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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:The hell are you talking about? Mine is for real. You're just overcompensating for your tiny dick. 
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Nov 30, 2012 00:19
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Stuporstar posted:You're just overcompensating for your tiny dick. I may got a small dick, but I got a piledrivin' rear end to back it up. Plus, who cares if the chick gets off? I'm just worried about me. 
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Nov 30, 2012 02:26
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I don't see enough signups/submission I'm worried now --- Conversations (910 words) Michael saw the thing on the floor, and lowered his rifle. The draught of mountain air had already filled the cabin, and he closed the door before the chill of an expiring autumn pained his bones. He hung the hares, left his rifle on the table, and sat down beside his visitor. She was young, so very young, skin the pale pink of lousewort and hair, marsh marigold without a wisp of gray. So unlike him. Her eyes were like rainclouds at twilight, holding back a rain of tears. Michael placed his hands on her face, and tilted her head to the side. The hole just above her left ear was an explosion of caked blood and dried pieces of flesh darkened by black soot. The pool her head was lying on was still crimson, less than a day old, but already becoming nothing more than a darker shade of the wooden floor. It took Michael some time to take the revolver away from her. Mostly, he did not know whether it was right, or just. He broke her index fingers to remove it, and could not help but notice her uneven and jagged nails, tips dirty with splinter and dust. He checked the revolver. Its job done, nothing but a shell. Empty. A knapsack sat at a corner of the room. Too large for its contents: a water tumbler, barely-used map, packs of cream crackers, a pen and notebook. Her memoir was neatly-written, the final words on the last page fading as the ink ran out. They were all hieroglyphics to him. Before, he had never had anything larger than a raccoon enter his home. Michael built his cabin a long time ago, on an uneven terrain deep in alpine woods. He had stockpiled it with ammo and dried food made to last. He hunted his own game, chewed on herbs, made jams from berries and flowers, and drank from waterfalls and streams. Michael rubbed his fingers across the synthetic threads of her tracksuit, and touched her hands and neck and face. The exposed flesh of her skin was hard as stone and cold to touch. The sun was setting and darkness fell, so he threw some logs to the fireplace. He covered her up to her neck with one of his blankets, wrapped himself with another, and sat down by the girl. The flickering light cast his shadows in uneven places, but hers was still and prone. The girl was pale, hairless, fragile as a shattering porcelain doll. He watched her, calm open eyes staring at the ceiling. “Hello,” Michael said. He coughed in surprise at his own voice, a croak, rasp rocky from disuse. The girl did not respond. After some time, he managed again, a voice barely a dull warble, cutting and crude. “I am Michael.” The night was quiet, save for the faint chirps of cicadas and the rustling of leaves. “Hello, Michael,” Michael listened to the girl. “You have a nice home.” “Thank you,” said Michael. “I try.” “I am sorry I came in,” Michael heard. “I never lock.” “You should.” “Nobody visits.” “I did.” Michael heard. Impassive and still, he listened to the voice, like a breezeless afternoon at the peaks, hints of a light shower in the distant. “I am glad you took it away from me,” he heard it continue. “It was an ugly thing.” “Thank you. For being glad.” “Don’t mention it.” A fly landed on her lips and rubbed its feelers. He swatted it away, taking care not to touch her. “Why did you come here?” he asked. No answer. “Have you been here long?” he heard a question instead. “Long enough,” he said. “Why did you come here?” He hesitated. “You don’t have a reason?” Another fly landed on her right eye. Michael stood up, away from the girl. He went to the window and leaned against the cabin wall. The moon was red, a bright harvest moon the glow of earth and rust. Small, young creatures wandered in the dark outside, disturbing the foliage. “I forgot,” Michael told the girl lying on the floor of his home. “That’s okay,” he heard. A wolf howled. He wished he knew how it felt. “I’m going now,” Michael heard. “Thank you.” “For?” Michael asked. “For staying with me.” Michael knelt down beside the girl. The flies scattered away from her and flew above him, their frustrated buzzes powerless and futile. With his right hand he gently tilted her face back to where it was before, so the wound was no longer visible. “Thank you too,” he said to her. “For staying with me.” He closed her eyes. The girl went away, leaving in her wake the broken thing in his house. He took the corpse the next morning to where the pine trees and the whitest flowers were. Under the gaze of curious sparrows and squirrels, he lay it down in the hole he dug, the knapsack by its side and the notebook on the chest. He left the grave unmarked, and walked over to the edge of the hill. Before him was a vista of the mountains, the falling leaves golden as the warmest sun. He let the first snowflake fall on his whiskers, and dropped the revolver. He watched it hit a rock in its descent, until it disappeared into the mist. Michael went back to his home. He never saw the girl again.
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Nov 30, 2012 03:56
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Faux Machismo is exactly what I'm not aiming at this week. Oh, and I'm in, by the by. Another poopatar though, and so help me.
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Nov 30, 2012 05:11
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Just wondering, is losertars still a thing that's happening? Because I'm pretty sure there are some losers in dire need of losertars here in this dome.
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Nov 30, 2012 05:31
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Chairchucker posted:Just wondering, is losertars still a thing that's happening? Because I'm pretty sure there are some losers in dire need of losertars here in this dome. If you have the money and the inclination GO HOG WILD.
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Nov 30, 2012 14:55
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Bonus video entry: Lost
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Nov 30, 2012 18:23
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Chairchucker posted:Just wondering, is losertars still a thing that's happening? Because I'm pretty sure there are some losers in dire need of losertars here in this dome. pipes! usually handles it but he might have missed the last couple losers or summat. I also have to update the OP with the last few weeks so when I'm doing it I'll figure out who didn't get a losertar and send him a PM.
