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  • Locked thread
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Mar 22, 2013

it's crow time again

Benagain posted:

When is this due again?

if only there was a post which had the prompt in it, that we could read to gain secrets and value

Jan 23, 2004

college kids ain't shit

Fun Shoe

Alright, enough pussyfooting out of me; in.

Feb 25, 2014



Jon Joe
Oct 19, 2011


Grimey Drawer

Chili posted:

Alright, enough pussyfooting out of me; in.



Sep 14, 2007

Like most things, I am nothing

hell why not :toxx: for DOUBLE BEEF ACTION

aka two entries

Dec 11, 2013

by Pragmatica

Yes It's A Man Giving A Monologue:
So it's not appropriate to the prompt...
But it's still one of the best loving speeches in the history of film.

Mar 21, 2010

SkaAndScreenplays posted:

Yes It's A Man Giving A Monologue:
So it's not appropriate to the prompt...
But it's still one of the best loving speeches in the history of film.
lol excuse you

almost there
Sep 13, 2016

SkaAndScreenplays posted:

Yes It's A Man Giving A Monologue:
So it's not appropriate to the prompt...
But it's still one of the best loving speeches in the history of film.

Alec Baldwin won the Oscar for best supporting that year for that role, and that's literally the only time he's in the movie. In the same vein I recommend checking this one out:

Dec 15, 2006

Come fight terrifying creatures in the THUNDERDOME!

Okay, I guess I should do this since I'm halfway through writing my entry already.

I am in.

Nov 15, 2012

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

in :toxx:

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007




New Long Walk thread is up

For those who don't know, Long Walk is where we :toxx: to write lots of words each month. It's cool, you should do it.

Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

Critiques for Weeks VIII, CCXXXII, CCXXXIII, and CCXXXIV: Deep Into That Darkness Peering

More crits, catching up with the past two recap episodes and offering a preview of things to come in the next.

Week 8: Martello's Girlfriend Said, "I'm late!"

budgieinspector, "That's Showbiz": Dialogue tags would go a ways toward keeping the twins distinct from the start, and the long back-and-forth early on could certainly use a few. Long is a fair adjective for the story despite the word count. The fifth and sixth scenes stick out for repeating ideas that have already been established. I know Lucy wants a normal life; I know Welk is straight-laced and strict. If the twins were offered a contract right after their audition you could cut both scenes and lose nothing. What bemuses me in the end is why Darcy thanks Lucy for taking the blame, because Darcy's still out of her dream job and doesn't even have love to show for it. I can't call that a happy ending, and as ways for Lucy to get her quiet life go, it's roundabout. You'd have the same conclusion for less trouble if Lucy told Darcy where to stick it at the end of their long conversation. The extended path isn't a particularly entertaining or interesting one, so I'm left wanting more from the story than I've gotten.


Week 232: I want to crit your blood

SkaAndScreenplays, "Salvage Law": Sequels must stand alone. Assuming the judges will take the time to go read more of your words than they have to is about as hubristic as toxxing to HM. Even if they did, you're being judged on this entry, and it's a weak one that's worse yet when considered in isolation. What's the reader's investment in the recovery of the Aegis? Or Thessalia and Jenkins? Or the setting? You don't do much to set any of these up, instead throwing the reader in head-first--a tactic that would be more effective if the conflict, characters, or setting were interesting. Instead, the story's main point of tension is resolved off camera; the characters are talking heads; the setting is barely sketched. Needless scenes and subplots also bloat the text to a fare-thee-well. That business with Maura and her grandfather? Cut it. The kiss? Cut it. Neither of these contribute to this particular story. They connect to some larger work from which it has been carved. Turn the scene of Thessalia waking up from a vomit stupor to yak at Norris for paragraphs on end into a scene of her doing something to repair that ship, holy criminy Christmas cripes. The question of whether the team will escape the moon isn't a suitable climax: it lacks tension because there's only one reasonable answer. There isn't much tension anywhere, mind you, since every scene is people talking to each other with maybe a little action on the side. On the issue of the non-existent proofreading, I don't know what to say. I doubt you so much as hit the preview button. You had days to go and were toxxed to HM. Dear God, let this be the wake-up call you need regarding slinging unproofed poo poo at the judges. You have the potential to write good yarns, Ska, but nobody here can help you if you won't help yourself.


SkaAndScreenplays, "The Fires Of Discontent:": I'd spit at the sight of this format in any other week, but you were asked to write from your soul and draw on whatever it is that compels you to write. So, a screenplay. Fair enough! "May the winds of change fan them into a conflagration which engulfs the dead wood of tradition in a conflagration of progress." Not fair enough at all! This comes after stage directions that read like descriptions in an online roleplaying game. The voices of Charlotte and Araspasia could probably be more stilted, but it would take some work. Oh, hey, no wonder the RP descs are there! You've written World of Darkness fanfic! The E in Caine gives away your source material. You even refer to clans, so let's see if I can guess: Toreador and Ventrue? At least you didn't write a Fishmalk. Don't lean on other people's intellectual property for your Thunderdome entries. Don't ever publish fanfic without giving credit to the source. Otherwise, this is--naturally--talking heads talking at each other, and nothing happens beyond an exchange of threats. Maybe I'd come to care whether Dahl or Araspasia rules a city over the course of a longer play to which this was the intro, but all you've done as it stands is set up a conflict between names on a page. I'd rank it very slightly below the space story.


Prester Jane, "A Cave Adventure.": Welcome to Thunderdome, Prester Jane. Your story tells me right away that you don't have much writing experience, so you're in the right place! The rough mechanics (missing punctuation, awkward comma splices, etc.), overuse of -ly adverbs, repetition of words ("I started to feel excited," "Nathan said excitedly," "his excited voice," all within four paragraphs), repetition of ideas (yes, I know these kids find interesting things to play with in the cave; you've already told me so), flat prose (the repetition has a lot to do with how flat it is, but painstakingly describing every minor action doesn't help) and missing words ("I think its a Mom") are markers of an amateur effort. The Purdue Online Writing Lab and its exercises can help you with sentence-level issues. The OWL won't tell you to avoid crappy twist endings, so I will. What? You mean these kids were in a closet all along??? That definitely justifies reading about their protracted adventure in finding a shoe! You've written about something inherently kind of boring and counted on the twist to zing the reader, I imagine, but even if the twist weren't also dull it wouldn't make the rest of the story good in retrospect. Stick around and keep practicing.


steeltoedsneakers, "An Interrogation": I'm curious whether you've read the Wheel of Time or this fruit-based torture technique is either an urban legend or an actual practiced method. Regardless, you burn a good few words on the methodology and manage to make incipient torture a humdrum affair. The whole story drags its heels through Sam's "comic" mauling. To your credit, I expect any humor is supposed to be of the black sort, but that requires a sharpness this piece just doesn't have. I appreciate the moral re: work ethic while thinking there had to be a better way to illustrate it.


