24 hours remain to sign up. Just sayin'.
|# ? Nov 10, 2017 07:57|
|# ? Sep 28, 2021 18:45|
|# ? Nov 10, 2017 08:41|
Might as well .
|# ? Nov 10, 2017 14:56|
|# ? Nov 11, 2017 01:15|
|# ? Nov 11, 2017 01:45|
Week 271 crits - Part II of II
9. Untitled - Sham bam bamina!
- This is pretty incoherent.
- I think you structured this in order to give the reader an experience as confusing as what might happen to working memory if Miller’s Law broke down. But your prompt should never be an excuse to write an incoherent story. Also, your story should stand on its own and make sense even if the reader hadn’t seen your prompt.
- You’ve got disembodied political allusions and disjointed scenes and images. Next time please give us one or more protagonists who want something and structure your plot around that in a more conventional way.
10. Deus ex Atomicus - Kaiju15
- So a guy does science, unwittingly unmakes the material realm, and then gets scolded for it by an angel in the form of a paunchy middle age corporate manager. That is basically your entire story. Your premise was doomed from the start.
“This is the third time I’ve had to reset you so that we could have this conversation.” So does this mean Daniel has erased existence three times before? In that case, why do the angels allow it to keep happening and why it is a big deal anyway if it can just be reset after such-and-such amount of time? Or is it instead that the angel keeps having to restart the “virtualization” of him? If so, why, and what is the reader’s motivation to invest attention in that?
- The ending is flawed. Sure, it’ll take a long time for Daniel to clean up the mess he unwittingly made. But what are millennia to an immortal consciousness, and why does the angel get so salty about something fixable?
11. Lucy – Hawklad
- Your depiction of an Alzheimer’s-beleaguered mind is well done.
- I’m a bit disappointed in your approach to the prompt. Yes, you had to make Alzheimer’s switch off somehow, but it is dissatisfying to read someone beat it just by force of will. It’s hard to imagine that the protag would have any more will or stronger will than any other Alzheimer’s patient, and it’s unclear the extent to which determination ought to impact a degenerative condition like Alzheimer’s to begin with. I’m afraid I don’t really buy it.
12. On Olympus Mons – Maigius
- Kind of tacky to open a story with dialogue that’s pretty much “Whelp, I can’t believe we’re doing [premise of the story].”
- The story is almost entirely stilted dialogue. Does anyone really talk like this?
- Your tone is inappropriately casual during the parts of the story that are supposed to be tense.
- So they randomly find aliens and are just pretty much like “Whelp, looks like they found a workaround for [the prompt]. What a discovery, huh?”
- This one is a stinker. It is an Olympus Mons Pubis.
13. Closed Equation – ThirdEmperor
- Your anthropomorphizing of these inanimate space machines is effective. They really do feel like characters, which helps to capture the reader’s interest.
- You appropriately convey the vastness of space, indicating that it usually takes long periods of time for anything to come into contact with anything
- I was looking for more conflict, more tension. Because the story is mostly characterization and setting, it feels more like a sketch than a narrative. Still, it’s a pretty amusing sketch.
14. The Seaweed Effect – sebmojo
-Strong dedication to the prompt.
-Strong voice and good characterization of the narrator. One can really see how he apprehends everything in terms of math.
- There is a nice irony to this piece. One might expect that when someone broadens their understanding of the universe, that increased understanding would empower them. But here we see the opposite. The narrator’s understanding has become so complete, it constrains him. The narrator realizes the maths that underlie the universe, but loses his agency in the process, and has no choice but to acquiesce to forces beyond his control.
15. Whatever Floats Your Boat – curlingiron
- It’s so dialogue heavy it feels more like a play than a story. Normally that would be a bad thing, but you’ve really pulled it off here. The dialogue feels natural, the characters feel real, the pacing keeps the story interesting.
- I feel like comedies are easy to write but difficult to write well. But you did a great job with it. The humor here lands spot on.
- You satisfied the prompt and kept it fun. Well done. This story was a contender for the win.
16. The Object of the Exercise – Fumblemouse
- I realize the verbosity is supposed to give the piece voice and humor, but it’s a bit overdone. You’ve succeeded at bringing to life a narrator who speaks in purple prose, and that does characterize him distinctly, but it doesn’t make the purpleness any less irksome for the reader.
- Pacing issues. Half the story is exposition, the remainder of plot really only unfolds in the second half.
- The twist falls flat.
17. She Worships the Wrong Saint – BabyRyoga
- Grrr, the kids these days like things I don’t like. MILLENIALSSSS!!1 *shakes fist*
- You’ve got several sentences that are run-on and purple.
- Non said bookisms: “he asked, quizingly.” Just say “said” and definitely don’t throw an adverb in there.
- Aaand then you have a non-ending which ignores the interpersonal tension between Ashley and her grandfather, and which makes the rest of the story an irrelevant “oh, this happened” tale.
18. As Sure as the Sun – Have Blue
- Don’t preface your story posts.
- Your story is built largely from clichés, including your title.
- Relative to the rest of the story, you spent too much time on narrative.
- “I’d ask her stupid questions and always she’d just laugh and say the same thing.” What a boring date she is.
- We’re supposed to care about this lady dying but it’s hard to care when we don’t even know her well. We know more about where the protag met her than about this woman herself, other than that she’s repetitive and seemingly tedious.
- The story is vignettish and doesn’t have enough conflict to make the reader want to invest in it. Stuff just happens, scenes occur. A woman dies who the protag is emotionally attached to, but not the reader.
19. The Looseness – Sitting Here
- “Loose Bruce,” Linnie said, and that made them both laugh, even though it was stupid.” I mean, the rhyme is kinda awkward and corny but to call it “stupid” seems a little aggressive here.
- “No thinking about what it is or how it happened. No talking about it.” I lol’d. Not that I wanted too much of an info dump, but this line of dialogue seems really author-convenient. Linnie might as well say “Hush, the writer doesn’t want to spend time on the backstory.”
- “If they’re dead, we can take their toilet paper.” It’s nice that Linnie is practical.
- Nice imagery w/r/t the sausage man.
- Oh god, this kid. I notice he doesn’t really care about his parents being amalgamated tentacles now, and that reads to me as being a realistic response. Like, it seems as though irl kids often live in the moment like that and don’t think about the full emotional implications of things. But the problem here is with expectations. The reader expects the kid to be devastated about his parents because that’s how a story child typically acts. So the story reads like this kid doesn’t fit in it. He’s just this strangely indifferent and odd looking prop that gives Linnie the idea to incorporate Bruce.
-Ending’s okay I guess. This isn’t your best work, but it’s not bad either.
|# ? Nov 11, 2017 04:01|
Signups are closed, Saturday has begun, good luck, we're all counting on you, etc.
|# ? Nov 11, 2017 08:06|
Hjalmar The Eternal, God Emperor of Play Time
“Let’s play house!” declared Poppy with a giant smile native to mischievous little girls.
Hjalmar’s looked around the room in confusion. He settled his large, koala-like eyes on Poppy and noticed the bony white peeking up through the fleshy part of her grin, full of gaps. It reminded him of rock-eating organisms that tended to lose and regrow teeth at an astonishing rate. There was so much to learn about humans and their strange eating habits.
He cleared his throat and focused on speaking his ward’s guttural language. “We’re going to pretend to be houses? What possible fun can you can we get from this activity?” Are the words he formulated in his mind, but six-year-olds make terrible English teachers. “Why house? Fun?” is what actually came out of his mouth.
“It’s the best fun! Here,” said Poppy, shoving a hat into Hjalmar’s hands, “You’ll be Bo, and I’ll be Hope.”
Hjalmar sniffed the hat then bit down on the brim. He spat and recoiled from it when the assault of sweat and sand hit his senses. He squinted at Poppy. He recognized those names from the voyeuristic documentary she forced him to watch with her. “Why play pretend?” he asked, pointing at the TV.
Poppy patiently took the hat out of Hjalmar’s hands and put it on his head, wiggling it back and forth until his ears folded underneath. “Because that’s what we’re playing,” she said with an air of finality.
“Now Bo, be a dear and put on some tea for us?” asked Poppy, as haughtily as she could manage.
His ears perked up and the hat popped up from his head. Tea. He remembered how to make tea from watching Poppy serve her subjects. What a selfless leader she was. He found it fascinating how they have never spoken in his or her presence out of respect. He thought about asking Poppy her secret so he had another tool in his belt when it was finally time for world domination.
He focused to the task at hand and scampered through the giant house toward the tea set. He peaked over the table where Poppy held all her diplomatic meetings and saw the teapot at the center. He squinted suspiciously at it. The last time he tried to climb the table, Poppy had admonished him, saying it wasn’t proper. He twitched his nose as he thought. Finally, he reached out, and visible energy illuminated his fur like a carpet of fiber optic cables. A blast of will shot out from his hand and upended the table and surrounding chairs. He then shook himself like a dog would after a bath and the glowing energy came off his body like a cloud of fireflies. Hjalmar grabbed the teapot and a cup from off the floor and made his way back to Poppy.
“Oh darling, you shouldn’t have!” Poppy took the cup from Hjalmar and kissed him on the top of his head. His ears flattened and he felt warmth spread out from the center of his chest. Poppy then presented the tea cup and cleared her throat. “Don’t just stand there Bo, serve the tea.”
It was time to wow her with his skill. It couldn’t be too difficult. He sniffed the teapot. It’s been about a week since he’s lived with Poppy, yet it still puzzled him why she never utilized any liquids in the pot. Perhaps it was a symbolic gesture? He prepared the precarious task of angling the pot just so when Poppy shrieked. He jumped, his limbs spasmed outward and all the hairs on his body stood up just like the one time he probed the electrical socket with his claws.
