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Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


I suppose that can be accommodated.

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Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


Flightless Bird 872 words
The heat of the late afternoon sun beat down on Gete’s head as she walked, throbbing in time with the headache that pulsed behind her eyes. She was grateful, in a distant sort of way, for the clouds of dust kicked up by the feet of the column as it ebbed slowly across the baking sand. The particulates that hung in the dead air settled in her eyelashes and, if she kept her eyes slightly closed, tempered the painful brightness of the day.

Gete looked down at the listless baby in her arms. She touched his forehead with the backs of her fingers and he moaned, turning his face away from her touch. The pale dust lent his dark skin a ghostly cast, lining the hollows that had developed in his face since her milk had finally dried up. It was all she could do now to make sure that Mehret had enough food and water to live on. A sob rose up from Gete’s chest and she swallowed it labouriously, dry tongue rasping against her dry mouth. It hung in her throat like a stone and she wondered if it would eventually mummify along with the rest of her.

“Mama, I’m thirsty,” said Mehret, clutching a fistful of her skirt as he trudged along beside her.

“I know,” Gete replied, her voice barely above a whisper, “we’ll be at the well soon.”

“Will there be enough water this time? Lots of water?”

Gete studied Mehret’s face, despairing at the shadows in his thin cheeks and the trust in his eyes as she lied to him, “Yes.”

That evening as they camped beneath a small stand of acacia trees, the grandfathers killed a goat for them to eat. Their milk had dried up too, so there was nothing for the baby. Gete made sure Mehret was well fed, at least, but nevertheless, she felt the grandmothers eyeing her with pity as the baby turned his face away from the goat’s blood she offered on a fingertip, too weak now to even cry. Sighing, Gete cradled him against her breast and sang softly until he fell asleep. She swaddled him tightly and bundled herself, Mehret and the baby up in her blanket to sleep, not wanting the baby to feel cold or alone.

Later, Gete found herself standing on the shore of a crystalline lake, its surface as smooth and clear as glass, the baby sleeping, swaddled in her arms. She waded out into it, taking care to keep the baby pressed to her chest as she squatted and used her free hand to scoop up the cool, blue water. Gete drank and drank. The cold sweetness of the water made her skin tingle as it flowed through her body, down to her fingertips and toes, up into her scalp. She looked down and let water drip from her fingers on to the baby’s lips.
“Wake up, Bebe,” she coaxed, “drink,” but he remained resolutely asleep.

A movement beside Gete caught her eye, and she looked back at the water to see a flamingo standing beside her, bill in the water, looking up at her with a knowing eye and its strange upside-down grin. Standing upright Gete saw that the whole lake had become an ocean of jewel-bright pink. Flamingos covered the water’s surface as far as the eye could see, clucking softly amongst themselves as they raised and lowered their bills, feeding in the water.

The flamingo next to her raised its head, and Gete stared at it, open-mouthed with wonder. It looked back at her for a moment before turning away and opening its wings to take flight. Its movements seemed to trigger a chain reaction in the others, and without warning, the thousands of flamingos around Gete took flight at once. She gasped as her entire body was surrounded by the rushing of wings, soft feathers brushing days of dirt and dust from her skin as they passed by. Her vision filled entirely with bright, endless pink for a moment, and she wanted to drink it in with her skin, to paint it on the backs of her eyelids so that she would never lose that perfect, beautiful colour.

The bundled baby stirred suddenly in her arms and Gete looked down in surprise to see a small flamingo struggling against the swaddling.

“Oh!” Gete gasped, “I’m sorry!” She hurriedly unwrapped the baby blankets, dropping them in the water, “Wait!” she called to the others, “don’t leave him behind!”

Holding the little bird with both hands, she heaved it upwards into the cloud of flamingos passing over her head. She smiled as she saw it spread its wings and catch the air, disappearing into the flock. Gete pressed her hands together as she watched them disappear. She could still feel the little one’s heartbeat in her palms.

In the morning, they buried the small, sad bundle at the foot of one of the acacias. He wasn’t old enough for a name, so Gete had one of the grandfathers carve a bird into the trunk of the tree. They rounded up the goats and kept walking, heading towards the next well, Gete holding Mehret’s hand so that her own felt less empty.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


This is a reminder I should finish this poo poo before I drink and not shortly after. Anyways, story:
Internet Relationship (WC: 381)

“We're the only ones left.”

Murphy sipped his cup of Mountain Dew and stared at the screen as he sent those words into The Collective IRC chatroom. “The only ones?” he wrote back. There were ten of them, spread out in two different countries, brought together by a common purpose. Now “Colonel_KFC” was confirming what he'd read online, that the feds had raided all the others. “Can't we find someone new?” he asked.