Hawklad, "Runes": Terrible first line: that wayward his has me trying to imagine how Aegar is at once chopping with an axe and being chopped by an axe. Go with "the man." Stick a he before heaves so you aren't saying Aegar's foot heaves the axe. I'm caught up in Aegar's slow, brutal death, the emotions and physical horrors of which are well described, until he and the rune-writer converse as though one didn't have a smashed stump in place of a leg and the other didn't have his guts falling out. The writer is the worse offender, as he might as well be chatting over tea for all his words suggest urgency or pain. It's the ending that ruins this story. Aegar is so maddened by the scratch scratch scratch that he uses some of his dying energy to kill a man, and then he picks up where that man left off? Why? The only answer that comes to mind is Hawklad needed to wrap up the story somehow.


BeefSupreme, "When It Raines, It Pours": Ooh, I like the first section so well that I'm dreading what will happen to turn this into DM material. The punctuation is nearly spot-on too! Look at that perfect use of a semicolon! Beautiful. I see the sentences getting a little rougher as the story continues (caps or italics for emphasis: choose one), but it's nothing terrible. The action sequence is excellent. My anxiety increases. The third section is the weakest yet and shows incomplete mastery of hyphens. Still not bad... here we go. Final scene. The blocking isn't so strong here as in the earlier fight, and I have no idea why Grimace in whiteface just ran by. The pacing slows to a crawl as Mr. Raines expounds on martial arts. Is all of this going to turn out to be about inexplicably retro drug parties? Yes, sort of. The ending is, I fear, rather awful, if possibly not so awful as to have earned a DM in my book. The last confrontation is ridiculously short compared to the martial-arts duel with a nameless henchman; worst is the last line focusing on Iselle when Iselle never became more than a McGuffin. The whole entry leaves a bitter aftertaste of disappointment.


kurona_bright, "Don't Fear the Reaper (Yes, Really)": Pthbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt. Uncredited fanfiction. Shame on you. I laugh as I type that only because you weren't trying to get away with anything. It raises a point all the same: as one of the 1% of Thunderdomers who doesn't play Overwatch, I thought these characters were yours, which means you're passing off other people's intellectual property as your own and that's abominable and horrible and bad! Okay, my finger has been duly waggled, so let's look at what you've done with these nice fictional people you've stolen. To the surprise of no one, the story reads like fanfic, with the usual problems like an overload of backstory, expository dialogue--though you're getting better at that--and yadda yadda, you know the drill. I don't know what to make of the ending, since Gabe presumably remains dead. Is he going to hang around as Jack's pining-for-the-fjords boyfriend? The bankruptcy filing isn't the dramatic revelation you want it to be, either; it's not as much fuss over nothing as that old story about the D that I will never let you forget, but it's in the same family, so keep watching out for weak sources of drama lest you end up with melodrama instead.



Note: I come to form poetry looking for strict adherence to structure, a story or resonant message, and progression. I'm especially impressed or disappointed by meter, rhyme, and flow, and that shapes my reaction to this round.

Jay W. Friks, "The Last Quiet Place": Oh, dear, no. You either mistook which rhyme rule for villanelles you were allowed to ignore or believe toast rhymes with space--I suspect the former. The up side here is that I can (I think) gather the gist of your poem. An alcoholic who likely has other problems besides is locked in an institution, but he plans to get out and escape into death. Not bad. The down side is how awkward and sometimes nonsensical the individual lines are. The first and final stanzas barely make sense. Even the maybe-clever image of a security camera(?) as a cyclops doesn't hold up once I start wondering why the camera would ever be turned off; lines like "Kept behind risk and filled up space" look as though they're intended to be deep and artistic despite not meaning anything. The premise is worthy, but the execution's a mess.


Thranguy, "His Name is Herschel, By the Way.": Ambitious. I think you're trying to show mastery of the form by confounding expectations while playing within the letter of the rules. This risky tactic paid off with the judges, but I see a poem that reads poorly and contains approximately 0.5% of an adult's RDA of substance. Recite it with any respect for the line breaks and it clunks and clatters. Even when I read it silently, my inner ear hates it. The line "This is more trouble than I've been in" is awkward no matter what approach I take. The poem tells a story, but an empty one: Colleen, Sam, and a pangolin go up to a tower, meet a monster, jump, are caught by a zeppelin, then get knocked out by tridents. Okay, so? It's not interesting enough to justify the read, nor are the individual lines memorable. (Various story-poems from this round are weak on those points, to be fair, and yours has some energy.) My end thought is that if you'd pulled this off--if the story were striking, if the lines were striking, if the rhythm were good or at least unobjectionable--it would have been clever, brilliant, a wonderful way to go, and I tip my hat to you for the attempt. For the result, not so much.

Side note for all, not just you: Capitalize is in a title! It's a verb, not an article, conjunction, or preposition.


Chernabog, "My sorrow": Your subject matter gives you a tough row to hoe from the outset since everyone and his dog has read a poem about death and loss. Yours doesn't stand out in that field, but there's something to the final stanza, when the passionate cry becomes one of rebirth--or resignation--or mourning for having to live because he once was loved. But that flicker of depth is almost lost under the juvenile feel of the AAA rhyme scheme and the arrhythmic meter: a villanelle may not have to follow a set meter, but that doesn't mean just any sequence of syllables will sound good. "All your words have been exhausted so this is your last reply" is too long. The semicolon in your first refrain should be a colon. And the single, trickling tear is an image so overused to convey sadness that it almost makes fun of itself. I don't personally find this the worst poem of the lot, but it's the closest to trite, which could be what signed its death warrant.


sparksbloom, "sparks bloom": This piece has a nice sway, only slightly irregular (the eighth and eleventh lines have the same number of syllables, but the rhythm is different), and it includes good wordplay in the two meanings of match. However, the rhymes don't all come off as organic. More noticeable to me are the words that aren't meant to rhyme but look as though perhaps they are: flush and match, which (despite the aforementioned cleverness of the latter) "sound" bad in conjunction with the -ash parade. My main issue with the whole is encapsulated by the line "although it pains me to rehash," as the poem strikes me as repetitive: one idea, one note chanted again and again. There's no progression or change and not much to enrich the impression of a dead love beyond what the first stanza conveys. Probably those issues are linked: I wouldn't mind the lackluster rhymes if they said more, wouldn't mind the stasis pattern if the lines were stronger. This one is worth tweaking and keeping.


Hawklad, "Aurelia": Do something with the second refrain and you'll improve your poem at least twofold, because the current version sounds unbalanced in my mouth, ears, and mind and doesn't carry a clear idea to boot. Did the Fall of Man drive the world to the edge, or is the Fall itself the edge, or...? I just do not like it. The other quibble I have is that the environmental message becomes heavy-handed as the poem goes on, until I start thinking of Fern Gully and imagining the whole thing as sung by Tim Curry. Kudos, still, for good imagery and a solid tick-tock rhythm.


GenJoe, "Ash Tray": Nothing about smoldering in an ashtray is romantic, passionate, or anything but gross, and that metaphor fails despite inspiring the title. That fourth stanza is the weakest of the lot, the one spot that asks with plaintive eyes for revision. I like the verses about the shift horn better than I did at first; I see now the endless shifts that "weeks of underuse" implies. I don't care for the "explain away an" that the other recappers like, however--I'd ditch away, because as-is the line feels a syllable or two too long. Content-wise, though? The story and its emotions are strong enough to overpower minor flaws in technique. The pitch-perfect second refrain makes ideal use of the villanelle form. I love everything about the last stanza, her good-bye hug that he doesn't recognize for what it is and the quiet flow from that embrace to the tearing note. I can feel the pain in both of them and hurt for both of them. drat good work for a nineteen-line poem. You slam-dunked this prompt. Congratulations!


