marius

Well here's a strange something. 318 words not including title. All words used.


Between

John Quixmicklemas wants to be born into the same family as Genevieve because, “She is cute!” He is the first contestant.

“Goodness,” thinks Marie, Angel of the Purple Heavens, “maturation is slow-going for some!”

The committee says, “You do not want to be attracted to your sibling!” After an exhausting battery of additional testing and simulations John chooses Stratosphere Eight. Oh mercies, a good fit!

THEN ..... there is the Angel Genevieve. She presents for her fifty-fifth incarnation. She chooses Earth. She also chooses wealth.

Angel Maria exclaims, “Genevieve, wealth is boring!”
Marcus adds, “It’s also hell. You know that!”

Genevieve does know and she floors the committee when she adds that she wants the option for mystic. They say, “Wealthy Mystic has been done.” But Genevieve has a twist so they cannot deny. It means they have to obfuscate a large amount of her genetic material. It is not a simple matter but it is the price Genevieve chooses.

There are many other odd contestants, but Genevieve becomes a constant in their hearts. The last one like her was crucified. He paid that price for peace and redemption but humans are still struggling with simple concepts such as loving ones enemies.

Johnson blinks in. Genevieve tried to suicide. She has barely reached her fourteenth year.

Angel Marie takes the news and returns to the quiet of her office. Genevieve had told the committee, “He said, ‘All these things I do, so also can you do.’ I want them to believe it.”

Angel Marie wants that too. She isn’t certain that humans are ready for this strange, Jesus-like, incarnation that is Genevieve, but all the books say the next awakening will be feminine, they just don’t say when.

Johnson taps Marie’s mind.

“Genevieve, now age 55. Glowing. WW III over in two months.
World adopts theme: If you Love them they aren’t your enemy.
Fifty-eight countries on board.

marius

And, yes, marius the contrarious is chatty this morning ... so, would like to add: If I believe there is nothing new under the sun ... then, when and if something new DOES show up, I will miss it, won't see it, because one cannot see what one will not believe. Therefore, I believe there are infinities (and sorry anothrron, but quixmickles too) of new things under, above and beyond the sun. If I'm wrong, then I am, but if I'm right ... what fun there will be when the new things show up!

Speaking of which - anotherronism, chelydra, morshy and mrsjesus are still new to me. Hope they stay around. And, this TW is new too. Have never seen one like it and am very much enjoying the exchanges taking place. As Qsilv has been known to say ... I enjoy all of you, greatly! Each and every single one!

As giraffe would say, "Take that!" ; )

midnightpoet

Marius - regarding your question as to whether I have a compulsion to walk...I guess the answer is no...at least not in the sense of my story. Although, many, many times as a teenager, when I'd get in a fight with my parents, I'd storm out of the house and just walk to cool down. But where that story came from is my itchy feet. I have a huge problem with my feet uncontrollably itching...it's been happening for the last few months. When I googled it, I found that there is a superstition saying that when your feet itch, it means you will go on a long journey. I'm on a long journey right now, and I've had itchy feet since I started thinking about taking this journey...so I thought it was funny, and thus my story wrote itself.

Everyone else - I will catch up on what has been written, but haven't had time or motivation in the last week. My life is a beautiful chaos, and sometimes I can't shut my mind up long enough to read other people's work.

I do hope though, that those who have been offended and left will come back, and that new people will join us. We're not some sort of a clique here on TD, but I'm afraid it's starting to seem that way.

I need fresh blood for my whip.

mouse

Ron--- sounds to me like you are bored with everything --get a grip. I have enjoyed this forum very much. I've said before i am not a "writer" but do enjoy doing a little story telling. If my stories do not amuse or delight you, then that's your problem. The others on here do critique and make suggestions and that is very welcome,as it helps me grow and learn, but your banter about being bored ,etc, is not constructive in any way shape or form. Having said that--have a nice day

giraffe

Marius, Mothers' Day is deliciously creepy. Totally mixed messages and way too complex for a child to understand.

I think we're all going through a battle like that and maybe it's cathartic or cathartaholic that we're getting all this venting done. Both 'Peace Class (Jach Purcell) and 'The Trial' (Franz Kafka) are total rip-offs. At least I only steal from the best.

Then your story 'Between' nailed metaphysics in a very funny way. Good good.

giraffe

Total free-form. True story.

SYLVIA'S COOTIES

We were in the 3rd or 4th grade - I don't remember. Sylvia was the outcast scapegoat nerd and all that. She wore hand made clothes and wasn't social at all. Maybe that's because every time she came to school someone would touch her and then touch someone else saying "Sylvia's cooties - pass it on!"

They had no reason to dislike her except that she was different. I guess some social groups need a common enemy to bond with each other. For some reason I related to her but no one could talk to her because that would make them have cooties too.

After a few months of this, I did probably the bravest thing in my life. I befriended her. I didn't care if I got cooties. I'd walk with her to her house after school and then go to mine. I asked her once if I could come into her house. She said her mother wouldn't allow that. Their drapes were always closed and nobody was allowed in the house.

