Not in because I'm stuck on base and reliant on Maccas for occasional free WiFi and my room on base doesn't even have a chair what the hell is up with that and no it's not my fault I didn't touch it but seriously there is no real way to use a laptop in a room with no furniture and while I'm complaining about my room there are holes in my mattress, what's that all about?
Also my name's in the OP woo I don't really know what that means but that's cool. And I haven't read most of this thread because, and not to look free WiFi in the mouth, but this internet is just terrible and hasn't finished loading page two I don't think.
Anyway hopefully will be back in here for realsies for writing some
|# ¿ Jan 11, 2013 09:31|
|# ¿ Nov 27, 2020 01:11|
Careful Mikhail. You're starting to sound like me.
You'd think that, but no 'did not submit' ever became an ultraloser.
Also hey I'll be back in the 'Dome for real in just over a week. Woopwoop.
|# ¿ Jan 14, 2013 08:11|
On the one hand I have no reliable internet connection and have to keep using that of McDonalds, on the other hand, my track record with horror stories is impeccable, with my previous 'horror' story being described as 'horrifying' (and there were some other words but they probably weren't important) so I am going to say 'in' and see if I can make a horror story that is even more horrible (like, full of horror) than my previous one.
|# ¿ Jan 17, 2013 08:58|
Here's a story while Maccas' wifi is briefly letting me do things. Retroactively claiming that the following rules of Vonnegut can be sorta kinda applied to my thing: 1, 5, 6. Oh and 3 and 7 a bit.
Hope You Guessed My Name 1666 words, how thematically appropriate, oooooooh horror.
Jeremy had gotten the old book from Old Mordecai’s Book Emporium. The store was not actually owned by a Mordecai, but Old Simon’s Book Emporium lacked the authentic old timey ring that he felt customers expected from a quaint, dusty second-hand store such as his. Jeremy had not paid for the book, of course. And he’d gotten it more as a backup in case he ran out of toilet paper than with any intent of reading it. That one page had caught his eye, though.
Ritual fore Summoning yon power full Being.
Jeremy had seen Aladdin. He knew what was what. He was gonna summon the hell out of this creature.
Peter was less confident. “Eye of newt? Why’s it always gotta be eye of newt? That’s gross, dude. C’mon man, forget this crazy ritual, let’s go down to the pub and see what time Lily gets off. If you know what I mean.”
Jeremy ignored him. “If you’re not gonna help me summon this critter, I might not let you have any of the wishes.”
“And when I say ‘what time Lily gets off’” explained Peter “I meant ‘will she have sex with us.’ And I’m pretty sure the answer is yes. Yes she will.”
Jeremy had finished liberally sprinkling limbs of various hapless animals around the barn. “OK, be quiet for a moment, I’ve gotta read these words out.” And he did.
“See, doesn’t work” said Peter. “Pub time. And by pub time, I mean-“
And suddenly, there was the creature. It looked down at the two of them. “Hmmm” it said. “Not precisely what I expected.”
“Yes!” said Jeremy. “Hell! Yes! I summoned the hell out of that creature!”
“Other way around, actually” said the creature.
“Huh?” said Jeremy. Then “Give me my three wishes.”
“That’s not really my thing.”
“I think this is a mistake” said Peter. “We should put that thing back where we got it from and go to the pub.”
“Shut up” said Jeremy, then to the creature “Don’t give me your excuses, I’m your master now. Make with the wishes.”
The creature looked down at the ground. “Nice warding circle there.”
“What?” Jeremy looked where the creature was looking. “Yeah. Followed the directions closely.”
“You know,” said the creature “some people like to put the warding circle in such a location that it protects themselves from what they’re summoning. Just a thought for your very short future.” It took one step towards Jeremy and stared into his eyes. Jeremy stared back, suddenly shivering. “Jeremy Wright. Car theft. Torturing small animals to summon a powerful creature. Doing knock and runs at people’s houses and leaving a steaming turd in a brown paper bag on their doorstep, you disgusting maggot. How do you plead to these charges, before I go ahead and devour your soul for your sins?”
The defendant responded by soiling himself. Peter did not witness the ensuing unpleasantness, because he’d decided that discretion was the better part of valour.
“Ah, scarpered, eh?” said the creature. “That’s cool. I’ll still get there before you.”
It was a slow evening at the pub. Peter was not there yet, so it was just Edward, and he was not a happy drunk. He was not happy sober, either. Lily was pretending to wipe the counter so that Edward wouldn’t talk to her, and Joe behind the bar had been studiously cleaning a wine glass for the better part of an hour. Lily started as the door opened.
“Welcome!” she said. “We don’t get many strangers here. What’ll you have?”
The creature stared down at her. “I’m just waiting for someone.”
“A drink’ll make the wait shorter! What’s your name, anyway, stranger?”
“Rupert” said Rupert the creature. He stalked over to the bar. “Perhaps I will see a wine list.”
“Here you go” said Lily, handing it over. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Rupert, you look a little strange. Are you from Canada or something? I’ve heard there’s some weird looking folk up that way.”
“May I have the house red?” asked Rupert. “And in answer to your question, I am a demon. From Hell.”
“Not heard of them” said Lily. “Are they one of them bikie gangs? Is that what those symbols on your chest are about? And the facial piercings? And the body modifications around the head?”
“What? No. I devour souls.”
“Are you coming onto me, Rupert?” asked Lily. “Because I’m down for pretty much anything, but anything too weird will cost extra.”
