I appreciate Kaishai's crit. Wish I had read it before I wrote this week's offer, but, oh well. There goes something (in 10 to 12 hours or so)
|# ? May 24, 2015 19:12|
|# ? Nov 29, 2022 11:20|
If you want to bitch about your story feel free to come join us in #tdnojudges
|# ? May 24, 2015 19:53|
Fortress of Solitude
Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at 02:50 on May 26, 2015
|# ? May 24, 2015 19:54|
Dark Queen Maloria’s feet touched the ground as the sound of explosions echoed overhead, tearing one of her doppelgangers to shreds as the first gate was cleared. She looked up to see her carriage parked there, just as it had been in the past. Standing next to it was a wizened old man wearing a black robe that hung off his frame.
“Alabaster.” She greeted him, watching him open the door to her carriage with a low bow.
“Your ride, madame,” He said, closing the door behind her, leaving her in the light of the chandelier. She sat back, looking up at the flickering flames. The carriage a familiar milestone now, a mark that everything was going according to prophecy. The Dark Queen uncovers the temple of the World Crystal, the Hero defeats her four strongest warriors, and he and his party destroy the Dark Queen before she can subjugate all lands with her power.
And so far, everything was going just as written. But this time seemed to be going by faster than usual.
Her four strongest warriors, sent forward to conquer the nations before her victory? Weakened by bombing raids and special forces before the hero even arrived. The months-long trip to each of the nations to free them from her grasp? Made into a week-long victory tour on a supersonic jet, with stops to trounce a monster here or defeat one of her generals there. In the past, she would be seated in the carriage before they began their fight with her shadow. But now they were already facing against her first warrior again and would possibly pass the second gate before they reached the end.
At least the heroes hadn't found this ancient passage. She still had that upper hand, giving her enough time to draw on the power of the World Crystal and gloat before they did battle.
But what would she have time to do now? She'd probably find them in the crystal chamber before she'd even started gaining strength, sending her back to her century-long slumber for the next group of heroes. And what then, in the next century?
The carriage shuddered to a stop, the Dark Queen watching the door swing open. “Ma'am, we have arrived.”
She stepped out, looking up at the large steps leading up to the crystal chamber. “How?”
Alabaster nodded, hands crossed behind his back. “My great grandfather placed rail in the secret passage during your sleep, Darkest One,” He said. “Ten years ago we upgraded to a bullet-train.”
The Dark Queen looks back at the carriage, seeing the tracks leading out underneath the wheels. She turned her gaze to the old man, the knife in her sleeve suddenly quite heavy. In the past, she would kill her last assistant to hide the secret passage's location, only for his son to find and prepare for her return.
But this wasn't the past.
She wrapped her arms around him. “You have done well, Alabaster,” She said, pulling away from him to head up the stairs. “Stay here until the screams end. I will have use of you later.”
“As you command,” He spoke as she ascended the staircase. Light from the crystal began to shine in the passageway as the massive crystal came into view, thirty feet of jagged shards stuck together with pure energy.
She stepped forward and placed her hands on the crystal once again, feeling it's power flow into her. She felt the plates of the world shift under her feet, the tides of her oceans slamming into distant shores, the music of it's air currents rolling around high mountain peaks.
She listened, and the world waited for her command.
The doors of the temple swung open wide as a young man with bright eyes and brown hair stepped forward, shining blade held in his hand. Behind him, a woman with a bow made from the ancient holy tree of a faraway land. An old soldier with a spear whose tip seemed to devour light itself, and a young, wide-eyed woman in white robes and a hat three sizes too large. She turned to gaze down at them, the hero raising his sword up at her, pointed at her chest.
She realized she hadn't prepared a speech in the carriage, so she raised her hand in silence and blasted the entrance to the temple.
Stones melted in the heat, dripping down into the molten crater where the doors once stood. Wind and sunlight poured into the chamber where a wall had once been. All that was left of the hero and his party was his sword, embedded in the cooling stone, blade red with heat.
She turned back to the World Crystal, feeling the planet itself await her command, and permitted a smile to cross her face. Her chuckle echoed off the stone walls as she began to pull the plates of the eastern continent apart. Laughter loud enough to be heard outside as a volcano rose from beneath a capital city to engulf the terrified masses in smoke and ash. She could make any demand she wanted to now.
But first she had to make sure the people of the world were listening.
She laughed and her laugh echoed around the world as it moved in her hands and the sky went dark.
|# ? May 24, 2015 21:05|
I'll just post this now since I've done all entries so far.
These are FIRST PARAGRAPH CRITS.
It means I judged your story and its likelihood of success solely on the first paragraph. I didn't read anything beyond that.
I will add more as more entries come in.
|# ? May 24, 2015 21:20|
I'm bowing out, for next week.
|# ? May 24, 2015 23:34|
A Bad Parry
Flash rule: Your villain receives a mysterious package of some sort at the beginning of the story.
The moment his henchmen arrived with the black attache case, Steven Strauss straightened in his seat. He called the bar to be closed down, its patrons hurriedly turned away. He was expecting a guest.
"Sir, we made sure we weren't followed," Philip said. Once a boy, plucked from mediocrity, training to be an honest gangster like Strauss.
"Bran Brahms can track you down with a stray hair," the aging boss said. Strauss was a boss of two. Master, he preferred to be called, though rarely did the situation call for his expertise with blades.
He had used the case to lure Brahms to his lair. Why, the reason was simple...
The man himself opened the door silently, leading with his left arm. His right was hidden behind, clutching his wooden sword.
"At last we meet again, Brahms," Strauss said, rising from his easy chair. He was a good deal thinner than the roving duelist. He was dressed in a slick black suit with a tie that must have cost a posh apartment's monthly rent.
"Oh, it's you, Steven," Brahms said with exhausted familiarity. Strauss's pulse quickened. "What dastardly plans have you set in motion now?"
"One that had just come to fruition," Strauss said. He drew his smallsword, the blade shimmering and made of damascus steel. With one hand he fetched the spare sword on the countertop and threw it at Brahms, who caught it by the scabbard.
"I see you've maintained a semblance of honor."
"I see you've maintained a semblance of money to keep on living."
"It's honest work," Brahms said, the bells in his cap chiming. He unsheathed the sword, identical to Strauss's, and checked its balance. "What happened to you, Steven? Why let this happen?"
"All this time we'd been fighting the underworld when we should have been working for it. They won't die out in our lifetime, or the next one's. We can only make sure that they will act in a way we approve."
"You've let evil take your heart," Brahms said.
"That sword was supposed to be yours," Strauss said, his wrinkled features softening. "Why not join me, be partners again? It's a lucrative business, and not necessarily criminal."
Brahms assumed a stance, sword pointed at Strauss's face. "What you've been doing is criminal. There are bloodstains on that briefcase."
Strauss gestured to Vincent, who had finished cleaning the case with a cloth. "Not anymore. If you want the case then you'll have to go through me."
"I have no qualms!" Brahms said, opening with a thrust at Strauss's heart. Strauss turned, letting the blade go past his chest, countering with a riposte at Brahms's sword arm. A trickle of blood from a cut sleeve fell on the carpet.
"Ah, but that was sloppy," Strauss said. "You forget whom you're dealing with." They had fought for the same side for years, and knew each other's fighting styles well. Strauss considered his skill superior, but Brahms was stronger and more determined.
"I see that your skills have not atrophied. I won't make the same mistake twice," Brahms said. He circled Strauss, who blocked his path to the briefcase.
Strauss smiled. "Vince, Philip, I want you to watch. And learn. The briefcase is ours, and will remain ours." He stepped forward, slashing and stabbing in motions that flowed into another. They began a slow, methodical, intricate dance of steel upon steel.
"I hear you've taken an apprentice," Strauss said. "You've always been a dirty old man."
"You keep my fraulein out of this, Steven," Brahms said. He parried a slash and thrust at Strauss's eye, who blocked it with a contemptuous flick of his own blade.
"I don't need to use her to get to you," Strauss said. "I was only asking. What are you doing with a pretty girl? She's supposed to live in another world much brighter and safer than ours. How could you drag her into this?"
Brahms leaped onto a table and used the height advantage to overpower his opponent. Strauss picked up a chair and used it as a makeshift shield, jamming a leg into his shin. Brahms lifted it and continued to fight one-legged, still balancing on top of the table.
Strauss smiled. He jumped on the countertop and opened with a flurry of slashes at Brahms' sword arm. Brahms grunted in pain and drew his wooden sword, smashing the flat of its blade into the side of Strauss's face. Head ringing, Strauss lashed out with a clumsy backhand, which was easily dodged.
