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Young Writers Society


Broad Endings

by Brownbomd

Warning: This work has been rated 18+.

I. Groping for Air

Creating a wall around the half-octagonal were pillared speakers that intoxicated the crowd with retro-80’s dance music. Above the stage were disco-style lights that shone on the occupants like police-ray’s, only these rays enabled misconduct and promiscuity. The tight clothes, drinks, and black mini-skirts composed the throng of people on the dance floor, and along with the lessened area of dress there was a lessened area between the dancers. It was a small venue, a night club, from a metropolitan-area that does, indeed, sleep. It was filled to the entrance with early-twenties and late teens (whom snuck in or carried a fake ID).

The booming music filled the stall in which I was pissing. It was around 11 o’ clock; the liveliness was starting to seep in to my body. It was invigorating and held me like a cocaine-addict holds the last dime bag, ever. While releasing the yellow dam, sweet satisfaction swept over me: most men in the club were not even going to be able to go to the bathroom. As the stream ended, I washed my hands and exited into the flashing floor of base pleasure.

Down the bathroom hallway was the dance floor and bar. As I walked toward my desire, a damsel caught my eye-- there in front of me -- was a crowd of five or so women. Dressed like carbon copies of each other, from the tight-black skirt to the wanton red lips. Distorting the identity of the ladies were neo-masquerade ball masks covering their brow ridge to bottom of nose. Every one of them was looking haughtily at approaching men and those who caught the spiteful, or seemingly so, eye-contact.

My eyes carving an outline of the mask of the second shortest nymph, wearing a white mask that cut a line directly from the bottom of her nose to her ear. I crossed the sweaty pit of dance fanatics and I stumbled on a shoe or a leg – something got in my way. I stopped myself from falling, but bumped into the masked lass I was moving towards, the shrouded sugar, the apple of my eye. Only by circumstance did she reveal her uncovered, partially, face. Covered in a sanctimonious, overly-adored makeup that accentuated her magnetic blue eyes and slightly upturned nose.

Her response, a shove starting with her eyes, which looked a shade of blue from the haze and lights, and ending with her arm, which only appeased my inner-ruffian. The adjacent companions of hers came to her rescue as well, coming near me with sultry and vivacious movements that compelled me to nudge them aside with the utmost attention to adequate and not-excessive force. After the kindergarten playground activity, my partner’ vagrant eyes set on mine and like a dwarf set upon a hobbit’s pantry.

Breaking away from her slightly, I moved my arm up her back and pulled her locks, Rapunzel? Nay, just courting the dame. I felt her legs get closer to mine after and she started dancing on nearer to my thighs. No words, just action; however, the reaction from Rapunzel was audible, this response was only audible to mythical Olympian goddess’s, specifically, Aphrodite. Her face was inches from mine and her mien revealed as we danced the mask away. As if mimicking my prior endeavors of attention, she drew her hands to my chest and hair and tugged away; time was the second best at causing my hair loss.

Her friends were looking around at the unkempt actions of their group member and immediately dissolved into a disheveled entanglement of arms and legs groping for a dance partner. As we struggled to take breaths between our elegant wrestling match, my partner’s friends started to dismiss boys again. Their mien changed from impressive jaw lines and feminine posture to witch-like scowling. The circling friends seemed to be rising in anger from her waning interest in their “girl’s night out,” and her new desires for my presence. The music shook her hair from my perspective, and her being a little lady, must have shaken some inner libido because she was writhing on my leg like a musical worm. The amount of words spoken could have written an entire haiku; I never told her my name, hers was Karen.

She was the most vivid memory from last night. Her and the other masked missies were probably waking up hungover at some sorority house. They were about to start complaining that there are no good men around, yet they seem content in giving their sin-fueled bodies away for less than a three-second stumble for eye candy, like myself.

The image of the masked women was still fresh in my dreamscape while I slept, I saw a masked girl beckoning me into a sunlit parlor. She was covered in a black robe, much like something out of Harry Potter, and I walked by her to sleep on the satin fainting couch that was illuminated by a single beam of light coming from a high window.

A clock ushered me into Friday morning, I could hear the rain barraging the ceiling of my house. The sun only shone a single modest glare through my window across the room. The window was slightly open on the bottom and a small puddle of water was accumulating on the windowsill. I got off the bed and closed the window, separating the puddle by a wall of pane. The plastic was starting to grow a moldy-looking black rim near the bottom that touched the windowsill, yet its looks are not why I obtained it.

Behind me sat a disheveled bed, an office chair facing a brown wooden desk (matching the bed), and an opulent mirror rimmed in a hand-chiseled ivory with a golden finish. The mirror was a gift from a former client of mine, it had been made in Italy, during a nationwide ban on ivory. Interesting how the chief directive of the law was to ban the elephant tusk, but instead the ban only interrupted the middle class’ ability to purchase the luxury. Now, it is a nationally-ubiquitous symbol of wealth and leisure.

I stood by the window now, close enough to see the slow parade of sunlight casting the shade away from beneath buildings across the street. As the darkness was being ushered, a woman was unveiled from the cloak of early morning. Her swagger mimicked the sun’s revealing of the curves of the road, a road which I knew. She slowed down as she approached a blockage of people with umbrellas and hoods or hats on. Across the street was a coffee shop with a line of decaffeinated workpeople through the window it was Friday, and still a workday, for most.

Mornings excelled at undermining my cognizance, I slowly creep the carpet, meandering at best, until something in me awakens. It’s like having a dead commander in the military, the troops still move, but they’re chaotic. Whether or not the sluggishness was leftover from a long and useful slumber or if it an additive from my narcissistic lifestyle. Either way, it was a drudgery, and I removed the unbecoming behavior from my system with a steady flow of cool water. Livening, as if I was a corpse beforehand and the water a necromancer; I stood in the shower giving new facility, life. 

