|
In. I've needed an av for years. Let's rock a flash rule too
|
#
¿
Nov 6, 2013 15:24
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 03:29 |
|
|
Kaishai posted:Your wish for a challenge is granted, gambler. The flash rules are yours. Beautiful
|
|
#
¿
Nov 6, 2013 19:28
|
|
Flash Rule
|
Alright, finished, ready to upload. Is it fine if I just copy/paste it in this thread?
|
|
#
¿
Nov 6, 2013 21:49
|
|
|
I'm beginning to realize I'm not going to edit this any more than I already have, so here we go. LYSANDER, THE MIGHTY AXE 1055 words “I AM THE BLOOD OF GOD. I AM HEIR TO THE SKY.” God, what time was it? Mark looked at the clock: 6:47 am. “Yo Lyle, shut the gently caress up already!” “I WILL RAIN FIRE UPON YOUR HOMESTEADS! I WILL RAZE THE GROUND TO ASH! I AM LYSANDER THE MIGHTY AXE, DESCENDENT OF – “ “No, you’re Lyle the punk bitch.” A petulant scream rang out from the gaming room, then the slam of the door, then nothing but the muffled sound of nerd rap. His little brother might have quieted down, but the damage was done. Mark was awake. He rolled out of bed and made his way to the kitchen, head pounding from the night before. He was in no shape to perform any task requiring more than the most rudimentary of motor functions. He went to the fridge, thankful he had thought to make a BLT before heading to the bar last night. There was the tomato and lettuce for vitamins, bacon to feed the brain, and bread to soak up the toxins – a heavenly trifecta of a sandwich. Mark sauntered towards the fridge and opened the door. You could have heard the scream from halfway down the block. “Where the gently caress is my sandwich!” The door to the game room slammed open, revealing a fat, pimple faced fifteen-year-old boy wearing an MC Chris hoodie. The floor was strewn with empty bottles of Mountain Dew Code Red, chips, and discarded packets of pop rocks. Also Lyle’s lovely little girlfriend. She barely looked up from her Nintendo DS, and seeing nothing remarkable, turned her acne scarred face back to the Gameboy. “Gamer fuel, bro”, said Lysander the Mighty Axe. “Gotta keep these noobs in line, ya know?” He smiled, revealing teeth stained an artificial red. God, how he loved his precious pop rocks. He swiveled back to his screen and resumed his Clan chat. “Ok, Bartleby the Wise, now all we have to do is wait for a white mage to –“ Lyle was interrupted by a smack to the back of the head. “You little poo poo!” Mark screamed. “You always do this! I am sick and tired of your freeloading bullshit! I swear to god I’m going to wring your –“ Mark gasped, feeling a sharp pain in his side. “GET OFF OF HIM!” He turned to see a flurry of poorly dyed hair and Invader Zim paraphernalia stabbing him with a Jhonen Vasquez themed hairpin. Mark had forgotten about the she-beast lurking in the corner. What was her name again? Beth? It didn’t matter. He hurled her across the room, and pulled the pin out of his ribs. The little bitch had drawn blood. And then Mark was on the floor. His vision hazy, he saw his little brother holding an expensive replica of Gimli’s axe from the Lord of the Rings films, the hilt of which was slick with Mark’s blood. “I wonder if that’s where he got his name,” thought Mark, before descending into darkness. --- Mark awoke on the floor of a cold white room. It was barren and clinical in aesthetic. He looked around, and saw a dim light overhead, a locked door to his left. A waste bucket with a lid on it lay in the corner of the room. From somewhere, a loudspeaker boomed. “YOU WANT TO PLAY A GAME?” Mark shivered. “Lyle, this isn’t loving funny! I think I have a concussion, I need to go to the hospital!” “NO ONE STRIKES LYSANDER THE MIGHTY AXE AND GETS AWAY WITH IT! NOW – DO YOU WANT TO PLAY A GAME?” “Do I have a choice?” “LOLZ NO. BEHOLD THE ALTAR!” A pedestal rose from the ground a few feet in front of Mark. On it were two items Mark recognized well: Mountain Dew Code Red and Pop Rocks, two of the staples of Lyle’s diet. Mark felt his stomach grumble. “HERE’S THE GAME. I’VE NOTICED THAT A CERTAIN GREEN ARCHER NEEDS FOOD BADLY. I HAVE PROVIDED HIM WITH SUSTENANCE. YOU