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Nov 30, 2012 23:05
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Martello posted:pipes! usually handles it but he might have missed the last couple losers or summat. I also have to update the OP with the last few weeks so when I'm doing it I'll figure out who didn't get a losertar and send him a PM. Yeah, if future winners can PM/email me a list of losertar recipients I can jump on it. Please keep it timely, it sucks to have an avatar slam down on you out of nowhere, especially if you've just purchased one.
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Dec 1, 2012 17:30
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 Signups end in less than 12 hours
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Dec 1, 2012 19:23
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The Chickencheese Thread has left our shores, brothers but weep not- we gave it a hell of a kicking. It returns now unto its cradle, and its grave. Farewell Chickencheese, we barely knew ye.
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Dec 2, 2012 01:38
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Signups are now closed. So help me, if I get a slew of IOU's from you people then I'm going to get this thread's name changed from Thunderdome to Thunderdumb.
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Dec 2, 2012 06:09
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Are entries usually posted in the thread? How many have there been so far?
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Dec 2, 2012 06:46
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A Madman’s Diary 715 I Tonight there are two moons in the sky, one light and one dark. It’s been many years since I saw them, but were there always two? And why is the second moon looking at me that way? It has the entire world to look at, to spy on. Why spy on me? I hid through the back door of the house into the kitchen. It can’t see me. But it knows where I am. I will have to stay inside until morning. I make a pot of tea. Tea is best picked on a cloudless night like tonight when the leaves are damp and covered in dew. But tonight something is wrong, I do not even notice the water boiling. I sit down at the kitchen table. There is a red-haired girl sitting across from me; she must be hiding from the moon as well. She looks not all there, a semi-vacant stare. She tells me she has seen death. I tell her I am having my tea. I can't give you a cup because I didn't know you were coming. When you make tea you have to measure it properly for the number of people drinking it. This is very important. Why don’t people LISTEN when I tell them about tea. It is not HARD to UNDERSTAND. II She is not stupid, I see that sly glance she gives me when she thinks I am not looking. There is no moon in the sky tonight but I stay inside anyway. I make enough for her and add some honey to hers as well; girls like sweet things. I give her the tea in the Nice Cup because it is Polite. She slurps the tea and doesn’t say anything about the honey. I will not serve her tea in the Nice Cup again. III Day is the time of yang, but night is the time of yin. Moonlight is the energy of yin. Dew is the water of the night and is also yin. When the night is full of yin's influence (moonlight and dew) the yin of the tea picked at this time is strengthened and in harmony. I serve tea to the girl in the Chipped Yellow Cup. I don't think she notices. She tells me when she was a young girl, she was allergic to sunlight and could only go outside at night. In the deserted playgrounds she could climb and play on the swings and slides. Her only friend was the moon's cold light. She says she can be my friend. But her eyes tell me something different. She is yin, she is darkness. She wants my flesh. She wants to kill me. I am afraid. IV We sit at the table in the moonlight. Neither of us moves, watching the other. If I take my eyes off her I know I will be lost. I know her for her true nature now and her yin no longer hides behind a vacant stare. A tongue the colour of a tea leaf slips out between her lips, and she smiles. The tea goes cold in the pot on the table. We sit for hours. Then weeks. Then years. The world slips by outside unnoticed as we sit together, locked in our silent vigil. She is the daughter of the moon; the spirit of the witching hour who has come to claim me with hideous strength and take me back into the silent planet. And yet. There is something else, eclipsed behind her eyes. Like the moon is only a reflection of the sun, she is but a poor soul's cold twin sister. She is near yin, but not of it. I reach out to the tea sitting on the table and pour her a cup. Her cup is full and I keep filling it, tea running out over the rim, over the saucer, over the table. Her hand snakes out latching onto my wrist. She hisses but I do not stop until the pot is empty and the tea puddles and drains off onto the floor. A cloud moves across the moon, plunging the kitchen in shadow. The tea drips steadily. I wait for the moonlight to return but it is has gone and so has she.
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Dec 2, 2012 08:13
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Ashes (1000 words) In the light of the setting sun, the last man waded his way down the still rivers of ash that filled the streets of the dead city. The great structures of the old world loomed above him on either side, towering and monolithic, like a cemetery of the gods, waiting for mourners who would never come. Ash-caked and grey, they watched impassively as he scurried furtively by, making his way to the outskirts of the city. The man kept his head down as he walked, watching the streaks his shuffling feet sent through the ash as he trudged on. He feared looking up when he was in the city, afraid his eyes would catch on those bad words that seemed emblazoned on every billboard, spray-painted across every bare grey concrete face: PLAGUE and FEVER. The words stabbed at his mind savagely, bringing back searing memories of the bad times. He’d been sick, profoundly sick. During the worst of it, he’d been submerged full in the miasma of a fever dream, and whether it had lasted a day or an eternity he couldn’t have said; Oblivion keeps its own sort of time. He’d awoken to a dead world of ash, a world that was his, and his alone, forever. It was something that he struggled to comprehend; the fever had spared his life, but left his mind a broken, singed thing. So he kept his head down. The cans in the satchel slung over his back clinked together weightily, and the sound brought a timid smile to the man’s face as he anticipated the coming meal. He stayed away from the city as much as possible, it was a terrifying and hollow place, where the ash rose to twice the height of a man, but he inevitably made the journey every time the hunger became too much to bear. The man crested a hill, and smiled as he saw his home in the distance. His joy was short lived, quickly replaced by fear as he drew closer. His front door swung free on its hinges, wide open. His feeble mind raced. Had he shut the door when he left? He struggled to remember, but since the fever he hadn’t been so good at remembering. His heart thudded in his chest, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the cool air against the sweat on his palms. A figure appeared in the gloom of the open doorway. A young girl, withered and naked, stood there in the entryway, and the man stood entranced as he watched her stumble forward. Her blonde hair was patchy and