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447 clicks; posted to Main » and Discussion » on 22 Sep 2021 at 5:55 PM (4 weeks ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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View Voting Results: Smartest and Funniest
 
2021-09-22 4:37:13 PM  
Not much to report this week, unfortunately. I'm still in the process of sending out notifications to submitters for this year's Fark Fiction Anthology, so if you haven't heard back, hold on!
 
2021-09-22 5:07:08 PM  
This is a second draft of a story I've already posted in TFD. I plan to submit it for the Halloween thread, though it's not really a Halloween story. I welcome comments, criticism, and suggestions.

===========

TO: Resident
XXX NW 49th St.
Oklahoma City, OK 73118

Hi. I used to live in your house. This letter is about that. Maybe you'll find this interesting, or maybe you'll think I'm weird, and you'll want to have nothing to do with anything that follows. I understand.

In 1976, my family moved from where you are to where I am, in Montana. I left something behind that is probably still there, unless major renovations have taken place. It's a small plastic pumpkin inside the wall that separates the garage from the laundry room. Maybe it's still a laundry room. You probably know which room I'm talking about. It's sunny and looks over the back patio. The wall between that room and the garage is where my lost treasure is buried. Perhaps you can retrieve it for me. Let me explain.

When I was about six, I was trespassing in your neighbor's back yard. They were the Wileys, a very kind, elderly couple with grown children in places I never learned. They were like everyone's grandma and grandpa. So, when I say I was trespassing in their yard, I mean they could have called the cops on me, but that would have been unlike them. They'd more likely have offered me lemonade.

Under those trees that separated their yard from ours, half-buried in the soil, left over from a Halloween years prior, was a plastic pumpkin the size of my fist. (That's my fist today, 50 years later, not the puppy fist I clenched back then.)  The pumpkin was white on the top, where the sun had bleached it. Orange on the bottom, where the dirt had kept it fresh.

It enchanted me. It was like a misplaced piece of Halloween that could keep my mental trick-or-treat bag full till the real thing came along. So I did a theft. I knew it. No excusing it. I stole it. I stole that sun-bleached plastic pumpkin from their back yard, knowing full well that if I had asked for it, they'd have given it to me, and a glass of lemonade. Maybe that's why I stole it. Lemonade would have diluted the thrill.

This is where your place comes in. Back in those days--let's say, 1970--the room above the garage was our (and by "our" I mean my brother's and my) playroom. A sturdy wooden ladder, snug against the red brick wall, above a work bench, led to a hole in the ceiling. Beyond that hole was the playroom. Clubhouse. Whatever. Mom and Dad let us go up there, so we did, and we made it ours.

The ladder was, as I said, snug against the wall. Fastened to it somehow. At the top of the ladder was the top of the wall. Hollow, red, ceramic brick. Note that word "hollow." That's why the pumpkin is in there. Whoever built the wall didn't think it was important to fill the bricks with concrete, as intended. They were left empty. Anything could fall in there, including the pumpkin that I hadn't even had time to appreciate yet. I got to the top of that ladder, set the pumpkin on it, and then accidentally knocked it down into the inexplicably hollow wall.

I got a flashlight. I could see it down there. At the age of six, I didn't have the know-how to retrieve it. Even if I'd had the skills, I wouldn't have had the courage to ask someone to help me retrieve my purloined pumpkin.

Enough is enough, I say. I have the courage, the agency, the wherewithal to finally summon help. I want that pumpkin, dammit. The Wileys are dead, the statute of limitations is long expired, and that pumpkin is still there. With your help, it will be in my hands soon.

Its retrieval will require some specialized equipment. It is not an endeavor to be undertaken lightly. So, with your go-ahead, I'd like to send you a kit with diagrams and instructions for safely procuring my long-lost loot. Unless you want to bash in the wall with a sledge hammer. Don't let me slow you down.

If you think I'm just some nut, that's understandable. If, however, you'd like to be my accomplice in a 50-year-old heist, please reply, and I will send more explicit instructions.

Yours very truly,
API
 
2021-09-22 6:59:08 PM  
Writers. About as much fun as that penis extender in another thread.
 
2021-09-22 7:01:14 PM  

woodjf: Writers. About as much fun as that penis extender in another thread.


Sure, except one of them actually works.
 
2021-09-22 7:04:53 PM  

JustHereForThePics: woodjf: Writers. About as much fun as that penis extender in another thread.

Sure, except one of them actually works.


Brilliant
 
2021-09-22 7:33:57 PM  

a particular individual: This is a second draft of a story I've already posted in TFD. I plan to submit it for the Halloween thread, though it's not really a Halloween story. I welcome comments, criticism, and suggestions.

