1. This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this site, you are agreeing to our use of cookies. Learn More.
  2. We've had very few donations over the year. I'm going to be short soon as some personal things are keeping me from putting up the money. If you have something small to contribute it's greatly appreciated. Please put your screen name as well so that I can give you credit. Click here: Donations
    Dismiss Notice

The TFP Plotto Machine Output #4

Discussion in 'Tilted Art, Photography, Music & Literature' started by Baraka_Guru, Jan 26, 2013.

  1. Baraka_Guru

    Baraka_Guru Möderätor Staff Member

    Location:
    Toronto
    What is this? Visit here for more details: What is the TFP Plotto Machine? (Writers wanted) | The TFP

    Here we go!

    The TFP Plotto Machine Output #4:

    Here are the guidelines:
    1. Write a story based on the Plotto output above (no variations, omissions, or substitutions).
    2. Optional: Borrow lines from stories from Plotto Output #3 (NSFW); rearrange them, scramble them, but create a new context based on the Plotto codes above.
    3. The story must be no more than 1,000 words.
    4. All genres and styles are welcome.
    5. Post your story in this thread by midnight (your local time) on Sunday, February 3.
    Other stuff:

    Please post general questions/comments in the main thread listed above.

    This thread is reserved for:
    • Discussions of the Plotto output above.
    • Story outputs.
    • Discussions/feedback of story outputs.
    • Other posts related to this specific Plotto output.
    Happy writing!
     
  2. Alistair Eurotrash

    Location:
    Reading, UK
    Diesel


    Seaforth Dock. Fucking monstrosity scattered with containers in all different colours, higgledy-piggledy-like, rusting and covered in shit, like a giant, fucking Lego set.

    It could be fucking cold of a morning, too. February rain comes in sideways off the Mersey like sheets of fucking ice in your fucking face.

    I watched the older guys coming up the road. Busted-up blood vessels in their cheeks and noses like fucking strawberries.

    Gulping my tea. Hot, strong, sweet. Steam breath.

    The Spaceman on his bike, Diesel walking alongside, both carrying a flask and some sandwiches, laughing. What the fuck was there to laugh about on a cold, dark morning like this? Daft, old buggers. Diesel twice the size of Spaceman, like Laurel and fucking Hardy. Friends. Brothers, really.

    Waiting under the lamp, stamping my feet, blowing steam. Wearing the old, army greatcoat I got from the surplus. It had a small hole in the back but it was cheap and warmer than most coats I’d had. Yet the wind still cut through a bit, even though I had it fully buttoned.

    Me mam never wanted me to be a docker but, as me Da says, “Work is work”. It was good money.

    Very good if you didn’t mind a bit of robbing, but I wasn’t doing that. No way. I’m no robber.

    I couldn’t afford the trouble, not with probation and all. I had a temper back then, especially when I’d had a few. Anyway, never mind all that.

    Diesel got his name from robbing. He’d find some clothes and, “Diesel do for our kid”, he’d say. “I think diesel fit her”. And so on. So he became “Diesel”.

    Everyone laughed at first, and then it became normal. He’d be Diesel for as long as he lived. I never knew his real name.

    It’s like Spaceman. One day, instead of coming to the canteen to eat his dinner, he announced, “All right, lads, I’m off to Ma’s today” and that was that.

    I’d checked the roster. The three of us were working together on some containers from the Ukraine. They were this side of the dock and we had plenty of time.

    The docks were dying, even then. We all needed the docks – us Liverpool, Bootle and Seaforth lads. Our Dads had worked there. We worked there. We worked together, drank together, watched football together, shared births, marriages, funerals. Together. We were family.

    Diesel winked at me.

    ”All right, our kid?”

    I nodded, grimly. He just chuckled.

    The Spaceman parked his bike and I led the way to the containers. They were dragging their heels and joking about something behind me. It bugged me, but I just wanted to be moving and get some warmth going.

    I knew it when I saw the contents.

    Transistor radios were easy to sell back then. You couldn’t get tuppence for them these days, mind.

    Diesel grinned.

    “These’ll do”, he said, and winked.

    He looked at the boxes and back at me.

    “How big are the pockets in that coat, son?”

    I knew what he meant.

