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flerp
Feb 25, 2014

I DON'T ALWAYS
HERDY DUR MUR FLERP FLERPITY
FLOOPIN
BUT WHEN I DO
I YER DER FLERPITY
THURN DER DERMIN
BORK! BORK! BORK!


a new study bible! posted:

except for flerp

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katdicks
Dec 27, 2013

SO BIG

As a newbie, my vote is worth nothing.

Djeser posted:

Thunderdome 2017: Five million words and we still haven't found the good ones

Also thanks to beef-man for nother crit!

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk


Ten hours or so to go get those stories in you can do it we belief in you

sparksbloom
Apr 30, 2006


Earthquake Season
845 words

I love getting up in the morning and smelling the fresh-cut grass wafting in through the window. I remember those mornings in Manhattan and every time I do, I thank the Lord I'm in the suburbs instead. Everything they say about that city is true. All those tirades Maurice has about "New York people” might be a little heightened, but they’re true. Past all the fuss about its historical virtues, its seasoned nightlife, all the famous people, it’s just the same old people talking to the same old people. Here in little old Coventry, at least the people are honest about it.

The streets aren't made for foot traffic, so I always feel a little silly walking along Route 3, mucking through the dirty slush. I keep telling my clients that I’ll get a car soon, but the truth is, I like making a long walk part of my day. But Coventry’s not the kind of place for what Maurice calls "those urban types," and it takes me almost an hour before I make it out to the plaza with a CVS, a Panera Bread, and the boxy office duplex, where Maurice works.

His secretary, Emily, smiles at me, and I give her a wave as I walk back to his office. The place is near deserted -- I’m not sure what Maurice does, but I think it’s something to do with taxes -- so I don't see anyone else. Maurice is squatted over his computer, and I mean literally: he looks like he's about to take a poo poo on the floor.

"Hey, buddy," I say. "What's the matter, huh?"

He turns around to me. "Look. At. This."

On his screen, there’s a picture of a burned-down CVS.

"That’s the iniquity of the city for you. Two imbeciles started a riot. Probably trying to start a race war."

"Whoa," I say. “That’s a pretty big accusation.”

“Those city people have pretty big ambitions. Remember that."

I’m deciding if I want to press him further about this when the whole plaza shakes with a thunderous tremor. "Is it earthquake season?" I ask.

"It's not earthquake season. There is no earthquake season. Earthquakes are caused by--"

The office shakes again, this time violently enough to knock down one of Maurice's certificates from the wall. I clear my throat. "I get that. It's just I didn't think this part of the world was known for earthquakes."

"We get all kinds of weather. Snow, rain, hail -- once, last year, some folks swore they saw a tornado. And sure, the occasional earthquake."

"Huh," I say. "Anyway, Maurice, I came through for you, bud. This is the good stuff. Columbian, pure and smooth. Like the Energizer bunny. Fluffy and fast."

I lay the bag of cocaine on the table. His eyes bulge, and again, I mean that literally, it's like his whole face contracts. "Will you please put that away," he says, in what I imagine is an awfully loud voice, considering. "That's good stuff, though?"

"Oh, the best. Absolutely."

"Tell me something, Hunter." Again he takes the squatting posture, his hands on his knees like a sort of Little League coach. "When you left the burning waste of Gomorrah, did you miss it at all?"

I think about it. New York had its perks. I'd found a decent gym there, and there was really nothing at all comparable on my way to work now. The dating scene had been fun, for a while, but you just kept seeing those same types. But Benton was better in most other ways. Way better for business -- less competition. I liked looking at the sea from my house's attic window. I liked grass, those manicured streams of it on the way down the cul-de-sac. And the people! The people in Manhattan were broken, sure, but more-or-less, they were all broken in the same way. Here, all the unhappy families were different.

"Not really," I admit. "I love it--"

"I know Satan lives inside of you, boy. Bringing your drugs to my place of work. Speaking to me as if I were your equal -- I, who became the general manager of this office through hard work, due diligence, and unwavering faith in the word of Our Lord Jesus Christ? I can bring him out, though, and I will, but only if the boy you've taken hostage can resist the sinful temptations of Gotham."

He lets the words resonate, and I’m thinking he probably should take it easy on the drugs, but I make a decision anyway. "It's true," I say. "I'm Satan. Do some coke. If you want to hang out with God, you can get pretty close to a conversation if you do enough. Not too much, though. Use responsibly, is what I'm saying."

He considers this.

“Foul creature,” he says, “take your leave.”

I’m halfway down the hallway when Emily, the secretary, comes up behind me and whacks me hard in the head with a three-hole punch.

“Ow.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “We just have a strict no-Satan policy in this office.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m leaving. And I’m not actually Satan.”

“Yes,” she says, “but I am. And since now you know my secret, you’re not leaving this office park alive.”

And she laughed -- a mighty, thunderous cackle, as a rain of blows from the three-hole puncher came down upon my head.

Barnaby Profane
Feb 23, 2012



My Washer is Full of Baby Boomers
1243 words

Resolution: Get a Tattoo / Get Rid of a Tattoo
Cursed Image:



“And behind this door we’ve got an in-unit washer and dryer,” said Karen, opening a slatted door with a flourish, “which, I’ll just mention, you don’t tend to see very often in this price range.”

None of the apartments Skyler had looked at over the weekend so far had had in-unit laundry. So far, this place was winning by a country mile. A new and super-cute little cupcake shop had just opened up a block away. The floors were all original hardwood. There was a lovely little galley-style kitchen. There was even a little entertaining-slash-dining-slash-living-room area. The place was huge. So far there didn’t seem to be a catch.

“Yeah, actually? That was one of the things I was confused about in the ad,” said Skyler. “It says ‘shared’ in-unit laundry?”

“Oh yes, glad you asked, Skyler,” Karen replied. “You’d actually be sharing this space with an older couple: Mike and Tammy. They’ll technically be like roommates, but honestly they keep to themselves and you’ll almost never seem them.”

“Roommates?” asked Skyler. The apartment was big for a one bedroom, but it was emphatically still a one bedroom. “Which room is… theirs?”

“Well, luckily for you, Mike and Tammy are… well, they’re kind of like tiny house enthusiasts, but more so,” said Karen, struggling for words. “Here, let’s let them explain.”

She rapped on the lid of the washer and took a step back, flashing a nervous smile at Skyler. The lid of the washer opened, and Skyler yelped with a mixture of surprise and terror. Two heads popped up out of the washer: an older baby boomer couple, both of them smiling radiantly.

“Hi Mike, hi Tammy,” said Karen, “This is Skyler: she’s here looking at the apartment.”

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” said Tammy. She wore thick pancake makeup, and her dyed blonde hair looked like it spent a lot of its time in curlers. “Isn’t this place just great? Mike and I, we just love living here, don’t we?”

“You betcha,” said Mike, blue eyes sparkling. He had a grey moustache like a policeman, or a firefighter. “And don’t you worry about us, we keep out of the way for the most part. Only time you’ll see us is when you’re doing laundry, I’d say.”

Skyler looked dumbly back and forth between Karen and Mike and Tammy. She couldn’t quite work out how Mike and Tammy had managed to cram themselves into the washer in the first place, let alone how they actually lived in the washer. Maybe it was bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside? Everyone was looking at Skyler, waiting for her to say something.

The rent was awfully low.

“It’s lovely to meet you too!” said Skyler, in her bubbliest voice.

###

After a couple months of living there, Skyler had concluded that -- the whole Mike and Tammy situation notwithstanding -- the apartment was basically perfect. And, true to their word, Skyler only ever saw her roommates when she needed to do laundry. She’d felt bad about the whole thing at first, seeing as how she had to kick Mike and Tammy out of the washer in order to load it with her clothes, but they had assured her that it was no bother to them at all. When Skyler had offered to walk her laundry around the corner to the laundromat instead, Mike and Tammy pish-poshed and would not hear of it.

Which is not to say that it wasn’t still occasionally awkward for Skyler, especially on days after she’d brought a boy home the previous night.

“Haha, washing the sheets again, eh?” said Mike, on one such occasion. “Looks like someone had a good time last night!”

Skyler blushed furiously.

“Oh don’t be crude, Mike. It’s great that Skyler is getting out and… mingling,” said Tammy. Skyler’s stomach flopped like a fish. “Now, is this the same boy from last weekend?”

“Ugh, no, that guy was a creep,” said Skyler. “No, this is one I just met.”

Mike and Tammy exchanged a look. “Well, I hope you’re taking adequate… precautions,” said Tammy.

“Yeah, you are making them wear a rubber, right?” asked Mike.

Skyler had done some thinking about the way in which she wanted to die, and had decided that, among the various options, a brain aneurysm seemed like a good way to go.

“Actually, you guys, I just remembered, I’m supposed to meet my friend Ashley for late brunch,” said Skyler, backing away towards the door. “Would you mind moving my stuff over to the dryer when it’s done?”

“Oh -- sure thing, sweetie,” said Tammy. “You have yourself a nice time.”

###

“Oh my god, gross,” said Ashley.

“I know,” said Skyler, miserably. She had barely touched her cupcake.

“You have to get rid of them.”

“How? It’s not like I can just put the washer out on the curb. It’s attached to the wall, I’ve looked.”

“Well, what if you made them leave? They’re old, right?” Ashley pursed her lips. “You could get a tattoo! Old people get super freaked out about tattoos, they’ll probably think you’re going to turn the place into a punk rock lesbian crack house or something, and then I bet they’ll leave. Easy!”

Skyler wasn’t entirely convinced by Ashley’s line of reasoning, but she had been thinking about getting her first tattoo for a little while.

###

On her next laundry day, Skyler purposely wore a tank top exposing her right shoulder blade.

“Oh, good lord, Skyler, what’s that on your back?” said Tammy, horrified.

“Oh, this?” said Skyler, using her innocent voice. “Just a new tattoo, no big deal. You like it?”

“Uhhhh… what’s it supposed to be?” asked Mike, his moustache twitching as he inspected her scapula.

“It’s not supposed to be anything,” said Skyler. To her disappointment, Mike and Tammy were seeming far more confused than terrified of her new ink. “It’s meant to be just kind of an abstract watercolor sort of thing.”

“That’s retarded,” said Mike.

“You’re not supposed to say---”, started Skyler, but she ground to a halt as soon as Mike opened the buttons on his blue denim work shirt to reveal a giant eagle tattooed across his chest.