Week 234: Binging on Bad Words

Uranium Phoenix, "The Eyes of Eris": I would still be wondering why this lost, fleshy python and all, if it weren't for the final twist that pees itself the moment a thought so much as glances its way. Why would Eyes of Eris hire cyborgs to kill the miners they also hired, exactly? Why is destroying the station without solving that mystery a reasonable solution? Was Eris out to get the asteroid and also whatever's on board the Minor Miracle, which is to say a tediously peppy AI and a random maybe-cyborg, maybe-captain's-lover-I-guess? Nope, I'm not buying it from any angle. Emmy's twee "charm" is perceptibly forced in the pie factory line; Cythea is worse because Cythea barely exists. Alecta I like, even with the convenient array of bioweapon elements, so you deliver some of what the prompt asked. One interesting character doesn't save the story, unfortunately.


Twiggymouse, "The Job": The point of view is nebulous, but that's less a problem than the lengthy, dull, cliche conversation that opens the piece. Jameson's haphazard use of contractions makes his voice stuffy in the least interesting way. Worse, Michael's right: I know exactly how this is going to go, and yet it takes forever to get to Jameson's predictable arrival at the West High. Worst by far though is that you set up a story but never actually tell one. What the hell? Your prose isn't too shoddy: flat in places, yes, and cliche-ridden, but these are just things that make me think you need more practice. The lack of a story is such a sin that I'd have given you the loss over Uranium Phoenix, easily, but I hope you stick around.


Venomous, "Ears": First off, The pun draws me up short. Sure, your protagonist might pronounce it that way, but a pun that makes a reader stop to think about it probably isn't worth the cost, especially if you factor in the elbow-to-the-ribs execution. Moving on: you don't have much in the way of flow or coherency here. The beginning is awkward because who doesn't know the Mona Lisa is smiling? Why would Ricky be afraid of art critics? What? Then the amusing art-theft chat to which I was warming slams into a block of backstory with a crime-is-bad moral. Then! Then there's more backstory about Austerlitz, only this doesn't seem to connect to anything; then the narrator suicides because... because he does, and that's it. Nope. The PTSD and self-destruction don't fuse with the art talk and rampant cursing. Not a bit. Ricky ends up irrelevant. I don't know what you were trying to do if not to jam two stories together and make a misbegotten plot-centaur, and I don't know why you would do that. I'd probably rank this one lower than the losing entry too, though the bare hints of an arc put it above Twiggymouse's. The bright points are the narrator's internal descriptions of art and his argument with Ricky about it, which show decent character voice.


Benagain, "Driverless": Your work has some of the same problems as Twiggymouse's. The shorter length is to credit for how much less annoying it is, but I'm still looking at a non-story that leads up to something happening (maybe) and then stops. Naomi comes off more as bitchy than as sympathetic in her aggravation because of her ire being at maximum from the start. How angry she is at little things and how apathetic to larger things suggest a human despair with a lack of control; good job there. I imagine a story about this woman could have drawn me in, if only one had been told.


Metrofreak, "Home Office": You have my interest up through the delivery of the stiff envelope. You start to lose it when the exposition becomes overt. Once I know what's up, James puttering around his house isn't compelling anymore. The words drag on from there. You have too little story covering too much space; even as a character sketch this is repetitive; there's some nuance and certainly believable human behavior, but it is, alas, believably boring. This might be salvaged if you give James something to react to or act around: make something happen beyond his stages of loss.

2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 19, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 31, 38, 39, 42, 46, 48, 49, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 68, 71, 72, 74, 75, 76, 78, 80, 83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 101, 102, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109, 111, 114, 116, 117, 119, 120, 121, 122, 124, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154, 155, 156

Kaishai fucked around with this message at 23:22 on Oct 28, 2017

Sep 14, 2010

I am in if it's not too late and will also get crits in this weekend as well

Apr 12, 2006

That's fine.

Sign ups are now closed, though, for real

Apr 16, 2007


They told me I couldn't be a firefighter or lumberjack among other careers. 'Those are jobs for men', they said. Maybe I was supposed to argue, to fight the good fight like my girlfriends. They love talking about that stuff, gender roles and whatnot. But honestly I didn't care, I just wanted to become a princess. Yeah, I know. That's both cliche and silly. And it perpetrates the stereotypes or whatever. I never actually spoke about it though. I wasn't about to commit social suicide so no harm on keeping it for myself.

It was most definitely an unrealistic career expectation. Maybe I could have become the princess of pop or princess of whatever-the-hell-there-is-to-be-a-princess-of. I could have earned the title. But that's not good enough, no sir. It's not the real thing. Perhaps the only way to achieve it would've been to marry a prince and the odds of must be pretty drat low. First, there aren't that many available princes around. Second, I doubt they'd have a reason to look at your average SoCal girl. Well, it's not that I consider myself average per se but not particularly distinguished either. I like social events, biology and good books. Long walks on the beach. What kind of monster doesn't? Not exactly princess material right there if I'm being realistic.

Why would I want to be a princess you ask? When I was a child my dad used to call me 'his little princess'. Well, technically he still does. It's lovely. He even built me a castle to play in. But that has nothing to do with it, I don't thinkÖ I don't know. Maybe I am just a childish dreamer indeed. Or stupid. I don't really believe that last part but it has to be considered. Who knows? A glamorous life where you get pampered all the time sounds kinda neat. Some might find it boring but not me of course.

In the end that's not the path I took, I mean, obviously. Nobody actually does that. Nursing was my real calling. Yeah... it has no resemblance to princessdom. It's not even like I'm in charge of anything, I'm neither a doctor nor a head nurse. I don't hold some position of authority.

When it comes down to it I just like to help people. Seeing their smile at the end of the days makes it all worth it. Because nursing is a real hassle I have to say. It's demanding tough work and certainly not for the weak stomached. When you have to clean somebody's blood or crap Ė that right there Ė is the real test of character. Many people can't handle it and they end up leaving. I don't get why they'd want to be nurses in the first place but I don't blame them for changing their minds. It's good even, to realize it wasn't the right choice before it is too late. Before wasting several months or years on something they wouldn't have been able to follow through. As I sort of did when fantasizing about my future.

Sometimes I wonder if those smiles on my patients are the reason I wanted to be a ruler of some sort: to be in a position of power where I could help tons of people. Maybe I could have gotten the same rush by working at an animal shelter, or the senate or as a firefighter even. Someplace where I felt I was making a difference. Perhaps my girlfriends were right about that, I could have been a firefighter. The idea is kind of amusing at least. And I would have rocked the hell out of that uniform for sure. I guess the only thing that matters is to do what makes you and the people around happy. At this point I wouldn't change my career for anything.

almost there
Sep 13, 2016

Lickiní Bitches

There is nothing, I tell ya, nothing that beats that feeling when your skates first hit the ice and you slice across it. You know how bitches in the 20s said Ďcut a rugí? Thatís how it felt. Like the ice was just this big, frosty, fuming canvas for me to gently caress up. Ever since the first time my Popsógod bless his soulótook me to the rink, I knew I was hooked. Having a big wooden stick you could just use to knock bitches knee caps out was fuckiní, whatís the word, cathartic. Ya, thatís the one.

