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Fuschia tude posted:In, hie to me a verse That of your five sound senses You never be forsaken, Nor wander from your selves with Tom Abroad to beg your bacon.
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Oct 28, 2015 04:08
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In. I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping I see the stars at mortal wars In the wounded welkin weeping.
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Oct 28, 2015 04:47
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Hit me.
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Oct 28, 2015 05:51
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Hit me. And then that I'll be murdering The Man in the Moon to the powder His staff I'll break, his dog I'll shake And there'll howl no demon louder.
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Oct 28, 2015 06:13
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Somebody like, totally brawl me or something. someone please own this newb
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Oct 28, 2015 07:18
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all three judges posted:fast crits good crits Thanks!
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Oct 28, 2015 10:13
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Hit me up. In
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Oct 28, 2015 11:33
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In and please hit me with a verse
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Oct 28, 2015 14:47
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newtestleper posted:gently caress it, I quit the thunderdome and SA. I'll take the stupid toxx ban I don't even give a gently caress. HE QUIT ALRIGHT 
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Oct 28, 2015 16:52
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ZeBourgeoisie posted:Hit me up. In So drink to Tom of Bedlam Go fill the seas in barrels I'll drink it all, well brewed with gall And maudlin drunk I'll quarrel. brotherly posted:In and please hit me with a verse My staff has murdered giants My bag a long knife carries To cut mince pies from children's thighs For which to feed the fairies.  To those not yet traveling: More than one person can write for a stanza. If lines you like have already been taken, choose them anyway and prove you can do them more justice.
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Oct 28, 2015 18:18
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You are a gem, I like how you captured Newt's sort of infantile mannerisms, A+
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Oct 28, 2015 20:05
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Thank god for me.
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Oct 28, 2015 20:13
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StealthArcher posted:Thank god for me. 
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Oct 28, 2015 20:15
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Sitting Here posted:someone please own this newb
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Oct 28, 2015 20:25
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I love you, how did you get a microphone into my house?
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Oct 28, 2015 21:05
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Hey Thunderdome. I'm teaching creative writing to female inmates at a county jail in my area. For our next lesson, we'll be talking plot structure (basic 3-act style plot, i.e., character tries and fails to solve problem, changes in some way, is now able to solve problem). We use stories as models for our lessons, but stories longer than 5-6 pages are just too long for the format of my classes. And I have had a hard time finding stories that short with good plot structure. So, I'm posting here for suggestions of past Thunderdome stories that have great, standard plots that I can use to show my students how basic plotting works. Thanks so much in advance.
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Oct 29, 2015 05:08
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blue squares posted:Hey Thunderdome. I'm teaching creative writing to female inmates at a county jail in my area. For our next lesson, we'll be talking plot structure (basic 3-act style plot, i.e., character tries and fails to solve problem, changes in some way, is now able to solve problem). We use stories as models for our lessons, but stories longer than 5-6 pages are just too long for the format of my classes. And I have had a hard time finding stories that short with good plot structure. So, I'm posting here for suggestions of past Thunderdome stories that have great, standard plots that I can use to show my students how basic plotting works. Thanks so much in advance. You are welcome to use any pieces of mine that are still in the thread. It's a swell thing you're doing!
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Oct 29, 2015 05:20
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That's a cool request, blue squares. These stories of mine may suit your plot needs (I leave whether they're good enough for you to judge): ”The Blood on the Page” ”A New Song” ”Fighting Time” ”Angel of the Morning” "Pumpkin Dreams" ”The Merman’s Package” ”Epitaphs” (Cut the last paragraph from this one if you prefer; I probably would.) ”Taking Notes" I'd rather they not be posted elsewhere on the Internet, but assuming that's not the plan, I hope that something there can help you. Kaishai fucked around with this message at 22:50 on Oct 29, 2015 |
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Oct 29, 2015 06:50
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I wrote something that might work for that, too. http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=662&title=Fundamental+Particulars Wow, I can't believe this is the only one of my own I found that I think fits that structure even though I'm always harping on about it. What the hell, me?
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Oct 29, 2015 23:23
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OMG let me in. Let me in so hard. Give me that poo poo. You take that naughty verse and you loving give it to me. Ugh I want it so bad. Also I'm drunk.
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Oct 30, 2015 00:08
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crabrock posted:OMG let me in. When I short have shorn my sow's face And swigged my horny barrel, In an oaken inn, I pound my skin As a suit of gilt apparel.
