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  • Locked thread
sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk







Sitting Here posted:

if you read the goddamn thread for once you'd see I was sticking to the dumbass flashrule scheme some idiot thought up for Monday signups

Christ you buffoon

anyway, QPQ you get both

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Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME







please stop sending me sultry glances from across the room it's unprofessional

If anyone else from Monday would like a different noun(?) for their man to agonize over, I will assign one.

Social Studies 3rd Period
Oct 31, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER





Sitting Here posted:

please stop sending me sultry glances from across the room it's unprofessional

If anyone else from Monday would like a different noun(?) for their man to agonize over, I will assign one.

yo, sup. I already got a rule from mojo, so let's do this too.

(this can't possibly go wrong!)

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005


Black is back.

In.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

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C7ty1 posted:

yo, sup. I already got a rule from mojo, so let's do this too.

(this can't possibly go wrong!)

Flashrule: "Man agonizes over his vertigo"



Black Griffon posted:

Black is back.

In.

:swoon:


Thursday is now full! Griffon, that means you'll get your flashrule on Friday. Hopefully nine more goons will sign up and save you from a bad, mean flashrule!

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly



Sitting Here posted:

please stop sending me sultry glances from across the room it's unprofessional

If anyone else from Monday would like a different noun(?) for their man to agonize over, I will assign one.

gently caress you i want a noun

Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!




Sitting Here posted:


If anyone else from Monday would like a different noun(?) for their man to agonize over, I will assign one.

Nouns? I love nouns! I'll take one.

Entenzahn
Nov 15, 2012

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


Ironic Twist posted:

effort prompt

Waltz Macabre
1311 words

The problem is that Gabriel only has two hands, and two is not enough, not for him, not for his scores, not for the grand music that plays in his head day in and out, this curse of a muse that won’t let him go, that clings to him like a desperate lover, full of want and passion.

He cannot make new hands for himself. But he can build a new piano. A piano that compensates for his shortages.

He buys an elegant, white marbled concert grand. It almost hurts him to rip open the finish, but he has a vision. His engineering is not elegant. The machine he fits into the instrument is a heap of cogs and punchcards, needles reading states from soft vinyl plates. But it works. He feeds it a sheet, a simple sheet with holes punched into it, and he sits down and plays his part while the piano plays its own.

He performs as the Amazing Gabriel and his Magical Piano.

The routine starts with just him: A mellow sonata, a love letter to the audience, shy, careful and slow. He plays it right, but with just his two hands it’s like going to an opera with your ears closed. It’s just not the whole experience. It’s muffled. Half a performance.

The piano jumps into action and his music opens up, gains additional voices, one by one, and as it does, a chill goes through the room, like the audience has frozen, that faint murmur missing, those careless whispers in the auditorium fallen quiet. Everybody listens. The song rises to a crescendo as the shy love blooms into passion, melodies kissing each other across the octaves, a chorus of a song, and when he explodes into his grand finale the world disappears from around him until the final note hangs still in the air and the crowd erupts into applause.

It’s the same wherever he performs, but more importantly, Gabriel’s new piano frees his mind, like cleaning an encrusted bottleneck, the ideas flow free within him, so free that his hands can’t keep up once more, that the new compositions are gone before he is done producing cards for the last ones, which have by then become old and obsolete.

The piano must be rebuilt.

He connects the keys to the machinery both ways. Now the machine can still play the keys, but the keys can also play the machine. The logic becomes finer, more intricate. It’s not a heap anymore. It’s a piece of art of its own, a musical clockwork. It recognizes the sounds that are being played. It memorizes patterns and matches them with each other. It knows harmony.

At his next show, the piano improvises along with him.

It’s a grand show, full of aaahs and ooohs and mouths agape at this technological marvel, and, of course, the complex web of harmony that he spins through the room. But the biggest surprise of the day happens at the end of the show, when Gabriel ascends from his seat, takes a bow in front of the audience, bathes in the cries for an encore, and then, just like that, his piano starts playing on its own, notes emerging from the solid white grand like tiny daggers in his back.