falling out in clumps, her white skin was dotted with patches of hard grey, her ribs were jutting cruelly against her skin as though they were trying to escape. She looked so fragile to the man, like something that could catch on the breeze and fly away. She was the most beautiful sight he could ever remember seeing. The girl’s listless green eyes rolled in her head, looking every which way. She caught sight of the man standing motionless in the ash-covered street, and for a second there seemed to be a hint of awareness, and her throat uttered a squeak that could’ve been construed as happiness. Then her withered legs buckled and she reeled forward, her face smashing against the pavement of the front porch as her skull hit down with a sickening crack. The man bolted across the street to her, dropping his satchel and spilling the cans into the shallow ash. He took her tiny body in his arms, gently lifting her ruined face from the cement, wincing at the tremendous heat radiating from her. Feeling like he was lifting nothing more than air, he carried her over the threshold and laid her on the nearby sofa, unsettling the thin layer of ash that had gathered there. For the next three days he did not leave her side, and gave her all he had. He poured his last gallon of pure water over her cracked lips, begging her to drink, paying no mind to all that went wasted as it dribbled from her mouth, vanishing unnoticed into the ash on the floor. He covered her in blankets as violent shivering gripped her body, even as he lay uncovered and shivering in the dead of night beside her. He held her fragile hand in his and sang to her, begging her to get better, crying tears for reasons he could no longer fully understand. She died on the night of the third day. He knelt beside her for a long time in the still darkness, not knowing if he would ever move again. Then he lifted her, gently, and carried her from that tomb into the chill air of night. He walked down the street, past his forgotten cans of food, half-buried in the ash. He walked for a long time, walked until every house and building fell away, until he was so far outside the city that the ash was no more than a thin veneer on the ground, until there was nothing around him but open fields and moonlight. He laid her body atop the highest hill he could find, where the grass still rose bravely up through the grey sheen, green and alive. In the silver moonlight, he could see the cruel grey patches on her skin growing rapidly, engulfing all that had once been her. He could only watch as the disease took her. It only took a moment. She lay there on the ground all grey and cracked, a fragile statue of ash, like some lonely stargazer, looking up into the sky, wondering at the beauty of creation, wondering what it all meant. Then a gust of wind whipped across the hilltop, shattering her body and scattering her ashes across the wide night sky. A heavy cloud rolled in front of the moon, throwing the world into blackness, and the man wept in the dark, crying like a lost child.
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Dec 2, 2012 08:18
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Apartment 803 (825 words) Jerome lived alone, but the lights were on in his apartment when he got home. A long day trapped in a cubicle numbed him to surprises. Turning them off in the morning had become so automatic, he wouldn't notice if his finger failed to hit the switch hard enough to trip it. He shrugged, tossed his coat on the couch, and stuffed his keys in his pants pocket. Only when they stopped jangling did he hear someone in the kitchen. "Hello?" he said. He clenched both fists and held them tight against his body. A woman peered out the kitchen door. "Who—" Her eyes widened. She backed against the wall and held a chef's knife, coated in green flecks, close to her chest. "Get the hell out of my apartment." "Your apartment?" Blood rushed to his head. He took one step forward. "This is my apartment. What the hell are you—" His mouth dried up as yellow walls pierced his consciousness. His walls were green. He backed against the front door. "Are you drunk?" She kept the knife trained on him as she sidled around the floral couch, definitely not his couch, to reach a wooden coffee table he didn't recognize. "I don't know who you are, or where you think you are, but if you don't leave right now I'm calling the cops." Her words came out in such a torrent, he could barely follow. Once she wrapped her hands around her phone, she panted and looked him straight in the eyes. "You have five seconds before I call the police. You understand me?" He nodded dumbly and tried to work his tongue back into action. "Look, I'm sorry. Must've got off on the wrong floor. Wasn't paying attention." He held up both hands. "I'm going—won't bother you anymore." "Ok." Her chest heaved. She kept her eyes trained on him, but dropped the knife to her side. "You scared the hell out of me, dumbass, blundering in here. I could've sworn I locked that door." And he could have sworn he unlocked it, but that couldn't be right. He put the idea out of his mind. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to. Name's Jerome." He chuckled and extended a hand. "Guess I'm your neighbor." She didn't take it, just smirked and sat down on her coffee table. "Nice to meet you, Jerome." She laid the knife on her lap and put down the phone. "Now, if you don't mind." "Live in 803." He jerked his thumb backward and fumbled for the doorknob. "You know, if you would ever like to—" Her smile fell into a frown. "If this is some kind of joke, it's not funny. I don't know what game you're playing, but—" "Ok, I crossed a line there. I'm not—I didn't mean anything," he babbled as he jerked the door open. She got up and stepped forward. Her grip on the knife turned her knuckles white. "This is 803—my apartment. Don't tell me you live in my apartment. Are you crazy, or some kind of creep?" Her voice grew louder with every step, and she waved the knife as though she didn't know what she might do with it, but it might be something he'd regret. Tears threatened to burst from her eyes. "I said out. Get out now. If I ever see you skulking around here again—" He slammed the door behind him, stamped his foot, and mouthed, "gently caress." He leaned against the wall, and took a deep breath. As his vision stopped rippling, he gazed down the familiar hallway. He was on the right floor, every door eight-oh-something. His key had worked, clicked when he unlocked it minutes ago. This was his door. It had the long gouge he kicked himself for, from the day he bought a new oven. He ran his finger along the smooth brass number—803. This was his apartment. It had to be. He smacked his forehead and drew the hand down his sweaty face. He'd forgotten his coat. Shaken as he was, he couldn't leave it behind. She had to give it to him, and he was determined to get another peek inside the mystery apartment squatting in his apartment's place. He knocked. "Um, excuse me, miss?" He got no answer. "You still have my coat, if you don't mind." He cracked the door open an inch. It was dark inside. With shaky knees, he ventured in. "Miss? I'm just coming in to get my coat. Please, don't freak out." He flipped the switch, where it always had been—that came as no surprise. They built all these boxes the same. The walls were forest green, just as they should be. His black leather couch faced his 42 inch widescreen. His glass coffee table propped up the remains of chinese takeout he had the night before. There was no one else inside, and his coat was gone.