At first my Pops would take me to the rink at the community centre only about once a week, but soon Iíd start begging him to take me as soon as he got back from wrangling trout. Heíd smell like fish guts and try to B-line it for the recliner without me noticing. But I noticed alright, I always noticed. Poor soul must have not known how bad he smelt. Iíd corner him and just hee and haw until he couldnít take it no more and you bet your finest loonie he took me once I started moaniní like that.

Soon Iíd get big enough to check bitches into the glass. Once that started to happen Pops would start bringing his buddies down from the fishery over to the rink and theyíd stink up the whole place, getting drunk as skunks, but smelling worse. It didn't take long after that for Pops to forgot all about that recliner of his.

Iíd start to get so good it wasnít so fun no more. I remember a moment, right after a real savage game where I knocked one of the older girls so hard on to the ice she didnít show up for picture day that year, when my Pops was untying my skates for me in the locker room and just stopped in the middle of it, looked up at me with tears of pride in his eyes, and said, ďYouíre what Tim Horton prays to God he doesnít come face to face with on the ice.Ē

Fuckiní eh, right?

Fast forward through my small town high school years and I get accepted to play varsity at the University in Toronto. Candy coated dreams: The Big City. Glitz and glamour and hockey. I packed my bags, said goodbye to my pops and just like that I was on my own.

The Big City.

Toronto smelt like sewage and everybody walked around like they had a cucumber shoved up their rear end. But I didnít care, I was just there to push disc. And push disc I god drat did. Every day, up at 6 pushing disc and lickiní bitches. That being said, donít think me ungrateful when I say that it didnít take long for home sickness to settle in. I found myself detouring through the fish market in Chinatown after practice just to get a whiff of Pops and his buddies. It reminded me of the rink at home. My home arena.

But then I met Elizabeth.

Elizabeth smelt like a woman should, like black grip tape and talc and tulip-y mildew. She was our centre and controlled the rink like a sexy Gretzky on Adderall. And god drat her because she could just tell I wanted her. But she wasnít like those other bitches, she was kind. Sheíd let me untie her skates for her and walk her home. Weíd even hold hands along the way. In Toronto, nobody cared if you did that.

She showed me I wasnít playing hockey for me. She told me I was only playing it for my Pops, but my Pops wasnít there to watch me anymore was he?

After I met Lizzy I quickly started to soften up. Melt, even. I just didnít feel like hitting bitches anymore, ya know? It just started to seemÖbarbaric. Elizabeth became my ice swan and I wouldnít trade her for all the hockey playerís prayers in the world.

Mar 21, 2013

Thank you for the crit :)

Jul 26, 2016

kurona_bright posted:

Thank you for the crit :)

Yeah, thanks Kaishai

Jay W. Friks
Oct 4, 2016

Got Out.

Grimey Drawer

Moonlight Goes Back Home (542 words)

A dragon's roar sounds from the land below. A flash of red and yellow and the crackling of flames continue after the roar.

Moonlight: Itís here.

Moonlight pulls a frayed blanket off her skinny form and throws it into the space between the moon and the earth. It drapes across the empty space forming a staircase from nothing.

Moonlight: I watched them. I waited. And now I can leave this place with my own keepsake before I bring the rest back home.

She picks up a skinny rabbit from a small shuttle beside her in the crater she was sleeping in. She descends the staircase.

Moonlight: Letís go my Toto. Iím so glad they left you here with me. Iím sorry you didnít have much to eat. Iíll find you a nice place to sleep down below.

She lands on the Earth in the midst of the ruins of a bunker. A massive rumble echoes from her landing. She starts overturning rocks and debris with one hand whilst holding the rabbit in her other palm.

Moonlight: My mother told me patience was the greatest tool of spirits. You find such fun things when you wait long enough. Thereís plenty of stories in leftovers. I heard their radios and saw some of their shows when I was close enough to peek. I will grab everything still holding words and songs, and dancesÖ

She pulls a set of ballet shoes from a wreck with her pinky.

Moonlight: This dance looked painful. I remember a young girl breaking her foot in front of me during an eclipse. They put on the show because it seemed good fortune to do so. She didnít think so after they made her stand so still, so long, on such thin toes. Fragility should make you want an easy life Iíd think.

She picks at pieces of pottery and DVDís.

Moonlight: Here it is! The Wizard of Oz! I saw this in a New York blackout. A funny old man put it on with his generator to calm the rioters. It worked for some. But not most. If there was ever anything I wanted to take with me, it was this. Itís a beautiful movie. Innocence, animals, monsters, magic, and the hope of parents that their children will stay with them.

The sun rises. The ocean glows an emerald green as it crests the horizon.

Moonlight: I wish I could take something else but mother will get mad at me. There must be many things left in the water. This ocean is so pretty. No people are left, but it still shines with their passion.

She looks back up at the moon and dismisses it. It floats away into darkness. The sheet unfurls to the earth below.

Moonlight:Well, I got my keepsake from this journey. I will bring the rest of it to my little sister. She deserves a better home to watch the lands below from.

Moonlight digs a small hole for her rabbit. She grabs the sheet and wraps it around a mountain. She floats away, pulling the Earth away from the sun.

my cat is norris
Mar 11, 2010


Yo I worked kind of a lovely exhausting job for awhile but I'm freeeeeeeeeeee so I'll see you for the next prompt.

Nov 15, 2012

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

Sally (Catharsis)
479 words

Donít take this personal doc, but Iím done with fairy tales. Alright? There was a time when I believed in that whole Power of Positivity thing, but now I see thatís an idea happy people sell to the dumb and desperate. Might as well tell me how the night is always darkest before dawn. And maybe thatís true for you, because youíre normal. People donít look at you and see a gross tub of lard. When youíre like me, itís always dark, never dawn. When youíre like me, every day is a new chance to get hurt. Some passing comment, or some unbelieving stare, or somebody online telling you to kill yourself because how dare you be on a dating site looking like this.

They say the first cut is the deepest, but thatís bullshit too. Not if the second cut hits you in the same spot, and the third, and the fourth. Eventually it gets there, you know? Thatís how all this hosed-up-- this world never cared for me. Never. And gently caress all this poo poo about how, oh, you gotta love yourself before other people do it for you. You spend twenty-eight years of your life being nothing but trash, your parents think youíre a nuisance, your teachers think youíre a moron, your friends think youíre a joke, and now every single man that looks at me sees this: Fat Sally. Thatís all they see. You try put a picture of your positive spirit on Tinder, tell me how that works out for you.

So you want to know why I keep eating? Because it makes me feel good. Because itís the only thing that makes me feel good. Because what happens if I stop? Iím still a fat piece of poo poo. Thatís still what everyone sees. Iím still a hundred-fifty pounds overweight. I still get exhausted tying my own shoelaces. Iíll be like that for years, no matter what I do. Trapped. Like this. And all that time Iíll still be Fat Sally, and thatís all people will see, only now when I come home Iíve got broccoli waiting for me. Look me in the eye. Look me in the eye and tell me thatíll be a thing I can pull off. Because I know myself, and I know I canít lie myself into thinking that everythingís hunky-dory when thereís nothing left to hold on to. No matter how much you try to peddle this poo poo to me.

