Flash Fiction: Elyria in February by @emmasuzieq

Flash Fiction: Elyria in February by @emmasuzieq

FlasFiction

by Emma Harper
@emmasuzieq

Emma Harper

Ketel One

Scott and Lisa rang in their first Valentine’s Day at an all-you-can eat sushi joint in Elyria, Ohio. It was their second date. Lisa took two shots of Ketel One from a dixie cup in the bathroom first to calm her nerves. She felt much better after that.

Scott threw up in the bathroom right after they ordered their food. Lisa thought he had snuck off to ask the waiter to bring a special dessert later on.

Occasionally during dinner Lisa would get self-conscious and purse her lips because she thought it made her face look prettier. Scott thought perhaps she had bitten the inside of her mouth, the poor thing.

Lisa was confused when dessert never arrived. She proposed that they stop for ice cream on their way home because she had gotten herself so set on the idea. Scott figured it was to numb the inside of her cheeks.

They shared mint chocolate chip and coconut and the hope that the other would always find them that beautiful.


###

More awesome stories by the mad geniuses here on the GANG!

What can Monty Python teach you about writing? 
The Revelator by @deathofnation
How I made a Million Streaming on Twitch by @Faryna
What can Robert de Niro teach you about writing?

Popular Podcasts from Geeky Antics Network Global (GANG):

#DoctorWho Podcast: Timey-Wimey Tea Time Episode 2
Celebrating 100 Insane Episodes of the Gaming Death
Horseplay Ep 35: The Power of Friendship and Rainbows
#DoctorWho Podcast: Timey-Wimey Tea Time Episode 0

About Emma Harper

Emma Harper, called “incorrigible” by her brothers on repeated occasions, is a writer of short fiction and essays, and a firm believer in hydration.

Twitter: @emmasuzieq
Website: http://www.emmaharper.co/

 

Short Story: The Revelator by @deathofnation

The Revelator

Short Story

by Chris Gannon
@deathofnation

Chris Gannon

J.S hurried around the corner, the sound of sirens echoed down the dark, deserted streets behind him. He didn’t mean for it to happen but it just did. Now was not the time to think about that. He had been running since it happened. If he wanted to see Helen again, he had to keep going.

He rounded the next corner. Water splashed as his leg sank into a puddle. It had been raining when it happened. Now, dark ominous clouds stalkedoverhead. The sirens were louder now and J.S could feel their devilish eyes upon him. Quickly he turned and sprinted down an alley. 

His feet slipped on wet newspaper as he rushed down the dark corridor. They must have seen him slip down the alley, because the sirens grew louder and bolder. He had made a grave mistake. It was a dead end. Frantically he looked around trying to find some where to go, some way to escape. The sirens screamed at the end of the alley. 

J.S panicked. They would find him and he would never see the beautiful Helen again. Then he spotted it. Sitting in the far corner of the alley was a dumpster.It’s lid ajar. He dove inside the dumpster. 

He could hear their footsteps running down the alley as he closed the lid and his feet sunk into the rotting filth. The stench of rotting fish and feces punched his nose and stomach. His eyes watered and nose burned. It took all his will power to hold back the revolt in his stomach. At that moment the smell was the least of his worries.

From outside the dumpster he could hear the sounds of the wailing sirens at the mouth of the alley, foot falls quickly getting closer to him and his turning stomach. He slowly opened the lid, just enough that the light could pierce the darkness of the dumpster’s interior. He gently placed his eye to the tiny opening and watched an officer comb the alley. 

The officer turned his flashlight toward the dumpster. The light blinded J.S. and he lost his grip on the lid. The lid fell with a clang. Though he heard no sounds outside the dumpster, J.S knew he had been heard. The officer would find him. He would never lay eyes upon Helen again.

He panicked as the sounds of footsteps outside grew louder. He did the only thing he could do. He began dug down into the grime. His hands carved through the filth like a terrified, burrowing rabbit. Garbage entered his mouth. Rancid smells filled his nose as he raced towards the the bottom of the container.

His hands finally found the rusted bottom. Trying to get his legs under the garbage, he swam horizontally. 

The footsteps outside stopped directly in front of the dumpster. J.S could still feel the humid air touching his bare ankle. It was the only part of his body not hidden by the garbage. He forced himself forward, pushing his face against wet, slimy rancid food.

Above, the officer slowly opened the lid to the dumpster. His gun was drawn. His eyes scanned the surface of the dumpster.

The sound of his pounding heart was louder in his ears now than when he was running. This was the first time he had stopped running since it happened. He wondered if the officer could hear his heart pound.

