/lit/ - Literature

Previous Thread: >>19154456
We added 17 more flashes in the last thread, putting us at around 40 in total with 15 more days to go…

The rail stations been missing its nightly train, but even in the desolation of a rural stop, you find a friend.
>>19155895

Oprah's funeral
>>19158370

Why the next President gets impeached
>>19163036

Humans terraform Saturn
>>19165669

Treasure hunters descend on a small town
>>19177728

The dad farm
>>19179939

[*] Someone who fails at failing
>>19188914

A modern-day Noah's Ark
>>19190895

A garment you just can’t get rid of
>>19195777

An office worker cannot remember the last time he did his job
>>19197099

The statue seems to be pointing to something
>>19210526

>How the Queen of England remains spry in old age
>>19214954

Bouquets are sent without a message
>>19215072

A pandemic puppy ruins someone's life
>>19224000

You don't understand, he was literally fucking orange
>>19227385

An unexpected hazing ritual
>>19233345

[*] An archer makes an incredible shot (Version 1)
>>19231358

Let’s try this one again (but with the correct word count):
>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.

With every encounter, he learned his pursuers better. He must never allow himself to be flanked by the small beasts, or 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 longed for a proper chase! Foxes were fun as they duck and dodge, but stags were her favorite. 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)

>>19240132
(2/3)

“I say, a fine morning for a meet!” the 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.

He had been running for ages, and could yet hear the beasts behind him crash through the brush. One, in particular, far outstripped 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)

>>19240143

(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.

Bowstring locked back, 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.

The stag knew he must 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.”

>New prompt: You reap what you sow

>>19240153
good job anon, congrats on getting it to the world limit

>the breaking of a wishbone has disastrous results

I hated Notre Dame Football. Grandfather loved them with all his heart and soul. It was not his fault that he did not know my feelings, I guess I had just never made that fact clear enough to him. Grandfather adored Notre Dame as though it was a Golden Calf. Father told me he had loved them ever since he was young. He dreamed about playing for them, something that was dashed from him when his father needed him to milk cows for money. Grandfather has never really forgiven his father of robbing him of the chance to go to school. I think this was part of the reason why Grandfather tried to do so much for us. I remember him pushing for me to go to that private Catholic school and making sure that I always had a means to get to school. I loved him for that, he did care about my future and happiness.

"Air Force fumbled three times in the first quarter," Grandfather had reviewed everything that happened to me. He never seemed to let up on a single detail pertaining to these games. It seemed especially true today. Likely in part due to the significance of the game. Notre Dame on national television and on Thanksgiving Day. A team which had won nine straight games and were on track to not surrender a single loss.

"Grandpa, when’s dinner?" I asked, hoping that we could change the topic.

"It won't be ready for a while. Your parents are still out anyway," He shifted a bit on his chair. "Halftime is almost over, let's watch the rest of the game."

The last half lasted for hours. It was always difficult for me to sit through a game, especially when you are with someone who only talks about the game. I watched as my grandfather rose and shouted in applause when the team scored a "touchdown" and frowned when they "punted" the ball back to the other team. It was just a blur of shapes moving on and on. I did not want to hurt Grandfather, so I sat through it all, rolling around on the couch trying to be as comfortable as humanly possible. Comfort escaped me. The couch was so hot from all my movement. After an extended period—the length of which escaped me—I was finally awoken from a nap. I had not even remembered taking it, but it was interrupted by Grandfather's voice. "You missed the end, Brian!"

I jolted up. "What?"

"The game! Notre Dame won! It must have been quite the experience to watch that in person..."

"I would love to take you to a game someday..." He spoke. "Maybe— no, definitely. I’ll take you next year as a gift for getting into that school." Grandfather wanted to go to a Notre Dame game for a long time with me. He did not have much money for it, none of us really did. I know that it ate him up inside.

I heard the door open and loud chatter by the kitchen. It was my parents, back from visiting other family in town.

>>19240538
>(2/2)

"Lawrence, you come over to the table! We are going to start eating dinner now. Brian, you come too!" The call of my grandmother was deafening. Despite her shrill voice, I was happy to know that Thanksgiving dinner was finally ready.

The family shuffled to the table. It was the six of us today. Grandfather, Grandmother, my parents, little Elisa, and I. It had been this way since Uncle John left out west after marrying. My grandparents only had us, they kept us tightly knit around their finger. After prayer was concluded and the meal was slowly being served, Grandfather began to relay the events of the game to Father. I was never too sure how Father felt about Notre Dame, but it seemed that like myself, he too hated Notre Dame Football.

"I want to take Brian to a game next year," Grandfather finally told my father.

"That would be good for you two."

"Yes, all I need is a little bit of luck and to save money to see it through."

I stopped listening to the two of them, I was more interested in eating dinner.

“And here’s the wishbone!” The cry of Grandmother was so sudden. “Who should do the honors?”

Before anyone could speak up, Grandfather yanked the wishbone from Grandmother’s hands and proclaimed, “I think it should be my dearest grandson and I,” He then turned to his left side to face me and put out the wishbone. “I’m ready when you are.”

I was reluctant to take part in it. What did I even want to wish for in the first place? I already knew what he wanted, something to do with Notre Dame Football, his demagogue. Despite my reluctance I grabbed the wishbone.

“On three. One… two… and three…!”

We both yanked on the stick until we heard the crack. I looked at the bone. It was I who had the majority of the V-shape.

“What’re you gonna wish for?” Grandfather inquired.

I had no idea. I felt as though he wanted me to make his wish, but for my sake I was reluctant to, lest that wish would come true. I just had to spit it out, he did so much for me. I had to swallow my pride; I know that it meant a lot to him, especially on Thanksgiving.

“I wanna go to Notre Dame Stadium with you, Grandpa.”

He smiled widely. I hated Notre Dame Football.

>Some bonus stuff
This story was based off a real 1973 NCAA game between Air Force and Notre Dame that took place on Thanksgiving Day.

Hope you guys enjoy. This was my first time sharing any form of fiction with anyone besides stuff I had to do in my high school classes.

>>19240543
shit, sorry to add a prompt:
>Not all trades tend to be equitable

Oh and last thing. If anyone was curious. Notre Dame ended up going undefeated that season and won the National Title. They won this game 48-15.

