50 one sentance stories
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"And then I realized that, even with thought, science, computers, music, art, fart jokes, advil,
Luckey Charms, alcohol, Left-Right politics, and everything else, we're still just chunks of otherwise inanimate matter."
You're welcome.
Luckey Charms, alcohol, Left-Right politics, and everything else, we're still just chunks of otherwise inanimate matter."
You're welcome.
I challenge your brother to read pretty much anything written by Neil Gaiman. He'll soon change his mind... Anyhow, here goes:steampunk42 said:
"They had thought long and hard about how to resolve the situation, the sad state of affairs that the confession had entailed, and they could only come to one conclusion; their friendship was irreparably shattered, and nothing would ever change that."
Based on a short ten-minute film I'm planning to write a screenplay for and produce hopefully with some friends after summer...
"We're not superheroes," Daniel muttered as he was arrested, his past catching up, "we're just idiots running around in costumes, picking off people who we think need to die."
(sorry it's long)
(sorry it's long)
Mine:
"To think that no one ever expected rabbits could bring a country to it's knees is almost cute in retrospect."
"To think that no one ever expected rabbits could bring a country to it's knees is almost cute in retrospect."
![[Kira Must Die]](https://eg-forums-escapist-data.nyc3.digitaloceanspaces.com/data/avatars/l/68/68539.jpg?1620622912){kind=avatar}
"My daddy said he lost his foot in Vietnam."
There you go.
There you go.
It was pretty much the exact same challenge. Someone bet that he couldn't tell a complete story, beginning middle and end, in only a few words, and he wrote on a napkin: "For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."maninahat said:
My story is one sentence long, but it's a big sentence. I wrote this up previously as part of a personal challenge to write the longest sentence possible. This version I'm posting here is a translation (the original was in French). It's called "War".
He walks across those barren landscapes, those scorched lands, those fields of battle, his feet treading broken bones, corpses bent in absurd positions, scattered bullet casings, bits of flesh littering the ground; a ground that has been turned over a thousand times by the bombs, the shells; a ground that buries the cadavers only to reveal them again later, when new explosives will dispel the soil; soil that burns after being bombarded countless times; ashes that spread a pungent smell, prickly for the eyes attacked by thousands of nanoparticles, a smell that mixes with the smell of rottenness of the dead that liquify if they weren't eviscerated by the shells; shells that spread their whistling of death, supplanting the cries of pain and death of the simple mortals from all the living creatures more or less close to their path of destruction created by fire; a fire that spreads everywhere, destroying everything, making uniform everything under a coat of ashes and debris, massacre everything to the excessive, preventing the men from recognizing the towns from the fields, the fields from the forests, sparing only the biggest waterbodies, the smaller ones being wiped off the map like the hills; hills flattened by the mines exploding in the dangerous and smoky underground passages, ready to collapse at any moment, difficultly sustained by the supports coming from the rare trees still standing, far from the front, far from the destruction, far from death, far from everything that defines these troubled times, times that see the tensions rise, times where debates transform into struggles; power struggles, class struggles, territory struggles, struggles to struggle, struggle for one's country, one's family, to struggle, hit the other again and again until nothing remains besiges a small lump of bloody rags, similar to those our protagonist sees when he walks in the middle of the field of battle, now insensitive to it all, to everything that he was afraid of before; failure, pain, despair, misery, tears, death, blood, the powerful sounds of high-caliber weapons that cut their targets in half, the destruction of everything he loved; no, now, no feelings appear when he thinks about it, his being too denatured to experience remorse, his conscience silenced by the noise of the shells, by the odor of putrefaction, by the touch of the flaccid and rotten flesh, by the taste of blood in his own mouth, by the sight of this massive destruction; his heart destroyed by the loss of his family, of his city, of his country, of his identity; his judgement gagged by the automatism of following the orders of his superiors, no matter if they bring his own death; a death that he forsees as certain, him who saw all his friends sometimes in a fraction of a second, a wary and skillful sniper sealing their fate; or yet, in a completely stupid way, a defective grenade exploding on the chest of his comrade, or friendly fire ripping out the lungs of his compatriot, killed by imbeciles too high to see the difference between ally and enemy; difference in fact minimal because once one removes the ability to think of a man, he becomes nothing else than a puppet, cannon fodder; difference that doesn't exist, because all are soldiers, all die without reason in the war; a war that strikes the riches like the poor, the strong like the weak, the young like the old; a war that assaults without mercy, without pause, without distinction, that destroys everything, barely caring about the wrongs done, the generals and the colonels and the amirals and the lieutenants too occupied to comparing the death toll of the enemy to theirs, ready to proclaim their victory by the fact they had less losses, forgetting by the same occasion that in a war, all sides loose and that an armed struggle has the only purpose of starting again from scratch, forgetting that victory can never be attained, because death never stops, except for the dead, who are alike the living because the living do not have the sparkle of life in their eyes anymore, since like our protagonist, they don't care about living or dying, life not having the least meaning for them, them who saw death so often that it became banal; banal like the destruction, the blood, so terribly banals that the truces never last long and that they come back, welcomed like old friends one would have forgot, occupied at beating the other up, not caring about one's own state anymore, in the same way that the man of the story doesn't care about his face anymore, of his clothes that should be called rags instead, of his boots sprinkled with dust, blood and bone dust; he doesn't care about his life, his heart, his conscience, his judgement, his being; only of killing, killing again, for it is now the only thing that characterizes him; murder, which used to represent all his feats, is now a daily act that doesn't affect him any more than breathing; an act that he ended up to like, to be fond of, like a pain that one finally tames and that becomes part of oneself like an organ; a gluttonous organ, that always wants more, that demands his ration, that asks, that begs, that ends up controlling; the man becomes a beast, an ogre, a murderer, a serial killer, unfeeling, ready to die to kill, a man his not a man anymore; a man that embodies humanity.
