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Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


The Wendigo
Words: 1200

When the straw boss started loading the Celestial rail workers, what they called Sze Wa and other Chinese, she didn’t expect they would come for the non-wage earners too. One at a time they loaded the workers up, the straw boss, also Chinese, would mark their names off a list.

A man asked the straw boss what was going on.

“You’re done, no more work,” Hong Xiogang, the straw boss said.

“Are we being paid?” another asked. Hong nodded.

“Ye, yes, this ledger has all your wages,” he said. “You’re going to Johnston, you will be paid there.”

Sze Wa, and many others, did not believe him. About being paid. Sze Wa knew Johnston was less than a day away by traincar, she expected they would be abandoned there with no translator and no money. She never expected to be left halfway there, locked in the train car.

Sze Wa waited as the men broke their hands on the steel doors. Tear-streaked desperation set in only hours after the train had stopped. Sze Wa watched, she knew she would need her strength. Before they came for her at the camp, she knew to hide a razor in her clothes; desperation and sadism make men do anything, and she made sure she was always prepared.

As the nights passed she cut bits from the dead, chewing them slowly and silently. The loud ones were confronted, and bludgeoned to death in the blackness. The protectors would spend what little energy they had to keep the ravenous from disgracing the dead, but they too would die, and Sze Wa would eat them as well.

When the traincar doors opened wide, bright light filled the metal box. Sze Wa heard shouting, not in Chinese, or in English. She shielded her eyes with the bodies, peering through crooks of stuck limbs. Her ears filled with the intimate sounds of metal piercing flesh, and she saw them, men with faces white as bone.

The men, clad in black leathers, had the eyes of molten steel. Sze Wa knew them as gǎn shànggōu, the impalers, from ghost stories. They twirled meat hooks on chains in wide, slow circles. Only their eyes appeared from between the slits of their wide brimmed hats and bandanas. Sze Wa saw their eyes squint every time they lurched and swung a hook into the open train car.

Sometimes, when a hook would strike a live one, weak screams would follow as they dragged the bodies into a giant pit by the train car. One by one, the bodies were hooked and dragged out into the sun.

Next to the pit he stood, Hong, the strawboss, with his ledger, marking as a body was dragged out of the traincar, and after nodding, the body dragged into the pit, out of sight. And then the body Sze Wa was hiding under was hooked, and she grabbed onto the waist. She felt the tension increase as she struggled to hook her arm in a believable position.

Soon she was dragged out, twisted around the dead body, and slammed onto the cold ground. The landing knocked the wind out of her, and she struggled to stay still. She heard uncouth sounds, in a language she didn’t know, but she knew the ill intent of the guttural sounds of men. They laughed at their own coarseness. She heard two strike marks of pen on paper, and Hong must have nodded, as she was then dragged along the ground into the pit with the rest of the bodies.

When enough bodies were dumped on her that she felt she could open her eyes safely, the sun had left the sky, dipping below one of the dirt walls. The men, not even bothering to bury the dead, left, and she could hear Hong talk to them. A horse galloped off into the distance and night truly fell.

They sat around a fire, cooking meat, the salty aroma strangling Sze Wa’s stomach. She thought she would attack the one furthest from the fire, and run back into the darkness where she could hide. If they split up, she would kill them one by one, and if they grouped up, she would steal the horse with no rider. She would follow the train tracks to Johnston.

On all fours she crept, razor in her mouth, she licked the cold metal, feeling the sharpness of the blade, tasting the slight residue still left on it. Spit filled her mouth and she swallowed hard. She righted herself into a crouch and took the razor from her mouth and focused.

She pounced from the darkness, slashing at the man. She aimed for the neck, but the man was nimble, and she only caught shoulders and arms. He fell backwards, over a pack and Sze Wa jumped, she knew the other men with their hooks would soon be on her, that if she could just kill one she could make off into the darkness.

In her desperation she flung herself onto him and buried her mouth into his neck, tearing at his jugular. She recoiled, throwing herself backwards at the taste. She knew the taste, she had eaten nothing but it in these last days.

The man stood, and she felt them surrounding her. Laughter, coarse, guttural laughter surrounded her. She whipped in circles, slashing wildly, but the mass gave her distance. They pulled down their bandanas, revealing their gaunt, white faces, taught as dried venison.

She spied, next to the fire, the butchered remains of the Chinese workers. Limbs and shriveled organs lay in a messy pile; pots and skewers smashed into the pyre. They finally stopped laughing, and one of them went to the fire and plucked a skewered forearm.

It was presented to Sze Wa with a grin that looked like a sneer. Trying to keep herself withdrawn, Sze Wa gave in and lunged for the cooked meat, tearing it from the bone in wet, sloppy bites. The laughing started up again. Another man gave her a second skewer of flesh, and the group parted, leaving an exit. She took the other piece of meat, clutching it against her breast, the warmth relaxing her and she stumbled away. The laughter followed her even when she reached the train tracks, chasing her into the night as she ran.

In Johnston she stayed in the shadows of buildings and porches. Hong would stay in the nicer hotels, the likes of Sze Wa would never be allowed in. But she would know, holding the razor to the neck of a used Chinese prostitute, what room he was staying in.

She counted the windows, finding the one Hong was in. She scaled the wall, nails sinking into the hard wood, and threw herself over the balcony. Lanterns from inside illuminated the slits in the wood shutters, and she put an eye to window.

She waited, and waited, gripping the handle of her razor. It took several soft smacks from her wet lips parting and closing before she realized what she was doing. Saliva dripped from the back of her teeth, her stomach growled. She would eat well off the fatted calf.

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Accretionist
Nov 7, 2012



Title: May your wishes be granted.
Words: 786

“Hitler! One man who will to put an end to this comedy. Thirty two parties!? Thirty two parties,” the Beggar said to no one. “No wonder we can’t get anything done. Clean this whole mess up! Put Germany back on its feet! Harrumph,” he was shouting now.