>A rural town is not what it appears
Have a good idea for this one. Never done one of these before, but when there's a will there's a way. Wish me luck, should finish today.

>>19240538
>Not all trades tend to be equitable
Great story anon! Your writing is very good, i would never have guessed this was your first.

My favorite stories are the ones that get real deep into some obscure topic Notre Dame football, stag hunting, the fake French-speaking fashion school folks…and then finally veers into the prompt.

>>19241655
Lol
So I started that comment planning to say I’d like to work on
>Not all trades tend to be equitable

But then just complimented the flash instead…

>>19239406
>Charles Manson is my mom
claiming this.

>>19239406
we are allowed to submit more than one story to the anthology, right?

>>19242442
Yes

>>19239406
>Someone finds the journal of a mentally disabled man in the archives
I have an idea for this, claiming.

Bump for the night (for those on the US east coast at least…)

>>19239406
Here are a few more prompts to maybe spark some ideas:

>Horrible timing for a pregnancy announcement
>"Please don't forget what I told you"
>the location the GPS took them to seems to be a little off
>She definitely just spoke in English
>A tapestry constantly being added to
>Murder in the Cathedral's sanctuary
>The cellar houses wine and... bodies?
>An evening in Verona

Ok this one is totally unedited and has three parts labeled with roman numerals. I'm not used to writing sci-fi at all and it shows.

The First Plague on Colonized Mars

I.
New Athens sits on the foot of Olympus Mons, the great red mountain. Sandstorms coat the surrounding desert planet with an opaque haze most of the year. Sometimes the desert is still, and one finds a great tranquility sweep over themselves as they stare into the great abyss beyond the super-station. In moments like these, the original colonists may have thought of their old homes on Earth; of the people they left behind, and of the life that they made for themselves.
Today, the shifting sands are at rest, the sun is overhead, and an old man stares out the window of his room into the red wasteland. He sees himself partially reflected, his wispy eyebrows and long beard, the drooping of his eyes. In the distance, he can see a ship entering the atmosphere at a great velocity. The ship seems to move away so slowly. The old man waits for the ship to disappear, and when it does, he stops looking out of his window. A walk, he thinks.
The corridors of New Athens are great cylindrical structures, almost totally transparent. Sprawled as it is the whole city has the look of a long and winding maze of glass. As the old man makes his way through the shops of the corridor, he takes a moment to look into the immense pink sky above him. As the light hits his pupils, he squints, and after a beat he continues to walk in silence.
“Seventy-six,” says the old man to himself. “I will be seventy-six tomorrow.”
At a bench in the center of New Athens, the old man gazes out into a crowd of twentysomethings. He remembers their parents, perhaps more than they do themselves. A moment passes, and he closes his eyes. He imagines. Orange hair, the contours of a nose, the shapes of a woman. He remembers everything.

>>19245933
II.
Generation O, the Failure of Martian Governments and A Case Study in Democracy. By Richard Edelstein, University of Keppler-22 Press.
“I would like to begin this paper by thanking the University for its lenient sabbatical policy, for which I would have not been able to author this paper. And to the distinguished staff…
…Out of nearly twenty thousand adults living in the New Athens colony, only forty-seven…
…Mining operations at the foot of Olympus ceased, and the rest of the Martian experiment was unable to cope … as a result, fertility in the colony… zero percent.
… Without a cure, the Athens colony is still under strict quarantine. Members of the orphaned generation now live in a society without the old or young.”

>>19245937
III.
My first memory is difficult to describe. I’m unsure of which part of it is true, and which isn’t. In the first scenario, I’m staring at a cockroach colony that had formed behind a dumpster. I can remember the smell, as well as the feeling of disgust. It was a feeling so overwhelming that I began stomping the cockroaches until they had all died or fled into a crack in the wall. I remember the mass of their guts mixed with their exoskeletons.
The second version, which I’m more prone to believing these days, is that I saw the cockroaches and just ran away. I’m scared of cockroaches, after all. Sometimes as a kid and teenager I would wake up with the fucking things crawling on my face. It got to the point where I would sleep in a really tight cocoon.
The memory of my mother’s death is also difficult to describe. You’d have to be there to believe it. Our home, a little closet in the dingy part of Athens, was both small and disgusting. None of my classmates ever came over because I never asked them over. If they wanted to meet up, it was usually in the square, or over at one of their houses.
She died intubated. I didn’t see it happen. That was three weeks ago. I remember hearing she got the spots and knowing that that was it. I cried for her then.
Today I got the spots, and there is nobody to treat me. My father made me some soup earlier. I am in my cocoon, awake.
“Aren’t you afraid of getting it?” I say through the mass of blanket.
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you much.” Replies my father. I poke my head out from under the blanket. I look out the window. Still red sand reaches out into the night and stops at the edge of the darkness. Sometimes cold air pushes through my blankets and sends me into a fit of shivers.
“Olympus is insurmountable,” dad continues, “so many thousands of kilometers. Days like these you can see its outline, even in the dark... The Greeks on Earth believed that gods lived atop a mountain named Olympus…”
He drones on for what seems like forever. I close my eyes and begin to dream. I see the oceans of Earth, a great whale rising out of the water. It shoots a geyser of water from the hole in its back. I remember the shape of Phobos. I remember the feeling of my mother’s bosom. I remember stomping the cockroaches.

>>19245933
Can't say that I am too versed in sci-fi myself, but I really did enjoy this. The dominance of that style of quick messages back and forth felt really digestible. Glad to we got a 3rd short story done in such a short amount of time.

>>19245188
>She definitely just spoke in English
Gonna give this one a shot

Hopefully wrapping up Programmer Makes a Wish today

>>19247794
Looking forward to that one…almost hoped you’d never finish so I could scoop it up.

>>19239406
>You found a lost thing (that your friend accused you of stealing) in your pocket 20 years later

Doing this

>A Computer Programmer Gets To Make a Wish
1/2

The robed bodies chant and sway, edging into the twentieth hour of their fast. Ivan steps into the line and adds his voice to the Gregorian verse, swaying in time with the others, a human metronome. It brings him to a trace where he resides half asleep, wakeful enough to take one small step at a time.

