Well, there goes any chance I had of taking this Dome seriously.
Hello strange one
you say many word which are not stories. Why do you do this thing?
|# ? Dec 27, 2013 18:29|
|# ? Dec 4, 2021 00:32|
Ug ug motherfucker. I found a place on the beach with free wifi and I'm gonna crush some skulls for the last 'Dome of 2013.
This is my desktop background right now.
|# ? Dec 27, 2013 18:41|
In for caveman anachronism
|# ? Dec 27, 2013 19:32|
Yeah, you'd have to write a story first.
You don't know us very well, then!
|# ? Dec 27, 2013 19:54|
fumblemouse asked for a story about being under dogs or something. also claimed to despise me. here is story. forgive me wordcount gods.
Nibbana 645ish words.
"Please listen carefully. Two interesting things will happen on October 4, 2068," said the voice. "You haven't gone crazy. You just thought 'Okay, then what number am I thinking of?'. Then you thought 'seven thousand, eight hundred and forty-six.'
Here are the two things that will happen. First, you will die peacefully in your sleep. Eight seconds later, the entire universe will utterly and permanently cease to exist. Tomorrow's Powerball numbers are 1, 14, 28, 29, 44, 5."
I fell to my knees on the bathroom floor, ears ringing with the sheer amplitude of the voice. When I could stand again, I stumbled downstairs to the bodega. The answer to the obvious question, I supposed, would be written on my lottery ticket.
It was. I spent the next day sobbing on the floor and the following twenty-six years as an orgiastic going-away fete for the planet Earth. Fast cars, research chemicals. A trip to Thailand, in one of my soberer periods, to have my tubes tied. By daylight, my gently caress-it-let's-drink fatalism paired nicely with a Nolet's and tonic. At night I would wake from a sticky hungover sleep, gasping, screaming the fear of eternity into my eiderdown pillow.
At year twenty-seven I discovered Alcoholics Anonymous, which returned a prickling awareness to my long-numbed soul. My sponsor was a tolerant hippie, willing to accept my apocalyptic obsession as just your reality, love, who am I to tell you what you've experienced?
"How are you feeling today, love?" she asked, sipping an organic decaf.
"I'm afraid," I said, "because the world is going to end."
"And why does that frighten you so?" she said. "You'll be long dead beforehand, love, so you should just try to lead a good life while you can, shouldn't you?"
She didn't know how right she was.
"I want to leave a legacy. Otherwise, why bother to live?"
We'd long since worn smooth the edges of this conversation. But Sandra, bless her, finally said something that I hadn't considered. "Why not," she asked, "stop wanting that? Then you wouldn't have to suffer."
Unfortunately, twenty-six years of debauchery had left my senses keyed to desire. So, you'll laugh, but I started by not wanting an ice cream sandwich.
It was a boiling summer day, and - sitting on my cool granite countertop, sipping a soft cider - the craving bubbled up. I tried to change my mind. Easier said than done, without resorting to excuses or forgetting. But after an hour, desire, exhausted from being tamped down and ignored, admitted defeat.
From there I moved on to more complicated wants. I'd white-knuckled it through AA, but cravings still plagued me. For days, I tried to not want a drink. And one morning in the shower, I suddenly realized that I didn't feel like a gin and tonic.
Once I got the hang of it, I could shed desires like leaves from an autumn tree. I no longer wanted new shoes, homemade mac and cheese, a Christmas tree, biological children, or world peace. With a dozen years of patient practice, I rid myself of the last of my desires. After a week spent pacing and taking hour-long showers, I ceased wanting to leave a mark on the world.
On October 4, 2068, I finished the daily crossword by flashlight. I crawled into my tent, feeling my senses grow dull with exhaustion. "Goodnight, planet Earth," I said. "I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you." I had decided long ago that when the time came, I wouldn't try to force myself to stay awake. As I drifted off, I thought of absolutely nothing.
I woke to the lowing of cows and a dazzling sunrise. "Please listen carefully," boomed the voice. "Something very interesting -"
"Oh, gently caress off," I said. I buried my face in my travel pillow, and enjoyed my first untroubled sleep in half a century.
God Over Djinn fucked around with this message at 22:40 on Dec 27, 2013
|# ? Dec 27, 2013 22:35|
In for terrible caveman story time.
|# ? Dec 27, 2013 22:57|
BrawlJudgement: God Over Djinn vs No Longer Flaky
Who will win? The answer may surprise you!
To start off with, you both went over the word limit. gently caress the two of you. For a start, you each missed scoring easy points over the other, which is just dumb, because I notice that kind of thing and you both need every advantage you can get. Wordcounts aren't given for the good of our health - they're a reflection of the Real World, and if you can't contain your Deathless Prose within the prescribed limits, you'll go from slush pile to round file faster than I forget to leave the toilet seat down after being told for what must be the billionth time.
The prompt was - 600 words on an underdog against an impossibly superior foe. Give me the feels.
Interestingly, you both used alcohol independently as a (though not always 'the') foe to be fought, though your takes on it were quite different
No Longer Flaky - I liked your take on the subject matter. Addict vs Addiction. I didn't like the choices you made in how you portrayed that quite so much, but you took a real-life problem and portrayed it with a degree of excuse-laden honesty that came through. The 'feels' requirement was adequately met by bringing us into the protagonists thought process, but there wasn't much else besides some tedious slice-of-retail-life. The mundanity of addiction is a true thing, but not necessarily the best choice of representation within flash fiction. Something still needs to happen, you can't rely on the juxtaposition of boring external vs informative internal without bringing in some kind of counterpoint to make it work.
