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Sep 28, 2009

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


Count me in I need a reason to get off my rear end and write and as crazy as it sounds I kinda know potatoes.


Sep 28, 2009

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


Welp I don't know why but i thought the deadline was 6:00 est not 2.

My story's actually been done for a few days I was just sitting on it before I gave it a quick run through and edit. Sorry, I hosed up. Anyway here's the most concrete evidence yet that I have a drinking problem, I call it:

potatoes (960 words)

If there was one thing David O'Dade knew it was potatoes, just ask any husbandless or not so husbandless forty-something at Skinner's drinking their week away. By the tenth year of David running of the family farm he'd attempted to woo just about every eligible bachlorette in River's Cross, his innate knowledge of Potatoes the only weapon in his arsenal. He'd tell them how the iron rich red soil of their home was scientifically proven to yield the best Potatoes. He'd regale them with recipes for Russets. He'd laid down the “New” Potato rap on more then one unsuspecting dame.

Friday, August the tenth Aught Twelve was another unsuspecting Friday for the regulars at Skinner's, everything was playing out the way it had for weeks, months and years prior, only tonight, two regulars were mysteriously absent.

David O'Dade was still little Davey O the night his father took him out to the eastern most field. “We O'Dade's been growin' le pomme de terre here for going on four generations Davey.” Donald O'Dade spoke calmly into the moonlit face of his firstborn. “Summers can get dry, the earth here was engineered by god hisself fer growin these Tubers but Mother Nature is god's cruel mistress and we all bend for our mistresses.” A sly smile crossed the elder O'Dades face.

Tara Butcher sat in the O'Dade farmhouse nursing a Rye and ginger while David leafed aimlessly through a well worn cookbook. “Baby, I thought we were going to Skinner's tonight, The Trombones are playing and Dana said she was buying our first round” “Easy kiddo, I'm findin' Mama's Rapure, Skinner'sll be there in an hour.”

Donald O'Dade pulled an all-weather tarp unceremoniously from his farm beaten trailer the night Davey laid eyes on his first dead body. “We come from the earth and we go back to the earth Davey, All those bodies sleepin' in a plot aint doin' you, me or no one a lick of good” The pale light of the moon fell differently on the rows of Potatoes from that moment on.

The Trombones had took the stage, a rag tag group of not quite human detritus belting out the same tired Credence Clearwater Revival songs they'd played for the same crowd a thousand times before. Dana sat at the bar, she ordered herself a Rye and Ginger.

A yellow light illuminated the faded pages of the family cookbook, David flipped page after page, Au Gratin, Scalloped, they didn't matter. He was looking for the Rapure. He'd look nervously up at Tara's face every couple of pages, responding to her growing impatience with the same nervous smile he'd smiled time and time again. He'd smiled it at his father, teachers, friends, his lovers, and like his last offering to the fields, he felt that this time it might not be enough.

Dana had finished her third drink and was still just sober enough to wonder where Tara and that weirdo Dave O'Dade were at. The Trombone's started to play the opening notes to Bad Moon On The Rise.

Tara had resigned to sipping the watery ice meltings from the bottom of her cup, he wasn't quite the gentlemen he made himself out to be she thought. She watched carefully as he flipped pages, still, anyone was a nice change from Kreug.

It was dry, he'd breathed in summers like this before. The dust, dirt and rotten potatoes had burned his naval cavity and set his lungs on fire. He set the cookbook down and eyed Tara halfheartedly. The thought had been dancing through his head for weeks now, A live one, maybe that's what they needed. Maybe then he could exhale.

Dana finished her fourth Rye and Ginger and set it down with drunken emphasis. “gently caress This” She said beneath the distorted refrains of the guitar. She stood, stumbled and then walked to the door.

He liked her, she was beaten down by life in a few crucial places but the laughlines and crows feet had endeared him. The bleach blonde hair said she hadn't given up and he knew himself she could drink him and others under the table. He smiled his famous smile, gripped the largest knife in the block and took a step toward an increasingly concerned Tara Jean Butcher.

The cab dropped Dana off at the end of the long dirt road the locals called O'Dade Way. She stumbled a few feet down the patchy unkempt road before pulling the heels off her feet, in the distance a single light flickered in the farmhouse kitchen.

Tara's eyes bulged painfully through the sweat and the tears. With David's hand tight around her neck she started to rethink how preferable he was to Kreug. She looked terror stricken into his eyes, themselves wet with remorse and desperation.