Ivan’s mind had once been its own. It had danced to the rhythm of his mood. Made him wild and half mad from a whim, a whisper, a song heard late at night. Slowly he had tamed it, forced it to obey. Its will went away; in its place a monolith that scanned reality from a distance. What was first his master became a friend, then a slave.

The pillars of Eleusis shimmer into view. Pockmarked by weather, barely cared for, barely standing. Passing herds have kept the grass mostly short. A patchy haircut for the most sacred site of antiquity. The pilgrims are the only ones to break the stillness. Their voices roll over the hills. Perhaps there is a better song to be chanted. What sounds passed from pilgrims’ lips two thousand years ago? All at once Apollo enters Ivan’s mind. In a slip he is back to gazing through the bars of a cell. Circling an object he could not feel.

Ivan chants louder, thumbs a prayer bead, and the god is gone. But a gamut of drugs and meditation taught him that relief is temporary: in two days he will wake with logic leading him to his death. For now he is caught in the rapture of Being.

>>19249161
2/2

The procession to Eleusis continues in reverse upon the moonlit basin. Até eyes it now and then with suspicion. Whether it is mockery or foolishness, she cannot tell. It has been millennia since such a collection of bodies performed the rites. One of Hephaestus’ jokes, perhaps. His ugliness has only grown with his power.

Bog water drips onto Até’s head from the damp ceiling. She pins a stygian web to her gown, adding another path to the twisting labyrinth, revenge fresh on her mind. Through her basin she hears the ardent pilgrims’ murmurs. A plea for forgiveness. Desire for riches. Penitent silence.

She ignores the knowledge seekers and reviews the penitent, granting clemency to some and pain to others. A gentle touch on the river of their lives. Then there is one who burns brighter than the rest, voice clear enough for communion. Até leaps to her feet and stares wrathfully at the basin. A mortal prays to her directly. A shadow of what has long passed.

The alchemist knows her name and calls it with fervor. She reaches to pull him close and stops, uncertain. “What do you want?”

The alchemist trembles and vomits over his robe, yet survives her voice. “An unchained mind.”

“You do not want Apollo’s blessing?”

“I wish that you may hide me from his sight.”

Até pulls Ivan to her cave and rests his head on her lap. When he stops shivering, she takes a pin from her gown and traces a line across his brow. One prick at a time she finds the grey tumours at the front of his brain and removes them, tossing a piece at a time to the frogs by her feet. Then she kisses him and drowns him in the basin.

Days later a shepherd reports a man hiding in the ruins of Eleusis. Até watches with glee as Ivan evades Apollo’s guards. He lives off the land, lean and dumb, a priest for the blind. Meanwhile the frogs grow at her feet.

>>19239406
bump

Double bump
(Posting ‘equitable deals’ tomorrow)

>>19249161
>>19249170
This one is interesting. It's abstract in a way that conveys feeling beyond the words. Reminds me of Edmund Leighton.

>>19245188
>>Horrible timing for a pregnancy announcement

claiming this one

>>19252076
>Not all trades tend to be equitable

“…and that’s the story so far.”

“What a debacle,” Gabriel laughed incredulously, “What sort of operation are they running down there?”

“Yeah, they’re typically much better at these things. Unfortunately, this scuttles the acquisition…” Jacob was a great negotiator, perhaps their best, if he said it was over then the deal was truly dead.

“Ah, no matter…they can keep him.” Gabriel paused for a second. “Wait. Does Michael know about this yet?”

“You’re the only Arch I’ve told so far”

“Okay, excellent. Let’s go see him together, I need to see his face when he hears this.”

Moments later the two figures - one striding the other limping - arrived at the immense golden doors of Michael the Archangel. Jacob was about to knock, but Gabriel threw out a hand and the massive doors parted. “Too showy, if you ask me.” he whispered. “Michael,” he called in a sing-song voice, “Jacob’s got some news for you!”

“Jacob!” came a warm, resonant voice “Have a seat, how is the Trump acquisition coming along?”

“I’m afraid the deal’s off, sir.”

“The deal is off?” the warmth was gone “You recognize how important it is that—”

“He knows all that, Michael,” Gabriel interjected “don’t be so hard on the kid. Beside, the fault lies entirely with downstairs.” He then gestured to ‘the kid’, (meaning anyone born after the flood) to resume his recounting:

“So things were on track, or at least they were going how these negotiations typically go: they drew up a miles-long contract and we combed through it for double-talk and loopholes. The gist was that we’d bring president-elect Trump over to our side in exchange for Tom Hanks and Jeff Goldblum. An extremely high price, but as you say we couldn’t afford to have another one of theirs in the presidency.”

“I know all this, go on.”

“Ah, yes. Well, the issue is that the Trump ledgers were a complete mess. Apparently he alone struck at least 70 bargains; half of which Hell itself didn’t know about until our due-diligence review.”

(1/3)

>>19253313
(2/3)

“Apologies Archangel, of course you wouldn’t be familiar with this. You see, Hell doesn’t make fair bargains. Their deals with mankind usually follow a similar structure: the Prize, the Price, and the Pinch. A devil may grant some king a male heir in exchange for initiating a war with his neighbor. That’s the ‘prize’ and the ‘price’ they agree to in the contract. The ‘pinch’, which only Hell tracks, is that the king’s son diesyoung as a result of the war. They have a cruelly poetic way of clawing back as much of the ‘prize’ as possible.

“Each agent maintains a ledger with these three columns. We scour thousands of such ledgers to find all of Trump’s transactions. He sold his soul to be rich, then sacrificed his wealth for a hot wife, exchanged the hot wife for fame…and on and on.”

“Seems like a lot of deals,” the Archangel puzzled “I’m surprised they permitted this.”

“As were we.” Jacob continued, “Turns out Hell has hundreds of agents; apparently Trump had been engaging with many of them, independently. In some cases even shopping around or playing agents against each other for better bargains - they had no clue! He sold his soul to at least 5 different demons, and in other instances either optioned or recouped aspects of his soul. The whole thing is so murky half of Hell is at a standstill while they fight over whose claim takes priority.

Stern Michael had to stifle a laugh, while Gabriel wore a ‘told you so’ grin.

Jacob continued, “And the pinches make matters so much worse: he bargained away his wealth before a pinch took affect that bankrupted him, he sold his wife’s love before the pinch that would make her loathe him. The pinches were actually robbing hell, Trump always seemed to be one step ahead of them.”

