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God Over Djinn
Jan 17, 2005

onwards and upwards



Is there any precedent for an entry getting a DQ and a loss at the same time?

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Entenzahn
Nov 15, 2012

What will you say when
your child asks:
why did you fail Thunderdome?


tbf I think Sithsaber should keep his avatar since it also serves as a public warning. If you had a Sithsaber in your thread, you'd want to know it too.

Kaishai
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

God Over Djinn posted:

Is there any precedent for an entry getting a DQ and a loss at the same time?

Sort of. One entry received a loss in part for being submitted three days after entries closed. Nothing bars the door to the losertar save for the mercy of judges.

Sithsaber
Apr 8, 2014

by Ion Helmet


God Over Djinn posted:

Is there any precedent for an entry getting a DQ and a loss at the same time?

I thought we were allowed to edit. Here's a absolutely new brawl work. 1900 words

quote:


The way I've usually spent my summers has always been different from the way it’s usually spent by others. Where I live its summer year round; the weather stays hot 9 months out of the year (not to mention the odd winter Monday that sees temperatures fluxuate from 40% to 85% Fahrenheit)  and  vacationers perpetually flock to our crappy little attractions. There is basically nothing to do here besides take an hour’s drive to Disney World to watch bored Brazilian families try to bond over rides I’ve ridden a thousand times. I might also drive west or east for a while until I hit an overcrowded beach, but after a while a person realizes that a weekly ogling of bikini babes isn’t worth the overwhelming likelihood of developing skin cancer. Unlike most people, I have too much access to vapid frivolity.

This year I want the opposite of that. This year I want to drink in a little culture. I’m tired of lying about in the same heat I always lie in, except in these summer months I have to lie besides roasting Canadians and the lowest of the low.(otherwise known as wealthy New Jersians) I want to venture out and see something old that isn’t a Spanish slave fort or a memorial to the Confederacy. I want to go to the Grand Canyon.

 

The Grand Canyon: America’s greatest natural wonder. The Grand Canyon: the antithesis of gaudy hotels owned by Mickey Mouse that people like me are forced to work in. The Grand Canyon: one of the few places left where a man can just clear his mind and lose himself in the empty vistas of nature’s empty space. The Grand Canyon: opposite of lush, opposite of commercial and opposite of Florida.

This is the first year I can afford to go somewhere alone. My sister offered to share the bill and come along with me, an offer I was quick to deny. “I won’t be making any stops”, I said with an awkward smile. “You wouldn’t have fun with me driving day and night."That wasn’t even a lie necessarily; after consulting my trusty map app, my meager back account, and the tiny amount of unpaid vacation hours my boss had begrudgingly given me, I’ve realized that the only way I can actually get to my destination and back is if I get there without wasting time on luxuries like motels or looks at Americana or any disruptions of any kind aside from the occasional pit stop.

 

I’m looking forward to being alone on this journey. Three hours on the highway and I’m still excited at the prospect of uninterruptedly enjoying the countryside.  The road stretches on and on through nothing but the Florida boondocks that the interstate cuts through; it’s good to take in the serenity of the land while I listen to my music and catch passing glimpses of my fellow travelers.

 

It’s kind of funny making eye contact with these people.  So many hours with nothing to do have led me to start analyzing strangers via a passing glance. Five seconds is all I need to figure out the mindsets of most: Some like me are enjoying the ride and sticking their heads out to smell the clean country air; others are up to their necks in anxious children and can’t hide the glint in their eyes that comes with imagining shutting them up by crashing into a ditch. One guy looked so miserable sitting with his nagging wife that I could have sworn he was about to jump out of his moving truck and plead that I mercifully crush his neck with my front tires.

 

My little game is interrupted by the wreck in me. I don’t have time to see if the drivers are alright; my car isn’t the only one driving seventy-five mph tonight.  I wouldn’t be anxious to do so if I could anyway anyway.  Their problems aren’t my problems; my only problem right now is deciding when to pull over for a drink and when to pull over to take a leak. I don’t need to worry about strangers. I’m by myself; no-one’s weighing me down with their needs and inadequacies. . Later on, when I see an old man with his grandson pushing a stalled sedan, I can’t help feeling some guilt for not pulling over to help them. I may still feel a little bad leaving them, but passing shame isn’t enough to get in the way of my good time. Nothing is.

 

I got a flat half way through Louisiana. I had pulled off the interstate to get a burger when a freaking possum decided to cross the backwoods road I was then driving on. Swerving away from the wood-rat like the city slicking idiot that I am, I hit a curb and smashed both my bumper and the Smartphone I had been charging on the dashboard. When I got out to check the dent, I was too distracted by the thought of 18 hours of having to listen to country music to think about checking on the small but steady hiss coming from one of the left tires.