    “No way”

    He raised an eyebrow. Looked at me long and hard. I could feel myself flush, despite the cold.

    “Suit yourself” was all he said, turning away.

    “I can’t risk it”, I said. He didn’t reply.

    ”Sorry”

    I don’t know why I said, “Sorry”.

    “Don’t be sorry, son”, he said.

    The day passed and the siren sounded and we headed to the pub. I shrugged into my coat, but held back, saying I needed a piss. Truth was I didn’t want to walk across with them in case they were caught with the radios.

    The pub was full and Diesel and Spaceman were at the bar, laughing with a couple of lads I didn’t know.

    Diesel waved me over.

    “Cindy!” he yelled at the barmaid over the din, “Get another pint for The Coward here, love!”

    There was laughter. I stopped in my tracks, not believing what I was hearing. I could feel eyes turn on me. Cindy, holding back a giggle. What the fuck?

    Who were they calling a fucking coward?

    Then the anger came. It’s the Irish in me. It just took over.

    “What did you fucking call me?”

    I said it quiet-like. Controlled. I wasn’t in control, but I was trying. Like they said I had to. I’d had enough trouble, and here it was, coming on again.

    They were laughing. Laughing at me.

    I exploded, tearing off my coat and throwing it at the guy nearest to me.

    “OUTSIDE!” I was glaring at Diesel, who was looking at me, perplexed. His smile was fading. The pub went quiet. I’d shut them up.

    “Steady son”. His eyes locked on mine.

    He was a big bastard but that didn’t bother me. I was going to tear his fucking throat out.

    “It’s a joke, lad. You have to learn to take a joke” He pointed behind me.

    The guy with my coat was holding it up with one hand and, with the finger of his other hand through the hole in the back, was wiggling it and pointing at me, dancing from side to side, smiling.

    “Nasty bullet hole”

    I stared at him, uncomprehending.

    “In the back …” I stared.

    “Bullet hole”

    Light dawned, slowly. Coward! Shot in the back. The laughter started again. I could feel Diesel’s huge arm on my shoulder as he whispered in my ear.

    “You never thought …?” But I had. He looked hurt. We were family.

    I felt stupid.

    “Tell you what,” he yelled to nobody in particular, “someone get The Outsider here a drink!”, and the laughter started again. Hands clapping me on the shoulder as I’m steered to the bar.

    Outsider - because of that angry roar, “Outside!”

    Well, sometimes, you have to laugh at yourself, don’t you? That’s how it goes. That’s why I’m called The Outsider around here. Could’ve been worse. Fucking nearly was!

    But we’re family, like. It’s all good. We all have nicknames in this family.
     
    • Like Like x 5
  3. Joniemack

    Joniemack Beta brainwaves in session

    Location:
    Reading, UK
    Derecho

    It rode low in the jetstream, picking up heat and fury as it crossed the parched Central Plains. Soon, it would reach the slopes of the Blue Ridge and drop like a bomb into the gentle valleys of Southwest Virginia.

    #

    Clive Melrose had half an ear on the local weather forecast as he stripped out of his work clothes.

    “Storm heading in from the....”

    “Honey, where are all my jeans?” Clive shouted to his wife Candy who was in the kitchen making dinner.

    “.....expect widespread power.....”

    “I think there might be a pair in the dryer.” Candy shouted back. “The rest are still in the washer.”

    “...temperatures are expected to rise dramatically with wind gusts reaching 85 miles per hour ....” Clive was already halfway down the basement stairs.

    He'd let his dirty laundry pile up again. Eventually, Candy would always take the chore upon herself, in one fell swoop, leaving him with nothing to wear, clean or dirty.

    “Dad, I can't find Buckaroo!” Danny, their 6 year old son, yelled down to him. Buckaroo was the older Jack Russell they'd adopted. Candy called it doing the right thing. Take in an abandoned pet rather than buy one from a puppy mill. Not paying out the nose suited Clive fine.

    He slipped on the dry jeans and headed back upstairs.

    “He's outside somewhere." Danny continued. "I looked and looked but had to stop 'cuz it got too hot and blowy,” Tears spilled down onto his flushed cheeks. “We gotta find him, Dad!”

    Clive wiped a generous band of sweat from his forehead; realized it was getting warmer inside too. Not surprising for the 1st week of August, but surprising enough in the Melrose home where the A/C ran full tilt all summer long. Candy had chronic asthma and that was that.

