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V for Vegas posted:[url]http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cross-country_skiing_at_the_1928_Winter_Olympics_%E2%80%93_Men%27s_50_km[/url] - 842.
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Dec 23, 2013 01:58
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Dec 23, 2013 02:07
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Trifecta 900 words Did I mention the time I met myself? Bugger of a thing. I'd been out the pub, bit of pool, few beers, and truth be told when I got home the key had got bigger or the lock had got smaller; as the actress said to the bishop, heh. So there I was, fumbling round on my porch, just about ready to give up and break in through my own toilet window, when a light goes on inside the house. I probably should have been more worried about getting home invaded or what have you, but being three sheets to the wind I just stood there swaying; and blow me down if the door didn't swing open and there I was standing in front of me, just as real as you can imagine, wearing some sort of silvery tinfoil arrangement. Real as I am right now, odd clobber and a few more grey hairs notwithstanding. Well at that point everything went black, as they say in the stories, but I came to on the couch with me dooplegonger fanning me with a a copy of the Turf Gazette. We have a terrible problem, says he. And what is that, I reply? He flips open the Gazette and points to the date, which is fifty years from now. He calls it a "manual for the apocalypse" because it turns out, he says, that what we call 'bookies' are no such thing. As I sit there on my old Chesterfield, blinking from time to time, he tells me that bookmakers are all agents of a "intergalactic conspiracy to use probability to manipulate the fabric of reality itself". When they work out the odds of, say, Butterfly Kiss coming in second at the Spring Trots in Trentham they're also putting a few numbers to their big balance sheet. And when they finally make the numbers add up: bam, it's scratch time for the world. Now this joker, future me I suppose you'd call him, discovered the plot and decided to stop it. And he needed my help. We needed to go to the past and the future and all manner of carry-on. I take this well as could be expected, with the aid of a few snifters of Jamesons. And after he's shown me the time machine he parked in the spare room and strapped me into the passenger seat, off we went. Now, the future is an interesting place to visit but I'm not sure I'd want to live there. Everyone flies all the time for a start, just whizzing round like drunk fantails. And you can't get a decent beer and the ciggies are mostly filter. But I conquer these problems manfully, spirit of the blitz etcetera, and we parlay our ability to travel through time and recruit multiple versions of ourselves to place a whacking great set of bets on horses, and cars, and arena fights; did I mention the robot hummingbirds? They have those in the future. Marvellous things. So one thing leads to another, and the bookies are being bankupted all over the place when, what do you know, we get kidnapped! These fellas all dressed up in black PJs come swooping in the windows, shoot us all with dartguns — which hurt like billy-oh, I don't mind telling you — and next thing you know we're locked up on a great big zeppelin arrangement, high up in the clouds. Quite the pickle! Luckily for us we all did some boxing back in school, so with a bit of pluck we get out of our cells, fight our way to the bridge where we find the head Bookmaker and his conspiratorial mates. Now this head of the conspiracy fella is a sight to behold, all covered up in tattos like a Maori; but, instead of it being a moko or whatever, it's numbers, just thousands and thousands of numbers all over his body. Don't know how he read the ones on his jacksie, maybe he got someone to read them to him. Anyway there is a very rousing set-to at this point, with bookies flying through windows and past and future me's giving as good as we get when one of us calls out that we are heading for a volcano! Crikey dick that was a tense moment. The head bookmaker has run off somewhere in the zeppelin, the goons are getting their second wind, it all looked pretty grim. Now original future me, the one I met in my house, claps me on the shoulder and tells me I need to get out, and that he'll make sure the conspiracy doesn't survive, vis a vis crashing the zeppelin into the volcano. He points me at the time machine which had fortunately been stolen by the bookies when we got kidnapped; I set the time for just after I left and the last thing I see is the volcano erupting underneath the zeppelin. It was a messy landing, and that time machine will probably never fly again, but at least we stopped the conspiracy. Anyway, long story short, that is how I came to have this piece of paper with the top three horses at the Melbourne Cup next week; and for the very reasonable price of a double whiskey, I suspect I could be convinced to let you peek at it.
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Dec 23, 2013 02:20
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Johnny B- Dealer Extraordinaire 948 Words Johnny B has been a dealer for years, everyone knows and no one does anything. No cops touch him, no community watch citizens report him. He’s just there. You go to his place and you get what you need. But if you gently caress him, well lets just say you don’t gently caress him. One day Mark went down to see Johnny, to pick up some weed for a party he was going to. Johnny answered the door in sweatpants and a t shirt. Like always. “Whats up dude” he said. “Usual” Mark replied. “Come on in cuz, it’s gonna be a few minutes. Waiting on a shipment.” Johnny said. Mark followed him inside, then to his living room where he sat down on the couch. Mark plopped next to him. “What you been up to?” Johnny asked “You know, some of this some of that.” Mark said. “How about you.” “Same poo poo different day bro.” There was a knock at the door. Johnny got up from the couch and walked to the door. “What up playa?” I heard him say. “Same old same old.” Someone replied. Johnny let them in the house. From his spot on the couch Mark could see this dude was, somehow, even bigger than Johnny. An easy six eight three hundred pounds. Guy looked like he ate steroids for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and then stayed up all night on meth lifting things. Then did it again the next day. The veins in his biceps stood out like blue rivers on a road map. “You got that poo poo you owe me?” Johnny asked. “Well actually, I came here to talk to you about that. I don’t got it, and I don’t think that I’ll ever have that poo poo for you.” The gym rat said. “And why is that?” Johnny said. I could see his jaw clench, his muscles tense. Something big was about to go down. “Well Johnny, because I don’t need your poo poo anymore, I don’t need you, you don’t scare me like you do some other people,” the walking pillar of muscle said. “Is that so?” Johnny said, “well you know that I can’t just let you walk out of here scott free. Especially since you’re so intent on setting up your own operation. You’re sure this is what you want?” “Bitch, you don’t scare me.” The man replied, then pulled a folding blade from his pocket. “Time to die bitch.” Johnny, who had been sitting in an arm chair in the couch next to me, stood up. “You call that a knife,” Johnny said. “I use a bigger knife to trim my ball hair, bitch.” The gym freak took a swing but Johnny caught his arm and swung him around. Johnny swung a fist