Pushed Too Far
Well, I'm working on the previous story I posted, trying to make it longer, so I thought I'd post another short story for the semi-competition.

Now, this was the product of a twelve hour shift, far too much caffiene and not enough sleep. It just kind of poured out - I have no idea where it came from.

Well, here it is:

***********************************************

"That's it, they've went too far. Far too far. They're going to have to pay, Amadeus. Fire me will, they? I'll show them..."

"Meow?"

"What's that? Why did they fire me?"

"Meow?"

"Well, my feline friend, they said I was freaking people out! Me! Freaking people out? Laughable. They're pushed me too far, Amadeus."

"Meow"

"I knew you would understand, Amadeus. You always know what I'm thinking. It's like we have...a mental connection. Yeah, we have a mental connection. I wonder why I never noticed it before. Hey, Amadeus, what am I thinking just now?"

"Meow?"

"Yes, I was thinking of a steamboat! That's amazing! Okay, let's see if it works both ways...I sense you're thinking...of how a TV show wouldn't have blind viewers? Only blind listeners?"

"Meow"

"That's amazing! We can hear each other's thoughts! But I'm afraid I can't be distracted, Amadeus. I'm on a mission."

"Mreoew?"

"It's my old boss, Mister Peterson. The one who fired me. I went into town and bought some...provisions. I've got something here, in this brown paper bag, that Mister Peterson is dying to meet. He's going to get it, Amadeus, and it ain't gonna be pretty.

"Meow"

"I knew you'd say that Amadeus, and in many ways, you're right. But I need to do this, I can't let him get away with it."

"Mrour"

"I will. And Amadeus, if I...don't come back...I want you to feel free to see other people."

"Meow"

"Goodbye Amadeus"

...

SLAM

...

CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH

...

SLAM

...

BRRRRRRMM, VRRRRRRRRRRRMMMM

...

"Well, seeing as Amadeus is back in the house, I guess I should talk to you, my invisible friend. I never caught your name, by the way."

...

"Really? Jake? You don't look like a Jake...anyway Jake, the reason we're driving this fast is because I have to catch my old boss as he's leaving the office, take him by surprise. Heh, he won't know what hit him."

...

"Well, I don't need to watch the road, Jake, you can do it for me. Just yell if I'm about to hit something. So, anyways..."

THUMP

"What the hell? Jake! I told you to yell if you saw anything! Now I just hit that old lady back there, and it's all your fault. WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY ANYTHING?"

...

"I'm sorry, I'm not mad at you, I guess I should've been just watching the road. But you could've at least warned me! Jeeze..."

...

"Hey, Jake, you ever notice how most people spend most of their lives doing things they don't care about? How most people hated their jobs?"

...

"Well, I think that's crazy. Those people are crazy, Jake. Not like me and you. I loved my job, and I bet you do too. Hey, what do you do for a living?"

...

"Yeah? You sing to fish? I hear there's some good career prospects in the whole fish-singing business. You've good your head screwed on tight, Jake. Good man."

...

"What, my job? I loved it, Jake, I loved it. I loved getting dressed up, putting on the baggy pants, the red nose, the facepaint. Entertaining the kids. Juggling, magic, balloon animals - I was the best, Jake. The best! And they fired me. Well, HE fired me. Mister Peterson. The man I'm going to see. And, boy, do I have a surprise for him."

...

"He thinks he's invincible. He thinks no-one can touch him. Well, he's wrong. Dead wrong."

...

"I can't make any promises, Jake. It might...get ugly"

"Wait a minute, there he is! Shit, he's leaving the office. Here goes..."

SCREEEEEEEEEECH

SLAM

CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH

"What the hell...?"

"Thought you could fire me, eh, Mister Peterson?"

"Colin? What are you doing? And what's that in your hand?"

"I'm gonna show you, Mister Peterson, I'm gonna show everybody!"

"What are you talking about? Hey, don't point that thing at me! Colin, I'm warning you..."