Look. Doc. Iím sorry. I know on some level youíre really trying. But thatís just what it is. No man wants me. No one. And it feelsÖ it feels bad. And if weíre being honest, cake is the only thing that makes me feel good ever once in a while. And I canít give that up.

So you tell me what to do.

Seriously, please.


Please tell me.

Mar 21, 2010

700 words

Look nah, look Ė youíve got it backwards.

So this pommy oval office comes in, and I asked him if heís got a durry, and heís like ďif you suck my cockĒ and Iíd never wanted a smoke so much in my life but I like to think Iím not that far gone. I know the house is a shambles but I try to have my poo poo in order. I did not suck that pommy cock.

I mean I almost did. I was on the fence there for a wee bit, but then his wee boy comes in and heís wearing different-coloured socks. Heís maybe ten, and his face is the wrong kinda dirty Ė not like heís been playing outside, but like he hasnít seen a shower in months.

Kid has probably seen enough without having to watch his dad get a blowie from some rando in a squat.

Hehe, squat.

Funny word that. When you canít afford to live in a real house, you squat Ė youíre not quite on your knees, but close enough. Itís easier to go down on your knees, you know Ė just fuckin let the world whatever. Now holding a squat, that takes real courage. Kia kaha, motherfucker; banzai, Zapata, a billion dead proles canít be wrong.

So I said ďoi gently caress offĒ then I felt a bit bad because of the kid. Ďdad shakes his head and pulls out a ciggie; lights it, takes a drag, just kinda looks me up and down like men do. Thereís a redness around his eyes, and his fingernails look like heís been rooting through pigshit. Whatís a bloke with a bloody kid doing in a place like this?

Looking for trouble, thatís what.

Thereís a lot of people live in the squat, alright? Iím not expected to keep track of everybody and/or what theyíre selling. So the pom leers at me for a while, then he grabs the kid by the arm and drags him off into one of the other rooms. Ďcomes out about twenty minutes later with a poo poo-eating grin and a gun. Never seen one like it outside of movies: little silvery revolver with a short uh, barrel thing. He looks at me, then he kneels down and presses it into the kidís hands.

ďYou wanna be a big boy?Ē he says, and Iím starting to get worried. Kid shakes his head, looks at his feet.

ďShoot that fuckin whore,Ē he says, and lifts the kidís hands up. Poor kidís in tears, and Iím frozen in place. Trigger goes click, barrel rotates, and everythingís going reeeeal slow while my brain tries to shove my whole life before my eyes, which I do not wanna see.

Click, empty. Crazy oval officeís laughing now, waving the gun around. Kidís on the floor crying while his old man tells him to stop being such a girl. The gun was empty the gun was empty heís saying. Youíll never be a man if youíre scared of a little boom.

It was a little boom. Movies teach you itís a big explosion, but it was almost a soft little click. Kid kinda weaves back and forth a bit, then falls over. Thereís no blood, and they donít show you that in movies either. A little hole in a dark shirt (was it white, once? Hard to tell, but it was getting darker) and he falls onto his face like heís a puppet and his dad cut the strings. Turns out, clothing can soak a fair amount of blood before it starts going everywhere, and kids ainít got all that much blood in Ďem.

Pop, flop, game over.

They donít show the smell either. Itís rank-yet-woody. It burns, but soothes. Thereís nothing else smells like gunsmoke.

Dadís holding the gun, eyes wide, then he drops it and does the nugget: just fuckin hoofs it outta there superhero fast, not even looking back. Didnít have a phone to call the ambulance even if I wanted to, but it was obvious the kid was dead -- right in the head, point blank.

So I sat in the same old place, and waited for the sound of sirens.

Sep 14, 2007

Like most things, I am nothing

No War But Lass War
381 words

You will kill me, I know that. Your officer will tell you to put me in a ditch and shoot me in the back of the neck. You will ask me for information, but you will get none. You would kill me either way. We are familiar with such methods, you know. You did not invent them.

Am I making you nervous? Is it because I know your language? Is it because I am a woman? You should be nervous. You have killed many of our men. Millions. But you have forgotten about the women.

You fascists never learn. You thought we could be cowed by cruelty. You thought if you burned enough villages, killed enough people, we would stop fighting. Your leaders are not paying attention. Did you hear what happened up near Minsk? Your officers left four soldiers guarding a village of women and children. You thought them harmless. When the rest of the soldiers returned the next day, they found the village burned to the ground and a trunk in the middle of the road. Inside it were the heads of your four soldiers. We are no strangers to cruelty.

You Germans believe you are more intelligent than everyone else, but you do not know everything. You will learn that we Soviets know a little bit more about winter than you. Our cities are built for it. So are our people. So are our tanks. Are yours? Your uniform looks nice. Does it keep you warm at night? I thought not.

Do you actually believe this Herrenvolk nonsense? That you Germans are a part of some sort of ďmaster raceĒ? What an extraordinarily foolish idea. Well, we have ideas of our own, and perhaps you did not account for that. When you looked east, you saw a nation of 80 millionómen. Because in Germany, your women do not fight. You fools. In the Soviet Union, we believe in equality. Marx argued for all people to work, and to be paid. He did not mean just the men. Lenin himself fought for the emancipation of women. Our women work in the factories. They work for the Party. They wear the Soviet uniform.

Soon enough, you will know the result. Bullets fired by women kill Germans just the same.

Dec 8, 2016

First Entry

Word Count: 687

(A woman stands in front of a door, holding a key. She raises the key to the door, then stops, and turns to face the audience.)

ďHow was your day?Ē I know my husband will ask when I get home, for he always shows me that simple kindness. I love him and have loved him and will continue to love him because I know that this is no empty gesture on his part. My problem, on this day, and itís not the first time itís happened, is that I have no idea how to answer. Can I tell him that my path to work was momentarily blocked by two men who declared me a Goddess? Heíd most likely be amused, or tell me how he agrees in a misguided attempt to put a smile on my face. Just as heíd be likely to darken his gaze and clench his fists as I tell him how those compliments turned to epithets when I refused to slow my pace or turn my eyes.

None of those reactions are useful, they arenít what I want or need. So do I smile, tell him ďsame old, same old,Ē and let him live in blissful ignorance? Do I keep my mouth shut, as I have so many times before?

I stay silent because itís normal.

Itís not that I donít think heíd sympathize, or that I believe heíd fail to offer welcome comfort. Itís that I know he wouldnít understand. He wouldnít understand why the girl who works for me, just turned seventeen, had to hide out of sight while I called the police. All this to thwart a man, twenty years her senior, who refused to leave of his own accord, because he didnít understand just how charming he was not. No, my husband would not understand this, and he certainly wouldnít understand why that girlís fear turned to laughter and pity as calm reasserted itself upon the day.

But I understand, because at sixteen, that girl was me. Locked in a walk-in chiller inside a German deli, shivering and starting to see the humor where there was none to be found. He wouldnít understand that I still laugh at the memory.

I laugh because itís normal.

So should I speak? Should I shout and rave and declare that the world should not loving be this way? Should I declare that I am tired of the unsought attention and the undesired advances and the undeserved abuse? I donít even know if I can make my husband, whose idea of normality is completely removed from mine, see what Iím really trying to say. Even he, in his oafish attempts at solicitude, has moments where he, all unwitting, perpetuates this status quo.