He walks across those barren landscapes, those scorched lands, those fields of battle, his feet treading broken bones, corpses bent in absurd positions, scattered bullet casings, bits of flesh littering the ground; a ground that has been turned over a thousand times by the bombs, the shells; a ground that buries the cadavers only to reveal them again later, when new explosives will dispel the soil; soil that burns after being bombarded countless times; ashes that spread a pungent smell, prickly for the eyes attacked by thousands of nanoparticles, a smell that mixes with the smell of rottenness of the dead that liquify if they weren't eviscerated by the shells; shells that spread their whistling of death, supplanting the cries of pain and death of the simple mortals from all the living creatures more or less close to their path of destruction created by fire; a fire that spreads everywhere, destroying everything, making uniform everything under a coat of ashes and debris, massacre everything to the excessive, preventing the men from recognizing the towns from the fields, the fields from the forests, sparing only the biggest waterbodies, the smaller ones being wiped off the map like the hills; hills flattened by the mines exploding in the dangerous and smoky underground passages, ready to collapse at any moment, difficultly sustained by the supports coming from the rare trees still standing, far from the front, far from the destruction, far from death, far from everything that defines these troubled times, times that see the tensions rise, times where debates transform into struggles; power struggles, class struggles, territory struggles, struggles to struggle, struggle for one's country, one's family, to struggle, hit the other again and again until nothing remains besiges a small lump of bloody rags, similar to those our protagonist sees when he walks in the middle of the field of battle, now insensitive to it all, to everything that he was afraid of before; failure, pain, despair, misery, tears, death, blood, the powerful sounds of high-caliber weapons that cut their targets in half, the destruction of everything he loved; no, now, no feelings appear when he thinks about it, his being too denatured to experience remorse, his conscience silenced by the noise of the shells, by the odor of putrefaction, by the touch of the flaccid and rotten flesh, by the taste of blood in his own mouth, by the sight of this massive destruction; his heart destroyed by the loss of his family, of his city, of his country, of his identity; his judgement gagged by the automatism of following the orders of his superiors, no matter if they bring his own death; a death that he forsees as certain, him who saw all his friends sometimes in a fraction of a second, a wary and skillful sniper sealing their fate; or yet, in a completely stupid way, a defective grenade exploding on the chest of his comrade, or friendly fire ripping out the lungs of his compatriot, killed by imbeciles too high to see the difference between ally and enemy; difference in fact minimal because once one removes the ability to think of a man, he becomes nothing else than a puppet, cannon fodder; difference that doesn't exist, because all are soldiers, all die without reason in the war; a war that strikes the riches like the poor, the strong like the weak, the young like the old; a war that assaults without mercy, without pause, without distinction, that destroys everything, barely caring about the wrongs done, the generals and the colonels and the amirals and the lieutenants too occupied to comparing the death toll of the enemy to theirs, ready to proclaim their victory by the fact they had less losses, forgetting by the same occasion that in a war, all sides loose and that an armed struggle has the only purpose of starting again from scratch, forgetting that victory can never be attained, because death never stops, except for the dead, who are alike the living because the living do not have the sparkle of life in their eyes anymore, since like our protagonist, they don't care about living or dying, life not having the least meaning for them, them who saw death so often that it became banal; banal like the destruction, the blood, so terribly banals that the truces never last long and that they come back, welcomed like old friends one would have forgot, occupied at beating the other up, not caring about one's own state anymore, in the same way that the man of the story doesn't care about his face anymore, of his clothes that should be called rags instead, of his boots sprinkled with dust, blood and bone dust; he doesn't care about his life, his heart, his conscience, his judgement, his being; only of killing, killing again, for it is now the only thing that characterizes him; murder, which used to represent all his feats, is now a daily act that doesn't affect him any more than breathing; an act that he ended up to like, to be fond of, like a pain that one finally tames and that becomes part of oneself like an organ; a gluttonous organ, that always wants more, that demands his ration, that asks, that begs, that ends up controlling; the man becomes a beast, an ogre, a murderer, a serial killer, unfeeling, ready to die to kill, a man his not a man anymore; a man that embodies humanity.
my second one: he looked out and saw all the things he had accomplished in his life, he knew it was good and he smiled.
This world is no place for dead men like us.
I was trying to make it imply something, not too sure if it worked. Did it?
I was trying to make it imply something, not too sure if it worked. Did it?