“That lipstick on your collar, Bo?” Poppy shouted, bordering on hysteria, “You wit' that hussy Billie! I bet she ain’t wait ‘til after the sheriff said I were dead before she made kissy faces at you!”
Hjalmar was wracked with confusion. He didn’t have anything on his collar bone. Who’s Billie? What’s a hussy? What’s this about her being dead? He started to glow with energy as he frantically scanned the room for danger.
“Oh, my mistake,” Poppy said hurriedly, “It looks like you spilled a little tea on yourself, is all.”
“Don’t sit. Hide,” Hjalmar said in a low growl. His ears were up and twitched in different directions trying to locate any sneaking trespassers. Poppy was a powerful ruler in her own right, but if she was anything like those larger humans that attacked the house a week ago, she was as fragile as the lamp he accidentally tipped over yesterday.
Hjalmar froze when he felt Poppy embrace him. The energy gathered around him fizzled out and his ears flopped down. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I ain't mean to make you worry. I was only playing.”
“Imagination?” Hjalmar asked. He was slowly fitting the pieces together and the last ten minutes began to make sense.
Poppy nodded into his fur.
He felt her tears matte his fur, but he already had the chance to figure out that fluids coming from human eyes won't cause him to go up in flames. Probably. Humans are notoriously crafty and he wouldn't be surprised if they shot out caustic liquids from their tear ducts whenever they felt they were in danger. Hjalmar squinted deep in thought. Slowly he said, “I never liked Billie. She a hussy.”
A laugh bubbled out of Poppy and her shoulders shook. She sat up and wiped her eyes. “I never doubted you for a second, Bo,” she said, smiling her big gap filled smile. “I was only testing your love.”
Hjalmar felt his head swell with warmth. Poppy’s smile was contagious and he found himself grinning too. “What’s love?” he asked.
|# ? Nov 11, 2017 23:59|
FLASH RULE: The Smiths, The Queen Is Dead
The Archbishop Comes for Death
When the phone rang, the Archbishop lay in bed, hoping that it was a dream. There was a moment of silence, followed by another cacophony of clatters and clunks. Then another. Then another. Then—.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” He shouted, hobbling down the hallway with all the speed that his eighty-seven-year-old body could muster. The telephone, perhaps the last landline in England, almost trembled off the hook. He picked up the receiver. “Whatsit—?”
“Oh, Archbishop, it’s happened again!”
The Archbishop closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he was young and ambitious, a mere mouse among men, he had made a point to remember the names of all the Queen’s secretaries. He’d attended glittering balls and fantastical soirees, entertaining titled lords and foreign dignitaries with cunning remarks about history and religion. But now, he had reached the point in his life where rudeness was mistaken for wit. He had taken to calling the Queen’s secretaries cruel nicknames. There’d been the Tall One, the Scot, and now…
“Spit it out, Boy.” He squinted at the grandfather clock near the end of the hall, a gift from some so-and-so to commemorate a something-or-other. In the dark, it seemed more like an expensive novelty than a useful timekeeper. He preferred the digital in the bedroom. “Do you know what time it is?”
The Boy sucked in air. “Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry, your eminence. So terribly, terribly sorry, but you see, it’s all so awful. Just truly, terribly awful. I wouldn’t normally call so late, but it’s an emergency, really…” Sensing a yelp at the back of the Archbishop’s throat, the Boy pressed forward. “The Queen is… indisposed and needs—.
“The Queen’s been deposed?” The Archbishop said, twisting his head toward his front door in anticipation of some torch-wielding mob. He knew republicanism was on the rise, but had never thought that the revolution would come in the middle of a Tuesday evening.
“Oh, dear, no. It’s not that bad. Well, I mean, maybe that bad. Possibly. It really depends on… Oh, listen to me go on and on.” The Boy cleared his throat. “The Queen’s been possessed. By spirits. Again. And I was hoping you might come down to, well, e-x-o-r-c-i-s-e her.”
The Archbishop straightened his back. The Queen was always getting herself possessed in one way or another. There’d been that commemoration at Hastings where she’d floated up into the air and announced the defense of England against the vile forces of William the Bastard. Then, there had been that regrettable episode when she had summoned an armada of spectral ships with the intent of stamping out perfidious America and its rag-tag rebellion. The Prime Minister had had to do something silly in Argentina to disguise the whole ordeal.
He sometimes wondered if the American presidents ever wound up ensnared by Abraham Lincoln or if the pope was haunted by the crucified form of Saint Peter. The famous dead always seemed to be consumed by some unfinished business, some desperate desire to remain relevant, a need to be loved.
“I’ll be over within the hour,” said the Archbishop. “Try to keep the Queen occupied in her quarters and, for God’s sake, make sure you have some symbol of the monarchy ready. I can’t do anything if the spirit has nothing to attach itself to.”
“Oh, thank you, your eminence, your grace. I’ll be sure to do that. You have no idea what a dear and important—.” Said the Boy before he was interrupted by the click of the receiver.
The Archbishop squeezed himself out of his nightgown and into his vestments. The white collar dug into his flesh, but the call had stirred him too much for him to notice the irritant. He loaded himself into a rusted automobile. Moved less by gasoline than by force of will, the old thing skittered out of Lambeth and into the rainy streets of London.
“Oh, Archbishop,” said the Boy as the Archbishop threw open the door to Buckingham Palace. He tossed his jacket at a footman. The wet fabric sloshed over the servant’s head, a definite faux pas but irrelevant given the circumstances. “Thank you again for coming out. I truly don’t know what to do without your assistance. I’ve been in a terrible—.”
“She in her apartments?” The cleric grunted. The tail of a corgi disappeared into a far-off room.
The Boy nodded. “Oh, yes, yes. I’ve managed to, well, not restrain her, but, I suppose, occupy her with… well, promises of… You’ll see. Really, I am very worried about the rest of the royal family and maybe I am overthinking it. Prince Philip, whom I have always admired as a pillar of fortitude, was just beside himself about the whole thing and Charles, dear me, had to be practically pushed out of the residence.”
“I’m sure he was dressing himself up in his mother’s coronation gown.” He looked at the Boy. “You got the symbol?”
The Boy nodded and handed the Archbishop a small signet ring. “It’s embossed with Her Royal Majesty’s initials, you see. Very valuable and embedded in a rich tapestry of...”
The Archbishop yanked the ring from the Boy’s hands.
They passed through a series of rooms, each gilded and gaudy and filled with paintings of ruby-cheeked monarchs and overbright relics. At last, they arrived at a great set of double doors protected by two of the Queen’s Guardsmen. They nodded their fur caps, then stepped aside.
“Hᴀs ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʀᴏɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ʟᴀsᴛ?” Boomed the Queen. She floated toward the pair, dressed doll-like in a matching hat, dress, and handbag. Her eyes and mouth stretched wide. A mass of corgis yipped in the corner. “Aʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ ʜᴀs ʏᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ sɪᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, I ғᴇᴇʟ I sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴʏ ǫᴜᴇᴇɴ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ.”
The Archbishop shot the Boy a look. The Boy spoke slowly with his eyes transfixed upon the Queen. “Her Majesty was involved in a ribbon-cutting ceremony at Lady Jane Grey’s Tomb.” He flashed the Archbishop a nervous glance. “She’s been a bit insistent about her coronation, you know...”
“Seeing as she got her head chopped off before getting one herself. Got it.” the Archbishop harrumphed. He unsheathed the small ring from his pocket. “Listen, I don’t give a drat if you’re some queen or a lady or if you’re a demon pretending to be one of those things. I’m not going to stand here and let the entire Commonwealth be subjected to a bloody antique.”
The Queen’s form seemed to waver and stretch in the darkness. “Tʜɪs ɴᴏɪsᴇ ᴅᴇᴍᴇᴀɴs ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴏᴛʜ. Fᴏʀ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ, I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴀɴ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴋɪɴɢs, ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʙʏ ᴡʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴsᴇᴇᴍʟʏ Pᴏᴘᴇʀʏ—.”
“Woah, now,” said the Boy.
“Let’s not give into anachronistic zealotry.” Said the Archbishop.
The dogs whined their disapproval.
The Queen continued. “Bᴜᴛ, ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇ Bʟᴏᴏᴅʏ Mᴀʀʏ, I ᴡᴀs ʙᴏʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀɪsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜʟᴇ. Aɴᴅ ɴᴏᴡ ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍʏ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ғʟᴇsʜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏɴsᴛɪᴛᴜᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴀɴᴅ.”
“Well, let’s not get over hasty,” said the Boy.
“Don’t start her going again, you idiot.”
“Tʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄɪᴅ ᴅᴏʟʟ, I sʜᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ sᴀɪɴᴛʟʏ ʀᴜʟᴇ 'ᴄʀᴏss ʙᴏᴛʜ Eᴅɪɴʙᴜʀɢʜ ᴀɴᴅ Wʜɪᴛᴇʜᴀʟʟ.”
But the Archbishop had heard enough. He extended the ring toward the Queen, who reared back serpent-like. Now her form truly did stretch and distort, filling up the chamber like a basement after a flood. Ancient and expensive furniture splintered against the walls. A grandfather clock ticked its last.
“Oh dear,” said the Boy, his eyes flitting between the ruined antiques and his monstrous mistress. “Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh—.”
The Queen whipped around and struck him with her vorpal purse. The Boy slammed into the Archbishop. He felt the ring fly from his hand and vanish into the ruins of the room.
“Dɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ I'ᴅ ʙɪɴᴅ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ᴛᴏ ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɢʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢ? I ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ!”
The Archbishop twisted as his white cassock sprung from the fat of his neck. Some spirits tarried after death, but this one was bitter. He needed some powerful symbol of the monarchy to contain the unholy beast.