Joe had gotten a glass of the house red and placed it before Rupert, who, welcoming an opportunity to put his perplexing conversation with Lily on hold, sipped it thoughtfully. “This is one of the better wines I’ve ever had the privilege to have tasted!” he said. “And let me tell you, I have sampled many a wine. Do you brew it yourself?”
Joe nodded, and was about to say something when the door was thrown open dramatically and Peter burst in.
“Ah,” said Rupert “you’ve arrived.”
“Oh, hi Peter.” said Lily. “If you’re here for your usual you’ll have to wait, Rupert was here first. But I’m sure I’ll have plenty of energy for you as well.”
“Just concentrate on the waitressing, eh?” said Joe.
“Right, well we’ll have to put all of that on hold” said Rupert “because now that our mate - Peter, was it? - has arrived, I can finish what we started down at the barn.”
He gestured and the bar door swung shut and locked.
“Hey buddy” said Edward, in the voice of someone who did not want to be his buddy, “I dunno what the hell your problem is, but I’ve been trying to drink my beer in peace here, and I’m finding that mighty difficult with all your talking.”
“Ah, you’ll be first then” said Rupert, and stared into his eyes. “Edward Treager. Hitting your wife. A lot.”
“What?” said Lily. “She told me she walked into the wall. And the door frame. And-“
“She knows what she did wrong” growled Edward.
“May I finish?” asked Rupert. “Now, I’m gonna go ahead and devour his soul if there’re no objections.”
“Uh, that’s a bit weird” said Lily “but whatever you’re into.”
“Although in principle I’m opposed to the devouring of souls,” said Peter,
“Prude” said Lily.
“I’m prepared to make an exception under the circumstances,” continued Peter “namely the circumstances of Edward being a wife beater.”
“Whatever” said Edward “don’t sling that mumbo jumbo with me, there’s no such thing as a soul.”
“Well,” said Rupert “let me know if at any point you decide to reconsider your position on the subject.”
It is possible that reconsidering his position on the existence of the eternal soul was among the things that Edward screamed, but the onlookers couldn’t really tell what with the unpleasantness that was going on with his face and his eyes and his limbs going every which way, and the bleeding, and then Peter fainting and Lily and Joe helping him up and onto a stool and by the time they’d helped him up the screaming and dying and general unpleasantness had been taken care of, and Rupert was standing in front of a lifeless pile of meat, and Peter looked over and fainted again.
Rupert turned and stared now into Joe’s eyes. “Joe Ketch.” He paused. “On second thoughts, you’re last. The man who brews that wine deserves that much.” He stared into Lily’s eyes instead. “Lily Helmsworth. Uh. Hmmm. Oh, and… right.” He thought about it for a moment, then “I’ll just file that lot under fornication, shall I?”
“Try me, first” said a new voice. Rupert turned to look at the lady who had spoken, standing in the open doorway.
“Pretty sure I locked that” said Rupert.
The newcomer ignored him and walked over to the bar. “House red please, Joe.”
“Good choice” said Rupert. “I’ll let you have a bit of that before I go ahead and devour your soul.”
“Appreciate it” she said. Money and wine changed hands, and she sipped on her drink. Then she swivelled on her barstool to face Rupert. “Go on, then.”
Rupert shrugged and stared into her eyes. “Gloria Sloane. Um. Hmmm.”
Gloria took another sip of her wine. “Go on.”
“Come on, this isn’t possible. Everyone has something.”
Gloria shrugged a shrug of her own. “I traded.”
She stood up, and Rupert took a step back. “Come on now, that ain’t playing fair. You gotta pay your own debts!”
“Guess now you’re figuring out who I’m representing?” Rupert nodded, frowning. “So either you can leave, or I can have a few words with Him and He can make you leave. One will be less pleasant than the other.”
“I can’t do that” said Rupert. “This is what I do.”
Glorio shrugged, and then said a few words. When she was done speaking, Rupert was gone.
“What was all that nonsense?” asked Peter, who had just recovered from his second fainting spell.
“Hebrew” said Gloria. “A bit rusty, hope I got the inflections right. Got the main points across, though.” She looked over at what was left of Edward. “I’m sorry I got here too late for him.”
“I’m not” said Lily.
Gloria raised an eyebrow but didn’t pursue the matter further. “Joe, your wine is as spectacular as ever.” She handed the empty glass back. “So. In light of this evening’s events, any chance I’ll see you lot Sunday morning?”
That lot looked at their feet a lot and mumbled things about liking to sleep in, and Sunday morning being such an awful time to do anything, it really ruined the weekend, you know? Gloria nodded. “Well, I’ll be there if any of you change your mind.” She turned to go.
“Think I’ll head home as well” said Peter.
“It’s gonna cost extra if you want me to clean that up” said Lily, when they’d both left.
|# ¿ Jan 18, 2013 23:09|
THUNDER DOME WEEK XXIV - TWINKLE CRIT
'Fun' fact: early drafts (me arranging the story in my head while at work, in the car, playing Borderlands 2, whatever) had an even more literal Ex Machina, using a jukebox with the soothing sounds of either of these: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwbGjzF3mB0 or https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cEdqWZi13I; but I couldn't figure out a way to work it into the narrative.