CAN EITHER STARVE OR FEAST, BUT HEED MY WARNING: DIRE CONSEQUENCES HAVE BEFALLEN THOSE WHO’VE SUBSISTED ON SUCH A DIET. HAVE FUN BROTHER. SQUEE.” Mark had heard tales of ruptured stomachs, kids rushed to the hospital from trying to impress their peers with a mentos/pepsi cocktail. But Pop Rocks were a completely different animal. A pressure buildup of such proportions would surely result in a gastrointestinal explosion. There had to be another way. He surveyed his surroundings. “Of course! The bucket! I can blast my way out of here!” He had no idea what the magnitude of such an explosion would be, only that it was especially dangerous in such a small enclosed room. Seeing no other option, Mark realized it was a risk he’d have to take. Head swirling, Mark dragged the poo poo bucket over to the door and removed the lid. The stench was overwhelming. “He’s done this before!” Mark realized. “Actually, come to think of it, that explains a lot.” Grabbing the volatile candy from the pedestal, Mark readied the Dew. He’d have one shot at this. It was now or never. He ripped the top of the packet off, took a deep breath, and poured the entire packet in. A look of desperation spread across his face. The candy was already reacting to the septic acids present in the bucket! He quickly emptied the soda into the bucket, slammed on the lid, propped it by the door and scrambled to the other side of the room. He waited, terrified. Nothing. A minute passed, and still there was nothing. Mark began to cry. The most important gamble of his life had panned out to nothing. “Maybe if I shake it”, he thought. Mark approached the bucket, and knelt down to jostle the contents. No sooner had he touched the sides of the receptacle then his entire vision became a sea of red and brown. The bucket erupted in his face, the lid spinning off and slicing the main artery in Mark’s neck, the contents of the bucket Pollock’ing the walls. The smell of saccharine and poo poo filled Mark’s nose as he bled out on the cold floor. The loud speaker crackled on to emanate the final words Mark would ever hear. “YOUR PRINCESS IS IN ANOTHER CASTLE, NOOB.” And then, there was nothing.
|
|
#
¿
Nov 9, 2013 05:37
|
|
|
In. I'll try and include less poo poo. (try)
|
|
#
¿
Nov 12, 2013 00:08
|
|
|
Farewell to Woodland Park 908 words “I can’t believe I flew back from New Orleans for this,” Sam said, grabbing the bolt cutters out of the trunk. “I still think it’s a horrible idea.” Sam and his brother walked briskly towards the park fence two blocks away. It was a stereotypical Seattle night, the stars obscured by the cloud cover he had known from his youth. He had hated the gloom back then; now it made him nostalgic. “Yeah, I know,” said Brian. “I was going to go on my own, but it just didn’t seem right. I’m glad you came back.” The brothers had not spoken in over a year. Sam had moved away from Washington to start up his own company, and the rent in New Orleans was still cheap enough to make things work. He had flourished while Brian remained at home with their parents. Resentments had bred like bacteria between the siblings, but there was one place where they had always had common ground. They stopped walking as they reached the back gate. They took a moment, taking in the sign they had passed underneath every summer in an infinite adolescence. The colors were faded, but the message was still clear: “Welcome to Woodland Park Zoo!” Even after years in disrepair, the entrance maintained the majesty they remembered from their youth. The young men approached the fence. Sam began to cut the metal lattice; Brian lit up a cigarette and watched. Sam stopped and looked at his brother. “You smoke now?” he asked. Brian shrugged his shoulders. “A lot changed since you migrated south.” Sam said nothing, moments later tossing the cutters aside. “Hey look, a new gate,” he said. “You ready?” Neither doubted it was a stupid thing to do, but their mutual need for closure took precedence over the fear of getting caught. One after another, they slipped inside the fence. The pair walked the grounds of the park in silence. Dried leaves crackled