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Post by ian on Jun 15, 2009 21:32:04 GMT
Ok Doke.
Welcome to the first short story post. This is how it works.
We all post a short story on here, once all the stories are in, i'll add a poll. whoever's story gets the most votes gets to pick the next theme.
Coolies. Ready?
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Post by ian on Jun 15, 2009 21:32:22 GMT
It's the eyes - Ian Woodhead It winked at him. It did, that bloody dummy winked. Gareth looked down and grinned to himself, he should have known that she was real, no shop dummy could look that realistic. "Oi tosser! Come away from that bloody window" Gareth tried not to look so guilty when he padded over to his big brother. Mark's mood today was worse than normal and that was saying something. Mark wasn't well known for his pleasant, happy go lucky personality. "So what's so interesting about that window?" He poked him in the chest. Gareth tried not to show how much that hurt. "Nothing" he mumbled. Mark smacked him round the back of the head. His glasses skitted across the pavement and stopped by the window. "Don't lie to me" he spat. "Do you want me to tell dad that I found you smoking again?" Gareth picked up his glasses, relieved to find they hadn't been damaged. He shook his head. "Please Mark, don't tell Dad. I was just looking in the window that's all. Honest" "Bullshit. I called your name four times" He knew for a fact that Mark only called his name once, it was him who was the bullshitter. He hated his older brother, he wanted him to die. He was shocked that it hadn't happened already. Mark was always steeping out in front of traffic. The cocky little shit thought he was invulnerable. Mark walked up to the window, he kicked Gareth in the shins before he looked inside. Gareth was in too much pain to watch his brother look through the glass. That really hurt, that was going to bruise up, it knew it. Oh crap. What had he done to deserve such a shit of the brother? When the hurt settled into a dull throb, he dared a quick glance at his older brother. That was weird, he was still looking through the window and for once in his life the bastard wasn’t shouting at him, in fact he wasn’t saying anything. He hobbled to the window and looked in. The dummy in the window was no longer a woman. It was his brother wearing the dummy’s dress. His face was locked in a silent scream. Gareth watched in astonishment as the skin changed from flesh to plastic. The figure beside him, turned her head, looked down at Gareth and winked. ---------------------- Ok that's the best I could do. I'm sure you lot can do better, well you could hardly do worse. Unless you scribble all over your monitor screen with a crayon.
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kinkyclawz
Cthugha
When the gibbous moon awakens, my golden eyes see ALL!
Posts: 39
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Post by kinkyclawz on Jun 17, 2009 0:48:33 GMT
Quick question for clarification - because its going up for 2am here and I'm about tapped out for thinking (not for writing, but just for actual thinking) - we build the story around the title "The Window Mannequin", right?
*hopes she's on the right track* KC
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Post by ian on Jun 17, 2009 8:41:10 GMT
er yes.
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Post by rakie on Jun 19, 2009 10:03:22 GMT
this is a true story, so there's not a punchline or a point or anything, it's just a bunch of stuff that happened. Oh, and apologies for length. ;D
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There's a certain amount of pressure to have a really good party for your eighteenth birthday. It's not enough to go out and get drunk - you have to do something spectacular, or everyone accuses you of being boring. I'd love to think I'm above that kind of childishness, but if someone said they weren't planning anything special for their eighteenth, and be the first to yell 'BORING' at them.
So it's Special John's birthday. Finally, I'm dating an adult. Maybe now the abuse and mocking will cease... Actually, that's not likely.
Anyway. Friday night, it's Special John's birthday, and we're going out for a special party. The theme is 70s cop, since we all have our own blond wigs and aviator shades (left over from a photo competition where we recreated the "Sabotage" video in our back garden). Apart from me and SJ, we've got Laura ("DS Hooty McBoob"), her current boyfriend Huge Alistair, Moody Tom, Freaky Dean and Barry, who's just too cool for a nickname.
First excitement of the night: Moody Tom has dyed his hair. It used to be blond; now it's maroon. Amazingly, he's not gay. He hasn't bothered with a costume but fortunately we brought spare moustaches, shades, and also a wig for Freaky Dean, which he refuses to wear because it makes him look like McKenzie Crook.