The memories rushed back to him – whether or not he was ready for them.

He had been home all day drinking beer and watching TV. It’s what he did everyday. Ever since the plant closed and he had been laid off. Then Helen had come home. Oh beautiful Helen. 

He had met Helen in Paris two years ago. It was love at first sight.

How could he not love Helen? Her hair flowed like a golden river. Her porcelain doll face was beautiful and fragile. She had the body and soul of a goddess. 

She had come home that day, nervous, frustrated and angry. She was disappointed in him. He was being a bum and doing nothing with his life. With their life. She shouted at him as he sat there in his grubby apathy and disinterest. J.S. tried to keep his cool through her shouts and insults. He tried to diffuse the situation as the best he could – by sitting there calmly and unflinchingly. Then she smacked him across the face. 

That sent him over the edge. He snapped. He remembered screaming at her and grasping her neck with both hands. Her eyes grew wide with shock. 

He applied more pressure. Her white fragile face slowly became the color of  ripe apples. She gasped hard for breath as he applied more pressure. Her face was now purple, her eyes red with blood. 

Other worldly sounds escaped from her lips. J.S applied all his pressure. There was a slight snap as J.S felt the bones of her neck crack like chicken bones. Her body went limp. 

J.S loosened his grip. Her body fell to the ground. Staring down at his hands, tears streamed down his face. His eyes focused on her lifeless body. It was slumped over unnaturally, her neck was in the shape of the letter N. He ran to the bedroom. Then back into living room. Then he ran out the door. The maid must have found her body shortly after. Someone must have seen him running down the street. The sirens followed not long after – searching for him with their unrelenting noise.

SLAM!

J.S was back in his skin. At the bottom of the dumpster. The officer had slammed down the dumpster lid. 

Minutes passed like hours. Finally he crawled upward and his face hit the hot humid air as he breached the surface. 

He opened the lid. The officers were gone, the sirens trailed off with their increasing distance. He climbed out and puked. Above, the dark vulture-like clouds seemed to circle.

This was it, J.S’s last chance to see Helen. He ran hard. Out of the alley and down the road. Around a corner, down a few blocks and around another corner. He was almost there. 

He knew Helen would be there waiting for him. His paced quickened as he darted down the sidewalk. He could see the river ahead. Only a few more feet.The sky became black.

He stopped and caught his breath for a moment. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a gun. Tears began running down his face. The sound of sirens returned and grew louder. Someone must had seen him running. But there was nothing they could do to stop him from joining Helen. They would be too late.

Tears still streaming down his face, he opened his mouth and inserted the barrel of the pistol. His finger found the cold metal trigger. It wouldn’t be long before he would see Helen’s smiling face.The clouds grew darker. The sirens grew louder still. J.S calmly closed his eyes.

There was a crack of lightning and the rumble of thunder. J.S felt his body hit the ground. He could hear the sirens still coming. Then there was nothing.

J.S slowly opened his eyes. The bright blue sky and bold, shining sun were almost blinding. He stumbled forward to the edge of the river. Helen was standing there waiting for him.

###

The Revelator

The Revelator

More awesome by mad geniuses here on the GANG!

What can Robert de Niro teach you about writing?
Big Stone Book of Trollish Insults
Say Something
How I made a Million Streaming My Game on Twitch

 

Podcasts and blog posts featuring Chris Gannon:

Timey-Wimey Tea Time Episode 1 #DoctorWho Podcast
Five Playable Characters I’d Like To See in Hyrule Warriors
Why Can’t We All Be Friends (Gaming Death Podcast)
No Kitty That’s My Potpie (Gaming Death Podcast)

 

About Chris Gannon

When not writing about games, Chris is playing them, talking about them or reading about them. Aside from video games and Doctor Who, his time is spent with his beautiful fiance, family and friends. His other hobbies include Magic the Gathering, cooking, DC comics, movies, podcasts, and reading fiction novels.

Chris Gannon is executive games editor and co-founder of Gaming Death.

Twitter: @deathofnation
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/chris.gannon.9
Google+: deathofnation
Website: Gaming Death

How I made a Million streaming my game on Twitch @GeekyAntics #zombies

How I made a million streaming my game on Twitch

FlasFiction

by Stan Faryna
@Faryna

Stan Faryna & The Blue Sky - Stan The Marketing Man!

“How about six,” asked Anca.
“No,” replied George in private chat.
“Six incoming.”
“we don’t want it.”

