tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57503416879759321112024-02-20T03:33:09.764-05:00JD ParadisePurveyor of Potentially Passable ProseJD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-36966665492868741772023-05-03T17:39:00.003-04:002023-05-03T17:39:54.128-04:00"I thought you'd be harder to kill."Elie's gun hard against the short man's head, through the tight braids to press against the skull. His finger in the trigger guard. Four and a half pounds on a five pound pull. Ready. But not ready, not yet. Why does he alway talk? But he always talks. "I thought you'd be harder to kill."
"I thought you'd be better at finding me." The short man, Melton, is smiling, Elie can hear it.
The JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-140600305041351992019-02-15T14:29:00.002-05:002019-02-15T14:31:52.488-05:00"Tell me more about this God of Soup."
Schluurp, Hallowed be His Name, is generally thought to be a benevolent deity. He's worshipped primarily in the common houses, where huge pots simmer throughout the day and a man with a trencher can get thick broth and some sort of meat for a few coppers.
Like all deities, however, Schluurp (HbHN) has a darker side. "Soup needs meat," are His Words, and in places where farmers fear to tread, hisJD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-62642078174557038622017-05-08T16:43:00.001-04:002017-05-08T16:44:01.292-04:00Hell is a Pie You Cannot Eat
Miss Sullivan around the corner bakes the best damned pies in this whole damned town. I swear, the smells are what heaven must be like. Apple, cherry, blueberry? Meringues, don't get me started. Key Lime. Coconut cream. She's got a pecan apple crumb would make you cry.
You can't eat them, of course.
Sure, They'll parade you past her house. Give her a wave, that sweet old lady, and she waves JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-17752418212200927702017-04-27T16:03:00.000-04:002017-04-27T16:03:27.931-04:00A Clergyman, a Thief, Not Listening and an Escape“You can’t steal a priest, Eric.”
“Explain Father Coglin, then.”
I opened the trunk. The bundle of rags inside twitched and Mare screamed a little.
“That’s kidnapping!”
“He’s no kid. Ninety-five if he’s a day. Practically a veg. Much more like stealing.”
“What are you gonna do with a priest, Eric?”
“I was thinking lawn ornament.” I closed the trunk. Gently. Father C was an old damn man, he JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-2885079650662972602015-01-30T16:04:00.000-05:002015-02-01T16:45:25.211-05:00The Door to the Winterlands
"We were twelve," I tell Dishes. His parents named him Richard, and he went by Rich to most people, but to me he'd been Dishes since we'd gone through every one of his mother's good Corelle dinner plates that October night. Neither of us believing the crossbow actually worked.
Dishes unzips the long gym bag with a sound like the end of my world. "Tell you the truth, I thought I'd find the JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-24371865850042360372014-06-05T00:36:00.000-04:002014-06-06T00:46:12.443-04:00The Sad, Strange Ghosthood of Benjamin BrayIn a gray and lifeless office in a gray and lifeless town, a gray and lifeless man haunts the gray and lifeless corridors; his name is Benjamin Bray, and although he likes the taste of flan and believes strongly in hydration, he nonetheless believes he is dead.
Each week Benjamin checks his checking account to find no money, and although he believes he does not actually work at the gray companyJD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-53200073366623384942014-04-03T10:32:00.001-04:002014-04-03T10:34:04.740-04:00Winner, WinnerWin a place among the worlds' first commerical time travlers, the email said, busted words and all. No entry fee!
The mail had been routed to my spam folder; there was no way it was anything other than a half-pound of horseshit. But I was tripping balls, and this was the funniest thing I'd seen in a month. I gave them a throwaway email address as a goof.
Even the followup mail that came to the JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-91789748257329735392014-03-28T14:12:00.001-04:002014-03-28T14:12:41.028-04:00A Goddess All Made of WordsOnce upon a time there was a goddess in the shape of a girl, who danced barefoot in moonlight while the words of the worlds swirled around her and through her. From sunset to sunrise she would dance, and when her dancing was done and her hair and her body were limp with her sweat, the words would be scribed upon her skin, black lines on pale skin, all the words in all the worlds traced fine as JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-47778806388678480442014-03-20T11:28:00.000-04:002014-04-03T15:26:33.334-04:00Chasing TimeThey sold us the time machine with promises that we would see the dead again. We bought the vision, and we bought the machines. They got very, very rich. But they never told us the real price we'd pay.
