(no subject)
It's been a while since I got around to doing this, so I'm posting a whole bunch of writing games. Apologies if I've posted some before, or got the options wrong.
Benjamin stretched his legs out, enjoying the sense of freedom. This was the first time in his life he'd been alone in a tube train carraige. It was strange, but pleasant. Three AM was suddenly a good time of the day. The lights in the carriage were dodgy, but it allows him to see out better than he usually would have been able to.
As they rolled though stations his eyes caught on posters, passing too fast to read but too slow to stop him trying. He caught a word or so each time, and amused himself by building up a nonsense sentence.
"Cast...extravganza...with loans... holiday in...new play... chocolate break."
"Trains...firey new...Catherine Zeta...Christ...compensation."
"Broadway hit...best ever...women...and compensation...non stop...KitKat."
"Lon... non stop rllercoaster ride... and firey... explosion of...end of the line. All trains terminate here." A bright flush of light signalled the last station.
Benjamin was jerked out of his reverie and lurched automatically to his feet, only to fall sideways when he realised they were still moving. His small suitcase skidded across the floor and burst open at the feet of a young woman he hadn't noticed before. He stared at her, then began to sway down teh carriage towards her, determined to clear up his underwear before she noticed.
"Benjamin Russel Hercule Bob Borisson," she read from the tag he'd attached to the case three years ago prior to his Spanish holiday. She was crouching over his clothes with an air of utter unconcern. "I presume."
"Uh, yes. Ben," he said, proferring an outstretched hand with the intention of shaking hers, and falling over when she mistook it for a helping hand. They sat and swayed amonst his laundry.
"The announcement said we were stopping," he said. "I, um..."
"It did, didn't it?" she agreed.
He tried to look her in the eyes, but her long white hair obscured them. She wore a white blouse and skirt, and white shoes. Benjamin felt immediately grimmy.
"I think I've missed my stop," Ben added.
"Oh no," she said. He couldn't tell is she was sympathising or contradicting.
"I'll get off at teh next stop," he said firmly. "No offense." He blushed, hearing himself. "I, uh, mean don't take offense. I'm not running away from you. It's not you at all. It's just, it's late, you see, and..."
"And you're scared. That's normal," she told him. "Just relax. You'll be out of this place soon."
"Thank you," he murmured, squeezing her hand, which he still held. Come to think of it, they were still sitting amongst his clothes, swaying as the tube train did.
They talked of inconsequential things, waiting for the train to stop. The footy, the weather, the clubs, the politics. They spoke and swayed until, after what must have been at least an hour by Benjamin's reckoning, they weren't swaying any more. It was still dark in the carriage, and they hadn't passed through a station in a while.
"I didn't ask your name," he realised out loud.
She smiled. "I don't really have one. Are you less scared now?"
"I wasn't that scared," he objected, colouring.
"Most people involved in these kinds of crashes are," she soothed him. "Be thankful I've kept you company as long as I have. I have other appointments, you know."
"The words of the prophets are written on the subway wall"
Benjamin Russel Hercule Bob. Perhaps his surname could be: Borisson
Several off-colour jokes in this one. I'm trying to satire the 'Boys Own Adventure' style stories (and Indiana Jones, to an extent) that I inherited from my cousins. So, uh, not my opinions at all in any way, okay?
He pulled his hat more firmly over his ears, wrapped his bullwhip more tightly around his hand and wriggled his feet in the borrowed army boots. The small misplaced Indian servant turned up the gas in the lamp and, after a shover from Sussex Smith, led the way into the pyramid.
It was the height of Imperialism, World War One in the past and World War Two was only acknowledged by the audience, though the Germans were still the bad guys. Egypt belonged to England, as did India. Sussex was perfectly within his rights to rob this tomb do some proactive archeology.
Unfortunately, the inhabitant of the pyramid was less modern. He still believed this strange sandy country had the same authoirty as pure and beautiful Albion.
Sussex dispatched the tour guide with a quick stab.
