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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


the world is broken and i am meat

Just when I meet a doctor with a big chin and a sense of humour, his neck swells up like an inner tube and his fluids run out the corners of his eyeballs. "'livya," he said to me, choking on his blackening tongue, "forgeth me, ty too luth again."

Thanks George. Solid advice from the only handsome man in this dead-horse town. I tried, I really did. I looted some really cute ballet flats from the place with the European doorman who used to sneer and this gorgeous apricot sun-dress from Sarah's washing line. She's got no use for it any more. On friday night, I went into town and saw a procession of pipers with golden tongues and twisted feet, chanting litanies of dust as they swayed through the shattered street. Their hair was pure white, standing on end and growing ever-upwards until it joined with the tendrils of cloud in spidersilk umbilicals. As I approached, I felt their music tunneling under my fingernails and eyes.

They ignored me, lurching puppetlike and making their dreadful music. You are a grown woman, Olivia Dryden, and perfectly capable of making the first move. "Hey," I said.

They turned as one, pulled from above. When they spoke, it was in a dead tongue that I understood perfectly. "One walks, it pumps and sluices. One remains?" they said.

"They're flats, actually," I said. The one on the left was kinda cute. His red eye, his dead eye and his white eye formed a fractal that I couldn't look away from. I could see the whole universe, turning infinitely inward. Take me now!

The group looked confused. "One is not flat, as it walks. One remains and this troubles. The scythe was sent and now no men walk," they said. My mind filled with images of rot and dark places. Typical. "No, the shoes are fl- look, do you want to grab a drink or not?"

Their eyes shuttered and their mouths broke open. Inscribed on their tongues was something from the corner of my eye. The drone was a wave that crushed, twisting me inward. I am twelve, playing in the mud with boys. I am a desiccated husk, hung from a lamp-post. I am in the womb, a monstrous heart singing me to sleep. The wave broke and I stood again in the street.

The eyes opened. In them, I saw fear. "One remains! One remains!" they screamed. The sky cracked and roared, belching dead leaves and sickness. "Alright," I said. "I can take a hint."

Just my luck. Last girl on Earth and I still can't get a date.

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Bodnoirbabe
Apr 30, 2007



I announce my intention to compete!

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Goddamn it, it's past 15 2130 EST AUG 2012! :mil101:

However, I choose to invoke the Fibonacci Exemption to Rule 126a. Bodnoirbabe, you may compete.

If anyone questions my exemption, I shall summarily remove 5 points, roughly equal to one well-shaped Brazil nut. My word is law.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Openoffice has deceived me and a second look at my piece reveals two typos.

quote:

They ignored me, lunching puppetlike

quote:

They sky cracked and roared, belching dead leaves and sickness.
As there are no backsies in the THUNDERDOME, I will shave off my malapropisms and wear them as armour.

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

Openoffice has deceived me and a second look at my piece reveals two typos.


As there are no backsies in the THUNDERDOME, I will shave off my malapropisms and wear them as armour.

I'm often guilty of writing mallard priapisms too.

Stuporstar
May 5, 2008

Where do fists come from?


You boys need a real woman to show you how dystopian chick-lit is done. ;-*

Also, I'm over the 500 word count, but I'm a goddamn judge so this is DQ'd anyway. Deal with it. :nyd:

The Leatherettes

Sabine carried her arsenal in a Fendi handbag: taser, pepper spray, c4, detonators, and doorknobs. Lots of doorknobs. With its thick re-enforced leather handles, she could get a good swing, clock a girlie out cold at three paces. It’s how the Leatherettes rolled.

They ran the streets at night, stealing and dealing antiques, illegal leather goods. Some old grannies still wore Italian leather with pride in the day, grandfathered in. As they kicked the bucket, the state burned it all.

“Ready?” said Cindy, clicking closed her little black Chanel. She couldn’t sling it without breaking the delicate chain handle. She didn’t have to. She earned that bag roughing up a Ragdoll on Hollywood Boulevard, clawed her way to the top without breaking a nail.

Sabine strong-armed for her half a year now. She gripped the Fendi, ready to crash the Bimbinos’ party in their shady back-alley tanning parlor.

“Set,” said June, backing away from the steel door. The gang crouched behind a dumpster as she set off the charge. With a poof the door blew an inch ajar.

Sabine pressed her own remote detonator. That would cut the power. With eyes already adjusted to darkness, they had the advantage in this “pillow fight.”

“Go,” Cindy yelled. The Leatherettes charged.

The Bimbinos crawled from their tanning booths, blinking dumbly in the darkness.

“How many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb?” June catcalled.

A manicured talon missed Sabine’s face by inches as she stepped aside. She tripped her blind attacker. Whump—the bag went down on the bimbo’s neck, catching a whirlwind of bleached hair on its handle. The girl crumpled.

