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Toaster Beef posted:If you have the unmitigated audacity to stroll in here with 500 or — lord help you — 250 words, they'd better be so loving good I think my record speaks for itself. The fewer words I use, the less opportunity to anger everyone...
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Nov 7, 2012 05:54
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| # ? Apr 20, 2024 00:39 |
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 Six hours left until the 1,250-word deadline Remember, anything after that will need to be no longer than 1,000 words.
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Nov 7, 2012 15:54
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Twenty-four hours have elapsed. For the next twenty-four hours, no entry can be any longer than 1,000 words.
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Nov 7, 2012 22:02
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Hurry up you cunts
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Nov 7, 2012 23:56
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I'm biding my time to look like a big shot cool guy.
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Nov 7, 2012 23:57
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I should have something tonight. Or whenever I feel like it, really.
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Nov 8, 2012 01:18
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The Girl in the Plastic Bubble ~990 words. Mary’s bubble was stuffy. It was 4:00 on a Tuesday and the July sun shone through finger-streaked plastic. Mary tugged at her white, one-piece jumper and squinted up at the transparent dome above her. Two sides of her bubble were walled, covered with finger paintings, magnetic alphabets, and the various accoutrements of toddlerhood. One wall had a window to the Philadelphia skyline, and another featured a transparent wall with a bio-suit and a pair of thick rubber gloves reaching inward. There was no one at the clear wall now. Mary had seen her mother a few moments ago – she read her Hop on Pop. Mary didn’t have a pop – he left when she was diagnosed. But Mary didn’t know what a pop was anyway. Sometimes men would come to visit her in their white coats. They would look at her with their bushy eyebrows and deep crow’s feet, and use the gloves on the wall to take her temperature. They used the suit to draw blood, because otherwise Mary would hide in the corner. The men hadn’t been in today. Mary knocked over her stack of lettered blocks: P J O K S Y L. She picked up the L in her hand and drew it back. She held her hand there, waiting for mother to tell her not to throw things. But mother wasn’t there. She threw the block. It bounced off the plastic wall and hit her in the eye. The girl began to wail. She clasped both hands over her eye, and turned her purple face to the camera by the door. “Mabaa,” she screamed. “Mabaaaaaaa!” The last of her shout pitched upwards to a high squeal. After a while Mary stopped crying, throat raw and face aching. Her shirt was wet from tears and she had smudged ink on her forehead. “Mabaa,” she said again. Mary went to the plastic wall facing the door and pushed her face against it. She mashed her lips and tongue against the surface, and tasted the flat taste of plastic. It tasted like some of her toys and that made her happy. Her breath clouded the surface, and she moved over to the gloves. Mother used the gloves to hug her and hold her, and would comb her hair in the mornings. Mary pushed the glove all the way out of the enclosure, then pinched a fingertip to draw it all the way back in. She did it again. This was not a new game. But now something strange happened. The ring that connected the glove to the wall parted when she pulled back. Mary pulled harder, and the gap opened. With a final tug, the entire glove came free and Mary fell backwards onto her blocks. Too distracted to be hurt, she moved to the new hole. The air on the other side was cool on her skin. A blonde head pushed through, then skinny arms, and then she was all the way out. Warily glancing up at the camera in the corner, Mary tottered out the door. With her hands in little fists and her lip trembling, Mary’s fear was overwhelmed by her curiosity. Outside the door was a long white hallway. Unknown smells were in the air, and distantly Mary heard the rhythmic squeak of footsteps on linoleum. She went towards them down the hall. She stopped outside a door and thought she heard her mother’s voice. She sounded sad. Mary put her ear to the door, with her hands cupped on either side in a pantomime of snooping. “-is here, and I don’t know anyone in Atlanta. I don’t know why she can’t stay here longer, things have been fine.” “Fine so far, but Mary is a growing girl. Not only do we risk exposure, but it would be unethical to leave her in such a confined space for much longer.” This voice was deeper, a man’s. He sounded bored. “Doctor, please, I –“ Mary could wait no longer - she used both hands to push up on the handle and stepped in to see her mother. Her mother’s back was to her, and she looked over her shoulder at the sound of the opened door. She blinked in confusion then her eyes widened. “Mary!” she shrieked, and leapt up from her chair, toppling it. The man with the deep voice had backed against a wall of books, and was dialing the phone while staring at Mary. “Mary! No! Oh, God,” said her mother. “Mabba, my eye,” said Mary. But mother seemed different now. Her lips were pinched and she had her hands outstretched – not to hug, but to push away. Mary started to feel scared and went out the open door, back down the hall. “Oh, God, Mary!” Mary ran back towards her comfortable warm bubble. Maybe, she thought, if she went back inside then mother could put her arms though the gloves and hug her again. But the hallways in this place were new and confusing. She turned a corner and ran into a white-coated nurse. She turned around with a smile, which died as soon as she saw Mary. She raised her hands to cover her nose and mouth, and froze in terror. A tear welled at her eye. Mary left her there and moved on down the hall. Sirens drifted in from a distance. A loud voice was talking from the ceiling. She wished she had never left her room - had stayed with her blocks and books. She couldn’t read them, but mother was going to teach her soon. Here on the wall were some words, recessed in red. She stopped to trace her fingers in their jagged edges. Below them was a funny face with sticks. She moved on. In the times to come, with no one left to teach her, “Airborne Infectious Disease: Class 5 Quarantine,” and many other words would remain unread.