You can go back, can see. But you can't touch. That girlfriend who climbed into the car with the drunk fratboy, you can't save her.1 No one can save her. No one can save anyone. With this amazingJD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-46158149562564047812014-03-18T17:48:00.001-04:002014-03-20T11:28:56.338-04:00Act Three When the Footlights FadeOn a warm September day, in the full sunlight of bright afternoon, Millie Rennart was enjoying a mid-afternoon walk with no timecard to punch when she was accosted in the middle of the Main Street crosswalk by a man with shaking hands and a set of teeth too regular and too white to be anything but false.
"You," he snarled in a low voice like rust and dark spaces.
Millie was raised to be polite,JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-43306819885066012932014-03-14T15:34:00.002-04:002014-03-20T11:29:04.360-04:00A Revolution of Small ThingsIt began with a toothbrush. A pearly blue Smith ProGlide, gripped in the hand of a nine-year-old boy.
When the police came knocking, Adam Scott Bell came to the door with a Smith ProGlide and a mouth full of suds. His parents were next door at the Harry's place, but they'd always trusted Adam to do the right thing. So he'd never open the door for a stranger. But this was the police. Adam JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-89299549486682316272014-02-27T11:25:00.001-05:002014-03-20T11:29:27.943-04:00The Story of the Change"It was supposed to be the party of the year," he told them.
The Children leaned forward eagerly. "What is a party?"
The ancient man closed his eyes against the glare of their attention. "It's . . . it's complicated. When you do something well--but of course, you all do everything well, it's how you are now--you want to celebrate. To be proud of it in public. And sometimes you just want to JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-84112906028232926202014-01-16T11:16:00.001-05:002014-03-20T11:29:54.258-04:00And now for something completely differentA cute little children's story!
If anyone wants to illustrate this, I'd be happy to pair up.
-------
This is Cecelia.
[Picture of a little girl, cartoon style, against a green and happy background]
This is Cecelia's friend Aldo.
[Picture of a large black dog]
Aldo is Cecelia's favorite dog because he can do tricks. He can play fetch.
[Cecelia, against the happy green background with a JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-13906554724745785252013-11-23T01:28:00.000-05:002013-11-23T01:28:00.795-05:00Bail HouseI'm the one who dared Zak to go into Bail House that night. I was twelve, and he was nine. What happened is my fault.
On a cul-de-sac lined with the wreckage of stripped-out foreclosures, nothing left but rotting wood and the ghosts of dreams, Bail House was a beacon. The lawn was always immaculate, the hedges pristine, the paint fresh. On garbage day, though, no garbage was ever set out. No JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-60304652283461836392013-11-09T11:19:00.001-05:002013-11-09T11:19:10.571-05:00Contest Winner!Thanks to, um, ALL the entrants :). I enjoyed them both. Close game, but the edge goes to wordswithsharpedges in an entirely arbitrary decision based on the fact that I liked the piece's energy and felt the storyline was a little clearer. This was harder than I thought it was going to be, with only two entrants :)
Thanks to both! Words, contact me at j d p a r a d i s e at g m a i l period com JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-62133068887990625122013-10-31T15:53:00.002-04:002013-10-31T23:46:58.950-04:00Okay, your turn.I've been posting stories here for a while, and never thought to do this before. But now I have.
Write a story in the comments to this post, using three or more elements from the writing prompt box at the right. 500 words or less. And there will be a prize; my favorite will get a paperback or hardcover book in the genre of their choice (within reason!) randomly chosen off my rather extensiveJD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-24667324042681401012013-10-24T17:06:00.000-04:002014-03-20T11:30:14.419-04:00Byrhtnoth's DyingThe steel tide is rising.