at him, it connected with his cheek and opened a cut that began to bleed down the side of his face. Gym-rat gave no ground to the shot, and swung with the knife again. Johnny jumped backwards but the knife grazed him in the stomach. Johnny let out a gasp and grabbed his stomach with a hand. Gym-rat advanced towards him. Johnny grabbed a lamp from the table next to the couch and threw it at gym-rat. Surprised by the act, gym-rat was hit directly in the face. The lamp bent on his thick skull then fell to the ground. Quickly, Johnny closed the distance and tackled gym-rat to the ground. The rat squirmed underneath Johnny. Johnny isolated the hand with the knife and smashed it against the ground. Once, twice, thrice and then the rat dropped the knife. Gym-rat flexed upwards and got leverage off the ground. Johnny used this leverage to get his arms under the rat and wrapped his arms around the rat. He swung his legs around, then braced himself against the couch and pressed upwards. The muscles in his calves bulged then he pushed himself upwards, and picked the rat up bodily off the floor. He heaved the rat through the front window, which smashed and left shards of glass embedded in the rats body. The rat bounced into in the flowerbed, crushing a bush underneath. “YEAH, HOW ABOUT YOU GET THE gently caress OUT!” Johnny screamed. Then sprinted towards and out, the door. “WHATS THAT? YOU’RE STILL ALIVE?? LET ME FIX THAT FOR YOU!” Gym-rat had untangled his shirt from the bush and sprinted to his car. Johnny gave chase, closing the distance in a shot. Rat fumbled with the keys in the ignition, then started the car. By this point Johnny had made it to the driver’s side door, which was locked. Johnny got enraged and crouched down and ripped the wheel clean off the car. It came off with a crunch and glass tinkled all over the drive. “HERE TAKE THE WHEEL!” Johnny bellowed, and chucked the wheel through the windshield. It hit the rat dead in the chest and he inhaled then began coughing. Johnny wasn’t done there. He circled around the front of the car and crouched down grabbing the front bumper of the car. “How can you drive away when your car is upside down??” Johnny asked, then flipped the car end over end. The cars ceiling crunched in and and gym-rat was thrown downwards to smash his skull on the ceiling. He was knocked unconscious and slumped down in the broken glass and bent metal. Car dispatched, Johnny’s phone started to ring. He picked it up. “Hey man,” he called over to me, “your stuff will be here momentarily.” “Sounds good,” I said. Then he made another call, “yeah, I’m gonna need you to come do another cleanup.” Johnny said into the line. Then I shut my ears off to his business, like a good client should. Excuses are for bitches, but for some reason this prompt was particularly hard for me. Obviously I need to read more tall tales to get a better feel for them. I probably started then threw away 6,000 words until I got to this story and I am not even particularly happy with this prompt. Oh well, the more writing you do the better you get.
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Dec 23, 2013 02:24
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My Excuse For Not Writing A Story This Week 847 Words Oh. poo poo. Right. I said I was going to write something for this week’s prompt, didn’t I? Here’s the thing. It’s been a hell of a week. I’ve been apartment-hunting, and it hasn’t gone well at all, and this week was the absolute worst. I hardly know where to begin. It all looked like such clear sailing a few months ago. Plenty of time before my current place got sold out from under me, plenty of possibilities, plenty of ads on Craigslist, even after weeding out the obvious scams. Time passed, possibilities dried up, and the promise of an ideal place to live gave way to the reality of poor bus access, terrible maintenance, shady property management companies, or any of a thousand other reasons why I found myself a week away from homelessness without a place to go. Until a couple of days ago when I ended up, driven by desperation, jumping off the bus about halfway home to go inside this little store I’d never seen before. One of those interesting second-hand stores, but the thing that attracted my attention was the dusty sign in the dusty window that said “FOR RENT”. I asked the old woman at the counter, who seemed to be the sole employee, just what was for rent. She asked me what I would like. I told her that I would like a place to live. She told me she had just the thing in the back, but I couldn’t be sure she’d heard me properly, since she was leading me to a dusty shelf and not toward stairs, or anything to suggest a set of rooms I could have at a reasonable rate. She dusted off a little porcelain model of a house with a hand-held brush, and smiled at me. I smiled back, working out in my head the perfect combination of polite words that would get me out of the store. I told her that it was a bit small for my needs, grinning to let her know that I was joking, that I was in on her joke, that we were all having fun and no one was crazy at all. She grinned right back, took my hand before I could react, and said that I’d grow into it. I must have passed out or something, because I woke up in bed. Not in my bed, but in, or on, an unfamiliar, uncomfortable bed. I sat up, my head swimming, and reached into my pocket for my phone. I couldn’t quite make out what time it said. Every time I looked at it, the combination of numbers read differently, and I couldn’t get a signal at all. The bed was rock-hard. Porcelain-hard, and as I stood up, I realized that everything around me was porcelain, carved and painted. Nothing real, not in the bedroom, not in the hallway I passed through, and not in the living room. Not the front door, nor the back door, nor any of the windows. Nothing real inside, and no way out. I could just about see through one of the windows, massive, shadowy shelves and a giant toothy smile backing away out of sight. I banged on the door. Porcelain’s fragile, so I figured I could break it, but either my fists were too tiny, or the stuff was too strong, and I quickly gave that up. I sat on a porcelain couch and glared at my phone. I couldn’t call out, no signal. But then I thought of something else. High school physics had been a long time ago, but I remembered the principle of resonance, how a loud noise at the right frequency could shatter glass. And I had a lot of music stored on the phone. I went through every single song and turned the volume up as high as it would go. Arias and AC/DC, to ZZ Top and my “what the gently caress is Zydeco” folder. Every song, from beginning to end, waiting for a quake or a quiver in the porcelain walls. It took weeks to get through the whole collection, and then I did it all over again, over and over, in case I’d missed something. Until finally I hit the right combination of high notes and throbbing bass, and everything around me shattered. I got up from the shop floor. It was dark. There were cobwebs. There were boards across the front door, but unlike the porcelain house I’d just broken out of, those gave way to a bit of physical effort. According to my phone, I’d been there for about an hour. Outside, there were no signs that the place had been inhabited anytime recently, though there was still that FOR RENT sign in one of the windows. Referring, I assumed, to the storefront itself. So I hopped a bus and went home, and the next day I kept right on looking for an apartment. But with all that weighing on my mind, I just didn’t have any time to think up a story for the thread this week. Sorry about that.