If I really let myself focus on all of these things running through my mind, I start feeling the tears well up. Frustration flooding me, looking for an outlet. But if I let it out, there it is, yet another hysterical stereotype. Iíve grown used to it, so I clench my teeth and hold it in.

I donít cry because itís normal.

I know Iím not alone in this, I know Iím not a single voice crying into the void, and I donít want anything special. I want two couples who I count among my dearest friends, one black with a daughter and the other white with a son, to know their children will have the exact same opportunities. I love the fact that they talk to each other and those children as if they are family, due the same respect no matter how different they are. I want everyone to raise their kids the way my friends do. Those two children are brother and sister, in every way but blood, and all their differences will mean nothing in the face of that shared bond.

Is it too much to ask for that to be normal?

(The woman turns back to the door, opening it and stepping through. From off-stage, a male voice calls ďhow was your day?Ē The woman turn to the audience again, and gives them a sad smile.)

Dec 8, 2016

Second Entry

Little Heart Attacks
Word count: 611

You know how people say that things can be as serious as a heart attack? Well, let me tell you, my heart attack left me in stitches. Actual, literal stitches, because they had to operate. You remember, of course.

Also, I thought it was funny as hell.

First offÖ I didnít realize what was going on straight away, honestly. I just thought I was constipated and overdoing it. Iím not as young as I used to be and the olí digestion isnít as reliable as it once was, so this is not new. Anyway, as it turns out, what I initially thought was a pain in my rear end became a pain in my chest, then it became a pain in my rear end all over again because I fell off my throne before I could get myself decent.

You heard the noise, barged in, and called the ambulance, I remember that, son.

I donít know if you knew, but I never actually lost consciousness. I was in so much pain I couldnít make a noise, but I was awake, and I remember you fixing my clothes for me. It was sweet, kiddo, but the look on your face! It was a picture, if I hadnít already succumbed to a cardiac event, seeing how awkward you were at seeing your old momma with her pants around her ankles might have made me laugh myself into one.

Plus, you spoiled things for me doing it, too. I suppose itís sweet that you defended my modesty and all, but one of those paramedics was a real cutie, I remember that! Iíd have jumped on his face and shouted giddy-up cowboy given half a chance.

Maybe I should see if he still works here when my visiting time is done.

Remind me to tell you all of this again when you wake up, son. Letís be honest, what goodís a mom who doesnít mortify and embarrass her kid given half a chance?

Oh, and that was the other thing! Speaking of mortification, remember how your grandma always used to say that you should always wear clean underwear in case you ever have to go to hospital? Well, I hate to tell you, son, butÖ yeah, about that....

Now donít you worry, your mom isnít some slob who wanders around in dirty underwear all the time butÖ look, it was the morning, okay? I hadnít showered yet, I wasnít going to put on the clean stuff until after, I was still wearing what I slept in.

On second thoughts, you might have done me a favor with the paramedic. Canít wear dirty underwear on a first date, thatís just gross.

Anyway, son, the point Iím making here isÖ somewhere in there, I thought, just for a minute, that I was going to die. But here I am, years later, still kicking, and able to look back on that day and see the funny side. And somewhere inside that coma listening to this, you might be thinking the same thing that I was during the worst of it.


Listen to your mother now, Iím still older and wiser and always will be, and if I catch you thinking about not waking up, wellÖ you are not too big for me to take you over my knee, you hear me?

So, take your time if you need to, but at some point, you ARE going to wake up. When that happens, I will be here, and I will find a way to make you laugh. Lifeís always a little more worth living when you can laugh about it.

Goodnight, my sweet boy.

Iíll see you in the morning.

Apr 30, 2006


sparksbloom fucked around with this message at 03:33 on Nov 27, 2017

Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!

How to Steal a Car (...and Why)

700 words

Well, it really is my car. A dealís a deal. The moral arc of the universe bends towards me becoming the owner of Rex Wallace IIIís beautiful silver 2016 Jaguar F-type R Coupe, soon after it passes into the unworthy hands of Rex IV. Only, it turns out that stealing a car is insanely difficult.

Donít get me wrong, Lise. Any fool with a little know-how can jimmy a car door, and if the carís old enough, hot-wire it into starting and go for a little ride. For anything made this century, you really do need the key, so you have to either force the driver out after theyíre in there, which isnít my style, or else lift the keys out of someoneís pockets, which is. Most of the time the keys will even helpfully show you exactly where the car is parked. But thatís just borrowing it for a few hours. So maybe you know a guy, can take it to some warehouse in the part of town where everything smells like smokestacks and slaughterhouses and someone pays you pennies on the dollar and itís broken down for parts or shipped off to Albania. But thatís not stealing a car.

Look at it like this: letís say that instead of a sports car it was a rare baseball card that old Rex had promised would go to whichever of us - bio-son Rex Quads and goddaughter-turned-ward Vikky Thackeray - managed to end our senior yearís first semester with the higher GPA. Like, a really expensive baseball card, a signed Ty Cobb rookie card or something like that. What does it mean to steal that card? Well, it means that neither Rex winds up having it, which, sure, the chop shop method would cover, but it also means that the thief would have it, fully theirs to take out and look at and lovingly wax and tool out on the highway. And if they did, as would be completely natural with a baseball card with that kind of performance ratings, happen to exceed the posted speed limit by a few dozen miles per hour, theyíd only be stuck with the speeding fine. There wouldnít be any licensing or registration or baseball card identification number that would tell the friendly officer that this was a stolen piece of cardboard and make him far less friendly.

Neither one of us had been much of a scholar. We each had our distractions, him with fast girls and bad cars, which heíd fix and flip for a profit, and me with fast cars and bad boys, which Iíd drop as-is and flip the bird. But we both knuckled down. And I beat him fair and square. Got accused of cheating a few times, but since it was bull it didnít stick, and got accused of Ďhiding my light under a bushelí by more than one condescending prick teacher. But when the grades were posted, I had a solid 3.3 up against his 3.1.

But Triple-sticks tells me heís going to give Quads the car anyway. Says instead heíll pay for college. ĎOne of the state schools of course. Not one of the Ivies.í Says once I hit eighteen his obligations are done. And then he twists the knife. ĎYou know, the only reason I agreed to be a godparent was to get closer to your mother. And it worked. Oh, donít worry. Thereís no chance weíre related. It wasnít until well after you and your sister were born that-í

The next four words were, well, exactly the ones youíd expect. And the only reason I didnít slap his smug face was that I knew he wanted me to. That heíd have been more than happy to send me off to juvie or some home for violently insane young women. That even though he could make something up and do just that anyway, he thought himself above that. But if it were true...

So thatís when I decided to steal that car, and if I can, in a way that he wonít even collect the insurance. And I have about five months to figure out how. So can you help your sister out?

Apr 30, 2006


sparksbloom fucked around with this message at 03:33 on Nov 27, 2017

Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!

The Seventh Portrait

449 Words

Along the living room mantle, above
The old bricked-up fireplace hang six years of
Family portraits, Me and Frank and Buddy
And Jenny, of course Jenny in each one.
My eyes avoid them, drawn past every year
Drawn right, to where the seventh would have been.
We always took them just before the start
Of each school year. Nobody made the choice
To not pose without her for one this year.

