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The Front Door to Nowhere The Dwarf adjusted his new body in the taxi cab backseat. Not that he minded being three feet taller than his true form, but a Dwarf without his bearings is hardly a Dwarf at all. He couldn’t even imagine what it must be like for Syla. It’s 47 degrees in Wichita today, requiring any sensible humans to keep warm with layers of clothing. The bindings of human clothes and gravity were enough of a chain for the fey. But the smells of Earth, the constant tip toe-ing, and the painful oblivious locals were enough to drive any outlander insane. Syla was a fairy from the Oberoneon territories outside of what the fey peoples liked to call The Forest of Doors. She came from a family of archmages and trademasters, which meant a long line of standing behind people much more talented than you and yelling at them for not doing anything right. But it doesn’t matter to her. This was the only way. The only way she could be with him. “This is the place!” the driver yells. The car pulls into the Taco Sabroso parking lot. It was still open. The combination of large windows and fluorescent lights made it nearly impossible to miss in the night time. And the three inebriated college students in the corner suggested they were still open; as does the well dressed man in the leather jacket sitting alone on the opposite side, drinking a small beverage. It was him. He made it. “Twenty six-fifty two,” asked the driver. Syla smirked.”What bank do you use?” Across town, a gun store is missing several thousand dollars of merchandise. And its owner is now a goat. “You can’t just do that on Earth!” the Dwarf scolds Syla. “His bank’s gonna’ think he’s a drug dealer!” Syla would normally have been offended, by the Dwarf’s nervous energy was too amusing for her to be angry. “Oh please, Gurt,” laughed Syla. “You really think I’m that careless? Some of us in the Hightower actually do know a thing or two about magic. Mr. Smith will just find his last few deposits were a little bit more than he remembered.” Syla and Gurt walk into the restaurant and nervously approach the counter. Syla tries her best to avoid turning towards the man in the corner, straining her peripheral vision in the process. “You remember the plan right?” she whispers to him. “Yeah…” Gurt says with an exhale, matching her volume. “I mean, my part’s pretty straight forward. Right?” “Right.” Syla repeats, more to reassure herself than Gurt. “Straight forward.” “How can I help you?” asks the high school dropout behind the counter, doing his best to force something remotely resembling a smile. “You go ahead and order” Syla tells Gurt, loud enough for the kid at the counter to hear. “I have to use the restroom.” In a park downtown, a naked jogger sits on a bench, letting his mind process the events that just occured. He swears that Mr. Spock pulled a gun on him and stole his pants. When Syla was younger, she rode with her father through Sandara. The Orcs had sacked the township in a brutal raid lasting three days, burning down homes, defacing temples, and flooding the once pristine streets with blood and waste. It was one of her clearest memories, and it was the only thing that she could compare the Taco Sabroso bathroom to. The full impact of her decision was weighing down on her. She was in a cold fleshy trap of a body that felt like a safe wrapped in a blanket, standing in a cesspool of human filth and suspicious phone numbers. And there was a draft too. For a moment, the stray thought crossed her mind that this might all be a mistake. Then the door creaks. “Well, I see you picked somewhere romantic,” said the man in the leather jacket with a playful sarcasm in his voice. Syla raises an eyebrow, throwing a knowing smirk towards the man. “Why Tylly, I said I’d take you to the front door. You said you had the key.” Before the man has time to respond Syla pulls him towards her, and their lips embrace in a passion finally allowed free after months of suppression. Tylly embraces her, for the first time in too long, holding her tight as if to make sure he’d never lose her again. He pulls his lips away only for a moment, just to ask a single question. “So… you want me to open that door?” Taking the moment to catch her breath, she manages a smile. “Do you really need ask?” He matches her smile before pressing his lips back against her’s. Her fingers run through his hair as she notices the top of his head become fluid flowing in the gentle cool breeze from the poor insulation of the Taco Sabroso restroom wall. She opens her eyes to assess the situation. The room begins to spin, and the dim colors of the filthy titles begin to glow with vibrant hues. Her hand moves down Tylly’s back, and the leather of coat begins to swell and separate into scales. A warm burst hits the back of her throat as the world begins to spin into a bright maelstrom of color. She was falling backwards slowly, as if into pool of air. She knows where she is. She is nowhere. Tylly spreads his wings. Syla spreads her’s. There is no place she would rather be. Joe was happy he finally stopped vomiting worms and roaches. But he still can’t believe that guy stole his hat while he was coughing. Gurt sits alone a table, enjoying his Spicy Chicken Dichoso Wrap listening to the drunken frat boys at the opposite table discussing the all the alcohol they can’t hold, when a particularly odd man walks through the front door, carrying a large gear bag. He’d never seen a human wear a Sherpa hat while jogging before. The man hurries through his pockets until he finds a piece of gold-trimmed parchment. Then he speaks in a language that Gurt instantly recognizes. Olde Elvish. The frat boys go silent. The counter kid’s eyes glaze over. “That should hold them,” said Yavil, removing his Sherpa hat reveal large Elven pointed ears. “At least until I can do the job. You got an exit, right?” “You’re not in a human form…” Gurt manages to get out, watching Yavil remove a hunting rifle from his bag. “What if someone sees you?”’ “I was in a hurry,” says Yavil, prepping the weapon. “I skimmed a few enchantments out of a Fey magehall. We clear the dragon. I escort the girl back to daddy. Then we collect our reward, and disappear to some remote island in the outer dimension rim.” “It doesn’t feel right. We’re killing two kids who just want to be together so...” “Don’t!” Yavil gently moves towards Gurt with an open hand. “I know this is big, but it fell in our laps. And I fully intend to say thank you. From the both of us.” That hand is now squeezing Gurt’s shoulder. “I’m not used to you being this tall,” says Yavil in a small attempt to lighten the mood. “You look good as a six footer.” “…they just want what we want.” Gurt manages to force out. “One less dragon in the world is a price I’m willing to work with.” Gurt breathes in, removing a small vial from his pocket. “This is fairy dust, astra stones, and dirt from The Forest of Doors to take you back.” Yavil takes it, examining it in his hand before putting it in his pocket. Yavil embraces an unresponsive Gurt, kissing him on the cheek. “This will all be over soon.” Yavil cocks his rifle, moving towards the restroom door. Gurt falls back in his seat, waiting for the blast to ring out. But it doesn’t. Yavil stands with his rifle looking at the restroom floor. Fairy dust. Astral stones. But no directional element. Yavil gently siffs his hand through the ground dust, as not to upset the spell and sent him crashing into whatever formless chaos exists between the worlds. Yavil turns as he hears the step behind him. Gurt’s curiosity had gotten the better of him. “No directional element,” he mutters. “The morons... they’re probably torn apart by now.” A smile comes across Gurt’s face. “You really think they’re that careless?”
