Young Writers Society

This is for the BIG Random Story Theme Contest. I'd say that this is the most random thing that I've ever written, but sadly that is untrue. It's also the first story I've written in months (due to the evils of schoolwork), so I hope it isn't horrible.

My generated theme was: Your story is about a Judge at the top of a skyscraper stealing time.

The Gods are Douchenozzles

From all the years I spent fidgeting in uncomfortable wooden pews, listening to the preacher at whatever place of worship my parents or my first wife or my daughter—bless her ignorant little heart—dragged me to every Sunday, I’d gotten the distinct impression that the place you go after you croak is either a sulfurous pit of fiery torment where devils skewer your ass or a bright, sparkly, cloud-filled land of rainbow-farting angels and mandatory 24-hour worship. What a load of shit.

If only it was that simple. I’d certainly like some time to sit and think, even if it is in a pool of bubbling lava. It’s not like I have nerve endings any more with which to feel the agonizing pain, now that I’m dead.

Yes. Dead. Kicked the bucket about two months ago when some idiot I was about to put away for murder gave me a bullet to the throat in the middle of the courtroom. Fucking security. They stop the granny with a bulging diaper and let in the nut with a gun. Well, at least I made the evening news.

Of course, now I have more important things to think about. Like stealing a light bulb off the side of the Chrysler building—you know the ones, the freaking bright ones that light up the sides at night. The local gods like to hoard their time in places where mortal souls aren’t likely to find them.

Let me explain. Y’see, those ancients we all laughed at for worshipping dirt and trees and junk were actually onto something. There’s more than one god out there, and most of them like to mess with humans for shits and giggles. So every time one of us inferior beings “merges with the infinite”, they fight each other over which ones of us they get to eat, keep as pets or make into the “champions” of their twisted games. A god by the name of Fred Freugenduvet (pronounced FROY-gehn-doo-VAY) picked me to be one of his. (Yes, that is seriously his name. Gods amuse themselves by choosing their own names—and doing all manner of morally bankrupt things—to keep the immortality from getting too boring.) A champion is a poor soul who’s given a dangerous game to play. If he wins the game, he gets to choose one of his loved ones to receive the most precious gift of all: time. The longer they live, the longer they stay out of the clutches of the hungry gods, who have a taste for human souls. Champions gamble with their own souls every time they embark on a quest, and the gods take a big juicy bite of it every time we fail to acquire our prize, which is why I’m hanging onto the side of the Chrysler building with my bare hands, inching closer and closer to a particular bulb.

Fred said that the bulb would look slightly different from the others. The twisting colors around it and the spatial distortion would be a dead giveaway that it was the one housing a hoard of time energy. Gods are greedy beings when it comes to time and souls, like dragons with their gold or ravens with their shiny trinkets, and they think it’s funny when mortals fall off of hundred-story buildings multiple times in order to collect them.

27 fucking times, climbing up the side of the damn building, and I finally see the godsforsaken bulb, pulsing dark and light in the deepening twilight. I know the local goddess—keeper of the bulb and supreme douchenozzle of Manhattan—is nearby. I can almost hear her chuckle at my repeated fumblings. I know what’s up, but I honestly don’t know what else I can do. I think of my daughter, sweet and innocent, and then I think back to Fred licking his lips after consuming some unfortunate soul. That lascivious smile is what gives me my persistence. I carefully place my feet in the nooks formed by the slick metal of the skyscraper and push myself up, all the while concentrating with all my might to keep my ghostly body from falling through the solid building and into the center of the earth—still a helpless pawn to gravity even after death. The last time that happened it took me a full week to get back out. I clench my spectral legs around the nearest metal foothold and reach toward my prize, which is finally within my reach… only to slip on a neatly placed grease spot—the feeble remains of a particularly sinful soul who was unlucky enough to commit suicide in Enoor’s domain—purposefully put there by the bitch, of course, and I begin to fall.

Shit.

You craft the story in a very distinct way, and it's an easy read. I like how you gave the "gods" funny names. I could see you turning this into a novel. Greek gods and whatnot are pretty "in" at the moment. Your grammar is flawless from what I can tell. You have an avid imagination and I hope it doesn't die. It is definitely not horrible, quite the opposite actually. I like the picture you included. There's not really anything I don't like about it. I hope you luck on the Big Random Story Contest!

-Crescent

Hi there!

aha this is so cool. I really like where you went with this. I don't think I could of come up with a story nearly this out there if I tried.

I think that you should try to find a better way to describe what's going on with him. You basically jam it into one super long paragraph, and it was a bit painful to read. No one wants to sit there and read a huge paragraph on the same subject, it just isn't interesting. So you should try to split up those ideas between bits of action. Start off by him complaining about the god and then move on from there, don't thrust it on us all at once.

I think you spent just the right amount of time on his family, especially when you mentioned his daughter again somewhat later. It made me sad, you know, him being dead and all.

Something I have to criticize is that without you telling us what the prompt was, we have no way of knowing why he's in a court room, sending people into jail, or getting shot. So you should elaborate more on that. Was his family there? What was the crime for? And how could that man he was about to put away have a gun anyways because he was in a holding cell in jail awaiting trial, as all criminals do before they go on to prison. All things to think about! Even though it is a short story you should have all the facts down before you just say something.

I really like this! It was highly entertaining. Keep up the good work!

Classy