God Over Djinn - I was less impressed with your version of an impossibly superior foe, which seemed to be a hallucinatory prophecy (albeit with some confirming back-up in a completely unrelated area) that ended up being wrong anyway. Your lottery winning underdog (I assume that's how she afforded 26 years of pissing it up) seemed more like a convenient collection of responses that allowed the story you were actually wanting to tell. I didn't get a sense of the character's pain - at one point they're sobbing - but why? because they won the lottery? Because the world is about to end at some point over almost 30 years away (when is the story set?) ? I can't tell, because you've spent too many words in a therapy session.
In many ways, the problems each story faced were inversions of the other. No Longer Flaky was anchored in real life but too focussed on the internal dialogue, meaning the only narrative arc was delivered through essentially a monologue. The specifics of the monologue trod dangerously close to cliché, but in the end there was a consistent enough voice to the character that they came across as believable. More problematic was the lack of action. Everything we know about the character, you have told us directly through them - we never see them respond to anything other than someone buying booze, which, though probably an everyday occurrence in that kind of shop, doesn't really enthrall. But by then end, we know enough about the character, through the anvil of internal monologue, to recognise their slide downward, and perhaps feel empathy.
God over Djinn, on the other hand, had a story that spanned decades, but the justification for it was weak, and seemed more interested in exploring some interesting ideas (like nibbana through choice - mentioned in the title, but not really followed through with) than in coming to terms with the task as set. It bounced around in time and space and possibly reality in an episodic fashion - the sheer number of different sections was impressive for under 700 words , but never really coalesced into a portrayal of a character I related to. That's not to say that the ideas weren't interesting - this kind of thing (SFNal buddhism) is right up my alley, but it's a fertile topic and felt a bit hemmed in here by prompt-service. The end, in turn, seemed glib and airquote cool.
On the whole - I consider God Over Djinn's to be the better written of the two. There's a lot happening that is conveyed through few words. And That's not to say that it couldn't have easily been brought in under the word limit - some of the detail could have been spared in favour of character building, nor that the number of episodes included worked in the piece's favour. But No Longer Flaky, though needing to spend more time on structure and development, actually had a 'moment' - the point at which good intentions started hellward, even if it could have been expressed better.
Let me be clear, though. Neither was great. Close enough that I got a second opinion and the response was (though with the same ranking as I had), 'nah' and 'nah slightly less'. It's pretty balanced, pretty close, but for diametrically opposed reasons. If either one of these suckers had come in under the word limit I probably would have handed it to them, but neither did so let that be a lesson to y'all. In the end, I'm handing the victory to No Longer Flaky on the basis of prompt-following and character expression.
Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 04:14 on Dec 28, 2013
|# ? Dec 28, 2013 04:10|
Nobody's said "submissions closed" yet, so I'm in.
|# ? Dec 28, 2013 06:03|
Oh yeah, I can do that I guess.
|# ? Dec 28, 2013 06:04|
Nobody's said "submissions closed" yet, so I'm in.
I will judge. 650 words on this quote: "There is no human quality more attractive than the courage of the weak". Do not make it either maudlin or cheesy. Due next Tues, 23 Dec, 11.59 PST.
Radioactive Bears. Bitchtits McGee. You owe me a brawl.
|# ? Dec 28, 2013 21:14|
And so do Mercedes and Lepeper Colon.
500 words, on this Gene Wolfe quote: "our greatest sin is that we are only capable of being what we are". Due next Sunday 4 Jan or w/e, midnight PST.
LCV NOTE: This should be a good story and not bullshit
|# ? Dec 28, 2013 22:15|
It turns out there's no hard-and-fast definition for science fiction, so I went with this one:
Isaac Asimov, 1975 posted:
Science fiction can be defined as that branch of literature which deals with the reaction of human beings to changes in science and technology.
The Spinning Blade of Doom
Fela was the most beautiful girl in the tribe. It was only fitting that Bok, the brave, would court her. While Bok was out in the field searching for flowers, the Strange Thing fell from a maelstrom in the sky.
It was a big square rock with four wheels and the shapes “LAWNCO SUPERMOWER” painted on. It had two long branches pointing up diagonally, and a third branch strung between them at the top. These branches were not wood but lustrous beetleshell. Halfway up the righthand branch was a lump, and on it were painted three pictures: a red mountain, a turtle, and a rabbit. The rabbit was at the bottom of the mountain, and the turtle at the top. A black stone sat alongside the mountain, and could be moved up and down to meet the turtle, or the rabbit.
“The rabbit,” reasoned Bok, who was somewhat of a philosopher, “must make the big rock go fast but squishy. The turtle must make the big rock go strong but slow.”
Not wanting to squish his new prize, Bok put the stone onto turtle and wheeled the device back to his tribe.
All were impressed by the big rock, except Nuggtugg the Shaman. He waved his god-thing-stick and said “such rocks have I seen before. They mean doom upon us! It is not our place to toy with such matters,” but he was ignored, because he said that about everything. Narry a day passed that Nuggtugg did not declare a stick, flower, or passing cloud the imminent doom of his tribe.
Fela was most impressed off all, and gave Bok a kiss for being so intelligent and brave. “What does the red stone do?” she asked. Red stone? None had noticed it, but now the men of the tribe began to poke it, until Bok gave the stone a great pull and it came away from the rest of the Strange Thing, attached to it by a length of dark vine. The Strange Thing roared like a sabercat! All the men jumped back except Bok, who was as fearless as his reputation spoke. Bok moved the stone to rabbit, and the roaring became high and annoying, like Oeenag, wife of Nuggtugg. He pushed the Strange Thing swiftly forward and all were awed as it devoured the grass and flowers beneath it.
“Less a turtlerabbit,” said Flan, the fool, “than a noisy cow!”
“Much like Oeenag, wife of Nuggtugg!” said Bok, to great amusement. It was then that Bok noticed a trail of blue flowers that the Strange Thing left behind it. Such a prize he needed to have for his lady. He reached down to grab them, then screamed! His hand was drawn into the whirring maw of the Strange Thing, and gobbled up! Blood fell on Fela and she fainted away, her lust vanishing like skyfire.