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Oct 13, 2012 08:04
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Sorry guys, I have to bail for this week's thunderdome. I spent the whole of last night performing dance routines for a charity event and I am suffering from the worstfucking hangover/fever right no.w Was hoping I could grab a couple of hours this morning to write. That last paragraph took 15 mintues because I had to puke twiice.
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Oct 13, 2012 08:20
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Beyond the Veil: Scaffolding Shareholder Value in a Post-Reality Market Paradigm The kitchen was out of coffee again. I looked at the empty jar, lip curled. This was the last loving straw. My house was gone, twisted into a non-Euclidean maze of pulsating tubes. My job had become a nonsense, though I was still vaguely, angrily, glad to have it. My girlfriend went all mystical after one to many trips Across, and had spent the last three weeks picking auguries out of old Teletubbies DVDs. But no matter how weird a fruit salad life had become, not being able to brew up was the shittiest of cherries to have on top. I took a deep breath. This would not stand. I was going to the top. "Sharon!" I called out. The tea room door opened. Peering through it was a vision out of nightmares, horned and flickering, tentacles of barely-seen light writhing across it. "Yes, Mike?" it said. I recognised the voice. Sharon had been holding mostly normal for the last month. Disappointing. "I need a slot on the big cheese's timetable. Just a few minutes, but soon as poss'." The thing in the door glanced down at the peeling, ancient scroll in its - her - claws. I saw it flick back to a tablet for a fraction of a second as she looked back up at me, contorted her face in what I suppose could still be called a grin. "You're in luck. Dave just cancelled, a dragon ate his taxi. Come on down, I'll buzz you in." I followed her through the door. "Hell. Is he alright? I was supposed to see him this arvo to talk billables on the French account." "Alright enough to cancel his meeting, he'll be in late is all. I think it was only fifteen percent or so. Lucky." I shook my head. loving dragons. Smelly,stupid, and not even real enough to shoot. The door to the CE's office had done a full shift since the last time I was down here. Swirling runes and barely seen figues filled the stone portal. Sharon tapped the intercom rune, smiled, and left. A threnody swelled from the glowing stone, like hundreds of low moaning voices. I raised my voice over the noise. "Mrs Robinson... It's ah, Frank. Frank Oliphant. Sharon said you had a few minutes free - could we speak?" I waited for a response. The noise cut off as though someone had thrown a switch and the mist cleared from the portal. A rough-hewn wooden door with an aluminium handle remained. I turned it cautiously, pushed. No harm in being careful - my mother had fallen into a goblin pit going into the kitchen a few days back. Luckily she was carrying a paring knife to do her potatoes. It crossed over as some kind of magic dagger and made short work of the little buggers. Helen Robinson, CE, was sitting at her desk writing on a notepad. The view was glorious - sun setting into the harbour, gentle green glow from the pyres outside the city, clouds etching their usual caballistic imprint on the sky. I cleared my throat, and she looked up. "Hi. Thanks for seeing me, Mrs - " "Helen. And it's 'Ms'. Have a seat, Frank. You were second tier on the Wilberforce account, weren't you? I heard good things about your work." I inclined my head modestly and took the offered seat, which seemed normal. Aluminium legs, pale Swedish wood. "Helen, it's... well, there's no coffee." She raised an immaculate eyebrow, nodded. I hadn't had anything to do with her since she'd taken the position a couple of weeks back. She was actually very attractive; long brown hair, dark eyes. I found myself a little tongue tied. I pressed on. "And I've been thinking about the way we manage our supplies. It's breaking down; Change management hasn't been coping." She nodded again. It occurred to me I hadn't even seen a flicker of change, anywhere in the office. Impressive control. I noticed I had an erection, and crossed my legs. "So - I would like your approval to take over local operations on both sides of the Veil." Her eyes widened. "That's... very bold, Frank. Are you sure you know what's involved?" I stood up, pulled a clutch pencil from my shirt pocket. I glanced at it and it throbbed, grew hot, extended out into a four foot broadsword. A heat haze trembled along its razor edge. "I am. I will return triumphant. Our supply chain will be optimised. This I swear, my thane." I could feel my voice growing deeper, more resonant. My feet were clad in rugged boots of hide and a heavy weight on my brawny shoulders betokened pauldrons of forged steel. She stood. Her hair had a faint hue of red now. I noticed, and her breasts strained against her tight business shirt. "Go then, warrior. Strike down the Logistics Coordinator, Northern Region. Take his place. Then return to me and you may have my blessing and ..." I took two steps forward, caught her around the middle, bent her low and kissed her. "Take you to wife, sweet Helen?" She returned my kiss, lingering hot with wine and passion, then pushed me away. "No, thane Olyphant. Not yet. The laws of the company will not permit such insubordination. But when the time comes...." I laughed, a bellowing gust of joy that rebounded off the high wooden roof and made the wolf-hounds glance up from their place around the fire. "When that day comes, why then we shall rule the company and cast aside their feeble laws! This too, I swear!!!" Her silvery voice joined me in pealing laughter as I held my sword high, a distant crackle of thunder announcing the reign of blood to come.
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Oct 13, 2012 08:22
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^^^^Not eligible for competition. 37 minutes to go. Saddest Rhino, that is barely adequate as an excuse, though the vomit was a nice touch. Everybody else, get your poo poo together.