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Dec 23, 2013 02:44
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Submitted but Not Published: “A Telling of the True Story of Big Ben Freeman and How He Ended the Ku Klux Klan in Mud Lake, Mississippi as Told to Me by the Once Imperial Wizard, Jim Arthurs, my Grandfather” by Deluxie Arthurs, circa 1961 1,000 words I don’t know where he came from. He wadn’t from Mud Lake. He just sorta showed up one day and that was that. The coloreds took to him right away, of course. Elected him as some sort of… uh, mayor I think it was that they called him. First black mayor in Mississippi that’d make him. Big Ben Freeman. And, Jesus, he was big. He was nine feet tall if he was a foot. Sort of man that would make you feel small just by looking at you. And dark. Dark dark. He wadn’t one of them mix bloods you see nowadays. This boy was a 100% African thoroughbred. Mind you, we didn’t take to him as well as the coloreds did. Especially when they started getting all uppity with their talk. It was just change, though. People don’t like change. See, in one name or another, the Klan had been in Mud Lake since 1872. We’d gotten right comfortable with the way things was. So we put on our sheets and get on our horses and we ride out to where he’d set up his little shack. “G’morning!” he called out when we seen him. That was unexpected, I tell you. Here we are in full regalia and this poor son bitch we is about to hang is just a-smiling a us. We tells him we’ve done come for him and all that and he kinda shrugs and says “Okay.” Me and Bill Hannigan get off our horses and throw a rope up over a branch. Bill ties the noose and I kinda move Ben into position and the whole time Big Ben is making small talk all pleasant like. Nice as you could be. Very disconcerting. Well, Bill puts the noose around his neck... And it comes undone. Just like that. Undone. Bill ties it again, puts it around Ben’s neck, and the rope goes limp. Bill does this two or three more times and he’s getting more and more exasperated so I take the rope from him and I tie the noose. Ain’t no difference. I’d say we went at this for maybe an hour until Big Ben’s stomach starts grumbling. Great big sound. And he kinda stretches a little and the ropes we’d put all around his body to tie him up right proper go and slide off. He said, he said, uh, uh, “Well, gentleman, y’all have fun but I’m gonna go get me some breakfast.” And he walks off. This discombobulated the hell out of us and so we got into arguing and by the time cooler heads prevailed we’d lost him. We decided we’d try this whole thing in a couple days but now we’d do it right proper. So a few days pass and we come back at midnight. Clear sky. Full moon. We’re feeling real good about this. We light up a fiery cross and starting singing our songs and hollered out that it was time for him to reap his reward. Oh boy. Ole Big Ben he took two steps out his front door, looked at the night sky, and clapped his hands. And the skies opened up, I tell you. The skies. Opened. Like a flood gate, I tell you what. Them rains hit us so hard and so fast it near knocked me to ground. Lightning struck and the horses all took off. Pandemonium. People were stripping out of their robes trying to catch the horses and the rain was coming down so hard you couldn’t see a foot in front of your face. Just pure craziness. I left my full regalia in the mud. So we’re running after all the horse and we get lost. I don’t know how. I knew Mud Lake like a hog knows slop but there we was lost all the same. Fifteen days we was out there in the woods. Nothing to eat or drink neither. I don’t know if we even slept. Finally, the storm was done and we found ourselves on Mainstreet. We’re sopping wet and dirty and miserable and out of nowhere comes strolling ole Big Ben Freeman himself. He asked us, “Y’all done with your foolishness?” Course ain’t nobody said nothing on account of being dumbfounded by the strangeness of life’s events. “Aight, then,” Big Ben said, “All y’all just stay as dirty as your hearts until you are.” Not a one of us understood the strength of his words right then. He had cursed us, y’see? The mud and dirt and the grime we’d all accumulated over our time in the woods well it was plum stuck to us. When I got home I scrubbed myself until my fingers bled but nothing. Wadn’t coming off for nothing. Weeks went by and it just worse. And stinkier. So we get together and, of course, we say we need to do something about this curse. Some people are saying we should try and lynch him again and others are saying we should lynch all of ‘em. Bill Hannigan, though, he stood up and took his hat off and asked for attention. “Now, boys,” he said, “This experience has done given me some perspective on things. Lot of folks done been wretched to me on account of this here condition. I can’t help what I am now. But its made me think about coloreds and being colored and the like. I don’t know. I guess what I’m saying is, well, no hard feelings or nothing but I think I’m done with Klan.” Bill nervously fidgeted with his hat. “I’ll see y’all on Sundays,” he said. He sat down. Then he wiped his forehead and lo and behold did clean, shiny white skin appear. Speechless we was. Bill stared at his hand in shock, realizing what he’d done, and then he started crying. And his tears they washed his cheeks. We all understood then. That night, my hands washed clean. I’ve been trying to make up for my evils ever since.
