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Hotspur [Feb. 17th, 2006|02:14 pm]

Yes! A random WriteFight with a random title with the name of a random Shakespeare character! Here's hoping it does not suck. Although it probably does. (All of my stories either stop too soon or not soon enough.)

Chris was almost named Christopher Sly. Whoever figures out where that's from first gets a cookie.

Oh, and I made the poems at magneticpoetry.com. I couldn't make up stuff that bad even if I tried.

HotspurCollapse )
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Hey everybody I have an idea [Feb. 13th, 2006|06:55 pm]
I challenge everyone to write a piece with the name of a Shakespearean character as the title.

That's pretty broad, somebody should be able to manage it.

I hope somebody does Polonious. But not required.
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Golly whillikers! WRITEFITING FROM QUARTZ! [Sep. 15th, 2005|11:09 am]

[Current Mood |okayokay]

This may be a first chapter in a long story, and thus will have more chapters written. It may not be continued ever at all! Who knows!

In any case, comment and tell me how poor you think it is.

Why can't I stop thinking about Mr. Griffin?

Killing Mr. Lynch

Chapter One.

The place was a bar. Just some bar, it didn’t matter. In a black and white noirish world like this, one that looked glamorous until you looked more closely and saw the decay and the cracks and the grime, the locations were pretty easily dictated. There would be the diner with the soda jerk in the paper cap waiting on the high school sweethearts, there would be the newsstand with the sniffly old Great War veteran clinking out change from his money belt, there would be the bijou theater playing old shows nobody went to see, and there would be bars. And all the bars would be dark and smoky and run down and lonely, and if it didn’t have a bleary-eyed band on the spot, it had a decrepit old jukebox with lights that faded in and out every once in a while. There would be the bartender, and he would be a big hairy man who served as a bouncer if need be, and there might be a bar maid who tried to look younger than she was and flirted with the customers.

There would probably be a hooker or two. It was that kind of place. At the moment there was only one, and she was huskily propositioning to a skinny black man who had tried a little too hard to look bohemian.

Mr. Griffin’s head was tilted back onto the top of his booth seat, and he idly listened to the twosome’s suggestive lot of nonsense. He had put a coin in the jukebox earlier, but his attention had drifted away from it almost immediately. He had heard that song a hundred times before.

He was impatient, but didn’t check his watch. That was bad luck.

The man and the prostitute had gone. Five drinks and seven song repeats later, a paunchy balding man with a mustache and a briefcase cautiously stepped in.

“At last,” said Mr. Griffin.

“Er – Mr. Griffin? I’m Mr. Rabbit – the man you were to meet…?” The man stepped towards the booth with a hand extended. Mr. Griffin did not take it, but instead indicated for the man to sit down.

“Mr. Rabbit,” Mr. Griffin repeated. He smiled a crooked smile. “Your first name wouldn’t by any chance be—”

“Peter? No, it wouldn’t,” said Mr. Rabbit, shuffling through papers in his briefcase. “I get that a lot.”

“I can imagine.”

Mr. Rabbit had set a contract and a check on the table.

“All of the information you required is there,” he said. “All you need to do is initial here, here, here, and here, sign your full name (in print) here, initial again her, and finally sign your full name again (in signature this time) here.”

“I’ll just read it first, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all, not at all. Your professional prerogative,” Mr. Rabbit added nervously before giving a slight chuckle.

What Mr. Griffin read was essentially this:

I, John Talbot Griffin, do agree in my professional capacity as contract killer, to eliminate one Daniel Aloysius Lynch, address 13013 Gardenia Lane, in any manner I shall deem sufficient, on the date of November the 3rd, 1941 AD, in exchange for seven thousand dollars. My binding signature ensures my professional guarantee that Mr. Lynch will die on the date aforementioned, and if by any chance he should survive I will be held entirely responsible and all the prepaid expense money (a sum of one thousand dollars) will be repaid. All standard secrecy requirements apply on this contract. Only three people will know.

The rest was largely legalese repeating much of what was said already.

“D’you mind explaining that bit—‘Only three people will know’?” Mr. Griffin asked.

“You, Me, and my employer,” replied Mr. Rabbit.

Mr. Griffin smiled. “I see. You just happen to be a middleman.”

“Well I prefer to be known as a—”


Mr. Rabbit paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you have any photographs of this Mr. Lynch?” Mr. Griffin asked. “Rather hard to kill someone when you don’t know what they look like.”

“Please, not so loud,” Mr. Rabbit said nervously, looking over his shoulder at the bartender.

“You’re worried about him?” Mr. Griffin asked, nodding his head towards the bar. “I wouldn’t. He hears stuff like this every day. I should know—I’ve been coming here for the last four days to get used to this place. Would you excuse me for a minute?”

Mr. Griffin had jumped up from his seat and was at the jukebox. Mr. Rabbit watched him mildly.

“Ahh, there,” said Mr. Griffin after selecting his song once more. “Sorry about that, I just like to hear it playing. Now, the photograph?”

