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docbeard posted:In with Week 44: Old Testament Studies with Chairchucker. Edit, in case it gets lost in the churn: This prompt needs a judge to assign me a passage from the Old Testament as inspiration/The Greatest Flash Rule Ever Told. Further Edit: Quote is not actually edit.
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Jul 30, 2014 03:47
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Somebody find the one that's like "and he said 'go forth unto the land of the Phillistines, and return unto me with 300 of their foreskins, and I will give you my daughter as a gift'". I can't precisely quote chapter and verse but it really needs to be that one.
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Jul 30, 2014 04:04
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docbeard posted:Edit, in case it gets lost in the churn: This prompt needs a judge to assign me a passage from the Old Testament as inspiration/The Greatest Flash Rule Ever Told. "I told you, 'Make no agreements with the inhabitants of this land. Tear down their altars.' But you have disobeyed me. Why have you done this?"
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Jul 30, 2014 04:55
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Obliterati posted:Whoa, so there is! Here you are, sorry about that: Thank you. This is greatly appreciated and I think I'll follow your advice and post this in the Farm.
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Jul 30, 2014 06:46
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In with week 20: Face your destiny http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=20 Someone needs to assign me a tarot card
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Jul 30, 2014 09:44
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:In with week 20: Face your destiny Your tarot card is: XI, Justice 
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Jul 30, 2014 09:51
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I'm in with Week 3: Check Your Cis Privilege in Swaziland. As required by the prompt I specify my cultural group as Glasgow Irish.
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Jul 30, 2014 10:52
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 And Now For a Message From Our Sponsors What? Quoting myself? Pfff please, that never happened. Hey, look, a shiny word bounty! You have 24 hours to redo any previous interprompt (even if you have done it before) for extra words. One per customer. Please don't suck. Entenzahn fucked around with this message at 11:25 on Jul 30, 2014 |
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Jul 30, 2014 11:01
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Because I hate both myself and the judges, in with DIE FOR YOUR POETRY. I think this means I need a flash rule of some kind.
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Jul 30, 2014 23:12
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Meeple posted:Because I hate both myself and the judges, in with DIE FOR YOUR POETRY. Your flash rule is: Role reversal between two characters. Interpret this as you see fit.
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Jul 30, 2014 23:42
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Word Bounty (You said it was okay if it sucked, right?) The Prompt: Interpret the phrase viking party ends in disaster. I don't care how. 250 words. Twilight Of The Gods - 137 words Thor’s cry was mighty // when he beheld The flag of his brother // marking the Pole. “Cursed am I // and this wretched band, For Loki hath come // first to this place.” The storm then rose up, // their return thus was doomed. One after another // the gods they did fall. Baldur to frostbite, // Bragi did starve Tyr fell asleep // no more to arise. “I’m stepping outside,” // said Heimdall who saw More clearly than most // they would never see home. “I may be some time” // he strode from the tent The gods never lay // eyes upon him again. “In Odin’s great name,” wrote Thor at the end, “Take care of our sons, // our daughters, our wives.” These words were the last, // found carved into stone. But of the party of Aesir // no trace would be found.
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Jul 31, 2014 03:53
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Entenzahn posted:You have 24 hours to redo any previous interprompt (even if you have done it before) for extra words. One per customer. Chairchucker's from the previous page Johnny Judge and the Case of the Innocent Client ======================================== 126 WORDS The five minute recess was over. Johnny kicked down the door and walked right past the old attorney, up to the judge “Objection! Your-honor, this-trial-is-a-mockery. Lest-you-forget, my-client-is-innocent-until-proven-guilty.” “You’re right. Innocent!” The judge struck the block with his gavel. The old attorney walked up to Johnny. “You-did-a-drat-fine-job, son. You-stood-up-for-justice, even-though-it-meant-standing-up-to-your-father-who-is-also-your-boss. I-am-retiring-and-you-inherit-the-firm.” “No-thanks. I-have-become-disillusioned-with-the-legal-system. I’m-quitting-to-join-the-circus.” Johnny raced out of the room and exited the courthouse. He jumped into his corvette and drove away.
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Jul 31, 2014 04:51
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In for this week with Week #34: no dragonshirts at the club.
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Jul 31, 2014 05:32
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
The honey-eater smells the honey in the hive on the branch. The branch falls on the ground and the hive falls, too. The honey-eater eats the honey. The honey-eater rubs its sticky paws on a stick and pauses, wondering if it should eat more honey. There is no more honey in the hive, but the honey-eater finds a doll to play with. The doll falls on the ground and her red cap falls, too. Her hair spills out like honey across the snow. The honey-eater eats the honey. The doll is wearing another red cap now: a wet red cap.
