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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:yo wassup im comin for ya I'll wait to see if there's anything left when Mojo gets done with ya before I waste my quality poo poo talk thanks Also, Griffon 
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Jan 1, 2014 23:24
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WHAT THE gently caress UUUUUUUUUUUUP BITCH rear end LEPER!!! GET READY FOR THE BEAT DOWN OF THE NEW YEAR MOTHERFUCKER!   MEEEERRRRRRRRRRRCEEEEEEEEEEDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!!!!!!!!!!Sitting In A Tree, S-T-U-K As Can Be Words 490 “You seem to be in quite the pickle, Sergeant Skittles,” said the dog, Sir Barkley, his lips unmoving as he looked up at the cat in her precarious perch in the tree. “I bet you want me to do the whole song and dance and fetch our human for you?” Sergeant Skittles blinked slowly. Thick dark lashes rested on her high cheekbones, like fuzzy caterpillars floating in a bowl of sweet cream1. “I’d rather be the neighborhood bicycle than call on you for anything of importance. I have this under control,” said Sergeant Skittles. “Well then,” said Sir Barkley as he laid down and got comfortable, “that is a very tall tree you are sitting in.” His lips peeled back like curtains in a toothy grin. “Did the bird you chased up there teach you how to fly?” “Mongrel, don’t you have a red rocket to clean or a leg to hump?” Sir Barkley slapped the grass with his tail. “At least I have all of my parts.” Sergeant’s ears pressed against her head and her eyes went into slits. “You slipper-fetching, man-serving -- Oh, our human! Get it to help me down!” The human walked across yard and tussled Sir Barkley’s ears. “Ock,” said the human. “Ock, ock.” Sir Barkley rolled over and the human rubbed his belly. A minute passed, and a voice called from the house, drawing the human away and leaving the animals alone again. “Man, those tummy rubs feel awesome,” said Sir Barkley. “What the hell, Sir Barkley?” asked Sergeant Skittles. “You didn’t even try to get the human to help me down!” “I sure didn’t.” He contentedly slid around in the grass. Sergeant Skittles stared, dumbfounded. “W-why?” “You gave me fleas.” Sergeant Skittles recoiled her head. “Fleas? Is this what this is about?” she asked. “We both had fleas and it sucked! I’m sorry you got them from me.” “Not just the fleas. I had to wear a cone around my neck for a week.” Sergeant Skittles suppressed a laugh as the visuals streamed through her mind’s eye. “That was terrible.” Sir Barkley got up. “Have fun spending the night outside, Skittles.” “Wait, wait!” she called out after Sir Barkley. “I’m sorry, I really am. What can I do to make it up to you?” “I want you to call me by my full name from now on.” Sergeant Skittles hesitated. When she finally spoke, she did it slowly. “You want me to call you ‘The Round Mound of Rebound Charles Barkley the Bad Mamma Jamma’ every time?” She shifted in her perch. “That is far too stupid. Even for you.” “Oh look! It’s a car. I think I’m gonna go chase it now,” said Sir Barkley as he went racing down the street. Sergeant Skittles watched in disbelief as her only hope of getting down vanished. “Well, old girl. You seem to be quite in a pickle.” 1: http://smartbitchestrashybooks.com/blog/guest-review-desires-bride-by-teresa-howard
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Jan 2, 2014 00:27
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Hey I'm game for this let's rumble
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Jan 2, 2014 03:23
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Yo holmes I'm in this week.
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Jan 2, 2014 03:30
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gently caress it, I'm in.
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Jan 2, 2014 03:44
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LeperMerc Brawl 500 words on the Gene Wolfe quote: "Our greatest sin is that we are only capable of being what we are." quote:A Call Home (484 words) Weak title, though not objectionable. The best titles make sense after you've read the first para and make more and better sense after you've read the last, this one is just blandly descriptive. Mercedes posted:Sitting In A Tree, S-T-U-K As Can Be JUDGMENTDespite how it might appear this is not a Thunderdome for people: it's a dome for words. One combatant had good words; the other did not. The victor is Leper Colon V, by a knockout.
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Jan 2, 2014 05:00
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OwDqz2P0YTw Well done Leper! You better watch yourself. You ain't seen the last of me.
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Jan 2, 2014 05:30
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I'm IN for the first regular prompt of the year.
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Jan 2, 2014 05:31
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In the spirit of mingling with the common folk (but also because I came up with a pretty decent idea), I'm going to be submitting a story as well as judging, because you can't stop me.
