gently caress yes, potato-fics. I'm in.
I also like the concept of A Loser.
|# ¿ Aug 6, 2012 07:02|
|# ¿ Jun 18, 2019 06:47|
Jim Robinson on Spotify - 617 words
This day always came; when the previous nights had stacked beer and bourbon after beer and bourbon on old frames. The week's worth of alcohol would buzz in their veins; creep along tired arms and legs as the soft feeling of sleep approached. They'd sit down in Mackey's Old Jazz, the only place you could talk without yelling, and little revelry outside would reach them. In the windows, they'd see the lights and the crowd's motion, as thousands moved in unison to wild music. A Cajun word or two would persist over the parade, common enough in New Orleans, but obscure enough to be noticed.
Kurt had the bourbon on the rocks and Ray had the beer. They weren't the only seniors in Mackey's, but weird hipster types had replaces most of the crowd; pretentious enough to talk about "The Old New Orleans" but kind enough to do it quietly. In Kurt's glass, the ice had melted to tiny pellets, the drink forgotten as he talked.
"And the worst part is these Japanese cartoons, these 'Animes'." He pronounced it like "a-naim", his son would have berated him.
Ray took small sips from the beer, savoring the drink, where Kurt had forgotten his, "Well, we both read Superman comics until we were forty, is it that different?"
"Superman never had girls with breasts the size of a house, or... Hell, I don't know how to describe it."
"Boys have strange interests. We did."
"And he'd watch it all the time when he was home for summer. Every day he'd watch some Japanese cartoon, and we wouldn't understand a word of it."
"What about college?"
"He dropped out, after a year."
"Well, where does he stay?"
"Got some friends, apparently of the same type."
They sat in silence for a while. Colored stripes moved along the bright white walls, projected from the windows. On the rare occasion the door opened, noise hit the two old men like a shotgun. The silence after filled with softer music, like the whole place recovered from a grenade blast.
"Have you mentioned the farm again?" asked Ray.
Ray looked at him, cheek in hand and elbow on table, he knew the tone.
Kurt downed the rest of the bourbon, "When I called him after he dropped out, he started yelling at me. A minute into the call and he was screaming at his own father."
"What did you say?"
"I thought I could appeal to him with statistics and all that. That's what he'd studied after all. 'Louisiana produces fifteen percent of sweet potatoes in the US', and then the yelling began."
"Why did that set him off?" Ray took longer sips, he'd leaned back in the chair, face worried.
"He doesn't want to be a potato farmer. He think it's loser work."
"I thought he was one of those new-age liberal types. Didn't think he'd object that strongly to some independent farmwork."
"New-age liberals are drat good farmers. I have no idea what he is."
"So what will you do?"
"Sell, I guess."
A new beer and bourbon passed before they spoke again. In the years they'd known each other, they'd learned to appreciate silence. It gave room for questions and answers to form, time to anticipate.
"I love this town. I've looked around; people are selling around here too," he took a deep sip bourbon, "You never really recover, you know."
"Gives you a chance to start again."
The two men leaned back in their chairs, Ray closed eyes. A few tables over, a girl with thick-framed glasses explained libertarianism to a man with a Dali moustache.
Ice Cream played on Spotify, and Kurt was fine with it.
|# ¿ Aug 10, 2012 00:18|
When do we get the word? The crowd demands satisfaction because something something Mad Max.
|# ¿ Aug 10, 2012 17:09|
You mother fuckers. If this was Mad Max, the movie would be five hours long and directed by Zach Braff.
|# ¿ Aug 12, 2012 00:15|
Too much loving echo! Who the gently caress is the winner?
|# ¿ Aug 12, 2012 02:35|
Ah well, gotta pay more respect to the mysteries next time.
|# ¿ Aug 13, 2012 03:46|
God drat it you loving weirdos. This will be very interesting.
Are you having a time limit for signups, like someone suggested earlier in the thread?
|# ¿ Aug 14, 2012 01:46|
There's a time limit in there. Are you blind?
Yes. Got a problem with that you drat ableist?
And Pipes is the best!
|# ¿ Aug 14, 2012 07:27|
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.
|# ¿ Aug 17, 2012 23:45|
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.
|# ¿ Aug 19, 2012 16:17|
Is it just me or did some of the stories seem more apocalyptic rather than dystopic? I had a totally different story but scraped it when I figured it was too much A and not B.