And the wine/brewed thing was me knowing nothing about alcohol and not having wikipedia available at the time.
|# ¿ Jan 22, 2013 05:37|
|# ¿ Jan 22, 2013 07:48|
Didn't actually know that. I assumed Ultraloser = someone who has lost more than once
I 'earned' this avatar specifically for the previous horror prompt.
|# ¿ Jan 23, 2013 05:19|
Submit early and often, isn't that the theory? In the end it's probably not much different than what I usually do, which is wait until the deadline and then suddenly mash my keyboard.
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2013 06:52|
Don't think about it, just join. Do it now.
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2013 09:07|
1417 words including title.
Daddy Gave Me No Name
Ron’s parents had left him nothing. They had not even given him his name. The law decreeing anonymity for biological parents of wards of the state meant he didn’t inherit a surname, either. He found out later that Uncle Leonard had been the one to pick his name, which seemed appropriate.
Uncle Leonard was not actually anyone’s uncle.
Well, he wasn’t anyone at The Home’s uncle. He may have had some nieces and nephews on the outside. Ron never really thought of what lives people like Uncle Leonard might have had outside the context of The Home. To everyone inside The Home, he was just their Uncle Leonard.
Despite Leonard’s best intentions, one uncle divided between a few hundred wards of the state was not an ideal equation. If Ron’s parents can be said to have had given him anything of lasting importance, therefore, it was this. If Ron ever had any children, they would have everything he did not. He was going to be the dad his dad hasn’t. Every sport game, every school play, he’d be there.
Well, through primary school anyway. It’d take a lot to drag him to any high school productions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
He’d met Sally a few years after he’d moved out of The Home. She, like him, had been a ward of the state and, like him, had not managed to get placed with a foster family. She worked at the café where he took most of his lunch breaks. One afternoon on his way home he’d seen her waiting for a bus which had been scheduled to arrive ten minutes previously. He’d asked her if she needed a lift, and upon hearing where she lived, told her that was on his way.
It was not on his way. It took him fifty minutes out of his way. Fifty minutes of his life he would neither ever get back, nor want back. He arranged to give her a lift home every afternoon. It was not until fully a month later, when they’d mutually decided that they were officially a couple, that she first saw where he lived.
“How long have you lived here?”
He’d shrugged. “About a year and a half I guess.”
“You said my place was on the way.”
“The first time you gave me a lift. You said that my place was on the way, that it wasn’t any trouble.”
“Oh right.” He’d shrugged again. “Second part was true. Would you have let me give you a lift if you’d known?”
“That’s not the point, you lied to me.” And then they’d exchanged a lot of other heated words and Sally had made him drive her home, and then had realised that him driving her home had been the principle upon which she was currently angry with him, and actually he couldn’t drive her home. She’d walked to the bus stop.
They’d stayed angry with each other for about as long as it took to walk to a bus stop, at which point she’d called him and asked him to pick her up.
He’d proposed at a bus stop. It was a challenge to find a pretext for being alone at a bus stop, but he’d managed to convince her to go on a moonlit stroll with him. He’d looked up the lunar cycles and everything and had found the evening when the moon looked the most romantic, and he’d scouted out a decent walking path that had a bus stop a decent distance from her place with a good view of the moon.
Of course, then the evening had been overcast and they hadn’t been able to see the moon at all. Undeterred he’d gone ahead with his proposal plan, down on one knee in the bus shelter under the pretence of needing to tie a shoelace. After she’d realised what he’d been doing she’d cried and hugged him and said “Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes!”
And then it had started raining and they’d sat huddled together in the bus shelter hoping there was a bus that came this way. There hadn’t been, and after half an hour they’d walked back to her place in the rain.
The wedding had been eight months ago. Ron had tried to find their parents through the administrators of their respective childhood homes, but due to the anonymity law had had no options but to leave his details at his childhood home and Sally’s details at hers and hope that, when contacted, their parents would decide they wanted to be at their kids’ wedding.
Turned out they hadn’t wanted to.
Now, however, they were trying for children. Well, one child. Both of them had experienced a childhood where they’d had to share their parent figures, such as they were, with a few hundred other children. Not their child. Their child would have their undivided attention, and fortunately Sally had agreed that she would take one for the team and go to any high school productions of Shakespeare plays that might need watching, since she had no particular interest in attending any sport that their child might play. She hadn’t gotten pregnant yet, which meant Ron still had time to find their parents. Their parents might not have wanted to attend their children’s wedding, but when it came to grandparent duties, Ron didn’t intend to leave the choice up to them.
Sure, going through their childhood homes had proved fruitless, but a colleague had suggested an alternate route. A website that specialised in tracking down biological parents; for a nominal fee of course. During his lunch hour, Ron had separately input his own details, and then those of his wife, followed by his credit card details. And then waited.
Two weeks had passed during which Ron decided that his money was gone, and he’d been naïve to entrust his money to a company of dubious legal standing who specialised in violating anonymity laws.
On this morning, however, Ron logged in to find two Emails waiting for him; one bearing his name in the subject heading, one bearing the name of his wife. Excitedly, he opened up both. He looked at his own first, and scrolled down to the ‘parents’ section. Only one name. Single mother, right, made sense. He opened up the Email bearing his wife’s name. Again, single mother. Made sense why they’d both choose to give their children up for adoption, then. He read the name and then opened up the first Email again. He read the name on that one and frowned. They must’ve accidentally copied the details from one to the other. He opened them both alongside each other and scanned both Emails.
They read almost the same. No, wait, the dates were different. The Emails were not mistakes; the rest of his life had been.