But it happened without words, like so much
Has in this life suspended for so long.
No one decided to preserve her room
Just as it was before she disappeared.
(A lie, of course, it was ransacked and searched
and then restored anew three times or more.)

Strangers and friends alike will try to raise
My spirits with those words: ďYou still have hope.Ē
Theyíre right. We still have hope. And hope is cruel.
Hope leads you to a new heartbreak with each
Knock on the door or unknown number call
And into thoughts of things distant to come:
A phone call from some city in ten years,
A tired stranger with her name and voice
with years of dire survival on the streets
imploring help and pardons through the tears.
Or the same story with a different end,
Some dutiful policeman on that phone
Who followed trails of breadcrumbs back to here
To put a name and family to ĎJane Doe.í
A million more scenarios unfold
Until I wish for any end to come,
Then curse myself for what I briefly wished.

My husband and I do not share a bed.
In two more years, when Buddyís college-bound
We likely will no longer share a house.
Itís my own fault, of course. Some months before
Our lifeís load-bearing block was snatched away
And the whole tower tumbled down, I slipped.
Took up with some fair man who filled a void
I never knew gaped in me Ďtil we met,
Now gone across the ocean. And Frank knows,
But doesnít know, for sure, officially.
He wonít hear confession, wonít talk it out,
Alone or with a counselor to help.
He lives in hope. No, next-door, in denial.
I live in hope. And hope has wicked fangs
With barbs to tear and venom-stings to give.
I see her, in piece-meal, all of the time:
A classmate with her hair, seen from behind;
The brand of bag she carried on a chair;
Her eyes on some mad woman in the park.

I watch the archived news of families
Of children who were found after long years
Abducted by some micro-cult or fiend.
They say ĎI never gave up hope.í I know
They really mean ĎHope never let me go.í

Dec 15, 2006

Come fight terrifying creatures in the THUNDERDOME!

curlingiron fucked around with this message at 04:49 on Dec 29, 2017

Feb 25, 2014


429 words

Pretentious Bullshit


flerp fucked around with this message at 05:28 on Mar 14, 2017

Jan 23, 2004

college kids ain't shit

Fun Shoe

Aaaaaaand, it's gone!

Chili fucked around with this message at 11:38 on Jan 2, 2018

Dec 27, 2013


Us Women
521 words

You know, at my first annual review with my boss, I only received satisfactory marks. I remember leaving that meeting absolutely devastated. He said, ďNancy, health care is a manís game. If you want to play, youíre going to have to hold your own.Ē Of course, I threatened to report his sexual discrimination to HR, and, well wouldnít you know it, I received outstanding marks on my next annual review.

But, going through your review now, you can see Iíve graded you as outstanding on practically every aspect of your job. Attendance, thoroughness, accuracy, youíve done just a Ė well, an outstanding job. Ha!

Youíll notice that for leadership, though, Iíve only given you an above satisfactory. This is a very important quality, and, like I said before, youíre going to have to hold your own. Right now, I get the impression that youíre just too dainty to be in a senior position. You know, this isnít the 50ís anymore, us women have to be strong, we have to look out for each other, and thatís why Iím telling you this now. Youíre going to have to man up if youíre ever going to be a leader in this department. Right now, all of the account holders would just walk right over you. You see?

So even though I canít give you a promotion, I can try to get you a raise. I understand the wage gap more than anyone, and Iím a progressive person - a forward thinker - and I want to be part of the solution. So Iíll make your case to our HR department, let them know youíre an up-and-coming woman of color, and see what theyíll do for you. Not that it should make a difference, but you and I both know, mentioning it never hurts. Now as far as what you do with that money, obviously itís your decision, but you just got married, right? Well, husbands are bad news, let me tell you. They tell you they love you and next thing you know theyíre asking to start a joint bank account and move in! Well, from one woman to another, go ahead and have a joint bank account, let him know youíre happy to share your hard-earned money, but make sure you have a secret one just for yourself. Every smart woman has one. I call mine my Mad Money Account. Ha! I keep enough in there just to make sure that if I ever want to fly away to Cuba, I can.

Of course, I wouldnít actually do that. Iím happily married. My husband and I have been together for twenty years now. But, like I said, every smart woman has one.

Anyway, weíll talk about promoting you to senior at your next annual review, but for now Iíll fight my hardest against those pricks in the HR department. I think I might be able to get you something nice. How does 2% sound? Itíll be just great.

Like I said, us women, we have to look out for each other. Now do you mind being a dear and shutting the door on your way out?

Mar 17, 2009


Sam vents (535 words)

Youíre an rear end in a top hat, did you know that, Kyo?

Donít hide behind this soft rear end Ďhey Sammy, you sure youíre ok?í crap. Say it to my face. Tell me I donít want to loving be here. Youíve got your parasite crap, Melís got god whispering in her ear to fight evil, Danís not a person anymore, and donít start me on Vam. But hereís me, poor Samantha, no sob story, no compulsion to join this merry little band. Sheís normal, sheís fine, she shouldnít be here.

Is that what you think?

gently caress you, Kyo. What is it that you think I even do? Do you think Iím running around with a loving magic makeup kit? That Iím some kind of scummy conman thatís in over her head? Or maybe you think Iím one of those capes that makes pretty illusions: smoke and mirrors, holograms maybe. Do you think Iíve tricked my way into the hero business? Is that what you think Iíve done?

Iím not some two bit magician. I donít make pretty pictures. I reach into your brain and dig around and find the memories I want and staple them together until it makes you think what I want you to think. I donít even do the legwork, I just want something, and everyone around me reaches into the deepest filing cabinet for all the scents and sensations to make it real. Iím two steps away from straight up controlling your reality. And you know what? I donít always know whatís real, and I can never turn it off.

I donít even know when it started. I donít know if I ever didnít do it, maybe I was born like this. Did you know my mom died? I didnít. I didnít want to know, so all those memories, all those experiences, they just kind of filtered out when it happened. I covered it up, and everyone around me was complicit. Because I made them.

You think Iím the normal one, Kyo? Youíre half demon, Melís some kind of chosen one, Danís a family of space worms, Vamís an alien, and Iím still the worst monster on the team.

And if I wanted to, I could walk away whenever I wanted. You would never know. Youíd forget. You wouldnít miss me, you wouldnít hate me, itíd be like you never even met me. I donít have to be here. I donít even have to exist. I am a seamless patch to the world, and if I want, I can leave a seamless hole.

I choose to be on the team. I choose to be your friend. I try not to lie, I try to stay out of your guysí heads. I know Iím batting a hundred on that, but I loving try.

So if you donít want me here, just tell me. Because I want to be part of this. I want to be your friend. I want to be here and now.

If you think youíre better off without me, or if you or anyone else thinks I should leave it to the real heroes, tell it to my face, or shut up and stop trying to protect me. Cause I donít loving need it.

Jan 23, 2004

college kids ain't shit

Fun Shoe

Aaaaaaand, it's gone!

Chili fucked around with this message at 11:39 on Jan 2, 2018

Uranium Phoenix
Jun 20, 2007


Entry One
Who Holds the Walls of Byzantium?
383 words

Empress: The court is dismissed.
[Exit Court]

Empress: Oh, but I tire of their schemes!