"This is it, Mister Peterson. This is where you pay!"

PSSSSSFFFFFFFTTTTT

"What the hell? Silly string? Are you mad?"

"And have some of this..."

SPLAT

"A custard pie? You've ruined my new suit! You lunatic!"

"Hah, and what are you gonna do about it?"

"I'm gonna kick your ass, you little punk!"

"Jake! Run!"

CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH

"Keep up Jake!"

CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH

PANT PANT

...

"Whew, I think we lost him!"

...

"That was close, Jake! Lucky you were there - I could never have managed that on my own. C'mon, let's go home. Amadeus will have the dinner on..."

***********************************************

How is this a scary story, you may ask? Well, it allows you a view into what exactly my mind was thinking at the time. And that's a scary thought indeed.

I haven't counted the words - I'm far too tired, and I've got another twelve hour shift to look forward to tomorrow, so I'm off to bed.

EDIT Changed the ending

Feel free to leave any constructive criticism in the replies.
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Sun 6 Jul 2008, 0:44, 4 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Any other Canucks?
Hey folks.
Just curious if there are any other Canadians on b3ta. Perhaps enough to warrant some sort of gathering?
--tuqueboy
(in toronto)
(tuqueboy has been in a medically -induced coma since, Sun 6 Jul 2008, 0:44, 1 reply, 16 years ago)

Not
quite sure was I was thinking as I wrote this... but still.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sun 6 Jul 2008, 0:34, 10 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Right, I've had a go at this 500 word story thingy
This time with an exotic angle.

It's pr0n, of sorts. And exactly 500 words, which I was pleased about.

It's straight out of my head, and so won't win any creative writing prizes, but here goes.

Enjoy. Criticism welcome as always.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 23:07, 4 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

The pr0n version
The story I wrote earlier was intended to be some bad pr0n as I seem to specialise in that on this site for some reason, but having read other people's stories, I decided to stick to the 500 word limit and keep it mild.

In the replies is the more full flavoured version I'd been playing with.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 22:45, 3 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Oh bollocks
I knew I'd forget to do some things last night. Like lick Al's face and quiz DiT on why he wasn't wearing suspenders.

Bum.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 21:57, 12 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Meh
Seeing as people are putting short stories up, thought I'd give it ago.

Be gentle...
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 21:40, 7 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

18 words over
but what's a few words between friends?

Full story in reply.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 20:22, 16 replies, latest was 11 years ago)

Afternoon all
Photos of the bash last night are in the flickr pool section in the calendar :)

Oops, not sure what I did there, but you should be able to see them now.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 17:50, 47 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Yay! Here's my story!
At last I'm home. I'm shaking and my hand hurts; it's not badly bitten, but I think the shock is making me feel worse. Mr Carter said he'd take me to the hospital but I didn't want to make a fuss. He looked more shaken that I was - little Max has never so much as growled at anyone before, he said. Bloody dogs. I run my hand under the tap and wash it with antiseptic. If it looks bad in the morning, I'll call in to see the doctor. I stare at my face in the mirror - I look so white, my features appear altered. I go to bed.

The next morning my hand seems OK, so I put a plaster over the bite and head straight to work. All things considered, I feel pretty good, but I get annoyed with the people in the office because the place is so noisy, much worse than normal. And there's a really strange smell in the air that no one else seems aware of. I complain to my boss, but she just looks at me oddly.

Two days later and the smell at work is no better; it's starting to affect me and I feel excitable. People keep asking me if I've done something with my hair - at lunchtime I look at myself in the mirror in the staff-room. I look different, but I can't determine why. I do, however, decide to book another electrolysis appointment with Marianne - it doesn't seem like I had one that long ago, but still! I look terrible.

At the end of the week, my boss calls me into her office and asks me if I'm OK. I assure her I'm fine, but I don't seem to be able to stop sniffing the air and I've developed a strange habit of turning around three times before I sit down. Maybe I've got OCD. She suggests I take a few days off, and I jump at the chance. I mean literally, I jump. I'm off that chair and out the door - I can go and play in the park!