He couldn’t concentrate on his work, so he’d excused himself early and driven home. How would he explain this? Obviously they couldn’t continue to try for a child. Or remain married, really. He opened the door still not entirely sure how he would tell Sally, and if he should tell her why. Which would be worse?
She was already home. Usually the café hours were longer, but this might be for the best. “Sally, listen, I’ve got something I need to tell you.”
“OK, but me first!”
Right. Sure. It would give him time to figure out how to say it. What to even say.
He nodded, and she continued. “So, you might be wondering why I’m already home from the café.” She didn’t wait for a response and barely paused at all. “I’ve kind of known about this for a few weeks now but I didn’t want to tell you until I was absolutely sure but I’ve just been to the doctor’s office and we’re going to be parents!”
What? He couldn’t say anything, and she didn’t pause anyway.
“We’ve done all kinds of ultrasounding and stuff and I told the doctor not to tell me whether it’s a boy or a girl, but he was able to tell me it’s perfectly healthy, and oh my God, isn’t this amazing? You’re going to be the most amazing dad!”
“Yeah.” And then he made his decision, an option that hadn’t even seemed like an option. “Yeah, we’re both gonna be awesome parents.”
“So what was the thing you needed to tell me?”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember. Probably wasn’t important.”
|# ¿ Jan 28, 2013 03:29|
Erik Shawn-Bohner puts the abs in absentee parenting.
Pfft, formatting schmormatting. They'll take my quadruple spaced turquoise font manuscript and they'll like it.
Ugh fine what a whiner.
Chairchucker fucked around with this message at 09:58 on Jan 28, 2013
|# ¿ Jan 28, 2013 09:47|
Yeah there's a lot of bad stuff here. Lots of stories where someone tells a lie / the truth and then some other stuff happens. No real karmic euphoria of Justice Being Dealt or anything.
You're saying that sometimes, someone getting what they deserve doesn't involve any karmic euphoria?
|# ¿ Jan 29, 2013 09:16|
Yeah OK in I guess.
|# ¿ Feb 4, 2013 07:29|
Well theoretically, the worst that could happen is you could get permabanned, but somehow no one has yet found the flash fiction sweet spot that achieves that goal...
|# ¿ Feb 7, 2013 05:47|
I only just bothered clicking the links about what timezone we're in today, and, hmmm, I guess we've got about five hours to go and not the 24ish hours I thought we had. I was really hoping I'd come up with an idea that wasn't the first one that came into my head but I should've figured out by now that that's not really how it works for me, so I guess I'll get this thing down and submitted in the next hour or so. Woo.
|# ¿ Feb 10, 2013 10:39|
Petitioning to have Rhino's masterpiece included for judging consideration for this week, I feel it hits the prompts perfectly.
Also here's a story of 873 words and I'm going to bed, laters y'all.
What’s For Dinner?
Work had gone a little longer than usual. Some files had gone missing. In the end they’d found them, but it had taken an hour that she would usually have used to make dinner. No time for what she’d planned; she’d make a very simple pasta.
The pot of water was on the stove, all she had to do was pour in the pasta. Maybe she had some kind of instant pasta sauce in the pantry somewhere.
And there was his car. She’d hoped to have dinner ready before he arrived; this was not ideal.
The door opened, and she heard him walk through to the dining room. Stopped, then called “Where’s dinner?”
“Just making it now.” Leave it at that. Stay at the stove, studiously looking at the pot. Willing it to boil faster.
“Why isn’t it made already, and on the table?” His voice was from directly behind her now. “I work hard all day to make sure all the bills are paid, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect dinner to be on the table when I get home.”
She turned around. “You’re not the only one in this house who works, you know.” What? No. Wrong thing to say. Why did she say that?
“What did you say?” He walked towards her, stopping less than a foot from her face. “I get enough smartarse comments at work, I don’t need them when I come home!”
He raised his hand. She should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve heard it in his voice. His arm swung across, hard, but she’d learnt how to move with the slap. She turned as she was slapped, his hand making a loud whack that would likely satisfy him that he’d put her in her place, but wouldn’t leave a bruise that she’d have to explain to a co-worker.
“You get home more than an hour earlier than me,” he said. “Plenty of time to have dinner on the table.”
“I had to work later than usual tonight,” she said. “We had to look for some files.”
“You don’t know when to just shut up and apologise for your mistake, do you?” She didn’t see it coming this time. He slapped her on the other cheek and she stumbled against the kitchen counter. The side of her face felt numb, but she didn’t have time to think about that; he was upon her, and his fingers were around her throat. “You know this is your fault, don’t you?” he said. She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t say anything. She couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t sure what she would’ve said if she could’ve spoken. Her vision was starting to blur.
She kicked out with what little strength she still had; her knee connected twice with the outside of his leg, then she somehow managed to bring it in towards her body, and forward once more, hard, into something soft and vulnerable. He released her throat as he stumbled back and clutched himself between the legs. His eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
She felt behind herself as he advanced once more. It was a shame she hadn’t been chopping up vegetables; there was no knife for her to grab. There was only a chopping board; ironic, since she’d ended up opting for a dish that required no chopping. She grabbed it with both hands, and as he sprung upon her swung it around to meet him. Chopping board met human head with a crack, and he stumbled backwards once more. She couldn’t let him attack again. Advancing, she swung it at him again, this time on a downwards arc. Crack. It struck him on the forehead and he fell down onto one knee. Again and again, she swung the chopping board. Crack. Crack. Crack. Until she was confident she was safe. Until he stopped staring at her with those angry eyes, eyes that still told her she was useless. Until he couldn’t move at all. Until she couldn’t recognise any of the features of his face behind the red mess that coated his face, covered the chopping board, covered her hands.