“We can't, we have to keep going.” The Colonel wrote back.

“Are you insane? We need to get off the grid and lay low.” Murphy wrote back. “If they found the others it's only a matter of time before they find us.” Murphy tossed the now-empty cup in a nearby overflowing trashcan, not watching it tumble to the floor and roll around a bit.

“No, we still have some doxxing to do.” The Colonel responded. “Just hit the server I told you to, then we can release the data.”

“But what if they find us? What if this is a setup.”

“Trust me on this. I gave you the tools after all.”

Murphy wanted to believe the Colonel so badly. He actually knew his poo poo, The Collective had stirred up He opened up the browser and the “Colonel_KFC Eyedropper” program, and prepared to do this. Just one last job, then he would go dark.

Just as he was about to capture the passwords to the secure private network, several armed FBI agents broke down the door and stormed into the room. They came in so fast he didn't have time to destroy the hard drive before they demanded to see his hands above his head. With the programs on his computer, he expected they wouldn't have a hard time slapping whatever charge they wanted.

He prayed that the last remaining member of The Collective would somehow hack into his computer and blank the Hard Drive for him, but Colonel_KFC posted one final message in the chatroom. “Sorry bro, but we had to smoke you out.”

And in that moment before he was cuffed and dragged away from his room, his face twisted into some strangled crying expression, Murphy realized how foolish he'd been to place his trust in someone he'd never met.

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


Prompts: Devastating Event leads to Unexpected Reaction, Beautiful Moment
Word Count: 1000
Second Place
Words: 989

Every picture of young Orson Collier was framed in black. James Collier thought the décor tacky. Black is overdone, he thought. Blackness crept into every aspect of the wake. Black plates, black napkins, why did everything have to be black, James raged silently to himself.

Because that’s what Marcy wanted. Traditionalist to a fault, he remembered arguing with her.

“You’ve been so strong,” Samantha, Marcy’s sister, said. She ran a hand comfortingly across James’s shoulders. “You’ve really helped keep Marcy together.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” James said. Fire rose in his belly. No, it had not been easy, but he was the man of the house.

“Orson would be proud of you,” Samantha said. What the gently caress does she know, he thought. But, she was right, despite the vapidness of her words. Orson was the exemplar son. Football, student legislature, scholarship offers, blossoming into a future man’s man. All thanks to his Father. And yet, in the aftermath of Orson’s death, James had been largely ignored.

Marcy was the train wreck that everyone needed to fix. Comfort the mother, ignore the father, that was how the world operated, and it wasn’t fair. Orson would have known the enormity his father had to endure. James felt as though he could actually connect with his son more than the rest of his family.

That wasn’t his daughter’s fault, no, she took after her mother too much. Certainly wasn’t the youngest son’s, either, for he could barely communicate at all. So why was he so angry, he wondered. Surrounded by people, and yet very alone.

Circling and circling, everyone wearing black, they spoke their condolences. Flowers arranged perfectly, white lilies, and the hors d’oeuvres aged white cheddar and white crackers. James stood in the center, and the world blurred. No one had any hysterics, just serene grief. They were a black river and James stood like a rock, letting it pass around him. No rapids, the water knew not to anger the rock. Each person swept around him, and touched him, said something to him, eroded him by just an imperceptible amount, but an amount nonetheless.

He could feel himself crumble and join the flowing blackness, and be drowned in them, when a snake, black as onyx and wet as oil, grew from the water. Everything flowed into the body of the snake, its yellow eyes as bright as sunflowers, its fangs dripping curdled milk, it hissed at him, threatening to strike. James stood there and waited.

“What will you do now?”

James said nothing to the snake. The snake sank its fangs into his shoulder.

“What will you do now?”

Kill my wife, he thought. Show the world that I exist, too.

“James? Hello?”

James shook his head. In front of him stood Pastor Greg, looking concerned.

“I’m sorry, Greg, I was just, I don’t know. Thinking.”

“I understand, Jim. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you.”

James nodded. The fire returned.

“Orson’s coach would like to speak, is that okay with you?”

“Of course, I’m sorry, I haven’t really been organizing this very well, have I?”

“You’re doing a wonderful job, James,” Pastor Greg said.

I am doing a wonderful job, James thought. Orson’s varsity coach began to talk, but it came out as flies. They buzzed around the room, whispering praises and accolades. James knew them well, he had been there every step of the way, slowly guiding the boy to greatness. The flies crawled across the cheese plate and the fruit, rubbing their legs and cleaning their wings. James watched them buzz faster and faster, as his wife’s sobs grew louder.

Marcy held a napkin in her hand, trying not to lose composure. James wondered if he should be sitting next to her, holding her gently but firmly, but she was flanked by family and friends already. The flies came together in a swarm and came to rest on Marcy’s shoulders. They buzzed, and buzzed, and buzzed. They crawled up her neck and into her ears, until there were no more flies. No more buzzing.