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Jul 31, 2014 05:34
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suckas, i don't need extra words because I can use as many as I want  
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Jul 31, 2014 07:40
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Word bounty over docbeard posted:Twilight Of The Gods - 137 words Dr. Kloctopussy posted:The honey-eater Number 36 posted:Johnny Judge and the Case of the Innocent Client
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Jul 31, 2014 12:50
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:The honey-eater smells the honey in the hive on the branch. The branch falls on the ground and the hive falls, too. The honey-eater eats the honey. The honey-eater rubs its sticky paws on a stick and pauses, wondering if it should eat more honey.
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Jul 31, 2014 15:43
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Entenzahn posted:
Judgement Let's get this out of the way now: PootieTang wins. Both of you went into this brawl having just received a DM so I am pleased to announce that neither of you made me want to ram sharp objects through my nostrils until I carved away enough brain matter to forget the pain. Both of your entries were still problematic in their own ways, and both of you hosed up different parts of the prompt. --- Fuschia tude: Writing a modern fantasy conspiracy thriller at that word count takes guts. Your line of action is clear, I understand what's going on and your story seems consistent with its own rules. You give us a quick and interesting start and your action scenes flow nicely. The conflict of the story and the way your protagonist solves it both revolve around his powers and skills and that's commendable. Unfortunately your plot is bad. This should have either been half as long and ended sooner without the flashback scene, or it should have been the first part of a much longer story. As it is I spend a lot of time reading about your protagonist's background before he escapes, does some research and is arrested again. At first he's reactive, then he's just wasting his time. You were supposed to introduce a problem in the beginning and resolve it by the end. Technically you did that, if you count the abduction. However, the actual problem (the conspiracy behind the abduction) was not resolved. The whole point was that you were supposed to tell a complete story from beginning to end, and you didn't do that. It just stops kind of in the middle, with him uncovering the bad guy but not getting the chance do anything about it before you run out of words. Why did you tack on this whole FBI conspiracy thing? Did you need all these characters? What is your story really about? When you write flash fiction, you need to have a point, and you need to get to it soon, and you need to resolve it at the end. You're not writing Chapter One to your next novel so don't end your short stories on cliffhangers. Compared to Pootie's entry your piece is very unpersonal. There doesn't seem to be any internal conflict and externally he overcomes his obstacles too easily. He feels a lot like a cardboard cutout action hero. Who is this jumping guy and what does he want from life? I don't care a lot about him and that's a huge problem. To end on a positive note, I think your prose is very decent and easy to read. You didn't waste too many words at line level. --- PootieTang: Counterpart to the above story: slow, personal and rough around the edges. You sin with telling/flashbacks at the start, but it's shorter and also used more efficiently than in Fuschia's story. Your prose is really flabby, especially in the beginning, and there's a ton of punctuation errors. A lot of them have also been in your first draft. Jesus Christ seriously please learn how punctuation works and proofread your stories. I was really this close to taking this brawl away from you, but your opponent kinda flunked his own rule so you got lucky. It's not at a point where I don't understand you, but it's very obvious and if you don't fix this you won't be taken seriously as a writer. If I didn't know you based your story on that Escher picture I would have no idea why there's suddenly a magic orb halfway through. It doesn't usually hurt to do some foreshadowing when there's supernatural elements down the road. I think you kinda get away with it because it fits the tone and setting, but still. Your protagonist is very passive and most of your entry is more about where he came from, and that weird merchant who I have now idea what he's on about. You hold my interest because I like Shihuo and want to see how he does, but you can do more with 2000 words. The ending is a little confusing. I don't understand if he is supposed to be dead or comatose or just crazy. However, I was moved. You managed to make me care and feel bad for your main character and that's something. I also liked your description of orb world. Please pick a title that isn't poo poo for your next piece. --- Both of you wrote passable, flawed stories. I had to pick between an incomplete, slick action piece and an emotional but rough treatment of a man's regrets. You're writers, and you need to make me give a drat, so I picked the story that was more satisfying and gave me more goosebumps, and that was PootieTang's. Line crits will follow, but I'm in the process of moving right now so I don't know when I'll have the time. Entenzahn fucked around with this message at 20:21 on Jul 31, 2014 |
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Jul 31, 2014 20:17
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Entenzahn posted:Both of you wrote passable, flawed stories. I had to pick between an incomplete, slick action piece and an emotional but rough treatment of a man's regrets. You're writers, and you need to make me give a drat, so I picked the story that was more satisfying and gave me more goosebumps, and that was PootieTang's. Thank you, that's a lot more solid critique than I might have been expecting. Conveying (or creating) personality and crafting effective obstacles are definitely my biggest problems. Don't worry, take your time with the line crits. Again, I appreciate this!
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Jul 31, 2014 22:22
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Hey Entenzahn, can we get an extension on the Ballpit Brawl? I want to knock my entry the gently caress out but I completely forgot both deadlines are on the same day.
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Aug 1, 2014 23:09
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Phobia posted:Hey Entenzahn, can we get an extension on the Ballpit Brawl? I want to knock my entry the gently caress out but I completely forgot both deadlines are on the same day. Seconding that an extension would be awesome, I'm dealing with some family stuff right now and a little bit of extra time would be really appreciated.