Mr. Rabbit sifted through his briefcase once again, then happily lifted out a small photo—

“Thanks” said Mr. Griffin, grabbing it. He took a fountain pen from his coat’s breast pocket and flipped the photo face down on the table. “Do you have a phone number I can contact you with if need be?”

Mr. Rabbit’s lips looked pinched, and Mr. Griffin took that as a sign and was putting the photograph in his pocket before Mr. Rabbit even said anything.

“My employer would prefer that it wasn’t known his name was connected with this.”
“It’s just one person calling another person on the phone. Not that big of a deal.”

“My employer would prefer—”

“Quite right sir, so you said.” Mr. Griffin scratched off his various initials and signatures and slid the contract back to Mr. Rabbit.

Mr. Griffin smiled another crooked smile. “Well, I suppose I’d better get started,” he said, putting his pen back in his pocket, grabbing the check, and leaving some coins to pay for his drinks. “It’s November 2nd, after all.”

With that, Mr. Griffin strode over to the bar’s hat rack, reprieved his fedora, and left Mr. Rabbit alone in the bar.
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A Date With Miles [Sep. 4th, 2005|11:35 pm]

Mostly I can't stand this and reading it makes me realize that that is why I stopped dreaming about being a writer and why looking at anything I've written makes me want to shoot myself. But it's keeping the community alive. Writefight 4-evaah, peace out. P.S. I originally made about four allusions in it but then actually REVISED and made it allusion-free.

A Date With Miles
by Sara P.

Read more...Collapse )

I feel I should reiterate how much this makes me want to vomit.
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Need help, anyone? [Aug. 27th, 2005|12:52 am]


Okay, so school just started for you younglings, but in case you need some inspirations, there are some new title prompts.  Please write something.  For pete's sake, I've done all I can here, people. 

Write Killing Mr. Lynch or A Date With Miles as long as you write something.

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New Takes on Old Folk-songs [Jul. 11th, 2005|05:20 am]

Subway Collision In Pugatory's Stale Rivers~~ (with a C++ macro choosing randomized, umlauted letters to replace the tildes on Wednesdays) is this post-rock band that my friend Efrim started. Uh, just so you know, the parenthetical statement isn't part of the band name-- at least not until we find another acid dealer. No, for now, it's more like a footnote in a Quine essay: clarification leading to further obfuscation.

For the uninitiated, post-rock is a Derridean movement attempting to break the logocentric strictures of corporatized, homogeneous rock by playing bombastic Baroque music. Somehow, reverting to the delicate and desolate string arrangements of old instead of POWER TRIOS!#$%# is a daring Einstürzende Neubauten-esque move away from the mainstream.  Post-rock is really fucking hard to dance to, which naturally draws in jaded scenesters who are mad because

a) The Bohemian spirit has become part of the globalized status quo, with Andy Warhol, Miles Davis, Jack Kerouac, and Pablo Picasso hijacked in Gap khaki ads, leaving them with no room for ideological deviation outside of the Machine with a capital M

b) Ba Ba Ti Ki Di Do was a major disappointment


c) Following a Camusian understanding of total human freedom, they've pissed their angsty pants after realizing they are using it to check MySpace.  And Tom says it's down for maintenance.

Okay, I'll admit that there are a few cool kids in the scene.  I guess I can't blame them for engaging in ineffectual intellectual activities, because it's the best thing in this world that I have found other than going down waterslides.  But Water World is closed at 3 AM whereas coffeeshops are not, and that's why you're reading this.

So, when Ef pitched the ACITSWOP~~ idea to me, I shrugged my shoulders and agreed.  Only because he offered to buy me a theremin.  (A theremin is an electronic instrument invented in 1919 by Léon Theremin   I feel like I'm writing a children's book with all the explanatory asides; please try to keep up.)  There was also a nice advantage of no rehearsals-- all you have to do in a post-rock band is start out pianissimo and crescendo like a motherfucker on an Em-Am-Bm progression.  Sometimes Larry, our transsexual cellist frontman, improvises a forlorn monologue or two, but that's only when we really want to shit on our audience.

Oh, there's another catch.  We only play in blacked-out venues.  No lights, because lights would mean a lighting designer, and Efrim says that the entire concept of a lighting design is inherently self-parodical.  So the spectacle part of our shows are somewhat limited, which means no spraying the contents of our intestinal tracts on the audience, no kissing of goat's asses, etc.  This whole thing sounds more and more snotty as I write about it, but it's pretty badass.  Especially when the timpanist plays.

So after that lengthy imagery-laden exposition, gather 'round me children, and I will weave you a tale of the likes you shall never hear on a Blink 182 album.

Earlier tonight, we played at this dive bar called The Buckle and Spur.  It's just like Hedwig and the Angry Inch, except Larry is a female-to-male, not a male-to-female.  After the Tim McGraw song, I vomited and we started setting up the stage.  Gigs are sort of hard to come by for a post-rock band, and The Day-Glo show didn't work out because the manager doesn't let my theremin in.  They're worried about it messing with airport traffic control.  Whatever.