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Oct 13, 2012 08:24
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sebmojo posted:Everybody else, get your poo poo together. Yes, I have got my poo poo together. Observe this gotten-together poo poo. Quizzard (1476 words) quote:Allegedly, John F. Kennedy misspoke part of his speech and said, “I am a doughnut.” What is this pastry actually called by people of Berlin? Colbois grabbed one of the spheres and crushed it in his hands. The quiz energy inside splattered all over his arm, but he didn’t care about it. I just absorbed it all like a good bracelet. The big ball of fire behind the quiz screen halted its expansion. I teleported back into his earbuds and screamed, “Stop panicking!” Even a scream this loud this close didn’t faze him. “I'm fine, Goodgold,” he said. “You’re not. When you panicked your French accent goes cr-” Colbois scrolled through the options by moving his fingers across the bracelet. However, he moved past ‘Shield’ and straight into ‘Move’. After confirming his decision, long blue lines shot out of his fingers. With those blue lines he drew a cage around the ball of fire. He thought of moving it to this spot, just up by twenty kilom-no, thirty kilom-no, eighty? Even higher! The thermosphere? Seriously? He clicked his fingers. The ball of fire disappeared. Five seconds later, there was a huge ball in the sky. “I thought you were wasting power. Turned out the charges was far bigger than I thought,” I said. “Still, you’re now down to level 502.” He didn’t care. He didn’t even return to the village. He always liked to see the faces of the people he saved. “Seriously, what is going on?” He was silent, looking at the sky. “I think Claude’s getting weaker.” “You’re saying that after that explosion? Colbois, that attack looks stronger than the strongest recorded artificial explosion, which is?” “Tsar Bomba,” Colbois said. “That might just be a desperate attack.” He scrolled through the interface in his bracelet again and stopped at ‘Direct’. “Well, here’s mine.” “What are you doing? You did Direct before and you lost when you were level 700! This is suicidal, Colbois.” “Is not what Claude doing also suicidal? The Quiz World is slowly blurring. It’ll fade away soon enough. I predict Claude knew this as well and wanted us to disappear sooner. Well, I’m going to end this even sooner. Direct.” I sometimes wished Quiz Personas can sigh. “Are you ready for everything?” “Yes,” he said. His heart was beating rapidly and his muscles were tense, but his stare remained powerful. “I’ll say it again. Direct. Goodgold, bring me to the heart of Quiz World.” “I knew I’ll regret that Persona Upgrade,” I said. “Direct. Receiving questions. Difficulty: 10.” The air in front of Colbois twisted and bent, forming four spheres of air. Dirt shattered into many particles before entering those spheres. Inside them the dirt particles formed the letter A, B, C and D. Heavy rain fell without warning. The spheres remain unperturbed, the water being pushed away by some repulsive force. The raindrops above the spheres then stopped raining down and merged into one big blob of water. A thunderbolt charged down towards the sphere, appearing within a bright flash. Yellow squiggly lines of electricity moved across the giant water blob, before turning into sentences. “Even though I’d done this before, I’ll never get used to that,” Colbois said. quote:What is the last book Charles Darwin wrote that was published in 1881? The other air spheres disappeared. The correct sphere turned into a huge knife that cut the ground beneath Colbois apart. However, Colbois didn’t fall. A flat rock flew beneath his feet, acting as a platform. The rock descended into the depths. The section of the ground under it opened while the one above closed. Yet within this underground pocket there was light. Colbois once said he believed Claude was hiding somewhere deep inside Earth. Maybe he’s right. The ground split open once more to reveal a huge open area, as big as a stadium. Through millions of years, the stalactites above had formed a complex shaped like an open hand. This complex then gained life and broke apart from the ceiling, floating just around Colbois. Four huge stalagmites also flew up, their sharp ends pointed at us. A head-sized boulder stuck to each of them. Cracks appeared on the surface of the giant hand, letting some of the most superficial layer to fall down. What was left were few sentences. quote:Besides the First and the Sixth Doctor, which incarnation of the famous British Sci-Fi character The Doctor is played by multiple actors on the television series Doctor Who? Colbois grabbed the correct stalagmite and slammed it towards the giant hand, crushing both. The other stalagmites and in fact all the stalagmites, with all the stalactites, crumbled into pebbles. These pebbles formed a huge pillar below Colbois. The rock that we stood on touched the top of the pillar. The pillar then exploded, launching the rock platform upwards the opened-again crevice. “So Claude’s not underground after all,” Colbois said. “Maybe the poles?” “Or underwater,” I said. “There are plenty of spaces to hide. Look, another question coming.” A flock of pigeons, flying abnormally low, moved towards Colbois. However, they ignored Colbois and simply flew around him. Few seconds later I could hear loud sounds of hooves beating against the ground. A herd of moose, with enormous leaf-shaped antlers above their heads, ran towards us. We could see that there were four moose with special antlers. Those four moose ran by us as Colbois jumped into a normal moose, protecting his whole body using Shield. He grabbed into the antler to keep steady. In front of the herd, the flock of pigeons combined with other flocks to form a huge congregation of pigeons. Those pigeons then changed their position to create sentences. quote:The etymology of this word is mistakenly attributed to a special placard given by a king, allowing the people in a house with this placard to have sex. What is this word? Colbois blinked. If I could, I would too. “Goodgold, wasn’t one of the universal rules of Quiz World...” “Yes. Fourth Commandment: Thou shalt not insert profanity into thy Questions. This wasn’t made by a Quizzard. The Creator himself made this,” I said. “That’s...illogical!” “A proof that Claude’s weaker and desperate.” Colbois teleported atop the correct moose. He looked up and screamed, “Claude!!! No matter what, I’ll find you!” A loud booming voice appeared from the sky as every single creature stopped. “WHY? Why are you doing this, Colbois?” The Creator himself spoke! Neither of us expected this. Colbois lost his grip on the moose and fell down. He stood up. “Claude? Where are you?” “Answer my question, Colbois.” “First Commandment: Thou shall provide four possible answers alongside thy questions. I won’t answer it.” Shining words appeared in front of Colbois. quote:Where is Quiz World located? “That’s a weird question,” I said. “Notice he’s saying ‘Quiz World’, not ‘Earth’.” “But Quiz World is just an alternate Earth that Claude created. Had the same features, only here quizzes have special powers. What’s the difference?” Colbois asked. New words appeared, spelling out ‘a) Solar System’, ‘b) Milky Way’, ‘c) Local Group’. “If ‘Quiz World’ is just ‘Earth’, all these answers are correct,” I said. “Which means they’re different. Maybe it’s a copy of Earth in a different galaxy group or supercluster?” “In any case, the answer is clearly…D…” The last choice is ‘d) Claude’. "No, no!" I shouted. “That can’t be right. There is no correct answer here. This can’t be true. I don’t want to believe it!” I remembered Colbois' panic before. “Have you suspected this before, Colbois? That Claude the person no longer exists? And is the true nature of Quiz World?” “Yes,” Colbois said. “I’m sorry for not telling you.” He looked up. “But I don’t care, Claude. I still want you.” The Creator spoke again. “I’m no longer your classmate.” “Don’t care,” Colbois said. “I’m no longer your neighbour.” “No fucks given.” “I’m no longer your childhood friend.” “Okay with that. In fact, here, know-it-all, answer this question.” Colbois lifted his hand and wrote a question on the sky. quote:What is my motivation? Wait, he really just made that question. “Answer it, Claude!” There was silence. “I’m not even a person anymore, Colbois. You can’t touch me.” “I still don’t care. Answer it, Claude. We liked to delay the obvious once. I’m not going to anymore. Can you do the same?” There was silence. “For God’s sake!” Colbois said. The option D lit up.