Nuggtugg grinned and proclaimed “thus, the punishment for playing God!”
He always did that.
[500 words exactly]
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 03:10|
I wouldn't dream of anything else.
LCV NOTE: This should be a good story and not bullshit
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 11:10|
I wouldn't dream of anything else.
stop saying things
edit: I had to come up with the phrase "Sonic-the-Hedgehog-esque Cool-Dude-isms" to encompass the awkwardness I feel on behalf of your bantering in this thread
put up or shut up, is the general rule here.
Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 16:19 on Dec 29, 2013
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 16:10|
Posts by LCV: 22
Thunderdome stories by LCV: 0
Posts by Oxxidation: 16
Thunderdome stories by Oxxidation: 3 (won 2)
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 17:11|
This might be too historically accurate to qualify as science-fiction tropes. It's a good thing I'm bad at doing research.
Master of Nature (436 words)
“Submit, and I will allow your archers to join mine, Petro.” Ivan said. He crossed his arms.
“You think you can bluff me? My bows number in the hundreds, and I know you have barely a dozen.” Petro looked back at his army, like he needed to ensure they were still there. The dozens of bodyguards that clung to him like a shadow stood at attention. One command, and they would stick Ivan like an elk. “Go ahead and raise ten thousand spears. My arrows will always win.”
“Always stuck in the past.” Ivan's grin possessed enough force to make Petro stumble back a few steps. “You have arrows, but I have thunder.”
Not allowing Petro a moment to retort, Ivan stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The low rumble of thunder filled the plains, quickly drowning the echoes of his signal. Petro and his men all crouched and looked to the sky. Not a cloud in sight; the weather was as clear as Petro's cowardice.
“He's lying!” The vibrations in the ground must have been stronger than Ivan realized, the way they reverberated all the way up to Petro's voice. “It's all a trick, no man can control the skies!” Less than a minute had lapsed when Petro and his bodyguards found their spines, but it was too late. All of them turned white as bone when they witnessed the incoming thunder on the horizon. Some fumbled to draw an arrow while others discarded their weapons and ran. Petro was the only one to curl into a ball on the ground. Petro's archers were already broken, but Ivan's cavalry smashed them to dust.
Grass bowed before the incoming breeze. Hooves trampled some men while charging spears impaled others. Most ran away, unwilling to face the terror of a man atop a horse. Screams of violence, pain, and bloodshed melted together into one vocal massacre. Broken bodies littered the steppes, dyeing the green with red. As quickly as the horses had stampeded in, it was over. Just enough time for Ivan to have one hearty laugh.
“What do you think?” Ivan said as he grabbed Petro by the neck and lifted him off his feet. Ivan's soldiers trotted around, forming a rank behind their leader. Petro choked, and it was not from the force of Ivan's hands. “You may have mastered arrows, but I have mastered nature.”
“I submit.” Even with only his toes barely touching the ground, the tremors were still in Petro's voice.
“You submit, chief.”
“I submit, Chief Ivan.”
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 18:01|
My first red-text avatar!
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 19:10|
The Gods Must Be Lonely (471 words)
“Die for us! Die for us! Die for us!” The crowd’s bloodthirsty chant echoed Urga’s pounding heartbeat as she swung her club high overhead and brought it down with a sickening crunch. Stone met flesh and bone and brain, prevailing over them all with a splatter. Those closest to the stone bars screamed their ecstasy as they tasted blood on their tongues.
Without his head, the human with the silver hide twitched uncontrollably, like a chicken.
Urga lifted her muscular arms above her head in a victory fist, basking in praise before taking the stone stairs back down to her quarters. Here she lived, in the cave darkness beneath the temple, waiting day and night for the portal to open and combat to be joined.
The gods were cruel, Urga reflected as she took a swig of kumis, the fermented horse’s milk that always made her feel better. Why did they send such pathetic magicians to test her. Talltree’s mark had been engraved in stone for three years by her age. Even Dogbreath--failure that he was--was eventually granted an end by a worthy foe.
But not her.
The portal gave her nothing but weaklings. The slow, the old, the sickly, the iron eyed. Sometimes they came already dead or dying. The heavens must be near empty if these cowards were all that was left to send.
The room suddenly began to shake with the beat of a thousand stomping feet. The gods required her again. Once, Urga’s palms had sweated in anticipation at the sound. Today, she wearily slung her club back over her shoulder and headed up.
There were two of them, a mother and a son dressed alike in silver leather. Urga kicked their club over to them, but the woman only wept, clutching her son and babbling in gibberish. Urga pointed to club, gesturing that the woman should pick it up and fight. Instead she increased both her weeping and babbling tenfold.
Urga made it quick. As always, the crowd was unquenchable. They cheered her all the way back to the stairs.
Someday this would end, Urga told herself as she descended the all too familiar passageway, but her hope was as hollow as her heart. How many more times must she wear a path into these stone steps. A hundred? A thousand?
No. Urga clenched her mighty fist. If the gods insisted on sending sour gifts, she would not sit by and let them mock her. Always the portal had sent things, but perhaps it was time it took something back. If the gods were insulted, she would placate them. If they were in trouble, she would help them. And if, like their gifts, they were weak, perhaps it was time for new, better gods.
Urga smiled at that thought. Heaven certainly wouldn’t be expecting her visit.
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 19:12|
I have literally nothing to lose any more, so even as terrible as this is, I might as well post it. Here, have my putrid wordvomit.
The Sharp Rock (265 words)
Dedicated to crabrock
Colv was not a very bright caveman. Oh, he thought he was, as the dim often do, but he most certainly was not. One day, while Colv was chewing on his favorite chewing rock, he felt a sharp pain in his mouth.
