Survivor Island: Second Elimination and Third Challenge
The write_away community has spoken, and the Huckleberry Blue Bandits won the second challenge. Unfortunately, that means that two players from the Twelfth Yellow Knights and Gatsby Green Team must be eliminated.
eunuch_dreams and dark_math_girl, your teams have voted, and you must leave the island ( Read more... )
eunuch_dreams and dark_math_girl, your teams have voted, and you must leave the island ( Read more... )
“I just don’t wanna be a fucking cog in your fucking machine!” The last dregs of ‘machine’ clanged off the walls like a castor down a tube-slide. He stared up at the ceiling, it was white - ish. There were a series of jangling and jagged cracks running the length and breadth of the apartment. He’d once named them all after fabulous constellations and reoriented his entire day so each activity coincided with a different constellation: cereal and OJ by Polaris; buttoning his favorite silk-shirt with The Hunter; making love under Cassiopeia. He stared up at the ugly cracks accusingly.
“I AM somebody, ya know! I’m not just some wacko! I’m just here ‘cuz I wannabe!” The dirty apartment didn’t have much to say. He rolled his bushy head to the side and looked out the window. Past the overstuffed corduroy chair he’d reclaimed from the street corner and the lamp he’d been meaning to rewire for three years, the City coughed toward dusk.
He wondered what his brother was doing. Probably driving back from work in his Hummer, getting ready to smooch his aproned wife and adorable pupae. Jason watched them hug and exclaim, “Gee whiz” before retiring inside to the altar of White Picket Fences. As Norman Rockwell hung on the wall, they sat down to a supper of Stove-Top, instant potatoes (“Smashed ‘taters agin’ Ma! Golly!”), pork-chops and cornucopias of Pasteurized, skim milk. Little Timmy waved to Crazy-Uncle Jason.
“Who the fuck do I have to sodomize to get a drink around here?!” The apartment shrugged. Kicking his legs up into the air, he let them drop and used the momentum to snap into a sitting position. Immediately, he grabbed his head and moaned as all his blood ran for the hills. Staggering slightly, he got to his feet and scratched his chest through an eight-day dirty, t-shirt. He yawned, “What a fucking dump.”
He wandered into the bathroom, neglecting to shut the door. “It wasn’t always like this, ya know?” he said as the toilet gazed up at him.
“I was going somewhere, once. I had ambition, drive! I coulda been a contenda’!” He kicked the flush-handle, ignoring the clunk the marked-up copy of Lolita made as it fell behind the tank. He turned to the dingy bathroom mirror. The person staring back at him made a face. “Jesus, when did I get so old?”
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