She stopped swinging the chopping board, now using it to prop herself up as she stared at the floor and breathed heavily. Slowly she regained her breath, and looked down at her husband. He wasn’t moving. Good, he couldn’t attack her again.
He wasn’t moving.
She took his wrist and held it for ten seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute. Nothing. Tried at his throat. Again, nothing. She’d killed him.
What to do. Call the police?
She’d called them once after he’d fractured her wrist. Her fault, he’d told her, for putting her arm in the way when he’d been trying to punch her in the stomach. Not their business, they’d told her. It was a family matter.
No, not the police. She looked down at his body. What had they said? A family matter. Yes, not their business.
The stove buzzed to indicate that the water had finished boiling. She looked at the pot of boiling water, then back down to her late husband. She walked over to a drawer, opened it and pulled out a cleaver. Dinner could wait; first, she would make soup.
|# ¿ Feb 10, 2013 12:52|
Submitting late is always (in my opinion) better than saying "Oh well, the time has expired, guess I just won't end up submitting anything to the 'dome after all. No one will think any less of me. It won't reflect poorly on my character or anything like that or make me look like a big dumb baby for not writing anything."
|# ¿ Feb 11, 2013 05:46|
Sooo, did you like it?
Hmm, everything you've written in your other critiques? But I didn't use 'guttural' once! I counted, and I come to zero every time!
My lack of adjectives aside (I don't like them) while my writing can most likely be accused of many things, (And has. Many of them bad.) an indication of not having read books shouldn't really be one of them. (This is because of all the book reading I've done.) (It's quite a lot.) (It is possible I plagiarise [dammit what's the code for that strikethrough thing on the font people do I don't argh whatever it's bed time whatevs] borrow heavily from Robert Rankin. Who probably falls victim to many of the same 'failings' [I like them which is why I shamelessly rip them off] that I suspect you don't like. Wait I need to close that bracket.)
Although I didn't actually do that much in this story. Was it the short paragraphs? I'm not really sure. You haven't really said much about my piece. I mean, I appreciate the detailed crits, but when the meat of the one directed at mine is the no doubt well intentioned 'read more' (this is not useful advice for someone for whom that isn't as much of a problem. Is what I'm saying here) and 'see also every single other crit I've written', I guess it's kind of useless for me.
Although I guess I regularly critted... critiqued. Better word. I regularly critiqued with such phrases as 'I didn't like it, the end' so whatevs, crits are hard and I was in the last batch.
That aside, I see my 'death' is in good company.
Well, it's in company. So that's something.
So. Who's the winner? Was it Rhino? C'mon, that second person story was something special.
|# ¿ Feb 11, 2013 11:54|
Hmmm I definitely need to clean up my ending then, mostly because it wasn't meant to imply that she ate him, just boiled him to dispose of the body, so I was clearly too ambiguous. Or less ambiguous than pretty much implying exactly what didn't happen.
And I probably should've spent more time on the chopping board: in my head I had one of the ones that my mum used to have when I lived with my parents which was made from the excess parts of the redone kitchen bench and was solid as hell... but I guess most people don't really have those chopping boards. :/
ALSO. I am excited to see that everyone else is as high on Saddest Rhino's masterpiece as I still am.
|# ¿ Feb 12, 2013 05:44|
In I guess.
|# ¿ Feb 13, 2013 06:02|
If you love commas so much, why don't you MARRY them?
I'm sorry babe, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. C'mon. Come over here. Let's hug it out.
|# ¿ Feb 16, 2013 08:38|
I could try proof reading this again, or I could just publish and be damned! 854 words and these peeps totes love each other, honest.
...turns out between writing the above and hitting the post button I read through it briefly and there were whole sentences I'd starting writing and then apparently lost interest in ha
Pick One Person
“Looks like someone forgot something this morning.”
“Actually, I was thinking of growing a beard.” Hugo stroked his slightly beardy chin. “I think it makes me look more masculine. I didn’t shave on the trip away last month, and the boys said it looked pretty sweet.”
“What? No. Absolutely not. Who are these ‘boys’ who have tried to tell you that you look good with a beard? These people are not your friends, Hugo. They want you to look like a buffoon.”
“Come on, men are naturally bearded. I’m just letting nature run its course.”
“Good point.” Victoria poked the beard experimentally with a finger. “Tell you what, how about we both stop shaving?”
“On second thoughts, I think I’m just gonna go shave.”
Victoria shrugged. “If you’re sure about that. You know, I think we’re running kind of late, just grab your razor and do it in the car, OK? I’ll drive.”
“Careful on the corners, OK?” said Hugo. “Believe it or not, this is kind of tricky, and I don’t want to look like I’ve been attacked by face eating rodents.”
“Yeah yeah, I’ll be careful.” They drove in silence except for the occasional hum of concentration from Hugo. “By the way, I’ve got my answer to your question from last night. It’s Sarah Jessica Parker.”
Hugo paused mid-stroke. “Hmmm? What question?”