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Aug 2, 2014 02:16
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When the rule states we cannot have done the prompt before, does that count 'domes we signed up for but failed to deliver on? Because if so I'd like to actually write something for the Thunderome Bingo that I missed. So IN if that is possible.
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Aug 2, 2014 04:28
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 ing in for Week 94: TRULY ALIEN.(USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
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Aug 2, 2014 05:44
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Signups closedPootieTang posted:When the rule states we cannot have done the prompt before, does that count 'domes we signed up for but failed to deliver on? Because if so I'd like to actually write something for the Thunderome Bingo that I missed. So IN if that is possible. e: I have no idea how Tyr made these so I picked a very special card for you from that week.   DuckyB posted:Seconding that an extension would be awesome, I'm dealing with some family stuff right now and a little bit of extra time would be really appreciated. Entenzahn fucked around with this message at 09:57 on Aug 2, 2014 |
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Aug 2, 2014 09:44
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Here is a preview of my CYOA megasmash *~BLOODLUSTING CHIHUAHUAS KILL THOUSANDS~* (Based on true events)
Phobia fucked around with this message at 00:23 on Aug 3, 2014 |
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Aug 3, 2014 00:20
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Ugh sorry, not happening this week.
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Aug 3, 2014 03:32
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This Ring of Storms 375 words for DIE FOR YOUR POETRY week. Unnumbered those who’ve stood upon this field With weapons drawn and pride upon their shield, With dreams of glory bright behind their eyes, They come to claim this throne; unearn’d, their prize. This throne, which we both covet and abhor, Set ‘pon the bones of those who came before. A trophy, yes, and yet, a symbol too, To sit in judgement, first among the few. These striplings come, all self-assured and vain, Convinced that here they’d stand and make their name. They rage, they scream, proclaim injustice done, Dispute until the end the judgement come. They will not learn, nor strive to hone their blades, Deny the lessons we, as teachers, gave. We cast them out and mark their skin with shame, And few will come contest the throne again --- Amongst these coarse and callow youths one came, He seemed no wiser, heart beguiled with fame. But he did see, in blade and blood's cold truth, The folly and the blinkered eyes of youth. Beheld the lessons taught by loss and time, In seeing, then, resolved to let youth die. No easy death of body for him here, But death of ego, death of pride and fear. Unbowed, he walk’d his own dark hell and saw, His ev'ry fault writ large upon the walls. Sought not to blame but yet to strive and learn, Embrace his weakness, find it strength in turn. From dark and gloomy death such truths he learned, Through long and arduous toil, to light returned. Now ‘tis his turn to wear that weighty crown, As we in turn spill blood upon this ground. Obedient to his judgement here we stand, Salute the throne and foe with sword in hand. And fight the fiercer still beneath this throne, For knowing that his skill we help'd to hone. --- To all of you who stand beside us now, Fierce hearts, fresh dreams, false hope; so young and proud. Be humble yet, and know that truth is cruel, That judgement hath no patience for a fool. Embrace your dying, and in death be sure, No glory comes before you cross that shore. So sacrifice yourself before the throne, To stand reborn, and weak, but not alone. Be welcome here, in this, our Thunderdome.
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Aug 3, 2014 21:42
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Home Fries (906 words) for Man agonizes over potatoes He examined the golden blackish-brown dice-sized chunks of potato in the skillet. He speared one on the end of a fork and blew on it, then cautiously popped it into his mouth. He winced - still too hot. He bit down on the morsel with a loud crunch and swore under his breath, because home fries aren't supposed to be crunchy. He grabbed the skillet and scraped the chunks into the garbage with the fork. They joined their fallen brothers with a soft pat-pat-pat. Reaching into the large sack beside the water heater, he pulled out yet another potato, a big knotty russet. He turned on the cold water and ran it under the faucet, scrubbing it with a four-dollar brush with stiff white bristles he bought for that purpose two days ago. "Dad?" His son Jason was sitting on the old second-hand couch in the section of the dimly-lit efficiency apartment that approximated a living room. "Mm-hm?" Jeff grunted loudly to be heard over the running water and crackling oil. "Can I go to Todd's?" Jeff turned off the water and set the potato on a red plastic cutting board, moldy dishes stacked and pushed off to either side to make room. He glanced at Jason's plate. The toast was gone, but the oily scrambled eggs were spread over the plate to look more eaten than they were. He carefully cut the potato into slightly-larger-than-dice-sized chunks. "You didn't even eat your eggs. Don't you want to wait on the home fries? They're gonna be good." "I'm not hungry." Jeff clenched his fists and closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He spoke deliberately and evenly. "Come on, champ. You know we only get one day a week. Don't you want to hang out with your old man?" No response. He pushed the potato chunks into the oil with the knife. There was a loud hiss, and hot oil spattered onto his hand. "gently caress!" he shouted. He grabbed the skillet and flung it across the kitchenette. It struck the drywall with a loud clang, leaving a dent and a shiny patch of oil dripping down the wall. Jason jumped up from the couch and stood near the front door, trembling. poo poo, Jeff thought. "Hey, that wasn't at you, kiddo. Daddy just burned himself, that's all." He smiled broadly, trying to be disarming and not succeeding. "Everything's fine, don't worry." He crouched, scooped up the skillet and started picking up the pieces of raw potato, ignoring the puddle of oil. "You can go to Todd's, just don't stay out past