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Oct 13, 2012 08:38
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And that's the time gone. Good work from everyone who made it, an appalling show from everyone else. A PALL ING I'll be petitioning pipes! for losers avatars for the lot of you. Results in the next day or so. (some mercy may be found for those who get a story in before I wake up tomorrow morning, which gives you another... 10 hours, depending when my four-year-old starts jumping on me)
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Oct 13, 2012 09:11
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sebmojo posted:Saddest Rhino, that is barely adequate as an excuse, though the vomit was a nice touch. I'm still sick as gently caress , this was meant to be longer with a first person pespective and with other stories interjecting in between, but i think this is all i can manage at this point. Kill me. e; on hindishgt this look more planescape than highfantasy. I knew i should have fall back on original plans of dwarves on marijuana feeding brownies to anime girls on their netbook.s The Establishment of Undesire (650 words) In the heart of Malacca, hidden in between a little Portuguese restaurant and a motorcycle repair store was a doorway. In daytime, amidst the noises of engines and yelling waitresses, children and confused tourists will open the door, leading to nothing but a brick wall. At night when all the stores are closed, men, driven in the most luxurious of cars, would stop a street away and walk their way to the door. Opened, they would be led into a space not unlike their own workplace. There would be the usual cracks on the walls and perhaps the cobwebs in the corner. For some there were spiderplants at the reception desk, for others there were water coolers and Pentium desktops. Instead of their usual receptionist, an old lady dressed in pristine silk would be sitting behind the desk, welcoming them to their establishment, of a profession as old as the history of man. Their money counted and their VIP status ascertained, a young demure girl would direct them to their designated area. For some there would be a private room consisting of nothing but a stool, for others, a large public area with airport benches. The place would always be full with patrons, leading to various floors up and down, despite the building outside being a simple single storey storehouse. The girl would bow and wish the patron a lovely evening, and leave. In the House of Despair, the patron would be met with their own personal succubuses and incubuses. They appear to them in their most desired form, dressed in the skins of movie stars and old lovers, their voices hushed and soft, their smiles lovely and desired, their words each carefully hand chosen to wedge knives into wounds both old and new and twisted and splintered, serrating the flesh and mind as they enter and exiting with the patron's dignity hung on each edge. Berating, scolding, urging, persuading, humiliating all the men sitting in their chairs, laughing with their carefree air in the knowledge that the men can do nothing but sit. Neither could touch each other, and for some, especially those who dress up as young family members, that was enough. The House Philosophy states proudly that it is built on lies and deception. The patrons knew enough not to care. It has been told in whispers and rumours about a previous patron, a young man in his twenties and working in a prominent international bank. It was said that he asked his succubus how he would be hurt, if he knew all she said were untruths anyway. The common story was that he was ejected from the House, and by the magic inherent within the establishment he died much later, alone and unmourned. The truth, of course, was much simpler. For no removal had been performed, and he was still welcomed to the brothel. It just happened to be that he never went there again. The truth was that his succubus had told him, in no uncertain terms, that the greatest lie made in the brothel was the House Philosophy. And that for every lie she told him, there was perhaps one which was true, but she was not obligated to tell him which one. And he was not obligated in life to ever find out which was the one. And like everyone else, he lived, and died. After the patrons' hours have ended, their service provider would leave just as suddenly as they came. The young girl would arrive, bringing to each patron, a warm towel and a steaming cup of lemongrass tea scented with vanilla seeds. Reminders of possessions to be taken would be given, and after accepting her tip with a gracious bow, she would lead them, out of the brothel into the rest of their mundane, painless lives, and wished them a pleasant journey home.
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Oct 13, 2012 09:12
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Sick as gently caress, still cranks out a piece. Thunderdome. Consider my stern cybernetic nod of approbation duly bestowed.
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Oct 13, 2012 09:55
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Sorry this is a bit late. THE MAN changed my work schedule, so if I'm DQ'd then way to kick me where The Man had already knocked me down. Also apparently I can't do short fantasy. Still under 1500 words though. Auto-erotic Fixation 1493 words "So you're a spy?" Chairman Soren Welfet peered over his spectacles at us. He had been less than impressed by our failure to make an appointment and subsequent entrance through his eight-hundredth story office window. "We are expertly trained outside consultants who happen to have a knack for knowing things other people want to know," I said. "But there's just one of you," Chairman Welfet said. "Only from the ribs down, and even then not technically," Amis said. I shot him a sideways look across our almost-joined shoulder. "That's not the point, Mr. Chairman," I said. "The point is that we are here on a mission of good will--" "That is, of mutual benefit," Amis said. "--of good will and mutual benefit. You see, Mr. Chairman, as soon as we heard we just knew we had to come to you." "Heard what? What mission? Did Slaterzy send you?" Chairman Welfet was stiff in his chair, but there was a shrewdness in his eyes that I didn't like. "Of course Slaterzy sent us, old boy," I said, and prayed that Amis would follow my lead. "There's been a change of plans. The supply lines have been compromised. You need to mobilize if you want to maintain production and keep the stakeholders happy. We've been, ah, outside-consulting him, you see." "Well that's all very interesting, very interesting indeed," the chairman's face was red and his jowls trembled as a he spoke. "Because I don't answer to Slaterzy and I never have. And neither do you...you two. Security!" The doors swung in and a cadre of five golems trooped in at top golem speed, which is to say slow enough that Amis and I were out the window before you could say "soulless alchemical monster." Eight hundred stories