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Oct 30, 2015 00:15
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Man, I'm going to write the literal hell out of that
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Oct 30, 2015 00:18
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yeah I am legit jealous. My verse is great but that's amazing
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Oct 30, 2015 00:46
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The palsy plagues my pulses When I prig your pigs or pullen Your culvers take, or matchless make Your Chanticleer or sullen. Mile End 589 words “He told me she was thinner than when he saw her last. She looked through him and asked him for a cigarette. He remembered that trick, too much eye contact makes you bitter. He said hi, and she said hi and smiled. Her lips were still the same. He offered her his hand but she shook her head and lifted herself up off the pavement. She left her blankets and tesco bags in the street. On the tube to his place in Mile End they sat close, and watched themselves in the reflection in the glass. “His flat was a studio in a tower block. It had a stove and a bin schedule and a wardrobe full of shirts with sleeves that covered his track marks. After they kissed she turned away and told him that she had it. He said he had it too, that he took pills every day. He showed her the stacks of blister packs and row of brown plastic bottles. He shook one, and it made a sound like a baby’s rattle. The alarm on his phone went, so he swallowed three green capsules and one blue, without water. She asked him what day it was. “When she woke up he was boiling eggs, but she asked for toast with jam. After he brushed his teeth he told her she could stay. He thought about asking her not to steal anything, but didn’t. She wanted a few quid for the bus. He gave her his oyster card and left. “She got sick from withdrawal, and after a few days she left. The fridge was empty, his laptop gone. There wasn’t much else to take. He bought fried chicken on the way back to the station, and ate it on the tube. When he was done he closed his eyes, and felt the numbing rattle of the square old district-line trains. “He found her where he had before. She’d taken something, so he picked her up and steadied her while she walked. When they got back she was hungry for him. They made love, and her knees and ankles dug into his flesh. He was afraid she’d break. Afterwards she cried, and thanked him. He sat on the sofa and looked at his phone while she slept. “On the weekend he went to get food. He looked at her before he left, watched her pupils dilate and constrict with the flashing light of the TV. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, which she soaked up with the sleeve of her new pajamas. She saw him watching and blew a kiss as he left. When he got back he could smell vomit before the door was fully open. She was sprawled on the lino, her narrow face flecked with colourful pieces of half-digested capsule. She looked up from the floor, and said she just wanted to be well like him. After he cleaned her they sat on the sofa. She leaned into him, and the walls and the floor disappeared and it was like they were alone together and there was nothing else and they were all that mattered. He felt warm. “She’d left again in the morning. She’d stolen his wallet from the pockets of his jeans. He needed to call for a new prescription, but his phone was gone too. Instead he scraped together change for the bus to go find her. I saw him a few times after that, but then he stopped coming along to meetings.”
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Oct 30, 2015 02:26
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Thunderdome IRC posted:[12:26.19] <Obliterati> quick straw poll Missed you on the IRC because writing, but I felt that this is just too great not to share; Smelters powered by Monsoon winds!
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Oct 30, 2015 16:12
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Two hours remain to sign up, Bedlamites.
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Oct 31, 2015 03:03
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 inquote:The palsy plagues my pulses (USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
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Oct 31, 2015 04:50
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I shall take the lack of sign up closing as a sign of manifest destiny. In and hit me with a stanza please
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Oct 31, 2015 05:19
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Fumblemouse posted:I shall take the lack of sign up closing as a sign of manifest destiny. In and hit me with a stanza please Of thirty years have I Twice twenty been enraged And of forty been three times fifteen In durance soundly caged. And with that, sign-ups for Week CLXIX are CLOSED! From the stern and savage judgment That into rags would rend ye, With skill and luck and words that don't suck In coherent plots, defend ye. Kaishai fucked around with this message at 19:40 on Oct 31, 2015 |
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Oct 31, 2015 05:21
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:I wrote something that might work for that, too. Kaishai posted:That's a cool request, blue squares. These stories of mine may suit your plot needs (I leave whether they're good enough for you to judge): Sitting Here posted:You are welcome to use any pieces of mine that are still in the thread. It's a swell thing you're doing! Thank you! I'll likely use more than one of these.
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Oct 31, 2015 09:31
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You're welcome to use any of mine in the unlikely event that you can find one that uses that structure.
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Oct 31, 2015 15:09