“You know. If I had to pick one female to join the two of us…”
“Really?” Hugo took his razor away from his face and stared at Victoria incredulously. “Her? Of all the possible choices in the entire world, that’s who you’d… why?”
“She’s just really stylish, why, who do you think would be a better choice?”
“Literally any other celebrity female above the age of consent. Like, you could put all female celebrities’ names into a gigantic bucket and pull out a name at random, and it could not be worse than the name you have just chosen.”
“Really? How about Judi Dench?”
“Yes. Fine. At least then you could put on a fake British accent and I could call you Moneypenny, and that would be my secret agent fantasy taken care of as well.”
“Well too bad. You asked me the question and she’s who I’d choose. Who would you choose?”
Hugo put his razor back to work and said “Christina Hendricks.”
Victoria glanced over at him. “No, come on-“
“Eyes on the road, honey.”
“Yeah OK, I have done this before. But that’s not what I mean; I had to choose a chick, you get to pick a dude.”
Hugo removed the razor from his face in order to shake his head vigorously. “Why would I want to involve another dude?”
“Yes, well that’s rather similar to the question I faced, isn’t it?”
“Fair enough.” Hugo went back to shaving and they drove in silence for a few minutes.
Hugo broke the silence. “Roo!’ he said. The marsupial in question had apparently made a last minute decision that the grass over the other side of the road looked a little tastier. Victoria swore and stamped her foot down on the brake, swerving sharply to the left to avoid the macropodian pedestrian. Their detour took them through three guide posts and into a guard rail, where their vehicle scraped to a stop. Behind them, the kangaroo had successfully crossed the road and was now chewing on some grass.
Victoria looked over at Hugo. Hugo was slumped forward, and his face was smeared with blood. “Oh no, Hugo!” She opened her door and jumped out. Her fellow drivers didn’t seem interested in pulling over to see if the two of them were all right. Some of them beeped at her as she tried to get off the road and around to the passenger side door. When she had successfully negotiated the traffic and gotten to the other side of her car, she pulled at the door handle without any discernible effect.
“Yeah, pretty sure that door’s busted,” said Hugo, from right next to her leaning on the car. To her questioning look, he said “Climbed out your side when I couldn’t get mine to open.”
She hugged him tightly. “I thought…” she pulled back. “There’s blood all over your face!”
“Yeah.” Hugo shrugged. “I might not try shaving in the car again.”
“I guess we should call the police or something.”
They huddled together on a nearby stump while they waited for the emergency vehicles to arrive. She’d used the towel they kept in the boot of the car to clean his face up, mostly. It was still pretty patchy, but the bleeding had stopped.
“Gary Ablett Junior,” said Hugo.
“If I had to pick a dude. After the 2007 and 2009 finals, he can do whatever he wants.”
“Yeah OK, I don’t need details. Isn’t he bald?”
“Figured you’d dig that, given your baffling stance on facial hair.”
“Ugh. No. No deal at all. Guess it’s just the two of us.” She leaned back on his chest.
“Yeah,” he said. He smiled and put an arm around her waist. “Guess so.”
|# ¿ Feb 16, 2013 13:57|
Also, for those of you unfortunate enough not to have been born in The Lucky Country (tm), this video may prove educational in understanding Hugo's choice.
|# ¿ Feb 16, 2013 14:01|
So how'd this one affect your gag reflex? http://forums.somethingawful.com/sh...5#post411958235
|# ¿ Feb 18, 2013 06:01|
Kaishai should be instantly disqualified for this:
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2013 02:12|
Not in this week because UGH RESEARCH, so instead I've decided to make Martello and HereticMIND's little tryst a menage-a-trois.
Oh and I may have slightly bent your little rule about fanfic, ESB, whatevs...
Undome my heart
Marty strutted into the break room looking all manly and military and stuff. "Oh hey Erik, what's up?"
"Oh hey Marty, not much. Just finished lunch, and still have like half an hour left in my break."
"Oh sweet, me too, wanna have sex?"
"Hmm I dunno, I was thinking of watching Survivor: Chernobyl."
Marty stroked his square, chiselled jaw. "That's quite the conundrum. How about we do both?"
"Yeah OK. I'll turn it on, you grab the... the circuits."
"Sorry, what?" Marty looked confused.
"You know. Circuits. Don't ask questions, just get 'em! Oh and make sure they're the whirring kind. Nothing worse than a non-whirring circuit."
Marty returned shortly with circuits. So many circuits, you don't even know. It was pretty crazy.
"All right," said Marty "I hope you understand that I'm always the big spoon."
"Whatevs, long as you leave me satisfied." They totally got naked then got on the couch and started doing it. It was super hot.
They'd been watching TV in the coital position (that means while they were having sex. Which is what they were doing while they watched TV. Lots of sex.) for a little while when Sebastian walked in. "Uh. Hey guys. What... what are you doing?"
"Just watching Survivor," said Marty, "there's room for one more on this couch."
"Right," said Sebastian, "I do kind of like that show, but I'll just watch it from over here."
"Hey," said Erik, "so what's your take on this Malone chick on Survivor? Bit of a strange strategy IMO."
"Yeah, I haven't been following this season that closely," said Sebastian, "could you just give me some clumsy exposition?"
"Well basically she's refusing to make alliances," said Marty. "The first time this muffin maker or whatever he is tried to get her to make an alliance she just told him to bugger off."
"The first time?" asked Sebastian.