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Jan 2, 2014 06:17
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Hey, I'm in.
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Jan 2, 2014 06:29
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We Don't Fight Anymore - 947 words Of course, Richard comes to talk at me while I prepare the meal. His beady little eyes are following my every move, so I turn to block his view of the food. He grunts slightly as he heaves his carcass away from it's resting place on the counter, and walks to the window. I turn back, blocking his view again. It's not the most elegant way to cook, this little dance of ours, but so very worth it to see his pitiful attempts at nonchalance as he repositions himself. Doctor Golding will be so satisfied with our progress; isn't it nice to share quality time with your loved one? And we do spend most of our time together these days, except when we sleep. Tonight's meal will be a little burned. We make polite small-talk once the meat is in the oven, and though it's a shame to spoil it, I can just picture his blood pressure climbing a little higher as I ignore the timer, feigning fascination with his prattle. He won't say anything, of course, because he's 'making an effort'. Wouldn't want to be the bad guy now, would we? I step around him as I prepare the vegetables, him always moving a half-second too slowly, and me never quite pointing the blade in his direction. A visitor, unlikely as the concept is, would see only the very model of marital bliss. We used to have guests, of course, but they drifted away over the years – my friends grew understandably weary of his shouted arguments, and later his gold-digging little band of parasites simply had to go. Not that we shout any more, of course. We don't quarrel at all. To bicker would require us to talk about anything more than the weather, to argue would require us to care. Instead, we both try to take pleasure in the little things. Placing the salt just out his reach, or maybe forgetting to replace the batteries in the television remote. The care home called, I inform him, making sure to thoroughly chew my mouthful of tough pork before continuing. Do his eyes light up a little, or maybe his reptilian mind is actually capable of caring about the old lady? Either way, he'll be disappointed at the news, or lack of it. As was I, to be fair, but I've always had more patience than him. As we tidy the dishes, his ungainly feet trip me a little, but I manage to make sure the leftovers land on his precious couch, so we'll call that one a draw. - "For fucks sake, Mavis, is that all you can think about?" Money. Always, it's loving money. Next she'll be screeching about bills and oh-so-urgent repairs, and I'll accuse her of being a soulless harpy. And then we'll both shout over each other, and she'll run upstairs, slam the goddamned door, and I'll be sleeping on the sofa again. It's a crap sofa at that, one of the few things left over from the 'old days'. Ugly as sin, and a few inches too short to sleep on. Maybe the card can take enough punishment to get a new one? It'll cause another fight, for sure, but I haven't had a decent night's sleep in a week. I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that soon enough we won't have to fight like this, but then I feel bad for thinking of the old lady like that. This is the worst bloody feeling in the world, I'm certain. Not having money is poo poo, sure, but I'd go back to that any day over this not quite having money just yet. Not to mention the guilt over wishing someone dead. If only she'd never got the drat cash in the first place, and then it's time for another round of guilt. I think it's the guilt that gets me pissed off, more than anything. Maybe Mavis feels the same way really, maybe even worse given it's not her aunt, she always hated moochers. I wish we could have a sane loving conversation about it without it loving spiralling off into another flaming loving row. Who was it who talked about 'Jam tomorrow'? About how it'll keep you going a lot longer? It bugs me that I can't remember, I'd like to put a name to the phrase so I can imagine tearing their lovely little truism apart, making them realise just how wrong they were. Jam tomorrow just makes you feel hungrier today. I punch the cushion into shape, taking a certain spiteful pleasure at the noise, knowing it'll disturb her upstairs in her – our – warm comfortable bed. I want her to know how angry this whole screwed-up situation makes me, it's about the only way I can communicate with her these days. gently caress it, I'm going to the pub. At least I still have some goddamn friends left. - It started out pretty silly, and now it's kind of turned into a challenge. We couldn't afford much anyway, but the unspoken game is to see just how long we can go without buying anything. Three weeks since we got the place, and it's becoming a ritual – just us and our close friends, sat on the floor and playing boardgames, using the still-wrapped sofa as a mock table to eat. Never to sit on, because that'd somehow be breaking the rules. The leaky air-mattress borrowed from my dad doesn't count, we're not masochists or anything. It's a good game. We've had a drink or two and hot food, we have friends, we've got each other. And the sofa, of course.