Only clapping now. Others are wiping their eyes, or shaking Marcy comfortingly. The flies are congratulating Marcy in her head, James thought. After all, she birthed him, and then, what?

The milk venom constricted the veins in his brain, causing him sharp pain.

“How will they ever know?” Something behind James buzzed. James did not turn around.

“How will you show them your worth?”

James turned. A pair of dull orange orbs stared straight at him. Hundreds of pockmarks lined the eyes, and jagged, sharp hairs stuck out at him like daggers. The giant fly’s emerald body shone brightly in the sunlight coming through the windows. Its wings shook violently, but mesmerized James. On the back of the fly was a child, James’s youngest.

“How will you show them?” the child asked.

The venom coursed through James’s veins, tightening his muscles. The child grabbed a hair from the fly and pulled. Blood ran down the boy’s hand, twisting around the hair as it slowly came out from the body of the fly. Slick with blood and pus, the hair slid out of the fly, as smaller thorns and shards sprouted from each inch of fresh hair. Raising the blade aloft, strands of goop dripping from the jagged, thorny hair, the child leveled it at James.

“Tell me how you will show them.”

James said nothing still. The child sneered and thrust the blade into James’s stomach. Tears formed in James’s eyes. His gut gurgled, black tar spilling out from the wound.

“How will they ever know?”

“Marcy has to die.”

“And?”

“You will become my prize,” James said.

The child removed the blade from James, causing him to fall onto his knees and clutch his stomach. Immediately he was surrounded by mourners and friends, asking him if he was okay. The child riding the fly smiled and nodded.

Canadian Surf Club
Feb 15, 2008

Word.


Thomas Patt - 859 words

"You've been so strong Samantha," The mayor's wife said as they clenched hands. "If you ever need anything, just call."

Samantha gave a sombre thank you as George slid in, tears in his eyes.

"Thomas Patt was a good man, his loss hurts this town deeply. I'm terribly sorry."

Samantha nodded and the couple stood smiling politely, waiting for her to say something more. When nothing came, George squatted to look her son in the eye.

"You're the man of the house now Jim, go easy on mum okay?"

Jimmy hid his face against his mother's skirt. She held it there, stroking his short brown hair with her thumb, as George and his wife moved down the line. She didn't doubt a word they said. The whole town had come out to see Thomas Patt packed away, the line in the funeral home parlor winding its way out the door and around the corner, if what people said was true. Samantha hadn't been outside in two hours, hadn't moved from her spot next to her husband's closed casket except to use the washroom once. She hadn't spoken more than three words to anyone, already dry of tears and allowing others their time to grieve. Jimmy was quiet and shy but was always like that and Samantha couldn't tell whether he really knew what was happening or not.

The sheriff rose from prayer next and walked over with his head down and hat gripped tight. "Sorry for your loss, I want you to know we're on this and have some good leads."

"It means a lot Ernest, thank you." She said.

"I don't know if he ever told you," His eyes searched the corners of the ceiling for words. "But he helped me in my time of need and I intend to repay him."

"Ow!" Samantha's hand recoiled as Jimmy called out and she looked down to see him rubbing the side of his head, eyes and teeth clenched against pain. When she looked back up the sheriff had moved on, talking softly with Thomas' mother in the next chair.

She wasn't sure how much more she could take, this feeling of being used, propped up to soak in the town's backwash of grief and guilt. She was tired of looking from face to face, trying to find the masks among the meek, and finding too many confident in their grief, too sure of who Thomas Patt was and why he was in a box.

Even Father Abe, who knew more than most, came in his nicest plain clothes and looked her in the eye and said, "Know that Thomas always loved you."

The procession didn't stop. The farmers' co-op came next, led by Lenny in his blue suspenders whose embrace Samantha melted away from at the last second. He looked hurt but nodded and gave his condolences before moving on. The fishers' union all passed through as well as the teacher's assembly and every lawyer from Thomas' graduating class. All to see away a man they only knew through courtesy, business, and small deceptions. It was another three hours before the place was empty, all having paid their respects and passed on through, leaving Samantha with her son on the funeral home porch. No one stayed to chat, to see them home or buy them a meal. When it came to them, they were always just passing through.