Well now that I had cooties too, it didn't really matter. I found out on those short walks that her mother was a Holocaust survivor. Her father didn't survive. Her mom was totally paranoid of any outsiders - permanently. At least I understood why she was different and had the cooties.

To everyone out there, I say "Sylvia's cooties - pass it on.

mouse

Giraffe--Sylvia's Cooties-- I loved it-- very insightful about children ( and some adults)

giraffe

Thanks, mouse. Now you have Sylvia's cooties. Pass it on.

marius

Love Sylvia's cooties, giraffe. Most ignore, or torment, cooties kids so not only were you brave, but what a heart you must have that it won over fear of cooties. And, what a friendship that must have been ... still enriching your life today, and no doubt, Sylvia's too! Thanks for sharing. Am thinking I'll have the sweetest dreams tonight. Thanks, again. Truly. : )

marius

Oh ... midnightpoet, greatly enjoyed the background story about the inspiration for your recent submission! Itchy feet mean travel. Hmmm, wouldn't surprise me if there is something in that. LOL. At least it doesn't sound like the foot itching is painful. : )

anotherronism

Wow. I just actually restrained myself. Why? because flame wars with incompetents bore me. Yawn.

anotherronism

(grips something rigid)

morshy

318 words including the title. You have to include the title, cos its the only place the word "quixmickle" appears.

I don't mind criticism. I openly encourage it. I also don't mind it when someone doesn't like what I write. I don't always like what other people write. What I don't like is when someone tries to tell me I haven't used my imagination. Thank you for the apology, and for the explanation. Good luck with the house move and all it entails.

********

The Quixmickle Effect

He hadn’t meant to be a contestant. He’d just gone into the store to buy some batteries for his walkman. He’d been ambushed, a questionnaire thrust into his unresisting fingers and a pretty girl assuring him everything would be fine, just step this way. He’d dropped the paper and run out the store. He figured he had enough juice to get him home.

He got on the bus, head bowed, not looking the driver in the eye. He put the exact change in the slot and shuffled towards the back of the bus. He liked to sit at the back, to observe everyone who got on and off. The seat was taken, so he chose at random, flopped down. He fished his stereo out, pulled on the headphones, and hit play. He closed his eyes, and could see the music! It coursed through his veins, sent him sailing to the stratosphere. Even in the quiet pauses between songs, the simple pleasure of knowing what was coming next was intense. It gave voice to his thoughts, peace to his soul, and he smiled.

The constant motion of the bus had lulled him to sleep. His eyes snapped open and he snorted. The music, and its oasis of calm was gone, the batteries dead. He looked out the window, not recognising the street or buildings, as the bus slowly made its way home. The sky was purple, the sun slowly rising. How long had he been here? He tried to stand, but couldn’t, tried to call out, but was mute. He felt the walls of the bus close in, a gaping hole in the floor opened up. Terror gripped him. His heart hammered in his chest. The chair tipped, and he felt himself sliding…

A rough hand shook him awake, the driver. He was crumpled down in the gap between the chairs. “End of the line, bub.”

giraffe

Morshy. I like the effect. Waking up out of a dream, then realizing you're in another dream then waking up out of that one. You could have used 1000 words, but you got it in there. Just like the drawings, the more you do this the better you get.

giraffe

Anotherronism, your boredom is more boring than anything. Say something spectacular and show us how it's really done by your rules. It's not that difficult.

morshy

Word count...doesn't bear thinking about. But all the words are there.

***

Meditate

In saffron robes with purple sash, the monk was an island of quiet solitude and peace in the river of chaos that is New York. The constant hustle and bustle, where life is a lottery and everyone a contestant seemed to simply wash over him as if he wasn’t there. The reason for that was simple. It wasn’t karmic. It wasn’t Zen. It wasn’t even transcendental. It washed over him as if he wasn’t there because; well, because he wasn’t there.

The first time I saw him, he was sat cross-legged between a bench and bin in Central Park. I had to double-take, just to be sure. There was no begging sign, and no-one else seemed to be paying him the slightest attention. It was freezing out, but he sat there, in his robe, bore-foot, eyes closed and smiling beatifically. I crossed to him, concerned for his well-being. Just as I reached him, someone walked in front of me. When they’d passed, the monk was gone. I put it down to an over-active imagination, the pressure of work and the stress of home, and forgot about him. For about 7 hours.

Work had been bad. A battery of calls, each more irate than the last had sent my blood pressure through the roof and somewhere into the stratosphere. Quixmickle Industries wasn’t the best employer, but it was the only one I had. I sat in the break room, and was a little unnerved to see the monk at the far end of the room. He seemed to exude silence. And it was definitely the same one. The door to the break room opened, I looked up to see who had come in, nodded a greeting and turned back to the monk, who had gone.