“Now this, this is a tattoo,” said Mike. “Tammy’s got some good ones too, don’t you babe?”

“Oh yeah, lots of them -- but not, uh, in, you know, non-bathing-suit-area places. But, I suppose I can show you them if you’d like to see them,” said Tammy, working at the drawstring on her sweatpants.

“I -- no,” said Skyler. “Please. No.”

“Suit yourself,” said Tammy.

“Well, if you want to get that, uh, whatever-that-is fixed up, I know a good cover-up guy over on the East Side,” said Mike.

Skyler looked at Mike’s chest. She had to admit: it was a pretty loving sweet tattoo.

###

Skyler knocked on the lid of the washer. The lid opened, and Mike and Tammy popped their heads out.

“Check it,” said Skyler, turning around and pulling down the back of her shirt.

“Is that…the grim reaper bursting out of a giant cupcake?” asked Tammy.

“Yeah, and underneath it says ‘Frost in Peace’,” said Skyler.

“Not bad,” said Mike. “Not bad at all.”

Skyler beamed with pride.

“Say, the missus and I were just hanging out in our spot smoking a little reefer -- you want to join us?”

“Hell yeah, that sounds rad,” said Skyler. She climbed into the washer and shut the lid after herself.

flerp
Feb 25, 2014

I DON'T ALWAYS
HERDY DUR MUR FLERP FLERPITY
FLOOPIN
BUT WHEN I DO
I YER DER FLERPITY
THURN DER DERMIN
BORK! BORK! BORK!




Resolution: reconnect with an old friend

1150 words

To Punch a Ghost

My mom thought I was summoning a demon when she caught me carving up my old doll.

“What are you doing?” she said, grabbing onto her cross necklace. “I ain’t letting you bring in no devils to this house.”

“It ain’t what it looked like,” I said, and it was true because I was actually trying to deal with a ghost problem. I was hunched over the doll with a knife I stole from the kitchen, and there was scraps of plastic on the bottom of my feet. I was in the attic, since I didn’t think Mom would look up there, but the floorboards were creaking and she probably heard it.

I hated the doll. It had those lifeless eyes, the one where I knew it was made by some kid in a country thousands of miles away who don’t want to make dolls for a kid who’ll probably just toss it in the trash five years after they get it. A perfect one to trash.

“You possessed?” she asked because she watched the Exorcist a week ago. “‘Cause I ain’t wanting to deal with that nonsense.”

“Nah Mom, I think the house is haunted.” Which was true, I remembered seeing a ghost when I was like two, but I just thought that was me being a idiot baby. Then, a month back, I saw it just standing there over my bed with a stupid grin on its face and wide eyes. I threw my lamp at it once, but it just passed through it. And then every night after, it was always there with the same smile.

“And what’re you gonna do.”

“I’m gonna bring it to the real world.”

“Then what?”

“I’m gonna punch its face.”

Mom stared at me. Then she shook her head and reached her hand out, fingers curling. “Give me the knife. It’s dangerous for girls to play with those things.”

“How else am I gonna make a ghost real?” I asked Mom.

She walked up to me, swiped the knife right out of my hand and said, “I don’t know, honey, and I don’t care. Just don’t be stupid.” I couldn’t tell if she was actually worried or was just tired.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Ghosts can’t touch real people. It’s one of their rules.”

She shook her head, then Mom went down the ladder and I was standing there staring at the torn out chest of the doll. I read online that was how you get a ghost to come out, you gotta cast a stupid spell that involves an awful doll that’s all cut up and then the ghost can become real. Most of them say then you have to go and find why they can’t pass on or whatever, but I didn’t care about the dumb ghost. It was just annoying, and if I punched it, it’d probably just run off and haunt some other stupid kid. Hopefully, it would haunt Billy from across the street. He pushed my head into the dirt last week.

“Why do you wanna punch me?” a ghostly voice asked, mostly because it came from the ghost who appeared behind me. It was a real dumb ghost, too. Didn’t even have a body, just a puff of white smoke. It had a little chubby face with fat cheeks like a baby, but was still an adult.

“‘Cause you’re a jerk,” I said, digging my hand into the plastic doll. The online guide told me that I needed a knife to make sure the doll was cut up properly, but I just assumed if I could just rip it up, it’d work out just as well. I guessed that ghosts weren’t quite an exact science.

“What’re you doing to that,” the ghost said, floating over to me.

“Cutting it up so I can punch you.”

“Your mom bought you that, though.” His face sank a little. “My sister had a doll like that.”

“Don’t care.”

“I miss my sister.”

I stopped tearing at my doll and turned to face the ghost. “And I miss being able to sleep without a spooky ghost opening and close my window.”

The ghost turned his head down in dejection. “I just…”

I picked up the doll and threw it at him. It passed through him and hit the old floorboards hard. “Shut up, man. I liked it a whole bunch when you didn’t talk.”

I passed through the ghost and grabbed the doll. He just kept standing there, even when I went back to the table and started ripping apart the doll even more. I was going at it for a couple of minutes, but I knew the ghost was still there. It was frigid and I could hear wind flow through the cracks. Then, he started sobbing. It was light, just barely audible. Like an eleven year old who had his ball stolen.

I turned around and he quickly swiveled his head away.

“Seriously?” I asked. “How do ghosts even cry?”

“I just…” the ghost said, voice soft. “I thought you could help.”

“I’m twelve, dude.”

“Well, I know, but like, you can’t go to adults. I tried that once, and no one really cares. They just think it’s a weird optical illusion or something. Kids though…”

“What can I do, then?” I said as I ripped deeper into the doll. The whole chest was almost hollowed out. Once that was done, it was just a dumb incantation and the ghost was gonna meet my fist.

“I don’t know,” the ghost said and a puff of smoke from his ghost body went up to his head, like he was scratching his head. “I think we have to figure it out.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” I said and went back to the doll. “What’s easier, I think, is I punch you in the face. And then you leave.”

“Hmmmm,” the ghost said. “I don’t really like that idea.”

“You’re the worst ghost, you know?” I said. “You’re not even that scary.”

“That’s rude.”

I went back to the doll, and in a quick few pulls, the doll was all ready. It was lying there, chest hollowed out, and then I said the magic words.

“Well, Mr. Ghost, it’s time to find out if the spell worked.”

Then I turned around and the ghost wasn’t there anymore. “Sorry, I really don’t want to be punched,” I heard a voice say through the walls.

I waited for a couple of seconds, fingers clenched tight in a fist. He really was the worst ghost.

“Hey Mom,” I called downstairs. “Bring some guac and chips. I solved our ghost problem.”

“Did you punch him?” Mom yelled back.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

And not a day goes by where I don’t imagine that dumb ghost face getting smashed in by my fist.

Entenzahn
Nov 15, 2012

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


This is One of My Hardest Tricks You Know
824 words

Elob, Grand Wizard of the Second Circle, rustled his sleeves, cracked his fingers, picked up a pebble and threw it into the berry bush in front of his house, where it fell through the twigs and leaves in a random pattern. Even after decades of study, the world still held so many wonders to him. One marvelled--

“Haven’t I told you, in no uncertain terms, that you must have the rune ready by today, or else I will eat your soul?”

The voice had seemingly come out of nowhere, and it had lifted Elob to his feet. Behind him, Izuch the Great, Patron of the Rotten, had materialized in the form of a crooked vulture, jagged beacon caked in dried blood and bits of flesh.

“I, uh, I was going to do it.”

“You know that the soul is consumed by sucking it out of one’s eye sockets, yes? I am fairly certain that I have mentioned as much…”

Yes, Elob remembered. And then it would forever rot in the Valley of the Defiled Sinners, where your shell was festering with scabbed over wounds, and they would pop open and the maggots would nest in them and you would spend the rest of eternity in agony and misery and--

“Actually, it’s Grand Wizard Kelch’s fault.”

The black eyes of Izuch the Great stared down on him like unforgiving needles, about to nestle in his eyeballs.

“I have asked him for the schematics, you know, runecraft is not that easy, and he was supposed to give me the schematics so I can know how it works? But he never got back to me. And I meant to summon him but I’m all out of fairy ash and the next chromatic meadow is about a five days walk from here, and then I was afraid you’d come to my house and I’d still be burning up fairies over in the Farbhoven and you’d think I’d forgotten about you.”

“I will retrieve the schematic. Where can I find this Kelch?”

“He is probably at the auditorium. Definitely the auditorium. He likes his speeches, that’s goold ol’ Katch for ya.”

“Kelch.”

“The one.”

Just like that, Izuch the Great was gone, and Elob let out a breath of air that he’d held in for about the last minute. There was, of course, a very small chance that Izuch would actually find someone called Kelch at the auditorium, and in that case he could only hope that that guy would receive the brunt of the Great One’s wrath.

Elob ran into the house. He swiped everything off the work table, the molten candles and pipe hash and a whole book’s worth of crude stick figure illustrations, and underneath various layers of dirt and crumbs and firmly lodged in a puddle of sticky juice he found the cubicrux, the methonium-shell container that held Izuch’s Grand Idea, and next to it there was the rune base, a dusty old bone tablet, and he reached into his pocket and sprinkled common magician’s dust onto it - a mixture of burnt pine needles and twilight curry and some ground horn of the fae critter - and he tore the ethereal threads of Izuch’s Grand Idea out of the cubicrux and spread it out on top of the tablet, and he mixed it with the dust until the ghastly matter reacted and became fat and soft like an ointment, and he rubbed it into the bone, and with the other hand he made a sign so that a hot ray of fire spread from his fingertip, and it carved the names and words of Izuch the Great into the rune, and Elob said, all in one breath, “and I will craft this rune of you and in it I will lay your idea and your words shall be bound to this earthen bone and to this earthen dust and your mind shall be one with the eternal resonance and iata ort oboti, lacta iata est, praise be the fog of mystery,” and then he took the rune and as he turned around he almost got skewered by Izuch’s beak, who had by now returned and looked about as annoyed as a vulture without the necessary muscle tissue for complex facial expressions could look.

“There was no Kelch at the auditorium,” Izuch said.

“It matters not,” Elob waved him off, and his hand briefly brushed Izuch’s feathery hide. His heart stopped beating. “Beceughhhhhh chhhhhhhhh.”

“Yes?”

“Heart… not… help.”