At home she told Jimmy to run upstairs and pack the rest of his things. All the important boxes were in the station wagon already and she surveyed the house for any more loose ends. She threw out all the old pictures from the mantel and all her heavy make-up which had hidden so many wounds. She emptied the liquor cabinent and took the bottles out into the field behind the house. There she lined them all up on soap boxes and took out her pistol and shot each one.
George.
Ernest.
Father Abe.
She said those names and others with each shot and broken bottle. She buried the shards and the rest of her bullets among the rum soaked weeds, the smell choking her like it did when she stooped low to hear Thomas' final words. Back in the house, she wiped the pistol with a cloth and set it in a tin box which she tossed into the basement furnace, nudging it far into the corner with an iron poker until it was hidden among the ash. She made a light supper of chicken noodle soup which Jimmy always loved and after she left their dishes in the sink and took all his things out to the car. She got him buckled up in front and gave him a book to read before getting in behind the wheel and leaning forward to take one look at the whole house through the windshield.

"Where are we going?" Jimmy asked.

"Away."

"To daddy?"

"No, away from that too."

It was just past dusk when the station wagon glided out of town. Everyone was huddled around their television sets to hear the evening news and no one saw them go. The investigation continues, said the anchorman, no suspect known.

Canadian Surf Club fucked around with this message at Mar 18, 2013 around 07:52

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.


Present tense because I hate all of you.

The Rock of the Selfish Child (787 words)

My father sits across from me, his head in his hands, that same prayer on his lips as he spoke not an hour ago. He delivered the benediction himself, his voice calm and measured. Only now does he hide behind his hands, those huge hands, a humble plea from a humble man after a lifetime of service. Was it enough? I am never quiet sure what it is he is thinking. I’ve never been good at getting inside people’s heads.

I’ve never seen my brother cry. He's always been the large one, now larger than father. He cares very little about very few things, but even he seems to care about this. A week ago he was as brash as ever. Today he is inconsolable. Even he is inconsolable.

So what’s wrong with me?

I have seen my sister cry. Many times. But not today. Today she locked herself in her room and refused to come out. Even when they set me up to get her she wouldn’t come out. After awhile father said let her be. Said that she'd be there after her own way.

She’ll be here. Perhaps she was. I was here and don’t really feel it. Did we switch places when I wasn't thinking?

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, concerned, but not for the reasons as everyone else. In a circle we sit, dower faces in black. Only I feel excluded, alone in the crowd.

Here is an interesting fact: last week my mother died. Again and again I have tried to think of it any other way, but those thoughts will not come. Instead, a notification: your mother is dead. Instead, an update: your mother has died. I process and understand, I know what death is. Yet why is it I whose eyes will not cry?

I begin to feel scared. Scared because I am not scared. Sad because I am not sad. If I cried now these tears would be mine, mine and all mine, for mine and my own. Two months ago I cut my fingers doing the dishes. A serrated knife. I couldn’t stop crying. Last week my mother died, and it merely registered as a change in the seasons.

What’s wrong with me? I’ll cry. I have to cry. I must cry.



Nothing.

I feel nothing.

I have felt nothing before, and it has never been so terrible a nothing as the nothing that holds me now.

Is this correct? Is this right? I loved her, didn’t I? I’ll miss her, won’t I? The answer is yes. Yes to everything. Yes to all. Still the tears will not come. Not even the inkling of tears.

Before me sits a glass of water. I drink it and scan for the rest of the family. My uncle and aunt sit somber in silence. My cousin sits anxious, her eyes shut tight. My grandfather’s chair is empty. He must be outside. Since grandma passed he prefers to be alone.

About a mile off the church there’s an outcrop of rock. It’s the only thing I can think of right now. It’s a harsh and constant thing, and when the waves rise up with the tide at its base it feels like you’re sitting on the edge of the world. Everyone knows about it, but I’m the only one who goes there. There are birds in the breeze and the faint smell of salt, and the waves cough and splinter in a tapestry of foam. The day mother died I went out there and stood. Stood alone, stood for hours, not sure what to think. At home all was chaos but here it was calm. Yet the comfort I felt could not tell me how to feel. I glance again about the room, and feel a stranger in a strange land.

I cared for her. I loved her. I know I loved her. And she loved me. She loved us all. So cry drat you cry drat it cry, cry, cry, cry.





Nothing.

Still nothing.

I’m as miserable a human being as ever there’s been. Far worse, I am sure. My tears are only ever my own.

From the cool of the room comes a warmth at my shoulder. I recognize that hand, those fingers, worn and familiar. I look up into my father’s eyes. Now more than ever I wish I could cry.

My father says nothing. Simply smiles, and massages my neck. I don’t know what to say. Father simply shakes his head. It looks like I don’t have to say anything.



No matter how fiercely the waves strike the rock, the rock does not break, but that doesn't mean it wasn't touched.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003


Rosie's Bench for the Lonely
995 Words


The scale said 351.3. Again. The fourth day in a row. It wouldn't budge. Rosie got off it and back on. Please? she begged. But it was the same, the same, the same. It's a process, she told herself. I'm okay the way I am. She got back into bed and had a little cry, but that didn't really help either. She shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and got up.