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Sun Jan 07, 2018 2:46 am
ExOmelas wrote a review...

Hiya, I have somehow found myself doing Team Tortoise this month so here goes day 6!


Creating a wall around the half-octagonal were pillared speakers

The half-octagonal what?

The tight clothes, drinks, and black mini-skirts composed the throng of people on the dance floor

This doesn't really make sense. It seems like you were trying to go for synechdoche but that doesn't work if you mention the people. It would make sense if the throng was made up by the objects, because you would just be drawing attention to those objects. But saying that the people themselves were made up of those objects, that sounds like it's trying to be more literal and just doesn't work.

(whom snuck in or carried a fake ID).

It's just who because the teens are the subject rather than the object of the sentence.

most men in the club were not even going to be able to go to the bathroom


My eyes carving an outline of the mask of the second shortest nymph

I just don't understand what this says here.

I crossed the sweaty pit of dance fanatics and I stumbled on a shoe or a leg

This would flow better if you took out the second "I".

Her friends were looking around at the unkempt actions of their group member and immediately dissolved into a disheveled entanglement of arms and legs groping for a dance partner.

Again, why? Why not just continue on as before?

They were about to start complaining that there are no good men around, yet they seem content in giving their sin-fueled bodies away for less than a three-second stumble for eye candy, like myself.

I don't know if this is the sort of attitude you are trying to be satirical about, but just know that if this character continues to talk about women in this way I am really, really not going to like him. There's nothing inconsistent about wanting a relationship with a good person and having casual sex in the meantime, and there's nothing shameful about women who have lots of casual sex.


So, I'm a little unsure what I'm meant to be thinking by the end of this. A guy goes to a club, is critical of people who go to clubs, objectifies some women, seems to pull (? maybe doesn't go home with her or they don't spend the whole night together?), then wakes up with a hangover that he tries to get rid of. What is your story about? This seems extremely ordinary. In order to be hooked, I would have to want to read more about your character, but I don't really know why I would be hooked on your character either. He seems like a very average guy, going through the motions of an ordinary weekend night. Maybe more of a cliffhanger would help, or tell me how he knows the woman he is looking at out the window so that I can infer something about a story that could happen between the two of them. Otherwise I don't know what I'd be continuing reading for.

What you did do was make a very vivid image. I could imagine all the situations very well - the friends getting annoyed because one of them's going off with a guy (it took me a bit to get that, but I think I recognise the interaction). The women trying to invite men in to be customers? I'm actually not certain that's what that was. This at some points seems to be a strip club/with prostitutes, but what sort of girls' night goes to a strip club. Actually that could do with some clarification.

Anyway, main point is that I need more hints about what I'm meant to be caring out within this pretty everyday scene.

Hope this helps,

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Sat Dec 30, 2017 4:52 am
Ventomology wrote a review...

Hello and happy Review Day! I'll just jump right in, if that's all right.

So, I notice that this is listed as satire, but while I know which cliche you're satirizing, frankly, I probably wouldn't have understood that this was satire if I hadn't read the tags.

Which, to be honest, sort of ruins the satire. Like, I agree wholeheartedly that the guy-at-a-bar cliche deserves to be made fun of, but there were a couple of things that could have been done with a little more oomph in order to help get your point across.

1. Written in the definition of satire is the requirement that you make fun of a vice or a problem. I couldn't really pin down what aspect of the guy-at-a-bar story you were making fun of, and this might be because you tried to take on too many of the problems with that cliche at once. It might help your satire if you picked just one of those vices or holes to exaggerate, so you can better guide readers towards the thing you're making fun of.

2. There's also the issue of language in this satire. It reads like a film-noir introduction, but you've set the story in the modern-day, and it's sort of difficult to poke fun at either of those concepts (through irony or exaggeration) when you've got them juxtaposed over one another. It doesn't make sense, and the film-noir's 'sophistication' clashes with the fact that club-hopping is generally... not thought of as sophisticated.

3. And finally, part of what helps satire work is that it exaggerates a problem to the point where the end result changes, often in an almost logical way. Jonathan Swift (very very old satirist, I know) satirized complaints about the growing number of poor people during the industrial revolution by proposing an end result where rich people would eat babies. Obviously, this is not an end result that anyone would allow to happen! You would never expect it, and you would think 'wow, this problem is a Bad Thing, because this Really Awful Thing is a borderline logical result.'

You can satirize parts of the guy-at-a-bar story in lots of ways. However, it will be most effective if you change the ending from guy-maybe-hooks-up-with-mystery-girl-and-never-sees-her-again to something else, because this ending is both common in media and not really the negative end result of anything that happens within the guy-at-a-bar cliche.

On the other hand, here are some things you did well!

1. I actually love film-noir-type writing. It's got it's own kind of lilt and description process to it, and you pulled it off really well, even if I thought it didn't fit.

2. It's kind of fun that you didn't skirt around some of the ickier parts of life, like the bathroom and sexual attraction. If this wasn't a site where those subjects are frowned upon (there are kiddos here, and this should be a safe space for them!), I'd encourage you to pick on that language a bit more, just for the sake of being really raunchy and gross.

Hopefully this helps? Sorry if this wasn't really the analysis you were looking for, or if I'm just being really dense about your satire. I think there's a lot of possibilities with the idea you have in mind, just that maybe you took on a few too many ideas at once.

Keep on writing!

“All stories are true," Skarpi said. "But this one really happened, if that's what you mean.”
— Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind