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Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!




Interprompt

The last paragraph of a mystery novel

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steeltoedsneakers
Jul 26, 2016







:siren: Week 366 Judgement :siren:

A good conspiracy story should probably have a good twist - there were a few here this week that just took their prompt and said "yes, and.." and farted about in front of the audience like a bad improv troupe.

Let's get those out the way. Nikaer Drekin, buddy you were in hot contention for the loss. You used a lotta words to do not a lot.. Hoffa could have been literally anyone in this piece. That earns you a DM.

The loss this week goes to apophenium. Your story was a bit of a mess and carried an unsatisfying conspiracy twist that you both awkwardly foreshadowed and then refused to commit to.

The stories that did well this week all took the conspiracy prompt and ran with it to new and interesting places. Except for you, GenJoe - I don't know where the gently caress you ran to, but we liked it anyway. Take your HM along with Yoruichi, sebmojo, Sitting Here, and Antivehicular.

That leaves Anomalous Blowout's tale of a doomed expedition, Two Who Wandered Far Apart, at the top as this weeks winner.

Congratulations, and ascend the throne.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME






In

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*




THUNDERDOME CCCLXVII - Call Me, Ishmael

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.” - Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

Lately, friends, I have suffered from a damp, drizzly November of the soul. I haven’t been having a good time. You know what’s a great cure for a bad time? Revisiting things you love.

One thing I love is my favourite book. I bet you can guess.

You will be rationed 1111 words. Use them to write me a story. Your prompt shall be a line from Moby-Dick, or, The Whale. If you would like me to choose a line from the book for you, you will get an extra 333 words, giving you a total of 1444 to work with. But be aware - consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, treacherously hidden. Trawling for extra words may net you a hellrule.

Get in before 11:59pm PST 16/08/2019.
Due 11:59pm PST 18/08/2019.



Mad Captains
A(hab) Blowout
Barnaby Profane
Simply Simon

Doomed Sailors
Sitting Here - Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.
Thranguy - Thou art too damned jolly. Sail on.
flerp - See how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love once comes to bend them.
sparksbloom - Don’t you know the higher you climb, the colder it gets? // All characters must be female and none can be related.
crimea - The glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp—all others but liars!
Armack - …all my means are sane, my motive and my object mad.
Yoruichi - It’s a wicked world in all meridians; I’ll die a pagan.
Antivehicular - That glad, happy air, that winsome sky, did at last stroke and caress him. // Your story must contain at least two sentences that are over 50 words.
apophenium - His smoke is horrible to inhale, and inhale it you must, and not only that, but you must live in it for the time.
Hawklad - Butchers we are, that is true. // Your story must contain no dialogue.
Weltlich - Will I have eyes at the bottom of the sea, supposing I descend those endless stairs?
Fleta McGurn - I am past scorching; not easily can’st thou scorch a scar. // Every sentence must be longer than the previous sentence, resets every para.
Toaster Beef - I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. // All but 1 of your character is dead but they all still have to do stuff.
Black Griffon - In the deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much joy. // Your scenes cannot take place in chronological order.
sebmojo - Line of sebmojo’s choosing // All of your characters must be whales, but by the end of the story one cannot be. However, they also cannot die.
magic cactus - Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance.
Simbyotic

Anomalous Blowout fucked around with this message at 05:45 on Aug 20, 2019

Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!




In, throw me a line.

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


Thranguy posted:

In, throw me a line.

Thou art too damned jolly. Sail on.

flerp
Feb 25, 2014

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




in line

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


flerp posted:

in line

See how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love once comes to bend them.

sparksbloom
Apr 30, 2006


in toxx line

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


sparksbloom posted:

in toxx line

Don’t you know the higher you climb, the colder it gets?


Hellrule - Every character in your story is female but none of them can be related to one another.

crimea
Nov 16, 2012


In line

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*



The glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp—all others but liars!

Yoruichi
Sep 21, 2017


Horse Facts

True and Interesting Facts about Horse




In, gimme something super metal

Antivehicular
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



In, hit me

Armack
Jan 27, 2006


In

...all my means are sane, my motive and my object mad.

apophenium
Apr 13, 2009


In with a line, please

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


Yoruichi posted:

In, gimme something super metal

It’s a wicked world in all meridians; I’ll die a pagan.

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*



That glad, happy air, that winsome sky, did at last stroke and caress him.

Hellrule: Your story must contain at least two sentences that are over 50 words.


apophenium posted:

In with a line, please

His smoke is horrible to inhale, and inhale it you must, and not only that, but you must live in it for the time.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME






oh and can i have a thing assigned to me pls?

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


Sitting Here posted:

oh and can i have a thing assigned to me pls?

Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.

Hawklad
May 3, 2003


Who wants to live
forever?


DIVE!



College Slice

In, and toss me a a line please!

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


Hawklad posted:

In, and toss me a a line please!

Butchers we are, that is true.

Hellrule - your story contains no dialogue.

Weltlich
Feb 13, 2006


Grimey Drawer

in, and why not a line?

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


Weltlich posted:

in, and why not a line?

Will I have eyes at the bottom of the sea, supposing I descend those endless stairs?

Fleta Mcgurn
Oct 5, 2003

Porpoise noise continues.


in, and give me a hellrule for funsies.

Toaster Beef
Jan 23, 2007

that's not nature's way


In, line, hellrule, please and thank you

take the moon
Feb 12, 2011



so apparently nz is in a different dimension? does august 15 midnight mean 11:59 pm or 12 am also

Yoruichi
Sep 21, 2017


Horse Facts

True and Interesting Facts about Horse




While NZ does in fact exist in the future, midnight is still midnight. I.e. the middle of the night, the witching hour, the in between one day and the next.

As I write this it is Wednesday morning in my dimension, so you have 48 hours until the time at which I will read your entry.

take the moon
Feb 12, 2011



cool. thanks

sorry if i sounded snippy. i havent posted in a while. peace

take the moon fucked around with this message at 21:21 on Aug 13, 2019

Yoruichi
Sep 21, 2017


Horse Facts

True and Interesting Facts about Horse




You're all good dude, I am looking forward to reading your words :)

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005


In, hellrule and :toxx:, as I'm wont to do after failing to submit.

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


Fleta Mcgurn posted:

in, and give me a hellrule for funsies.

I am past scorching; not easily can’st thou scorch a scar.

Hellrule: Each of your paragraphs. Must follow a specific formula. Every proceeding sentence must be longer than the one which came before it. (This can reset every paragraph.)

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


Toaster Beef posted:

In, line, hellrule, please and thank you

I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me.

Hellrule: All of your characters but one are dead, but they still have to do stuff.


Black Griffon posted:

In, hellrule and :toxx:, as I’m wont to do after failing to submit.

In the deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much joy.

Hellrule: Your scenes can’t take place in chronological order.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk







in, hellrule me the gently caress up

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


sebmojo posted:

in, hellrule me the gently caress up

All of the characters in your story are whales, but by the end of the story one of them must not be. They still have to be alive, though.

magic cactus
Aug 3, 2019

We lied. We are not at war. There is no enemy. This is a rescue operation.

In, please throw me a line!

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

college kids ain't shit


Fun Shoe

What follows are the compliments I owe to the Diamond Capsule victors.

*Ahem*

Yoruichi:

I have nothing bad to say about you. You are a positive, thoughtful author and the few times you’ve been around for game nights, you’ve made them both more fun, and friendlier. You came around after me and have surpassed my no fail record. I’m inspired by your dedication to your craft and the clear improvements you’ve made since you began writing here with us. Our community, as a whole, is better for you being here. Oh, and you have some mighty fine pets. Keep going!


Chairchucker:

When I’m judging, and I’m struggling to get through entry after entry, as soon as I see the next piece is yours, I am always relieved. Good or bad, your entries are always different from everything else that week. And yet, they are always so obviously yours. Your voice is apparent and you have more command of tone than many other of the fine authors throughout the dome. You know what you want to say, how you want to say it, and you scarcely fail to execute on your vision. And yet, strewn throughout your comedic quirks, entries that contain a piece of your heart are easy to find, if you know where to look. Thanks for making judging easier! Keep going!


Uranium Phoenix:

Out of anyone in the dome, I’ve probably known you the longest. We go back, you and I, to the mafia days of yore. It was there that I first learned of your ability to clearly communicate and push for your ideas. It never occurred to me that the same pen behind those clever arguments could be utterly lethal in flash fiction. You’ve written stories that have torn me apart, and you’ve written stories that have made me laugh. You’ve got range, dedication, and are just an all-around swell person who works in an important, yet thankless field, and cares deeply about people and the planet. You’re awesome. Keep going!


Staggy:

You are the annoying sort of person who waltzed into Thunderdome and won on your first shot. That’s kind of the opposite of how I did things. Though we have not yet interacted all that much outside of the dome, your record of turning in sharply written content, without any failure, and consistently delivering quality is an inspiration to me, and I’m sure others. ‘Resonance’ was one of the first stories of yours that I judged and it was a clear win for me. It was an entry that made it clear that there was a new talent in the dome. Keep going!


AnomalousBlowout:

Your entry for Gacha week was my pick for the win. But, we were going on consensus. I was ready to fight for you though. Everything I’ve read from you has impressed me, but this last entry took the cake. There’s an authenticity to your characters that only comes from a truly empathic understanding of people. It is an honor to write alongside you and play games in hangouts with you. I’m not sure what caused you to leave Thunderdome years ago, but I hope that doesn’t happen again. We’re better for you being here, stick around and… Keep going!

Chili fucked around with this message at 05:17 on Aug 15, 2019

take the moon
Feb 12, 2011



me vs. anomalous blowout story fight

1999 words

Black Lung

The flowers burn as she picks them, though still damp with dew. The petals ash in her fingers, soon smeared across the cloth of her tunic. The stems falling limp and charred in graceless dance. The plague she brings leaves bodies unsung and unmourned. Those that know her passage walk from her, never waver. This lightens her heart. The tethers of soul and earth strung most taut always fray. She shows their seams to the bitter wind and Its judgement is not hers.

She treads an ancient field, though it began with an ending. She knows what the vanished called themselves, knows the name of all collectives, knows them by their absence. When tribes turn to stone and structure, they lose light. The shade of wall and home keeps it. With light lost, decay seeps across the years through blood and seed. Bodies clutching each other soon choke. Without their rituals the fay swell from below, consume what they’ve built. The union of cultures beneath lends her blight. She takes knowledge offered with hunger she never questions.

The fay birth children with lust and laughter. The offspring seek light. They ascend in androgyny, sex when they breach the surface. Longing takes them. They come together, form new tribes, sate their need for each other. Their clinging is their death, but they can’t rest apart from each other’s bones.

Each culture a tribute to a greater myth, one veiled to her. She has long felt like its child, alone, forgotten, wishing abuse would prove her real. Her hair has paled but her veins remain hidden. She doesn’t tire and never sleeps. She watches stars come out instead. She sees shapes in them, visions without meaning, gone with daylight. She cries but sheds no tear.

Sunbeams lance the earth through cloud patches. The ground empties of green, soon willow-bark brown loam. Her bare feet sink to their arches. She’d unroot all flora, if she had time, and her path now leaves her to obsess. Her fingers find her hair, her choice clear. Her palm guides a tendril between thumb and index. She pulls. Her heel sears with pain.

She lets it fill her and fade away, retreats, more shocked than hurt. The nails that raked her grasp the soil and cave it in. A wrist, then two, rise from the hollow, lock to pull up weight. Slender arms bend and straighten. She sees gray eyes and the bone of ribcage under pallid skin.