underneath awkward feet, a natural static playing background to the two soloists. No words were necessary, collected memories played out quietly among them. The pains of puberty, drinking up the be-a-man rhetoric of their father while blocking out the yelling that came from their parents bedroom. The inability to iterate the loneliness brought on through involuntary competition. That type of “get out of my room, I hate you” vitriol that exists only between two boys desperately vying for individuality under the same roof. It was easier to stay quiet and listen to the static. They came to a halt outside a building they both knew. “This is where it all began to fall apart,” Brian said. “They closed the Dark House first.” The Dark House, also known as the Nocturnal Center, was one of the most beloved features of the zoo. It was also the first thing to close when the economy shifted. “Yeah, I remember,” Sam said. “You loved this place so much. The fruit bats were always your thing.” Brian laughed. “First French kiss I ever had was in that building. You remember Melissa? Yeah, right in there, next to that big tank with all those night fish.” He sighed. “Condos. I can’t believe it. They’re trading our childhood for some loving condos.” They walked down past the monkey house towards the large animal enclosures. “You remember that time we saw that elephant take a piss and poo poo for like ten minutes?” asked Sam. “Oh God, yeah,” Brian laughed. “And then those kids asked their mom what he was doing? I could have died right then.” The brothers burst out laughing. “God, it’s been a while,” said Sam. “You want to sit down a sec?” They sat on opposite ends of a bench looking out over an empty field where the giraffes and zebras used to graze. The wind picked up slightly, and Sam fastened a button on his peacoat. Brian dug his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Minutes passed, gazing at lifeless landscape. Sam sensed his brother’s tension at words unsaid. “Look, just say it.” “You left,” Brian said. “You loving left. You’re the big man now, huh? Just leave your family and move to some loving town where nobody knows you?” “I knew it was going to be this,” Sam thought. “I left because I had to, ok? That house was toxic. I don’t know how you’re still able to live under that roof. It’s suffocating.“ “Whatever, I don’t care. You’re my big brother; you were supposed to be there and you weren’t, and it’s bullshit. That’s all.” Brian pulled out his cigarettes. “Look, I get it, I’m happy for you. It’s just hard.” “I get that.” Sam paused. “I wish you had come with me. You’d like it down there. You should visit.” “Yeah, maybe,” said Brian, exhaling cigarette smoke. “I want to, I just haven’t. Mom told me you got a dog.” Sam smiled. “You’d like him. He’s cuddly.” Sam looked down at his feet. “You mind if I bum one of those?” “I’m out,” said Brian. “Here,” he said, passing Sam his half finished cigarette. Sam took a drag for the first time since high school. They sat together, smoke drifting upwards into Seattle skies. When the ember died out, their breath took the place of smoke in the cold air. They looked out on the empty field from their childhood; a place once full of wild animals, so vivid and alive in their captivity. ----- EDIT: the italics from word did not transfer in the copy/paste Sweet_Joke_Nectar fucked around with this message at 06:05 on Nov 16, 2013 |
|
#
¿
Nov 16, 2013 03:25
|
|
|
Creepy ditty, pirate radioQuidnose posted:First and foremost: STOP. WRITING. ABOUT. GODDAMNED. FECES. Ugh fineeeeeee
|
|
#
¿
Nov 18, 2013 15:11
|
|
|
Bowing out. Life happened, and since I can't fall back on talking about poop... Sorry/You're welcome
|
|
#
¿
Nov 23, 2013 05:05
|
|
|
In so hard
|
|
#
¿
Dec 17, 2013 16:41
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 03:29 |
|
|
gently caress me, I'm moving and I forgot I don't get Internet at my new place until the 24th. Sorry for the premature "I'm in", bowing out. Not man enough to write this tall tale on my phone*, next time. *Assuming writing short stories on a cell is a masculine activity
|
|
#
¿
Dec 18, 2013 03:47
|
|