“It will be fine in a few seconds.” Izuch made a motion with his wings for Elob to continue.

“Turns out,” he said, wheezing through the pounding of a renewed bloodstream in his head, “turns out I actually had the schematics. And I already made the rune too. Wizards and their pipe smoke, he he… he?”

“Now,” the Great One said, as he took the rune and inspected it, “was that so bad?”

“Yes,” Elob said. “Yes it was.”

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly



Resolution: Give more blood




Universal Donor
1246 Words

Diana toed herself to the edge of the flimsy bathroom door and listened through the gushing of the tub faucet. She knocked. No response.

“You forgot to grab a towel,” Diana called.

Yes, Jolene had locked the bathroom door, so Diana reasoned that it would be rude to barge on in, but the old brick apartment sat crooked on its foundation, and none of the locks, even those on the front door, ever actually caught.

“Use the chain,” her landlord had said.

Anyways, it was silly to worry about catching an immodest glimpse of Jolene after the two just spent a half-hour loving as a conclusion to their first date, so Diana just pushed open the door. She was feeling bold tonight.

“I’m leaving a towel for you,” Diana said.

She never expected to find Jolene’s pale and sputtering body bleeding out in the basin of her tub.

“Oh god,” Diana said as she turned off the water “ohgodohgodohgodohgod.” One of her razors, the plastic housing pried away, lay discarded on the floor.

The gash could have been an inch deep and was cut with purpose, that much was clear. Diana watched the gash bubble, well up, and overflow with each of Jolene’s final weak heartbeats.

Diana was on the phone with an emergency dispatcher when the flow subsided into a trickle as shallow as Jolene’s breathing.

“Please,” Diana muttered to God or any other cosmic entity. “Please, no.”

There wasn’t a flickering of lights, or some magic spark that jumped from skin to skin, or anything like that, but something happened, because as Diana braced her head against the wall of the tub, unprepared to watch a woman die, she felt the tickling of too-cold fingers on the back of her neck. When she lifted her head, Diana met her lover’s cloudy eyes.

Then, she felt the warm and heavy flow of new blood spurt across her face.

“Oh poo poo,” Jolene said. “I’m still bleeding.”

Diana grabbed the towel and pressed it into the butterflied meat of Jolene’s forearm. Jolene howled in pain.

“You need pressure,” Diana said. “An ambulance is coming.”

The powder blue towel turned a lovely shade of purple as it absorbed pints of Jolene.

“Cancel the ambulance,” Jolene said. “This is what I want.”

“gently caress you,” Diana said.

Jolene lifted herself on wobbly legs, careful not to slip on the bottom of the tub, while heavy streams of blood whapped against the tile in spurts. Her legs grew steadier beneath her.

“You can’t just...” Diana began before pausing to notice the color flushing back into Jolene’s cheeks.

Instead, she asked, “What’s happening with you?”

“I’ve been depressed for a long time,” Jolene said, “and I was worried that if I did it in my apartment, nobody would find my-”

“Not that,” Diana said.

Jolene’s wound continued to squirt across the bathroom tile onto Diana’s bare feet, and Diana could see Jolene’s heart thumping hard within her chest. “You should be dead,” Diana added.

Outside on the street, the flashing of a red siren bounced off the walls of neighboring buildings.

Then the doorbell rang.

***

“You’re the patient’s family?” the doctor asked.

“Her sister,” Diana said.

“Well, the good news is that with the help of a tourniquet, several grams of a clotting agent, and many stitches, we were able to stop the bleeding.”

“And is there bad news?” Diana asked.

“She’s on suicide watch,” the doctor said, “we’d like to keep her here for a few nights.”

“Absolutely not!” Jolene called from the other side of a divider curtain. She emerged from the other side, her arm wrapped in heavy gauze and tape. “We’re leaving right now,” Jolene declared.

The doctor ripped a prescription from his pad and handed it to Diana. “There’s going to be some swelling,” he said, “but make sure she takes her antibiotics and we’ll see her in two weeks.”

***

Diana pulled two glasses from the cupboard and drilled a corkscrew into the mouth of a wine bottle.

“What did you do to me in the tub?” Jolene asked.

Diana stood in front of the counter and sipped. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just wanted you to be okay.”

Jolene downed the glass in two gulps. The fuzzy muck of the painkillers was beginning to wear thin, and the searing feeling within her arm was too much to handle. Jolene reached out for the bottle in preparation for another glass and felt the inside of her arm ripple and slosh under her skin. She pulled the sleeve of her sweatshirt above her elbow and revealed the skin of her arm, bloated and sagging under the weight of fluid buildup.

At first a single stitch ripped through the eyelet of pierced skin, and stale blood squirted through the slit in Jolene’s skin. Then, with a nearly inaudible snap, another eyelet popped. And then, all at once, the seam along Jolene’s tender forearm split like an overfilled grocery bag onto the counter, washing the corkscrew from the counter in a red wave. Diana caught it before it hit the floor.

Jolene continued to spurt. “Make it stop!” she shouted. “Whatever it is that you wanted just un-want it.”

“I don’t think I can be responsible for your death,” Diana said.

Jolene waved her forearm, spraying the cabinets and walls in her blood. “You’re responsible for this,” she said, before hanging her arm over the sink.

“Actually, you’re-” Diana began. “You’re ruining the flatware!” she shouted.

Jolene saw that she was also ruining the dishes, so she grabbed a roll of paper towels and smushed them into the viscera before running into the bathroom and standing, again, in the dirty tub. Diana, corkscrew still in hand, followed.

“Say your prayer.” Jolene said, “Think really hard. Whatever you have to do. Just make it stop.”

Diana closed her eyes and thought as hard as a person could.

“You’re not trying!” Jolene shouted.

“I am, it’s just difficult.”

“Ugh, I can feel it in my veins,” Jolene said. “The blood’s so thick that my arms and legs hurt!” Jolene snatched the corkscrew and plunged it deep into her other arm.

“There’s too much in me!” she shouted.

Jolene tore away at the skin as she dragged the tool lengthwise down her arm. “The pressure!” she said as more blood began to flow.

“gently caress!” Diana shouted.

Jolene plunged the corkscrew three times into her leg and each hole erupted, yet her heart beat stronger and stronger, pushing new blood to the voids.

“Stop it!” she pleaded. “I’m sorry!”

“I-” Diana started.

Jolene grabbed Diana by the neck and bounced her head off the shower tile. She rolled Diana onto her back and into the tub so that her head sat on the tub stopper.

For Diana, the world faded in and out of existence, and after just a minute or so, Jolene’s blood began seeping into her ears until the only thing Diana could hear was the sound of streams pouring from Jolene and slapping against the surface of the rising blood tide. She tried to rise, but Jolene was too strong in her rage, and soon the blood rose over her cheekbones and poured into her mouth and nasal cavity and over the surface of her eyes.

Jolene held Diana under the surface until her body stopped kicking, and the bubbles, slowly popping up through the thick, stopped entirely. Then, Jolene’s wounds began to trickle, and she collapsed into the tub.

Baleful Osmium Sea
Oct 31, 2016


Resolution: Start a blog
wordcount: 1247


Google Earth

A sudden, judgemental silence in the bar made Joel look up from the paper and toward the entrance where he saw Simon waving at him.

"Joel!" Simon said as he approached. "How are you going?"

Joel put down the page he'd been failing to complete the crossword on. A few drops of rain hit the window beside him. "Ah, good, mate " he called. "Been a while. How are you?"

"Actually, I'm feeling a tad underdressed."

Joel looked Simon up and down. "Could be because you're in your knickers."

Simon raised a foot with one hand and pointed at it with the other. "And my slippers. I'm not a total barbarian."

"Oh," said Joel. "Good?"

There was an awkward silence, Simon lowered his foot and toyed unconsciously with his belly fat. Joel looked at the second of the two large 2-for-1 jugs of beer. The first, now empty jug was still on the table, its delicious innards now inside Joel. He sighed. "Beer, mate?"

"Sure, thanks a mil," said Simon, sitting down in the booth. "Getting served might be a bit hit-or-miss at the moment."

Joel poured some of the beer from his full jug into the empty one and pushed it towards Simon. "There you go, wrap your giggle gear around that."

Simon drank thirstily, a few dribbles of amber fluid escaping the rim, cascading down his moustache and splashing onto his white, hairless belly. He belched, then smiled. Joel smiled back, warmly, had a drink himself, and the pair let the warm camaraderie of beer wash through them. Outside the rain began pelting down in earnest.

"How's work?" asked Joel.

"The mechanic's job? Packed it in," said Simon. "Fixing tractors and lawnmowers for a bunch of illiterate farmers just wasn't doing it for me any more. I've got a blog now. Keeps me pretty busy 24/7."

"Do people still have blogs?" asked Joel. "I thought it was all facebook live, snapchat and helmet cams now. Or pretty young fellas with vlogs angling for TV guest shots."

"Oh no," said Simon. "That's strictly for the kids. Blogging is a very mature medium now. Besides, with the crappy internet speed we get out here it's the only option."

"True," said Joel, sipping his beer. "So, what is it you blog about?"

"Tech stuff. I follow the big tech stories and provide commentary."

"That sounds reasonable. You like it?"

"The best thing is you can do it in your underwear, and nobody cares" said Simon. Joel nodded appreciatively. "And the worst thing is, unless you crack a really big story, nobody cares. Had to take the last of my wardrobe to the op shop today to cover this month's rent. But I'm just about to publish a story that's gonna send my pageviews skyrocketing!"

A flash of lightning illuminated the both of them, followed by a dull rumbling sound seconds later.

"Sweet," said Joel, turning away from the gathering storm. "What it's about?"

Simon met Joel's gaze for an intense moment, then shrugged and took another swig. "Do you remember, back on your Commodore 64, there used to be a game called Little Computer People?"

"Sure - you had a little pixelly fellow, and he would take showers and play chiptunes and stuff."

"That's the one. Didn't you ever wonder what happened to all those little computer people, once they outgrew all those crappy 8-bit systems?"

"To be honest, mate, I never gave it a moment's thought."

"Well, I reckoned they must have gone somewhere. They were all over the world, and then nowhere. So where did they go? Turns out there were plenty of clues, if you knew where to look. I tracked the LCPs down through encrypted bulletin board service archives, usenet signature files and the like." Simon leaned in, conspiratorially, and his skin made a sucking sound as it separated from the pleather booth. "But it wasn't until the full flowering of the internet that they truly came out from the digital underground, to sink or swim in the age of info-capitalism."