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Nov 8, 2012 02:01
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The Qun-Qunor - 814 words "He shouldn't be here." Maqqa pointed a bony finger to the other boy on the distant stone bridge. Aundis could only make out blurred figures through the night's heavy rain but the farseer was right, the Prince was not alone. "Then it is not him." Aundis said and he stepped back under the rock outcropping where they hid from sight. Edgar sat under there listening to the ran, his hulkish frame barely concealed from the downpour. "There is only one way." The old cook set the one eyed mask on his face again, gazing through prophecy and time, a view he denied to Aundis. "It is him, now is our time." "We've wasted enough of it already then." He grabbed his sword resting against the rock and pulled his cloak over his head. "Edgar, ho!." He pushed through the brush and walked the road towards the bridge, Edgar and Maqqa stumbling close behind. The boys were just coming from the fields, carrying pitchforks and wearing their solid wide brimmed hats that kept them dry. They stopped at the sight of Aundis, his robe soaked and clinging to armor that glinted in the riverlight. Edgar lumbered in behind him, silent and standing a full head and shoulders over the rest, unconcerned with the peltering rain. "Julin." Aundis said and Julin stopped, his knees beginning to shiver from something other than the rain. "We've come to take you home." "Home, sir?" Julin said. Maqqa appeared holding a sickly pale hand in the air, fingers spread. "You are the Qun-Qunor, the Chosen Prince." His voice barely quivering over the patter of rain. "Cast from the mountain top throne of Tsuu, whose return will save us from the quickening and the invasion of the Restless." The other boy stepped up, putting an arm across Julin. "Don't spit hexes at my brother you hag." "The Qun-Qunor has no brother." Maqqa waved a hand to Julin. "You have the black stain on your arm do you not?" Julin looked to his brother wide-eyed and slipped his arm into his bag. "You must come with us Julin, it has already occured." Maqqa held up the one eyed mask, a simple mimic of a face crafted from bark and woven with knots of ancient metals, only one small hole cut through the right half. "I ain't going with you, I'm going home." Aundis shoved past Maqqa, placing a hand on his hilt."The firmament churns, you must come now or our chance will pass." "These blokes are scabs." The brother said. "Their club's probably surrounding us in the woods right now." "You insult one who is of the order. I have given my life to finding the Qun-Qunor." "You're a piss hedge-knight looking to scam little boys." The brother spat back, leveling his pitchfork. "Get you and your dogs outta the way." "I shall overlook your transgression only because we arrived at our goal." Aundis turned back. "Edgar, the boy." The lug stamped forward and grabbed Julin by the collar, knocking away the boy's hat as he lifted him off the ground. The brother never relinqushed a step. He turned, jabbing the pitchfork overhead and catching Edgar in the side of his tree-trunk neck. Blood gushed and spread with the rain, the man's protests gurgling in his wound and he dropped Julin, feeling for and missing the stone bridge's edge before toppling over into the river below. "You welp!" Aundis threw off his cloak and unsheathed his sword, the rain flicking from the edges of the blade as he drew back and stabbed forward. Julin was on his feet and then in front of his brother, calling out before being run through, Aundis following through the swing blinded by rain and rage. The brother jabbed his pitchfork into Aundis' armor but it shattered on contact and sent him reeling to the ground. When Aundis stopped to breath the Qun-Qunor slid from his blade and fell into a heap in the dirt. Maqqa squealed and skuttled forth and he flattened the boy out to check him over. He spoke all the venerable words he knew but it couldn't start the boy's breath or stop the boy's blood. "This is, this is." He repeated and giving up, he grabbed for the mask and set it to his face. In the next moment it dropped from his grip as he was wailing to the storm above. "There is nothing." He said. "There is nothing." The brother ran and Aundis watched the blood on his blade disappear in the rain. The storm above opened up with thunder and lightning that scorched the earth, setting fires to forests and driving man and beast from them. It was like that for days and weeks like nothing anyone had ever seen and when it cleared the sun shone as bright as before but even then Maqqa knew those days were doomed.