“And how did he manage that?”

“It seems like his first bargain with the demon Forneus is at the heart of it. Trump agreed both to sell his soul and open a casino in New Jersey in exchange for being ‘the greatest dealmaker’.”

“And the pinch?”

“The pinch was that no man alive would trust him enough to make a deal with him.”

“‘No man alive’, huh?”

“My thought exactly…no mention of devils. So, bargain struck, Trump immediately re-opened the negotiation with Forneus, recovered a 68% share of his soul and sold it as a full soul to some other hapless agent. He still built the casino they wanted, but a dozen of hell’s own ‘pinches’ destroyed it.

“Even mankind is starting to catch on. They can’t tell if he’s a billionaire or broke; a genius, a conman, or an idiot…Hell really made a hash of everything.”

(2/3)

>>19253315
(3/3)

“I see.” Michael sighed “So our acquisition cannot proceed until they sort out who owns the soul.”

“If any do. Turns out Fred Trump sold his eldest son’s soul to become rich. After finding both his wealth and his son wanting, he did a ‘Double or Nothing’ and threw Donald in. So all of this may be moot.”

“Ah, and that predate all of this.”

“Well, there’s a bit of a blood-smudge on the contract. Trump is claiming it’s the letters ‘jr’, so it’s actually his son’s soul and not his…and Hell’s buying it because -”

“Because he’s ‘the greatest dealmaker’…”

“Yup”

“Okay. You’ve done right by getting us well out of this morass.”

“About that,” Gabriel chimed in, “They’re holding Hanks’ son Chet as collateral, for the moment…but we’re working to get him back.”

“Christ grant me strength.” Michael prayed “Alright. If we can’t buy him outright, we’ll have to win him over to our side the old fashioned way. Maybe a little trial for the new president would set him on the path of righteousness.”

“That we can do,” said Gabriel “what’ll it be? War, Pestilence, or plague?”

“I’m tired of war; too divisive. Let’s do a plague. That should unite everyone. If he plays his cards right, Trump will become the hero the world needs in 2020.”

“By the way, has Jesus heard yet? I’d really love to be there when he hears.”

(3/3)

>New prompt: Finding a one-of-a-kind book in the library stacks

>>19253328
Forgot the last image…

>>19253315
Shit, another typo. I cut off a line.

Part 2/3 ahould begin with:

“The ‘ledgers’?”

“Apologies Archangel, of course…”

>>19245188
>An evening in Verona
will have a go at this one

>>19253508
there better be several references to either Romeo abd Juliet and/or The Two Gentleman of Verona

>>19245933
Just now reading this one, really liked the style! You do a great job of leaving just the right amount unsaid (a common temptation in sci-fi is to over-explain everything)

>>19239406
Are we still making progress anons?

>>19246290
>She definitely just spoke in English

New Madrid was a miserable place for those unfortunate enough to find themselves traveling through town. Richard was one of the unfortunate souls who found himself in New Madrid, New Mexico. It was not at all his intent to have stayed within the city limits. He had been heading towards Albuquerque for his sister’s wedding. Thanks to his slow pacing, he was forced to spend the night in a shabby two-star hotel.

“Here is the key.” Richard said as he dropped the room key on the front desk of the hotel. It read “three” in a faded black print on the jet tag.

“Thank you, sir, have a wonderful rest of your day!” The woman at the desk was oddly cheerful as she stated this. Something that Richard had not really seen in his limited experience with hotel clerks.

After stepping into his shabby old 2001 model of the blue Chevrolet Silverado, he booted up the GPS on his phone in search of somewhere to eat. The hotel he stayed in had not offered a breakfast to its clients. Rather unsurprising of such a rundown roadside inn. A four-star breakfast diner popped up on his phone. The closest of all of them, being only a five-minute trek from the hotel he stayed at. The few, yet consistent, positive reviews as well as the short distance was enough to sell him on the location.

The drive was as eventful as any other desolate and lightly populated town in any of the sun belt. Shabby old homes that looked as though they would fall apart if you hit the wall too hard with any kind of construction tool. Richard chuckled to himself as he imagined the fact that his very vain sister would very likely be living in one of these homes thanks to her and her soon-to-be husband’s horrid spending habits

“Poor bastards,” Richard thought as he gazed on the dusty single-story Spanish Colonial homes.

The diner seemed to be in a rather similar state to the hotel and housing in this town. Despite the fact it was on a main throughfare of the town, the shop looked as though it had been abandoned during the 2008 stock market crash. Hell, the whole town seemed to have suffered a similar fate. Richard was not in position to judge appearances, especially after reviewing the café’s profile online. Richard was simply a customer who was seeking food and drink before he had to make the his way to Albuquerque.

Richard opened the door to the café only for him to be met with the loud ring of a bell. He flinched to that. The second flinch came from the fact that the café was completely empty, save for a single soul. A younger white woman, no older than maybe twenty-five sat at a table for two right next to the barren café’s countertop.

“Sorry to bother. A—are you guys open?” Richard asked, stammering slightly.

>>19254540
>2/2

The woman simply looked up at him. She had originally been reading what seemed to be a newspaper before this interruption caused her to lose her focus on whatever mundane story was printed on it. After a short-lived stare of slight blankness, she only offered a giggle to his question. Richard’s face was burning red.

“Do you not work here? I assumed you did.”

The woman continued to simply stare with a slight smile formed at the corner of her lips. Her cold blue eyes were deeply fixated on Richard; he felt like he was being probed by her eyes.

“Maybe she doesn’t speak English?” Richard thought. He straightened up this time to offer her a third question, “¿Habla inglés?” He had a horrible accent; he was a white man after all.

The woman began to actually laugh to that. “No, I don’t,” she replied.

“You just did!” Richard retorted.

“Did I?” She asked as she propped her right hand under her chin clearly feigning deep thought.

Richard had enough. New Madrid really was the hallmark of the Sunbelt towns he despised. He turned heel and began to walk for the door. He could not handle this woman; she was further preventing him of his morning coffee and breakfast. Something the cheaper hotels of New Madrid could not even offer him.

“Wait! I’m sorry!” The woman said in-between giggles.