The court chatters away like gossiping husbands! Vacuous, hollow as their ambition. All the aristocrats, from the patrikias and magistrissa to the lowest kephaleóthey are too busy clawing up, crawling up the stairs of power to have vision. They peer so intently at the next step, that they cannot cast their eyes beyond the daggers they plan to bloody. They have not gazed from the ramparts. They have not seen as far as I.

Would that I could unearth all their petty secrets and plots. They are sinners who defy my divine right. They would cast down God for twenty-nine silver less than Judas and spit in Her eye if they thought it would gain them a copper coin more. But, I fear if I dug up the roots of hell, I might topple the spires of heaven. For it is stability that strengthens the empire, and doubt that cuts at its foundations. So I must leave them to their games, and smile as I lift my poisoned chalice.

And I must acquiesce to their demands, and make Ionnes strategos of the south. A male general. A male general! Shall the court abandon the other gains of civilization? Perhaps we should embrace stone tools and cannibalism as well, or ask our barbarian neighbors for high culture! Men are fair on the eyes, their shapely figures fit for depiction with marble statues and oil on canvas. They are not fit to command, any more than they are inclined to figures or reading! History has proven that well enough. It was not merely the Fool Paris that damned Troy with lust, but the man-kings of Greece who then followed with equal blindness, so insecure in their honor they could only prove it with sword and fire. No, they are irrational, beastly things. I pity the soldiers that must follow that male. But I must grant the court their symbol, their token.

The empire will endure, not from force of arms, but from the alliances I have forged, through the pride of its citizens in their Sovereign, from the great works that I have commanded. They shall remember in time that it is I that keep the walls of Byzantium.

Nov 13, 2012

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

The Truth in Our Stars
517 words

ďCome home,Ē the first message says. Of course it's you. I know the code that comes through clear, if staccato, in the pulsar's pirouette, bathing my ship in hyper-focused neutrons. Morse. You thought it 'elegant', once; now, though, who knows what you think?

I see that message a lot. It's so very you. Straight to the point, as dramatically as possible. But you diluted the effect. You tried making the signal stronger. Longer. Different pulsars. Everything. I'm not impressed. You only get to break physics once, dear: after that, you're just showboating. Besides, others made it out.

Beneath me, the engines tick-tick-roar as they come up to charge. I wrench down the lever and I get the hell out of there. I'm still ahead of the chase. The Conduit beckons. One more jump, and you can keep this drat galaxy. I told you what I thought about your mind upload bullshit then, and if you catch up with your drones I've got one final nuke for my last word. You were always a lover of codes and patterns: interpret that.

I drop into the final system before the Conduit, right into your waiting message. ďCome home,Ē the pulsar burbles, like you didn't break down ours for parts. I wish I was insignificant to you, like everyone else was. My only home lies beyond the Conduit: there, with the other survivors, I can finally build a life free of you.

I sit there, floating in space beneath a pulsar's pleading, and wonder what that will be like. No more running. Just an entire galaxy without you in it. It sounds like paradise, but first I have to pass through the eye of a needle. I pull the jump one last time, and I leave you for dust. Right?

The Conduit system revolves before my screen, and you've beaten me there. The portal is ringed in your ships, slaved to your will, defying relativity in your reach. I realise, as you planned, that there were no survivors. Are you happy now? If there's one human thing left in the silicon you call a mind, it'll be that smug grin. I can see it now, curling, sneering. How will you mock me in your new world, with no face?

ďCome home,Ē says the pulsar, then it twists, changes, and the Morse shifts. I peer at the growing screed of words on my terminal. Your empathy circuits must be doing overtime. Reminiscing. Apologising. Cajoling. Each one ends, a coda, with ďcome home.Ē

My eyes drift over the field of stars, seeking out our point of origin. But it is gone. Our whole cluster, blotted from the sky. Guess you completed the Dyson spheres you were so excited about.

I point my ship straight at the Conduit. Your ships swirl in a formation too complex for my eyes to follow. I prime the nuke, set the timer, and push the engines to max. I flip open the microphone, and I laugh. Go to hell! My parents never liked you, you know. They always said you'd amount to nothing. Beep bee-eep beep, motherfucker.

Uranium Phoenix
Jun 20, 2007


Entry Two
303 words

The stupidest species in the world? Plecia nearctica. Lovebugs. Theyóno, gently caress you I havenít had too much to drink, gently caress off! So lovebugs, theyíre loving idiots. Seriously, baffling. You ever seen Ďem fly around? They donít fly. They waddle through the air. Like theyíre constipated. Like theyógently caress off, she asked me about stupid species and I have to study the drat things so I should know. Iím cut off? Youíre loving cut off!

Anyways, these fuckers, maybe you know Ďem as March bugs, they waddle through the loving air and just crash into poo poo. Ever seen it? This fat little bug, red dot, slow as hell, just doot-doot-dooting around and itíll just run into you! Like my grandma when she hit pops, car was going two loving miles per hour but she just couldnít stop it until bam! Knocked him over, shattered hip. Dumb as hell, I tell you. These little buggers, they should be extinct theyíre so dumb. But they ainít. Thereís so many of Ďem theyíre a public nuisance, they can swarm big enough to clog the radiators of cars and cause accidents. Like how this guy right here accidentally made my drinks with half the vodka he should have. Yeah, you think I didnít notice?

And the mating. Know how lovebugs have sex? They have to look away from each other. Asses touching, eyes in opposite directions. Ainít that loving a metaphor for something. So thereís the stupidest species, right there. Theyíre called lovebugs, but donít know a drat thing about love, either. Just big bumbling idiots that gently caress up peopleís cars, canít see eye-to-eye on anything, just too stupid to live. Wouldnít know love if they ran head first into it, and god knows they run into everything.

But they just keep going. They just keep going.


Oct 10, 2007

Can you see that I am serious?

Fun Shoe

Death and the dog 345 words

Welcome to the free vet clinic. Iím the person who will be putting your dog down. Oh Iím sorry, you donít think itís that serious? You want a second opinion? Hereís a second opinion, you shouldnít have been allowed to get a dog.

Shut up and let me tell you how you got here. Your dog is an Australian Shepard, which means you went to a puppy mill and picked out the one with the bluest eyes. You didnít do any research or preparation whatsoever because itís a dog right? How hard can it be. You wanted a fluffy bundle of love that would stare at you with those eyes and wiggle around with its cute little fur pattern and be your best friend only when you wanted to pay attention to it and not a second longer.

You wrote off the first time it destroyed the house while you were away at work because itís a puppy, but by the fifteenth time you started to get annoyed. You put it in a crate without properly training or acclimating it so it got stressed and started getting sick, and now here you are, having managed to pay about 1500 dollars to buy her but somehow unable to afford spaying or vaccinations.

Youíre here because you never thought about a goddamn thing past your own happiness and now youíre trying to make yourself feel better by dropping it off at the free clinic. You tell yourself youíre coming back for it but after day two of a house where nothingís destroyed youíll say that sheís probably better off with us, and weíll find a loving home for her. You wonít think about how hard it is to adopt out a dog with a sickness that people know destroys homes. Youíll move on, and sheíll be dead, and the only reason sheís dead is because you loving killed her.

Go home, sink into your couch, and turn on your TV. If you need to pet something get a stuffed animal. I hope I don't see you again. For the next dog's sake.

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