Immediately, he spit out his chewing rock onto the ground, and saw that his chewing rock was now several rocks. These rocks had a different shape than his old chewing rock, but Colv, again not very bright, didn't think much of it. He now had new chewing rocks, why did it matter?
It mattered quite a bit, apparently, as the pain came back, and Colv had to spit the new chewing rocks out again. He did this a few more times over, and eventually, he began to recognize that one of the rocks in particular was the cause of the pain. A part of it stuck out from the rest, thin and narrow, like a stinger.
Colv recognized stingers. They stabbed him when he tried to borrow honey from the bees, even when he promised he'd give it back later. And also that one time he tried to eat a scorpion. And that other time. But this rock was neither a bee nor a scorpion. So it couldn't be stinging him, clearly.
Just to prove it, Colv stuck the rock in his mouth, and bit down hard. The rock, crushed in his jaws, broke in two, and the stinger-end of it went down his throat, lodged there, and choked him to death.
In the end, the rock, like this story, had no point.
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 19:47|
Do not bring this weak rear end poo poo to our brawl. If you're not even going to try, just save us both the effort and drop out now.
edit: I'm serious. Do not waste my time Leper.
furious second edit: What is so difficult to understand that you have a full week to work on this poo poo?!
Mercedes fucked around with this message at 20:53 on Dec 29, 2013
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 20:18|
Do not bring this weak rear end poo poo to our brawl. If you're not even going to try, just save us both the effort and drop out now.
A Call Home (484 words)
Rick swallowed hard, and leaned heavily against the payphone, using it both for support and to hide from the growing storm. He'd drank whiskey on an empty stomach again, and the bile in his gut flared up from time to time, threatening to force its way back up. Each time, he pushed it back down, and continued to fumble with the change in his numb hands. Twenty-five cents. Fifty. Seventy-five. Entire paychecks had disappeared in a bar without a thought, but he clutched to those quarters for dear life as he pushed them into the slot. Funny, that.
Finally, it was in, and the ringtone prompted Rick to reach out, to make this all right again. He could fix it, he knew he could. It was just a bit of drinking, just a few words. "Nothing that can't be fixed," He whispered to himself as he began to punch the numbers. To the house phone, the old answering machine. She could just ignore the call if it was on the cell, but the machine, she'd have to listen to that, have to hear him out. More than anything, he needed her to hear him out.
One ring. Two. Already, Rick could picture her standing in front of the phone, staring down at it. Three rings. No one but Rick and telemarketers called the landline. And even they had Christmas off. Four. With a whirr and a click, the call transferred over to the ancient machine, spinning the tape to record what Rick said. He paused, both to gather his thoughts, and to suppress another wave of bile. When he finally spoke, his words were more slurred than he'd realized, and he had to try and correct them as he went. "Sarah, it's Ri- Dad. It's Dad. I know you're- you're mad at me for what I said."
What followed was a blur for Rick. Apologies, promises, admissions, things he'd said a thousand times before, and things he'd only thought of saying. Many of them weren't pretty. After what must have been several minutes, the words stopped coming. He'd said everything he could think to say, everything that came automatically. Normally, she'd answered by now. Or at least picked up and then hung up again. This was the first time she'd ever ignored his call- ignored him, and it left him at a loss. He had no words left, and for a moment, he couldn't do anything but stare blankly forward, barely able to process what was happening.
It was the fifteen-second warning beep of the payphone that got his thoughts moving again. "Sarah, I didn't mean what I said about you and Sam. I'd- I'd just had a bit too much to drink and... Sarah, I am your father! Pick up the goddamn pho-"
The line clicked and went silent, leaving Rick with only dead air and the cold wind to keep him company.
"Our greatest sin is that we are only capable of being what we are." - Gene Wolfe
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 20:50|
I think this is probably garbage.
Timê (466 words)
The sun was gone. A dead light filtered from beyond the crest of the hill, and Dolon saw glimmers of rising embers. Around him the grass was thick and lush, and the hums of bees and songs of birds clashed with the rumbles and cracks from over the ridge. He gripped his spear tighter.
It shouldn't have been like this. That was why they'd sent him. The Priestess of Rhea had fallen ill a week ago, and would only wake up to scream and shudder. She'd been lucid just long enough to describe the desolation.
He scrabbled up a steep slope and was panting when he reached the crest of the hill. The wastes extended to the horizon. Where once had stood a brave forest, there were now only blackened stumps. In the remains of a glade stood the altar of Rhea, blackened by the fires that had razed the woods. The ground was grey with sandy ash, which drifted through the cool air like dead smoke. A gentle breeze threw a handful of ash into his face. He choked on it and blinked back the tears.
For a moment Dolon was paralysed. Then he scrambled down toward the altar. As he entered the ring of trees, he heard a crunch like someone treading on a twig. He turned toward the sound, but there was nothing there.
The altar was split. A long scar ran across it and extended down deep into the earth. The stench of decay mingled with the smell of burnt embers. He gazed at the crack and tried to blink back the tears. Then he saw it. From underneath the altar oozed a black substance. It gleamed, and seemed to crawl away from his stare. He bent down and dipped one finger in it.
The pain was unbearable. It was everywhere, burning in his flesh, paining his spirit. For a moment he understood how the Priestess felt. He fell, gasping, onto the ashen earth – just as he heard another crunch. This time he couldn't move.
He was hoisted into the air. A strong arm yanked him around, and he stared into a face that was not a face. Its flesh glinted like polished stone. Two great wings protruded on either side of its bearded jaw and left only narrow slits for its eyes, which glowed with pale blue fire.
He slammed his foot against its chest and grunted with pain as a loud clang rang out. The creature laughed; it almost sounded like a man.
“τιμή,” it said, then lifted him above its head with one arm.