"Well yeah," said Erik, "then when he tried it again after he thought he was in danger of being voted out, she killed him with a stick. On the bright side, that means the Drevlyan tribe will eat well for a week or so."
Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting short term strategy. Can't imagine it would work that well in the long term."
"Yeah," said Marty, "that's more or less the way I see it. Like, no one will vote her out right away because she's not in an alliance and therefore not an immediate threat, but after that it's her against the final two allied guys."
"Can't she just kill and eat one of them?" asked Sebastian.
"Apparently the producers have stated that killing someone when they're down to the final three will be an instant disqualification," said Eric. "Even if it got down to the final four and she started killing people, she can only kill one of them without being disqualified. She'd need to kill two people at exactly the same time, and that's when the numbers starts to work against her."
"It's a tough one, all right," said Sebastian. "Still, it's nice to see different strategies tried." He pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket, out of which he pulled a sandwich and started chowing down."
"Yo, what the hell?" asked Erik. "Is that a tuna sandwich? I can smell that all the way over here, even over Marty's sweat! It's disgusting!"
"Yeah, come on!" said Marty. "Who the hell pulls something like that out in public? Get out of here with your tuna sandwich eating you jackass!"
Sebastian left without finding out who got voted out in that week's tribal council.
"Almost there!" said Marty. "Oorah! Oorah! Oorah! Yep that does it."
"I'd ask you to finish me off," said Erik, "but after that tuna sandwich nonsense, I don't think I'm in the mood anymore."
"Good," said Marty, "I've gotta get back to work."
|# ¿ Feb 20, 2013 08:22|
I am going to write one of these stories this week, oorah.
|# ¿ Feb 26, 2013 06:07|
Ah yes 'lodge' a 'complaint', that's what we're calling it.
|# ¿ Mar 2, 2013 15:32|
Here is a story from 'Man Holding Goat.' 731 words.
Acting Goat in Charge of HR
Gonna taste that guy’s jacket.
“Maybe not the best time right now, Cuthbert,” said Archie.
“What’d he say?”
“He was just commenting on your jacket.”
“Ah, good eye on that goat. It’s a one of a kind, this jacket.” Robert took the jacket off and draped it over his seat back.
Ugliest jacket I’ve ever seen.
“It’s, uh, it’s certainly unique.”
“It’s a power jacket, that’s what it is. For people who want to be power players.” Robert paused and looked pointedly at Archie’s plain black jacket. “I guess your jacket’s fine if you’re happy projecting an aura of mediocrity.”
This guy’s a power tool, is what he is. Never mind taste, think I might eat his jacket.
“Uh, how about we see your presentation?”
“Right, so as you can see from this graph, our productivity is way up this quarter.”
I can’t see a drat thing from that graph.
“Cuthbert has raised an interesting point,” said Archie, “in that you don’t seem to have any labels on that graph.”
Robert glanced down at his presentation. “Oh! Ha ha, I’m so used to these things that I forget that not everyone is as experienced at reading them as I am. I’ll have an idiot’s guide sent over when I’m done. No offence of course, that’s just what we call them in house.”
Definitely eating the jacket. Don’t care how bad it tastes, it’s getting eaten.
“All right, so would I be right in inferring that the rest of the presentation is similarly unlabelled?”
Robert shrugged. “There’s one or two graphs that might not go over your head, I suppose. Let me see… ah yes, this one.”
That graph’s even more useless.
“There’s still no labels, I see.”
Robert looked down at the graph. “Yes, but I assumed that this one was so simple that even you… well, never mind.”
Can we skip to where I eat his jacket?
“Ah, we might skip to Cuthbert’s analysis, Rob, if that’s all right.”
“Sure, remind me again why this mangy goat is in this meeting.”
I don’t have mange. I do have a sudden hankering for ugly jacket.
“I can assure you, Rob, that Cuthbert is one hundred percent mange free. Cuthbert is in charge of human resources.”
And disposing of hideous articles of clothing.
“And dis- and that’s it actually. Cuthbert, which taste sheet will we go with today?”
“Taste sheet?” Robert looked puzzled.
“Helps him concentrate.” Archie took the fruit sheet out of his top drawer and passed it to Cuthbert, who started nibbling the edges.
Hmm. Apple. Nice. Bit of plum there.
“Is this gonna take long?” Robert asked.
Tomato. What the heck is that doing on a fruit sheet? Wait. I’m smelling desperation sweat. Also cigarettes.
“Are you a smoker, Rob?”
“Yeah, actually, mind if I have a smoke?” He pulled a cigarette out and put it to his lips.
Gross. But yeah, get rid of him.
“You’ll have to take that outside,” said Archie. “I think Cuthbert and I have some things to discuss.”
Robert wandered out the door, although Archie noticed he’d lit up before he got all the way out of the building.
“So what’s the deal, Cuthbert?”
He’s worried about something. I think there’s a reason he made his graphs hard to read. We need to run an internal audit on his project.
“You got all that from desperation sweat?”
Don’t doubt the nose.
“All right, I’ll get on it.”
Hmmm, he left his jacket here.
“Try to restrain yourself.”
Just get that audit done.
Archie nodded and wandered off to the audit team.
Robert didn’t even finish his cigarette before the audit turned up sufficient evidence for his dismissal. Archie didn’t tell him this; just thanked him for his presentation and nodded when Robert said he’d try to get around to sending out the ‘idiot’s guide’.
“Thanks,” said Archie, “no hurry.”
Robert took his jacket and his graphs and left.