===========

TO: Resident
XXX NW 49th St.
Oklahoma City, OK 73118

Hi. I used to live in your house. This letter is about that. Maybe you'll find this interesting, or maybe you'll think I'm weird, and you'll want to have nothing to do with anything that follows. I understand.

In 1976, my family moved from where you are to where I am, in Montana. I left something behind that is probably still there, unless major renovations have taken place. It's a small plastic pumpkin inside the wall that separates the garage from the laundry room. Maybe it's still a laundry room. You probably know which room I'm talking about. It's sunny and looks over the back patio. The wall between that room and the garage is where my lost treasure is buried. Perhaps you can retrieve it for me. Let me explain.

When I was about six, I was trespassing in your neighbor's back yard. They were the Wileys, a very kind, elderly couple with grown children in places I never learned. They were like everyone's grandma and grandpa. So, when I say I was trespassing in their yard, I mean they could have called the cops on me, but that would have been unlike them. They'd more likely have offered me lemonade.

Under those trees that separated their yard from ours, half-buried in the soil, left over from a Halloween years prior, was a plastic pumpkin the size of my fist. (That's my fist today, 50 years later, not the puppy fist I clenched back then.)  The pumpkin was white on the top, where the sun had bleached it. Orange on the bottom, where the dirt had kept it fresh.

It enchanted me. It was like a misplaced piece of Halloween that could keep my mental trick-or-treat bag full till the real thing came along. So I did a theft. I knew it. No excusing it. I stole it. I stole that sun-bleached plastic pumpkin from t ...


Dear API,

I'm pleased to inform you that we tore that house down a year or two ago to build OnCue Express convenience store #131.  All your dreams are gone.

Sincerely,

Rusty Shaw
Chairmain
OnCue Marketing, LLC
 
2021-09-22 7:42:43 PM  
There are a lot of things worse than writing a book: Writing a proposal, finding an agent, waiting for someone to write back to you, waiting for something to happen, and so on. Today I am adding "when an assistant editor tells you to pick something from the Getty collection for your cover."
 
2021-09-22 8:13:16 PM  
This thread is full of pumpkin thieves.
 
2021-09-22 10:11:13 PM  
Autoimmune brainfog and inflammation depression has torpedoed my productivity so I haven't been doing composing on my novel. At least I can edit, but only bits at a time.

At least going back to the beginning I can see places to thread things in that are mentioned later.
 
2021-09-23 1:17:26 AM  
She's all that and you srtill only have a tag for 'Some Guy'. How about 'Some Gal'?
 
2021-09-23 8:15:58 AM  
Currently working on:

The Wolf Creek War, a YA novel set in late 1970's Oklahoma.  Juvenile delinquents obtain copy of the Anarchists' Cookbook.  Hilarity ensues.

000P0P3Y3:  graphic novel--gritty reboot of Popeye with existential dread, supersailors, and a psychotic child in control of things

Albuquerque Society of Heroes:  graphic novel:  bunch of dorky misfits led by a competent woman who actually has superpowers.  Monica Montoya, Sinister Angel, Magnet Man, Dave the Necromancer, ABQ Batman ("I know it's a trademark infringement, goddamnit!"), and the Autistic Detective are taunted by the West Mesa Killer as they struggle for acceptance in a city that laughs at them.
 
2021-09-23 9:13:33 AM  

skybird659: She's all that and you srtill only have a tag for 'Some Guy'. How about 'Some Gal'?


Because there are no women on the internet?
 
2021-09-23 1:49:35 PM  

tdyak: skybird659: She's all that and you srtill only have a tag for 'Some Guy'. How about 'Some Gal'?

Because there are no women on the internet?


Just insecure men with teenie peenies?
 
2021-09-23 5:46:20 PM  
Last week somebody gave advice about always writing your ideas down, to give space for your next idea. I wanted to elaborate.

I've had ideas I've juggled and turned around in my head at work, holding onto it so I won't forget it. Work out all the little details. Then I started writing stuff down, and was surprised that more ideas came.

Recently, I bought some electronic music doodads I wanted for years. I kept thinking, after I get the main thingamajig, then I can start my plans for a cover band. Finally, I got everything and I thought, Gee I've always wanted a drone.

I bought a cheap toy drone... then started getting ads to get my FAA drone license, start a drone business... Long story short, I've come up with an idea for a business I'm uniquely qualified for.

Without getting into details, that inspiration came to me only because I had indulged those old desires. That left me open to buy the drone I always wanted, which opened my mind up to the new idea. I'd never gave come up with that idea if I was still daydreaming about buying the music gear.

There's a lesson there, but I'm not sure exactly what it is.
 
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