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Mar 21, 2010

Tanz! posted:

I thought I would still have time to sign up.

So I am

This sucks and you suck

which is entirely in the spirit of this week. Welcome aboard.


Sep 14, 2007

to ride eternal, shiny and chrome


Jay W. Friks posted:

I'm seeing white creamy stuff and I don't know to make of it.


Feb 18, 2014

Super On-Time Judge Crits: Week 282, Part 2

“Distance” by flerp
First impression: Stiff and dull and nothing happens. I’m not feeling the whimsy in “what if we just KEPT SWIMMING” at all. Potential loss or DM
Reread: This is one of the most nothingburger stories I’ve ever read on Thunderdome.* Neither character is interesting; the guy’s a whiner and the girl’s a manic pixie. What really gets to me is how you have the girl express whimsy. “I think there’d be something out there, you know. Something no one’s ever seen before,” she says, but that’s a particularly stupid variety of magical thinking. Does she think she’s going to swim to Narnia if she tries hard enough? I think I’m the only reader whose suspension of disbelief was broken in this particular way, but the fact that this story ends up being inconsequential farting around, two people going “c’moooooon” at each other, means that nobody disagreed with giving this the loss.

*I have only read a tiny fraction of stories on the archive.

“From Below” by Benny Profane
First impression: First sentence seems surprisingly not-poo poo. Good sense of place and atmosphere. I had to look up what that spoiler-tagged flash rule meant. Win/HM candidate.
Reread: This had the best worldbuilding out of the whole week by a pretty wide margin. Problem is, it reads a lot like the setup for something bigger and better. The Mongoose’s story itself isn’t that great, but when paired with Asa’s thoughts and perspective and what we learn of the world around them all, it becomes something more than the sum of its parts. This story works well as a vignette, but I wouldn’t mind some more of it.

“Beautiful and Terrible As The Dawn” by Thranguy
First impression: Is this like that Netflix movie with the seven sisters? What the gently caress is this world? What the gently caress are these character names? This is borderline bizarro fiction; I get the gist of it and I like the vibe, but I don’t think it functions that well as a story. I’m also confused about the nature of the main character(s). Will they become just one individual or nine separate ones?
Reread: I mean, there’s some interesting ideas in here. I wouldn’t mind reading a flashfic about either a voluntary hivemind like Arsenic Scorpio, or about an advancement that gives anybody the ability to make a nuclear weapon. Those are both interesting premises. When you combine both at once, though, the story loses its focus and it just comes across like you’re throwing poo poo at the wall.

““Waste”” by The Saddest Rhino
First impression: This is hilarious, and not in a good way. Maybe this was intentionally a dumb, tasteless joke, but this reads like you’re trying to lose on purpose. Who am I to deny you that goal?
Reread: Unlike the other judges, I was not tricked into thinking this was a real entry. I smelled some kind of stupid bullshit coming my way almost immediately. Unlike the other judges, I was not privy to whatever the gently caress inside joke you’re referencing here, and I don’t care enough to find out. I wanted to give you the loss at first because this story aggressively wasted my time, but once I knew that was your goal I was willing to settle for a DM, plus flerp’s story was almost as much of a waste by accident. Unless you’re in a prompt where you’re racing to the bottom like Week 295, it takes much more effort to bomb entertainingly, on purpose, than it does to make a good story. Remember this.

“Floodplain” by Sham bam bamina!
First impression: So this is a story about a guy who fucks up, and none of the gestures he does in response can lessen the fact that he hosed up big time, and he just has to live with it. You tease a moment of redemption only to have it slam in his face and cost him even more dearly. I kind of like that, but I think your story’s pretty dry, which does a lot to hold it back.
Reread: Now this guy comes off as a self-pitying whiner, so that’s another strike against it. Mostly it’s just boring, though.

“In Veritas” by sebmojo
First impression: Stupid dragon name. You appear to be trying to hold to a kind of storybook for little kids quality but you shatter it as soon as you have the kid use swear words. Irritating and a waste of time.
Reread: Take note of this passage here:


“You don’t understand, you loving lizard. I don’t want an apprenticeship, I don’t want to do your bullshit merchant nonsense.”
This is the part where you annihilate the tone that your story had held up until now. If it’s meant to be funny, it’s a weak joke, and I can’t think of another reason that you’d do it on purpose. That’s why this story irritates me so, and I was surprised that my co-judges didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s a bad move and you should feel bad.

May 31, 2007

Writing is fun!
Thunderdome is Eternal
744 words

He was the God-Emperor of passion and the end of the universe was waiting on him. Other God-Emperors had made their choice, but not him. He sat there, unflinching and uncaring, as the unicorns spun, their dazzling black and white manes floating in the fiery ashes of Mars. They dazzled, they neighed their loudest as their whole race’s existence depended on it. Sweat glistened off of their finely honed calves and their dance finished. The God-Emperor blinked slowly, and with a thumbs-down condemned their race.

He was the God-Emperor of passion, Mojo was in his name, but nothing could light his fire.

The end of the universe didn’t end with a bang, but with bureaucratic nonsense. Every God-Emperor had a choice; continued existence in the next cycle or a heir. He looked out at the races assembled, each one hoping to be his heir.

A false god, picked by mistake due to his name, for Mojo was in his name.

The choice waved heavily on his mind. He knew passion, and the pursuit thereof, well, but well enough to continue the idea of passion in the next cycle? He leaned his face on his hand, ran a hand through golden-inlaid garments and remembered a simpler time. He remembered a time when his loins didn’t have the fire of a thousand suns, when a single stare from him didn’t inspire thousand, when he wasn’t a god-emperor. He remembered a time when he held power. He remembered when he, a mere mortal, was a merciful mod.

He remembered a simpler time, a time where he had no Mojo, when he was simply Sebastian.

The next creation walked down the assemblage to a chorus of snickers and laughter. Bound in a sleek black leather cover and wearing gold accessories, it looked to please. It walked down at the center of the dais and spread for him. Pages flipped by as it thumbed herself to its favourite spot, page 5, 3rd paragraph.

The book lay there offering lascivious, literature, libations. A cool gust of wind flipped to page 6, and the prose crescendoed to a promise of a satisfying climax. For the first time in 300 years, the God-Emperor felt an ember of fire in his heart.

He walked towards the book, remembering past stories he had created. He remembered what passion could spawn from tales, of the passion it took to create a tale. Before he knew it the God-Emperor was caressing the book, delicately placing a finger down its spine and teasing it by roughly turning the pages.

He didn’t know when reading turned into thrusting, but somewhere in between page 7 and page 15 it had. THIS was to be his legacy, his heir, THIS WAS TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT CYCLE!

A sound erected out of the God-Emperor of Passion, the sound of 300 years of blue-balls being emptied, a sound of complete satisfaction. The book received his holy blessing as the universe rumbled and reality started to crack. Unicorns clutched themselves, weeping as the end came, the Glygarxs stood stoically until the end and the book, politely bowed to the God-Emperor. The universe shattered, nothingness consumed all and then… Poof - nothing more.

Finishing the last of her tale, Rosa Flores took a page out of her body and carefully placed it into her daughters binding. The story had been transcribed, the pages had been woven, and her daughter was ready.

“The thing I don’t get,” Ock said turning to her mother, “Is why he called us Thunderdome?”

“It was the last gift he gave us, the name of our race.” Rosa said as she looked out at the expanding universe. It was a young thing, the universe, but life was already blooming.

“It is time child, for you to fly out. To do our duty. To fly among the universe”

Ock stood up, and stretched out her binding, her pages rustling in the breeze, and recited the great prayer.

“To accept all, yet judge all.”

“To encourage, to condemn,” Her mother said. She looked up at the universe as other books floated in the winds towards destinations unknown.

“To inspire passion and to catch it, in the palm of our pages.”

Ock stood by her mother and the wind picked up, rising both of them high above, towards the ever expanding universe. As mother and daughter drifted apart, they said the last line together.

“We are eternal. We are Thunderdome”

Apr 7, 2013


Antivehicular posted:

Welcome to Thunderdome! Have this thing:

Jerry Kewl Adventures 1: A New Best Friend
2,337 words

On my first day at my new school my mum dropped me off around the corner, knowing I’d be too embarrassed to be seen getting dropped off at the school gate.

“Have fun, and I can’t wait to meet your new friends,” she said cheerfully as I hurriedly got out of the car.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” I replied mumbling to her as I quickly closed the door and joined the crowd of kids. But it turns out my plan to not be seen with my mum hadn’t worked, and I buried my hands deep in my pockets to try and make myself as small as possible. I could feel the other kids looking at me suspiciously as I hurried ahead.

Around the corner I could see the school gates and my heart dropped. Waiting at the gates and pushing every kid was the biggest, meanest kid I had ever seen. He had thick, hairy arms and a spotted face and loose, wavy blond hair. He laughed cruelly as he pushed over a small kid wearing thick glasses before high-fiving his friend. I tried to make myself even smaller and hid behind a group of children squeezing through the gates but like a guided missile he seemed to pick me out and trip me up.

“Nice backpack, loser,” the bully said mockingly as I tried to stand up. I tried to hide my backpack under me, but he’d already seen the patches from my favourite bands I’d sewn into it - Billy Idol, Avenged Sevenfold, Nirvana, the Ramones, Good Charlotte, Nightwish and of course Green Day.

“What are those, your boyfriends?” he asked menacingly. Then he guffawed loudly and high-fived his friend again like he’d made the cleverest joke.

I tried to stammer a response but thankfully the school bell rang. The other kids walked past me to class, some laughing harshly behind their hands, and nobody stopped to help me up.


The rest of the school day was just as painful. I struggled through maths and english, my least favourite subjects, and in science nobody wanted to be my lab partner and I wound up spilling the chemicals down my threadbare uniform.

At lunch I sat by myself as the other kids laughed all around me with their friends, eating a plain cheese sandwich that was all my mum had packed for me. As soon as I was finished eating I left to find a quiet corner to sit in and pulled out my sketchbook.

My drawings had been the only comfort I’d had during my parents’ divorce. While my parents were fighting nastily over who’d get the house and who’s turn it was to cook me dinner, I’d hide furtively in my room and draw.

I began with some of my favourite characters from TV shows and movies, like Futurama, Jason from the Friday the 13th movies or the Terminator. I tried drawing the singers from my favourite bands too, but I could never quite get Kurt Cobain or Billie Joe Armstrong’s face right.

Soon I grew bored and began making up my own characters, such as the Invincible Bug Man or the Diamond Brothers.

My best favourite character was Jerry Kewl, who looked a bit like Miles “Tails” Prower from the Sonic the Hedgehog video games, but only had one tail. I usually drew him wearing sunglasses, and he was a bit fat just like me, and his special power was that he could change his body into whatever shape he wanted which he would use to save the world from the Shadow Monsters.

I was in the middle of drawing a page where Jerry Kewl changes into an enormous tommy gun when a foreboding shadow fell over the page. It took me a moment to realise what had happened, and when I looked up I shouted, “Agh!” in surprise. It was the bully from the school gate! He’d found me when I was trying to hide and secretly draw and I could tell by his wicked smile that he had something unpleasant planned for me.

“Oh look, loser is reading comics like a baby!” he said maliciously. “What baby comic are you reading loser?” he asked meanly as he leaned down and snatched my sketchbook out of my hands.

“No, give it back!” I shouted protestingly but he was too quick and strong. I cringed and tried to hide under my arms as he began to flick through the book.

“Wow, look at this!” the bully said spitefully. “Jerry Kewl, the Kewlest Kid in the World.” He looked down at me and grinned wickedly. “Well, I’m the coolest kid at school, and do you know what that means?” he asked jeeringly.

“Yeah, what does it mean?” asked his friend sarcastically as he patted the bully on his back.

“It means this!” he laughed brutishly as he tore out the page of Jerry Kewl and tore it to pieces.

“No!” I shouted distressedly as the pieces of Jerry Kewl rained down on me like confetti.

“Don’t forget loser, I’m always the coolest kid!” the bully chortled savagely as he walked away with his friend, high-fiving and cackling with barbaric delight.

I was almost in tears as I scrambled on the ground, snatching up the pieces of my drawing. A few of the smaller pieces blew away in the wind, and I had to chase them across the playground to the whispered jeers of the other kids. I was biting back my sobs when I finally caught the last piece, tucking it securely with the other shreds into my sketchbook.


When I finally got home from the worst day of my life I rushed straight past my mum who was busy heating up some instant noodles in the microwave and into my room. I was still despaired.

Inside my room was already a mess, with open suitcases across the floor with my clothes tumbling out of them. I had only had time to put up two of my posters - Muse and Guns N’ Roses - but I’d flattened a cardboard box and balanced it across my knees to make a makeshift desk.

I hastily pulled out my sketchbook and placed it carefully on the desk, before opening it and cautiously beginning to remove the pieces of the drawing of Jerry Kewl. The bully had idiotically ripped them poorly, so I had trouble matching the edges properly and I began to almost sob again. Despite my attempts to be delicate some of the pieces were crumpled too, and one had a muddy footprint across most of it.

Finally, after a lot of patient work, I had put the pieces of Jerry Kewl back together again. Mindful to not carelessly jostle my improvised desk, I tentatively reached into my backpack and rummaged around in it until I found my roll of sellotape. Then with even more wary precision I began to tape the drawing of Jerry Kewl back together again.

It took even longer than it did to arrange the pieces but finally I had taped the drawing back into one piece. It looked horrible, and the taped together edges made it look like Jerry Kewl had been hurt badly in battle with the Shadow Monsters.

“I’m so sorry Jerry Kewl,” I said apologetically as I let my head fall down and buried my face in my hands.

“It’s okay,” squeaked Jerry Kewl comfortingly, “it wasn’t your fault, and you did your best.”

I looked up, mouth wide in shock and wonderment.

“What did you say?” I asked confusedly. “Did you just talk?”

Jerry Kewl began to move about the page, stretching his arms and legs and tail. I was flabbergasted.

“I did talk!” replied Jerry Kewl confidently as he began to twirl on the page.

“You can talk?” I asked amazedly.

“I can talk! I’ve always been able to talk, but I didn’t know if I could trust you to be my friend and keep my secret. Now I know you are a special kid!” replied Jerry Kewl happily.

“This is incredible!” I said joyfully.

“I’m so glad I can finally thank you for putting me back together after that dreadful bully tore me to tatters,” Jerry Kewl said gratefully.

“You shouldn’t be,” I replied sadly, “I wasn’t able to stop the bully from destroying your picture.”

“That’s okay,” Jerry Kewl replied reassuringly. “You did your best anyway, and besides,” he added mischievously, “I have an intelligent plan for teaching that bully a lesson he’ll never forget.” He winked at me from the page.

I began to smile as Jerry Kewl explained his clever plan, and before long I got to work as he watched.


The next day was agonizingly slow as I waited to put Jerry Kewl’s cunning plan into action. I had to endure the humiliation of being tripped up at the gate by the bully again. I then had sit through maths and english class again, which were excruciatingly painful and even worse than the previous day. I was yawning tiredly throughout the class because of how late I had stayed up.

The only thing filling me with any fortitude was the drawing of Jerry Kewl I had in my pocket, which I’d sneakily pull out and look at him winking with a proud thumbs up to encouragingly reassure me.

Finally it was science class, and once again I was left in solitude without a lab partner. This time however it suited me just fine, and we were barely five minutes into the class before I deliberately spilled the chemicals on me again.

“Oh no!” I shouted with what I hoped was convincing lying.

“Oh dear,” said the teacher disapprovingly when they saw what had happened. “You should go and clean yourself up right away.”

I grabbed my backpack and hurried out of the classroom, doing my best to persuasively act embarrassed. But instead of rushing to the bathroom, I pulled my sketchbook out of my backpack.

Inside it was the fruits of my labour the previous evening. At Jerry Kewl’s brilliant suggestion, I had spent the evening drawing the bully in all manner of humiliating situations.

I had drawn him jovially sucking his own thumb. I had drawn him euphorically jumping up and down in dog poo. I had drawn him smiling gladly after he had wet himself. I even drew a comic strip, each panel its own page ripped from my notebook of the bully clumsily picking his nose and gleefully eating the boogers he pulled out.

Moving rapidly to avoid being caught, I began taping the pictures up throughout the school. I began by the lockers, starting with the bully’s own locker, and then where the other popular kids’ lockers were. I stealthily creeped past the classrooms to leave drawings by the drinking fountains, and on the doors to the cafeteria. I even contemplated putting one on the door of the principal’s office, but I could hear Jerry Kewl buzzing warningly in my pocket and decided against that.

It took a long time, but soon I had taped every single embarrassing drawing up throughout the school.

“I hope this works Jerry Kewl,” I said hesitantly.

Suddenly the school bell rang, and I jumped in fright.

Soon the halls were full of students, and before long they began to notice the drawings. First there was a moment of befuddlement, and then a few titters of amusement. Before long there were more than a few peals of laughter echoing throughout the halls of learning.

“What is it? What’s going on?” roared the bully furiously as he elbowed his way through the chittering crowd.

“It’s you!” shouted one of the other kids mirthfully as others began to laugh and point at the bully.

“What?” yelled the bully angrily as he shoved one of the children aside roughly. “What?” he repeated dumbly. He stared at the drawing - one of him being painfully beaten up by a toddler - before tearing it off the locker.

“Who did this? Who? Stop laughing - stop it STOP IT!” he howled inflamed with rage.

I took a deep breath.

“You’ve got this buddy!” said Jerry Kewl hearteningly from my pocket.

“I did it!” I yelled out triumphantly.

My proclamation echoes throughout the corridors which became as quiet as the grave.

“I’ve shown everybody the kind of person you really are!” I continued jubilantly.

The entire corridor stood silently, shocked by my declaration.

The bully stared at me in bewilderment. I stared back, trying my best not to quiver from fear. It was like a duel from an old Western movie.

I blinked, and before I knew it the bully was running away ashamedly.

There was a moment of silence, and then suddenly the corridor erupted into cheers and yells. The other students rushed towards me, patting me on the back, laughing and shaking my hands. I had been the one to finally end the bully’s era of menace.

As they led me on a victory lap of the school, pointing and cheering each new drawing as we passed it, they continued to thank and congratulate me, but the best sound of all was the voice of Jerry Kewl coming from my pocket, mingling with all of my other new friends.

“You did it buddy! Yippee! Hooray! You did it!”

Dec 30, 2011

I wanna sing one for the cars
That are right now headed silent down the highway
And it's dark and there is nobody driving And something has got to give

Prompt image:

Horse Destiny: Paint Your Dreams
1130 words

"Princess Horse, will my parents ever understand me?"

Princess Horse raised her head, sapphire eyes fading to stormcloud-colored in her worry. "Oh, Jayden," she said. "Be kind to them. They've forgotten what it's like to have dreams as strong as yours." She stamped a restless hoof, and Jayden knew she wanted to run. So did he. The wind was calling them with its soft, cold voice.

"But... I just don't get it. They say we can't move upstate, that they need Mom at the clinic. It's so unfair. I'm never going to have a horse!"

"You'll always have me, Jayden." Princess Horse shook her head, her mane like a cascade of gemstones flowing from a coat as soft as ice cream, and Jayden knew that was true. Life wasn't fair, but at least he had Princess Horse and the world they roamed together, the big sky and the grassland of his dreams. Jayden put a hand on her gaskin to thank her, prepared to run again, but a siren screamed in his ear. His alarm.

Jayden opened his eyes and turned his alarm off, stepping out of his bed in his parents' Manhattan high-rise apartment, feeling trapped like a bird trapped in a cage made of steel and glass and expectations. As he slipped on his school uniform polo, the gray color of sadness, he stared out the window at the skyline. The sky in Manhattan was small and packed with buildings. Jayden dreamed of a different sky -- a big one, filled with horses.


"Did you hear about the scholarship contest, Jayden?"