Sussex led the African barbarians deeper into hte tomb, instructing them to pick up anything sparkly. To spite him,they chose sand to carry, but he soon put the poor ignorant foreigners to right, and had them carry gold and jewels. Their superstitions made them afraid, though, and one by one they made their excuses and decided to wait outside.
Sussex broke into the central chamber, now accompanied only by his Indian friend, so loyal he placed his entire family's welfare in Sussex's hands. Well, sort of placed, but with fewer connotations of willingness.
Sussex levered open the scarcophagus. The mummy inside was almost certainly priceless, and definitely certainly pissed. Sussex backed away and generously allowed his Hindu friend the honour of the first confrontation.
Who knew those little turban wearers had the same colour blood as real men?
The mummy moaned, allowing Sussex to glimpse a sparkle of metal in its mouth.
Sussex fled.
The Mummy chased.
Sussex shot wildly behind him, but saw the futility of his actions. The mummy was already bandaged.
Sussex tripped over the step that led into the sunshine. As he fell and his mouth filled with sand he noticed all of his servants were gone, and the gold too. He rolled over to grapple with the mummy.
The late Queen Nefertiti writhed over him. Sussex had head she'd been quite a looker in life, but now her teeth were falling from the black gums. The bandage extended inside, and he could see that slinting metal again.
He wasn't sure if she was trying to kiss him or bite him. In a last, cowardly attempt at finding favour he lurched upwards and sealed his mouth to hers.
She was trying to bite him. Oops. His stomach rebelling, he sank his teeth into her tongue. There was a chink of metal, and before he could stop himself he swallowed the pin.
Coughing and gagging he rolled away. Nerfetiti didn't react. Once he had finished vomitting, he glanced up to see her almost completely unravelled.
Sussex had always wondered about that.
Tongue piercing, mummy
The fishmonger's window flashed dangerously as a four foot halibut caught the light. It had been caught seven years previously and stuffed as testament to all the 'this big' tales, and kept as a source of local pride. It hung in the window even when the shop was closed, occasionally catching the moonlight.
Tonight, though, it was torchlight striking the fish. On, off, on, off. A corrupted form of morse code, flicking across the old bay. The sea defense burther up the coast, designed to make Newqay more desirable to surfers, had left the fishing village presiding over an inlet of silt and sand. Srping tides, like tonight's, brought the ocean to the harbour, but only those.
The fish flashed, once, twice, one again. The lighhouse on the next cliff suddenly fell dark. A mirror and a torch on the other side of the old bay replaced it, sending a new message to lost ships. Half a mile too shrot, it seemed, hald a male less far than they thought they had travelled.
Some ships, even in these days of GPS, relied on those shore lights. Some ships edged closer. Some saw the bay, filled with water, and made their assumptions.
They grounded long before the tide receded. There wouldn't be another to lift them free, either. Some carried Nike trainers, some cigarettes and alcohol, a few even that old smuggler's staple: tea.
The grey sun rose through the bleak mist as the wreakers made their way down to the old bay. Metal monoliths hulked in the dim light, black dots of sailors swarming over them. As the last of the ocean sank away and the villagers hefted their weapons on their shoulders, the ships fianlly sank, permanently, into the mud.
first line, accurate, last line changed from "and they finally sank into the mud."
The biscuit tin was shaped like a cat. It meowed every time it was opened. James held it in his lap as he talked about theprod of the new playground, too enthusiastic to remember its presence. Once Mergerie had egun her rebuffal Sarah reached over and tugged it, James giving it up while never looking away from his nemesis. The tin interrupted the irate Marge four times, so when James took his turn to talk about Childhood and energy she made a point of opening it several times, apparently changing her mind as to which biscuit she wanted. Mary threw in her support for James, talking around a moutful of custer cream, while Alice, next to her, nudged her in the ribs and motioned for her to swallow.
Chris and Hank both took their biscuits without comment as Marge began a tirade against paedophiles coming to the village, but she was stopped by Susan's abrupt outcry.