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Jan 2, 2014 14:59
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(Toxx)in(g)
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Jan 2, 2014 17:07
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I'm in for the first time, figure a new year is a good time to try something new! I would say go easy but this is thunderdome so go BRUTAL
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Jan 2, 2014 19:43
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Mercedes crushed the Red Dog 20/20 can in his spindly grasp, leftover beer foaming out of the top. He flung the beer carcass to the ground and stumbled to his computer with eyes firmly crossed and pants indubiously soiled. He pulled his computer chair out with the intention to sit on it, but his rear end found the floor nonetheless. With his forearm, he pushed all nonessential items off the computer desk with a glorious swipe. The monitor swayed like a ship in the open sea. No matter, Mercedes pounded the keyboard like it owed him money and after what it seemed like an eternity of misspelling a word and hitting backspace far too many times, his masterpiece was in front of him in all its luminescent grandeur. In He nodded, swelling with pride. "I'll show these fuckers," he said, right before he lost his balance and attacked the keyboard with his face; bits of the alphabet clattering against the floor.
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Jan 2, 2014 19:44
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Mercedes posted:Mercedes crushed the Red Dog 20/20 can in his spindly grasp, leftover beer foaming out of the top. He flung the beer carcass to the ground and stumbled to his computer with eyes firmly crossed and pants indubiously soiled. He pulled his computer chair out with the intention to sit on it, but his rear end found the floor nonetheless.
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Jan 3, 2014 01:57
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New thread title imo
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Jan 3, 2014 02:25
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"Thunderdome 2014" he said, right before he lost his balance and attacked the keyboard with his face
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Jan 3, 2014 02:43
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I am in.
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Jan 3, 2014 04:28
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Aright, I'm going to do this thing. I'm in.
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Jan 3, 2014 05:55
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Ok I will write a thing.
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Jan 3, 2014 06:22
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I'm sorry Roguelike. I'm sorry you wrote a good story and then made a good prompt and now have to judge a shitload of stories. I hope you drink, because you might wanna stock up on your beverage of choice. Record is 32 entries, and you're at 32 signups right now. Some horrible people will flake out because they aren't worthy of the air they breathe, but maybe you'll get another 10 tomorrow!
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Jan 3, 2014 07:27
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crabrock posted:I'm sorry Roguelike. I'm sorry you wrote a good story and then made a good prompt and now have to judge a shitload of stories. I hope you drink, because you might wanna stock up on your beverage of choice. I'm in. Let's kick this new year off right!
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Jan 3, 2014 08:35
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I don't have time to do this week's Thunderdome but I'm pre-emptively signing up for next week's!
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Jan 3, 2014 12:55
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sebmojo posted:New thread title imo
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Jan 3, 2014 17:03
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Jan 3, 2014 17:03
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dear n3wbs, please do as your dad says and not as he does Bigup DJ posted:I don't have time to do this week's Thunderdome but I'm pre-emptively signing up for next week's! I wouldn't rely on this post to mean much next week, you should come back and sign up then. I mean what if the prompt was "write about a character gruesomely murdering your least favorite ethnic minority" I'll bet you'd regret signing up blindly!!!! That's if next week's judge notices this post.
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Jan 3, 2014 17:09
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FYI guys, I updated the post just beneath the OP with some cool archive stuff, and will add more later.
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Jan 3, 2014 17:39
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Well good job there killer, the link doesn't work. Is "writocracy.come" a writer's porn site?
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Jan 3, 2014 17:42
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idk what you're talking about all I see is a working link to the archive way to spoil the surprise about the writerpron site though. SORRY EVERYONE.
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Jan 3, 2014 17:47
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You need to log in to the thunderdome site in order to see the pictures, since they're hosted there I am preemptively laughing at the judges for this week's larger word limit and the number of sign-ups
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Jan 3, 2014 18:03
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I'm in.
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Jan 3, 2014 18:22
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In my defense, I've given out the link to the non-passworded images a few times (although maybe when SH wasn't in the room.) anyway, I've PMed to her so she can fix them at her leisure.
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Jan 3, 2014 21:58
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In. And imma' win. Drinking gin.
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Jan 4, 2014 03:03
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You no good excuses for writers have about another two and a half hours to signup and make my life just a little bit worse. 35 signups, what the hell is wrong with you people. Why can't you all be more like Peel and Bigup DJ who just stopped by to say they were cool peeps who weren't competing this week. EDIT: Haha, Signups CLOSED Roguelike fucked around with this message at 06:05 on Jan 4, 2014 |
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Jan 4, 2014 03:31
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Sitting Here posted:dear n3wbs, please do as your dad says and not as he does I'll do it man I'll do a story next week no matter what! I swear it on my father's grave, and my own grave!! 