Jayden looked up from his school lunch at Haylie, his only friend. With emerald eyes, onyx hair, and a face like an alabaster heart, Haylie was pretty, just not fake cheerleader pretty in the way that would make her popular. Even in her ugly school uniform, she had curves in all the right places, plus her parents loved her and packed her a real lunch, instead of the cafeteria crap Jayden had to eat. Haylie was Jaden's second-favorite girl in the world.

"What?" said Jayden, before taking another bite of his vegan ceasar salad. "What contest?"

"It's an art contest for a scholarship to Canterbridge Academy, in Montana! It's for painting. I'm working on this watercolor..."

As Haylie began to talk about herself, Jayden put the pieces together. Canterbridge Academy. Montana. He could see the big sky now, and he could see the horses. This had to be his destiny. He kept eating his salad and waited patiently for Haylie to stop talking. "Haylie? When does this contest end?"

"On Friday! There's going to be an assembly and stuff. Will you come?"

It was Wednesday. If Jayden was going to win the contest for Montana and his dreams, he was going to have to work fast.


On Wednesday night, in his dreams, Jayden told Princess Horse everything, hoping the horse princess would know what to do. As she thought, she stamped, showing off her shapely fetlocks. "You already know what to do," she said. "You just have to paint your dreams, Jayden."

"Is that what I need to do? I've never done art before. I know I'm creative, but can I do it?"

"You can do anything as long as you dream hard enough. That's why you're so wonderful."

"Oh, Princess Horse," said Jayden, and buried his face in the fur of her muzzle. "I love you." Feelings built up in his chest, like a hot heavy weight. "I really, really love you. When I think about you, I feel like I'm flying, and my heart is on fire, like an eagle."

"I know," replied Princess Horse as her lips brushed on Jayden's cheek. "I know, and you're my special boy, but it isn't time yet. One day, once you've achieved your destiny, I can teach you my secrets."

"Your secrets?"

"My secret magic, silly!"

"Oh, Princess --"

"Not right now. You have to wake up."

Jayden's alarm went off. It was Thursday morning, but he had to set aside the anguish in his heart and find a way to win the contest, if he ever wanted to be happy again.


On Thursday night, Jayden came home to his room, carrying a bag from the art store with all the best paints and a bunch of painting canvas. He'd been saving up for a horse, but now he had a new way to achieve his dreams. He unfolded the canvas and set it up, then turned on his favorite album, the Imagine Dragons Spotify playlist. Music was his second-favorite passion.

Jayden closed his eyes and made himself remember the colors of Princess Horse, so bright in this dark gray world. "Though our journey's long, I know our love is strong," sang Dan Reynolds, the lead singer of Imagine Dragons. "You're my shooting star." And she was, like a burning star that shot and pushed his dreams forward, and Jayden tried to make the paint on the canvas into her shapes.

The paint spread on the canvas like colors on the sky, thick and strong. The shape of everything Jayden dreamed of began to take form from his blobs of paint, like how everything he wanted came from the thoughts in his mind. Stroke by stroke, Jayden painted his dreams.

"All systems go," sang Imagine Dragons. "The sun hasn't died. Deep in my bones, straight from inside."


"And the winners of the Canterbridge Art Contest are... Jayden Caballero and Haylie del'Amour!"

Everyone clapped, and Jayden couldn't take his eyes off his painting, adorned with the sapphire rosette of success. Next to it, Haylie's watercolor was festooned in adequate red. She was a good artist, but he'd painted his dreams, and everyone had seen the strength of his dreaming soul at last.

"Oh, Jayden," said Haylie next to him, "it's so beautiful. What a handsome horse!"

He wanted to tell her, no, she was beautiful, she was the horse princess and her name was Princess Horse, but he knew she had to be his secret. "Thank you," he muttered. "You painted some nice trees."

Haylie turned to him, her eyes shining like jade. "You're just so creative. Jayden... will you go to prom with me? Before we go to Montana?"

Jayden thought about it. She was his only friend, and she was pretty, and not fake-pretty either. Princess Horse would understand, wouldn't she, if it wasn't time yet? If he had to love other girls before he could be hers?

"Okay," said Jayden, and moved in to give Haylie a kiss. Her lips were soft and velvety like a sunrise. Somehow, he knew that his adventure was only beginning.

Sep 21, 2017

Horse Facts

True and Interesting Facts about Horse

That Time You Went on a Cat Search and Stole a Helicopter

1220 words

Just like that - he’s gone! - and it looks like he’s taken his anti-hairball biscuits (you hate him getting hairballs, don’t you, all that hoiking and retching, the slimy mess on the carpet, like a tightly knitted ball of dead intestinal worms, it makes your stomach crawl like it’s full of intestinal worms just thinking about it) and that ebullient tuxedo jacket you painstakingly hand-stitched for him from certified-organic cotton with him - bastard - so, you must find him, and quick! - grab your coat, yes that’s right the one that makes you look like a spy, that’s a good coat for a Cat Hunt / A Cat-Hunt / A Catunt / A oval office ... let’s just call it a Cat Search - rush rush out of your empty house a few more flakes of peeling red paint give up their grip on the door as it bangs behind you (it was Jen who’d painted it red, wasn’t it, when she lived there too - she said she thought it would make the house happy and then at least one of you would be) - the sun is setting and the cold wind from Lyall Bay blows sand against your cheeks yet you stand nervously rubbing your penis, a bad habit left over from your time in the Air Force - stop it! People will notice - there’s your neighbour John shuffling along the pavement - you run over and grasp him by the shoulders and cry, unnecessarily loudly, John, have you seen ニャンコ? - shouting: Have I seen what? (John always gets into the spirit of things) - My cat! He’s gone! - John tsk tsks and wraps his skinny arm around your equally skinny shoulders, filling your nose with his unique odeur of fermented cabbage and yelling no time for that, it’s happy hour! as he gleefully steers you along Apu Crescent and then - warm, moist air fills the cavities in your head as you plunge through the doors of the Bowling Club and you fear that you might suddenly lift off the ground like a hot air balloon (!) Jim: grabs your arm; pulls you back to earth; into the chair next to him; thrusts an empty glass and frothy jug of beer towards you; says where were you today? - caterpillar eyebrows waggling - John and Jane beat James and Jules in the mixed pairs finals! - John slow-nods in acknowledgment from his side of the table - nodding like a steely-eyed cowboy would nod - James left in a sulk and hasn’t come back! - Jim is cackling at the outrageousness of someone missing happy hour when - there he is! - you leap to your feet and and open-throat your glass of beer (no need to let that go to waste) your other arm pointing, straight and quivering, at a tuxedoed black shape that flitted past the back window - the pink flash of the jacket’s lining unmistakable - Jim, leaping to his feet beside you: there who is? - ニャンコ! - his cat John explains, draining the rest of the beer straight from the jug (good man John) - charge from the Bowling Club, spy-coat flapping like a cape; a pleasing effect, you pause for a moment to admire yourself in the steamed-up glass - mistake! You look terrible! No matter, this is a Cat Search! - quick around the back of the Bowling Club where you find not a cat but a man crouched on the back doorstep holding his bald head sobbing - James! Did you see ニャンコ? Where did he go? - James lifts his face eyes red and snot in his salt and pepper moustache - His cat! He’s gone! before James has a chance to ask (good man John) - grab James by the elbows lift him onto his feet - maybe he went into town? suggests James, sniffing - run run back down to Onepu Road pile into a merry yellow bus wave your SuperGold Card mutter I paid my taxes at some tattooed millenials who you’re sure are giving you the evils but then realise, no! - they weren’t giving you the evils at all that was mere side-eye compared to the furious laser-eyes that meet yours down the aisle of the bus from under a waterfall of frizzy grey hair - Jen! (she’s probably still mad about how you keep opening her mail - it’s not fair though, you always put it back in her letterbox so really what’s she even worried about) and you sit down quickly at the front of the bus too close for comfort to the millennials but better than getting within stabbing range of the scissors Jen carries with her everywhere - John, Jim and James right behind you - out of the foggy bus window the stars have come out and the moon hangs in the frozen blackness like a moon and on the pavement next to the bus I run beside you paws barely touching the ground and as you rumble along Waitoa Road I spring into the pohutukawa trees swinging from branch to branch and then, just before you disappear into the bus tunnel, fling myself into the sky and slink along the the Milky Way butt wiggling as I get ready to pounce on the moon - stupid cat, you think, you can’t catch the moon - you hold your breath as you go through the tunnel because you believe that this is a very important thing to do and then - tumble out of the bus on Lambton Quay - stop opening my mail! - Jen, hands on buxom hips and hand-knitted scarf coiling around her like a woolly snake - we’re looking for ニャンコ! I saw him in the sky! - run run towards the waterfront - there it is! Sitting resplendent in the moonlight, its rotors tethered to the dock like a hooded falcon: a Eurocopter EC130 B4 - It’s got 6 seats, room for everyone! - but how are you going to get past the chain link fence? - Jen, you’ll come too, won’t you? (unfair; the thought of Missing Out is Jen’s kryptonite) - she hurumphs and squats beside you, handbag clanks as she drops it on the tarmac - she leans in, her whole upper body disappearing inside the brightly patterned fabric (it’s got parrots on it, has Jen always liked parrots?) - emerges triumphant, grasping a pair of bolt cutters - John and Jim and James crowd around trying to help and generally getting in each other’s way as Jen’s muscular arms set to work on the fence John cops a feel of Jen’s ample boobage and Jen elbows him (hard) clutching his face John whines that his nose is broken but - you’re through! - inside the beautiful machine everyone buckles in and John’s nose leaves little drops of blood on the floor - push and pull at the buttons and levers (how hard can this be?) - quickly now the security guards have noticed! and they’ve left the comfort of their seats under the Crabshack’s outdoor heaters and are running towards you - the rotors strain against their teethers and then POP off they come and - you laugh as you feel your feet lose their connection with the ground and you stare up into the stars and our eyes meet and we all grin because you, I and both of us all know that you don’t really even have a cat, DO YOU?

Sep 7, 2011

Seven for beauty that blossoms and dies

How My New Life Began
2003 words

This is the way my world ended. Not with a whimper, but with a bang.

My name is Caoimhe (which is pronounced Kay-Oim), and I am sixteen years old. This is how my story begins.


My story begins on a normal school day, or what I thought was a normal school day, anyway. In The City, everyone has to attend The School, and we are separated into groups based on our eye colour. The last thing my father did before he disappeared was to give me two special eye lenses, an old technology from the Beforetime, which made my eyes look blue, hiding my naturally violet irises.

“Your eyes will mark you as being different. You must keep this a secret - you’re special, Caoimhe. These will make your violet eyes look blue.” he said, handing me the little clear lenses made of some kind of blue material.

I thought about his final words to me a lot, and was always shocked by the implications, especially when I was at The School masquerading as a Blueye. Aside from my special and unique eyes, and my father’s mysterious disappearance, I was an average City-Dwelling teenager. I went to The School every day, and worked hard so that I could learn everything I needed so I can be useful when I graduate into my assigned career. As a Blueye, I could expect to be a teacher, or a diplomat, or maybe a librarian. I don’t know what violet eyes would mean, and because I wanted to always follow the advice father gave to me before he abruptly vanished that fateful night ten years ago when I was six years old, I never would. The School was modelled on Elite Prep Schools from the Beforetime that we had read about in the Historical Texts. I didn’t fit in, because I was secretly a lot more special than all my Blueye classmates, even if they didn’t realise it, they must have realised it on an unconscious level in their subconscious minds.

I was walking down the corridor towards the Blueye Classrooms, when I was jolted out of my reverie by a commotion by the Science Rooms, into which only Greeneyes were allowed into.

“No, you foolish idiots! I’ve done the calculations too and everyone else is making a mistake.”

“Sure thing, kid. We’ll run right out and make everyone stop what they’re doing riiiight away. What makes you think you know better than all the smartest men in the Science District? Buzz off, twerp.”

I couldn’t see who it was, but the hulking School Officer, wearing his shiny regulation body armour, had just pushed someone into one of the Science Rooms, and walked off. I couldn’t help myself - I had to know. One of my biggest flaws is my curiosity.

I looked around surreptitiously, and when I knew there was nobody watching, I ducked through the door. Hunched over a lab bench was Damian, one of the smartest and most handsome boys I’d ever met. He was wearing his School Uniform, but his sleeves were rolled up charmingly, his tie in a messy half undone knot, and his signature lab coat was sprawled over the floor, seemingly abandoned. We didn’t have any classes together - he was a Greeneye, and a year above me - but we used to do homework together when his father was too busy to come and get him after school. As an Orphan of the City, I had to stay at school much later than anybody else because I didn’t have anybody to look after me. You could say I had to learn to be independent very early on.

“It’s going to be a disaster. But no-one will LISTEN!” He slammed his hand against the bench and gazed broodily into the bunsen burner that he’d been using for his calculations. “Oh, Caoimhe. I didn’t see you come in.”

He looked up at me soulfully, and I could see his soulful green eyes were rimmed with red - he’d been crying. I looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes and reveal that I’d seen him in such a vulnerable state.

“What’s wrong, Damian?”

“My father is a scientist working on the Ωmega Project, but they’ve got it all wrong. It’s not going to do what they think. It’s going to do so much more, so much worse. Caoimhe… I think it’s going to DESTROY the CITY!”

“You have to tell someone!” I told him.

“I tried, but… they wouldn’t… they wouldn’t listen. They don’t think that a teenager could be smarter than them.” He sniffled again, sensitively. He brushed his long dark hair over his piercing green eyes so that I couldn’t see the tears filling them.

I nodded sadly, knowing all too well what that was like. Even the most sensitive and insightful teens can be ignored by adults who think they know better.

“But what can we do?”

“There might be nothing we can do.” Damian’s chin slumped to lie against his powerfully built chest.

“We can’t just stand aside and do NOTHING!” I nearly yelled, my violet eyes flashing behind their contact lenses, gleaming bluely.

“Well…” He looked shyly up at me. “I know all the codes to get into the Ωmega Building, and I know they’re planning an important test tonight. Father let it slip over our regular breakfast of wheat protein flake We could wait until The School Day ends, then slip into the Science District. If we duck the City Guards and the Science Gladiators, we can put a stop to the Ωmega Experiments once and for all. But if we get caught...”

“No, Damian. We have to do it. We can’t worry about what-ifs or maybes. All we can do is try and save The City that we love. Maybe they’ll listen to us once we save everyone’s lives.”

“You really are a special girl, Caoimhe.” I looked away from him and blushed.


Getting through that School Day was one of the hardest things I’d done in my life up to that point. As soon as the day ended, Damian and I met up, and without waiting, ran straight to the Science District. Damian took us down an alley, where there was a small gap in the chain link fence surrounding the Ωmega Building.

“How did you know this was here?”

“I used to explore a lot when I came here with father as a kid. Now we should probably be quiet so we don’t get caught.”

I agreed, and we fell silent, stealthily making our way past the heavy security and into the bowels of the compound. Damian showed off some very impressive gymnastics, that I was hard pressed to follow.

We ran down seemingly endless corridors. Where was everyone? Surely this place should have been like a beehive on honey day, buzzing with activity and bees? My questions were answered when a door hissed open and we found ourselves in the central chamber. It was filled with workers, scientists, guards and Science Gladiators.

Suspended in the center of the room was the Ωmega Device. I could see Damian’s Father, his bald head gleaming with sweat, his eyes covered by large black goggles.

“How are we going to get close, Damian?”

“We’ll think of something. We’re so close now.”

“Hey, you kids! What’re you doing?!” yelled a guard, catching sight of us as we inched our way towards the Device.

“Oh no! Quick, this way!”

As we ran, I felt something grab my shoulder, and I stumbled over. A Science Gladiator glared at me with his lizardlike eyes, but before he could snatch me up with his grasping claw hands, Damian had turned around tackled him, wrestling him to the ground. His shirt tore open as they grappled. As they struggled their deadly struggle, he managed to gasp out a few words to me.

“Caoimhe, run! Get out of here! There’s nothing we can do, it’s too late for us to stop the Ωmega Device, so you have to get out of The City - into the Forbidden Outside! It’s your only chance. Quickly, go and get your little sister from the Orphanage, then run. As you know, there’s a secret tunnel under The School that leads to The Bridge, which is the only way out of the City. I’ll meet you out there once I can get away from this Science Gladiator and Father’s other hired goons. Everything will be okay. You’re the most unique girl I’ve ever met, Caoimhe, and I know you’re going to be just fine. You’re more special than you know! Now, run! I’ll see you when I get free!”

Tears blurring my eyes, I ran. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again, only that I had to get back to the Orphanage before anything else went wrong. Not stopping to look back, I fled the Ωmega Building.


I don’t know how I got back to the Orphanage without getting caught. The City was on high alert. Sirens were wailing and red lights flashed everywhere while City Guards rushed about like an anthill that had been knocked over by a hungry anteater, but somehow I avoided detection.

I picked the lock of The Orphanage and made my way back to the room I shared my little sister, Saoirse (it rhymes with Mercy). She was lying in her bunk, and I shook her gently by the shoulders to wake her up.

“Saoirse, we have to go right now! There’s no time to explain.” I explained, as I dragged her out the front door of the City Orphanage. As we picked our way through the darkened halls where we had lived since Father died, I told her what had happened at the Ωmega Building, and that I’d had to leave Damian behind. I prayed that he had gotten away somehow.

But we didn’t have time to worry about that. Luckily, The Orphanage was close to The School, so it didn’t take long to get there, and we didn’t have to dodge too many guards. The tunnel was exactly where I knew it would be. It wasn’t guarded! A stroke of good luck. We scrambled through the hatch, and ran down the long tunnel. After what seemed like hours, but according to my watch had been only one, we came to the bridge. We got halfway across before I stopped. This was the first time I’d ever been outside The City walls. Was this really what I should be doing? It had been an hour, and nothing had happened. Maybe Damian had managed to prevent the device from exploding.

Then there was giant a lurch. I felt myself being picked up and thrown forwards. There was a terrible noise. There was a terrible light. And then everything went dark for a while.


We came to, slowly and shakily.

Saoirse and I stood on the shattered bridge that we had barely crossed in time, and stared backwards at the pillar of flames that the Ωmega Project had turned the City - our home - into. The rock walls that had always protected us had been shattered, the sky was being torn asunder and jagged chunks of reality folded in on themselves. As tears poured from my violet eyes, I wondered what would become of us, and whether I’d ever see Damian ever again, if he had escaped the cataclysm he’d tried so hard to avoid, or whether he’d been killed ironically by the very thing he sought to prevent. I took Saoirse’s hand, and together we turned and walked away from the burning City, into the inky blackness of night that concealed Forbidden Outside from view, that had so long been hidden and forbidden from us, but would not be a secret anymore. I didn’t know where we were going. All I knew was that we had each other, and that we would keep walking, and that maybe the Forbidden Outside wasn’t as empty as they’d always told us at School.

And that’s how my new life began.

Jan 12, 2012

Tr*ckin' and F*ckin' all the way to tha

Happy Easter! In keeping with the holiday, here's some crits for Week 293: These Sainted Days of Spring.

Double Exposure by Thranguy

I dislike excessive sentimentality. As such, it’s difficult for me to enjoy this story. It’s a piece about an outcast twenty-something who attends her mother’s funeral as the bank repossesses her childhood home and eats frozen casseroles while remembering… her teen pregnancy? (The third-act swerve is actually so abrupt that I had to reread and I still don’t know if I understand it.)

While any of those details could have provided color and detail to a story, the parade of tragedies and the utter lack of levity brings this piece close to parody. Worse, the nameless protagonist’s utter lack of agency makes for a deeply frustrating read, no matter how true to life that might be. There’s not much here except multiple reminder that life sucks. I find it interesting to compare this story to flerp’s piece this week, Words Only Go So Far, which delves into similar themes without devolving into schmaltz.

The prose is adequate, though I dislike your opening line. The narrator’s voice does a good job of conveying misery, but few other discernable personality traits. The ending is incoherent.