Someone had Cindy in a headlock. Sabine stepped over to reach her, but June came up behind and beaned the Bimbino with a Burberry. She let go, and Cindy drove a black patent pump into the girl’s gut.

A pop and a zap—Cindy convulsed before collapsing. loving taser—Sabine’s crouched behind a tanning booth. A light snapped on, wavering over Cindy’s sprawled out form. Sabine closed one eye and held breath.

“Darling child,” said a husky voice, “you really oughta know better.”

Sabine crept up behind. She pulled out her own taser—you chose to escalate, bitch—and fired. The old vulture fell over, following up Cindy’s horizontal tap dance with her own. The handheld floodlight crashed to the floor, illuminating the Bimbino queen’s face. Blood dripped from ruby lips onto a white fur collar. A pin on the lapel said, “Fur is murder.” Unconscious, she held her handbag in a death drip. A Prada.

A real loving Prada.


While June wrestled two Bimbinos to the floor, Sabine snatched her prize and bolted for the door. Swinging a bag like that, she could scoop up her own gang. No more small time. She clopped down the alley in clicking heels, and ran headfirst into a copper.

“Whatcha got there, miss?” He grabbed her arm.

“None a yer business, pig.” She tried to wriggle away. Stuffing a hand in the Prada, she felt lipstick tubes and compacts—nothing useful. Taser for pigs, pepper for creeps, doorknobs for dolls. A girl has to be prepared. She’d left her reliable old Fendi behind.

The police released Sabine two hours later. She’d always outrun them before, had no record. She lost her head this time, over a handbag they now dumped back in her lap with a, “Keep out of trouble.”

Why the hell are they giving it back? It’s—she ran a hand over brown leatherette—a loving knockoff.

Bodnoirbabe
Apr 30, 2007



Holy poo poo....I want to live in that world.

Jonked
Feb 15, 2005


The More Things Change... (445 words)
Jerry had been drafted into the Surface Expedition Force, and I was a wreck. I mean, really, eating puree and sobbing in front of the entertainment center! What am I, a walking cliché? It didn't help that my mother had decided to stay over at my habitation pod to "lend a shoulder to cry on." So far that had meant sighing in disappointment and picking up my utiliforms.

"You know what you need, dear?" She said cheerfully while shaving away the stubble on my head.

"I swear, Mom, if you start talking about careers again, I'm going to scream!"

"Oh, come on, don't be like that. Ruth's daughter Lizzie started working in the nitro-pits, and she hasn't been happier."

"That's because they implant a serotonin injector in your head before they send you down there." I replied grumpily. "I don't want to be a career woman! I want--"

"Yes, yes, you want to be a mother and raise a family. It's great that you're trying to be one of those 'new wave' feminist and all, but really. You're almost twenty two! You really should have your first rank promotion already."

I scowled, and went back to eating my puree. I really hoped she would take the hint and leave me alone, but no such luck.

"Emily 921! Stop being such a... Well! I'm just saying, when all the other mothers get together at the Nutrition Center, they all talk about the wonderful careers their children are having. And what do I get to say? 'Oh, she doesn't have a career, my daughter is trying to find a man and settle down.' It's unseemly!"

"There's nothing wrong with wanting kids, Mom! It's not like forty years ago, the Vaults don’t have population controls. We're allowed to reproduce freely!"

She sighed, and gently applied the aftershave to my scalp. I had to admit, it was a very nice gesture to use some of her rations on me. I had dropped my bottle down the sink two weeks ago, and resigned myself to an itchy skull. "I know you want to be a breeder, dear. But a woman's place is in the workforce. When you put those newfangled ideas out of your head, I've got a friend who works at the re-filtration plant and I already set you up an interview--"

I screamed and stomped into my refreshment bunk. Why couldn't she just understand? I didn't want to spend my life working. I wanted to be a housewife. But with Jerry gone, that wasn't looking very likely anymore. Why was it so hard for a young woman like me to reproduce?

BirdOfPlay
Feb 19, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Thunderdome!

"A Harrowing Escape" (498 words)
Having not fully set, the sun still provided enough light for Francine to navigate the unsafe alleys that invested Father's otherwise sterile city. Darting across streets with great caution, she was able to avoid the Uncles only out patrolling for the safety of all Children. Once she had entered Section 7b, it was only a short walk to the riverbank where she would meet Tom, the Outsider.

To Francine, Tom, the Outsider, was an oddly sure man, with a quality making him believe he could do anything, a quality Francine found strange. He dazzled her with ideas of self-sufficiency and the scandalous thought of choosing actions based on personal desires. He tricked her into believing that she had these desires herself and convinced her meet with him at the warehouse.

Finding the door to the warehouse locked, Francine went around to the riverside and saw Tom tying down a small raft. “Do I find you well, Tom Outsider? It is I, Francine, Breeder #57, of the 1st Settlement.”