“τιμή,” it repeated, as it raised its other arm. A bulge protruded from its wrist, and inside a small cavity glowed that same blue light.
Then the fire came and Dolon thought no more.
Purple Prince fucked around with this message at 01:14 on Dec 30, 2013
|# ? Dec 29, 2013 23:51|
Here Set Big Precedent (398 words)
When Brother Ag showed up with a Bright Hot on the end of a branch I knew he had another idea. Big Man did not like it.
“Again? I said no more time on this.”
“You said that when I shaped rock,” said Ag. “Last moon you hit Brother Naah with one on stick.”
I snorted and patted the wound. “Was sharp, can confirm.”
Big Man glared at me and spat. “Is different.”
“No, not different. Is all Progress. Progress bring well more Progress. This established precept. Here is another Progress.” He waved the branch, and the heat drove me a step back. “Made last night. This clone of original, rain is bad for Bright Hots. Working on that, maybe make covering...“
He babbled on. Nobody understood Brother Ag when he spoke with Progress. Whilst he made his noises others arrived, standing with us at the forest edge. When the last arrived, the sun came up: Brother Ag kept on until Big Man cut him off.
“Why you call clan meet here, Mad Ag?”
“Is best place for it.” Ag pointed into the forest. “Here will come results of initial field testing. Hope you brought sharp rocks!”
It started as a low rumble behind the trees. As it grew louder the smell of the Bright Hot got stronger too, filling my nose with the sharp heat. Soon the noise was a cacophony, animal calls all mixed together into a great ululation. They came onto us all at once.
He let the smaller ones pass. They were too fast for us anyway. It was when the big beasts came tearing out, eyes wide with terror, that Ag struck. With his sharp rock stick he brought down the first one in front of all. “Success!” he roared. “All elements within expected parameters!” His strange cry drove us on.
It was a short hunt. We made a great many kills that morning, enough to feed the clan for some time. When we were finished, panting and slicked with blood, sweating from the heat, Big Man walked up to Brother Ag and knelt before him in the old way.
“You are winner, Brother Ag. Your Progress is strong. Go pick up your Bright Hots, winner Big Man, and lead us home in glory.”
Mad Ag looked at us and shrugged. “No up picking. Is not a portable sort of Progress.”
Obliterati fucked around with this message at 00:14 on Dec 30, 2013
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 00:01|
Grug's Harvest 498 words
Grug woke up from his slumber to the dying ululations of the hunters as they left for the day. Time to go wake up Lank, his scavenging partner. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon and its bright rays shocked Grugs eyes. Grug entered the flap to Lank’s hut and kicked him awake.
“Whaaat? What?” Lank said, startled and annoyed.
“Come on Lank, it’s time to get going.” Grug said.
“All right, all right, fine. I’m getting up. Hey I had an idea of where we could go today. My wife told me about a place where she found the best berries and some great roots.” Lank said.
“Sure, Lank, as long as we get what we need, I don’t care where we go.”
They set off from the village, Lank leading the way. They were heading eastward, Grug had been this way a few times. Lank led him through the forest, over streams, up and down hills. Lank seemed sure in the way he was going, as if he was following a path he had traveled before. They came to a large clearing, trees surrounding a group of blackberry bushes with the biggest berries Grug had ever seen.
“Wow, a nice find. How’d that wife of yours come across this?” Grug asked and he began harvesting the berries, putting them in a large leather sack.
Lank, on the other side of the bushes, said “I don’t know, she just mentioned it last night when we were watching Real Cavewives of the Chieftains,” Lank said.
“I hate that drat show.” Grug replied. “Can you believe how stuck up those women are? I could never be with one of them. Add on top of that the chiefs duties, I’d jump off the big cliff.”
“Yeah if my Grinda acted like that, I’d beat her up and down the hut. I don’t ge-” Lank stopped. His eyes wide his mouth trembling as if words were trying to force their way out and dying on his lips.
“What, what is it?” Grug asked.
“A- a- a- tiger. TIGER!!” Lank yelled.
Grug slowly turned around. A feeling of dread overcame him. There it was, ten feet away, its dark eyes flashing menacingly in the shadow of the trees. It growled at him, then pounced. He turned and began to run. The tiger only feet behind him. Grug screamed, he knew it was all over, he knew he was dead. He tripped over a root then he was down. He scrambled backwards. He couldn’t see the tiger anymore, he was sure it was going to pop out of the trees and rip his throat out.
Suddenly, a man with a microphone walked out from behind him, “Hello Grug! You’re on Candid Camera! Your friend Lank set you up, we had cameras set up all over, and that tiger, was actually a trained tiger.”
“What? No- but- well.” Grug blushed. “Are you serious? Wow, you guys really had me going there!”
No Longer Flaky fucked around with this message at 01:53 on Dec 30, 2013
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 00:36|
The Old Ways are the Best Ways
Tenfingers had died when he touched the skybeetle. He hadn’t died immediately like people thought he would yet he had died all the same. It took ten days but when he went flying off that cliff everyone knew it was because of the skybeetle. Of course, Tenfingers had been sleeping with Leaper’s woman and Leaper had thrown Tenfingers… But gently caress Tenfingers. He was always doing stupid things like flying off of cliffs or touching skybeetles.
Crooknose thought it was tremendously unfair that he was still going to be sacrificed given that Tenfingers had just died at the sacred cliffs. It wasn’t the same, the shamans had insisted. Crooknose didn’t see the different. In fact, this whole “sacrificial victim” thing had always seemed a bit off to him. A bit suspicious, if you will. Especially since the only people who got sacrificed were those that pissed off the shamans.
“I think we should investigate the skybeetle,” he had said.
“Sacrifice Crooknose!” the shamans had cried.
Again, very suspicious.