“Make that a train.”
“No trains. Take it somewhere else.”
George switched out his sniper rifle for an AK74. He opened fire from a fire escape and took down a dozen wild dogs on Anca’s heels. The sound was deafening. The online audience (the stream) watching George’s game on Twitch complained loudly.
Kitty Karla (Moderator): “Snap – my ears are bleeding!”

Charly Gainsbourg (Subscriber): A little advance warning would be nice.

Grey Kim (Super Fan): “Thanks for blowing out my speakers.”

Matthias Müller (OP): !Songrequest GOTCHA247CH1

Sebastien Nobunaga (Heroic Fan): Sniper 9 O Clock. Window with white shutters.

MiniMe: Sebastien Nobunaga has earned one achievement point.
“Sorry about that,” George replied in stream as he switched back to his sniper rifle and fired at a shadow in a sixth floor window across the alley.
The shadow dropped and the kill was confirmed by the experience gain.
George’s face and naked upper body appeared in a pop up window on the stream view. He looked just like his game avatar – a sexy, bad ass with a strong jaw. Under his bottom lip, a spiderman spider tattoo looked like it was crawling up toward his mouth. George winked, gave two thumbs up and the pop up disappeared.
George Sketch Crop
“Good spotting,” George told the stream.

In the alley below, John called out the formations. BMZ1, KFA2, and Flame On. Anca pushed through the firing lines and kept going. She wasn’t sticking around for this train wreck.
“No woman, no cry,” George told the stream.

MiniMe, an automated stream bot, translated John’s commands in George’s stream:
BMZ1: Shotguns in front and on knees
KFA2: Klashnikov’s Full Auto
Flame On: Flame Throwers gear up
Cyprus Hill’s song, Insane in the Membrane, started to play in stream as the crowd of zombies lurched forward into the alley. George raised his arms and swayed to the music.Down below, the shotguns and klashnikovs roared as zombie corpses piled up.Sleazy, another automated stream bot, texted George’s stream subscription details:
1-Subscriber: 5 Euro/Month
2-Super Fan: Subscription + Total Donations of 300 Euro in past three months [benefits]
3-Heroic Fan: Subscription + 10 Achievements in past three months [benefits] 4-Legendary: Subscription + Total donations >500 Euro; >20 Achievments [benefits]
5- OP: Subscription + Total Donations >1000 Euro and >100 Achievements [benefits]
6- Troll: Subscription and >20 Penalties
Shouts of OOA (Out of Ammo) flooded the battle group channel.

Three Flame Throwers moved to the front as the rifle and shotgun teams fell back. Like a growling river of mud, zombies climbed over their fallen and continued to pour into the alley.

“LOVE NEVER FAILS,” shouted John.

“FOH – stand together! Stand strong. This ain’t a MOBA. This game – it don’t get more real than now.”

Three arching streams of fire poured into the advancing river of the dead.
Spambot played it’s message because two noobs joined the stream in the last five minutes:

Welcome to Georgie’s Pudding and Pie experience. George Eliade is number two in Fire of Heaven’s 6th Division – Special Forces. Noobs get one free hour of stream. After that, the money talk and gawkers walk.    
Follow Georgie on his pimp adventure through an epic wonderland of zombies, pole dancers and fat loots. Check out Georgie’s website and get to know the dude that you wish you were. Or were with – if you know what I mean.

Shots rang out from the other end of the alley. 

“Catch 22,” John texted to the battle group.
“WTF,” shouted George.
“Bitches be sneaking up on us and where the fuck is our exit spotter?!”
George read and listened to the audience feedback in the stream:
Eat Joe (Troll): Someone want touch your pee pee.

Trollbot: Eat Joe has earned a penalty. (298)

Noob FRPA54:  FUBAR. Run Forest, Run!

Noob USNY702: Any babes in the lurk? Send me your pic. I’ll send you mine.

Trollbot: Noob USNY702 has to pay a 5 Euro creepy fine to continue posting.

Trollbot: Noob FRPA54 has refused to pay a 5 Euro fee for posting a public link.
Below, the roaring streams of flame petered out. They were out of fuel. OOF.
“You like suspense,” George asked his stream.

“If you like it and you know you like it, you know what you gotta do.
Ka-ching!!!

51,712 of you in the stream. You know how this works. 500 Euro to see what happens next.
This ain’t no MOBA, bitches. Ante up for an epic story!”
The stream went black for a second. Then the lolita version of Rainbow Dash from My Little Pony appeared in the streaming video. She flitted around a pot of gold: 12 year old face with super-sized, cutie eyes, rainbow colored hair, body of a Hustler model, mini skirt and under-sized tee shirt with a small rainbow over her heart.
A shiny red donate button on the side of the pot glowed like it was radioactive.
The numbers (just above the pot) increased sluggishly in 5 Euro increments.
George narrated the action.