Looking up from the post, Tom said, “Hello, Francine. Tom's good and you don't need to say all that.” With his raft secured, he started walking over to Francine.

“It is only proper when meeting a stranger. Father says-”

“And quit repeating what ol' Finnigan says. I never liked hearing him blather on and on.”

“But Father saved all his Children and only wants us to be happy. He welcomes-”

Tome grabbed her by both her shoulders. “Francine, you're going to need to stop worrying about Finnigan once we get out of here. After a couple of months being re-educated, you'll find that you-”

She then realized her danger and screamed, interrupting the Outsider. Tom tried to quiet her, but Francine shook free of her would-be captor. She broke into a run, to leave Sector 7b to find help from the Uncles enforcing curfew. When she was only two blocks away, though, the faster and more athletic Outsider tackled her around her midsection.

Hope faded and Francine knew it was surely over. But then, Tom, the Outsider, was bodily thrown off of Francine. Terrified of what sort of new misfortune had found her, she looked up and saw the familiar red and violet stripped suits. Her prays had been answered with the force of a full squad of Uncles.

“Do I find you well, Francine, Breeder #57? It is I, Benjamin, Uncle Second Class, House of Fulton. Your mate, John, Engineer #2, informed us of you breaking curfew to meet with an Outsider.” Francine found herself unable to vocalize her gratitude. “You are probably dealing with some stress related to your ordeal. I'll see that an Aunt provides you with some 46's to complement your daily prescriptions. You need not fear any more though. Father watches over all his Children, even the stray ones, and sends out his Uncles and Aunts to make sure all are doing well.”

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


:frogsiren:Submissions close in 24 hours!:frogsiren:

Get those fingers typing, people.

slothmonster, you better loving make the deadline this time.

slothmonster
Sep 28, 2009

Mashed keyboard to write about a woman getting murdered rather than potatoes. WTF

THUNDERDOME

Martello posted:

slothmonster, you better loving make the deadline this time.

I did!

"The Shoe Sale At The End Of The Earth" (500 words exactly)

“Oh my god Jennifer! He did not!” Jennifer knew all to well that he had in fact did. Blake, drunk and suffering from a particularly embarrassing case of grog-dick had vomited the last of their rations on himself and unfortunately her. The smell of ethanol, crab fruit and dried rat does not come easily out of a sun baked tin hut, if at all.

“Anyway let's just drop it” Jennifer replied into the crackly old two-way. “Waddya got?”

Becky was standing in the bombed out remnants of a time immemorial. “A whole lot of nothing Kiddo.” She began to walk the aisles, kicking away the last dusty artifacts left to litter the floor as she went.

That's when she found it. Like an oasis shimmering before the dry eyes of many a raider before her, it stood, almost unbelievable. A shoe aisle. In pristine condition. Becky brought her radio to her trembling lips. “Jenny, get here right loving now.”

Night was falling and beginning to offer much needed respite from the scorch of the day. Jennifer's feet pounded the ground as she ran, little clouds of dust erupting around her ankles. She reached the black tree just as Becky had said, turned left and made her way down the rocky embankment. At the bottom she stood in front of a derelict building, a sand swept monolith casting hard shadows on to the cracked earth around it.

Jennifer walked through what were once automatic doors, their glass reduced to dust beneath her feet, trampled and stomped upon by the hungry, the sick and the greedy for decades prior.

She walked through the shambles of what was once a hub of commerce, the cash registers ripped from their homes and tossed to the floor. She eyed the place warily, she'd been to places like this and had heard legend of what they once held. She fumbled for her radio. “Im in, where are you?” She stood a moment in silence, beginning to fear for Becky, Finally a crackle. “Walk to the left most aisle you will not loving believe this!”

Jennifer turned the corner to the shoe aisle, her jaw dropped, aside from the few pairs strewn across the floor from Becky's sampling, it was immaculate. “Oh my god Becky, look at this selection it is sooo big!” “I know Jenny I found the cutest little pair that you will just die for!” Becky responded, not knowing just how true her words would ring. Jennifer walked to the center of the aisle where Becky stood with hands extended, a pair of black pumps dangling. Jennifer's eyes widened, maybe now she could pull someone better than that limpdick groghog Blake.

The click of a hammer cock caused the girls to spin in place, standing like death itself were three amazons clad from toe to head in leather fatigues. The foremost amazon spoke, a husky growl ravaged by the desert and abuse.

“Bitches, Leave.”

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Good thing you made it, Stuporstar and I were already plotting up an EVEN WORSE avatar for you. :moreevil:

slothmonster
Sep 28, 2009

Mashed keyboard to write about a woman getting murdered rather than potatoes. WTF

THUNDERDOME

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

the world is broken and i am meat

This is awesome.