The sun was rising. The aged Beggar pocketed some bills from his hideaway and donned a hat most suited to being upturned and used for collections. He crawled out from his hovel and forced himself to his feet underneath the bridge which he called home. With no small amount of effort, he began his march towards his favorite plaza.

The sounds of a city coming to life soon gave way to the sounds of a commotion. He could see a crowd where there’s usually a newsboy. He hurried along to see what all the fuss was about. As he drew nearer, he began to pick out varyingly concerned and enraged voices from the crowd but, most importantly, was the newsboy’s.

“Herr vom Rath, diplomat to the German Embassy in France, assassinated by a Jew! Read all about it!”

The Beggar approached a nearby police officer, “You have heard what has happened! The Jews have struck again! What are you going to do?”

“You can be assured that we do not intend to offer the Jews our protection today. Now move along! I don’t want to see you begging here.”

And move along he did. As he continued toward his favorite plaza, the scent of the city began to give way to the scent of burning timbers. He could see another unusual crowd now, as well, and this one in front of a fire station, blockading the engines.

He approached one of the men in the crowd and asked, “What is the meaning of this?”

“We have made a bonfire for the Jews! Surely this will make them aware that we will tolerate them no longer. I heard about the Jew’s murdering of our Diplomat in Paris last night. I could not sleep! I will not turn my back on the Fatherland. The message must be loud and clear! To protect the national health of Germany from this disease must be our highest goal. And so we will not permit these firemen to interfere!”

“Time someone finally cleaned things up,” the Beggar said.

Notions of panhandling gave way to curiosity. The Beggar set out toward the source of the now visible plume of smoke.

As he drew nearer, the sounds grew louder, all the better to hear their seething anger.

Rounding a corner, it came into a view: A burning synagogue.

“Ha! Finally, someone is cleaning up the city,” he said.

“What’s that?” A young and muscular Brownshirt approached.

“I see that you Brownshirts are men of action! A commendable effort!”

“What are you to commend me, outsider!”

“I am no outsider! I am a German, born and bred,” the Beggar exclaimed.

“Yet you are disheveled and crippled before your years. Surely as soon as I would turn my back you’d be begging for money with which to buy alcohol! The sicknesses of the common degenerate are well known,” the Brownshirt stated. He turned and raised his arms in the air, “Ho, gentlemen! A degenerate has to come unto us like moth to flame!”

“I’m no degenerate! Like the story of the German who found his way to Nationalist Socialism, ‘I shall stay with Hitler as long as I live!’ I-“ A fist caught the side of his jaw and in a seeming instant he was on the ground, dazed, trying to get up. He heard laughter and the sound of his femur snapping under a firm heel. He tried to scream but found no voice.

“loving, subhuman! Shut your mouth,” another Brownshirt bellowed as a number of them gathered around with a certain spring in their step and hatred in their eyes. The Beggar lifted his head from the cobblestones and saw a group of police officers standing idly by, watching.

“What a piteous sight! We should put him somewhere he will feel comfortable,” said one of the youths while gesturing to a nearby Jew home.

The Brownshirts picked him up and began carrying him toward the house.

“Think of it,” one Brownshirt said, “If he has sired any children, there may be hundreds of descendents who will be indigents and Beggars, criminals and murderers!”

The Beggar was heaved through an already broken window. He landed atop broken glass and writhed in agony.

“Someone needs to clean this whole mess up,” was the last thing the Beggar heard before flaming branches and boards landed around him. The scent of burning timbers and searing flesh the last thing he smelled.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Proclaim This.
696 Words.

Today, I'm going to die. I'm certain of it. Something happened to me today, like an omen of sorts. It's because of what I did when I was younger and she's come back for revenge.

It happened decades ago, before I took office in the House of Representatives, yet I have not forgotten. She never allowed me to forget. Her face was deformed, with broken bones and multiple wounds. I saw that she recognized me. She was a slave girl I knew when I was growing up. There was a brief hope that I would step in and put a stop to the men that were despoiling her. I saw it on her face.

“She was property.” they told me. That was the only justification I needed to commit my horrible act. I saw her hope drained from her face as I removed my coat.

She died that night.

As the years rolled by, I began to see her with more regularity. Her ghastly face, worn and lifeless, flickered over the faces of Negro women. I stopped, my heart would beat high in my throat as my panic immobilized me. She always disappeared as soon as I noticed her and left me confused and nervous.

It has been worse as of late. I see her more and more. No longer constrained to the faces of women, she is now constantly at the periphery of my vision. There are these whispers that only occurred when there is no one to voice them. I strained to understand, but the more I focused, the quieter they became. I wished it were the stresses of being this country's leader during a time of civil war, because the alternative was that I had truly gone mad.

This morning is the worst it has ever been. My meeting with General Grant had me in great distress. His voice came out of her mouth. I shut my eyes, yet behind my veil, she floated in the darkness.

Grant's hand on my shoulder startled me back into reality. “Are you feeling alright, Abraham?”

I almost yelled when I opened my eyes to the bottomless black pits that somehow stared at me. “It's nothing, really!” I said as I turned away.

As I was driven home, every person I saw carried the woman's grotesque visage. I groaned in misery and I shrank back into my seat. The whispers started again – a cacophony of sinister voices accosted my senses like nails across a chalkboard. I mashed my palms uselessly against my ears.

I don't know how much time passed, but the voices abruptly stopped. I heard my name being called out as if from a distance. When I opened my eyes, my wife's concerned face looked down at me. My body relaxed as my wife looked like my wife. “Mary...” I said, relieved.

I sat in our living room and sipped a cup of tea. My wife's presence somehow acted as a ward against the woman who haunted me. I did not know how, nor did I question it. I welcomed the temporary peace.

“Are you feeling up to watching the play tonight?” Mary asked. She brought her cup to her lips and blew on it.

I pursed my lips. She had been looking forward to this play for weeks now, yet something about this situation filled me with dread. I needed to keep her close to me. It's been hours since I've last seen the tell tale sight of my grizzly demon and it's all because she's been nearby. I forced a convincing smile. “Of course.”