We start a few watergun fights, do bonnet slides over parked cars, and attempt to arrest girls in short skirts. Barry chats to real police officers, tries to persuade them he really is a cop, and is politely told most cops don't wear crushed-velvet jackets and false moustaches. We're heading to Fiesta Havana in the hope that Blue-Haired Steve can sneak us in for free. We're haemorrhaging people already - the girls in short skirts leave, Laura and Huge Alistair get lost for an hour before meeting back up with us, Freaky Dean disappears to parts unknown and takes my wig with him. Shrugs all round, then off to Havana.
Steve is nowhere to be seen, but we wander in without paying (and without realising we haven't paid). Havana is crap and overpriced, but today vodka shots are half price. Another tradition of eighteenth-birthday parties: you have to drink evil shooters, otherwise you are boring.
Special John: "But I don't want any more bubblegum-flavoured vodka, I will puke on you." Everyone Else: "BOOOORRRRRIINNNGGG."
So we drink bubblegum vodka and Squashed Frogs and blue cocktails with evil lime. SJ finds an inflatable rubber ring shaped like a fish and wears it round his neck. I want to know if it'll fit around my waist. Only one way to find out.
It goes over my head and arms then gets stuck above my boobs, so I'm walking around like a jelly-baby. Finally, we shove it down about my waist. It looks pretty good, but isn't without problems - most pressingly, it's very, very difficult to pee. And if I fall over I can't get back up again. So we decide to take the ring off.
There's a law of Bastard Physics that states: just because you put something on, doesn't mean it'll come off again. At least not in any great hurry.
I'm doomed to spend the rest of the night with an inflatable rubber fish around my waist. Damn. I sulk off to the bar (narrowly avoiding an impromtue slo-mo watergun fight between SJ and Barry) and buy shots.
'I want shots!' I yell at the barguy, who (according to his nametag) is called Santana, or Sanchos, or something equally unlikely. 'Gimme shots!'
'What sort of shots?' Santana asks me.
I make a vague Psychic-Moose type gesture, in the hope this will clarify my wishes. 'Dunno. Gimme!'
Santiago, bless his little Latino heart, is apparently used to drunken females wearing inflatable rubber fish and demanding unspecified alcohol. 'Do you want strong shots or weak shots?'
What sort of question is that? I end up with three shots containing clear liquid that may or may not be tequila and/or sambuca, with red stuff on top. I pay the nice evil man and take my booty back to the table.
SJ immediately (and sensibly) refuses to drink the damn stuff. I give one shot to Barry, who'll drink anything, and the other to Curly-Haired Tom, who's appeared from nowhere. People are just popping in and out of existence. The tequila shots are evil beyond belief.
At some point we leave Havana, although I don't remember it happening. I remember slow-dancing to Spandau Ballet; I remember conning Barry into buying another pitcher of cocktails; I remember initiating one final slow-mo watergun fight before diving out of the door, but I don't technically remember leaving. It probably happened sometime around that point. Anyway, we leave to get birthday chips. I still have my waterpistols, amazingly, although both wigs have disappeared - one with Freaky Dean and the other still attached to Barry, who showed no signs of relinquishing it.
We wander at random in search of chips. About halfway down the street, there's a clothes shop that's reopened for a limited spell selling motorbike leathers. There's a random guy outside, looking in the window at a half-sized Monkey bike, and he waves us over to check it out. We do so, politely admiring the miniature Honda and making "oh yes, lovely, what a spiffing ride" noises.
SJ touches my arm. 'Hey, did that mannequin just move?'
I look up. Behind the bike is a mannequin dressed in full leathers and a bike helmet, one hand held up in typical shop dummy pose. SJ insists the damn thing waved at him. I stare at it, trying to decide if it's moving or if my drunken eyes are playing tricks. The mannequin does look to be swaying very, very slightly, as if on wires, but it's definitely not -
Then it waves at me as well.
'Augh.' I back up clear across the road and bump into the window front on the other side. 'It moved! I saw it!'
'Did it? I wasn't looking.'
At other time I would've been more rational, but this is hardly an average time. I'm drunk, I have a fish stuck round my waist and a dummy is waving at me.
SJ bangs on the glass, shouting and waving. Once I've stopped being a big drunken girl, I go help, knocking and shouting on the window. People walk past and we tell them, 'Quick, come look, there's a dummy in here that's waving at us,' but no one stops.
We're about ready to give this up. Then, at last, the dummy waves again. And then it cracks up into giggles.