"Christ," said Joel, taken aback by Simon's wordy mixture of coherence and incoherence. "And did they? Sink or swim?"

"They swam, Joel, oh how they swam. They formed their own little computer company. A minor concern, you might have heard of it, called..." Simon looked left, then right, and finally whispered "...Google."

Joel's eyes widened. "No poo poo!"

Pleased at the reaction, Simon poured himself more beer and nodded. "That's what my post's about. A scoop you won't find in the mainstream media."

"I bet. Hang on, though" said Joel, narrowing his eyes. "Is this just the Little Computer People, or everything? Are like, The Sims in on this?"

"Good theory," said Simon, beaming like a pleased parent. "But the timelines are entirely wrong. I'll tell you something else. All the stuff they're doing now, the LCPs - well, the name Google was based on a number, a one followed by a page full of zeroes, called a googol. And when they formed a parent company, they called it Alphabet. They've gone from numbers to letters, showing their Little Computerness has gone from digital to real-world analog. And those balloons they've been putting up - the ones that will deliver internet to the remotest corners of the world. What could be better for an LCP transportation system? They could travel all over, invisibly, bypassing border-checks."

"I've heard about those balloons," said Joel, looking out the window and upward. The sky was dark with heavy clouds and the rain was even more fierce than before. "They're even doing a trial here."

"What?" said Simon.

"It was in the local paper." Joel turned a couple of pages away from the crossword and showed Simon an article. The Mayor was apparently delighted to welcome his new Google pals in bringing rural Mulmorton into the twenty-first century.

"poo poo," said Simon. "poo poo poo poo shitshitSHIT! Listen, Joel, do you have a car?"

"Sure, outside. Why? Is something wrong?"

"It's not just balloons for transporting LCPs, Joel. It's everything. Wireless, Weather, Weapons. Maybe even mind control. I thought I was safe until I published, until word got out from my blog and something was done, but if the LCPs are here..."

Another flash, and the thunder was quicker to arrive this time.

"And what does that have to do with my car?"

"A car can act as a Faraday cage. It's the safest place for me. Quick! Give me your keys."

Joel saw the panic on Simon's face. Slowly he reached for his keys and slid them across the table. "It's the Mazda."

Simon grabbed them, said "Thanks, Joel, you're a lifesaver," and raced to the door.

Joel watched him through the booth window, saw him sprinting through the puddles to the other side of the carpark, observed the bolt of lightning strike a only a few metres away from the car as Simon tried to get the key into the lock. The boom of thunder that followed immediately was almost deafening. Simon wrestled the door open, jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. The Mazda sped away, deeper into the storm.

The bartender came over, peered through the booth window. "He's got a point about the cages."

"That's why we had to install those self-driving modules," said Joel. He poured some more beer, then turned back to his crossword, idly whistling an 80s video game theme A sudden, judgemental silence in the bar made Joel look up from the paper and toward the entrance where he saw Simon waving at him.

"Joel!" Simon said as he approached. "How are you going?"

Joel put down the page he'd been failing to complete the crossword on. A few drops of rain hit the window beside him. "Ah, good, mate " he called. "Been a while. How are you?"

"Actually, I'm feeling a tad underdressed."

Joel looked Simon up and down. "Could be because you're in your knickers."

Simon raised a foot with one hand and pointed at it with the other. "And my slippers. I'm not a total barbarian."

"Oh," said Joel. "Good?"

There was an awkward silence, Simon lowered his foot and toyed unconsciously with his belly fat. Joel looked at the second of the two large 2-for-1 jugs of beer. The first, now empty jug was still on the table, its delicious innards now inside Joel. He sighed. "Beer, mate?"

"Sure, thanks a mil," said Simon, sitting down in the booth. "Getting served might be a bit hit-or-miss at the moment."

Joel poured some of the beer from his full jug into the empty one and pushed it towards Simon. "There you go, wrap your giggle gear around that."

Simon drank thirstily, a few dribbles of amber fluid escaping the rim, cascading down his moustache and splashing onto his white, hairless belly. He belched, then smiled. Joel smiled back, warmly, had a drink himself, and the pair let the warm camaraderie of beer wash through them. Outside the rain began pelting down in earnest.

"How's work?" asked Joel.

"The mechanic's job? Packed it in," said Simon. "Fixing tractors and lawnmowers for a bunch of illiterate farmers just wasn't doing it for me any more. I've got a blog now. Keeps me pretty busy 24/7."

"Do people still have blogs?" asked Joel. "I thought it was all facebook live, snapchat and helmet cams now. Or pretty young fellas with vlogs angling for TV guest shots."

"Oh no," said Simon. "That's strictly for the kids. Blogging is a very mature medium now. Besides, with the crappy internet speed we get out here it's the only option."

"True," said Joel, sipping his beer. "So, what is it you blog about?"

"Tech stuff. I follow the big tech stories and provide commentary."

"That sounds reasonable. You like it?"

"The best thing is you can do it in your underwear, and nobody cares" said Simon. Joel nodded appreciatively. "And the worst thing is, unless you crack a really big story, nobody cares. Had to take the last of my wardrobe to the op shop today to cover this month's rent. But I'm just about to publish a story that's gonna send my pageviews skyrocketing!"

A flash of lightning illuminated the both of them, followed by a dull rumbling sound seconds later.

"Sweet," said Joel, turning away from the gathering storm. "What it's about?"

Simon met Joel's gaze for an intense moment, then shrugged and took another swig. "Do you remember, back on your Commodore 64, there used to be a game called Little Computer People?"

"Sure - you had a little pixelly fellow, and he would take showers and play chiptunes and stuff."

"That's the one. Didn't you ever wonder what happened to all those little computer people, once they outgrew all those crappy 8-bit systems?"

"To be honest, mate, I never gave it a moment's thought."

"Well, I reckoned they must have gone somewhere. They were all over the world, and then nowhere. So where did they go? Turns out there were plenty of clues, if you knew where to look. I tracked the LCPs down through encrypted bulletin board service archives, usenet signature files and the like." Simon leaned in, conspiratorially, and his skin made a sucking sound as it separated from the pleather booth. "But it wasn't until the full flowering of the internet that they truly came out from the digital underground, to sink or swim in the age of info-capitalism."

"Christ," said Joel, taken aback by Simon's wordy mixture of coherence and incoherence. "And did they? Sink or swim?"

"They swam, Joel, oh how they swam. They formed their own little computer company. A minor concern, you might have heard of it, called..." Simon looked left, then right, and finally whispered "...Google."

Joel's eyes widened. "No poo poo!"

Pleased at the reaction, Simon poured himself more beer and nodded. "That's what my post's about. A scoop you won't find in the mainstream media."

"I bet. Hang on, though" said Joel, narrowing his eyes. "Is this just the Little Computer People, or everything? Are like, The Sims in on this?"

"Good theory," said Simon, beaming like a pleased parent. "But the timelines are entirely wrong. I'll tell you something else. All the stuff they're doing now, the LCPs - well, the name Google was based on a number, a one followed by a page full of zeroes, called a googol. And when they formed a parent company, they called it Alphabet. They've gone from numbers to letters, showing their Little Computerness has gone from digital to real-world analog. And those balloons they've been putting up - the ones that will deliver internet to the remotest corners of the world. What could be better for an LCP transportation system? They could travel all over, invisibly, bypassing border-checks."

"I've heard about those balloons," said Joel, looking out the window and upward. The sky was dark with heavy clouds and the rain was even more fierce than before. "They're even doing a trial here."

"What?" said Simon.

"It was in the local paper." Joel turned a couple of pages away from the crossword and showed Simon an article. The Mayor was apparently delighted to welcome his new Google pals in bringing rural Mulmorton into the twenty-first century.

"poo poo," said Simon. "poo poo poo poo shitshitSHIT! Listen, Joel, do you have a car?"

"Sure, outside. Why? Is something wrong?"

"It's not just balloons for transporting LCPs, Joel. It's everything. Wireless, Weather, Weapons. Maybe even mind control. I thought I was safe until I published, until word got out from my blog and something was done, but if the LCPs are here..."

Another flash, and the thunder was quicker to arrive this time.

"And what does that have to do with my car?"

"A car can act as a Faraday cage. It's the safest place for me. Quick! Give me your keys."

Joel saw the panic on Simon's face. Slowly he reached for his keys and slid them across the table. "It's the Mazda."

Simon grabbed them, said "Thanks, Joel, you're a lifesaver," and raced to the door.

Joel watched him through the booth window, saw him sprinting through the puddles to the other side of the carpark, observed the bolt of lightning strike a only a few metres away from the car as Simon tried to get the key into the lock. The boom of thunder that followed immediately was almost deafening. Simon wrestled the door open, jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. The Mazda sped away, deeper into the storm.

The bartender came over, peered through the booth window. "He's got a point about the cages."

"That's why we had to install all those self-driving modules," said Joel. He poured some more beer and returned to his crossword, idly whistling an 80s video game theme and contemplating how nice a shower would be when he got home.

SkaAndScreenplays
Dec 11, 2013

by Pragmatica


Fantastic Meats And Where To Grind Them:
1161 Words

Mick adjusted the settings of his action camera one last time as Sara the countdown.

"Air B and E going live in three..."

This is the big one, he thought.

"Two.."

Six months of bullshit for the biggest score of a lifetime. He snapped the camera into its place on his lapel.

"Roll camera..."

Don't screw this up... Mick stared into the lens of Henry's phone, they were streaming from 3 separate cameras at one of their most requested locations. He hoped it would help boost their meager ratings.

"Action!"

Like a switch had been flipped Mick snapped into character, "good-evening internet! I am Mick Schimmel and this is Air B And E; the only show that treats felony trespassing like a weekend getway. We're coming to you live from the derelict Hartz School For Wayward Youth in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Constructed at the turn of the century it's purported to be one of the most haunted places in the country."

He paused briefly, turning to allow the camera on his chest to take in the compound that would be their stage for the night standing like a megolith on the hilltop, "Of course, we're skeptics here so I'm going to call bullshit on that last point," He continued. "Though it is rumored to be home to any number of highly valuable antiques."