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Dec 23, 2013 02:57
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Wow, I'm poo poo. Not going to bother you guys with excuses, but I'm out, and I'll definitely be wearing my  hat the next time I think entering this is a good idea.
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Dec 23, 2013 03:41
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The Legend of Earl Hammerton 803 words Earl Hammerton coded with the speed of seven Indian techs, wore out keyboards faster than a two-dollar whore's off-brand fishnets. The office was so thick with smoke, swears, and code it oppressed the rest of floor three and forced them down low. For any who stood would surely be gored by wayward keys from his shattered keyboards. His desk was an old storm shelter door, and under him was a steel-reinforced floor. There had never been a request that could flummox ol’ Earl, that is before Christmas Eve when entered an ol’er Ms. Pearl. “Your boss told me you are a beast of a man,” and Ms. Pearl rang out with her squall of a plan. "I’ve got more pills than Pfizer, and a brain that’s half broken. I’m told you’re the coder who can keep me from croakin’. If you are as good as they say, with no fear of the mayhem: I need something that tells me how, when, an’ with what to take ‘em.” Earl didn’t cower, or even respond; he swung around in his chair and stifled a yawn. He created a git repository, inserted a caffeine suppository, and started pounding away on his third unlucky keyboard of that cold winter day. Before she could sputter another demand, Earl swiveled back around and held up his hand. He’d already finished and exceeded all measures, he gave her the bill and said "It was a pleasure." But the old lady coughed instead of hitting the road. "I can't take Prilosec with Clopidogrel or my heart will explode." Earl smiled politely and went back to her app, fixing the issue in one minute flat. "It’s no problem ma'am, just a little code tweak." It would have taken a team a whole ‘nother week. Ms. Pearl pecked at her phone and let out a sigh: "If I take Linezolid after dinner I'm certain to die." Earl Hammerton took a deep breath and let it out slowly; two grievances for one app made him seem lowly. But he was a pro and he swallowed his pride. “Still not a problem,” he blatantly lied. He sat at his desk and stared at the screen, his mind raced to come up with some better scheme. The silence was new and alarmed the whole office, his coworkers crept up to observe Earl in his process. He suddenly leapt back to the keys, striking them harder than axes on trees. The whole office shook, making others flinch, by the time he was finished the floor had lowered an inch. “Certainly you’ll find this up to your standards.” But Ms. Pearl had complaints that bordered on slander. “Can you move this over here, and that over there?” Earl hung his head, deep in despair. He smashed out another and thought this’ll make do, while Ms. Pearl waved out to the folks on floor two. She said: “It looks better, but still isn’t right.” They went back and forth all through the night. In the morning Earl had smashed his office down to the lobby. Ms. Pearl tapped her toes and was being quite snobby. “They said you’re the best, but I don’t see how that could be true. You do code with zest, but this is a hullabaloo.” Earl bit his tongue and got back on task, sneaking a drink from his Christmas ‘nog flask. It warmed his insides, for the air had become cold, down in their hole five feet below. Above them was as dead as could be, for everyone was at home trending gifts under the tree. Still Ms. Pearl refused to relent, despite ol’ Earl’s valiant attempts. “Please Lady, I just want to go home.” “Then stop dawdling and spruce up that chrome.” Earl fulfilled her every request, but nothing was good enough, not even his best. As they descended toward hell, Ms. Pearl grew silent, the slow shakes of her head belied the great tyrant. With only one keyboard left, and no energy to burn, Earl didn’t even raise his head as he gently pressed “return.” This time was different, Ms. Pearl didn’t attack. She just smiled at him, folded her hands and leaned back. “It’s a splendid app, my dear boy, but it’s Christmas for Heaven’s sake: go home and enjoy.” # Some say it was the fires of hell that thawed her cold heart, and others that Earl had just coded the best app ever seen in these parts. Whatever the reason, it matters not, for at that moment Ms. Pearl’s heart had stopped. Earl ascended the mountain of orphaned keys, crawled out of the hole and onto his knees. But his escape was bittersweet, and his stomached begged for something to eat. It was still Christmas but Earl couldn’t cheer, because he had been down underground for a whole goddamned year.
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Dec 23, 2013 05:01
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Tall tales, time, stream of consciousness, kill me. Portraits (570 words) Eckhardt tapped the ash from his cigarette into the coke can between us half full of rum and twice filled with what was it – patience? Regret? He was the last of a long line of Irish Catholic Scotch Protestants who talked direct to God – a good listener I’m told – with an eerie predilection for German surnames as first names. His father was Schafer which he said had meant shepherd and his grandfather Jager and so on and so forth while he own name meant brave which he said he really wasn’t for breaking with such a drat fool tradition in the first place. He’d name his own son if ever he had one with the girl of his dreams if ever they met John or George or anything sensible that didn’t lead people you’d only just met to reply like a telephone recording Oh, But You Sound Irish because you did because you were. The two of us found ourselves situated by the pier amongst the salt and sea spray Eckhardt loved so much to sketch anyone who’d let him which historically had been a negligible number. The bench upon which we’d staked our headquarters was battered and chipped and littered with bus tickets to places I’d never been with names I couldn’t recall what the time was – three thirty? Four? I fished through my pockets for the time of day but found only the sound of footsteps coming to a halt. “Excuse me. Are you an artist? I would very much appreciate a picture. Years from now I’d like to remember myself.” The speaker was a young woman in conservative dress with fierce green eyes and a dull green scarf white lined like the first of the frost at the first of the month of December which it was four o’ clock I confirmed. I turned to Eckhardt who nodded and bowed as he had picked up the habit of doing in Korea I would later learn and retrieved from his suitcase a black metal folding stool for her to sit. From behind his ear he produced a small black pencil of the same make and brand and flavor on the tongue as I’d always known him to use and put it to paper as time stood still. The people in the street and the children by the windows and the birds of the air and the fish of the sea on the hooks of the fishermen weary and old stood perfectly still a crowd of statues. Only Eckhardt moved one line at a time ticked slowly and carefully for Eckhardt alone. Each scratch of lead on white drew into sharper focus her eyes her ears her smile was simple and kind. Each layer added layers to the woman of the picture in the woman in the picture perfect like a photo or a moment cut from time. With every line she aged one year after year until after a millennia he removed the pencil from the paper and time moved again. The world blinked and found itself free at last from the grip of the hand with the pencil to the paper fold and handed from the artist to his subject. The old woman’s hands trembled gnarled and brittle but her smile still remained caught in time beneath eyes still clear. She paid Eckhardt with a bottle of wine the finest either of us ever have drunk.