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Dec 2, 2012 11:49
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quote:On The House
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Dec 2, 2012 17:28
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I don't want to edit, but I forgot to put the word count in there. It's 741 words.
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Dec 2, 2012 17:29
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Zack_Gochuck posted:I don't want to edit, but I forgot to put the word count in there. It's 741 words. Are we not allowed to edit even for little technical stuff like that? I copy-pasted my story in from MS Word and it screwed up the paragraph breaks, so I edited those in without even really thinking there might be a rule against it  .EDIT: VVVV Wow, what a helpful feature that I somehow managed to ignore for four years  . Thunderdome: Warriors of the Blood God and tutors of basic forum functionality.
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Dec 2, 2012 19:09
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sentientcarbon posted:Are we not allowed to edit even for little technical stuff like that? I copy-pasted my story in from MS Word and it screwed up the paragraph breaks, so I edited those in without even really thinking there might be a rule against it That's what the preview post button is for, you muppet 
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Dec 2, 2012 19:22
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You can edit in paragraph breaks and word count but do it right after you post and notice that you're an idiot who doesn't know how to use the preview reply button. It's right here:
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Dec 2, 2012 19:42
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6 hours until the deadline. Half of you haven't submitted yet. It'll be disappointing if that number doesn't shrink.
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Dec 2, 2012 23:52
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Thief 818 words She was rummaging through his bedside table when he came in, looking for wallets or jewelery or one of the other valuable little things that people keep near them as they sleep and forget about on the weekend. He let out a high-pitched “poo poo!” which made her scramble backwards, both their eyes going wide They both stood frozen for a second, staring at each other in perfect stillness, and then she straightened out and put her hands up. “Well, you got me.” she said, sounding rueful and annoyed. “Here's what I got already,” she tossed a few items onto the bedspread, “and now I'll be on my way. Sorry to trouble you.” She started to move towards the door then stopped and raised her eyebrow at him. His mind was still busily trying to figure out what the hell had just happened and so he stood there for a second, staring at her. “I'm calling the police,” he said firmly, his brain finally coming up with something useful to say. “Really?” she said lightly. “Fine. Go ahead.” He reached for his pocket only to realize that his phone was lying on the bed. She shook her head. “Should have bailed as soon as I saw that, instead of hoping you didn't remember it for a bit. Oh well, more fool me I guess.” She grinned and dropped her hands into her pockets, rocking back on her heels a bit. “Look,” he said, trying to put some emphasis on his words, “You broke into my house and are in the process of trying to rob me. There's no way I'm letting you go.” “So, what then? You're just going to stand in the doorway and prevent me from leaving forever? Sounds mythic.” “Look, lady, I don't know who you are,” he said angrily “Name's Brittany,” she said calmly. He paused for a second, then collected himself. “Look, Brittany, I don't care! Why am I even using your name? You're a thief in my house and I'm going to call the cops and stop you from leaving and then you'll be arrested and taken to jail!” “You're gonna call the cops and tell them you have a non-violent burglar in your house who hasn't stolen anything and wants to leave? I'm betting the response time on that won't be too great.” “You could turn violent at any time. This,” he said, waxing eloquent despite himself, “this is a ruse. A ploy. You don't want to go to jail so you're trying to put me on the wrong footing and weaken my resolve. You're trying to confuse me, make me question whether I shouldn't just let you go and save everyone the trouble. Well let me tell you madam, I will do no such thing! I'm standing firm in my convictions here! I don't know how just yet but I'm not letting you out of this room until the police are here to escort you out!” He'd been shouting by the end, and the silence was like being dropped into a pond. She looked at him inquisitively. “Rough day, huh?” His shoulders slumped. “It hasn't been the greatest, no.” She tapped her chin with a finger, looking pensive. “Alright,” she said, spreading her hands wide. “You need the win, that's clear. I'll let you call the cops.” He stood up straight, indignant. “What?” “Hey, you're not having a great time. I can see that. I'll let you call the cops, I can say I got lost and there was a whole misunderstanding, probably knock it down to a minor trespassing charge if that.” “Hold on, I don't need your pity. You can't just throw this to me!” “No, no, you don't have to protest, I can see it in your eyes. You've been beaten up all day, least I can do is let you be the big drat hero and arrest me. Oooh! You can even shout something like 'here she is, officers!' as they're coming in the front door.” He drew himself up and thrust out his chest. “Ma’am, you have severely misjudged me. I refuse your offer and demand that you leave my premises immediately.” He moved out of the door and imperiously waved her through it. “What? You're kidding, right? C'mon, I'm not going to just walk out on you! I want to help you!” “I don't need your help. Now please leave.” She shrugged and walked out the door. “Can't help some people, I guess.” He stood there, tapping his shoe and watching her leave until the door slammed behind her. Then his brow wrinkled for a second. “God-dammit,” he muttered hopelessly. Then he threw up his hands, grabbed his phone and went out the door.