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Nov 8, 2012 07:47
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Life-savings - Word Count: 864 "You shouldn't be here" Murdoch intoned again, shaking his head and backing away from the front door. His words dripped disbelief "I saw you die, man. I saw it happen." "Never...the...less, Murdoch, here...I...am." his voice had the deathly inflection of the grave, husky and stertorous. His filthy leather jacket shed clumps of damp earth as he shuffled inwards. His ghastly face leered and he took great loping strides towards Murdoch across the threshold. Murdoch shook his head vigorously, hand hovering over his holster "Get away from me man, I'm warning you. You need to see a doctor." "But Murdochhh..." the voice effervesced into a hiss "What about my ssshare, Murdochhh...?" He needed to divert Jericho's attention, try and make him realise what he had become. "That was weeks ago buddy. Me and Dan already split the loot. Spent your share. You're fuckin' dead. Look at you, there's no way you're alive. They filled you with so many holes they coulda used you as a colander, Jesus." But that Jericho didn't stop advancing. A bead of cold sweat trickled down the nape of Murdoch's neck. He realised he was afraid of his dead comrade. poo poo, zombies were so unnerving. You never knew what they would do next. You could usually talk at them sternly, get them to see reason, and hopefully they would shamble off to die properly. Hopefully. But it was like reasoning with the mentally ill, nothing was certain. As their brains rotted away, so did their cortical functions. Normally they just wound down aimlessly, getting dopier and more indolent until they just came to a full stop. They weren't really a threat to anyone. But you heard stories... He fingered his pistol. He could shoot him, but that would cause a ruckus. He lived in a nice neighbourhood. Someone was bound to call the cops. There wouldn't be an issue once it was ascertained that it just an intruding zomb. But this was the cops - they would no doubt stick their nose into his business, ask unwanted questions. Too much risk. He needed another way. gently caress. Jericho had been torpid in life and this was only compounded in death. He didn't listen when he ought to. That why he and Dan had set the job up that way. It wasn't like he had hated the guy but he had been a total liability. And of course, he wasn't averse to making a little more scratch on the side. "OK, man. I've got your share. Its just back here, come on" he beckoned "follow me." At the word 'share', a hungry light flickered in Jericho's sallow sockets. He wheezed and with a stumbling gait made to follow Murdoch. They entered his sitting room. Murdoch pointed towards a cabinet on the other side of the room, making sure Jericho followed his finger with his cloudy eyes. "See that cupboard Jerry? Your share is in there. Just in there." Jericho's caterpillar eyebrows headbutted one another as he processed the word cupboard and the simple direction. Then he smiled a lopsided smile and lurched happily towards his prize. Murdoch slipped into the adjacent kitchen and grabbed the sturdiest and weightiest iron skillet he could find. It should do nicely. He sidled back into the sitting room. Jericho was making unhappy groaning noises and tugging at the locked cabinet door. Perfect. Raising the skillet above his head with both hands he leapt forward and brought it down as hard as he could onto Jericho's distracted head. Phwup. It connected with a wet smack and shudder-inducing feedback. He had partially caved Jerry's head right in. That should do i- Jericho howled in a screeching voice that only the disintegrated vocal cords of the undead could produce and turned, face distorted in fury. Murdoch tried to move backward to allow for another full swing, but Jericho's hands shot out with unexpected speed and wrapped around Murdoch's neck. He dropped the skillet and struggled to wrench the dead man's grip from his windpipe. But you know what they say about the dead - they just can't let go. Jericho lifted Murdoch bodily up into the air, and Murdoch's legs flailed uselessly while he choked. Murdoch beat his hands pointlessly against Jericho's steely arms as the life was squeezed out of him. "Jer...ry...wait..." Murdoch managed two solitary rasped words, but Jericho either didn't hear or didn't care. Again he rumbled in hoarse, gravelley anger and charged towards the sitting room wall, thrusting Murdoch ahead of him like a shield. The pair of them broke through the wall in a shower of plasterboard and dust. Broke right through, not into the kitchen as you might expect, but into Murdoch's intramural hidden stash. Bars of bullion fell to the ground with heavy thumps and thick, banded wads of unmarked notes scattered all over in the dust. At the sight of all that money, Jericho's mouth opened into a gleeful gurn. He hurred and dropped Murdoch's lifeless body like a forgotten toy. He fell onto his decaying knees and began to rake all of it into one big pile in front of him. He moaned happily. With all this money, well, he was set for life.
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Nov 8, 2012 16:59
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The Red King Quandary (963 words) When I became eight, I met the monster in the attic. “You don’t belong here,” I told him. In time, you shall think otherwise, said the monster. Sitting down on dust settled before I was born, I listened to the monster, voice old as time and deep as sea, as warm as the fireplace in a house without chimneys. The monster was the largest person I had seen and will ever see, a great shadow seated in an armchair and set upon the wall behind the rocking seat. Protruded on its heads were two long spikes, like horns, and the child I was knew he was a monster. The monster said that it would be fair to call him one. “Are you going to eat me?” I asked. Perhaps, the monster told me. Monsters have other things to do than just eating children. Perhaps we love, perhaps we grief. Perhaps we live. I pretended to understand. I asked him about the small library Uncle Gregory used to keep, before the monster took residence in the attic. The monster was very sorry I could not get a book as I originally wanted, and promised when he moves out I could get anything I want. But shall I recommend something? the monster asked. Have you read Alice? “Who?” Right shelf, second row, fifth from the right. It shall be there tomorrow. And then I heard my parents’ car, so I told him good night and ran to my room. The next day it was on the right shelf, second row, fifth from the right, and I spent a rainy weekend through the Looking Glass. The month came and went, and I met the monster again in the attic. I told him all about Alice, growing bigger and smaller, meeting caterpillars and walruses and carpenters. Who is your favourite character? he asked. “The Queen of Hearts,” I said. “Off with her head!” The Red Queen, said the monster. The Red Queen. And what about the King? “The King?” I could not recall anything about him. “He was just. Well. Sleeping.” That is fair, the monster answered. What do you think of the plight of the Red King? I thought for a while. “Does it really happen to people?” I asked. “Being someone else’s dream?” The monster said nothing. “It’s a scary thing to think,” I continued. “I guess that’s why Alice cried.” Yes. Time has passed. Summer has come and gone. We were entering the second year. There was a harsh