five. If you're sure you don't want any home fries," he added, setting the skillet back on the stove and dumping the third ruined batch of fries in the garbage. "Thanks, dad," Jason said quietly. "And hey, after dinner tonight we can go out for some ice cream, how does that sound?" he poured another layer of oil from the half-empty plastic bottle into the pan. Maybe a little less oil this time, he thought. "Okay, bye." Jason left in a hurry, slamming the door behind him. Jeff looked at the dent in the wall and sighed. That won't be too hard to patch, he thought, not for the last time. He grabbed the fourth potato of the morning from the sack and turned on the water. He paused, turned the water off and went into the living nook. He sat on the couch, picked up the cordless phone, and dialed a number from memory that he knew he wasn't supposed to have memorized. It rang a couple times, and a bright, cheery voice came on the line. "Hey, sweetie! Having a good time at dad's?" Jeff was nonplussed, and there was a long pause. He was only expecting a "hello?" He breathed deeply through his nose, trying to calm the part of his heart that leapt irrationally at the word "sweetie." "Jason? Are you there?" "Uh, hey Carla, it's Jeff." "Jeff?" The other voice was immediately icy. "Why are you calling me? Did something happen to Jason?" All business, just a hint of alarm in her voice. "No, no, everything's fine. It's just, I was making us breakfast, and, well, you know how your home fries are always so good, and mine keep coming out wrong, and I was wondering, like, how much oil should I be using, or like the temperature..." he trailed off, his face and neck suddenly burning. He stared blankly at the TV, and felt a strong urge to throw the phone through the glass. "You're calling me about home fries?" She was indignant, but didn't raise her voice. "You have a lot of nerve, Jeff. You know our agreement." Silence. "Let me talk to Jason." "Oh, he just left to go to Todd's, if you want I can probably still..." She cut him off. "I'll call him there. Goodbye." The line went dead. Jeff turned the phone off and dropped it on the floor. The battery cover popped off and went flying lazily across the carpet. He walked to the sink, picked up the potato and turned the water on. He turned the water off, set the potato down, walked to the couch, laid down, and closed his eyes. The oil in the skillet started sputtering.
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Aug 3, 2014 23:31
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Artist Quality (1298) Week 80: Why Don’t You Ask Your Huge Cock? http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=2431&title=Artist+Quality Nethilia fucked around with this message at 09:34 on Dec 4, 2014 |
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Aug 4, 2014 01:37
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From Thunderdome Against Humanity Prompt: Why do I hurt all over? Pictures of boobs Closed Windows 665 Words “What the-?” Alice mouthed as she stared into the nipples, stretched like flattened pennies under the weight of the pendulous tits hanging above them. Tits, that was the only word for them. Alice didn’t care for foul language, preferring to use the word “chest” if forced to address her own, but these were tits-- big, saggy tits, adorned with silver hoops, resting on a flabby gut. Alice listened to the running shower head behind the bathroom door. Is this what Tom liked? Alice forwarded through more photos of the same trashy slut. Her hair was bleached and she wore a heavy eyeshadow. The woman wore a faux gently caress-me face, her lips snarled like a hungry tigress. When Alice noticed a pair of blue boxers, frayed along the waistband, she felt her stomach churn. Continuing in her disgusted slideshow, Alice jumped past the painting she intended on printing. In that flash of Saturn Devouring His Son, she felt guilt. She hadn’t intended on snooping in the first place; Alice knew how particular Tom was about his computer. Now she knew why. Anyway, if Tom had fixed her laptop like he promised, Alice wouldn’t need to use his computer in the first place; he had gotten lazy. The printer finished its humming moments before the shower stopped. Alice thought about leaving the image on the screen for Tom to see, forcing the issue. But in her uneasiness, Alice clicked away. She walked up to the bathroom door, waiting for the moment when Tom would emerge, a moment she couldn’t predict. But when Alice heard Tom’s hand on the knob, she fled to the bedroom. “Everything okay, love?” Tom asked as he exited the bathroom, his blonde hair dripping down to the waistband of his frayed boxers. Alice could’ve puked. “Fine,” Alice said as she took her place on the bed. Tom continued to talk as she began pretending to take her notes on the painting. She had just become comfortable with the wedding band on her finger. “-Alice?” Tom said, and she nodded, sending him away. She examined her reflection through teary eyes. What was wrong with her? Should she get a bad dye job and stop going to the gym? Implants? What would be enough to make her enough? Alice looked at the painting until she felt angry enough to stomp into the living room and lay into her husband. He was at his computer, the recycling bin open but now empty. “Alice?” Tom said, “You weren’t on my computer, were you?” “Yes,” she said, and I saw the photos of your girlfriend “I needed to print the Goya for my class tonight. I deleted it though.” Tom had been sweating through his shirt, “Okay honey.” Alice had never been a confrontational person. “And?” she asked. “And I love you.” Tom said. Alice plastered on a fake smile, fighting the ache in her stomach. “I love you too.” She grabbed her bag. How many times did you gently caress her? Did you need anything before I go to class? “Just a kiss.” “I can’t,” Alice said as she opened the front door, “I haven’t brushed my teeth.” Tom caught her from behind, holding her waist in both hands. “I don’t mind,” he whispered. “It’s okay to be dirty once in a while.” Alice shook her head, and Tom settled on a long kiss on the crown of her head, before patting her rear in a playful shove through the door. She used her footsteps echoing in the hallway to mask the quiet sobs. As she sat down in the driver’s seat, Alice was certain that she would drive to a friend’s and stay there for the night. She’d call Tom in the morning and end it; tell him to get out before she came back with a gun. But when she put the car in gear, Alice knew she was heading to class, and then back home. It was eating her.