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Jan 4, 2014 07:30
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Faded, Jaded Dweller (1,241 words) Enter the small room in the back of the house to find a table, two chairs -- one occupied -- a couple of open windows with drapes billowing as the sharp October wind smacked against the wispy tendrils of a dying flame. The lone man kept solemn vigil while rolling a cold vajra over the calloused fingers pads on his right hand. It had been a gift long ago from a friend that had taken up with a wife and traveled as far west as one could without crossing the great Rocky Mountains: a lasting reminder of man’s conquered domain restrained beneath railroad tracks. The seated man had declined the invitation to journey on the road in lieu of working long days under a man for whom he felt a mix of love, admiration and fear that could only be from a father, his father, the architect. For his father, the architect, had claimed that no better education could exist outside that gifted to a student from their master and so had compelled his eldest son, our seated man, to join his practice as an apprentice. This had come as a shock to our man as his life, though filled with buildings rivaling the creations of God’s splendor, had been devoid of the architect. The young architect had set his children in a playroom right below his home studio, and once it was completed never went back inside; it is true that the architect sees his design as perfect until people enter it and this architect did not discriminate in this practice. The seated man shivered and looked upon his hand to see a red impression from the eastern tool and so he laid the tool upon the table where it tumbled for a short while before resting on an envelope. He stood and began towards the open window, unaware of the interim of each foot’s journey from spot to spot on creaking floorboards; he was satisfied in being upright and moving. The standing man pressed his warm tongue on chapped lips and raised his shoulders and lowered them. Often he had hunched when he had sat so he could extend his arms to the top of the drafting board and get a lead pointer so as to be precise; it is important, when drafting or even more when rendering, so that the client can see how you’ve articulated their needs which they could be shockingly unaware of when demanding book-matched granite. His father, the architect, had taught him never to let the foundations of design escape his mind when conjuring the living spaces of a client’s home. There are necessities and these must be met and from these the rest of the plan will arise like the leaves on the bush do before the roses can bloom. A building is a system made alive by its inhabitants but it is crafted by its architect. All these learned in years spent in the studio surrounded by pretenders to his father’s legacy: the stock of person who arrives in the midsummer and talks of his conquest of the challenges of last year’s winter to prove his readiness for the continually longer nights which are encroaching on warm days. Our standing man had been vigilant in keeping the rituals of the day during the time of that tempestuous night’s darkness: the news of his mother and sisters being slashed with the firewood axe by a servant in the dim luminescence of iron fixture gaslights. There had been no sign of discontent when our man had left with his father, the architect, the master, to oversee the mining of a new rich granite vein. It was gorgeous Dakota Mahogany granite and his father, the master, had been awaiting slabs for a nearby office complex -- a tall structure which stood as a monument to the company’s owner, a man from the soil of South Dakota itself who now reached a comfortable height of success in his late middle age -- and it was beautiful. Our man began again -- away from the window -- welcoming the chill on his back as tufts of hair fell before his eyes. He pushed them with his right hand back on top of his brow and tucked the strands neatly in the crook between his ear and temple as if it were a pencil in waiting. He hadn’t written much after the decimation of his family, not even to his friend now out west in Colorado -- the type whose only offering of condolence would be a few belts of scotch -- and so remained monolithic in the face of his shattered father. He gave pieces of his own individual spirit in the name of his father’s legacy. He galvanized his father, the architect, into pursuing a long abandoned masterwork. They found solace. The man met the table and tucked the chair underneath, hands grasping the wooden back as a tether to the solid ground he felt quake beneath him. The Arcadia he carved out of the dreams of his father, the architect, the master, alienated their practice from a public determined to remain steadfast in its trajectory. It spurned his father away from the designs that had attracted our standing man to study the master’s work. The architect now made cynical structures bankrolled by aristocrats living off the new old money of their dead. He played word games in stone that weren’t understood but oft talked about by his patrons who wanted Dakota Mahogany granite in their New York coastal home because of the way it rolled off the tongue. Our standing man reached for the envelope weighted down by the vajra. Inside was a card detailed with gold leaf that listed the name of his father, the architect, the master, along with his death date and his funeral date. It was sent by the architect’s new daughter and had been sealed with the architect’s monogram. This was the first time our standing man received a letter bearing that stamp in quite some years. Our man had pulled away from his father, the architect, the master, and his current practice to pursue that betrayed idealist style. He was starting to gain some recognition outside of his surname but was still unable to land any big clients. A plastics manufacturing company had sought our man to construct a space in Michigan that was to be made striking enough to give it global appeal and an interior that would be photographed to show this plastics company as a purveyor of future designs. The meetings had been going well and the immaculate renderings had them on the cusp of selecting our standing man, our architect. His father had been in town, visiting our man to show our man the new fiancé. He sat in on the final presentation as a proud man that wanted to see what his protege could achieve. As the meeting came to a close, the clients applauded but all turned to the father to see his reaction: he was a formidable name even in his decline. He congratulated his son on the design before looking the head of the plastics manufacturing company right in the eyes. “Yes, his work is impressive: it will set you far ahead of your competitors. But is he going as far as he could? Is he making this office as grand as your name necessitates? Why hire the son when you can hire the master?”