Crooknose peered down the cliffs. The jagged rocks at the bottom were littered with the corpses of previous sacrifices. The fall was usually far enough to kill you but sometimes you landed the wrong way and it took you a couple of days to die.
“Will you jump, O Sacrifice?” asked the head shaman, “Or must you be assisted?
“I’ll jump,” Crooknose said.
But Crooknose didn’t jump. When his feet were unbound he kicked the head shaman in the testicles and took off running. Crooknose wasn’t the best hunter. He wasn’t the best fisher. Or the best trapper. Or even the best lover. But drat he could run.
He ran through the surprised men and women who had gathered together to watch him die. He outran the spears and stones of the warriors who chased him. He ran past Tenfinger’s hut and Leaper’s hut and his own hut. His lungs burned and his legs trembled and he ran and he ran and he ran.
Crooknose collapsed in front of the skybeetle. He wasn’t sure why he had come there other than some small hunch that maybe his tribe would be too scared to chase after him. A spear flew over his head and thudded against the shiny shell of the skybeetle.
Crooknose pressed his hands against the giant carapace and sighed. Another spear thudded against the carapace.
Suddenly, the skybeetle hissed and there was a great calamity. Red light danced everywhere and a terrifying “BEEP BEEP BEEP” echoed through the hills. Crooknose looked up and saw an angry eye protruding from the top of the skybeetle. It pointed in the direction of the incoming warriors and then, with a whoosh and a blast of light, the warriors were no more.
Seeing the sudden collection of barebones, Crooknose felt tremendously stupid for doubting the wisdom of the shamans.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 02:58|
The Ethical Caveman
BluntSpear thrust his NameWeapon at the shining man, striking yet making no mark. He stabbed again, using all his strength as he did against thick-skinned GreatCows or unworthy ShortWalkers, but the blunt point slipped without touching the glowing skin, sliding off like muddy feet in a RainHunt. His own deflected force twisted BluntSpear’s wrist, and he dropped his spear in surprise and pain. He crouched low, protecting his arm, and backed towards the surrounding undergrowth.
The shining man spoke. At first its voice grated like stone against stone, like weaklings sharpening weapons, but it changed, becoming more pleasing until it sounded like the other TallWalkers of BluntSpear’s tribe.
“[...we got language brainscan assimilated yet, Control? Right. Shield still on? Nice. Ok - first contact speech. Ahem.] Greetings. I come in peace. I mean you no harm.”
The shining man performed the open-palm gesture of welcome. BluntSpear did not reciprocate, but took the opportunity to grab his fallen NameWeapon with his unhurt hand and point it awkwardly at his adversary.
“I am FirstTalker of the, uh, LongTraveller tribe,” said the shining man. “I have journeyed far to reach you. We have searched the vast emptiness to find our brothers in the [dammit, no universe concept]…lands of the TallWalkers, but you are the first we have discovered. We are honoured to meet other, uh, men of speech and wisdom.”
BluntSpear grunted. He approached, sniffing from spear-length. The newcomer had no battle scars on its body and its scent was scarcely noticeable; signs of unworthiness.
“I could help you,” said the shining man. “Teach you to sharpen your spear, become a better warrior.”
Bluntspear spat. “Sharp spears for weak. You weak. No weapon, no scars, not even fight. Stand upright, but do not TallWalk. ShortWalker disgust Bluntspear.”
“[Show of strength, Control? Seems necessary] I did not wish my weaponry to frighten you, but I see you are truly a warrior. I have weapons. Observe.”
The shining man pointed at a nearby tree. There was a soft hissing and the whiff of burnt vegetation as every single branch of the tree exploded in blue flame. BluntSpear shielded his eyes from the sudden heat. Within seconds, the tree had disintegrated and its ash disappeared on the wind.
“LongFlame!” said Bluntspear. “It true! OldOnes tell ShortWalkers arrive again with LongFlame.”
“Again? The elders of your tribe have met LongTravellers before? [Holy crap, Control - do you know what this means?]
Bluntspear pulled out a metallic box from the GreatCow-skin pouch around his waist. He opened it gingerly with his sprained wrist, and pushed the red button inside.
“OldOnes not our tribe,” said BluntSpear. “Protect Land of TallWalkers. Keep safe from LongFlame ShortWalker. Burn SkyNests! Burn HomeNests!” He looked through the new gap in the trees, saw the arc of energy across the sky, saw the distant flashes. “OldOnes say all ShortWalkers unworthy. Say ethical thing to do.”
[What you think he means by that, Control? Control? Control?]
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 04:37|
I'm going to go watch an episode of TV, and then when I come back submissions are closed and I'm gonna judge the poo poo out of these stories.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 04:46|
Saving Utopia (Words: 492)
Monsters who were once brothers surrounded the village. They looked more like worms than men with skin stretched taut against hollow bellies and juts of bone. They cried and clamored like nothing I had ever heard before. Clad in mud and thorns they waited. Their skin was filthy, ashen like the remains of the bad plants that we had scoured from our world with fire.
Our line held firm. Our people, strong and full-bellied, would protect our village from any threat. The spears our people kept pointed at the wretches had points made of our sharpest stones. In the past, these stones had allowed us to hunt as never before. We had survived the long cold by tearing every animal we could find into meat and hide. They fed our strength, our dominance over nature. The spears would do no less against this threat. With the animals long gone, it was comforting to still have a use for them.
I steeled myself and broke out from our numbers. Hundreds of eyes focused on me with baleful stares as the wretches moved back.
“Leave!” I told them. “We have no food for your kind. There is no meat.”
A rough wizened one, barely taller than his malformed brethren rose from the mass of quivering creatures “There is no meat because you, our brothers, have taken it all.” He said, as he approached me.
“Then that’s your own fault for submitting. Submitting to nature.” I spat the words at him.
