Rate the Story Game, número tres

10, i'm so torn between whether it's totally metaphorical or literal or whether its something blending in between. I love the contrast of the fading outer greatness and the harsh reality within. It's almost dripping with the description, lovely.

- - - - -

I'm pretty sure these shoes werent made for dancing, I'm rubbing the spitshine together, feeling the bite of the sour squeak. Brand new, fresh out of the box, just to spend one night in the limelight before claiming it's rightful place in the corner of my mind and wardrobe. It's a pretty lonely scene here by the wall. Nobody was saving these seats, pull up one of these chairs and you're painting your own target. The instant, indellible mark of being the type of loser who ends up coming with goddamn Tandy Dobson, now that girl is no betty . Her braces glinting pretty on her twisted incisors. I should know all about those, my dad's the most expensive dentist in town. Tandy's busted up grimace pays to keep my mother dripping in cartier, and whatever excess additions to the budget we never needed. Maybe I should tell Tandy all about that one day, maybe thats exactly what my mom said isn't 'polite conversation'. She's been trying to beg me to be polite since I swore blind, blue as a sailor at that goddamn Parson Peters who leads the church a block away from school. Apparently hell's the only acceptance letter i'll be getting this year. Yale and Princeton and Brown all wrote me, told me to pick and choose another pipe dream, i'm the only one who's not complaining. But thats all irrelevant right now. All I can see is limp paper streamers and couples wheeling out small talk to keep the evening turning. It's stunning how my generation can swap spit with total strangers down at the malt shop and how these debutante girls can let their five minute boyfriends slip a shaking hand up their shirts but ask them to construct a conversation and they're tongue tied. We sure are something. I'm pretty sure I'd have to make endless petty goddamn small talk with that Tandy Dobson. I'm pretty sure she's never let a guy put a hand up any of her cotton shirts. I'm not sure anyones ever asked. Naturally my folk's said I should have gone with Tandy, her father was a good man they said. Influential family they said. Couldn't give a shit I said. So I went and asked Layla Harper, just because they didn't want me to, besides everyone with anything like ears has heard she's been sweet on me for months now. I suppose I should have been sweet on her in theory. Her dress looked like a bright pink disco ball, her sister had picked it up in the city and it clung to her soft like a calfskin glove. She swung her hips in that spangled dress like she'd already swiped prom queen. With a girl like that, in a dress like that theres no good reason for me warming this seat right about now. I suppose I'm just not in the dancing mood.

-The Dentists Son.

8. The size of the paragraph scares me, in general. I love the description of the shoes, but I feel like they should be claim 'their' rightful spot, not 'it's' since you refer to shoes and not a pair of shoes. I think the narration is really interesting and I like the sarcastic tone that doesn't seem forced.

---

When Ryan had initially awoken in the room, Brendon hadn't been doing anything strange. He'd just been sitting in a chair and he was smiling when the amber eyes opened. Not a strange smile either, but Brendon's normal smile that Ryan had gotten so used to seeing. Ryan had been lying on his side, so he woke up to Brendon's face without even having to turn his head or roll over. There was a feeling of comfort that came with seeing that smile and it took Ryan a moment to remember he hadn't seen Brendon in a few months and then to notice his surroundings. It wasn't until he started turning his head, that he started noticing the concrete walls, that his wrists were duct-taped together and there was another piece of tape over his mouth.

But even then the boy didn't immediately start to panic. It could have been a joke. Brendon was smiling, after all. It was probably a joke. Spencer was probably hiding somewhere with a video camera and Pete was going to come in, leading a bunch of strippers who would climb all over him and try to make him blush. It wasn't until Ryan tried to sit up that he realized something was really wrong.

---uneverything

8. I like the sadistic tone of the story

-

Zeus detonates the sky with fulmination and thunder and electricity and I can hear Hera crying out, trying to relax him but he threatens her with a clenched fist of her own beautiful hair. I'm alone, all alone, palms against my ears holding my breath as Poseidon swallows me whole under a crushing wave. Tumbling beneath the water, cold and cutting, the tide pushes me onto the embankment. Cough cough cough water like cement stuck in my throat. I don't have much time so I gather my dress and broken pieces into my arms, running and running until I reach some kind of farm land spotted with old sod. And just like that Hephaestus sets the land ablaze, burning away crops and marking beaten tracks in the ground.

- ?

10
- - -

“Did Alf send you to find me?” I hope that didn’t sound bitter. I wouldn’t want to be nasty to Cass. She doesn’t deserve that. Not ever. I pick up the loose ends of my tie and finish doing what I’d been doing before I got distracted at what was going on outside.