Richard turned around again. His hand was reaching for the door at this point, she caught him mid-reach. This time he had to hold back giving her a rude remark.

“My father owns the diner. He is out back. I just like to mess with the travelers,” she stretched her arms behind her back as she arched it forward, reminiscent to that of a cat. She then slowly rose from her seat. “Sit down and I will make you some coffee,” she motioned for the seat she had just been in, “Despite the look of this place, I think you’ll like the food. Oh, and I wanna know why a young man who isn’t a trucker would be in a diner in New Madrid on a Tuesday in the middle of March.” Once again, she giggled as she put her hand before her mouth.

Richard sat down and picked up the newspaper the woman had just been reading. The seat was warm, and the paper was furrowed from improperly being folded in half. He was hopeful that she had been right about the food. Coffee and something to eat before he left. That was all he really wanted.

>Extras
Here is my second piece. I didn't care for this piece as much as I thought I would have when the idea popped in my head. I am just glad I was able to put something down for practice. These threads have helped me just write and I appreciate that even if I may not be as talented as the other writers on here. Anyways, thanks for reading my story; feel free to give feedback, it will definitely help me.

PROMPT:
>All for the love of sunshine

>>19239406
>Trying to return a clearly used item
Already started this, should be up tonight or tomorrow

How many short stories is this going to?

>>19254636
Prior volumes were 50 each. This one’s on track to have a good deal more by Oct 31.

Unclear if we’re leaving them all in, picking the best, or rolling some into the next volume…up to editor-anon. Not having a cap on submissions per author probably resulted in many more. The prior threads included quite a few with a [*] that were not for the anthology (usually when an anon already hit their 5 submissions)

>>19254560
I'd cut the first sentence. Other than that, the character is kind of empty. It's a pleasant slice of life scene.

>>19254447
Doing pretty good.

>>19254540
So first, anon, I enjoyed the story (the vignette style is perfect for flash fiction) but you asked for critique so here it is:

One of the things writing flash has taught me is how to be economical with words. You’ve got this artificial limitation, so you really can’t waste them...everything should matter. Your writing seemed like the opposite, like you had a 200 word story you had to expand to 700.

>“Sorry to bother. A—are you guys open?” Richard asked, stammering slightly.
We know he stammered, you wrote it out

>After stepping into his shabby old 2001 model of the blue Chevrolet Silverado, he booted up the GPS on his phone in search of somewhere to eat. The hotel he stayed in had not offered a breakfast to its clients. Rather unsurprising of such a rundown roadside inn.
Consider:
>After stepping into his old Chevy Silverado,
We know 2001 is old, the word ‘model’ isn’t needed and blue we could take or leave.
>he searched his phone for somewhere to eat.
who ‘boots up’ a phone? And we know the phone uses GPS.
>The hotel hadn’t offered a complimentary breakfast, but that was no surprise.
‘He stayed in’ is implied, as is ‘to its clients’. No need to restate it’s rundown condition, you hammered that home pretty hard already.

You’ve only got one male character, so you don’t need to call him Richard so often.

>The diner seemed to be in a rather similar state to the hotel and housing in this town. Despite the fact it was on a main throughfare of the town, the shop looked as though it had been abandoned during the 2008 stock market crash.
When you use the same word multiple times in a para ‘the town’ that’s a red flag. See if you can either combine the two concepts:
>Despite being on the main thoroughfare, the diner...
Or
>The diner was no different from the hotel. It appeared abandoned, despite being on the main thoroughfare.

Watch for filler words like ‘in a rather similar’ or ‘the fact that’...they rarely add much, and can disrupt the flow of the story.

If you want to get better at writing, I’d challenge you to re-write this exact story, losing nothing, with 50% fewer words.

Glad you’re contributing! Please take these comments as they are intended: as advice from one novice writer to another.

Bump for the night, anons…keep it up, great posts today!

Really looking forward to ‘rural town’ anon and ‘child’s birthday party’, those prompts sound like fun!

>>19256722
Hey anon, I just wanted to say thank you so much for this. I really appreciate that you took the time to do this. I will definitely try taking this stuff into account going forward.

>>19242434
Hey guys, just had a question on how I should do this prompt. I'm basically done with it. As of right now, it's a small story about a guy and his mom talking about the trouble he's having at school. The mom doesn't really display any explicitly Charles Manson-esque qualities outside of only speaking in quotes of his. Should I lean into the Manson qualities more? How exactly should I do that?

>>19258472
I doubt many readers would be so familiar with Manson they pick up on the quotes. It’s an interesting constraint to write under, but it’ll be hard for anyone to appreciate. You either gotta accept you’re just writing it for yourself, or make it more transparent.

Maybe the student could be recounting this story to a psychologist?
Maybe this whole thing could be a psychotic’s dream, and he explains it later.
Maybe at one point the mother slips and mis-quotes and the boy gets furious and makes her start over (revealing that the whole thing was a hostage situation, and the ‘boy’ the captor)
It could be a game two mental patients play to while away the day. End with “haha, you messed up! Manson never said that! Okay, this time I’ll be Kaczynski and you’re my niece trying to convince me to get on Instagram.”

Good luck anon!

>>19258472
A subtle approach can be good. Write it the way that feels best/natural to you.

bump

(1/2)
>A rural town is not what it appears:

Have you ever been made victim of that vexing nausea, and subsequent delirium, of physical entities appearing to appear not as they once did? You swear it was there. It was right there. Where’s it gone?

The human eye has 120 degrees of vision: together they span 180. This means that, at all times, there is an entire world behind you just waiting to be observed; to collapse into a form.

Less than a five-minute stroll from my childhood home there lay a monstrously large, menacingly flat field to my youthful eyes; empty, it was told, to preserve the historic legacy of the ancient, small town of Siemienice that once sprawled there, some hundred years ago. From all my time poured into pottering about that threatening plain as a child I saw only few people; the occasional jogger attempting, unanimously failing, to cross the space in one fell swoop: such copious broadness unnerved them.

The dog-walkers never came that way; the dogs couldn’t stand it. Something about the place scared them away, they refused to step even partially into it; perhaps if it were not for my melancholy disposition I would have shared in that notion.

