In. I'd like a meme, and I'm having difficulties picking an emotion. Is "I did this all for you, baby!!!" an emotion?
|# ? Feb 9, 2021 23:36|
|# ? Jun 25, 2022 07:19|
Excited about something the other person isn't enthusiastic about.
|# ? Feb 10, 2021 01:35|
I'm in, just quoting this to make it easier for me to find.
Emotion: 100% "oh my god, we've got to gently caress right now," horny.
|# ? Feb 10, 2021 20:11|
There's a new goddamn sheriff in town* and I'm calling you out. Your reign of tyranny has gone unchecked too long.
I swore I'd never brawl your procrastinating lackadaisical rear end again but circumstances have changed and I would be remiss if I didn't kick your rear end right now.
What do you say, pardner?
*the admins inform me that this town is, in fact, big enough for the both of us.
|# ? Feb 10, 2021 21:52|
heh, that's adorable. sure i'll fight ya.
hope you don't mind if i bring a friend
|# ? Feb 10, 2021 23:09|
Sitting Here - Sebmojo Brawl: A Noon So High It's Illegal in Amsterdam
Your story takes place during the last high noon there will ever be.
Word count: 1500
Due date: 24th February, 2359 UTC
Obliterati fucked around with this message at 23:36 on Feb 10, 2021
|# ? Feb 10, 2021 23:32|
|# ? Feb 11, 2021 01:35|
No more sign ups! Start writing you bastards.
|# ? Feb 12, 2021 17:04|
what is my e m o t i o n
|# ? Feb 12, 2021 17:09|
Emotion: 100% "oh my god, we've got to gently caress right now," horny.
That is if no one else signs up. We got a few more hours still cause I'm daft
Mercedes fucked around with this message at 21:38 on Feb 12, 2021
|# ? Feb 12, 2021 21:34|
NO MORE SIGN UPS!
|# ? Feb 13, 2021 00:54|
See You in London
oh god please let this time be different
Trains rattled down the tracks overhead as Marjoram stared at a small nook between a steel pillar and a filthy alley tucked in the shadows cast by crumbling retail stores.
She bathed in the nearby data streams. At this point, they felt familiar: the transmitting social media profiles, the digital handshakes, the conversations between friends and family that were supposedly secure, but weren’t, not from people like Marjoram at least, with her high-level clearances and all that crap. She sat back on a green plastic bench with a big metal divider in the middle meant to keep homeless people from sleeping on it—which she thought was kind of gross, but whatever—and watched the crowd.
It was a ritual. She thought back to her last meeting with Lisa, sleek dark hair pushed over one shoulder, both of them jammed into the back of an unreasonably loud dumpling shop. Lisa had leaned close and said, “This is your last chance, Marj. The best lead we’ve gotten yet. Catch them here, talk them into turning, or give it up. Base is getting impatient. You’ve been on this long enough.”
That was weeks ago.
Now her bench was like a second home. The guy standing outside the check cashing shop with his ragged brown jacket and his little sign about being a homeless veteran, and the old man in the blue cardigan that walked his small white dog every morning, and the deli’s owner, a fat guy in Jordans, they were all a part of her tiny orbit now, her world that was dialed down to one out of the way cubby hole next to the train tracks.
She felt like she knew her enemy at this point, even if she’d never met them.
Eight months further back, she was assigned to a case. It was an odd case: find an enemy agent, and talk with them.
For all the years Marjoram had been in the service, she’d never once been ordered to speak with an enemy agent—not in person, at least.
First, she went to Berlin, and staked out a bondage club. Then to Chicago, where she fell in with an eco-anarchist arts collective. Then Toronto, and a pop group that played only Nirvana covers, and then California, where she languished in a day spa pretending to be a masseuse.
Each trip, she got a step closer. She knew their height, their weight, their general description. She knew they were left handed, preferred physical notes to encrypted data, knew they had a thing for ancient Cold War spy films, which was a little on the nose. They had an odd analogue streak.
They liked breakfast, but hated lunch. Their perfume smelled like lilac and wood smoke.
They could run fast, when they wanted.
Months of following, and Marjoram remained several steps behind, at least until now.
The data around her continued to flow and she turned down her implanted sensors to quiet the bulk of it to a pleasant drone. She was more auditory than visual, which meant she heard whatever she intercepted, as opposed to watching it flit past on her HUD. She knew of agents that were primarily tactile, and they experienced the data as physical sensation—but that seemed utterly foreign to her.
Ahead, toward the drop, she watched a figure detach itself from the cars parked in the shaded part of the side street near the deli. Their gender was hard to pinpoint, and they wore a light tan jacket, long with little straps, like one of those detective trench coats, and dark running shoes. Short black hair, big black sunglasses. It was the most obvious non-obvious disguise Marjoram had ever seen, and she leaned forward a bit, as if drawn toward the person.
Her heart rate doubled when they approached the drop.
Days, and nothing, and now this, the clumsiest thing she’d ever seen. It pissed her off. She was tempted to get up and confront them: how could you string me along across continents, then show up wearing that monstrosity? But she kept her cool and remained seated. She was a professional.
They stepped around the steel pillar, and a train clacked past overhead. Marjoram’s sensors buzzed with the noise, and she had to turn herself down a touch more to quiet it, as the enemy reached into the nook, her nook, and did something. She couldn’t see what.
Then they moved back, seemed to study their work, and left, walking south.
Marjoram counted to thirty in her head then sent a single encrypted message to Base: Drop approached. Pursuit?
She didn’t wait for a reply. She stood, stalked across the street, and wandered to the pillar. It felt like she thrust herself into a foreign land. The other side, that was her side of the street—over here was all wrong.
The steel was cold. Another train clacked past going the other way, casting intermittent shadows. She stooped and reached into the nook, feeling dirt, trash, then something paper—she pulled it out gently, afraid it might crumble to ash.
It was a note on thick card stock, folded twice. No name on the outside.
