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Sometimes I Cough And Words Come Out; Should I see a doctor I'm scared
Topic Started: Jun 29 2014, 02:43 AM (292 Views)
Emprexx Plush
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Paige/EP/Plush, they/them pronouns pls thanks :3
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Occasionally I get the urge to write things that A ) Aren't SotF and B ) Aren't required for a batty writing class. I thought about maybe starting a blog for them and then I beat the idea to death with a truncheon because lolblogs. Instead, I'll just throw it here so there's an on-going, up to date record of my progressive madness for the inevitable court case after someone finds me tromping around a public park in armor made of live, very confused dogs.

First is a story I wrote based on the prompt "Write a work of epic fiction in 100 words or less." It's got words and may or may not be epic, so I feel that I have mastered this particular prompt.

Blasphemy of Word and Deed, 99 words.

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." Matthew 26:41.

Liar.

The cold, unyielding flesh lay against the cool, steel of the table. It mocked him with its stillness.

Bone-thin fingers rummaged through rusty tools. Occasionally, the gently swinging light above would flash at just the right angle to send a ray into the dimly lit shelf, highlighting his selections.

Scalpel, then saw.

It would yield.

It would warm and tense.

With his butchery, it would rise.

A thin, satisfied smile marred his stiff face.

Liar.

When the spirit is dead and broken, the flesh becomes deliciously willing.
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Plush Wants To Read Your Dead Things and your Living Things! As of 8/14/2017, the Living Queue is Closed, and the Dead Queue is Open!
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Emprexx Plush
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Paige/EP/Plush, they/them pronouns pls thanks :3
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
I had to put this particular piece in Google Docs and keep it there for the moment for reasons. Retirement Plan, 996 words.
SotF Characters

the highest honor i'll ever achieve


Plush Wants To Read Your Dead Things and your Living Things! As of 8/14/2017, the Living Queue is Closed, and the Dead Queue is Open!
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Emprexx Plush
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Paige/EP/Plush, they/them pronouns pls thanks :3
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
A Stone Unturned

The front door swung open. Dim sunlight pierced the fog of dust and liquor fumes lurking within the derelict bar. A thin figure stepped inside, slamming the door shut with his foot as he passed. The bartender paused at the intrusion, before staring back down at the counter, letting his long, dirty mop of black hair slip back over his brow. Neither man made a sound as the stranger stared intently at the slowly cycling television screen in the corner of the room.

"-growing concerns as Midwestern farms dwindle-"

Click.

"-haunting visuals of bodies filling the streets as overpopulation-"

Click.

"-unemployment continues to rise despite-"

Click.

"-religious organizations confer and rush to explain the-"

Click.

On, and on, and on. Every station a new breaking news story, each as recycled and inevitable as the last. Nobody watched the sets at this point. They were all rigged to just cycle, and provide a little bit of white noise, a little bit of a distraction from what they'd become. Time was the only thing they had left to kill. They might as well commit to it.
The stranger approached the bar and sat down on a stool across from the barkeep. "Scotch," he rasped out. "Neat."

Pale, grey eyes peered out at him through a window of grime-caked hair. There was a short, grunted reply that could have been speech, with enough imagination, followed by a shot glass and a bottle landing on the counter in front of him. A drawn, dry chuckle cut through the air as he picked up the bottle and began to pour. "Shiiiiit," he mumbled out, seeming to roll and savor the word on his tongue. "It was a joke. Didn't expect you to still have the good stuff." He raised the glass high and coughed out into the empty room, "Happy Death Day, everybody!"

The bartender kept ignoring him as he drank down one shot, then another, and another. Yellow teeth crept out from behind his dry, cracked lips as he smiled over the counter. "It's today, ain't it? They day it all stopped, fuckin' fifty years back?"

There was no reply. The words stayed hanging in the air, waiting for resolution."Y'know. The day everybody stopped dyin'?"

"Why are you talkin' to me?" The barkeep's voice came out as a menacing, restrained growl. "Why are you here?"

Unspoken threats weren't enough to dim the intruder's smile, it seemed. Instead, it seemed to grow more brazen. "Well, y'see...I got this theory. Everybody's got a theory, y'know. It's some weird plague; it's some sudden step up of evolution; it's a judgment from God, all that crazy, desperate bullshit." Cool, dark liquid filled the shot glass again. The barkeep watched him intently as he took a deep drink and set the empty glass back down. "Me? I go crazier. See, I think it's real simple...the Grim Reaper, Hades, Satan, Death, whatever you wanna call 'em...I think he's slackin' on the job. Just up and stopped, y'know, collectin' folks."

