orange. My friends are orange, animals are orange, plants, trees and rocks are orange. Strangers and freaks – they’re orange too.

2/3

>>19227367

I’m reminded of that one urban legend. Guy with an acid sheet can’t sell it. Cops try to catch him. He runs fast and he runs hard. It’s a hot summer day, so he is sweating like a pig. He finally shakes the cops, but the acid comes in contact with his sweat and dissolves into his bloodstream. He goes crazy and starts screaming “I’m an orange, I’m an orange!” and he thinks his friends will peel him, for he is an orange. Unlike him, I have no friends in this trip.

>>19227357
>>19227367
>>19227372
Whoops, reformatting the first part.

>You don't understand, he was literally fucking orange

I think I first noticed it during the presidential inauguration. Donald Trump had won the election months prior, and was standing at the podium on that shitty, overcast day, talking about Mexicans or whatnot. I wasn't paying attention. In fact, I don't give a fuck about politics in the slightest, but when you're a university student it seems that the only thing the neoliberal hordes want to talk about is their own personal Hitler(s).

Now, the strange thing I had noticed about our new president was a slight orange glow that I first mistook for either an error in the broadcast or some malfunction with my own television set, but either way, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The broadcast finished without issue and on we went with four years of another childfucker in the line of childfuckers that we called the President of the United States or POTUS for short, a faggy sounding acronym that could only be invented by an absolute sociopath with no regard for the English language.

Some mass shooting happens, president has to get on stage next and pretend he actually cares about federal projects gone awry. This time the glow seems stronger, and I was checking this shit out from my phone screen. I could only assume that no technical issue was at fault. I turned to one of the less rabid people in my acquaintance and asked them “Doesn’t it seem like he has a slight glow?” They looked at me in confusion, as expected, and told me that he looked like shit.

I was just confused at this point, and thought that it’s just one of those things that happens in life, like when you are looking at the ground, unfocused, and suddenly it starts morphing and moving, but when you focus again – it’s just the ground, you know?

Next speech I almost shat my pants. Motherfucker looked like Dr. Manhattan. Not the comic book version, the movie version with the glow and shit, but the glow was way stronger. I could barely make out any features at this point. The mouth and eyes were just a shade of darker orange on top of bright orange. Donnie had gone nuclear. There’s no way this could’ve been a trick of the mind or some bullshit like that, so this time I went to one of the more politically active art hoes that I wanted to fucked at some point and asked her about it.

“Look at this orange fuck, look at him,” I showed her my phone screen “Are you seeing this?”

“Wow, I’m glad you’re finally worked up about this travesty we call the Trump ‘presidency’. You seemed pretty apathetic. Let me send you some links for activism-” she said and then I cut her off: “No, you don’t fucking get it. He is literally fucking orange. Look at this. Just LOOK.”
1/3

>>19227181
I am, still gotta proofread mine. I'm just a little anxious since it is my first time writing fiction with the intent that more than like 3 people will read it.

>>19212872
Good news: I’m finished with this one and i really like it!
Bad news: it’s 1,500 words long, so….

>>19228862
Had the same problem in my first draft. It was ~1,100 words. However, I was able to cut a lot of fluff and reword things to flow better. Right now it is at ~950 words. Best thing to do is look for stuff that doesn't directly help your story first and then work on simplifying sentences and whatnot.

Bump for the night

C’mon anons…

>>19230933
I'm almost done with mine (i'm doing an unexpected hazing ritual). I'm still editing, but I should have it up by tonight.

>>19227385
This is 1 of 3 and
>>19227367
>>19227372
are to be ignored? When you're done, please post each part again in a row.

>>19230933
It's fine for this thread to die. Editor anon or cover anon will make another. 15 days left too, so there's no rush. Plus the anthology is great as it is. I'm still working on my programmer makes a wish one.

>>19228862
[*not for the anthology…YET*]

I managed to get this from 1,500 words to 1,100…but the last 10% is killing me. Help me out anons, I’m posting the full version let me know what i can chop.

>An archer makes an incredible shot

The small beasts barked as they gathered in the distance, the dawn raising a mist from the open field. He was upwind, so he must rely on his ears over scent. They had not yet entered his wood, but the horns and the large beasts’ clumsy hoofbeats would alert him when they do.

This was not his first time being pursued by these men. More tenacious than the packs of small beasts that prowl at night, bolder than the lone poachers who stalk these wood. These hunters could endure for days, and their small beasts would scour this wood for his scent.