“John’s holding a briefcase over his head. You all know what that is, don’t you?Anyone?
More zombies incoming. You know the law of Epic game challenge! 40x-2p/3+6.”
Text and voices flooded the stream.
Kitty Karla (Moderator): “No Way!!! Are you taking legendary briefcase nuke?”

Sergio Brown (Subscriber): Briefcase nuke? Really? Who drops that?

Eat Joe (Troll): John is a traveling dildo salesman?

Trollbot:  Eat Joe has earned a penalty. (299)

Janelle Tarts (Super Fan): “Sergio – the Senator drops the briefcase nuke.” 

MiniMe: Janelle Tarts has earned one karma point.
The numbers above the pot of gold increased.
250. 255. 305. 320. 420. 515.
“GOAL,” George shouted in Stream.
Rainbow Dash raised her arms in victory, pushed out her chest and took a grand bow as the view of George’s game resolved in the stream video.
Below, John led the exodus of the 30 person battle team with the briefcase held high over his head. The ten person Player Killer team that had wanted to ambush John’s battle group held their rifles at rest as John’s team exited the alley. They didn’t want to die. Death in this game was permanent and there was no way of avoiding death if John blew them all up with a nuke.
Meanwhile, zombies spilled over the top of the burning wall of crispy corpses. Big and tall zombies. Small and thin zombies. Yellow and white, crusty faces animated in their anguish and hunger for human proteins. Their clothes burned as they slid, tumbled and crawled down the burning pile of the first zombies that went into the alley.
George looked down at a barrel beside him and spoke to the stream:

“I could drop the barrel bomb and clear those zombies. Or I could let them crush that Plater Killer team.
The decision is yours.
Vote 1 for me to give the ass hats a break? Vote 2 so we kick back and watch the carnage. Vote 3 if you want me to make the call.
You got 60 seconds to cast your vote.”

###

This story was inspired by the Geeky Antics 24+ hour live streaming event on Twitch and GeekyAntics.net with @Yogizilla and @Obionex2. Special thanks also to SoldierismLynnieBear23, TheKittyKate, BFT9000eru12@spathizilla, @Janelno5, @Asmodeus33, @Fedporo, @Racingjon, @deathofnation, @MattoMcFly, and everyone else that hangs out at Geeky Antics on Twitch and here at the website.

More awesome by mad geniuses here on the GANG!

What can Robert de Niro teach you about writing?
Big Stone Book of Trollish Insults
Say Something
The Unspoken Problems of True Love by @Faryna

 

Other posts by Stan that you will find illuminating, uplifting or both:

A Tribute to Maya Angelou
Robin Williams, Demons and a Dark Sign
A Short Story of the Antichrist
Blog Soup Reboot

 

About Stan Faryna

Stan Faryna is writing an epic novel. All of the world is crumbling like unrepaired, ancient walls but 18 year old gamer, PVP champion, zombie killer, blogger and serial entrepreneur John Dionysius finds the woman who he’s been dreaming about all of his life – a dream in which she is murdered as he watches helplessly from the eyes of a child.

Twitter: @Faryna
Facebook: Faryna.FanPage
Google+: +StanFaryna
Website: The Unofficial Blog of Stan Faryna

Flash Fiction: Say Something by @Faryna

Say Something by @Faryna

FlasFiction

by Stan Faryna
@Faryna

Stan Faryna & The Blue Sky - Stan The Marketing Man!

“Say something,” she whispered to John as she walked through the alley and checked dumpsters for salvage.

I’m giving up on you, she thought.

She hadn’t heard him speak to her for days – speak to her heart. He could do things like that. Unbelievable fucking things – things you couldn’t imagine.

Say something…

Right now, Cristina had never felt more alone, empty, afraid, broken, crazy, lost, angry…

She couldn’t feel his presence – he made the world, solid, good and safe. No matter what happened – there was hope as long as John was in the world. John was supernatural.

Cristina didn’t want to believe he could be gone. Not after everything that had happened. Not after she had lost him and found him again.

Her blue eyes sparkled as she remembered the night they had met. How he was unstoppable in his pursuit of her. John had told her that he was her hero and he meant it.

Her pupils dilated as she inhaled deeply and remembered the smell of his naked skin – notes of lavender, lilies, bulgarian roses and sea salt.