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Jan 4, 2014 10:00
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The Last Child (735 words) The great void gaped open above two figures and stretched into an infinite nothingness. The two were entwined upon the surface below, watching as the dirt and stone was torn from the fabric of their little planet, into the eternal hungry maw that lingered above them. The first said, “It is our child and it is so beautiful.” The second said, “From barren loins comes forth the end.” The first said, “Our final gift to this world.” The first laughed and lifted the second by the hips towards the void, letting out a hoot of pure pleasure. The second smiled, a smile that did not touch the eyes, leaving only creases over the curve of the second's cheeks. The second said, “Our love has wrought this thing. An ending to all sorrows.” The first lowered the second back down to the fragmented ground. The first’s voice become solid, losing the ecstasy of victory as he said, “For too long we have born the weight of scorn and rebuke, the sting of sorrow. And now we have ended it. We together have done this thing, in our love for the flesh and the soul of not just ourselves but of all.” The second's head bowed and the second spoke, voice resonant with the trembling of the planet's surface, “And it is a thing worth doing, to sunder the old and-” The second cut off then, the sound suddenly caught within the second's throat. The first's eyes blazed and the first spoke, voice like thunder, echoing over empty plains,“And what, my love? What comes after the sundering of the old?” Blood began to fall from on high, as the void opened upon itself, a maw within a maw. From within came the screaming of a thousand choirs of newborn. The force of the sonic assault sent the pair scrambling to the ground, disengaging from one another. Born down by the weight of the screams, the first shouted over to the second, “What. Have. You. Done?” A whisper of a smile graced the second's lips, this time creeping up to crease the corners of the second's eyes. It was a weary smile, a tired smile, but a smile so often shared in the last age. In that instant, the first knew that their work had been undone. “It had to be done. They had to suffer. Why should they have a reprieve for their sins? Why should they not suffer for an eternity for what they've done to us? For the ruin they've made of our flesh and all else that makes us?” said the second, the voice almost like a whisper across the gulf of sound. The first stood still, staring at the second in mute amazement. Such a deed was beyond comprehension. For long ages the two had plotted, and now the variables were to be changed. The first's voice roared with rebuke, “How dare you!? This was not your plan alone! This was our work together!” The second simply smiled again and the first's rage collapsed in on itself. Tears flowed down the first's face, red-hot upon the void scarred cheeks. The first sobbed and shouted, “Why!? You at least owe me a why!” Slowly, the second rose from the ground and carefully stepped over towards the first, graceless beneath the weight of the descending press. The second placed a hand, soft and warm upon the first's back. The second said, “Because you're too stubborn. You would never have gone through with it, despite knowing the necessity of our vengeance.” The first trembled, both at the touch and at the words, before thrusting forward onto the second's chest. Sobs racked the first's frame and the second merely weathered them, turning to gaze upwards at the descending choir. The second said, “They're beautiful. As much our children as any other.” The first stilled slowly before drawing up to stand fully. For a moment, the pair simply gazed into each others' eyes. The second bore the calmness of certainty, built from the long years laboring upon the project, the thousands doubt that had been excised during the process. The first seemed so small, but only for an instant. Snapping upwards, the first took the second's hand, and brought it up. The first's other hand settled onto the second's hip. The pair waltzed beneath the coming reckoning, dancing to the rhythm of the falling splatters of blood.