The play itself was humorous. I didn't realize how much I needed this. I turned to my wife to say something and the ghastly visage was back. This didn't make sense! My head snapped back towards the play. All the actors looked like her. The whispers were back, louder than ever. I finally understood what they were saying. They said, “It's time for you to die.”

A loud shot rang out. I felt an overwhelming pain in the back of my head – icy tendrils snaking its way through my brain, and then a merciful nothing.

M. Propagandalf
Aug 9, 2008

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Red and Black
1192 words

The end of civilization smells pleasant. We have the Palace to thank for that – it’s been on fire for the last two days, filling the air with the aroma of its woods. Not quite frankincense, but fitting to the occasion: at least one hundred thousand of us have been slaughtered thus far. I will be added to the numbers.

***

On the twenty-second day of Muharram, the Tartars surrounded the city. I was in the House of Wisdom as the trebuchets pounded our city walls to dust. I stayed at my desk, translating the final thoughts of a Roman emperor. Around me, I overheard some of the others talking about escaping the city. I rebuked them:

“Right now, ‘the ink of the scholar is more holy than the blood of martyrs.’ Unless your inkwells are dry, there is no reason to die early. Now get back to your qalams!”

They ignored me, as they usually did. I knew many of them whispered behind my back that I was borderline kafir because of my love for books, regardless of origin. None of them had the courage to say it to my face though. Many had tried leaving before the caliph issued the surrender. The Tartars cut off their escape, then cut them to pieces.

***

The Tartars rode into the city on the seventh day of Safar. The first screams roused me from my desk. I hobbled over to top the arch balcony that overlooked the city. Our streets were being drenched in red. Women. Children. Elderly. Lame. No one was spared, save a few of the fairer women. I wish I could say theirs was a better fate.

Behind me, I heard the shuffle of sandals as Yusouf joined me by the balcony. Looking at the massacre, he shook his head.

“They are the scourge of God, sent to punish us for our sins.”

I turned to face him.

“Oh really?” I scoffed. I pointed to a scene at random: A Tartar dangled a screaming infant upside-down in front of his mother, as soldiers took turns raping her. With his free hand, the Tartar drew his sword and cleaved the infant in two. He then began to eat the body.

“Explain to me, Yusouf, what kind of sin befits that from God.”

Yusouf fell silent. I brought my cane up to his face, forcing him to take a step back.

“Do not tell me that these barbarians serve God’s purpose, or God help me, I will thrash you with this.”

What further conversation we might have had was interrupted as an arrow pierced the air between us. We retreated into the House just as more arrows rained down. Within the House, we heard a commotion coming from the main entrance. The remaining scholars were frantically trying to prop bookshelves against the doors.

"Truly, the time of God when it comes, cannot be delayed," uttered Yusouf.

I wanted to smash Yusouf’s head, but reflecting on the work I was translating, I steadied myself and hobbled back to resume my study of that pagan emperor’s thoughts.

***

Contrary to Yusouf’s quotation of the Book, the barricade delayed the inevitable by about a day. It gave me enough time to finish my translation. Not a bad book to read before death. One passage resonated with me:

When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: The people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous, and surly. [In my commentary, I added: “They will even try to butcher you.”] They are like this because they can't tell good from evil. But I have seen the beauty of good, and the ugliness of evil, and have recognized that the wrongdoer has a nature related to my own—not of the same blood or birth, but the same mind, and possessing a share of the divine.

I heard the crash of bookshelves being tipped over, followed by screams, then the thud of several footsteps. A sudden quiet took over, before a call came out in a strange Arabic accent:

“Those of you who wish to die relatively painlessly, come to the foyer now.”

I made my way down. A soldier spotted me and ordered me to join my colleagues huddled by the entrance. Nine soldiers menaced over us. I counted our own numbers: we were a mere twenty-nine from the over two hundred that once served the House. Ibrahim the astronomer was the one who had screamed. Two of the scholars attended to him as they attempted to keep his intestines from spilling out. A moment later, our numbers dwindled to twenty-eight.

Heavy clomps made their way from the inner library towards the foyer. The soldiers stood to attention as a horse carrying the most hideous of the Tartar arban strode through. Beside him walked a nervous looking Chinese man. The commander surveyed us. As he caught sight of my leg and cane, he sneered.

The commander issued a rapid string of blunt syllables. When he finished, the Chinese man spoke:

“We offered you the chance to surrender with your lives spared. Your caliph forfeited that offer. The weakness of your God is obvious. Do as you’re told for your final hour, and your deaths will be merciful.”

The commander grinned at us with gap-filled teeth. Another set of ugly syllables spat out of his maw.

“There are carts outside this building. Begin by filling them with your books.”

His horse took a poo poo on the carpet before galloping out. We began to gut our library.

***

We are outside the wall. It looks like they are taking us outside of the city to be killed. We wonder why, having seen thousands of our dead still rotting within. No one dares to ask the Tartars.

Those of us with strength take turns wheeling out the carts carrying our books. We march eastbound towards the Tigris. As we near the river, I hear the gasps of my colleagues. My eyes are weak, and I fail to see it at first. When I do, I fall to my knees.

The Tigris is black. Piles upon piles of books from the other libraries have already been cast in, stretching from one end of the river to the other. Over a millennium and a half of knowledge spanning the four corners of the world is bleeding out into its waters, never to be known again.

I scream.

The commander dismounts and kicks me in the head. As I lay on the ground, I reflect back to the Roman emperor.

The wrongdoer has a nature related to my own … the same mind, and possessing a share of the divine.

The thought repeats in my mind, and I start to laugh. The Tartar commander hauls me off the ground, as I continue laughing. Looking at me, he laughs too. He stops laughing when I spit in his eyes.

“You fools will never know the world, or God, as we did. May God drat you to the eternal shadow of ignorance!”

I forfeit the luxury of an easy death. My hands and feet are chained to four horses. They pull.

I do not scream.

Umbilical Lotus
Nov 13, 2005

OH NO!!!! AXE CUT YOU!!!!

That's it, fellers! Time's up!