John was unstoppable. Unbreakable. Forever. He was her man of steel. Her angel. John was true love.

“YOU SAID YOUR LOVE IS FOREVER,” Cristina shouted up to the gray sky.

THAT MEANS YOU DON’T DIE! THAT MEANS SOMEDAY WE LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER! ”

George started to ball. Uncontrollably.

He wanted to tell her that the last words out of John’s mouth was a prayer for her – a Hail Mary cut short because they cut out his tongue with garden shears. But she couldn’t hear George; she couldn’t see him because George was dead.

George had been put here by this red dumpster by powers he didn’t understand. Eventually, he had figured out the why. Or he thought he had figured it out.

He could have knocked over a bottle to draw Cristina to the dumpster, but that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Red dumpster

Cristina walked toward the red dumpster.

“You don’t want this,” George shouted at her.

“Say something,” she pleaded to the empty, lifeless buildings that rose above the alley.

Looking around, George saw a flower pot on the ledge of a third story window. If he could knock it over, she might turn back, bring the others here and, maybe, he could get Armstrong’s attention.

He closed his eyes and braced for the weirdness as he threw himself through the wall (he felt like jello being thrown at a wall), raced through the building and up the stairwell.

“Fuck me,” he muttered as he looked out the window and saw Cristina in the dumpster – synchronizing with real time was still an epic challenge for George.

Cristina had looked over the edge of the dumpster and saw it amidst the beer cans.

She saw John’s face. His eyes were closed but his wounds were still bloody, wet and raw.

Cristina climbed into the dumpster. She could barely see John’s face now – her tears ran so hard. She thought she saw his lips move.

“My husband, my hero, my everything – please say something,” she whispered.

There was no answer.

“Say something, my love,” Cristina insisted.

She had hope; John would make it through this; she would stand by him until her last breath – regardless of his condition.

Frantically, she tried to dig his body out from the swamp of beer cans with her bare hands.

The mass of cans shifted as she dug and John’s severed head rolled on it’s side.

###

More awesome by mad geniuses here on the GANG!

Big Stone Book of Trollish Insults
Say Something
The Unspoken Problems of True Love by @Faryna
How I made a Million streaming my game on Twitch

Other posts by Stan that you will find illuminating, uplifting or both:

A Tribute to Maya Angelou
Robin Williams, Demons and a Dark Sign
A Short Story of the Antichrist
Blog Soup Reboot

 

 

About Stan Faryna

Stan Faryna is writing an epic novel. All of the world is crumbling like unrepaired, ancient walls but 18 year old gamer, PVP champion, zombie killer, blogger and serial entrepreneur John Dionysius finds the woman who he’s been dreaming about all of his life – a dream in which she is murdered as he watches helplessly from the eyes of a child.

Twitter: @Faryna
Facebook: Faryna.FanPage
Google+: +StanFaryna
Website: The Unofficial Blog of Stan Faryna

You can support Stan by helping his friend, Nisha Varghese (click on Nisha’s pic to make a donation).

Nisha Varghese

Nisha Varghese is an inspiration to Stan because she lives out the truth that she is bigger than her challenges. Among them, Cerebral Palsy. She too can save the world. Make it a better place for all of us. Nisha is a light and a gift unto the world.

Nisha’s website is here.

 

Flash Fiction: Big Stone Book of Trollish Insults by @StartYourNovel

Big Stone Book of Trollish Insults


FlasFiction


by John Magnet Bell
@startyournovel

John Magnet Bell

Shame of the Fireside, black tusker, hunter of clouds — I earned these names and worse because I fell in love with a human alchemist’s son.

My sisters drove me from the home fire and I lived on wolves and other vermin. I looked for my beloved without cease.

I imagine the alchemist’s son
would look something like this.
Image sourced from this io9 article, which includes a dozen more intriguing pictures of 1970s cosplayers
NB.: If you’re uncomfortable with loincloths, diaphanous tunics and exposed breasts, don’t go there.

###

More awesome by mad geniuses here on the GANG!

Creepy by @Faryna
What can Robert de Niro teach you about writing?
One Red Shoe
What can Monty Python teach you about writing?



More flash fiction by John Magnet Bell:

The Second Coming of Gweed
The Chomping Mouth at the End of June
The Angels of Provenance
Have You Seen my Wife’s Mustache?

About John Magnet Bell

John is a professional translator, writer and photographer. He writes about writing and he writes unconventional flashes of fiction at his website, Start Your Novel. Why? John explains his passion here.