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Dec 23, 2013 06:01
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Yeah, I know it sucks and is late. This is the final thing after changing my mind a dozen times. I'll take my lumps for writing like crap. The Tallest Tale (786 words) It happens when I fall asleep, I wake up somewhere, sometime different. It’s weird, y’know, never knowing if something I learn about somewhen else’s history is related to me doing something that I don’t know about yet. Like that time I learned about ‘Whirlwind Wendy’ and how she broke a whole herd of wild Mustangs in a single night after singing a supercell tornado back to a mild breeze with a lullaby and damming a river that flooded its banks due to the aforementioned tornado with a couple of logs, spit and a can-do spirit. I learned about her in the year nineteen forty-something. Imagine my surprise after a couple of--well, I calls them ‘sleeps’--and I woke up in late 1800’s Montana. ‘Whirlwind Wendy’ is not my name, by the way. I never gave it to the cowboys before I fell asleep, they just made one up for me. It’s weirder if I connect something I already done in me-time to a history I’ve only just arrived at. Like that time I put down a robot uprising in 3022, going by the standard Earth history, by uploading a high-tech fancy virus thingy to a couple of key robots, disabled a terrorist cell aiding the robots by getting one of them ‘droids to turn traitor for a kiss and saved the head of the big-bad-government at the time by pulling him from a burning wreckage. I arrived back in the same general area in 3105, by the same calender, to find that the laws on A.I. and robot independence were still in play. Oh, and a nice little memorial garden at the Galactic Council headquarters, or whatever they called themselves. And then I just have those times when I go ‘is this really happening’? Like that time I woke up in the time before history thought to start and a T-Rex tried to eat me, so I had to kick its teeth in. Stupid lizard. Still got the scars from that if you wanna see’em later. Anyways, you was asking about me and the park, right? Why I was staggering around like I’d be drinking rotgut straight from the still and harassing the dogs? Well, it’s kinda embarrassing, but here goes. So, you probably don’t know this but in 200 years, give-or-take a couple decades, a breed of dog that can think just like a human is gonna be bred. And by-and-large they are a bunch of raging a-- Ahem. Entitled mutts. And they’re more than happy to let you know it. That’ll be relevant in a bit. So, as you might imagine, never being able to sleep unless I want to wind up elsewhere, and with my life in possible danger, could be a little trying on a girl like me. I will say, although it is not good for me, alcohol has been my best friend these many traveling years. Unfortunately, in some times, alcohol has been almost eradicated on a large scale for drinking purposes. ‘Civilized society moving on’ and all that. So, I was in 2250, just looking for a drink since they moved away from actual food and drink to this weird 3-d printed nutrient paste that tastes like shi-- crap since resources are so scarce and all. Well, you know human nature, if something’s forbidden you can always find it somewhere. There was this little still in a back-alley run by two people who looked like they could barely put two-and-two together. I deserved what I got for drinking what came out of it, trouble and a gigantic headache which turned into a hangover when y’all found me. Well, anyway, after getting some of the rot-gut and rejoining polite society such as it is in 2250, a damned police hound--uh, no offense to present company meant--sniffs me and calls me out for drinking. I got run all over town by that stupid mutt and then a bunch of other dogs join in because they’re ‘good citizens’ and they can’t have a ‘menace’ like me on the streets. I must've passed out from that rotgut since the next thing I know I’m not in a cell but in a park. And then I saw all those furry mongrels and I saw red. It’s not my best moment, I will admit, but those furry little bastards were a pain in every part of my brain, and I wanted to get back at them in any way possible. I’m sorry if I scared anyone. I definitely didn’t mean to do that. On my oath, officers, this is the truth, not a single lie did I tell. Don’t believe me? Put in a cell and see if I’m there in the morning.