Sorry to hear about your work situation, Mercedes, but I'm glad you put up a story regardless. Now is the time for reading and review, and next wee I finally get to loving write something again!

Capntastic
Jan 13, 2005

A dog begins eating a dusty old coil of rope but there's a nail in it.

Fallen Rib

Nubile Hillock got a multiple day extension on the Thunderduel they challenged me to because I ragged on them not submitting, and then didn't submit.

I'll be posting my story tomorrow.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Nubile Hillock posted:

gently caress u dickweasel let's brawl

Nubile Hillock posted:

Ima just pretend that the brawl is due friday cos I got work and life stuff to do so y'all can suck it.

Capntastic posted:

So did you mean Friday, Next Friday, or Friday After Next?

Apparently he meant never.


And I swear to God, I will post the rest of the regular week feedback today.

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER


Didn't do it. Was making pictures for a story instead, time got away, blah blah, my dog.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Martello posted:

And I swear to God, I will post the rest of the regular week feedback today.

Accretionist posted:

Keepin' a Man Down

There's something very Blade Runner in the feel here and I'm sure that's intentional. I don't know where the awesome gif is, but it's obviously perfect. You do a good job of meshing the "keeping the man down" (obviously) and the dystopian rainy 80s cyberpunk themes. Robomisegenation indeed.

It's not a perfect story though. John is a fine name for a character in a longer story or if he's meant to be bland, but this dude ain't that. He needs a flashier, more memorable name. And the ending, with him walking into the fog, is a little trite. Has he learned anything here? Is he just gonna be on the run now? Where's the arc?

Overall, enjoyable. You could make this into something longer and develop the character a lot more, and I'd wanna read it.

Grade: Black Deckard


So to start off, I read the first few paragraphs of Snow Crash and hated it. This is clearly that kind of cyberpunk and I really had a hard time getting into it. For what it's worth, my wife liked it a lot. To me it was too over-the-top and cheesy but I just have a low tolerance for that kind of thing.

Yes, it was cyberpunk, after a fashion. And yeah, it was more or less blaxploitation. But besides my initial bias, there were a number of clumsy sentences and mispelled words that brought it even lower.

It's not a terrible story, I just didn't like it at all. I haven't read your brawl story yet, but I'll give you some feedback on that one too when I do.

Grade: Coaldust Crash


So this was the winner.

You got the Gibsonian iconic cyberspace thing down pat, with the metaphors and cybershanks and all the other stupid, implausible, beautiful bullshit that goes along with it. As much as I love the Sprawl Trilogy and recommend it to anyone who'll listen, if I could never read another iconic cyberspace story again it'd be too soon.

But I really liked this one anyway. And the pimps and hos, black tonk setting, stupid awesome pun on Sickle Cell Anemia, it all coalesced into the best combinations of cyberpunk and blaxploitation for the week. You done good, son.

Grade: Shaft Gibson

sebmojo posted:

Ghosting

This was the prompt, but I expected nothing else from you.

On the other hand, this is far from your strongest work. In fact I think it's among your weakest. The cartoon references are good, the feel is good, the dialogue is your usual snappy toughguy stuff. But the plot sucks. What's this with the chip being unlocked only by the "family codes," which are apparently DNA but everyone has the same DNA because we're all from AFRICA? I mean, ok, but what the gently caress at the same time? Just left me scratching my head.

Grade: Tweety Bird, but black and with a cyberpenis

Bad Seafood posted:

Old Debts (913 words)

I really liked this story.

Or at least, I wanted to like it. There's a lot of good here. The setting, the atmosphere, two dudes named Chapel Duke and Oldboy, an Old West shootout.

But there's no real payoff, and parts are clumsy. The flashbacks don't quite work, especially with the fingernuke stuff. It feels forced and over the top, and doesn't fit with the scenes in the present. The ending should be an actual shootout. Don't build the slow atmosphere to the point where we can see tumbleweeds and hear the Ennio Morricone, and then drop the curtain before the first shot.

Also, this was a cyberpunk western with black dudes. No blaxploitation here.

Grade: Count Black Zero Tombstone


This wasn't bad and it was more or less the prompt. You used the most realistic hacking, for that I give you props.

But there's not enough going on in this story. I'm not invested in the character because you weren't either. It held my attention well enough, but then again I was reading this from my phone while on a long car ride so that's no great feat. I needed more. Some action besides the hacking, and a reason for why this story exists. More meat, less bread and special sauce.

Grade: Cleopatra Case

Capntastic posted:

Youngblood's Sizzlin' Hard Disk

Some clumsy-rear end sentences here. This is the worst: "Youngblood grinned. There was an enormous gushing of heat and noise and debris from the general direction of Freemark. Moments later, a lone red Cadillac rolled out of the parking lot, which was empty save for a flaming wreck of a limo."

That pretty much tells us all we need to know about this story. Just show me things happening, don't be coy about it. And never, ever describe an explosion that way. You managed to pull a Michael Bay - you made an explosion boring.

I cringed when he kicked his sweet chromed revolver across the asphalt.

With some work, this is salvageable. You need to make your prose flow better. Make it sing.

Grade: Buttmite

magnificent7 posted:

ATTACK OF THE CRACKERBOTS

Dude...

Man I don't even know what to tell you. You've improved, that's for sure. But you still write some clumsy poo poo. Dialogue is all over the place, the characters act like non-humans, the plot is completely whacked.

Crackerbots suck. Taking the "white folks can't dance" stereotype and cranking it up to 11 in the form of randomly 3-armed robots is not funny or awesome. You should have just played this straight. I don't think you can pull off satire yet.

Grade: Crackerbot

Umbilical Lotus
Nov 13, 2005

OH NO!!!! AXE CUT YOU!!!!

Us judge-people are deliberating in our shadowed councils even now, but before the verdict comes out I want to state how impressed I am with everyone's works this week. You all presented an amount of thoughtfulness and subtlety that is, honestly, pretty surprising after the previous week's chromed booty. I'm not the most active poster, but I'll be sure to give everyone a big, constructive review, once we determine which of you sucks the most and mock you publicly.