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Dec 3, 2012 01:16
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On another note I hope those of you who volunteered to judge the chickencheese Thunderdome are already doing so because they won't gold mine it till results are in, and people are threatening to create anime sandwiches already. E: did I seriously just post this at the same time the judging is already happening because whoops my bad
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Dec 3, 2012 02:14
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California, 883 words He held the pistol almost casually, aimed near but not at the woman the table. He gave the situation a good long look, then stepped the rest of the way inside his cabin. Inside, away from the sun, he could see her better. She was youngish, and pretty, underneath the road dust. Her clothes looked like they had started their life as an elegant gown back East, hemmed and patched towards practicality on her travels. He didn't see a weapon. She seemed to be alone. He kept the pistol pointed - not on her, but close. "I don't know you," he said quietly. "Just a traveler," she replied, careful to keep her hands visible. "Just looking for a place to stay the night." "I don't see any rain clouds up there. It's still summer 'round here." The young woman didn't say anything. Just stared at him with bright green eyes. "What you take?" The man asked. Slowly, the woman lowered her hands to her pack, and pulled out a small knap sack. Five big pieces of hard tack and a handful of jerky. She placed it on the table. "You'd hardly know it was gone," she said. "Most men don't, out here." He holstered the pistol, and sat down across from her, the small meal of rations between them. "Seems a dangerous trade for some biscuits." "Not as much as you'd think. Most men, I remind them of their first love, that bonny Irish lass. Not you though." He looked away, embarrassed. "Where you headed?" "West," she replied. "In particular?" "Just West." "Not much more West to go, you know," he said, glancing back at her. "Just California." "Then I guess that'll be far enough." Silence settled over the secluded cabin after that, the result of two taciturn people together. It was a strange silence, starting off awkward and stifling. But as time went on and neither had anything to say, the silence settled in, got itself comfortable, put itself at ease. These were two people used to living with silence, well-practiced. After a long while, he stood up and looked out the doorway. The shadows were drawing long, and soon his small cabin would be swallowed up by the darkness of the nearby mountains. It was warm, and the air was sweet, but night was rapidly approaching. He shut the door. He stood there for a moment, his hand still on the door latch, listening to her breathing behind him. There was no use for it - he turned, and picked up the small packet of food. Turning to his small oven, he started making a meal - the tack and meat, with some beans and carefully roasted coffee besides. The girl sat quietly, unobtrusive, as he cooked. He made them both a nice enough meal. "What you think, you're wrong, you know," she said as he put the meal before him. "About what happened back East." "You don't know what I think," he said curtly, sitting before his own meal. "But I know whatever it is, it's not how it went down. There was no... well, no matter what you think, it's wrong." He glared at her. "I'm not a preacher, I don't take confessions. What happened is your business." She shut her mouth with an audible snap, and stared at her food. Apparently hunger won out over anger, and she was tucking in like a famished dog. The man was barely half way through his own meal by the time she finished. Then again, he had eaten just this morning, not as much room for the food to go. She sat there, for a moment, watching him. "You've ever been married, Sir?" She asked. He was silent, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Yes," he said eventually. "Really? Not what I expected. But not a girl like me, I take it?" He went back to eating for a while, and the girl didn't press him. He finished his biscuit and beans, and looked up with red, world-beaten eyes. "I was married once, in Alabama. The Klan didn't approve. I headed out West to escape my troubles. I'm not married anymore." "And this was far enough?" "It had to be. There was only California left." She looked down at her plate, in her elegant gown turned travel wear, her face covered in dirt and dust. "It's not far enough West for me. Not yet." "Well, you've got some room still to go." They stayed quiet for the rest of the night, back in that easy, simple silence of two histories too painful to share. He let her put her bed roll near the oven, and turned out the light. He didn't sleep for a good long while. He wasn't used to hearing another person breath in the lonely dark. It was just after dawn when he woke. The girl was gone by then, with a few biscuits, about a pound of dry meat, a canteen and rum bottle. A handful of nails, his hammer, and an old, worn down saddle were gone too. Each alone wouldn't be missed, but a decent pillage when taken together. He tried not to begrudge her. He tried not to hate her for the memories she invoked. He hoped she'd find her place in California. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- So, yeah, I never finished my chickencheese poem. I kind of ran out of steam after describing the "chthonic root, that onion" and not being able to figure out where the stresses in chthonic or onion go. I got a picture of the chickencheese the poem was about if the judges still want to see it.
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Dec 3, 2012 02:22
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Close Door Button- 356 words The interior of the apartment elevator was as familiar to me as the interior of the apartment. The elevator was a dilapidated model from the 70s, complete with a drive-through speaker that was constantly blasting the local country station. The certification papers below the button panel were from 1989. I held the elevator for a slim woman with a briefcase. She still had her shirt for work on, a collared shirt with the logo of a paper manufacturing company. "Floor 3, please." She had an assertive, impersonal voice. I pressed the floor three and five buttons, and, without thinking about it, pressed the door close button. The doors closed shortly after and the elevator lurched slowly upwards. "You do know that button's basically a placebo, right?" the lady asked. "What, the door close button," I replied noncommittally. "It's just a habit I picked up, I guess." "Well, it's a bad habit." "What, why? Pressing the door close button is hardly hurting anyone." "But it shows that you're impatient. Although that's more of a societal issue than you, personally, so I guess you're partially absolved, at least." The elevator stopped and I heard a mechanical grinding noise. "That's what you get. Try to save a second and you lose an hour. You know, if people weren't so impatient..." She rattled on for a while. I tried to zone her voice out as I looked at the stickers she had placed on her briefcase. Ask me about Buddhism! Vegan 4 Lyfe! Porposes are people too! I closed my eyes and prayed to whatever god might be in control of this elevator to make it move again. Fortunately, she didn't bother asking me any questions. She looked content to hear her own voice. "I honestly don't know what we're coming to. People are just so corrupt and- actually, I have a few graphs." Just as she reached to open her briefcase, the elevator kicked into motion and the door opened. She took a step to block the motion sensor but still talked until the elevator bell began to ring, thinking she was an obstruction. "Just think on what I said, okay?" As soon as she left I jammed my finger on the door close button.
