A Story You Want to Read: The Game )
Модератор: zymbronia
- Kind_Punk
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Something like 'a story about a wizard boy living in our word, and he does not know he is a wizard and then finds it out'. You know the answer )
Me )) And if someone feels like sharing their stories — you are welcome )And if it's a game, who will win?
- Kind_Punk
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That's why I like lizards
As long as I remember, I liked lizards. I played with them, well, tried to, and do not played with other children. I just found them... strange.
When I was 10, I got the answer. My parents and I were in the zoo, and I saw a giant lizard. It was new. "Varanus komodoensis", — read the plate.
And he saw me.
"Hello, little friend," I heard.
I turned around. There was nobody here.
"In front of you," said the same voice.
In front of me was the lizard.
"Yes, it's me," he said.
"But... how? I am sleeping, right?" I thought it, not spoke out loud.
"No," he said. "You're a hizard, a human lizard. That's why you understand me."
"Why nobody knows about hizards?" I asked.
"Because hizards do not want it," was the answer. "You feel it, don't you? That you are... different?"
"Yes... Yes, I do." That was true. "And you... You are a hizard, too?"
"No, I'm just a lizard. But I had met your kind."
Then I understood what I had to ask.
"Can I turn to a lizard?"
"Yes, you can. You just have to really want it. At least that's what hizards I met told me."
I tried... and failed.
"You were joking, weren't you?" I was disappointed.
"No. Maybe your desire was not strong. Or you are too young for this."
I could learn something more, but...
"Let's go," said my mom. "Did you fall asleep here?"
I came to senses. "Really?" I said.
"Bye," I thought to my new friend. "See you again".
He didn't answer.
Now every time I'm alone, I'm trying to turn to a lizard. I know I finally will be able to do it.
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- acapnotic, Androbroiler
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Got it, thanks. But it seems the same:
Werewolf - Urban Dictionary
www.urbandictionary.com › d...
A human that has the ability to turn to a wolf.
Maybe 'into' is 'more right', though )
- Kind_Punk
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I explain what made me come up with this ridiculous offer ) Now, I write wonderful stories for a living, whatever ridiculous it sounds, and I think I'll be of no shortage if I write some in English )
- VictorB
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Kind_Punk,
What if you were provided with the beginning of a short story (several sentences) and its punch line--would you be interested to think up the gist of the story? If yes, here they go
The beginning of the story I'd title The Commis Chef.
The punch line
I've got an alternative idea:
What if you were provided with the beginning of a short story (several sentences) and its punch line--would you be interested to think up the gist of the story? If yes, here they go
The beginning of the story I'd title The Commis Chef.
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The first time I tried to cook was during the second month of my army stint, in the summer military camp.
One day our camp cook, an old-timer private 1-st class of a Caucasian bread, named Zakhir, chanced to cut his right palm so badly that the wound made him unable to wholly perform his duties in the kitchen.
This accident inevitably caused the obvious need of someone's permanent help for him to prepare daily meals.
It was the time when the notorious "dedovschina", similar to the fagging system at some private British schools of old, flourished in the multi-national Soviet Army and the guys born and raised in the Caucasus by no mean formed a salubrious part of it.
So it was us, the rookies or "cucumbers", as we were called by the old-timers, which had to draw lots to decide who would become the cook's full-time commis before his wound got fully recovered.
One day our camp cook, an old-timer private 1-st class of a Caucasian bread, named Zakhir, chanced to cut his right palm so badly that the wound made him unable to wholly perform his duties in the kitchen.
This accident inevitably caused the obvious need of someone's permanent help for him to prepare daily meals.
It was the time when the notorious "dedovschina", similar to the fagging system at some private British schools of old, flourished in the multi-national Soviet Army and the guys born and raised in the Caucasus by no mean formed a salubrious part of it.
So it was us, the rookies or "cucumbers", as we were called by the old-timers, which had to draw lots to decide who would become the cook's full-time commis before his wound got fully recovered.
СпойлерПоказать
When after my two-year service was over and I got back home, I found my mom's recipes I used to love so much rather dull and tasteless. So once I felt like preparing something by myself, and after my very first attempt at making one of her famous recipes, she declared that she wouldn’t ever come near the kitchen range again. And she also said that as far as she was concerned, I had just completed culinary school, rather than a stint in the army.