Efrim took a few swigs of Day-Quil and warmed up by playing a trite Messiaen riff on the xylophone in an apparent attempt to reach out to me.  I happily ignored him, focusing on my 128 oz. Grape Slurpee.  Erica, the third-chair cellist, had pneumonia, which meant that it would be even easier to squeeze the 15 of us onstage.  Everything was coming up roses.

But as I looked into the crowd, I saw an ominous precedence of cowboy hats instead of berets.  I knew we might be in trouble.  But Efrim was determined to maintain our artistic integrity and take risks for our art.  "It's all part of exposing our feelings to an audience that isn't ready for it, dude, it's like, like-- starry."  With the maniacal DXM and pseudoephedrine-driven grin on Ef's face, I knew stopping him was impossible.  When the lights went out, I felt something whoosh past my shoulder and heard the shatter afterwards.  Yeah, we were getting pelted based on our Cure t-shirts and unkempt hair.  This was not looking good.

We started out with an old standard, a cover of godspeed you! black emperor's "cancer towers on holy road hi-way."  Give them something digestible before we get really experimental, you dig?  We're not out to alienate anyone or anything.  But they hadn't even studied up on the Kranky label.  There was tortured howling and ear-covering as far as I could see.  We were doomed.  This was reminiscent of Sigur Rós' historic performance at the 4th Annual Hillbilly Convention in Amarillo, Texas.

Next we tried more accessible material: "Business Executives Imprisoned For Grievous Ignorance Of Basic Human Rights and Anti-Trust Laws."  Nothing.  Absolutely fucking nothing.  Suddenly, I felt a lasso around my neck.  This wasn't any stage manager pulling me off, though; it was Big Bob in the front row.

"Suffering for my art doesn't mean dying, Ef!" I screamed, my theremin changing pitches wildly as I reached up to loosen the knot.  Ef, beating up a drunk white trash woman while screaming something unintelligible about Baphomet, yelled "Cut!"  The band stopped playing, and he left the xylophone to reach for an acoustic guitar that our opening band, The Texan Muskrats, had errantly left behind.  Suddenly, there was a major chord.  I would have run in horror if there wouldn't have been a rope around my neck.

In the midst of the horror, Ef started playing clumsily and opened his mouth.  Actual lyrics came out.

"If I had a hammer,
I'd hammer in the morning.
I'd hammer in the evening,
All over this land!"

It was like watching General Ulysses S. Grant suddenly change into a grey uniform.  But the crowd ate it up.  I joined in on theremin.  Ned turned his keyboard onto the banjo setting.

"I'd hammer out danger;
I'd hammer out a warning.
I'd hammer out love between my brothers and sisters,
All over this land!"

This would have usually been the time for wielding crucifixes and holy water in general, but it was working.  Big Bob was sobbing uncontrollably.  Wow.  Just wow.  This continued until Ef had to start making up verses about "electric screwdriving out injustice."

The manager ended up paying us an extra $100.  Tonight, we all learned a valuable lesson.  Selling out implies the act of selling, which means you get money!  And A Silver Mt. Zion isn't gold for a reason.


Yeah, I needed a prompt at Paris on the Platte tonight, so I wrote on an old topic.  As always, edits and comments are always appreciated.
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(no subject) [Jun. 24th, 2005|04:29 am]

[Current Mood |Damned.]
[Current Music |Sufjan Stevens - Chicago]

Of A Ritualistic Bud InhibitionCollapse )


I promise that someday I will write a nice, non-sexual WriteFight piece that isn't filled with my own little fetishes and obsessions.  Until then, this is all you get, because I honestly couldn't keep them from coming out.  Sometimes it just spills out of my imagination, and the only way to get rid of it is putting it all down.  Apologies also for the really bad titular anagram, which sucks.  Also, if there are any Apollonians in the crowd, I apologize because the story was hella Dionysian.

PLEASE SUGGEST EDITS.  I have run through the story once, but I figured I'm late enough as it is, and I've been up a little too late as it is.  Thank you!

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WRITEFIGHTERS TAKE NOTICE [May. 13th, 2005|08:37 am]

The new title is actually honorificabilitudinitatibus. I apologize for this spelling error.

In other news, any anagram of this foot-long word, (i.e., "Hi ludi, F. Baconis nati, tuiti orbi" or "Habitual if ionic distribution") will also function as a Writefight title!

So go crazy, mofos!
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(no subject) [May. 11th, 2005|01:29 pm]

Take your pick:

Fat Girls Don't Wear Tulle



Good luck!
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Hey [May. 10th, 2005|07:33 pm]

We have not had a title since my birthday. :^(

Is Ems waiting for more people to post with it? With old titles? Has our great queen forsaken us?

These are questions I do think.
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