winter. Lessons were learnt and unlearned. “The thought of being dreamt into existence…” I was continuing. “That’s really horrific, when you think about it…” You would be nowhere. Everything became simpler to do. Love was found and lost. Hearts were broken then mended. There was a death. A family was blessed. There were deaths. There were goodbyes and hellos and welcome homes. If the Red King were to wake. “That Carroll would actually put it into a book. A children’s book. It’s a miracle it did not scar all those kids who read it….” Out. Jobs were found and lost. The girl has become a woman and then a spouse but finally a friend. The house remained. There was a last farewell. You shall go. “It’s absurd, children are not foolish. They can think for themselves, and what if they get an existential crisis…” Like a candle. The nest has become empty. The years were getting shorter. The child now has a child. There were visits, then there were none. The months were getting longer. Things outside were running faster. Things inside were walking slower. Everything became harder to do. “It makes one think of mortality. It’s not fair. It makes people think that they are just fake, and…” Time has passed. “Oh.” What was once the largest being, was now merely a shadow seated in a chair too small for a monster. What was once menacing shapes in the flickering light, now only reflected an exhaustion and sorrow of the wise, witness to things too many and too frequent, older than you would like to admit. I could feel my bones aching and creaking under my weight, my vision becoming fainter and everything was colder. It became easier to lie down. “This is it, then,” I said. The monster stood up. The Monster stood up. The whole room was night, the blue glow of its eyes the sun and the moon, the warm light of the fireplace that comfort felt by humans in their youth, sitting in their caves of sticks and stones, away from the wolves and the rain. The Red King slept and dreamt, lying on the damp grass. Nobody know what he is dreaming, but nobody dares to wake him up. Tweedledee and Tweedledum laughed at Alice the most, telling her that the King is dreaming of her, and waking him up will make her disappear. Like blowing out a candle. There was nothing else. The Monster was descending, descending upon me, upon the attic, upon the house, upon the land and the sea and the sky and the sun and the moon and the stars. But they were both afraid that what they said was true, that Wonderland was just the dream of the Red King, and that if he woke up, they would just vanish and stop existing. The Monster had taken the world into itself, eaten the world. The Monster was the world. “Are you going to eat me?” I asked. Perhaps. “Is it all right to not be scared?” It’s all right. Honestly, it’s all right. “Thanks,” I said. “You don’t belong here,” I told him. In time, you shall think otherwise, said the Monster. I let my hand go limp, and closed my eyes.
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Nov 8, 2012 19:23
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I wanted to see if I could put together something in as few words as possible. Internship Words: 450 Sarah sat unbuckled in the driver seat crying. Her forehead pressed against the steering wheel and she watched tears fall onto her legs. Just sitting here, crying, that’s what I’m good for, she thought. A knock came at her driver side window, startling her. Bernice stood there with a piece of paper in her hand. Wiping her eyes really fast, Sarah rolled down her window. “I’m sorry, I just needed—“ “It’s nothing, sweetie. Here,” Bernice said giving Sarah the paper. “Your volunteer hours are all signed for, here and here.” “But, I still have—“ “Don’t you worry about it. If anyone calls, I’ll cover it. But no one’s gonna call, you turn in your paper, you get your credit.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t know—“ “It’s okay, honey. You don’t need to apologize to me. I’ve got to go back inside now, you be safe driving home, okay?” Sarah nodded. She watched Bernice in her scrubs, the floral print top and sea-foam green pants, walk back inside. Envious of Bernice’s composure, she wondered what toll it must have taken on Bernice to be like this. A car pulled up a row and two spots in front of her, near the front of the building. A young man stepped out, and closed the front door. He leaned against the door and ran both hands through his hair. Sarah watched him take a deep breath and shake himself out. Rubbing his face, he turned and opened the back passenger side door. He waited, standing, staring into the back seat. Kneeling down he reached in, futzing around. Finally, he scooped up a salt and pepper furred dog. Sarah could tell it was a mix, probably black lab and a collie she guessed. Tears started to form fresh in her eyes again. The man clutched the dog tightly as it sniffed the air. Rocking back and forth the man buried his face into the dog’s neck and the dog nuzzled the side of the man’s head lightly. He sat down on the sidewalk in front of the building, in front of a handicap space. His dog curled up in his lap, his legs out in front of him, bowed slightly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag full of snacks and one by one, he gently fed them into the dog's mouth. After the bag was gone, the dog licked its lips and settled down its old head. Sarah couldn’t watch anymore, she pulled her sweatshirt hood all the way over her face and tried to collapse into a singularity. Looking up a few minutes later, the man had gone inside. Sarah started her car and rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She pulled out of the parking lot and looked in the rear view mirror once before the shelter drifted out of sight.
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Nov 8, 2012 23:03
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Noah posted:I wanted to see if I could put together something in as few words as possible. good job and whatever but that's not as few words as possible that would be 1 word try harder next time loser 
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Nov 8, 2012 23:39
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Martello posted:good job and whatever but that's not as few words as possible that would be 1 word try harder next time loser The Story of Anne - 1 words "Trespasser!"
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Nov 9, 2012 00:34
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Martello posted:good job and whatever but that's not as few words as possible that would be 1 word try harder next time loser "...Ff-fire..."
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Nov 9, 2012 00:35
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Bad Seafood posted:My Son Before the Firing Line I Close My Eyes and Whisper This would actually be great without the I close my eyes and whisper part (great in a 'I could see it in one of those Hemingway 6-word contests you know what I'm talking about' sort of way)
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Nov 9, 2012 00:36
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Canadian Surf Club posted:This would actually be great without the I close my eyes and whisper part (great in a 'I could see it in one of those Hemingway 6-word contests you know what I'm talking about' sort of way)
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Nov 9, 2012 00:42
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titles count as words in thunderdome.
