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View Full Version : Meanwhile, In Argentina..(Short Fic. 500 wds. MATURE)



WechtleinUns
March 4th, 2013, 06:51 PM
Meanwhile, In Argentina...


A thousand rain-drops marched down the roof of my dream house, which would have been great, if not for the location. Sunny smiles and clear blue skies, this was not. The moon peered through her cloudy robes each night with evil eyes, and I swore I'd heard the Cucui chattering to itself no less than three days ago. I remember, because I'd only had half a bottle of Captain Morgan, and I could still see straight.

That night, the rain had made it's customary entrance. She started slow, like a Latin lover who knows how to enjoy herself. Did that fern over there just grow a beard? Nah. Must have been the wind, and last I heard, the Cucui had red eyes. Not green.

"Who?" La Lechuza stood guard by the night windows. She was all right. Snacking on virgins and all that. I mean, who doesn't love a good bloody Mary? I hear it's all the rage in France.

Then again, I hear the local Catholic priests look down on that sort of thing. What is this, the 18th century? We'd never have had that sort of problem back across the pond, if you know what I mean, and the Irish and the Poles actively encourage such activities, I hear.

"Who?" There's La Lechuza again. For an armored war god and priestess of the damned, she certainly says 'who' a lot.

"Who?" You, you idiot. Don't make me get my Spanish phrasebook out. Oh shit. Did you see that? That fern. Did it just grow a fucking beard? Nah. Must be the Captain. Fuck, I should have stuck with Johnny walker and Jose Cuervo. Those two are distant cousins, anyway. I don't know who the fuck Mr. Morgan is related to, but the guy's probably dutch.

"Who?" Some Dutch cookie, La Lechu. Pay attention.

"Who?" ...Fuck. I wonder when it'll stop raining. Rain in South America likes to take its time. I don't even stay at the brothel down the road this long. Suddenly, the door was knocked. No time for slippers, the cool clay tile kissed every one of my toes. Outside, the warm water rolled down my skin, massaging and rubbing up against my shoulders and my waist, and collectivizing in between my thighs and making moist those cute little panties I'd gotten at the central Abaceria.

Bob, my agent, walked in and shrugged off his cloak, which scattered water drops everywhere, like a farmer sowing his seeds. "Oh my gosh, bobby! How kind of you to visit! I beg your pardon, but the furniture has yet to be arrived in yet, and I want you." Hiccup.

"Drunk again, I see." Bob was so serious, I wanted to turn that frown upside down. So I started kissing his neck and rubbing my hands down his pants. "Bloody hell, Alice! I brought you out here to work on the next 'amazing novel by the great Alice Winchester.' Give me that bottle."

"No." He grabbed for it, and we toppled over into a heap. "Stop clinging, Bobby! Now help me unbuckle this belt!"

"You...need...to...work." Bob said. "How many chapters have you written today?" How many chapters? I was working on one right now. But the material was not cooperating. This could take all night.

lowprofile300
March 20th, 2013, 10:44 PM
Blue = suggestion
Red = flag




Meanwhile, In Argentina...


A thousand rain-drops marched down the roof of my dream house, which would have been great, if not for the location. Sunny smiles and clear blue skies, this was not. The moon peered through her cloudy robes each night with evil eyes, and I swore I'd heard the Cucui chattering to itself no less than three days ago. I remember, because I'd only had half a bottle of Captain Morgan, and I could still see straight.

That night, the rain had made it's customary entrance. She started slow, like a Latin lover who knows how to enjoy herself. Did that fern over there just grow a beard? Nah. Must have been the wind, and last I heard, the Cucui had red eyes. Not green.

"Who?" La Lechuza stood guard by the night windows. She was all right. Snacking on virgins and all that. I mean, who doesn't love a good bloody Mary? I hear it's all the rage in France.

Then again, I hear the local Catholic priests look down on that sort of thing. What is this, the 18th century? We'd never have had that sort of problem back across the pond, if you know what I mean, and the Irish and the Poles actively encourage such activities, I hear.

"Who?" There's La Lechuza again. For an armored war god and priestess of the damned, she certainly says 'who' a lot.

"Who?" You, you idiot. Don't make me get my Spanish phrasebook out. Oh shit. Did you see that? That fern. Did it just grow a fucking beard? Nah. Must be the Captain. Fuck, I should have stuck with Johnny walker and Jose Cuervo. Those two are distant cousins, anyway. I don't know who the fuck Mr. Morgan is related to, but the guy's probably dutch.

"Who?" Some Dutch cookie, La Lechu. Pay attention.

"Who?" ...Fuck. I wonder when it'll stop raining. Rain in South America likes to take its time. I don't even stay at the brothel down the road this long. Suddenly, the door was knocked (there was a knock at the door). No time for slippers, the cool clay tile kissed every one of my toes. Outside, the warm water rolled down my skin, massaging and rubbing up against my shoulders and my waist, and collectivizing in between my thighs and making moist those cute little panties I'd gotten at the central Abaceria.

Bob, my agent, walked in and shrugged off his cloak, which scattered water drops everywhere, like a farmer sowing his seeds. "Oh my gosh, bobby! How kind of you to visit! I beg your pardon, but the furniture has yet to (arrive) be arrived in yet, and I want you." Hiccup.

"Drunk again, I see." Bob was so serious, I wanted to turn that frown upside down. So I started kissing his neck and rubbing my hands down his pants. "Bloody hell, Alice! I brought you out here to work on the next 'amazing novel by the great Alice Winchester.' Give me that bottle."

"No." He grabbed for it, and we toppled over into a heap. "Stop clinging, Bobby! Now help me unbuckle this belt!"

"You...need...to...work(You...you need to work) ." Bob said. "How many chapters have you written today?"
"How many chapters? I was working on one right now. But the material was not cooperating. This could take all night."


I guess Bob couldn't resist huh? :) As much as I love the last paragraph, up until the knock at the door, the story was incoherent. Try to connect the first half of the story with the rest of it. I get the part about the alcohol reference but the rest, I didn't get. Your descriptions are very creative and I enjoyed them.

WechtleinUns
March 30th, 2013, 10:15 PM
Thank you very much for the critique, lowprofile300. I'll admit it, this story is pretty incoherent. To be honest, it's a tricky situation, because the narrator is drunk and not really coherent herself. At the same time, I think you're right that the first part could be toned down a notch. If there is anyone here who is familiar with mexican folk-lore, I'd also like your opinions on this. Much of the material in the first part is drawn from local legends of northern Mexico and South Texas.

In any case, thanks very much lowprofile. I think I understand your meaning. It is more important for the reader to understand and follow the thread of the narrative than to go full throttle and end up with an incoherent mess. At the same time, humor is often based on contextual information, I have found(the hard way). But thank you for taking the time to read this entire thing. It's been up for a while, and you took a chance and responded. The least I could do is respond and thank you for your time. But I'd also like to learn from my mistakes as well, and you have pointed out something that I had previously overlooked. Thanks,

WechtleinUns. :)