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My staff has murdered giants My bag a long knife carries To cut mince pies from children's thighs For which to feed the fairies. The Murder of Camper Lee WC: 1310 gently caress your mom you stupid noob, get the gently caress off this server rear end in a top hat. Lee leaned back in his lumbar-support chair and cracked open another Coke. His face scratched from shaving and his legs ached from sitting. It was his tenth flame-war of the night, and Lee was starting to wonder if camping for the last hour with a P-90 was maybe a bad idea. But no, he wouldn’t back down. Lee had a mission, and it was to master his craft. Next round. Lee felt himself begin to sweat as his computer’s fan shifted into overdrive, blowing heat across his shins. The door to his bedroom stayed shut and locked ever since his stepdad got too drunk and told him the devil was going to make pies from his fat lard rear end down in hell. His stepdad wasn’t a religious man and Lee still had no clue where that came from. But with his door shut, there was no air circulation, and Lee had to gut it out in his sweltering gaming cave. Lee was patient. Not like his mother, who wanted him to finish his degree and move out of her house. Lee could stay motionless, every nerve excited by the wait, mouse held in his palm like a sacrament, nerves poised to click. There was a skill in camping, a skill not many people had. Two minutes in, three people left, Lee caught sight of a twitchy black body slip into his cursor’s view. Lee clicked, spraying bullets. One guy down. You loving pussy. I’m going to rape your corpse in hell. CatatonicKillingSpree was not amused. They were one on one, and Lee wasn’t going to budge. It’s just a game, Lee typed back. gently caress you and gently caress your poo poo bitch. Still just a game. It’s not just a game, you gay rear end twat. I’m going to make pie from your fat rear end. Suddenly, the sound of bullets. Lee was startled, jumped in his seat. The other guy had ambushed him, ending the round. Lee read and re-read CatatonicKillingSpree’s message. Those words, that threat, it was so similar to what his stepdad had said. Strangely similar, and it wasn’t exactly a common saying. It had to be a strange coincidence. Before he could ask, CatatonicKillingSpree disappeared, connection reset by peer. Lee’s fan continued to whirr, sweat oozing down his body, as the next round began. ---- Hours later, a new server, but the same tricks. Lee bought quick and hid in the shadows. While he waited, another memory: his stepdad, sitting at the kitchen table. Lee emerged briefly to refuel and dump wastes. “Little bitch, get your rear end in here.” Lee crept around the corner. His stepdad finished his mug of Old Crow. “You know what I think?” Lee just stared at him, knowing that anything he said would only make things worse. “I think you’re a little loving child, and I’m a big loving giant. Do you get that?” Lee shifted his weight. He didn’t get it. His stepdad poured another drink. “If you tell your mom,” he said softly, gently, grossly, “what I done, I’ll loving murder you, you fat little fairy. Got it?” Lee stood there, staring, staring, until his stepdad knocked back another mug, and Lee took it as permission to leave. That was a few days ago. Back in the present, Lee’s heavily trained fast-twitch muscles reacted just in time to get another kill. Complaints flooded in through chat, though Lee couldn’t see them. He was alive and they were dead, and that was all that mattered. The round dragged on, an excruciating one versus one, until time ran out and the cycle restarted. loving human being, brokenveneer said. Stop camping like a pussy. The next round, Lee killed him. The next, he killed ReduceReusedRecycle and Rob_Burgundy1. The next, b0b_d0le, PlacentaMilkshake, and sp3d. He died the next four rounds in a row without a kill, ruining his ratio. It was almost time. The server was turning against him, hunting him down specially, and taking real pleasure in his demise. Lee hated when that happened, but it always happened, every time. He readied himself for his last round. Camping again, little fairy? I’m still going to murder you. I’m a loving giant. Lee could feel the heat swirling around his crotch as he checked the name. It was CatatonicKillingSpree again, though Lee hadn’t seen him in hours. It’s just a game, Lee typed back. It’s more than just a game, little child, loving bitch. Why are you so angry? It’s just a game. Lee liked to deal with flamers reasonably and kindly. I’m angry because little fat children like you can slay giants like me by acting like a little bitch coward. But now I’m going to slaughter you, little boy. Then gunshots, and Lee was dead. The round was over. CatatonicKillingSpree disconnected from the server, connection reset by peer. Lee was shaken. He took a deep breath, chugged his soda, and then restarted his computer. It was the only thing he could think of, the only thing that could possibly purge whatever weird spirit had gotten inside his box, hopefully send it out down through the wires back to hell. Maybe starving it of electricity could kill it dead. As the boot sequence finished, and Lee typed in his password, there was a loud banging at his door. “What?” Lee grunted, annoyed. He checked the time. It was nearly two in the morning. “Open up, little bitch.” His stepdad’s voice, mumbled, slurred. Lee began to breathe deep, the sweat drenching the long of his back. His computer’s booting continued, his programs loading, his startup disk unspooling. The fan remained dormant, letting the heat in the room sit thick around Lee’s shoulders. “Go away.” “Now, bitch.” His stepdad banged some more, and loudly. Lee wondered where his mother was, but figured she was working. Or at least on her way home from her gross shift. He turned back to his computer and started up Steam. “Not tonight,” he said more to himself, but Lee knew he had to choose. If he left the door shut, his stepdad would keep banging, and maybe even break the thing down. Then Lee’s life would be much, much worse. But if he opened it, then his stepdad would berate him for a few minutes, until he got bored and left again. It was the same cycle, repeated endlessly. Lee sighed, getting up from his chair. His knees hurt as he crossed the room, careful not to step in the trash. He unlocked the door. His stepdad threw it open. “There you are, bitch boy.” Lee stepped back as the man lurched forward. His eyes were milk-white, glassy and disturbed. “What’s wrong with you, Marty?” Lee managed to say. His stepdad’s face was twisted. His lips were curled back in rage, more rage than Lee had ever seen. He stumbled further back, almost slipping on a loose bag of Doritos. “Big mistake.” His stepdad closed the distance between them and wrapped his hands around Lee’s throat. The breath was choked from his chest. His stepdad was a large man, and his hands were strong from working. “Ack urgh,” Lee said, weakly trying to move his head. His stepdad would let go. He had to let go. Lee was choking. His stepdad’s face, twisted in a mask of rage and horror, his eyes still pool cue white, was inches from Lee’s nose. “This is how a bitch camper dies.” Fear flooded Lee’s legs and he began to thrash, but it did nothing. His stepdad didn’t flinch, not from a single blow Lee landed. Lee felt the world began to tip, then wobble. He heard a noise from his computer’s speakers. “You have a message, pussy,” his stepdad whispered. Lee looked over. It was from CatatonicKillingSpree. Game over, bitch. Lee tried to scream.
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Nov 1, 2015 16:33