Twitter: @StartYourNovel
Google+: JMBell
Tumblr: http://johnmagnetbell.tumblr.com/
Website: Start Your Novel

Please support John so that he can keep writing epic prompts! You can buy his shocking art at society6: http://society6.com/johnmagnetbell

The Next Step by John Magnet Bell

The Next Step by John Magnet Bell

FragLit: Passerby by Scott Allen cc: @OliviaDresher

FragLit: Passerby by Scott Allen

Fragmentary Literature

From the Archives of FragLit
An international online magazine of fragmentary writing
Reposted at GANG with permission from @OliviaDresher

Olivia Dresher

 

0

 

Passerby
by Scott Allen
@just__then

FragLit Fall 2010: Issue Seven

 


I live.

I die.
I am.

Anger doesn’t help.
Neither does complacency.


Sleep and rise.

Sleep and rise.

My cats and I.
We don’t care.

Love—it’s just another body with some special features.

You are not unique.
Everyone is.

The denial of death is still death.

It got dark.

Life is coming.

“Write it, Scott,” she said.

I missed.

Variety is our destination.

I’m still young.

It often takes a long time for the words to come to light.

The dream is over.
Now begins the moment.

I saw a young, teenage girl eating a banana chip.
She has a long way to go.

Artists only want to do what they do.
And this is what they teach us.
To do what we want.

The truth is elongated.

I closed my eyes the whole way.

I thought all the old man did was spit and cough, but he also smiled.

Life is going to the dentist.

My cat pointed the way.

###

FragLit

More awesome by mad geniuses here on the GANG!

The Existential Triad in bioShock Infinite
One Red Shoe
With Music by @RussellBennetts & @Klassnik
What can Monty Python teach you about writing?

About FragLit

FragLit was founded in 2007 by Olivia Dresher; it was published online twice a year (Spring and Fall) and each issue included writings on a specific theme. Work by both new and established writers was featured, as well as pieces written by regular contributors.

FragLit published a variety of fragmentary forms, including excerpts from journals, diaries and notebooks; vignettes; aphorisms; micro essays and notes; excerpts from letters; and various nontraditional short forms.

“We learn in school that literature has a hierarchy: poem, play, novel, essay. All else—diary, journal, aphorism, letters—are secondary, jottings, ephemera. Reading tells us a different story. The engaging and memorable are found everywhere. In books like In Pieces we are ‘49ers panning for gold and finding nuggets.”

— William Corbett

Get more fragments in pieces, here.

In Pieces

Flash Fiction: Creepy by @Faryna

Creepy by @Faryna

FlasFiction

by Stan Faryna
@Faryna

Stan Faryna & The Blue Sky - Stan The Marketing Man!

 

Anais texted Anca and Cristina.

Bonjour! Cristina, you can do way better than John.

Stop looking at him!

Anca:

John’s serious. In a creepy way. He’s not fun. Not funny.

Did I mention that he fucked up everything in the game?

Yeah, he’s a creeper…

Anais:

Oh, I know! Like how he expects us to play nice. Or give the noobs a chance to figure things out. Fuck that!

They aren’t paying my rent!

John’s a total control freak.

Fuck that! I’ll do whatever I want. It’s bank or bust and I do bank, fuck you very much, Mr. Do Right.

What kind of future can you have with a boy that makes life harder than it has to be? Or even a game?!

Anca:

What you want is a wolf. Every woman wants a wolf in her bed.

Anais:

Awooo!

Anais and Anca laughed.

Anais:

John’s no wolf.

He’s just a creeper. Like a funeral director.

Like that old woman that goes to the church every morning with her husband and she always gives me stink eye on her way because her husband can’t wait to see a little cheek as the hem of my mini skirt inches up with each step.

It’s out of her hands. She can’t change her husband and she can’t tell me what to wear. Fuck that creepy, old bag!

Cristina Viktor

Cristina Viktor

Cristina:

Hmmm, still, I like him. What if he’s the one for me?!

Ok, there’s something about him that is different. So he’s not just another jerk that’s just looking out for himself and thinks everyone else can go to hell. If he cares about other people, like you say, tell me why that’s a bad thing?

So John’s different. Fine. But if that difference has dignity – you know, I think that’s hot. Really fucking hot!

I want more than dick.

I want a man. I want true love. I want it all. I want forever. I deserve it. We all do.

Why settle for dick?

Anais:

Tel qui rit vendredi dimanche pleurera!

[Laugh on Friday, cry on Sunday.]

###

More awesome by mad geniuses here on the GANG!