Martello posted:

Good thing you made it, Stuporstar and I were already plotting up an EVEN WORSE avatar for you. :moreevil:

There's still hope yet to bless me with a terrible horrible avatar!

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


I put on $600 heels and ate Ben & Jerry's straight from the carton (Cherry Garcia, FroYo, natch) while writing this:

Observation Squad Dropout (497 words)

I was starting to regret ever joining ObSquad. Sure, I loved my Prada uniform and quilted Chanel bag—badge and gun in one stylish package!—but god drat I wanted a martini. Sometimes the Chardonnay allocation just isn’t enough, excellent vintage notwithstanding. Headquarters should consider an exception for “worst break up ever,” especially since it was their fault. We need neutral observers, they claimed. Whatever. I even snuck half of Mattie’s bottle after she left last night. Result: unsatisfactory.

“Shaaaaaron! Let’s Go!” Mattie’s stilettos echoed menacingly through the dorm. I gulped a sobritol and opened the door. Mattie eyed the two empty wine bottles.

“I didn’t think you’d mind if I left early,” she said with a wink.

“Oh, I poured yours down the sink,” I said breezily. Mattie might be my new best friend and partner, but I wasn’t about to confess to a crime like that.

Patrol time: we owned the streets of Sector 7H. Hidden behind my goggles, I eagerly searched for the smallest sign of rank-violation. Sadly, the khaki-clad mucks all looked down appropriately as we passed, two perfectly poised bitches with a license to kill. Slick.

Then the suicider went off. I really hate those guys. Mattie can keep cool, but having a couple people spattered across my blazer always makes me hyperventilate. It’s totally embarrassing. Mattie covered while I cleaned my goggles, but the smell sent me over the edge. Suddenly Patrick, muck of aforementioned breakup, had his arms around me and was wiping guts off my face. I pushed him off, but screwed up and made eye contact. His easy smile hit me like a grenade. I almost smiled back until Mattie elbowed me in the ribs. Thank god, unauthorized expression of emotion towards a muck meant dismissal and probably rehabilitation.

“Gross! I can’t believe he touched you!” Mattie squealed. “Should we call it in?”

“Let it go,” I said, finally catching my breath. “He was only trying to help.” Mattie raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push.

Shift-end: I still felt like poo poo. Everyone had saved their social allocations for the office party, but I couldn’t take more Chardonnay. Screw it. I threw on a jumpsuit and some drug-store cosmetics I’d kept--sentimental me. And anyway, Maybelline Plum-tastic gloss looks really good on me.

I went to our old bar. I couldn’t find a face in the sea of khaki. A radiant smile finally surfaced and there he was, offering me that delicious, illicit martini. My heart lifted, tethered between his warm hand and the cold drink; I reverently sipped.

That’s when four ObSquad muscles broke the door down and shoved their Louis Vuitton briefcases in my face, Mattie gloating behind them.

“Back to mucksville, Sharon,” she said. Then I saw the Burberry trench. Bitch ratted me for a promotion. I tried to mockingly toast her, but the LV thugs took my martini.

“Navy is so not your color!” I shouted as they pulled the hood over my perfect blow-out.

Honey Badger
Jan 5, 2012

^^^ Like this, but its your mouth, and shit comes out of it.

"edit: Oh neat, babby's first avatar. Kind of a convoluted metaphor but eh..."

No, shit is actually extruding out of your mouth, and your'e a pathetic dick, shut the fuck up.

Here goes nothing, used this as an opportunity to see just how stripped down I could make a story and have it (hopefully) still work.


Confessions of a Chopaholic (412 words)


Whoever said that nice guys finished last was right, for the most part. More often they didn't finish at all. When the walls finally came tumbling down, compassion had been the first casualty. The parents who shared food with their children, the humanitarians that would reach out to the multitudes in suffering, those who refused to lie, or cheat, or steal, or worse – there was suddenly no place left for them.

***

Gracie hunkered down in the snow. She shifted her weight, tucked her chin and blew into her numb hands. It was nearly nightfall and her quarry would be bedding down soon. She had been tracking this one since morning, following just out of earshot and catching glimpses here or there through the brush. A week now spent living off of scraps. After three days the hunger pangs had nearly doubled her over. After five, by some rare mercy, it had given way to a sort of dull, gnawing pain that could be pushed to the back of her mind as long as she didn't focus on it. All that was left now was to wait.

Still, she knew it was a lucky break to find one alone, separated from the pack. Stupid mistake.

She waited two hours before closing in, fumbling at the tack hammer slung through her belt loop. The weight of it in her palm was only a small comfort, but reassuring none the less. With some practice she had developed a modest knack for the tool; one quick blow at the base of the skull was generally all it took, neat and clean.

The man was already snoring. Gracie crept alongside him with the hammer held out in front of her like a crucifix. His face was young, unremarkable. He might have even been somewhat handsome if the circumstances were different. She hovered above him for a moment. The hunger put her stomach in knots. Then a wet thump as the hammer came down. A spasm, and he was still.