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Jan 4, 2014 10:53
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As Brothers, Once 1241 The scarred blonde huskarl shook his head. “I’d swear by Saint Vortabin, he’s madder every day.” Rodic tapped his temple with the stump of his index finger. Dorn Vulhather, Thane of the King’s Huskarls, frowned. “Have respect. He’s still our king.” “Last council, he nearly strangled the steward!” Rodic made choking motions. “He lost his temper.” “He’s been strange since that witch cursed him outside Obersend.” The thane waved a hand. “If he’s a bit off - and I’m not saying he is - it’s from that head wound he took when the Obersenders sallied out.” Dorn rubbed his own bald head. “He didn't wake for a week.” Rodic counted on his fingers. “He mutters to himself, he wanders the castle in his nightshirt, and I caught him pissing in a fireplace yesterday. He’s mad, I’m telling you.” Dorn sighed. “Maybe so. We were as brothers, once. We fostered in Dartem together.” He fingered his longaxe, a faraway look in his pale blue eyes. # Two days later, Dorn stood guard while King Gremlaeca Skellan and his new Steward talked agriculture on a parapet. Dorn barely listened, distracted by the glory of Keloden spread before him. He remembered visiting the royal city as a boy with Gremlaeca. Keloden was then a mere sprawl of timber and wattle-and-daub buildings. Thirty years later, a trade boom with friendly neighbors doubled Keloden’s size. Anathian triremes, Andorth galleys, Varig longships, and native Grendish holks filled the harbor. A half-built stone cathedral already towered over the wooden Church of Saint Braghan. Dorn turned as Gremlaeca’s voice rose. “We can’t grow oranges on my Elten estate? Devil’s balls. I’m the King of Grenderholm, I’ll have oranges!” Steward Merthgar raised his palms. “Your majesty, we’re too far north.” Gremlaeca reddened. “By the Saints, I’ll have oranges!” Dorn moved closer. “But it’s not sensible…” Merthgar trailed off as Gremlaeca seized him at the hip and shoulder and lifted him over his head. The king was still a bull at fifty. Dorn grabbed Gremlaeca’s shoulder just as he hurled Merthgar over the battlement. He screamed all the way down. Gremlaeca shoved Dorn away. His eyes were wild, unfocused. “Unhand me, dog.” Dorn’s face grew hot, but he didn’t make to grab the king again. “For God’s sake, you just murdered him!” “A King can only execute.” Dorn crossed his arms. “The law applies to you like any other.” “You presume too much,” Gremlaeca roared. “I’ll throw you after him.” He lunged, locked rough hands around his thane’s throat. Dorn drew his shortsword and pressed the edge under the king’s chin. “Release me, or by Saint Braghan I’ll open your throat.” Gremlaeca kept his grip, mad eyes locked on Dorn’s. Finally, he let go. His whole body went slack and he almost fell, catching himself on the battlement. When he looked up at Dorn, the madness had passed. “By the Scion, what have I done? Forgive me, little brother. I wasn’t myself.” “I know,” Dorn said. He gripped his forearm, pulled him upright. “Let’s get you to your chambers.” “But Merthgar.” “That will need to be accounted for, but not now.” Dorn led his king to the stairs. # Dorn and Rodic leaned against the council chamber wall, awaiting the king’s arrival. Ivarr, a Varig member of the King’s Huskarls, stood nearby smoking a pipe. Andubren, thane of the city, exchanged vulgar jokes with Alred Skellan, the king’s nephew and heir. The Earls of Brethon and Gorsham sat together, both called to council as the closest High Nobles to Keloden. The king himself finally entered, his favorite hound on one side, the huskarl Wigstan on the other. It was Wigstan’s day to guard the king. The assembled nobles stood as Gremlaeca took his seat. At a gesture, the hound hopped up into the empty Steward’s chair. “Be seated.” The king waved his hand. “I present my new Royal Steward, Conbec of the Perfect Symmetry.” The hound lifted his ears at the sound of his name. Dorn’s mouth dropped open, and Rodic barely stifled a chuckle. Andubren’s face grew white, and the two Earls muttered to each other. “Uncle, you can’t possibly be serious.” Alred’s full lips bent in a smile. “One of your jokes?” “Not at all. Conbec will make an excellent steward. He obeys my every command.” He demonstrated, making the dog do tricks. “Now, the matter at hand. The two Earls are here to legitimize this war council.” “War council?” The Earl of Gorsham raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. I mean to invade Andor.” Alred snorted. “For what reason? We’ve been at peace with the Andorth for twenty years. They’re our best trading partners.” Gremlaeca turned his wild gaze on his nephew. “The pig-spawned bastards are stealing our water!” The chamber fell silent. After a few seconds, Andubren spoke. “What do you mean, your Majesty?” “The Devil-bitten river! The Limberloth flows east to Marevin and