YOHTAI Issue No. 4 #Hearthstone

One Red Shoe

With Music by @RussellBennetts & @Klassnik

What can Monty Python teach you about writing?

 

 

Other posts by Stan that you will find illuminating, uplifting or both:

You Can Do Amazing Things

A Tribute to Maya Angelou

A Letter from Osama bin Laden

A Short Story of the Antichrist

 

About Stan Faryna

Stan Faryna is writing an epic novel. All of the world is crumbling like unrepaired, ancient walls but 18 year old gamer, PVP champion, zombie killer, blogger and serial entrepreneur John Dionysius finds the woman who he’s been dreaming about all of his life – a dream in which she is murdered as he watches helplessly from the eyes of a child.

Twitter: @Faryna
Facebook: Faryna.FanPage
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What can Robert De Niro teach you about writing? by @StartYourNovel

What can Robert De Niro teach you about writing?

 

0…
On Writing


by John Magnet Bell
@startyournovel

John Magnet Bell

Robert De Niro (b. 1943) is an American actor, director and producer. Claiming that the Muses love him is an understatement — he’s played so many iconic movie roles by now, I’m surprised Euripides hasn’t risen from the grave to crown De Niro in laurels. Did I get my tropes wrong? I don’t care.

De Niro in Raging Bull

De Niro in Raging Bull

There was Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull: a simmering, hammer-fisted ball of rage.

De Niro in Taxi Driver

De Niro in Taxi Driver

“You takin to me?”


The 
Taxi Driver, that least charming of rogues, speaking to secret fantasies of retribution.

De Niro in The Untouchables

De Niro in The Untouchables

De Niro’s portrayal of Al Capone is the definitive one, as far as I’m concerned.

Robert De Niro was born to Virginia Holton Admiral and Robert De Niro, Sr., two painters of cosmopolitan descent: Robert’s ancestry includes Albanian, Irish, English, German, French and Dutch forebears.

De Niro’s parents divorced when he was only 3, and he was raised by his mother in the Little Italy neighborhood of Manhattan and in Greenwich Village.

 

At school he was dubbed “Bobby Milk” on account of his skin tone. It was also at school that he would first tread the stage as the Cowardly Lion in a production of The Wizard of Oz. Bobby was a shy ten-year-old who had discovered the magic of acting.

 

One word would be enough to describe De Niro’s love affair with his calling – that word is devotion. He’s one of the few actors alive today with a real talent for metamorphosis. Travis Bickle, Sam Rothstein, Al Capone… “Bobby Milk” invested them with a kind of intensity that can only come from love. Love for the work.

 

De Niro is the ultimate chameleon actor, and in a way it’s a shame that he’s become so famous, because his celebrity status will now color any role he takes on.

 

Maybe in a few decades, when his star has dimmed somewhat, we can once again appreciate his performances without the specter of fame at the back our minds.

 

So, what can Robert De Niro teach you about writing a novel, story or play?

“I’ve never been one of those actors who has touted myself as a fascinating human being. I had to decide early on whether I was to be an actor or a personality.

Oscar Wilde once remarked that great poets led boring lives, whereas bad ones seemed to hop from one adventure to the next – true poetry lay in what they did, not what they wrote.

 

Writing is not the most engaging form of physical exertion I can think of. In fact it is rather monotonous, even if you develop eccentric strategies to help you cope.

 

Writing is where you separate the thinkers from the doers. You have to be mentally prepared to sit down for hours and put one word in front of the other and pound your sentences into shape. That’s what a thinker does – she subordinates physical expression to the demands of her mind.

 

A writer is under no obligation to be interesting or eccentric. Deep thinking, dedication in the long term, these are the traits I find essential.

 

You can cultivate your social persona and your writing, but one of the two is going to take a few hits, depending on your skills.

De Niro in Casino

De Niro in Casino

Ace: 

“Listen to me very carefully. There are three ways of doing things around here: the right way, the wrong way, and the way that *I* do it. You understand?”

“It’s important not to indicate. People don’t try to show their feelings, they try to hide them.

Greek actors wore masks on stage, as well as special shoes. Both mask and footwear had meaning, as tragic and comic actors put on different kinds.

 

The masks were stylized representations of human faces. For the most part, we don’t ask our actors to wear tangible masks anymore, but the principle is still there. They use their actual faces as masks.

 

You’re no different in daily life. Politeness is an act. Going up before a class and teaching is also an act. Any rational activity that makes you interact with other human beings forces you to develop self-control and represent your feelings. Not to mitigate or disown them, but to keep them out of the way.