What wasn't dodged was his shoulder ramming into Brahms' chest, crashing them to the wooden floor.
"Boss!" Vincent said, his stiletto out in a flash.
"Stay back!" Strauss said. He was on top of Brahms, swinging at his face left and right. He saw a glimmer of teeth as Brahms' hand shot up, clutched his face, and slammed him headfirst into the floorboards.
Strauss had a glimpse of the black attache case being taken away by gloved hands as he passed out.
Another ceiling he didn't know. Strauss woke up with a start, grasping for a sword that wasn't there.
Two men in suits sat in the hospital room, reading a pile of magazines. "Sir!" Philip stood up. He gave a note to Strauss. It was signed with a flowing hand.
I have received the case in good condition. I hope you've settled the matter with your friend, it said.
"What happened to Brahms?" Strauss asked.
"We left him in the bar when we took you to the hospital. When we came back, he was gone."
Strauss crumpled the paper in his hands, thinking of old times. Someday, he thought.
|# ? May 24, 2015 23:45|
Destroying orphanages was hard work, but someone had to do it. Lionel Dirkens, CEO and owner of Napoleon Realties, rubbed his eyes and held them closed for a while, enjoying the darkness after a long day in front of the screen. He put his tablet aside. He’d finally acquired the St. Mary’s orphanage and ordered it demolished so he was pretty much done for now.
There was only one orphanage left in town, and, much to his chagrin, it was right on the other side of the street. It mocked him everytime he looked out the window: the old Victorian building with its decorated window frames, filled with bright and colorful curtains, shadows moving in the light beyond. Some days there were crude chalk drawings on the pavement, and yesterday they’d even tied a balloon to the door handle.
The Bleeding Heart orphanage. Not being able to destroy this building was Lionel’s greatest failure.
No matter what he did, bribery, extortion, he’d even tried buying the building legally like a normal person. He’d never done that before. But Ms. Richards, the owner, had politely refused. Said she liked working with the children too much.
Like the Pope, it was untouchable. It robbed him of his sleep.
That night Lionel rolled around in his bed, turned left and right, fought the sheets like an angry Poseidon battling the tides. A war doomed to fail, much like his campaign against the Bleeding Heart. He got up and poured himself some Whiskey. Gulped it down. Poured some more until he just took the whole bottle and went out on the street, where he drank and smoked and glowered at the pesky building that refused to budge.
There had to be a way. He inspected the front of the orphanage. Drinking from the bottle, he ran his other hand over the paint, knocked on the wall. It seemed stable enough, but then what did he know about buildings? He took another drag from his cigarette. Round back there was a fire ladder, all in order. The garden was tidy. No signs of neglect anywhere. No weaknesses. Lionel drank. He tried peering through the windows but the curtains were closed tight.
As Lionel rattled off the long list of bureaus and their regulations, none of which the orphanage seemed to break, he drank. He drank, and drank, more and more until his cigarette was ashes and his bottle was empty and he drifted away on the street, muttering only to himself.
Something poked Lionel with a stick.
“I think he’s dead,” a squeaky voice said.
“No way!” another said.
Slowly, the colors faded back in. There was hard pavement beneath him, the rising sun to his left and in front of him two curious girls who poked him with a stick as if he was an active beehive. He fumbled for his empty Whiskey bottle and dragged it towards himself, and if the sound of glass on concrete hadn’t split his head clean open, he might have had the presence of mind to feel ashamed. Instead he just groaned. The children took a step back.
“Kids,” a woman’s voice said, “leave poor Mr. Dirkens alone now.”
The face of Ms. Richards blurred into focus: perky, freckled, framed by red tousled hair. Disgustingly liberal. She smiled her honest smile and offered Lionel a hand, which he took. He didn’t know how to get up otherwise. It was a shaky ride, and he had to steady himself against the orphanage wall, stammering something between ‘Thanks’ and ‘Sorry’.
“Dear God, you look terrible,” she said. “Do you want to come inside? I know you hate this orphanage, but we do have coffee.”
That sly hag. Did she think this manipulative act of kindness could turn him? Then again, he’d always wanted to inspect the interior of the building. So he nodded, and thanked her again, even though he didn’t mean it.
The inside of the orphanage was disappointingly tidy. Ms. Richards led him across a white corridor with vibrant finger paint at the bottom. There were rooms in light shades of blue and pink and yellow, and in some of them children were playing, or reading. The kitchen was next to the stairs; it was white and clean, almost spotless. Ms. Richards produced two mugs, poured them some coffee and gestured for Lionel to sit at the wooden table, where she joined him.
He would have preferred to enjoy his coffee in silence, brooding over how he could inspect the upper floor bedrooms without seeming like even more of a creep. It was a bit problematic. But it was hard to think over the sound of Ms. Richards attempting smalltalk. Lionel mostly gave one-word-replies until finally, she cut to the chase.
“So you’re trying to get our orphanage closed, yes?” she said.
“If you don’t mind me asking… why do you hate orphanages so much?”
“Why?” Lionel said. Because bad things happen behind their closed doors.
Because orphanages produce broken people.
Because I remember what it’s like.
“I guess I’m a Darwinist,” he said.
“But isn’t human empathy a vital component of--”
He cut her off, holding his aching head. “Yes, yes. I’ve been there before. Look, you have your opinion and I have mine. Let’s leave it at that.”
He buried his face in his mug. Ms. Richards stared down into her own coffee as if a better topic was hidden somewhere at the bottom, but no matter how much she stirred, she couldn’t seem to find it. Sadly, the kitchen was still spotless. Off in a corner, the two girls from before were whispering to each other. Conspiring. One of them chuckled, and then they opened the fridge and pulled out a plate with a piece of cake on it.
“Children,” Ms. Richards said. “Not for breakfast. You know that.”
But the cake wasn’t for breakfast. The cake was for Lionel. They held it up to him, and one of them said to Ms. Richards, “He’s in pain,” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and the other one said to Lionel, “Cake always makes me feel better!” And then the first one said, “Sorry for poking you, Mister.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Ms. Richards said. “It was Tessa’s birthday yesterday, you know. This is her leftover piece.”
Lionel thanked them awkwardly and looked at Ms. Richards, and when she nodded, he dug into it. It was delicious. The bottom layer was fluffy and moist. The chocolate creamy and rich. There was a little dip of whipped cream on top with a chocolate heart in the middle. A nice flourish. A flavor bomb. Chocolatey. Sweet. Nutty.
“Are there nuts in this?” Lionel said.
“Oh my God, you aren’t allergic, are you?”
“Mfhbe a libbl,” Lionel said.
It was the second time he lost consciousness today.
Lionel awoke alone in a hospital bed, and the first thing he did, was phonecalls. The St. Mary’s had officially been greenlit for demolishment so that was good. Afterwards a nurse came by and recapped his severe allergic reaction in great, gory and quite frankly disturbing detail. He was fine now but they’d still have to monitor him. So Lionel took a day off work. It was his company anyway. Nothing good was on TV.
A visitor stopped by in the evening. Ms. Richards all but snuck into the room, uncertainly tiptoeing as if she was intruding into a sleeping grizzly’s den. Lionel gestured for her to sit. He didn’t hold grudges.
“How are you doing?” she said.
“Pretty fine. Thanks for the cake.”
She smiled, brushing her hair aside. Was she flirting? “I guess what happened today didn’t much improve your opinion on our orphanage?”
“It was a nice gesture, really. I mean, you did get me off the street and all.”
“...and then you served me poisoned cake.”
She laughed. “I guess we did.”
“It was delicious though. And I know you only meant well. So thanks.”
“It’s fine, really. Thank you for not taking it personal.”
They talked some more after that. Real smalltalk. And Lionel gave real answers. And if he was being completely honest with himself, maybe, just maybe, he even enjoyed it a little.
After Ms. Richards had left, Lionel took his phone out from under his sheet and rewinded the recording. He browsed through idle smalltalk. He listened closely. The sound was a bit muffled, but those were clearly their voices.
The important part was in the beginning.
“...and then you served me poisoned cake.”
“I guess we did.”
He stopped the recording. A smile played across his lips. He whistled the Imperial March as he dialed his lawyer’s number.
Maybe this world wasn’t so bad after all.
|# ? May 25, 2015 00:19|
|# ? May 25, 2015 02:43|
O RLY? YEH.
Dead, I(i) dream. My sepulchre cradles my corpse, vast and undecaying (for the microbes of this world can find no purchase on my strange matter), but my mind roams unchecked.