Rationed properly, it would be enough to last her through the month, maybe longer. She could preserve some of the meat in one of the snowbanks near her tent. Gracie thought of the jeweler's saw she had borrowed from another man with less need of it. The blade's teeth were tipped with bits of diamond that would chew through gristle and bone. They truly were a girl's best friend.

Capntastic
Jan 13, 2005

A dog begins eating a dusty old coil of rope but there's a nail in it.



Tagged for Love, 467 words.


Shelle's typical workload had been thrown off by what she could only assume was bad luck. The real reason for her being transferred over to something that required less brainpower was that that her metrics in carton sorting had slipped over the last few weeks. This wasn't her fault, of course, since due to various totally natural biological processes arising within her, her daily medpacket dosages had been changed to keep various totally natural hormonal urges in check. These had the side effect of making her drowsy. She would never know any of this, beyond the fact that she now reported to crate tagging duty six blocks west of her usual dropoff point.

It was a brisk walk alongside the grey concrete buildings she never had reason to know the meanings of, and then she found the one with the correct set of numbers on it. She double checked her workload sheet, and then meekly made her way inside. She settled into the routine quickly, as everyone had the basics of crate tagging drilled into them at an early age. She was proud of herself nonetheless; only a few hours in and she was confident that she had memorized the name of her manager, Cincinattus. She was close enough when she whispered it to herself, images of his broad shoulders and almost out-of-code length black hair.

She had correctly identified a crate of wheatlike, and had unspooled a square of red tagging tape, when a small green rat burst out from between the slats of wood. It reared up on its back legs and sneered, its whiskers drooping with wheat dust. She was a woman, completely untrained in the ways of martial arts, especially against such a verminous creature as a rat. Luckily, she had the proper instincts embedded within her. She screamed.

Terror froze her like ice, until Cincinattus rounded a corner-- then something inside her began to melt. Clenched in his pale, muscular arms, was what Shelle knew as a utility bucket, made solely for the disposal of expired tag tape, and he fell into a low crouch, gradually stalking towards the rat. She knew his usage of it in this new, inventive fashion, was out-of-code, but she was enthralled by his manly ingenuity. He whispered to the rat, calming it, and slowly brought the bucket towards it. With one whipping of his muscles, he brought the bottom of the bucket down onto the green little beast, triggering an audible liquid pop, and what Shelle could only imagine the sound of treebranches snapping was supposed to be like. Despite her womanly urges being chemically suppressed, as Cincinattus began scraping the crushed rat off of the utility bucket she could only think to herself how much of a hunk this prime specimen of male power was.

SC Bracer
Aug 7, 2012

DEMAGLIO!


I can't chick-lit :negative:

---

Alone (484 words)

A loud clang that announced the end of lunch break sounded. My boss took a long drag on her cigarette, and smiled coolly at me.

“Saved by the bell, dear.” She said. Her voice was thin and grating.

I nodded, and quickly left the room. There was a sudden hush as I entered the main office. The chatter had died down almost immediately, and I could see some women hurriedly enter their cubicles and start typing. I knew why. I wasn’t the most popular gal in that office. I wasn’t fashionable enough, or interested enough in their one-night stands or their sexcapades. It bored me. I had a boyfriend I was happy with, and that was more than enough for me.

My porta-phone rang, and I jerked involuntarily towards my purse. It was my brother calling.

“Hey, hey! Did you buy me that playset yet?” He said, in an excited voice. I grimaced slightly. Everyone was looking at me; judging me for that phone and that purse. Old, worn and definitely the opposite of whatever cute and feminine is supposed to be. I really wanted, just for that moment, to get the hell out of whatever insane chick-flick I’d walked into. I was tired of being the everyday girl that life shat on.

I went back to my cubicle. There was a dark coffee stain on my seat. At least someone had taken the time to clean it up, I suppose. The view outside was as grim as ever. Construction work had left the skies grey and bleak. The old restaurant that my uncle owned had been demolished for a new Prada. The Gucci store—rather, the Gucci mall—had men with guns clearing away the hawkers and the beggars.
I’d managed to finish most of my work by the time the final bell rang. There was a smile on my face as I rushed down the stairs, two at a time. I could see, as I walked down the dusty road, my boyfriend’s silhouette. There was someone else as well, and as I reached them, they turned to face me.

He had a guilty smile on his face, as the other girl clung to him. She was dressed in a black Burberry coat, and had shoes from a brand I didn’t recognise. It clicked just then, what had happened, and I had tears in my eyes.

“Sorry, babe. She’s just more my type, you know?” He said, trying to console me. I pushed him away, and ran.

I crumpled down near a dumpster, next to a homeless man. He looked at me for a bit, and grinned.