With quiet deliberation the three made their way up to the hill; Mick providing commentary on the building's history and security in whisper the whole way. As they drew nearer to the building the three fanned out. Coming up on a hundred feet from the entrance they hit the first hurdle of the night. The rumble of a diesel engine shattered the silence of the night air; a deer-shiner, blinding white lit the hillside below.

Mick hit the deck; pulling his camera from its pouch and watching the source of the light intently. He didn't see Sara or Henry; a good sign that they hadn't been spotted.

"It sounds counterintuitive," he hissed to the camera, "but if someone is searching for you do not just break for it. When its dark human vision picks up on motion, staying low to the ground obscures your silhouette."

The three regrouped at a service door on the building's east-side once the truck had sped off.

"What the hell was that?" Sara hissed, "None of our stakeouts indicated this place had any security."

"More than that," Henry added, "this building is active, the door is warm and there are definitely noises coming from inside. I don't like this."

Mick soffed; speaking instead to the camera as he produced a set of lockpicks from his coat. "The disadvantage of the buddy system is this. Despite all effort and hope sometimes your partners in crime are absolute chicken-poo poo." Within moments he had defeated the lock. Not a second later he and his crew were inside. Immediately upon crossing the threshold all three felt their hearts sink into their stomach.

Clothing of every size, color, and style lay in a clutter at the center of the room. Not a single article free of blood stains. Discarded shoes piled in a corner stood taller than a man. Most disturbing was the wallets, lined neatly by size and color filled a bookshelf; their contents pinned to the wall in a mosaic of unfathomable violence.

"What in the gently caress did we just walk into?" Mick's voice was tinted dark with dread, "We've gotta get out of here."

Sara cracked the door only to immediately close it at the sound of voices drawing nearer from outside.

"We need to move... NOW!" Her words shocked Mick and Henry from their stupor, "The only way out is further in, so let's stick together and try and get out of this alive."

They pushed deeper into the compound; fully aware of the attention each of their echoing footsteps would draw, never ignoring the louder ones growing closer from behind. After an eternity Mick brought them to a stop outside the rec-room.

"We've got to get out of the hallways," the words rattled in his throat, "Our best bet is to get into one of these rooms and escape through a window."

"We're not going to make it," Henry struggled to keep his composure, "We're not going to make it and we don't even have wallets with us to add to that shelf."

"No wallets, no I.D., even if someone does find this place and find us they'll never know who we were," Sara's words carried no emotion. It was a cold statement of fact.

Mick looked the pair dead in the eye, "I refuse to accept that. We've been through how much together?" His friend's silent stares answered without words as he set upon picking the rec-room door.

"Exactly, we can beat this." A satisfying click announced his success as he opened the door. He turned to his friends in an attempt to reassure them, "we've just got to work..."

Any bleak optimism he'd still harbored was squeezed out of him by the massive arm constricting around his windpipe. Within moments he was out.

A mechanical whir brought Mick back to the world of the living; a world he found literally upside-down. Dangling from his ankles he stopped to appreciate the scene of his own murder.

Panic overtook every one of Mick's faculties as he fought helplessly against his restraints; screaming the whole time.

He screamed for help.

He screamed for his mom.

He screamed for Henry... for Sara.

He screamed for the sheer defiance of the act.

Mostly he screamed hoping somone would hear.

"Stop yelling you'll piss off the kid," came a gruff voice behind him, "he's already cranky from teething."

"What?"

"The kid," a knife flashed in front of Mick's face pointing out the answer to his question. A small child standing in a walker stared intently at him with a bright smile and dead eyes.

"Keep fighting if you want. Won't do anything; that little hellspawn is going consume you either way," his captor drew a line down Micks abdomen with the knife point. "Calm down and I'll make sure you're not alive when it happens. Be nice and you get offed quick and minced into baby food."

Mick let out a soft chuckle, "you've got to be kidding me right?"

"Like I said, the kid is teething. Your friends went quietly if it helps you make a decision."

Sirens could be heard faintly in the distance. Mick's soon-to-be-killer hadn't yet noticed.

"I'll take the quick way out then," Mick chuckled, suddenly aware of the camera still pinned to his chest. "Mind if I get some last words in?"

"By all means," came the answer, "get on with it."

"To those of you still watching this has been the final episode of Air B and E. Remember kids, owning lockpicks means never being homeless."

The world went black.

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Fun Shoe

Removed, for some day this may find itself in a compilation of bad words.

Chili fucked around with this message at 21:53 on Jan 2, 2017

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002


no your all the butts.

-----------

Mrenda vs. Hawklad brawl

Mrenda wins because she wrote a story that was at its core more fundamentally interesting and had deeper character motivations than Hawklad's poopile on a paper plate and then the poop leaks through the plate and gets on your fingers story.

crits below

Hawlad

I did? What story was that?

This whole first paragraph could be cut because it’s all tell, and it’s not written very well.

Isn’t skin always precancerous until you have cancer?

This whole first section is lacking a certain umph. It’s purpose is “look at me, i’m old and dragged into the jungle by my son/husband/whoever because i bought him a movie.” but it’s a little too casual to set the scene well.

“"I can't have you dropping dead right here. Not while we still owe on the lake house." I'm joking, of course.”

This confused me, because i was like “wait, she WANTS him to die?” then i realized that you were just confirming that the joke you just told was in fact, a joke. Tip: if you feel the need to do this, then you didn’t tell a funny joke, and you should probably cut the whole thing. Your “joke” is a cliche that’s been uttered in a million rom-coms in some version or another, and i recognized that it was a “joke.”

We aren't. Italacize “we” for clearer understanding.

“It's a small favor that Frank and I are the only ones that signed up for this excursion. Another strike against it, in retrospect.” this is a present tense story, and you just said it’s good that you’re the only ones on it, but bad in retrospect. This is muddled as gently caress. Is it good or bad? You can’t retrospect a present tense story. You COULD have had her run through a few reasons it was actually bad and have her change her mind, or better yet, show that it’s actually bad through a series of events (the story) and let her words of “it is good” float there like a bad omen. Trust your reader.

“I could sit” could have sat. the opportunity is over.

“The step are steeper now.”typo

“River — with his stupid drugged-out smile “ this isn’t adding anything new. Instead, try adding something new.

You’ve described two things as being done “painfully” now. This is the telling you should avoid, and instead SHOW that it hurts her through her reactions.

“It's not in any of guidebooks” typo

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

This story is meh. I feel like it’s mostly an old lady nagging and telling me boring poo poo. The whole “drug guide from vermont tricks old people into getting dead” is a really disjointed story that doesn’t have any real foreshadowing or reason to it. Even the precipitating event just feels like contrived “i gave him a movie so he got obsessed with mayans and then happened to see a poster advertising the very thing he’s obsessed with.” The characters aren’t well fleshed out, they’re more caricatures or parodies (haha, old lady from a cruise boat who calls all latinos and their language “mexican”). The first-person present story relies a lot on the voice of the POV character, and this voice is really weak. It’s too casual, too waffling, and too filled with extraneous things like cussing or interjections to really be compelling. This story is pretty weak. also, loving proofread your work.

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

Mrenda

First para feels over-edited and a bit forced. Too many short, factual sentences. but it captures my attention for now.

Ugh. i know a professor o’malley and so now that person is linked to your character.

Your dialog framing needs work. Who are jen and carol? Are one of them prof. O’malley?

I’m kinda confused as to what is happening in this huge dialog chunk. Before it’s all world building of “the bad stuff broke the water/planet and the people, and prof. O’malley will find the cure!” then it’s people talking about world building “wash the clothes!” and whatnot and i’m not sure exactly who is who. You really can’t do this back and forth thing in dialog without reminding me occasionally who is saying what, and it should be broken up with actions. Also, you shouldn’t do this unless the chars have unique voices and it’s more than just back and forth cause this is boring.

“And used she get her answers as wrong as Carol?” this is a mess.

Ok so i think prof. O’malley is like, the PI, Jen is the senior researcher and carol is an undergrad/new grad student or something? This is all not laid out very well, and not easy to suss out via the exposition.

““When you’re in my position you’ll realise time to think is rare.” Jen said. “And we’ve spent almost two days hunkered down.” this seems weird cause didn’t she just have 2 days to think but now is like “NOT EVEN ONE MORE SECOND OF CONSIDERATION OF THIS DANGEROUS MISSION BECAUSE IT’S TIME TO GO”

Also this conflict is p boring so far. You set up “we need to find the cure to what’s killing the planet!” but instead of doing something cool with that you’ve done “two people bicker over minutiae of conducting field research.”

“ Now it was time to remember him” who? Prof o’malley? The way you handled her relationship with this dude leaves something to be desired.

You’re spending WAY too much time having this Jen chick wax on about her old mentor. Also, this is at the wrong part of the story. You should have put in a few lines showing how much she appreciated the whole dude, then built the story in a way that we could make the connection ourselves about how the dude’s help had led to her success, instead of just blurting all of it out in an on-the-nose paragraph after the deed is done.

“samples of the opposite markers” what’s that mean? Did she find an algae that makes the water clean?

“ if her research came right.” that’s awkward.

“Lo! She hath success!” - you, over and over and over again.

“she’d been denied the memory of that naked afternoon beneath the water. All those rumours of what they did. Few believed they played like children” so her and prof O boned down in the clean water and she’s denied the memory how and by whom?

Now you’ve head jumped and carol is the PoV char. Don’t do that.

Yeah, that’s how i thought this was gonna end because you did a p good job of setting up that the people went crazy and into the water and died. The problem is i still don’t really understand why. Most of this story is either world building or inconsequential backstory about a relationship that barely matters. I can see a line or two about the reason she pushes Carol so hard, but it just goes on and on for way too long, and in the end, i dunno if it’s a hallucination or real. I don’t know if most of the story is hallucination or real, since the PoV char died of fever hallucinations, and the story lacked a grounding voice that helped me make sense of things.

That said, at least your story tried to do something semi-interesting and more than just a “lol white people” tale of dumb. So that is good. The bad part is it is confusing and you have a bit more to go before you’re turning out a tale that is clear and informative in addition to being entertaining.

Mrenda wins, but it’s a dirty win, like throwing sand into your mother’s eyes to look at the go-fish deck.

Hawklad
May 3, 2003


Who wants to live
forever?


DIVE!

College Slice


Resolution: Go to the Dentist

A Hard Reset
1247 Words

"Your teeth look yellow. The bottom ones."