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I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping I see the stars at mortal wars In the wounded welkin weeping. The Surly Bonds of Earth 1,130 words At first Alvarez incorporated the high, drilling bleeps into her dream, so her brain conjured a confused narrative of an alarm clock that was impossible to turn off no matter how often she smacked it. Coming awake, at first she could make no sense of what she saw, just a blur of shape and dim colour. She tried to move, couldn't, and jerked herself the rest of the way to awareness. The helmet of her EVA suit was cracked, a long line slanting across her visual field that caught the blinking emergency lights from the consoles around her. No more than an inch from her faceplate, a jagged alien limb was frozen, thrust through the hull and stilled forever in the process of unzipping their ship like a can of tuna. The emergency lights painted the creature's insectile arm in patterns of blue and green. Beyond it, glimpsed through the rip in the hull, was nothing but the black void. Alvarez tried to move. Even the tensing of her muscles was enough to send pain shooting up and down her spine and she hissed, closing her eyes. Moving was not on the cards. The consoles would prevent her from seeing her lower body even if she could bend in the middle, and she decided to take that as a blessing. Maybe it was better not to know what was wrong. The repeated shriek of the oxygen alarm was starting to get on her nerves. "Shut up," she muttered. "Alvarez?" She didn't even realise she'd been assuming they were all dead until the voice spoke in her ear, and she startled badly enough that pain whited out her awareness. It had to be real, though, because when she came to again, Garcetti was still talking. God, that man could talk. "Alvarez! Come on, I heard you talking, god drat it. Alvarez?" "Here," she said. There was a croak in her voice she didn't much like. "Anyone else?" "Not so far. Where are you?" "In my seat," she said, feeling a ripple of irritation. "Stuck in my seat, where are you?" "poo poo," he said, and chuckled. "I'm in the airlock. Which is, uh, a little less than half an airlock right now. Amazing view, though." Alvarez closed her eyes. She needed to think, and the alien's dead limb pointing at her face was horribly distracting. "Can you EVA around the outside and come break me out?" "Ah, no." At least he sounded more serious now. "I'm jammed in. How's your O2?" "It's bad," she growled. "Minutes." "Yeah." For a while they were both silent, as the ship drifted, and Alvarez's EVA suit yelled at her about how she was going to die. She still felt like she was breathing pretty easy, but that wouldn't last forever. "Alvarez?" Good God, he never shut up. "What, Paul?" she snapped. "What was that restaurant we went to that one time in Duluth? You remember that place? With the— ribs and the pictures of pigs on the napkins?" "Only you would take someone to a restaurant in goddamn Duluth." "Yeah, but you liked it. We should go there again. When we get back." He was trying to keep her spirits up, she realised, and it made her feel tired but it also sparked a warmth inside her. It had been a long time since Paul Garcetti had made her feel that warmth. "I thought we said we weren't doing this again," she said, and he chuckled. "Yeah, but I figure, what the hell. I'll resign, you resign, we'll go get the kind of jobs where you can date your co-workers." Alvarez found herself smiling. God, that had only ever been half the reason they broke up, but what did it matter now? It wasn't like she'd have to make good on it. "Yeah, okay, Paul, that's a deal. When we get back. Both quit. We'll go become instructors." "Teach the baby astronauts to fly," Garcetti said. She could hear the smile in his voice and it let her imagine the smile on his face, and she felt a hot prickle in her eyes that made her mad. She was not going to cry. Crying in zero-G was awful and she had no way to wipe water off her face. "Oh poo poo," Garcetti said a minute later. "I wish you could see this. We're—" There was a horrible jarring blow. Pain screamed up Alvarez's back and she cried out. She felt a twisting acceleration and realised that the ship was spinning. "Garcetti?" she gasped through tears of pain. "Paul?" "Still here! Oh poo poo, we clipped a piece of something." His voice was thick and scared. "It's okay," she said, as the pain began to ease. "It's okay, Paul. Oh— drat." The black void beyond the alien's corpse was replaced for a dizzying moment with the bright blue-white of the planet below. As the ship tumbled, she saw the darkness and the light, over and over, like the slowest possible strobe. Clouds glimpsed, barely resolved before the planet whirled away from her. "Tell you what," Garcetti said into the silence. "If I had to be stuck here with someone—" "Don't say you're glad it's me." Alvarez could feel that her air was thinning. There was no sensation of suffocation. The scrubbers were still working fine to take her CO2 away. But her thoughts were starting to drift. "I wasn't going to." Complete surprise in his voice. "I was going to say, I wish it was anyone else. Then I could imagine what you're doing." Black, blue, black, blue. They'd never even hit the planet. They'd flame out in the atmosphere, just one of a thousand meteors streaked across the sky tonight. "Be quiet," Alvarez murmured. "Just— hush a while, okay? I'm tired." "But you'll come to that restaurant with me." His voice was piercing the fog that tried to descend on her. "You'll come out with me when we're home. Right?" "Christ, yes. Yes, I'll come out with you." "Okay." They drifted together. Her awareness shrank to the line of light that came and went across her faceplate. She breathed slow, wanting the time, wanting each moment she could hear Garcetti's breathing over the comms. Peace settled on her like a blanket, weighing her down into herself. "Alvarez!" Garcetti's voice was piercing, sharp; she resented it. "Gina! Wake up, look! Look!" He was laughing. The ship shuddered. Whiteness speared in through the breach in the hull and swept her faceplate. She felt a shiver through her seat as a rescue vessel latched onto the hull. "poo poo," she whispered, as the comms crackled to life with shouted directions. There was a whole future to think about, again. And she had a date to keep in Duluth.
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Nov 1, 2015 17:52
