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Thread: June 2017 - LM - Drone

  1. #1
    Global Moderator kilroy214's Avatar
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    June 2017 - LM - Drone



    The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.

    This is a Fiction writing competition, and the prompt for this month in 'Drone' Pick your own title, write about whatever you want, as long as it's related in some way to the prompt.

    The Judges for this LM are: bdcharles, kilroy214, ppsage, and tba
    If you want to judge and I left you out, send me your scores by the deadline. If you're listed here and don't wish to judge, let me know at once (please).

    All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the LM Workshop Thread.

    All Judges scores will be PMed to

    All anonymous entries will be PMed to kilroy214.


    • All forum rules apply. The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do not forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click here for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
    • No Poetry! Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click here for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk.
    • No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed. If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the LM Coffee Shop. We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
    • Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed. You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
    • Only one entry per member.
    • The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word is the standard for checking this. If you are unsure of the word count and don't have Word, please send your story to me and I'll check it for you.

    There are a few ways to post your entry:

    1. If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
    2. You can opt to have your entry posted in the Workshop which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
    3. You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.

    Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score. Please refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the scores are posted.

    Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send the scores one week after deadline it will ensure a timely release of scores and minimize the overall implementation of porkforking. Please see the Judging Guidelines if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too.

    This competition will close on:
    Thursday, the 15th of June at 11:59 PM, GMT time.

    Scores would be appreciated by Friday, the 30th of June.

    Click here for the current time.
    “On the chest of a barmaid in Sale, were tattooed all the prices of ale. And on her behind, for the sake of the blind, was the same only written in braille"

    "Ambiguity is one of the greatest faults in a craft. It comes from vague ambitions. One may inspired by good ambitions, but the immediate concern of the craftsman is to know what he is capable of doing at present; and to do it."
    - Edward Johnston

  2. #2
    Global Moderator kilroy214's Avatar
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    “On the chest of a barmaid in Sale, were tattooed all the prices of ale. And on her behind, for the sake of the blind, was the same only written in braille"

    "Ambiguity is one of the greatest faults in a craft. It comes from vague ambitions. One may inspired by good ambitions, but the immediate concern of the craftsman is to know what he is capable of doing at present; and to do it."
    - Edward Johnston

  3. #3
    Member Smith's Avatar
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    Jun 2013
    Indefinite Hiatus
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    I stopped living like there's no tomorrow
    because I always woke up sad and disappointed.

  4. #4
    Member plawrence's Avatar
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    Apr 2017
    Richardson, TX
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    Poker 563 words
    Old retired guy working to fulfill a lifelong dream to be a published fiction author.
    I've published, and been paid for, technical articles for and I am
    a chapter author (chapter 6) for AVIEN Malware Defense Guide for the Enterprise
    My first book, Prayers Were No Help, is now available as an ebook and on Amazon.
    Follow me on Twitter and Facebook. My webpage.

  5. #5

    The Bronze Sutra __________ Judge Entry

    An old geezer--sixty-eight, on his bed, and bathed in morning sun--woke gradually to a constant and pure auditory tone.

    Nothing fuzzy-buzzy or hummy about it.

    At least not at first.

    At first, an external source seemed possible, but it sounded just like an old-fashioned dial-tone. As far gone as he was, he couldn't believe that.

    The cell he owned now would never make such a sound. IT used jangling cacophonies when it needed him.

    Putting palms to ears...left-right-both...he confirmed the only realistic diagnosis.

    For the moment at least, he had tinnitus.

    Our geezer, named Marvin Garten, reacted to this with stolid disdain. It just figured. He propped himself into his bedtime reading position. Holding himself perfectly motionless when the maddening tone became especially threatening, Marvin found a certain tightening of the soft palate caused an interfering, counter vibration of his tympanum; modest cancellation; vague relief.

    The illusion of control.

    Marvin endured a panicky quarter-hour before the tone blessedly ameliorated.

    It became a quietly persistent, humming, buzz.

    Which proved permanent.

    There is no doubt that in this tinnireatic condition lay the genesis of Garten's increasing attendance at the temple.

    Marvin thought them Buddhist.

    The attendees did not dress as monks. Men in coveralls, women in bonnets. A cross between Humboldt hippies and Baptist pioneers. They performed ritual with a gay solemnity. They'd mounted a weighty disk of bronze, pious as a bell, at the altar. It gonged under the padded tip of a log striker, swung gently on its ropes at chanted intervals. Never dying completely away, its drone punctuated the devotees' constant vibrational worship. "The Temple of Perpetual Sonaration," read a painted inscription above the bell's scaffolding. Seemed Buddhist to Marvin.

    Brother Garten they called him, preferring his earth name.

    The first time he told them of his affliction, and how the temple atmosphere integrated his condition, they escorted him to a chapel on the right hand of the gong. They begged his intercession with the vibrational universe.

    Marvin--Brother Garten that is--sat, in the noise-canceled chapel, in blissful silence. Mostly he was silent himself, but he learned to turn his occasional sighs into drawn intonations, for which the initiates seemed thankful.