In waking my perceptions roam and jump between the worlds; the realstuff merely a gauzy cloud drawn across the true Universe of dreamlike possibility. In dreams, though, I(i) am bound to here and now; how alien it is to exist in a concrete moment, to watch events unfold bound by unyielding causal chains.
The stuff of possibility is woven of dreams and reality is but the ragged scraps of thread that are cut away. Ah, but those threads may yet be crafted into a tapestry.
A (then) B (leads to) C and the sea, above ME(me), writhes with my delight. What a marvellous concept, to wait, time-bound. Mortals must exist in a delirious entropic ecstasy for their entire spans, knowing what inevitably approaches. A death that is an end, final and inescapable! My many hearts would pulse and shudder with envy did my ichor flow.
I(i) will gift them these ends; when my death is over theirs begins, I(i) promise them.
There is a moment-egg cradled in the nest of futures and it will hatch when the point-map of the universal probability cloud aligns with my designs. But it must be incubated, this egg, in the warmth of dreams.
I(i) have laid plans for this egg that I(i) have also laid.
The rich man comes, down into the dark and cold and crushing weight of water. He weaves dreams himself and I(i) will work mine through him. I(i) focus my dreaming upon his tiny vessel and drive deep into him and drive him deeper. Deeper. See Me(me), I(i) seduce him. See my works.
He logs on to Twitter.
@OfficialHarryJames: Reached deepest planned point of dive. Everything nominal, thinking about going for the floor.
I(i) send shoggoths to dance for him, to mimic creatures of this world, just strange enough to enchant him without provoking atavistic fears.
@OfficialHarryJames: Amazing animals down here. All the colours of the rainbow. Billowing.
I(i) will my sunken towers to emerge from the haze in his perceptions. Clearly enough to astonish, not so clearly that the workings of inhuman mind are laid bare.
@OfficialHarryJames: Rock formations like something from another world. Nothing like it up top.
He is primed, and he is mine, and the power he wields belongs to ME(me). I dream a thought into his uncomplicated little neurons, amplified and directed by the subsonic piping of a shoggoth enfolding his little subaqueous sarcophagus.
@OfficialHarryJames: It's like an alien planet. Another reality.
@OfficialHarryJames: I'm inspired. Who wants to see a big-budget Mythos movie?
@OfficialHarryJames: Properly told. Something that would make ol' HC proud. Ia!
And my dream explodes across message boards, the planet lighting up with speculation and hopes and my name is on a million lips and fingertips at once, and the inroads I have made into the culture become highways for my influence to parade down, dripping and shambling and triumphant.
I(i) have their dreams, and their world and lives shall follow. My moment-egg begins to tremble as my rebirth scratches upon the inside of its shell. A (then) B (leads to) C T H...
I(i) meme supreme.
|# ? May 25, 2015 02:56|
Man in the Machine
With a surgeon's precision, I use a tiny screwdriver to adjust my patient’s bionic arm. "Just hold on, Troy, I'm almost done."
"Whatever you say, Doc.”
Once I finish, Troy moves his fingers before flexing his arm. “There. You'll be making touchdown passes in no time."
"Thanks, Doc," he says and starts rotating his arm from the shoulder before making practice passes. Keep it up, you prick--see where it gets you in a few years when New Athens University bleeds you dry because all you’re good for is passing a football. Me? I had to invent modern bionics before I was accepted, let alone get my scholarship!
I head out to the break room to grab my lunch. Inside a few of my coworkers are gawking slack-jawed at the TV like a tribe of neanderthals around a fire. I see him with his cape flapping in the wind as he catches a falling plane like a fly ball.
“Hey Jason, didn’t you use to fight him?” One of them asks. Please don’t do this.
“How’d it feel to get your rear end beat by him regularly?”
Calm down, Jason. Just grab your lunch and--
“You know, for someone who’s supposedly a genius, fighting The Sentinel was really retarded.”
They all laugh as I leave--I lost my appetite. Bitter? You’d be too, if you were reduced to this after having an entire city by the balls.
Right before I step into home, I see a red blur out of the corner of my eye. "Hello, Jason," he says.
I don't turn around. "Saw you on the news, never thought you'd actually have time for me."
"Shut the gently caress up," I tell him and turn around. "You have no right or authority to be my probation officer, and gently caress what the judge said--this is cruel and unusual punishment and you know it!"
“And what about Diana!” I shout at him and get right up in his face. “You could’ve saved her! You could’ve…”
"Are you finished?" He asks patronizingly. I take a deep breath cover my mouth, and nod. Here we go.
“Twenty years. Twenty long years of assuming the identity of ‘Daedalus’. Twenty long years of us fighting. Twenty years of holding a grudge. Jason, I can’t be everywhere at once. I’m sorry that I couldn’t save her, but do you really think this is what she wants?”
If you only knew, fucker.
“You’re right. I might not have any official right to be your probation officer, yet not one officer in the whole NAPD was willing. After you were brought to justice the last time, I knew rehabilitation and not punishment was for the best. That’s why you still have a position at Ex Machina, Jason. "
I look away. I can't stand looking at his eyes, I want to gouge them out.
“If you won’t do it for yourself or do it for Diana, then do it for your daughter,” he says and takes off in a blur. The door opens behind me and there stands my daughter. "Dad, are you okay?"
Ariana, my little maze-runner. I can't lie to her, so I say nothing. She wraps her arms around me. "I know Dad," she says. "I know."
I head up to the roof the next day at work. Ex Machina Inc. is the nation's largest distributor, manufacturer, and servicer of bionics, producing replacements for every conceivable body part. I'll give you two guesses who developed the proprietary software and hardware.
I reach the roof, trip the fire alarm and grab my phone to call Ariana. "Dad?" She asks.
"Project Icarus," I tell her. "It's time."
"Okay," she says excitedly. I don't call Ariana my little maze-runner for nothing--she's my intel gatherer and partner-in-crime. Underneath my home is a small tech cave where she's situating herself. "Executing phase one now."
Phase one is a little killswitch I put into each and every bionic manufactured by Ex Machina within a big enough radius to cover New Athens. Within a few seconds, chaos ensues--cars crash, people scream, I can even hear a plane or two fall from the sky. "Executing phase two," I hear her. "ETA 60 seconds."
A blue suit of bionic armor flies in the sky and lands behind me--Talos, Mark V. "Are you sure about this?" Her voice crackles from inside the suit.
"I've been waiting for this for a long time," I say and get inside. “Let’s get Talos warmed up.”
"Heads-up-display,” her voice crackles.
A HUD appears through the eyes of Talos. "Check."
I flex my fingers and the armor flexes. "Check."
I check the HUD. "Check."
"I love you. Mom loves you, too."
I stop for a moment. Before I can go sentimental, an alarm sounds. “He’s coming in fast," she tells me.
He's already here--his piercing blue eyes seeing right through my armor. "Jason, we don't have to-"
I fly right into him and grab him.. Right before he knows what hit him, I flip ourselves in mid-flight and plow him down through Ex Machina.
"You-self-righteous-fascist-mother-fucker!" I shout at the top of my lungs while punctuating each syllable slamming my fist into his punchable face as we break through each floor of the building until we finally reach the ground floor. A crowd of my former coworkers surrounds us, gawking as though I just assaulted their collective grandmother. "Leave," I snarl through the helmet as they scatter.
Sentinel brings himself up. He's fast, sure, but I don't have to out-maneuver him, I just have to out-think him. Just as he winds up to charge me, I step aside, grab his cape, and buckle down. The idiot actually attaches it to his neck--I hear him choking as I fling him over my shoulders and slam into the earth as hard as I can. The ground shakes as I leave a crater in the asphalt. "Stay the gently caress down," I tell him and slam my heel into his ribs. Like an angry rattlesnake, his arm snaps out and before I know it, my back hurts like hell and I’m about six inches into the asphalt. Sentinel picks me up by the Achilles heel and holds me in the air. I smile and drop my right wrist, spraying acid in his face. “Activate taser gauntlets,” I tell Ariana.
“Gauntlets charged at maximum,” her voice crackles. While Sentinel covers his face in pain, I vault myself up, and clap my hands around his head. I smell hair and skin burning but I don’t let go until he does. Once he does, I ram him out of the building and into the streets of New Athens.
Bionics are a wonderful thing, but they can only do so much. Sure I'm relentlessly wailing away on super-bitch, but my age catches up with me and my arms get tired. That's all the time he needs to grab me by the neck with both hands and squeeze.