The mannequin is a guy dressed in leathers, and he thinks it's funny as hell that he just weirded the crap out of us. I swear, if he wasn't hiding behind glass, he'd be getting his ass kicked right now. I mean, just think about the logistics of this: these two guys have gone into a deserted bike shop at three o'clock in the morning, one of them's dressed up in full leathers and stood in the window while the other's stayed outside to call people over. That's a lot of effort to go to at any time of the day, but to do all that in the middle of the night JUST TO MESS WITH PEOPLE'S HEADS is staggering. The absolute head-wrecking bastards.
We yell at him a bit more, we yell at his hilarious friend, then we stumble away, giggly and not quite convinced we saw that. Jamais vu - like the time I saw Santa in Amsterdam at seven o'clock in the morning, in April. We stop a couple of (real) policemen and tell them about it and they say, 'Oh yes, a few people have mentioned this.'
By the time we get chips, we're no longer sure if it really did happen. So we go back.
And when we get back there, the shop window's empty.
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jun 19, 2009 23:43:07 GMT
Ok chaps and chapesses, here's my take on this theme:
LAUGHING JACK - The Window Mannequin
"Could've picked a better one than this, surely," she snaps. "How's this going to get people in here?"
"Jill, trust me." I wink at her as I blow away the last pieces of styrofoam packing from the figure.
"Laughing Jack will pack them in. Think about it. Nice, nautical theme going on here. Plastic crabs and lobsters, fishing nets hanging over the walls...but what is it that's really going to set this pub apart from the others?" I grunt as I shoulder the dummy into place in the bay window.
"No, he's going to scare customers away. It’s like one of those old ventriloquist’s dummies. It's so bloody creepy. Christ, Mark, what possessed you?"
I hesitate. Nothing possessed me, I tell myself. It wasn't calling out to me, I'd spotted it in the charity shop going for a song, I'd acted on impulse and bought it for less than a hundred notes. No, it hadn’t called out to me. How bloody ridiculous would that be?
A life-sized mannequin, a wax head painted an unnatural pink with a hinged lower jaw that would rise and fall in time with the taped laughter. An 18th century naval uniform, a white captain's hat and a seaman's thin pipe thrust into the black gaping maw of the mouth complete the image.
I stand back and glance at the reflected image of Laughing Jack in the pub's bay window. It faces the harbour, and the setting sun paints the ebbing sea in curious shades of black, crimson and gold. The painted eyes of Jack stare back at me in the glass. Strange, they seem to roll for a moment, locking onto mine. Reading my thoughts. I shake my head and reach down, plugging the cable into the mains.
"Jesus!" Jill jumps at the laughter that explodes in the empty dining section. Even I stumble backwards, surprised at the manic movement of the sailor. Thrashing robotically, arms flailing, taped laughter that sounds unnervingly real. No background hiss, no distortion.
A passing elderly couple freeze at the sight of the mannequin flailing in the bay window. The woman, who must be in her eighties at least, lifts her hand from her Zimmer frame, pointing at Laughing Jack.
“She’s smiling,” Jill mutters, her words barely audible over Jack’s manic laughter. Is it just me or is that insane noise getting louder? “Mark…why is she…Oh Jesus. Oh my God!”
The old woman’s husband isn’t smiling. He isn’t interested, is trying to pull her away from the window with a bony hand clutching at her shoulder.
The window that now shatters as she slams his head into it. Repeatedly, with both hands, with a strength that belies her age and fragility. All the time, smiling ecstatically at Laughing Jack. Again, again. Each downward thrust of her husband’s head into the shattered glass and cracking timber accompanied by the laughter of Jack.
A laughter that is now matched by the old woman’s in tone, pitch and volume. A man’s laughter. The husband’s balding head is a shattered, bloody mess that makes strange wet clicking sounds as it jerks up and down in the woman’s unnaturally strong grip, emptying its contents onto the window sill.
The contents pool, congeal on the carpeted floor. And then begin to flow towards Laughing Jack.
Now I know why he’s laughing . Now I know why the woman is laughing, and will not stop laughing until the moment she dies. Which, just like Jill, will not be long. Because I’m starting to laugh as well.
I reach for a long shard of glass freed from the bay window and begin my work.
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Post by ian on Jun 19, 2009 23:59:17 GMT
Coolies. that's three. Any more stories before we close it and start the vote?
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jun 20, 2009 0:13:03 GMT
I think we should wait until at least five have been posted before the polls close.