The invader before me goes down in a spray of blood and broken links of chain as my war-spear rips free of his byrnie. But behind him rush a hundred more, a thousand, more than I can count. Roaring like the sea itself come to take us away. It is no matter. We must stand. We will stand.
The men roar as I step through their ranks into the chaos, spear-head JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-21575152729825920002013-10-17T16:39:00.000-04:002013-10-24T17:09:11.932-04:00The Meeting
As the meeting dragged on, and on, and on, Ted found himself unable to take his eyes from Darla. He couldn't help imagining what she would look like later that night, stripped bare of her skin.
--
Another /r/writingprompts story: Tell a horror story in 2 sentences.
JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-9738032623676894892013-10-17T16:38:00.000-04:002013-10-17T16:38:16.345-04:00The Red Stapler and What It MeansIt's only a stapler. They don't really need it, and I do.
That's what I tell myself as I look at it on my desk. A Swingline stapler, perfectly quiet, perfectly innocent, red as the nails of a dead hooker.
A red Swingline stapler. Mine. All mine.
I pick it up. In my hands it is heavy as a tombstone.
They can hide me down here in the basement with the roaches. They can stop paying me, show me JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-31133289750826542352013-10-11T10:22:00.000-04:002013-10-11T10:22:42.827-04:00Seven Days With the DragonridersOn the first day of my captivity, Essen showed me the rows of the dead. Laid head to toe and draped in white muslin, flies buzzing drowsily in the cold air around them, there had to be fifty of them. All very thin, but all different lengths. Some very short indeed.
I steeled myself into expressionlessness so the hitch in my chest could not be seen. The Brothers of the Sun were the ones with the JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-30476175563153882162013-10-09T14:45:00.000-04:002013-10-09T14:45:15.547-04:00The Unicorn ThiefThe griffon was screaming at the fat man outside its cage. The fat man's hands were swollen with scrip. The seller's dark eyes were round with possibility.
Callie slid past them into the market proper, the braided horn warm between her breasts. Hoping the old lady would still be there. Hoping she'd found another unicorn.
Hoping she hadn't.
#
The old lady had grown older still. Big-knuckled JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-75735007286280669602013-10-04T00:50:00.003-04:002013-10-09T14:45:52.449-04:00East Canton, Ohio
The bar I managed when I was eighteen was owned by an old woman named Hanna Novak. It was in East Canton, Ohio, which is about as glamorous a place as you might imagine. Looking back, I guess Hanna wasn't that old -- maybe in her sixties--but when I was eighteen that was old. Hanna had grey hair pulled back in a bun, arthritis that had turned her hands into knobby claws, and the upper body JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-83263035421176913662013-10-01T17:07:00.000-04:002013-10-09T14:46:21.142-04:00Why I'm a DropoutLike the title implies, this happened back in high school. Which was a long time ago and a long ways away, but some stuff stays with you. I've never told any of my psychiatrists about this, but this feels like the place to talk about it.
I went to a small school in an almost dead mill town in upstate New York. We graduated eleven people the year before I dropped out. My class was nine. Five guysJD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-55177722797099863662013-09-24T09:50:00.000-04:002013-09-24T13:07:05.347-04:00Calling the BonegodThe stolen cube shatters in Cheapgrim's hand and its callingspell spirals around the burial hill. Eternities pass. The spell sinks in. For hours Cheapgrim prays.
And Galia wakes.
Human, it rumbles.
Cheapgrim fists his trembling hands. "Great One," he pleads. "Your enemies approach. Feigning a wedding party."
Scarlet eyes flare within deep sockets. The bonegod's snarl rides an osseous JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750341687975932111.post-45343036349415345362013-09-22T14:41:00.000-04:002013-09-23T12:36:30.236-04:00What is Absurdism?Overtly Absurdism seems to me to be about imagery and incongruity and the illogical extension of logical conclusions.
Secretly, it's a matter of putting the correct badgers in the correct desk drawers.
Because if you put the wrong badger in the wrong desk drawer, then the guy sits at his desk, opens the drawer, takes out his pencil and says "what the fuck, there's a badger there." Calls the JD Paradisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07945134213244873038noreply@blogger.com0