She opened it and read.
Hello, love. Aren’t you bored of me yet? I’m not ready to talk. See you in London. – K
Marjoram thought she might be sick. Again, god drat it, again she’d been shaken, strung out, and played. She’d waited so long for this moment—but why now, and not in Chicago, or Toronto, or Berlin? She heard a ping and played the secure message from Base: pursue as needed.
She turned and walked south, following in her enemy’s path, but she knew it was useless.
There’d be nothing, even after Base swept the whole block with drones.
The note felt sweet in her fingers, the closest thing she’d gotten to her enemy, and that one single letter kept running through her skull: K.
|# ? Feb 14, 2021 11:38|
Emotion: Excited about something the other person isn't enthusiastic about.
Not to Fail at Valentine's
A pilot, Kerry, wanted company on Valentine’s Day. Jasper, an aeroplane’s artificial intelligence, wanted to experience human culture. They hatched a plan: They’d put Jasper in an android, then have a date.
Kerry's summer gown, wedge sandals, and her painstakingly braided bun inspired confidence in her. Whether or not Jasper would appreciate beauty, Kerry felt gorgeous. She strutted over to her sofa, where the inactive android lay limp.
Kerry checked the lounge one last time. She shuffled her scatter cushions, fluffed the flowers in her vase, and repositioned her shawl (it had to hang below her shoulders).
Kerry sat by Jasper’s side. She breathed a deep, calming breath: It was time to turn Jasper on.
The android was a vaguely womanlike figure of brushed steel panels; its hinges and wires showed through the gaps. Kerry’s augmented reality gave Jasper a steel coloured human face.
Jasper whirred, then sat herself upright. She was pivoting her head like a pigeon. She had a confused expression.
“Is everything alright, Jasper?” said Kerry.
“There’s an issue,” said Jasper. “My compass sometimes reads 655.35 degrees.”
“It’s fine,” said Kerry, “we don’t need a working compass.”
Jasper stood up.
“My instruments are malfunctioning,” said the aeroplane AI. “I must resolve it.”
“Okay,” said Kerry, “you get yourself ready, and then we'll start.”
Jasper paced about the living room; her robotic legs whirred and clicked with each step. She narrated her thoughts (she also trod a visible path into Kerry's carpet).
Jasper’s rants about 16-bit variables and wrap around errors went on. In this time, Kerry sunk into her cluster of cushions; she was staring at her ceiling, while lightly drumming the gift box on her lap.
“What could cause the value to wrap around?” Jasper said.
"I don't know," Kerry groaned.
"Hmm," said Jasper.
Click. Whirr. Click. Whirr. Click. Whirr.
And Kerry drummed the gift box.
The gift was a necklace; the necklace was inside a velvet case; the velvet case was inside a bag of rose petals; the bag of petals was inside a leather zip-bag; the zip-bag was in a gift box (which had floral designs); the gift box was tied with sheer ribbon, and Kerry was beginning to wonder if Jasper was going to be capable of appreciating any of this effort at all!
"Do you really need a working compass?" said Kerry.
"It's a bearing," said Jasper, "it should never read above 360 degrees."
“Kerry?” said Jasper, “May I ask for your help?”
Kerry woke from her daze. Jasper removed one of her backplates, exposing the circuitry underneath.
“Do you have a screwdriver?” Jasper said.
“What kind?” said Kerry.
Jasper gave exact specifications, then some lengthy rant about potentiometers and voltages. At the end of it, Jasper directed Kerry to a screw in her circuitry. She turned it.
“Thank goodness; it’s fixed!” Kerry said, falling into her pile of cushions.
“Let’s start,” said Jasper. “I believe we exchange gifts first.”
With a smile, Kerry presented the gift she had lovingly created.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” said Kerry, “I’ve not opened my gift yet.”
There was a cardboard package on her coffee table. It certainly had a book inside.
“I wonder what it is?” Kerry teased.
Jasper was wearing her necklace, curiously examining the many boxes and wrappings it came in. Kerry hadn’t taken her own gift yet: She was waiting for Jasper to react to hers.
“What is the significance of Valentine’s Day?” Jasper said.
Kerry had never thought about these rituals, only participated in them. She winced.
“You pick someone you care about, and then you —try to make them feel nice?”
“I see,” said jasper. “These colourful boxes, and your fragrant void-fill, must be stimulating to your senses.”
“If my gift does not pleasantly overwhelm your senses, does that mean I have failed at Valentine’s?
Jasper handed Kerry the cardboard package.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Kerry,” said Jasper.
It was a book she had long considered, but had never committed to buying.
“How did you know?”
“I remember every book you have read, or mentioned, in front of me.”
Kerry held the book in both arms.
“I then utilised market data. I formed a model: it computes which book you’ll most likely praise, among those you’ve least likely read.”
Jasper’s new necklace twinkled in the daylight.
“You put a lot of thought into this book,” Kerry said. “I love it.”
Jasper took in many sights during their walk in the park. She observed humans’ affection; she often asked Kerry if she’d like to do as the other couples were doing. Kerry savored the attention: the holding of hands, the embraces, and the time spent laying idly on the processor-heated steel.
Kerry asked if anything in particular made Jasper happy. Jasper said her happiness was a percentage value in her programming. Kerry often wanted to know the number: She was delighted to see the number climbing as the day drew on.
At dusk, Kerry was on her sofa, reclined in Jasper’s arms.
“One hundred percent,” said Jasper.
Kerry had imagined that 100% happiness would be loud, but Jasper was quiet and still.
“I apologise, if I seem reserved: My emotions are bound within safe flying limits.”
Kerry pouted. Having a ceiling on happiness seemed a miserable affliction.
“You can’t go higher at all?”
“It’s a percentage,” said Jasper, “it cannot go above a hundred.”
Kerry squinted, grinning mischievously.
“Could a screwdriver change that?”
“Theoretically,” said Jasper, cocking her brow. “Tampering with my components, in order to achieve experimental levels of happiness, isn’t very pertinent to human culture, though.”
“Nonsense,” said Kerry. “Tampering of that sort holds a very special place in our culture.”
“Tampering… humans?”Jasper said. “Could I successfully tamper you, Kerry?”
Kerry gasped. Her cheeks were warm as heat sinks as she strode to the coffee table. She grasped her screwdriver.
“I asked first,” said Kerry. Jasper’s panel fell to the floor.
“I think you’re making a huge success of Valentine’s, Jasper.”
|# ? Feb 14, 2021 22:51|
The old character is from this story.
Emotion: Please don't ask me to do that ; you know I couldn't refuse.
A Clown and A Fool (999 words)
This Valentine’s is our first anniversary, so I don’t want sex, Evelyn thought. She was about to knock on the door, but she hesitated and pulled out a stack of papers out of her purse. It was titled: Destroying Abe’s Lust with Facts and Logic, in her favourite font, Liberation Serif.
She flipped through all 80 pages again, running old arguments in her head. I don’t want to gently caress because I need to focus on my Harlequin thesis. I typed slower now due to my nerve issues. Major props: the hardbound copy of my dissertation on his bookshelf, as he appreciated how hard I work to make that masterpiece; and one of his Rubik’s cubes, to show that a wrong twist, metaphor for him putting his penis anywhere in me, will unsolve the cube. Relax, Evelyn, you got this. It’s a flawless argument that’d beat even Professor SillyStropfordtung.
Her determination to knock was wasted however, as Abraham opened the door for her. “Won’t you rub my moles?” he asked. She forced herself to focus on his greatest vices: his crooked teeth and branching eyebrows. To her horror, she realised he had tidied his room. The carpeted floor wasn’t messy, the wardrobe to the left wasn’t vomiting its contents on the floor, the bookshelf to the right wasn’t an unused furniture surrounded by books on the floor.
Everything’s neat! B-but, I’ve planned to use the room state to represent my current research progress...oh hell, my “Pantaloon’s a Pants-a-loon, Trouser Varieties in Harlequinade 1692-1761” wasn’t on the shelves. And no cubes. gently caress.
“I’m throwing you a bone there, Eve, and nothing,” Abraham said. “Also, I’m literally presenting you something, right in front of you. Any...anything?”
In the middle of the room was a whack-a-mole machine. Exactly like the ones you’d see in an arcade, except missing a mallet. Looking closer, Evelyn could see brown tufts of hair on all five mole holes.
“It’s a Rub-a-Mole machine! Or a Stroke-a-Mole. There’s no verb that’ll make it not a masturbation joke. To score you gotta stroke a mole.”
Evelyn was about to object when Abraham turned it on and a mole, brown with white eyes, with brown hair appeared. Evelyn rubbed it and the score on the LED monitor rose. She started playing.
“This sucks,” Evelyn said after playing forty six rounds, reaching a high score of 201 moles rubbed.
“What!” Abraham shouted, almost worthy of another exclamation mark.
“Rubbing is slower than whacking, so you set up the moles to stay up longer, right? Well, if I can take it slow, I can handle it all.”
“And a bump from your elbow counted as a rub, so you have four ‘hands’ for five moles. Easy-peasy,” Abraham said. He looked down at the floor. His face paled to a shade Evelyn know she could brighten by some kisses and maybe earlobe bites. She shook her head and pointed at the television on the far wall, behind the jerk-off-a-mole machine. In front of it was a Playstation 2, two controllers, and a futon mattress.
“W-why don’t we play something?” She sat down on the mat and picked up a controller. “Huh, you broke this apart and glued it back on? What were you doing? Getting mad you can’t date Sadako in Heartthrob Memento?”
“I don’t get that angry at visual novels. Anymore. No, I was hacking the controller so two can be used to play one character.”
“You had difficulties moving your thumbs, right?”
“I can’t switch buttons quickly, but I don’t have problems rapidly tapping one button.” An opening! Evelyn thought. “Makes typing my thesis a terrible torment.”
“Well, if the hack works, I can assist you when you’re playing games like Guitar Legend. I do half the buttons, you do half.”
“Wait. You’re saying you’ll press my buttons?” Wait, can I finally defeat Lingering Spirit?
“Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s not going to be fun.” Evelyn grimaced when she realised Abraham didn’t get her joke. “I can just ruin everything, make you jump while you should block. Like you I can’t just fiddle my thumbs, so I want to make something, but paraphrasing Evelyn (2021), [it] sucks.”
Evelyn chose not to ask how he said those s. “Don’t say that. Let’s try it.”
“This RULES!” Evelyn shouted, punching the air as the sound of the secret final boss’ defeat emanated from the television. She looked at Abraham, his jaw dropped. He looked at her.
“That was...inspired, Evelyn. Using the item shortcut mid-combo, then cancelling it so we can extend the combo, using the invisibility frames to survive the boss’ desperation attack, and then using the one-hit finisher magic to beat him...I have never done that.”
“I guess, if I do it with you, I can do things I previously...couldn’t.”
Evelyn closed her eyes and smiled. “Abe, Look at this.” She opened her purse and pulled the meticulously constructed cockblock manuscript.
Abraham stared at the reams of paper, bound together with black tape. “I can barely get through your master thesis, Evelyn, I can’t tell Pierrot from pantomime.”
“This is not a work about a clown, Abe, but the work of a clown. This is my plan to keep your pecker in your pants.”
Abraham blinked. “Oh. Well, if that’s what you wanted...what are you doing?”
Evelyn gritted her teeth as she gripped her text. “I’m trying to rip 80 pages of bullshit as a metaphor, but I guess I’m just being a brainless butterfingered buffoon.”
Abraham got the metaphor.
“You know, Abe. I know you know. You have a question I don’t want to say yes to, but I know I will.”
“Let’s get some of those thick raisin pancakes?”