is a long drop, even longer when gliding down via incantation. For the first hundred stories it scarce felt like we were descending at all. "Shana," Amis said as we drifted down toward the glittering nighttime city. "I just wanted to say good call on the Slaterzy lead. We can use that enmity to our advantage, I think." "I smelled the bad blood between them as soon as he said Slaterzy's name. I just had to be sure." We picked up speed and I had to force my attention back to the incantation. I hadn't quite adjusted to floating myself plus the weight of a male head, arm, and torso. Amis went on, oblivious. "I've been thinking. Suppose the chairman can't help us go back to normal. Suppose he doesn't want to move against Slaterzy. Or what if--" "What's your point, Ami?" "Well, we would be, ah, stuck with each other. Maybe for the rest of our lives," he said quietly. "I suppose I'm saying that I wouldn't complain, is all." "Yeah, we could consummate our wedding night with the most glorified wank ever." I rolled my eyes and looked away. "Look, I thought you were cute before the accident. Maybe we could've been something. But this...Amis, we poo poo at the same time." I could almost feel his blush from the way his heart thumped against the wall of connecting tissue between us. The rest of the trip down passed in silence. It was days later and Amis had the good grace to not mention our conversation. I had sent a missive to Chairman Welfet over his unlisted personal farseer extension, but he shut the auto-cantation down as soon as he saw our faces in his crystal. We had him scared, that was for sure. "Which is what you wanted, right?" Amis said when I aired my worries. "Not scared witless, though. We need his wits, and what he knows about Slaterzy's Mass Enchantment Protocol." I leaned my half of us back in the desk chair and put my arm behind my head. "Maybe we should have told him more." "But we had to be sure tha--holy goddess, Shana look at this." Our farseer had activated on its own, and none other than chairman Soren Welfet stared out at us from the crystal. His bushy brows were furrowed, but his expression was, if anything, curious. "How did you activate this connection?" I demanded, jerking Amis forward as I struggled for composure. "You were foolish enough to call my personal farseer from your own. It was no trouble to trace your auto-cantation and place a listening demon in your crystal. Now, tell me, what would you...two want with Slaterzy's old university thesis?" "Not just a thesis anymore, chairman," Amis said. "Nonsense! If you know the first thing about Slaterzy, you'd know it was debunked and he left the university in disgrace after much contention. That's how he came to take on his father's holdings in Enchantix Corporation." "Right so far," I said before Amis could blurt anything else out. "But chairman, we know he's been using the designs for the Mass Enchanter for a while now. It was debunked, but when your company started eating up market share, Enchantix knew they had to think outside the box." "Way outside the box," Amis added. I flicked him. The Chairman was pale, and I thought his jowls trembled with just a little worry. "And you--you two, that hells-damned experiment of his caused you to...to fuse? All because Enchantix was out of touch with the markets?" "Aha, well, who knows markets? I'm not a necromancer. We just want to go back to normal. Can you help us do that, Chairman?" This was the moment I was dreading. Welfet was not known for his charity, but I hoped he could see the opportunity to cripple a competitor. "I have resources," the chairman said after a contemplative moment. "If you had access to the factory where the Enchanter is housed, could you recreate the conditions that caused this deformity?" "Possibly," Amis started to say. "Absolutely," I snapped. "And naturally, such an unethical, unfair advantage as the Mass Enchanter would at best need to be shut down pending a full investigation by the Consortium, correct?" I leaned back and smiled. Amis's half stiffened. "Very well. Prepare what you need. You'll be greeted by a stranger in the Merchant's Quarter three days from now. They will gain you access to the facility." The chairman bid a terse fairwell and the crystal went blank. Amis said nothing, just stared fixedly at where Chairman Welfet's head had been. "Look," I began. "No, I know. I know. It'll be different. I'll get out of your life, if that's what you want." I tried to stand, but Amis folded his arm across our chest and resisted. Control of our legs was a cooperative effort. "I don't want that. But I might need a little space, isn't that reasonable?" He looked down, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. It's reasonable." To Amis's credit, he didn't sulk through our preparations. But there was a strange resolve about him that I couldn't attribute to our impending bisect-ification, and I didn't like it. I felt a curious sense of isolation in spite of never being truly alone. Still, the day arrived without incident, and we were met in the Merchant's Quarter as promised by a woman in a drab laborer's smock. After unconvincingly casual greetings, we proceeded with little commentary to the levirail that transported workers to the outlying Industrial Quarter. It was our first time returning since the accident, and our stomach lurched to see several other workers fused together in various configurations. When we arrived at the factory station, the woman removed her smock. "This has properties that will avert suspicion in those around you. Do not take it off until you are at least this far from the factory." "Old boy has his connections," I said to Amis. Avert suspicion was an understatement; we walked into the place like it was nothing. Welfet had been prepared for this before we showed up, that was for sure. "Bastard knew about the Enchanter the whole time, I'll bet," I muttered as Amis did some geeky thing with the modular crystals in the Enchanter's outer casing. "Just let me work," he snapped. "I'm almo--" There was an implosion that leached the sound from the air, the breath from our lungs, and the world went black. "Too--too--" I heard Amis gasp, and then there was nothing. I was naked, curled on my side. My side. Hands prodded me. "Sir? Sir?" Someone said from above me. I opened my eyes. "Don't you sir me," Amis's voice said from my mouth. I bolted upright, gazed in horror at Amis's legs and Amis's hairy chest where my body should have been. I'm sorry, said a voice in my head. The reaction happened too soon and the Enchanter completely blew. "You're not sorry you skeevy bastard!" I shouted out loud. The worker trying to assist me retreated, then ran, calling for security as he went. Shana... At least you never have to be alone. Amis's voice screamed.
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Oct 13, 2012 09:58
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sebmojo posted:Sick as gently caress, still cranks out a piece. Thunderdome. Consider my stern cybernetic nod of approbation duly bestowed.