 

So many writers struggle with dialogue because they don’t want the reader to feel left out of the conversation. That is a legitimate concern, but revealing too much through a character’s voice is a big risk. More often than not, your 33rd-degree Freemason assassin will sound like someone who can’t unzip his fly without help.

 

People hesitate and overthink. Momentous decisions are seldom matured overnight, and decisions that affect lives will be shared with restricted circles.

 

Don’t condescend to the reader. You’ll cripple the story, and ultimately their enjoyment.

DeNiro 5

“One of the things about acting is it allows you to live other people’s lives without having to pay the price.”

 

Creating a story, you leave your ties behind. Limitations that you observe in real life become fodder for brilliant prose. In the rich landscape of your mind, you can be Emperor of Ten Thousand Worlds or a deaf assassin. You can commit all the crimes you want against imaginary people and not worry about the police tracking you down.

 

When you don the writer’s mask, you’re excused from the obligations of your daily, outward self. You can turn loose the giant radioactive hedgehogs that populate your grimmest, grittiest nightmares.

 

You get to create lives and inhabit them. It’s like acting, with a major bonus: you don’t need to take any shit from directors. Ever.

###

More awesome by mad geniuses here on the GANG!

The Existential Triad in bioShock Infinite
One Red Shoe
With Music by @RussellBennetts & @Klassnik
What can Monty Python teach you about writing?



Flash fiction by John Magnet Bell:

A Prayer to the Coastal Winds
Stratospheric Beast
The Angels of Provenance
Parable of the Hungry Dark

About John Magnet Bell

John is a professional translator, writer and photographer. He writes about writing and he writes unconventional flashes of fiction at his website, Start Your Novel. Why? John explains his passion here.

Twitter: @StartYourNovel
Google+: JMBell
Tumblr: http://johnmagnetbell.tumblr.com/
Website: Start Your Novel

Please support John so that he can keep writing epic prompts! You can buy his shocking art at society6: http://society6.com/johnmagnetbell

Typhon by John Magnet Bell

Typhon by John Magnet Bell

 

The Existential Triad in BioShock Infinite by @Miksimum

 

Afraid of You: The Existential Triad in BioShock Infinite

 

 


Meditations

by Jesse Miksic

@Miksimum

jesse miksics

 

“One of the strengths of BioShock Infinite, acknowledged less often than
its expansive and detailed historical-revisionist steampunk setting, is
the way its narrative is punctuated. The extended forays down cobblestone
streets – and the intermittent murderous rampages – are connective tissue,
linking a series of scenes that are genuinely, jarringly emotional. The
relationship between Booker, Elizabeth and Zachary Comstock sets the stage
for some truly evocative dramatic turns, perhaps more of them – and
handled with a more dynamic sensibility – than in any other game in
memory, including narrative-heavy games like Japanese role-playing games
(JRPGs).

These moments are thematically woven together, and many of them are linked
to the original BioShock, albeit loosely. Before I dive into the
psychological and existential dimensions of BioShock Infinite, I want to
acknowledge some of these scenes, and unpack their significance.

bioshock-infinite-booker-elizabeth

[Read more…]

Flash Fiction: Old Testament, Nevada by @StartYourNovel

Old Testament, Nevada


FlasFiction


by John Magnet Bell
@startyournovel

John Magnet Bell


There’s something about the desert at night that keeps the dog listening. She’s black against the silver sand of a clear night and sits on her haunches and sometimes essays a bark that dies in her throat.

“Toffee,” I whisper to my dog. I sit beside her. Be midnight soon.

Fila Brasileiro

Fila Brasileiro

###

More awesome by mad geniuses here on the GANG!

YOHTAI Issue No. 4 #Hearthstone
One Red Shoe
With Music by @RussellBennetts & @Klassnik0
What can Monty Python teach you about writing?



More flash fiction by John Magnet Bell:

A Prayer to the Coastal Winds
Stratospheric Beast
The Angels of Provenance
Parable of the Hungry Dark

About John Magnet Bell

John is a professional translator, writer and photographer. He writes about writing and he writes unconventional flashes of fiction at his website, Start Your Novel. Why? John explains his passion here.

Twitter: @StartYourNovel
Google+: JMBell
Tumblr: http://johnmagnetbell.tumblr.com/
Website: Start Your Novel

Please support John so that he can keep writing epic prompts! You can buy his shocking art at society6: http://society6.com/johnmagnetbell

Typhon by John Magnet Bell

Typhon by John Magnet Bell