Literary Maneuvers Oct '19: Write Using Dialogue Only - OR - Write An Urban Fairytale - Page 2


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Thread: Literary Maneuvers Oct '19: Write Using Dialogue Only - OR - Write An Urban Fairytale

  1. #11
    Wɾ¡ʇ¡∩9 bdcharles's Avatar
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    Hidden Content Monthly Fiction Challenge


    Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and are awed,
    because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
    - Rainer Maria Rilke, "Elegy I"

    *

    Is this fire, or is this mask?
    It's the Mantasy!
    - Anonymous

    *

    C'mon everybody, don't need this crap.
    - Wham!





  2. #12

  3. #13
    Wɾ¡ʇ¡∩9 bdcharles's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2015
    Location
    In a far-distant otherworld.
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    Blog Entries
    4


    Hidden Content Monthly Fiction Challenge


    Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and are awed,
    because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
    - Rainer Maria Rilke, "Elegy I"

    *

    Is this fire, or is this mask?
    It's the Mantasy!
    - Anonymous

    *

    C'mon everybody, don't need this crap.
    - Wham!





  4. #14
    ABC (650 words)

    “This is a typical man’s flat.”

    “Thanks. What’s manly about it?”

    “The mess. Don’t look at the worktops innocently like that, fellah. I’m talking dust. I’m talking food smears on the cooker, toast crumbs on the worktop. Is it safe to eat in this kitchen?”

    “Oh, welcome to my home! I only tidied up this morning. Look there’s nothing lying around.”

    “I’m talking grease and grime. Legionnaire's Disease, Salmonella and Grime-onella, fellah. I noticed a skidmark in your toilet –have you not heard of blu-loo or bleach? You’ve bristle shavings in the bathroom sink, too. Oops, I am sorry: first time in your pad and I’m criticising. My bad."

    "Your bad what?"

    "Hey, nice kitchen. Good size - big. How about that coffee, then?”

    “Hang on a sec, babe. I’ll just fill the kettle.”

    “It’s alright, I’ll make it. What cupboard’s the coffee?”

    “On the left.”

    “Sweetener?”

    “That cupboard there – between the raisins and teabags.”

    “Why’s your coffee and teabags in different cupboards? That's weird, fellah. And…why are your cupboards all so nice and tidy?”

    “Nothing wrong with that. It’s logical. Why the frown?”

    “The shelves look so clinical…Oh, sweetener! Between the raisins and teabags – please don’t tell me everything’s in alphabetical order.”

    “I’ll just switch the kettle on.”

    “Are they? In alphabetical order.”

    “No.”

    “They are, aren’t they? That’s why the coffee’s in this first cupboard to the left of the cornflakes. Oh, look: Bovril, coffee, cornflakes, cornflour. They are, aren’t they? In order?”

    “You said not to tell you. You said ‘please’.”

    “Oh, for God’s sake! That’s just an expression.”

    “Alright then, yes. My apologies for being sensible. I'm really sorry that I'm sensible and logical. I'm a man, get over it. But that’s how you find things like coffee quickly and easily. I suppose it sounds boring.”

    “Boring? No. It sounds OCD-ish. Hey, just joking. I'm kidding, haha. Don't pull that expression. Hey, I’m a woman and I’m sensible too – I just keep my coffee stuff next to the kettle, on my clean worktop.”

    “I tell you what, I’ll make the coffees, you put some music on. The CD player’s in the next room.”

    “Okay. A CD rack next to it?”

    “Er…actually, you make the coffee. I’ll put the music on.”

    “No, no. I wanna see your CD rack."

    "No, it's alright. I can work the player, you work the kettle."

    "No, I insist. Stay here and make the coffees. I’ll talk to you through the hall. I'll have mine black with just one sweetener.”

    “Hang on a sec. Do you want milk?”

    “What was that? I can’t hear you through here, over that kettle.”

    Do you want milk?”

    “I said ‘black’. Why don’t men ever listen? Hey, only joking, relax. Oh, God. I knew it: your CD’s are in alphabetical order. Do you have a bookcase? I bet it's covered in dust. Do you?”

    What?

    Do you have a bookcase?”

    “Hang on.”

    “Thanks, fellah."

    "It's very hot. Like you…"

    "Oh, puhleeze!"

    "Put it on the coaster or you'll burn the wood. Have you picked out a CD?"

    "Yeah, here. 'can’t go wrong with a bit of Eminem. You look a bit like him, you know. That's why I let you chat me up."

    "I don't sound like him. So, as long as you don't like Karaoke's, I'm doing fine."

    "So, come here, fellah. Oooh, you feel good. Smell good. It's a long time since I've smelled Old Spice - is it to the left of the Sauvage in your bathroom? What other things 'you got in alphabetical order?"

    "Well, you know; guess what comes after banana?"