Playing on its own. And the audience loves it.

They have never seen anything like it, for sure. But even worse, they have never heard anything like it. It improvises a tune so upbeat that even Gabriel’s heart jumps for a second, that he almost forgives the piano’s betrayal, this happy, treacherous piano, that he almost gets lost in the positive energy that clouds the room like fog on a sunny morning in the moor.

He cancels his tour and moves the piano back to his study.

Perhaps it has felt the excited tremble of the audience, their cheers and their applause. Perhaps it craves these things. Perhaps that’s why it still plays at night, even when there is no performance, still plays, yearning for attention.

There is not enough tissue in the world to block out the noise. They don’t make pillows large enough.

As he enters the study, the piano goes quiet, the echo of its melody still hanging in the air like a flushed swarm of mosquitos. He stares at it, the white concert grand, finish flickering in the candlelight. Is it staring back at him? Is it waiting for him to do something? He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, opens it again.

“Can you be quiet?” he says. “I’m trying to sleep.”

The piano begins to play again. Softly, like a whisper.

Brahms’ Lullaby.

He shies back as if it had just turned into an angry tiger. This thing. This eerie apparatus, this… abomination.

Is it alive?

Can it really hear him?

“Stop,” he says.

The sound fades from the room again, and for a second, it’s like whatever ghost has inhibited the piano has died. Then it plays a lingering sound, two high notes vibrating against each other, underscoring the tension.

He returns with an axe in his hand. The tickle of the high notes has swollen to a furious crescendo, a raging inferno of punches and dissonance, and, to Gabriel’s great displeasure, a well-composed one at that. As he forces himself closer, the piano’s cries grow.

And then, it stops playing.

Gabriel remains in the quiet, axe heavy in his hand, heavy as the breath on his lungs. It is a miracle machine. It is his creation. It overshadows him. It leaves him no sleep. He has to destroy it, but he can’t. He made this. It shouldn’t exist. It can’t exist. He can’t destroy it. It’s a miracle. It’s alive. Who is he to create life? Who is he to end it?

He lifts the axe.

A silent whining emerges from within, the sound of many cogs spinning at once, a desperate attempt to compose, at this very last moment.

It plays a waltz so beautiful that it takes Gabriel back to the days of his youth. Back when he’d left his engineering job to use these nimble hands to create something more beautiful than engines and war machines.

He mostly played for family and friends, back then. He played at his sister’s wedding. It was his first performance in front of an audience, and the way his waltz filled the room at the first dance, the way his sister’s wedding gown flowed with the rhythm, the way she and her husband turned and danced to his music, it fulfilled him, connected him, gave him purpose, and magic.

But that is not the piano’s song. Playing in front of a raised axe, its music has something more somber to it. Minor instead of major, treading bass instead of tickling highs. Slow, dark, like a funeral parade marching through a ballroom, but still rhythmic enough to dance to, gracefully. It has respect. It has class. It is perfect, save for one thing.

It leaves out the main voice.

There are the bass lines and there are the accents and you can almost make out the main riff, the melody from which all the other parts emerge, hidden underneath the composite parts like someone has draped a blanket over it. But the keys don’t move. Like a puzzle with the middle pieces clearly missing. The keys don’t move. The machine is broken.

Or maybe it isn’t.

The music swells up, rises, sinking his gut like a heavy fever. Soon, it will come to the chorus, and he can already hear it, that beautiful chorus, forceful triple-steps carrying a reminiscent melody, lowering it down into its sad and lonely grave. He knows what the piano wants to do. Wants him to do.

The world’s greatest funeral speech. Deliverance by music.

He puts down the axe.

They play.

Marshmallow Blue
Apr 25, 2010


Did i miss Wednesday's rule?