As was previously stressed, the worst you could have done isn't post absolute gibberish, but not post at all.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Umbilical Lotus posted:

Us judge-people are deliberating in our shadowed councils even now, but before the verdict comes out I want to state how impressed I am with everyone's works this week. You all presented an amount of thoughtfulness and subtlety that is, honestly, pretty surprising after the previous week's chromed booty.

This week was delightful. So much so, that I will do some crits. Also, I have a lot of free time, but what are you gonna do?

crabrock posted:

Sweet Temptations

You son of a bitch. You set the tone, and the tone was perfect. My head actually recoiled in disgust as I read about one of the characters squishing that liver between his toes while those little berry fuckers were all being yucky. I got tingles man.

It's most likely the word limitation, but I hard a tough time feeling connected to any of the characters. It ends up not mattering anyways because the plot tension carries this story on it's shoulders. I would definitely love to read this if the word limitation was raised by a thousand or two.

Grade: My rear end in a top hat puckered.

Cervid posted:

The Dutchman

First off, what the gently caress is up with the editor's note? Stop that. Bad Cervid. Pulls me right out of the story and I don't appreciate it. There's also some weird poo poo going on with your quotation signs. Perhaps you didn't hit your enter key hard enough and weren't able to split the paragraph like you intended.

I didn't get a sense of dread from the story, instead, I got questionable motives. Historically, sailors are a superstitious bunch. In your story, I get the idea that these guys know something strange is going on with that ship, yet they still choose to work on it.

Grade: Dracula on a Vegan diet.


Remove the word “try” as well as all its synonyms from your lexicon. Either make your character do, or describe how your character tried but failed. I think it lends to stronger prose. The same goes to words ending in -ly. You don't need them, most of the time.

Drowning is a terrible way to go, holy poo poo. But I didn't get any sense of panic from the main character. Instead it felt as if both speaking characters were sitting down drinking tea having a lovely discussion. Your descriptions are telling me that the drowning character is afraid, but the dialogue is showing me different.

Grade: ”Oh God. Somebody help. I'm drowning.” he said.

CancerCakes posted:

Chankiri Tree

What the fuuuuuck! That ending man. That poo poo came out of nowhere, at least the first time I read it. I went back, perplexed, and then found all the subtleties.

I can appreciate how if you paid attention to those fine details, you can see where the story is headed and you get that sense of dread as you slowly put the puzzle pieces together.

I'm still confused as to why the protagonists friends told her to board that bus to murder city, or the purpose of the information given in the first few paragraphs. The writing itself is solid, so I'm sure I probably missed something. Fuckin' Africa.

Grade: That boy's got a future in baseball.

Jeza posted:

Diary of Dr. Johann von Klintz, 3rd August, 1864 trans. Klaus Einhart

Dat poo poo is nastay. Man, I was grossed out reading this. My one complaint is that story is only has the case of the yuckies.

The first half of the story is the protagonist toking up with some fatty and the second part he witnesses a public execution.

The story could have probably lost the first half and still would have gotten the same reaction from me. All it told me was that those tea-slurpin, queen-fuckers sure do love their violence. Also that fat man will eat anything.

Man, now I have so many questions. Why the translator? Why the implied hatred from the fatty towards the German doctor? Why the gently caress is he tasting the dead dude? Is it just coincidence that the good doctor was chilling with a guy who knew a colleague of the doctor would be tortured to death the next morning?

Grade: Give that fat man some cookies, Jesus.

Helsing posted:

Pharsalus

The limit is 1200. If someone can hit the “1200 words exactly” prompt and still end up writing good story, you could have found a way to trim 62 words of fat. Also, we don't care diddly poo poo for your forewords. Drop your prose like it's hot and back the gently caress away.

Also, welcome to Thunderdome.

Your tenses slip a few times in the story. I always have an issue with them, so when I'm done with my first draft I do a search for -ing and change sentences so that they are no longer describing poo poo in present tense.

The dialogue and descriptions are strong in this piece, but there's no real sense of dread or tension. Just two dudes who are loving around with a Ouija board, get told some information and that's it. The only 'despicable' thing they had to do was bring a corpse with them. Would have been cooler if Sextus had to kill the other guy he had with him, and the corpse was just a pretense to get him not suspect the awful truth.

Grade: Weightlifter's Personality: Strong yet boring.

Auraboks posted:

A personal letter, ca 1930

Aw yea. Scholar's quest for knowledge brings madness and destruction. It's my kind of poo poo. I like how the format is in letter form, although it would have been interesting to see the transformation as it was happening. It would have given you more opportunities to inject an immediate sense of how the sickness overtook him.

Now, does Ethel have the translations to the book with her? Is she also a scientist with a curious nature similar to the protagonist? What is this sickness? I only ask because it's not expressed how someone can bring about the silent apocalypse if the book kills them in a relatively short time. It's a good read, it just leaves a few things unanswered that weaken the story somewhat.

Grade: This message will explode in t


This is a sick nasty entry Erogenous Beef. It has the yuckies in there giving me tingly feelings as I read about all the ooze. The story had good tension with the little things that tug at you and give you an uneasy feeling that something isn't right.

I'm not a hundred percent sure as to Baker's true intentions in how he was going to use his corpses, but I can tell it's up to no good for reals. I want to know more about the story. If the limit had a thousand more words as the limit there can be a ton of awesome poo poo done with this, I have no doubt.

Also, did Baker just hide his eyes being a different color and have great control over his saliva glands until he gets violent or something? Cause he must have brought our protagonist out there while already under the influence of the ooze.

Grade: Edgar Poe III


The protagonist is such a level-headed cool guy. In similar circumstances I would have ran screaming like a little bitch. This guy stood by with gun cradled in his arms as this other dude was trampled by Zombie Moose and then pulled out his glock from his underpants, cocked that fucker sideways and put a cap in that whiny bitch.

Although it was a good story, I felt it was more in the vein of an action horror, like Resident Evil than the other kind of horror you get from Silent Hill. Ain't nothing wrong with the former, I just like to get creeped the gently caress out when I read horror books.