“Got dumped ‘cuz you don’t dress too good, eh?”

I glared back, and left. The next morning, I went to my office, decked in the best clothes I could afford. gently caress the playset. gently caress economising. If this is how the world works, then so be it.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


chicks who don't know chick-lit :colbert:

:frogsiren:12 hours until submissions close at 17 2130 AUG 2012!:frogsiren:


Haven't submitted yet:
Black Griffon
Autumncomet
bigmcgaffney
Bodnoirbabe

Get on it!

Bodnoirbabe
Apr 30, 2007



Ugh. The low word count is not my friend. 500 exactly.

The Colors of Revolution

The new clothing for Worker Set Alpha-Class 7 was about to take the catwalk when the lights went out.

Georgiana folded her hands on her grey skirt and waited patiently. This was obviously supposed to happen, was a part of the show. The Textile Ministry was known for it's flawless presentations, nothing went wrong. But the darkness continued and doubt began to eat at her sureness.

Suddenly, brightly, a spotlight shot on and focused in on the form of a toned and lanky man. His body glistened, shiny with sweat, showcasing the cut of his sinewy body. Georgiana immediately noticed he was naked from the waste up, but as her eyes began to adjust to the light, she realized that was not the most shocking part. She, and just about everyone else in the room, realized the man was wearing color. He had sewn patches of textured, colored cloth to his gray slacks. Blues, greens, violets, reds, every color ever imagined it seemed. Georgiana tried to avert her eyes from the man, but she felt compelled to stare, drinking in the chroma.

Rock music began to blast through the speakers of the hall and the spotlight pulsed to the beat. On stage, the man began to swing and sway to the music. He thrust his hips, flashing smiles at the people watching, and strutting up and down the cat walk, speaking to people as he went. He danced his way over to Georgiana and stared straight into her eyes.

"Fashion, not fascism! Live in color!"

Entranced she watched him saunter away until she became aware of a different beat. It was only when she heard screams from behind that she realized the Compliance Auditors were breaking down the doors. As they crashed into the hall, she lay herself on the ground in a prostrate position. The man stared at the approaching Auditors in their gray armor,and then broke into a run. Reaching the end the runway, he made a flying leap, crashing into their upturned shields. They were on him in seconds, beating him into submission with their clubs. Efficiently subdued, he was dragged away. Watching them take him, Georgiana noticed a patch of vibrant red had ripped off his pants and lay within reach. She snatched at the cloth quickly and tucked it into her blouse.

After everyone cleared through security, she headed home. Once inside, she pulled out the square of fabric. The sharp contrast of the red against her pale skin absorbed her, it's richness drawing her into it's depths. With sudden resolve, she went over to her desk and pulled out a sewing kit. Carefully threading a needle, she took her skirt and turned it inside out, meticulously sewing the red patch along the inside seam. Putting the skirt on, nothing could be seen, but she could feel the soft fabric against her shin, burning into her skin.

"Live in color." She mulled the words over in her head and smiled. Fashion. Let the revolution begin.

Mecca-Benghazi
Mar 31, 2012




Chick lit. :psyduck:

The Captain, managed to get it down to 499

“Captain Bonny, the last of it’s been loaded.”

The captain polished off the final chocolate. “About drat time. Okay boys, let’s go.” She slammed a container of sea salt in front of the bartender and headed out, followed by her men, letting the door swing on its remaining hinge.

Lan lit up her last cigarette. It had been a long day. “Do we really need that much chocolate and…shiny poo poo? Salt’s been fetching bunches since th—”

“That ‘shiny poo poo’ is prime bribe material.”

“And the chocolate?”

“Who the gently caress doesn’t like chocolate?”

Next to her, Jonathan opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again. “Fine,” the quartermaster conceded, giving Jonathan a look.

The small party soon arrived at the bay area, seagulls screeching overhead. Lan made a killing doing one-off betting with pigs at one of the Americana Stock Exchanges. Her subordinates had drifted off for taverns, whores, and, reportedly, history books. As the sun set, the crew trickled in, mostly sober, and the ship prepared to leave New Boston.

***

The two circled each other in the alley, eyes never leaving the other. Bonny held a handgun. So did her opponent.

“Miss Bonny, radiant as ever.”

Bonny was against a wall. “gently caress off Drake, you god-drat-”

Drake kicked her in the stomach before she could react and shoved her against the wall, gun to her throat. “Miss Bonny, we’d like you to come back to the Moroccan Empire.”

Bonny spit. “Like I’m listening to a piece of poo poo corsair like you.”

“Do young women learn manners these days?”

“Were you always such an rear end in a top hat?”

The L.D.M. chip above Drake’s right eyebrow twitched as he raised his eyebrow. He lowered his handgun by an inch. “We’ll chase you and your crew down. Even if you went to the furthest reaches of the sea, to Tasmania or to Suderland, you won’t be able to run forever. Come back. Now.”