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Dec 23, 2013 06:26
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What's that you say? Horribly late? Inexcusably over the word count? IT'S A TALL TALE, BITCHES. THAT'S WHAT YOU loving EXPECT.  (EMERGENCY EDIT: Opening line provided by Surreptitious Muffin and used with their blessing, as they were too busy chasing that sweet sweet island tail to use it themselves. I hope I've done it justice, brah.  )Partial transcription of Stone Tablet #33-AE, exhumed from the ancient post-Crash metropolis of Baltimore in the yearyear 80÷9, as translated by Professor James C. Bigglesworth - 1276 words or sufficiently word-like phenomena My name is Henry, and I was made to roll blunts and pound cunts. I am as I have been as I shall be the hardest biggest meanest badass motherfucker in Baltimore and all other remaining lands and still beyond where nothing remains for I have not gotten around to fixing it. With this record, commissioned, cut and dropped in the Month of All Fridays, future generations both past and present shall know of my life and the marvels I have worked. Even before I was a fetus, I had the genes of a leader. The Sun was my father, and when he found I had been conceived, he fled from the sky in fear. My moms drank all the poison in the world so that she could follow her hon into darkness. Formless yet from within I persuaded her to stay and wait for him to rise again. But to bear me was too great a burden, and as I left her, she collapsed entirely. Enraged with grief, I commanded my father to show himself before me. For one hundred days and one hundred hours we fought, and as we fought I grew, until at last I had grown too much and the Sun was prostrate before me. I’d have just as soon busted his fool head open right there, but a wise man cautioned me that he still had many friends among the stars, and his death would surely bring a great and ruinous shitstorm. Chastened, I instead threw his deadbeat rear end out to revolve around the earth until such time as my line should end. As an extra precaution, at this time I also married into the heavens by taking the Moon as my wife; and though she a cold and distant bitch, she don’t take no poo poo from nobody, and from her I have learned much; thus, out of respect for her and our vows, I have sworn a geas to never get my freak on while she still watches from the skies. The very next day, my brother the Comet, jealous of the honors that were to be bestowed upon me, came in force to crush my city before it could be mine, thus robbing me of my heritage. The people, who knew not yet of my coming, were thrown into great confusion, for they could not comprehend why such a thing should happen. Panic took hold and order descended into a universal mayhem unrivaled since my father’s chickenshit disappearing act. My brother the Comet stopped to laugh, though such would be his undoing. For my wife, who never liked him anyway, feigned to share his amusement, and invited him to follow on her pilgrimage across the flipside of the morning, for what an even greater jest it would be to emerge from the other side and see that the dumbass suckers had wrecked their own poo poo and saved him the trouble. Thus, laughing, they hastened away down through the oceans and away from all mortal sight. Immediately I seized a gang of motorcycles and by force and cajolery made them to ride throughout the city and gather my once and future sons and daughters together at the ancient fortress that was to be named in my honor long before I would be remembered. There at last did I reveal myself so that all would know me, and so they did, and in joyful wonderment they fell. But my father had no cause to tarry, and the day was nigh gone. At once I set them to the task of erecting a great tower in the midst of the city, with its top beneath my feet. Thus it was done and there did I greet the coming of the night. My brother the comet emerged and saw the city not only still standing but the people united behind me; all the weight of his own dumbass bullshit came down at once, and oh lawdy was he pissed. In rage, he rushed to finish his mission, just as I knew he would. As soon as he came within arm’s reach, I planted my feet and gripped him with both hands, pulling him away and dunking him right down in the middle of Pikesville. Before he could have a chance to rally himself and pull free, I commissioned the people to carve his body into a grand tomb where my moms would lay enshrined. Unbidden by myself or any other, the Sun returned as soon as word reached him of what had gone down, and sat at the peak of the sky until the last chisel was struck. Thus did my reign begin in earnest. Prosperous times followed. The city which had been torn in ignorant anarchy was restored and renewed, better than it ever had been before or ever would be again. Expeditions sent out beyond the city limits met with other expeditions sent out from the other remaining lands, and each recognized the other’s sovereignty so that all would remain cool. Drank flowed freely, the weed was bountiful, and honeys leaned out from every window. But the brightest light casts the darkest shadow, and some bustas weren’t content with anyone else being top dick but themselves. A conspiracy grew, whispers among the refugees from Pikesville and spreading outward, that I cared not for my children, which wasn’t true, I just loving hated Pikesville, and nobody who’d been there before could argue with me that the whole drat county was better off without it. The conspiracy grew into a revolution, and unrest shook the pillars of the world as street squared off against street. I learned through pain that war cannot defeat war, but there seemed no other solution. Then in a dream it came to me, and I departed in secret for the wilds to the south. After weeks upon minutes of searching, I came upon the court of the bears, as it had been revealed to me. There was a great commotion at my intrusion, and like the wind, I rushed upon the oldest and most revered among them as he sat upon his honored mound and backslapped him across the snout, loosening his last remaining tooth to fly across the beaten ground. Too late the kodiaks organized against me, though a valiant account they gave, and dozens of them I had to throw aside to reach the prize for which I had come. I ground the ancient grizzly’s tooth to dust under my own and swallowed it to become a part of me; thus was the knowledge of the true names of all bearkind bestowed upon me, and I spoke them at once, bringing all assembled under my thrall. With this new army, I returned with haste to save my city from the backstabbing designs of the smiling faces that would lie to usurp me. As we neared the... [ten seconds rendered unintelligible] ...and flames. But I had no time to weep. Growling commands to my ursine forces, all who resisted were torn apart. At last we reached... [four minutes rendered unintelligible] …inside the tomb. Beside myself with fury, I… [Oceanic erosion has sadly deteriorated the grooves beyond this point so badly that only a few stray syllables can be picked out from all the noise. However, the College of the Lunar Confederacy has recently published a theoretical turntable design of such precision that even the tablets worn nearly smooth might be listenable again, so all one can do is hope that in the coming weeks these theories are made practical, and this fascinating chapter of antiquity-that-is will finally be rescued from obscurity.] Bitchtits McGee fucked around with this message at 06:52 on Dec 23, 2013 |
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Dec 23, 2013 06:43
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 MERCEDES THUNDERBRAWL I have written the first draft but I know I won't win with it. I won't be able to submit before 12EST because of stupid christmas-related poo poo getting in the way of my editing. Can I get a 12-hour extension? It's not fair on you but hey. Otherwise you win by default since I'm not submitting the first draft in lieu of a real piece.
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Dec 23, 2013 14:40
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Purple Prince posted:
Of course you can have an extension, sweetie. I mean, you've only had a week. I'm sure your judge, whoever he is, will be fair and kind in his review of your late entry.
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Dec 23, 2013 21:17
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You son of a whoreson. I'm on vacation in Kansas City having BBQ an I took time out of my delicious lunch to tell you to use this 12 hour extension well. I want you to lose with the knowledge that you gave it your 100%.