“No,” her voice is quieter than usual. She picks my jacket up off the bed and helps me into it. “I noticed you weren’t down there.”

I nod a little stiffly. I’m not really sure what I want to say I’m just not really sure about conversations right now.

“You’re sad,” her voice, it sounds like she’s struggling herself, that she doesn’t want to talk about this either.

“I’m fine,” the lie comes naturally but I’m not as bothered as I usually would be about that.

“No,” she’s studying me, watching my closely. “You aren’t fine, Dick.”

“I swear…” The look she gives me automatically shoots down my bullshit lie.

She shakes her head and smiles a little bit, a sad smile. “Your body isn’t speaking how it usually does,” she holds out one of her hands. “Come on now, they’re waiting for you.”

- Unposted AU Batfic

seven point five.

---

"Hi," Ryan said breathlessly sinking onto the couch next to his best friend. He smelled like salt and tongues and Brendon made a face at it.

"Hey." he echoed, somewhat distantly.

Ryan didn't notice. He never did when his head was still spinning from the cologne of whatever boy he'd gone upstairs with. "You ready to get out of here?"

Brendon lifted a hand, reaching out. His finger touched the sweat on Ryan's cheek and he rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. The boy's hair was, predictably, messed up and at odd angles, but Brendon was just annoyed enough to not say anything. "Yeah, let's go." It really didn't matter if he wanted to leave. Ryan did and, as he would point out if Brendon objected, he had the keys.

Life had sure changed since sandboxes.

---Can I Keep You In My Sights?

10. The dialogue flows smoothly with the descriptions, which are very vivid, as per usual
-
A door swung open. “Twenty-seven... Thirty... Thirty-three.” She turned her head towards the door, a hopeful glint hiding behind her eyes, for she believed that her waiting had ended. But there was nobody familiar there, just one blurred face that had arrived on time, judging by the outspoken delight of the boy sitting on an adjacent table.

The glint disappeared and the counting resumed. “Forty-two... Forty-five... Forty-eight.” Her patience, whatever little she had, was wearing out with each ticking second; the strain of her voice was enough evidence. “Fifty-four...Fifty-seven... Sixty.” She glanced at her clock, hoping that her synchronization was off by at least nine seconds, but no such luck. The moment she finished murmuring sixty, the large hand moved once.

“Six thirty-six,” she whispered exasperated.

She raised her eyes toward the clock that hanged from a nearby wall, just to check, hoping that he really wasn't that late. No such luck.

“Six minutes late,” she whispered to herself, finally noticing the hot tea sitting across from her. She picked it up and sipped from it a bit, only to recoil away from it and place it back to the table. “Sugar.” She stood up, glancing at the clock while doing so, just hoping that not another minute had gone by. Upon realizing that it was still the same hour it was a couple of seconds ago, she walked steadily toward the counter, where all the sugar packets were messily arranged for the costumers.

Each step she took she did so in tune with the ticking seconds, taking exactly three seconds to give one single footstep. One, two, three and her leg landed on the floor. She kept her pace until she reached the counter, where she took six sugar packets; then she glanced at the clock on her wrist, back at the clock on the wall, and then back at the clock of her wrist. “Seven minutes late.” She shook her head in disapproval.

When she had reached her seat and poured the six sugar packets into her hot tea, she heard the door open again. Much more agitated this time, she turned towards it, her lips curving into a tasteless frown, embracing the worst already.

To her surprise, he was there, hat at hand and handkerchief cleaning off the sweat on his forehead.

-uneverything.

10. It's honestly brilliant. You've managed to portray such a lovely character in that small piece of story. Your writing style is absolutely flawless and I adore it. It was also really interesting. I liked it a bunch.

- - - -

“Dude, it’s way too early for this,” Frank muttered, his palms rubbing the last hint of sleep away from his eyes. “But hey, thanks. I owe yo-”

Gerard cut Frank off by holding up a hand and shaking his head. “You’re going to say, ‘I owe you one,’ and you really shouldn’t. Because you ‘owe’ me like twenty by now.” A small chuckle escaped Gerard’s lips after he spoke.

“Hey now, it’s only like five or so.” Frank defended himself, jumping down from his bunk and scrambling to get into his uniform. His movement was quick and spastic as he attempted to get prepared in the short amount of time he had. By the time he smoothed down his ruffled hair, Gerard was already cautiously edging closer to the door, not wanting to be late himself. Frank hopped on one foot over to Gerard, struggling to pull on his final shoe as he moved out into the hall.