“Dad!” I hear Ariana shout I as feel the bones in my throat snapping. I raise my right arm and he grabs it and pins it. "Sucker," I gasp and drop my left wrist, revealing a pair of barrels. I see an "Oh, gently caress" flash in his eyes before I blast him in his smug face with a pair of shotgun shells the size of anti-tank rounds. He roars in pain like as he covers his wounded face. "Right wrist, now!" Ariana shouts.
I hold my right palm out and wickedly-long needle extends from my wrist. I grab Sentinel, pull him back, and jam the needle straight into his heart. He roars and smacks me aside. “Wha-what did you-”
"Think of it as a long, overdue detox," I tell him. The same "Oh, gently caress" look returns before I wind up and smash him in the face. "See, genius runs in my family. And all the while, I had my little helper running through all sorts of mazes until she found out the truth about you and the little experiments done on you."
I can practically see my daughter smile as I grip my hands together and slam them down on the top of his skull. I follow-up by kicking him in the jaw--his face is now nothing but exposed flesh and blood. "And all those years, I've done more than nurse a grudge. I've been preparing for this."
"Do it, Dad," I hear Ariana say in my ear. "For mom."
I grip his head. "Mercy," he begs.
"This is for Diana," I say and twist as he shrieks in pain. With a sickening snap, I rip his head clean off his shoulders. I roar at the top of my lungs in pure rage and bloodlust with his head held high in the air. I notice an audience gathering of shocked and terrified onlookers, some of them with useless bionic limbs. Saying nothing, I drop Sentinel’s severed head and smash it underfoot as the air fills with the traumatized screams of civilians. With nobody daring to challenge me, I callously scrape the gore off my foot and take off.
"I'm proud of you, Dad," I hear Ariana say. "She's proud of you, too."
"I know honey," I say, tears rolling down my face, "I know."
|# ? May 25, 2015 03:12|
New Year, new thread!
Killer-of-Lawyers fucked around with this message at 17:50 on Jan 4, 2016
|# ? May 25, 2015 03:55|
I'll just post this now since I've done all entries so far.
loving kill me
|# ? May 25, 2015 05:06|
Little Samuel had no eyes!
Little Samuel spoke no lies -
Little Samuel came from hell
with eyeless eyes and mouthless mouth.
Samuel Holmes often thought of hell. He knew the place too well, and on some days he longed for fire-and-brimstone and pitchforks. Hell is cold; not overbearingly so, but enough to make the world ache. Hell is wet; not in oceans but in the slow rot that crumbles a house from the inside. Hell is a dark forest without a single soul with whom to share your pain. Hell is a place of quiet hosed-up-ed-ness with nimble little thorny fingers that grab and tear.
Samuel's hell was written deep in his genes, and it made itself known all across his face: he had no eyes, no mouth. Painted in their place grew a thick layer of skin, with nothing underneath but empty holes. On his birth, his mother Beatrice had sobbed in the way people sob when mere crying is not enough; when the heart is curled tight like a fist and only the smallest of sounds can escape. The doctors had given him two weeks. The odds had beaten him, so he'd made it his duty to beat the odds bloody. Only his sister Alice showed him any kindness- the sincere kindness of children who don't know any better. She’d always been the only one to know when he was hurting, and she would hold him close and say “calm, calm”.
In the now, in the time-that-is, it may have been June, though Samuel had long since lost the sense of clocks. Late spring, by the telling of the dew around his bare, calloused feet. Voices in the wood- shrill, so shrill so as to hurt. Laughter, which frightened him for it was so totally alien. Neither his mother nor father had ever laughed. He thought the young woman was screaming, that there was something so wrong with her throat the scream bubbled up in little dancing bursts.
He learned to use his nose and his ears and his skin to navigate a world he could not see. He never needed to eat nor drink, but he was filled with a hunger and thirst that tore at him from the inside.
He stalked through the trees towards the sound, and a second voice joined in: a young man, taunting, making the same short screams also. Both of them stank of sweat. “I love you!” she said. “I love you more!” he said. Dumb words, dripping with rank sentiment, painful in sincerity. Words that knew what they meant, and did not need to hide.
His first kill was a bird. It was an accident. It must've been fooled by his silence and stillness, and taken his shoulder for a branch. He didn't cried out when its little clawlets scuttled across his bare skin, but it was a near thing. He grabbed at it in a frenzy, squeezed too hard, shattered its little skull and not-cried-out again as the fragile bones dug into his palm. What a mess. His father hit him for it, but that was no surprise. His father hit him every time he'd felt ashamed. A day without violence was a good day.
Years went by, bodies went underground. Samuel hunted by scent, like a hound. Hunted birds and cats, hunted children from the neighbourhood who were foolish enough to jeer. Eventually, when he was big enough, he hunted his father and beat him to death with a piece of wood; hit him and hit him and felt the big thick bones crunch just like the little fragile bones bones of the birdie. Mother was out at a friend's house, probably drunk. Samuel dragged the limp, wailing man over to the porch step, then stomped on the back on his head until the wailing stopped. Samuel loved the sounds and smells things made while they were hurting. Loved the vulnerability, the intimacy. He lay with his arms wrapped around his father for hours, until his sharp ears caught the screams of neighbours, and the incoming sirens. He fled then- ran off into the hills and not come down for years, until he was nothing but a story told by children to scare each other around the campfire.
They called out to each other, and Samuel recognised not panic nor desperation but a warmth and joy that filled the emptiness in his chest. He came closer. His feet knew this stretch of wood well, and he did not break a single twig, nor disturb a single branch.
He didn't stop existing because people forgot. He stayed in the woods, and killed the things that came too close, and savoured all the delicate pageantry about their deaths.The squeaks, the smell of blood and innards, and sharp, wet bones digging into his palm and reminding him of happier days. Reminding him of the mother who he never saw, and rarely heard; the little scampering creature who couldn't bear the sight of her own son. A lack of love that ran so deeply it seemed to pull at the strings that made the world dance. A very physical absence, that Samuel made manifest with his scarred hands. His ears and nose became sharp; all the better for hunting.
In the now, in the time-that-is, Samuel came to the couple who were locked together, stinking like animals in rut. Stood over them until the man screamed, then the woman screamed, then they ran and stumbled and were bitten at by the sharp fingers of the forest. Samuel found the man first, and put thumbs into his eyes, and found joy in his struggle to break free. Every blow to Sammy's monstrous body only stiffened his resolve, and made him drive his thumbs deeper until the man's breath came out in a rattle, then stopped altogether. The stranger's last shudder warmed Samuel, reminded him of the purring of a happy cat in the better times.
Alice, even as the years passed and the innocence of childhood was torn down, had always been kind to him. Let him touch her face to see what a smile felt like. Didn't stink like fear every time he approached. She stopped smiling as she got older, but she was never violent like the others.
The girl had tripped. Samuel could smell blood from her wounds, and the reek of sex still upon her. He sniffed the air once, twice. A broken leg? She writhed on the ground ahead of him, whimpering in pain. He enjoyed the gentle susurrus her body made against the wet grass, the moans that escaped her lips so like the moans she’d been making only minutes before, with a man who was now dead. She tried to lunge, to bite, and Samuel smashed her across the face with the flat of his hand. Her nose broke, and a jet of warm blood coated his fingers. The skin over his mouth pulled taut as he grinned. He wrapped a single huge hand around her throat and squeezed until he could feel the delicate bones in her throat grind together, then shatter. She went limp. Her heart was still beating; fluttering like a moth trapped in a glass jar; but it wouldn’t last long.
Alice, who in the good times had-
He ran a hand across the woman’s face. His own heart quickened, and he felt a dry retch rising in his throat. For a moment, he hung in the perfect moment between ecstasy and agony. The big eyes, the soft lips, the lines around her mouth because she smiled and frowned too much and too deeply they-
no, not her. Too carefree. Samuel slumped, and smiled as much as his ruined face would allow. He realised he hadn’t been breathing for several seconds, and let it all out through his nose. When he breathed back in, the stink of blood and bile caught him, and for once did not comfort him. The brutal shock of almost-recognition was still fresh, and he couldn’t take it any more. He took the girl’s eyes, and closed them, then laid her arms crossed over her chest. He couldn’t speak to say sorry, but his mouth made the words anyway.
He took one more deep breath through his nose, tried to savour what he had wrought, then found he couldn’t. He turned, and slowly, with shaking legs, walked back into the forest; walked back into the numb, frigid belly of hell.