    “Calm down, Danny. I'll find him.” Clive pulled on his shoes and opened the back door. What hit him, after the driving blast of furnace heat, was the color. He recalled hearing something about a storm, but there were no dark thunderclouds invading what had been a blue, late afternoon sky, half an hour before.

    Sky. Grass. The parked cars and paneled homes of his neighbors. Everything belonged to a landscape from an alternate world; a world covered in a coat of rust orange paint. Flamed colored trees, whipped into a frenzy by the hot, violent wind, danced like raving lunatics. Loose debris, plastic lawn chairs, and trashcan lids exceeded the speed limit as they raced down the road and across lawns, stopping occasionally to join swirling dust devils. But no thunder, lightening or rain. Clive had never seen anything like it.

    He struggled against the wind's efforts to yank the door from his hand, but he finally managed it shut. No deal. Hopefully Buckaroo was waiting out the bizarre storm in a safe spot under the house.

    He ran to the living room and turned on the TV, disappointed to find the local news and weather had already given way to Oprah.

    Before he had the chance to change the channel, Oprah was silenced, along with the fan over the stove top and the air-conditioning. The power was out.

    “Clive, I think we lost power. Is it storming outside?” Candy called to him, too busy mashing potatoes and boiling carrots to notice the sudden rise in temperature and the phenomenon occurring outside her kitchen window.

    Candy felt the train hit as she was removing dinner from the oven. She tossed the casserole on the stove top and grabbed the counter, as the house began to rock. The sound of a jet engine roared through the eaves and rattled the storm windows.

    “Clive! What's going on?” Candy screamed as she worked her way to the kitchen window. “Oh my God!”

    “Daddy, Daddy! What about Buckaroo?” Danny cried.

    “He'll be fine. Don't worry.” Clive said, wanting to reassure his son, but too concerned about his wife to put in a real effort. How long would she last before her inhaler would cease to be effective in this heat? They had to get out. A hotel. Or maybe her parents in Lynchburg. At least they had a generator.

    “Candy, forget dinner. We're going to your parents.”

    “What's happening out there, Clive?” she asked, her breathing too fast and shallow for his liking. She reached in her pocket for her inhaler, as if she'd read his mind.

    “A derecho, I think. We've got to go now, before it gets worse.”

    “Where's Danny?” she asked him.

    “He was here a minute ago. You find him while I go get the car ready.”

    Clive struggled through the side door, out to the driveway, and into his car. Two tries on the ignition and it rumbled to life. He flipped the A/C on max.

    Armageddon had disappeared in a netherworld of blinding dust and zero visibility. How was he going to drive to Lynchburg? How was he going to drive anywhere? They could wait it out in the car with the engine running and the A/C on; but for how long?

    Somehow, through the wailing wind, he heard Candy screaming his name. Somehow, he knew the reason why.

    A flash of memory. Himself at Danny's age, lost in the woods behind his grandfather's house.

    Clive stumbled blindly through the blowing dust, yelling Danny's name, only to have it snatched up by the foul wind. Each moment that passed felt like another piece of his world falling away, like rocks off a cliff.

    #

    Suddenly, the wind died and the air cleared. And there was Danny running down the road towards him with Buckaroo in his arms.

    “Where were you!” Clive shouted, grabbing his son in relief.

    “I found Buckaroo in the storm drain. I stayed to keep him safe.”

    Blue skies returned. “What were you thinking, Danny. Running off like that in such a storm?” Clive asked.

    “I was thinking about what you told me once, Dad.”

    “What's that, Danny?"

    “The good guys never leave a buddy behind.”
     
    Last edited: Jan 29, 2013
    • Like Like x 5
  4. Freetofly

    Freetofly Diving deep into the abyss

    A person of ideals, seeking to forward an enterprise and encountering family sentiment as an obstacle, emerges from a trying ordeal with sorely garnered wisdom.


    As Lidia approached the church, her cell phone rang. She saw it was her younger sister.

    No, no…I do not want to talk to her; I know what she is going to say.

    Lidia answered her phone with irritation in her voice, “What do you want?”