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I'll bark against the Dog-Star I'll crow away the morning I'll chase the Moon till it be noon And I'll make her leave her horning. Under the Day Moon 1,231 Words Before sunrise on the plains, a man was barking like a dog. He pointed his nose at the arrangement of stars above the village and howled his prayer to the Wolf. The constellation could only give its final shine towards the preparing warriors before the sun would render it invisible. Dreams sat on a rock sharpening his spear. It wobbled in his grip, dipping and falling, forcing him to catch it. He didn't know to hold it by its center of gravity. He looked at its tip, awaiting a recipient, and his stomach churned. He knew the fight was necessary. They had to rescue the women, the tribe's fate depended on it. He knew his own beloved was among those captured. But he also knew that he was no warrior. Dreams had dropped his spear before his father could teach him to catch fish with it. His weapon was a flute, a weapon made deadly to the heart when paired with her voice. The barking man grew louder, drawing Dreams' attention. Talks-like-Animals didn't have to fight. The elder said he didn't have enough "spirit in the mind" to be a warrior. The elder also said the warrior who wishes for war didn't have enough "spirit in the mind" either. Dreams thought of this as he watched the tribe's greatest warrior stomp around, inspecting spears at random. Wielder called for war against the Day Moon tribe at council the night before. Only with blood would they repay the taking of the Wolf Star's women. The elder tried to argue negotiation as the best path, but as voices began to rise, someone had called the appearance of the Wolf. The constellation was directly above the village that night, their symbol for hope...and for battle. The elder had no choice but to allow the attack. A single condition was raised: it was to be quick. Sneak in, rescue the women, and escape. War could come later, once the women were safe. Wielder had reluctantly accepted this condition with the promise that he would have the head of one warrior for every night past the initial attack. Now, as the sun slowly rose above the horizon, he was getting impatient. He approached Dreams with a look of skepticism. He folded his arms, asking for confirmation of a will to fight. Dreams stood up and stared back. They were the same age, the same height, and had hair the same length. Yet they had taken different paths, and now they both had beloveds in the hands of the Day Moon. Dreams told this to Wielder, and for a moment, the warrior evaporated like the morning dew, and a brother took his place. They grabbed each others' arms in camaraderie and headed towards the others. "Let's hope your arms are as strong as your words," Wielder said, smirking at Dreams. Dreams gave his goodbye to Talks-like-Animals, who replied in a canine fashion, and went east with the rest of the tribe's young men. He tried to clear his mind. As the warriors hollered the Wolf Star battle cry at the daytime moon, Dreams placed himself into a separate world. He tried to be one with the spirits. He hummed that song, the one the two of them played together in the Spring. He on his flute, she with the voice that earned her the name "Melodies." He let her face fill his mind as they moved into the eastern forests. # Dreams crept behind a bush on the hill overlooking the Day Moon camp. All the warriors waited under brush and behind trees, waiting for Wielder's signal. The camp appeared to be business as usual, no battle preparations, no guards, and most importantly, no hostages in sight. Only a single fire was burning in the center of the village. Wielder signaled the group to move in. Despite it being the middle of the day, the thick covering of the trees and underbrush gave them cover as they approached the tents. Dreams' legs ached as he tried to stay crouched, balancing his own weight with that of his spear. He made a beeline to one of the larger tents and ducked behind it. Not a single person could be seen anywhere. An ambush is coming, Dreams thought. He laid down his spear, then himself, to the forest floor. The others were getting in position, a few men to each tent, weapons ready. Dreams slipped his finger under the tent, and gently lifted it high enough to peek underneath. He inhaled sharply upon seeing the inside. Before he could tell anyone what he found, he heard the ripping of fabric and a man's shout. The ambush had begun. One of the others had lifted a tent only to find a group of warriors, spears in hand, ready to pounce. The Day Moon battle cry erupted all around. Nearly every tent flipped open, warriors spilling out like a monsoon. The small group of Wolf Stars, not to be scared off easily, raised their spears and charged. Dreams felt glued to the ground. He saw his tribesmen fight like they weren't horribly outnumbered. Picking up his spear didn't even cross his mind. He rolled under the tent beside him and set his sights on the interior. He had somehow found the tent where the women were being kept. The dozen of the them were tied up, but unguarded. In the back, her eyes lighting up like they did that Spring, was Melodies. Dreams untied them all in turn, and embraced his beloved with all his strength. He explained the situation, and told the women to run. "West!" Dreams said. "Run west and don't stop! Your men will come back! Just run!" He lifted the edge of the tent and they each scurried out, sprinting into the woods before any of the Day Moons could notice. Before long, it was only Dreams and Melodies left. They looked into each other's eyes. The fighting taking place a few yards away was getting more brutal. War drums were sounding, a sign of reinforcements on the way. Dreams glanced at his spear, still on the ground. He didn't have the power, nor the will to pick it back up. The two of them crept from one tent to the next. In the center of the camp, Wielder could be seen locked in combat with the Day Moon warlord. They danced, their spears like ceremonial staves, each unwilling to give up their head. Dreams saw them fight and felt only fear. He could not return to the village with the women. It would be obvious that he had abandoned his tribesmen. But he could not bring himself to join the battle. He squeezed Melodies' hand and asked her to run with him. "Where?" she asked. "Anywhere." he replied. He could live with being an exile. A coward. He could not live without her. Realizing the gravity of their choice, Melodies nodded, and they started south, away from both tribes. As Wielder struck the final blow on his opponent, his allies fighting to the death around him, he saw Dreams and Melodies running. He should have followed, catch the coward, punish the betrayer, but he did not. He raised his bloody spear to the Wolf, invisible in the daylight. To anyone else, it would seem like a gesture of battle. But to him, it was one of hope.
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Nov 1, 2015 20:38
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The spirits white as lightning Would on my travels guide me. The stars would shake and the moon would quake Whenever they espied me. No Takebacks 1313 Words http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=4156&title=No+Takebacks Thranguy fucked around with this message at 00:02 on Jan 1, 2016 |
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Nov 2, 2015 03:13
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With an hour and a half left on the clock, fourteen of you have yet to submit. Kindly stop whipping yourselves long enough to get those stories in.