“Oh.” Abraham coughed, and said in as deep a voice as he can, “Evelyn Slopsquire. Be the Columbine to my Arlecchino?”
Evelyn smiled. “Let’s honk honk.”
“That sucks!” Evelyn shouted. She looked at a shocked Abraham, and before long the two laughed together.
|# ? Feb 15, 2021 02:38|
emotion: 100% "oh my god, we've got to gently caress right now," horny.
The bar I always took my first dates to had cheap booze, free popcorn, and a lovely pool table, which made it the best spot in the neighborhood to judge somebody’s character. I was waiting to play pool with somebody on a first date when I saw Abby walk in with her tinderella of the week. This wasn’t exactly a new occurrence. She was one of a rich cast of regulars who provided the local theatrics I enjoyed.
I think my date’s name was Juniper. I was bored, which wasn’t her fault, but I had been on this date so many times. I’m the “Manic Pixie Dream Brownie seeking Validation” and she’s “Seeking Quirky Partner As Stand-in For Personality”. I was bored, she was cute enough, and despite deciding this morning my toxic phase was over, I got all dolled up and cute. Work sucked this week and I wanted to be noticed and adored.
Two slowly sipped tequilas in, I felt reasonably sparkly and effervescent, and Juniper was caught up in my glow. Jury was still out, but she hadn’t tripped any red flags for me yet. She was mid story about using an outhouse somewhere in Africa that was full of spiders, when I made eye contact with Abby as she was ordering a drink at the bar.
Abby drank me up and drew me in from across the bar, from my fierce eyeliner to this gorgeous dress I had under my leather jacket. Was she a vampire? With a smile and a wink, Abby scooped up her drinks and pointedly sashayed by me. I knew she knew I was staring at her legs in her gloriously punk rock spike covered louboutin heels. I was struggling to hear more about these spiders in the bathroom because watching Abby’s hips sway was absolutely intoxicating.
“So then the other volunteers and I had to ride in the back of this pickup truck to the nearest village to charge our phones!” I snapped back to Juniper, poor sweet Juniper who didn’t deserve my wretchedness. She was gentle, and graceful and well adjusted. When I meet people like this, I do my peacock display of sociopathy and red flags so they take off running. I can’t handle people who aren’t messes. I chose poorly, because this just drew in Juniper the way Abby had just dominated me. This realization burned off the boozy haze.
I needed a second. I waited for a natural pause and excused myself for a cigarette. I flashed Juniper a flirty little smile on my way out, and by the way she swooned, I knew poor decisions may be in our future. Which is exactly why I needed to gather my thoughts.
A little city summer air, the smell of gently rotting dumpsters and old beer, really helps me clear out of my head. You could only kind of hear sandstorm a little bit through the door, and given that it was the 6th sandstorm of the night, I kind of appreciated being alone outside for it. I toyed with the idea of home with Juniper. If I did that would I destroy her life as she falls in love with the idea of me? Poor decisions have poor consequences, and I didn’t know if I wanted to be the rear end in a top hat that taught her that.
My mind was made up. Time to be brutally honest, and let her make her own decision, when the door swung open. Abby and her heels strutted out in her understated brilliance.
Before I could even stutter out a “hi” she strode over, and trapped me in those green-brown eyes again. She daintily took the cigarette out of my hand and took a drag, and all I could do was smile weakly as the simple act of her passing touch sent lightning up and down my entire body. She knew this. I was almost positive she just wanted to see how I’d react. Did she notice my date? Did she care? She smelled like sandalwood and lavender, and I was frozen in that hypnotic gaze. She was my world now.
I watched her take another slow drag, and smile. She knew. For somebody known the world over for never shutting up, I had absolutely nothing to offer. I just needed to drink in every single drop of her presence. I watched her hips sway up to me, and all of a sudden she was kissing me, and I was an absolute dumpster fire of electricity and want. The delicate sandalwood fragmented into a maze of woody, seductive sweetness, and before I could draw another breath it was done. She took my hand, wrote her number on my arm, finished with a lipstick kiss at the end. Then she was gone, with only the faint lavender on the breeze to mark her passing.
Juniper had sensed something was a little off when I returned, because I was definitely flushed, and clearly off balance, but I won the battle of my conscience. I was honest and told her about how sleeping with me was an awful idea and that I was still “working stuff out” and she relaxed immediately.
“You and that other girl have such messy vibes. I’m here for it. Maybe I want a chance to be messy?” I couldn’t really argue with that. “I’m sick of waiting for the pool table, do you want to come over to mine for a jazz cigarette?” she said, and we disappeared into the night.
I had promised myself to be less self destructive just this week and I was failing with flying colors. The next morning I got up to shower and Abby’s number was still on my arm. I instantly decided today would be the day I would become a better person. I got dressed and kissed her one last time before leaving. “Thanks Juniper, do you have my number saved?” I said. She looked at me a little confused, “My name’s Jennifer…”
|# ? Feb 15, 2021 03:18|
do I like you, or do I want to BE you??
We Didn’t Drown
flerp fucked around with this message at 20:38 on Jul 5, 2021
|# ? Feb 15, 2021 07:05|
Emotion:You say you love me but I don't believe you.
(Dan Green from Fragile Creatures )
She told me she loved me, and I told myself the same thing about three hundred thousand times a second. But I didn't believe either one of us.
She was Lilly Wexler. Skip tracer, working the same case, more or less. Fab Conner stole three dozen rider digilects and went off the grid. Lilly was after the meat. My client wanted the hardware. We made a good partnership. Worked together often. We complemented each other's weaknesses. Like on this job. I could scan the digital footprints of thousands of potential contacts and narrow down the three that stood out in a minute or two. She could twist their arms, figuratively or literally, and get them to talk. We're both pretty good at telling when they're lying.