Your villain cannot speak and cannot see. They cannot have magical powers, but they must be an effective villain.
|# ? May 25, 2015 05:27|
Barnaby Profane fucked around with this message at 19:21 on Dec 30, 2015
|# ? May 25, 2015 05:39|
newtestleper fucked around with this message at 11:10 on Jun 10, 2015
|# ? May 25, 2015 05:52|
this week the villain is me cause i'm out
|# ? May 25, 2015 05:53|
The Last Villain
Spencer finished washing his hands an tried to turn the bathroom door’s knob, but it wouldn’t budge. He frowned and twisted it left and right, swearing. The locking pin was pushed in and wouldn’t come out. He kicked the door. A nurse on the other side asked what the problem was.
“The door’s stuck!” he yelled, giving the knob a shake.
“Alright, just stay calm, we’ll have facilities here in a minute.”
Spencer crossed his arms and scowled at the door, then thought better of it and reached for the pistol in his coat’s pocket. It was a sleek job, a compact weapon made of chrome. He aimed it at the knob with both hands and pulled the trigger; a pink beam blew up the knob in a shower of coral sparks, leaving a smoldering hole in the door.
Spencer pocketed the gun, pushed the door open and walked out into the waiting room, where every nurse and patient goggled at him.
“drat knob just blew up in my hands! You guys need to get your wiring checked,” he announced to the room at large, then took a seat.
Things quieted down. A custodian came and hung an “Out of order” sign on the bathroom door. Spencer looked up at the clock on the wall and sighed. He picked up a magazine at random and grinned. On the cover was a man biting down on a lollipop, wearing a garish pink outfit and a helmet that looked like cupcake icing. He was holding a large cannon-like device that was spewing out molasses at a group of police officers stumbling out of a bank. SUGAR BULLET STRIKES AGAIN! LAST SUPER VILLAIN STILL AT LARGE, read the text.
Spencer glanced at the people sitting on either side of him, but no one paid attention to him anymore. He flipped to the article, but only skimmed it, uninterested.
“Mr. Spencer Bullet?” a nurse called. “The doctor will see you now.”
“I’m afraid you’ve developed type 2 diabetes, Mr. Bullet.”
Spencer shifted, crinkling the sheet of paper he was sitting on, and hid his face in his hands.
“Are you sure, doc?”
“Quite. But don’t worry, thousands of people manage to live with it, you’ll just have to be more considerate about what you put in your body.”
Spencer looked at the doctor and said, “I don’t know if that’s possible, I mean, I have a certain… lifestyle.”
“Well, it’s your choice, Mr. Bullet. Either you make a minimal effort to change your diet, or you make that lifestyle of yours decidedly worse.”
Spencer sat in his living room and stared at his phone. On the coffee table in front of him were several boxes filled with a rainbow of various candies, lollipops and gumdrops spilling over the edges. Laid down next to them was the same pink outfit from the magazine cover.
He opened his phone’s address book and scrolled down, stopping at “NEM #1.” He glanced at the candy on the table, sighed, and pressed “Call.”
“Hey, Punchinator? This is Sugar Bullet.”
“YOU FIEND! I shall track you down and punch-“
Spencer sat back and covered his eyes with his hand.
“Would you cool it for a minute, you idiot? I need to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to say to the likes of you! When next we meet, I’ll-“
“Shut up! Just shut up! God! This is important!” Spencer took a deep breath before he continued. “Look, I’ll be on the roof of the Munser building in an hour. Meet me there.”
“And walk right into your trap? I think not!”
Spencer’s upper lip curled back and he shouted, “Yes, it’s a trap! Definitely a trap! Show up and I’ll get you, you dumb punchy baby!”
He hammered at the “Hang up” button on the touch-screen, wishing he’d called from a real phone so he could slam it down.
Spencer rested his elbows on the railing surrounding the roof, looking at the city’s skyline and brooding. He was wearing the Sugar Bullet costume, which now didn’t feel as comfortable as it used to. He looked at the time on his phone as it ticked over to 11:00 PM.
As the first bell rang from the church down the street, a voice rang out from behind him.
“I came anyway, Sugar Bullet! Your wily traps can’t defeat me!”
Spencer shut his eyes, counted to three, and turned around. The Punchinator was standing at the opposite end of the room, metal fists on hips and feet apart, his cape blowing in the wind.
“Nice pose. Did you scout the spot out beforehand to know where to stand?”
The Punchinator pouted and replied, “No.” He paused, then pointed at Spencer. ”Reveal your trap, Sugar Bullet, so that I may defeat it!”
Spencer shrugged and spread his arms out. “There’s no trap, Punch. There’s no trick, no trap, no surprise. I seriously just want to talk.”
The Punchinator lowered his arm. “There’s really no traps?”
The Punchinator ran a titanium-gloved hand through his hair and said, “Okay, what’s up?”
Spencer turned back to the skyline. “You have to kill me.”
The Punchinator walked up and stood at his side, frowning. “I thought that’s what our whole thing was about?”
“No, you have to kill the Sugar Bullet me, not the me-me. I can’t be the Sugar Bullet anymore. My doctor told me I have diabetes”
The Punchinator looked at Spencer sideways. “Ah.” He thought for a few seconds. “So just stop. Why do I have to get involved?”
“I can’t stop, I like the money. And besides, if I disappear for real, what happens to you? Aren’t a whole lot of villains around anymore, you think catching small-time crooks is gonna help pay the bills?”
The Punchinator muttered, “Catching you barely pays ‘em.”
Spencer turned to him. “Hey, how about this? Why don’t we fake some fights, sometimes I win, sometimes you win, and split the money?”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with becoming what is basically a villain myself.”
Spencer punched the Punchinator on the shoulder. “Come on man, it’ll be like Dragonheart. Dragonheart is a cool movie.”
“Dragonheart is a cool movie.” The Punchinator shrugged. “Okay, whatever, I’m in. I’m sick of my lovely apartment. So how do we fake your death?”
“Don’t worry, I have a plan.”
The Punchinator walked into the police station holding a bloodstained piece of pink fabric, tears streaming down his face.
“I p-punched him too hard… punched him right into the sea. I’m so sorry.”
Spencer kicked open the doors to the bank and shouted “Everybody on the floor!” He was no longer wearing the bright pink costume, but instead garbed in green and black, his helmet a bouquet of broccoli. He swept the muzzle of his modified spud cannon across the crowd. “Anyone still up in 3 seconds is getting a face-full of locally-grown produce!”
There was a crash as the Punchinator knocked his way through the front windows. “Not so fast, scum! The Punchinator is here to rescue these fine folk!”
Spencer cackled, a smile spread wide across his face. “Hah, you think mere punching is enough to stop The Organic Panic? Think again!” He cocked his spud-cannon, aimed at the Punchinator’s face, and shot a fresh potato at it. It bounced off his forehead.
“Brother Gilbert,” the Punchinator said. “You're a natural.”
Spencer frowned and mouthed What?
Dragonheart, the Punchinator mouthed back. Spencer rolled his eyes.
“It’s punchin’ time!” the Punchinator shouted. He rushed at Spencer, fists swinging.
Spencer waited on the roof of the Munser building once again. Stacked up next to him by the railing were several sacks of freshly stolen bills, his helmet set on top. He looked at the time on his phone, then gave himself his insulin shot.
The Punchinator arrived soon after, laughing. He slapped Spencer on the back. “That was a riot! This was a great idea!”
Spencer smiled back and said, “It sure was, buddy.”
The Punchinator elbowed him in the ribs and asked, “So hey, what’s our take? What’s my half?”
Spencer turned around, leaned back against the railing, put his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky. “Oh, just shy of 10 million, I’d say. So half of that would be five million!”
The Punchinator fell back against the railing next to Spencer. “Five million. Five million!” He started laughing. “I guess both of us being bad guys was worth it!”
Spencer cocked his head and looked at him, still smiling. “No, friend. I’m still the last villain.”
“Hey, how about faking my death next? I want a new costume too.”
“Yeah? What’re you thinking?”
“Something dragon-themed would be cool.”
Spencer groaned. “I should’ve just shot you.”
|# ? May 25, 2015 05:55|
flash rule: Your villain has a heroic nemesis. He/she is also your villain's brother/sister! For reasons your villain was never able to get their parents to admit, everyone always liked the heroic sibling a bit better.