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Nov 2, 2015 04:36
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With a thought I took for Maudlin, And a cruse of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, Sky bless you all, I befell into this dotage. Flash rule: main character must be a fig farmer Yielding Fruit 1305 Finch the fig farmer met Maude the soup-slinger at the farmer’s market. Finch did not have a busy stall, as figs are not the most fashionable fruit. He’d been skeptical when he inherited his grandfather’s fig farm; farming wasn’t any more fashionable than the figs. But after that first season, after Finch carefully shepherded the figs from tough green infancy to plump purple adulthood, he felt a certain intimacy with his crop. It reminded him of his first, awkward, fumbling college love, and how she’d giggled and blushed before lifting up her shirt so he could touch her soft, ripe fruits. Maude’s stall was just across the way from Finch’s, and she always had a line of people clamoring for her soups and savory pies. Most of them were regulars. They were all unified by an unspoken suspicion that Maude’s nosh wasn’t entirely ordinary, though no one could put their finger on why. Maybe it was the strange dreams they had when their bellies were full of soup. Perhaps it was how the taste lingered on their tongues all week, so that by the time Saturday rolled around again, they were quaking with desire as they loaded kids and spouses into the car to go down to the market. Maude had no one to cook for at home. Finch saw the fawning crowds around Maude at the market, and felt sad for his beloved figs. His trees were so generous. They grew the very best fruits for him. He was like a parent at a school talent show, whose child had performed expertly and received no applause. But after the market packed up for the week, he’d return home and tell his crops that they’d hit yet another sales record, and that they were good and popular trees. Maude saw how desperately Finch loved his figs. She craved that kind of love, but he never even came by to taste her wares. He stood in his stall, waiting for a rush of buyers that didn’t come. His figs were lovely, but he had the demeanor of a beggar. If she could just get him to have a taste of one of her stews, Maude though, then she would have Finch forever. He would dream soupy dreams and taste her on his tongue, and wouldn’t be able to stay away. She waited until the close of the market one Saturday, then marched over his stall. “I could make everyone love your figs as much as you do, you know,” Maude said. “I can make a figgy pork pie that you could found a religion on.” Finch loved his fig trees, in part, because their generous abundance seemed like such a rare thing. No human could give and give the way an orchard could. So he cocked his head and squinted one eye at Maude and said, “You’d have to buy them from me. Full price. No freebies, even for the famous soup lady.” Maude made a dismissive gesture. “That goes without saying. Will you come try some of my stew, so I can prove I’m not bluffing about the quality?” Finch looked across the footpath. There were a few people milling around Maude’s stall, likely hoping for leftovers. Their eyes were empty and bugged out like junkies, and they looked hungrily in Maude’s direction. “The quality of your cooking speaks for itself,” he said. “But I’ll sell you my figs, and if you can kick a few bucks back my way, maybe we can make it a regular transaction.” Maude stifled a huff of frustration. Finch was even more desirable up close. His hands absently roamed over the bounty of figs in his basket, rough fingers dragging across dark, glossy skin. She needed to have him, to feed him, to put part of herself inside of him. She made a show of inspecting his figs. “These are nice, but,” she said in a doubtful tone, “I can only use the very freshest fruits for my recipes. Maybe I could come by your farm tomorrow and buy them fresh off the tree?” Finch supposed that would be alright, though he’d never brought a girl to his orchard before. Maude arrived at Finch’s farm at the appointed time. She climbed out of her truck, cradled a travel pot of her very best stew as she went to knock on the front door. She’d spent all night hovering over the simmering pot, whispering saporous, salty love notes into the steam. One taste, and she would have Finch at her table every night. She would feed him his own figs in pies and stews and lick the dribble from his chin and they would be in love, madly in love. Finch had a strained look on his face when he opened the door. Maude hugged the pot to her chest. “Is everything alright?” she asked. Finch was not alright. He’d gone out to his fig trees that morning and told them the good news, that a beautiful, famous cook wanted to use their fruit in her stews and pies. He’d heard a meaty thwup. Then another. Then another. The air filled with the humid scent of overripe figs as the trees angrily spoiled and shed their fruit. And Finch had waved his arms in the air, begging them to stop, but they kept shedding figs until Finch swore he wouldn’t let Maude buy them. “Figs have all gone bad,” he said. “Sorry, I should’ve called you before you came all this way. Looks like our deal is off.” But Maude had a keen sense for preternatural happenings. “Take me to the orchard,” she said. “I know some about tree blights and mites and whatnot.” Finch swallowed hard and said, “I don’t think they’d like that.” “They just need to get to know me.” Maude shifted the pot so she was holding it against one hip like a baby. “If I can fix up your crops--and I can--then you have to promise to come back to mine and have dinner with me.” The trees were wise. They sensed Maude's intentions for their farmer, and were jealous. It only made her want Finch even more. She wanted him to love her as well as he loved his orchard. What fruits she would yield to him… Finch agreed, wringing his hands doubtfully, and took her to his orchard. The trees stood petulantly over their fallen fruit. “Now I know you don’t trust me,” Maude said to the orchard. She walked down a row of trees, dribbling a bit of soup on their roots as she passed. “But I think we could get along, mmm?” Everywhere Maude poured her stew, trees began to quiver, and their leaves made a sensuous sound like rustling bedsheets. “There now,” she said, after she’d walked the entirety of the orchard and set all the trees trembling. “I’m not so bad, am I?” A healthy, ripe fig fell from a branch right in front of her. She picked it up, grinned, and took that last dredges of her stew to Finch. She presented the flawless fruit. Finch took it reverently, mouth hanging open slightly, and turned it over in his hands. He’d never seen such a perfect, plump fig. He bit into it and his mouth was filled with hot, savory flavors like a meat pie. His eyes widened. It was the most wonderful taste in the world, like every homemade holiday dinner he’d ever had, balled into the skin of a small piece of fruit. It was nostalgia and umami and longing and salt. Finch looked up at Maude, his eyes watery and hungry. Maude dipped her finger in the dredges of her stew, dabbed it on his lips and kissed him passionately. They sank down to the ground among the fig trees, tasting the meat of each other’s tongues.