He had been lucky when a heavy rain cut the first hunt short but he knew these men now, and each encounter they became easier to shake off. He must never allow himself to be flanked by the small beasts, or to be steered into open field, always go deeper into the wood. His antlers could gouge and ward off a few small beasts, but not a pack. Never allow the men a clear line of sight, or they will throw barbs. He can hear them whistle past, and had dodged a few in the past by ducking his head and running at the first sound of a bow.

Being rutting season, he was full of restless courage. These woods lacked any other stags large enough to challenge his dominance, and he stirred for a fight. He pissed on a tree as he walked deeper into the wood. Let the small beasts smell him, he was lord of this wood. He let out a loud bellow as the barking intensified and the hoofbeats began to pound the forrest floor.

She tired of pheasant and grouse. Oh, it was nice going out with the pack and she’d bask in master’s praise for carrying the birds so carefully…but she so longed for a proper chase! Foxes were fun as they duck and dodge, but stag hunting was her favorite. Stags were graceful, massive creatures with great tree branches growing from their heads that could hurt her if she got close. The forest air wafted out into the clearing, her nose filled with the a sweet scent of musk and vinegar; she shook and yawned in anticipation.

She wanted so badly to catch one this time. A nice long chase, hopefully, with twists and switchbacks and the stag would grow tired but she would still have energy. And before the horses even catch up she’d lunge at it’s neck and dodge it’s branches and take it down. And master would say ‘there’s a good girl’ and she’d eat raw meat off a plate under the table tonight!

The horn blew and she took off. She soon discovered the stag’s still wet markings on a tree and barked to alert the pack to gather his scent. As she dashed deeper into the wood, she wondered if the stag was also enjoying the chase.

(1/3)

>>19231358
(2/3)

“I say, a fine morning for a meet!” the young Earl proclaimed as he led a small group of nobility (and their considerable retinue) into Exmoor. His father, the Duke, had taken ill so it fell to him to lead today’s hunt. The kennelmaster loosed the staghounds, who readily picked up the old Forester’s scent and were off.

A stag hunt is no brief distraction. A meet commencing at dawn’s light may proceed well into dusk. A healthy stag may lead a party some 20 miles before being put at bay. Even then, he may still have much fight left and can cause much consternation for the barking hounds. Only if one is well-prepared and well-rested before the hunt commences, will one have a good chance returning at day’s end, with quarry in tow and one’s attire still orderly.

He had been running for ages, and could yet hear the beasts behind him crash through the brush. One, in particular, was far outstripping the rest. He made a sharp turn toward the smell of water, hoping to find a spot to stand his ground while any smaller beast must be forced to swim.

She knew this chase was entering the final phase. The stag would seek refuge in a stream or bog and the pack would bark until the masters came. But this time she would take the creature herself and show the Duke she was his goodest girl!

“The hounds are like to drive the stag into these shallows,” the Earl told a young Lord, “I want you to hold the bow just like this, pull back the string slow, aim well, and slide your finger off when you feel it’s reached the point of release. Do you understand?”

“Aye sir, I do. I think?”

“Excellent! Now pull back when you see movement, and release when you see the stag. Aim for a clean broadside kill, if you miss he’s like to run off.”

(2/3)

>>19231364
(3/3)

She saw the stag splash into the bog. She would be at the mercy of his branches if she must swim, but he underestimated her jump.

The Earl could hear the hounds grow louder, and then the splashing in the boggy stream he knew would be just ahead. In a flash, the young Lord pulled back on the string with all his strength.

Before he turned to make his stand, she made a great leap over the water and sunk her teeth into the beasts neck. The taste of it’s blood and stiff hairs in her mouth was glorious!

He did not expect the beasts could fly, but he was confident he could shake it off. More concerning was the smell of men close by and the sound of a barb being readied.

With the bowstring locked back this way, he knew he had to let it go now or he’d never be able to draw it again. Just as a his hand began to strain he saw the stag’s antlers come into view and he released, far too high.

He needed to dodge to avoid the barb, but the small beast on his neck restricted his movements. He reared up onto his hind legs to cast the beast off and—

“Oh ho! Incredible shot! Gentlemen, let us drink to young Cecil here - a prodigy who has made two hits with a single bolt!”

“Two, my Lord?”

“Remarkable…two clean kills, both right through the chest! Men, there’s an extra shilling if we make it back before the Duke retires, I’m certain he would desire to hearing our squire recount the day’s events.”

“Sorry, my Lord, you wish that <it> I </it> address the Duke?”

“Of course, lad, the glory is all yours! And besides, I wouldn’t dare to be the one to tell my father his favorite dog has been killed.”

>so there it is, anons, can you help me trim the fat and get it in under 1k words?