A shrug came in reply. "Yeah. Pretty crazy. I think you've had enough." Gaunt hands reached for the bottle and were slapped away defiantly.

"No. I'm not leavin'. Not until I get what I came for, nothin' less." The smile had dimmed into firm, determined glare. "Twenty years. Twenty years I shoulda been dead, at least. Maybe more. But you never showed up. You left me and everybody else behind." The stool shifted as he turned and spat on the bar floor. "Bastard. Fix it."

Pale, thin fingers gripped the counter tight. "You're crazy. Crazy and drunk. Get the hell out of my bar." The menacing edge to the barkeep's voice had been corroded down into something altogether more anxious, something fearful. His wild-eyed patron seized on that fear and reveled into it as he rolled the glass in his hand.

"Nope. Only one way to get me out," he chuckled, drawing a long, sharp line along his throat with his finger-tip. "I didn't hunt for twenty years just to leave ya alone. I wanna die, and I wanna die today. No other way to get me out, and even if there was I'd just be back tomorrow. Then the next day. Then the next." With a flourish of his wrist, he tossed the glass up into the crackling TV set, shattering the screen in a shower of sparks and fragments. "Get the picture?"

Those same foggy eyes stared back at him as he lounged on the stool. Again, the barkeep shrugged. "Fine. Come back as much as you want. Sleep on the counter, I don't give a damn. I'm goin' to bed."

He started to turn towards a small, cracked wooden door behind the counter, but the sound of shattering glass drew his attention back behind him. The stranger stood there, holding the broken scotch bottle and glaring at him. "No. That's not how this plays out. That's now how we play. You're gonna kill me, and then you get to go on with...whatever the hell this is. You don't get to ignore me."

"Why?"

It was the stranger's turn to stare silently now. Why. "Because..." he began slowly, "because I found you. That's how it works. I found you. I get to die."

"No." It was that simple. No, and goodbye. Death gave the stranger one last look, and turned once more to retire for the night.

"Don't let me go."

It wasn't a plea. There was no sadness in his voice, or fear, or anxiety. There wasn't even anger. The low, haggard words reached his ears faster than his hand could close around the door knob, and registered with all the flat, sincere force of a genuine threat. He froze, for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Don't let me go," he repeated from his stool, just a little louder. "Because when you wake up, it won't be just me."

Thin-soled boots smacked into the hardwood floor as he slid away from the counter, and made his own way towards the bar door. "I'll tell everybody," he whispered over his shoulder, "and they make not all come tomorrow. They may not come next week. It may take fuckin' years to convince them, but everybody's desperate. Everybody wants answers." His hands wrapped around the handle of the door and squeezed it tight. "We'll follow you, no matter where you go.
Whatever peace you want because of this...fuck it. We'll shatter it."

One more time, he looked and rasped. "Don't let me go."

The door slid open. More rays of weak sunlight flooded into the bar. For a few brief seconds, he stared up into slow-burning orb hanging in the sky.

A bleached white, bony hand flashed in the side of his vision.

Then, nothing but darkness.

Click.

"-religious organizations confer and rush to explain the-"

Click.

On, and on, and on. Every station a new breaking news story, each as recycled and inevitable as the last. Nobody watched the sets at this point. They were all rigged to just cycle, and provide a little bit of white noise, a little bit of a distraction from what they'd become. Time was the only thing they had left to kill. They might as well commit to it.
The stranger approached the bar and sat down on a stool across from the barkeep. "Scotch," he rasped out. "Neat."

Pale, grey eyes peered out at him through a window of grime-caked hair. There was a short, grunted reply that could have been speech, with enough imagination, followed by a shot glass and a bottle landing on the counter in front of him. A drawn, dry chuckle cut through the air as he picked up the bottle and began to pour. "Shiiiiit," he mumbled out, seeming to roll and savor the word on his tongue. "It was a joke. Didn't expect you to still have the good stuff." He raised the glass high and coughed out into the empty room, "Happy Death Day, everybody!"

The bartender kept ignoring him as he drank down one shot, then another, and another. Yellow teeth crept out from behind his dry, cracked lips as he smiled over the counter. "It's today, ain't it? They day it all stopped, fuckin' fifty years back?"

There was no reply. The words stayed hanging in the air, waiting for resolution."Y'know. The day everybody stopped dyin'?"

"Why are you talkin' to me?" The barkeep's voice came out as a menacing, restrained growl. "Why are you here?"