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Nov 2, 2015 04:37
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wordcount: 1290 Of thirty bare years have I Twice twenty been enragèd, And of forty been three times fifteen In durance soundly cagèd Corridor 6 Jamison walked alone down Corridor 6, the only sound his boots on the pristine floor. The walls were bare, no doors or windows, just the glow of white paint under fluorescent lights. His inner ear informed him the corridor sloped, that he was travelling beneath ground level. The corridor led to a large metal door. Bold words, black on yellow, “Authorised Personnel Only”. A card reader was set in the wall, complete with keypad. Jamison held his card up to it, waited until it beeped, then entered the seven digit code he could recite in his sleep. The door slid open. Jamison hesitated. “I don’t want to you to go,” said Christine, teddy bear clutched to her swollen stomach. “We’ve been through this,” said Jamison, the slightest hint of a sigh escaping. “You know I have to. ” He sat beside her on the bed, reached toward her to wipe away the ghost of a tear, but she flinched, just a little. “I have to go,“ he said, as quietly and patiently as he could. “It’s my job - I’m a test pilot. Test pilots test.” “I’m not an idiot,” she said. “I don’t have a problem with you flying your drat planes in the middle of the desert. But this…” Christine gestured with one hand, as if trying to pull words from the air. “Not just top secret, not just a few days, or a few weeks. It’ll be months before you’re back.” She hit him, hard, with the bear, then cradled her belly. “You won’t even be there to meet her when she comes.” “I know, sweetie. But you’ll have every doctor in the Air Force looking after you. And when she’s out, she’ll have a house to come back to, bought and paid for by her hard working daddy. She can grow up and go to school, and play rock music too loud, and then break our hearts when she marries a GI.” “Both our hearts?” asked Christine. “You promise?” “I promise,” said Jamison. This time he sighed silently. Inside the door was a simple cell, lined with extractable storage compartments. For furniture, there was a single chair, a large bookcase packed with thick volumes, a comfortable cot with a nightstand and door leading to an en suite. “What?” he said. “No stereo?” A hidden intercom crackled. “Second drawer in the nightstand.” “Corridor 6,” said Dr Edgar, “is something new. It’s not time travel, or time dilation, or anything like that. But in some ways, that’s exactly what it is.” “I don’t follow,” said Jamison, still nauseous from recent injections. “Think of it like a wormhole,” said Dr Edgar, looking at Jamison over his glasses. “Instantaneous travel to a predetermined point in the future - in this case three months, our granularity limit. Actually, it’s really nothing like a wormhole, what with all the tidal forces tearing you into your component atoms and the almost certainly deadly macroscopic quantum foam fluctuation that would entail.” “So it’s dangerous?” “No no, dear boy.” Dr Edgar leaned over and patted Jamison on the knee. “We’ve done many, many tests. All subjects have emerged from corridor 6 physically unharmed.” “Well, that’s good then,” said Jamison. The Doctor peered over his glasses at him again. ”Isn’t it?” “Obviously, with animal subjects, it’s hard to ascertain their mental state to a fine degree. That’s where you come in. We’ll need a full report. What you see, what you experience, everything. ” Jamison blinked. “I thought you said it was instantaneous.” “We fully anticipate that it will be,” said Doctor Edgar. He laughed, a short, sharp bark. “But I’ve yet to meet a guinea pig that could tell time.” They counted him down, the way they did with astronauts, in the ten seconds before the door at the end of Corridor 6 closed and whatever quantum magic they were performing began. At first he just sat quietly and listened, waiting in vain for his heartbeat to accelerate. Astronauts didn’t get this, he thought. They had the roar of the engines, the immense vibration shaking every nerve and fibre. He just had his own thoughts, and the tinny sound of the internal speaker. Jamison knocked back a beer, and watched the girl onstage. She could sing all right, good old country classics, full of longing, heartbreak and whisky . Her long, blonde hair shone in the cheap stage lights of Alderly’s Bar and Grill. He was certain she was watching him, so he smiled, raised his bottle to her. She winked at him. He wished he felt excited. After the set, when she was placing her mic back in its case, he wandered up to the stage and asked her if she wanted a drink. She didn’t say yes, but he helped her move her speakers anyway while she carried her guitar case. They hosed in her van, grinding amid the amps and dog blankets. Later, he’d gone back home to where Christine was sleeping, snuck under the covers and lain behind her. His hand reached over her vastening belly, stroking it gently. She’d woken then, smelled the beer and the sweat, and kept her eyes closed. Soon he rolled away. The metal door clanged shut as the count reached Zero. “Christine, I’m sorry,” he whispered as the world span ninety degrees in an unseen dimension. Any moment now, and the door would click, and he would walk out three months into the future. Zero stretched into eternity. It took six hours before Jamison was truly angry. He flung whatever he could get his hands on around the cell, tore the books out of the bookcase, spread rations all over the floor. He screamed and tore at the metal door until his fingernails threatened to come loose. Eventually his rage wore out. He began to wait, hopeful, until hope began to die. Over what seemed like days, he cycled between fury and sorrow like they were songs on repeat. He read until he threw books across the small room. Sometimes he slept - and each time he marked his waking in one of the journals they provided. He thought of Christine, frequently. Then less frequently. He wore himself out with push-ups and shadow boxing. He occasionally thought of the night at the bar, and felt his shame rise, and then, in time, subside. He counted the days by sleep. His daughter was born. It was his birthday. It was their anniversary. It could have been a year later, or ten, that fury and sorrow were joined by madness. His sleep log was as likely to have a nonsensical poem, or jagged holes dug in the paper by his pen, as it was to have a simple mark. Sometime he tried to cut himself with anything to hand, just to feel something different. But he couldn’t make an impression. He never had to touch the rations or use the toilet or even shave. Jamison simply kept on existing. Soon, he stopped moving except to record his waking. He lay on the floor and felt his emotions wash over him like waves, until even the waves became calm. The metal door clicked as the world unspun. It was the loudest sound Jamison had ever heard. The door swung open of its own volition. Beyond lay corridor 6, the featureless passage that led home, to Christine, to whatever the world looked like now, seventeen thousand markings later. The intercom crackled. “Congratulations,” it buzzed. “You are the first man to instantaneously travel three months into the future. Any words for the history books?” Jamison felt the thrill of his own release wash over him and pass. He closed his eyes and slept.