Sheila's words are a hot needle in his gut.

"Oh, do they?" Gordon answers. "Sorry."

She snorts and a glistening mote of bacon bursts onto her lip. It bobs and sways as she chews.

"You should brush more."

Gordon flushes. "Actually, I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. So that's good?" He hates the way his voice makes it a question.

Sheila grunts, her attention already turned back to her phone, bratwurst fingers swiping upwards, chewing, the morsel on her lip iridescent in the glow from her phone.

"Hopefully no cavities?" Gordon offers.

She doesn't respond.

He stares at her, his face falling into disgust. How did they get here? They can't even communicate about the simplest things. How did their spring blossom of love and promise become such a cold harvest of resentment and frustration? Lies? There have been plenty of those. Selfishness? Indifference? Whatever the cause it's been seventeen long years and now she barely looks at him, except maybe to scold or criticize.

So Gordon gives up, again. He puts on his mask and goes to sleep. He dreams of a time machine that takes him back, before Sheila. He dreams of a new life.



As a kid Gordon hated the dentist. Those bristly fingers probing his mouth, the smell of fluoride and ground toothdust clotting the air, that one time he locked himself in the bathroom, his mother furious, pounding on the other side, yelling his name. He sat on the john and covering his ears until they finally picked the lock. Then they gave him a candy and it was all okay. Not great, but manageable.

But today was great, because today he had Miranda.

Miranda was Dr. Newbauer's full-time hygenist. Mid-forties, like Gordon, but a recent divorcee. She was kind and attentive. So different from Sheila. Her bosom would press gently into him as she worked, sapphire eyes crinkling slightly above her mask as she scraped and flossed and polished. Her face and her breasts became his whole world, the sensations in his mouth fading into the background as he gazed into her eyes.

They would talk as she worked. Mostly her, about her kids, what she'd done with her girlfriends on the weekend, the divorce. He couldn't say much with all the dental equipment in his mouth, so he just basked, planning what he would say at the next opportunity, using his eyebrows and subtle nods to encourage her chatter, smelling her clean scent, feeling the occasional light tickle of auburn curls on his neck. He memorized the pattern of her freckles. They became like the stars in his sky, her soft breath the wind that stirred his personal forest of desire.

Sometimes he would close his eyes just to feel and listen and smell, and sometimes he would fantasize, too. How she might pull the privacy curtain closed. Give him a knowing look and move her hand to his groin, so gentle, so professional, stroke him, their eyes locked as she climbs up onto him, pulling her hygenist's mask down and unzip —

"Gordon?" His eyes snap open. She's there, hovering, mask gone, a quizzical look on her face.

"Sorry, what did you say? I drifted off."

She smiled gently. "I said have you and Sheila ever been to Mexico?"

Sheila. No! Not here. She can't ruin his time with Miranda. This is their special time. She's not welcome!

"No. She hates to travel. All the germs." This is bad. They can't talk about Sheila. He needs to change direction. "We don't talk much anymore," Gordon blurts. His mouth is moving faster than his brain. "You know how it is, right? You're together for so long that all the little secrets and lies you keep just build and build and then it's like you can't talk without fear of them finding out. Can't really talk anyway." He'd imagined saying this so many times.

Miranda presses her lips together. Gordon can't believe what he's just said, and what he's about to say.

But the cliff is right there, inviting, his toes hanging over the edge. Beckoning him to jump.

"Not like you and I talk."

Her eyes widen. Then she crooks her head slightly, and gives him that smile. She is so close, their faces inches apart.

Gordon jumps. He reaches out with his arm and puts it on her waist, pulls her closer. Her bosom pushes gently into him. His nerves are high tension wires. She stiffens. He touches her cheek with his other hand. Her lips part slightly. The ground is rushing up to meet him. He guides her mouth towards his.

The rest is a whirlwind. She gasps, pushes him away. He rolls off the chair and falls to the ground. The dental tray upends, sending tools skittering across the tiles. Gordon doesn't look up, he just scrambles to his feet and runs for the door.

"Gordon, wait!" she calls after him, but he's gone, out into the street, red-faced, staggering, fumbling with his keys, hammering the button to unlock his truck and then he's inside, anonymous, driving. Fast, too fast, he needs control but he's red hot, fuming. How could he be so stupid?

Miranda will hate him now. He can't go back in there, not after that. It's all ruined.

His foot mashes the accelerator, like it's not a part of his body anymore, mindless, pumping the pedal as he yanks hard on the wheel, racing down the streets. Towards home. Away from the shame.

Towards her.

gently caress home, he can't go there, anywhere but there, but he's close so instead he swerves into the alley behind his street, his brain on fire, and there's Sheila, stepping out the back door with a bag of trash in one hand, phone in the other, looking down.

He lifts his foot from the accelerator, but it just hovers over the brake, frozen.

Sheila looks up just as the big chrome grill on his F-150 connects.

And there's finally emotion in her face — fear, shock, surprise — but then it's gone in a flash of metal meeting flesh and she's launched spinning in the air towards the row of dumpsters in the alley.

Gordon's foot reconnects to his body and he mashes the brake pedal, the truck swerving in the slick alley, engine and tires screaming like beaten animals, and she's coming down now, a loose mannequin of lard landing perfectly into a food waste dumpster, the force of her entry causing it to pitch backwards, an explosion of pale dough from within, the lid slamming shut just as his truck skids to a halt.

Gordon's breath hisses out from between his teeth, his jaw clenched. Everything is quiet but for the pounding of his heart. Slowly he climbs out of the truck, all the while staring at the overflowing food waste dumpster into which he has just deposited his former wife.

His former life.

There's no movement in the alley. Nobody saw anything. Gordon pulls a rag out from behind the driver's seat and begins wiping down the front of his truck. He feels a faint but insistent buzz from his pocket. Numb, he pulls out his phone. An unrecognized number. He answers it.

"Gordon?" It's her. "I—I got your number from the front desk."

"Miranda," he says. "I'm sorry. I am really sorry."

He hears her familiar, soft breathing on the other end.

It's a small lie.

But it's a start.

BeefSupreme
Sep 14, 2007


Clockwork

Removed. You can still find these crappy words right here in the archives!

BeefSupreme fucked around with this message at 08:04 on Jan 3, 2017

QuoProQuid
Jan 12, 2012

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


Prompt: Encourage my kids more


Roll for Initiative
1234 Words

The Dungeon Master’s friend wasn’t coming. The Dungeon Master’s father, John, sat at the kitchen table with the phone cord dangling across the linoleum floor. The wire bounced as he moved, drumming against a pile of supplies for a gathering that would never happen. A grocery bag, overflowing with pop cans and chip bags, sat on its side near a box with a bright green dragon on it. The words "D&D" bored into him.

John leaned in his chair and reached for the groceries. The bag, caught on the edge of his finger, slid an inch. The box, stuck to it by some unseen force, slid with the bag.

“John, did you hear anything I just said?” The woman on the other end of the receiver snarled in a hoarse, ashy voice.

"Uh, yeah, of course. You’re canceling again because..." He leaned almost sideways, catching the bag on the last digit of his middle finger. Blood pumped into his head as plastic rubbed against tile. He could not, for the life of him, remember the name of Carol's son. Mitchell? Michael? He could see the wide, smug face but the name was just out of reach.

He hated that kid, but he still wasn’t sure why this mother was yelling at him.

Carol huffed into the receiver. "Well, John, that’s just great. Just tell Clive that Marcus won’t be up for a playdate for a long time." John winced at the babyish word. Abandoning the chair, he stood and lifted both the pile onto the table. “I’m sure he’ll be so disappointed.”

“Okay, Carol. Can you just slow down and tell me–.”

The phone clicked and the dull drone of the dial tone washed over him. John looked down again at the fire-spewing dragon on the box. Sighing, he hung up the phone.

It was painful enough that Clive didn’t talk. He’d be fine with the flat, one-word answers about school. He would tolerate the robotic niceties and canned responses. It would be one thing if he channeled his habits into something productive, but instead he sat alone in his room for hours preparing games for kids like Marcus.

Smug, little Marcus. The Marcus whose mother threatened the school when her kid got in trouble. The Marcus that hung out in his kitchen, complaining about food that he didn’t have to pay for.

The kid needed someone else to play with.

John looked to the shut bedroom door. A whiteboard, emblazoned with the words “STAY OUT. I AM SERIOUS NOW,” hung at an angle.

John grabbed the box and the bag. Then, like a soldier marching towards battle, he approached the door.

***

“Hey,” said John, knocking but entering anyway. Part of him would be relieved to catch the kid doing something unrelated to his game. Instead, Clive laid on his back with a laptop balanced on his chest. The ghostly reflection of an Excel document floated behind him in the bedroom window.

Clive looked up. His mouth tightened. Then, like the tide going out, the pained expression receded into something blank and unknowable. The Excel document vanished in the window. “Hey.”

John glanced around the room. A sketch pad sat open to a rough drawing of a monster. Reams of graph paper littered the floor. “So, uh, Marcus had to cancel. His mom sounds upset.”

Clive said nothing.

John lifted up the grocery bag. “I figure that if you aren’t hanging out with your friend, you might as well keep this in your room.”

Clive gave a half-shrug. “Whatever you want.”

He hesitated before taking a step forward. With Clive’s eyes on him, he sat down on the floor and tossed over a Ginger Ale. The can sloshed as Clive set it on the bedside table unopened.

“I was wondering, if you aren’t doing anything, if you’d want to come out and watch a movie.”

Clive’s face remained frozen. “No thanks.”

“Is there anything you want for dinner? We could go out.”

“Whatever.”

“You sure you don’t want anything? We’ve still got some ice cream in the freezer.”

“No.”

They sat and listened to the air conditioner. John looked down at the heavy box on his lap. “Are you working on your, uh, game?”

Clive looked his father up and down. “Maybe.” He glanced at the box. His expression quivered. “Yeah.”

“Do you think you could show me what you’re working on?”

***

John’s character’s name was Magnus. He was a dwarf paladin. He faced death with more bravery than sense. A few minutes of adventuring left him bloody and bruised.

“How come I can’t just stab the thing?” John said, looking up from the graph paper and the miniatures. His legs had fallen asleep and he knew he was going to have problems getting up. Clive bounced from the bed with malevolent joy.