    Lidia’s sister replied, “Lidia! I have been calling you over and over again. I am very concerned that you have decided to return to that so called church tonight, and for such a ridiculous meeting with those strange people. I believe they are evil and dark and they definitely have you fooled. How much money have you given them to make you feel like you belong to their little society? They have taken your soul and you do not even realize it.

    Lidia, let me remind you of the book of Mark 11, verses 23 and 24. You know what is written in that sacred chapter,
    For verily I say unto you,
    That whosoever shall say unto this mountain,
    Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.
    Therefore I say unto you,
    What things so ever ye desire, when ye pray,
    believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them."
    This is what you need to do Lidia, pray on these words and you will have anything you desire.”

    Lidia replied to her sister feeling angry, “Bullshit, what the hell do you think I have done for years and years in “your” church, “your” god, it brought me nothing. I do not have time to listen to what you think is right for me! “

    “click”.

    Lidia was already feeling determined and nothing was going to change her mind to return to the church of the keepers.

    After her phone conversation with her sister, she became tense and hoped that Nyx would meet her before entering the building.
    Nyx named herself after the Greek goddess of the night; who rarely was written about in mythology but was said to be a figure of amazing power and beauty.

    Lidia’s was analyzing her thoughts and know that there is a huge part of the unconscious mind that just knows when something is not quite like it seems, once you understand what the differences are you become focused consciously and unconsciously.

    It is a splendid feeling!

    In the rain, Lidia ran towards the church in her white robe, with a smile…
     
    Last edited: Feb 3, 2013
    • Like Like x 2
  5. Zen

    Zen Very Tilted

    Location:
    London
    Farces of Good and Evil Part 04


    More tea, Jezebel?”

    “I think I’m going mad”

    “Well you’ve been talking to yourself yet again,” said Isabel,“and this time I KNOW there was nobody else.”

    Surely, Isabel couldn’t be ignorant of the author?“ You’re not aware of anyone else?”

    “No, there’s just you and Stan, and then there’s …er … that horned creature over there”

    “Moloch”

    “Moloch? Isn’t that a classical name for the Devil?”

    “Technically, yes, or rather one of the Devil’s helpers … but I believe he used to be a valid deity before Yahweh followers gave him bad press”

    “Is he, er, safe? I mean, he’s one of those Minions of Darkness, or Denizens or whatever they’re called. Heck, then again, so are you!”

    “Well, he’s never given me any trouble, if that’s what you mean. Mutual friendzone, if you ask me, plus my lack of horns and tusks kind of puts him off. Oh, and a word to the wize: you’ve got to be careful throwing words like Minions and Denizens around … that’s negative stereotyping, that is.”

    “But you ARE the Consort of Satan for feck’s sake”

    “And you’re the slightly potty mouthed girlfriend of a White Wizard … does that mean we have an ‘expressions of entitlement’ contest, and the winner gets the Moral High Ground?”

    “But I’m one of the good guys - like White Wizard ‘n’all!”

    “Heck! Next you’ll be calling Satan evil! You bigot!”

    “But He ISssss”

    “Why?”

    “Because he’s Satan!”

    “Well, thank you Miss Circular Argument in the blue corner.”

    Isabel looked puzzled.“Oh … have another ham sandwich,”

    “Thank you.”

    Jezebel leant forward to take a sandwich from the plate that was offered her. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the unsubtle evasion. Did you say there was some more tea?”

    “I’ll put that kettle on again.”



    Jezebel wandered into the lounge, where Stan had recommenced, albeit very quietly, Muahahahahaing. Nothing as pathetic as a sotto voce Muahahahahah, except perhaps a squirrel saying “Ill be back”. It did sound familiar. Satan sometimes did this in his sleep and she had to give him a big shove on the side of his jaw to shut him up, then if he woke, pretend she’d done nothing.

    “And what do you think you’re doing?” Isabel had appeared behind her.

    Jezebel took the cup of tea, downed it in one, and said “How’re we going to wake him up”

    “No idea, but we should try that back-to-back combining thing we did”


    Jezebel and Isabel cleared the crockery and trays away, after the mayhem their last attempt at working together caused, they did not want to take chances. They stood back to back, this time without hurry. They noticed they did not need to physically touch, the tingling was still there, but diminished. They decided to try to work with non-contact.