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Nov 2, 2015 04:54
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With a host of furious fancies, Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear and a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander. The Host of Fancies 1196 words Tans rested his lance on his stirrup, pulling a waterbag from his saddlebag. He took a long drink and looked out over the wasteland ahead. "I don't see anything out there. Villagers are always full of stories anyway. I say we go," he said, tucking the waterbag back in its place. "Host of Fancies, ha! I'd never heard of any such thing until yesterday." The merchant, Olano, shifted uneasily on the seat of his wagon. "I don't know, they said it's hard to see the Fancies at all. They said you can't even see them sometimes until they're right behind you! Maybe we should go around, you know?" "You paid for a four day trip. If you want to go the long way, it will cost more." "Well, in that case, if you think we can make it, I guess we'll go," Olano said tentatively. "Hey, Fil! Wake up! We're going through, this is your last chance to get off." The bard poked his head up from among the sacks and barrels in the merchant's wagon. "You won't be rid of me that easily. Besides, the girls in Haverport will love hearing how I braved the Host of the Fancies," he said. They left the cover of the forest, following the broken, ancient road through the waste. The ground was dry, mostly flat, with small hills and boulders poking up from the plain in places. They rode for hours with no sign of the Host, only odd cries in the distance. The forest on the far side of the waste came into view as they crested a small hill. The sight should have been a relief, but it was marred by the roiling clouds of dust directly in their path. At the base of the clouds raced a glinting, jostling, howling column of figures in distorted and grotesque forms. Olano's thin face paled, his hands went slack and he almost dropped the reins. He cried out, "Oh Gods, it's the Host! They'll tear us apart! They'll eat our innards!" Tans just lifted his lance and couched it under his arm. Meanwhile, Fil slipped off the back of the wagon and set off at a run, angling away from the road toward the scrubby hills surrounding them. "It's been great, but I've decided to try something new! Good luck!" he called back over his shoulder. Olano let out a wordless cry at this desertion. Tans gave him a sharp look. "You remember what they said. The Fancies will play on your moods, try to make you lose yourself to despair or joy or rage. We must resist," he admonished, and started off at a trot toward the horde. "Let's go. The closer we are to the edge of the waste when we meet them, the sooner we'll be safe." The Host soon noticed their advance and wheeled as a group to meet them. They were led by a terrible knight on an invisible charger, who brandished a flaming spear--the villagers called him Mania. Bringing up the van was a grotesquely fat creature, Melancholy, waddling slowly along and crying piteously. Raising his lance, Tans galloped straight for Mania. The specter dodged to the side with ease, waving his spear in a wordless taunt. Tans plowed through the other Fancies, but rather than continue on, he swung back around in a wide arc to charge at Mania again. Olano meanwhile drove his wagon hard, trying to pass along the flank of the Host. As each one passed, he felt a different mood: rage, excitement, love, distraction, but he shook them off easily; all of the Fancies were focused on the fight ahead between Tans and Mania. Finally he reached the tail end of the Host. Melancholy, too far back to see the fight at the front, locked his gaze onto Olano, who dropped his reins and wept in sudden hopeless despair. Tans' horse was frothing at the mouth by now with the constant exertion, and Tans himself was little better. He roared in wordless frustration as he charged Mania again and again only to have his attack dodged or deflected away. Finally he threw down his lance, leapt from his horse, and drew his sword. Olano could barely summon the will to raise his head, much less drive on, but he grasped the only hope he had. From a secret pocket in his jacket he pulled a small pouch. He opened it and scattered the contents toward Melancholy. Precious gems glinted in the sun as they flew through the air, but Melancholy did not break his heavy-lidded gaze. Fil dared a glance back as he ran. He saw Tans swing wildly at Mania over and over without striking, until finally he gave in, pulled a dagger, and slashed his own throat. Another glance showed Olano laying on the ground in the pits of despair, until Melancholy lifted his limp body and devoured him whole. With the others gone, the Host of Fancies began to swing around in pursuit of Fil. He tried to judge the distance to the edge of the waste, then he hoped he had judged wrong. The Host overtook him less than half a mile from the forest. He was caught up, swept along with the rushing Fancies. A fearsome beast with slavering fangs and firey hair--Anger personified--carried him along, infecting him with a terrible rage. Fil tried to suppress the anger; he tried beating on the creature with his fists, but it only seemed to become stronger. As his vision reddened, he tried the only thing he could think-- He sang a snatch of the softest, gentlest lullaby he knew. Anger stumbled for a moment, just long enough for Fil to writhe free of its grasp. He sprinted a few paces toward the forest before being swept up by the spirit of Fear, but he pulled out his flute and started playing the bravest military march he knew. Fil felt his heart lift, and rather than dragging him deeper to the waste, Fear actually started to carry him toward the forest. From Anger, to Fear, to Lust, to Disappointment, Obsession, and Disgust Fil was carried. At each passing Fancy he played his flute, declaimed poetry, even hummed a sad dirge when hysterical laughter threatened to choke him. Under the influence of his music each carried him a few steps closer to safety. Finally he was dropped, dusty and exhausted, at the forest's edge, just beyond the verge of grass that marked safety. The Host of Fancies thundered and roared and stampeded away back into the wastes. Fil picked himself up and dusted off his tattered clothes. "By the Gods, I made it," he muttered to himself. "I made it. I beat the Host of Fancies." He stumbled along until he found the road again. "This will make the best song. They'll never believe it, but they'll love it anyway--how Fil the Magnificent beat the Host with the power of music!" Limping along, already composing his new epic, he didn't notice the specter that had followed him out of the waste. Moving quietly, growing as it went, Pride stalked its prey.
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Nov 2, 2015 05:00
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But I will find Bonny Maud, merry mad Maud And seek whate'er betides her Yet I will love beneath or above The dirty earth that hides her. If I Find Jack Nicholson Under the Ground (950 words) *snip* See Archive Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at 18:07 on Dec 30, 2015 |
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Nov 2, 2015 05:24
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