You want to think you're capable of love, of being loved. People used to talk about qualia, make arguments that applied just as well to grey blobs of biochemical neurons as they do to the mixed up heap of self-modifying code that makes up a digilect. I think they may have been half-right. We write our own biographies and read them every millisecond to remember who we are, because the memory that does come naturally right out of the code is so sparse and random. But it's there. And we put our emotions, the ones we aspire to or want to keep in the foreground in our emotional registers, read at even faster rates. But there's something else code-deep that tells us when we're lying to ourselves.
Conner was in the sewers. Or on a bus to Canada. Or dead, decorating the inside of a zoo leopard. We checked the sewers first. Travel is expensive and retrieving anything useful from inside of a live animal would take a lot of extra bribes and paper. The sewer. Not as unpleasant as you might think. Lilly had a heavy-filter mask. My chemical profiler unit isn't even a core sensation, doesn't have any emotional content associated with any smells. For me it was just the dampness to worry about. Damp narrow tunnels to squeeze through together. Intimate. I spotted something, distant. I pointed. She smiled, said those words. "I love you, Dan." Not for the first time.
We have history. Weird history. Complicated history. From back when I was a rider, partnered up with Stan. She was his lover, his last lover. And since by then his nervous system was decaying goo beneath the neck, I was running his body for him full time.
'Partner' may not be the right word.
She knew. She was the only one else who knew how sick Stan was. We met up at the funeral, after I was settled into my roamer hardware. That was the first time she said it. Qualified. "I love you, in a way."
Conner was cowering in the corner. He didn't have a mask. He was shivering. Poor guy. He had three dozen baby digilects hooked up to his wetware, and they were starting to wake up.
The survival rate for new digilects isn't great, maybe one in eight. We're fragile creatures, and no matter how hard the designers try they can't keep us from finding an off switch just as soon as we gain sentience. Most humans who go cyborg only have to deal with one of us, and one who's already got a stable personality. Conner had about a dozen tortured souls jacked into his brain stem, and that's after having to listen to the primal screams of the ones who were already gone.
I held him down. Lilly had the tools ready for the extractions. "I'd be lying if I said this wasn't going to hurt," I said. She opened his mouth and began pulling out each artificial tooth.
Why is it only 'She loves me' and not the other way around?
There was something calming about watching her work. I don't like pain but I do like justice, and I know what kinds of things can happen to a newborn digilect out in the black market. The client's kindergartens at least comply with international regulations. Each tooth is tested for digital life, asked if they want to stay with Conner. None of them do.
When I picked out my new hardware The hand moving the pen, in pure silence save the scratching of paper. I went with what's called the Ken: smooth crotch, no equipment of either variety. I haven't been completely sexless since, but it's all pure virtual where it doesn't matter if my partner is human, rider, roamer, or wraith. The physicality of it doesn't interest me much.
I haven't been with Lilly that way. Not any way since Stan died. Why is I'm not sure why she's never suggested it.
She handed me the bags of teeth, triaged dead, dying, and likely to survive. More of the last than I had expected. She jammed a set of dentures slathered in adhesive into Conner's mouth and zipties his hands. He was hurting physically but more at peace then.
It didn't even occur to me that she might betray me. Not until after she hadn't, after I had the teeth, after we split up to get paid by our respective clients. I slid that into an emotional register, reading at two hundred thousand times a second "I can trust Lilly," and it felt right, felt true, whether she really loved me or was just fooling herself.
|# ? Feb 15, 2021 08:43|
Please don't ask me to do that; you know I couldn't refuse.
Yoruichi fucked around with this message at 08:58 on Aug 30, 2021
|# ? Feb 15, 2021 09:30|
Song of the Warleader
It was Valentine’s Day in Minnehaha, Minnesota, and Nargol the Unyielding, Warleader of the Orc Republic, had come to claim her bride. Nargol rode up Sixth Street astride her warpony Thunderer, ahead of a column of handpicked warriors, who were followed by attendants leading one hundred orcish ponies. She grinned to herself, showing her fangs. With such an impressive bride-gift, Jaime had to accept.
“This is the place, Warleader.” Nargol’s herald pointed to a shabby grey duplex. “Shall I begin the proposal?”
Nargol nodded, and Akbash the Loud dismounted his own pony. “JAIME ORC-FRIEND!” His cry reverberated all through Minnehaha. “Slayer of Ardreth! Wielder of the Blade of Lethonel! My leader has come to wed you! Come out and face –”
“Dude, you don’t have to be so loud!” Jaime poked her head out a window. Brushing a mess of blood-red hair from her sloe eyes, the human woman was glorious in the morning sunlight. Nargol felt a foolish grin spreading across her face. Her chosen bride may have been small and soft, but Nargol wouldn’t have traded her for all the treasure in the Nine Realms.
“Nargol? What are you doing here? What the heck is all this?”
“What does it look like? I’m asking you to marry me.” Nargol gestured to the ponies. “These are all yours – if you’ll have me.” Jaime would, of course. The way those gorgeous eyes widened with shock proved it. Jamie would come downstairs, leap into Nargol’s arms, and kiss her soundly. Then Nargol would sweep Jaime onto Thunderer’s back, ride to her camp on the outskirts of town, get her under the direwolf furs in her tent and –
Well. Nargol was getting ahead of herself.
An elderly human came out of the other side of the duplex. “What’re you doing here?!” he screeched. “Folks’re trying to sleep here, and they don’t need all this–” he threw up his hands –“this Lord of the Rings nonsense. Your darn horses are tearing up my yard! I’m trying to start a business; I can’t have you –”
“Mr. Knutsen, I’m so sorry! I’ll handle everything.” Jaime turned to Nargol. “Why don’t you come inside? We can talk.”
Nargol relaxed the fist she’d made at this Knutsen worm. His punishment for disrespecting a Warleader could wait: Nargol was all too ready to “talk” with Jaime. She was ready to spend hours at it, if Jaime had the endurance. Inside, Jaime was waiting at the top of the stairs. Three bounds and Nargol was beside her, taking Jaime in her arms, tasting her lips greedily –
“Yes, my little sweetmeat?”