There was a little party at work. Congratulations to Grace, for being promoted to Senior Paralegal to the litigation section. She’d only been with Patterson & Patterson for three years, but she was a rising star, they said. Rosie smiled politely and stood as far from the cake as possible. She could smell the sugar, see pink little icing bows untying themselves, stretching into ribbons, weaving across the room, into her nostrils, up into her brain. Eat us, eat us, the sweet fairy voices sang. She congratulated Grace one more time and went back to her office. She had lots of emails to answer.

“Knock, Knock!” Grace said brightly pushing the office door open. “I brought you some cake!” She set an oversized piece of cake on top of the file Rosie was working on and beamed.

“Thanks Grace, but I really can’t have any—wedding diet, you know?” she picked up the plate and held it out to Grace. Grace didn’t take it.

“Aw, one little piece can’t hurt,” she said and winked. “Anyway, I was hoping you could help me out on the Castleionni binders. I’m kind of swamped at the moment.” She smiled expectantly.

Rosie wasn’t surprised by the request, Grace had been swamped a lot in her three years as a rising star at Patterson & Patterson and Rosie had always been willing to help her out.

“I’m sorry, Grace, but I can’t. I’m really busy. Maybe someone in the litigation section can help you out.”

“They’re all really busy, too. You know how much we value team players here at Patterson & Patterson,” Grace’s smile was growing nastier, but Rosie was tired of giving in. She wished dearly to point out how much of a team player Grace had been when she’d had to take time off for her father’s funeral. Play nice, she told herself. Spitefulness won’t get you anywhere. She set down the cake, since Grace still hadn’t taken it back.

“I’m going dress shopping,” Rosie blurted out. Grace’s smile changed again but it was still nasty.

“Oh how fun!” she practically squealed, “you’ll have to tell me all about it!” She wafted out the door as though buffeted by a gentle wind, leaving the cake on Rosie’s desk.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course she’d have to tell her all about it. And of course she couldn’t. She wasn’t going dress shopping today. She’d already been dress shopping with her Mother last weekend. And oh, the pitiful looks of the shop girls. And oh, the withering looks of all the skinny brides, in their orgasmic confections of white tulle and ribbons, gazing rapturously at their reflections, everyone kneeling around them in adoration. And the normal-fat brides, smiling at her with open relief that at least they weren’t the fattest. Five stores and not one had a dress that she could squeeze into. And the little shop girls would discretely write down an estimate for a custom dress, higher than the budget for the entire wedding. Rosie threw away the cake.

John did met for their walk in the park at lunch. He gave her a peck on the cheek and held her hand until it got too sweaty. They stopped to catch her breath on a bench overlooking a meadow where children were playing soccer. A ball bounced up to them and John caught it easily under his foot, holding it for the approaching kid. The kid looked at Rosie with open-mouthed disgust. John glared at him and kicked him the ball.

“Grosssss!” he yelled, running away. “There’s a huge fat lady up there!” He pointed as he passed the ball to a friend. They both looked back at her and ran off laughing.

“What the hell is wrong with kids these days?” John said. Rosie just shrugged. I’m too tired for this, she thought. She was surprised to find that she didn’t even feel like crying.

“I need to get back to the office, you ready?” John finally asked.

“No, I just want to sit here for a minute. It’s nice here,” she said. “You go, though.” He gave her another peck on the cheek and went.

Rosie sat on the bench and closed her eyes. She felt the sun on her face; she felt peaceful. She drifted into half-a-dream where the sun shone through her and into her. She felt her toes dig into the soft, cool dirt, twisting deeper and deeper. Her fingers grew longer, reaching out for air. She woke up and looked down. Her ankles were gnarled and woody, her toes, roots groping across and down into the ground. The twisting growth paused as she noticed it, questioning, hovering between flesh and wood. Rosie smiled and nodded to herself. She reached her arms high above her head and gave a great yawn. Her arms soared into strong branches and green leaves sprang open, singing to the light. She soaked it in and grew and grew. She grew tall and thick and strong. She grew over half the bench, but was careful to leave room for one person to sit next to her.

John came, a few times, and begged her to come back down, but she shook her leaves gently at him until he left. Many others came and sat next to her, and she let them rest in the shade, and did what she could to make them feel a little less lonely, a little less tired, a little more okay the way they were.

Some Strange Flea
Apr 9, 2010

AAA


Pillbug

And that's time! Now excuse me whilst my body tries to recover from St Patrick's.

Not gonna be easy.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW



http://forums.somethingawful.com/sh...hreadid=3491501

budgieinspector
Mar 24, 2006

According to my research,
these would appear to be
Budgerigars.