The crowd bristled but the wretch that spoke for them was unmoved. “We are all brethren, yet you have everything. Your people, they took all the meat. You took all the plants. Roots and all, you put them in your village and let no one else near. You broke with the old ways and set fire to the world. We forgive all of this but you must give us our share.”
“If you don’t have the strength to get it yourself, then you only get the scraps we leave behind. This is the only law.” I stamp my spear into the ground to the cheers of my people.
“We will starve without food, we have nothing.” The old wretch moved closer.
I placed my spear between us. “Enough!”
“Please!” He begged, reaching for me with upturned palms.
I skewered him with my spear and death followed. Our brave men charged against the monsters and they fled like the coward beasts of old. Our spears met their naked flesh and split them apart. The air became lush with the intoxicating scent of spilled blood.
Then it was over, and only we remained. Those who shunned the way of the future to live in the savage ways of old, clinging to caves ,and following the old migrations, had no place in our new civilized world.
I cut the meat from the old man’s pathetic hide. And found that it tasted just like any other beast.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 04:54|
The judges now skulk off to the judge cave where we will confer in secret. If you see white smoke coming from the judge cave, it means that we have accidentally set something on fire. Send help.
crabrock fucked around with this message at 08:04 on Dec 30, 2013
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 05:36|
You scared me for a sec crabrock
Garden of Ego
The greatest experiment of El and Adonai's careers was coming to a close. Beneath the transparent flexfield dome, eons had passed in Eden. The massive outpost had grown verdant and green with flora well-suited to the weak light of the planet's pale yellow sun.
There was a village deep in the garden. El knew the way by heart, and cursed under his breath as he crashed through his paradise. He had to confirm what he'd seen on the control room monitors with his own eyes.
That confirmation came as soon as he reached the edge of the forest. At the center of the small cluster of huts was Adonai, who was smiling beatifically over a crowd of kneeling subjects.
"You didn't," El cried.
"They needed guidance."
The supplicants stirred. Some of them sat up and turned toward El, and he was struck by how his creations had changed while he'd slept. Their faces were crude mirrors of his own, all wide-set features and heavy brows, where his features were soft and cherubic. But there was intelligence there. The innocence that he had carefully selected for over generations was gone from their eyes, however. In its place was fear, fear and obedience.
"Why didn't Eden bring us out of Cryo at the same time?"
"You would've stopped me if I'd let you wake. Botched the whole thing," said Adonai. He laid a hand on the head of one subject, who trembled under his touch.
"You've clothed them!"
"They were rutting indiscriminately. It was a distraction."
"For who? You? Or them?"
"We did not come here to seed a world with a horde of over-sexed primitives. They need to thrive, to progress if they're to survive outside of Eden. I simply gave them a set of directives to--"
El dematerialized, reappeared an arm's length from Adonai, and then they were on the ground, air crackling around them as their personal nanofields registered multiple blows and attempted to push the pair apart. But El was a man who'd watched a work that had spanned nearly the lifetime of a planet arrive at its conclusion stillborn. There wasn't a force in the universe that could keep him off of Adonai.
They had forgotten their audience. Their subjects, their children, shrieked and babbled in their low tongue, pounding their hands into their fists. This was a new thing in Eden, this clash between creatures who could disappear and reappear and made the air smell like a storm as they battled.
El wrestled for remote nanite control of Eden's flexfield barrier. If he couldn't save the experiment, he could contaminate it beyond repair. His mind half occupied with accessing the outpost's computer, El was too slow to dodge the blow that broke his jaw. He saw stars--but there, in T-minus twenty the shield would be down.
By some instinct, his children were already fleeing their fathers, to the edge of Eden and beyond.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 06:34|
Boz Ham-Knot settled back onto his favourite rock above the Useless Plants. The flaming Sky Boulder was rolling down the sky and the Hills of the Stone People were a stained a beautiful deep... hm. He frowned.
"Grarr Dan-Knug. What we call dat stuff." He gestured hillward with his hollow Ceremonial Pointing Stick.
"Hills, Boz. Dat hills," said Grarr happily.
Boz rolled his eyes and flicked the Ceremonial Pointing Stick up in a deft arc, clipping his nephew's prognathous jaw with the tip. "No, stupid Grar. What... uh... thing that makes things like other things but stay same. Like, uh, leaf like leaf."
Grarr rubbed his jaw and pondered the problem. "We could maybe call it... colour? Leafs is leaf colour just like other leafs is leaf colour?"
"'Colour'." Boz rolled the word round his mouth, tapping his hollow stick on the ground. "Yeah, dat work for me. So, what colour dat?"
"Maybe... maybe Sacred Holy Fire colour?" Grarr took a prudent step back.
"Grarr you Neanderthal numbnuts. Not same at all. Fetch me some of Sacred Holy Fire and I show your dumb rear end. Quick, before Sky Boulder disappear."
Boz watched through the stick's hole as Grarr scampered down through the swaying Useless Plants to the Sacred Holy Fire pit where they kept the magic beast that had fallen from the heavens many moon times ago. A few moments later he reemerged, shielding a flickering glow of Sacred Holy Fire in his hands.
Then halfway up the slope disaster struck. Grarr stumbled, fell, and the Sacred Holy Fire fell too. It skittered, rolling down through the Useless Plants, one of which promptly caught fire; it had been a long and hot summer. "loving stupid idiot fuckhead," said Boz evenly to himself, standing up. He strode down the path to where Grarr was flapping at the flaming vegetation, and pulled the plant out of the ground. "This colour nothing like hills, Grarr. Also, you dumb and useless. Also--" Boz sniffed. The smell was weird, intoxicating, delightful. The fading colour of the hills seemed suddenly richer, more meaningful. "Huh." The two cavemen looked at each other with pupils suddenly wide and black as the night sky.