I got home. Shelley was in a super angry mood. She was just getting ready for work. She made sure I knew just how worthless I was, that she’d given up her career to come to New York, and how her mother had always been right about me. She left, slamming the door as she went. I decided a bath was in order, so opened the airing cupboard to get a towel, and the monk was there. I bit back a scream and flung the door closed. I took a breath, opened the doors, and the monk was still there. I cried out, stumbled backwards and hit my head. When I came to, the monk had, inevitably, vanished.

I was stopped at the front desk before I got into the office the following day. I left before Shelley came home, in no mood for any more of her witty barbs. Security kindly informed me I’d been let go, and escorted me from the building. I got a text from Shelley, telling me not to come back to the apartment; she’d box up my stuff and send it on to me, despite it being MY place. And just to really put a cherry on top, I got mugged. Guy came up behind me, shoved a gun in neck and demanded all my money. I closed my eyes and saw the monk. He looked up at me, winked, and vanished. I turned round, facing my attacker. I grabbed his arm, stuck the gun against my forehead, and begged him to pull the trigger. Whether in fright, fear, or something else, I don’t know, he simply fled, leaving me holding the gun. The weight felt good in my hand. And so, with a smile on my face, a song in my heart and a gun in my hand, I set about putting the world to rights.

midnightpoet

Anotherronism...if "flamewars with incompetents" bore you, then don't get involved with them. You started this whole ThinkWrite thing, and I admire you for that. I enjoy reading the stories you write, I enjoy the feedback and the constructive criticism you've been known to give. I even enjoy it sometimes when you're a blatant asshole. But here's the thing...since you've come back, you've only posted one story, you haven't given any feedback on anything aside from saying everyone sucks now, and you just pop in to express your boredom. What the hell happened to you, dude? It used to be that even when you were being an asshole, you still had something relevant to say...and now it seems you're just here to try to stir up shit, and in that you seem to be failing. I still love ya dude, but either contribute or sit down and shut the f up.

midnightpoet

No title, again...I'm just not so good with the titles right now. 318. Could be offensive, idk...

*

The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and purple. It was the most beautifully breathtaking sunset to anyone who witnessed it.

Susie didn't see it. She was in her crappy apartment, shades drawn, wallowing in darkness because any light made her head throb. Her head was resting on the toilet seat, and a roach skittered across the grimy floor, past her feet.

The smell of vomit was think in the air, mingling with the scent of booze and old pizza.

The walls were stained a yellow-brown, matching her teeth and fingertips, from too many years of chain-smoking cheap Pall Malls.

It was quiet, finally. The neighbors had stopped screaming at each other, but she knew that only meant that soon the sounds of banging headboard and poorly muffled screams would seep through the walls into her tiny studio apartment.

There was never a moment of peace for her. Everything was constant colors and chaos, and not the pretty sort of colors that were in the sky.

She would travel into the stratosphere with pills and powder and discover the meaning of quixmickle and butterneeper and fingishness at the bottom of a bottle.

She had no friends anymore, save for the insects and mold she talked to when she was alone at home.

When did this all start? That was simple...ten years ago, she was a contestant on Jeopardy, and she lost. Between that and the battery inflicted on her by the man she was living with after she failed to bring in the money he wanted, she lost herself.

The sun had finished setting and she pulled herself away from the toilet to open the curtains.

There he was, ax in hand. He'd finally come to finish her and she was thankful. He'd started this, put her in this place, and it was his job to make it all go away.

It was over.

*

Doug

Wow midnight! Didn't expect an ax murderer (even though she was ok with it) to pop out at the end. I guess it would be a fitting ending for her sorry life. Good descriptive detail kept me captive throughout. I could see what she was experiencing.

As for your comments to anotherronism......Cheers! (I could go on, but it's not worth the effort; you did a great job!

Morshy, morshy, morshy oh how we've changed or maybe I'm on the other side of the planet today. I love descriptive narratives that take me along for the ride. "The Quixmickle Effect" was wondrous. "Meditate" was way over the word count, but rules are made to be broken as usual around here right? Another great story full of passion.

As an aside....I"m still thanking you giraffe for giving me an arduous task that I feel I am failing. I can't get into the stories for the most part. Even though we closed on the house without a hitch I still have a million things to do. I can't even muster up a story myself besides the first one. I think I've unintentionally have made a few enemies this round and Mr. Terrorism is getting what he normally likes.....disruption and aggravation.

Marius: Thanks for all the comments and the stories you have submitted. this thing is up to 157 posts and I have to "catch up" every time I can get back to my computer. We were at the house yesterday. I got to cut my own yard for the first time in probably 18 years? The dog decided she wanted to come see me so she jumped into the pool which still has its cover on, goodbye cover. We haven't even moved in yet and its costing me money. lol.

Oh see ya all later. The little guy is napping so I need to get back to the craziness of packing etc.

Dragon

morshy, loved the story of the monk. Here I thought he was going to teach the protagonist how to find peace in his rapidly disintigrating life and instead you took us down a totally different path. Nice one.

Ron, everyone who follows this thread does it because they enjoy the writing. We're all still waiting for you to dazzle us with your skill. C'mon man, give us a little more than just how bored you are by us.