 

I noticed the wheel deflating a couple minutes after I left Burger King. I also noticed that I had forgotten to bring a spare. This was bad; not only was I probably the sole Hispanic stranded in the middle of crackercounty, I was an idiot who didn’t even  have a phone and would have to go walking in the dark through someplace I didn’t know to find some help I couldn’t  afford straight away. I never doubted that there weren’t some ATM’s in the back skirts of Baton Rouge, but with my luck at the time I was convinced that I’d never find one. Fortunately I wouldn’t need to.

A mud covered chevy pulled up behind me around a mile into my trek. As someone who associates the South with Forest Gump and Mississipi Burning, my immediate thought when the driver called out to me was to sprint into the woods and hide  until the Klan got bored of the idea of a lynching. Instead I decided to meet my movie death head-on by turning around and heading towards the mystery truck’s headlights. “Was that your car back there?” the stranger (who introduced himself as Travis) asked with a kind smile, throwing off my expectations of the dimwitted movie villain that I was expecting to meet.

 

Travis’ camo t-shirt and slight drawl couldn’t mask how far and beyond common decency he went with all the things he did to help me. Easy to be around and a far better conversationalist than I’ll ever be, he sacrificed his free time in the middle of the night to patch up and replace my busted tire free of charge, which was a kindness to strangers I know I’d never do. Now that he’s helped me on my way I regret not bringing people like him along on this vacation. It’s good to be around good people, especially people who talk enough to eliminate the need for these lovely radio stations.  I pity the bumpkins who can only tune into Arkansas NPR.

 

Now’s not the time to get lonely though. Realizing the drawbacks to being alone on the road may have been an ordeal, but it isn’t enough to make me turn back around.  The reason I went on this trip was to understand what it meant to be by myself; I can survive a few more days of tedium.  Besides, its not like the journey is more important than the destination. My sacrifices will be worth it once I get to the Grand Canyon.


God, I hate the Grand Canyon.  For three hours I’d been stuck in the congested traffic jam that led into the park (which the jabbering vacationer on the phone next to me insisted was a “queue” instead of a line) and now that I’m in I immediately want to leave. A tourist attraction this massive should have at least something to do. Yes I wanted some quiet contemplation, but after all the miles it took me to get here, I was thinking that I could at least go bungee jumping or something once I was done meditating.

 

Instead I’m staring at a rocky hole in the ground with an overly sociable Midwesterner father  to keep me company. He means well: I’m grateful that he shared his meal with me while making memories with his kids, but his bland monologues about college football and nature are driving me insane enough to go ahead and throw myself off a cliff, which lucky for me is only a minute or two away. I envy his kids; not because they have a great father (which I’m sure they do) but because they can turn up their iPods to drown out the droning nothingness that he passes off as speech.

 

There is nothing to do here. The air is dry and dusty, the land is parched and cracking and the multitude of middle aged sightseers take up every piece of shade and fill it with their incessant small talk. Evolution didn’t mean me to visit here; without the humidity of the Caribbean my lungs have shriveled up and are ready to explode. The wind has also turned against me, and when it’s not making me wheeze it’s searing my face with projectile sunburn. I probably only have minutes before this alien environment finishes me off.

 

“What you gotta understand about the senate is” Oh my God, I’m gonna jump. If this guy keeps talking I’m gonna walk up to that giant boring rear end hole in the ground and savor the freeing bliss of my body hitting its  bottom with a tiny echoing crunch. That being said, his company is better than nothing.  I have to have something to pay attention to aside from the “natural wonder” these yahoos keep gawking at. Even if I brought a thousand friends the tediousness of this over glorified ditch would still compel me to end my life.

 

 I’ve obviously made a mistake coming here.  I’m not capable of introspection.I need to leave. I need excitement, I need stimulus and I need Florida. Florida: The Sunshine State. Florida: where retirees go to die and refugees come looking for a better life. Florida: the melting pot where people of every ethnicity and tax bracket are never too far apart, and where places to entertain them are never too far away. I’d give anything for a movie theater or even a retention pond to remind me of it and make me forget that could I’m stuck in this desert.

 

On the return trip (which I’m starting right now) I’ll have to decide what I’ll do first once I get back. A day riding roller coasters or hanging out on the pier should wash this Canyon’s taste of dust and monotony out of my mouth. I can’t believe I got sick of too many sources of fun.  I’ll never leave home again.


 

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

Behold my brain the golden throne of my consciousness. In here I am seated. Shackled. From here I police the land.



QuoProQuid posted:

are you for real

did you just self-plagarize, insert fan fiction, go over the word limit, and self-quote in the same post

anime was right
Jun 27, 2008

death is certain
keep yr cool


QuoProQuid posted:



are you for real

did you just self-plagarize, insert fan fiction, go over the word limit, and self-quote in the same post

holy fuk lol

Sithsaber
Apr 8, 2014

by Ion Helmet



What the hell is self plagiarism, and where is it against the rules? And that's not fan fiction, that's just disembodied voices.


Focus on the brawl if I should be disqualified.

Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 17:16 on Jul 18, 2014

Number 36
Jul 5, 2007

Keep it up, kid! Gimmie a smoochie smooch!