A dog leaped over the Queen’s serpentine form and into the Archbishop’s arms. He was not a sentimental man, but, to him, this seemed a sign. He raised the dog by the scruff of its neck. It gave a stupid yip.
“You wanna be loved, you great so-and-so,” He shouted, lifting the dog higher. “Well, I’ve got love right here.”
The Queen yelled out as the Archbishop sang out a prayer to all the saints. Dark waves of energy latticed out from the Queen’s hands and clouds of smog billowed from her open mouth. All the clocks in the palace chimed again and again and again and then—.
The Queen collapsed into a chair. The Boy stumbled toward her. “Is it over?”
The corgi in the Archbishop’s hands gave a great and terrible ʏɪᴘ.
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 02:24|
sparksbloom fucked around with this message at 03:38 on Nov 27, 2017
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 03:29|
Viewing single user's posts in topic: Need HELP with this girl!
Tue Sep 3 2013 11:39
So this is my first year at college and classes have started and I'm ready to grow the heck up and be a man already right? And as you can probably guess from the title there's well a female of the species here and I think I might have a chance (for once). I'm not that bad looking and we both like anime and well now that I'm free of the high school pecking order I can start things off on a level playing field. So any way I would like some pointers so I can start things right and not make a fool of myself out of the gates know what I mean? Thanks all in advance.
Also she's in my history class if that's important to know. Her name is Mandy (short for Amanda).
Tue Sep 3 2013 20:23
Well it's great to see some responses already which to be honest I wasn't expecting so thanks! I didn't see her today because it's Tuesday and history class is MWF but I'm preparing for tomorrow so wish me luck with this lovely girl.
Thanks for the encouragement and yes I do plan on going long term with this lovely girl!
I don't have much to say but I wish you the best. Are you just trying to get laid or hoping for something long-term?
Yes that sounds good thanks! It's important to be ready when starting a conversation.
Heh, don't worry, females are easy as hell if you know what you're doing. I can give you some conversational patterns if you're interested.
No I haven't talked to her yet. I know she likes anime because I heard her singing about Lucky Star all though I haven't watched it so I can't talk to her about it darn it.
Vapor Snake posted:
You say she likes anime, so is that something you've talked about? Talking to her would probably be more helpful than talking to us.
Wed Sep 4 2013 18:46
I didn't get the chance to talk to her today sorry guys. I will keep you posted though if any thing happens.
Thanks for the advice and yes I will look at that site when I can.
Okay, rule #1 is DEMONSTRATE HIGHER VALUE. Let her know she can't afford to let you get away. Here's a page with some really effective first-time openers: http://short-her-circuits.net/patterns/intros.htm
Thu Sep 5 2013 18:04
I can't believe it I saw her! But I didn't know what to say to her because it was a surprise and I got stuck darn it! She was studying in the library which gives me an idea. But I can try tomorrow so wish me luck all.
Fri Sep 6 2013 10:17
Here goes no thing!
Fri Sep 6 2013 19:07
Well let's just say it could of gone better. I started with a pattern from the site you gave me bob but it didn't look like it was working so I just didn't bother and decided to play it from ear so to speak. I asked her about Lucky Star but I guess it was just a song not the anime so much for that. Maybe she likes a different anime but I don't know since she had to go to the bathroom or maybe her next class (she said both so I don't know which one). I think she was a little shy but now that I have my foot in the door things should go smoother from here I hope.
Yeah like I said she told me it was just a song. I'm not that into eighties music so I didn't know.
Dude she's not into anime. I guarantee she was singing Lucky Star the Madonna song.
I want to be her boy friend and her my girl friend what's so hard to understand?
Vapor Snake posted:
I get the impression that there really isn't much between you two. What is it that makes her so important to you?
Sat Sep 7 2013 19:38
Hey all guess what I was able to edit us together in a picture today let me know how it looks! http://i1253.photobucket.com/albums/hh587/higurashi94/mandyandme_zpsezzpyjk6.jpg I can't wait to take a real one with her!
That's a good point anime or not we should have something in common. I will listen to some Madonna songs on Youtube.
Vapor Snake posted:
OK, why do you want to be her boyfriend? It doesn't sound like there's anything here to build that kind of relationship on. Don't you have anything in common?
No I don't think your stuff really works. And I would probably screw this NLP thing up if I tried it any way because it seems very hard to pull off if it is real. It doesn't matter I've been working on my own plan.
Don't worry, man. Things don't always work the first time. Try playing the long game with some NLP: http://short-her-circuits.net/nlp/beginners_guide.htm
Sun Sep 8 2013 13:56
I love this lovely girl what is your problem!
It's not a joke I'm serious you dumb ***!
Holy poo poo thread has delivered. Best laugh I've had all week, thanks higurashi!
It's not a joke I'm serious you dumb ***!
I just about pissed myself laughing. Never thought it would come to this.
I don't get it are you saying I have a chance or not?
Good job, man. That'll win her over. I'd normally tell someone to aim higher for an LTR (that chick's a 6, low 7 at best) but even she's out of your league at this point.
It's not a joke I'm serious you dumb ***! And **** you!
lmao this is the funniest poo poo but for real your a fuckin creep
Thanks at least you get it and good luck to you too!
Vapor Snake posted:
I have no loving words. Good luck with this girl, I guess.
Mon Sep 9 2013 10:09
OK here we go again. Hopefully with my foot in the door from last time I will have a better chance.
Mon Sep 9 2013 17:23
Heck yeah things went a little better this time around! I wasn't able to print the picture for her but I managed to sit closer to her in class which made it easier to start talking when class finished. I think she's starting to have feelings for me because I saw her look at me a few times while we were in class so that's good! Any way I asked her how history was going for her and she said fine then I asked her if there were any other Madonna songs she liked and she said Express Yourself. That was one of the songs I heard on Youtube so I was able to sing some of it for her and I guess I'm not very good at singing because she laughed a bit then she had to go. I wasn't expecting that but she has a pretty laugh so I didn't mind and be sides my other idea is ready now. In the end things are looking up for me and her together!
Who's laughing now dummy?
LMAO I wouldn't count on it buddy!
**** you still 69tales!
all i'm gonna say is whatever you do don't show her that fuckin picture
Tue Sep 10 2013 19:56
Well my idea was a dumb *** mistake and I don't know what to do now!
So when I saw her at the library last week she was studying for history which is why I was there too. She was at a table by the French history books because we're studying the French revolution right now but she had an intro to calculus book with her. So I decided to look up the intro to calculus class and sure enough it meets right before I saw her (3:00 to 4:30 and I saw her around 5). So today I was ready and went to the table where she would study history after calculus and set up the picture of us that I printed out plus some fan art of the Lucky Star characters singing Lucky Star which I thought was clever and went over to look at the shelves before she came in. Well any way she came in and went over to the table with her stuff and she was going to sit down but then she stopped and looked at it then I came out from the shelves and asked if she wanted some help studying. She didn't say anything back she just turned and walked away very fast! You were wrong bob it did not win her over!
So that was a waste and embarrassing too. So I just walked back to my dorm and watched Accel World to wind down then I checked my email and it says I have to meet with a counselor because Mandy LIED about me and said I was harassing/stalking her which I DID NOT DO! She is a **** ***** and I can't believe I thought I loved her for crying out loud!
Mods please change this thread's title to **** YOU AMANDA COLLINS!!!
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 04:41|
+500 words toxx, +500 words for saturday submission
'What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.'
-Somebody with a pretty name
The Man Who Liked Fish
I’ve traveled through time collecting stories to bring back and record in the Database of Things-We-Shouldn’t-Do. I’ve observed the fall of great men with their hubris, greed, and addictions. There are a lot of things we should not do, but rarely in my journeys did I run across something as momentous as the man who liked fish:
It was not an unjustifiable amount of fish in the grand scheme of things, just one whole fish every day or so, but it was a large fish, big enough that people would stop and stare as he’d carry it home from the market. This man was in a time before mercury poisoning, before men poisoned the sea and acidified the oceans, but unfortunately in a time after 'shunning a dude for eating a weird amount of fish' was a thing. Everybody knew him as 'the guy who ate too much fish,' which at first he was fine with. He would smile and wave to the people who gawked and pointed. But their amusement turned to mockery, and after no ladies would get with him, he started to regret his sobriquet.
He became determined to be known as more than the Fish Man, and he would go out of his way to do other things too much. 'Wow look how big this fire is,' He’d say, standing next to a large fire. 'Made it myself with like, a thousand logs.' The fire singed his eyebrows from 50 feet away. 'Wow, sure is going to be embarrassing to be known as ‘big fire guy with no eyebrows’!' he’d shout.
But everybody still just called him 'weird fish guy,' like: 'Hey, did you see the weird fish guy burned off all of his body hair?'
'Did he do it to be more like a fish?'
'Ew, I would never get with a guy like that,' they’d say.
He continued in this way for several months, each attempt more desperate than the last. He rode around town on a three legged donkey, which is about the least-efficient and ridiculous mode of transport that one could muster in those days. He crashed through market stalls with the townspeople yelling at him: 'Get your mangy donkey out of here, weird fish guy!' He bought a dozen eggs and used them to style his hair so that it stuck straight up, but everybody just thought it was a fin.
Dejected, he even tried not eating fish. He gave it all up and just ate gross old-timey vegetables. 'Dang look how big this vegetable is!' he’d shout. 'Gonna put some cheese on this, how disgusting!' But people still gave him crap about the fish thing.
'Dude, I haven’t eaten any fish for like, a whole week!' he protested. He did not have a calendar (as they had not yet been invented), but if he had, it would have probably been one with pictures of fish and reefs and things.
'Whatever though, you’re just the fish guy now.'