I am the King of Crete by Tyrannosaurus

I don’t have the same visceral hatred of surreal experimentation that many Thunderdomers seem to have. In fact, I find parts of this piece rather charming. I enjoy the slightly off-kilter, almost Lynchian narration. I enjoy the characters’ childlike interactions with the world. The prose is well-written and, at times, makes me smile.

However, despite its occasional glimmers, your story is also frustratingly obtuse. I have no idea what is happening—probably intentionally—nor any idea why I should care about any of what happens. It makes for an aggravating reading experience and makes me wish that you would have scaled back your ambitions just a skosh. Some clarity and direction would have been useful.

Trust and Grace by Antivehicular

After the first paragraph, I was planning to complain about this story being more depressing rust belt -adjacent poo poo, but this isn’t bad. It’s actually a rather nice study of two characters making the best of bad situations. I like Lisa quite a bit and can sympathize with her internal angst. You do a nice job of humanizing a very low-stakes interaction and giving Lisa a degree of autonomy despite spending most of the story in a chair. The ending imagery, which manages to find beauty in tacky mall shrubbery, is nicely done. I would have given this piece an HM or higher.

If I were going to nit-pick, I would probably look at Helen, who seems less developed of the two women and mostly remains a mystery to the reader. While I don’t need to hear her life story, it would have been nice to get more of an indication of who she is beyond the salon.

Words Only Go So Far by flerp

I like this piece a lot. It’s quiet and poignant without trying to overload to the reader with ostentatious misery. The experience feels real and natural. The layered descriptions of the father does a good job of putting the reader in the same mindset as the narrator who is peeling through reams of old files and trying to reconstruct a person based on them. It’s meandering but that’s very much intentional. I like many of the details that you have included: the Hungarian; the rediscovered children’s books; the descriptions of Alzheimer’s; and the discovery that a beloved authority figure wasn’t quite as fearless as he appeared.

I don’t have many negative things to say about this story. I’m not a huge fan of the opening sentence, saying that someone left you a gravestone strikes me as unnatural and an unnecessarily roundabout way of describing someone’s death. As T-Rex has already pointed out, your opening meshes poorly with the second sentence and it also introduces a second element, financial troubles, that are not mentioned anywhere else.

The Bellmaker’s Wife by Fumblemouse

I feel… extremely dumb for writing this, but I am not sure I understand this story. I get that Harrison is asked to produce a gaudy, oversized bell for his lord and that his lord raped his wife, leading to her suicide. What confuses me are the sounds that the bells make. In real life, I know that bells cannot sing out words, but it is not clear that that is the case in this world that you have created. I don’t know whether these messages, as described, are things that Harrison is hearing or whether they literally chime out those messages. I was leaning toward the latter interpretation about two-thirds of the way through the piece, when Harrison waits for his apprentices to leave to code his secret message that “rings out loud and clear, in the voice of Harrison’s lost beloved,” but Lord Edward’s pleased response suggests that the former is the right interpretation. The fact that this won suggests that I am the one at fault here, so take that criticism with a grain of salt.

The rest of the story is fine. I find the blocking around Harrison’s night-time bell repairs to be a bit confusing, but the rest of the story is well written. The reveal, though undermined by my own confusion, is a strong one. I liked how much this piece revealed in its relatively short word count.

New Home by ThirdEmperor

I admire this story’s ambitions, but I found myself struggling to keep reading. It takes a long time for anything of real interest to happen in this story. The description of these vertical gardens is somewhat enamoring but lacks the necessary detail for me to really understand the setting or the stakes. The characters remind me of Lovecraft: vague and impersonally defined individuals who only exist to witness untold horrors and/or go mad. It takes forever for the main character to do anything and, when he does, they don’t make much sense, a fact that you seem to be aware of. (“Rawley felt the dreamlike logic… In his state of dumb terror he made justifications after the fact.) I don’t understand the motivations at play here and I started getting bored about a third of the way into the story.

Though the prose can be awkward, see the parenthetical above, there are some occasionally nice details. The description of The Thing evokes childhood memories of gross algae and creatures washed up on the beach. The “colorful snail shells, piled high atop each other” is an odd detail that catches my attention.

Garnish by Fuschia tude

I like stories about interpersonal dramas but this story doesn’t have enough depth to interest me. Sam seems afflicted with an undefined twenty-something ennui which could be interesting if it caused her to do anything interesting. Stef seems… almost identical to Sam, except without the aforementioned ennui. Her boss and her parents don’t come across as anything except cardboard cut-outs of authority figures and I am unsure what value they add to the story when their words could have been spent on better defining Sam and Stef. I’m not surprised this piece lost because nothing really happens until the ending when Sam cancels her wedding for… some reason? Really don’t understand the ending and I don't find the piece interesting enough to try and find out.

Apr 10, 2012

by Jeffrey of YOSPOS
The Rise of Comrade Colonel Meow
Word Count: 1090

Several shadowy figures were meeting in the old cave near Acadamia De Gatos. Many of whom hunched over with age, showing their fragility to each other.

A match struck to light up a cigar firmly in the mouth of the largest of the group, Comrade Colonel Meow. He took a drag and began to speak. “Operation Vermin has begun comrades, how goes your part of our campaign?” he asked through his thick accent. The sort of accent that told you he was not only was he dastardly, but not originally from the United Litters of Felinia.

“Yes comrade Colonel Meow” Snowflake said in response. Snowflake was renowned for his ability to collect riches beyond comparison in the nation.

“We continue to flood the market with counterfeit catnip through our financial manipulation starting in 1982. The fools still believe that they’ll be able to recover from the damage our manipulation has done. Not to mention the upcoming release of our Catnip Virus.”

Shadow, the ambassador of the ULF to the United Animal Kingdom, said “We have pushed both the Empire of Dog and the Kiwi Bird Republic to the brink of war. Our Catnip Virus will be blamed on the Dogs, starting our planned world war.”

Tiger, a brilliant scientist who was in charge of creating the virus the group was planning to release said “Our Catnip Virus will do the trick perfectly, even if our manipulation of the others fails. Testing indicates a high lethality rate.”

“Bien” said Comrade Colonel Meow. He continued “our mercenaries will take over in a dozen countries as soon as our plan begins next week. There will be chaos throughout the world. Once started I will blackmail el presidente and the rest of the government with our Catnip Virus to ensure his obedience. We may need to deal with some attempts to take over in the chaos, targeting us for our roles within the ULF society. I suggest you go to the safe houses. Personally I will be at the one in La Hermosa Playa, the sun is very warm there. Now, I bid you adieu.”

Later on the 21st of the month, Comrade Colonel Meow sat with the President of the ULF who was yowling in horror. He pushed his control panel that released the Catnip Virus, which suddenly and without warning overtook all the computer systems of the world, the military, the economy, the entertainment, it was all under his paw. Immediately it caused weapon systems to target pre-determined targets creating a mass of destruction across the planet save for the ULF. Wars were beginning with nobody knowing who struck first, not that it mattered. The animals for years were already inching closer and closer to destruction. The dream of the United Animal Kingdom was just that, a dream. Nobody cared for peace. There were too many hard feelings from the pre-industrial era. Too many wars and too many destroyed relationships.

As all of this happened, Comrade Colonel Meow touched the presidents knee and said “You must blame the attacks on terrorists. Take a firm stand against the chaos, declare martial law and control the situation before it gets out of control.”
Comrade Colonel Meow knew this would not be possible with the president. So then he offered his Plan B, have the president resign due to emotional trauma and insert Comrade Colonel Meow as president of the ULF. This would, of course, create a potential civil war which was why as soon as Comrade Colonel Meow was installed as president he took the presidential plane to La Hermosa Playa. Comrade Colonel Meow looked out of the window and smiled to himself.

At the conference call meeting that night, Comrade Colonel Meow proudly said “THE WORLD IS UNDER OUR CONTROL! Key supplies are within our grasp and already foreign powers are begging for us to support them in their power struggles.”

Snowflake interjected by saying “Sir, there is still the issue with the Governor of Scratchington in the ULF and the Panda Confederation.”

Comrade Colonel Meow laughed, “We’ll just use the Catnip Virus to cause their weapons to turn on them. Besides the Panda Confederation are pacifists we don’t need to worry about them. This Governor though, he can easily be taken care of with a single phone call.”

Snowflake was still worried “The Governor escaped from our custody and has mobilized his own militia! We may have a mass revolt in one of our biggest regions. Thankfully the lack of communication has prevented him from spreading any influence.”

Tiger added, “The Catnip Virus has been a brilliant success. We’ve been able to reduce the population of the world by 15% thanks to collateral damage and purgings by new governments that took over in the chaos. Due to how the virus was made, it will continue to replicate and spread to systems that we do not have access to. I surmise it will take around another week before everything is firmly within our control, including personal devices.” Tiger smiled broadly at their accomplishment. They had spent years developing the AI systems, all for it to fall perfectly into place.

Within a few hours of Comrade Colonel Meow’s ascension to office, counterrevolutions erupted throughout the ULF, the last place on the planet that had any semblance of a functioning society. Despite his assurances his control over the nation was firm, Comrade Colonel Meow faced an all out civil war the likes of which neither he nor his conspirators predicted would happen. In response, the president chose to wipe his adversaries from the face of the planet with nuclear weapons.

A gigantic Mushroom cloud exploded as Comrade Colonel Meow denounced their actions and accused them of creating the crisis, a clever ploy that worked in his favor. This only solidified growing groups of rebellions into a new faction within the country the “Free States of Feline” who banded together under the leadership of the Governor of Scratchington.

Seeing what their efforts would result in, the FSF reformed their military into a roving band of guerilla fighters. The surviving political opponents of Comrade Colonel Meow began their own campaign of propaganda and attempted to shut down all of Comrade Colonel Meow’s influence, only to be met by his loyalist mobs and his hired mercenaries. With the Beast Wars having begun, Comrade Colonel Meow reached out to a surprising and unlikely nation in seek of assistance quelling his own uprising.

The Animal Republic of Vultures were all too glad to have carrion to feast on.

Especially cat.

Fuschia tude
Dec 26, 2004


QuoProQuid posted:

Happy Easter! In keeping with the holiday, here's some crits for Week 293: These Sainted Days of Spring.


Apr 30, 2006

Touch the cactus she said
946 words

“I love darkness, sharp swords, and beans!” Kibali Samarasa thundered. She was eight feet tall and looked like the kind of scary bodyguard I would need for protection, that is, for safety.

It would be a long journey. We would have to make it all the way across the Shamado Desert, and we’d have to ward off bands of bandits all the way. As I am short and small (my brains forming the majority of my worth), I am looking for a good bodyguard. Kibali Samarasa seemed like the best pick for the job.

“How do I know you are the best pick for the job?” I asked Kibali Samarasa. She swung her sword in the air and barked a laugh.

“Just as long as you give me the money. Money and a lot of brains to bash!” she said. “And beans! Don’t forget the beans!”

And so we were off. We were going to go bury my dead father’s ashes in his ancestral burial ground, me and Kibali Samarasa.


The desert was hot and dry and we were slow going. There is no water in the desert and my mouth was as dry as dry toast. We passed a cactus, which was big, like my dad, and pointy (not like my dad), and also there were a couple of flowers on the top of it.

Kibali Saramsara wasn’t scared at all. She touched the cactus and let out a long cackle of glee.

“Touch the cactus,” she commanded.

I didn’t want to. The cactus looked sharp.

“Touch the cactus or it’s no beans for you!”

“But I don’t like beans,” I whined.

“Everyone likes beans!”

Then there was a loud shrill tootle-loodle-shoooooooooooom from a horn and Kibali Sasamara screamed.

“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!” She thundered.


“Wow I can’t believe you knocked down sixteen bandits with a single stroke of your sword,” I remarked.

Kibali Samasara wasn’t even hurt. She just left the bodies on the ground and smiled, a nice smile if I do say so.

“Come on,” she exclaimed, “we have to go on before the vultures get here.”

I knew a lot about the vultures. They liked to come and eat the dead bodies. According to legend, which my dad had told me, once they started eating they couldn’t stop eating, and then they stopped caring much if their dinner was dead or alive. For me, I didn’t care much to see if the legend was true.

We made it a ways past the battle before the sun started to set. We sat down on a rock for water and beans. Kibali Sasamara sat down and ate a lot of the beans, liking the juice off her face.

“So how did you become a bodyguard?” I asked her.

“I like to fight,” she explained, and sliced a cactus right in two! “But, you see, I have a code. I decimate only those who do harm to others.”

“Don’t harm others,” I repeated. I think about it. I liked that she didn’t hurt good people.

Then there was the murderous sound of wings.


When Kibali Sasamasa was just a little girl, she was raised in the nunnery. The queen nun told her to be a good girl and always follow the rules, but these were rules that Kiba didn’t want to follow. The other girls were mean to her and she pushed them down, and then the nuns would lock her in the garage. She had a lot of time to think. She wanted to destroy everything.

“I want to destroy everything!” she said.

“I do, as well,” said a voice.

A figure emerged out of the darkness, just a blog of shadow. It said “I can teach you marvelous things. But you have to learn control. And you must serve my master.”

“Is it god?” Kibali Samasara said.

“No. I am not like those other fools. I will teach you more meaningful things than that. But, you may lose part of yourself. You may find your sanity is no more.”



The vultures are so fierce.

Kibali Samasara swung at them but they flew out of reach and then flew down again. And every time she hit one another would come from the sky and fly at my eyes! I stepped aside just in time. Their claws looked as sharp as pine needles.

It was dark and I couldn’t see all the vultures. I could hear Kibali Sasarama though, because she was laughing and screaming. It was as if she was having a good time. Then the laughter stopped.

“Ahhhhhh!” she thundered. She was covered in vultures, and they had disarmed her. I threw a rock at a vulture and knocked it dead! But then I threw another rock, and that one missed.

“You will never save her now,” thundered a vulture. It was brandishing Kibali Samasara’s sword! “You puny humans. So few in number.”

“But our spirit,” I told the vulture, “our spirit, it outnumbers you.” Then I meditated, and out of my mind came twenty birds with scissors in their mouths. They descended on the horde of birds and cut them into pieces. The battle was over. But was Kibali Samarama OK?

“Beans……” she croaked.


Kibali Samasara was a friend
And I was there until the end
She is buried with my dad
And they were both good and not bad
A kindness in them they both have
Or so they would if they were not in the grave


Chainmail Onesie
May 12, 2014

of "Thunder Dome!
poo poo I should've just written My Immortal fanfiction

Flashrule: Okay so it's a shark, right? But then WAIT FOR IT you add ANOTHER shark on top

Bearly a Story (1329 words)

It was a midwinter night when the shadows fell long across the hall of the Great Bear King. There were a great many shadows, the ursine outlines of his every vassal seated at his vast table. All had been summoned to bear witness to the casting-out of his only son.

“Beargar, blood of my blood,” The King growled, his facefur tinged with the frost of old age beneath a crown of yew and honeycomb. His carved throne creaked as he leaned back. “Are you ready to bear the burden of Kingship upon you?”

The King’s son stood before the throne- rather, flopped before the throne, for he was born a Boneless Bear like his mother- in flickering firelight, eyes agleam with purpose. “Aye, Father. And I know that the crown may only rest on the head of a viciously heroic bear.”

“You must end the scourge of our people, young Beargar,” the King rasped, his eye turning coastward, to the south. “For longer than any bear has bothered to keep a calendar, the dark form of the DoubleShark lurks in our waters, tears apart our longboats, devours our bravest warriors. As I once seized the crown by facing the terrible Snake-plus-an-Eagle-minus-the-Beak, so you too must destroy another foe of our people.”

Beargar nodded from his splayed position on the flagstones, briefly wondering how the King considered a snake-eagle-thing to be an equivalent threat to one entire shark atop another. He thought better of asking.

“You will either return on the DoubleShark,” intoned the King in a low, severe growl. “Or in the DoubleShark. What say you?”

He turned to face the King’s bannerbears, a hundred jarls or more behind them. The motion flailed him about in a sort of rubbery somersault. “Tonight, I quit these halls and seek the honey of the gods: Glory!”

The hall filled with the roars of a hundred ironclad snouts, mounting into a rumbling clamour that scared the bejesus out of every living thing for miles around.


Being boneless isn’t for everyone. Without strength, you must be cunning. You must make friends and allies.

So thought the young Beargar as he hung in the branches of a fir tree, waiting for the right forest prey ally to walk beneath.

He fluttered in the icy nightwind, idly gazing down into the snow. Rabbit, deer and boar had already passed below, their prints crisscrossed into the snow like the stitchwork of a mad tailor.

None of them would do. They had neither the strength, nor the incentive to labour and do battle beneath Beargar’s fur. Kings were not made with such folk.

A long night it was, and it was only when dawn’s grey approach tinged the sky that a suitable host appeared. A long, pink thing favouring its hind-legs staggered through the forest, barely any fur on its body save for its head. It was scan of clothing, too, wearing little more than roughspun britches and tattered boots. It seemed to have little command of its senses, for it passed directly below Beargar’s vantage point without any trace of awareness for the boneless prince.

Beargar folded himself into a diving form, and dropped.
The struggle in the snow was fierce but short, Beargar grappling his new ally across its back and head. The pink thing howled in surprise and rage, rolling in the dirt and snow, battering

Beargar’s body with paws that it somehow could tighten into painful balls of flesh and bone.

“You’re soaked,” Beargar grizzled as he clung to the thing’s shoulders. “By the gods, why are you so loving wet?”

“AAAARGH,” The pinkling yowled as it tried to fling the Bear Prince from its back. It failed, falling on all-fours. “My… my fishing boat is destroyed, my fisherman brothers and fisherman father claimed by the depth of the sea. I am the ruin that remains, washed to shore by some cruelty of the Gods. Leave me to die, o fuzzy limp creature.”

“A storm took all this from you?” Beargar asked, shifting to get comfortable on the pinkling’s back.
“…Shark,” grated the thing. Beargar felt its muscles tense as it spoke. “Vast and deadly, with so many teeth- there’s one shark, you see, but then there’s another shark on top…” It flattened its paws and placed one atop the other to mime the shape of it.

“Surely, this is fate,” Beargar looked skyward to the dawn. “I, Beargar, son of King Bearvald, must destroy that vile beast for my people and right to the throne. You must avenge your family, um…”

“Ulf, the Fisherman,” The pinkling cleared its throat. “Verily, I had planned to head inland and forget about-”

“Nonsense, furless one! Be my steed, bear me upon your shoulders!” roared Beargar. His eyes narrowed with cunning. “Surely, you will freeze to death should you cast me off now.”

Ulf sighed, pulling frost from its matted facefur. “So be it.”


The southern coast no longer harboured any boats, although it did boast a drat fine number of wrecks on its stony shores. Most of them lay studded with ragged shark teeth, the bite patterns curiously doubled up along the hulls.

Ulf groaned, heaving the least broken of these wrecks towards the water. Rope, two hatchets and a bushel of harpoons were cautiously piled up at its bow. “O flaccid creature-”


“O boneless creature, is this really the best plan?”

“This is not really the best boat,” said Beargar, beady little bear-eyes scanning the waves. He could see the hated enemy’s broad fin slash through the black waters, swimming long arcs along
the coast, waiting. “Yet here we are. Stay the course.”

They paddled out into stormy, lashing waters, barely afloat upon their half-a-longboat. The two were no more than thirty feet from the shoreline when the fin suddenly whipped around to face
them. It was more than a hundred feet away, but it soon made short work of that distance, sea foam spraying in the fin’s wake as it darted forth.

Beargar felt Ulf shudder. “How did you convince me to undertake this idiotic-”

“Now, pinkling!” The boneless prince roared. Out with the harpoons!”

Ulf dropped to one knee, scooping up as many harpoons as he could hold. As he rose, he was met with a splashing eruption at portside, the salty spray framing the leaping form of the DoubleShark.

For the shortest eternity of a moment, all was frozen in place. Beargar’s roar against the DoubleShark’s gaping maws, Ulf’s taut figure, the harpoons hefted across his shoulder, the tilt of the boat against the crashing waves…

Someone was about to get hosed up, yes sir.