Every Family Has Its Problems. Ours is Telepathy
flerp fucked around with this message at 03:01 on Jul 27, 2015
|# ? May 25, 2015 06:01|
this week the villain is me cause i'm out
same, weekend 2 packed, did not anticipate
|# ? May 25, 2015 06:08|
A Glutton For Punishment
Carlos Zacharias was the smartest boy in all of second grade, pitted day after day in mental combat with the nefarious Mrs. Zolene. Her candy tin sat on the edge of her desk every day, mocking him, taunting him. The contents were handed out only for exceptional work and good behavior. He had never been able to pull off both. He had never tasted the candy. In his mind those little individually-wrapped morsels were the greatest ambrosia ever made.
He’d almost been able to do it, once. He had tried to act good, he really had. Acted calm all day, never pulled Ellie’s pigtails or made Sam cry, tried to know all the answers that the teacher asked. He was starting to get annoyed after doing this for a whole fifteen minutes. He raised his hand and asked for the candy. “No, Carlos," Mrs. Zolene said, making that "tsk" sound she seemed to love using with him. "A person who asks for this candy will not get it. This is a privilege to be earned, not requested. That’s how it works. The deserving get it without ever having to ask.” Everyone was staring at him. A few girls giggled. He wanted to crawl under his desk.
After that, he “acted out” even worse than normal that day, and nearly got called down to the principal’s office. Almost. He always knew just how far to push it.
He knew he could never grab the tin when the teacher was there. Every time they went to lunch or recess, the teacher’s helpers always knew to watch him like a hawk. He never once even had a chance to hide inside the room until the door was locked.
One day, he had a plan. Carlos was able to duck into the sixth grade dissection lab on the way to lunch one day. He knew Mr. Rifini never locked his room.
He looked around the lab. Everything was so tall! How could he find the stuff and hide it on him? He knew he only had a minute or two before his absence would be noticed. He pushed a chair over and climbed onto a counter.
From here, he saw big boxes with a label on one side, all laid out on another counter. He headed over there and climbed up. He couldn’t really read any of the labels on the canisters. Well, he could, but he didn’t know what any of the long words meant. He grabbed a bottle of the worst-smelling stuff and shoved it into his bag, making sure it stayed on the other side of his books from his lunch bag. His dunkaroos were not going to poison him today.
At lunch, Molly, one of Mrs. Zolene’s watchers, asked Carlos where he’d been. “Bathroom,” he said. “It couldn’t wait.”
“You gotta tell me!” she whined. Snot dribbled from her nose in agitation. “I can’t just find out after... I just can’t! It’s the rules!”
“OK, OK.” He sat down. Soon... so soon... he would taste sweet success. He ate in determined, anticipatory, victorious silence. He didn’t even like ham and cheese or dunkaroos.
Then the class marched back to the room. Carlos sat in his seat, idly staring at Ellie’s pigtails. They called him, a siren’s song, whispering of the joy to be had from pulling them, if they could only be freed from their earthly bonds... Just one good tug... Well, one on each...
No. He needed to concentrate. Think. How would he get the gas on everyone and not him?
He missed naptime. His plans were so much easier to carry out in kindergarten.
The teacher was droning on about time and clocks. He had been telling time since he could walk. This lesson was even more beneath him than usual. “These simple children,” he muttered under his breath. He would show them.
Act like a child. That was it! Who would ever suspect? He grabbed the bottle and stuffed it under his shirt. Then he raised his hand. He started waving it, more and more urgently. It was a banner waving in the wind, a flag, not of surrender but of victory.
“I gotta go use the restroom. Real bad, please!”
“All right. Five minutes.” Mrs. Zolene looked down her nose at him as he wriggled out of his seat, grabbed the pass from her and ran to the door.
He waited until he was just out of sight, around the corner from the room, to stop his act. He peeked into the door window. The nearest desk was far from the door, facing away from him. He couldn’t see the teacher from here, but decided it should be safe enough. They were still in the cold part of spring, so the outside windows were still closed. Good for him and his plan.
He grabbed fistfuls of paper towels from the restroom and ran back to the room. Then he opened the bottle and poured half of the liquid from it, let it flow into the room, and blocked the sill with the towels. He did the same with the door at the front of the room. That should be enough to keep the stuff concentrated inside.
He waited a few minutes.
Then he looked inside. There was no movement. Everyone seemed to be asleep. He went around to the front door: Mrs. Zolene sat dozing in her chair, too. Good.
Carlos used one wet paper towel as a breathing mask as he opened the door and stepped inside. It was just as good as gas masks from the trenches, surely.
He reached the desk. With shaking hands, he opened the box that had tantalized him for so long. He grabbed a whole handful, unwrapping and eating them without reading the labels. And without breathing. It was difficult and he was getting lightheaded. He didn’t have time to savor them; he could barely even taste them.
The teacher moved a little. Time to get back in his seat. He replaced the candy lid, left the door open a crack to get the air moving, rushed back to his seat and put his head on his desk like the others, and took a deep breath.
Seems like he found naptime after all.
It was all chaos afterwards, of course. The office sent down people, administrators, vice principals, and soon police and even an ambulance arrived. No one was badly hurt, but there were a few scares.
The worst off was Carlos. He couldn’t breathe when he woke up with the others, and went to the emergency room with blocked airways (the ride was really scary but, also, totally awesome).
He had forgotten about his peanut allergy. It wasn’t terribly severe, he wouldn’t go into shock at the slightest whiff of ground nut powder, but this was no minor exposure. Apparently some of the candies in the tin were peanut chews.
In the end, the incident was chalked up to a student prank, probably sixth graders, but there was no proof of exactly who did it. No one suspected a second grader. No one ever did.
Carlos was fine with that. Even if he might not be out of the hospital for weeks, maybe longer... even if he might need surgery... that would just give him more time to plot his next move against Mrs. Zolene.
|# ? May 25, 2015 06:39|
Like A Lemming Off A Cliff
He basically had my balls in his hand, and he could squeeze whenever he wanted.
"I'm taking your Binky of Blood with me, High Admiral Sharpniss," he snarked with his snarky little snark-face, "and if you set off a single one of those drones, I'm dousing this fucker in gasoline and tossing it into a volcano, you hear me?"
He held my baby blanket in one triumphant fist, taunting me. I could do nothing but not solemnly, with just an under-menace of the hate burning in my darkest soul. What a loving rear end-hat.
Everything was set to go off. I had drones over every branch of world government, little specters of floating invisible death hanging, ready to send the world into leaderless chaos. Ships and ships of my loyal troops waited to land in New York, LA, Beijing, Tokyo, ready to whip the panicking crowds into an even more frenzy with tear gas and bullets.
"You may have found my Binky, Agent Callaster, but believe me when I say it will be returned to me by our next bout. Of that, have NO FEAR." It tried to give my eyes a little threatening smolder, like 'Hey gently caress you, but I respect you.' I don't really know how well it came off. That volcano thing really threw me.
My Binky flapped a little in the breeze that scampered off the Bikini islands and over my command ship. Even in the dying light of early evening, it looked like the softest little patch of fabric you'd ever seen. I swear I remember when my grandmother, the old Dread Queen of Philly, first wrapped me in her Binky of Blood. I was only a baby, but I swear I remember the smell of her hands wrapping the hand-stitched fabric around me.
"High Admiral Sharpniss, I bid you farewell... Until we meet again." And with that, the infamous Agent Maxwell Callaster sprinted to the edge of my ship and leapt off the side and into the water.
This was it. Either I chased him down, snagged my Binky, slew the ugly bastard, and went ahead with my plan, or I gave up now.
In retrospect, it was a heat-of-the-moment kind of deal when I decided to throw myself off the ship after him. I mean really just class-A henchman behavior. Where Callaster had carefully planned his trajectory and landed safely in the water next to his getaway boat, I haphazardly directed my body right for the boat itself.
I may be paralyzed from the neck down now, and I may be locked in this high-security super jail, but the one thing I can savor is the memory of Callaster's face as I crushed his body with mine right before he could get away. If I can't have the world, I'll take that.
|# ? May 25, 2015 07:04|
btw my crits are done, not critting any late people e.g. skwidmonster
|# ? May 25, 2015 07:06|
Submissions are closed
|# ? May 25, 2015 07:56|
Burned By The Courts (And A Dragon)
Djeser fucked around with this message at 05:36 on Jan 1, 2016
|# ? May 25, 2015 08:20|
BREAKING NEWS, THIS IS ME IRL UPON LOOKING AT THE FAILURE LIST THIS WEEK:
What a shame. What an absolute loving waste. We've hit yet another record, TD. A failure record. Seventeen of you simply couldn't be assed. Disgusting. You better believe that, if I could, I would drop each and every one of you through a trap door into a tank of venomous spider sharks made of spikes.