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Dec 3, 2012 02:46
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Lately I've been helping move out an old radio station from one of the oldest buildings here, and it's a trip to go through some of the old stuff they had sitting around. So, for a change, things will be reflective and quiet. It's a little over, but that won't kill you or me. ------------------------------------------------------ “music and laughter” 1085 words “I know I should be getting along soon, girl, but I just can't bear to leave you. We've got too many memories here. Too many good, well, not always good, but let's call them interesting times. All the faces, all the sounds, the music, oh lord, the music! I guess. I guess I just can't do a quick goodbye, you know? Look at you. You wouldn't probably listen to me now, knowing you back then. Always so headstrong. Always running off with the wrong folk. But at least you had a second home here. That's for sure.” “Excuse me, is there someone in here? I can hear you. I'm turning on the light.” “There's only one that works, dear.” “Well, there it goes. Hello, ma'am. I didn't expect anyone to be here this late. Can I ask what you're—well, honestly, I don't think anyone's allowed in here.” “Sure, that's what they usually say. But who's going to stop an old woman like me from wandering around this broken, forgotten place?” “Not many, I suppose. But you, um, you do know this place is condemned, right? There's that sign outside, been there for a few months.” “Oh, I'm old but I ain't blind yet. I been looking at the old joint for the past few weeks whenever I happen by, seeing if I could bring myself to get inside. I saw they didn't really lock it up, just put up boards and that tape. Didn't actually lock the door.” “Yeah, they were still moving a few things, they had people in and out until a few days ago, surveyors, suits, all that. I don't want to interrupt you, but are you going to be here long?” “All night if it takes me, sugar. I got a lot to remember, and my goodbyes ain't never short. If that's okay with you. I won't bother you.” “No no, that's all right. I only came by to take one more look around. Before they move the heavy equipment in. This place used to be pretty famous, right?” “In some circles, I suppose. Lots of music for sure, some famous faces, but mostly locals. They'd come down for a show, or over from the grand concert hall or radio station, and they'd really pack them in here. Down over by what barely passed for a bandstand there, splitting up dancers and drinkers and everyone all here and there.” “I did see some pictures, before they took most of them down. The new owners let some old-timers, sorry, former patrons, come and grab some of the things no one else wanted. Like getting part of the history out, you know? Did you come by?” “No, honey. No. I told myself once upon a time to never set foot back in here. No, not out of anger or bad times. Just out of love. For this old shack, I mean. Come, stand over here. I just got this raggedy stool from the corner but there wasn't much else. Looked like someone was staying here, some stuff by the stage. No chairs, of course. ” “Thanks. I was going to ask, I heard you talking earlier. Is there someone else here with you?” “Oh. Oh, no dear, that was... well, here, look.” “That's a great photo. Like I said, they came and took them all. Or at least I thought so.” “Almost all, I guess. This one was left out with a bunch of empty frames, though. Over in the corner. I didn't think it even existed anymore.” “This girl has the best smile I've ever seen. At least, it seems genuine, you know?” “Yeah. It does, don't it?” “I'm so slow today! It's you, isn't it? You with these other folks surrounding you?” “Yeah. Looks like a birthday, maybe? I can't remember. Those times were so grand and full of laughter, but it definitely was in another life. That girl you see, she's been gone a long time. Well, almost gone. Still in here somewhere, some part of my heart.” “I can see how you might be able to turn that smile right back on, though.” “You're too kind. At least you don't seem bored by this. You want to hear some stories? I'd offer a drink, but well, not that much to offer.” “It's okay. I've been sober for about four months now. And yes, I'd like to hear about this old place. I, uh, I did play around with a bass once. With some guys. Nothing serious.” “Well, lean up against the bar here, careful of that broke spot now, and let's see. I can still hear some of those notes, those changes. Doo da da doo doooooo.” * “It's getting pretty late. They'll be here early for the demolition.” “So it is. That's the thing about being old, people try to look after you, but you can tell them to mind their own business and they'll leave you alone.” “Those did sound like some crazy, hectic times, though. Thanks so much. Really, thanks. My night would have been pretty boring without hearing all about it.” “It's no problem. Glad someone wanted to hear from me. No one else probably would.” “You know that's not true. You could have talked to the paper, or something.” “Perhaps. Anyhow, I best be getting on. Here, help an old woman.” “There you go. You can get home alright? Can I call you a cab?” “I'm fine, thank you. A little brisk out there!” “Yes. You sure I can't..?” “I'm sure.” “Wait, you almost forgot your picture! I'll go grab it.” “No. Best not. Tell you what, you can hang on to it, if you like. Might make a good decoration. Or just a reminder. Must be lonely here, and you got to move on tomorrow, too, when they come.” “So you could tell, huh. I. Well, thanks. I appreciated all of it. Gave me some things to think about. But don't you want to take something with you? Anything?” “I got more than I need, dear. So long. Have a nice life if I don't see you next.” “Same, you old charmer. Can you do me one little favour before you go? Can you smile all big, like you used to?” “Sure.”
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Dec 3, 2012 02:49
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Shitsticks. Better get on this. Bleary eyed 3am desperation incoming.
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Dec 3, 2012 04:13
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Jeza posted:Shitsticks. Better get on this. Bleary eyed 3am desperation incoming. Less than two hours left, by the by.
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Dec 3, 2012 04:14
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Deadline for submission is 90 minutes I've been writing up my evaluations on the submitted stories as they come, so expect them to be posted tomorrow night.