I definitely hosed up here. I spent way less time than I should on my story anyway, but seeing as this was the first week of school, I was spending most of my time getting drunk and awkwardly flirting with college girls. If that's not an excuse you can all go gently caress yourselves.
|# ¿ Aug 20, 2012 02:51|
This is the best prompt. You're all gonna be the gimp strapped to the bumper this time.
|# ¿ Aug 20, 2012 09:26|
Norwegian bi male. Fell asleep while editing.
The Girl and the Sordid Pictures
"It's actually kind of beautiful."
I shouldn't be surprised, he doesn't know tact.
"It's also someone dying, Wemusa."
"That does not change the fact that it's beautiful. It's the core of it that matters, isn't it?"
I ignore him, adjust the painkillers in my pod. The recording plays again. 30 000 frames for three seconds video.
"It's like a flower," he says, "Or a growing tree."
I'm forced to agree. The explosion spreads like petals, flames swim through the air, trace the warm gases like branches before they explode outwards.
"Could I have done anything, Wemusa?"
"What do you think?"
I don't. Not much anymore. I haven’t moved a finger in ten years, and everything I see is through other eyes. And somehow I find a way to be the most effective PI in Kampala.
But I couldn’t stop this, and I watched it through his eyes, the blast as it happened
I watch my partner die once more, turn off the recording.
"We've found a new one,” says Wemusa.
"That’s quick. What's he like."
"She is," the pause is palpable; I can tell he thinks I won't like this, "Interesting."
"New experience, eh? You'll get used to it."
"She's quite different from, well, anyone in Uganda probably."
Sometimes I hate Wemusa. Some times for his strange ideas, and sometimes because he's just too different. He laughed when I told him my father had died. He saw a joke in there, but never explained it.
Mending is like jumping out of a plane. At first, the wind rushes past as every single inch skin is routed to my pod. I can feel for the first time in three weeks, and it's overwhelming. The sound of everything is the roaring; computers, breathing, heartbeats. Then it's the sudden pull back to normal, and the slow descent to the surface. And I'm back where I used to be, where I'll never be. I realize I miss a smoke and a tumbler of something strong.
The first words that meet me are "gently caress."
"Nice to meet you too."
"No, gently caress. I can't get this loving thing to work."
I realize she speaks out loud. Through her eyes, I can see Wemusa smile nervously. Any other man would be offended by now, but Wemusa is just too clueless.
"You do know how subvocalization works?"
"I've never done this before, how should I?"
I realize this is one time I hate Wemusa, stiff smile as he stares at a cabinet.
"Do you smoke?"
"If I have to."
"Go outside, take a smoke."
She disconnects the USB cable from hi-jack and does as I say. Unsteady, normal for the new ones.
God drat it Wemusa.
My previous partner refused to smoke, and the vague memory which fills me when she savors the taste, is indescribable. I imagine I lean back and close eyes. Almost feels real.
"Quietly, what's your name?"
"Namono," she says, startled. No sound escapes her lips.
"See? Unconscious, unthinking."
I feel a smile.
Wemusa slides an address over to Namono's display.
She scoffs, "Nightclub? So cliché."
"The computer labs are in the cellar. That's where Cruise is."
"And how do propose we get in?"
"You're a beautiful woman, I'm sure you'll figure something out."
Halfway through the sentence he's started laughing. A short laugh, just a few seconds. Then his expression changes from a goofy smile to a terrified frown, back to goofy and finally an intensely neutral expression. He stares at the cabinet again.
Namono shrugs, "I think we can finish this quite quickly."
"That depends on Cruise," I say.
Middle of the day is not party time. The bouncer notices Namono when she's fifty feet away, and he yells something.
"A what?" she says.
"Get closer, I'm not sure he's all there."
The bouncer looks like he has downs syndrome, taken from a home and pumped full of behavioral modifications. Immoral and wrong, but that’s not an issue to everyone.
"We're closed for you," he says and wags a finger.
Before I have time to finish, she's on turbo. Lost purses, stupid friends and everything. She has the most annoying voice, and I can see it's tearing at the bouncer. In the end, he practically has to throw her into the club. She blows him a kiss and walks into the darkness.
"That's the kind of guys you'd go for?"
"I don't go for guys, or girls, for that matter.”
"Well see, we have something in common."
She continues in. We realize Cruise is not subtle, as dubstep-core blast through a metal door below us. Half a minute with the electronic lock and I've opened the door for us. The music overwhelms her senses, but I'm able to phase it out.
"Straight ahead, I can hear a keyboard."
"How the hell do you do that?"
"Two brains on one pair of ears is an advantage."
She opens the next door and walks into the den. Three heads turn as one. The one with the unflattering bare chest, practicing nunchucks at a boxing bag walks over at a brisk pace.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?"
Teeth so clenched I'm worried they'll break, ample belly almost touches her, and he stares us straight in the eyes. It takes a while before she answers, but she stares right back.
"I'm here to discuss business."
On the other side of the room, the fat man in a business suit gestures to the last man in the room, a white man surrounded by screens. He gestures back, and I realize its sign language. The businessman looks towards us.
"Cruise wishes to talk to you."
His voice is high pitched, but perfectly British. I notice no Adam’s apple.
She walks over to him, and Cruise looks at her through beady eyes. Albino, not white.
"He also wishes to know if you are here on behalf of someone."
"Private Eye, representing the Bryson family."
Cruise turns away and brings up something on a screen. I can feel Namono recoil. I've seen it before.
The businessman smiles.
"I assume this is the reason you're here?"
"We want every copy of those pictures destroyed."
"And why should we?"
"The Bryson family is willing to pay you handsomely."
We study their faces, "Nope," she subvocalizes.
"... But if you decline the payment, the family can make your life a living hell. This is simply the best option for all."
We continue watching them, they say nothing. "Nope."
After at least a minute's silence, she moves towards Cruise. I can sense something awkward in the movement. She brushes his arm. In her eye's corner, I can see the businessman growing skeptical, and the bare chested one moves closer.
"Then again, we can add something to the deal."
Cruise smiles. I can sense an object in her hand. She straddles him and brushes a hand on a console behind him. The object is gone.
She leans closer to Cruise, and whispers loud enough for the businessman to hear her.
"Just tell me what you want."
Cruise grins like an idiot; it's obvious what he wants. She feels nothing, and I'm grateful for it. Another movement from her hand and the object is back. The room is silent as Cruise puts a hand on her leg.
And then a knife as the scorpion whip pins that hand to a computer cabinet. She manages a headbutt as the bare chested man sprints towards her. I can feel something now; excitement.
She slides off Cruise's lap, spins and ducks a swing from the nunchucks. A quick right jab to his testicles precedes a firm grasp and twist with the left hand. She rises, as he is forced down, and an explosive push embeds his head in a screen. Cruise is still screaming silently, but a snap kick to the nose shuts him up. The far man in the suit emits a high-pitched scream and starts running. She rips the knife from Cruise's hand and tosses it on the run, planting it right behind the businessman's left knee. He falls to the ground, and as she reaches him, she drops to smash him with her elbow. I can almost taste the sound as his head rebounds from the floor.
She walks out past the bouncer, wishing him a good day.
"Is this something you do often?" I say.
"More often than people like."
I savor the joy she felt in the fight.
"I can get used to it."
The virus does a good job, and the Carson family is pleased. Wemusa is to thank for the virus, he's not all bad. I mend with a skydiver for a day. It's expensive, but they paid well.
Afterwards, we hit the town. She smokes three packs and drinks more than she should. I take advantage of our two brains and we use it to figure out just how clueless most people out here are.
Kampala is hit with a rare rain, and the streets are dark and wet. Streetlights become fuzzy outlines and people disappear. People always disappear; it's why we get work. She walks down the street and I realize we’re thinking the same thing. Waiting for a new case, a new body. A new reason for a strong drink.
|# ¿ Aug 25, 2012 10:48|
Word count is 1555 by the way, I don't think I should edit the post.
Also, volume is low, but I haven't configured my mic for the new computer yet.
Charity Case by Sitting Here because it's cool beans.
|# ¿ Aug 25, 2012 11:28|
Jesus loving christ, the girl was supposed to be otherkin. I'm reading my first draft right now, and I realize I've completely forgotten to add that. Derp.
Can I just say that you sound so very chill and the low volume actually adds excellent atmosphere? Because you sound so very chill and the low volume actually adds atmosphere.
You can say that, and it makes me quite happy.
|# ¿ Aug 25, 2012 15:10|
Gimp -> Bumper -> Motherfuckers
Well, with the Norwegians in the media recently, I shouldn't be surprised.
Oh, wait. gently caress!
|# ¿ Aug 27, 2012 01:47|
God drat it it's 4AM over here. Someone get a chainsaw or something.
|# ¿ Aug 27, 2012 01:58|
So in! Time to read some Lem and Calvino!
|# ¿ Aug 28, 2012 02:09|
Leave in fear
"And the other one?"
"Switch out both of them Thea, we can't afford to leave anything half-assed."