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Oct 13, 2012 10:05
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Bad Seafood posted:If death is certain, better to stand than cower. You're right. Let's do this. This prompt was an unexpected nightmare. Heroics The first glow of dawn lit the skyline as Samantha formed up her ranks. Men and women of all shapes and sizes, armed with tools and molotovs and scrap, wrapped in thick clothes and sports gear, holding aloft the banners of their cause. Against them stood the ranks of Black Industries security, body-armoured, helmeted and masked, midnight batons ready. Behind those dark lines the mirrored walls of the Black Building rose and pierced the sky like a torturer’s needle. “This is it!” Samantha cried, and held her wrench aloft. “Today we cower before their overseers no longer! No more bailiffs! No more scrip! Today, Damien Black falls!” A cheer swelled behind her and filled the street and the army charged with a thunder of boots and trainers. It smashed into the black ranks with the force of a tide long held back, now finally flooding. Samantha was among them, smashing left and right with her wrench. Guards knocked down were trampled underfoot by the wave. Her army was driven by courage, the enemy only by greed and fear. There was no question who would win the meeting. They broke through to the building, and the glass doors shivered, heaved and shattered, and they were in. Marble and brushed steel surrounded them and Black’s face stared down from the walls in portraiture. Samantha’s army rushed out to every door and stairwell, but a new wave of black-armoured troops met them there. “It’s useless,” Black’s voice boomed all around. “I have a hundred floors of security here. The elevators are shut down. My men will drive you out and back to your slums like the dogs you are.” “He won’t have shut down everything,” said Samantha. “People! Push them to chokepoints and hold as long as you can. Black’s days are numbered.” She ran to the side of the lobby, down a small corridor to a pair of golden doors. A numbered keypad stood to one side. This was it. 1, 4, 4, 7, and the door opened. Brett had been telling the truth. He had not lied to her. And he was waiting up there for her. She stepped into the elevator. It was a box of opulent leather, mahogany and golden leaf. There were only three buttons: Top, Ground and Escape. She pressed top, and the doors slid closed and the elevator shot upwards. Floors shot past on the meter, and soft music played. Samantha closed her eyes, and took deep breaths. She reached to the back of her belt. The gun was still wedged there, solid and weighty, full of memories. Unlike any other weapon. The doors opened and Samantha stepped into the office. On the far side of a sea of pile, Damien Black sat in his leather throne, watching the battle on widescreens on the walls. He was vast, muscular, in a suit black as void with a shirt white as bone and a tie red as blood. The skyline was behind him, seen from above through towering windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Beside him stood Brett Black, whose nervousness was changing to elation at the sight of her. Damien Black snarled. “How did you get here? Only one other person knows that code," he said, and turned to his side "Brett! My own son! You gave it to her!” “I won’t let you do this any more, father. I love her!” Brett grabbed Black’s arm. The CEO roared and smashed him aside to crumple in the corner. “I’ll punish you later, once I’ve crushed this worm,” he said, and rose. His muscles strained against his seven feet of suit. “I should have killed you when I had the chance. But no matter now. A hundred personal trainers slaved to give me this strength. It will not be bested by the likes of you!” “Not by me,” said Samantha. “But by me and the last gun my father made.” Samantha reached behind her and drew the weapon. She held it with both hands to aim, and in the dawn light the barrel flashed, and roared, and the gun bucked in her hands and threw her back but her aim was true and struck Black in the heart. The gun hurled him into the window, and the glass shattered, and with an abyssal scream he plummeted. As he passed each floor the guards there stared in horror and dropped their weapons. As he crashed to the street among Samantha’s army they let up a ragged but powerful cheer that reached all the way to the office where she stood with Brett. The first light of dawn broke over the skyline and into the office, as Samantha held him close, and they kissed. "I knew you'd come." "I knew you'd be waiting."
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Oct 13, 2012 13:22
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Oh. Well poo poo. I misread the deadline, I thought I had till tonight. Well I'm gunna finish it and post it anyway.
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Oct 13, 2012 14:41
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Ok here it is. Didn't do much editing. Not that it matters since I'm late! Two Cities “We only use magic in this house, and that’s final!” Yeula’s father snatched the tinkling music box from her hands and threw it to the ground, stomping on the spinning dancer. Gears and springs and things called ‘chips’ shot from the splintered box, and something Rez had called a ‘battery’ scattered across the stained hardwood floor. “You are not to see that boy anymore!” Her father’s red face wobbled, his white hair standing at angles. “If you would just meet him,” Yeula said, her hands clenched in fists. “You’d see, he’s nice!” “He and his kind would destroy our way of life, I don’t care if he’s nice.” “But-” He stabbed his finger at the door behind her. “Go to your room!” The heavy oak door slammed, shaking the paintings on the walls and sending her demons scurrying to hide in corners or closets. Yeula dropped onto her bed and reached into the pocket of her rune-stitched robes, fingering the gift from Rez that she hadn’t shown her father. She snuffed out the candle on her nightstand and held the mechanical timepiece above her as she laid in bed. The machine’s soft, blue glow illuminate her face as numbers blinked and changed on the smooth face of the device. Rez had built it himself. He’d called it ‘old fashioned’ and showed her a shining screen imbedded in his wrist that flashed all kinds of numbers and images, but she should see pride glinting in his blue eyes as he handed her his creation. She rubbed her thumb back and forth over the flickering numbers and wondered if Rez liked her gift. Yeula’s demons crept out of hiding, poking their red, spikey faces from under the bed and behind her dresser, whipping their tails nervously. She set them to braiding her long, black hair as she watched seconds flicker by. Finally the numbers spelled out the awaited time and Yeula sat up. She unlatched the window and threw it open, leaning out into the night. From ten stories up, the city of Petha stretched out below her, all white, grey and brown structures glittering with yellow, orange and red lights. Magical beasts, summoned or created, crisscrossed in the sky above. Jovial music and the smell of smoke and spices drifted up to her, riding on the warm, night air. To her left was the east bank of the Dividing River, she could just make out the lights from the ships docked there. Across the river sat another city, its buildings spiky and silver, it’s lights blue and purple and white, it’s skies were filled with metallic creatures of unflexing shapes. There were no bridges, and the sky above the river was empty of movement. She stepped back from the window and let her robes drop to the floor, slipping on the tight fitting trousers, shirt and boots that her waiting demons held up to her. Her arms bulged intermittently with symmetrical lumps where crystals the size of her fingers were buried beneath her skin, the tips piercing through on either side. Yeula muttered a short incantation and a crystal near her left wrist pulsed with a soft, orange light. With a wave to her demons, she leaped out the window and floated gently toward the street, her long, black hair in a single braid fluttering behind her. A crystal near her right elbow started to glow, and she pointed her finger at the approaching street. A red beam arked from her digit, cutting a zig-zagging symbol into the ground. More crystals glowed, and the ground crumbled beneath the symbol, great, clawed hands bursting out of the street and clawed for purchase. A hulking, winged demon--it’s skin a mottled orange and grey--heaved itself out of the hardened soil and stretched its fleshy wings. Yeula landed softly on the horse-sized creature and gripped the horns that curved back from its forehead. “Fly!” she shouted, and the demon pushed off into the night sky, it’s wings snapping and fluttering in the wind. She squeezed her thighs and pulled on the horns, guiding