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Aug 4, 2014 01:58
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Number 36 posted:Week 91: OUR FINEST HOUR. Word limit = 1000 from prompt + 89 from bounty = 1089 total They'll Understand =============== 1025 WORDS My voice reaches a pitch it hasn’t since I was a kid. “Roger, I’m not doing this script. I’m not losing the championship title to Mikey Magnitude!” Roger’s voice crackles over the phone. “Nobody’s asking, Danny. Mike paid his dues, now it’s his time. Look at it this way: it sets you up for a redemption arc in the future.” “I don’t want a redemption arc, I want to stay champ!” I shout. “I don’t give a gently caress what you want!” Roger shouts back. “The wheel never stops turning and everyone gets their chance, you just happened to get yours first. Now grow the gently caress up and start memorizing.” The receiver clicks and I toss the phone. Pieces of plastic scatter around the room as it hits the wall. I imagine life as a habitual loser. Losers don’t sell merchandise. Losers don’t get free meals. Nobody asks to take have their photo taken with a loser. I get another phone from the kitchen, then sit down at my desk and slide the pile of fan mail over. Sorry kids, you’ll have to wait. They all say they’re my biggest fans. If they are, they’ll understand. I pull out the Yellow Pages and lookup “boxing”. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The music starts and I descend from the stadium rafters. As the cable lowers me, I flap my dragon-wings cape. Jets of fire spew from the corners of the ring when I touch down in the middle. The referee brings me my championship belt and takes my wings. I lift it over my head and spin so everyone can see. “Dra-gon Dan! Dra-gon Dan!” The chant of the crowd is intoxicating. This moment is what I live for, the crystal-clear sense of purpose. I’m not a wrestler, I’m a source of joy and inspiration to people who’re missing that little something in their lives. I hate the rear end in a top hat that wrote the script. I hate Roger for giving it to me. It wasn’t his choice, but I hate Mike too. They’re taking me away from these people. Even worse, they’re taking these people away from me. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear a round of applause for your World Wrestling Heavyweight Champion!” “Not so fast!” The lights flicker. The rumble of an earthquake fills the venue. Everyone hushes as the spotlights focus on Mike standing at the challenger’s entrance. “Dragon Dan, you’re a fraud! You don’t deserve that belt! I’m here to take you down and prove it.” Boos erupt from every direction. Just like we’re taught, he stays in character and keeps his face a mask. Nevertheless, his eyes speak for themselves. The pity I feel for him vanishes when I realize that I’m looking at my future, one possible version of it. I lose all doubts about my plan. My mind goes on autopilot. Before I know it, Mike is in the ring with me and the bell has rung. I charge at him, but he pushes off of my shoulders and hops over me like a frog. I keep running into the ropes and turn around. Like a slingshot, they launch me at him from behind. He takes one quick step to the side, lifts up an elbow, and down I go. He quickly pins me, all according to the script. This is it, my one chance to talk to him. “Mike, you have to throw the fight.” “What? No man, you lose about ten minutes from now. Did you even finish the script?” “gently caress the script, Mike. You’re throwing this fight.” “Sorry man, I know you’re upset but -” I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. I roll him over sideways, now I’m on top. I hold his shoulders down and punch him right in the jaw. Before I can get another hit in, he throws me off over his head. On my feet in a second, I adopt my fighter’s stance: right foot forward and raised fists guarding my face. He gets up and spits blood. “Are you serious?” I nod. Mike doesn’t have a chance. The wrestling is fake but the muscles aren’t, and I have about twenty pounds more of them. While he was memorizing the script, I was learning to fight for real. First he tries to use wrestling moves, then he tries to copy my technique, both to no result. I land blow after blow to his body and head. As he comes at me again, I fake him out with a jab and knock him on his rear end with an uppercut. I circle him as he’s getting up. He looks like a wobbly top that can’t spin for much longer. The bloody streams from his mouth and nose meet at his chin, then drip to the floor. He stares at me through his black eye. “Mike, just throw the drat fight.” He wipes the blood from his mouth. “Do you know how hard we work? Do you know what we go through to make you look good? How much better you have it than us?” I keep circling him. “People shout at me on the street. I don’t even open my mail anymore. This was my break, all you had to do was follow the loving script.” There are tears in his eyes. I want to tell him that I do know. I want to explain that that’s why I’m doing this. I want to be sorry. Over his shoulder, I see Roger coming with two security guards, so I move in. One, two, three times I jab, then I follow with a cross. He swats my jabs to the side, but he’s wide open after the third one. He doesn’t get back up. The guards are climbing into the ring. Roger is right behind them. “You’re finished! I don’t want to loving look at you!” he shouts. At least, I think he does. I can’t hear him over the cheering crowd. I grab the hanging mic from overhead and climb onto the top rope. “You mess with the Dragon -” Security tackles me before I can finish. I stare at the ceiling, smile, and listen to the fans. “You’re gonna get burned!”