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Dec 3, 2012 04:30
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The Pale Fandango - Word Count: 899 His Lexus crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway. The bitter aftertaste of another wasted day clung to his tongue. He wended his way up the garden path, washed over by the sallow glow from the sodium streetlights. He turned the key in the latch with a familiar thunk and the door jolted open into his dreary home. An empty house, fit for his empty life. He discarded his briefcase in the hallway, pulling his tie loose and unbuttoning his top shirt buttons. In the kitchen, he flicked the kettle on and waited in the darkness for it to boil. In the cold air, the steam from the boiling water formed an eerie fog. He threw a teabag into a mug and poured some tea. The sterile light of the refrigerator revealed no milk. He shut it with a sigh. Took a sip of the searing liquid regardless, inhaled deeply the hot fumes. The tannin taste was cheap reinvigoration. He stepped through into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Grabbed the remote and turned on the television. He had left the sound muted and silent figures mouthed wordlessly at him. Celebrities with plastic faces and papier-mâché personalities failed to connect. In the pale flicker of the screen, their ghosts danced a dead fandango on the walls. It was that insipid lambency that caught upon something in the room, something not usually there. In the chair beside the sofa, there was a person sitting. A young woman, with pallid and sickly skin. Her irises were great glowing squares. She didn't look at him, but simply stared transfixed at the noiseless figments on the screen. He was not surprised. Had found himself incapable of that emotion some time ago. He was however, confused. He rose, and asked softly "Hello?". Paused. "Who are you?". She said nothing, nor gave any indication that she had heard him speak. She merely continued watching the screen. Before he knew what he was doing, he picked up the remote and killed the TV. The almost imperceptible hum of the screen died with as the wisp of electrical discharge crackled and died. Now it was truly silent. At that, the woman turned to look at him for the first time, her eyes lurid no longer, but now black on black on white. With inky black hair and crisp white dress, she was a vision in monochrome. Like she had stepped out of a 1930's black and white horror movie. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice hushed barely more than a whisper. Her eyes bore through him and she retorted "What are you doing here?". She mimicked his own question like a child. Her voice was abnatural - twanged like a discordant guitar string, warbling and unsteady. He was a tad affronted at that, and his reply was a shade pompous "This is my house, and I would like you to leave. Otherwise I shall have to call the police. You can't just barge into someone else's house like this." She didn't blink at the threat, which was really more of a bluff. "I think I'd prefer it if you left." "Excuse me?" "You heard me. I'd prefer if it was you who shuffled off. I don't want you here. Nobody else wants you here. I don't even think you want to be here, do you?" Her voice grew stronger and more feral as she continued "How sad. To come home alone to an empty house and then to wish your only company to leave. Why do you even bother anymore?" He had nothing to say to her accusations. Couldn't fathom the answers. But she wasn't finished. "You know." she said conversationally "I wonder why it is you loosen your tie whenever you come home. Perhaps you could try tightening it? See how it feels sometimes. It might feel good" Goosebumps began to crawl up his shoulderblades as she plowed forward relentlessly into his insecurities. "Say, you look like you have some pretty sturdy light fittings in here too. Is that why you don't turn the lights on? Afraid to see them? Afraid that they might remind you of something?" He bit his lip, tears near his eyes. He stammered out. "P-please. Leave me in peace." Something akin to pity reflected back at him from those black orbs of hers. "Don't you see? I offer you peace. Real, lasting peace. Not just turning the voices off so that you can't hear them. Making it so they never speak at all." Her spindly, skeletal fingers rolled his little brown bottle of pills idly back and forth the arm of the chair. "All it takes is a little courage..." she insinuated seductively. He burst through the front door in a panic, leaving it wide open. He dashed down the garden path, and sped across the gravel driveway kicking up a spray of stones. The orange eyes of the streetlights dogged his every step, watching impassive as he fell apart at the seams. The bridge wasn't even a mile away. And the gorge was deep. Deep enough that even the voices couldn't follow. The inane chatter, the excruciating days wasted, the empty house, the bottles of pill, the bitter tannins and the pale fandangos could all drown down there in the murky depths. All it would take was a little courage, cheap reinvigoration. ------------------------------------------------- I didn't feel like that was terrible, but I do feel terrible. Bedtime I think.
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Dec 3, 2012 05:32
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Jeza posted:I didn't feel like that was terrible, but I do feel terrible. Bedtime I think. This is Thunderdome. We want no excuses and feelposts. 
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Dec 3, 2012 18:15
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Martello posted:This is Thunderdome. Feigning injury and distress is my way of lowering your guard before firing my hidden pneumatic wristdagger into your spleen. If anyone falls for it, it was their fault for showing mercy.
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Dec 3, 2012 18:31
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 The OP is updated for anyone who cares.
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Dec 3, 2012 18:53
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Hurry up with your judging, you troglodytic rear end-grabbers. Your two daddies have been furiously pounding away (with pen and paper) to bring you boys and girls a special December treat. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOMmSbxB_Sg
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Dec 3, 2012 23:11
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:Hurry up with your judging, you troglodytic rear end-grabbers. Your two daddies have been furiously pounding away (with pen and paper) to bring you boys and girls a special December treat. Just got back from work, which, it bears repeating, is a thing that I do. I'll start conversations with the judges now, but I don't want any of the participants to faint from anxiety, so I'll post my own evaluations of your stories shortly.
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Dec 4, 2012 01:54
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Oxxidation posted:Just got back from work, which, it bears repeating, is a thing that I do. Excuses are punishable by -10 points. Continue at your own peril.