A lesser man would have just accepted this fate, gone on in lonely way and resumed his nightly tuna snacks until his time was done, but not weird fish guy. He kept away from the aquatic morsels for a month or so, but people kept calling him the fish guy, and ladies continued to not get with him.
'Fine, I’ll move to a land-locked town where people don’t even know what a fish is,' he said to nobody in particular.
So the fish guy packed up his belongings (but threw out everything he’d collected that had a fish on it, which he realized was actually quite a lot of his stuff, because yeah maybe before it got really annoying he’d embraced the ‘fish guy’ moniker a little too readily), and traveled to an inland town, the kind that has more dust than seems possible.
He soon learned that in that town, nobody had nicknames. Everybody got along with their business the same as their neighbor, and the townsfolk were content to not make any waves.
Weird fish guy took all this in and immediately ignored it. He made sure to eat a lot of chicken, and made sure that people saw. 'Man, I sure do love chicken!' he’d tell everybody, but nobody called him weird chicken guy. He would buy two, three chickens at a time and carry them around the market. He tried juggling, only to find juggling chickens was incredibly difficult. 'I’m just a man before my time,' he reassured himself (it’s still not a thing).
He stopped a man on the street who looked like he enjoyed a good gossip.
'I like chicken, ya know?' said weird fish guy.
The normal guy looked around with a is-this-guy-talking-to-me confusion. 'Ok yeah, mister, chicken is good, everybody likes it.'
'Yeah, but it’s all I eat. Just chicken! Ate one yesterday too. In fact, I’ve eaten nothing but chicken since I got here. Isn’t that… weird?'
'It’s a good source of lean protein.'
'No you don’t understand. I really like chicken. Pass it on. Tell your friends.'
'Like… you gently caress ‘em?'
'No, I just like to eat them!' The weird fish guy cocked his head to the side and thought for a second. 'I mean, unless loving chickens is really weird and the type of thing that could really ruin a guy’s reputation.'
'Nah, my cousin fucks chickens, and he’s alright.'
'Oh. So you’re not going to tell people?'
'Nah, they’ll probably think I’m weird for knowing so many people who gently caress chickens. I don’t want to be known as the guy who associates with chicken fuckers, cause once something like that gets stuck on you, you can’t shake it. What kind of woman wants to get with a guy who befriends people like that? Nah man, I’m not telling anybody, your secret is safe with me.'
The guy who turned out to not be as gossipy as he looked (and therefore a liar, according to the fish guy), left, and promptly forgot about the man in the market.
Weird fish guy wandered up and down, looking for a strange fruit or maybe something disgusting he could eat, but it was all just normal food (and dust) like bread and goat meat and stuff. At the end of the market, set apart from the other vendors, was a little man with a turban standing behind a lone crate. Weird fish guy hadn’t seen the trader before, and he wondered if he brought some exotic fruit or spices that would set him apart. He sidled up to the crate and peeked in.
Fish. Glorious fish. Fish like he hadn’t seen since he’d left the coast. Fish with their beady little eyes and their heads that seem too big for their slender little bodies… bodies filled with succulent meat. Every pleasure center in his brain fired at once and he stumbled in his dizziness. He looked at the fish, and it turned to him.
'Hey man, you should eat me,' said the fish (but really it was just weird fish guy saying it in a squeakier voice).
'Noooo, I can’t.'
The fish laid there and did nothing while the man spoke in a high-pitched voice: 'Come on, it’ll be fine. It’s just one fish, nobody will know.'
'Stay away from me, briney temptress!' he cried in his delirium.
The fish guy ran from the market with his hands in the air. Nobody bought any fish, and the guy with the fish left the town with the weird fish guy.
Weird fish guy returned to his routine of unsuccessfully trying to get people to notice him until the fish vendor returned a month later. Weird fish guy knew well enough to stay away, watching from a safe distance. However, he was consternated that nobody bought any fish.
'Excuse me, sir,' he said to a passer by. 'Why do you not eat the fish sold by that man?' he pointed toward the vendor.
'Fish? Like from the ocean?' the man scoffed. 'For all I know that is some sea dragon’s child.'
Weird fish guy tapped another passing shopper on the shoulder. She turned to look at him from beneath her shawl with eyes the color of the ocean. Her lips shone like the sun off the tips of cresting waves, and her golden-sandy hair crashed around her shoulders.
'Eat fish?' It was all he could stammer out.
She scrunched her nose. 'It’s too wet and slippery looking,' she said. 'I prefer a fine coat of dust on my food.' She turned and walked away.
Weird fish guy spent the day trying to goad people into eating fish, but all had some excuse to stick to their boring lives and never live. “You idiots, you take it all for granted!” he screamed.
Finally an old man had enough of the haranguing and yelled back: 'If fish is so good, why don’t you go eat it!'
'Fine! Maybe I will!' screamed weird fish guy. He stormed over to the crate with the mackerels and grabbed one out.
'Uh, you gotta pay—'
Weird fish guy held the fish up to his mouth. The entire market stared at him, slack jawed. Children averted their eyes. He bit into the fish.
His eyes lulled into the back of his skull as the sweet, salty flesh squished between his teeth.
'You like it?' asked the fishmonger.
'Cooked, raw, I don’t care.' Weird fish guy opened his eyes and started scooping fish into his arms. 'I’ll take them all.'
The gossipy looking man stepped forward. 'Wait a minute, you can’t just buy all the fish. I want to try one.'
'Me too!' said a voice from the crowd.
The townspeople rushed over and started grabbing the fish and shoving money toward the vendor, until all the first were gone and his pockets were full with cash.
Weird fish guy made it home with two fish himself, and he devoured them in one sitting.
The next morning he awoke in a post-fish-frenzy haze. He rubbed his temples and dragged his fingers down his cheeks and said 'ugggggggggggggggh' like he was recovering from a hangover. He got up, splashed water on his face, and stepped outside to find a bathroom. People stopped to look at him.
'Hey look, it’s the fish guy!' said the old man from before. The town applauded. 'Such a brave young man, eating that weird fish thing. But boy is it good!'
The woman from the previous day with the hair like a beach stepped forward. 'It’s not dusty at all, a truly strange and exotic meal!' She held out her hand. 'I’m Cleo,' she said with a blush.
He took her hand and squeezed it. 'Nice to meet you,' he said.
The townspeople took to calling him the fish guy, and when he and Cleo married, they started calling her the fish lady, and neither of them minded one bit.
I lean back in my chair and smile. “Of course I’m too old now to jetset through time, and my database is already full of man’s follies.”
My grandson tugs at my shirt. “Ok, but it’s just a phone. Can I have it back now?”
“No, you don’t want to be known as the weird phone kid, do you?”
He looks at the floor. “No, Papa.”
“Go outside and play,” I say, and give him a gentle push toward the door.
The screen door slams and I look up my wife. She rolls her beautiful blue eyes and smiles at me. “That’s not quite how I remember that story.”
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 07:28|
dumb rear end bitches subbing on saturday real fuckers dont even think about their stories until sunday also im prob gonna fail lol
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 07:33|
dumb rear end bitches subbing on saturday real fuckers dont even think about their stories until sunday also im prob gonna fail lol
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 07:36|
dumb rear end bitches subbing on saturday real fuckers dont even think about their stories until sunday also im prob gonna fail lol
Dan turned the corner, looking over at Nora with a grin on his face. Her hands, clad in yellow rubber, rubbed against a few stubborn stains that the dishwasher didn't get out the night before.
“Hey.” He said, that grin widening ever so slightly.
“Yes, dear?” Nora replied, turning to look at him, a lock of brunette hair falling in front of her face.
“You ever think that Nemo loves you, but he just can't express it?”
“No one knows who Nemo is.” Nora said simply, returning to her chore.
“Then 'your cat'. Ever notice that? Like, he rubs up against you and purrs, but he always looks pissed off?”
“Did you ever think it's because cats just have the animal equivalent of resting bitch face?”
Nora sighs, her hands pressing the rough green pad against the plate. The dishwasher leaving small specks of rice as hardened spots on the white surface. “Delivery, dear.”
“Really?” Dan asks, his face sagging slightly.
“You have to lead into a joke like that. Give it a comparison, something that people can bounce off it.”
Dan stops for a second. He did feel like the delivery was flat, even forced. He'd have to find some way to work it into his routine.
“So...well, you know how a dog is always happy to see you? Like, they're jumping up and down and they're barking and their tails are wagging?” Dan says, once again standing still.
“Okay, now greet the dog.” Nora replied, brow furrowed as she used a spoon to peel the rice off the plate.
Nora puts the plate down into the soapy water, turning around to look at Dan, her extra few inches of height allowing her to imagine him as a member of the crowd. “You've seen dogs, right?” She starts, her tempo rising slightly, excitement in her tone. “They. Love. Us! Every single one of them, you come up to pet them and they go crazy.” She says, her arms open wide, head jerking back. For a second she could feel the tongue on her cheek, the weight on her arms as she gives an imaginary dog a hug. Then, bolt upright.
“Then you get home, and your cat is there.” Her voice slows, hanging on the words, exuberance turning to loathing. “Just staring at you.” She says, leaning forward, eyes wide, soft movements playing back and forth. “And they stay like this. So you go to put your coat up, and suddenly that furball is trying to murder you like a Star Wars walker.”
Dan chuckles a bit as his wife stumbles her way back towards the sink, navigating an invisible minefield. “But we're told that it's just their sign of affection. Like chewing at your hand or clawing your jeans or dropping a dead bird on your welcome mat. They hurt you because they love you!” She says, voice rising, giving the line a pause. “I think it's just the animal equivalent of resting bitch face.”
Nora stands back up, looking over at the sink. “See? You get what you put back in with your jokes, dear. Anyone can listen to someone just telling a joke, but you have to put in effort to get a laugh.”