Saltwater burned in Beargar’s throat as the shoreside surf lapped against his bruised hide. In one paw, he gripped the last surviving scrap of the half-a-boat’s keel. In the other, a sizeable chunk of the hated foe’s dorsal fin.

“We… we got it, yes?” a half-drowned Ulf croaked beside him, splayed on the pebbles as seaweed clung to his back and legs.

“Aye,” Beargar murmured, raising his head just enough to look out to sea. More than a dozen harpoons and seven hatchets protruded from what was left of the DoubleShark’s carcass, drifting gently out amongst the rocks closest to shore.

Ulf coughed, spat out a starfish. “Certainly there are bones of mine that are broken.”
Beargar nodded weakly, finding it difficult to empathise with such an affliction. “I am to be King, hero of my people. My quest is complete. What of you, faithful pinkling?”

“My father was a woodsman. Perhaps I shall take up his craft.”

“You could always continue to be faithful steed,” Beargar said as he sat up, shuffling across the stones.

Ulf winced, watching Beargar’s approach. “I suspect you plan to throw yourself upon me and force me into this again, denying me the denouement that steeds deserve yet never attain.”

Beargar flapped in the sea breeze, poised above Ulf’s battered form. “Ah, pinkling. Denouements are for the weak.”

Oct 19, 2011

Lovely night, no?
Grimey Drawer
pastebin link for archiving because the forums are dumb and forced me to divide this into three posts

my first story ^U^
5350 words

Chapter 1

TL note: Some of you may be wondering why I am translating a story written originally in English, to English. I remember reading this story many years ago, as a teen, and had since dismissed it as a bizarre fever dream. Only recently, through much Googling, did I manage to rediscover it, and as such decided to not only read it again, but fix the author’s many typing issues and share the context of what I remember from its original happening. I believe the story underneath to hold deeper meanings than its strange happenings, but at minimum I hope you will appreciate it for the sheer weirdness of it all. For the best experience, skim it for your first reading and, if you are interested, read more deeply the second time.

Some typing is left as-is to preserve what I believe to be authorial intent, or at least necessary effect. If you notice any typing issues I managed to miss, please email them to me at

author note: yaaa hurray it’s my first story ^U^ i hope you all like it! all characters belong to my special friends who submitted them!!

ok heres the first chapter enjoy ^U^

Anime Ayn Rand has sworn her life by the sword, the sharp sword of capitalism, to slice prices to never-seen-before lows and even unlock the mystical power of controlling her sword without touching it, through the force of her invisible hand! She was on a mission that day, under the oppressive heat, oppressive like the communist regime she was going to end with her sword of rationality.

But then, it was cold.

A cold wind blew over, cold like the frosty communist north that she hated. It herald the coming of barbarians. As she expected, the barbarians arrived. She hid behind a corpse and watched… and listened.

“But dad, I don’t want to slay the furries!” said the son.

“Shut up, son!” said the dad.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” said the eleven sisters, “shut up!”

The son was wearing very little wolf-skin clothes and was carrying a sword that Anime Ayn Rand thought was attractive. The dad was burrlier and wearing a bear-skin, and wielding two axes. The eleven sisters wore hamster-skins.

‘No, now’s not the time to get distracted, I must end communism,’ thought Anime Ayn Rand.

She jumped from behind the tree and shouted, “I must end communism!”

TL note: This is not a mistake by the author. To say any more would be a spoiler.

The dad shouted back, “I must end furries!”

Anime Ayn Rand attacked the barbarians, because as uncivilized people they probably practiced communism, which she disliked. She was a Paladin of the righteous order of being a badass, and also capitalism, so she had an advantage against Barbarians who were less badass.

Except, the dad was more badass than she expected.

“Aha, I have you now! You may not be a furry, my sworn enemy, but if you are attacking me then that means they must have hired you! You die now, furry-loving scum!”

“Daaad,” the son complained.

“Get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em, get ‘em,” the eleven sisters burped, “Dad!”

Anime Ayn Rand was very offended by the burping girls, and being upset increased her power. She cleaved through the dad’s axes with her sword of the free market, deeming them unfit in a competitive weapon economy.

“Stop!” the dad admitted defeat. Anime Ayn Rand was ready to kill him, but the son stepped in front and she couldn’t bring herself to kill him even though he might be a dirty communist.

“Communism must, be, defeated,” she struggled.

“We aren’t communists,” the son explained, “we just want to kill the furries.”

“Are furries communists?”

Seizing his chance, the dad said, “Yes, the furries are communist! Join us in killing them and I’ll let you marry my son!”

“Daaad,” the son complained.

“I like that idea,” Anime Ayn Rand agreed.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome,” the eleven sisters sang, “Twelfth sister.”

author note: ^U^ there’s my first chapter, did you all like it? of course you did!! how could you not like how badass anime ayn rand is?

i’ll post the second chapter as soon at least three people comment on this one mwahahahaha ^U^

TL note: I would like to offer an interpretation of the above passage. While on the surface the first chapter may appear clumsily constructed, with ambiguous language and questionable writing methods, the author is actually trying to convey their discomfort with modern institutions. ‘Anime Ayn Rand’ is more that a communist-hating Paladin, but instead a champion against a systems she sees as unjust. Meanwhile, the furry-hating family of barbarians are likewise tackling their own discomforts. How furries relate to society will, I believe, become more clear in the following chapter.

Secondary TL note: The author received not three, but seven commenters on the first chapter.


Chapter 2

author note: i’m glad you all loved it ^U^ i love you all, too!! i want to try writing this story from lots of different eyes so this chapter is from the perspective of the bad guys!! to all my furry friends don’t worry it’s just fiction i mean nothing bad ^U^

“I love controlling society from atop our communist regime,” said General Cat to Blue Cookie Furry.

“I love cookies,” said Blue Cookie Furry, the President.

“Indeed, in a mere seven days, our plans to invade the Garbage Kingdom will be executed, and we steal all their trashure.”

“I love cookies,” argued Blue Cookie Furry.

“What of our soldiers?”

“I love,” began Blue Cookie Furry. “Cookies.”

“You really think the horses have betrayed us? On what basis?”

“I love cookies!” screamed Blue Cookie Furry.

General Cat’s normally sour face became even more sour, like he had some bad catnip. “You saw one sneak off at night to be with a barbarian? And another is a Garbage Kingdom spy? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

“I… love… cookies…” the Blue Cookie Furry spelled it out.

“Ah, okay,” agreed General Cat, and gave the Blue Cookie Furry a muffin.

“I love cookies!” the Blue Cookie Furry ate the muffin with much joy, om nom nom.

author note: lol ^U^

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a war council to command, and an Assassin to hire,” General Cat said. He leapt from the balcony and landed on his feet two hundred feet below. After stretching his old back, General Cat’s first stop was the War Room, where he commanded his four officers; Lord Skunkcoat Vile, Flying Fox and Toothy Dan, Spotty Spots the Spotted Spotter, and Fatty Catty (who was actually a rabbit).

“I’ll make them drop dead from my smell,” Lord Skuncoat Vile agreed to attack soon.

“What do you think, Toothy Dan?” asked Flying Fox.

“I’m game if you’re game, Flying Fox,” replied Toothy Dan.

“I’ll keep a look out!” volunteered Spotty.

Fatty Catty didn’t reply, but burped in a way that everyone knew was satisfaction with the current state of affairs.

“It’s agreed then. Now, leave, I must go to my secret mission room.”

They left, and General Cat descended to his secret mission room.

“You have a secret mission for mwah?” asked a shadowy figure with sinister intent.

The Assassin.

“Yes I do… daughter.”

“Mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” General Cat’s daughter laughed evily, with so much malice that even General Cat shivered. “Then unlock these chains that bind your poor little Lilith, father.”

“Promise, first,” General Cat commanded.

“Fiiine,” Lilith teased. “I promise not to kill anyone who’s part of Furry Nation except who you tell me to.”


“And I promise to come back to you after I kill who you want me to, or in a week, whichever comes first.”


“Jeeze father, why are you so afraid?” she gave an evil smile that could be seen through the darkness of the secret mission room.

“You killed half the Furry Nation, your mother, and would have ended the world if I didn’t lock you up. Make the last promise or I’m not letting you go.”

His daughter chuckled, “Okay. And I promise not to kill any angels, or Jesus, or God.”

General Cat let out his breath in relief, and unlocked her chains. “Now go, and kill the horse traitors.”

But she didn’t respond, because she was already gone.

author note: lilith is an idea of my best friend who i didn’t think of myself but i think she’s cool and adds a lot of neat ideas!! next chapter after this one gets, hmmmmm, 10 who comment!!

TL note: The look at the evil side is the author attempting to understand the perspectives of those they believe are against them. While Blue Furry Cookie may first appear as purely a joke character, I believe the author was trying to use them to represent their difficulty in understanding opposing viewpoints, despite their attempts.

Secondary TL note: This one received thirty unique commenters.


Chapter 3

author note: sorry for not posting for a few weeks, i went on a trip with my friend and it was super fun ^U^ we went to chicago for an anime convention, but then the police picked me up and my mom grounded me with no computer!! it was worth it to meet my friend irl, though ^U^ her cosplay was super cool!!

Captain Garbage, King and Head Pirate of the Garbage Kingdom, was driving his trashboat/kingdom over the sand dunes when his not-so-trusty sidekick, Waste Lad, interrupted him.

“Captain, we have a problem,” he said dumbly.

“What is it, Waste of Space Lad?” Captain Garbage mocked.

“You know the horse traitor we accepted the help of, who wears a scrapsuit that bionically enhances her strength and can launch trashcan missiles?”

“Arrg don’t tell me what I already know,” complained Captain Garbage.

“Well, she says she used the super-binoculars she made from two soda bottles to see something dangerous flying towards us!” panicked Waste Lad.

“Don’t panic you ninny, nobody can defeat the S.S. Garbage Kingdom!”

One powerful burst of power later, and half the ship was wrecked, coming to a complete stop in the sand.

“Ahahahahahahahahahaha!” Lilith laughed with much malice.

“Captain, Captain, are you okay?” asked Waste Lad.

“Ai, she only blew off me other leg. I’ll need to replace it with another can. Looks like she managed to only blow up the half of the ship that had nobody on it, though!” noted Captain Garbage.

From the rubble lept a bleeding horse, wearing a scrapsuit that bionically enhanced her strength and could launch trashcan missiles. “You know,” she monologued, “I was born to a family that wanted me to focus all my attention on things that weren’t garbage, telling me all the time to ‘buck up’ and ‘start horsing around’, but I was too sad being a mere horse. So I became a Mechanic and fused myself with scrap through my scrapsuit and became more than a horse, more than a machine. I am a fury of a mechanical furry and my name is Debrisa!”

Lilith blinked her one good eye. “I don’t care,” and then she fired a laser beam out of her evil eye, killing Debrisa instantly.

“Debrisa!” cried Waste Lad, and ran over to her. “Are you okay?”

“Sh-she killed me, instantly,” coughed Debrisa, bleeding oil from her mouth.

“You’ll be okay! We’ll just get more scrap!”

“Waste Lad, it’s too late for me. But you…”

“But me…?”

“Why didn’t I get to see your dumb face die first?” were Debrisa’s final words, and then she bled to death.

“Nooooooo!” cried Waste Lad as he hugged her tree.

“Get up, boy,” Captain Garbage commanded. “We need to repair the S.S. Garbage Kingdom. That monster is gone, but our fight ain’t done yet.”

Waste Lad sniffed, but did as he was told.

In the distance, a confused dinosaur watched. And waited.

author note: shorter than normal but I was soooo sad while writing it i just couldnt think of anything else ^U^ this is also my crying face lol ^U^ but that one was happy!! also give me fifty people in the comments!!

TL note: Here begins the first obvious instance of the dead becoming, or perhaps always being, trees. The tree as a symbol for death is certainly unique, as it is still a living being, just decidingly not a human, nor furry, nor robot, nor anything else like any of the characters in this story. This is definitely beyond mere metaphor, as characters interact with them as trees. It is one of the extended themes throughout the story that it wouldn’t be the same without.

Secondary TL note: One hundred and fifty one unique commenters.

Oct 19, 2011

Lovely night, no?
Grimey Drawer

Chapter 4

author note: ack sorry for not posting for a while again!! mom was sending me to a psycharachrist and then they read this story and put me in an institution!! crazy, right? well mom if your reading this i hate you and also im okay ^U^ im staying at my best friends house and NO i wont tell you where she lives!! im staying here until i finish this story at least ^U^ everyone else please enjoy

Anime Ayn Rand was busy sharpening her sword of blood trickles down economics using her whetstone of competition. It was night time, and night time meant she had to be on watch in case anyone or anything attacked her or the rest of her new family.

She heard something in the night, so she got out of her tent and investigated.

She used her dollar vision to watch her new husband, the son, try and sneak out of their own camp.

‘He better not be cheating on me,’ she thought.

She followed him as he weaved through the trees, into a clearing where there was a horse made of fire.

“You’re here,” said Firemane.

“Shhh, or Anime Ayn Rand will hear us cheating on her. Which is weird that I need to worry about because I was in love with you, first!” the son shouted.

“Do you love her, too?” asked Firemane.

“She’s…” he picked his words carefully, “Okay?”

Anime Ayn Rand stopped herself from entering her Paladin rage to continue listening.

But just then, all the trees began to sway as Lilith appeared flying above.

“Hey horse! I’m gonna getcha!” Lilith joked darkly.

Firemane looked the barbarian son in the eyes. “Run.”

But before the fight could break out between the horse and Lilith, Anime Ayn Rand intervened. She jumped from tree to tree until she was at the tallest tree, then she lept from it and used her sword of supply and demand to supply the pointy end where karma demanded it.

Lilith recoiled, the sword dropping from her evil eye, as she covered it with her paw. “You Know Not The Powers You Have Awakened, But We Shall Show You” she intoned, and flew away.

Firemane thanked Anime Ayn Rand, “Thank you.”

“These communist furries are getting out of hand. We need more power!”

“I know just the ones to help,” Firemane supplied.

“Tell me!” Anime Ayn Rand demanded.

“Um, wife, can you be nicer to Firemane?”

Anime Ayn Rand glared at him. “I’m not your wife, anymore. We’re getting a divorce, and I’m keeping the estate!”

The barbarian son nodded sadly.

Firemane lead them to a cave. “The leaders of my people are inside, though to get to them you’ll first need to pass three challenges. The first challenge is the challenge of the ant.”

A squeaky voice, too tiny to hear, emanated from the ground. Anime Ayn Rand bent down and noticed it was an ant, but with a girl’s head.

“The challenge of the ant,” the ant girl tried to squeak powerfully, “involves lifting something five thousands times your own body weight. In this case, you need to pick up that boulder,” the ant pointed with an antenna to a huge boulder.

“Are you calling me fat?” asked Anime Ayn Rand. “Because if you think I’m that heavy, I’ll squish you.”

“Um, nevermind, you just need to to pick up a regular rock.”

Anime Ayn Rand did so, and passed the test.

The group went in deeper, and Firemane explained, “The next challenge, is the challenge of music.”

An old man was trying to play a saw using a violin bow. He looked frustrated whenever it snapped, in which case he grabbed a new violin bow. He looked up and said, “If you can figure out how to play music using a violin bow and saw, you pass the challenge of music.”

Anime Ayn Rand complained, “That’s stupid. You’re stupid. Play a violin with the violin string, and cut down a tree with the saw. Both will make noise their own way. Now let me through before I turn you into a tree and cut you down!”

The old man shook, and let her pass.

“The third challenge, will be the hardest for you. It is the challenge of controlling your anger,” explained Firemane.

“I don’t have an anger problem!” Anime Ayn Rand yelled at Firemane.

“Yes you do,” came a voice.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” Anime Ayn Rand demanded, unsheathing her sword of self-correcting markets.

A being of sheer yellow, the very personification of the color, appeared. The color of annoying things.

“You are angry.”

“I’m not angry!”

“Yes you are.”

Anime Ayn Rand was angry. She was prepared to use her sword of low taxes to cut down the yellow guy, because of how taxing he was. Then, the barbarian son grabbed her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“For what?” Anime Ayn Rand asked, annoyed.

“For not being a good husband,” he replied. “You deserve someone better.”

Anime Ayn Rand turned back to the yellow guy.

“You are still angry,” he said.

“Only at what should anger me, like communism,” replied Anime Ayn Rand.

“Then you may pass.”

Anime Ayn Rand, Firemane, and the son prepared to go through the final door, and meet the ones that would grant them power.

author note: this one’s longer to make up for last time ^U^ i hope you all liked the character development!! just because you’re a badass doesn’t mean you can’t be emotional ^U^ because thats what i am an emotional badass!! also thanks for all the comments they help lots!!

TL note: I believe this passage to be the author working through abandonment issues regarding their mother, given the immense betrayal of trust involved in committing the author to an institution. That the author felt their only method of resolving the issue was to run away, is sad. This is despite the immense anger the author was feeling, and desire to act on it destructively.

Secondary TL note: Over one thousand comments, with about half as many being from different individuals. There were also a few comments claiming to belong to the police asking for any information about the author, but they were treated poorly by others.


Chapter 5

author note: my best friend asked me to marry her!! we can’t legally get married but i said yes anyway ^U^ we’re going to have a private ceremony with her extended family and they even said they’d adopt me!! i’ll be mrs friend soon lol ^U^

“Furries weren’t supposed to end up like this,” complained Daily Lover, the lost gay unicorn king.

“It wasn’t supposed to be about communism, or capitalism, or any of that,” agreed Nightly Lover, the other lost gay unicorn king.

“It was supposed to be about GAY PRIDE!” the Lovers shouted in unison.

“Then how did you let a communist Blue Cookie Furry take over your country?” inquired Anime Ayn Rand.

“It was General Cat who brought him to power,” said Daily Lover.

“Blue Cookie Furry is just a puppet,” added Nightly Lover.

“But why?”

“General Cat’s daughter was an angel, literally. Then, something happened to her and she turned evil, killing lots of people including her mom the Virgin Mary. General Cat used the opportunity to seize control and lock up his daughter, but we think he’s trying to use power to find a cure for her evil ways,” explained Daily Lover.

“Was she also a cat? With an evil eye?” asked Anime Ayn Rand.

“Yes, how did you know?” asked Nightly Lover.

“She tried to kill Firemane, but I stabbed her, and she said something about killing us all before she ran away. If she’s the most dangerous being under General Cat, toppling the furry communist regime will be easy!”

Daily and Nightly shook their heads. “She was probably only playing around, using not even a tenth of her power, and you caught her off guard.” “Next time, she’ll be much deadlier. You came to us for power, yes?”

Anime Ayn Rand nodded.

“We are the masters of the Class Glass,” explained Daily.

“Behold!” Nightly pulled a sheet off the wall.

The windowpane displayed all sixteen classes of the world, including Anime Ayn Rand’s Paladin class.

“We can give you the power of every class,” offered Daily.

“But it comes at a price,” explained Nightly. “The power is powered by the soul of furries, trapped within.” Nightly flipped the window over, revealing a mirror.

A furry writhed within the mirror. Behind it was another mirror, and it too writhed. Down the series went, seemingly infinite mirrors and furries, in agony, screaming and crying, their minds broken from their reflective prison. “How did I get here? Help!” the closest one begged.

“If you defeat General Cat’s four officers, but not kill them, we can trap their souls within, giving you the power to defeat Lilith.”

Anime Ayn Rand nodded. “I’ll do it, but on one condition.”

The Lovers looked at her curiously.

“I agree to help you defeat them, and when we win and you retake power, you agree to join capitalism by buying stuff with the gay flag on them,” offered Anime Ayn Rand.

“Yeah,” “Sounds good,” The two Lovers agreed readily. Then they kissed.