If you want a critique of your work you can get it in another thread man, you don't have to try to repurpose this one (not to mention your writing)

Also, the problem with claiming your work as original after previous work was proven not to be just minutes earlier is that no one will believe you

Kaishai
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

Sithsaber posted:

I thought we were allowed to edit.

For future reference, we aren't. From the OP:

Sitting Here posted:

It’s important to note that once you’ve posted your story, the time for edits is over. Use the preview button, for god’s sake. Stories that have been edited will be disqualified.

Sithsaber
Apr 8, 2014

by Ion Helmet


Kaishai posted:

For future reference, we aren't. From the OP:

I thought that meant that you couldn't edit submissions after they were posted. That's why I didn't improve the duck rap.

God Over Djinn
Jan 17, 2005

onwards and upwards


Sithsaber posted:

What the hell is self plagiarism, and where is it against the rules?

If you don't want to do the work, then why would you bother entering? We don't give out prizes.

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

Behold my brain the golden throne of my consciousness. In here I am seated. Shackled. From here I police the land.



Sithsaber posted:

What the hell is self plagiarism, and where is it against the rules? And that's not fan fiction, that's just disembodied voices.


Focused on the brawl if I should be disqualified.

Have you considered that when you enter a weekly writing exercise it is to hone your writing skills and not dump old stuff you have written on unsuspecting people. In addition, it's way over the word limit and likely doesn't meet the prompt.

Also dude you refer to some adventure thing cartoon in this pool of word vomit out of nowhere and I really don't know what to say.

Sithsaber
Apr 8, 2014

by Ion Helmet


God Over Djinn posted:

If you don't want to do the work, then why would you bother entering? We don't give out prizes.

Input on story changes (the prompt was insanely close to what I was meaning to edit) and the brawl kind of took up more time than I thought it would. Although I still am saying that I didn't know "self plagiarism" was against the rules, I'll avoid doing so in the future.

Gau
Nov 18, 2003

I don't think you understand, Gau.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8PyTo6NyXA

Sithsaber
Apr 8, 2014

by Ion Helmet


The Saddest Rhino posted:

Have you considered that when you enter a weekly writing exercise it is to hone your writing skills and not dump old stuff you have written on unsuspecting people. In addition, it's way over the word limit and likely doesn't meet the prompt.

Also dude you refer to some adventure thing cartoon in this pool of word vomit out of nowhere and I really don't know what to say.

1. It was 22 words over

2. The voices were in the dream

3. The only thing that some people may say that wasn't checked off was depression, although I did edit a few sentences in about that. I could pull it down and just leave the brawl up.

God Over Djinn
Jan 17, 2005

onwards and upwards


Sithsaber posted:

Input on story changes (the prompt was insanely close to what I was meaning to edit) and the brawl kind of took up more time than I thought it would. Although I still am saying that I didn't know "self plagiarism" was against the rules, I'll avoid doing so in the future.

Thunderdome isn't the kind of place that has a list of rules. If you want to know what's acceptable versus what'll get you laughed out of the thread, and the obvious answer ('don't waste peoples' time') isn't doing it for you, try reading for a few weeks before you post again.

Sithsaber
Apr 8, 2014

by Ion Helmet



My brawl piece will still kick your brawl piece's rear end

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

Behold my brain the golden throne of my consciousness. In here I am seated. Shackled. From here I police the land.



Sithsaber posted:

1. It was 22 words over

2. The voices were in the dream

3. The only thing that some people may say that wasn't checked off was depression, although I did edit a few sentences in about that. I could pull it down and just leave the brawl up.

:lol: The last time someone tried to rulelawyer me, I had her grounded and did not allow her to watch Frozen for the fourth time that evening. She's also 9, and my niece.

PS: you still broke them regardless.

PPS: I'm an IRL legal professional btw.

QuoProQuid
Jan 12, 2012

Tr*ckin' and F*ckin' all the way to tha
T O P



Sithsaber posted:

What the hell is self plagiarism, and where is it against the rules? And that's not fan fiction, that's just disembodied voices.


Focus on the brawl if I should be disqualified.

"Just as researchers do not present the work of others as their own (plagiarism), they do not present their own previously published work as new scholarship (self-plagiarism)... When the duplicated words are limited in scope, this approach is permissible. When duplication of one's own words is more extensive, citation of the duplicated words should be the norm. When feasible, all of the author's own words that are cited should be located in a single paragraph or a few paragraphs, with a citation at the end of each."

American Psychological Association. (2010). Publication manual of the American Psychological Association. Washington.

QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 20:17 on Jul 18, 2014

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.






Sithsaber posted:

1. It was 22 words over

"Officer, I was only going 22 miles over the speed limit!"

"Why you being a little bitch, I only stole 22 dollars out of your wallet!"

"Honey, I only slept with 20 women besides you. Oh, and 2 men."

Mercedes fucked around with this message at 17:32 on Jul 18, 2014

Number 36
Jul 5, 2007

Keep it up, kid! Gimmie a smoochie smooch!