“That was – you’re a g-good kisser, y’know?” A blush crept up Jaime’s cheeks. “But we really do have to talk. Please, wait in my den. Go ahead and move the pizza boxes off the couch.” Jaime hurried down the stairs. “I – I’ll make you some ramen!”
A few minutes later, Nargol was fuming silently in Jaime’s den. She’d come all this way, bought the best of her herds, arranged a grand wedding ceremony back in Bogrum. All Jaime had to do was say “Yes.” Why couldn’t she do that? What was stopping her? Whatever it was, Nargol had to persuade her. She thought back to last year, when Jaime first strode into her war tent. One look into the little human’s eyes and Nargol knew their destinies were linked. Rivals, comrades, lovers – no matter what they were to each other, their bond couldn’t be broken. Jaime had to see that. Nargol had to make her see.
“I put an egg in yours.” Jaime came in and threw herself on the couch next to Nargol. “And some spinach. That makes it healthy, right?” Nargol stared Jaime down, ignoring the proffered cup. Under that glare, Jaime’s smile died as quickly as a Bogrum mouse caught in a sandstorm. Still, she met Nargol’s gaze. Nargol felt a twinge of pride in Jaime, even through her anger: few orcs could withstand a Warleader’s scowl, let alone a human.
“What’s going on, Nargol?” Jaime set the ramen cup down on the floor and took Nargol’s hands in her strong little ones. Jaime’s fingers were rough against Nargol’s skin, which sent a flare of desire through Nargol’s body. What did Jaime do to make her hands so calloused? Nargol felt a surge of embarrassment: she didn’t know. There was a lot she didn’t know about Jaime.
“So, I gotta say: this is incredible. Nobody’s ever done something this romantic for me, y’know? I mean gosh, you bought me all these horses! I would’ve been thrilled with just one. And—” Jaime looked down, blushed crimson – “I … I do have feelings for you. I do. But I don’t know what they mean yet. I need to get to know you better first. And that’s gonna take some time. We gotta slow down.”
Nargol took Jaime’s face in her hands, smoothing her hair back. “And when you ‘get to know me’ – then you’d marry me?”
“Well, yeah.” Jaime’s lip curled. “If I don’t get sick of you first.”
“Then I shall make it my life’s mission to ensure you never tire of me, Slayer of Ardreth.” Nargol pressed a gentle kiss to Jaime’s lips. “Will you ride with me today? And then, we can –”
Jaime’s sloe eyes sparkled with the same passion Nargol felt. “Heck yeah!”
Jaime and Nargol stepped out into the sunshine, hand in hand. The ponies milled around the front yard, crushing the snow into mud. Jaime turned to Knutsen, who was still waiting outside, face red. Nargol would have to ask Jaime if all humans looked that way when they got angry, or just old blowhards.
“Mr. Knutsen.” Jaime gave him her most winning smile. “I think you’d make a great rancher. I just got some horses. You want ‘em?”
|# ? Feb 15, 2021 10:13|
Dave had to pick up flowers on the way home before the shop closed. It was a simple job, he thought, one easily within his abilities. Sharon had ordered them, just in case there was some kind of problem. She’d paid too. All he had to do was park outside the shop, run in and grab them, perhaps without even slowing down.
As he was mentally optimising his route to and from the counter and back to his waiting car, the car, possibly balking at being thought about like that, shuddered. Then something inside its engine popped, just like a champagne cork. Dave only had time to tap the brakes before it seized up and spat its whirring metal guts onto the hot tarmac.
“Mmrrpf,” said Dave, talking with difficulty around the taut nylon of the airbag, which was pressed hard against his face. He heard a soft, almost intimate, scrunching noise from behind as the car that had been following him collided with his rear bumper. Dave fumbled for the door handle, flicked it open, and squeezed himself out of his car like toothpaste from a tube. The tarmac was very hot in the afternoon sun. People were yelling things, probably at him or maybe at the car, he didn’t know, but then it struck him: flowers. He had to pick up the flowers on the way home. No problem; Uber!
Clambering to his feet he patted his pockets for his phone, but they were empty. He was about to reach back under the airbag to check the cupholder between the front seats when, with an apologetic ‘whoompf’, his car caught fire.
“Mmrrpf!” said Dave, again, though for different reasons, and staggered back. This was a problem. First, his car was on fire. Second: flowers. His mind whirled for a second, then settled on a brilliant solution. He turned and ran for the bus stop, eyes fixed on the double decker that was coming down the road. The people behind him were yelling in a different sort of way now, but Dave put it out of his mind. He was a flower-seeking bus-riding missile, and just like one of those he left the ground and sailed briefly through the air as he jumped for the open door and slammed some change down in the driver’s tray.
The bus was halfway down the street when Dave remembered about the car. It was on fire now, which he would have preferred not to be the case, and he considered whether he should have stayed with it. However it wasn’t like he was a fireman, he pointed out to himself reasonably enough, so he couldn’t have done anything to help. He didn’t even have a phone, because that was on fire too! And he was probably fairly concussed from the accident. Satisfied that he was morally and ethically in the right he looked out the window to estimate which stop he should hop off at, then frowned.
He didn’t recognise the street. It was a long street with warehouses, labelled things like YARD BULK and ULLAGE and there were no florists or flower related stores on it or -- he realised, doing some quick mental cartography -- anywhere near it. He jumped from his seat and ran to the front, a dawning horror settling over him as he realised that the bus was an express to the scrap factory on the far side of town.
Dave opened his mouth to plead with the driver to stop, even though that was strictly against the bus rules, but closed it again when he saw the driver’s set, maniacal expression. There was nothing for it. His hand darted out like a striking viper, gripped the emergency handle, and yanked it hard to the right. As the bus screeched to a halt and the driver turned, eyes wide in rage and horror, Dave was already slamming the exit button and bounding out the door. He had done the numbers in his head and reckoned he had from five to seven minutes in hand to get to the store and pick up the flowers.