Bompacho, you have until noon, PST today (about 11.5 hours from the time of this post) to turn in your story or one of our reapers will call in the
Everyone else who failed: I'm going to give you an unprecedented opportunity. I don't even know if any of you gritless, dithering do-nothings will even be into it . You're probably going to make me look silly for even trying.
If you are on this list:
lost old man
You are invited to participate in a special failures-only brawl. The brawl will only go forward if at least four (4) of you indicate that you are in. You must announce your intention to participate by 11:59:59 PM PST tonight (so about 22 hours from this post).
Your prompt is to tell me a story from the perspective of the villain's pet monster. The word count is 600 words. The due date, if any of you should rise to the challenge, will be 11:59:59 PM PST on Wednesday, May 27th. The winner will get a brawl victory, a line crit, and the knowledge that they aren't as much of an abject failure as the rest.
Don't fail me again, assholes.
Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 04:51 on May 26, 2015
|# ? May 25, 2015 08:55|
I can do 600 words. I'm in.
|# ? May 25, 2015 09:01|
I can do 600 words. I'm in.
Same! I am grateful for the opportunity to expunge my shame.
|# ? May 25, 2015 09:07|
gently caress it, why not. I accept your terms. Maybe It'll get more of the failure crew on board.
It's pretty nice of you to treat failures like they're real people, sh.
Redemption awaits us all, friend.
Thyrork fucked around with this message at 13:22 on May 25, 2015
|# ? May 25, 2015 13:18|
It's pretty nice of you to treat failures like they're real people, sh.
|# ? May 25, 2015 13:21|
It's pretty nice of you to treat failures like they're real people, sh.
Not that we are, but it's a pleasant lie.
Anyway, yeah I'll do this.
|# ? May 25, 2015 13:31|
BREAKING NEWS, THIS IS ME IRL UPON LOOKING AT THE FAILURE LIST THIS WEEK:
this is like punishing a dog for eating a cupcake by locking it overnight in a bakery.
i'll have to update the archive to include double failures.
|# ? May 25, 2015 15:33|
You are invited to participate in a special failures-only brawl. The brawl will only go forward if at least four (4) of you indicate that you are in. You must announce your intention to participate by 11:59:59 PM PST tonight (so about 22 hours from this post).
Sounds like a deal.
|# ? May 25, 2015 16:26|
The terms have been met. The redemption brawl will proceed. The rest of you failures have 13 hours to declare your intention to participate.
Those of you who've signed up so far are now free to submit your stories.
|# ? May 25, 2015 18:03|
Oh and for the record, dunno if this is a toxx brawl but all the same.
|# ? May 25, 2015 18:35|
Oh and for the record, dunno if this is a toxx brawl but all the same.
This is the honorable thing to do. The rest of you take heed.
|# ? May 25, 2015 18:40|
I had my poo poo written, but <excuses>. Posting it anyways, because I'm an rear end like that. Also in for the brawl.
“Heave!” shouted Teak Mangain and the table, borne on the hands of some of the best novelists in the world, crashed into the battered door once more. Plaster flew about and dust fell from the ceiling, and the portal to the domicile finally gave way. They had already cut internet access; now they only had to destroy the physical copies of that which must not be published.
Olaf Moor, a great fantasy writer was the first through the door.
“Once more, dear friends, once more onto...poo poo!” he yelped as he toppled over a stack of instant ramen boxes, thus blocking the small hallway. The writers, good at untangling words and sentences but not human traffic jams, were shoving and pushing to get their way.
“There he is!” the shrill voice of Petunia Saint-Jones cut through the general hubbub and grunting, for the roundish face of Chad “PhD In Shitposting” Inverness appeared at the end of hallway. The abominable graphomaniac quickly disappeared as he had to dodge a shoe that Petunia launched in a fit of righteous madness.
Petunia managed to scramble over Moor while he was trying to get up, and rushed to the room where Chad “Monster Of Fanfic” Inverness had taken refuge. Teal went after her, seeing how he was lanky enough to squeeze between Olaf and the wall.
Dashing into the room, Teal was surprised by the loud CRACK under his foot. Looking down, he saw the shattered remains of Magical Girl Uretaria figurine which must have toppled off the shelf during the whole door ramming thing. Only when he lifted his gaunt face did he notice Chad “Facebook Restraining Order” Inverness disappearing down the fire ladder, and the fetal shape of Petunia surrounded by a few loose sheets of paper.
Her hair had turned gray.
Crouching to check on her vitals, Teal's eyes, always hungry for literature, slid over the scattered pages and his mind went blank for what seemed to be eons.
“The Passionate Penumbra. Epilogue. Kalista Fairbanks...subconscious dancing...dark beloved,” it was a rant of a madman, derivative drivel of the worst kind. “Beautiful...so love has blinded you...eye like obsidian...” Someone started shaking him by the shoulders.
“Snap out of it, good man. You've read worse!” The voice of one friend on the other cut through the mist, delivering lie that was all the more painful since it was so close to the truth.
“You’ve read worse”. Fans continuously sent inept, boring pieces of literary trash that sometimes only ran for three mercifully short pages. However, Chester's work was complete and horrible in the way that it was produced by a dark intelligence pulling all of the cheap tricks. It was the incestuous child of Twilight and Fifty Shades, born in the unhallowed bowels of the Internet.
“Where could he go, now that he is denied Amazon self publishing?” asked Olaf who reportedly reinforced his bribes to Amazon with occult spells and threats at gunpoint.
“Well, my eyes catch the corner of this small envelope; green paper, plastic window, not unlike a gas bill,” said Tom Farskythe, noted writer of hard-boiled military thriller. “It reads ‘Lifetime Frontiers: Quality Publishing’”.
Everyone froze. Ayn dropped the Dagan Rompa alarm clock she was about to throw out the window. This was Armageddon clock striking five to midnight. Lifetime was good at riding the lighting, only it was the lightning of the lowest common denominator. They'd publish Chester “Woody Got Wood” Inverness. They'd literally stop the presses to get “Passionate Penumbra” on the shelves tomorrow.
There was a mad scramble for the door and by the time they burst out into the street five floors below, everyone had forgotten any friends left behind. However, they were in the nick of time to see a beat up Civic with duct tape stripes get on the road, Chester “Thus Spoke Jim Theis” Inverness at the wheel.
Panks’ Prius jumped the curb as the literary minds pursued their prey, and the chase was on. Granted, it was in no way a Hollywood production, since neither the fugitive nor the pursuers were that apt in driving. There were some lane changes that would have made a driving instructor cringe, and they sped through several intersections in a way that could be described as “daring”, but all in all, it was on par with the usual horrors of mid-day traffic.
Things were turning dire at 10km/h over the speed limit as the chase was nearing the office of Lifetime. It was the time for action.
“Tom, I know your gun-nut rear end is always strapped,” Ayn shouted from the wheel, “Give me something to work with.”
“Now, if I were to have a gun,” Tom squirmed in his seat, “I would know better than to give it to an untrained person.”
“I really don’t care about your bullshit. Give me the gun, or this steering wheel is going up your rear end”.
Farskythe shifted uncomfortably and a 1911 pistol changed hands. Ayn wasted no time in lowering the window and opening fire on Chester “Could You Read My Manuscript” Inverness’ Civic. The shots were loud and, apparently, wide, as the runaway continued riding forth unabated. More than that, it made a very decent turn into the parking lot of Lifetime Frontiers.
The Prius jumped another curb, swerved and finally stopped gently bending the doors of a Buick. Ayn was the first one out, scanning horizon for an oversized head with greasy hair. And there it was! The prey kept appearing and disappearing between parked cars, making a beeline for the front door, Hunger Games t-shirt a-flapping. Ayn stopped to squeeze off another round, which made Chester “He Who Must Not Be Published” Inverness duck. Unfortunately, the slider remained stuck slid back – there were no more bullets to fire. Farsythe wanted to comment on how Ayn should not have wasted rounds on a church and a Starbucks they passed on their way, but his mouth was held shut by a vision of receiving a 1911 to the face.
Meanwhile, the front doors opened, and a portly shape stepped out. Drawn by the smell of possible litigation, it was a Lifetime editor, a caricature of a loanshark crossed with an actual shark. The offending (and awful) wordsmith saw his chance, and bolted to the man, manuscript in front of him. The writers stood frozen. As vocal critics of everything Lifetime Frontiers ever published, they knew they had no power there.
“Maybe he won’t publish it,” whispered Teal with hope that wasn’t exactly there.