MORE DELINQUENT CRITS

Having to do these piecemeal for the time being. Will probably finish before the next stage in human evolution.


pug wearing a hat -- "Visitor"

You just seem to give up at the end.

HIM: [Expression of concern]
HER: [Sarcastic dip into exposition]
HIM: [Blows gasket, storms off]

If your word count was running high, you could've trimmed about 80% of the attributions and included some dialogue that would've made the transition much more smooth.

I like that you subverted the sentimental ending which you seemed to foreshadow; I just think you need to do it more gracefully.


WilliamAnderson -- "Inside Tears"

You've got the dissolution of a marriage, a political protest, and an assault... and yet the emotional register never blips above "Oh, well." You set up all of the components for a good story and somehow manage not to make adequate use of any of them. gently caress; at least make her care about the dog.


Benagain -- "Sitting"

I got stuck on the concept. Submarine fleet on maneuvers--why not throw on the autopilot and enact an existentialist vignette? Maybe I'm dense, but I'm not getting this one.

autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007



Fun Shoe


this...this is a thing of beauty

Some Strange Flea
Apr 9, 2010

AAA


Pillbug

"This week's Loser is Baudolino", he says, and the Dome chants in unison "yeah no loving poo poo". Kleptobot comes in at n-1th. "Sorry, bro"

Meanwhile, on the other end of the scale, we have Funky FANKY Malloons as our winner, with a gorgeous piece about death and flamingos, and Sitting Here comes in runner-up with Angry Shut-In Falls Over (Also Introducing: Seattle).

Malloons! You're up! Have fun!

Some Strange Flea fucked around with this message at Mar 19, 2013 around 15:35

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


Some Strange Flea posted:

"This week's Loser is Baudolino", he says, and the Dome chants in unison "yeah no loving poo poo". Kleptobot comes in at n-1th. "Sorry, bro"

Meanwhile, on the other end of the scale, we have Funky Malloons as our winner, with a gorgeous piece about death and flamingos, and Sitting Here comes in runner-up with Angry Shut-In Falls Over (Also Introducing: Seattle).

Malloons! You're up! Have fun!

Excellent, now I can pretend that the reason I haven't been participating lately is not because I'm a lazy jerk, but because I wanted to give other people a chance to win

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


Fanky Malloons posted:

Excellent, now I can pretend that the reason I haven't been participating lately is not because I'm a lazy jerk, but because I wanted to give other people a chance to win
What is a loving malloon anyway?

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


A balloon

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


Martello posted:

A balloon

Dammit Martello, I was going to change my username to something else entirely so that everyone in the thread who has asked me that at some point looks dumb AND YOU RUINED IT.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


Ah well, there will be another time.

HellishWhiskers
Mar 29, 2012

She was an awkward girl


The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > Creative Convention > Thunderdome '13 - The blood the blood blo..

Some Strange Flea
Apr 9, 2010

AAA


Pillbug

Here's something.

Jeza - Speak or Hold Your Peace
Liking the sense of tone and place. Didn't really feel for the framing to start with but it grew on me and I like the implications of a possible unreliable narrator. I think it came through fairly well that he might have been Peter's father throughout, so the direct quote "He's my son" is a little blunt.

systran - Danny's Last Stand
A PUA pretends to be military to pick up The One Correct Racist and then the plane gets hijacked. It doesn't have a strong feeling of fear or urgency given what's happening. I like what you tell us about what Danny does but the entire mood of the hijack just feels sterile. Even the terrorists are amorphous blobs of antagonism. "Come out immediately", "Come out immediately", "Return to your seat immediately", these things do not have the fury of a religious zealot behind them, they sound like hungover air stewards. Not feeling this one.

Steriletom - Doubt
A nice take on the Doubting Thomas story, but the flow's broken a little bit here and there. Oddly placed comma in "drug addled whore", not sure if "wondered" is a mistype of "wandered", fleeing the house and then Jerusalem feels abrupt and should perhaps be expanded into a couple of sentences, "succor" and "surcease" seem like obscure words for their own sake although I might just be deflecting my own ignorance here. But, you set the scene of bickering disciples really well. Good work.

Baudolino - Rural Rentboys
The Year is 2013.
Creative Convention,Something Awful, Internet, a 20ty year old boy is reading an abonend post. The shitcovered"Rural Rentboys"story beneath the title is barely redable,

I like how you set up the bunker, a place where love is made and important work is done, as a parallel to the bum. They're gay men, hehe.

You get the tiniest of slivers of credit for taking on Nubile Hillock's flash rule for some insane reason. I guess it was the comically evil Janitor's letting them steal the wheel was what hit the main prompt? Who cares. Awful.