the beast toward the river. With a push she sent the demon gliding downward, skimming just above the surface of the water. The sounds and lights of the city faded behind her, replaced by the wind in her ears and the splash of the demon’s tail bouncing on the water. A small island split the river ahead as she drew closer to the metallic spires and blue glow of the city called C29, a name she only knew from being told not to think about it, look at it, or ever consider trying to go there. The island was tiny, rocky and sparse, but big enough to land on. The demon thudded to the ground, crushing thin, pale grasses beneath its clawed feet. Yeula hopped off and turned in a circle, scanning the sky. A shadow moved across the blue lights of the city, then dropped out of the sky toward her, bringing a familiar humming sound with it. Rez descended, hitching and jerking with his hands and feet held out to balance himself against whatever forces he was manipulating, to land standing before her. He undid several hooks and belts and let the contraption strapped to his back slip to the ground. “Rez!” Yeula laughed and pulled him to her chest, she could feel mechanical sections of his body pressing hard against her through his shirt. She looked down at him, six inches shorter than her, and stared into his blue eyes, running her fingers through his messy blond hair. They kissed, then he pulled away, looking up at her with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I don’t think telling them was a good idea,” he said. “My mom was furious.” “So was my dad,” Yeula said. “He smashed the music box.” “My mom shot the demon.” He laughed. “Made quite the mess, and just when I was starting to like the little guy.” She laughed too, then sighed. “It’s going to be harder to sneak out, now that they know.” He put his arms around her and kissed her neck, then whispered in her ear. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “It’s crazy, but if you want to give it a shot-” An urgent beeping floated up from between them, Rez looked down at his wrist. The screen flashed red with symbols. “I’ve been followed,” he said. A moment later one of Yeula’s crystals blinked. “Me too!” Figures swarmed in above them, coming from either side of the river. Demons and carpets and griffins and dragons and brooms and clouds on one side, hover-cars and jetpacks and anti-grav boots and pods and force-fields on the other. “Get your hands off my daughter!” Yeula groaned, recognizing her father’s voice. “Crossing the river like this is an act of war!” came a voice from the blue side of the river. “What are you all doing here?” “Hi Mom,” Rez whispered, rolling his eyes. He picked up his flying equipment and hooked it over his shoulders, then nudged Yeula and nodded toward her demon, curled up and flicking its tail absently. “I should ask the same of you,” said Yeula’s father. “The river is not to be crossed! I know what you’re up to, sending your men over here to corrupt our daughters.” “You’re little harlot of a daughter is the one corrupting my son!” Rez’s mom snapped back. “He had a demon in his room, a demon! This is unacceptable!” Rez snapped the last buckle and flipped a switch. Yeula heard the familiar hum and watched him float gently off the ground, shifting his hands and feet to keep balance. “Come on,” he said. “This is going to get ugly, I think.” She hopped on her snoozing demon and tugged its horns, it let out a gurgling screech and took to the air. “This way,” Rez said, zipping past her. He flew upstream, staying above the river between the two cities. “Enough!” Yeula heard her father shouting behind her. “We won’t let you destroy our way of life!” She flew up alongside Rez, the wind tugging at her braid as they picked up speed, then looked back over her shoulder. Fireballs and lightning and lasers and rockets flew between the groups. More shapes swarmed fromt the skies above Petha and C29 to join in the fray. She turned her back on the battle and looked ahead to the horizon and the Dividing River stretching out before them, then to Rez flying along beside her. “We’ll find somewhere new,” he said, holding out his hand. “Or we’ll stay in between forever.” She gripped his hand and they flew on, riding the divide between blue and orange.
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Oct 13, 2012 22:01
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 Thunderdome Round X ResultsThe winner this week is Sitting Here, for a tight and excellent tale of cyber-magical fuckery. Honorable mention to The Saddest Rhino, for cranking out a nice piece even as his bowels tried to escape to Belize via his mouth. Loser is Wrageowrapper for a cowpat of a story that even the flies shun. Near miss to caligulakangaroo - better shape up with your next entry or the losertar will greet your forehead with its sticky, flaccid kiss. Individual comments follow. Black Griffon NO ENTRY OMG I AM CERTAIN HE WAS DRINKING WHEN HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITING. Dr Kloctopussy NO ENTRY AFTER CRITICISING PROMPT UNLEASH THE TERRIBLE STABBING JUDGE TENDRILS Toanoradian Some good crazy energy in this one. Various ESL infelicities take it out of winning contention, but I like its vigor and its sheer ballsy WTFery. V for Vegas I wanted to like this one because sacrificing a polar bear to global warming is a great image, but i bounced off it. Feel free to explain it in the thread, but I'm confused. And when a 'dome judge gets confused, bloodshed is sure to follow. Baggy Brad This feels a lot like a fragment. And reads a little like an RPG scenario. Plus there's a lot of extraneous flimflammery; do we need that much detail on how they get off a train? But some decent detail and I do like the idea of open-sourced spoons. Sebmojo Drivel. Jonked NO ENTRY OMG PIPES LOSERTAR THIS RETARD STAT The Saddest Rhino This reads a little like Italo Calvino after a long weekend playing Mage and drinking absinthe with his old Resistance buddies. And let me be clear that is no bad thing. I like the twisty turniness of it, the deceptive calm. Plus, you sacked the hell up when it counted, soldier. Bad Seafood This feels like an early draft that needs a thorough rogering followed by a nice post-coital Gauloise to work out the kinks. Too much detail in the wrong places, no heft to the core of the story. Some nice images and turns of phrase as usual. Surreptitious Muffin I like both these. Preferred the first, which has a nice, mythic mystic feel like early Neil Gaiman. The second is a solid bit of verse (though you've got 'measure' stressed on the '-ure', frowny face) but it plays it straighter than I'd like. Still, good work. Cheeky as gently caress entering twice mind. Justcola Fast and crappy wins the race! Oh no, wait, it's the other thing. There's a coupla good images here, I liked the goblin DJ, but the piece don't hang. And if you want to strut in the 'Dome you gotta hang tight, you feel me? Also: LINE BREAKS FFS Peel Solid piece. A little vanilla in the plotting, but vanilla is a flavor too DAD. Why do we never pick my favorites? Sitting Here Fleet, confident world building, good take on the transgressive relationship, no-nonsense plotting and a great double twist flick flack on the landing. Wrageowrapper I. Uh. Huh. That sure is some typin' fella. CaligulaKangaroo Tenses are things that tell you whether the events that you are reading about happened in the past - the 'before-time' - or the present - the 'now-time'. They are ever so important, especially when your story is already a barely comprehensible mish mash of poorly described nonsense! Derp Aw. That was kind of sweet. Disqual'd for being way late, but a workmanlike bit of Arcanumesque techno-fantasy.
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Oct 15, 2012 01:21
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Edit: gently caress
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Oct 15, 2012 01:25
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Black Griffon posted:Edit: gently caress YOU SNOOZE YOU LOSE, HANGOVER BOY
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Oct 15, 2012 01:26
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That's what I get for impressing chicks with my ukulele last night. It can be innuendo if you really want it to be.
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Oct 15, 2012 01:28
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As I think was obvious I was trying to replicate archetypical high fantasy in modern world form right down to formula plot and overcooked prose, but I don't think I cooked the prose enough. It didn't help that I've scarcely read the genre.  I'm pretty chuffed with this outcome though since I finished it in three hours or so after waking up and seeing a chance at salvation. I had gone to bed in disgust after my only idea turned out 1. bad and 2. prompt-violating (it was dreary).