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Aug 4, 2014 03:55
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I won't be able to contribute this week. Sorry to those who wanted to see another train wreck, but I'm gonna have to opt out.
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Aug 4, 2014 04:30
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Thalamas posted:Judges 2:2 Why 1498 Words (1359 from the prompt, 141 from the word bounty, total of 1500) docbeard fucked around with this message at 16:25 on Dec 29, 2014 |
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Aug 4, 2014 04:49
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Untitled *A drug addict is sentenced to FTL Relativity Prison, and her sister feels guilty about it.* Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 07:01 on Dec 4, 2014 |
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Aug 4, 2014 05:32
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oh whoops, forgot a word count and my prompt: 1063 words (1000 from prompt, +70 from interprompt bounty) Prompt: Week 20 - Face Your Destiny
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Aug 4, 2014 05:36
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THE FALL OF PHOBIA BY PHOBIA 502 words This is a story about a goon named Phobia, who promised to have a Choose Your Own Adventure story done by 3:00 AM Monday morning. He was quite confident, so much so that he finished everything the night before! Having inflated his hubris, Phobia spent Sunday afternoon out on the town, only arriving back home after 11 PM. He sat down at his computer and cracked his "Perhaps I'll post my entry early," he said, using a smug, witty said-bookism that would make Oxxidation squint his eyes in disapproval. He went to his idling computer and came to a shocking discovery - it restarted while he was gone! Windows must have ran an update and shut everything down. "Huh." He scratched his goatee. "That's inconvenient. Not a big deal. Lazarus must have saved it." Unfortunately for him, the chrome extension Lazarus: Form Recovery was and still is a finicky bitch and it did not save anything. "That's okay." He twitched. "I saved a copy on the computer." He checked the C: drive. It was nowhere to be seen. "Well gently caress me sideways!" Phobia said. "What the gently caress, are you serious? It was there yesterday!" Fearing the , Phobia frantically started to rewrite everything with only three hours on the clock! But then, to his delight, he realized something!"Wait. Okay. Okay." Phobia said, outloud, in an empty room at 12 AM. He sipped his leftover Starbucks cappuccino from earlier in the day. "I saved a copy on my external hard drive so I should be good. Solid. Crystal." He checked his $200 dollar external hard drive that he totally "God." Phobia twitched. "drat it." After a quick binge of cute kitty pictures to calm himself down, Phobia came back to the matter at hand. That was when he remembered! Of course! He was working on the story a couple of days ago and sent an earlier draft to his personal email! Feeling rejuvenated, he quickly opened Gmail and searched. He grinned. There it was! An email with a Microsoft Word document named "BOW WOW BATTLE ROYALE"! Thumbing his leather jacket (in the middle of August mind), with the hopes of salvaging his sinking ship, he opened the document - - to find everything was replaced with wing-ding-type-corruped-bullshit-gobbily-goop that he couldn't make heads or tails over and could not recover. Phobia then proceeded to curl up into a ball like a pathetic dog and cry stale tears into his stale Starbucks Cappuchino. "I am dead. I have died." He blew his nose into his fedora, as most goons tend to do. "I lost my story and all I have left is some stupid photoshop I spent two hours making. Boo hoo woe is me." And somewhere, far far away in Uganda, a child was crying out for it's mother. ...Can a brother get a hail mary? In the form of an extension or some sort of grace period? I guess this can count as my submission if I'm poo poo out of luck but god drat I actually had loads of fun writing an adventure about rabid little dogs.