- Kind_Punk
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The Story of the Fisherman and the PunkПоказать
The Story of the Fisherman and the Punk
Do you know 'The Tale of the Fisherman and the Fish'? Well, in our world it is a true story.
We also have speaking animals, faeries and other creatures. And magic, of course. It's hard to imagine how magic can go along with technology, but some small things like phones can use magical energy. Not cars or something big, though. It seems they need much more energy, and magicians just cannot find a way to store that amount.
I'm a bit wrong here. There is a way, but it's complicated. The answer is magical creatures. They have a lot of energy in themselves. For example, they can build a house in a few minutes. How can you convince a creature that is able to turn you into a frog to help you? Some of them abide by the rules.
Most known is the Golden Fish. If you catch it, it has to fulfill your wish. And this is where my story begins.
My wife once said that she needed a new washing machine. We did't have much money, so catching the Fish could solve the problem.
'Don't you remember what happened to the woman who asked for more and more?' I said. But my wife noted she needed only the machine.
So I went to the see and threw a net. And caught... something unusual.
It was a man with a mohican, and his hair was gold. 'Who... Who are you?' I said.
'Don't you see? I'm the Golden Punk,' he said. 'And who are you?'
'Just a fisherman,' I answered. 'I caught you, so I'm granted a wish, right?'
The Punk laughed.
'You naughty old vek,' he said. 'It's me who's catcher here, and now I have a wish: you have to drink with me.'
With this words he raised his hand and materialized a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Then poured the liquid and said, 'Cheers!'
I drank. It was the best whiskey I had ever tasted.
'What were you trying to catch, anyway?' The Punk asked. 'The Golden Fish?'
'Yes,' I said.
'And what did you want from her?'
'A washing machine.'
'What?' The Punk laughed again. 'What for?'
'For my wife,' I said. 'Or she won't let me live.'
I said that and suddenly understood that it was right. And that I didn't want to return to her. And that I shouldn't have drunk the magical alcohol. Or... should I?
'I don't want the washing machine,' I said. 'I want to become a punk.'
The Punk roared with laughter. 'Granted,' he said. And disappeared.
I am a punk now. And have some magic in me. Just a little, but enough for creating a bottle of whiskey any time I want.
Do you know 'The Tale of the Fisherman and the Fish'? Well, in our world it is a true story.
We also have speaking animals, faeries and other creatures. And magic, of course. It's hard to imagine how magic can go along with technology, but some small things like phones can use magical energy. Not cars or something big, though. It seems they need much more energy, and magicians just cannot find a way to store that amount.
I'm a bit wrong here. There is a way, but it's complicated. The answer is magical creatures. They have a lot of energy in themselves. For example, they can build a house in a few minutes. How can you convince a creature that is able to turn you into a frog to help you? Some of them abide by the rules.
Most known is the Golden Fish. If you catch it, it has to fulfill your wish. And this is where my story begins.
My wife once said that she needed a new washing machine. We did't have much money, so catching the Fish could solve the problem.
'Don't you remember what happened to the woman who asked for more and more?' I said. But my wife noted she needed only the machine.
So I went to the see and threw a net. And caught... something unusual.
It was a man with a mohican, and his hair was gold. 'Who... Who are you?' I said.
'Don't you see? I'm the Golden Punk,' he said. 'And who are you?'
'Just a fisherman,' I answered. 'I caught you, so I'm granted a wish, right?'
The Punk laughed.
'You naughty old vek,' he said. 'It's me who's catcher here, and now I have a wish: you have to drink with me.'
With this words he raised his hand and materialized a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Then poured the liquid and said, 'Cheers!'
I drank. It was the best whiskey I had ever tasted.
'What were you trying to catch, anyway?' The Punk asked. 'The Golden Fish?'
'Yes,' I said.
'And what did you want from her?'
'A washing machine.'
'What?' The Punk laughed again. 'What for?'
'For my wife,' I said. 'Or she won't let me live.'
I said that and suddenly understood that it was right. And that I didn't want to return to her. And that I shouldn't have drunk the magical alcohol. Or... should I?
'I don't want the washing machine,' I said. 'I want to become a punk.'
The Punk roared with laughter. 'Granted,' he said. And disappeared.
I am a punk now. And have some magic in me. Just a little, but enough for creating a bottle of whiskey any time I want.