>>19231263
Alright.

Whoops, reformatting the first part.

>You don't understand, he was literally fucking orange

I think I first noticed it during the presidential inauguration. Donald Trump had won the election months prior, and was standing at the podium on that shitty, overcast day, talking about Mexicans or whatnot. I wasn't paying attention. In fact, I don't give a fuck about politics in the slightest, but when you're a university student it seems that the only thing the neoliberal hordes want to talk about is their own personal Hitler(s).

Now, the strange thing I had noticed about our new president was a slight orange glow that I first mistook for either an error in the broadcast or some malfunction with my own television set, but either way, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The broadcast finished without issue and on we went with four years of another childfucker in the line of childfuckers that we called the President of the United States or POTUS for short, a faggy sounding acronym that could only be invented by an absolute sociopath with no regard for the English language.

Some mass shooting happens, president has to get on stage next and pretend he actually cares about federal projects gone awry. This time the glow seems stronger, and I was checking this shit out from my phone screen. I could only assume that no technical issue was at fault. I turned to one of the less rabid people in my acquaintance and asked them “Doesn’t it seem like he has a slight glow?” They looked at me in confusion, as expected, and told me that he looked like shit.

I was just confused at this point, and thought that it’s just one of those things that happens in life, like when you are looking at the ground, unfocused, and suddenly it starts morphing and moving, but when you focus again – it’s just the ground, you know?

Next speech I almost shat my pants. Motherfucker looked like Dr. Manhattan. Not the comic book version, the movie version with the glow and shit, but the glow was way stronger. I could barely make out any features at this point. The mouth and eyes were just a shade of darker orange on top of bright orange. Donnie had gone nuclear. There’s no way this could’ve been a trick of the mind or some bullshit like that, so this time I went to one of the more politically active art hoes that I wanted to fucked at some point and asked her about it.

“Look at this orange fuck, look at him,” I showed her my phone screen “Are you seeing this?”

“Wow, I’m glad you’re finally worked up about this travesty we call the Trump ‘presidency’. You seemed pretty apathetic. Let me send you some links for activism-” she said and then I cut her off: “No, you don’t fucking get it. He is literally fucking orange. Look at this. Just LOOK.”
1/3

>>19232082
She just gave me a look that was two parts ‘you are never fucking me’ and one part ‘I’m about to call the cops’ and I sped off like Steven Seagal. I spent the next couple of days cooped up in my dorm, thinking that maybe I’m finally schizophrenic as I predicted. Most cases it’s just voices telling you to delay filing your taxes or whatever it is wackos worry themselves about, but I guess this is how my mental illness experience will go, I thought at the time.

Two more days pass, I finally get out of my stupor. I go a week trying to ignore anything Trump-related, but curiosity gets the better of me, and boy, was it a mistake to look at him. This time the whole stage of wherever he was had been engulfed in a glow of orange so bright and so fiery that at first I thought they had released some new movie adaptation of Dante’s Inferno and wished to show the fiery pits populated with people who actually belong there, but no. It was him. He was behind the glow.

That was years ago. Now his presidency has ended and to me the outside world looks like a California wildfire 24/7. In the distance I hear such phrases as “Bigly!” and “Many such cases!” from a booming voice, and I know that soon I will be functionally blind. An orange glow will encompass all under the sun, and in my orange hell I will die. He is literally fucking orange. I’m orange. My friends are orange, animals are orange, plants, trees and rocks are orange. Strangers and freaks – they’re orange too.

2/3

>>19232084
I’m reminded of that one urban legend. Guy with an acid sheet can’t sell it. Cops try to catch him. He runs fast and he runs hard. It’s a hot summer day, so he is sweating like a pig. He finally shakes the cops, but the acid comes in contact with his sweat and dissolves into his bloodstream. He goes crazy and starts screaming “I’m an orange, I’m an orange!” and he thinks his friends will peel him, for he is an orange. Unlike him, I have no friends in this trip.
3/3

>>19232086
when i read this prompt i knew this was essentially the story we were gonna get

>>19231373
Love it. Love the pacing in the start, and you managed to surprise me with the twist.