Flea stepped back and gave Baudolino a huge grin-

HaitianDivorce - The Skies Watched Back
Sweary stressed out Jesus will never not appeal to me. Not sure whether the hit for the main prompt is the non-explosion of the planet or just Jesus’ character but both work well. Biggest issue is that because its established right off the bat that everyone’s sweary, the word “Christ” immediately has a double meaning, takes me out of it a little. Really fun stuff though.

Nubile Hillock - heartache/lockjaw
Alright, I’m still not really sure on this. It feels like a hazy half-memory of events, places and people and that seems to be the tone that you're going for. It’s like any time I think of something I don’t like about the story, I think “well that looks like the point” even up to the fact that at the end I’m just left a bit confused. Are the two stories contradictory, do they even involve the same people, did they even happen? There are a lot of questions. I don't know the answers. I do care though, so that's something.

Erogenous Beef - Coup
Relevance to the prompt is kind of token but it does inform a little bit about what Harrison is like. Found the back and forth in and out of Milk’s house to be a little unclear at times and wound up not being quite sure who was who, which made the ending a little weird first time. But I think the story is interesting and the twist is properly set up so that’s cool. Maybe needs a little work making the events a little clearer and making the characters more distinct.

pug wearing a hat - Death of the Author
No-one would ever say the phrase “original model PS2, the model they discontinued because it kept overheating”, not even in a conversation about the PS2. Overall its just not particularly interesting. A few nice touches of detail here and there but more noticeable lack, maybe because of the first-person perspective? Things like walking in on a naked dude perhaps warrant a little more of a reaction than “Aaaah, what the hell,”.

Echo Cian - Turncoat
Pretty literal interpretation of the prompt but okay! Good, solid descriptions but actual story was just kind of straightforward and not overly interesting.

CancerCakes - Nothing Bet
Had me right up to “metal bumblebee on steroids leapt and careened around”, which is just way too much. There’s excitement but this is just over the top. Shame, because I did like the opening cockroach => invertebrate => spineless metaphor at the start, even if it was a bit blunt.

Kaishai - It Is The Last
There’s a historical context I’m not familiar with here. Maybe I’m just dense. The story to me just seems like “stuff happens”. There doesn’t seem to be a particularly strong thread running through it. Communicates the feeling of one of a group feeling dedicated to their work pretty well but I don’t get what I’m supposed to take from the middle of it. He’s excited to be working on this thing but then he’s worried for two lines that he might not be able to finish it but then its fine? I dunno.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Fanky Malloons posted:

Dammit Martello, I was going to change my username to something else entirely so that everyone in the thread who has asked me that at some point looks dumb AND YOU RUINED IT.

angel opportunity
Sep 7, 2004

Total Eclipse of the Heart

quote:

The One Correct Racist

In my mind, the guy with the turban wasn't one of the hijackers; he was just a Sheikh that Sara misidentified as Muslim. I probably should have included him as being killed in the fighting to make that clear.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Nubile Hillock posted:

this...this is a thing of beauty

Best part is this book is actually being made. Once I get my two or three copies, one will be available to borrow from my commander's library in my company headquarters.

Updated the weeks of Thunderdome post.

And Noah, you wanna duel after you're done with the small hill of marriageable age, just let me know. Pick the judge and number of rounds.

pug wearing a hat
May 29, 2012

please allow me to introduce myself i'm a man of wealth and taste


Goddamn my entry was garbage. Next time I'm limiting myself to no more than 50% dialogue. (Maybe 25% if I'm feeling crazy)

autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007



Fun Shoe

Some Strange Flea posted:


Nubile Hillock - heartache/lockjaw
Alright, I’m still not really sure on this. It feels like a hazy half-memory of events, places and people and that seems to be the tone that you're going for. It’s like any time I think of something I don’t like about the story, I think “well that looks like the point” even up to the fact that at the end I’m just left a bit confused. Are the two stories contradictory, do they even involve the same people, did they even happen? There are a lot of questions. I don't know the answers. I do care though, so that's something.


I'm taking this one to the farm when I can drink again. I wanted a story that was repetitive and cyclical, with a narrator that would turn out completely unreliable. It was looking good for a while but then time and wordcount

Martello posted:

Best part is this book is actually being made. Once I get my two or three copies, one will be available to borrow from my commander's library in my company headquarters.


Let me know when it's up for sale, I need a copy.

autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at Mar 19, 2013 around 21:50

autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007



Fun Shoe

edit: double post (what have I done!?)

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

So here's a thing. I got this sweet av from kicking a lot of asses in the last incarnation of the Thunderdome thread. But now I'm suffering beneath the weight of my forums avatar's legacy due to constantly falling short of victory.

So I'm putting the drat thing on the line. I want to brawl someone, and if I lose, I will buy myself whatever cruel/sophomoric avatar the victor wants. Or whatever.