The next morning, I'm alarmed to see that my hair problem has increased. There's a knock at the door and I don't want to answer, but the caller is very insistent. I open the door; it's Mr Carter, and when he sees me, he nods his head and says, 'I thought this might happen.' He turns to Max, who's sitting on the path behind him. 'I hope you're ashamed of yourself,' he says, and I swear Max shrugs. My phone is ringing, so I make my apologies and retreat inside.

It's my mum on the phone - she only lives down the road but she's always too busy to walk up to see me. 'Do you know Mr Carter?' I ask her. 'Oh him, yes,' she replies. 'Sad story really - he had a lovely family, but his son went missing and his wife died not knowing what happened to him. I often see him out with that dog; I don't think he has much else.' I ask her, 'Did they ever find the son?' Mum says she doesn't think so; we chat a bit more, but I decide not to mention my recent developments.

One week on and I can't deny that something very weird is happening to me. Mr Carter called by a couple of times, but I hid behind the curtains and scratched my ears. Next door's cat sends me into a frenzy of excitement and I feel terribly guilty every time I sit on the sofa. I'm sure it's stress-related, and I just need to take a few days resting at home. I tried to ring in sick, but my boss couldn't understand me. And as for my hair problem, who knows? I don't seem to be able to look into the mirror any more - it's like I've shrunk or something.

I feel very strange. I think I'll lie down on my blanket and wait for the feeling to pass.
( thealternativefact, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 16:38, 19 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Typical.
A day in the life of... Me.

Last night I went to the Bash and hung out with some very, very cool people. We drank beer, told stories, and (I think) had a lot of fun. I even think that I didn't make an arse of myself and I have got some cool friends.

But I had to leave early as I didn't want to be too hung over because I was playing cricket today. And, because I'm weak, I can't just switch to soft drinks. Bah!

So this morning dawned and, admittedly a little fuzzy, I woke up, put on my whites, grabbed my nice new Woodworm bat, and went down to the Cricket Club.

It was raining. Forecast said (apparently) the rain would not stop. Match cancelled.

And now? The fucking sun has come out. It's scorching outside.

Bugger.

/moan ends.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 13:13, 47 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

my first attempt at the sub-500 word qotw entry
will appear as a reply here.

constructive crit welcome.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 12:42, 13 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

The Stephen & Tiddles Adventures (for Pavlov)
Int. Hotel Corridor - North End. Night. Wide Shot.

A MYSTERY MAN in an overcoat, hat pulled down low enough to hide all of his face save his mouth and jaw presses himself to a wall. He seems to be peering behind himself, down the corridor, nervously. As he stands there a single drop of sweat tracks down his cheeks and drops onto his coat unnoticed. At the sound of an electric motor he looks around wildly.

CUT TO:
Int. Hotel Corridor - South End. Night. Two Shot.

We're looking at the scene from the opposite end. Two wheelchairs, one normal sized, the other much smaller, a pair of fluffly ears just poking over the top of the backrest. A ginger tail drags limply behind. Framed between them we see our MYSTERY MAN at the other end of the corridor as he quickly takes off round the corner in panic.

CUT TO:
Int. Hotel Corridor - South End. Night. Close up on STEPHEN HAWKING

STEPHEN starts blinking rapidly.

Stephen(computerised): "Quick Tiddles, the murderer went round that corner!"

CUT TO:
Int. Hotel Corridor - South End. Night. Close up on TIDDLES

TIDDLES' head lolls towards STEPHEN. When it comes to a sudden halt, by hitting his own shoulder, a thin string of drool emerges from the cat's mouth and hangs there. TIDDLES lazily blinks once.

Tiddles(computerised): "Meow."

CUT TO:
Int. Hotel Corridor - South End. Night. Two shot of STEPHEN and TIDDLES

STEPHEN blinks once. With conviction.

Stephen(computerised): "Let's ROCK!"