Mercedes fucked around with this message at 01:30 on Dec 24, 2013 |
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Dec 23, 2013 21:56
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Purple Prince posted:let me spend two long, boring paragraphs boring you with how I wrote this boring thing in five boring hours because no one else has ever written better things in less time in the history of Thunderdome PRAISE ME Purple Prince posted:a week isn't enough wah wah waaaaahhhhhhh Easy solution: Whine less, write more.
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Dec 23, 2013 22:04
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look how about after this brawl is finished I help you find your way back to tumblr, would that make you a happy little artistformerlyknownas again buddy
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Dec 23, 2013 22:45
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Bitchtits McGee posted:look how about after this brawl is finished I help you find your way back to tumblr, would that make you a happy little artistformerlyknownas again buddy After I win this brawl I'll be all too happy to help you find your way out of your sphincter. Deferred Thunderbrawl challenge.
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Dec 23, 2013 23:21
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Purple Prince posted:sphincter 
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Dec 23, 2013 23:39
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I still have a few hours left to submit (on my weakass extension) but my house is having blackouts. This still isn't as I'd want it but I'm posting now in case electric and broadband die again. PS: Wingers are pretty cool. I've always admired writers like Stephen King who can wing it and produce good material. Good thing I'm not a whinger though those guys are full of poo poo and bitch for ages when someone criticises something in a non-formalist way. THUNDERBRAWL VS MERCEDES (731 words) The low murmur of the Christmas crowd replaced London’s background roar as the two men entered the shopping centre. Outside the bodies had been sparse enough that they could walk side by side; now they were forced to break apart. They shoved through the scab of people around the entrance until they had room to walk together again. Sharkie - tall and overmuscled, with nothing but stubble on his head - produced a cigarette from his coat and took a drag. “The gently caress you doing?” asked Jo. He was pale and emaciated; his skin was polluted with lovely tattoos and needle marks. “Relax mate. I’m vaping.” That shut the skinny oval office right up. Sharkie strolled through the mall and watched the crowds; Jo trailed behind him, blabbering on about meaningless poo poo like his wife and kids. After they’d walked the length of the mall a couple of times, they found a bench in a quiet area and sat down. “Where the gently caress is he?” said Jo, “The oval office should’ve been here twenty minutes ago. He owes us big for that loving bollocks at the computer shop.” Sharkie ignored him and focused on their surroundings. They were sitting opposite a ragged canopy of green-and-red sheets, under which a fat bloke in a Santa outfit sat, his feet propped up on a small pile of gift-wrapped boxes. On a makeshift sign beside the canopy was a notice: “SANTAS GROTO. Big presents £20. Small presents £5.” As he watched, a woman and her son went into the grotto. The mother was obese and had bags under her eyes; the kid wore worn-out sweatpants and a plain t-poo poo. The woman passed Santa a twenty, and the boy hopped onto Santa’s lap. The kid whispered something in Santa’s ear, and the fat man laughed a deep belly laugh that echoed round the mall, before shoving a present into the kid’s hands. Sharkie stood up and watched the boy as he shredded the wrappings. From a distance he could just make out the photo on an iPhone box. “Lucky bastard.” “What?” said Jo. The kid and his mother vanished into the crowd. Sharkie took a hit from his e-cig and sat back down. “Nothin- wait. And shut up.” He saw the faces of a young couple in the crowd staring at them, and pretended to ignore it. The couple vanished. They were back a minute later. Other people milling around looked familiar too - they’d walk past and come back a couple of minutes later without any new bags. “loving hell,” he said. “What?” “Get the gently caress up and follow me.” They shoved their way through the crowd towards the lifts. Sharkie glanced around every few seconds but nobody was following them. When they reached the second floor, he looked down over the edge of the balcony at the Grotto. Santa had another kid on his lap, and was looking down at the stack of presents. The couples were gathering around the Grotto, and just as Santa handed the kid its gift they started to move in. Sharkie saw it before the fat man did, but a moment later, Santa had shunted the kid out the way and was sprinting as fast as his chubby legs would carry him toward the doors. Wads of notes spilled out of the red robes and his beard flapped loosely from his face. His trousers began to slip down over his vast posterior, and revealed a pair of neon pink boxers. A couple tried to jump him, but Santa shoulder-barged them, like a rugby player, sending the two of them sprawling. Just as he was about to reach the doors, the trousers finally betrayed him, and he tripped face-first onto the floor with a mighty splat. The undercover cops pounced on him, and a mound of bodies rose at the exit to the mall. They took the service stairs and ran through the mall to the entrance. Santa was cuffed on the floor, and a small crowd had gathered around the scene. Most of them were kids and their mothers, and all but one whined like a bruised bitch. The boy from earlier had a giant poo poo-eating grin plastered across his face. A small round detective peeled the beard off Santa’s face. The kids and Jo gasped; Sharkie’d seen it coming. “He was there all the loving time?” said Jo. “Yeah.” Purple Prince fucked around with this message at 02:31 on Dec 24, 2013 |
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Dec 24, 2013 02:16
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THUNDERBRAWL **MERCEDES V PURPLE PRINCE** RESULTS Mercedes posted:A Hoodrat's Christmas - 371 words An fun, interesting title that doesn’t make sense. If you meant for Shannon to be a hoodrat you certainly didn’t write her that way. If you didn’t mean for her to be a hoodrat then why is this the title? I'm left with a bunch of questions and not in a good way. 1. How did Damian get in the house? Did Morgan leave him in there while he went to go get Shannon? 2. Where are her parents? Where is her nanny? The gently caress is a little rich kid doing by herself? 3. Why did Morgan bring Shannon to the house? If she didn’t know the score, and she didn’t, he could have just stole the presents and given them to her later. Mercedes, you had a funny idea but you didn’t flesh it out. You had almost four hundred words left over, too. And you missed the prompt. This wasn’t set in the hood nor was it a cheerful Christmas tale. Good job. You probably would have been in trouble if you had brawled someone other than Purple Prince. Purple Prince posted:THUNDERBRAWL VS MERCEDES (731 words) An extra twelve hours and you still couldn’t come up with a loving title. Jesus you are loving worthless. I just… I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this. This is terrible. Jesus. Okay. Well. Much like Mercedes, you didn’t loving read the prompt. What made you think this was a cheerful tale? How was this set in the hood? gently caress you, Purple Prince. gently caress you for making me read this piece of poo poo and gently caress you for being a bitch and whining about needing an extension. You should be ashamed of yourself. Now, please, instead of making some self deprecating post just shut the gently caress up. Mercedes with an ugly win
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Dec 24, 2013 04:34
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Hooray for justice... I guess???