doesn’t stop. Soon Andor will have the whole thing!” Again, nobody spoke for a moment. Then Alred burst into laughter. “This is too much. You’re mad as a box of frogs!” Gremlaeca pointed a shaking finger. “You dare mock me? Throw him in the dungeon.” Conbec put his paws on the table and snarled. The huskarls escorted Alred out. In the hallway, he stared at Dorn. “You’re truly obeying that madman? He made his dog the Steward! He thinks the Andorth are stealing the bloody river!” “We know,” Dorn said. “We’re not jailing you. What can we do about him?” “Kill him, give Lord Alred the throne,” Rodic said. “That’s treason.” Dorn’s voice was tight. “There’s precedent,” Rodic said. “Saint Braghan himself established the House of Skellan with his bloodstained sword." Dorn shook his head. “We’re not Saint Braghan. Furthermore…” Alred held up a hand. “Rodic’s right. He’s not fit to rule Grenderholm.” Ivarr nodded. Dorn sighed and closed his eyes. “Very well. Let’s do it in the outer court. We need witnesses.” # In the outer court, nobles, merchants, and others watched in horror and interest as the King’s Huskarls bent Gremlaeca over a stool. Rodic held his shoulders, the king’s hands bound with his own belt. Rodic’s left eye was swollen shut, Dorn had a fresh bruise on his cheek, and Ivarr’s arm bled where Conbec had bitten him. Wigstan had the hound leashed, now. The remaining six King’s Huskarls stood by. Alred Skellan stood at the foot of the empty Rowan Throne. The Archbishop of Keloden stood nearby, having been in the outer court anyway. He’d been quickly convinced to bless Gremlaeca’s execution. Dorn’s deathstare and longaxe had helped. Alred addressed the crowd. “My uncle is no longer fit to rule. In the great tradition of our founder Saint Braghan, we remove him from the throne.” He nodded to Dorn. Rodic pushed the struggling king closer to the makeshift chopping block. Dorn hefted his longaxe. “Your last words?” Gremlaeca’s eyes were wide, bloodshot. “I’m the King! Release me, I’ll have you all eaten by pigs.” Dorn waited. The king dropped his head, then looked back up. His eyes were normal. “Not the axe, little brother,” he whispered. “Kill me like a warrior, not a thief.” Dorn nodded. Rodic let the king straighten, opened his tunic to expose his collarbone. Dorn laid the longaxe aside and drew his sword. He stepped behind the king, placed the tip just above his left collarbone. Gremlaeca nodded. Dorn thrust downwards. Blood spattered his face, ran down with the tears.
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Jan 4, 2014 21:49
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I'd just like to take a moment to inform all 34 (ugh) of you that people whose entries fall well below the word limit will instantly gain my favour, because I'm very lazy. Brevity is the soul of wit, kill your babies etc.
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Jan 4, 2014 22:48
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I wrote a thing. It is under the limit, just for you Fanky. Duat (1249 words) I push open the door to the lab and cringe inwardly. He is there, already working, crouched before the towering contraption in the center of the room, making some adjustment. Simon Barrister, my research partner. He is brilliant and young and tireless, a credit to the team. A pain in my rear end. He looks up at me. “Hey Carl, working the holiday too?” It’s new year’s eve, we’re probably the only ones in the facility. “Yeah.” I get right to work on the computer, setting up the next test pattern. The hulking machine rumbles to life, great coils sputtering electricity, a giant magnetic disc spinning faster and faster. It reaches the flash point, where the gate should open--and nothing happens. I don’t even feel the disappointment anymore. In fact, I feel relief. If it had worked while he was here, then it would be harder to get out of sharing the credit with him. As the machine winds down the data is collected, stored in the computer for analysis to determine what permutation we should use next. Each test narrows it down exponentially. The discovery is close. I can feel it, like a word on the tip of my tongue. The multiverse theory was proved years ago. Every possible universe is known to exist, right next to us, separated only by a thin film. If we can figure out how to punch through, we could have infinite energy, infinite resources. The first team to publish the the proof will be immortalized--not just in this universe, but in all the others we invade. The first team, or the first man. Simon looks up from his work “Hey It’s almost midnight. Want a glass of champagne?” “Sure, why not.” He comes back with a bottle, pops it open like a high-class waiter and pours the golden, twinkling stuff into my glass. It’s good. Crisp, refreshing. It lightens my heart a bit. “You know,” I say. “The ancient Egyptians had a belief in a second world. Duat, they called it. It was like an afterlife, but