With a slightly higher pitched hum from the electric motors, both wheelchairs shudder as their tires spin impotently on the carpet for a moment, smoke pouring from them. Moments later they slowly shoot off towards the camera.

CUT TO:
Int. Hotel Corridor - Corner. Night. Wide Shot.
Again we see the two wheelchairs from behind but from this angle, right in front of them is the start of a massive staircase which, as we watch, we see the MYSTERY MAN bound up the final two to disappear from our shot.

Stephen(computerised): Wank!

CUT TO:
Int. Hotel Corridor - Corner. Night. Two Shot - Front of STEPHEN and TIDDLES.

STEPHEN blinks rapidly, his pupils darting around like Neo's hands when he fights in The Matrix (and not at the start where he's all shite but near the end when he's like a god and stuff).

Stephen(computerised): "It's time."

With a little more blinking an audible CLICK is heard. A panel on the armrest of STEPHEN's wheelchair opens and a tiny ball of light slowly rises upwards to head height. As we watch undulating streamers of light spread from the ball. A whooshing noise begins, quiet at first but slowly louder. TIDDLES' fur ruffles and STEPHEN's immaculate hair is blown by an unseen wind towards the ball.

Stephen(computerised - His speaker turned up a bit to hear over whoosh effect): "IT'S WORKING!"

Scraps of paper and dust fly from all angles of the HOTEL CORRIDOR and are sucked in the growing ball of light. As the whooshing noise reaches deafening levels the images of STEPHEN and TIDDLES bend towards the ball.

With a thunderclap crescendo the MIDSHOT flashes brilliant white then instantly CUT TO black as everything is pulled into the supernova.

BLACK/SILENCE. Seconds pass. Just when it seems that everything has been reduced to the size of an atom and destroyed:

TIDDLES(computerised - voice over): "Meow?"

Captions - "The End?"

__________________________________________________________________

EDIT: Hands up who thinks I need to get out more. Anyway, only started this post so I had an excuse to post this; check out the new sig. Sorry if anyone's gazzed me recently and I haven't had time to reply yet. Things are a bit hectic and I've got to go away for a while (I might stick my head round the corner if there's a really excellent question tho, natch). Take care y'all. See you soon. I hope.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Sat 5 Jul 2008, 10:58, 9 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

hello?
is anyone around this morning, or are you all too hungover and notatwork?
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 10:17, 54 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

It's late at night, and it may be the cider talking
But I've just come up with the greatest idea for a kids cartoon. 'Stephen Hawking's cat.'

It's essentially Stephen Hawking's adventures with his cartoon cat, who is also in a wheelchair. It would say "Meow" in the same robot voice as Hawking. They could travel round the world, solving crimes which don't require physical activity.

What do you think - am I on to something?
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 1:26, 5 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Yet another bit of spooooooky fiction!
Story in reply again...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 4 Jul 2008, 21:45, 8 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Sorry to bother you with this but ...
Good evening lovely QOTW people, I've finally got something to sit on in my new flat and don't have anyone to share my joy with so you lot will have to do. ;)





I'm now sitting comfortably, drinking a beer and looking at this:





*prouds*
(Shippy likes linebreaks and doesn't care what you think, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 21:39, 13 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

For my fellow Merkins here...
Happy 4th everyone!

And for your Brits: Face it, you guys really are glad to have gotten rid of us after all huh?
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Fri 4 Jul 2008, 21:36, 7 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Scary Tale
Here's my attempt at scary.
Far-fetched but here it is, in the reply.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 20:40, 8 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Non-bashers of the evening unite
And do it in here.

Unite that is, none of those al-based japeries.


(PenguinOfDeath is Scottish, and most likely angry, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 20:29, 166 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Okay, someone's going to have to explain to me
What the hell does *spang* mean? I've understood most of the B3ta memes, but this is one that I've missed.