The Saddest Rhino posted:

PPS: I'm an IRL legal professional btw.

Slow down, champ

The amount of validation you're giving this guy is more than required

Sithsaber
Apr 8, 2014

by Ion Helmet


Mercedes posted:

"Officer, I was only going 22 miles over the speed limit!"

"Why you being a little bitch, I only stole 22 dollars out of your wallet!"

"Honey, I only slept with 20 women besides you. Oh, and 2 men."

So I should be fined, not given five years. I may be wrong, but I thought going over or significantly under the limit led to word penalties which over time would lead to more word penalties.

I'm probably wrong though

(USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)

HopperUK
Apr 29, 2007

Why would an ambulance be leaving the hospital?

Now now, it's not fair to ask him to chop 22 words out of his brilliant masterpiece. Would you chop 22 body parts off a baby? Think about it.

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.






Sithsaber posted:

So I should be fined, not given five years. I may be wrong, but I thought going over or significantly under the limit led to word penalties which over time would lead to more word penalties.

I'm probably wrong though

"Officer, I was only going 22 miles over the speed limit!"
"Next time be careful son. You are hereby penalized 25 miles per hour. If you're in a 10 miles per hour zone, you better be going in reverse."

"Honey, I only slept with 20 women besides you. Oh, and 2 men."
"My heart is broken. If you want this marriage to work out, your new infidelity limit is 5 women and 1 man."


That is how dumb you sound right now. Word limits are there for a reason. You break them at your own peril. You would know that word penalties are not a thing if you would have lurked a little bit more or read the drat OP.

You've been told to read the OP many times, yet every time you smash your face on the keyboard I get this burning sensation behind the eyes that tells me you haven't.

Read the OP

Ausmund
Jan 24, 2007

THUNDERDOME LOSER

In for the bingo.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002


I legit would be fired, kicked out of my program, and never allowed back in Academia if I self-plagiarized.

Do you realize that all of these issues, indeed EVERY issue you've had so far would be solved by you using reading comprehension and common sense instead of just rushing to mash the post button? jesus gently caress.

edit: what the gently caress is a word penalty? and where the hell did you arrive at that conclusion?

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME







:siren: Flash Geis :siren:

Sithsaber is now anathema. So help me, if I see anyone responding to him in this thread once he's off probation, I will close the thread and y'all can go start a big kerfuffle with the mods.

Judges, you can DQ/declare him loser as you see fit, but honestly I think much like with the proverbial drunk stranger who stumbles into your campsite, it's better to ignore him until he stumbles off.

I didn't care about it in the FA thread, but Sithsaber has worn out his value as an entertaining sideshow in Thunderdome.

Sithsaber, piss off until you can post like a normal person. You're just providing endless fodder for mockery and it's embarrassing.

D.O.G.O.G.B.Y.N.
Dec 31, 2011

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Throwing in la serviette for this weekend & toxxing myself and such next time.

D.O.G.O.G.B.Y.N. fucked around with this message at 01:25 on Jul 19, 2014

PoshAlligator
Jan 9, 2012

When SEO just isn't enough.


Here is my Thunderdome entry. It's pretty early as I've got other stuff I've got to do, but I put a decent amount of time into it, more than some other entries. I actually kind of like it even if everyone else probably won't.

I hope it's okay that I've withheld my five BINGO selections until the end. I thought it would be better to give the option of going in blind, but feel free to scroll down and look if you want to, it won't make me sad.

---

The Fate of the Tale of Black Jesus (almost titled "The Curse of the Tale of Black Jesus")
(1202 Words)

Google Drive link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UqFEeWs7MJN3RYzWHI3MB7TJjrK-44pihtf_dZ7kUNw/edit?usp=sharing

Sithsaber
Apr 8, 2014

by Ion Helmet


Sitting Here posted:

:siren: Flash Geis :siren:

Sithsaber is now anathema. So help me, if I see anyone responding to him in this thread once he's off probation, I will close the thread and y'all can go start a big kerfuffle with the mods.

Judges, you can DQ/declare him loser as you see fit, but honestly I think much like with the proverbial drunk stranger who stumbles into your campsite, it's better to ignore him until he stumbles off.

I didn't care about it in the FA thread, but Sithsaber has worn out his value as an entertaining sideshow in Thunderdome.

Sithsaber, piss off until you can post like a normal person. You're just providing endless fodder for mockery and it's embarrassing.

That's fair. I might not have gotten theop of this thread, but that shouldn't have stopped me from reading the op's of its antecedents. If I ever do another of these, I will wait to the last possible day to sign up and hopefully post at the same time to avoid controversy. You don't have to read what I write.

Ps.
@Gau,

Don't use this shaming to run away from our brawl. I may have done the ultimate no-no in the bingo competition, but you were lazy this week as well. With my final thunderdome post I mock how you have abandoned your challenge. Beat me (and you undoubtedly will most likely) with honor.