- VictorB
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Good punch line!
I've taken it like "being a topnotch liquor to savor, it always helps me to sidestep any problems before they loom up large on the horizon." So, you did manage to leave to the reader something to read into :-)
+5
- VictorB
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Kind_Punk,
And so on, and so forth--you stumble on it almost in every second page in)))
A nicely chosen word for your story, too!
Oh, by the way, where might Golden Punk have seen it? "Vec" (or "veck") seems to be a Nadsat word--if you know what I mean. Already familiar with that word I couldn't find it anywhere else hard as I tried. An interesting coincidence: I'm reading the book, and here goes the word--in your story )))
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“You naughty old veck, you,” I said, and then we began to filly about with him. Pete held his rookers and Georgie sort of hooked his rot wide open for him and Dim yanked out his false zoobies, upper and lower. He threw these down on the pavement and then I treated them to the old boot-crush, though they were hard bastards like, being made of some new horrorshow plastic stuff.
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Anyway, Dim squeezed in next to this veck and, with his big clown’s yawp that showed his hanging grape, he stabbed this veck’s foot with his own large filthy sabog. But the veck, my brothers, heard nought, being now all above the body.
A nicely chosen word for your story, too!
- Kind_Punk
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Challenge completed )
I changed your text a bit, please don't be offended ) I also gave the name to the story.
A Cook in the ArmyПоказать
A Cook in the Army
The first time I tried to cook was during the second month of my army stint, in the summer military camp.
One day our camp cook, an old-timer private 1st class of a Caucasus Mountains breed named Zakhir chanced to cut his right palm so badly that the wound made him unable to wholly perform his duties in the kitchen. This accident inevitably caused the obvious need of someone's permanent help for him to prepare daily meals.
It was the time when the notorious "dedovschina", constant bullying, similar to the fagging system at some private British schools of old, flourished in the multi-national Soviet Army, and the guys born and raised in the Caucasus by no mean formed a salubrious part of it.
So it was us, the rookies or "cucumbers", as we were called by the old-timers, who had to draw lots to decide who would become the cook's full-time commis until his wound got fully recovered.
As you imagine, the lot was mine. And I got to Hell.
Zakhir was always displeased and didn't hesitate to punch me. After a month I broke down.
We were peeling potatoes, and he started his routine about me with hands growing from the ass. Then he hit me. And I really got insane.
'You don't talk what to do, only beat me! The hell with you and your potato!' - I threw a potato to his head, and it hit him right in the forehead. Then I sat and... cried.
I thought Zakhir would literally kill me, but he was... scared? After this incident his behavior changed. We talked a lot, and he also taught me to cook Caucasus dishes.
He asked the lieutenant to left me in the kitchen and even told his friends to not pick on me. When his term was over, I felt like I was saying good-bye to a friend.
When after my two-year service was over and I got back home, I found my mom's recipes I used to love so much rather dull and tasteless. So once I felt like preparing something by myself, and after my very first attempt at making one of her famous recipes, she declared that she wouldn't ever come near the kitchen range again. And she also said that as far as she was concerned, I had just completed culinary school rather than a stint in the army.
The first time I tried to cook was during the second month of my army stint, in the summer military camp.
One day our camp cook, an old-timer private 1st class of a Caucasus Mountains breed named Zakhir chanced to cut his right palm so badly that the wound made him unable to wholly perform his duties in the kitchen. This accident inevitably caused the obvious need of someone's permanent help for him to prepare daily meals.
It was the time when the notorious "dedovschina", constant bullying, similar to the fagging system at some private British schools of old, flourished in the multi-national Soviet Army, and the guys born and raised in the Caucasus by no mean formed a salubrious part of it.
So it was us, the rookies or "cucumbers", as we were called by the old-timers, who had to draw lots to decide who would become the cook's full-time commis until his wound got fully recovered.
As you imagine, the lot was mine. And I got to Hell.
Zakhir was always displeased and didn't hesitate to punch me. After a month I broke down.
We were peeling potatoes, and he started his routine about me with hands growing from the ass. Then he hit me. And I really got insane.
'You don't talk what to do, only beat me! The hell with you and your potato!' - I threw a potato to his head, and it hit him right in the forehead. Then I sat and... cried.
I thought Zakhir would literally kill me, but he was... scared? After this incident his behavior changed. We talked a lot, and he also taught me to cook Caucasus dishes.