Of course we can't. Of all the things which can go wrong, bad screws on the water fountain will make the whole place collapse.
"This thing will probably last longer than both of us."
"Just do it. Do as I say."
So I do as Trey says, because I have nothing better to do. He looks at me like I'm an idiot. Of course I'm supposed to switch out the screws on the water fountain. Duh.
"I'm heading out," he says, "Take care of the kitchen while I check the rover."
The airlock fogs up after the door closes. I check the kitchen, find a dozen grimy screws and ignore them. He won't check. After a few minutes I can see sparks in a porthole, almost floating in low gravity. I head to the communications module, certain he won't return for at least an hour. Everything in here is spotless, every screw perfect. I sit down and log on.
"Attached here are the full specifications of Moonbase-AF59. You'll know exactly when to strike."
My fingers leave the keyboard for a moment, and I sit and stare at the words, not sure of myself.
"Jonathan, the plans for the base are attached. You'll know exactly when to strike."
I attach the plans, half a gigabyte plain text; it's going to be a long letter.
"I've only got about five hundred words, just for you. It's all I can afford. I would have written you a shorter letter, but I did not have time. This is a last-minute thing. I could also have avoided typing the previous sentences and filled the page with sweet words, but you know that's not me.
I can't give you anything now. The plans are for the cause, and that's it, they are not for just you. The only thing I can give you is me, through this letter, and this is me, rambling on. I could have a hundred million words, and I'd never be able to say how much I love you. I’d need you right beside me for that, but that’s not going to happen.
I won't tell you what to do either, no plans for the rest of your life, or instructions on how to take care of Alita. No advice or orders. I trust you. Just let her know who I am, who I was.
Every word here is who I am, and who I want to be remembered as. I fought, I cared, I loved. I hope Alita will have a better universe when she's my age. If I have one single instruction, it is this: Show this letter to her when she's old enough. Maybe she'll understand who I was.
Back in Arizona, when me and dad made the trip out to the desert, to hunt, I remember one thing clearer than anything else. He'd explain to me how to clean my rifle, in that low deep voice as the sun rose behind him. I remember he'd have his eyes on the rifle, but I felt like he was always watching me, watching over me. You remind me of him when you look at Alita.
I don't know what they'll say about me in the news. It won't be pretty; traitor, suicide. As long as I know that you know the truth, I don't care. So close to the end, I realize it's hard to care about the cause. It's you I care about; it's your memory of me that's important. You'll know how I died, and you can tell the others.
I guess you ought to tell the troops something, something directly from the boss. Tell them this:
When AF59 falls, the floodgates will open. In their arrogance, the System failed to see their weakest link, and that will be their end. This is the door to heaven, ride in and tear down the saints. Brothers and sisters, we are Godkillers, and nothing can stand in our way.
Yeah I know, its poo poo. It'll rile people up good enough though.
Don't let them forget me, not anyone. I'll see you at the end of the universe."
I encrypt and send, and at the moment the progress bar hits home, I wipe the entire system. I should expect Trey back at any moment. I wonder if I should kill him, but I realize if the panicked calls about compromised security and traitors get out on the web, it will be excellent for morale. No, I'll leave him alone as the whole place falls apart around him. I hope he'll live. Even though he won't see them from the moon, I imagine him standing there, watching desperately as ship after ship passes above him. I've got a few minutes left, I can allow myself to hate.
I laugh as I realize he missed one screw. Grimy. I remove it, and insert a clean one in place. I smile and shake my head. The airlock hiss makes the knot in my stomach painful, complete torture, and I grip the pistol far too hard. I'm a little girl again, looking at a dead cougar moments after it fell. It's not the footsteps which get me; it's the pause as he sees the entire communications array is dead.
I want to enjoy the fear in his face as I say "Godkillers," but I can't. Everything hurts, there's no feeling of victory or joy at all. I just wish I could be back on Earth, holding Alita as we watch the sunrise. I pull the trigger, leaving the universe in fear.
|# ¿ Sep 2, 2012 23:47|
Pompt hint for next week itt.
|# ¿ Sep 3, 2012 03:03|
If next week is Tom Waits week I Will Lose. So hard.
Edit: No one will win. No loving way.
|# ¿ Sep 3, 2012 15:19|
Black Griffon: Leave in fear
I certainly won't argue with -2/10. It's great to hear that I have something in me.