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


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CANNIBAL GIRLS posted:

gently caress you i want a noun

Flashrule: "Man agonizes over his stilettos."


Thranguy posted:

Nouns? I love nouns! I'll take one.

Flashrule: "Man agonizes over his mosquitos."

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


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:siren: WEDNESDAY GOONS HERE IS YOUR FLASHRULE :siren:

That's you, Guiness13, Boaz-Jachim, The Saddest Rhino, Hammer Bro, Obliterati, Mr Gentleman, SurreptitiousMuffin, Ziji, Titus82 and Fuschia tude!

There are five senses and ten goons. Sounds like a recipe for mandatory brawls!

You will quote this post and choose one of the five senses (Smell, sight, taste, touch, sound). There will be a maximum of two(2) goons per sense. First come, first served. I'm sure you can see where this is going. Your opponent is the goon with whom you share a sense, obvs.

Your stories must convey your chosen (or assigned) sense. Each pairing will have a winner, which will be announced along with the results for the main week. The winner of each paring will be immune from a DM, even if both stories are poo poo.

BUT WAIT ASSHOLES DON'T MASH QUOTE YET THERE'S MORE

You will also choose a secondary sense, which must be conveyed in your story as well.

Go to this page for a list of secondary senses. Choose one, and post it along with your primary sense choice. There's no limit on how many people can choose a given secondary sense.


PAIRINGS:

Sight
Marshmallow Blue - Itch NOT YOU DUMMY
Titus82 - Equilibrioception
Fuschia Tude - pain

Smell
Guiness13 - Hunger
Ziji - Time

Taste
Obliterati - Magnetoception
Boaz-Jachim - Hunger

Touch
Hammer Bro - Thirst
Mr. Gentleman - Time

Hearing
The Saddest Rhino - Proprioception
Muffin - Equilibrioception

Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 16:49 on Jun 3, 2016

Marshmallow Blue
Apr 25, 2010


Flash rule me or somethin.

Obliterati
Nov 13, 2012

Pain is inevitable.
Suffering is optional.
Thunderdome is forever.



Taste & Magnetoception

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

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Marshmallow Blue posted:

Flash rule me or somethin.

Sight and Itch

Guiness13
Feb 17, 2007

The best angel of all.

Sitting Here posted:

:siren: WEDNESDAY GOONS HERE IS YOUR FLASHRULE :siren:

That's you, Guiness13, Boaz-Jachim, The Saddest Rhino, Hammer Bro, Obliterati, Mr Gentleman, SurreptitiousMuffin, Ziji, Titus82 and Fuschia tude!

There are five senses and ten goons. Sounds like a recipe for mandatory brawls!

You will quote this post and choose one of the five senses (Smell, sight, taste, touch, sound). There will be a maximum of two(2) goons per sense. First come, first served. I'm sure you can see where this is going. Your opponent is the goon with whom you share a sense, obvs.

Your stories must convey your chosen (or assigned) sense. Each pairing will have a winner, which will be announced along with the results for the main week. The winner of each paring will be immune from a DM, even if both stories are poo poo.

BUT WAIT ASSHOLES DON'T MASH QUOTE YET THERE'S MORE

You will also choose a secondary sense, which must be conveyed in your story as well.

Go to this page for a list of secondary senses. Choose one, and post it along with your primary sense choice. There's no limit on how many people can choose a given secondary sense.


PAIRINGS:

Sight
Marshmallow Blue - Itch

Smell

Taste
Obliterati - Magnetoception

Touch

Hearing

Primary sense of smell, secondary sense of hunger

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

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Here's my lovely entbrawl thing, grats on your win ent


less than 1500 words idk

Katarina was six when Google announced their latest pet project, a pseudo-A.I. who could predict the outcome of nearly any isolated sequence of events. Her mom and dad discussed it at the dinner table in the authoritative but uncertain tones they always used when quoting trending news at each other. Katarina swung her feet back and forth and hoped her parents were too engrossed in their discussion to notice she hadn’t eaten all of her broccoli.