He asked the lieutenant to left me in the kitchen and even told his friends to not pick on me. When his term was over, I felt like I was saying good-bye to a friend.
When after my two-year service was over and I got back home, I found my mom's recipes I used to love so much rather dull and tasteless. So once I felt like preparing something by myself, and after my very first attempt at making one of her famous recipes, she declared that she wouldn't ever come near the kitchen range again. And she also said that as far as she was concerned, I had just completed culinary school rather than a stint in the army.
- VictorB
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Kind_Punk,
and ending with
What about trying some more? Here it goes, My Elder Brother's Word, beginning with
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I have the elder brother, Paul, who at the time of this story was about to get enlisted to the army. It was then when he, trying to look and behave like a real man, started smoking cigarettes.
I just turn eifgt then, and I had a friend, a neighbor boy, Pete by name, the same age as me.
Our apartments were on the same floor in a six-storey block of flats, and there had hardly been a single day when we didn't see each other or spend some time together.
Quite often he was visiting me at my place where we fooled around most of the time and occasionally played checkers or backgammon. When my mom was at work and my brother Paul was at home, he would smoke a sig or two in the open window. Then, Pete and I would watch him taking deep pulls on his cigarette, and got awed by the sight of him exhaling dense blue smoke through his nostrils, like a fairy-tale dragon.
Of course, not once had we both been told at home and in school of the ruinous effect tobacco has on a human organism, a young one perticularly. Nevertheless, it wasn't long before Pete got the idea of trying it.
One day after school, mom and Paul being out, Pete and I were playing checkers in the kitchen when one checker dropped to the floor. Pete stooped under the table to pick it and when he emerged, his face beamed happily: in one hand he had the dropped checker, and in the other – a cigarette! Half stamped with someone’s foot it must have fallen from one of my brother’s packs and stayed there unnoticed.
I just turn eifgt then, and I had a friend, a neighbor boy, Pete by name, the same age as me.
Our apartments were on the same floor in a six-storey block of flats, and there had hardly been a single day when we didn't see each other or spend some time together.
Quite often he was visiting me at my place where we fooled around most of the time and occasionally played checkers or backgammon. When my mom was at work and my brother Paul was at home, he would smoke a sig or two in the open window. Then, Pete and I would watch him taking deep pulls on his cigarette, and got awed by the sight of him exhaling dense blue smoke through his nostrils, like a fairy-tale dragon.
Of course, not once had we both been told at home and in school of the ruinous effect tobacco has on a human organism, a young one perticularly. Nevertheless, it wasn't long before Pete got the idea of trying it.
One day after school, mom and Paul being out, Pete and I were playing checkers in the kitchen when one checker dropped to the floor. Pete stooped under the table to pick it and when he emerged, his face beamed happily: in one hand he had the dropped checker, and in the other – a cigarette! Half stamped with someone’s foot it must have fallen from one of my brother’s packs and stayed there unnoticed.
СпойлерПоказать
After Pete and I we were back home from hospital, my brother asked me what on earth made me want to try it.
And when I answered that I just wanted to be like him, he said, "Okay, if you do mean it, I quit smoking right now and for good." And he took a pack of Marlboro out of his pocket, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the waste basket.
He is in his late fifties now, my elder brother Paul, and he is as good as his word. As for Pete and me, who are only a few years younger than him, we started smoking at the age of 15 and afterward never even tried to quit it. Why should we have --since nether of us had ever given to anybody such a stupid promise?
And when I answered that I just wanted to be like him, he said, "Okay, if you do mean it, I quit smoking right now and for good." And he took a pack of Marlboro out of his pocket, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the waste basket.
He is in his late fifties now, my elder brother Paul, and he is as good as his word. As for Pete and me, who are only a few years younger than him, we started smoking at the age of 15 and afterward never even tried to quit it. Why should we have --since nether of us had ever given to anybody such a stupid promise?
- VictorB
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Please, note the apparent inconsistency in the age gap between the narrator and his brother:
In the beginning it's somewhat more than ten years, and in the ending--a few years. I'm sorry I didn't notice it earlier
In the beginning it's somewhat more than ten years, and in the ending--a few years. I'm sorry I didn't notice it earlier
- VictorB
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Kind_Punk,
And here goes yet another one, which, as I see it may be developed, is titled Rosy Skipping Bunnies.
