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02-15-2015, 12:19 PM
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Well, shit. I switched hips to lean on, my brow furrowed and my mouth frowning up a storm as I stared at the harpy chick (damn she’s ugly, though). What she was asking for was a little different and a thousand times shittier than the task she had thrown at us before. Then all you had to do was think about how the word started in your head. But this? Now you actually had to think about how the word was spelled, and fuck me if I don’t know how to actually spell words (if you wanted to be an asshole I guess you could point out that I could have sabotaged myself in the previous challenge with some “psychic” shit or whatever nonsense, but we’re not thinking about that). So I sat back and I huffed a little and I ground my molars and thought about how I was gonna spit this next fireball. I wasn’t daunted in the slightest; even though it was making me chew my lip or whatever in thoughtfulness, nothing in my resolve wavered and words kept bouncing to and fro inside my head, knocking together as I considered their ingredients. How the fuck you spell ‘angry’? I thought, more-or-less angry at the thought. A, N, G, R, E, E...no, wait, I think there’s a Y there. But wouldn’t that be ‘angrIGH’? FUCK IT I’M USING ‘MAD’. I snorted and bit my lip a little harder than I meant to. M-A-FUCKING-D. BOOM. I tossed my head and straightened myself after what felt like a lengthy, drawn out, bloody massacre in the battlefield of my mind that left it strewn with blood, cuts and letters (is dissocial a word? Is there an H in it??). I looked at the harpy and I spit fire at her again, except it wasn’t the fireball I was hoping it would be—more like a wisp of some fire or whatever, just enough to cook your burgers or some shit: “I am mad,” I said in a growl, “that these horses dislike lonesome, dissocial stargazers.” And boom goes the dynamite. But then I stopped myself short, a wave of self-doubt rolling over me. Didn’t she want a story? Well fuck, how the hell are you supposed to tell a 10 word story? I almost got mad again (or at least…madder) before I realized what I said could very well be considered a story—just one that wasn’t bullshitted and was very, very mine. Which was weird to think about and it made some inner, healing scars twist a little and it wasn’t fun so I stopped thinking too hard about it and waited to see if she thought it was a story, too. |