Grade: Zombie Headshot

Kaishai posted:

Indianapolis

Aw, hell yea! Shark week mothafuckas. I need to point this out: “the man shrieked a note nearly soprano”. Against the rest of the story, this seems so cartoonish and out of place.

I also had to reread the ending multiple times; the part when he turns into a shark? I think. Is he hallucinating? I don't know, he vomited red and then he went Hannibal on his rescuers. I think. It's really confusing.

The rest of the story is great, rich with cool descriptions, but I feel like I'm missing something and it's going right over my head.

Grade: Street Shark

Nikaer Drekin posted:

The Fireside Prayer

The story's premise is pretty baller. The descriptor: “black eyes glitter like beetles”, really stuck with me. Something about hunters become the hunted by an unstoppable fire controlling monster.

This could just be a stylistic choice, but you don't have to italicize when the main character is thinking to himself. I don't even think you have to specify the “he thought” bit. Just go right into it. The reader will usually understand that the character is thinking these thoughts.

This might also be a stylistic choice, but whatever, I'm already on a roll. Name your main character so you're not always referring him as “young cop”, or the FBI guy as “the prick” or someone else “the kid” and the other cops “cops”.

Grade: Ifrit mated with a Firebender and birthed this.

Noah posted:

The Wendigo

This was a good read. High tension with some action in there. I was genuine in my silent cheers for the main character as she Splinter Celled her way out of the crap situations she found herself in.

Even still, you manage to avoid writing a simple action story with her decline into cannibalism and her realizing she liked it. I'm not a judge, so what I say doesn't mean poo poo, but your story, along with crabrock and M. Propagandalf's are my top 3 stories.

Grade: Samantha Fisher

Accretionist posted:

May your wishes be granted.

Daaaaaaaaaaang I like it when people hit their flash rules right on the nose. Remind me to call you up when I go hunting for hobos.

Unfortunately, there isn't much dread in this story because once the the beggar's demise is imminent, the story's already over. From what I've read, most of the story is just fluff that shows off that this beggar is all “heil hitler” and poo poo and then young strapping men in brown shirts kill him.

The prose is good, a grammatical error here and there, it doesn't distract, it's just that the story not horror-y enough.

Grade: The Lottery, but with hobos. Hobottery.

Mercedes posted:

Proclaim This.

Kill yourself.

Grade: Booth. From the show Bones.


You magnificent bastard. You took my flash rule and ran with it, like scissors, and went off into the sunset. Not only do you show how his colleagues dislike him, you also use his love for books and history as his downfall.

The story itself is solid. Horrific things happen that make me cringe. All throughout, you just have this feeling that things will not end well for anyone. Keep doing what you're doing.

The line near the end when he and the commander start laughing and then he suddenly spits in his face is golden.

Grade: Read a mothafuckin book

Mercedes fucked around with this message at Aug 13, 2013 around 23:02

Jeza
Feb 13, 2011

The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.


Mercedes posted:


Dat poo poo is nastay. Man, I was grossed out reading this. My one complaint is that story is only has the case of the yuckies.

The first half of the story is the protagonist toking up with some fatty and the second part he witnesses a public execution.

The story could have probably lost the first half and still would have gotten the same reaction from me. All it told me was that those tea-slurpin, queen-fuckers sure do love their violence. Also that fat man will eat anything.

Man, now I have so many questions. Why the translator? Why the implied hatred from the fatty towards the German doctor? Why the gently caress is he tasting the dead dude? Is it just coincidence that the good doctor was chilling with a guy who knew a colleague of the doctor would be tortured to death the next morning?

I'm gonna go ahead and assume that judges have read it already but the twist at the end is that he eats the victims. It goes back to the sweetbreads and wine earlier in the story. Otherwise most of your questions are left open on purpose because I don't have the word count to expand into - all I'll say is better to assume malice and foreplanning, but not to reason why.

CancerCakes
Jan 10, 2006

WORST WIZARD, THUNDERDOME
LOSER


Gather round children, and I shall tell you a story.

Many moons ago I saw a judgement. I know that this will seem outlandish to your young minds but we used to see them every week. Like clockwork it was, like clockwork! But now the week rolls on and nothing comes back. No crit is penned, no insults flung. Silence reigns.

Perhaps one day we will see a judgement the like I was used to, when I was young.

Perhaps even a loving prompt so I can get started on a piece of poo poo before the weekend. I got poo poo to do yo

dreadmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk

Testify. Turning up the voltage on Fumblemouse's electro-prongs.

dreadmojo fucked around with this message at Aug 13, 2013 around 23:38

dreadmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk

THUNDERDOME WEEK 53 JUDGMENT

The other two judges have been replaced by writhing tentacular abominations that understand neither Euclidean geometry or deadlines, so the judgment falls to me.

Quality was annoyingly high this week. Prompts were, mainly, hit; prose was, mainly, competent. Some of those pieces squicked me right the gently caress out which is mission accomplished when you are horroring.

The victor, for an uplifting tale of a woman who overcame oppression with a dash of good ole homespun cannibalism, is Noah's The Wendigo. To quote one of my erstwhile judge buddies: "I liked that his moment was a moment of personal realisation, that the horror had become natural made it all the more horrific."

Honhorrific Mention to Jeza, Kaishai and CancerCakes.

The loser is Cervid, for a clumsy piece writhing with typos, unnecessary reportage and non-horrifying eels. Anathema Device escaped censure by a hairsbreadth for "shouty exposition" at the end.

PROCEED.

dreadmojo fucked around with this message at Aug 14, 2013 around 03:39

Cervid
Jul 18, 2013

THUNDERDOME LOSER

sebmojo posted:

THUNDERDOME WEEK 53 JUDGMENT

The other two judges have been replaced by writhing tentacular abominations that understand neither Euclidean geometry or deadlines, so the judgment falls to me.

Quality was annoyingly high this week. Prompts were, mainly, hit; prose was, mainly, competent. Some of those pieces squicked me right the gently caress out which is mission accomplished when you are horroring.