So, using the words (at least once) in the exact order as they go in the title is obligatory.
Knowing that humor is your forte in writing, I should confess that in my version of the story I can find no place for humor.
I wonder if you could make it hilarious, or both dark and hilarious.
The beginning
The punch line
And here goes yet another one, which, as I see it may be developed, is titled Rosy Skipping Bunnies.
So, using the words (at least once) in the exact order as they go in the title is obligatory.
Knowing that humor is your forte in writing, I should confess that in my version of the story I can find no place for humor.
I wonder if you could make it hilarious, or both dark and hilarious.
The beginning
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When he came to, he was lying face down.
The first feeling he could discern was the smell of dump earth and freshly mown grass.
Then, came the dull pain in his wrists--his hands were tied behind his back so tightly that he nearly lost the feeling of his fingers.
The legs, too, were firmly tied at the ankles.
But the worst of it was the gag stuck into his mouth and his eyes blinded by a band of dense dark cloth.
He felt irresistible urge to swallow the saliva and to take a deep breath but couldn’t.
Stricken with mad panic, he started to writhe frantically when he heard soft footsteps.
Someone was nearing.
The first feeling he could discern was the smell of dump earth and freshly mown grass.
Then, came the dull pain in his wrists--his hands were tied behind his back so tightly that he nearly lost the feeling of his fingers.
The legs, too, were firmly tied at the ankles.
But the worst of it was the gag stuck into his mouth and his eyes blinded by a band of dense dark cloth.
He felt irresistible urge to swallow the saliva and to take a deep breath but couldn’t.
Stricken with mad panic, he started to writhe frantically when he heard soft footsteps.
Someone was nearing.
СпойлерПоказать
“My sister was only twelve”, said in a horrifyingly calm voice, was the only and the last words he could hear when the cold blade touched his throat.
- Kind_Punk
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My Elder Brother's WordПоказать
My Elder Brother's Word
I have the elder brother, Paul, who at the time of this story was about to get enlisted to the army. It was then when he, trying to look and behave like a real man, started smoking cigarettes.
I just turn eight then, and I had a friend, a neighbor boy, Pete by name, the same age as me.
Our apartments were on the same floor in a six-storey block of flats, and there had hardly been a single day when we didn't see each other or spend some time together.
Quite often he was visiting me at my place where we fooled around most of the time and occasionally played checkers or backgammon. When my mom was at work and my brother Paul was at home, he would smoke a cig or two in the open window. Then, Pete and I would watch him taking deep pulls on his cigarette, and got awed by the sight of him exhaling dense blue smoke through his nostrils, like a fairy-tale dragon.
Of course, not once had we both been told at home and in school of the ruinous effect tobacco has on a human organism, a young one particularly. Nevertheless, it wasn't long before Pete got the idea of trying it.
One day after school, mom and Paul being out, Pete and I were playing checkers in the kitchen when one checker dropped to the floor. Pete stooped under the table to pick it and when he emerged, his face beamed happily: in one hand he had the dropped checker, and in the other – a cigarette! Half stamped with someone’s foot it must have fallen from one of my brother’s packs and stayed there unnoticed.
We lit it and smoked. We didn't become adults at once, but something changed. Tasting a forbidden fruit is always exciting, you know.
In the evening I felt pain in the stomach. Years later I understood it was because of some bad food I ate, but at that time I believed it was caused by smoking. I decided I got cancer and run to my mother, crying.
I told her I was dying because of smoking. She was scared and called an ambulance. The doctors said they needed to do some tests and took me to their car. Crying Pete was already there.
Fortunately, it was just a sort of indigestion. Pete and I had to drink something bitter, and then we could go home. 'And do not smoke,' one of the doctors said. 'Or next time you'll get an operation.' Well, that was a medical joke.
After Pete and I we were back home from hospital, my brother asked me what on earth made me want to try it.
And when I answered that I just wanted to be like him, he said, "Okay, if you do mean it, I quit smoking right now and for good." And he took a pack of Marlboro out of his pocket, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the waste basket.
He is in his late fifties now, my elder brother Paul, and he is as good as his word. As for Pete and me, who are younger than him, we started smoking at the age of 15 and afterward never even tried to quit it. Why should we have since nether of us had ever given to anybody such a stupid promise?
-
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