    “What shall be the manner of our Calling? What invocation?” Asked Jezebel.

    “Hmm … well, what do we know so far? When we’re connected up, we generate a VOICE of, er power. Souped up Injuncting is what we do. Jezebel, do you have any solo magic?”

    “Nope”

    “Me neither. So it’s joint effort or nothing.”

    They started, back to back, twelve inches apart. They looked at Stan, supine on the couch, eyes closed and bleating his ‘muahahahaha’s.

    “How’s about ‘Awake, be whole’?” Said Jezebel

    “I suppoe that’s simple and direct. Give it a try.”

    The two began changing “Awake, be whole. Awake, be whole.”

    Eleven inches apart and closing. “Awake, be whole. Awake, be whole.”

    Stan’s Muahaha became an undecipherable humming sound

    Ten inches, nine inches and closing. “Awake, be whole. Awake, be whole.” And the air began to shimmer as motes of dust and rubble fell from the walls and ceiling “Steady now,” said Isobel.

    His eyelids fluttered “Whhhh … Whhha …”

    Eight and a half inches and the remaining plaster on the walls began to slide off and “Awake be wh…”

    “What’s going on!”

    “Stan!” Cried Isabel

    He tried to sit up but she pushed him down “Stay down until you’ve fully awoken.”

    “I’ve been asleep? I’m … not at the hospital! What’s happened?”

    “We don’t know” Said Jezebel, “You seemed stuck in some kind of trance”

    “Who are you?”

    “Stan, meet Jezebel, she’s the consort of Satan.”

    “No! Surely not!”

    “It’s a fact.”

    Stan had slowly got to his feet. Staggering a bit, but apart from that, seemed OK. “I felt like I was trapped in some corner of my mind, not knowing what was going on.”

    “Just as well, and thank your lucky stars we didn’t do a video.” Said Isabel. Stan was back to his normal self.

    She walked over to Jezebel and held her hands. “Jezebel.”

    “Yes?”

    “Thanks for the assist here. Time to see to yours.”

    “’Kay”

    “Hold on”, said Stan “What do you mean?”

    Isabel looked at him “Her Satan’s gone down with something similar to what you had, and we’re off to fix him.”

    Stan went white as a sheet, muscles along his jawline clenched and a vein started throbbing at his temple, and a barely imperceptible tremor started at his hands and spread up his arm to his shoulder. “He’s the Lord of Darkness, this is our chance to rid the Universe of Evil for once and for all. I forbid it!”

    “Forbid? I don't think so!” Said Isabel.

    “Not going to happen” He advanced toward them.

    Isabel grabbed Jezebel - linking arms back-to-back “Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep”. Jezebel picked up on the chant, and within seconds, Stan was snoringly asleep on the floor. And some bricks had fallen out of the wall.

    “She didn’t have to do that”, thought Jezebel. But Isabel was now leaning on a table, palms down, frowning. Jezebel went to her.

    “It’s OK. It’s OK, dammit. Jezebel. It’s what you were talking about earlier. When he started up like that, it clicked into place. He might be a White Wizard. But he’s NOT the high ground, any more than I am. Our job is Balance. You’ve helped me bring him round - he’ll be ok, but I’m NOT going to let you down. That I know. I’m disgusted with him, actually.”

    The two of them went over to Moloch. Each grabbed a leg and dragged him toward the radiator, which resumed clanking and steaming and began to look like a gate.

    They disappeared through it. And within a few seconds, all was still as still ,except for the sound of Stan snoring.

    Motes of dust and rubble settled over everything, and. Apart from eruptions of particles from his mouth and nose, Stan looked like a staature of a dead knight on a catafalque. He was covered. The sandwitches could have been left yesterday or a thousand years ago, it was as if Vesuvius had happened all over again. Everything was chalky, petrified.

    The radiator began to clank again, and Jezebel re-appeared.

    “Author!”

    Oh - me?

    “Yes you. Bedone with your describing. He’s just asleep in a very dusty room. Buck up. The action is in Hell. Get your ass over there right now”

    M’kay.
     
    Last edited: Feb 4, 2013
    • Like Like x 4
  6. Freetofly

    Freetofly Diving deep into the abyss

    Great writing everyone, I'm totally enjoying!! :D
     
    • Like Like x 1