David squeezed harder, feeling years of madness finally swelter with the summer heat to a fever pitch. He was the fifth generation of O'Dade's to work this land, he'd buried an aunt and two brothers in these fields, this dimestore tramp was nothing. Her eyes clenched shut sending twin streams of regret and fear down her time weathered face. In that moment he saw the girl who'd bought him drinks, who'd danced for him, who so valiantly told the harder locals to gently caress off, not for herself, but for him, out of common decency. In that moment, beneath the yellow light of the farmhouse kitchen, the emotion was too much. He thrust hard and put the knife inside her, the thick red liquid poured over his hand like the rain his fields so desperately needed.

Dana stumbled to the front door, knocked hard and yelled, “Tara are you loving in there?”

Sep 28, 2009

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


Stuporstar posted:

:siren: slothmonster :siren:

You have been a very naughty boy, so this will be your new avatar:

The text will read: "Couldn't mash the keyboard fast enough to post 1000 words in five days. Spent the time writing about a woman getting murdered instead of potatoes. WTF" And in big red text: "THUNDERDOME Potato Fic Competition 2012"

It's an honor and I couldn't ask for more, thank you.

Sep 28, 2009

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


Count me in, I love me some dystopian chick-lit.

Sep 28, 2009

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


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.”

Sep 28, 2009

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


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!

Sep 28, 2009

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


I'm gonna have to sit this one out, got a crazy work week coming up and more pertinent projects to attend to in what free time I'll have. I'll be back next week to be thrown to the wolves though, THUNDERDOME.

Sep 28, 2009

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


Count me in. I haven't really written anything since the last thunderdome I participated in.

Sep 28, 2009

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


I'm not only a terrible writer but apparently a terrible person.

Work to Do.
(1180 words)

He zipped his pants and began to leave the room, tossing one cursory glance back at the 16 year old on the bed behind him. Belt still around her arm, the spike lay drained on the bedside table. “Fuckin' junkie oval office” He laughed as he exited the backroom and into his office. The air was heavy with stagnant cigar smoke, a half finished bottle of scotch stood next to the mirror and the razor blade.

He fell backwards into his chair, contented. “Hey fellas,” He called to the two men standing on opposing sides of the door. “How's about a Christmas bonus for the two of ya? The little oval office on the bed in their is spent. Do what ya want then call Angelo and get him to take her someplace nice and quiet.”
The two hulks looked at each other, lips peeling off of teeth into greasy smiles, they began to walk towards the back room.
“Hey you fuckin' mongoloids, at least one of you fucks needs to be watchin' the door.” They stopped and entered into a game of rock paper scissors.
“Not fair you always get to go first” Hulk-One argued.
“Hey rules are rules hombre” Grinned the second.
“Shut the gently caress up the two of yas, I got fuckin' work to do.”

Outside flurries of snow hung weightless in the air, illuminated by streetlights into tiny terrestrial stars. It was Christmas Eve and Donnie DeLuca wasn't the only person on this block who had work to do.

Inside the club Donnie chased a line of coke with a mouthful of scotch. Hulk-One stood dejected guarding the door when there was a knock. The grainy black and white display on Donnie's desk revealed Frankie Baglio. “Let him the gently caress in.”

“The goddamn niggers Donnie, they took the loving truck!” Frankie was panicked.
“The gently caress you mean the niggers took the truck?”
“I mean they took the loving truck, Chrissy took a bullet to the gut” Donnie stood up from his chair. “It ain't lookin good for him neither he was bleedin' all over the fuckin' place-”
“I said WHAT the gently caress do you mean the NIGGERS took the TRUCK” Donnie gripped the bottle of scotch and stepped around the desk. Frankie took a step back, his eyes widened.
“I.. I mean, There was nothing we coulda-”
The scotch bottle splintered into a crystalline shower off of Frankie's head, the jagged remnants left in Donnie's hand slid down Frankie's face, drawing a line of deep red. Hulk-One shuffled quickly to the corner, Hulk-Two burst from the back room, pants held up with one hand, the other gripping a 9mm. Frankie crumbled to his knees and fell forward.
“I SAID, THE gently caress DO YOU MEAN THE NIGGERS TOOK THE TRUCK!?” Donnie screamed at the limp body that lay before him. “YOU WORTHLESS gently caress” A sickening crack rang through the office as Donnie's boot connected with Frankie's face, his head cocked back, blood spattering the floor.