The victor, for an uplifting tale of a woman who overcame oppression with a dash of good ole homespun cannibalism, is Noah's The Wendigo. To quote one of my erstwhile judge buddies: "I liked that his moment was a moment of personal realisation, that the horror had become natural made it all the more horrific."

Honorable Horrific Mention to Jeza, Kaishai and CancerCakes.

The loser is Cervid, for a clumsy piece writhing with typos, unnecessary reportage and non-horrifying eels. Anathema Device escaped censure by a hairsbreadth for "shouty exposition" at the end.

PROCEED.

Hey, I'll have you and Mercedes know I read your comments and I only cried for twenty minutes! Cuz I'm rock hard, motherfuckers! But seriously, yeah I agree with you guys' observations. I know I have a long way to go.

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER


Martello posted:

Dude...

Man I don't even know what to tell you. You've improved, that's for sure. But you still write some clumsy poo poo. Dialogue is all over the place, the characters act like non-humans, the plot is completely whacked.

Crackerbots suck. Taking the "white folks can't dance" stereotype and cranking it up to 11 in the form of randomly 3-armed robots is not funny or awesome. You should have just played this straight. I don't think you can pull off satire yet.

Grade: Crackerbot
Spot on. LORD it was godawful. But thanks for the crit.

M. Propagandalf
Aug 9, 2008

THUNDERDOME LOSER


I'm not satisfied I hit the flash rule, and for that reason I demand a flash rule right off the bat for the next prompt. The problem I feel is that he's less of an rear end in a top hat from flaunting his knowledge, and more out of being abrasive. It's also conspicuous that for an Islamic scholar, there's no reference to any of the great thinkers from his own culture.

The ghost of Edward Said should be haunting me for this piece.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

someone post a prompt that doesn't suck so i can stop sucking and actually write something for the first time in like 3 weeks

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


PROMPT

In a side job I do I have to deal with local politics. Obstructionism, pettiness and transparent feel-goodery are rampant in this arena. I just can't get enough of what honestly amounts to nothingness.

Tell me a story of intrigue of a small, localized place. I don't want grandiose, worldwide illuminati bullshit. I want a story dealing with these kind of situations. Is it a stenographer who has to frantically dictate the minutes of a blithering, clearly insane, public commentary? Is it a story about a backstabbing local politician who will throw anyone under the bus just to be a state assemblyman? Are you a bored journalist sitting at a parks and rec budget committee meeting?

Sign ups and Flash rules:
Accretionist: The right of succession is an impetus in your story.
crabrock: Your story must feature the corruption of an innocent.
Cervid: None of your sentences can be longer than 10 words.
Sitting Here: As punishment for missing your duel with Erogenous Beef, you have to include at least one steamy affair.
Mercedes: You have to show me pure rage without using a single swear word.
M. Propagandalf: Your story is set on a college campus.
Jeza: You HAVE to write in a stream of consciousness.
captain platypus: A construction zone, can be big or small, must be a prominent factor in your story.
Schneider Heim: Your story takes place in a gym.
docbeard: Consequences involved in your story COULD mean death for a character.
Barracuda Bang!: There is a minimum number of slang words that you are required to invent, and be understandable from context, in your story. I am not going to tell you what that minimum number is.
Auraboks: A literal or metaphorical snake has to exist in your story.
Jagermonster: Post-Apocalyptic.
Joat Mon: Defy a gender stereotype.
CancerCakes: Unreliable Narrator.
BadSeafood: Your story must contain a clearly identified macguffin.
Martello: Your story must contain an adonis. This character has to be superior to every other character present, morally, physically, intellectually, etc. Doesn't have to be your protagonist, but has to be obvious who it is.
Helsing: The main character experiences a moment of horrific surrealism that no one else acknowledges.
HaitianDivorce: Wind has to feature prominently in your story.
AnathemaDevice:Pick any two previous flash rules.
Nyarai: Maximum Potential! Word count 1150-1200.
Unknowing: Rural setting.
Saddest Rhino: Elements of fantasy must be present in some form.

Word count: 1200
Sign up deadline: 8/16/13 11:59pm PST.
Submission deadline: 8/18/13 11:59pm PST.

Noah fucked around with this message at Aug 17, 2013 around 04:37

Accretionist
Nov 7, 2012



Ha, nice - In.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

aka sticklegs



Grimey Drawer

I'm in with a dirty dozen x 10² words on petty local politics.

Cervid
Jul 18, 2013

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Sign me up.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

ok i guess for my purposes this will be a "prompt" that "doesn't suck"

in





i derive my life's worth from destroying you all

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


You know I'm in on this poo poo.

M. Propagandalf
Aug 9, 2008

THUNDERDOME LOSER

In and requesting a flash rule.

Jeza
Feb 13, 2011

The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.


In.






also requesting username change to "THE FOREVER BRIDESMAID" tia

captain platypus
Aug 30, 2009


In.

Schneider Heim
Oct 17, 2012


I'm in!

docbeard
Jul 18, 2011

High marks for compassion, low marks for survival skills





In.

Barracuda Bang!
Oct 21, 2008

The first rule of No Avatar Club is: you do not talk about No Avatar Club. The second rule of No Avatar Club is: you DO NOT talk about No Avatar Club

Grimey Drawer

In

Flash?

Capntastic
Jan 13, 2005

A dog begins eating a dusty old coil of rope but there's a nail in it.

Fallen Rib

So glad I could slide this in under the wire!

Cultivating de Clieu
(Word count: 1011)

On some God-forsaken ship headed for Martinique, Gabriel de Clieu glared at a glass box for the glory of France. The soil inside was dark, and its moisture was fogging up the interior. One could hardly see the small green eyelash of a plant living inside. De Clieu tugged at his collars, and retrieved a small brass key secreted within them. He unlocked the box, and began draining this day's water ration into it. Feeding this thing was taking its toll on his humours, but the headaches and fevers were insubstantial at this point. His mission was clearer than the last few drops sliding out of the decanter.