Self flaggelating with shame,
Sithsaber

(USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)

Fuschia tude
Dec 26, 2004

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2019



Entenzahn posted:

:siren: Pootietude Chaos & Order Brawl :siren:

Step 1: Pick a painting by M.C. Escher
Step 2: Use it as inspiration for your story
Step 3: Write your story so I can understand what is going on
Step 4: Stop at maximum 2.000 words (if you waste them I will be so mad)
Step 5: Edit, proofread, submit, don't forget your picture

Special rules:
PootieTang must send me his draft 24-72 hours before the deadline. If I find a ton of errors, they better not be in the final story.
Fuschia tude's story must present a problem in the beginning, and resolve it by the end.

Deadline:
Sunday, July 27th, 23.59 CEST

Awesome, I always liked Escher. By "painting", I assume you mean "print".

Thanks!

Phobia
Apr 25, 2011

I'm a suave detective with a heart of gold in hot pursuit of the malevolent, manipulative
MIAMI MUTILATOR
and the deranged degenerates who only want their
15 MINUTES OF FAME.


OCK.


Hello I will be your Tyrannosaurus this evening.

:siren: SIGN UPS ARE CLOSED :siren:

even though every goon in goon land signed up this week.

Phobia
Apr 25, 2011

I'm a suave detective with a heart of gold in hot pursuit of the malevolent, manipulative
MIAMI MUTILATOR
and the deranged degenerates who only want their
15 MINUTES OF FAME.


OCK.


Apparently someone signed up during that massive trainwreck. Let's never speak of it again.

Ausmund posted:

In for the bingo.



Considering handing out some free spaces. Not sure, sign-ups are over but whatever, I'm still up, you up?

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME







Eh? What's all this, then?




Guys, we're well over 2 MILLION words, in just under two years. To put things in perspective, we're just 1,262,822 words away from writing the equivalent of the Malazan Book of the Fallen.

Steve Erikson wrote three million, three hundred and ten thousand words of windbaggery. I challenge you, Thunderdome, to write at least 3,310,001 words by (around) August 3rd, 2015.

:getin:

Alpacalips Now
Oct 4, 2013


Cruelty 1198 words

Rae dreamed one night that her wife Marisole had never fallen victim to a respirator unsuitable for invasive atmospheres. She was leading her on a chase through a space station, bounding and racing through the corridors while Rae ducked in and out of side passages and tiny chambers, giddy at the thought of popping out of a lucky door and cornering her. Finally, Rae dropped from a vent and trapped Marisole at an airlock. When Marisole talked, she may have said something delightful, Rae could not remember; but she spoke in her flat, unsexed prosthetic voice. The disgusting detail spilled over the dream. The airlock tilted and whirled away at a sickening angle, and Rae turned to flee but could not.

Rae awoke and glared at her bunk's display's ticking time app, letting her disgust subside into numbness until sleep almost found her again. After stretching her calves and rotating her neck and wrists, she activated the display. A bulletin proclaimed that Adam Dominguez, the Highwayman, had been captured by station rangers in the early morning and would be executed at 00:00.

The Highwayman, captured alive! She envisioned grizzled rangers cornering him on some abandoned asteroid and stunning him, while suspecting it had been a mere treachery.

One great question remained, and it made her tingle with hope. Were his organic tissues still up for grabs? She rose from bed and in her cabin's ambient light, donned her jumpsuit. It was 05:24. She hurried through the corridors to the hospital deck, dodging maintenance workers and cleaners, and then to Marisole's suite, a chamber she shared with three other long-term patients. Rae awoke Marisole with her usual tap on either cheek.

“You're so early,” she said, her prosthetic voice modulated too loud for a pre-breakfast hour.

Another patient stirred. Rae offered her wife a hand. She took it and lifted herself from bed, then adjusted her abdominal brace and followed her into the passage. Rae smiled.

“We could get you a new trachea,” she said.

Her respiratory system's cells were too damaged and risk-prone to be duplicated. Their insurance was nowhere close to paying the cost of a donor or a farmed organ. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

“There's an execution at midnight. I want to put a bid on the tissue.”

Marisole softened her voice by pressing on the side of her neck.

“The triad buys everything. They're everywhere in this station now.”

“I'll go to the triad.”

“They don't know you. They don't know me. Rae, this is dangerous.”

“Remember when I installed the pipes in their new spa?”

“God, you're stupid. Don't get mixed up in this. Aiya, I want to go back to sleep.”

At that, Rae curled her lip and seized her wife's hand. As a rebuke about how stubborn and pessimistic she was coalesced on Rae's tongue, Marisole spoke.

“Forget about this,” she said in her flat voice. “Things could get better someday. Our insurance could upgrade.”

Marisole squeezed her hand and her gaze dropped. Before the accident, she might have started crying. But having already endured tribulation Rae could only imagine, she merely shrugged.

“I won't forget it,” Rae said.