And drat, you gave me an excuse for a tumbler of Arran 12. Good on you.
|# ¿ Sep 5, 2012 01:53|
Watched Bill Bailey lately?
|# ¿ Sep 5, 2012 02:29|
Alright, I guess I'll try to do something with Complex.
|# ¿ Sep 5, 2012 23:07|
Complex - 573 words
The beam piercing my hip hurt the most, but everything else was a close second. I'd been thrown halfway through the side window of my personal aircraft, left angry lines of blood on the floor of the restaurant.
I looked at the Subway employee, "I'm in deep poo poo, aren't I?"
"Please don't swear at Subway employees, sir."
"This is going ruin my family. They’ll be hosed."
"Sir, I can offer you a complementary sub, but you'll have to sign a contract that we'll be able to use your face in commercials."
"No, God no. I can't let them see me like this. Don't let them see me like this."
"That's up the police, sir."
Guests took photos, Google Glasses clicking, flashing and whirring. I'd plead, but that would just make for a great photo opportunity.
"Can you please remove the vehicle from the restaurant?"
I tried to turn to the voice, but that hurt my head more than anything.
"Sir, your vehicle is blocking our fire-exits, I need you to move."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Sir, please don't swear at Subway employees. My name is Devin, I'm the manager."
"I'm halfway through the loving window, my craft is wrecked. How the gently caress do you expect me to move this?"
It was here I heard his voice crack. Maybe a part of the brainwashed exterior being undermined by the actual person underneath.
"Sir, I can offer you a complementary sub, but you'll have to sign a-"
"Go away, just go. Leave me to the cops."
I couldn't really scream with a three inch piece of glass in my lung, but I did my best. Reflections of red and blue filled the side mirror, and I closed my eyes.
The manager spoke first, but I guessed they approached him first as well. Murmurs of insurance and fault drifted over, but I didn't want to listen. I opened my eyes; one of the uniforms was staring right at me, red film light on his glasses.
"Please, keep my family away."
"I'm sorry sir?"
"Don't let them see me, don't make them lie about this."
"Sir, could you tell me what happened?"
"I was on my way past the restaurant, cruising at 120 or so. Hit in the side and it threw me right into the window."
Oh god, the adrenaline was going. This hurt.
"They tell us you drove quite irresponsibly."
"I had the right of way, I was under the limit."
"When you're under Subway's jurisdiction, that's not a point."
The ping of cooling metal drove spikes through my head. Such a little sound.
"Sir, you understand how serious this is?"
"Please, at least don't pull my family into this."
"That's up to subway, sir."
I closed my eyes again. I guessed he was moving closer by the footsteps.
"Grant, that's your name?"
"Grant, they get to lie, your family. Subway can't."
Sometimes it's there, beneath the exterior.
"Do you want them to tell the truth, Grant? As hosed up as the truth is, the fact that Subway needs to tell it might help you. Them."
I wanted to hug him. I wanted to walk away. But I'd gotten all I could. I'd just wish they'd never get to see me like this, that they'd never have to lie. But I knew everyone lied, and I knew it was the only choice. The metal ping and blood drip made a kind of rhythm.
|# ¿ Sep 9, 2012 00:58|
Man, I was worried as poo poo I'd lose this. 16 hour shifts don't leave much time for writing, but lots of time for diner with internationally acclaimed comic artist. I discussed vodka infusion with Jill Thompson, so I'm pretty happy anyway.
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2012 01:20|
Seriously? How the gently caress did you pull that off? Jill Thompson is awesome.
Worked at a Norwegian comics convention. Meeting people like Jill Thompson, Giorgio Cavazzano and Joe Jusko justify having to deal with the weirdest loving fans. The best part is that you can have a real conversation with most of the artists, because they know you're just as tired and trying to be just as professional as they are. In the break room, we're all equal.
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2012 01:35|
So loving in. I have a feeling this week will be hilarious.
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2012 20:26|
2) Tell me about this bird that's quite fond of liver. It's most famous for punishing a thief.
This is of course the eagle, who fed on the ever renewed liver of Prometheus, professional fire-stealer.
Canadian Surf Club can suck it, because he provided no context.
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2012 21:22|
2) Not quite evolved, this cock-faced mongrel has the power to make any man hard.
The cockatrice can be said to be the distant cousin of the basilisk, but this mother rocks the freakshow, combining the coolness of a dragon with the lameness of a rooster. Lock eyes with this rear end in a top hat, and you're stone.
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2012 22:06|
Just so we get this out of the way, exactly how many people are writing "deal with the devil"?