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Aug 4, 2014 06:18
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Obliterati posted:I'm in with Week 3: Check Your Cis Privilege in Swaziland. As required by the prompt I specify my cultural group as Glasgow Irish. Just Testing (1308 words) My Aide chirped in my ear. “The time is four thirty. Scheduled reminders follow: Ramadan begins at dawn today. Khalid will be joining you for the suhoor. Today is the tenth anniversary of the martyr Mohammad al-Faisi -“ “Be silent, machine,” I said, and sat up. Dragging myself across the empty bed, I reached my wheelchair, which creaked as I sank into it. Stretching, I grasped the wheels and pulled through to the kitchen. Raeya and the children were already there; pots bubbling, flatbreads baking on the grill. I took my place at table before anyone could try and help me. “Is Khalid coming to eat with us?” “Brother dearest? He is coming, mother, but he is always late; you know that. He is less use than a mule in heat.” Twenty years ago, I would have struck her for such language. But that was then and this is now: all I could do was lift an eyebrow. “Did we raise you to speak so, girl?” “You raised me to tell no lies, Mother.” I would have laughed if it did not hurt so. “That is not even true, child. Don’t you remember the time your father and I-“ The door opened, and Khalid stepped through. Tall, just like his father. The moustache he was growing was scraggly now, but I knew that it would one day be thick indeed. “I’m sorry to be so late, habibti,” he said, taking his seat. “The checkpoints out of town, they-“ I waved a hand. “It is no matter,” I said. “Once we have eaten for the day, I will have need of you.” The poor boy had lost his job at the power plant after the airstrikes. He needed direction. “How so, mother?” I took a breath and willed myself to focus. “My son, today we discover how your father was taken from me.” He sighed. “Inshallah,” he said. If God wills it. Raeya cut in. “Mother!” I turned to her, and my steady gaze forced her silence. “Raeya, dear, I think the children require some air.” She glared back at me in that way all daughters do to their mothers, one day: these ones are mine, it said. “Khalid, talk some sense into her. For your nephews’ sake.” With that, she scooped her arms around my beautiful grandchildren and steered them out into the pitch black of the Ramallah night. --- The servees pulled into the taxi rank, and the other passengers began filing out. “Why are we here, Khalid?” He gripped my arm, helping me into my chair. “You know, mother. We are here to speak to your old commander, like you asked.” “Well done.” I grinned. “Just testing.” I reached for the Aide, nestled behind my right ear. “My commander,” I subvocalised. “Mustafa al-Akari. Commander (retired, twenty nineteen), Third al-Quds Brigade. Known associates: Moh-” I switched it off. It was enough. Ramallah is no good for wheelchairs. It is a shattered, crumbling city desperately trying to be New York. When I was younger the streets were smoother, and the rubbish heaped upon them did not loom over me as it does now. Al-Akari lived over a falafel cafe on a side street. As we approached, the oncoming breeze carried the familiar sound of wailing to my tired ears. “See,” Khalid said, halting the chair. “There is no point, mother.” “drat you.” I took the wheels in my hands. “We continue. We are already here.” I began to make my own way, but my son’s hands took mine gently, lifting them onto the armrests. “Save your strength,” he said. “I will push.” I remember Mustafa like it was yesterday, and his dreams like today. His mind was always on the grand futures of our victory: the Haram restored; the return of our lost brothers; peace in all the land; “a day will come,” he said to me once in a foxhole, “when our children will be able to forget.” I never had the heart to tell him how well they remember. As we came to the door, the men on guard tossed their cigarettes and reached for their guns. “State your business.” Before I could open my mouth, Khalid had stepped in front of me. “Don’t you recognise this woman? This is Jenina al-Faisi. Show some respect!” They looked at me askance, but they lowered their rifles. “A thousand apologies, noble lady,” said one, “but we must still ask your business.” “I am here to see... the Commander.” “The illustrious al-Akari?” “I am pleased to see you know his name,” I said. “Now let me by. I must speak with him.” “He is dead.” I turned to Khalid. “Now do you see?” I looked back at the guards. “How?” “He was walking in the hills alone. We think it was a sniper from Ma’ale Adummin, but we have no witnesses. Will you be entering to pay your respects?” “He already has them,” I said. “I must investigate further whilst the trail is fresh.” --- “What?” Khalid passed me the phone. “Raeya wants to talk to you.” I held it up to my ear. “What is it, child? We are at the market if you need-“ “Don’t play games with me, mother. You are not going to the settlement! Are you trying to kill yourself?” “Your father is dead. The man who led your father and I has just been assassinated. It cannot be ignored.” “And Khalid? You would put him in danger too? Mother, this is insanity.” “You dare to talk to your mother like this? I was fighting Zionists before you were a twinkle in my eye.” “And did you do so by walking up to snipers? Please, put Khalid back on.” I did, although my son had little to say. She is more like me than she knows. --- “Why have you brought me up here?” The wind whipped at my dress. The graveyard hill overlooks Ramallah still, and in the crumpling heat of the afternoon it offered no shade other than the