    "Apricot?"

    "Funny! I'm thinking strawberry, ribbed? I've got some."

    "That's a bit fast for me, fellah. Not to mention classless. Hang on - "

    "Erm…who are you calling?"

    "Hello? I need a taxi from 15 Acacia Avenue. You'll easily find me - it's between the number 14 and number 16."

  5. #15
    I sprayed spot remover on my dog and now he's gone. - S. Wright.

  6. #16

    The Boys Are Dead But Also Back in Town (649 Words, ya Turds)

    Once a goddamned ’gain it was Walt Whitman, bellowing his heart out off the top of the roof. “Walt!” I screamed. “Walt!

    Of course he didn’t hear me. A fine craftsman, so-so poet, and all-around good Schmoe, my literary neighbor happened to be neurotic, prone to climbing outside his window at two in the morning in order to serenade the moon or to leap onto the balcony next door where he might try and fail a Young Werther in attempts to vaginally bamboozle his neighbor’s wife. His voice, finely lubricated, rose an unchallenged octave above my own.

    By dint of tune and peculiarity of lyricism I suspected he was once again revisiting certain passages to Leaves of Grass that he might pick up and tinker with last-millennia touch-ups regarding his most popular verse. But tonight I was in no mood. I lobbed a shoe, striking him across the ear, precipitating a teeter which turned rapidly into a totter, turning thence into a loose-limbed freewheeling: out flailed a leg, there an arm, between both a bottle of rum, before down Walt Whitman went, babbling charitable gibberish whilst capitulating into the shrubs below.

    “Fuck…” I said. “FUCK! WALT!”

    Brief rustlings signaled he was okay. Then―voila!―out popped his noggin, no worse for wear, adorned in leaflets and jagged bristles plus plastered with a drunkard’s wide grin. “McGee?” he slurred; recognition slowly blinked within him. “McGee!”

    “You’re okay!” I said. “I’m… I’m sorry, Walt, it’s just―Jesus, dude, it’s two in the fucking morning!”

    “McGee, McGee…. Oooooooh, MUUUUUH-GEEEEE―UHAH!”

    I lobbed my last shoe, striking the bridge of his nose, this time with enough force to propel him backwards into the shrubbery folds from whence he’d
    came, the top of his head disappearing like a stone into the sea. “Walt...?” I inquired “Walt?

    An intruder: “He dead?” I screamed and spun around: Wolfgang Von Goethe, himself a playboy neurotic, had climbed onto my balcony. “Well?” he asked, and leaned over the railing to signify just how much this curiosity meant to him.

    What are you doing?” I shouted.

    “Apparently witnessing a murder.”

    “Get off my balcony!”

    “I need a place to hide.”

    “...Why?”

    Wolfgang looked over his shoulder, less for the view than because he seemed intent on pantomiming every display of emotion. “I banged my neighbor’s wife.”

    “That was you?”

    “Why yes.”

    I pointed at the shrubs: “I thought that was him?”

    “Why no.” He contemplated: “Do you have a couch?”

    I was in no mood for this―Walt’s singing, Goethe’s debauchery. Still, much as I wanted, I couldn’t just leave him there. The night was wintry and, in the absence of shoes, I had already started to hop from foot to foot. Meanwhile, a litany of sliding balcony doors had sounded up and around me; unto their balconies ventured the Virginia Woolfs, Sylvia Plaths, Hunter S. Thompsons, and all other shapes and sizes of luminary neurotics. I looked up; down; everywhere. “Do any of you fucking sleep?”

    “We’ll sleep when we’re dead,” said Wolfgang, a joke which everybody except me seemed to get and at which everybody immediately chortled.

    “Oh, no!” said Sylvia Plath, pointing below. “Is he dead?”

    “Indeed!” said Wolfgang, “―and McGee here killed him!”

    I hurried down the steps. By the time I reached Walt he’d riled himself awake. “McGee!” he cried. “Oooooooh, Muuuuh-Geeee―UHAHPHEW!” and sneezed, dispensing from his nostrils projectile clods of soil and a perturbed, fist-waggling snail. Walt blinked, stupified; then, gradually, he smiled and pointed; slurring: “I will sing that snail’s song…”

    “Later, bud.”

    Of course I couldn’t stop him. He sang of stars, grass, people, insects; each with no less enthusiasm than the last. Sylvia met me on the first flight and grabbed his opposite arm; Hunter, flicking a cigarette aside, met us on the second. Even Wolfgang joined in; and by the time we reached Whitman’s door, I have to admit―

    I was singing, too.
    Last edited by Ibb; October 17th, 2019 at 11:37 PM. Reason: What the heck is a 'post icon?' What is this green arrow? Go away! Auuuuugggh! Oh, well. SECOND EDIT: Figured it out.

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