Can anyone help me out?
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 19:04, 5 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Why is it
that I always, without fail, run into twunt ex with child when I look crappy and am stressed? Why can I not do the same when I look fantastic?
( Maladicta, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 18:53, 10 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

And more spoooooky fiction
Story in reply.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 4 Jul 2008, 17:53, 8 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Spooooky fiction time!
Posting the story in the reply.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 4 Jul 2008, 17:47, 7 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Tales of the unexplained - in 500 words
I don’t understand, I really don’t understand. How the hell did it happen? When? Why? What did I do?

Oh don’t give me that “It’s not you, it’s me” shit - who the hell was it then? There was only you and me, and if it was you, why the hell couldn’t you talk to me about it?

What do you mean you mean I never listen? I don’t understand.

Of course I noticed there was something wrong. I’m not fucking blind am I? I know you’ve been a bit down lately, OK very down for a while, OK for quite a while, but I thought it was just life, you know? Money, the kids, your job. My job.

Well no, now you fucking mention it, I’ve not been happy for ages if you must know.

Why didn’t I mention it? Well what exactly would you have done?

Oh right, so now you want to talk do you. Well forget about me for a minute, try talking about you. Who is he?

Oh you have got to be joking! You’re not serious? Well, fuck me. You’re a joke, a fucking sick joke. I don’t want to talk to you any more. Just go and pack your stuff and get the hell out of my house.

Oh yes you are. I’m not having you here for another night; I can’t bear to look at you.

Oh no. The kids are staying here. I’m not having you upsetting them any more than necessary. If you want to do this, then fuck right off and go to him, he’s welcome to you.

No, I won’t be quiet. I’ve been quiet too long, you can shut up.

I’m going to get a drink. I want you to go upstairs and pack your things right this minute and if you wake the kids then I’ll tell them exactly what’s happening and why: their Mum’s fucking off with some tosser from work because she’s an old slapper that doesn’t give a shit about them or what happens to them from now on as long as she gets a good shagging once in a while.

That’s right. Off you go.

---------------------

The bitch! I just can’t believe it. I don’t understand. I thought things were getting better, she seemed more cheerful - now I know why, the bitch! “No, I’m too tired tonight” too tired my fucking arse. I can’t believe I’ve been so thick, but then I’ve been so frigging busy.

I do not need this right now. I could really fucking do without this right now. The cow!

I was going to get in early tomorrow - 7.30 start, really get on top of the material before the presentation…now what the fuck am I going to do? If I call Mum first thing maybe she could come over, no, better still, I’ll get them up early and drive them over to her’s.

Fuck, where’s that new bottle.

If she’d only explain, maybe I could understand.

------------------------------------

Have a good weekend folks, and please leave your comments under the mat. I'll pick them up on Monday.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 15:47, 3 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

You know you've been on b3ta too long when...
go for it kids!
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 15:40, 31 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Second class mail
Following on from happylittletulip's strange letter experience this morning, here's something that I can't get my head around.

Why do we have first and second class mail? Why two streams? As I see it, it can only make things harder for the Post Office. Here's my reasoning, albeit via gross simplifications:

All the mail is posted in the same box. It's sorted into two bundles, one for first class and one for second class. The first class mail gets sent on for delivery, together with the previous day's second class mail.

The following day, a new batch of mail arrives, and it's again separated, whereupon the first class mail is sent out with the first day's second class mail.

So the same volume of mail is being delivered each day, but in effect the second class stuff is deliberately being delayed. Wouldn't it just be easier to have a single class of mail, so removing the need to sort it into two streams, given that it's all got to be delivered sooner or later anyway?

Maybe I've got this entirely wrong. Perhaps there's a more logical reason. But until someone can explain it to me, I'm buggered if I can work it out.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 14:20, 8 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

should've posted this on the "guilty pleasures" question
But when all the punters and drama brats have left the theatre, and I'm alone, I put cheesy disco music on the cafe sound system and have a little boogie all by myself before locking up.

Then I grin to myself all the way home.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 13:24, 6 replies, latest was 16 years ago)