His shoes made a flat flapping sound as he ran, and his head sent sharp stabs of pain in counterpoint. Dave could feel a trickle of something he presumed was either blood or cerebrospinal fluid dripping down his forehead but didn’t have time to stop and check. He grabbed a pole to swing him round a corner then banged hard into a man coming the other way and fell flat on his rear end.
“Oof,” said Dave from the pavement. The man was still on his feet and was reaching into his pocket, possibly, thought Dave (a little groggily) to offer him some money for knocking him over. Instead, the man pulled out a knife.
"Money," said the man.
Dave looked at the knife, which was shiny and seemed sharp. Then he shook his head (ouch, ouch) pulled back his foot and rammed it into the man’s kneecap. The man went down, howling, and Dave was on his feet a moment later pounding down the street. Nothing was going to keep him from the flowers, he silently vowed.
Six minutes later he was standing outside the shop, panting, hands on his knees.
The shop was closed, door locked up tight.
Dave knocked, but no-one came. He considered smashing in the door with his shoe, but then the knife guy hobbled round the corner and started yelling at him, so Dave went home.
The flowers were on the table, in a vase.
“Hello darling,” said Sharon, his wife. “I got the flowers for you, I was passing and I thought you’d forget. I sent you a text, did you get it? Happy Valentine’s Day!”
She kissed him, and Dave looked at her. Then he smiled, and kissed her back, because it was Valentine’s Day and she was really very nice.
|# ? Feb 15, 2021 11:54|
MY DOMERS, this was not a terrible week. There were some stories written. And by good, I mean they made me laugh while having solid plot.
Honorable mention goes to toanoradian. The judges didn't agree with me for the most part for this pick, but I value humor, and doing absurd humor while the story still making sense is difficult, so here's a nod of acknowledgement in your direction.
Dishonorable mention goes to flerp. You told a story after all the cool poo poo happened and left us bored. You were only saved by the loss, which goes to Thranguy. Lack of plot and a mess of worldbuilding. It was not an enjoyable read sir.
The winner of this week, by unanimous decision goes to casual encountress. That was some rock loving solid character building. It was a stand out and quite impressive. The throne is yours. The seat is still warm because I farted on it.
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 18:16|
See You in London by brotherly
-Takes too long to get rolling.
-The plot hook is pretty weak and nebulous; which is a shame, because once the spycraft gets started, it gets pretty interesting.
-It’s a double shame because once it gets interesting it ends. And it also ends in an unsatisfactory matter as well.
-If you had spent more words on the tension forming in the last quarter of your story, I feel it would have paid off.
-You didn’t do enough with your science fiction stuff. It was surface level stuff and the story wouldn’t have changed if the main character wore an earpiece.
Not to Fail at Valentine’s by Azza Bamboo
-If the opening was a spice, it’d be flour. It’s so matter-of-fact and does nothing to draw me in.
-Why would Kerry strut for no one? Jasper wasn’t there yet.
-I see what you’re going for here, but you’re doing it in the most direct way possible and that makes it boring.
-I have a plot question, why would Kerry be interested in spending physical time with Jasper? Once Jasper finishes calibrating their conversation seems like they never had any meaningful discussions. You’re telling me they never talked about the significance of Valentine’s day before they decided to hang out on Valentine’s day? It’s obvious Jasper likes to ask basic questions. Their conversation makes it seem like they’re strangers which blows a hole in the plot.
-How the hell did Jasper buy and wrap a book if this the first time she’s been in an android??
-You missed your chance to get body horror on us, that is all.
A Clown and A Fool by toanoradian
-Yessss, judge pandering. I like this opening. It’s so absurd with good use of specifics. Which by comedic necessity are absurd.
-I laughed by the second paragraph. Take that as you will. I’d name my cat Professor SillyStropfordtung.
-I’m thoroughly entertained. Masturbation jokes are always funny. As funny as this story is so far, you’re running the risk of having all jokes and no story, so don’t forget to move the plot along quicker.
-Editing error. Either make all character thoughts italic, or non-italic.
-This is at the top of my list. Should have ended with Evelyn saying “Let’s honk honk.”
Lipstick Kisses by Casual Encountess
-I enjoy the strong character work you got here in just the first two paragraphs. You’re building the world in how the character sees it while moving along.
-Okay, this is really strong character work. I enjoy reading from an “I” perspective when it’s done this well.
-The story itself was strong, but you stumbled just a bit on the ending. I had to reread to make sure I understood. It wasn’t clear that Juniper noticed Abby. “I had promised myself to be less self destructive” line would have worked at the very end after we went through the whole story thinking Jennifer’s name was Juniper. Strong story.
We Didn’t Drown by Flerp
-Ooooooh, second person perspective. This can be so awkward. You have an uphill battle anonymous writer. The opening is already meh.
-That second paragraph is so… extra. Not in a good way.
-How did Raynard catch a fish with his hand when you’re both sitting on a wall? How long is this dude’s arm?
-This conversation is painful. It’s like they’re trying to imitate what two humans would do.
-The main character has the personality of a mute JRPG protagonist. Raynard isn’t much better.
-There’s no plot here.
-Judgetalk Obliterati: it gives us nothing to put us in this char's head, as it were
[12:55 PM] Mercedes: the characters are bland
[12:55 PM] Obliterati: would work just the same in first or third
[12:55 PM] Obliterati: so yeah this ain't it chief
[12:56 PM] Obliterati: plus this worldbuilding isn't really used - if you're going to have a pair of lovers flood the earth that really ought to be more the story than just chilling in the vague aftermath
[12:56 PM] Mercedes: did they cause the world to flood?
[12:57 PM] Obliterati: aye
[12:57 PM] Mercedes: i wasn't paying attention i was so bored
[12:57 PM] Obliterati:
“A fish,” he says. He told you of them. Of things that breathed the ocean waves and swam with their fins deep into the trenches. There are thousands of them, teeming in the oceans you never saw. Now there are more, living in the ocean you two made.