Unspoken threats weren't enough to dim the intruder's smile, it seemed. Instead, it seemed to grow more brazen. "Well, y'see...I got this theory. Everybody's got a theory, y'know. It's some weird plague; it's some sudden step up of evolution; it's a judgment from God, all that crazy, desperate bullshit." Cool, dark liquid filled the shot glass again. The barkeep watched him intently as he took a deep drink and set the empty glass back down. "Me? I go crazier. See, I think it's real simple...the Grim Reaper, Hades, Satan, Death, whatever you wanna call 'em...I think he's slackin' on the job. Just up and stopped, y'know, collectin' folks."

A shrug came in reply. "Yeah. Pretty crazy. I think you've had enough." Gaunt hands reached for the bottle and were slapped away defiantly.

"No. I'm not leavin'. Not until I get what I came for, nothin' less." The smile had dimmed into firm, determined glare. "Twenty years. Twenty years I shoulda been dead, at least. Maybe more. But you never showed up. You left me and everybody else behind." The stool shifted as he turned and spat on the bar floor. "Bastard. Fix it."

Pale, thin fingers gripped the counter tight. "You're crazy. Crazy and drunk. Get the hell out of my bar." The menacing edge to the barkeep's voice had been corroded down into something altogether more anxious, something fearful. His wild-eyed patron seized on that fear and reveled into it as he rolled the glass in his hand.

"Nope. Only one way to get me out," he chuckled, drawing a long, sharp line along his throat with his finger-tip. "I didn't hunt for twenty years just to leave ya alone. I wanna die, and I wanna die today. No other way to get me out, and even if there was I'd just be back tomorrow. Then the next day. Then the next." With a flourish of his wrist, he tossed the glass up into the crackling TV set, shattering the screen in a shower of sparks and fragments. "Get the picture?"

Those same foggy eyes stared back at him as he lounged on the stool. Again, the barkeep shrugged. "Fine. Come back as much as you want. Sleep on the counter, I don't give a damn. I'm goin' to bed."

He started to turn towards a small, cracked wooden door behind the counter, but the sound of shattering glass drew his attention back behind him. The stranger stood there, holding the broken scotch bottle and glaring at him. "No. That's not how this plays out. That's now how we play. You're gonna kill me, and then you get to go on with...whatever the hell this is. You don't get to ignore me."

"Why?"

It was the stranger's turn to stare silently now. Why. "Because..." he began slowly, "because I found you. That's how it works. I found you. I get to die."

"No." It was that simple. No, and goodbye. Death gave the stranger one last look, and turned once more to retire for the night.

"Don't let me go."

It wasn't a plea. There was no sadness in his voice, or fear, or anxiety. There wasn't even anger. The low, haggard words reached his ears faster than his hand could close around the door knob, and registered with all the flat, sincere force of a genuine threat. He froze, for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Don't let me go," he repeated from his stool, just a little louder. "Because when you wake up, it won't be just me."

Thin-soled boots smacked into the hardwood floor as he slid away from the counter, and made his own way towards the bar door. "I'll tell everybody," he whispered over his shoulder, "and they make not all come tomorrow. They may not come next week. It may take fuckin' years to convince them, but everybody's desperate. Everybody wants answers." His hands wrapped around the handle of the door and squeezed it tight. "We'll follow you, no matter where you go.
Whatever peace you want because of this...fuck it. We'll shatter it."

One more time, he looked and rasped. "Don't let me go."

The door slid open. More rays of weak sunlight flooded into the bar. For a few brief seconds, he stared up into slow-burning orb hanging in the sky.

A bleached white, bony hand flashed in the side of his vision.

Then, nothing but darkness.
SotF Characters

the highest honor i'll ever achieve


Plush Wants To Read Your Dead Things and your Living Things! As of 8/14/2017, the Living Queue is Closed, and the Dead Queue is Open!
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
Emprexx Plush
Member Avatar
Paige/EP/Plush, they/them pronouns pls thanks :3
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
This week TD wrote about WAR.

Kronus, Birth Your Children, 1178 Words.
SotF Characters

the highest honor i'll ever achieve


Plush Wants To Read Your Dead Things and your Living Things! As of 8/14/2017, the Living Queue is Closed, and the Dead Queue is Open!
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
Emprexx Plush
Member Avatar
Paige/EP/Plush, they/them pronouns pls thanks :3
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
I wrote a couple character backstory one-shots that I really liked for a SPAAAAAAACE campaign I'm playing and I really liked them so boop boop three year rez

#thankyoubasedgoddess

Blink Once For Yes, Twice For No
SotF Characters

the highest honor i'll ever achieve


Plush Wants To Read Your Dead Things and your Living Things! As of 8/14/2017, the Living Queue is Closed, and the Dead Queue is Open!
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
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