The fay’s brood sense her presence, caught between their battle for air and terror of her sickness. They alter their path to miss her. This one came as if called. Fear guts her, that her gift is lost. If their children dare so, the fay themselves mock her.

The offspring’s eyes find hers. They shimmer. It weeps in silence and stillness. Her air should lace its throat with cuts, fill its lungs with blood. Still tears flow, glisten in the sunbeams like pearls.

She has sorrow worth torrents that she can’t release. She glares. Walks on, though she’s lost faith in her path. Though her heels ache with every step. She won’t look weak before a fay child.

She keeps watch over her shoulders as the sun traces its arc across the sky. The offspring follows. Her anger withers as darkness falls. She slows. The offspring has not sexed. She wonders why. Did the fay expel it early, set it to face the agons of ascension without love or soothing? She knows how it is to live barren. To exist just this side of being’s border. The offspring slips closer like one turns a page. Without thought, she hugs it to her. Shares its breath, feels the discord between their heartbeats.

The offspring breaks from her with dry eyes, like all it needed was her skin.

The sun is a faint glow, a shard cresting the end of the world. The offspring follows her gaze to the twilit sky. They wait. The stars blink into being a handful at a time. She breaks the silent spell. “Do you see them too? The visions?”

The offspring breathes in the starlight, as if its lungs diffuse ether into its bloodstream.

“You should be named,” she says. “I name you Tagata.”

The offspring murmurs the name with eyes that beckon more speech.

“There must be books,” she says, “that tell of the myth and the stars. Maybe in a holy place. But there are only ghosts here. Do you feel your birthright as a fay child? A wanting that shows you to others?”

Tagata nods.

“Then let’s walk together,” she says, her voice surer than ever, “and see who waits for us.”



Eloal has brought the obsidian spear to the temple. This should be ill-fated. But this morning he will use it.

For a decade he has sharpened and polished the black glass. The weapon thrums in his grip, sending tremors vibrating through his bones. He knows this magic. The obsidian holds the spirits of those that gifted him his bloodline.

The priestess Cirra doesn’t keep candles. She knows the temple to move to and fro in darkness, enjoys being the only who can. So Eloal bears a torch too, held before him like a shield. He’s feared the dark since birth.

Despite this the two know each other better than kin.

He hears her robes rustle before she steps into view. His torchlight plays with her harrowed face. She will have cause enough to smile after this dawn’s work. She has pored through the myth word by word. It set a price, made itself at home in her memory. She sees her past as the myth does. Its sight is not kind. Her mistakes not lessons learned but time wasted. Youth fled as water leaves dirt in a sieve.

“I just want,” Cirra says, “this to be over.”

Eloal says nothing. The two are tired. His dream-state doesn’t refresh like sleep. In it he performs his kill again and again, wakes with eyes that don’t blink. He sees much in the moments others lose. He sees the skein that binds people. How they strain against it to escape him. How he rends them through the mesh of his need, how they emerge in tatters begging to be woven. He weaves them as friend and lover. He wants most to be drawn through their mesh himself. Yet they do not want him, not since he first entered the dream-state and wielded the spear.

Cirra rubs her own eyes. Her fingers are scarred. Gifts from the myth. She may tell herself it’s from careless handling. Fatigue from days and nights spent in ceaseless study. Eloal knows such thoughts wouldn’t convince her. All she’s sure of is the myth’s hatred. It hates her for leaving the womb. Being heir to the hallowed is no blessing. She would have chosen the life of a sower, or dancer, or widow. It was never up to her. As her cord was cut, she saw pure void.

Cirra is the only one that can read the myth, and she does so in the dark.

The myth marked the cursed one for death under the morning sun, the means a blank page. Cirra’s hand brushes his knuckles, calming him as she takes the spear. She leaves the torchlight to find the font. He doesn’t follow. His presence would disrupt the ritual. Only a priestess may tell the myth to accept a weapon into its story.