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Oct 15, 2012 01:36
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Peel posted:As I think was obvious I was trying to replicate archetypical high fantasy in modern world form right down to formula plot and overcooked prose, but I don't think I cooked the prose enough. It didn't help that I've scarcely read the genre. You're right, to really sell the exactly-as-expected outcome you needed to go further - would have been easier to have a twist of some kind, otherwise you hit a 'who cares' at the end, as a reader. Solid, though.
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Oct 15, 2012 01:42
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Huh, so the first one works? I was unhappy with it because it felt a bit creepy and emotionally distant. Yeah though, I was riffing right the hell off Gaiman. The two things I had in my head were American Gods and Taxi Driver. I was trying for that TD hosed-up-hero-complex protagonist but I thought I missed the mark and ended up somewhere sleazy.
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Oct 15, 2012 01:57
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sebmojo posted:Toanoradian THIS IS ABOUT THE TENSES, AIN'T IT Anyway, thanks for the comments, sorry for the errors and congrats once again for your skill, Sitting Here. With the recent slew of guest judges returning, I need to step up my game. Also if anybody cares the answers to the questions in my entry are D, C, A, and D.
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Oct 15, 2012 02:18
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Yes. I AM RETURNED  It only took 9 weeks  This makes me really happy, I was actually kind of fond of my piece this week. I credit marathon-watching Warehouse 13 recently. edit: So I am judging again, then? Who else is up, and what is their preferred method of communicating nefarious judge things?
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Oct 15, 2012 02:29
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Moving right along I have been resurrected from the dusty catacombs of judges long since fallen that I might lay my hoary eyes on your souls and measure your worth. This week's prompt can be any genre you like, but your pieces must feature Betrayal . Because I don't want to read a bunch of whiny "slice of life" stories, your writing must in some way be informed by the art of Zdzislaw Beksiñski. Behold:   This week's Judges: Sitting Here The bold and brawny Martello Sebmojo Deadlines Submission: 2 AM on Saturday, October 20th PDT edit: Someone wanted me to edit something in here about how to tell time, here you go: toanoradian posted:Yes. Sitting Here, can you add a link to current PDT on the challenge post (like this one sebmojo linked few pages ago) so us dummkopfs and imbéciles could tell when our execution is due? Wordcount 1500 or less. Fodder: derp--SUBMITTED Capntastic--SUBMITTED Seb 'conflict of interests' mojo--SUBMITTED toanoradian--DISAPPOINTMENT Black 'the Norwegian Legion' Griffon--SUBMITTED V for Vegas--SUBMITTED Baggy Brad--SUBMITTED Peel--SUBMITTED Chairchucker--SUBMITTED Zack_gochuck--DISAPPOINTMENT justcola--SUBMITTED Bad Seafood--SUBMITTED Surreptitious Muffin--SUBMITTED The Swinemaster--SUBMITTED bigmcgaffney--DISAPPOINTMENT Bear Sleuth--SUBMITTED Noah--SUBMITTED Echo Cian--SUBMITTED Dromer--SUBMITTED Velyoukai--SUBMITTED BarbarousBertha--SUBMITTED Jeza--SUBMITTED Fanky Malloons--MEH
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Oct 15, 2012 04:48
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I'm in for sure
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Oct 15, 2012 05:01
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Yes, you miserable little fucks read Sitting Here's post correctly. I'm back in motherfucking business. While I still type these words with calloused thumbs on the sand-scratched touchscreen of my Thunderbolt, by Wednesday night all five of my fearsome fingers will again fall like avenging hammers upon the blank black keys of my Das Ultimate S. Billy Talent's "Viking Death March" will blast from THX-certified 5.1 surround speakers. A glass of Middle Ages Grail Ale will sit dark and foamy upon my desk. No unholy clothes will adorn my freshly-washed form. I will thirst for blood. The blood of 'domers.
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Oct 15, 2012 05:35
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Sitting Here posted:
You know that Bekinski is the theme of the October Monthly Fiction Comp too, right?
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Oct 15, 2012 06:21
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:You know that Bekinski is the theme of the October Monthly Fiction Comp too, right? 
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Oct 15, 2012 06:27
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You just mad because you had the idea second. I have Thunderdome Judge immunity. I'm the official rabble rouser, voted in by me. If you want to try take me, come and get me.
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Oct 15, 2012 06:41
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In, or else.
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Oct 15, 2012 06:43
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:You know that Bekinski is the theme of the October Monthly Fiction Comp too, right? I literally completely forgot But yeah, what Martello said. edit: Actually I just used my judge powers to declare October Beksinski month, because both October and Beksinski are creepy. So this was just a perfectly acceptable and topical prompt.
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Oct 15, 2012 07:20
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It's a competition. Those fuckos over in that other thread, they won't know what HITTEM. Oh, and in.
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Oct 15, 2012 07:48
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Ah, Martello returned. Whatevs. I couldn't write a story featuring betrayal based on the two pictures (both apparently about a dystopia where janitors no longer existed), so I guess I'm in.
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Oct 15, 2012 08:00
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Martello posted:Yes, you miserable little fucks read Sitting Here's post correctly. I'm back in motherfucking business. While I still type these words with calloused thumbs on the sand-scratched touchscreen of my Thunderbolt, by Wednesday night all five of my fearsome fingers will again fall like avenging hammers upon the blank black keys of my Das Ultimate S. Billy Talent's "Viking Death March" will blast from THX-certified 5.1 surround speakers. A glass of Middle Ages Grail Ale will sit dark and foamy upon my desk. No unholy clothes will adorn my freshly-washed form. Lift a couch, bitch. I'm in.
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Oct 15, 2012 08:09
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I wasn't happy with how the polar worked out in the end - I wanted something a bit more Barthelme. I'm in.
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Oct 15, 2012 08:45
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I'm in.
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Oct 15, 2012 09:06
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Once more unto the breach etc.
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Oct 15, 2012 09:12
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I've got Wednesday off so what the hell, in.
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Oct 15, 2012 09:32
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I'm in.
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Oct 15, 2012 11:50
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Aughh, I wish I could do this one, but I have so much poo poo going on this week. Bah. Don't put me down as officially in, but I will submit something in the event that I finsh my grant application, human anatomy specimen labels, and take-home exam before the deadline. 
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Oct 15, 2012 14:50
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I'll have another go and this time I won't write and post straight away. To clarify, can we use any of his work or just the two paintings posted?
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Oct 15, 2012 14:51
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