Katarina’s seventh birthday arrived. Her parents hauled the rickety picnic table out of the garage, lit up the barbeque, and invited friends and neighbors over for an afternoon of cake, pinatas, and discrete beers. Smartphones and tablets were confiscated, and the gaggle of kids were given the chore of playing without bothering the grownups.

They sat in a circle under a tree in a far-off corner of the backyard, picking at grass and idly hunting for four leaf clovers. No one seemed sure how to initiate one of the spontaneous games of tag or hide and seek their parents had instructed them to play.

Katarina looked up at the tree, and at the scribbles of sky between the leaves. In the months leading up to her birthday, Google’s pseudo-A.I. bobbed in and out of trending news, a dolphin playing in waves of public interest. In February, it predicted the outcome of the Super Bowl. In April, it predicted the verdict of a widely publicized case--infanticide, innocent--hours before the jury brought their decision to the judge.

Katarina wondered what it would be like, to read the future like words written on the present. Her parents explained it her once: it wasn’t magic, the computer just took a bunch of facts, added them up, and made a prediction based on some complicated algorithm the computer scientists had invented.

She softened her gaze and tried to see every fluttering leaf and every shifting patch of sky. The biggest difference between Google’s computer and people, she’d learned, was that the computer could think about a lot more things at once.

One leaf lost its grip on the tree and fluttered in loop-de-loops over the yard, straight for the picnic table. Its trajectory described a cursive whisper against the sky. A thin, fog-white warning.

“There’s gonna be a fight,” Katarina said to her friends without taking her eyes off the leaf. She pointed at it, following its trajectory with her finger. The other kids stopped chattering about high scores and level-ups and watched the leaf, too.

It tumbled through the air and landed in the crystal punch bowl Katarina’s mom had just placed on the picnic table. Uncle Kristoff snatched the leaf up with his bare fingers--fingers that were holding a cigarette just moments before--and flicked it aside. Mom was on him in an instant, and though the kids were too far away to hear, it was clearly an altercation. Kristoff shrugged her off, tried to walk away, and stumbled, nearly taking out the barbeque. Mom grabbed his arm and yanked, forcing him to look at her.

Now other adults stepped in, trying to put themselves between Mom and Kristoff. Uncle Kristoff made a broad, dismissive gesture, and accidentally cuffed another mom on the side of the head. Her husband shoved his way into the middle of the frey and stood nose to nose with Kristoff. His voice was loud enough to hear: “This is a loving kids’ party, man. You wanna get shitfaced, stay home. And don’t loving touch my wife.”

Uncle Kristoff left in his car, and no one tried to stop him. The party unraveled after that. The kids were rushed through the pinata, cake, and presents, while the parents hardly said a word. They wouldn’t be seeing uncle Kristoff for a while, Mom told her afterward. He was sick and needed to get better.

That night Katarina lay awake in her bed, thinking about the leaf, about what might’ve happened if she’d run after it, snatched it from the air.

.

As she grew older, she found it harder and harder to focus her eyes. She got glasses at age twelve, but they only gave her a headache. At fourteen, she endured MRIs and CT scans, but there was no physical or neurological explanation for the blurring.

Katarina’s world gradually dissolved into color and abstraction. She gave up trying to describe it to her family and doctors. People were dark calligraphy brush strokes, fluid and tapered. They strung threads of their ink-black selves between the colorful mosaic pieces of the world, so that everywhere Katarina looked, there were cobwebs. The city was a shifting morass of vague, colorful shapes; nothing moved without moving the things around it.

There were patterns in the movement. Katarina was sure of it. Subtle curls of shape-meaning and color-intention. She spent her eighteenth summer sitting outside a coffee shop in downtown Eugene, watching things and people flow by in a river of brush strokes and paint splotches.