“Jesus Christ boss, that was Frankie!” Stammered the first Hulk.
“gently caress 'im, throw that worthless gently caress in the room with the little oval office, Angelo can take him someplace nice and fuckin' quiet too.” Donnie opened the humidor on his desk and removed a cigar. “You, you fuckin' ungrateful prick, go get me another bottle of Johnny and see if that who-ah Jessica is dancing tonight.” Donnie lit his cigar as Hulk-Two stumbled from the room.

Jakob was sitting at the bar nursing a drink when the fat man stumbled from the side door. He brought the glass to his mouth and drank. The fat man was beside him now, dripping sweat and visibly shaken.
“The Boss needs anotha bottle of Johnny, and uh, is Jessica dancin' tonight?” Jakob eyed the fat man then turned to the bartender.
“Nah she ain't workin' tonight Rizz, what's the big man see in her anyway?”
“hosed if I know, the guy's sick.” and with that the Fat man was walking back to the door.
Jakob finished his drink and slipped into step. From afar at first and then closer, closer, till the door opened and in an instant the Fat man was pushed to the stairs and the door shut behind them. Jakob pressed the nose of his magnum to the Fat man's lower back.
“You know what this is you fat gently caress?” Jakob spat through gritted teeth. “It's a goddamn fortyfour, I squeeze this cocksucker right now you'll never feel your loving dick again, that's if it don't loving kill you.”
“Wha- Wha- Waddya want, anything you want the Boss's got it.” The Fat man blubbered.
“You're loving right the Boss has what I want now get the gently caress up.”

In the back room the girl slept in her dope haze, Frankie beside her, a broken heap. In the office Donnie laid back in his chair, slurring drunkenly to the tune of Oh Christmas Tree
“Oh Frankie B. Oh Frankie B...” A knock at the door interrupted his song. Hulk-Two stood on the display. “Let him in.”

Jakob was crouched behind the Fat man when the door opened, he stood quickly and pulled the trigger. An explosion of brain, bone and blood erupted from the top of the Fat man's head, painting the room Christmas red. Jakob kicked the lifeless body forward and stepped in. He caught a glimpse of Hulk-One reaching for his tool, spun and vacated his cranium as well. The Hulk slumped and slid down the wall to the sound of laughter. Jakob turned and looked at Donnie.
“What the gently caress are you laughing at DeLuca.”
“You come in here and you, you try to gently caress me in my own house?” Donnie looked down and insufflated a line. “You come in here, playing cowboy? you know who the gently caress I am you snot nosed little poo poo-smear?”
“Where the gently caress is she DeLuca!?”
“Where the gently caress is she DeLuca!?” mimicked Donnie. “I'll tell you who the gently caress I am, I'm Donnie The Demon DeLuca you cocky little human being!” The front of the desk exploded into buckshot and splintered wood. The combined shrapnel shredded Jakob's legs, sending him to the ground screaming. Donnie stood up. “I assume you're looking for the little junk pussy in the back room?” He walked around the desk. “What is she to you cowboy?” Donnie kicked the magnum that much further from Jakob's reach. “She your sister? Girlfriend? Huh? Tell me Clint.” Donnie leaned in close.
“gently caress You.”
“Oh gently caress Me? Funny you should say that, because that's what I did to her, same with that brainless mope right there, he hosed her too.” Jakob looked to the man slumped against the wall.
“I'm gonna loving kill you DeLuca”
Donnie stood up. “No ya fuckin' ain't.”
Footsteps approached Jakob from behind.

“Angelo! So nice of you to join us!”

Sep 28, 2009

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


Sitting Here posted:

slothmonster-Work to do.
This veers close to breaking my edict against things that make me hate the author and not the character. I like writing that is abrasive, I like writing that is gratuitous, but this kind of goes too far in that direction with no real payoff for the reader. Bad people are bad, then more bad things happen.

Yeah the sory was kind of pointless, I was gonna do a revenge style story but decided to go the other way and have Donnie come out on top to add that extra level of "Hate" for him. I agree it might have been a bit too much, lying in bed the night I wrote it I kind of grappled wIith what the gently caress I was going for and if I even should submit it, In retrospect I'm OK with it though.