“Oh, it’s at least fifteen.” Gerard pressed the subject with a crooked grin, walking down the hall beside Frank in a hurried pace.

Frank rolled his eyes and playfully shoved Gerard. “That is a lie and you know it. Deep down inside you, the truth is trying to get out. Don’t you hear it calling? Gerard, it cries, let me out of here!”

9. I like the banter.

- idk. Part of a drabble.

Nine.

-

(the walls will fall before we do)

We have been betrayed by a whore hanging on a red wire, and they are coming soon. The last safe place is gone. The earth shakes beneath our shaking bed, and we cannot deny it any longer. I hold on to you and try to find your eyes in the darkness, but there's only the mirror of torchlights from miles away. The sky burns red in the evening as Israel tears a hole into our side. Their trumpets sound like dying birds - their God is a dying bird. A note like an ending pollutes the air as we all begin to plummet. Mothers and fathers and children and cattle; pots and pans and oil lamps and gold. We are not buried but we lie with the earth like a lover. Even our souls are coated with dust, and the history nymphs write that Jericho is no more.

- Rahab's People; unposted.

9. I'm left curious. I hope you post it soon, it's rather engaging.

-

Drugs never let me down.

No, never. Instantly, when I snorted that white powder through the dollar bill, I felt good. Scratch that, I felt really good, I felt excellent. Max beside me was already high as a kite, talking about unicorns and talking oranges. I don't even know.

Further more, I ignored him. I snorted some more of the cocaine, feeling adrenaline rush through me like electricity. I felt happy sooner than later, happier than I ever felt in this fucked up life. I sang to Bullet that blasted from the TV with Max, we laughed as much as we could as we had the bus to ourselves. But soon, the laughter would end.

Max has passed out a second before me. I saw black but then as I slept, I dreamt. A happy, long dream.

- Gorgeous In A Way ; posted.

9, I do like it it's sort of soft like its almost out of a diary. It seems almost familiar as well, like talking to a friend

- - - - -

This wasn't right, wasn't fair, wasn't just; all of Shays finer qualities. Jeans tieing his knees together, baring more than an endless expanse of skin, his soul was soundly slit from end to end, haemorrhaging molten gold and liquid mercury, souring grey in the open air. It was the deepest wound my words had carved in him, but the stitches had all come loose. All my wishing that he'd patched himself up again, well like that was every anything but false hope.

'Shay'

His name hung fat and ugly in the slick atmosphere. The hanging syllable almost catching the back of my throat, coaxing the need to clear my guts all over the dirty floor. Control yourself. Thats what they say. Show no weakness in the face of danger right? This was danger, trouble, fucking catastrophe personalized with my name embroidered all over it. Sean was the man eating shark, the poison in the bottle. The winning shot in a fools game of Russian roulette. Poised dainty, gagging to blow my brains out all over the toilet doors. Misfortunes bullet giving Sean his cheap thrill. It's my hand on the gun but he's tugging the trigger. But I never noticed, I didn't see that all along is that it's not been pointing at me at all, it's trained to Shay isn't it. Tied to the target that I daubed right there on his heaving ribcage.All three of us just waiting for the bang that will tear my boy in two.

- new chapter of Use Somebody

8. I like the writing, but there's a few mistakes in punctuation that threw me off a little. I love the phrase "fat and ugly".

---

Brendon watches Ryan. He watches the boy wandering around the apartment, checking over his shoulder every so often to gauge the time. Right now Ryan is kneeling in front of shelf where their movies are housed, making sure they're all in proper order. "Lunch, Ry? It's almost one."

Brendon's voice sounds strange in the room, unusual. It's normally just the ticking and whatever quiet noises are produced from the task Ryan has decided to undertake at that moment. Brendon isn't supposed to talk when Ryan is working, but he's starving. He doesn't get an answer. Ryan makes a noise in the back of his throat, something that's not quite angry, but sounds it. He's just frustrated. Brendon isn't supposed to talk. They both know it, but Ryan can't understand why Brendon would.

When the DVDs are done, Ryan's eyes turn toward Brendon, not quite making eye contact, but looking at him nonetheless, expectantly almost.

"I'm hungry." Brendon says. "It's almost one. Do you want lunch?"

"Okay." Ryan stands up and walks over to his boyfriend, kissing him on the mouth softly, eyes closed. "What do you want to eat?"

"I was going to run out. I'm starving. McDonalds or something. What do you want?"

"What I want." It's Ryan's way of saying 'the usual' and it's endearing in a way. Brendon watches his boyfriend walk back to the living room, check the clocks and the watches lined up on the wall and the shelves. A watch is off by a few seconds and Ryan picks it up, fiddles with the dial to fix it.