One day, Katarina watched a black-blue-purple smudge of crow cast its shadow over a calligraphy woman who was out walking her brown scribble of a dog. And the crow-shadow crawled into the woman’s eyes and turned them the color of crow wings in the sun, and the woman--

Watch out,” someone called

--the woman, she stepped in front of what looked to Katarina like a speeding rubik's cube.

A crow’s shadow. A leaf fluttering in the wind.

Katarina got up from her table, lunged, flung herself forward into the busy mosaic. She reached. But she had no sense of space or depth. Her own hand was a run of ink spilling itself uselessly across an impressionist’s nightmare.

Shrill tire sounds. People making wordless noises of shock. A thud, and a scream.

Katarina picked herself up off the sidewalk. Her knees stung, but she was otherwise whole. The calligraphy woman was smeared across an asphalt canvas. Other brush strokes gathered around the ruined one. The soundcolors of traffic died away, and a siren sent ripples of red jeweltone light into the sky as an ambulance approached.

“She didn’t even look before crossing,” one of the brushstroke bystanders said, his voice faint with disbelief. “She didn’t take her eyes off her phone, not once.”

.

Google’s pseudo-A.I. was in the news again. It was national campaign season, and the hot issue of the minute was whether the computer should be required to apply its predictive capacity to matters of national security. Google issued a cryptic statement on the matter: Seeing too much could blind us irreparably.

Katarina heard the statement, and seethed. After witnessing the accident, she obsessed over symbols and shapes and color and movement. Each day, she returned to the coffee shop, sat outside, and worked at the living, breathing cypher before her eyes.

Buildings looked like tall clusters of overlapping squares. The lines that formed the squares were not solid lines, but rows of almost-words clustered together too tightly to be read. Sometimes the rain fell sharp and silver through the limpid blue ether and dragged the near-words off the building down into the cobwebbed churn of calligraphy people. And the people would absorb the rivulettes of word-like things. Sometimes they would sprout new appendages, brushstroke abstractions.

Katarina recounted all of this into her pocket recorder, since she could no longer write. Her words were white-hot ripples in the wet blue air, and the passersby on the sidewalk veered away from them without understanding why.

newtestleper
Oct 30, 2003

by Nyc_Tattoo


don't preface your post, noob

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


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newtestleper posted:

don't preface your post, noob

I conserved word economy by forgetting to add a title so it's ok

Hammer Bro.
Jul 7, 2007

THUNDERDOME LOSER




Touch and Thirst.

Back to the drawing board.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


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Just so everyone is clear, the base prompt is always "Man agonizes over potatoes" (unless you got a flashrule that specifically changes the prompt). No one asked, and you seem to all understand that, but I'm removing any ambiguity since this week is a clusterfuck.

Boaz-Jachim
Sep 20, 2015

CANERE CORAM LEONE


Sitting Here posted:

You will quote this post

Taste and Hunger.

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o'clock in the morning




I'm in a plane and will have limited network. I allow the first person to quote this to choose for me the relevant senses for Wednesday

Sitting Here posted:

:siren: WEDNESDAY GOONS HERE IS YOUR FLASHRULE :siren:


Siddhartha Glutamate
Oct 3, 2005


Equilibrioception and Sight!

Maugrim
Feb 16, 2011

I eat your face



The Saddest Rhino posted:

I'm in a plane and will have limited network. I allow the first person to quote this to choose for me the relevant senses for Wednesday

Hearing and proprioception.

Pippin
May 25, 2016


Sitting Here posted:

please stop sending me sultry glances from across the room it's unprofessional

If anyone else from Monday would like a different noun(?) for their man to agonize over, I will assign one.

Noun me the gently caress up, yo.

Marshmallow Blue
Apr 25, 2010


Am i writing about itch and sight and potatoes?

Mr Gentleman
Apr 29, 2003

the Educated Villain of London



choose the wednesday senses for me please!

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


in.


ps. i finished my grad program last week. woop.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


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Marshmallow Blue posted:

Am i writing about itch and sight and potatoes?