I vote to suspend the rules and admit this into the collection

>>19231373
Good work, I really. Honestly the only thing I could think of doing to shorten is to maybe cut this section (or at least make it shorter)
>A stag hunt is no brief distraction. A meet commencing at dawn’s light may proceed well into dusk. A healthy stag may lead a party some 20 miles before being put at bay. Even then, he may still have much fight left and can cause much consternation for the barking hounds. Only if one is well-prepared and well-rested before the hunt commences, will one have a good chance returning at day’s end, with quarry in tow and one’s attire still orderly.
>>19232396
agreed

>>19231373
Very nice. You might be able to shorten it by cutting this section
>A stag hunt is no brief distraction. A meet commencing at dawn’s light may proceed well into dusk. A healthy stag may lead a party some 20 miles before being put at bay. Even then, he may still have much fight left and can cause much consternation for the barking hounds. Only if one is well-prepared and well-rested before the hunt commences, will one have a good chance returning at day’s end, with quarry in tow and one’s attire still orderly.

>>19232082
Thanks anon, much appreciated

>>19232511
Agreed

>>19231087
He had done it. Against all odds, Alben Hargrave had won the election. The few months after Election Day had been spent endlessly planning for what would be done in the first 100 days of his presidency. The night before the inauguration, Hargrave had been summoned to the White House. The sitting president wanted to meet with him. Once Hargrave entered the Oval Office, he noticed the President wasn’t there. Instead, the current Vice President sat at the Resolute Desk and was staring at the wall. There were three members of the Secret Service present. Ideas began to swirl in his head. This was probably going to be some sort of ploy to make him more friendly to the interests of the outgoing party. The vice president turned towards Hargrave and began to speak.
“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t worry. This isn’t an attempt at bribery or some other sort of underhanded dealing. We have called you here today to fulfill one of our nation’s most hallowed traditions.”
“Okay… What tradition are we talking about?”
“Since our nation’s beginning, there’s been a way of testing the resolve of the new president to see if he can withstand the difficulties of our nation’s highest office.”
“What is it?”
“The outgoing president spanks the president-elect.”
Hargrave wasn’t sure if the vice president was joking but still let out a guffaw. He only stopped chortling when he noticed that the vice president’s craggy face had twisted into a wrinkled grimace.
“This is no laughing matter Mr. President-Elect. It’s a very serious tradition. Only one president has never engaged in it.”
“Which one?”
“William Henry Harrison. He died not long after he refused to be spanked.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes. Bring the president in.”
One of the Secret Service agents exited the room.
(1/3)

>>19233345
“You aren’t joking about this? I’m really going to get spanked?”
“I’m completely serious. You are getting spanked.”
The Secret Service agent re-entered the room. Arthur Matthews, the incumbent president, hobbled in behind him. The 85 year old President looked even more frail in person.
“Mr. President, are you ready to fulfill your last official duty as President of the United States?”
The President weakly nodded.
Another Secret Service agent emerged from the door. In his hands was a rough-hewn paddle. It was so large that it looked more like an oar from a small rowboat than a typical paddle. The word LIBERTY had been crudely carved on both sides. Hargrave once more began to protest.
“I can’t do this, this is ridiculous.”
The vice president scoffed
“If you can’t handle a little paddling, how are you going to handle a financial crisis or a war?”
Hargrave looked at the paddle, and then back at the Vice President.
“Fine… I’ll do it.”
“Assume the position, Mr. President-Elect.”
Hargrave dutifully bent over the Resolute Desk.
“Your pants. Drop them.”
(2/3)

>>19233351
Hargrave took off his pants and began to silently cry.
The agent handed the paddle to President Matthews, who tightly clutched it with both hands. The President strained under the weight of the paddle, and let out a soft wheeze. The paddle then slipped out of his hands and onto the floor. One of the agents scrambled to pick it up, and gingerly placed it back in the President’s aged hands. Once again, the president dropped the massive paddle and then proceeded to tumble over. An agent picked him up, and the president was given the paddle once more. After that, one agent wrapped his arms around the president’s waist and the other three supported the weight of the oar. The four then managed to make the feeble president land a few gentle blows on Hargrave’s exposed butt. The Vice President motioned for the agents to stop moving the President.
“Congratulations Mr. President Elect, you’ve passed.”
The next day, the inauguration went off without a hitch. Afterwards, Hargrave sat in the Oval Office with his head in his hands. Before he could get too comfortable, there was a light knock on his door. It soon opened to reveal one of his secretaries.
“Hey Mr. President. Just wanted to give you a heads up that you need to meet with Congress. It’s for a special inaugural ceremony.”
“More paddling?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
(3/3)

>>19233361
Forgot to put the new prompt
>A grizzled detective goes undercover on 4chan

>>19232511

Good call, anon.

I was so deep in my rabbit-hole of research on stag hunting trivia, i may have missed that none of this was really pertinent to the plot.

With that para out, i only have to fine-tune a few words here and there to get it under 1k.

Thanks for the feedback!

>>19232396
Lol, glad you like it…but rules is rules.

WRITE

ded