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    • CommentTimeJun 17th 2013 edited
    Welcome back to the pub.

    We have shit to do tomorrow (and probably shit to do tonight), but for now we're winding down here for a few drinks and some stories.


    1. Recount a tale on the below topic. You have 300 words. Anything more than that will be flambéed with the righteous heat of Deletion. Repeat offenders will be banned.

    Linking to a longer version of the story, or posting subsequent chapters, or anything which indirectly pushes it past that 300 word limit, will be similarly nuked.

    2. Read – and comment on – the other entries, before you post your own. Partly that’s because you’ll look like a fucking plum if your story is a rubbish shadow of someone else’s. Mostly it’s because you’re not an impolite shit, are you?


    By telling us your story, it’s in the public domain. Don’t get pissy about that.

    Right now you’re in a pub, surrounded by writers, artists and socialites. If you recount an interesting tale to entertain and endear yourself to your fellows, you do not get to bitch about it if a twisted version of the same tale shows up 30 years later on the other side of the planet. Stories are contagious. My advice? Be honest. Don’t make shit up. Don’t treat this like a fiction thread. It’s a chance to entertain and move us with your life experience. That’s plenty good enough.


    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2013 edited
    I've missed these.
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2013 edited
    All right, I'll go first.

    Late summer in Australia, 1990. A few friends and I take about twenty high school kids on a camping trip to Morton National Park, a remote, pristine wilderness area about two hundred miles out of town.

    We drive into the national park without incident, camp overnight and set off hiking at five in the morning. We make good time, but then bad weather sets in, and visibility drops to five or six feet. At this point it's best to press on because there's a large natural cave not far ahead, so we keep going. As we're negotiating an exposed mountain peak in a heavy fog, one of the kids drops his bedroll over the side. The bedroll's just barely visible from the top, sitting on a rock ledge six feet below, resting against the side of a little gum tree. "No worries", says my friend Nigel, "I'll just slide down to the ledge, grab the kid's bedroll and chuck it up to you, and then you can pull me back up". Nigel then slides down the sheer rock of the cliff face, rescues the bedroll and I pull him up, and everything's fine. The fog lifts, the kids have a brilliant time, we all make it home safely.

    A few months later, a few mates and I make the same trip by ourselves, and Nigel and I tell the others about the bedroll incident. We take them off the path to show them where it went over, and get a good look at where Nige had made his descent. There's a little sapling about three feet long, growing out of a crack in the rock face, and what had looked in the fog like a ledge is in fact a couple of pieces of bark, fallen from above. Below that, nothing but a six hundred foot drop. Nigel's life had been saved by a twig.

    Mountain path, Morton National Park, Australia

    The Castle, Morton National Park, Australia

    Mountain path, Morton National Park, Australia

    Yadboro State Forest, Australia

    View from the top of The Castle, Morton National Park, Australia

    Top of The Castle.

    Monolith Valley, Morton National Park, Australia

    • CommentTimeJun 21st 2013 edited
    Summer 2010, in Pripyat, Chernobyl. It was a blisteringly hot summer in Finland, and Ukraine in July wasn't much better. Sweat, horseflies and radioactive dust. It was our second day in the Zone of Alienation, which meant that it was just our group and a private guide, who couldn't give a shit. "A real stalker", he was described by Maxim, our first day minder. The guide never took his sunglasses or earbuds off, bought an one liter bottle of beer in the morning, and just dropped us off to the locations we wanted to see, telling us to come back in an hour.

    One of the places was an abandoned fish farm which had been turned into a radio-ecological lab after the Chernobyl disaster. The latter we did not know when we arrived. We started by checking out and photographing the old fish pens, the hatchery, and continued into a small building that looked like an office.

    We split the party, me and a pal Olga went ahead and the rest of the guys and girls stayed back to find things of their own. Pretty soon Olga and I stumbled into a small corner room, which turned out to be the laboratory. There were fish specimen in jars all over the shelves, boxes of glass syringes shattered on the floor, and all sorts of laboratory detritus strewn about. We took some photos, checked them out and continued to the upper floors.

    When we came back down, we couldn't see the rest of the group anywhere. After wondering about this a bit we thought they had probably left for the guide's car already, and headed out. When I was at the door, I heard my then girlfriend shouting my name really loudly from somewhere inside the building. We tracked the sound and found ourselves behind the door of the radiological lab, which was closed. The draft had pulled the door closed and rest of the group was trapped behind it. There was no handle.

    The thing about the area is that you don't really want to handle stuff made out of metal, and you don't want to raise any dust, since the ground is still rich in radioisotopes. I had a moment of thought, but Olga was more straightforward - she yelled for everybody to stand clear of the door and started giving it the boot sized skeleton key. After a couple of kicks the door creaked but didn't open. We switched places and I put some lard behind the boot, and the door cracked open, spraying my face with dust and particulates. I felt like I had something in my eye for three days, which made me slightly nervous.

    But yeah, that was the summer when I rescued my pals from a radioactive laboratory in Chernobyl.

    EDIT: Oh fuck me, because I'm apparently blind as well as stupid, I utterly missed the 300 word limit >.< Damn, sorry about that, It Shan't Happen Again.

      CommentAuthormister hex
    • CommentTimeJun 21st 2013
    Well, it's Whitechapel, innit, so you've gotta bend an ear or two if you can.

    It's Canada. Toronto. Specifically, the suburbs. 1991? Anyway. Me and a group of friends drink and smoke pot in a forest not far from my house. (I'm like 21?) One guy lived there, camping out like a wild-man. We had bonfires every night and because dude was actually living in the forest, we practiced fire safety protocol, all the time, no matter how drunk we got. (Which was VERY.) We had a guitar or something, too, so we'd drink and smoke and sing and cook shit over an open fire and what-have-you.

    So one night, hot as blazes, sweaty, humid. All is going as planned, like every night when we see a light overhead. A spotlight. A helicopter. Then, through the trees, we see lights. Flash-lights. COPS. We scatter, everyone in a different direction. I end up running beside a guy I know who is of Jamaican descent, who was some kind of football star in high school. We easily escape the idiot dragnet but somehow attract the attention of two cops in a cruiser. He takes off. Me, I'm not going to jail so I book it too. I outpace him (fear is a great motivator) and off I go. The cruiser, maybe ten feet behind us, gets blocked by a natural obstacle and we're clever enough to slip through and BOOM. I'm ten feet ahead of him and he's some bad-ass running back. "This way!", I say, knowing the terrain and we hop fences until we're far enough away and deep enough not to be caught. We go to ground under a bush and see their spot-lights as they ... drive ... slowly .. past ... shining a million candle-power uselessly into the darkness. We waited ten minutes, neither one of us talking, waiting for them to leave. At one point, THEY ACTUALLY GOT OUT OF THE CAR and called out to us, telling us to come out and be caught ... like some pathetic game of hide and seek.

    One that they lost.

    I out-ran a black guy who was out-running a police car. THAT'S how fast I can run.