“Glad to see you managed to hold back,” said Archie.
Yeah, his jacket smelled bad.
Do you want to know what it smelled like?
“Sure, why not.”
It smelled a little bit like someone had done a poo in all of the jacket’s pockets. Including the hidden pocket on the inside.
“That’s gross, dude.”
We can consider it his severance pay.
|# ¿ Mar 3, 2013 03:15|
Got it, thinking about your mother.
|# ¿ Mar 11, 2013 12:03|
That's a pool reference for you ultra-goony-goons ain't never left your basements.
What if my basement has a pool table and a gimp to play pool with me?
|# ¿ Mar 15, 2013 02:37|
Ca 980 words.
I take it this free version of Wordpad is also responsible for all the errors in bold, for your weird spacing issues, for your occasional unique spelling of RIchard's name, for your refusal to use quotation marks for speech...
This is the worst story I have read in the 'dome.
|# ¿ Mar 17, 2013 11:45|
”Voices were raised and those with shorter temper made threats of violence?” Also, not sure about this but I don’t think they are that into killing each other.
Bibletalk: the Gospels, pre-Jesus' resurrection, is pretty much full of the disciples absolutely missing the point of what Jesus is about and generally being idiots while Jesus repeatedly goes "Gosh you guys, have you not been listening to a single thing I've said?"
Also there's Matthew 26:51, Mark 14:47 and John 18:10 in which one of Jesus' followers cuts a dude's ear off when said dude is in a group of people who want to arrest Jesus.
Basically the disciples are a bunch of unrelenting screw ups until after their buddy comes back from death and they suddenly start 'getting it'.
EDIT: I didn't even write a story this week you smelly drunk.
Chairchucker fucked around with this message at 10:24 on Mar 24, 2013
|# ¿ Mar 24, 2013 10:07|
I like songs and am in.
Stupid question: Am I allowed to come in
Yes, regardless of all other factors.
Chairchucker fucked around with this message at 10:44 on Mar 26, 2013
|# ¿ Mar 26, 2013 10:40|
I love Jeza because that song is dope.
|# ¿ Mar 29, 2013 16:30|
Oh right, whoops. Shoddy hastily thrown together fanfic incoming, oorah.
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2013 14:15|
Yeah I dunno. Whatever, here it is.
This is the greatest song ever written about our national sport. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3TBPgXrPLc
“We’re the home team, how come we have to wear the clash jerseys?” Ben was still bare chested. He didn’t plan to put his jersey on until the last minute. With any luck, common sense would prevail and the visitors from down South would be forced to don an alternate strip.
“They don’t have a clash jersey,” said Kieran. “They don’t even have the funding for a home ground. That’s the only reason we’re playing at our ground.”
“Let ‘em go skins,” said Paul. “They can paint the numbers on.”
“You really want to try tackling half naked players?” asked Kieran. “I can tell you from experience that’s a difficult task.”
“Heh. I’m sure you can,” said Paul. “I’m sure you have lots of experience getting hands on with topless men.”
“They went skins last season, dude,” said Ben. “Weren’t you there?”
“Oh.” Paul thought about it for a moment. “Must’ve been that weekend I went up to the coast. How’d we go?”
“Got slaughtered,” said Ben. “It was wet and we couldn’t hold onto them at all.”
“Oh, right.” Paul picked up the clash jersey. “But anyway, did you catch what I was saying about you and topless men, Kieran?”
“Yep,” said Kieran. “It was subtle but I picked up on it.”
“It was a joke about you liking men,” said Paul. “A ‘gay’ joke, if you will.”
“Very witty,” said Kieran. “A regular Oscar Wilde.”
“What I’m saying,” said Paul, “is that you like co-”
“You’re kind of making a big deal of this,” said Ben. “Would that be a problem for you, if he were gay? If I was?”
“What?” said Paul. “Course not. It’s just a joke.”
“Yeah,” said Kieran, “that was a pretty good joke, but you know what was a really good joke? That one where you pissed yourself on field.”
“And you tried to make out like it was sweat,” said Ben, “but everyone knew what’d gone down.”
“You guys suck,” said Paul. He pulled the jersey on and headed for the locker room’s exit.
“Awww, don’t get dressed already,” said Kieran. “I was enjoying watching your glistening abs.”
“Go to hell.”
“Make sure you stop off at the dunny,” said Ben. Paul gave him a one finger reply as he left. “Seriously though, these jerseys suck,” said Ben, once he’d left.
Kieran shrugged. “Are they not fashionable enough?”
“Because we queers are all about fashion, right?”
Kieran laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ben pulled on the jersey. It itched, and smelled like it hadn’t been washed since its last use. “That tosser just got to me a bit.”
“C’mon, we’d better get out there. Let’s smash South, eh?”
“Yeah,” said Ben. He headed towards the exit. “Yeah, let’s give ‘em hell.”
|# ¿ Mar 31, 2013 15:03|
I dunno, someone's gonna be the ultimate loser, and if you're not that person, you'll be better than someone.
|# ¿ Apr 1, 2013 05:23|
Systran's story was really good; having said that, disqualify everyone who hates on Total Eclipse of the Heart IMO, that song owns.
|# ¿ Apr 2, 2013 10:53|
|# ¿ Nov 27, 2020 01:11|
Claiming this picture so hard don't anyone even try to take it I will cut you.
|# ¿ Apr 2, 2013 12:40|