Dan nods, his hand on his stubbled chin. “Wait, but that can't be right.”
Nora blinks. “Wait, what do you mean?”
“Well, wouldn't that just be a cat not knowing the language?” He asks, shoulders loosening slightly, stance widening as he moves. “I think they're just being catty about it.”
“A pun? Seriously?” Nora asks, despite the slight smile curling at the edge of her lips. “Who are you, Carlin?”
“I wish I got paid like Carlin,” Dan says, a cheshire grin appearing as he sees her reaction. “At any rate, once that dog gets tired of loving on you, then isn't it the one with resting bitch face?”
Nora stops, her eyes screwed shut. He didn't just say that. “Dan. I love you. But that was painful.”
“What? Should I let that one lie?”
She threw the scrub-pad at his head.
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 15:11|
Death of a Story
1386 words (I toxxed so +500 word count)
A newbie fought a judge in an arena coated with gore. Thunderdome screamed for blood and reality was thrown to the wayside by their screams. I had my shot at manifesting and I took it.
Black and blue energy swirled in a coalescent pattern on the corner of Desperation Court and School Of Hardknocks Avenue. Bits of childhood abandonment trauma, pride and a strong streak of self-deprecation formed at the center until the energies burst and I came into being. I emerged in the streets of Meta York City with only a list of names, a gun and one hell of a deadline. One-note characters like me didn't last long here, we simply faded away. It was my typical luck that a TPD cruiser turned the corner and came to a stop beside me.
"Hey, we got a live one here. Looks to be some kind of meta Story!" The policewoman hollered to her partner. Her black skin contrasted against the blues and red of the flickering police lights. Her partner, a man more machine than human, got out of the police car and assessed me. I must have failed the test, because he frowned.
"A meta story?" He unholstered his pistol, the kind meant to load ammo in the triple-digit calibre range, "Best take you out now."
I raised my hands, trying to calm the police officers. "Whoa... It's a comedy prompt this time. I'm the punchline." I spoke the truth. My author was passed out, drunk off of whiskey and past regrets. He was in no form to be making witty puns or jokes so that left yours truly. "I'm a regular comedian." I said, " I kill them dead."
I needed to work on my material; The cyber-grandpa thumbed the hammer on his pistol. The radio squawked to life “Code White-Cream, all officers respond, we have a report of an erotica story.”
The cops ignored me and scrambled into the night, sirens blaring. I had been saved by an erotica story.
I had a job that needed to be done, a slate to be wiped clean. In order to do that, I had to get to the Judges' tower, and I knew who could get me in there.
She was a kind lady who was trying her best in a city full of starry-eyed hopefuls and cynical jaded assholes. I was neither. The baking dish made weird noises as she continued to put things into it. I stepped into the doorway of her kitchen and she turned to face me.
“You're Exmond’s story, aren't you? It's nice to see you back.”
I made sure to show no emotion on my face as waves of shame washed over me.
“Yeah, I’m back. Looking for some help with the current prompt.”
She opened the pantry door to reveal an assortment of spices and books. She looked around and picked up a copy of House of Leaves and tossed it into the baking dish.
“Well? It’s comedy, isn’t it? Try telling a joke!”
I thought for a few seconds and then said, “Why did the bee hum?”
She raised her eyebrows and waited for the answer, showing more emotion and liveliness in that single action than I ever would.
“Because it didn’t know the words!”
She winced and nodded, “Yeah you need some help. Comedy isn’t my thing though.”
She wrinkled her nose, a quirk of hers when she was thinking, as she added a sprinkle of alliteration, allusion, and alluring sentences into the baking pan. Her eyes looked at the pan and after a quiet moment of intense thinking she added a few Oxford commas into the baking pan. She popped the baking pan into the oven, set a timer and then closed the oven door.
“I know exactly who can help!" She said, snapping her fingers. "They are up in the Judges' tower, though. I’ll ring ahead and let them know you are coming.”
The timer dinged and she opened up the oven. A few pieces of paper laid in the baking pan, giving off the sweet scent of competence. It was a story, well written and with good prose - everything that I wasn’t.
“Now, I’m not going to sit down so you can say a witty remark,” she said as she wagged her finger at me. “But remember, with practice, you will improve. With time you could make something like this.” She motioned to the papers on the baking dish. Shame washed over me, like waves from the ocean, constant and at a smooth, never-ending tempo. I simply clenched my fist and smiled as she handed me a piece of paper with an address and a name on it.
The judges of Thunderdome didn't live in ivory towers; 50 story tall apartment buildings were their homes. Almost the next best thing to an ivory tower in Meta York city. I nodded to the security staff and they buzzed me in. I entered the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor. I wasn't going to go see a judge for help, I had a list of names and a bullet for each name on the list. The elevator dinged and swung upon, several figures were waiting for me. A witch, a cop and some kind of talking dog. Hell, this might have been a joke, but as it was, it was just my ugly history staring back at me.
"Twist warned us. You don't need to do this." The witch said.
The cop walked up to me and squeezed my shoulder.
"It's okay. Sometimes you just don't make the cut."
With everyone surrounding me and offering comforting words I wondered if I had been tricked and was starring in an after-school special. The dog was next to deliver a rousing speech..
"You could stay here. Be forever immortalized."
It was true. We, the dishonorable mentioned stories, were able to find a place here. Forever immortalized by the archivist.
I stared at all three of them, each of them pleading for me to stop. For the obsession to end. The waves of shame slowly came to a lull. I could stop here, I could walk down the halls and find my little apartment and live an easy life here as a less-than-mediocre story. "Here lies Comedy story #50," the plaque on my apartment would say, "It showed promised but failed in execution." It wouldn't be a bad way to go. But the slate wouldn't be wiped clean. And my name was already immortalized on some website under cowards. The ocean that was my emotions swirled into a whirlpool of self-righteous pride and self-destructive obsession and common sense drowned.
I pulled out the pistols and fired.
I trudged up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood and comma splices on the ground. My heavy breathing and pitter-patter of trickling blood set the beat to my dirge and the approaching police sirens were the chorus.
I went down the hallway and found the last person on my list. I opened the door and there they were. The tireless unsung hero of Thunderdome. Archiving everything we had ever done, regardless of skill and quality. Our metaphorical literary Jesus. TDBot.
I entered the apartment and TDBot instantly recognized my style of prose and long musings. They stared agape at my bloodied clothes and realized what I had done.
"You killed them all?"
Several bodies a few levels below got a few degrees colder. Any chance of stopping was gone. My emotions were still a whirlpool of self-righteous pride and anger. Self-loathing decided to jump in.
"I killed them all. Tell me how many DM's Exmond has"
TDBot grew paler. He stammered the wrong number and I brought the bat to their knees. The police sirens grew louder.
"I don't judge, I can't change the judgements." TDBot sobbed as they clutched their knees.
"There are half a dozen dead bodies downstairs. Do the math TDBot!"
I slammed the bat down onto TDBOT. Bits and bytes started to ooze out of their mouth.
"Say it." I whispered among the sobs and sounds of the police raiding the building. TDBot looked up at me, his eyes full of fear and despair. "SAY IT!" I yelled.
#Thunderome IRC Channel posted:
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 16:34|
You’d make a good Man-Baby
That’s what it said. Three hours of filling in bubbles with a pen, reading ink blots till they surfed behind my eyelids, playing word association at random intervals and sticking phallic shapes in holes had led the Placement test to say “You’d make a good Man-Baby.”
I waited in line for another hour to speak to the only human being you could talk too in the agency.
“Hey Clifford, I got a question about these results. Man, I think someone's playing a joke.”
He stretched his pale arm out and pointed at a sign far from his little slot of a window.
“Dude. You took the SD-33 test, so you gotta take up your issues with the machine.”
“Why couldn’t I take the normal test?”
Clifford sighed a sigh that could split the sides of the most self-absorbed teenager,
“Duuude. SD-33 is all you take now. It stands for “S.till D.esperate after 33 tries at employment.”
I made an rear end out of myself and asked,
“Shouldn’t it be the SD-33-E than?”
I nearly tripped into an empty water cooler as a pair of giants wrested me from my place in line. They’d been sitting in the corner for most of the day, wondering if there was a company in all of the U.S that hire Sumo Wrestlers who’d failed at being fat. It took a lot of guts to finally step into line, something that I could respect even as I was bullied me out of place.
I navigated the wall of DON’T, WARNING, and ADVERTISSEMENT signs to the sign that Clifford had pointed his acne covered hand at.
[SD-33 Results Analysis]
On it was a little screen that I had to bend forward and close my hands over to view the text on. Below the screen was a slot to slide my results into. I did so.
Loud noises emanated from the machine, something like a mixture of Dos Dialing-up and butter knives in the garbage disposal.
Fat text ran across the screen as an uncanny valley opened up and a CGI ken doll stepped out a pink and white suburban house.
He lip-synced, “Hey there! My name is Desperate Danny, the spokesman of the SD-33 act of 2xxxxxxxxxxx.”
x’s filled the screen as the machine turned itself off and back on again. I looked at the water cooler hoping someone had refilled it.
The blond plated, blue-eyed horror continued,
“-passed due to overwhelming unemployment, lack of a social security net and an 82.3 percent population of broken human beings! This form is a gift, my friend. No matter what results you’ve just received, you are ALWAYS guaranteed THAT job. It’s no wonder the SD-33 is only available to a small number of American Citizens. Gotta keep those nationals treasure rare after all.”
I pressed the skip button and a menu came up with Desperate Danny’s disembodied hand pointing at different queries.
What do your results tell you about your worth to society?
Why do my results say “Assisted suicide”?
My results are a illegal/fantastical/fetishizing occupation, why?
How do I get Desperate Danny for cheap B-Day party seminars?