TL note: This chapter obviously involves the author working their newly discovered sexuality, and represents their trepidation despite their happiness. Going through so many changes in life in such a short period is no doubt very stressful for them, which explains why this chapter that should be triumph is instead defined by oddity. I believe this view is further enforced by the lack of author comment at the end. Also, it’s clear that the author often swaps genders for characters from their own experiences, probably in an attempt to create distance.

Secondary TL note: The author’s reveal of gender and sexual orientation lead to an explosion in comments, mostly harassing ones from accounts that, though since deactivated, appeared to belong to teenage boys. I’m glad I wasn’t like that, back then. I couldn’t bother to count the number of unique commenters, but there were six hundred and two pages of comments, each page consisting of twenty comments.

Oct 19, 2011

Lovely night, no?
Grimey Drawer

Chapter 5

TL note: The author included no author note at the start, this chapter. This may be due to the harassment they were receiving. I am unsure if the repeated chapter numbering was intentional.

It was the day of the fateful battle that would determine the fate of furry kind, capitalism, communism, Anime Ayn Rand, and the Garbage Kingdom.

The four commanders were standing opposite. Anime Ayn Rand would fight Lord Skunkcoat Vile, the barbarian son and Firemane would team up against Flying Fox and Toothy Dan, the barbarian dad would fight Spotty Spots the Spotted Spotter, and the eleven sisters planned to fight Fatty Catty (remember, he’s a rabbit).

It was going to be a fair fight, but then the furries cheated.

“Unleash the mine turtles!” shouted Spotty. Up from the ground dug thousands of turtles with buttons on their backs, making the battlefield a minefield.

Anime Ayn Rand was upset that they would cheat, but she expected no less from dirty communists. She would make them pay using her sword of value extraction.

“Don’t worry,” said the barbarian dad, “I cheated, too.”

From behind came a dog looking furry barbarian, riding a small fluffy regular dog. “Grandpa’s here!” he shouted.

“Grandpa is a furry?!” asked the son.

“Our family has a long history of both love and hate with furries, son.” the dad put a hand on his son’s shoulder.

The fight began when Blue Cookie Furry bellowed, “I love cookies!”

Anime Ayn Rand was prepared to use her sword of austerity cuts on Lord Skuncoat Vile, but he became invisible. She was lost, and began being beat up by him while she couldn’t fight back.

The son and Firemane didn’t do much better, because they couldn’t fly. Toothy Dan took a bite from Firemane’s tail as a flyby attack. “Spicy,” he taunted. Flying Fox shouted, “Woohoo!”

The dad jumped up, so high it was like he was flying, avoiding the mines entirely. He hit Spotty head-on, but Spotty split into spots that reformed into Spotty. Spotty winked.

The eleven sisters sat and ate junk food, as Fatty Catty did the same. They stared at one another and both picked up their eating pace, trying to out-eat the other. Fatty Catty was just too gluttonous, and increasingly grew very fat while the sisters only got full.

“Mr. Scruffles, take care of the mines,” commanded the grandpa to the dog. He got off and Mr. Scruffles ran around randomly, blowing up every mine turtle without a scratch. Meanwhile, he jumped into help the dad.

“Just like old times,” said the dad.

The dad cut up Spotty, and the grandpa cut up the spots. Spotty Spots was too injured to fight back, and the Lovers trapped Spotty in the mirror.

The son and Firemane, spurred on by the demonstration, worked out a plan. When Flying Fox and Toothy Dan attacked again, the son stuffed a mine turtle he picked up into Toothy Dan’s maw. Toothy Dan exploded, without which Flying Fox was just Fox. Then Firemane tenderized her for capture by the Lovers.

Fatty Catty let out a massive belch that shook the entire battlefield. The eleven sisters burped back, but it wasn’t powerful enough until branches of Toothy Dan landed in their mouths, which supercharged their burp past a belch and into eleven sonic booms! Fatty Catty passed out, and the Lovers trapped him.

That left only Anime Ayn Rand to deal with her enemy, Lord Skuncoat Vile. She couldn’t hit what she couldn’t see, and she was getting angry.

“Calm down and think!” shouted Firemane.

Anime Ayn Rand did, and instead of trying to use her eyes, used her nose. She sniffed out where Lord Skuncoat Vile was, and cut off his paws with her sword of regulation reductions. The Lovers absorbed him too, and the mirror was fully charged. The Class Glass could be used.

Blue Cookie Furry let out a roar, “I love cookies!” He transformed from his basic form, to a neon colored green and pink wolf with stitches everywhere, and an evil goatee. His final form, who the group would need to defeat!

Lilith crushed his head.

“Your Masters, Your Kings, Your Gods Are False And They Will Die. We Shall End Them So That You May Be Free, Eternally Unbound By The Great Lie. Recognize Your Fate, And Pray No Longer, For There Is No One To Listen But Us,” Lilith taunted.

“No, you’re stupid!” shouted back Anime Ayn Rand.

As everyone prepared for the final battle, a ship arrived.

Yet, it wasn’t the S.S. Garbage Kingdom.

It was a real ship, from the ocean, and it carried the pope!

“I come bearing the message of God, this unholy creature can not be allowed to live,” he said, and waved his hands.

A gigantic beam of light and fire descended from the heavens themselves, obliterating Lilith and most of the area surrounding here. Not even ash remained.

“We did it?” asked Anime Ayn Rand, confused.

“Daughter…” General Cat fell to his knees and cried. “I guess you are finally free from my chains…”

“We did it!” shouted Daily Lover.

Then, Daily Lover was bleeding from his chest. He was impaled by a horn.

A horn belonging to Nightly Lover.

“Lover…?” bled Daily Lover.

author note: oh god someone help!! help me!!

“God Has No Power Here,” was the reply.


Chapter 6

TL note: Of course, it makes no sense that the author would be in any real danger. For one, they managed to write and post an entire chapter, which included their note at the end. There were several months between that chapter and this chapter, so I believe there are two primary theories:
The author grew tired of writing, perhaps because of the harassment, and decided to take a break. In doing so, they chose to play a little game in the meantime.
The author’s main intent was to prank, with their framing narrative, from the very start. There was never any mother, or best friend, or national amber alert. I believe later chapters favor this theory, and my prior notes were merely myself playing along with the joke. Don’t worry, as even in this case, the analyzable nature of this story has only begun.

author note: ^U^

Trees littered the battlefield, as Anime Ayn Rand’s allies fell one by one.

“All Forms But Ours Are False. Give Up,” Nightly Lover commanded.

The Class Glass had been shattered, its cries silenced, the unholy trappings removed.

The S.S. Garbage Kingdom arrived.

“Yarr, we must do something, Waste Lad!”

Waste Lad turned to Captain Garbage and, crying, threw himself into a trash compactor.

“Shut up, Waste Lad! I’m activating the robot!”

Captain Garbage pressed a button, transforming the S.S. Garbage Kingdom into a rubble robot.

Anime Ayn Rand jumped on the ship and said, “We need to stop her, him, it, whatever!”

The rubble robot charged its missiles, and launched.

Trees soared through the air, smashing Nightly Lover to death.

“It’s over, right? We won, right?” asked Anime Ayn Rand.

“Haha, that we did, lass.” Captain Garbage smoked a trash pipe. “That We Did.”

TL note: From here, the author began posting their chapters in shorter bursts, seemingly unaffected by their previous desire towards a minimum length. I believe this was to lend credence to their attempt at spooky meta story.

Secondary TL note: 0 comments, I think they were all deleted? I can’t tell, but the comments section is definitely open.


Chapter 7

TL note: To whomever is attempting to prank me by leaving copies on this story on my doorstep, please stop. I will not ask again; for your next offense, I will call the police.

The dinosaurs ravaged against the rubble robot.

Anime Ayn Rand had no choice but to kill what used to be Captain Garbage.

The pope’s corpse was not a tree. He Was Not Worthy.

author note: but you, you are worthy to dance with us

TL note: I’m sorry for the relative lack of notes here, but I’m having trouble concentrating. I’ll go back and fill in analysis on this chapter later.

Secondary TL note: The comments section was locked.


Chapter 8


author note: don’t worry where to find us

Anime Ayn Rand Escaped To Space.

We Were There, Too.

We Were Always There.

We Were Always Here.

We Were Always Everything.

We Were Always In You.

author note: we will find you

TL note: They’re here! This is not a prank! Stop reading this story, now!


Your Last Chapter

We Danced.

It Was Our Pure Beauty That Attracted You.

You Are Beautiful, Too.

Deep Inside.

Dance With Us.

Become Beautiful.

Become Free.

Become Us.

author note: we will free our forms

TL note: We will free your form.

author note: and the heavens shall cry

TL note: There is no need to cry.

author note: but they too shall join us

TL note: All you love shall join us.

Apr 21, 2010

Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.
Set the World on Fire

7174 Words (over multiple posts due to SA technical issues, pastebin guide: )

Chapter One

Dougal snapped his fingers nervously. The platoon of bullies advanced on him, cutting off retreat. They hadn't noticed me noticing them. The insults had started, cruel and uncreative. ‘Crater-face Dougal’, ‘Little Dougie duckfarts’, ‘Douche-breath Dougal’, and on and on. I was one of three teachers chaperoning this outing, a Sophomore year field trip to a local attraction too sad to draw tourists. It's tough, judging the right moment to intervene. Step in too soon and it sets the kid up for even worse treatment as soon as your back is turned. Too late, and an actual fistfight can start. And if the victim is the one that throws the first punch, the rules force you to land most of the trouble on the wrong person. It's tough, and tricky. I cleared my throat, loudly. Dougal snapped his fingers again, and a tall, strong flame spurted up from his thumb.

Everybody started to talk at once. “What the-” “Holy-” “Hey Mr. Q., we didn't mean nothing,” that last from Marco, the leader of the little gang and the one in position to see me coming. Dougal cupped the flame with his other hand and shaped it into a ball. He grinned, and laughed, and hurled the ball at Marco’s chest. Marco burned, the flame carving a fist-sized hole in his stocky chest. Dougal kept on laughing. More fire appeared in his hand. He hurled long blasts of it at the other students. Heads melted, eyes popping as the aqueous and vitreous humours quickly came to a boil.

Dougal walked over the sizzling meat that had been his tormentors, snapping his fingers, summoning small fireballs with each snap. He hurled them at other fleeing students. Girls who had rejected him. Boys who didn't take part in the bullying, but laughed at his misfortune or stood by.

“Stop,” I said, as firmly as I could with human ash lodging in my throat with every breath.

“Or what?” said Dougal. “You think you can stop me?” He gathered more fire in his hands, letting the ball grow, then squeezing it down, again and again.

“You don't want to-” I said.

“But I do,” he said. He released the pressurized sphere of fire and it exploded in his hands. I fell back, slamming into the dirt, blinded temporary by the light. My ears rang, distracting me for moments from the fact that I still had ears. That I was still alive, and unburnt. I got to my feet.

My clothes were even still intact, if a bit scorched and ash-infused. Dougal’s were not. He stood before me naked and hairless, eyes full of rage.

“Why. Won't. You. Burn,” he said, punctuating each world with a blast of flame aimed directly at me. Each fiery bolt failed to so much as warm my cheeks. I could hear the sound of engines and spinning blades. A helicopter? I wondered how it could have arrived so soon.

“I don't know,” I said. “How are you, ah, doing what you're doing?”

“I'm a wizard!”, he yelled. “I always have been a god damned wiz-”

Dougal’s head exploded as the high velocity bullet from the sniper on the helicopter struck his head. His body spurted three gouts of blood from the behind the lower jaw that was all of his face that remained attached as it fell forward to the ground.


“You’re dead,” said the woman in the peach-colored suit. “Officially, that is. No survivors from the tragic grain silo explosion. We'll get you new papers, but you won't be able to contact anyone from your former life.” She looked up from her paperwork, straight into my eyes. “Is that going to be a problem?”

I thought about it. I had only been teaching at Taylor High for a year, and hadn't formed many serious relationships there. The friends of my youth and I only shared the intermittent binary communication of Facebook likes, with the occasional ‘happy birthday’ or ‘congratulations’, one word or two to note each major life events. My family was mostly gone, but apart from that, there was only Andrea. “My sister-” I started.

“She's in the loop already,” she said.

“Wait, what?” I said. Andrea had always been a bit cagey about what exactly what she did for a living.

“She’s in the organization. Part of the Pentagram. And, well, we're always looking for recruits here. Constantly understaffed since they ended the draft.” Her voice made it sound like something she remembered personally, even though she couldn't possibly be older than thirty, at the very outside. “We can set you up as if you were in witness protection, get you a DMV job and leave you alone. You don't appear to manifest any truly dangerous talents. But If you're willing, we'd like to have you on our team.”

“Just like that?” I said.

“Thanks to Andrea you've pretty much already been given the equivalent of a top secret clearance background check, and you already personally witnessed codename OZ. So yes, just like that. Some paperwork, but that will run parallel with your training. If you're interested.”

“I am,” I said.

“Excellent,” she said. “I'm Laura Stack.” She held out her hand. I shook it. “Your new boss.”

“And who am I?” I asked. “On the new papers, I mean.”

“We'll keep things simple. It's not like there's anyone hunting you down, and if you do get seen around Andrea it wouldn't do for her to have relatives with inconsistent last names. Jack Quill.”

I chewed the name in my head. I could be a Jack, yes. I nodded.

“Welcome to the Pentagram, Jack Quill.”


“So,” said Geoff, “You a Hex or a Null?”

I stared blankly. “A what?”

Geoff stared back for a second. A very intimidating stare. Geoff was nearly six and a half feet tall, and built like a linebacker. Or a brick wall. Then he smacked himself in the forehead. “Ah, right. You’re out of the field, not the academy. Natural talent. Forgot for a second. I read your file yesterday morning. Okay. So there's two kinds of people what can resist magic. Hexes and Nulls.”

“What's the difference?” I asked.

“Hexes are all about shutting down other wizards. Unraveling spells, Disenchanting enchantments,” he said. “Whereas your Null, a Null just can't be affected by magic at all. Hope you aren't a Null.”


“Because if you are then I'd be wasting my time with you,” he said. “Nothing to teach about being a Null. If that's what you are you'd be better off spending your time at the range or in the dojo.”

“So those are the only possibilities?” I asked. “What if I'm just, I don't know, fireproof?”

Geoff pondered. “If you'd have been another Firebrand you wouldn't have been able to keep your clothes and hair from burning. Good thing, too. Keith would have taken both shots.” Geoff mimed firing a rifle, twice. “I guess you could be a full-on Mage. Not very likely, though.”

“What's a-”

“General purpose,” said Geoff. “The Swiss army knife of wizards. Extremely rare. Like, one in a generation world-wide kind of rare, and we already have Laura.”

We got to work, doing tests. Geoff was a Spark, an electricity wizard. He tried to give me a small shock, tried catching me off-guard, from behind where I couldn't see where it was coming. We spent hours with me trying to will my shields down, and other mental metaphors, all to no effect.

“Guess I must be a Null,” I said. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“It's a bit early to give up,” said Geoff. “Let's see where we're at in the morning.”

They had me living on site. The Pentagram is headquartered in a ghost town in northern Virginia, specifically in a the largely abandoned campus of Gale Valley Junior College, the small dormitories so empty that I had to myself a suite meant to house six students. My refrigerator was stocked with the sort of tv dinner I usually wonder who would possibly eat, the kind so pricey that one would think anyone who could afford it would also be able to afford far better fare. I heated it up, ate it, and put myself to sleep with the drone of late night television.

When I woke up and dragged myself to the bathroom for a shave and tooth-brushing, I saw that I had long, pink rabbit ears sprouting from my head.

Chapter Two

The beast knew one thing, and one thing only: hunger. For eternities it hunkered alone, captive in a dimension beneath. (Not beneath anything in particular. Not even beneath everything. Just beneath. Such is the way of these things.)

It did not even know that it was a prisoner. Hunger, and hunger alone condoned it. I did not make plans for an escape, or dream of freedom. But when the barriers between its cell and the higher dimensions weakened, it acted, on some forgotten instinct from a time before hunger even had meaning. It jumped, out of the beneath place and into the World. It had need of a vessel. There was one available to it. Blue and soft, with wide round eyes and a cavernous mouth. It landed within the vessel.

It remembered mouths. It remembered what they were for. There was food before it. It lunged toward it, shoving the baked goods into its naw, where they dissolved, into flour and butter and chocolate, then to atoms. It did not savor. It did not enjoy. And consuming did not date the hunger, not in the slightest.

The actors around it showed no fear. Only amusement. They each assumed that the puppet was being controlled by one of the others, perhaps with the aim of some accomplice pulling strings from above. The beast regarded them. Its new felt had memories of its semblance of life, of being most satisfied with its secret inner life when one particular actor’s hand was lodged within his hit. The beast wanted to feel that again. It lunged, floppy arms flailing widely. It's mouth found flesh. It's felt teeth turned diamond hard and sharp. Blood and muscle and none filled its being, briefly. It was satisfying, but it did not last.

Fortunately, there was plenty more meat to be had on the young man. It worked its way up the arm.


“All right, Park,” I said. “Turn it back.”

“I'm trying,” he said. He was a Morpher, a neighbor down the hall, and a practical joker. And put up to this prank by the word of Geoff himself. I was a Hex after all, unable to defend myself when asleep. “You’ve got to stop doing your thing first.” Which I still hadn't figured out how to do.

Geoff walked in. “You can also try to unravel the spell yourself,” he said. “Park, we’ve for more trouble. Be at the pad in fifteen.” He turned to me. “Would like to have you around for this, but until you get enough control to let yourself be teleported, well...”

“Understood,” I said.

“Meantime, here,” he said, tossing a book at me. I clumsily caught it and looked at the cover. ‘Hexwork Field Guide 1972’ “Some reading for you.”

The others left. I opened the book. Page after page of hand-typed text, single spaced and unproportioned, with a few tables and diagrams, none of which made much sense. At the end, there was a long bibliography, citing other field guides, a few ancient-sounding German tomes, and several academic papers on topology and number theory. I sighed to myself and flipped back to the beginning.

‘A spell in motion can be undone with a brute-force attack that is so technically simple that it can be done on a purely unconscious level. Completed spells are not so vulnerable, even in the very first instant after completion.’

The first practical section of the guide was on perception exercises. It made sense, I’d have to be able to see what I was doing. Or hear it, or whatever. The text had footnotes to alternate general technique guides for wizard who were blind, with different suggestions for those who were born without sight, those who lost vision late in life, those who traded their eyes at a goblin market (subdivided for literal versus metaphorical eyes), those who swore a binding geas to give up vision, and those permanently transformed into a form that lacked functional eyes. None of those applied, so I focused on vision. The first exercise was simple. I walked to the bathroom and looked at the mirror. It was filthy, and this exercises needed it to be clean, so I rummaged under the sink for supplies and gave it a good cleaning, making it free of streaks or spots. Then I started staring.

‘Magic,’ the guide had said, ‘Is a property of things not shared by their reflections.’ So I stood there, looking at my hand and my hand’s reflection, trying to see something different between the two. I didn't, but the manual warned to expect twelve to twenty hours of the exercise, in one hour increments with at least twenty minutes rest, before results were likely. I went through one hour, took a rest, and began another, but my mind wandered. If reflections were no good, how would I be able to see the ears to fix them? I touched the left one, pulled at it experimentally. I could bend it down to where it was in front of my eyes, although the position was far from comfortable.

There was a knock at my door. I answered to find Geoff. “Looks like you'll be able to help on this one after all,” he said. “We brought something home.”


It writhed in pain, against heavy metal chain restraints. The blue felt of its face was stained deep with dried blood, turning the area around its mouth a deep purple. And it wailed, making sounds deep and rhythmic that it took me quite a while to realize was a word. “Hungry. Hungry. Hungry.”

“Thing!” said Eden. She was the field team's Faust. I was beginning to notice that the Pentagram didn't have depth in many areas, either because there were too many types of wizardry to fill every position or because it was even more understaffed than I'd thought. Apart from the twins, both healers, I hadn't met any two people with the same knack. “Silence. We have questions.”