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Dec 24, 2013 04:44
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watching all these brawls with people who don't even regularly thunderdome is lot like what i imagine dropping several loaded assault rifles into the middle of an elemetry school playground would be like. can you idiots stop brawling each other now, for gently caress's sake?
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Dec 24, 2013 04:47
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crabrock posted:watching all these brawls with people who don't even regularly thunderdome is lot like what i imagine dropping several loaded assault rifles into the middle of an elemetry school playground would be like. Hey man, I might be a lovely writer, but the only way I am gonna get better is challenging people who are better than me and then following through with those challenges. I want to thank all y'all for being gracious enough to allow me to post my lovely work on here and giving criticisms. Happy holidays everyone in this thread!
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Dec 24, 2013 05:16
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crabrock posted:watching all these brawls with people who don't even regularly thunderdome is lot like what i imagine dropping several loaded assault rifles into the middle of an elemetry school playground would be like.
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Dec 24, 2013 05:23
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I can't wait for 7 more days when all this clutter gets expunged and another thread gets made.
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Dec 24, 2013 05:24
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In deepest Africa, apologies for the late crits, will do them tonight. Thunderdoming with the dikdiks.
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Dec 24, 2013 06:10
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RIP ZEEZ
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You don't gotta post crits at the same time you judge. Most people read the stories, discuss with their fellow judges, and then post crits later in the week. Critting 17 stories is a huge effort.
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Dec 24, 2013 06:14
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No Longer Flaky posted:Hey man, I might be a lovely writer, but the only way I am gonna get better is challenging people who are better than me and then following through with those challenges. I want to thank all y'all for being gracious enough to allow me to post my lovely work on here and giving criticisms. The brawlfrenzy has been fun as hell, and happy fuckin' Christmas to all.
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Dec 24, 2013 06:57
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crabrock posted:You don't gotta post crits at the same time you judge. Oh thank god I thought that was a lot.
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Dec 24, 2013 07:20
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foutre posted:Oh thank god I thought that was a lot. Yeah, while you want to get the results out fast (24-36 hours), the crits can wait for a day or two more.
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Dec 24, 2013 09:15
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What I'm getting from this is "foreground the story more". Also "pay more attention to description". I thought I'd dropped enough hints for someone to figure out what was going on; clearly I was wrong. No Longer Flaky posted:Hey man, I might be a lovely writer, but the only way I am gonna get better is challenging people who are better than me and then following through with those challenges. I want to thank all y'all for being gracious enough to allow me to post my lovely work on here and giving criticisms. Also this. I'm a fighter not a lover so the thunderdome is ideal for motivating me to write.
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Dec 24, 2013 12:17
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Purple Prince posted:What I'm getting from this is "foreground the story more". Also "pay more attention to description". I thought I'd dropped enough hints for someone to figure out what was going on; clearly I was wrong. Sheriff Sebmojo has clearly been hitting the 'nog so allow me to point out that the threads for discussing your thoughts and revelations about your own work is either here in general or here in particular. Thunderdome thread is for: writin' crittin' promptin'/challengin', and the acceptin' thereof If your post is not one of those, post it elsewhere. If somebody has completely broken your self-esteem on the wheel of their incisive commentary and reforged your soul so that you are more than the pathetic wretch you now see yourself to have been, then you might be excused for: postin' "Thank you, god-like entity. May I have another?" But that's it. Too much other crap about your special snowflakeness clogs up the 'dome like mawkish sentiment in a Doctor Who Xmas Special. Those other threads exist for a reason. Use them.
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Dec 24, 2013 19:49
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 Did you honestly expect any different? Edit: Why didn't I think of a kool aid dye job. sebmojo, if you want to start the brawl, feel free. My next victim can use the few days head start. Mercedes fucked around with this message at 21:11 on Dec 24, 2013 |
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Dec 24, 2013 20:58
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With the end of the 2013 thread hoving into view and Fumblemouse's epic slamdown still ringing in our ears, let's call it there for kayfabe until the next thread. Thanks to kaishai and crabrock for their amazing efforts on the tdome writerly site, all the fighting fools who brawled and lost, the mods for all the losertars, the original three, wherever the hell they got to, and all the glorious assholes who make up the thread. This isn't really a thunderdome for people, it's a dome for words; but you don't get one without the other. Roll on 2014, fuckers.
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Dec 25, 2013 01:08
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The sheriff is off duty; grab the fireworks and cats. Chat chat chat
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Dec 25, 2013 01:21
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Fast judgin's good judgin', also Merry Christmas from THE FUTURE.
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Dec 25, 2013 01:32
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Chairchucker posted:Fast judgin's good judgin', also Merry Christmas from THE FUTURE. Drinkin a beer at 11 in th mornin down here it is pretty ok
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Dec 25, 2013 01:40
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I hope more next years challenges coincide with lit mag calls for submissions.
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Dec 25, 2013 01:57
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I wish a certain head judge would visit IRC
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Dec 25, 2013 03:35
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Noah posted:I hope more next years challenges coincide with lit mag calls for submissions. Yep. Those are always good weeks. If anyone else has things they do or don't want to see in Thunderdome now is the time.
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Dec 25, 2013 03:49
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