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Nov 9, 2012 00:52
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This should go without saying, but anything posted in this 24-hour span (4 p.m. EST today and 4 p.m. EST tomorrow) cannot be longer than 750 words
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Nov 9, 2012 01:29
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Noah posted:titles count as words in thunderdome. I was just about to post this. So many losers. Also, did I say I was in? Because I am. Edit: "I was just about to post this" I type, and forget to post it for half an hour.
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Nov 9, 2012 01:30
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That is true. Canadian almost had it then. Untitled, "Trespasser!" There we go.
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Nov 9, 2012 01:33
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"untitled" is still a word learn 2  nub lol
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Nov 9, 2012 04:31
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Hey dicklords, I had this at a respectable 980, but someone had to live in some lovely eastern time zone, so now it's been pared down to gently caress nothing. It's my brithday, so gently caress alls yallls: **** 748 Words "In The Details" They had murdered The Devil eons ago. Of course, that didn't stop his rebirth. Across the massive expanse of time, Lucifer sent his bits of soul--those he remained master of--through space, waiting for kindness or foolishness to restore him. Out at the nimbus of some far, far ringed world, he found himself in a quickened womb, within the sacristy of a post-human temple devoted to stardust and thing wrought from it. J81 now gawped at the womb's ligation as it moved to burst, unsure of its hatching's result. Its compadre H99 was there as a favour, unsure if the experiment would bear fruit, swiveling in irritation. The birth tube gave one final heave, then smooth as sunbeam, it ushered out the singed wings and body of Lucifer. "Lyaoshiffer." J81 resonated, not sure if its interpretation was correct. "Oh dear, what's this now," said the Lightbringer, flipping his ever-insistent golden cowlick. "It is not an impressive angel," H99 said. "Two womb's ago was much more dreadful. This," it swiveled. "Inspires no fear posture." The Devil, aglow at being corporeal, stayed his wrath. "Oh good, you've turned yourselves into something less fragile and annoying. I suppose you want me to ask why I'm here, or to thank you." Swiveling to excited, J81 practically panted, "You are our guest! We have many questions for you, oh sir hellbaron." "Weak beside the terrifying Baelzabobb. Dissolving-reforming eyes, so many of them. I think J has errored this recipe." Lucifer tried to swoop at the creature, ready to tear a limb with a flick of his wrist. His wings didn't respond. It was irksome. "I am sure this is the right one, Niney!" said J81. "Come, we... imbibe, yes? Talk with evil?" Lucifer breathed stardust through superfluous lungs. "Wine, if you have it." "We can craft, oh yes." J81 scampered away. They were seated in what Lucifer imagined was a lounge, covered in gauzy, multicoloured materials. Iconography of a sort. "You are the encompassment of sins and degradation, yes? Of your time?" "I'd love to say yes, but I can't. No, I've always just been misjudged. There was all that before me, and I assume it still exists." The angel sipped at his wine, not bad, but with a specious mouthfeel. Both acolytes swiveled their uneven heads, recording. J81 spoke up. "Yes, that has always been with sentience. No escape." It swiveled around to frown. "But, we are rescued from that by our faith. We are comforted by stars. H99 used to be in Corona Production." "Yes, until quality changed, and things became boring." The Devil took another sip. "I see. And the big man? Deus? Is anyone still worshiping the Godhead?" "Shortly dispersed after you, from our records," said J81. "One point eight trillenia after, we transcended with our own Creation. If God exists, it is in the fabric of reality, no head." "Then what do you worship here?" Lucifer was more amused than anything. They passed through a shadowed cluster of the rings. H99 said, "Knowledge at first, then energy, which was vague and boresome by all accounts, then stars, and now... creating? Yes." "Something to pass the time, then, eh." Lucifer thought he would like this existence, but he had to ask. "I'm not just here as a sort of balance to some overwhelming good, am I. Darkness due to light, that nonsense?" J81 swiveled. "Not at all, you are but the first batch. Creating is arduous, but we proceed. Dissections, displays, you and your kind will serve us. We have never had an angel exhibit." "And there it is," said The Devil. He put his wine down, carefully. Then, with a great inhalation, he burst with light and soared. He was ready to wrench every tissue in his creators' bodies with his mind. He grinned. J81 swiveled to stare up and muttered. "Oh dear." "The recipe, I minded you," H99 hawed. It shoved back from the table, waving at a console behind some fabric. Lucifer, ready to laugh and tear asunder, instead felt a pointed suction coming from where his navel would be. "Oh for poo poo's-" His speech cut off as he imploded into a feathery, protein-filled mess. "'Bobb was superior crafting. I informed you. This one was too unwieldy," H99 said. "We never create what I want," J81 said. "Always with the impressive, never the subtle." He approximated a sigh, then went to check on the containment hatch marked 'Christian Satan'. Inside it, The Devil fantasized of escape.
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Nov 9, 2012 07:20
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If you want to trash God's Own Time Zone (AKA The Eastern Time Zone AKA The Best Time Zone There loving Is), you go right ahead and do it because you're just making yourself look like a fool  edit: in the thunderdome no less how embarrassing for you
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Nov 9, 2012 12:19
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I guess I could write something now, although I am already in my pyjamas.