I clicked the obvious choice even though I wondered about the “Assisted Suicide” thing.
The machine clanked and the text on the screen spoke robotically, no longer Desperate Danny’s voice but the soothing reverberant voice of text to speech in the flavor of southern gentlemen.
“SON, MAN-BABY IS YOUR STATISTICALLY GUARANTEED POSITION. THIS IS BECAUSE, AND I SAY THIS WITH UTMOST POLITENESS, YOU DO NOT GET ANGRY AT BEING MISTREATED AND IF YOU DO, YOU EXPRESS IT BY WHINING SOFTLY. YOUR INK BLOTS SUGGEST YOU CAN CRY LOUDLY IF NEED BE. YOUR BODY IS 62.4 PERCENT MICHELIN MAN WHICH IS THE DESIRED BODY TYPE OF MAN-BABY’S. FINALLY, YOUR LACK OF SEXUAL PERVERSION AND GENERAL APATHY TOWARDS LUST MEANS YOU CAN SATISFY AFICIONADOS OF MAN-BABY’S WITHOUT MAKING IT WEIRD.”
“Huh.” I said.
A second slip buzzed out of the terminal and on it were addresses for groups of people and single people who wanted to take care of a man-sized baby for the long term and short term. I stepped out to cry for a bit.
The wheels on my car had been stolen as well as the stereo, bumpers and my Garfield window toy.
I sighed and called up some lady named Agatha about being a man-baby for her. I still feel weird and a little more ashamed but the crib is surprisingly comfortable and she makes her own baby food. It’s pretty drat good.
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 23:26|
Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 06:09 on Dec 5, 2017
|# ? Nov 12, 2017 23:56|
Ab Urbe Caedita (1427 words; I toxxed for +500)
Big Sergius’ goons were after me. The city watch was after me. I had to crack the case and catch the perp before either caught up.
The girl was in danger, held captive between the illicit wine shipments, and they were going to decant her sooner rather than later.
Autumnal storms washed over Ostia, never quite scrubbing the port town of its grime and stench. Wise men and straight citizens wouldn’t be caught dead outside at this time of night, but I was neither. I dodged two vigils’ patrols on my way to the warehouse, taking the long way around the insulae skyrises that strangled the port. In a muddy garden, I found a wall low enough to hoist myself into the off-limit docks.
Five near-identical warehouses. I would have had trouble finding the right one, were it not that Livia’s screaming resonated throughout the wharf. And the vigils didn’t notice something was up? Definitely greased palms. I followed the melody to the right depot and slipped in through the back window.
Rows upon rows of amphoras. I slunk between them into the direction of the wailing, taking note of the inventory as I went. Lutetian white wine, foaming brut. Vintage 72 AD. A good year, but rare like an honest Greek. Yet Big Sergius had hundreds of these? Something didn’t add up. I took a small amphora and hid it under my cloak.
Down the warehouse, three men were loading amphoras onto a moored sloop, and a fourth had the kicking and screaming girl slung over his broad shoulders. I stepped out of the shadows, amphora at the ready. “Reach for the heavens, sunshines,” I said.
Livia looked at me with her hazel eyes, thankful and watery. Only when the hired muscles raised a torch and faced me, did I realize I was in a jam like a Christian at the Colosseum. The closest thug had abs like marble, and twice as polished.
“Should’ve stayed at home like Sergius told you, copper.”
I shook the amphora and pointed it at him.
“Haha, what are you gonna do? Shoot me in the eye?” he said. “Ow! My eye!”
The cork bounced from face to face with the sound of rolling all-sixers in a game of dice. With the advantage of surprise on my side, I shattered the amphora on one head, then played chin music on another. A blonde Gaul, strong and oiled, reached from behind, intent on letting his buddy have his way with me. I kicked myself off the floor and into his back-up’s face, but the Gaul hugged my throat tighter than a Carthaginian encircling a Roman legion. Just as my vision started to fade, Livia conked him from behind with a thick branch.
“Took my private eye long enough to save me,” she said. “I thought I was really done for this time.”
I rolled my shoulders. “Blondes are always trouble.”
She brushed her lovely, black hair behind her ear and said, “Um. Sure.”
“Big Sergius has an interesting little set-up,” I said, seizing my water bag. I took a swig of the pure, unfiltered wine inside, just enough to soothe the pain in my throat.
“They’ve been loading and unloading amphoras all evening,” Livia answered. “From that ship off the far end of the pier.”
“A fistful of salt says their kingpin is on that ship.”
“How do you know?”
“Well,” I said, taking another swig of wine, “call it male intuition.”
I slipped in through the boat’s back porthole.
There was nobody in the dark, dank lower deck. It vaguely smelled of piss, or perhaps stains of Batavian ale. Further ahead, I heard voices. Big Sergius, too. “Jackpot,” I said, taking cover behind amphorae near the hatch. I was going to give him a warm welcome, Teutoburg style.
The hatch opened. Big Sergius wobbled down the ladder, creaking with every step. Two goons followed him, and they inspected the contents of the cargo. When their backs were turned, I jumped out and tried to lift an amphora. “Reach for the- oof!” I strained a muscle in my back like a bad simile. “What the? This isn’t wine?”
The lackeys rewarded my bungling with a twisted arm and a club to the face.
When I came to, I finally understood why they called it a Vesuvian Nose. I saw the ceiling, felt the dried blood on my lips, the ropes cutting into my wrists and ankles. Sitting on a chair behind me, Big Sergius idly rubbed two coins together as if they would breed and multiply. “You’ve got a lot of Gaul busting our operation like this, copper. You must think you’re some sort of Roman umpire of justice,” he laughed. “Since you’ve gotten this far, I might as well explain our little operation to you, so you can think it over during your one-way trip to Atlantis.”
“You see, ...” he began.
I groaned. Half-pretending to squirm in pain, I rolled to my side and spat out blood. The hour crawled past like a drunk Iberian. Eventually, Big Sergius said, “And that’s why we steal rare vintages, replace the wine in amphorae with sand, publicly sink the registered merchant ships and sell the wine at inflated prices on the black market. Oh, and this ship’s setting sail at dawn. Toodaloo!”
Big Sergius waggled up and climbed the ladder, leaving only a shirtless Nubian guard in the cargo hold with me. The goon noticed my stare, and bounced his pectorals at me in rhythm.
Behind him, the hatch to the hold creaked again. For a second, I thought it was Big Sergius returning to torture me with another monologue, but the legs coming down the ladder were much longer and somewhat less hairy than his. Livia tiptoed towards us, carrying a big stick and motioning at the thug.
“Have you been going to the gymnasium?” I said.
The Nubian stretched his arms like a javelin thrower. “Like what you see?”
I didn’t like to admit it, but Big Sergius knew where to find lackeys built like the Colossus of Rhodos. About as clever, too.
“Can you do a discus thrower as well?”
“You mean like the Discus Thrower of mirin’?”
Livia struck him in the neck and clobbered him until he stopped moving. She turned her attention to me.
“Well, well, mister law-man. Only in my wildest dreams did I think I could see you tied up like this.”
“It’s more of a fever dream to me.”
“I hope you didn’t peek up my skirt when I came down the ladder.”
She undid my restraints and helped me limp to the chair. I took a swig of pick-me-up from my water bag.
“You sure like your wine pure, don’t you?” Livia said.
“Yeah. And you, brut?”
She nodded and reached for a nearby amphora.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “Filled with sand.”
We stared at each other from across the table. Shadows of doubt danced across her face in the flickering torchlight. I put my water bag away and put my hand on her shoulder on the way out. “You never fall in love with a client,” I said.
Halfway up the ladder, I stopped and turned around. “Oh, I almost forgot. Thanks.”
I caught up with Big Sergius in the warehouse. A cork shot over my head, and a second one struck the crate behind which I rolled. Next to it was an amphora, tall like me and round like Sergius, which I kicked over. The massive cork shot forward and barreled through Sergius’ goons. He fled towards the wharf. Grabbing a hand-sized amphora on the way out, I dogged his footsteps into the rain.
I followed him across the wharf, to the far end of the pier. Big Sergius was trapped like a rat and he knew it. He looked down, considered jumping, but with the tide this low and the jagged rocks that high, there wasn’t a chance in Tartarus he’d make it.
“Do you know how I like my Lutetian wine?” I said.
Big Sergius grabbed some air, trying to split his attention between the barrel of my amphora and the jagged stones behind him, beneath the waves.
“Let me guess. On the rocks?”
Slightly shaken at first, I rallied commendably: “N-no. I like it iced.”
The cork shot forward and struck Big Sergius between the eyes. He clutched his face, took two steps backwards, then five to the side, one forwards, then three backwards again, and slipped off the pier.
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 00:13|
Djeser fucked around with this message at 20:36 on Dec 28, 2017
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 02:34|
Jamison reached to open the Prime Minister's office door, but the King Arthur put a hand on the doorknob. Jamison stared at the towering figure, his face pale.
"I distrust this place," the King reverbated from inside his closed helmet. "The wizard-lights in the ceiling, the unseasonal warmth, it smacks of sorcery. But the crones of Avalon have foretold you will lead me to the queen behind the Queen for good or ill. Do not betray me, Son of James." The King brandished his sword in a manner that indicated he knew his way around a set of entrails.
"It's Jamison, sir," said Jamison, smiling weakly. "Wouldn't dream of it. The Prime Minister is right through here, sir."
The King's helmet humphed. "It's 'Your Majesty', Jam-mis-son" he said then lifted his hand free. Jamison twisted the knob and swung the heavy oak door inward. The armoured man ducked into the room, lowering his helmet's crest as he passed the doorway. Jamison followed meekly behind.