"Hey! Someone ate mine!" She showed them all the empty cat. "There was one each, I checked. I told you there was one each," she accused.
Everyone denied taking more than their fair share. Susan peered around the room, thinking.
James had started, then Sarah, then Mary and Alice. Marge fell under immediate suspicion, but what of the silent partners, Hank and Chris?
Marge began talking about hooligans. Susan wondered if this desire to change the subject was a sign of guilt. But then, how long had James had the tin? Everyone knew if you were careful you could open it without the warning meow, and suspicion was least likely to fall on the first to have it.
james saw her staring.
"Don't look at me! I didn't have any. Someone's had three."
This was a much more serious crime.
"Well, I was interrupted four times, and there's only three people between us," Marge pointed out haughtily.
"But you opened it three times!" James declared.
"I don't think I heard Chris or Hank take any," Mary mused, "but I saw Chris nibbling around a Jammy Dodger. I think the cat's broken."
"I was careful," Chris explained. "I didn't want to make any noise."
"Ah hah!" Marge declared. "You could have had any number of biscuits!"
"So, could any of us," James pointed out. "Except me," he added.
"Well, we all saw Mary's," Marge sniffed.
"But she ate it immediately," Sarah remembered. "It was practically a double meow between mine and hers as I handed the tin over."
Mary flushed. "Okay, fine! I had two. But only two, and only because the first one was one of those nasty pink wafers."
"So that explains the four meows," Susan thought aloud. "Now we just have the three meows and the bsence of meows to account for, unless anyone wants to own up."
Mary was on Susan's side now, peering around the room. "I think think it was Hank or Chris. I was watching them."
"Me too," Alice added. Chris blushed, while Hank glanced away.
"Look," said margerie, " I call this meeting of the Resident's Committee to order. Biscuits may be important, but not on the scale this gross intrusion of a concrete monstrosity will be on our lives."
Seven pairs of eyes turned on her.
"Fine, it was me!" she sanpped. "I forgot, alright? Some of us have more on our minds than mere biscuits."
"You're bringing them next week," Susan told her, "and I think it's your turn to make the tea."
Mystery, biscuits are passed around
Benjamin stretched his legs out, enjoying the sense of freedom. This was the first time in his life he'd been alone in a tube train carraige. It was strange, but pleasant. Three AM was suddenly a good time of the day. The lights in the carriage were dodgy, but it allows him to see out better than he usually would have been able to.
As they rolled though stations his eyes caught on posters, passing too fast to read but too slow to stop him trying. He caught a word or so each time, and amused himself by building up a nonsense sentence.
"Cast...extravganza...with loans... holiday in...new play... chocolate break."
"Trains...firey new...Catherine Zeta...Christ...compensation."
"Broadway hit...best ever...women...and compensation...non stop...KitKat."
"Lon... non stop rllercoaster ride... and firey... explosion of...end of the line. All trains terminate here." A bright flush of light signalled the last station.
Benjamin was jerked out of his reverie and lurched automatically to his feet, only to fall sideways when he realised they were still moving. His small suitcase skidded across the floor and burst open at the feet of a young woman he hadn't noticed before. He stared at her, then began to sway down teh carriage towards her, determined to clear up his underwear before she noticed.
"Benjamin Russel Hercule Bob Borisson," she read from the tag he'd attached to the case three years ago prior to his Spanish holiday. She was crouching over his clothes with an air of utter unconcern. "I presume."
"Uh, yes. Ben," he said, proferring an outstretched hand with the intention of shaking hers, and falling over when she mistook it for a helping hand. They sat and swayed amonst his laundry.
"The announcement said we were stopping," he said. "I, um..."
"It did, didn't it?" she agreed.
He tried to look her in the eyes, but her long white hair obscured them. She wore a white blouse and skirt, and white shoes. Benjamin felt immediately grimmy.
"I think I've missed my stop," Ben added.
"Oh no," she said. He couldn't tell is she was sympathising or contradicting.
"I'll get off at teh next stop," he said firmly. "No offense." He blushed, hearing himself. "I, uh, mean don't take offense. I'm not running away from you. It's not you at all. It's just, it's late, you see, and..."