Marisole raised her chin and kissed her. The sour, clinical taste of her wife's saliva marinated in her mouth as Rae returned to her cabin to equip herself for the day. She hurried to first breakfast, drank her nutriblend. The hall, often subdued during first breakfast, buzzed. Every display played footage of the Highwayman's exploits. Rae, a second breakfast woman, knew none of the people sitting by her, and no conversations delayed her mission. She left the hall and followed the inner ring corridor to the sector where the triad held court. To Rae, nothing had seemed sinister about the sector. Its lighting, structures and decoration suggested nothing to her. But she had seen many pass through with fidgeting hands and backward glances. Now she entered the sector as a petitioner and felt dread.

A year ago, she had installed plumbing in Mr. Bai's flagship spa. She walked inside and asked the attendant when Mr. Bai would be available for an audience. The attendant vanished behind a curtain, and a big man with a purple scar on his neck replaced her. After Rae told him each detail about her intentions several times, he led her to a small, screened chamber where Mr. Bai sat a sofa before a red tea service. He wore a plain robe, and his tattooed skin had a flush that suggested a recent bath. He motioned for Rae to sit on the cushion opposite him.

“Good morning,” he said. “I remember you. You did fine work building the pipes here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bai.”

He poured two cups of tea. Rae shifted, unsure if she should take the first sip, or give the privilege to her host. Mr. Bai sipped the tea.

“Your finances worry me,” he said. “I accessed your records and found several loans. Your job does not pay poorly, but it does not pay well. Your wife is on disability. But money is not everything.”

Rae raised her cup with an unsteady hand and swallowed the tea.

“The salvage boat Missing Score is in dock 3. My men will call you in two nights to see the ship's water system. I promise that it will be fast and safe.”

Rae held the empty teacup in both hands, making herself half-sick imagining creeping into a ship and committing sabotage under the eyes of triad goons. But she remembered her dream, and imagined her wife's quiet misery. She bit her lip.

“I can do it.”

With a faint smile, Mr. Bai nodded.

“Excellent. My doctors will work as soon as possible. Goodbye, Rae.”

When she left the spa, she could not help but break into a gallop. She would have begun celebrating, but her shift was about to begin.

Emergency klaxons erupted, and she froze. The wall displays blared to life and and showed the Highwayman, disheveled and dressed in a prisoner's stunsuit.

“Attention: Adam Dominguez has escaped custody, and is believed to be armed. Remain in your cabins or place of work.”

She trembled, then swore at the display's apparition, as if daring it to stay there. The announcement repeated, and she knew where she had to go. She raced for the hospital deck.

Pain burst in her neck, but before she could scream, a rippling numbness cooled the torment. She hit the floor, registering the event as if watching someone else do it. Two pairs of arms lifted her. Her pulse dragged as they steered her through the halls like the prow of an old ship. She willed her head to loll to one side and saw the Highwayman's face beside hers. Her pulse spiked, but her outrage gave no strength to her body.

They dragged her into a dock. A pack of security officers fired stun darts. The Highwayman and his posse returned fire as they beelined towards a ship. When they reached it, Rae was dropped like a cold fish outside the airlock. She watched the ship escape the dock to the boom of gunfire until her tears obscured everything.

Alpacalips Now fucked around with this message at 04:15 on Jul 21, 2014

Kaishai
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

Sitting Here posted:

This should go without saying, but we've seen it crop up a bit:

Don't put your story in quote tags

You will be DQed and your name shall not appear in The Book of Life.

Just a friendly reminder ^___^

This issue was dormant for a while, but it's popped up again. Please, for the sake of your friendly neighborhood archivists, put the text of your entry in the main body of the post.

Lily Catts
Oct 17, 2012

Show me the way to you
(Heavy Metal)


:siren: Judgment: Djeser-Gau-Phobia brawl :siren:

This wasn't a hard brawl to judge. Out of the three participants, only two submitted, and the difference in the quality of stories was clear. Gau wrote a story that followed the prompt, with some reservations. Djeser forgot that corpses aren't characters, and neglected his two remaining characters to focus on the McGuffin instead.

Gau wins.

Full crits:
Gau
Djeser

Entenzahn
Nov 15, 2012

What will you say when
your child asks:
why did you fail Thunderdome?


Phobia posted:



I'm going to multiply. Then I'm going to subtract. That's what I'm going to do now. That's how I'm going to win this ballpit brawl.

:ghost: Afraid of the Duckness Brawl :ghost:

quote:

Anatidaephobia: The fear of being watched by a duck

Write a story about someone who is obsessed with/afraid of/schizophrenic about one or more kind of anatidae.

Special rules
Phobia: your story features mathematics in some way
DuckyB: a key scene of your story takes place in or around a ball pit

2500 words max
Deadline: Sun, August 3rd, 23.59 CEST


----------------------------------

Fuschia tude posted:

Awesome, I always liked Escher. By "painting", I assume you mean "print".

yeah or just GIS 'M.C. Escher' like I did

Gau
Nov 18, 2003

I don't think you understand, Gau.