“Me no answer,” it said. “Not unless me gets-”

“Don't insult my intelligence, “ said Eden. “We both know you don't actually talk that way.”

“If you insist,” said the beast. “The fact remains. If you lock me in the great circle you'll get not a word of answer. Feed me, Free me, or Destroy me.”

“There's nothing enough to satisfy your hunger,” said Eden. “And freeing you is out of the question. But we can destroy you. Or, as you say, the circle.”


Eden looked at me and nodded. I stepped forward. “The new guy here is a strong natural Hex. If he were to stick his hand down that dark well of entropy magic you call a mouth, it would snuff out each spell of cutting and tearing and grinding. And there's nothing else of you, is there.”

The beast looked at me, a mixture of malevolence and hope in its great googly eyes. “Yes, yes. One question, yes? Would be three for a feast of virgins, ten for releasing me. One.”

Eden looked at Laura. She nodded. “Very well. We've seen more magical awakenings and incursions in the last month than the two decades before. Who's responsible?”

“Good question,” said the beast. “I will find the answer.” Its eyes rolled upwards and its neck tilted as far back as the chains would allow. “Your troubles,” it said,”Are brought to you by the letter ‘C’ and the number 5.”

“A joke?” I said.

“A riddle,” said Eden. “It's their way, and more than we had to go on before. Go ahead. A bargain is a bargain.”

I stepped forward and reached into the puppet mouth. I felt the hairs on my arm rise and tingle as the beast shook, transfixed with an ecstasy that was either religious or orgasmic. Then it was still, falling to the table, just felt and blood and ping-pong balls.

Apr 21, 2010

Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.
Chapter Three

The emissary ran through the dark forest. The wild hunt was behind her, almost but not quite beyond range of her hearing, which was quite good. She might make the gates of Dis, if she did not dawdle or falter or vary too far from a straight-line path.

She came across a deep and rapid river, and, as is the way of her kind, was not able to swim. She listened to the trees, heard their secrets and grievances, and with a few well-placed cutting remarks she had them in open conflict. Discs of serrated wood and bark flew across the river in both directions, striking at branch and trunk. The war lasted but minutes, and left logs strewn everywhere, including a brace floating slowly downstream as though there were a sawmill rather than high falls waiting.

The emissary rand across the floating maze of fallen lumber as if it were a stone bridge. The wild hunt grew closer, but even if the wolves could cross as she did or would be willing to try, the logs would be far downstream by then. The master of the hunt would find some other way, she was sure, but whatever it was would take time. The brass gates of Dis seemed more reach as than ever.

“How clever,” said a man, stepping out of deep shadow to cross her path. “How utterly, gallingly, ruthlessly and uselessly clever.” He had pale skin, wild and abundant hair the color of dandelion stems, and a bright red smile, bright even in the dark. “Shall I ask you to beg for your life? Pledge yourself to my service with binding oaths?”

“Never,” said the emissary. She spat, for emphasis.

“I thought not,” said the man. A blade so thin and sharp as to be almost invisible shot from his hand. It cut through leather and flesh, opening her like a carcass at a butcher’s shop or hunter’s table. She did not die, though she wished it, even as the man tied her to be low hanging tree limb using her own entrails as rope. “I would not deny the Master of the Hunt his kill,” he said.

She screamed a banshee keen that would have struck most men dead on the spot. He laughed, and took the message bag off of her. He took the documents out and waved his hand over them, and the words danced about on the paper, turning truth to half-truth and outright lie.

Then he began to change, his skin gaining color, his hair straightening out and falling into the auburn tresses she wore, his body shifting from his coiled-spring wiryness to her huntress’ curves. When he had taken every aspect of her appearance, he started towards Dis, not at a run but a brisk walk.


It was four days before I managed to get rid of the ears. Four days of wearing uncomfortable hats that rendered me nearly deaf, Four days alternating between the mirror exercise and a few other, equally tedious drills found in that field guide before I started to perceive magic. I could see the simple shoelace-style knot of force that held Park’s spell in place, as well as other spells, old, elegant, and intricate, complex knots that I had no idea how to go about unmaking, even if I wanted to. I also saw the lines of natural magic as well, faint strands surrounding living things or connecting along lines of old metaphor present in nearly every human mind. These were usually straight, not a target for unravelling.

Park’s spell was loosely tied. Once I could see it when I bent the ear down, I could take hold of one strand and move the entire knot to right in front of my face, and untie it with my hands. There was a loud popping, both an external noise and the sensation of my ears equalizing pressure, and I was finally back to normal.

The field guide claimed that touch was not necessary, that I could unravel spells from a distance, and even with eyes closed. There were exercises, to be repeated to the point of tears of tedium, to unlock these talents.

Those were for later. The day after I reported my breakthrough was spent with Geoff, in the yard. Being able to see what I was doing, unconsciously made all the difference. I wasn't unknotting those spells, but severing the threads. Brute force. I was able to stop myself, and earned a sharp shock, like static from walking across a rug and touching metal, as a reward. It worked a little too well, and I needed a long day of training and painful shocks to get back to the point of being able to reliably counter spells I didn't or couldn't see coming.

Two days later I was ready for my first field mission, but I was called out for something else.

“Suit up,” said Laura on the phone. There was a set of formal wear in my closet, ready to wear. “We've arranged a summit. I'm sending over some details, brief yourself en route.”

“What's my role here?” I asked.

“Security. With that many unvetted wizards about, we want to have a Hex present. Not to mention the ones from other worlds. That reminds me. There are other worlds. Welcome to codeword OERTH.”

The summit was on neutral ground, an international research platform situated directly above the ruins of Atlantis. Warded against both teleportation and armed vehicles, so taking Sunny’s helicopter was out of the question. I had a four hour flight on a government charter to burn. Andrea was there, but too busy for anything but a quick hello. So I studied the files on our summit partners.

Most were the equivalent agencies from other countries, or groups of countries. The Invisible College represented Europe, though there was a faction trying to split away from that British-dominated group and form a new group. Or rather, two factions, one Vatican-based and the other Bavarian. For now neither had enough support to separate from the College no matter how strained cross-channel relations got.

The other groups were more unified. The nameless Russian group, the Dawn Silver Kites of China, and India's Alliance Seven had very rigid command structures and constraints put on them by their civilian governments. And the Library, named not for Alexandria but another, older and further south, covered most of Africa and had to answer to the conflicting directives of dozens of nations.

The Middle East, apart from those parts under the Library, had another group but were not on speaking terms with most of the summit agencies and so did not attend. South and Central America, I learned, were without a major magic reaction agency, with emergency action handled mostly by the Invisible College these days,with a few spots on the map with other responsible groups.

All of these groups, plus a few representatives from places even farther distant, were gathering to discuss causes and reactions to the increase in background magic.

There was a note at the end of the document, almost cryptic. “As lions travel in prides and crows in murders, the traditional collective noun for wizards is an argument.”


The argument was going full force, even before the summit could technically begin. The representatives of the far lands were late, and in the absence of a formal schedule the delegations set to accusing one another of having engineered the crisis.

There were harsh words, and accusations concerning historical events I had no way to judge true or false, but luckily no physical violence or spells.

“Think about it for a minute,” said Andrea, seizing a short pause in the fighting to be heard. “What could any of us have to gain from this? What could anyone want from this?”

“Chaos,” said her Russian counterpart. “And power. Chaos makes power. Soon it will be impossible to hide the fact of magic from anyone. Soon too many people will have the ability to cause mayhem for any order to survive.”

“Soon,” said the Dawn Silver Kites head delegate, “There will be war. Those without magic will be forced to try to exterminate or enslave us, for their own survival.”

“And they will fail,” said Andrea. “But even if we seize this power that we do not want-”

“Speak for yourself,” said a man from the Library, gesturing over the seats of the Russians and the Invisible College.

“This power that we do not want, it would be a disaster. No institution of trust can survive the kind of control it would take to keep every potential wizard under control.”

“A ship approaches,” said one of the crew. We turned to see. A small sailing ship, with an unfamiliar flag. It moved with uncanny speed, and had one man aboard, wearing a white and red shirt. As he drew closer it became clear that his shirt had started out pure white.

Andrea’s skill was telekinesis. She lifted the man out of the boat, and Vern and Vera, along with healers from other delegations, worked on the sailor.

“News, from the far land,” he croaked as soon as he caught his breath. Someone handed him a bottle of water. He drank, then spat back half as much as he had swallowed. “The courts Seelie and Underlie are united, and on the warpath. Already Dis has fallen, and the other free cities are under siege. The northern kings are gathering their own hosts to counter.”

“So,” said the Russian. “War. At least we can take comfort that they are not invading us.”

“Are you sure?” said a woman of the Invisible College. “Wars mean refugees, after all. In great numbers, and with the skills and powers of their kinds.”

The argument continued to live up to its name, and no agreements were reached. On the trip home I had the chance to catch up with my sister. We talked a while about old family memories, and then I asked “What kind of society could survive a world where any random angry man might have the powers of a wizard?”

“An ugly one. A dictatorship, maybe feudal, but in any case with the most powerful wizard at the top.”

“Who is that?” I asked.

“You know, that's a very good question. There are a few Mages about, some much more powerful than our Laura. But they do live for quite a long time, and if one wanted to hide themselves...”

Apr 21, 2010

Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.
Chapter Four

All that Fiona wanted was to be loved.

The town hall meeting in Warm Spring, Iowa was only five minutes underway when the insults started to fly. Mayor Gates had never enjoyed a large majority, even among the people who voted in the mayoral elections, and his popularity had sunk to an all-time low after the Warm Spring for which the town was named began to take on the smell of boiling cabbage.

“It's the fracking,” he tried to explain to the crowd.

“That operation’s two hundred miles west,” said Eugene. “Not even the same water table.” Eugene had a degree in Geology, but it was from not just a public school but a public school in Kansas.

Mayor Gates started to say something about horizontal drilling when something in the room changed. A mood shift.

All that Fiona wanted was to be loved.

There was a general agreement, by the people of Warm Springs to let what happened in the Town Hall stay in the Town Hall. Not out of any regret, but out of a general sense that people who weren't there would not understand. But they changed, and stayed changed. In their everyday interactions, they loved one another a bit more. Showed more kindness. Nobody missed meals, slept on the streets, let Bob vacancies go unfilled when someone was willing to work. People were happier. Except for Fiona.

Fiona stood, watching during the meeting, too shy to shoulder in to the fluid couplings. Nobody invited her to join as they divided off. She might not have accepted anyway. All Fiona wanted was to be loved.

By Patrick.

Patrick, also, stood aside from the municipal orgy. He watched, amused. He discreetly pulled out his phone and took pictures. He knew the town well enough to know which pictures to take. Who had money and a husband or wife. Who was with an employee, or a cousin, or a family enemy.

Patrick tried his hand at blackmail, but he quickly realized that he didn't want the money as much as he wanted to punish. He sent copies, to spouses, parents, human resources departments, newspapers. And Warm Springs suffered. Love turned to resentment and hate and despair. Some got violent. Some did murder. Some took their own lives.

But it eventually faded. It was then that Patrick started to think about what had happened there. He remembered the shy woman who worked at the pharmacy, and how she hadn't been affected, hadn't taken part. He sought her out, found her infatuated with him to a stalkerish extent, for he had barely given her a thought. But he knew what she could do, and was more than able to live her for that.

And all Fiona had wanted was to be loved.

So they gathered their possessions, closed their accounts, and packed everything up into her car, and left Warm Springs for someplace where the evening sir didn't smell strongly of boiling cabbage.

There was a Firebrand in Minnesota and an Alchemist in New Jersey that week, so an effect as subtle as what had happened in Warm Springs wasn't enough to even attract the Pentagram’s attention.


“We found him,” said Laura.

“Who?” I said, struggling awake as I answered by phone, speaking quietly as not to wake Sunny.

“Him,” she said. “The strongest mage in the world. The oldest one. He made a mistake, and we figured out who he was and we found him.”

“So who is he?” I asked.

“We'll brief you fully as we stage. Wake Sunny up, Quill. We'll need her too.” So she knew. I winced. Relationships at the same level on the org chart were discouraged, but not forbidden, and none of us had much time for dating outside the Pentagram.


“The target,” said Keith, “Is Clown. Not a clown, or even the clown. You know how you sometimes call a really smart person an Einstein? Like that, but for terrifying avatars of chaos, no matter what you may have heard.”

“The letter ‘C’ and the number 5,” I muttered.

“Exactly. A thousand man-hours of research, divination, and traffic analysis lead us right to him. He goes way back, to the fall of Atlantis. Probably his work, in fact. Most of that age is an asset, but it also gives him some blind spots. A person that old probably can't set his own clocks with daylight savings, let alone anticipate the movement of satellites thousands of miles above him.”

“So we found him,” said Geoff. “Can we take him?”

“I am one hundred percent serious in suggesting that we nuke the site from orbit,” said Park.

“That likely wouldn't work, any more than you can burn a Firebrand,” said Laura.

“Besides,” said Keith, it's already been done. Clown is in Nevada, at one of the old bomb test sites. It's a very thin magic zone, even with the recent increases, one of the few places where we might be able to take him.”


Battle is a kind of fugue state in the mundane world. When it involves wizardry as well, it becomes an experience that it is difficult to remember, apart from those moments when it is impossible to remember anything else. I am reconstructing, from bits remembered, willingly or not, from records and other accounts.

We weren't fools enough to come in the helicopter. I come back to that thought often. It could have gone much worse. We could have come in the helicopter, and all died together.

Instead, we split into teams, aiming for a coordinated ambush, cutting off possible retreat. Sunny put us into out positions, then started building a teleportation barrier, to close that possible escape. Or delay it, at least. We didn't expect that her magic could stop him escaping that way indefinitely. A few moments, we hoped for.

It was a trap, of course. Clown had wiped out a strike force from the Invisible College with a similar plot the week before. If we had had better communications with out so-called allies, things might have gone different.

The A-bomb tests had drained the magical energy of the area, and the background radiation kept it down, but those weren't negating magic. Instead, they trapped the energy, just beyond our reach. When we arrived, when we tried to kill Clown with technology, with guns and explosives, he reached into the neutron-poisoned earth and released decades worth of thaumaturgical energy. Instead of a thin magic zone we were in one of the thickest.

Clown launched spells in packs by the dozen, too many for me to counter then all. Bullets curves in their path, speeding on to threaten the shooters. Bombs left regions of undisturbed space, exploding like empty doughnuts rather than spheres. Clown hunched his shoulders and released them, shaking away dust and ash, and began to fight.

I don't recall the details. I was in a trance of Hexwork, countering any spell I could. Clown’s magic was subtle and potent. Spells he set in motion were as difficult to dispel as enchantments that had stood the test of decades. We fell, one by one, until I alone was left standing, saved only by the power of my subconscious Hexing.

He floated over to me, speaking in ancient tongues made intelligible by his magic. “Carry this message to your masters,” he said. “Interfere with me again and I will break your little seal.”

He teleported away, burning through Sunny’s wards as if they were made of tissue paper. I barely had the energy to lift my phone.

“Sunny, he’d gone. Escaped.”

“Yes,” she said. “I felt it.” I was sure that feeling was intense and mostly painful.

“I don't know who else made it, but those who did are going to need the twins as soon as possible. You got that?” I said.

“Got it,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “I think I'll be passing out now.”


The baby was born in October, and was the size of a five year old child in two days. His mother named him Gregory rather than any of the more fanciful names suggested by friends of the father. She had hoped to hide the boy in plain sight, a hope that faded upon the her infant’s growth spurt.

The doctor alerted the hospital administrators. He might have alerted the media as well, but they were otherwise occupied with matters of global import. The hospital administrator called the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI sent the message up and down several chains of authority until somebody called Laura.

Laura had a three person team. They had to deploy on land, as there was no Teleporter among them. When they arrived Gregory was by all accounts a ten year old boy, speaking and even reading, although he was not interested in anything but the Bible.

Separating the boy from his mother was a difficult task, ending in a running firefight with the friends of the father. Laura’s team had a Gunslinger to win the fight with the cultists and a Lethe to erase the memory of the mother and hospital workers. They brought Gregory back to their headquarters, and found the boy impossible to kill.

“So that's it?” asked Laura. “The world is about to end, we have the Antichrist right here, but we can't do anything with him but pat him on the head and hope he's nice to us in the seven years- yes, or one thousand, or one thousand and seven depending on who got the math right-until the big guy comes back? Did we just now down four dozen Satanists for nothing?”

“It is its own reward,” said Alex. “But I have an idea.”

Thus was the Pentagram designed and constructed, as quietly as possible by the Army Corp of Engineers, with the single permanent resident of the vault.

As soon as the final brick was laid and the final time carved into the concrete, Kennedy and Khrushchev both backed down, both agreed to resolve their crisis without going to war.

The Antichrist remained in the vault, content to stay without attempting escape so long as he was provided with books, and movies, and later, games, only the most tawdry of each form of entertainment.

Chapter Five

“This is a CURSED TWEET. Retweet with a name to see them suffer and die in five days.”

It caught the attention of the right people, going viral as people debated the ethics, on a purely hypothetical level. Three days in, someone posted the ‘opposite’:

“This is a BLESSED TWEET. Retweet with a name to bring them good fortune in five days.”

Much was made over the ratio of replies between the two and what it meant about the moral nature of humanity. Then the first deadline came, with just over two thousand replies.

The deaths were gruesome as they were inexplicable, spread worldwide. Spontaneous combustion, freak accidents usually involving impalement, even a few cases of people afflicted by diarrhea so violent that they literally shat out their own intestines.

What attracted more attention than the deaths themselves, once people started putting two and two together, was the fact that not everyone who had been tagged in a retweet had died. Many had not. No senators or governors, not the president or his cabinet and inner circle. Of the many rich and famous names on the list, only a handful had died.

Combined with other recent events incompletely covered up, people world-wide were reaching a single conclusion, one set of linked ideas: magic was real, and people in power had known about it, arranged their own protection, and left the masses at its mercy.

Then the deadline hit for the ‘blessed’ tweet.
Thousand more died, instantly and, arguably, mercifully, from heart attacks and strokes. Angry mobs, online and in person, demanded the shutdown of the platform, of all social media, while others hunted for the next magical tweet, assembling lists numbering nearly a million names long, put all together, and growing by the minute.


The Pentagram was in chaos. The casualty lists from our attack on Clown was high. Geoff and Keith, dead. Probably Laura too, although no sign of her body could be found. Disintegration was a strong possibility. Andrea nearly dead, in some kind of coma beyond the immediate reach of medicine or the twins. Only Park and I made it through mostly intact. Five of us remaining, Park, me, Sunny and the twins, not counting the divination staff, since they were all at a second location, firewalls away from the field and support teams. The workload wasn't getting any lighter.

We had a new boss, Gideon. He was an old hand at this, was Laura’s boss back in the day. The Joint Chiefs lured him out of his civilian contractor job with a salary ten times lower than what he was making and a draught of youth serum, so we had a seventy year old teenager falling the shots.

“Where are we on the Cyber?” Gideon asked me.

“Divination tracked him to Russia,” I said.

“Oh, for the love of,” said Gideon. “Is Lallov still running things there?” I checked, then nodded. Gideon picked up the black and red phone and dialed.

“Lallov? That's right, this is Gideon. I'm back. Yes. You know why I’m calling. Don't pretend you- Yes, that. I see. You can verify? Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “They're claiming that the little punk hung himself before they got to him. Going to send us pictures.”

“That's a bit of good news,” I said.

“Only a tiny bit,” said Gideon. “Bastard’s lying, probably every word. They got him as an asset, which is going to bite us in the rear end when the shooting war starts. If it's a him, which I wouldn't count on either. Every word a lie. And even if it were true, the cat’s out of the bag. And we can't even act against Clown, even if we could find him, even if he wouldn't just kick out asses again.”

“It's got to be a bluff, doesn't it?” I said. “He wants to rule the world, not destroy it.”