“You’re not in range!” Said Clive with feigned exasperation. The wounded paladin stood mere squares away from the monster. “You’ve got to get right up next to it and roll.”

John moved the miniature and rolled. On the next turn, a bugbear ripped his paladin in half.

John picked up a different character sheet. He was an elven fire mage named Griffin. He knew “magic missile” and “fire burst.” He carried smoldering torches for wands.

John set a small figure on the papery dungeon floor. “So, how’s school going?”

Clive picked up the dice and rolled. A legion of gremlins, played by discarded Monopoly pieces, descended onto the playing field. “It’s fine, I guess.” Clive grabbed his computer from the bed and scrolled through his Excel file. “Marcus got detention the other day.”

John’s mage screamed as the gremlins extinguished his flaming staffs. He begged for his life as the little demons drove knives into his chest for 1d8 damage. The broken staff smoldered like a campfire the morning after a party.

John was not sure if Clive was playing by the rules.

“Why’d he get detention?”

Clive peaked over his screen. “He’s not as smart as he pretends.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“He was, like,” Clive made a motion with his hands. “Trying to be cool and brought a bunch of his mom’s cigarettes to school. He was going to force some kid to smoke them.”

Clive slid out another character sheet. John was a human bard who carried a lute in his hands and a song in his heart. He seemed more prepared for a concert than the City of Fire. A dragon reared its head and let loose a terrible roar.

“And what’d you do?”

Clive stopped and looked down at his hands. John leaned forward. “I told a teacher because, I dunno, he was being a dick.”

John nodded. “Well, it sounds like he was.”

John pretended not to see his son’s red cheeks while Clive looked back at the computer screen. “How are you going to attack the dragon?”

John paused and looked through his character sheet. “I’m going to try and soothe the dragon with the lute.”

“Roll.”

The dice flew across the carpet and rolled beneath the bed. The two looked at the dark crevice and then at one another.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.” Clive said, locking eyes with his father, “You pluck your strings and out comes the most beautiful melody the dragon has ever heard. It rests its head and falls to sleep.”

Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010


writers should not be afraid of thunderdome
THUNDERDOME SHOULD BE AFRAID OF WRITERS


http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?...le=Lantern-Fish

Thranguy fucked around with this message at 07:18 on Jan 3, 2017

katdicks
Dec 27, 2013

SO BIG



Resolution: Stop farting

Pardoned
Word count: 1246

Hello, I’m Alice Withers. It’s a pleasure to meet you. As you’ve seen from my CV, I’m a highly qualified candidate. I graduated with honors from Georgia Law, and have two years of experience–

My train of thought was interrupted by a low, ominous rumble. I looked up at the receptionist, who was too engrossed in her phone to notice anything else. I tried to appear relaxed as I raised myself out of the low, boxy chair. When I reached her desk, I saw that her computer screen was black. It reminded me of the receptionist job I held in undergrad, where I was surrounded by blond-haired, blue-eyed girls just like her. While they bought new heels and flirted with lawyers, I squirreled away every penny for next semester’s textbooks.

“Um, excuse me, miss?” She didn’t look up, so I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Excuse me?” This time she raised her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, still without looking up from her phone. I continued anyway, “could you tell me where the lavatory is?”

She raised a perfectly manicured finger and pointed behind me without so much as a glance in my direction. Annoyed, I spun around, and collided head-on with a short, plump, white-haired man in a crisp suit.

“Oh, excuse me! I didn’t mean to –“

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you didn’t,” he cut me off as he adjusted his suit jacket and stepped backward. Once it was neatly in place, he squinted at me, which made his cheeks look even rounder.

“Oh, are you...”

“Yes, Alice Withers,” I started, and reached out to shake his hand, just as I had rehearsed at home. Unfortunately, we were too close, and I narrowly dodged jabbing my fingers into his expansive stomach. I quickly stepped back, and the corner of the receptionist’s desk poked me squarely in the butt. I yelped and recoiled my outstretched hand to massage my stinging cheek, but his pudgy right hand still hung in the air, waiting. Flustered, I reached out my left hand, grabbed his, and wiggled my elbow up and down vigorously.

“You must be Mr. Leiberman. What a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I released his hand and smiled my most convincing smile.

He just stared at me, his eyes still squinting.

“Very well,” he turned on his heels and gestured over his shoulder, “My office is this way.”

Before I could mention that I was on my way to the restroom, he had taken off, and I had no choice but to follow him down the wide hallway. We marched forward, past the sign for the restrooms. My stomach gave an uncomfortable churn and grumbled again, this time louder. I could feel pressure building in my gut.

Not now, I pleaded with my stomach. This was the last law firm left in a 50-mile radius of my house that didn’t know about my problem. If I could just make it through the interview without an incident, I might be able to negotiate an office with a private bathroom…

I covertly grabbed a blister-pack out of my pocket and popped a Gas-X. Chewing quickly, I followed him into his corner office and was struck by the cold air blasting from the room. I inadvertently shivered and was immediately grateful that the Gas-X had started working. At my last interview, a simple cough had set my stomach over the edge. Who knows what a shiver could do?

“Have a seat,” he wheezed out, gesturing to another low, stylish chair in front of his desk. Breathing heavily, he plopped himself in a raised chair behind the desk and loosened his tie. After his plump fingers had finished wrestling with the silk around his neck, he reached over to a stack of papers and plucked the top one. He looked down and started reading. I could see my name printed at the top.

“You’ll notice,” I started, trying to regain my footing, “that I’m a highly qualified candidate. I graduated with honors from Georgia Law and have two years’ experience– “

“I see,” he wheezed again. He reached up and unbuttoned the top button from his shirt without looking away from the paper. I looked down at my lap and began running through the rest of my qualifications in my head. After a minute I raised my head again and noticed his eyes bulging at my resume. Hoping he was touched by reading my pro-bono work, I sat up a little more confidently. Unfortunately, as I did so, my stomach awoke with a vengeance. I felt another groan coming along, so I began reciting another prepared monologue loudly.

“I’m very proud of the work I did for the family that lived behind the asbestos mill. I knew they couldn’t pay, but I’ve always said that not all lawyers have to be sharks. I know your firm is looking for someone with heart, and that’s exactly what distinguishes me from the pack.” I had talked over two moderately loud rumbles coming from deep in my stomach. But the pressure was back, and it was more intense than before. I knew what was coming. I looked around the room desperately and practically leaped across the room to a small table with a picture resting on it.

“Oh, wow! Are these your daughters?” I talked as loudly as I could to cover the sound of the air escaping me. “They’re beautiful! Is this their dance recital?” The smell wafted to my nose and I prayed that it wouldn’t travel to him. “These tutus look adorable! My mother tried to put me in a dance class, but the teacher just flat out refused. Two left feet! Ha ha ha!” I rambled until the smell had drifted away, and, after steeling myself, I looked over in in his direction. I instantly realized there was no hope because his cheeks were puffed out and he was leaning forward onto the desk like he was about to vomit. My resolve cracked.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry!” I held my face in my hands; my embarrassment was overwhelming. “I’m so sorry Mr. Leiberman. It’s a medical condition, I swear!” I dragged my hands back through my hair. I had promised myself I wouldn’t beg, but I just couldn’t leave another interview like this. “If you just give me a chance,” tears were starting to well up and the words caught in my throat, “If you just give me a chance I’ll prove to you-”

“I think you should just go.” He was pinching his nose and glaring at me, still hunched over his desk.

I stole away to the place I had wanted to be for the past 20 minutes – the bathroom of Lieberman & Hartz. I leaned over a large marble sink and let the tears flow. Suddenly, I saw in the mirror the door opening and the receptionist from earlier come through. She looked up at me from her phone for the first time that day, and she didn’t even try to hide her disgust.
Anger welled up inside of me. I couldn’t help myself. I looked straight at her judgmental expression in the mirror and let out the day’s pent-up gas in one loud, long release.

As she sank, eyes watering and patent leather heels splaying left and right, I readjusted my suit, pinned my hair back, and, feeling as though justice had finally been served, walked out of that bathroom with my head held high.

Reene
Aug 26, 2005





Resolution: Start Taking Vitamins



1150 Words

Take With Food

My name is Joshua, and I've never been a self-improvement sort of guy.

A few years ago I was staring down my last semester of college, my boyfriend of three years had broken up with me just before Christmas, and I'd gained so much weight in my last year that my photos from the years prior barely looked like the same person. In short, I looked and felt like poo poo, so with the new year approaching I got swept up in the make-your-life-better-you-shithead hype and started casting around for something in my life to change. A buddy of mine was really into the fitness scene and he convinced me that I'd not only look better but I'd feel a lot better about myself and life in general if I just gave working out and watching my diet a try. He gave me a routine to follow at the gym, recommended some supplements to me, and promised me he'd try to work out with me once in awhile to make sure I kept at it.

The day before New Year's, I went out and bought some meal replacements, a multivitamin, and new workout clothes. I girded my stomach and promised myself this would be my last night of heavy drinking before I embarked on the whole fitness thing. Unfortunately, my friends were all still out of town for the holiday or otherwise busy. Not wanting to go out drinking by myself, I decided to hit up my roommate Chris. Chris was a twiggy, kind of weird dude with greasy hair who mumbled whenever you tried to have a conversation with him. He was also ostensibly a biochem major, but I don't know how because I'd never seen him actually leave the apartment. I knocked on his door until he opened it a crack, his eyes focusing on a point a few inches above my shoulder.

"Hey, uh, man," I said. "I'm catching a show downtown tonight. You wanna come?"

"Nah. Nah, man. Thanks anyway." He hastily shut the door. Welp. gently caress 'em.

***

The next morning, slightly hungover and significantly poorer, I rolled out of bed early, tossed back a liquid breakfast and one of the multivitamins out of the bathroom cabinet, and put on my warmest coat. Most everything on and around campus was closed for the holiday, so to demonstrate my newfound motivation to myself I figured I would go hike a mile or two. Near campus there were a series of paved trails winding through the woods that I'd never actually used before, so that seemed like as good a place as any to start. The air was crisp and cool, and frozen dew still sparkled on the foliage. It felt...good. I was filled with a strange nervous energy, but I chalked that up to the lovely couple of weeks I'd had and the rich breakfast.

I had been walking for about twenty minutes or so before I realized the sky had gone dark.