The incantations haunt in layers, each one a droning heartbreak weighted by the time spent to master it. Her voice is firm yet flowing, reaching for the next chant before the last one is lost. The echoes blend with the ebb of rushing water. Tides are old magic, claiming the world through seasons of leaf and bloom.

She’s soon before him, both arms offering him the spear, face hidden by a cascade of wet hair. The obsidian head swims with bright motes, sparking at the glass like fireflies over water. An impatient galaxy. “My forebears,” he says.

“They’re eager to help you. The rites brought them closer to presence.”

“I am sorry to bond them so.” He takes the spear, feels its silken-smooth grip as if for the first time.

“Show them you’re worthy.”

He will use both spear and torch. He will blind the scion with the torch. It will know Cirra’s pain. Next his spear will pierce the cursed one’s lung, below the heart. She will know the hurt of her own disease.

Yet we will still come to ruin in the end. Like his kill won’t matter, though it will stain him. He will meet his forebears marred by doubt and guilt. Such is the myth.

He asks himself what forming a tribe is like. To just know you want others and they want you. To invoke the skein between bodies, but unknowing, innocent. He is too aware of himself as trapper and thresher. After this kill I will leave. He will carry the obsidian, wander until he joins its spirits. Has Cirra read of his choice?

If she has, she can make him stay, for she knows the skein. She must, for she unspools every attempt he makes to weave her.



I am the shade that climbed from hell and was named Tagata. I was given flesh by the myth. I grieved for skin gnawed raw, for a churn that strips tissue from muscle.

I found the cursed one by the sickness that repelled true fay children. Her touch sept ichor through my skin, washing me clean. Then I knew I must marry present to future. I led her to her place in the myth.

The warrior lay in wait. He emerges now as silhouette on our path. He bears a weapon hewn from the earth’s bile. Its spirits throw their battle cries to the wind. My ears pluck them, arrange them to song. I swallow the melody and distill its tune.

He measures his pace. I measure mine. He feints as I lunge. I follow his arm as it twists away from me. Seeking his open side I raze only air. Then he spins, and the flame whirls toward me. My breath stops.

The torch falls as the hunter gasps. Clutches his throat. His eyes hold only sadness. He has the courage to accept death but the wisdom to know its meaning. His knees fall as if in prayer. His descent is gentle, his landing soft.

I borrowed her plague. Now I regift it. The black glass dulls to the simple shine of sunlight. She wears her bliss like a gown, as if naked before. The way to the temple clears as people gathered take shelter. We will visit each home.

We pass into the temple. I wind the dead air to light.

The light burns down the hall, past pews and altars. A robed woman stands at temple’s end. Her back is to us, her shadow cast against a dry fountain. We approach her. The shadow flickers as she turns to face us. She holds a black tome. Blood runs from her lips. “Eloal died in battle. Maybe for the best.” I hear death in her lilt.

“We are the last tribe,” she says. “Did you know? The fay are sterile, and the myth starves. So it sends plague to hurry its last meal. A myth ends. A new myth will tell itself. The stars will thread themselves into a new tapestry.”

She doesn’t look at me. “Hello, scion. You should’ve grieved longer. Time will seal your eyes forever.”

“Give me your book,” the cursed one says. “I want to read about the stars.”

A smile bares bloodstained teeth. “I wish there was time to read it to you.”

“What do you mean?” she says, and I hear the myth in her voice, because all it needs to know itself are its own thoughts. All it needs are its fragments. All it needs are its words.

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*


magic cactus posted:

In, please throw me a line!

Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance.

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Chairchucker
Nov 14, 2006

The man was stunningly well dressed. He had a smart looking jacket, and a really neat looking cape, the lining of which was shimmering and sparkling in more than Oriental splendour, which is a great deal of splendour indeed, just ask Kipling.



Thank you for the compliment, Chili, contractually obligated though it may be it was still appreciated.

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