different in that you could travel between there and here through gateways.” “Like our gateway, eh?” Simon takes a big drink. “Yeah,” I say. “The burial chambers were like conduits between the two worlds, you could travel back and forth between them. Its all written in their religion, in their books of the dead. I have some pottery from that time, you know. Inscribed with religious verses. Very old. Very rare.” “I didn’t know you were into antiques.” “I just started collecting recently.” I bought it at an auction six months ago, around the time I began my plan to screw Simon out of publishing. I will be the one to discover Duat. There will be no our findings, only my findings. I have already been writing the paper that I will publish under my own name when the final piece to the puzzle is acquired. I have been writing it for months, and all that is left is to insert the missing data. This nearly finished paper is stored, etched in microdot, on my ancient pot. I dare not store it on any computer connected to the net. Even any electronic device at all could be suspected, looked into, hacked. But no one could possibly suspect the antique artifact sitting on my mantlepiece. The only risk is in its fragility. I do not keep a backup. If the pot were to break, my plans would be ruined--it almost did, once. It was Christmas eve, and I had several people over, including the director of our lab, Steven Barks. I was showing him the pot--I believe in hiding things in plain sight--and he dropped it. I remember watching it slip from his fingers and all the thoughts rushing through my head at lightning speed. All the steps of remorse--denial, anger, bargaining--passing by in a flash. Then my Labrador, for reasons only dogs know, came tearing across the room and ran right between us. The pot bounced off his hindquarters, landed on my foot, and rolled unscathed onto the floor. I often think about all the endless things that could have gone differently. If the dog had chosen not to run. If the pot had rolled off Steven’s fingers in a slightly different way, if i’d been standing several inches further back. All of these would have led to tragedy. Constant worrying about what might happen to it at home became distracting. Now I keep the pot on my desk in my office here at the lab, where I spend most of my time. I realize I’ve been silent for a long while, so I raise my drink at Simon and drain the rest. “We’d better get back to it.” He nods and takes my glass. “I’ll put these away.” He’s only been gone for a moment when it happens. Just as he steps around the corner there’s a shimmering glow over the magnetic disc of the machine. A kind of ripple, like a mirage, but emitting light. I leap to my feet and run to the computer, but there is nothing, no readout. It’s not being caused by the machine--the thing isn’t even powered up. The shimmer gets brighter and there is a wet, popping sound, then I can see right through it, clear as day. Like looking through a window. I see another lab, like ours. It’s coming from there, I realize. Some other version of my lab has figured out the missing data and opened the gate. And it opened into my universe. My suspicions are confirmed as I watch myself step through the gate. It’s surreal, unsettling. He’s me, but not me. His hair is slightly different, thinner, but well cared for. His face is a bit darker, more worn looking. His clothes are the same as mine, but a shade lighter. “Oh good, it’s you,” he says. “You solved it!” My eyes are wide, my heart pounding. “You’ve got to tell me how. Before he comes back.” I would tell me, wouldn’t I? If anyone would help me in my plans, it would be me. “Quick then,” he says. “To my--er, your office.” He follows me out of the lab and into my office. I shut the door and he looks around, his eyes finally settling on my pot. “So, you still have it,” he says. “In the dozen universes I’ve been to so far, this is the first one I’ve seen where I didn’t break it.” “Then you weren’t able to publish in time? To cut out Simon?” “Oh I’ve got time,” he says. “Simon took the day off in my world, for the holiday. I’ve only been searching through the universes--through Duat-- for an hour or so.” I narrow my eyes. “Searching for what?” He laughs. “I’m not really this dumb am I?” He picks the pot up from my desk. “For this of course, I knew there must be a universe where it didn’t break.” “What? You can’t--” “Sorry pal,” he says, darting for the door. “You’ll have to find your own.” And he’s gone, rushing toward the lab. I take off after him but my shock gave him too much of a head start. By the time I get back he’s leaping through the gate. The hole blinks out of existence right as I reach it. Simon returns to see me standing there, staring. “Ready?” he says. My heart pounds with new determination. “Yeah, lets get to work.”
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Jan 5, 2014 02:48
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