---86,400 Chances.

9, What I like about it is that it's almost typical I dont mean like boring typical but like it's just a scene from Normality really.yet theres like the undertones of it being slightly off and slightly different that leads us into looking deeper. like the almost obsessive references to the clocks. I will actually get round to reading this because i'm intrigued. You have a very subtle way of guiding your readers to see things from a certain perspective, if that makes any sense. I liked this, I'm very interested :)

- - - -

He was crying again, blokes tears, heaving wheezes that take your whole body with it. The noise is like the soundtrack of grief itself and it's horrible. It took me back to watching my dad at a funeral once when he lost his brother. I was four then and didn't know death that well. I just stood stony in my big boys suit and tie and watched my old man wringing his big hands and making that awful chugging sound. Like he'd got everything he could feel choked up in his windpipe. I remember not knowing death, or what it was. Yet I knew then that sadness and grief were defined and always would be defined, for me, by that god forsaken sound. I knew that it was true as ever now, Dale looked fit to break. I gathered him up as best I could and just tried to hold him as his thick tears soaked through my shirt. He was boneless and left all his weight to me, clinging like a child. It was so clear that we desperately needed each other. He needed me to pretend that he wasn't a total asshole and let him sob his dignity away into my sodden shoulder. I...well I just needed him to need me. That would get me through tonight at least.

-Jacket, unposted chaptered

9.

- - -

“I’m going to strangle that damn fish,” the redheaded girl said as she pulled her foot out of the fishbowl. “It bit me! WAKE THE FUCK UP!” She shook the dark-haired girl till she was awake.

“What the fuck do you want? Frank Iero was about to declare his love!” the younger girl whined.

The bassist rolled her eyes. “You met him once, Lizz. Did you put my foot in the fishbowl after I passed out?”

Lizz shrugged. “Savana… I don’t remember.” She ran her fingers through her hair and looked around the hotel room. Her eyes landed on the clock and she cursed under her breath as she got up and looked for her suitcase. “We have to get ready. We have an interview in an hour and then we have to get to the venue.”

- uneverything

6. I think I might like it better if it were in context, but right now it just seems really random for the sake of humor. I do think the last paragraph is written well.

---

Ryan looked at Patrick, really looked at him. He was Pete's best friend, had been for years. He understand Pete. And if he thought Ryan and Pete were alike then maybe he might understand the boy, too. Maybe. He took a deep breath, trying to untangle the words. But instead of saying them, he slipped into the water instead. His shirt stuck to his stomach and he thought he felt the baby flutter, but he could have been mistaken.

Patrick just watched him in silence until the sliding door open and Pete came out in jeans and no shirt, his chest still wet from his shower and his hair sticking up slightly in the back. It was dark out, the backyard illuminated by the glow of the blue pool lights and Pete looked like some sort of mage with his tattoos and piercing eyes fixed on Ryan's body. "Is chlorine bad for the baby?" he asked in a small voice, like he was embarrassed to even be wondering.

For that reason and that reason alone, Patrick didn't laugh at him. "No, Pete. Hot tubs are."

Ryan turned when he heard the voices and Pete's breathing seemed to hitch in his throat. He looked beautiful in the water, relaxed, his eyes slightly widened when he saw the way Pete was looking at him. "Hi," Ryan choked out, his voice unusually thick.

---tentatively titled 'Learning to Fall'; uneverythingelse

9.8. Not my cup of tea, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful.

-
If there was an ideal time to visit the Atlantic City Boardwalk, this would be it.

The crowds were slim; mostly middle class, mid-western, mid-size families enjoying the last bits of sun and surf that the year had to offer. A few vendors were standing on the edges of the near deserted boardwalk, their voices too loud and brassy, Brooklyn and Jersey and Harlem accents ringing over the dim sounds of the crowd like crappy audio commentary on a cheap DVD - insert laugh track, pause for clang of bicycle hitting metal trash cans, faint vulgarities, laugh track again. The sun was bright, artificially bright, too strong for late September. It bothered the locals - made them antsy. The sea should be grey by now, not a shiny navy blue. It was unnatural, especially paired with the clash of vendor's voices, the din of the out-of-towners, the weird warmth of what should be the early autumn sun. It was strange, and strangely beautiful.

Fitting, thought Jackson Lutes. Fitting that today would be sunny.