“When hell freezes over.” She kicked him in the nuts and hightailed it out of the alley. He didn’t give chase.

***

“Where’s the captain?” Jonathan asked.

Lan leaned over the railing. “Dunno. We can leave soon as she gets her rear end up here.”

Right on cue, Captain Bonny’s head appeared, as she climbed up the rope that led to the deck. Jonathan ran off to make sure everything was running smoothly.

Lan pulled her captain up. “Why’re you—?”

Bonny sat down on the deck, panting as she leaned against the railing. Filthy, but otherwise unharmed physically. “Drake. Remind me to get another gun. Preferably not a handgun.”

“D-Drake? The corsair? What does Morocco want with you?”

The captain bit her lip. “I helped gently caress them over in the past,” she said evenly. She walked towards her cabin as Freedom pulled out from port. “I’m going to eat some chocolates now. Don’t bother me until dinner.”

Lan thought about arguing, but said instead “We still heading for Sucreland?”

Bonny paused, hand on door handle. “No…change course for Gibraltar.”

bigmcgaffney
Apr 19, 2009


The Beauty of Progress (500 words)

Katerina sat in the bright lighting of her office, going over a final set of reports before she could leave for the night. She had plans to meet up with Sophie and Ashlee for a couple of martinis at some new high-profile club, but recently hanging out with them had been a slog. Ever since she consolidated her power as CEO of Fortuna Solutions, Katerina got the feeling that her best friends had become distant. She thought that maybe they didn't really appreciate everything she had done for them. Without her, they would have probably been euthanized by now. Sophie had a lazy eye and brittle hair, and Ashlee had an all around weak genestock. They were lucky they had all been such good friends in college. She decided to talk to them tonight over drinks to try and clear the stale air that was gathering.

The lights in the office flickered to Katerina's annoyance. The architects said this building, 'a monument to human progress' the board had called it, was supposed to be technologically flawless. Yet little things like this kept popping up. She pulled a titanium-alloyed flask from the desk drawer and took a long pull. If she was going to confront her friends about the jealousy that was obviously brewing deep inside of them, she would need a little something to help lead the way.

With a loud crack the brushed steel door of her office burst inwards, metal shards flying.

"Tristero," she said to the hulking man standing in the doorway. He was shirtless, his muscles bulging unnaturally. They had been colleagues, once. And lovers. He was pencil thin back then. "I see you genehacked yourself."

"It's my right as an individual, Kat. What you and Fortuna are doing is wrong. You can't quash the free market and dictate social norms like this. I know you, Kat. You can't possibly subscribe to this sort of abbhorent philosophy," he rambled, as idealistic and misguided as ever. Katerina took another swig from the flask.
"This is the free market, Tristero. This is what the consumer wanted, so we gave it to them. You always said you wanted to make the world a more beautiful place. Now it is."

"Yeah, but not like this," he stammered.

"Well. Don't do anything stupid now. Security is probably on the way," she said. He looked around, flexing nervously. She held out the flask. "One for old times' sake?"

She watched him mull it over, whatever mental gymnastics he was doing visible on his face. Finally he approached the desk, half-stumbling on his tree trunk legs, hands outstretched. He might have been reaching for the flask, or he might have been going to strangle her. Either way, his contorted features registered surprise as the bullet entered his brain. His body slumped to the ground. The carpet was ruined.

What a great start to the night, Katerina thought, putting her handgun back into her purse. Hopefully her chat with the girls would go better.

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005


Death and the City - 504 words

The city moved like a frozen river. Small buildings tumbling between the skyscrapers, spreading white dust like icy mist. The skyscrapers toppled like flattened grass, silent and graceful, lost amongst the rubble and turning the horizon into a grey curtain.

We sat at the aircraft ramp, open to the cold air as the city grew smaller and smaller. The Fat One buried face in hands, shook as she sobbed. The Magazine Editor had disconnected safety harness, and she sat just at the ramp's edge. We watched her, me and The Fashion Designer, knew the empty, glazed eyes even though we didn't see her face. Rumbling engines grew louder in my mind like an insect swarm, crashing through the folds of my brain. Instead of drowning out the thoughts of the apocalypse, it reminded me of it all. Someone screamed and punched the cold airframe metal, but I only saw The Magazine Editor push herself off the ramp. The fat one turned to me, wailed and punched and cried. I stepped back and pushed her away.

We moved our arms and legs like bad swimmers, shuffling to the front of the aircraft. The Fat One remained at the ramp, silent now. The Fashion Designer sat down on one of the fold-out seats. She looked at me, and I scowled.

"There's no strength in what you do," I said, "No strength in fury or despair."

Rage boiled behind accusing gaze.

"You told me you'd save us."

"I told you I'd get you out. I told you I'd show you one way. I'm not your savoir."