In defiance of the negative connotation my many days of meandering might elicit, I assure you it was most necessary for me as the only place to get away from the shouting and screaming of the house. The plain provided security, comfort and protection with a tranquillity far removed from the dangerous, stressful life of school and home. Nobody would hurt me on the Field. It was the only place I felt safe.

(2/2)
After one particularly nasty conflict, bringing me to numbness new, I eschewed again with a heavy heart to that most accepting savannah of endless, barren grass. With such diminished will to live, the flat horizon felt uniquely comforting that day. Just me, the grass, the sky; forever.

I hung my head low and let the grass fill my vision; the sky was too good for me. Hoping to lose my way in wandering that cold, open field I remember noticing how dirty my shoes had become, and questioning whether that was reflective of my life as whole. Bringing my attention squarely to the rhythmical feeling in my feet I continued my traipse with a growing sense of misanthropy. The aimless wanderer has no expectations, no pressure, no nagging parents, I thought; he is free. At the time, of course, I did not consider hunger, thirst or shelter but I will not berate myself for this, as ignorance is a most covetous position.

Onward I strode, determined to make something of this little show of resistance. The crisp wind chilled my face and wavered my plain, unassuming clothes, which were not even mine. The birds, few as there were, chirped their tones oblivious; I did not hear, my mind focused on my feet. I would march to my death if I had to: anything to get away.

Then, the grass began to change.

Slowly, surely, the grass became cobbles and the cobbles became gravel; in my depressive haze I did not notice, mind submerged in a relentless storm of emotion. After unknown time a part of my subconscious must have perceived the change for I looked up and noticed that I was not where I once was, but had wandered upon that rumoured town of Siemienice, and was standing by its entrance.

That town embodied everything good in the world to me; it was a symbol of life, of hope, of the beautiful unknown existing, just waiting to be discovered.

There was a river running through the town, streaming smoothly, leading flowing water into a nearby pond. The pond was quiet and reflective, with a nasty selection of dense foliage surrounding a dreary swamp. The swamp, well it was more like a marshland, was murky, bleak and dismal; the more I looked the more it consumed my vision until that bog was all I could see, and all that was there. I looked away; the town was nowhere to be seen. It was gone.

Without realising it I had let the esoteric town of Siemienice elude my sight and, without a sound, evanesce from this world. I write this now as memoir and a cautionary tale to the young: Never lose sight of your life.


New prompt:
A man has the ability to close his eyes, walk forward, and appear anywhere in the world.

>>19260698
I like this, anon (though the first para of the second post seems to be in a different voice than the rest…enjoyed the poetic writing, but idk why it’s concentrated in one spot)

The whole thing reminds me of the first few minutes of Spirited Away

>>19260817
Thank you for writing a response, I'm glad my work can be of value to others.
I must admit I have never seen Spirited Away before but I shall take note of it from your recommendation.
I'm not sure what you mean by the first paragraph of the second post having a different, more poetic voice. Could it be the phrase "Bringing me to numbness new"? It just felt right at the time, any more syllables and it feels bloated. I did not mean to switch voices in the way you describe, that was just the natural way I thought to express the concept.
Any more critique is greatly appreciated, this took longer than I expected and I would like to learn from my inevitable mistakes that I've yet to catch.

>>19254582
>Trying to return a clearly used item

The worst thing I’ve ever done?

Okay, this is far from the literal ‘worst’, but I still think back to it and feel gross.

So in 10th grade me and a few friends needed money. I can’t even recall what for…probably weed or something — No, I remember now! Chrissy Keefe got a speeding ticket, and needed to pay like $250 without her parents finding out. So we all tried to help her scrape together enough. Looking back, this actually sounds like some Ferris Bueller-level high school shenanigans.

I still have this image of us all hanging out in the mall parking lot trying to think up ways for a bunch of broke teens to come up with cash, and pretty much all the options were bad. This was in the early 2000s, so we couldn’t just do Fiverr or Craigslist or anything. To be honest, it’s probably best we didn’t have the options that kids do today…Christ.

My other friend, Amber, had the idea that we could each return some of our DVDs to Walmart - apparently that’s what her dad did because he was in too cheap to rent videos. It never crossed our minds that you could just return anything for cash, and bit-by-bit we started to make the scheme larger. We went through the mall trash cans looking for store receipts, and read through the fine-print. Some were 30-days or 90-days, some gave back cash and others were store credit, most needed a receipt.

I think I came up with the idea of using one of these trash receipts for our return. We just needed to find a receipt for an item one of us already owned. After collecting dozens of them, we found someone who bought a GameCube at a Best Buy…and Crissy’s brother had a busted GameCube in the basement we could return without anyone noticing.

(1/3)

>>19262289
(2/3)

I think I came up with the idea of using one of these trash receipts for our return. We just needed to find a receipt for an item one of us already owned. After collecting dozens of them, we found someone who bought a GameCube at a Best Buy…and Crissy’s brother had a busted GameCube in the basement we could return without anyone noticing.

Of course when we went to Chrissy’s basement, we found it in awful shape. The thing was covered in peeling stickers, the controller was literally chewed on, and the d-pad was polished to a shine by a thousand hours of gamer grease. We were committed to returning this piece of junk, but it was starting to look impossible to pass it off as only 30-days of abuse.

None of us wanted to be tge one to do the deed, but through the age old process of rock-paper-scissors I was chosen. I put the old-ass gamecube back into its box and taped the 2-day old receipt to it.

We spent hours concocting explanations. “Why am I returning it? Well, it just displays a black screen when we start it.” “Oh, the stickers? As soon as he opened the box, Jimmy slapped those on.” “The controller? I didn’t notice that, maybe the dog chewed on it.” “The box it came in? We threw it out and the garbage truck picked it up yesterday.” I expected to be grilled on this, but with $199 on the line I intended to show up prepared.

(2/3)

>>19262298
(3/3)

The moment of truth came, and after a few false starts I marched into the store with the bag, and Amber as my ‘wingman’. It felt odd bringing something into a store, you’d walk through those metal detectors by the door and expect some alarm to go off. I went to the service desk, set the bag and receipt on the counter and delivered my rehearsed story about the blank screen.