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Nov 9, 2012 13:15
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Toaster Beef posted:If you want to trash God's Own Time Zone (AKA The Eastern Time Zone AKA The Best Time Zone There loving Is), you go right ahead and do it because you're just making yourself look like a fool
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Nov 9, 2012 14:32
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Atlas Benched (740 words) Despite their best efforts the ship had got caught in the planet's gravity well. The crew tried to guide the ship down safely but there was no fuel left and the navigation systems had failed and one wing had torn off and when the ship slammed into the ground no one had survived. Certain procedures were still active however and from the wreckage crawled Poindextron. It rose to its feet, the brutal gravity making its already awkward gait more so, and began to document the new world. It moved among the rocky landscape, snapping pictures of boulders and low-growing weeds. For each one it classified, documented, and stored the information in its databanks. Occasionally it would stop to gather some dirt or gavel for further analysis in the ship's lab. Poindextron had just found a particularly fascinating patch of grit and was photographing it from various angles when it walked right into one of the planet's native lifeforms. It was a huge creature, vaguely reptile-like but bipedal and covered bulging muscles. Above its head it was holding a boulder nearly the size it was. Poindextron scrambled back thinking the creature was about to slam the boulder down upon it. The reptile let out a primal scream as it brought the boulder to the ground with a heavy thud. "Yeah bro got my pump on! Looking big, looking good." Poindextron's FishChip™ identified the creature's guttural burps as a language similar to that of the slime chimps on Vurlax III and provided a translation. The creature looked down and noticed the cowering survey bot. "Hey bro, never seen you around before. You here to get your swole on?" The creature gestured around him and for the first time Poindextron made a wide sweep of its location. It was standing in the middle of a quarry scattered with rocks of all sizes. Amongst them various other lizard creatures were lifting boulders, encouraging each other on, and arguing about who's body mass was the biggest. "Look bro, you're not going to cut it around here unless you do something about those noodly arms," the creature said, nodding at Poindextron's appendages. He lead Poindextron to the center of the quarry where other creatures were starting to gather around. "We'll start with some isolation lifts, work your tri's then blast your delts. How much you bench bro?" The Creature seemed to expect something from Poindextron. It looked around and found a small stone. It lifted it to the creature and announced "Granite." The creature's brow furrowed and it knocked the stone out of Poindextron's collection unit. "Look bro, we don’t put up with jokers around here. Now show us what you can do." The creature shoved Poindextron towards a thick slab. It looked at the circle of onlookers that had surrounding it. They were all yelling to lift the rock, so it gripped the slab with its claws and strained. Its servos whined at the effort and warnings blared in its processing unit, but it managed to lift the slab a few feet above the ground. "Not bad, not bad. Good effort. Let's see what you're really made of. See if you can lift this big boy." The crowd moved to a solid looking boulder that came up to Poindextron's waist. "Just one rep bro, show us what you got." Poindextron hunkered down next to the boulder, reached around it as far as it could, and gripped tight. It heaved but the boulder didn't budge. Poindextron pulled back on the rock and forced all its systems past their tolerance points. The warnings were blaring again but the creatures were yelling encouragements and rallying Poindextron on. It strained as hard as it could, servos were screaming, its appendages pulling at their sockets, surges of electricity racing through its arrays, its claws digging deep groves into the rock’s sides. Suddenly the warnings cut out as Poindextron's collection units were ripped from its body. Its legs buckled as their servos crumpled and a huge surge ran through its processors, scrambling circuits and melting connections. Its FishChip™ malfunctioned and began translating the creatures cries into a broken ancient English. The original creature, the one Poindextron had bumped into, stepped into view of its failing visual receptors and began speaking. Poindextron's emergency shutdown procedures were already in effect though, and all it heard before power cut out completely was "Doest ye even heft, brother?" "Doest ye even heft?"
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Nov 9, 2012 16:30
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A haha. It's like something from Squat-a-slab Lem a.k.a Standingpress Lem a.k.a Strain-a-lat Lem.
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Nov 9, 2012 16:59
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Hmm I don't know about this one. Like Fishermen's Wives (549 words including title) Wives have always waited for lost husbands at ocean's shore. I have no ocean, just a candle and a room long empty of him. I shiver in our bed, shiver on my half while his half is vast and cold and empty. He will not come tonight, or the next. I watch the candle and stretch my hand out over the sea of fabric, feel where his heat should be. The thunder of falling cookware brings me out of half sleep. He is awake, raving and feeding the incomprehensible demands of his inner demons. I feel his footsteps shaking our home, hear his wordless animal bellowing. The animal in me responds in kind, and night after night it whispers flee. I bought a deadbolt once, and installed it while he was out with the man from the state. For a while, the scared animal in my skull was placated. I had never thought he'd actually try the door, but he did. I was brushing my hair when I heard it, the small tick of the handle turning, the lock catching. And then quiet footsteps padding back down the hall. I remember that I let out a held breath, thinking that would be the end of it. That night it was his demons that returned to the door, howling and breaking against the deadbolt like a storm surge, and that was when I knew my husband was not simply lost at sea. He had become the sea. I remember his placid face the next morning when I finally forced myself to leave the bedroom. "I can't explain it," was the first thing he said. "It knew you locked it out. It knew." I turned to the sink, dizzy, fumbling with the dirty dishes there. "Things would be better if you didn't lock us out." The genuine worry and concern in his voice stabbed at me, made me catch my breath. I washed the dishes and returned to my room. Now I sleep with no deadbolt, and the animal inside me whispers its urgent sweet-fear-nothings, and my husband flounders in the cage of his own mind. At the foot of my bed is a gift, an empty suitcase. Its two zippers catch the candlelight and reflect it back like glittering eyes in the dark. A gift from my mother, her one silent plea that I would escape his demons before they took me completely. I never told her when he started to slip away from me, but she knew. If I am the wife waiting at the shore, she is the mother watching her daughter stand in the path of a tidal wave. And I do think of leaving, of sleeping without fear. But as I listen to the mayhem outside my room, I think of our home overflowing with refuse and rotting food, broken dishes on the floor, an empty fridge, and I can't. I can't leave him with nothing but decay and his demons. The candle is burning low so I blow it out. Outside of my room, he is murmuring softly to himself, the first rays of sunrise dissipating the storm clouds. I reach out into the ocean of his absence and fall asleep that way, arm outstretched across the place that he should be.