Come on, writers! Get scribbling!
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Post by rakie on Jun 22, 2009 13:29:31 GMT
maybe we should set a time limit, like two weeks per story challenge, then vote?
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jun 23, 2009 22:43:47 GMT
Good idea.
Ladies and gentlemen, the clock is ticking - you have precisely two weeks to post a story here before the polls close, on 11.59pm, Tuesday 7th July.
Come on, get scribbling - especially you published/famous ones. Show us how it's done!
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kinkyclawz
Cthugha
When the gibbous moon awakens, my golden eyes see ALL!
Posts: 39
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Post by kinkyclawz on Jul 7, 2009 19:29:13 GMT
The Window Mannequin by D K Earnshaw (This needs major work - but not bad for 5 hours!)
They got heavier. It was a fact – dead bodies weighed more than live ones. Why else would they call something heavy a dead weight, eh? The woman's wide, lifeless green eyes stared up at the passing fluorescent lights as she as dragged by her heels and the camping blanket he had borrowed from the outdoors department of the Get-It-All megastore he patrolled three nights a week. Her throat was opened and the blood had seeped into the cream coloured cashmere sweater she wore staining it unevenly.
Roger Burns, bare chested and sweating, grinned down at her as he dragged her across the concrete floor of the rejects room. He only now wrapped the blanket around her tightly and manhandled the corpse into the bin reserved for the mannequin parts to be melted down and reused. Burns shifted the split arms, damaged torsos and broken legs around until they covered the woman's body completely. He had no idea who she was other than the fact he had caught hiding in the changing rooms, getting ready to hide herself among the questionable crush as the last of the customers were ushered out, which would be about half an hour after he'd come on duty for the night. She had tried to hide the fact that she clearly had unpaid for items in her bags. Terrible. Quite uncivilised of her to steal. So, with a stealthy look around, he apprehended her and took her through the security office into a little, out of the way room at the back of the store.
It had a table and two chairs, ostensibly an interview room. As they always did, she sat down as she was told to and tried to convince him he was wrong, that she hadn't stolen anything. As she talked, he locked the door. For privacy. He stopped her from producing the receipt, it would only be a lie. He loomed over her and she began to apologise. This part always pleased him because then they'd finally admitted they had done something wrong. Some of them cried, but not this one. It didn't matter anyway. She started to get quite uppity as he removed his jacket and shirt and slid off his trousers. He pulled out the stiletto blade that he always kept for his work, for when that mood would come over him. That shut her up. He was going to make her famous. He was going to add her to the body count for the The Mannequin Killer, as the media had named him. Of course they'd She'd be forever remembered in the lore of his fame, just like with so many other famous serial killers. He was so excited when she began to scream but as much as he enjoyed the sound of her fear, he couldn't risk being discovered so early in the game. He had to do it. He slit her throat in one swift, easy movement even as he stepped aside to avoid the worst of the crimson spray.
Ahh, but that was fifteen minutes ago. Now, with the body safely stored and ready for disposal, Burns washed himself in the staff toilets in the sub level and admiring his well toned forty-two year old body with pride. He'd looked after himself. Reverently, he picked up his knife from the side of the sink, having earlier tucked it in the waistband of his trousers and brought with him. Now he tenderly washed the blood away with more infinite care than many used to caress their lovers. He then returned to the interview room which was festooned with garlands of still liquid blood all along one wall. As he pulled on his shirt and did the buttons up slowly, enjoying the artwork he created. He had the only key to this room so he wasn't worried that anyone would find the evidence.
The shiny buttons of his black security uniform glinted hypnotically as Burns pulled on his jacket, fastened it with care and locked the killing room securely behind him.
“Rog! Where have you been?” This was Derrin Baxter, a fellow security guard from one of the same temp agencies as Burns himself. Derrin was twenty-something years old, looking about thirteen and acting about eighty. “Christ, you missed it. I've called the police already. How did you now hear the alarms. Look, I think someone just broke out of the store but, um, well that's not the weirdest part.”
“Weirdest part?” Burns repeated interestedly. He felt the comforting weight of the stiletto in its sheath across his stomach, just beneath the buttons of his shirt. “What's the weirdest part?”
Baxter nodded and for once was stuck for words, his mouth opening and closing hesitantly like a stranded fish. He'd known Baxter for “You know what, I'll just have to show you.” With that, the younger man led the way back toward the store. Cold curiosity combined with Burns' need to adhere to the persona he'd temporarily attached to himself this time compelled him to follow.