The Girl from Cleveland
(1402 words because I am technically still brawling with Sithsaber)

July 20, 2001
Sutherland, NE

Henry and Myrtle puttered into the small town, nearly out of gas. From helmet to boots, he wore a thick layer of dust and sand. Myrtle had been a shiny green Vespa when he rode out of Reno; now she was a sort of greenish-grey with brown splatters. For two mornings, he’d said he was going to clean her when he got to the next town; as the sun went down on the third day, he was once again far too tired from his ride to clean anything. He attempted to pat and wipe the dust off, but this only created more dust. Resigned, he pulled off his helmet and staggered into the diner.

The waitress handed him a menu. “Where ya from, honey?” she asked, at once bubbly and concerned.

“Reno,” he answered, coughing up some of the road.

She brought him a glass of water. “You rode that little moped all the way from Reno?” she said. “Oh, hun, you don’t got far to go, do ya?”

“Yeah,” replied Henry. “I’m going to Ohio.”

She cocked her head. “Why on earth are you goin’ to Ohio?”

“I’m in love with a girl,” he answered, “and we’re meeting at a place called Cedar Point. We’re going to get married.”

“Well isn’t that just too sweet!” The waitress laughed. “You hear that, Dave? This boy is riding a little moped across the country for his one true love! Now that’s romance.”

A balding man turned away from the grill. “Susan, you tell him his meal’s on us,” said Dave, “whatever he wants.”

“You guys don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Oh, you don’t worry about it,” answered Susan, “I’ll fix you right up.” She took his menu. “You known this girl for long?”

Henry nodded. “Five years,” he said. It was technically true; they’d met five years ago on one his parents’ ideas of a vacation. This one had been to visit family in the delightful tourist destination of Detroit. The highlight had been a two-day visit to Cedar Point; after a week in his aunt’s smoky house, the amusement park had been like escaping to heaven.

He’d met Amy there. They were neighbors at the campsite, and Henry’s gregarious father had invited her family to a late dinner. Henry and Amy had fallen into each other the way only two fifteen-year-olds can. They talked for hours, and finally shared a single kiss under the moonlight before returning to their families.

The next day, they were inseparable. They rode all the rides, ate churros and snow cones, laughed and screamed and held hands. When Amy had to go, Henry’s heart had sunk lower than he’d ever felt. The flight home had been miserable.

Henry tried to offer Susan a tip, but she’d waved it off. “You just go find your girl,” she said.”Make an honest woman out of her before anything silly happens, you hear?”

-

Laying in his tent, Henry flipped his phone open and powered it on. The texts rolled in:

Mother
just let me know you’re okay, hun

Sweetheart
good morning my sweet love
thinking of you today. bought my bus ticket. ilu
i hope your okay <3
wish we could talk more baby. why cant you charge your phone?
call me okay?

Tim
your mom’s lookin for you dude, you should call her


Amy smiled at him from the background - an old picture, but one of his favorites. Her chocolate hair framed a cute, round face with an irresistible smile. He closed his eyes and thought of her five years ago, of her laugh and her arms around him. The one long, passionate kiss they’d shared. It seemed like yesterday.

Henry rooted through his saddlebag and pulled out a small box. He just held it, knowing what was inside. He’d worked overtime at the car wash and saved all summer for this ring, this trip. For his future with Amy. He placed the ring in the endtable and dialed.

“HI! How are you?”

“Good. Tired.”

“I love you.

“I love you too.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to see you soon!”

“Four days!”

“Yeah!”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

-

July 22, 2001
3 miles west of Rantoul, IL

Like a dam releasing the spring rain, doubt overflowed in Henry’s heart. He’d rode all of today with a broken heart. What if Amy didn’t want him? What if she’d moved on? He was driving all the way across the country for her; she was only taking the bus an hour or two. Maybe she’d take one look at him and decide that she could do better. Maybe she wouldn’t show up at all. Maybe she’d been playing him the entire time.

It didn’t help that Myrtle had been acting up all day. She was losing power off and on, slowing to 35 or even 30 for a mile or two before picking back up. Henry knew that something was wrong, but his experience repairing Myrtle was limited to dropping her off at his cousin’s shop.

Myrtle quit in sight on Rantoul. Henry kicked her over hard, but she sputtered and died. He checked: plenty of gas. Eventually he got her to idle, but as soon as he tried to drive the engine would sigh and stop. Despondent, Henry walked Myrtle into Rantoul.

Just inside the city limits, he saw an auto shop in a gas station. Henry didn’t have much money, but he had two choices: try to get Myrtle fixed, or leave her here and buy a bus ticket - either to Cedar Point or home. Neither appealed.

The mechanic’s jumpsuit said he was “Bob.” Bob had chuckled at Myrtle; Henry was used to this reaction. He shot a sour look at the greasy man. “Can you fix it?” he asked. “I’ve got to get to Sandusky tomorrow.”

“I’ll take a look after lunch,” answered the mechanic. Henry scoffed and trudged across the street to sample ‘Champaign County’s Best Chinese and New York Steak.’