The kid working at Best Buy - I say kid now, but he was about 5 years older than I was then - looked like that comic store guy from the Simpsons. He just looked so beat down by the world, you knew he’d be hungry to lord his authority over anyone. He looked in the bag, and then up at us. There was this long unspoken ‘you’re not fooling anyone’ eyebrow raise, and then one question I had not prepared for “Cash, Card, or Store Credit?”

It took me a minute to process what he was talking about, I was so intent on keeping our fake story straight. Eventually either Amber or I said ‘cash’ and he just opened the register and counted it out. The stack of cash just sat there on the counter between us, his large hand still on top. I can’t remember his exact words, I’ve replayed it so much I’ve probably embellished it, but it was something like “Best Buy doesn’t trust us enough to decline fraudulent returns, and they don’t pay us enough to care…but I need you to know that you’re not fooling anyone.” He slid the cash to us and we got out.

My friends were laughing and celebrating in the car, but I just felt so dirty about it. We were so caught up in our own cleverness, but the clerk laid bare the truth…we just robbed them plain and simple, and the only reason we ‘got away with it’ is because they didn’t care enough to stop us. I felt small and gross, and even now I can’t stand things like white collar crimes or tax dodges or digital piracy…under all the clever layers, it’s just stealing.

Okay, so that’s mine. What’s the worst thing you’ve done?

>Prompt: A co-worker has a hidden talent

>>19254540
>>19254560
>>19256722
I attempted a rewrite for this work. So here it goes, v2 of
>She definitely just spoke in English

No one intends on staying in New Madrid, New Mexico. This was true for Richard, who had already spent a night in a two-star hotel. It was not at all his intent to be there; he had just been heading towards Albuquerque for his sister’s wedding when he realized night had already fallen.

“Here is the key.” Richard said as he dropped the room key on the front desk. It read “three” in a faded black print on the jet tag. The front desk worker—a chubby Mexican woman—collected it and hung it on a rack.

“Thank you, sir, have a wonderful rest of your day!” she said in a cheerful tone.

After stepping into his rundown blue Chevrolet Silverado, he set up the GPS on his phone in search of somewhere to eat. The hotel had not offered a breakfast to its clients. Rather unsurprising for a hotel like that. A four-star breakfast diner popped up on his phone. The closest of all of them, being only a five-minute trek from the hotel he stayed at. The few, yet consistent, positive reviews and the relative distance was enough to sell him on the location.

The drive was as eventful as any other desolate town in the sun belt. Shabby homes that looked as though they would fall apart if you hit the wall too hard with any kind of construction tool. Richard chuckled to himself as he imagined that his vain sister may have to live in a home like this thanks to her and her soon-to-be husband’s horrid spending habits.

“Poor bastards,” he thought as he gazed at the dusty single-story Spanish Colonial homes.

The café was situated on a main throughfare of the town. The exterior suggested it had been abandoned several years prior. All the other buildings looked no better. Richard was not in position to judge appearances, especially after reviewing the café’s profile online. He was simply a customer who was seeking food and drink before he hit the road again. As he opened the door, a bell rang causing him to flinch. A second flinch came from the fact that the café was completely empty, save for a younger white woman of about twenty-five. She sat at a table right next to the café’s barren countertop.

“Excuse me. A—are you guys open?” Richard asked.

Slightly startled herself, the woman shot her head up. He had interrupted her while she was idly reading a newspaper. After a short-lived stare of blankness, she only offered a giggle in reply. His face was fire red.

“Sorry, I assumed you did.”

Her large blue eyes were locked on him. He could see a repressed smile form at the corner of her lips.

“What’s her problem? Maybe she doesn’t speak English?” he thought. He straightened up this time to offer her a third question, “¿Habla inglés?” He had a horrible accent; he was a white man after all.

>>19263111
The woman laughed. “No, I don’t.”

“You just did!” He retorted.

“Did I?” She propped her right hand under her chin feigning contemplation.

Growing upset by her, he turned heel and began to walk for the door. It was a waste of time to play along with this woman. He wanted, or rather, needed to eat. This woman clearly did not care about this fact.

“Wait! I’m sorry!” The woman said in-between giggles.

He turned around again. His hand was reaching for the door at this point, she caught him mid-reach. This time he had to hold back giving her a rude remark.

“My father owns the diner. He is out back. I just like to mess with the travelers,” she stretched her arms and arched her back, reminiscent to that of a cat. She then rose from her seat. “Sit down and I will make you some coffee,” she motioned for the seat she had just been in, “Despite the look of this place, the food’s good. Oh, and I wanna know why a young man who isn’t a trucker is here in the middle of March.” She giggled again and put her hand over her mouth.

He did as she said: sitting down and grabbing her newspaper. The seat was warm, and the paper was furrowed from a hasty fold. He was hopeful that she had been right. All he wanted was something to eat and drink before he left New Madrid.

>author's note I guess
so from the original piece, I cut around 20% of the word count in the second version. I think that it flowed way better. While still imperfect, I think it is a step in the right direction after getting some critique. Thanks for reading guys!

>>19263115
Really reads tighter, anon. Good job!

>>19254560
>All for the love of sunshine

Love this prompt, so many directions to take it in, we could probably fill a whole volume with different takes on it.

I’ll give it a shot…though the direction that I’m going in is likely to be the most obvious one.

Also, it made me recall a book i read a few months back (pic related)…it started me on this whole Kazuo Ishiguro kick, so now I’m constantly thinking with a British affectation…and have trouble keeping it out of my writing.

>>19263111

I really like it, anon! (Btw, I’m the poster who recommended you try shortening it) I think the writing in the new one flows much better. There are still a few places where you could even condense more:

>“Here is the key.” Richard said as he dropped the room key on the front desk. It read “three” in a faded black print on the jet tag. The front desk worker—a chubby Mexican woman—collected it and hung it on a rack. [43 words]

You mention the ‘key’ and the ‘front desk’ explicitly twice, the second time you can safely just refer to it with a pronoun. You also do this later when referring to ‘the café’.

You also have quite a few instances when speakers aren’t not using contractions when they likely would in natural speech (especially in this town).