Martello posted:

"Work to Do"

by slothmonster

Punchy as gently caress, and kinda fun for a sadistic Mafia romp, but you really need to work on your craft, dude. Line breaks between sentences, and work on that syntax and punctuation. The characters were cartoony, but I'm assuming you meant them to be that way. I still hated Donnie so that worked. Work harder on this poo poo, bro, and give us something better next time.

Thanks for the positive comments and I agree I really need to figure out how to write properly, I might as well have not even gone to High School because all I learned was how to be a drug addict and a drop out so I'm learning all the rules and stuff as I go.

Jeza posted:


+ve - Actually attempting to stick to the prompt.
Some rather good use of imagery at points.
Frankie B/Christmas Tree rhyme.

-ve - Hulk-One/Two device tends to come off as amateurish.
Don't use caps as a cheapshot to come across as anger.
The context in the story is poor to non-existent. This makes it confusing to read.
Too many characters for 1.2k words.

All very fair critiques, I wrestled with giving the Hulk characters names but in the end laziness won out, I wasn't crazy about the caps either but again laziness.

Also count me in for the new prompt, I need to write more and often.


Sep 28, 2009

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


652 words

I was standing at the edge of my bed, little beads of sweat trickling sickly from my forehead. Caroline laying in her spot against the wall, a jagged line of red etched across her throat, the pillows and blankets surrounding her darkening to a deep crimson. My heart pounding harder and harder, I looked down to my hands, they were painted a similar red, my right gripping a kitchen knife. I'd slept walked before but never like this, the knife dropped from my hands.

“There's no way I loving did this, there's no way this is real.” I really started to panic, reeling from the gruesome image before me. Just before bed we were laughing, kissing and now this. I pinched my arm, I could feel it, I flicked the lightswitch, the lights came on. This wasn't a loving dream and that was my fiance laying there, in her usual spot, against the wall.

“Daryl, you gotta get over here right now I hosed up I don't, I hosed up, I don't know what happened you gotta get over here.” The phone shook in my hands.

“Jesus Christ Jim, It's 3:30 in the loving morning what happened?”

“Just get the gently caress over here I'll tell you when you get here.” I collapsed backwards onto the couch in my living room, pictures of Caroline and I lining the mantle place, she smiled at me, from the darkness.

I was perched on my couch, a finger pulling one slat of venetian blind down, enough for me to the eye street in panic. It was dead out there, porchlights casting a soft yellow glow on to the October leaves littereing the lawns. Makeshift ghosts ruffled gently in their trees, some jack-o-lanterns still flickering their last bit of life. A pair of headlights emerged from the corner.

“Thank god it's Daryl” I thought to myself, that was before the car slowed to a crawl in front of my house, that was before it accelerated away. I gasped, my breath choked from me, my heart to the point of explosion in my chest. My head was hot and my ears rang, my brain frantically compartmentalizing the trauma and the fear.

My phone rang sending more shockwaves of panic through me, I picked it up immediately.

“Hello?” I spoke into the handset, a hushed whisper.

“You killed her didn't you?” My brother Daryl responded.

“How do you, what, how do-?”

“You killed her didn't you?”

“Daryl shut the gently caress up and get over here!”

“Jimmy, Jimbo, Jimminey Crickets, look behind you buddy.”

I spun, standing at the bottom of the stairs, kitchen knife in hand was Caroline, my sweet Caroline, dripping blood, her throat torn from side to side, smiling at me from the darkness.

“Why Jimmy, why'd you want to hurt me Jimmy.” A gurgled growl from her throat.

I dropped the phone and stumbled backwards over the ottoman, my rear end connecting with the floor hard. This had to be some sort of hallucination, my brain compensating for the trauma, painting pictures on my reality, a side effect of some sort, a PTSD for the here and now. Then I heard it, echoing from the receiver on the floor in tinny little waves, Daryl was laughing at me.

“What the gently caress is going on here?” Tears streaming down my face, my breath coming in and out in uneven sobs. Thats when her posture changed, she dropped the knife and came torwards me, beautiful sympathetic Caroline.

“Oh baby, baby, Jimmy, I'm sorry” She came down upon me, arms outstretched.

From the phone beside me “Jim, Jim you ok?”

She wrapped her arms around me. “Jimmy, I'm sorry baby.”

My mouth connected with her neck and I began kissing her through the gore of the plasma, that's when I tasted it.

Corn Syrup.