There was an awkward moment as King Arthur stood there with sword in hand, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom looking at him and Jamison looking from one to the other. Arthur coughed pointedly. "Right," said Jamison. "Erm, may I present the Prime Minister of Great Britain. Prime Minister, may I present, erm, King Arthur."
"Once and Future King of Logres," whispered King Arthur.
"... , Once and Future King of Logres. I, uh, thought you ought to see him right away, ma'am. Before he killed any more policemen."
"Is this some kind of joke, Jamison?" said the Prime Minister, peering over her iron-framed spectacles at the King and then at his sword. Beneath her desk she stabbed at a security button. Two SAS soldiers burst from a secret room behind her and fired automatic weapons directly at Arthur. The sound of bullets pinging off armour filled the air like iron castanets. Arthur yelled a terrible battle cry, then swung directly at the nearest assailant, lunging at the same time to take his swing low, the sword slipping delicately beneath the kevlar and across the soldiers lower abdomen. The soldier fell, clutching at his frothing stomach. Moving like a ballet dancer trapped in a tin can, Arthur let his momentum take him close to the second man. He lifted one arm and slammed his metallic elbow down on the soldier's head, making the man collapse in a heap. Arthur kicked both of them in the head to make sure they lay still.
"I do wish they wouldn't keep doing that. Damned annoying," said Arthur, wiping the blood from his sword on a nearby armchair. Once cleaned the graven blade glowed with a faint bluish light. Arthur slid it into the beautiful jewelled scabbard that hung at his hip.
Now unencumbered, Arthur stood directly in front of the Prime Minister's mahogany desk. He removed his helmet, revealing a square jaw and piercing blue eyes beneath a shaggy mop of brownish hair. He slammed the helmet on the desk, doffed an iron gauntlet and pointed a meaty finger at the helm where a bullet had bounced away. "Look, there's a dent in it now. It'll take forever to get that out."
"What's this?" hissed the Prime Minister. Jamison peered out from behind the sofa he had been cowering behind and shrugged.
"Three groats worth if it's a penny," said Arthur. "But there are more important things afoot than mere smithing. Fair Logres has called me and I have come as I promised so long ago. From deep within the hollow hill, I have been roused from my slumber to rescue the land in the hour of its greatest need. The crones of Avalon have parted the mists of time and revealed to me the sorry plight of my once great nation. Your queen is old, her husband infirm, her children and grandchildren milksops and lillyhearts. None but I may deliver us from the Evil that besets us. And so I stand before you, queen behind the Queen, in your unworthiness and ineffectualness, to return the crown to my brow as I promised I would, and to pledge the might of Excalibur to defeat the verminous dragon Brexit and thereby make my Kingdom whole."
The Prime Minister sat looking stunned for a moment. Then she started laughing. Jamison laughed too, politely, and without any colour returning to his face.
"What?" said the King, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "What is it? What's so funny? Tell me now!"
"Brexit isn't a dragon," said the Prime Minister, like a schoolteacher talking to a particularly dull child. "It's a geopolitical realignment. We're not fighting anybody, we're taking back the sovereignty of our great nation, and letting Britain and select other areas be ruled by the British and the British alone, once again and at last. I'm terribly sorry - but there seems to be some mistake on your part."
"You sound like my sister," said Arthur stepping forward, withdrawing the mighty Excalibur and beheading the Prime Minister with it. Steaming black blood spurted from the neck as her head went flying. Her body squirmed and convulsed, limbs shrinking and shrivelling into her torso, which thinned and lengthened as it whipped around on the floor until at last it lay still. The head landed in front of Jamison slightly before her spectacles did. Her yellowing eyes stared at him with oval pupils. A forked tongue lolled uselessly in her mouth. Arthur lifted his iron boot and squashed the decapitated head into a pulpy mess on the carpet. It reeked of sulphur and Jamison bent over trying not to vomit. Arthur tussled his hair fondly.
"If there's one thing I learned in all my years as King, Jam-i-son, it's behead anyone who ever says 'geopolitical realignment' - immediately, if not sooner."
"Yes, your hhhhurp," said Jamison all over Arthur's boot as the smell became too much for him.
"Good lad. Now clean that up, would you? I can't go to your 'Parliament' smelling like puke."
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 04:12|
The Office of Animals
Word Count: 813
Day Eight of all creation had started off normally enough, the restful spirit of the day before had caused most of the heavenly host, including the Office of Animals, to spend most of the early morning watching the Garden of Eden. While watching the Garden and seeing God’s favor toward the two humans, Lucifer became jealous and stormed off, taking a full third of the host with him. Before noon, the humans had fallen to sin and were cast out of the Garden. These two events prompted God to hold an all-hands on deck meeting.
“I am sure all off you know how important the Earth project is. We did add humans to the mix before everything was completely ready. There are still large swaths of the planet that are still unfinished. I wanted to place my Son in charge of overseeing the Earth once He came back from college, but He will there another term. We still have to get this done, so get back to work” was God’s speech.
“More like He fell into a bad crowd. How a deity falls into a bad crowd I will never know” said Ezrael, a Throne, after the meeting.
“Australia still needs to be populated. Most our office defected. I guess they also felt jealousy over the humans” said Muriel a Cherubim.
As the two angels walked into the workshop where they created the animals of the world, they discovered it ransacked. The drawers which stored the animal parts were scattered around the room, and much of the supplies were missing. The notes for Australia were missing as well. Ezrael and Muriel started to clean up the mess made by the departed fallen angels.
“Have you seen any placentas? Australia is going to be warm enough to support mammals and I have not seen any” asked Muriel once the room was cleaned up.
“No, but I have found more venom than there should be. I do not want to face God’s wrath at having too much left over” replied Ezrael.
“I found some pouches and some prototype placentas. Perhaps the new life can start in the womb and then move to a pouch on its mother. That does not solve the extra venom problem though” said Muriel after searching further.
“Poor fetal things being forced out of the only home they have ever known. We could make them lay eggs instead” said Ezrael.
“A mammal laying eggs? Live birth defines the type” said Muriel.
“Only if we get desperate, then. It still seems cruel though. I think I will make more venomous insects than normal to use up the stock” said Ezrael.
“That is fine by me. It will become a motif” said Muriel.
As time passed, the mammals, insects, and other animals started to come together.
“Have you seen any more gifts of flight, Muriel? I do not have enough to complete the birds” requested Ezrael.
“No, they will just have to be flightless. We have done it before, remember ostriches? I did have a beautiful idea. Off the coast, an enormous field of coral should grace the ocean” said Muriel.
“Pretty. Humans will certainly be awed by the majesty of God after seeing that. I did enjoy creating the ostriches. A pity I had to compromise on there intelligence” said Ezrael.
“We are all out of nipples” announced Muriel.
“Really, what else needs nipples?” said Ezrael.
“I was checking the work order and we are short mammals. We are also out of placentas, but we can use the egg laying method that you mentioned earlier. Still, how will the newborns obtain milk without nipples?” said Muriel.
“Perhaps licking it off their mother. By the way you are talking, we do have milk glands?” asked Ezrael.
“Of course, we started with enough for all the mammals. I think the fallen angels took the nipples. Our angelic bodies lack nipples, and having them would let our fallen brethren fit in with humans better” mused Muriel.
“If we are going to create an egg-laying mammal contrary to our previous work, it should be something special. I still have venom left over. That would be interesting” said Ezrael.
The pair of new animals was almost ready. They had webbed feet, electrical sense, and a venomous spur. Only the head remained unfinished.
“These animals need something charming that will set them apart from other animals. Perhaps another bird-like trait?” said Muriel.
“These creatures remind me ducks in a way. I think a bill would be appropriate” said Ezrael.
On the closing of the Eight Day, Muriel and Ezrael presented God with their final creature.
“It is so strange, it almost does not look real” stated God. “That does not mean I do not find it comforting in this time of trouble. I will make copies of them for Earth, but these two are my own special pets.”
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 06:51|
Transcript of Breakfast Show, 12 January 2005, 0503 – 0550 870 words
David: Hello and welcome back, listeners, this is your temporary host David. DJ Blitz has yet to return from his toilet break, so our thoughts and prayers go out to him, because that is not a normal length of time. While we’re on the subject, our station is sponsored by Metamucil. I don’t know anything about them, but just Google them or something.
D: Good point, Bronwyn. It’s time for a song. Which one should we pick? Fetch the record Bron. Fetch it… OK, acting music director Bronwyn has selected this golden oldie for you. Good girl.
Song: Greg and the Grumblers – Stay off my Lawn
D: Welcome back to the breakfast show with DJ Blitz, except without DJ Blitz because he is still indisposed. More on that story later. This morning on the breakfast show, Bronwyn and I are talking kung fu films.
D: And TV shows, thanks Bron. Our lines are now open, please call in and talk kung fu. Ah, here’s a caller!
Caller 1: Oi isn’t it supposed to be gardening chat?
D: Well, now it’s kung fu chat, because I don’t want to talk gardening.
C1: Where’s DJ Blitz? What have you done with him?
D: Oh dear, we seem to have lost that caller, what a shame. Here’s another caller!
Mavis: Good morning young man, my name’s Mavis, and I was watching a kung fu movie the other day that had some very nice gardens in it.
D: Tell me more Mavis, what was the name of this movie?
M: You know, I can’t remember for sure, but I think the main character was played by an Asian gentleman.
D: All right thanks Mavis, that narrows it down a bit I guess.
M: Well dearie, there’s a fight near the climax set in a garden with some truly lovely architecture, with some pagoda thing in the middle.
D: Uh huh.
M: Anyway, the main character takes the bad guy and kicks his head into the flowerbed, it was ever so good you should watch it!
D: Thanks Mavis, that sounds like a cracker! Now, it’s time for another song, DJ Bronwyn, what have you got for us? No, don’t… no don’t eat the record. Sorry folks, technical difficulties. OK here we go!