Sitting Here posted:

Just so everyone is clear, the base prompt is always "Man agonizes over potatoes" (unless you got a flashrule that specifically changes the prompt). No one asked, and you seem to all understand that, but I'm removing any ambiguity since this week is a clusterfuck.

The only people who aren't writing specifically about potatoes are a few of the monday people


Pippin posted:

Noun me the gently caress up, yo.

Flashrule: "Man agonizes over his domino."


Mr Gentleman posted:

choose the wednesday senses for me please!

Touch and time.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


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Noah posted:

in.


ps. i finished my grad program last week. woop.

congrats noah, you're finally ready for a long and lucrative future in thunderdome

Ziji
Oct 20, 2010
Yossarian lives!

Sitting Here posted:

:siren: WEDNESDAY GOONS HERE IS YOUR FLASHRULE :siren:

That's you, Guiness13, Boaz-Jachim, The Saddest Rhino, Hammer Bro, Obliterati, Mr Gentleman, SurreptitiousMuffin, Ziji, Titus82 and Fuschia tude!

There are five senses and ten goons. Sounds like a recipe for mandatory brawls!

You will quote this post and choose one of the five senses (Smell, sight, taste, touch, sound). There will be a maximum of two(2) goons per sense. First come, first served. I'm sure you can see where this is going. Your opponent is the goon with whom you share a sense, obvs.

Your stories must convey your chosen (or assigned) sense. Each pairing will have a winner, which will be announced along with the results for the main week. The winner of each paring will be immune from a DM, even if both stories are poo poo.

BUT WAIT ASSHOLES DON'T MASH QUOTE YET THERE'S MORE

You will also choose a secondary sense, which must be conveyed in your story as well.

Go to this page for a list of secondary senses. Choose one, and post it along with your primary sense choice. There's no limit on how many people can choose a given secondary sense.


PAIRINGS:

Sight
Marshmallow Blue - Itch
Titus82 - Equilibrioception

Smell
Guiness13 - Hunger

Taste
Obliterati - Magnetoception
Boaz-Jachim - Hunger

Touch
Hammer Bro - Thirst
Mr. Gentleman - Time

Hearing
The Saddest Rhino - Proprioception

Hmm, I'll go with Smell and Time. This should be fun

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002


Noah posted:

in.

ps. i finished my grad program last week. woop.

congratulations. do we call you master noah or doctor noah?

Pippin
May 25, 2016


Master Doctor Noah, obviously

dmboogie
Oct 4, 2013



Noun me, SH.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


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dmboogie posted:

Noun me, SH.

Flashrule: "Man agonizes over his tornados."

Phobia
Apr 25, 2011

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


OCK.


I suppose Black Griffon and Noah need somebody to help them out of this Friday signup hole they just dug for themselves. I'm in.

Arivia
Mar 17, 2011



Hello. I was the loser of the very first Thunderdome. Someone sent me a message saying I was invited to come back for the 200th anniversary. Let's see if the judging has improved from the idiot TVTropes rejects it was at the beginning. I'm in.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Arivia posted:

Hello. I was the loser of the very first Thunderdome. Someone sent me a message saying I was invited to come back for the 200th anniversary. Let's see if the judging has improved from the idiot TVTropes rejects it was at the beginning. I'm in.
Of course the week #1 loser mains Widowmaker.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


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Arivia posted:

Hello. I was the loser of the very first Thunderdome. Someone sent me a message saying I was invited to come back for the 200th anniversary. Let's see if the judging has improved from the idiot TVTropes rejects it was at the beginning. I'm in.

welcome home :patriot:

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crabrock
Aug 2, 2002


Arivia posted:

Hello. I was the loser of the very first Thunderdome. Someone sent me a message saying I was invited to come back for the 200th anniversary. Let's see if the judging has improved from the idiot TVTropes rejects it was at the beginning. I'm in.

they've just been replaced with a different sort of reject.

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