The previous year had been a procession of rich food and drink exciting discussions at the salons, brilliant maneuvers that increased his social status, and every other good tiding that a series of promotions could bring. A handsome and intelligent man in loyal service to the navy would need the Devil's own luck to do better. To these ends, he celebrated often, and after one overlong discussion concerning, chiefly, the best ages and grapes for brandy, he failed to find himself blindly and madly rampaging through the streets until dawn. He awoke struggling to make out the glare of sunlight in his sleeve buttons. The freshly scuffed brass would be replaced without second thought; though as he made to stand he began contemplating the source of the hundreds of hand-sized shards of glass surrounding him. Beyond that ring of destroyed glazing, there were numerous rows of plants arranged upon squat wooden shelves.

Swaggering down one of the aisles presently was an older man in simple linen garments accompanied by a densely muscled black dog. Though the latter had spittle glistening teeth and flaps of tar-like torn lips, it was the man who had the sterner look of the two by some measure.

"I welcome you to the Jardin des Plantes botanical sanctuary, sir. I pray that you've found the greenhouse to your liking on this fine Summer's day?" he said.

No outrageous snarl or despair was issued, Gabriel noted to some displeasure. He had wronged the man, and they both knew it fully.

"I apologize, of course, and I will make reparations of course," de Clieu stammered. "Simply allow me to compose myself, and I will send for a check to be cut without delay."

The man did not react, being more wary of his hound snuffling at a pile of glass than the plaintive drunkard before him. Seeing that, for the moment, the situation was fairly neutral, Gabriel pressed his luck.

"Might I trouble you, sir, for a cup of water?"

At this, the gardener raised his eye to the man before him before turning away and calling out over his shoulder.

"See about piling up all of the glass you've destroyed and I will see about getting you something."

Surveying the task before him, Gabriel removed his coat. It was hellishly hot in the greenhouse. He shook the coat out, noting it to be covered in debris and sweat, before unceremoniously tossing it to the ground. He set to work, on hands and knees, flinging the costly mistakes of last night into a heap on his jacket. His head, pounding as it was, felt as if it was at the receiving end of each of the gleaming fragments' arcs. His honor was at stake, as a man of the navy, but what's more, he felt some displeasure at being responsible for causing harm to this place. Overly warm and humid as it was, in a way that Gabriel had never quite experienced, it was somewhat calming, despite his current case of nerves.

Gabriel continued his task with steady progress until the man returned, heralded by his dog. He held a stout clay mug, steaming with some dark elixir.

"Drink up," the man said. "It will help relieve the current imbalance of your humours."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes at the proffered beverage.

"Coffee? I've sampled that before, and I cannot help but feel you're adding to my punishment here. Though I do deserve it."

"No, I doubt you have had coffee such as this. What you've had, almost certainly, is a putrefied sludge scraped from the bottom of a barrel, brewed in Araby, and boiled down for transport. It is like comparing turning down a fresh loaf of bread, for fear of recieving hard tack."

The man folded his arms and waited, and Gabriel chanced a small sip. He burnt his tongue, though the taste itself was sweet and perhaps reminiscent of fruit. Compared to his memories of the stuff, which was like coal dust mixed with the ashes of the stove that heated it, it was remarkable.

"I assume, then, that this is your produce, sir?"

The gardener in linen smiled.

"And from there, I further assume the need to meticulously regulate the environment within this place?"

The gardener nodded.

"Then I have truly done you, and perhaps the world, a great disservice this morning."

The gardener whistled to his dog, grinning, and then gestured for Gabriel to follow.

"Come; I've called for a banker to arrange for the check. Though I know from the insignia on your buttons that you might have a better form of payment. You see, only so many of the plants can be cultivated within this artificial biome I have constructed..."

Gabriel knotted up his coat into a bundle of broken glass and followed the man. Already his head was clearing and the day began to seem much brighter, even as he left the greenhouse.



En route to Martinique, with his precious glass cargo, Gabriel de Clieu beamed at the glory of his mission. The fertile soil, warmed by the sun and moistened by tender rains, would serve wondrously well for the cultivation of coffee plants. France would, with Gabriel's assistance, secure a source of coffee of its very own. Placing the key back underneath his shirt, he noticed that the scuffed buttons upon his sleeves had developed a golden patina in the salty sea air.

Auraboks
Mar 24, 2013

...huh?


In.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Nubile Hillock posted:

Ima just pretend that the brawl is due friday cos I got work and life stuff to do so y'all can suck it.

So is this ever happening or what?

Hillock, if you don't submit or tell me when yer gonna submit, I'll just settle the score between Capntastic and Jagermonster.

bitch

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


Flash Rules Incoming

Accretionist: The right of succession is an impetus in your story.
crabrock: Your story must feature the corruption of an innocent.
Cervid: None of your sentences can be longer than 10 words.
Sitting Here: As punishment for missing your duel with Erogenous Beef, you have to include at least one steamy affair.
Mercedes: You have to show me pure rage without using a single swear word.
M. Propagandalf: Your story is set on a college campus.
Jeza: You HAVE to write in a stream of consciousness.
captain platypus: A construction zone, can be big or small, must be a prominent factor in your story.
Schneider Heim: Your story takes place in a gym.
docbeard: Consequences involved in your story COULD mean death for a character.
Barracuda Bang!: There is a minimum number of slang words that you are required to invent, and be understandable from context, in your story. I am not going to tell you what that minimum number is.
Auraboks: A literal or metaphorical snake has to exist in your story.

Jagermonster
May 7, 2005

Hey - NIZE HAT!


In.

joat mon
Oct 15, 2009

I am the master of my lamp;
I am the captain of my tub.


In.

CancerCakes
Jan 10, 2006

WORST WIZARD, THUNDERDOME
LOSER


Cheers for the crit Mercedes.

In for meaningless politicking, flash rule me

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


More flash rules.

Jagermonster: Post-Apocalyptic.
Joat Mon: Defy a gender stereotype.
CancerCakes: Unreliable Narrator.

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Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.


Make it happen, captain.

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