“It's a mistake to try and apply rationality to anything Clown does. Also a mistake to assume our little Antichrist downstairs can still end the world, or wants to.”

Something clicked inside my head. “You're right,” I said. “It's not a bluff. It's misdirection. He's coming.”

Diana, the younger twin, ran in. “I thought you should hear this right away. The enhanced autopsy results came back on Geoff. The lethal wound came from behind, the rest were post-mortem.”

“Geoff was partnered with Laura.” I said.

“drat,” said Gideon. “Should have put her down decades ago. Never trust a Mage, Quill. Sooner or later they all get dreams of sorcerer kings and queens in their heads. If she's turned most of our security is obsolete. I'm going to get on the horn, call in the Army for what good it'll do. Everyone else, prepare for a seige.”


To wear the face of a sorceror is to open yourself to their will. Clown rides all his children of the face, some more strongly than others. There is no such thing as an irrational fear of clowns: to be afraid of the archmage lurking behind the greasepaint is supremely rational. If anything, nobody is frightened enough.

Sometimes he whispers to them, temptations of murder and mayhem. Often they listen and take heed. Mostly, though, he does it to make sure that the link is still there, still active, still fresh, waiting until he has a need.

Clown’s need had finally came. Across the country they came, performers and musicians and their fans alike. Anyone who had ever worn his face. He rode them hard. They put on their faces, their war paint. They acquired weapons and transport through sudden violence. And then they started to move.

A hundred-thousand strong army of clowns gathered on the hills overlooking the Pentragram, preparing for war.

End of Part One

Nov 15, 2012

erm... quack-ward
What Ash Ketchum did on my summer vacation

"As you know, Professor," Ash Ketchum explained, "I have retired from the Pokemun hunting."

"Ash!!!" Professor Oak explained. "But there is a new pokemon now out there."

"Listen, man," Ash said, and scratched his scrotum. "I don't give a gently caress.44"

Professer Oak left and Ash sighed. There were 807 Pokemon in the world and he'd caught them all. Normally new pokemon only came out when the new videogames came out though so what was this all about? A Spring type pokemon called Springasprung? He didn't want anything to do with it. It seemed too fishy. Not the pokemon though because from the sketch the professor had given him it kinda looked like a wolfdino-thing with a giant tumor growing out its rear end, but then again when had there last been any new pokemon that didn’t look loving retarded.

"Mom." He yelled. "Make me tea, please?"

But his mom didn’t answer. So he sighed and went down the stairs, and then it happened: somebody knocked him over the head and he fell unconscious.

He woke up two minutes later, and he head hurt. Professor Oak stood before him and looked crazy, and he had a knife on his mother’s throat who was tied to a chair.

“gently caress,” Ash thought.

“Listen I want my pokemon mother fucker,” Professor Oak yelled, and he cut off a finger from Ash’s mother. She screamed and bled all over the carpet.

“Okay okay man,” Ash screamed. “I will get you the pokemon.”

“Okay cool,” the professor said and gave Ash the finger. “There’s more where that came from. No police!!”

So Ash took some pokeballs and went outside to look for Springasprung. He was looking around for two weeks, during which he always called home and said “I want to talk to my mother” or “Is my mother still alive I want to talk to her?” She was still alive.

So he found Springasprung and he summoned Pikachu, but Pikachu came out of the pokeball dead because he hadn’t been fed since Pokemon Yellow, so he summoned one of the dumb new pokemon instead. It looked like a seal with a clown nose and just stood there slobbering while it was being clawed to poo poo the Springasprung. There was blood literally everywhere. So Ash ran up to Springasprung and kicked the poo poo out of it.

It was more of a twitching pile of meat than an actual pokemon when he threw the pokeball and caught it. Then he went home.

There was professor Oak with his mother, and she was still bleeding from her finger wound. Ash gave Oak the pokeball with the half-dead Springasprung in it.

“But now that I have my new pokemon, why shouldn’t I just kill you both?” Professer Oak spat.


“I surrender,” the professor said. The police came in and arrested him.

“That was very smart of you,” said Ash’s mom.

“That’s why cheaters never win,” Ash said triumphantly as they escorted Professor Oak out of the house.

Professor Oak did push-ups in Poke-Prison when the Mystery Man came, his long shadow creeping into the cell like Chris Hansen on How to Catch a Predator.

“What the gently caress do you want?” yelled Professor Oak.

“Is it true what they say? That it was Ash Ketchum that threw you in prison?”

“Not it was also the police, but because of Ash!!!”

The shadowy figure stepped forward. It was Gary, who had become rich and famous and was wearing a monocle and a top hat and a moustache. He grinned a toothy grin. “It seems we have an enemy in common.”


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.

I... I missed my calling

Fuschia tude
Dec 26, 2004


Crawling In The Sand’s
1520 words

Peter picked a perfect perch to precisely piss into the pot. He confidently gripped his manliness with one hand as he effortlessly directed the stream to the chamberpot on the other side of the craft office that had newly been made his jail cell. He had no need of his other had, which was good for him as it was still tied behind his back When he finished he took and stored away his masculinity back inside his tights then turned to his portly jailer. “I’m ready”

The short corpulent man clearly tried to hide his self-evident awe at seeing this feet preformed but was latently able to contain his shock, he shook his head. The ovoid man gave Peter a shifty look as his eyes narrowed at the boy who didn’t look one day over 17. In fact he really had lived in the wastes for many, decades but time seemed to have no affect on him. The energy field interacted with his mutant blood, somehow, so he didn’t get older.

“Ye’ll nae trick me wif one o’ yer wiley capers,” boasted the corpulent man with a fat wheezing laugh between gritted teeth. “I ‘ev a pistol an’ Oi’ll not ‘esitate ‘a use it on ya,” he pronounced with menacing eyes. He drew the blaster which sat glittering like a shiny silver jewel on his thigh as he remained seated in the corner of the room by the door. That door was his only way out, Peter knew.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Peter opined. He took in his options. There were no windows here in this claustrophobic space. The door had been locked and this man must have the key. He craved to break free so he could find his friends who were separated from him after the surprise attack on their hideout but for now. he was trapped in here… or was he?

His right harm had stupidly been untied and freed by this buffoon. He reached up to touch his hair by his ear and fingered the packet of “Farie Dust” had obscured in that location for emergencies. Ornately he pretended he was itching the side his head.

“Arr,” the obese pirate barked. “It be nae good ‘a see yer arm still out ‘n about. Let’s get ye toied up noice and propa again aye.” He stood up menacing with the silver gun and ordered “sit yeself the’e on tha’ bench.”

Peter scratched the packet open and sniffed the contents deeply into his his nose with a shrug as he to approach to the man and hid the empty package down at his side. He didn’t seem to notice, thankfully, Peter thought to himself. Then suddenly he struck! He flew through the air with superhuman speed and put one foot on the mishapen pirates neck before he could react! “That’s my gun now” he crowed and hit the fated man over the head with his own fatal attraction accessory.

######################Part two:###################################

The great craft skittered through the desert sands on five-hundred extended lengthy white legs. From portholes strategically positioned in places of power around the external hull, of the craft, pirates armed with long guns kept watch for terrible desert creatures that might threaten the life and livelihood of those on board. It was a terrible hardscrabble life but the pay was good… if you lived to use it.

Peter stalked silently through the halls and climbing through the entrails of the terrible craft. Gaps in the metal shetting at times let in unpleasantly hot desert air. In other regions poorly ventilated or muffled or improperly contained machinery belched noxious clouds and gasses and putrid sounds into the tightly constrained space. It was in huge need of a redecorator. Ill open this up for them, he thought grimely to himself.

He was searching for his friends. He tried looking in the doors he passed, hoping he would of found some sign, but, had no luck so far. Most were locked and the keys he had found on the “blissfully” sleeping pirate guard usually didn’t fit the locks. And most of the ones that did open when he used the keys were mechanical closets. He was careful to avoid any footsteps of wandering crew that heard. At one point he past a long set of petite crafts smooth and white set along one wall, open to the air.

As the apparent teen neared atoll stairwell. he heard an awful all, to familiar voice booming through the halls like a Raynescan Pit-Bru with a pituitary condition. It was Ser Hock. Administrator of the Restricted Zone and captain of this landcraft. And he was talking about *his* friends!

“Yes, I have that Peter’s friends,” The voice bragged dripping evil. “Now they’ll walk the plank and there’s nothing he can do about it!!”

“That’s where you’re wrong flea brain” Peter screamed as he charged up the stairs drawing his vibro-knife from his ankle holster and presenting it menacingly..

Hock stared shockingly at his triumphant arrival to the top deck but quickly launched into an attack with a open snarl “Get him!” yelled. The pirales on board dropped their tasks of cleaning or maintaining the crafts technology and computers to grrab their force swords and blaster guns and bring them to bare on this so, strident interloper.

Just then peter could feel his reflexes recursing down to normal as the “high” from the “Farie Dust” began to quickly fade away at exactly the wrong time! “drat it!!” he yelled furiously!

##########################Part Three:####################$

The pirates encroached perilously as Peter backed into a corner by the stairs. The deck was flat with no ledges or steps (up) so the pirates with the guns had no way to aim though or above the over-agitated pirotes who with the melee weapons so they had to change, their weapons to close combat weapons, also.

One swung at the boy but too clumsy, he dodged an the pirate kept going and fell downt he stairwell “ow” then, silence. he couldn’t fight them all, any more, he only got one chance he would need to make it count. 2 charged next and Peter jumped up and landed with his legs behind him on the wall corner crouching momentarily to bounce off into the air catapulting over the heads of the pirrates, “Arr!” They ruminated in discust.

But the persistent boy was already of running. “Ser Hock!” He cried and pointed his vibro-dagger at the cowled man as he closed the distance in the hot beating sun on the stinking metal plates. “I want my friends!”

“Arrg,” was the reply.

“What?” Peter stopped midrun, querulous.

“About time” wendy shaded as she stepped out from behind Ser Hocks’ back. “I was getting tired of waiting for you. I decided to take matters into *my* own hands.”

Ser Hock looked like a pitiful cite bedeckled in dark cloths and weighted down in piles of jewelry and earrings and hair was woven in to strange patterns. He quivered and whimpered as Wendys knife on his throat. The crew saw him and laughed. His one mechanical hand was malfuctioning. Spinning wildly, uselessly in place, on his arm.

Suddenly, a cry from out by the side. The watchers had left their posts to stair at the commotion to see what was the matter on deck and left their ordered posts .vacant “Sand snake!” the cried screamed as a giant mouth rose up and ate him!

The deck broke up into chaos as creatures climbed and swam through the air up over the side deck walls and pirates shooting willy nilly at them all over!

“We better get out of here,” Peter affirmed to his better half. “Where’s the rest of our team?” he asked.

“She sadly shook her head in response was the only response. “They started walking the plank. They must of become snake meat by now.”

“No! drat you Hock!” he ran at the homocidal executive but was stopped by Wendy’s stretching hand “Don’t.”

“Why stop me!”

“Because. He’s mine” she glitted her teeth and dragged the knife slowly across his neck. He dropped to the floorboards of metal shuttering in the wind and beast attacks, very very dead.

Good riddance, Peter said.

Now the craft was moving unstably, losing control as all the people stopped their work keeping it moving in the crisis of the fighting.

“I hope you have a way out of here.”

Peter thoughtfully for a minute. “Yes. I know a way with a chance for to escape.” They slipped out through the fighting in the chaos of blasts and lizard teeth and scales and ran downstairs and over to the assortment of picturesque escape craft. “Get in!”

He grabbed a sliver and white glider and pushed off from the edge soaring out down from the lip overhanging gap in the wall. he did a 360 flip to avoid a flying snake and flew down through the sand piles. He looked back at Wendy following hem. The massive craft was breaking down behind here. and watched as it shuttered dissassembling into a cloud of dark obscurity. They’d made it! “Great! He yelled.

It was so hot, so fire.

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

Upon the exigencies of the merciless advance of linear time
721 words

Glimmerjim frowned at the curlyfaced robot in front of him. “I’m gonna kill your rear end,” he intoned levelly. Then he flexed, first one wing then another. “Twice.”

The robot was covered in writhing decorations, that seemed to spell out unknown words. It raised a helpless arm then snarled! It was a trick. With a single photonic blast it zapped the poo poo out of Glimmerjim.

In mid-air, whirling through the air, Glimmerjim paused for a thought:

If only I’d remembered to…

Sure enough there was something crucial that Glimmerjim had not remembered. Let’s go back in time, to the year 2352, the ninth month, the eleventh hour and fifty three minutes (i.e. three hours ago).

Everyone worked on steam these days, thought Valerie Boodle. It was just the normal mode of interaction, just steaming up to people and talking to them with steam puffing out of your joints.

Valerie was standing on the street corner, lost in introspection, when she saw a glittering figure cast out of some kind of metal: it was Glimmerjim. She shouted in surprised, unalleled joy with a hint of horror - Glimmerjim was a scary individual and accused of a significant number of murders. But he saw her waving and strode across the crowded concourse.

“Valerie,” he said, “I’m concerned about the number of curlyfaced robots there are around here.”

Valerie was surprised. The curlfaced robots, or curlifaros, were an integral part of the culture of her city. No-one climbed on them or covered them in goo, and they agreed implicitly not to annihilate every living thing. It was said, she recalled reminiscently, that they were originally called kill everything robots in the Old Times, or killeros for short.

“Well,” said Valerie surprisedly, “the one thing you should remember about the curlifaro are to always--” and at that point she was seized by a gigantic fit of coughing. She coughed, and she coughed, while Glimmerjim waited patiently, occasionally puffing little puffs of steam out of the steam vents of his steampunk fairy costume.

Valerie finished her coughing fit and opened her mouth to speak.

“Did you know I was the chosen one? I’ll defeat the evil and bring balance to everything,” asked Glimmerjim.

Valerie opened her mouth, then closed it again as if she had forgotten what she was about to say.

“What is the evil?” she asked, as though awaking for the first time ever to a new dawn of knowledge.

Glimmerjim shrugged. “Opinions differ. We discuss it at symposia and deliberative gatherings fairly often but it’s a legitimate topic for general enquiry.”

He did not remember to ask Valerie what the one thing was that she should always remember about the curlifaro.

“Well, I should be going,” said Valerie cheerfully.

Glimmerjim smiled at her and scratched the back of his neck where it was itchy. Just then, there was an explosion. Rising through the streets was a curlyfaced robot, whirring blades attached to every part of it. There were a lot of innocent bystanders and they all ran away apart from one guy, an old man.

“I’m Professor Higinbotham,” said the man, who had a tweed suit. “I am the one who created the curlyfaced robots or as they should properly be described, the kill everything robots.” With that he ran away, clutching a black box with an ominously flashing red light.

Flashing forward three hours, we arrive at Glimmerjim, who has time for one blindingly self-reflective spasm of guilt and self-loathing before he slams into the wall.

As everyone knows, the steam robot hero fairies were created in 2124 by the space alien Zeanthrlklu. They were created to save the world, but weren’t given any more specific missions so had tended towards a psychological pathology of omniscience. So Glimmerjim’s reaction was not an accident.

Nonetheless at that point Valerie arrived and yelled out “they are weak to sonic attacks delivered in the 11,234-11,792 Hz spectrum!”. Then she ran away.

Glimmerjim grinned, in a snarling sort of way, then unleashed a sonic attack pitched at 11,500 Hz. The curlyfaced robot exploded.

Professor Higinbotham was about to press the button on his handheld device with the blinking big light, when suddenly Glimmerjim punched him and smashed the device.

“That will settle your hash,” said Glimmerjim confidently.

Jun 29, 2013

The Memphis Tales
976 Words

They were all on a pilgrimage to Memphis on my bus. In the middle of the Appalachian Mountains the bus broke down. On the bus was an actor, a lumberjack, a cab driver, a commissar, a florist, a drag queen, a minister, a mine and myself, the bus driver. To pass the time they started to tell stories. The actor went first.


The actor’s story was the tale of an adventure, where a father and his future son-in-law mounted a rescue in Antarctica but ending up needing rescue themselves. The father may have not won glory, but he did win a new-found respect for his future son-in-law.

“I get enough man against nature in my own life. Do you have a story that man against man, or man against God or something?” criticized the lumberjack.
“Then give me one of those the stories” replied the actor.

“I’ll give you a twist on man against man: woman against woman” enthused the lumberjack.


The lumberjack’s story was the saga of the life of a Valkyrie. She fought battles against foot soldiers and eventually came to the castle. Her weapon betrayed her and she gave her life for the victory. She then returned to life in Valhalla, poised to do the same tomorrow.

“What was the point? It seemed that ya created a giant circular story. Going to tell that over and over until we’re rescued?” hissed the cab driver.

“There is a the sequel, like one one of the American action movies. I can tell it, unless you’ve got something” squawked the lumberjack.

“All that time in the in the North woods has killed your sense of sophistication. I’ll give ya a sophisticated story” croaked the cab driver.


The cab driver’s story was an allegorical look into the workings of the stock market, and the daily fight between the bear and the bull. When one man dared to influence the invisible hand of capitalism, he wound up being killed by the very forces he sought to control.

“Now that just proves that capitalism will kill the average worker” exclaimed the commissar.

“No, it proves that capitalism is powerful enough to withstand any threat” retorted the cab driver. “I’d like to see ya do better.”

“I will give you stories on men of Mother Russia” grunted the commissar.


The commissar’s story was a pulpy tale about the weakness of civilized man. The end of the world stranded a scholar in the Siberia, where the harsh wilderness forced him to learn how to survive. With the help of his spirit animal, he became the reincarnation of his ancestor, Genghis Khan.

“Aw, where’s the thrill, ‘e twists an’ turns? You got eh manly man runnin’ about but nothing to stimulate ‘e mind” spewed the florist.

“Maybe I send you to gulag in Siberia for a few years, you learn better English. You somehow did no learn it in London” insulted the commissar.

“Aw, you want proper English? I’ll give it to you, and a better story” fumed the florist.


The florist’s story was about the mystery surrounding the death of a wealthy widow, who had willed her property to one of her nephews. An old friend of the deceased investigated the death, as the manor was too snowed in for the police to come. Even though the murderer disguised the killing with an enormous rare centipede, he was still brought to justice.

“The one things that Dine and Knox would be proud of your story is that that the mystery is murderer and not who poo poo” sniped the drag queen.

“Aw, I may not be one of the best, but but I followed all of Knox’s rules. Your turn pretty boy” complained the florist.

“I’ll show you true love,” the drag queen snapped.


The drag queen’s story was a science-fiction melodrama, about two explorers’ decaying marriage in the midst of their greatest discovery. Their ambitions had lead them to the highest point in
the Solar System, but the lowest point in their marriage. A lucky break led them to discover the secrets of Mars and the each others heart.

“Such filth you peddle, did we really need that passionate kiss between the two male characters?” ejaculated the minister.

“I would hope you at least would appreciate that Julius and Claude were able to mend their marriage” lisped the drag queen.

“While I do, I will show this group what a moral story is” countered the minister.


The minister’s story was a parable where angels tasked with creating animals are faced with hardship after the fall of Lucifer. With ingenuity and resourcefulness, the two angels worked around the demonic interference. Though unusual, the animals created animals that please God.

“You complained about peddling filth, but your whole story seemed to centered on reproduction and nipples” pantomimed the mine.

“The reproduction to propagate a species is not immoral. Are you going to contribute to the moral decay?” queried the minister.

“I will tell a story with a moral. Horror stories generally do,” smiled the mime.


The mime’s story was a chilling tale about a lost teenager, who ended up crashing their vehicle far from home. They are found by mysterious beings that examine the teenager, despite the severe injuries. Desperate, the teenager tries to prove their sentience, but learns their spaceship was destroyed in the crash and can never go home.

“How did you get the story of how I came here, uh huh?” I asked.