stones. “I- I have solved the mystery, mother.” “Nonsense! We still have not considered the settlers. How can we solve your father’s murder if-” “That won’t be necessary.” We passed through the oldest part of the necropolis, stones dissolving into sand, names illegible. “You need to see this.” We stopped in front of another stone: judging from its condition, a recent addition. Someone had placed sunflowers, wilted in the heat. “Look,” he said. “This stone does not concern us, son. Why intrude on another’s grief?” “Mother,” he said, and something made me turn to look at him. His eyes were watering. “Just look at it.” I looked for him. MOHAMMAD AL-FAISI, 1962-2019 THIRD AL-AQSA BRIGADE FELL IN DEFENCE OF SHEIKH ZAYED HOSPITAL MARTYR OF THE PALESTINIAN PEOPLE At the sight of the name, my Aide woke up. “Image relevant,” it said. “Recording.” I reached up silently and switched it off. I sat back in my chair and stared at my husband’s grave. The fool. That glorious fool. “But if this was so long ago... what about the Commander?” My son shrugged. “People get killed,” he said. “You taught me that when I was small.” --- And then dusk was falling, as Khalid wheeled me back into my house. Raeya was once again at the stove, the evening meal prepared. The children ran through the house, screaming happily as only the carefree can do. They will learn. As I took my place at the table, Raeya slid a plate in front of me. “Did you find what you were looking for, mother?” “For now,” I said, placing the market vegetables on the table, “but some day I must learn the fate of your father, before I join him. He was taken away from me.” “Mother!” I started. “I know, dear,” I said. “Just testing you.”
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Aug 4, 2014 06:20
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Phobia posted:saga of woe google. loving. docs.
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Aug 4, 2014 06:51
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Prompt: Week #34 - No dragonshirts at the club Song: "Weightless Again" by The Handsome Family Jumpers (675 Words) http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=2437&title=Jumpers Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at 00:59 on Dec 10, 2014 |
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Aug 4, 2014 06:52
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This post will have edits on it because it's too hard to figure out all the post editing poo poo first, so I'm going to edit in the links to my posts after I've set them up. I'M SORRY FOR RULE BREAKING BUT THE OTHER WAY SUCKS. I promise that I won't edit the text. I am an Eagle Scout so you have to believe me. Prompt: You have chosen...poorly You Are Invisible wordcount:???? You are thinking about Molly, the prettiest girl in the school, and doodling on your notebook. You draw a poor rendition of the Eiffel tower, asymmetrical hearts, and sloppy stars. On the desk are two tickets for the school dance: A Night In Paris. She hasn’t said yes yet, but technically you haven’t asked her yet either. There was that time where you were going to say “hi” but your throat closed up and she walked right past you, and the incident with the Valentine you’d spent hours on fell out of your backpack on the bus. It was passed around school, but luckily you hadn’t signed it. All Molly knows is that somebody out there likes her. She doesn’t even know you exist. You let out a long breath and draw more stars. Two more days to ask her. You rehearse your introduction in your head, imagine her smiling and squirming with joy. Wrapping her hands around you as you spin in the hallways. The other boys watching and kicking at the ground that she picked you First, you have to say hello. Thursday You are standing by your locker, already having double-checked that your shirt is tucked in, your zipper is up, your hair is combed and your breath is fresh. Well, it’s ok. Molly walks into the building followed by her friend Shannon. As if by divine intervention, she says goodbye and heads off in the other direction. Molly walks toward you alone, unsuspecting. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. You swallow the lump in your throat, wipe your sweaty hands on your pants, and take a step forward, right into the path of a kid running down the hallway. He knocks you to the ground, sending your glasses sliding across the linoleum. Your backpack breaks open and your books spill out onto the ground. “Oh man, I’m so sorry,” says Gus, brushing off his leather jacket. He extends his hand to you. Molly doesn’t even stop to look at the accident, and disappears into her homeroom class. You take Gus’ hand and he helps you to your feet. “I didn’t see you there at all.” You want to yell at him, but he’s also the biggest kid in the school. He could pound you into the dirt. “It’s ok, it was my fault, really,” you say. “You’re probably late for a class or something.” Gus laughs. “Me, late for a class? Heck, I was running away from class.” He picks up your glasses and hands them to you as you finish shoving your books back into your bag. “Wanted to go grab a donut at Don’s. Hoping to get outside before Officer James saw me.” As if on cue, the school Officer rounds the corner. “Hey you! Stop!” “Gotta run!” says Gus, and he sprints for the exit. Do you: Drop your backpack and follow Gus to the Donut shop. or Go to class and take your seat at the back of the room, next to the stinky hamster cage, but within sight of Molly. crabrock fucked around with this message at 07:42 on Aug 4, 2014 |
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Aug 4, 2014 07:34
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