They crossed the wide open space with lingerie and swimwear on the right and camping and outdoors-wear on the left. They went right to the main window. Well then, while he'd been dealing with one thief, another had made a break for it. Such a shame. He could have had so much more fun. He tutted, lamenting his loss, as they arrived at the still-open door of the window display. Baxter took this to be his reaction to the mess. The window had a vaguely circular shatter pattern off to one side, a result of the toughening of the glass to try to prevent breakage from outside. The window was dressed plainly in black silk showing off three female mannequins in various bright dresses and outfits. One mannequin, the one in the yellow pant suit and white t-shirt had its head resting inside the hole in the window. A second was cast aside, its white summer dress torn on the hooks holding up the black silk back cloth. But it was the third which had earned the title of weird from young Mr Baxter. The sight, oddly, shook Burns' usual unflappable facade.
“Okay, yeah Derrin, thats definitely weird.” He said in a less than steady voice.
The third mannequin was different from the others. It was, for starters, stark naked. The cast plastic female form stood upright in the middle of the window space. Instead of the usually bland, emotionless face was a scowling, vengeful expression. One arm was extended toward the doorway, a finger pointing accusingly at whomever might enter though Burns knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was point at him and him alone. This he knew because there were the daubs of scarlet paint. The most obvious one was from a line across the throat. The paint hung down toward the breasts in long, sticky drips like half-congealed blood. Burns also noted other daubs of far drier red paint, one across the left thigh. That reminded him of one of the ones he'd killed in Ripponden a couple of years ago. He'd had time so he sliced her thigh and let her bleed while he taunted her. Two jagged lines of paint criss-crossed the right forearm. Ahh, that was the one in Bristol. He remembered her. She was a fighter. But she still ended up part of his legacy. Was it him or has that scowl deepened? Burns shook his head.
“Who would play such a sick game?” Baxter asked, breaking Burns' reverie. “I mean, I think those are the wounds inflicted by The Mannequin Killer.” This almost throwaway comment jolted Burns like an electric shock. With his back to his colleague as his hand hovered perilously close to the red paint and therefore unmindful of the reaction, Derrin Baxter continued chattering nervously. “I read about him in the paper. The newest serial killer on the block and a vicious bast*rd, they say. Not top class but they're having a bugger of a time catching him all the same.” He caught his breath. “This must have been done by him! Or someone who knows him. Oh God, what if The Mannequin Killer was in here. Who could it be do you th...?” He spun excitedly... right onto the blade of the stiletto in Burns' hand!
The blade slid through the guards uniform neatly between Derrin's ribs with barely a whisper. Derrin Baxter took a short gasp and Burns let himself smile as a thrill ran through him. He could feel the heart which enshrouded the tip of the blade shuddering as it tried to continue beating. As he raised his chin ecstatically, he caught the expression of shock on the younger man's face. “I am the Mannequin Killer.” He whispered as he watched the light fade from Baxter's eyes just as the slender knife ceased quivering inside the breast. The body began to slump towards him and he caught the younger man in his arms, embracing him almost as if he were a lover. This was his first male kill. Though it was short in duration, it nevertheless swelled the feeling of pleasant, pleasurable, erotic enjoyment of the act.
“Is that right, Sir?” A deep, resonant voice asked from behind. Burns, lost in the moment, was startled. With the blade still buried in Baxter's chest, he and the corpse turned to find two uniformed police officers standing and regarding him coldly. The taller of the two, a lanky red-head had turned devastatingly pale at the sight of the dead man slipping from Burns' grasp. The other, stockier man, was already in motion, his hasp living up to its name and creating that distinctive sound as it extended. The first officer, Stocky, hit Burns about the shoulder with the hasp. The pain of the blow made him lose his grip on the knife holding the corpse in place and Baxter slid heavily to the floor. Meanwhile, the second officer, Lanky, moved into position and handcuffed Burns' hands behind his back while he was incapacitated to a degree.
As he was turned, Burns noticed three things. The accusing, pointing arm had moved. It now hung at the side of the female form, no longer pointing. At the same time he realised that the mannequin bore a new wound. A small circle of blood – and he knew it to be blood and not red paint – appeared on the left side of the dummy's chest. Thirdly, the bloody mannequin was smiling.
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