    This especially Marvin considered a Buddhist result.

    That original pure tone returned to plague our geezer at intervals, but rarely and for a couple harmless moments only--nothing to get upset about.

    Until one rainy day many months later.

    Marvin typically did not visit the temple on rainy days. Something about the precipitation--it wasn't the noise exactly but something equally vibrational--created the same canceling interference provided by the temple's constant sound waves.

    But this time the tone showed no sign of relenting.

    So our blessed geezer hurried to the temple. In Brother Garten's chapel, the aggravating affliction lessened but did not disappear. With desperation Marvin emitted a sigh of unusually robust duration.

    At this, all sound in the temple became one with divine substance.

    Brother Garten felt that, could he but continue the sigh indefinitely, a true transfiguration might ensue.

    He felt Nirvana beckoning.

    Or, still thinking Buddhisticly, he probably called it Nothingness.

    In temple scripture, the Bronze Sutra relates how, as the disciples watched in amazement, the chair of enthroned Saint Marvin rose to the Great Gong of Perpetuity. It relates how he stood on Rays of Air. And how he held up his hands in surrender and how, intoning the Sigh of Material Damnation, the Good Saint passed into the metal and disappeared from this earthly province.

    Diverse lessons are drawn from the Sutra, but none so important as the lesson of the All-Encompassing Sigh.

    Many know its power; few achieve its perfection.
    A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking. Steven Wright

  6. #6
    WF Veteran -xXx-'s Avatar
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    *don't read this if you are easily offended*

  7. #7
    Ricky's Drone - 648w *Language*

    Ricky’s just built this thing, and now he and his brother are eager to watch it fly. It’s an ungainly contraption built from old bicycle parts and a busted lawnmower, but Ricky swears it’ll purr like a French kitten. “It’s a drone,” he muses. “Like you see in the park hovering over sunbathing chicks!”

    “Yeah, you dumbass,” laughs his brother Julian. “It’s more like a flying toolshed.”

    The motor starts on the first pull, and Ricky’s grinning. The rotors turn eagerly. Clouds of gray smoke billow out of the muffler right into Julian’s face.

    “Haha, you sonofabitch,’ shouts Ricky, “it’s alive!”

    With a donkey-like grace it tilts back and forth, hinting at flight. Julian flinches now and again, but he’s entranced, watching Ricky push and twist the control levers. Up the contraption goes, above their heads, until Ricky loses his nerve and throttles back. It’s coming down too quickly, so he guns it, and the thing does a swoop right toward Julian.

    “You bastard, you nearly took my head off,” he shouts, and watches the flying toolshed sputter and ease back down to earth.

    Julian thinks he sees the problem. “Dumbass,” he mutters as he reaches for the carburetor and frees the stuck linkage, not realizing quickly enough that the rotors have started turning again, and fast. Whirring like a pygmy tornado, it’s back to life and he’s in a bad spot. Blades slice his hands clean off at the wrist. Thump, thump, they fall to rest on the fuel tank, and it’s airborne before the first squirts of blood hit the ground. It hovers at neck height and Ricky runs over to catch Julian by the armpits. Blood pumps out of the arm-stumps in urgent spurts, his brother staring on in Tesla-style shock. The controller has fallen to the ground and is jammed under Julian’s limp and helpless leg, the machine gyrating and angry. Ricky lets his brother slump, kicks the controller toward the machine and makes for the garage, but the contraption, with Julian’s hands in tow, is too quick for him. It’s taunting him, wavering back and forth, blocking his escape. Ricky gently backs away, leans down, picks up the controller, but the thing won’t respond to his pushes, pulls, or tweaks on the levers.

    Ricky shields Julian from the groaning apparatus. The front rotor isn’t spinning in rhythm with the others, but has begun to machete back and forth inches from his face. Ricky drops to the ground, lying flat, where it can’t cut him. The frustrated machine rages off into the street, thumping and buzzing like hillbilly doomsday.

    “Julian, you just stay right here. I’m going after your hands.” Ricky sprints off in the direction of the mechanism. Three streets over, a woman screams, dogs bark, and a car alarm wails.

    Julian’s semi-conscious, and bleeding badly. An ambulance screeches up and carries him to the hospital.

    Ricky and a mob of help approach the bastard chopper and corner it, but not before several of them lose their heads, hands, and limbs. By the time they finally destroy it, twelve men and women are dead. Ricky’s standing before his creation. “Give me back my brother’s hands,” he says, and ceremoniously breaks off the key throttle linkage. One last wheeze leaves the carburetor.

    Julian waits in triage, elated to see his brother limping up carrying a blood-soaked cloth. “My…my hands? he says, in tears.

    Ricky hands them to the doctor. “Can you save them?” he asks, and the team rushes off, wheeling Julian to the operating room.

    During the eight hours of surgery Ricky waits in the emergency room, pacing back and forth and cursing his creation. Finally the doctor comes out, pulls his surgical mask down to reveal his frown.

    “Well,” says the doctor solemnly, “we were able to sew them back on. But there’s just one problem, dumbass. You brought us a woman’s feet!”

  8. #8


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