The man, walking down the boardwalk at an easy pace, was tall and thin, with stark white hair and dark blue eyes that seemed just as out of place as the unseasonable ocean. At first glance, someone looking at Jackson Lutes would think he was older - elderly, even. But, upon closer inspection, you could see that he was fairly young, mid 40's at most. He liked that most people thought he was older (it was a bit of strange irony, looking so old when he'd always felt younger than most, and his hair was something he'd had since he was in his early 20's), so he left it as nature had intended - bright white, the color of notebook paper or hotel pillowcases or jumbo puffed marshmallows, just a few specks of what used to be a dark rich black left at the roots. Adding to his strange appearance were his clothes - mod, almost punk rock, lots of black and dark blues and reds. Mirrored sunglasses -aviators, no others would do- made him seem distant, cool, like some hipster bassist in a mod rock band or a visiting movie star from some foreign country.

He thought about that, smiling languidly as he thudded down the walkway, silver buckled motorcycle boots glinting in the sun.

October 19th, Original Novella

10. I loved the description of the sounds of the boardwalk, the ocean - and especially Jackson Lutes.

---

Sitting; sitting and counting; counting as the minute hand ticks by, inching closer and closer to freedom. Seconds and seconds go by, seconds until freedom; seconds until he’s out of here and out of this stuffy town and off to free, clear skies.

Those seconds take days as he scoots to the left, to the door, leaning forward against the overstuffed, pastel couch and ready to bolt. Ready as a racehorse, he stares at the clock. The moment he sees the minute hand hit twelve and the hour hand three, he’s gone.

Gone like the wind, gone like the last breath of a corpse. The therapist has no chance to utter a syllable.

“Finally, free,” he whispers, pulling his jacket on and leaving that goddamned building.

-Vinyl

8. It makes me wonder what freedom means, if it's something in particular, a concrete thing to him.

---

Ryan shifted awkwardly and bit his bottom lip. "I just think, like, maybe I should know what medications my husband is on?"

It was Pete's turn to clear his throat and nod, just as uncomfortable as the other suddenly. They didn't use those words. Husband, marriage. Which was probably strange and unhealthy, but Pete supposed it was his fault anyway. He'd been the one to suggest the Vegas shotgun wedding. "Um, Xanax. I have Ambien but I don't use it much. Luvox. Some mood stabilizer I don't take anymore."

Ryan stepped into the room, crawling across the bed and kissing the older boy on the mouth. "Just take of yourself, promise?" he asked. "I can't take care of you and a baby. And I can't take of a baby without you."

Pete gave him a soft smile, reaching up to stroke his hair. "It's taken care of, Ry. Don't worry."

They spent the next couple of hours in bed, watching television and making a list of things they needed to pick up at the store.

---tentatively titled 'Learning to Fall'; uneverythingelse

7. I feel like you use a lot of the same descriptions as you do in your other stories (ex. the older boy), and some sentences were awkwardly worded.

-

Zeus detonates the sky with fulmination and thunder and electricity and I can hear Hera crying out, trying to relax him but he threatens her with a clenched fist of her own beautiful hair. I'm alone, all alone, palms against my ears holding my breath as Poseidon swallows me whole under a crushing wave. Tumbling beneath the water, cold and cutting, the tide pushes me onto the embankment. Cough cough cough water like cement stuck in my throat. I don't have much time so I gather my dress and broken pieces into my arms, running and running until I reach some kind of farm land spotted with old sod. And just like that Hephaestus sets the land ablaze, burning away crops and marking beaten tracks in the ground.

I have to sit. I need to rest these weary eyes and this tormented soul. Upon this ignited ground there is still hope, I can feel it pulsing on my withered fingertips. I can see it within the white-hot flames licking the horizon, dancing and jumping around on the land. It's hard to stay calm with destruction around, then I remember my family, gone. Cinders, fragments fanned into the air. I remember the stories my grandmother always told me about Aphrodite arising from simmering sea foam, the dismemberment of genitalia, Cronus Uranus Thalassa.

- who the hell knows anymore

8.

--

I made my way down the dusty stairs to the basement, knife in hand. When I got the the bottom, I lightly kicked my father’s stomach to see if he was awake. He subtly groaned and rolled over. I let out a low chuckle and yanked him up by his graying hair, similar to what he did to me. I led him to the center of the dark basement where there was a low pipe hanging down. He followed with little struggle. I grasped the thick rope, which was conveniently placed near the low hanging pipe, and tied each of his hands to the pipe with perfect knots. He was hanging about three inches off the ground. His arms made a “pop” sound and he groaned again, making me laugh.

“Honey, is this really necessary?” He pleaded, though I showed no mercy to his pathetic cries. This cruel bastard is about to get what he fucking deserves.

-Let's Shoot Some Heroin and Fuck With the Stars