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Nov 9, 2012 20:47
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Hopefully this one is less terrible than before, and with 5 minutes to spare! Brain Scoop, word oval office of 647 ------------------ The doctors stared in horror as Felix walked gingerly towards the center of the room. He could not even be bothered to disguise himself, wearing the same clothes he had on from the street. “Who the heck are you?” One of the doctors exclaimed. “How did you get in here, this is a restricted area!” “Yeah well the drone upstairs gave me access to this room, so I guess I'm allowed to be here.” Felix glanced around the room, as if he was there for other reasons than repaying his current debt. “I just thought I'd borrow a few things, you know, some scalpels, some drugs, maybe even that brain you've got there?” “loving junkies, there's always one of them in a crowd.” A second doctor muttered under his breath. The first one made a move towards a panic button built in to the back wall. “Don't worry, C-Sec will take good care of you.” “Sorry, I don't have time to chat with The Man right now.” Felix turned off his natural eyesight for a moment and opened his mouth as he tossed up a firefly. The improvised flashbang exploded in midair, blinding the doctors long enough for him to run past them, grab the brain in a box and run out. Felix turned his sight back on just as he began looking for the emergency stairs. Had to reach them before the company decided to lock everything down. Just as he reached the door for the emergency stairs, an alarm rang out across the hall. He got inside before the doors locked up simultaneously. That would give him another few seconds. The doors would only lock from the outside, or so he hoped. Felix just repeated that he had to keep moving, get to the parking garage before C-Sec decided to arrive with some kind of search team. One minute and a few flights of stairs later, the door opened, and Felix immediately found himself staring at the blank faceplate of a C-Sec helmeted goon. Before he could react, the goon grabbed him by the throat with one hand and slammed him against the wall. Felix's vision flickered for a moment, then returned with weird metallic sparkles at the sides as the goon began choking the air out of him with a very strong grip. Felix internally cursed his luck. He was about to die, or be thrown into a black hole for however long C-Sec felt like imprisoning him, all because he just had to get some actual evidence to back up his claim for this one article. Because that one crazy fan had set up on a dare. Because said fan disappeared after getting him into this mess. Whatever the reason, this was probably the end. Suddenly, the goon loosened his grip but didn't let go of Felix's throat as he gestured wildly behind with his free arm, as if trying to pull something out from his neck. Then he fell backward, taking Felix down with him. Luckily the goon's heavily-armored body prevented Felix from smashing face-first into concrete, but he was still unable to fully break free from the grip. “Thanks for the help, Mister Obituary Writer.” A scratchy, yet feminine voice sounded from Felix's left. “Looks like we're even now.” She freed the box containing the brain from Felix's hands. “And now you owe me one.” She continued as she cut off the goon's thumb with her knife, earning a groan from Felix. Gasping in lungfuls of what passed for fresh air down here, he nodded in thanks. “Don't worry Felix, when I need another favor, I'll send you a message.” Felix brushed himself off and took a second to recover, then hopped in the car as the woman disappeared with the case. For the first time in his life, he was beginning to reconsider this line of work.