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Dec 4, 2012 02:47
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:Excuses are punishable by -10 points. Continue at your own peril. I've got a valuable advantage in that I don't give a gently caress. Evaluation time. --- Bad News (Etherwind) Even if I ignored your issues with the prompt or that “informative” PM you sent me (and doing the latter takes a mighty effort), I’d still give this submission a thumbs-down on its language alone. You failed to establish setting or character—you give Sophia a token line of description long past the point where it would do any good, and Urgos gets no description at all—your dialogue is limp, with both characters stuttering and making vague statements and demands without ever getting anywhere, and the plot just fizzles out with nothing being resolved. You had a lot of Big Important Ideas going into this (see, told you it was hard to ignore the PM), but you didn’t give much thought to how the writing could best convey those ideas, or even if those ideas were worth conveying for a story of this length, under these parameters. The tail was wagging the dog, and it shows. Conversations (The Saddest Rhino) Wasn’t expecting one of the characters to be DOA when I put the prompt together. Nice touch. You kept a firm grasp on characterization and tone throughout, and the dialogue had a quiet, understated feel that I’d really been hoping for from at least one of these stories. Some of your imagery was a little too florid for the reserved melancholy of the piece, and the ending line fell flat, but overall, a good read. A Madman’s Diary (V For Vegas) With special guest star Nice Pete. Your title’s a little too pat, and some of your lines belabor the point (“Why don’t people LISTEN when I tell them about tea. It is not HARD to UNDERSTAND”). But your imagery was solid, your character’s paranoia fairly believable, and for all the narrator’s buildup to some lethal confrontation the meeting ended without much drama or bombast, which I think fits the hallucinatory nature of the story. I barely noticed the section breaks. Not sure whether that means they were effective or unnecessary, but either way they didn’t detract from the story itself, so well done. Ashes (sentientcarbon) I knew right from the start that someone was going to go for a post-apocalyptic/dystopian setting and had been sharpening my knives just for the occasion. So maybe I’m slightly biased! But even disregarding that, the language for this submission was weak, weak, weak. You convey the setting almost entirely through visual imagery, without exploiting any of the other senses (which led to the word “ash” coming up so many times my eyes started to cross), everything about the male character was tell-don’t-show (“his feeble mind,” “crying tears for reasons he could no longer fully understand”), and most damningly, the story treats the interaction between these two characters as an afterthought to the setting, which isn’t interesting enough to warrant first priority. The girl crumbling to ash was treated as a twist, but I didn’t care about why the world was dead; I cared about those two people in it. I guess you had different ideas. But I’m the one in the judges’ chair, which makes my ideas far more important. Apartment 803 (Stuporstar) Concept was interesting, but language and character interaction alike were both boilerplate (“What are you doing here? I am confused and angry!” “I establish what I am doing here. Your anger only exacerbates my own confusion, which leads to increased hostilities!”). Could’ve benefited from a more surreal tone or exaggeration of visual/spatial imagery to complement or foreshadow the twist at the end. As the story stands, there wasn’t much wrong with the imagery per se, but in the end it left little impression. On the House (Zack Gochuck) Ha ha. What a funny joke. That is a funny joke you just told. I vocalize your human laughter. Ha ha ha. The only thing that places this above a Primoman story is the punchline. Thief (Benagain) This is another plot I figured would appear under the prompt, though what I wasn’t expecting was for it to be used as a springboard for what amounts to a “Rabbit Season/Duck Season” routine. Characters were too smarmy and mechanical to be believable, and the narration was also pretty workmanlike, which suggested to me that you were kind of fumbling for a scenario when you started to write. Some questionable analogies (I associate being dropped into a pond with cold, dampness, and the desperate hope that I didn’t get algae between my teeth), and the “big drat hero” bit in particular made my eye twitch, mainly because any phrase that shares territory with both Joss Whedon and TvTropes had may as well be radioactive where I’m concerned. Overall, the story feels insincere. Maybe that’s just me being crotchety, but this idea could’ve been better with more forethought and less sarcasm. California (Jonked) Oof, that first line hurts you. “Almost casually” and a missing article? Tsk, tsk. Despite the bad start, though, this wound up being an overall positive for me. Dialogue was brief, sharp, and full of personality, and the plot was simple and clear. You seriously overstressed the “silence” metaphors, and the story would have been much better if you’d hacked out 80-90% of them, because your dialogue makes it clear enough that these are quiet, no-nonsense loners without much reason to chat up strangers. But you clearly had confidence in the scenario you were putting across, enough to make the woman’s departure nicely poignant. Shame about that opener, then. Close Door Button (dromer) And this opening line could have gone entirely. Says little, awkwardly worded, subsequent sentences convey the narrator’s familiarity with the elevator just fine. Except that I guess you needed it so you could weasel your way around the setting aspect of the prompt, right? You tricky son of a bitch. Your dialogue has too many needless interjections (what, I guess, you know, at least) and your narration falls into cliché at a few points. Still, I think you did pretty well considering the brevity of the piece. I’ve always thought flash fiction was fairly unkind to traditional plot structure, so having a beginning, middle, end, and decent interaction/characterization in under 400 words isn’t half bad. And then you manage to gently caress it up by failing to proofread those 400 words. Typos scurry by the best of us, but give me a drat break. music and laughter (SaviourX) And here’s the dialogue-only piece! I must thank that gypsy for the crystal ball, and ask her why she started laughing so loud and long when I handed over a lock of my hair. Dialogue-only stories are extremely tricky, and I can’t really think of an example of one done well. Written conversation relies heavily on attribution and action between lines to maintain decent cadence and visualization of the people talking, unless it’s an interview or something—even screenplays have blocking to break up the lines. Without those, your story doesn’t feel so much “quiet and reserved” as a wall of expo-speak without much in the way of personality; the eye just slides down the dialogue looking for something that’s not flanked by quotation marks. It’s at least technically solid, but I just can’t get a grasp on these characters through talk alone. Points for ambition if not for execution. The Pale Fandango (jeza) Laying on the tone a little thick there, champ. I guess you were plugging in some filler imagery out of desperation due to the late entry, but your story almost veered into caricature for the first few paragraphs. The story gets genuinely spooky with the introduction of the woman (“her irises were great glowing squares” stood out to me in particular), but the character interaction spins its wheels and the resolution is terribly weak. You’re good with imagery, but lacked anything to tie these images together, which is why the story kind of petered out with a lot of questions and little revelation. --- The other judges can post their impressions at their leisure. Expect winner/loser within 48 hours at the outside.
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Dec 4, 2012 02:50
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Oxxidation posted:I've got a valuable advantage in that I don't give a gently caress. Evaluation time. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N6voHeEa3ig
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Dec 4, 2012 03:04
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Oxxidation posted:
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Dec 4, 2012 03:46
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