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Thread: Post Your Darlings

  1. #11
    Okay, and now for something COMPLETELY different :

    After the proscription on angels involving themselves directly in Earthly affairs, we'd shouldered most of the load keeping demons like the Utukku in check. Once, that had been their job. And angels are heavy hitters. Put Ares up against Michael? Ares takes a knee. Angels are at the right hand of the One God. We're visitors. Angels can smite. Do you understand what ‘smite’ means? If someone tells you they can ‘smite you’, and it's true, that fight is over. You can't beat smite. Smite just wins. If I'm going up against vampiric demons, and I can get an ally who can smite ... gimme.

  2. #12
    Quote Originally Posted by JBF View Post
    Paragraphs.

    Also, I am constrained by no law of decency, sense, or rationality in my quest for schlock supremacy.
    There are people who post here who would have made that one wall of text, and called it a paragraph. We stand in appreciation of your good sense!

  3. #13
    Member JBF's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by vranger View Post
    We stand in appreciation of your good sense!
    You take that back. Take it back right now.

  4. #14
    This one just made me giggle when I was writing it. Josephine has put her foot in the door, the father is drunk. It's the slightly out of place 'do it, just do it' that cracks me up:


    “What’s wrong with this friggin’ door?” The words oozed out from between lopsided lips. “Come on … come on,” he said, as he repeatedly attempted to close the door. “Do it, just do it …” A hand appeared at Josephine's foot, felt around it for a while before, "What the ... hell ... is this shoe doing here?" He gripped the toe and pulled. "Shift you friggin' nuisance. Get out of my way. ... I'm trying to close the door."
    Craft / Draft / Graft And Write To Entertain.

  5. #15


    It was the thin end of the week and God sellers came a-knocking, with sacrifice round their necks and piety in their hands.
    Last edited by TheMightyAz; March 5th, 2021 at 01:06 AM.
    Craft / Draft / Graft And Write To Entertain.

  6. #16
    Winter, 1993. Bosnia, near the Serbian border.


    “I hear a truck, or maybe a tank,” Nadja Kopenek said, handing Emil the detonator. Her foot slipped on the ice-covered bridge, but she held tight to the railing. If she fell it was over 100 feet to the frozen river.
    “Be patient, love,” Emil said, not looking up. “The experts claim C-4 is safe to handle, but it never hurts to be careful.” In the next few minutes he finished attaching the explosive to one of the bridge’s main girders. Nadja kept a close watch on the road as he set the timing device.
    “It’s an Serbian armored personnel carrier,” she said. “I can see it in the distance.”
    “We have five minutes, pet. I hear it. You’re right. Let’s go.”
    “How will we get past the soldiers?”
    “I know a short cut back to the old mill.”
    As they climbed to the surface she recognized the familiar rumble of the Serbian APC. They scurried into the dark woods. The morning sun hid behind iron-gray clouds, and cold snowflakes melted on Nadia’s face. At one time these woods had been their romantic getaway, but now they held death. Only bloody death.

    "Put not your trust not in princes, in the children of men,
    in whom there is no salvation."
    Psalm 146

    Timely, isn't it?

  7. #17
    My office, at the rear of 91 Primrose Avenue, clung to the oak tree in our back garden like a cowardly shed and shivered with every gust above a whisper. Myself and the goofball I call father, took a whole summer trying to knock it into shape, but no matter how many nails, it still quaked and trembled
    Craft / Draft / Graft And Write To Entertain.

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