Anyway COME FIGHT ME YOU BASTARDS.

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


This is what happens when you don't get a prompt out in time. Looking at you Fanky.

Also at Jeza, so he can set up round 2 for me and Nubile.


Martello, I will take you up on that brawl. 3 rounds, 1000 word count. I will send out PMs to people who would like to judge.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


Noah posted:

This is what happens when you don't get a prompt out in time. Looking at you Fanky.

Hey. Noah.



WEEK 33: THE IDES OF MARX

Alright, bitches, I'm already tired of reading your sorry efforts at storytelling, so this week we're cutting the wordcount in half, at least. You have a 500 word hard maximum; however, my fellow judges and I want to make it known that those who submit tight pieces in less than 500 words will be looked upon more favourably than those who use up the whole limit.

Since you're going to be working with a more restrictive word count than usual, the prompt is fairly open - you must use the following quote as inspiration, and your entry must have a clear narrative arc. No stream of consciousness bullshit, kthx.
"The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living."~ Karl Marx

The idea here is to challenge you to say more with less, but still tell a good story. Write me some really loving efficient prose, yo.

Sign-up deadline: 11:59 AM EST (AKA NOON), FRIDAY, MARCH 22
Submission deadline: 11:59 PM EST (AKA MIDNIGHT), SATURDAY, MARCH 23

Your judges this week are the following righteous bitches: Me, SittingHere, Kaishai

Supplicants:
Erik-Shawn Bohner
HiddenGecko
BlackFrost
JuniperCake
Noah (FR: 400 words)
SpaceGodzilla
Dr. Klocktopussy
HaitianDivorce
ErogenousBeef
Nubile Hillock (BEEF JERKY)
pug wearing a hat
Systran
CancerCakes (SFR: 15%/75 words = dialogue)
Sebmojo (BEEF JERKY)
Jeza
steriletom
SpaceGodzilla
Down With People
fumblemouse
Baggy_Brad
livethepostmetal
Will Styles

Fanky Malloons fucked around with this message at Mar 22, 2013 around 16:55

HiddenGecko
Apr 15, 2007

You think I'm really going
to read this shit?


In.

dreadmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk

Noah posted:

This is what happens when you don't get a prompt out in time. Looking at you Fanky.

Also at Jeza, so he can set up round 2 for me and Nubile.


Martello, I will take you up on that brawl. 3 rounds, 1000 word count. I will send out PMs to people who would like to judge.

Make it a one and done. Multi stage brawls poo poo up the dome, especially as blood is in the water right now.

BlackFrost
Feb 6, 2008

Have you figured it out yet?


It's been a long time like three weeks, Dome. I've been itchin' for some hurtin', so I'm back for more.

In.

JuniperCake
Jan 26, 2013


In.

I am terrible at economical(good) prose. I look forward to my inevitable evisceration.

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


sebmojo posted:

Make it a one and done. Multi stage brawls poo poo up the dome, especially as blood is in the water right now.

So it goes.


Sorry Nubile, I'm trading up for a different model.


Martello, I nominate Twinkle Cave if he's still reading the thread. Otherwise, whoever wants to step in is good with me.

Also, in.

SpaceGodzilla
Sep 24, 2012

I sure hope Godzilla-senpai notices me~


I said I'd check out the Thunderdome, and by God I'm signing up before I come to my senses. In.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003


In for the dead

HaitianDivorce
Jul 29, 2012


First draft's done and under the limit. Think that means I'm in.

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart


In.

dreadmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk

Sitting Here posted:

So here's a thing. I got this sweet av from kicking a lot of asses in the last incarnation of the Thunderdome thread. But now I'm suffering beneath the weight of my forums avatar's legacy due to constantly falling short of victory.

So I'm putting the drat thing on the line. I want to brawl someone, and if I lose, I will buy myself whatever cruel/sophomoric avatar the victor wants. Or whatever.

Anyway COME FIGHT ME YOU BASTARDS.

SOMEONE BETTER PICK UP THIS GAUNTLET OR SO HELP ME YOU WILL ALL PAY

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW


I'd do it, but I threatened to make her take a picture of her bulldog face and turn it into her avatar. I'd probably be permabanned for making everyone look at something so NMS.

Erik Shawn-Bohner fucked around with this message at Mar 20, 2013 around 10:10

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Jeza
Feb 13, 2011

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


I'll take you on Sitting.

In a place without internet though, so my prompt checking may be sporadic.

EDIT: Also find it interesting you found the father-son punchline coming, cos when I wrote it, I wrote it with him not being the father at all. Writing is weird, yo.

Jeza fucked around with this message at Mar 20, 2013 around 10:44

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