"And you're scared. That's normal," she told him. "Just relax. You'll be out of this place soon."
"Thank you," he murmured, squeezing her hand, which he still held. Come to think of it, they were still sitting amongst his clothes, swaying as the tube train did.
They talked of inconsequential things, waiting for the train to stop. The footy, the weather, the clubs, the politics. They spoke and swayed until, after what must have been at least an hour by Benjamin's reckoning, they weren't swaying any more. It was still dark in the carriage, and they hadn't passed through a station in a while.
"I didn't ask your name," he realised out loud.
She smiled. "I don't really have one. Are you less scared now?"
"I wasn't that scared," he objected, colouring.
"Most people involved in these kinds of crashes are," she soothed him. "Be thankful I've kept you company as long as I have. I have other appointments, you know."
"The words of the prophets are written on the subway wall"
Benjamin Russel Hercule Bob. Perhaps his surname could be: Borisson
Several off-colour jokes in this one. I'm trying to satire the 'Boys Own Adventure' style stories (and Indiana Jones, to an extent) that I inherited from my cousins. So, uh, not my opinions at all in any way, okay?
He pulled his hat more firmly over his ears, wrapped his bullwhip more tightly around his hand and wriggled his feet in the borrowed army boots. The small misplaced Indian servant turned up the gas in the lamp and, after a shover from Sussex Smith, led the way into the pyramid.
It was the height of Imperialism, World War One in the past and World War Two was only acknowledged by the audience, though the Germans were still the bad guys. Egypt belonged to England, as did India. Sussex was perfectly within his rights to rob this tomb do some proactive archeology.
Unfortunately, the inhabitant of the pyramid was less modern. He still believed this strange sandy country had the same authoirty as pure and beautiful Albion.
Sussex dispatched the tour guide with a quick stab.
Sussex led the African barbarians deeper into hte tomb, instructing them to pick up anything sparkly. To spite him,they chose sand to carry, but he soon put the poor ignorant foreigners to right, and had them carry gold and jewels. Their superstitions made them afraid, though, and one by one they made their excuses and decided to wait outside.
Sussex broke into the central chamber, now accompanied only by his Indian friend, so loyal he placed his entire family's welfare in Sussex's hands. Well, sort of placed, but with fewer connotations of willingness.
Sussex levered open the scarcophagus. The mummy inside was almost certainly priceless, and definitely certainly pissed. Sussex backed away and generously allowed his Hindu friend the honour of the first confrontation.
Who knew those little turban wearers had the same colour blood as real men?
The mummy moaned, allowing Sussex to glimpse a sparkle of metal in its mouth.
Sussex fled.
The Mummy chased.
Sussex shot wildly behind him, but saw the futility of his actions. The mummy was already bandaged.
Sussex tripped over the step that led into the sunshine. As he fell and his mouth filled with sand he noticed all of his servants were gone, and the gold too. He rolled over to grapple with the mummy.
The late Queen Nefertiti writhed over him. Sussex had head she'd been quite a looker in life, but now her teeth were falling from the black gums. The bandage extended inside, and he could see that slinting metal again.
He wasn't sure if she was trying to kiss him or bite him. In a last, cowardly attempt at finding favour he lurched upwards and sealed his mouth to hers.
She was trying to bite him. Oops. His stomach rebelling, he sank his teeth into her tongue. There was a chink of metal, and before he could stop himself he swallowed the pin.
Coughing and gagging he rolled away. Nerfetiti didn't react. Once he had finished vomitting, he glanced up to see her almost completely unravelled.
Sussex had always wondered about that.
Tongue piercing, mummy
The fishmonger's window flashed dangerously as a four foot halibut caught the light. It had been caught seven years previously and stuffed as testament to all the 'this big' tales, and kept as a source of local pride. It hung in the window even when the shop was closed, occasionally catching the moonlight.