Boz laid the plant in front of his favourite rock and, driven by a sudden impulse, pointed his Stick at the still smoking remnants and sucked in a great choking lungful, holding it as long as he could before exhaling it in a billowing curlicue of smoke. "Dat da good poo poo right dere." He passed the Ceremonial Pointing Stick over to Grarr. "These no Useless Plants, nephew. You have discovered that. You good nephew. From now on they... they called Danknug Plants. The Danknug Plants of the Stone People. Has good sound to it."
Grarr exhaled his own toke, then smiled, then laughed, at being so honoured.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 08:01|
SUBMISSIONS CLOSED again
Looks like our only failure this week is Bitchtits McFailure.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 08:04|
SUBMISSIONS CLOSED again
WHO BETTER BE STUMPIN' UP WITH A BRAWL PIECE SOON ALSO, SIMILARLY TO RADIOACTIVE FUCKIN FAILUREBEAR
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 08:19|
In the twilight of this thread, for us to go out in as classy a way as possible, I'm offering up a new poetry challenge:
Write a haiku about genitals. Not sex, just genitals. Bonus points for creative euphemisms.
No need to sign up, submissions close when the thread does. Per-person limit on entries is 3.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 10:12|
My balls are dangly -
my prick is too. My rear end
makes warm summer breeze.
Her mighty axe wound
was too well bearded for me.
Autumn for my schlong.
My nips are harder
than my weiner today. The
winter comes, alone.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 10:20|
Two balls and a bat
Without a catcher or mitt
I play sports alone
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 13:47|
gently caress you, I don't care if I'm late. I'm a judge and you are not so calmy go gently caress yourself.
There comes a time when a brawl is so murderous, so amazing, that the crowd loses their collective shits and they start to fight amongst themselves. It is glorious!
Fiat iustitia, et pereat mundus
There's hardly a worm in this! You failure of a human being, you anger me with your affront to my honor good sir. Also, your captain is a charlatan who does not know how to tell jokes.
No Longer Flaky
Very good! You came back and delivered the funny. If this was your original entry, you would have won flying colors, no contest etc etc. I like it so much, that I think it's one of the top submissions. Too bad it doesn't count. Idiot.
I love everything you did with this. Please don't ever change. You complete me as a person.
Call a Spade a Spade
I loved your 226 word joke. Unlike a previous un-named entry, this one was interesting throughout and lent towards the punchline. But apparently I heard that you might be racist towards black people, so you automatically got last place. Better luck next time.
Bringing back the OCK! OCKs! I liked how you had the backdrop in modern times and the worm is now a penis. Turgid in its turgidity. I bet it was hard to write.
|# ? Dec 30, 2013 20:51|
One million men ride
The rocking boat into the
Fjord of certain death
The pecker pecked and
pecked and pecked furiously
Then dizzy- threw up
A bro says of ho
Is this her drink? I spike with
Roofies- easy sex
No Longer Flaky fucked around with this message at 03:16 on Dec 31, 2013
|# ? Dec 31, 2013 03:11|
THUNDERDOME 73 RESULTS POST
Hello fellow technologically impaired brothers and sisters.
Before we get to our regularly scheduled programming, I want to take a second to shame one person above all this week.
This rear end in a top hat snuck in under the wire, when signups had already technically closed, and I allowed it because we hadn't explicitly said so. Then what does he do? HE DOESN'T SUBMIT ANYTHING. What a jerk. Furthermore, he was the only participant to NOT submit a story. The last time we had a perfect record was a YEAR ago. 1-1-2013 to be precise. So not only is he personally a piece of poo poo, but he's also a communal piece of poo poo. Way to go buddy! Good thing you were in IRC chatting it up instead of writing your god drat story.
Back to the main event. The judges have convened and done their judgerly duties.
I'll be glad to see 2013 go if these are the sort of stories that epitomize this year.
Our loser this week is No Longer Flaky. We're not really sure what you thought was going to happen when you submitted your story. Honestly. We were all in agreement that it was the second worst story of the week. But you get a shiny new avatar! Purple Prince, you shouldn't be smiling too much though, because you barely escaped this judgement. Enjoy the brown smear of poo poo next to your story, you dishonorable shmuck. Inthesto, you get a dishonorable mention for just totally eschewing the prompt and writing a story about...something. Who the gently caress knows.
Onto the brighter side of things, two stalwart heroes saw the poo poo being slung and stood shoulder to shoulder to bring the collective "unshittiness" of the dome up a few pegs. Honorable mention to Muffin and sebmojo for doing what they do almost every week: not suck.
This week's winner, for giving us a story about the uncultured interacting with spacemen and SMASHING THEIR loving FACES IN is Roguelike. We all had some issues with your story, but it's a story on-prompt, is not a 500 word long joke, and actually had an interesting protag that wasn't just "hurrr, cavemen are dumb."
Roguelike, it's now your responsibility to make a new prompt and to choose some experienced co-judges to guide you on your journey. However! You should wait for the new thread to post it. So get it all written up and sit on it.
The new thread is coming.............. until then: dick haikus.
Oh, and one more mention now that it comes to mind.
The ultraloser of the week is The Leper Colon V. When you write a story with no point, you don't even get the dignity of having your story judged in the same capacity as other writers who actually tried. Good thing you already have all the advice you need to the left of all your posts.
crabrock fucked around with this message at 03:58 on Dec 31, 2013
|# ? Dec 31, 2013 03:55|
|# ? Dec 4, 2021 00:32|
New thread is coming down the pipes. You will know it by the new thread that is in CC, mainly. Congrats Roguelike, please post the prompt in the new thread when it appears.
Good job on posting in this thread this year guys, I hope people also post things in next year's thread.
My New Years resolution is to keep owning the poo poo out of you fuckers and you can't stop me
|# ? Dec 31, 2013 04:11|