Way too obvious, I'm going BC mythical.
|# ¿ Sep 11, 2012 18:20|
I am currently doing Olympic gods in the style of Cormac McCarthy and despite its horror I do not now how or when this path grabbed me and dragged me to these unfathomable depths of such wrongness that neither me nor my friends could see an end in anything but defeat.
|# ¿ Sep 14, 2012 01:03|
I still have an hour left, right?
|# ¿ Sep 15, 2012 01:58|
What the hell, my clock says it's 9:00. Fuuuuuck.
Edit: This was provided earlier in the thread: http://www.thetimenow.com/est/eastern_standard_time
|# ¿ Sep 15, 2012 02:15|
Edit: ALSO, if our stories are too similar, now I can blame Black Griffon because I posted mine first and before the deadline, aw yeah. (They are probably not too similar at all)
Ahahahaha, not at all.
Yeah, this got weird, and I'm pretty sure Cormac would bludgeon me for it.
The Changing of The Guard - 555 words
The gods met on Olympus, beneath the radiant whiteness in the tallest temple. The old guard came through the folds reality, from their abandoned domains, and Yahweh waited. Uranus stepped forward, with Chronus and Gaia at his side, and as they moved they did not touch the ground as much as the ground drew close around them. Chronus, free from chains, watched Yahweh as we see a lion watch a lamb. No arrogance or anger, but the pure white certainty of power which sits so deep it is only truth. Yahweh stared back, knowing a whisper could wipe him from existence, and accepted it without reservations. The other gods looked at the world below, aware of what would happen, and they possessed a certainty it was the right thing, a knowledge that fate bound them as much as they forged the fate of mortals. How strange that the gods in their limitless power and immeasurable immortality still have less freedom than the mortals with their blissful short lives.
Around Yahweh flitted the shadows of something else, other beings diffuse to Uranus. One amongst you will rule, he said.
I will rule, I alone.
Pillars shook and white turned to murderous red, and a thought passed through the ranks of Olympus that this was the turning of an age and the certain end of them. Reality would pass from them, and where the mortals would see the passage of time, the gods would see the death and rebirth of reality.
I will have two mortals, said Yahweh as the rumbling subsided, and without prompt, Orpheus and Eurydice stepped forward, united at last.
You could ask for none better, none purer, said Gaia.
Yahweh said to them; walk down from the mountain and into the world below. You will be my harbingers and take new names. Tell the rest of your people of my rule and let them know the one God has come.
They walked from red to pure white to the grey of the mountainside until they came to the green carpet with villages and cottages and the grandness of humanity and mortality. In this world, they would live a thousand lives and more, every life ignorant of the one before, with only the words of Yahweh in their hearts.
On the mountain, Uranus began to grip the seams of reality, an entire existence would turn over and the rule of all would pass from him to Yahweh leaving the gods of old only in the stories of men. There was no regret in this, no anger or hate. This was as natural and inevitable to them as death is to man. A fierce wind began to flow between the pillars of the temple, blanketing the gods in red and white and tearing skin and hair. Olympus crumbled and radiant white turned to black as Uranus moved existence to Yahweh, and in an instant too short for any words, the old gods were never there. The mountaintop lay bare and Yahweh stood alone.
By the small farmhouse where red brick covered the roof and the walls carried the graffiti of youth sat Orpheus and Eurydice, and Orpheus sang the only song he had left. The children played in the tall grass which stretched to a mountain none of them knew, and Orpheus sang of Yahweh.
|# ¿ Sep 15, 2012 02:46|
No kidding. I'm thinking some poo poo is afoot up in this dome.
Edit: THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN MARTELLO STEPS DOWN.
|# ¿ Sep 15, 2012 20:45|
Well then. I guess the pure quality of our work has finally set off the mind-bombs in the judges' heads. Had to happen eventually. The judges are dead, long live the judges.
Time to rise up, boys and girls, take this dome as our own!
|# ¿ Sep 16, 2012 14:40|
Black Griffon - The Changing of The Guard
I think this is because of me being dumb about the "No brooding/passive aggressive characters" rule. It's obvious that I could have added a little more zing, but I was too worried that any aggression would come off as rulebreaking, because I never wanted to turn it into Thundergoddome.
Also: Do we say if we're in or not for next week, or do we wait for the runaway judges?
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2012 00:10|
Hey, who knows, maybe SurreptitiousMuffin should rule alone, maybe the other judges are just looking for a life beyond Thunderdome.
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2012 02:46|
|# ¿ Jun 18, 2019 06:47|
Motherfucker, educate your rear end.
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2012 03:21|