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Nov 9, 2012 21:57
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After the curfew 747 words The city hummed to itself, a grumbling murmur of voices and traffic. From on top of the mossy crenellations of the Distaff Precinct Wall Jeb heard it and paused, listening. The sound of a pistol shot cracked out somewhere below him. He swung his legs over the edge, dangled for a moment and dropped into the bushes. The courtyard was lit by a single lamp over the back door. From his place by the wall, Jeb could see the door was ajar. A wave of sick dread washed over him, and he took a moment to brush leaves off himself and disentangle a thorny branch he was caught on. Then he straightened, took a slow breath, and walked over to the door. "Sirella?" he called, softly. "Sirellita?" He tapped on the door. There was a rustle of movement from the darkness within and a flickering light that showed itself to be a hand lamp as the door opened. He smiled. Sirella, pretty face gaunt and shadowed in the dim light, gasped. "Jeb... what.... 'odsblood... how did you..." He held his arms wide for an embrace, but she drew her nightcloak around her and ushered him in. Jeb plucked a leaf off his jacket, sat down on the bed. Sirella closed the door and leaned against it, looking at Jeb. The light was in both her hands now, sending huge shadows up the wall behind her. "Jeb... how did you get in? Are you mad? The curfew is up, they shoot people every night! Uncle Haresh... two nights ago... What are you doing here?" Jeb grinned, trying to make it look insouciant. "I came to see you, of course. I need to tell you - " Sirella held up her hand. "Stop. Jeb, I can't. We can't. It's over. I wish you'd believed me, but it is." There was a roaring in Jeb's ears, it sounded like the city from atop the wall a moment before. He looked at Sirella, her eyes pools of black in the dim room, and knew that she was right, that she'd always been right. He flicked through memories of planning his infiltration of the forbidden quarters, stealing supplies from the Master's studio, choosing his route over sleepless nights, and knew it was for nothing. He nodded, stood up. Sirella put down the lamp, took a step towards him. "Jeb, you should stay here for a little - it's too dangerous to go now, perhaps if you - " Jeb shook his head. "No, don't worry about me. Sirella. I'll ... I'll see you when the curfew lifts." He held out his hand and she touched his fingertips. He could see a tear in one of her eyes. "Goodbye, Jeb". He walked through the door. Confident, a little proud. He closed the door behind him, leaned on the wall beside it and breathed deeply a few times. His face was wet and he wiped it. Then he clambered up the tree beside him, onto the top of the wall, dropped down the other side. Jeb landed on all fours on the damp cobbles, and stood up. He looked around to catch his bearing and saw a flash of movement to his right just as a bulky figure took two steps and punched him hard. The blow took Jeb, lifted him up and slammed him against the alley wall. He slumped, winded. "Your poo poo is over here, bitch," growled the Lancer. He drew his pistol. Jeb raised a trembling finger. "W...wait. I have money..." he scrabbled in his jacket, pulling out something in his fist. The Lancer's lips curled up below his bestial mask as he raised the pistol. "Nice to hear. I'll count it later," he said. Jeb levered himself up on one elbow, held his hand out. "They're ..pretty big bills. I'd start now," he said and opened his fist. There was a sizzle and a strobing bolt of actinic light as the wad of flash gum went off. Jeb heard a grunt and a clatter from behind tightly closed eyes. He opened them, found the heavy brass pistol on the ground through a fog of after images. He picked it up, wincing at the pain from his burnt hand, then cocked it and shot the Lancer three times in the chest. The shots were still echoing off the high vaulted walls of the Precinct as he dropped the weapon and started to run, stumbling, down the cobbled alley.
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Nov 9, 2012 21:57
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^^ Give me a word oval office! As of 45 minutes ago, we're officially in 500 word range. No stories can be longer than 500 words. vv thx bro 
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Nov 9, 2012 22:44
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Edited in word count.^^^^
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Nov 9, 2012 23:53
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Here's a wordless submission. Pretty worthless too. --- "...!?" ---
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Nov 10, 2012 15:47
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It doesn't quite tell a story though, which for all it's excess verbosity Bad Seafood's did. I got to say, I'm eagerly awaiting Chairchucker's 250 word opus.
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Nov 10, 2012 16:10
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I've gotta say, while its stated purpose was a contest-inherent 'gently caress you' to the people who inevitably procrastinate when it comes to these sorts of contests, my hope is that the 250-word rule creates some truly interesting pieces. Which reminds me, I won't be around later today, sooo There are only four hours left within the 500-word window. As of 4:00 p.m. EST, you will no longer be allowed any more than 250 words. The 250-word window will remain open for 24 hours after that, its end marking the close of the contest tomorrow (Sunday) at 4:00 p.m. EST.
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Nov 10, 2012 18:10
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Thunderdome maximum difficulty. I like it. I would like it better if in addition to the decresing wordcunt, we could lower people's forums accounts slowly closer to the mouth of an active volcano.
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Nov 10, 2012 21:01
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Who is still left to post?
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Nov 11, 2012 01:36
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I dunno, but a contender of a story in only 250 words would be impressive as hell. I'm eager to see if anyone has the balls.
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Nov 11, 2012 01:44
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I dunno about balls, I just like procrastinating. I'll churn out something terrible in a little bit.
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Nov 11, 2012 02:11
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| # ? Apr 20, 2024 00:39 |
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OK here is that thing. 248 words including title. Needles The young man had just walked in and sat down. Knuckles glared at him. “Are you lost? Think you can just sit wherever you want in this bar? This is our area.” Oblivious to his impending doom, the young man shrugged. “This looked like a good place to knit.” Mad Dog grinned an evil grin. “Fancy yourself a knitter, eh?” His needles and wool were already in his hands. “How about a wager. If you can outknit me, you can sit here. If not… well, we’ll think of something.” The young man shrugged. “Seems reasonable.” Mad Dog had already started. There were no rules in a knitting duel. The others all smiled. The interloper had no idea what he was in for. Their smiles slowly slid from their faces, however. The challenger’s needles moved faster than they could follow; they were a blur. They started generating sparks, and all present closed their eyes and turned their faces away. All except the stranger and Mad Dog, who sat transfixed, his needles fallen to the floor. “It’s so beautiful!” he said. _ Spike came out of the toilet to find a stranger sitting in his chair. Mad Dog was curled up in a ball nearby. “Hey, what on God’s green earth – actually two thirds blue but the point stands - does this clown think he’s doing?” Knuckles shook his head and gently took Spike aside. “A man who knits like that,” said Knuckles “that man sits wherever he wants.”
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Nov 11, 2012 02:23
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