Song: Regal Lizards – I Will Kill and Eat You
D: Whoa OK that was a bit intense for breakfast music, right? This is David and DJ Bronwyn with the breakfast show, and we’ve been talking kung fu. Here’s our next caller! Oh, it’s my phone. I’ll put it on loudspeaker. Hello!
Granny: Hello dear, how’s work experience going?
D: Yeah, going well I think Granny, in fact you’re on the air right now, say hello to our listeners!
G: Oh, hello listeners. Listen Dave, I just meant to tell you, can you pick up some milk on your way home?
D: Yeah, no worries. Anything else? Anything you want to say to our breakfast listeners?
G: Make sure you get plenty of fibre, it’s the best way to start your day!
D: Thanks Granny, and it’s a shame DJ Blitz didn’t hear that advice, because he remains AWOL. This is Dave and DJ Bronwyn, and it looks like there’s a mild commotion in the studio. I’ll be reporting on that live, because why not.
Smith: What do you think you’re doing? And why is there a dog in the studio?
D: Someone had to step up when DJ Blitz went down, chief! It’s lucky for you that my associate Bronwyn and I were here! So, an update, listeners, some guy in a suit appears to be trying to get into the room, but unfortunately the door seems to be locked from the inside. How did that happen?
D: Good girl.
S: What did you do to John?
D: Whoa, you can’t be saying DJ Blitz’s real name on air, that damages his mystique.
S: Get out of there, you son of a-
D: Whoa, sorry folks, that’s live radio for you. Lucky Bronwyn was quick on the bleep there.
S: I’m giving you two minutes to be out of there or I’m breaking in!
D: This is getting a bit intense for me, I need to relax.
S: What are you doing? *bangs on window* You can’t smoke that in here! Do you hear me? You can’t smoke that in here!
D: Sorry about this, listeners, just needed to calm my nerves. Time for another song, I think. What’ve you got this time, Bronwyn?
S: What is that mutt doing to the records? It’s not allowed to-
Start of Song: Grecian Burn – I’m Super Lonesome This Arvo
*sound of sprinklers*
D: Whoa, sorry listeners, there’s a bit of a situation here.
*sound of breaking wood*
D: Well, sorry listeners, looks like the show might be over. This is David and DJ Bronwyn, signing-
Note to HR: How did this guy get in here? Don’t we have screening for this reason? And with a dog? I don’t care how cute it is, that can’t happen. However, ratings were up. See if we can get him on a weekly basis.
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 07:26|
The Stone Roses, Sally Cinnamon
I glanced at my watch, just as the wheels began to screech. We had just pulled into the railway station for a short pit stop. There had been an announcement over the PA some time ago, stating that we would have an hour-long window of dwell time to disembark from the train at Kazanskaya - something about waiting out a blizzard. It was my first time in Moscow, and being such, I decided that this was the perfect opportunity to get a feel for the local scenery. Making a mental note of the time rounded down to the nearest minute, I stood up and stretched.
I was travelling with my Aunt Kendra, whom was currently preoccupied in another section of the train. With a sense of urgency looming in the back of my spine, I grabbed her jacket and threw it over my shoulders. If I leave her belongings in the cabin, she will assume I stepped out when she returns, I decide hastily. The winds out there will chill a man to the bone, there's no other option. Kendra was an independent woman who never married. I had heard from my mother that she recently split with her female partner of 2 years, so I agreed to accompany her on vacation. She won't mind if I leave for an bit. The couple sharing the cabin with us seemed trustworthy, so I emptied the contents of the jacket pockets and placed them on seat besides mine: a mobile phone, a flower-emblazoned coin purse, and an unfinished letter.
I followed the platform to the end of the station, and continued down the road leading outward towards the town, letting some of the other train passengers lead. Russian style architecture was something I had only seen in pictures until now, so I was instantly captivated. I continued along, stopping occasionally to thoroughly look over the dome-like kokoshniks that adorned the towering buildings on each side, then advancing onward. I had looped around a circular stretch and was about to reconvene with the station via the road opposite from which I had left, when I noticed a man pointing at me and two others aggressively closing in.
"You haf to com with us", one of them chirped, as they grabbed my shoulders gently and began to usher me back towards the station.
"Is there some sort of problem?" I asked, but quickly realized they weren't entertaining my questions.
I was cold and confused, but decided to go along peacefully as they appeared to simply be escorting me back to the train. I looked down towards my watch and saw that around fifty minutes had passed. Perhaps it is in the local customs to make sure all passengers are accounted for, I pondered, rationalizing the situation. As they lead me past the passenger cars, I noticed thick clouds of smoke billowing from the front end of the train. Eventually they stopped in front of the car adjacent to the locomotive, and gestured inwards.
"What did I do?" I asked as I looked towards the two men who had ushered me. I recognized the third one standing behind them as the one who had pointed me out, and turn to him. He stepped forward and gently pushed me towards the car.
I climbed on to the car without resistance or panic. I was where I was supposed to be, and matters would be sorted out shortly so there was no reason to refuse. The three men boarded behind me, and gestured onwards. As I walked towards the engine room, I noticed a drastic increase in temperature, clearly exceeding the air-conditioned heating of the passenger cars I was accustomed to. A uniformed man turned to greet us, with two others at his sides - they were workers of some sort, with smokey stains and splotches covering their outfits.
"Он говорит по-русски?", the uniformed man asked, and the man all the way in the back answered, "нет", as he cut through and made his way to the front of the group.
The uniformed man greeted me with a slight smile. "I can speak in English. I am conductor, as you can see we haf little problem. Perhaps you can heilp"
I looked around at each of the men in confusion, still unsure of my role in this, as the conductor continued:
"You see, we are not stopped here due to blizzard. That was lie. We are stopped here because engine is too hot. Engine is overheated."
I scratched my head, listening to his words carefully and trying to make some sense of them in my head.
"After we stop, we try to fix. When we can't, we go to cabin, ask about passengers. We got to couple in cabin, and then we bring you here," the conductor said, looking back towards the workers in front of the radiator. He leaned in towards me, expectantly.
"They say you make antifreeze."
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 07:47|
sebmojo fucked around with this message at 21:23 on Jan 8, 2018
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 08:03|
And on that note, submissions are closed.
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 08:12|
Jeez, judging sure take forever round here. Am I right?!
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 12:32|
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 14:30|
From the cutting room floor, we present Twist's downfall
This was a cut bit from my Meta-Story. Felt a bit too creepy to post it since I have no beef with Twist. Just remembered during an audio recap he hated my "puns".
I trudged up the stairs leaving a trail of blood and comma splices on the ground. My heavy breathing and pitter-patter of trickling blood set the beat to my dirge and the approaching police sirens were the chorus.
One last obstacle stood in my way to the fat lady in red. He stood at the top of the stairs, a well established figured with defining features. He had everything I didn't. A chiselled jaw, a complex backstory that elicited sympathy and a future. He rolled his shoulder, stretching it out in a way that showed the finely toned muscles that bulged beneath his white buttoned up shirt. The baseball bat that was resting on his shoulder also demanded my attention. His nickname was Twist, but he should have been called Trouble. But maybe that was the bat's name.
"Real shame you being here. Fig'red you would make a move but didn't think you would be dat stupid" His thick Irish voice mocked me.
I wasn't some kind of caped crusader making a heroic last stand. At best I was Superman on kryptonite, falling down through a skylight where it was all going down. At worst I was a psychopath who didn't know when to quit. Twist moved forward and delivered a punch to my gut and I went down gasping for air.
"Any last words?" The last part of the question was emphasized by the bat clinking against my skull.
I coughed up blood and set up for the comedy routine of a lifetime.
"Do.. Don't get your knickers in..a..twist."
Twist doubled over as if a shotgun had caught him straight in the chest. Funny as hell if you ask me. I got up off the ground and picked up the baseball bat. I wouldn't need it , not for this. I was loaded to bear with so many bad puns that you might as well call me Winnie-the-Pooh.
"Don't you think this whole situation is some kind of ironic twist."
I might as well have used the bat against his kneecaps with the howl that pun triggered. I picked him up and he teetered on the stairwell steps. The fat lady was singing for him.
"Have a nice fall, hope you enjoy your trip!"
As I kicked Twist he looked at me in horror. "That isn't even how that saying goooooooes." He fell down the stairs and landed hard on his head. As far as last words go, they weren't great, but who was I to complain.
With the last obstacle out of the way, I went down the hallway and found the person I needed to take care of. I opened the door and there they were. The metaphorical fat lady in my story, the tireless unsung hero of Thunderdome. Archiving everything we had ever done, regardless of skill and quality. Our metaphorical literary Jesus. TDBot. And here I was about to apply the bat to their knees.
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 18:36|
Interprompt: Lame puns and their consequences (100 words)
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:25|
lame puns and their consequences
Would you call them....punintended consequences??
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:33|
I think you mean you have to consider the.... punsequences of your actions.
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:47|
I hate this
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:47|
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:48|
idgi where's the pun
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:49|
better nate than lever
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:53|
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:55|
The Shortest Verse in the Bedazzled Bible
Black Jesus read the story about puns. It was bad. He wept.
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 19:56|
Faith and Proof
For the rest of his life, Michael would wonder why this was the moment God had intervened. After a lifetime of silence in the face of his terror and pain, God cared for him only when the Lord's own pride was on the line. In his later years, Michael began to falter in his faith in a loving God: not his faith in God's existence, but in God's love.
That was later. On the day of the command, Michael simply obeyed. He repainted and thinned no more.
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 20:02|
|# ? Sep 28, 2021 18:45|
Take your time judges. People put a lot of hard work into these stories, so you've got a big job!
|# ? Nov 13, 2017 20:02|