It was midwinter, but it had been no later than noon when I set out. There was no way the sun had already set, and the trees were not so thick that they could have obscured the sky. As I stared upward I could see the branches above me twitch against the black sky, limned in soft silver light from stars or a moon I couldn't see. At that moment, a strong, brief wind struck my back, furnace-hot and moist, followed by what was unmistakably the inhalation of some massive thing, accompanied by a low, unearthly rumble. Blind, screaming panic filled my brain. Without looking behind me, I bolted.

No footsteps pursued me, but rather a kind of slithering punctuated by branches breaking like brittle bones, a rustling that rose in intensity to shake the forest around me. There was a rhythm to this chase though, a purity of will and intent, and in a revelation I knew that behind me was not some idiot beast but a terrible and malevolent intelligence next to which I was a small and useless thing. The meanest sparking tendril of thought reached out from it to touch my mind, pressing down upon my consciousness with an irresistible, incomprehensible weight, letting me know with certainty that though I fled from it, it did not need to chase me. No matter where I went, no matter how fast, it would find me. And I would live so long as I amused it.

I glanced down and realized the moisture from its breath, whatever it was, had caused the material of my coat to begin to bubble and hiss. In a panic, without stopping, tripping and stumbling as I went, I stripped it off and flung it behind me. My shirt and pants were soaked as well, I found, and my skin burned where that evil wetness had touched it.

I burst into a clearing where the grass beneath my bare feet felt like razors and the throbbing branches overhead were silhouetted against a bloated silver sun. Before me were two creatures breathing heavily with steam rolling off their flanks, one covered in hundreds of mirror-bright eyes and the other heavy with a burning crown of flames. As I stared in wonder, I realized I had been wrong. I had made a terrible mistake. This thing behind me was not evil nor malevolent nor even predatory, but primordial, greater than a thing of the forest, but the forest itself, a god in meat and stone, and I in my terror and ignorance had tried to flee from it. The crowned beast shook its head, violet smoke boiling from its crown, and I inhaled deeply as it told me to accept this sacrament of flesh.

I lunged, grateful, screaming in rapturous thanks for this sacrament, the very flesh of God laid before me.

***

They found me three miles out of town passed out on the edge of someone's cow pasture stripped down to my boxers with my face and hands caked in dried blood and vomit. My forehead needed stitches, I lost a finger and two toes to hypothermia, and the doctors told me I was lucky to have not lost more. Several fruitless blood tests and a full psychological evaluation later they released me.

I felt wrung out mentally and physically. I was disheveled and filthy, wearing hospital scrubs with blood still caked to my hair when I got home. Chris was standing in the bathroom when I opened the door, two pill bottles in hand: one white and unlabeled, and the other white with a multivitamin label plastered on it and the seal clearly intact. He glanced over at me and wordlessly looked me up and down before making eye contact. Neither of us spoke for several seconds. Calmly he put the vitamins down, mumbled "oops" and carried the other bottle into his room, shutting the door behind him.

Jon Joe
Oct 19, 2011

GUESS WHO'S LYING


Grimey Drawer

Resolution: Get a mentor
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CrN-G6bVIAI2s3a.jpg:large
651 words
Bugging Out

I finally undid the lock through my suits’ awkward gloves, unleashing the fleas into the spacious home. I stepped backwards, over a sudden cat, my world then consisting of yowls and head pain. “Dickfuck,” I named the cat. Well trained, Dickfuck ran over and tore into my mask’s proboscis, savagely ruining it like only Dickfuck could. The fleas were busy greedily leaping into his fur.

Poison gas invaded my nostrils, my emergency bug spray leaking. I ripped the offending canister from its lawsuit worthy facial storage, taking a quarter of the mask with it, and tossed it away with all the grace of a head injury. Naturally, it landed in the fireplace. Dickfuck hissed at the explosion.

I picked myself up, then the cat, then my ability to reason and threw all three out the window. Thankfully, the debacle had been on the first floor. Less thankfully, my gloves couldn’t hold onto the cat, earning me a face full of Dickfuck. I wrestled away his claws from my face and stood again. Inside, the fleas were a cascading wave of black dots eager to join the spreading fire. As proof of brain damage, the constant popping noise made me taste butter.

Cravings aside, I decided to abandon the house, a struggling Dickfuck in hand. It was time for Billy.


Billy, ‘Never Bill’, owner of Billy the Bug Bully’s and my “””mentor”””. He greeted me by throwing his beer can at me and asking, “You look like poo poo Schmitt, what’s with the cat? Try to gently caress it?” His laughter was loud and incapable of being described cleverly.

“I s-set the house on fire,” I quickly mumbled.

Billy tugged at his golden, greasy ponytail. “What?”

“The cat set the house on fire,” I said more clearly. Dickfuck hissed.

Billy stretched himself to his full six-foot seven-inch frame, “You set the loving house on fire?”

“Look, i-it’s not my fault, Dickfuck-“

“The gently caress you just call me?” Billy clasped his hand between my shoulder and neck.

“N-no, the cat, listen, I-“

“Oh I’m listening, and really, I’m not upset,” Billy said and, surprising me, released his hold and gently patted my shoulder. “I should have expected it.”

“Huh?”

“You’re such an incompetent piece of Schmitt. You’re lucky I gave you this job, who else would hire you for this much money when you actually look better in a bug suit. Really, when are you going to get it through your head that the business comes first? You know what your problem is? You just have no respect for me. You should be copying me, but instead you keep loving up. That’s not how you earn your pay. I’m not upset, but I am taking the cost of your suit, the lost profit for spraying that house, and an extra twenty bucks from your paycheck. Understood?”

“Y-yeah,” was the only thing I could reply. Dickfuck complimented my reluctance with another hiss. Then a louder hiss. Then Dickfuck freed himself from my hands and pounced to capture Billy’s ponytail.

“Get your gay sex cat off me, Schmitt!” Billy shouted.

I stepped forward, only to trip over Billy’s beer can, my elbow driving into Billy’s beer cans. He reacted by slamming his fist into my ribs.

Dickfuck rescued me by biting down on Billy’s ear and pulling hard. If that was the way it was going to go, I didn’t care anymore. To the kneeling Billy, I took the opening to remove my awkward gloves and stuff them in his always open maw.

Dickfuck, finished with his treat, climbed down Billy’s back to maul his exposed asscrack. I slammed my knee into Billy’s chin, and he was out. For some reason, Dickfuck didn’t stop kneading Billy’s rear end.

I checked that Billy was still breathing, and was relieved but disappointed that he was. “Who needs a mentor like him. You should be my mentor instead, Dickfuck.”

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk


subs closed

Blue wher that's your fifth consecutive failure in the dome, from now on any entries need a attached or they'll be ignored. This is a flash geas that will follow you around like a bad tempered but ultimately productive cloud.

Tyrannosaurus
Apr 12, 2006

KING OF BLOOD

Upon what meat doth this
our Caesar feed that he is grown so great?


Thunderdome 2017teen: words are a bitch

docbeard
Jul 18, 2011

Modern worldly poster

Thunderdome 2017: Write A drat Thing

(Mostly because it wouldn't hurt seeing that in my face for the next year.)

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


ok i've narrowed down the suggestions to these ones, but i need some help deciding still so what do you think goons????

Tyrannosaurus posted:

Thunderdome 2017: Everyone dies. No one writes well.

sebmojo posted:

Thunderdome 2017: Five Million Words (some good)

Kaishai posted:


Thunderdome 2017teen: Prose and Cons


anime was right posted:

thunderdome 2017: i cant read, and yet i write

Djeser posted:


Thunderdome 2017teen: You May Already Be A Loser

curlingiron posted:

Thunderdome 2017teen: I shudder to behold it

flerp posted:

thunderdome2017: we write bad words, so can you!

Krunge posted:

Thunderdome 2017: How I Learned to Start Writing and Love the Crits


docbeard posted:

Thunderdome 2017: Write A drat Thing

Tyrannosaurus
Apr 12, 2006

KING OF BLOOD

Upon what meat doth this
our Caesar feed that he is grown so great?


docbeard posted:

Thunderdome 2017: Write A drat Thing

Jon Joe
Oct 19, 2011

GUESS WHO'S LYING


Grimey Drawer

Kaishai posted:

Thunderdome 2017teen: Prose and Cons

or my own

Krunge posted:

Thunderdome 2017: How I Learned to Start Writing and Love the Crits

Entenzahn
Nov 15, 2012

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


sunday is GARBAGE DAY

Entenzahn
Nov 15, 2012

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


sebmojo posted:

Thunderdome 2017: Five Million Words (some good)

this is ok i guess

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly



thunderdome 2017: i cant read, and yet i write

Kaishai
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

Krunge is onto something:

Kaishai posted:

Thunderdome 2017teen: Prose and Cons

or

Krunge, with a slight adjustment, posted:

Thunderdome 2017teen: How I Learned to Start Writing and Love the Crits

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Fun Shoe

I like flerps, not the most clever but the most inviting.

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly



The legit best title is Kaishai's golden bean line

Ironic Twist
Aug 3, 2008

I'm bokeh, you're bokeh


my allegiance is to wordplay, so Prose and Cons

but for real I also liked You May Already Be A Loser

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly



Ironic Twist posted:

my allegiance is to wordplay, so Prose and Cons

but for real I also liked You May Already Be A Loser

yeah Djeser's is good too

anime was right
Jun 27, 2008

death is certain
keep yr cool


they're all terrible and you should feel terrible

flerp
Feb 25, 2014

I DON'T ALWAYS
HERDY DUR MUR FLERP FLERPITY
FLOOPIN
BUT WHEN I DO
I YER DER FLERPITY
THURN DER DERMIN
BORK! BORK! BORK!


anime was right posted:

they're all terrible and you should feel terrible

dont worry i always feel that way

BeefSupreme
Sep 14, 2007


a new study bible! posted:

yeah Djeser's is good too

I'm on this train

Jon Joe
Oct 19, 2011

GUESS WHO'S LYING


Grimey Drawer

Hmmm, what if we....

quote:

Thunderdome 2017teen: Prose and Cons of Writing A drat Thing

steeltoedsneakers
Jul 26, 2016





Thunderdome 2017teen:

anime was right posted:

they're all terrible and you should feel terrible

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk


Thunderdome 2017teen: Prose and Cons

o god no

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Barnaby Profane
Feb 23, 2012



Djeser posted:

Thunderdome 2017teen: You May Already Be A Loser

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