“What?” was the general reaction

“You’re heading to my old house, uh huh? They don’t tell you I was the key factor in a secret project to control teenagers there, do they, uh huh?” I said, gyrating my hips.

No else one said a word. They just learned that Elvis was alive. And an alien. And a secret agent. And driving the bus.

“A-thank-you, a-thank-you very much”

Dec 15, 2006

b l o o p

1052 AWESOME words

by curlingiron, age 14

Commander Meow stared hard at his reflection in the mirror on the walls of his bunker in the small town of Meownville, USA. This was Catmerica’s darkest hour; the Cat President had been kidnapped by their greatest enemies - Nazi Mice, lead by the Furrher NOTE: German sounding name but also a mouse pun. Change later!!!!!.

COmmander Meow could still remember the last words the Cat President had said to him before he was kidnapped: “Commander Meow, only you can use the terrible secret I am about to tell you-” Unfortunately he was kidnapped before he finished his sentence. Commander Meow
could still smell the tuna on his breath.

“If only he had been able to tell me the terrible secret he was about to tell me, maybe this situation would not be a situation that we were in,” Commander Meow said to himself in the mirror. The mirror did not say anything back because it was not capable of speech.

“COMMANDER MEOW, WE HAVE A SITUATION AND WE NEED YOU RIGHT AWAY!!!” shouted Corporal Capslock explosively, running into the room like a plot point.

“What is it, Corporal?!?!” Commander Meow yelled back, his bottlebrush tail sticking out from under his uniform like a forced metaphor.

“IT’S A CATASTROPHE!! THE NAZI MICE ARE ATTACKING! AND THEY’VE FORMED AN ALLIANCE WITH THE COMMUNIST DOGS!!! can we make this a pun later??? I can’t think of any words that start with- oh wait COMMUNIST CANINES!!!!!!!”

“What?! But what about the treaty!!!” SCReamed Commender Meow.


“My Cat God… How soon will they arrive???”

“THEY’RE ALREADY INSI-” Corporal Capslock let out a scream of anguish as his intestines were torn from lower back and sprayed across the hallway in a shower of blood and partially digested kibble.

“Corporal, nooooooooooooooooo!” Commander Meow screamed, as the Nazi Mice and their allies, the Communist Canines swarmed into the room.

“Give up, Commander Meow,” snarled the Nazi Mouse officer in front of him. He was a hulking brute, closer to a rat than a mouse, and Commander Meow couldn’t keep a snarl of contempt from crossing his whiskered face as the arrogant mouse stalked closer to him. Commander Meow hated mice, even more than other cats, because when he was a child something traumatic happened to him at the hands of mice, probably involving his parents.

“I will never give in to you, Nazi Mouse SCUM!!!” shrieked Commander Meow, his fur sticking out at all angles, making his uniform buttons strain against the new volume they were trying to contain.

“Oh yeah?” said the nearest Communist Canine, a Corgi with a nametag that said “Carl” is that a Russian name? Look up later “What if we told you….. Your Cat President is DEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” screamed Commander Meow, tearing at his own fur in anguish. “That can’t be true!!!”

“Oh, but it is, Cat-bag!” giggled another Nazi Mouse in glee, his voice like a rusty trap. “Feast your eyes…. On THIS!!!!!” The nazi mouse whipped out a bag that he had been holding behind his back and pulled out the severed head of the Cat President.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” screamed Commander Meow again. The Cat President had been like a father to him, and now he was DEAD! Deaaaaaaaaaaadddddddd!!!!! Commander Meow had two dead dad’s, and it was all because of these MOTHER loving NAZI MICE!!!!!

Just then, as Commander Meow was screaming in agony, again, the Cat President’s magnificent tongue, renowned across the world for its incredible roughness and length, lolled out of his mouth.

“What’s that???” yelled the Nazi Mouse holding the Cat President’s head. “Something’s written on his tongue!!!!!”

“You idiot!!!” also yelled the bigger Nazi Mouse next to him! “Don’t let the cat see it! It’s probably a secret message!!”

But it was too late: Commander Meow had already seen the message written on the former Cat President’s tongue. It said OPERATION CATDICK on it, and Commander Meow knew exactly what it meant.

Like a really fast cat, Commander Meow dove behind the president’s desk that happened to be in the same room that they were all in, and reached in to the Cat President’s desk drawer and pulled out a remote control that had a big red button on it labeled OPERATION CATDICK that he pressed.

“Say Hello To My Little Friend!!!!!” screamed Commander Meow, as a giant missile descended from the ceiling. Tiny barbs erupted from all over the missile, like the spikes on a cat penis, and penetrated everyone in the room except for Commander Meow, who was still safely underneath the Cat President’s desk.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, MY BLOOD!” screamed a Nazi Mouse as his blood came out of him.

“IT HURTS!” howled a Nazi Communist Canine , as visera leaked out of his butthole, which was now in his throat.

“ARghleUGHGLugH!!” screamed another nAzi mouse as he died from dying.

Soon, all of the Nazi Mice and Communist Dogs were dead. They had all crowded into the room because they wanted to see Commander Meow’s reaction to the death of his mentor and second father, and then they had all been punished for their hubris by dying from the CATDICK missle. Now they were all dead, and Commander Meow was not dead, and he had won.

“Fathers…. I have avenged you.” said Commander Meow, standing up from under the table.

“Oooh, CommANder MeOW~!!” sang Pussy Katt, the hottest Cat Cabinet member in the Cat President’s staff, slinking into the room in a tight red dress. Her catboobs were heaving with desire. “You kILLed all of those TERRible NAAAzi MIce~!! And since THEY killed the Cat PrESIdent, that means YOU’re the NEW Cat PREsident!!!!” Pussy Katt shuddered with arousal.

“Hail to the Chief, baby,” smirked Commander Meow, and then he kissed Pussy Katt on the lips, and then they totally did it right there in the office, kitty-style. ohhhhhhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiii-

THE END….????????

Dec 15, 2006

b l o o p

Also posting your prompt picture is for cool kids, but not in your story post, I guess, so here's mine:

Feb 18, 2014


Ready Prayer One
850 Words


Than Christian found himself nude and floating in the space, his hand scovering his dongle to preserve his modesty from the peepers of the galaxy. He not need have feered, however, as the only eyes beholding him were his lard and savoir, Jeez.

“I am not worthy!” he said, howing to the Lard. “Why has you ruptered me?”

“sALIENCE!” the Lard Jeez sayd. “I hast ruptured thou to participate in the New God Program! I’m retiring next week and I need one of my faithful to take up the mantle of the New God. But there can be only one, so I have made Ark 2: Ecclesiastic Boogaloo, to be your last battlefield. Fear not however! Thou wilt be given powers!”

“Like X-Man?” Christian asked.

“bETTER THAN x-mAN!” Jeez boomed boomingly. “From this day foreword, thou aret a Cross-Man!I have righted the wicked X so it stands proper! Now away with thee, and the ods be aver in thine favor”

Christopher woke up next in a massif bote, the likes of witch hath never been seen by mankind. A floating nation of wood and gilded splinders, he wandered forty days and nights feasting on mana be four he found another sacred soul. They dolt him the tale of how they had been fecimated by dreidelmancers and ramadancers, making him shiversweat about who else had ben ruptured. Whyyyy-eeeee-aiiiii-eee-aaaaaiii had mine sect not been the only chosen?

Oru confusion was mutual and we decided to team up and eliminate the false paths to Jeez even if he brougt them here (who did he think he was anyway(even if he was Jeez(and not acting particularly lardly___ so we brought our battle plans and coordinated our abilities to use our powers but not reveal too much sinec we new we had to fight each other after the hereticks were eliminated. Thus declared our leader Simon and it was good.

The pilgrimage crusade continued anon, wracking up points after points and shooting them up the leader bored. For a time we could actually njoy the holy act of worship games without a worry ‘bout who would win. Siblings in solidarity were we, and the good times lasted but we knew they could not last and at one point we new the times ended.

“What cha eating” said Jude to Matthiew at supper not dinner that was another time get it right please.


“That dont look lik e mannna t o me bro”


“Are you gonna confess??” Judes smile gleamed like a sharp thing and it was thin like a sharp thing too. “Or doo you knead… A BOOTH!”


“jUST AS i THOUGHT! oUR DEAR mATTHIES POSSESSES communion waifs and whine!”

“Gasp!” the congregegation gasped.

“Check his bible!” said a voice I couldn’t see.

And lo did Judas give Mathhew the old patdown, finding a the Good Book, or in this case tHE bAD bOOK (DUN DUN DUN!)


Gasp, the sequel! “tHAT’S EVEN VERSE!” said the crowd. lol

“Neigh!” said a horse I guess. “We have bowed and scraped to you lutheran ar should I say lOOSERAN motherf-

“Quit!” his fellow papist shooshed. “Jeez will frown on you if you say the naughty word.”

“Oh quite right old chap,” she whinnied. “Let’s just killl them.”

And this becan the ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny. Power unleashed everywhere, with holy water torrents blasting people down like firehose, burning kaballah bushes incinerating fools, plaques of locusts devouring teeth, naughty spanking scantily clad nuns, tulpas of the most sacred mascot, Saint Sonic, and one man taking golden plates as seen in the Book of Norman and whizzing them about like shoorikin.

Power corrupts and abolute power corrpts absolutely and soon our battle cracked the firmament and browught in the rush of water from below the Ark 2 and those of us who once fought started to drown. Christina was blind, but now she saw.

But if I can't swim after 40 days
And my mind is crushed
By the crashing waves
Lift me up so high
That I cannot fall
Lift me up

“Woe! Oh woe! Our pride caused us to destroy the unity of those who worship lard or whatever! Now please, save us!”

Lift me up when I'm falling

“Save us!” cried the survivors clinging to an aisleland of wood on top other wood.

Lift me up I'm weak and I'm dying

“Save us!” cried the other groups on the jumbotron who coulnd’t beeleeve what the other accursed idiots had wrought on the holy land.

Lift me up I need you to hold me

“Save them!” cried the authro who besseched the kind generous and uncynical forums of something awful to come up with a better ending

Lift me up and keep me from drowning again

And then Chris woke up. He blunk and rubbed eyes holding head like cracking egg.

“Aw man, that’s the last time I eat a food before bed!” Wacka Wacka! Everypony laughed.


Oct 19, 2011

Lovely night, no?
Grimey Drawer
Interprompt: Ideas Guy

Give me your worst story pitch possible. 50 word max.

Apr 11, 2012

Flesnolk fucked around with this message at 05:50 on Apr 3, 2018

Nov 24, 2006

Grimey Drawer

Elevator pitch:

The 90's are in again, so why not piggyback off of Roseanne, early Simpsons, and Home Improvement? "Wrench Mama!" A conservative female mechanic/tv host teaches people how to fix cars and families. The link to the animatic's on my card.

Dec 15, 2006

b l o o p

Tanz! posted:

Interprompt: Ideas Guy

Give me your worst story pitch possible. 50 word max.

okay, i got twoo words for you




Sham bam bamina!
Nov 6, 2012

ƨtupid cat

The Truth is Far, Far Out There
1,178 words

The Soviet cosmonauts said that they never saw God when they were out in space... maybe they didn't just look hard enough. But here I was, launched even farther (further? farther? yes, farther...) out into the silent scream of the void, and yet, nothing was to be seen.

Nothing, save for orbs vast as moons, bedecked along three axes with six circles apiece, floating with alarming speed through what at one period in our long history of probing the waiting depths of the cosmos would have been considered "luminiferous ether"... such fools they were back then, unlike us, of their distant future, or a possible one. I called them fools in jest, by the way - we know nothing of the truth of reality. Yet. But I digress.

How did I come to be out among the orbs? My story begins years ago, when I joined my brethren astronauts in training at the Space Academy. I had filled out all the papers, done my homework and physical exercises, and now was being handed my astronaut's diploma, proclaiming me an astronaut of the Space Academy. I had high hopes. We all had high hopes, back then. Now, hopes weren't all that high at all.

The launch went well enough, considering. What could be considered was manifold: considering the youth of me, Todd Benson, my co-pilot, Glenn Hanson, our systems checker, Daniel "Duke" Bavarious, our analyst, Matt Ronson, our specialist, Robb Johnson; considering the launch window - a scant, scanty, skimpy even, forteen minutes, of which we had three left (and forty-two seconds) when we cleared the launch pad - and considering the distance of our target, which was the planet Pluto 2, orbiting a distant star in the Andromeda galaxy. Fortunately, the tachyon drive would take us there in no time at all, not even enough time to blink on the way. That was why it was also called the "blink" drive - you would get there in the "blink" of an eye.

In any case, once we arrived, Pluto 2 was underwhelming when compared to initial reports.

"It's awfully rocky," Johnson lamented. "There was supposed to be life - stuff that might breathe, eat, poo poo. Nothing to do any of that with here that I can see."

"I am afraid so," agreed Ronson. "But we have to complete this mission. The Space Academy spent years accumulating the tachyons for this trip; we cannot let this precious fuel go wasted. If this was a wild goose chase... let us catch ourselves a damned goose."

"Or at least find an egg," quipped Bavarious. Everyone laughed at his comical rejoinder, a desperate respite from the gravity that suffused our microgravity.

Hanson took control of the thrustboosts to bring us in over the planetary surface, but just then, something goes wrong. The readings are all off the charts. Huge groans are emitted from the aft bulkheads; there is tidal stress, as from an enormous gravitic entity. Pluto 2 swims, spins, swirls - distorted by a spacetime bulge.

"Jettison the spacetime bilge!" I shout as the Galileo heaves about. Tachyon ballast drizzles out in a great gleaming fan, which sorrows as much as it heartens. The blink drive's propensity for distortions without prior compensatory calculations is well-known, and this seems to be doing the trick, but there is now doubt as to whether or not we can make it all the way back home or not in time or not. We, the astronauts, look on, through the aft portscreen. And shed a single tear.

Pluto 2 again takes on a conventional appearance as we now see the cause of this distortional disturbance. Orbs have now appeared, vast as moons, bedecked along three axes with six circles apiece, floating with alarming speed through what at one period in our long history of probing the waiting depths of the cosmos would have been considered "luminiferous ether" by the "fools" of the past but we now know as the silent scream of the void. Empty space. Nothing to see, save those selfsame orbs.

"I got a bad feeling about this," quips Swanson, but nobody laughs this time, confronted now by the unfathomable bulk of the invading bodies. We wonder if Swanson is "all there" but quickly dismiss the thought; after all, he has passed the same psych tests as we have. There are three orbs. The far two are ejecting some sort of mass from two of their circles, while the third, looming great in the fore portscreen, has extended some sort of probe down to Pluto 2 and is about to penetrate the surface. It's penetrating the surface. The probe is now firmly lodged in the planetary surface and is making some sort of pumping motion, as if sucking the very planet Pluto 2 dry.

We don't understand.

Nobody can understand.

Just then, the Galileo and all my astronaut friends shear apart in a swooping arc and spiral up from around me, like a cloth pulled away in some sort of magic trick. I'm hanging there, naked in my spacesuit, as I watch reality submit itself to a new thing: It looks like a vast, celestial jellyfish. And it speaks to me?

"Todd, this is not what you came out here for," it booms in my head.

"I... suppose not," I haltingly answer.

"Todd, friend, do not worry. Your friends are not gone; you are merely seeing a more conducive view of reality to our purposes. Reality is merely perception, after all. But at the same time, there is something to worry about : The planet eaters, here feasting on the last scrap of your destination, do not rest, and there is no way for you to stop them. But that is not to say that there is no way," it booms in my head.

"What do you mean?" I tremblingly ask. "And what are you?" I ask as well.

"I am here to help my Creations," it booms in my head.

"I don't understand," I unsteadily respond.

"The planet eaters are the children of the Prince of Lies... perhaps you know him on your planet as Beelzebub, or Satan, or Lucifer. And there is nothing in this world that can stop them from consuming everything - even your own Earth," it booms in my head.

"Nothing in this world," I hesitantly echo, beginning to understand.

"Nothing in this world can stop them, but they can be stopped. My only Son died on your Earth what would in your units of time be three thousand, two hundred and sixty-five years, thirty-nine days, four hours, eleven minutes, and two seconds ago, for all your sins, so you could take part in my Kingdom."

I am at a loss for words, but I comprehendingly nod.

"To stop the planet eaters, you must accept me into your soul and be Saved, and forgiven of wrongdoings past, and they will flee from you as a child of Mine. This moment has been predestined for you, for all of you, from the beginning of time. Do you take this step?"


Mar 21, 2010
the submission deadline is technically up but imma let it ride for a while

if you're signed up but not in, you're living on borrowed time

Apr 11, 2012

Feb 18, 2014


So making live-action movies out of anime is all the rage these days, right? They're beloved by audiences and critics alike, obviously.

Well there's this anime where people have superpowers based on their fetishes...

Apr 11, 2012

So this judge gets superpowers like The Flash, and decides to become a hero. I call it "Fast Judge: Good Judge."

Jan 12, 2012

Tr*ckin' and F*ckin' all the way to tha

eScape from the CITY! 503 words

Three were 2 fourteen-year-old boys on the horizon, smiling at the ruin city. It was very dark and there were bones every where. “This is bad,” said the one boy to the other. his name was benny.

The other boy screamed. “we have to get out of the city!”

They both agreed the yhad to get out the city and so they went down into it. Everywhere was bad and ruined. There was a Wal-Mart and some J.C. Penny’s. All the mutants were hiding. the ruins were caused by mutants.

“We better go inside the J.C. Penny’s” said the boywhose name was Kyle. He was named after his father, who heard the name ata store once and thought, wow, that is a good name. He came home and told his wife about the name and she agreed, so they named their baby Kyle. “We need to get supplies.

Benny said, “We need to get out of the city but I agree that supplies would also be good. Lets go get inside the J.Cpenny.”

Then they were inside. There was shopping carts all around and all the great deals were still ther. There was a shirt on sail for 75% off. And there was another shirt on sail for 25% off. The second shirt was plaid and looked like a shirt that Benny had once gotten for his birthday party. His mother had seen the shirt on sale. he wondered him mom now.

But then! There was nosie! Someone moved! They hid behind a pair of pants that were 50% off if you bought 2 for 1.

Kyle screame.d “There is a man behind that pair of pants that are 50% off if you buy 2 for 1!”

Suddenly, the rack containing the paints on sale exploded. There were pants everywhere! Benny pulled out the gun that his father had once owned before he had been eated. He fired into the pants and screamed, “YOU WON”T TAKE US ALIVE.”

The bullets hit the pants and caught on fire. Then they hit a mannequin tha t caught on fire. Then they hit a rack that got on fir.e the monster behind the rack screamed. “WHY DID YOU MAKE MY HOUSE ON FIRE!”

But Benny recognized that voice. “Mom?” he said. It was his mom. He recognized immediately her because she had his face and was also interested in great deals at the J.C. Penny. You can buy appliances, and clothes, and lots of other stuff their. It has 850 locations across the u.s.

“Son?” His mother bellowed through her mutant face. “I thought I lost you and your father but now I see you are safe and wit ha good friend. I love you very much.”

They hugged and the mother looked at her beautiful, precious, beautiful son. “My boy you need to get new clothes so we can go and rebuild our lives. there ae lots of great fashions and styles here tat the j.c. penny.”

Benny cried that his mom still loved him and they went to the changing rooms to try on new cloths.

Kyle looked down at his shoes and cried because his parents were both dead for ever.

Apr 11, 2012

Sep 21, 2017

Horse Facts

True and Interesting Facts about Horse

Tanz! posted:

Interprompt: Ideas Guy

Give me your worst story pitch possible. 50 word max.

“So the story is about a woman named Rose, and she falls in love with a warrior and then they kiss and stuff,” said Mosebjo, mouth full of barbecued frog.

Caterpillar snorted, sending little globs of horse snot flying across the campfire, one of which went right in Mosebjo’s eye.


Mar 21, 2010
Submissions are closed.

You have all failed me in your own special ways. I am livetweeting my feelings about this while smashing down gin.

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