>“Here’s the key.” Richard said as he dropped it onto the front desk; a faded black “3” printed on it’s tag. The chubby Mexican woman behind the desk collected it and hung it on a rack. [36 words]

>“Here you go.” Richard dropped his key - a faded black “3” printed on it’s tag - onto the front desk. A chubby Mexican woman collected it and hung it on a rack. [31 words]

>“Thanks.” Richard said dryly, as the chubby Mexican woman at the front desk collected his key - a faded ‘3’ on it’s tag - and returned it to the rack. [28 words]

I don’t mean to say in any of this that good writing uses fewer words…but the words affect the pacing. And in flash, especially, there’s a zero-sum element to it…a redundant phrase or description in one part of the story means less room for necessary plot elements somewhere else. You want things like returning a room key to fly by, while saving your longer descriptions for moments that have importance to the story.

> A second flinch came from the fact that the café was completely empty, save for a younger white woman of about twenty-five. She sat at a table right next to the café’s barren countertop.

Here, you introduce the second major character and she’s buried in the back half of a paragraph about the cafe, and described like a police report. Spend some time setting that scene.

Anyhow, apologies for running on like this…again, I’m new to this also and have never written outside these /ffa/ threads. I find that sometimes critiquing others’ work helps cement some of the lessons I’ve been learning as well.

>>19239406
Bumping with an updated prompt list:

Everyone in the local police department becomes addicted to a designer drug
<insert country> in the year 2044
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
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
Swimming through memories (>>19087574)
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 werewolf is on her period
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 (>>19248362)
Kenny G is the hero America needs but doesn't deserve
A pedestrian causes an auto accident
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
A shy person must perform on stage
Cashing in your dying wish a bit prematurely
A guilty man is wrongly accused
Every time he looks at the engagement ring he begins to sob
Someone finds the journal of a mentally disabled man in the archives (>>19244068)
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
What? I can’t hear you!
Charles Manson is my mom (>>19242434)
A first responder who summons tornadoes
A shot rang with no one to hear
Sometimes the trash takes itself out.
A grizzled detective goes undercover on 4chan
You reap what you sow
Horrible timing for a pregnancy announcement (>>19252472)
"Please don't forget what I told you"
the location the GPS took them to seems to be a little off
A tapestry constantly being added to
Murder in the Cathedral's sanctuary
The cellar houses wine and... bodies?
An evening in Verona (>>19253508)
Finding a one-of-a-kind book in the library stacks
All for the love of sunshine (>>19264877)
A man has the ability to close his eyes, walk forward, and appear anywhere in the world.
A co-worker has a hidden talent

>>19266378
damn, that is a lot of unused prompts

>>19266455
Yeah, it’s def been growing…should prob start only showing the latest 30 (plus any which anons have said they started).

Bump

Prompt bump:
>No one believes it was immaculate conception

it's over...

>>19266574
I concur
>>19270198
not yet it isn't

>>19271119
ok...

>>19266378
>Dead worms and Crystal Pepsi
mine

>>19272216
Brave man, that’s got to be the strangest prompt…i tried to think of something for it and drew a complete blank.

Here’s an illustration for inspiration :-)

>>19272216
quite possibly the weirdest prompt yet

bump

good night lads

>>19253508
>An evening in Verona. [Epigraph:]

si pote stolidum repente excitare veternum,
et supinum animum in gravi derelinquere cæno
— Catullus, xvij

The most passive action, writing, summons and erases all figures in a burnt-out coppice, a damp smoke blurring the outlined maps. Waiting, with but a slanted vulgar fissural misted view of the piazzale afforded from the window, Ugone was, nonetheless and in any case, kept from writing. It would come: he had only to wait: was that not how things went? Formerly he had written much without recording, merely in the mind, where something arriving and something done were harder to distinguish. That nothing so far had happened showed great promise: such inaction had always provided for everything, yet one can’t help feel that somewhere one’s opposite and double, one’s fratricide (oneling as one may be), is taking the praise for all one’s luxuries, while returning all their injuries, perceived as paths not taken. …

*

From the view afforded him, from his half-off position in the room, *his* room, no doubt, though with the feeling he had just been left there and, conversely, the indifferent sorrow it might soon change; from his window’s coin-slot view, I say, Ugone saw pass a sighthound, not far off but close by: and so it appeared to be gigantic, and passed in parts—first the head, then the trunk, the tail. (As the hound passed below, ’twas rather its long shadow cast on the building across.) A very crabby sighthound, come from the bank of the Adige, heading north to go coursing, followed by its master (a black rectangle).

*

In love’s communication it had been much the same as in all of life’s force, until it returned betrayed and threw everything into an even greater strangeness, were it only that of normalcy. Never was there anything else to Ugone’s mind than to see what would come, to await it as does a mystic with much relish; to initiate an action was not so much unwillable as unthinkable. The halfway opportunity presented, to grab hold of, was less of a marvel than being carried along, and swept away—and yet: what if that kairious time, at the forking of the new district under construction, it was not passivity diverted Ugone’s relations with the Silvina, but a doing? He had, he realized only much, much later, only to remain at her side in posse, that would lead him along, along even into a reserved coit with the Silvina perhaps, but instead he had effectuated a goodbye at the last moment, and this, this was *far* from nothing. The truth was, he shamed to admit, he was driven to utter restlessness in that aimless silent wandering with her—and could only return to the momentary calm of the city’s chatter by hatching a poltroonish escape.

*

(1/2)

>>19276831
No sooner had some gastro-humorous acid admitted itself into Ugone’s mouth, a droplet whereof dripping therefrom, than a fanfaring siren was sounded. Moving across the dark piazzale, made out in the distance, was the following scene: one man, green-looking, tied to a stretcher, being rolled away very slowly, as if in a procession + two nurses, transporting the man while each dragging along a drip bag on a pole in the other hand + two small flatbed trolleys, either remotely operated or autonomous, following behind, with a cage full of very lively rabbits on the one, a pallet with four metal buckets filled with very bloody raw red meat on the other + a figure in a teal banyan and hood, limply holding the little horn, at the rear. Mouthed the one nurse to the other, it looked like:
— A passéist in the evening / can pose a serious threat. / In all our brave open actions / we have nothing to regret.
— If only we didn’t have so much waste, such muck, to dispose of.

(2/2)
New prompt (if one still needs one):
>A tableau vivant gets caught in a mob of civil disorder

>>19272216
>Dead worms and Crystal Pepsi
mine. Starting it right now.

>>19276921
a shit NVM, I thought it was posted after a story and didn't notice it at first