Bob apparently took long lunches. Henry waited outside until nearly one o’clock, and then inside for another half-hour. Finally, the mechanic appeared with what appeared to be a brick of caked dirt around metal.

“Well, here’s your problem,” he said.

“How much will it cost to fix?” asked Henry. He could already feel his wallet shrinking.

“Nothing at all,” answered Bob. “This is your air filter. You gotta clean it. Just soak it in gas for a few hours, that should get you on the road again.”

“Can you do that?” Henry asked. “I’ve got a gas can on the frame.”

“Sure, boy,” said Bob.

As he rode out of Rantoul, Henry’s smile stretched across his face. Myrtle was running like a dream again. Amy was ready and waiting for him. In a week, they’d be married. Two young kids in love, perfect, as it should be. Nothing in the world could stop them.

-

Jul 24, 2001
Sandusky, IL

It was Henry’s first night in a bed since last week. He woke up feeling like gold. He showered for an hour, washing off the road at long last. In the mirror he shaved and gelled his frosted tips. He put on the outfit he’d chosen especially for this occasion: his favorite shirt, his best jeans, actual shoes instead of boots.

Henry picked up a dozen roses on the way to Cedar Point. The ticket-taker gave him a strange look, but then smiled. Everyone loved a romantic. Henry hurried across the park to the bandstand; he didn’t want to be late! He could barely contain his excitement - he was so close. There, he could see the bandstand. No one was there. He’d wanted to be first. He steadied himself, took a breath, and stepped into the bandstand.

Henry waited for hours. A girl hung around the bandstand too, her face growing increasingly disappointed. Amy didn’t have a cell phone, so he couldn’t call her. Had he got the time wrong? Impossible, Amy had called him as she left.

The girl started to cry, and Henry knew how she felt. He wondered what rear end in a top hat had stood her up and left her here to sob. He thought about talking to the poor girl, but that would only make it worse. Besides, she wasn’t the woman he was waiting for.

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Chairchucker
Nov 14, 2006

The man was stunningly well dressed. He had a smart looking jacket, and a really neat looking cape, the lining of which was shimmering and sparkling in more than Oriental splendour, which is a great deal of splendour indeed, just ask Kipling.




Left side! Strong side! (I dunno it's from a movie or something, and also an indication of which row I used.)

543 words

Top Dog

“You’re gonna do what?”

“Write my memoirs,” said Fido. Well, maybe his name wasn’t Fido. Hank had never really asked Sharon her dog’s name. Or if he were male. But it’s like, all dogs default to boys, right, and all cats are girls? And Fido seems like kind of a dog name, right?

“Don’t be daft.” Hank took another swig. “Who’s gonna read your memoirs?” He thought about this for a few seconds, with a little more help from Jack Daniel. “Also what’re you gonna do, hold the pen with your mouth?”

Fido shook his head. Or maybe he was just cocking his head. Hank couldn’t really concentrate on what he was doing with his head. “Typewriter. Gonna use a typewriter.”

“Your paws are kind of big for that, though, aren’t they?” Hank emptied the bottle, and peered into it as if he could find some more of the liquid hiding down the bottom.

“Oi Hank!” Sharon’s voice, from inside the house, sounded a little bit like the voice of someone who was in no mood for more of Hank’s drunken shenanigans. “Are you chattin’ up my dog again? Get back inside, leave her alone!”

“All right, all right!” Hank looked at the dog. “Her, huh? You could’ve mentioned that.” The dog didn’t respond, and he propped himself up, using the empty bottle as leverage, opened the door on only his third attempt, and staggered back inside.

~

Fido – well actually, Missy – waited until he was definitely gone, then ducked her head back into her kennel, gently gripped the pipe between her jaws, and pulled it out. She sighed. That smelly lout was right. Even if she could somehow write something, how would she get a literary agent to look at it? She pulled her lighter out from under her rug with one paw and, holding the lighter between her teeth, carefully flicked it on with a paw and held the flame to her pipe. Awww yeah, that was the stuff.

Still, she thought as she puffed away, just because she couldn’t write that bestseller that was her ambition, didn’t mean that she couldn’t communicate her feelings about being drunkenly rambled at while she was trying to sleep. Pipe still clenched between her teeth and lighter tucked into her collar, she walked around the side of the house. The lights were out; Sharon must’ve gone to bed. That smelly visitor – Hank – must be staying the night, because there was no way Sharon would let him get into his car. Missy hoped she’d made him sleep on the couch.

Or on the floor.

Yep, there was his car. A black sporty number with a personalised license plate said ‘2FAST4U’.

Seriously, what a tool.

Missy hopped up onto the bonnet, then squatted down and just… let it all out. It was cathartic. She took a step back to admire her handiwork. It was beautiful. Wet and glistening and symmetrical. There was something missing, though. She gently put the pipe down on the roof, and for the second time that night, made use of her lighter.

Perfect. She retrieved both lighter and pipe, then trotted back around to her kennel, ready for the deep contented sleep that only a stoned dog can experience.

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