Alas, it was all in vain. Even before his hands touched the manuscript, the eyes of the publisher were involuntary scanning the pages, uploading the horrible prose into the business centers of the mind. The horrible machine ground exceedingly fine, probing the page for potential that can be sold to the masses. No shred of art ever got through those dark gears, only potential for money.
“Mr. Inverness, why don’t you come inside?”
All was lost.
|# ? May 25, 2015 19:40|
Will have to wear that toxx *blah blah home emergency no-one cares*
I'll be back though. With a vengence!
(USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
|# ? May 25, 2015 22:31|
My Mouth Is Closed
I awaken, already in motion. Someone has taken me from the Master again. My mouth is closed, so I cannot smile.
I wonder who has taken me this time. My mouth is closed, so I cannot see, and my abductor has not yet spoken. I hope it’s not a machine. Machines are too crunchy, their flavor too bland. My teeth are more than up to the task, but food should be more than a duty, it should be a joy.
The Master doesn’t know I think about such things. It doesn’t matter. So long as I perform my task, the Master is content, and so long as the Master is content, I am content.
We’ve stopped. My abductor speaks. A human, a woman, defiant, confident. I feel myself hit the ground while she speaks, lies about surrender to the Master’s guardians. It doesn’t hurt.
My mouth is closed, so I cannot see, but I know the Master’s guardians have been ordered to kill her. I think they’ll fail. They don’t, usually, but I have a feeling this time. I don’t mind. We all serve the Master, in death if not in life. If they fail at their task, then I must succeed in mine, and I have never yet failed.
I hear the whine of the Master’s guns. They cannot harm his guardians, nor can they harm me, not so long as my mouth is closed. They are deadly only to the flesh, and mine is all inside my mouth. I hear my abductor cry out, and then fall silent, and I think for a moment that I was wrong. But then I hear her snarl. I hear metal rent by claws, I hear the whine of the Master’s guns, and in time, I hear nothing at all.
I feel myself being lifted again. We move faster than before, and her breath sounds different now. Harsher, like a beast’s. I know that the Master created beasts from humans to be his guardians, before he settled on the machines he uses now. I am the only beast who remained faithful. The others were not content to serve, and they hurt me when they left. That is why I love the Master. He helped me to live, when I would have died. It is different now, inside my new mouth, but I am content.
In time, she stops to rest. I feel her setting me on the ground. Her breathing sounds human again. After a moment, she says, “This is Grafton. I’m out, and I have the package.” There is another voice that I cannot hear. “Nothing that won’t mend. Those drat guns of his hurt, though.” More talking that I cannot hear. “Roger that, I’m on my way in.”
She turns me around. “But before that,” she says, and she doesn’t know that I can hear, she thinks she’s talking to herself, “let’s see what’s inside this thing.” She reaches for my lips, undoes the clasps that hold my mouth closed. “What’s so special about a little black briefcase that warrants all that security?”
My mouth is closed, so I cannot smile.
Not quite yet.
|# ? May 25, 2015 22:37|
|# ? Nov 29, 2022 11:20|
The True Last Battle of the Civil War, 1123 words
General Kilgore had never been a general in the United States Army, and had barely attained the rank in the Confederate Army when the war ended. Still, the title had followed him through the decade of his "retirement". He brought it on himself, really - he wore his suits cut in the calvary style, and held himself with a military bearing. He was a handsome man, despite the battle-scarred face.
The men in front of him, however, weren't handsome at all. They stood in neat, orderly rows as Gen. Kilgore inspected them. Veterans, ex-convicts, escaped criminals from Back East - the dregs of society, rejected and exiled by the decadent Yankee lords. The faces of the men were ravaged by pox, consumption, and a lifetime of malnutrition. But Gen. Kilgore looked past that, to the shining light of loyalty in their eye. From the dregs, he created an army.
Kilgore gave a satisfied nod, and turned from the sudden burst of activity. Officers shouted out orders, as horses were saddled and the men collected their weapons.
"We can still turn back," Garcia said quietly.
Kilgore didn't even turn to look at his second in command. "A bit late for second thoughts."
Garcia placed a hand on Kilgore's shoulder, and the general stopped walking. "I would follow you into Hell. But I would also advise taking a different route. The burning of New Sheba is your Rubicon, Sir. Do not cross it lightly."
"The Western Territory is the inheritance of the White Man, and New Sheba is a blight upon that bequest. If we wait, the blight will spread and the inheritance will be wasted. Make sure everything is in place, Mister Garcia. The South will rise again." Gen. Kilgore saluted.
Garcia returned the salute. "In the name of General Lee and President Davis."
In a few hours, the homestead made its final transformation into a military headquarters. The silos were emptied and the pack animals were loaded up. The gold mines were carefully buried and disguised. The men formed up units and marched towards their destination.
New Sheba was a day's journey from Kilgore' holdings, for a lone man pushing his horse half to death. For an army of men, slowed down by a dozen cannons, it took the better part of a week. Add on the constant sabotage and harassment from Sheriff Iweala's men, and the glorious march had slowed to a painful crawl. It started when they entered Burgess Pass - a deluge of boulders had injured a dozen men and buried one of the cannons. A day had been lost digging it out. Once they had exited the pass, the freemen had turned their plows into a weapon of attrition - they had dug deep grooves in the path that would subtly guide the wagons and cannon wheels into ditches and soft Badland sands. All it took was a moment of distraction by one of the teamsters, and the men were stuck for an hour pushing the wagon back onto the path.
The effect on Kilgore was maddening. He felt like Sheriff Iweala was like a demon-spirit, constantly haunting his every move and trying to break his will. He started seeing the man's dark-skinned face in his dreams, mocking him. Still, his will was hard as iron - the free black town of New Sheba would burn to the ground.
When he finally saw the town, Gen. Kilgore gave a mirthless grin. The former slaves had used their time effectively, and New Sheba was ready for a siege. The streets had been blockade with wood and furniture, and sniper nests dotted the corners. Even from a distance, he could see the tiny black figures training and working - even their womenfolk were involved. All it meant was that the final victory of Kilgore and his men would be all the sweeter.
There was no more delays. His men gathered and prepared themselves for this battle. An unnatural silence covered the land. Gen. Kilgore gave no speech - there was no need. The hideous abomination of New Sheba was proof enough of his cause for the good Southern men under his command.
Then the cannons fired, the men charged, and the air filled with the sound of the wounded and the smell of gunpowder. Kilgore didn't commit his personal guard just yet - his eyes were searching for the unmistakable figure of Sheriff Iweala, to no avail. After a while, he decided the coward must have shown his true colors, and fled his duty.
"It's just as I said, Mister Garcia - the black man is not fit for positions of leadership and authority."
Garcia didn't reply - his eyes were focused on a ridge to their left. Kilgore followed his gaze, and saw a flash of something. A man, perhaps? Framed by the dying light of the sun, it was hard to tell, but perhaps-
Garcia made a choked groan, as Kilgore wheeled to shout orders. Sheriff Iweala had arrived, and he was not alone. What remained of the Cherokee people, armed for war, had arrived with him.
"Regroup! Regroup!" The men fell back, retreating from the faltering defenders of New Sheba. They quickly tried to reform their units as the reinforcement attacked. Soon, the battle became a disorganized, chaotic brawl.
Kilgore didn't bother to give anymore orders - there was no use in this confusion. There was only one solution. He kept his eyes focused on the Sheriff, as he led the charge towards his nemesis.
"Iweala! Surrender now, and I promise you a long life of working my fields. Fight, and I'll send you to Hell!"
"Nuts!" was the only reply. The two men slammed into each other with titanic force. Iweala deflected Kilgore's saber with the butt of his rifle, and slammed his shoulder into the man's chest. Both men fell from their horses, landing with a painful thump on the ground. Kilgore reached for his cavalry dagger, but Iweala was quicker. Kilgore coughed as he felt the bowie knife slip into his chest.
Kilgore pushed the man off of his him and gave a wild slash. The blow cut a shallow slash on Iweala's arm. The sheriff backed off, reaching for his six-shooter.
"Garcia! Help me!"
Garcia didn't look back. He was too busy fleeing for his life. In fact, all his men were running - routed by the combined forces of Freemen and Cherokee. Kilgore looked towards New Sheba - burning, shell shocked, but unbowed.
"Never again, Kilgore," Sheriff Iweala said behind him. "Not by you, or any other men. Never again a slave."
There was no point in fighting anymore. He accepted the coup de grace with all the dignity of a Southern Gentleman.
|# ? May 25, 2015 23:07|