The Fat One screamed her children's names, tearing hair and shaking head like a woman seized by demons. The Fashion Designer moved to lift the ramp, shutting out the cold breeze and noise. The small shift in volume broke the dam and an ocean of pain flooded my mind. The world shifted upside down, and I'd reached a hand halfway to the wall before I regained my balance.

I moved up to the cockpit and sat down next to The Gay Friend. He still wore the apron with scissors of varying size, bleached fauxhawk disheveled and dirty.

"How long?" I asked.

"Five, maybe six hours."

A monotone voice, void of anything but the simple words. Hands operated the instruments with calm precision. In front, smoky tendrils moved like seaweed. Below, the earth swallowed cars and houses, puked smoke and flames.

"Why Abu Dhabi?"

His voice barely reached me; I turned and watched his face. Eyes still aimed at the horizon, rarely blinking, rarely there.

"I promised them a trip. I told them we'd go.

"I want to go."

The earth died beneath us, crumbled and turned black as night. I thought of bazaars, mysterious sheiks with great penthouses and warm sun. The engine's drone grew stronger, drowned the fantasy and replaced it with reality. I let it happen and watched the planet fall.

I wouldn't. I would stand strong. The only right thing to do, the only justice left. Only me.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


And that's everybody.

The Triumvirate will begin to mull over your horrible writing and decide who The Loser is, and The Winner. If there even is A Winner. :moreevil:

SC Bracer
Aug 7, 2012

DEMAGLIO!


Oh god the waiting kills me more than the judging :ohdear:

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.


Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW


Whoever had the awful idea for this thread should be banned.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Results will be out either late tonight or tomorrow morning, because Sitting Here is taking his time (as a judge should) and lives in a stupid timezone.

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW


OMG hurry up you retards we want to know the results

god you suck as judges

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


I am putting on The Big Lebowski now. If there are no results by the time it is finished I will be a little bit disappointed but mostly not really because Jeff Bridges makes me happy.

Stuporstar
May 5, 2008

Where do fists come from?


Nautatrol Rx posted:

OMG hurry up you retards we want to know the results

god you suck as judges

Watch it, or I'll give you this for an avatar:



Hell, I'm tempted to give you all that avatar, because you all sucked this round and I had to read them all again today with a killer migraine. Also, I'm tempted to give it to Sitting Here if he goes awol on us, because I have a loving migraine and I still managed to come up with a list of potential winners and losers. I'm going to bed. Peace out, losers.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


The Big Lebowski is over and there are no results. I am a little disappointed but mostly not because Jeff Bridges makes me happy.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME







Sorry, it's Hempfest in Seattle. Which somehow concluded in me and some people forming a band called the Bob Dolemites and recording a song called "Pizza Barrage." It's been a long day.

My judgement shall rain upon ye shortly.

(Oh and I'm a she, not that it matters)

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Sitting Here posted:

Sorry, it's Hempfest in Seattle. Which somehow concluded in me and some people forming a band called the Bob Dolemites and recording a song called "Pizza Barrage." It's been a long day.

My judgement shall rain upon ye shortly.

(Oh and I'm a she, not that it matters)

If you don't post Pizza Barrage I will cry myself to sleep every night for a month.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME







It's still in its nascent stages but I think it's everything anyone could hope. We're just missing a mic to get the awesomely talented flawless vocals down.

SC Bracer
Aug 7, 2012

DEMAGLIO!


Sitting Here posted:

It's still in its nascent stages but I think it's everything anyone could hope. We're just missing a mic to get the awesomely talented flawless vocals down.

Something to look forward to, before the bomb drops :unsmith:

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005


I hate the word "shortly", because it never actually means "shortly". Maybe I should head down to the store for some Kahlua and cream, and watch The Big Lebowski as well.

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.


This is where living on the other side of the world comes in handy.

I get to sleep now and wake up to how horrible an author I am in the morning.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME







IDK, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to find out if I were you guys. If the judges were starving villagers and this round of Thunderdome was the mostly-decayed corpse of some animal, we'd be trying to sustain ourselves on marrow and intestines. I am literally sifting through gore, trying to decide which part is least covered in poop.

Chick lit :byodame:

BirdOfPlay
Feb 19, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Well that bodes well. Of course, this is the Thunderdome, there's only a winner if one is worthy of it. :black101:

I say this because I highly suspect that I'm on the chopping block this week.

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Honey Badger
Jan 5, 2012

^^^ Like this, but its your mouth, and shit comes out of it.

"edit: Oh neat, babby's first avatar. Kind of a convoluted metaphor but eh..."

No, shit is actually extruding out of your mouth, and your'e a pathetic dick, shut the fuck up.

Chick lit was definitely a rough prompt.

I do have to say, I enjoy the fact that there seems to be even more designer bags and clothing in the post-apocalyptic wastes.