Tonight, though, it was torchlight striking the fish. On, off, on, off. A corrupted form of morse code, flicking across the old bay. The sea defense burther up the coast, designed to make Newqay more desirable to surfers, had left the fishing village presiding over an inlet of silt and sand. Srping tides, like tonight's, brought the ocean to the harbour, but only those.
The fish flashed, once, twice, one again. The lighhouse on the next cliff suddenly fell dark. A mirror and a torch on the other side of the old bay replaced it, sending a new message to lost ships. Half a mile too shrot, it seemed, hald a male less far than they thought they had travelled.
Some ships, even in these days of GPS, relied on those shore lights. Some ships edged closer. Some saw the bay, filled with water, and made their assumptions.
They grounded long before the tide receded. There wouldn't be another to lift them free, either. Some carried Nike trainers, some cigarettes and alcohol, a few even that old smuggler's staple: tea.
The grey sun rose through the bleak mist as the wreakers made their way down to the old bay. Metal monoliths hulked in the dim light, black dots of sailors swarming over them. As the last of the ocean sank away and the villagers hefted their weapons on their shoulders, the ships fianlly sank, permanently, into the mud.
first line, accurate, last line changed from "and they finally sank into the mud."
The biscuit tin was shaped like a cat. It meowed every time it was opened. James held it in his lap as he talked about theprod of the new playground, too enthusiastic to remember its presence. Once Mergerie had egun her rebuffal Sarah reached over and tugged it, James giving it up while never looking away from his nemesis. The tin interrupted the irate Marge four times, so when James took his turn to talk about Childhood and energy she made a point of opening it several times, apparently changing her mind as to which biscuit she wanted. Mary threw in her support for James, talking around a moutful of custer cream, while Alice, next to her, nudged her in the ribs and motioned for her to swallow.
Chris and Hank both took their biscuits without comment as Marge began a tirade against paedophiles coming to the village, but she was stopped by Susan's abrupt outcry.
"Hey! Someone ate mine!" She showed them all the empty cat. "There was one each, I checked. I told you there was one each," she accused.
Everyone denied taking more than their fair share. Susan peered around the room, thinking.
James had started, then Sarah, then Mary and Alice. Marge fell under immediate suspicion, but what of the silent partners, Hank and Chris?
Marge began talking about hooligans. Susan wondered if this desire to change the subject was a sign of guilt. But then, how long had James had the tin? Everyone knew if you were careful you could open it without the warning meow, and suspicion was least likely to fall on the first to have it.
james saw her staring.
"Don't look at me! I didn't have any. Someone's had three."
This was a much more serious crime.
"Well, I was interrupted four times, and there's only three people between us," Marge pointed out haughtily.
"But you opened it three times!" James declared.
"I don't think I heard Chris or Hank take any," Mary mused, "but I saw Chris nibbling around a Jammy Dodger. I think the cat's broken."
"I was careful," Chris explained. "I didn't want to make any noise."
"Ah hah!" Marge declared. "You could have had any number of biscuits!"
"So, could any of us," James pointed out. "Except me," he added.
"Well, we all saw Mary's," Marge sniffed.
"But she ate it immediately," Sarah remembered. "It was practically a double meow between mine and hers as I handed the tin over."
Mary flushed. "Okay, fine! I had two. But only two, and only because the first one was one of those nasty pink wafers."
"So that explains the four meows," Susan thought aloud. "Now we just have the three meows and the bsence of meows to account for, unless anyone wants to own up."
Mary was on Susan's side now, peering around the room. "I think think it was Hank or Chris. I was watching them."
"Me too," Alice added. Chris blushed, while Hank glanced away.
"Look," said margerie, " I call this meeting of the Resident's Committee to order. Biscuits may be important, but not on the scale this gross intrusion of a concrete monstrosity will be on our lives."
Seven pairs of eyes turned on her.
"Fine, it was me!" she sanpped. "I forgot, alright? Some of us have more on our minds than mere biscuits."
"You're bringing them next week," Susan told her, "and I think it's your turn to make the tea."
Mystery, biscuits are passed around