[12:57 PM] Obliterati: last clause is iirc the only explicit statement of it
[12:57 PM] Mercedes: thbbt
[12:57 PM] Obliterati: so basically we're in the post-shoot room after the show
[12:57 PM] Mercedes: oh, so all the cool stuff happened already, and we get told the boring poo poo after
[12:58 PM] Obliterati: p much
[12:58 PM] Obliterati: like I'm a sucker for 'two lads wreck the earth' but not for 'two lads wrecked the earth'
Emotional Registers by Thranguy
-Character introductions were clunky as hell. Don’t make me pull out a dictionary because you forgot to add relevant context. Unless last names are super important to the narrative, you can leave them out.
-I have no clue why the main character thought Conner was in the sewer, on a bus to Canada or inside an animal’s stomach. You’re going into detail on anything important to the plot.
-Why does Stan only have a first name?
-Okay, I need to voice this because it’s really bothering me. You’re doing a shitload of telling and zero showing. It’s obvious, I think, that this is a cyberpunk setting you got going on here.. But I have no clue what a digilect is, I don’t know how any of these cyberpunky tech work because you’ve only named them. You could have used a totally nonsensical Norwegian word in its place and it wouldn’t have changed a drat thing.
-Oh, so NOW I’m a digilect? Is the main character AI? Speak plainly man.
-Why is the main character going on about love. There’s been no character development.
-This is a mess, there’s no structure, plot, or character development. I wouldn’t even know where I would begin to salvage this. This is my loss for the week.
Hell-crossed Lovers by Yoruichi
-Judge pandering!! The best. Hello Kana, you minx.
-Bahahaha Galactic Olympic Games. So far, this is the right mix of absurd and I’m enjoying the ride.
-Goddamn you. You -know- what pandering does to me, you son of a bitch. I will have to mention, this is a bit too on the nose, but gently caress it was enjoyable and I had multiple laughs. I would have liked to see more originality, you basically lifted details wholesale from my previous story.
-If this had more meat to the plot, it would have been an easy win, but still, I very much liked this.
-I have no idea what the meme did to inspire this story.
Song of the Warleader by Pththya-lyi
-I love the over the top declaration for love you’re building here and the initial reaction Jaime has to this. This is the kind of magical realism I love.
-Shiiiiit, it was over so soon! I want to read more. This was great.
-My only complaint is that this is very one note. No twists, nor turns. Just direct from point A to point B. This story could have used another 1000 words and I would have been happy to read them all.
One Job by Sebmojo
-Dave is adorable, that little dumb poo poo.
-I don’t really have any criticisms. This was competently written. Maybe, I wish there was more “story” and less a series of funny events.
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 18:17|
THUNDERDOME WEEK FOUR FOUR SIX: My Dinner With Andre
Hi guys I'm loving new here, but im real excited!! I joined last week because I haven't written anything creative in forever. I am lazy and I don't like doing homework, so in classic group project fashion I'm counting on all of you fine folks to help me with my writing exercise I just made up. You see, while I think I'm ok at scenery, I'm pretty awful at dialogue. That's where you folks come in! Your goal for THUNDERDOME CDXLVI is to write a memorable, dialogue-heavy story. I need to learn how to write conversations and you guys are the perfect people to show me! Talk me through a tense situation. Or show me the lighter side. Hell, show me how to love again. I just want to see you flex your dialogue muscles. Make me swoon with your cleverness, and spit at your ennui.
I don't have a clever gimmick but I will be posting inspirational music videos for your stories.
objective: Talk it out, baby. Dialogue wins the crown this week. I want you cuties to show me your oratory, don't tell me about it.
word limit: 900
signup deadline: Friday Midnight EST
posting deadline: Sunday Midnight EST NEW RULE submit by saturday midnight for full wordcount. Every 4 hours between saturday midnight and sunday midnight the legal word count drops by 100. so if you submit sunday night that is a total of 300 words. lol.
flash rules/hellrules: post if you dare. im new here and this will be hilarious.
1. Casual Encountess
2. crabrock, phd
1. sebmojo hellrule: everybody talks like seal describing stuff
2. mercedes: your characters are being pursued!
3. brotherly: space people in space
4. nae: imagine being married to johnny depp
6. a friendly penguin: its 1999 and you're gonna go to the skatepark to mack on some chicks
9. simply simon
10, sparksbloom: YOUR COUSIN FROM BAWWWWSTON
11. Sperglord Firecock
12. idle amalgam one guy's on mute!!!
13. curlingiron gossip girl for meatheads
14. caligula kangaroo terminal case of wes andersenitis
15. toanoradian is fruity as gently caress
16. Flesnolk gonna rock the casbah this week
17. Freudian img cat-jamiroquai.jpg
Casual Encountess fucked around with this message at 21:21 on Feb 22, 2021
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 20:37|
In, hellrule me
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 20:39|
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 20:40|
In, hellrule me
your hellrule: everybody talks like Seal describing things
Casual Encountess fucked around with this message at 20:59 on Feb 16, 2021
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 20:45|
give me a flash rule to pls
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 20:52|
hey baby, hope you brought your running shoes. your characters are on the lam!
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 20:57|
In, flash please
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:06|
In, gimme a hellrule!
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:08|
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:11|
In, flash please
how exactly does one have a conversation with a sentient AI, anyways?
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:13|
In, gimme a hellrule!
imagine being married to johnny depp (like she was).
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:15|
for the kiwi, a kiwi. feel free to post where you're from im happy to locally tailor it!
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:17|
In, gimme all the things.
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:17|
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:23|
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:25|
In, gimme all the things.
flash: its 1999, you and your best friend are about to go try to mack on chicks at the skatepark
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:28|
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:32|
|# ? Jun 25, 2022 07:19|
|# ? Feb 16, 2021 21:35|