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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
A serene moment at the lakeside

Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and poo poo. Throw some birds in there, too.

Willard was a dullard, though everybody was too scared to tell him. The man looked like the offspring of a septic tank and a flatbed truck. When Willard said 'jump', you said 'yes', and then you jumped. Otherwise, he might punch you very hard.

“Fuckeen,” said Willard. He stopped, stared out over the lack, flicked his tongue out into the crisp morning air, then smiled. “Fuckeen crack'ead oval office.”

His attendant mass nodded sagely, taking this wisdom from their truckstop Buddha deep into their hearts. Somebody gave a shrill giggle, and was quickly silenced. “Whatever you say, Will,” said somebody; male, whiny, a little too fast. More giggles, then an aggressive bout of silence.

They were gathered at the lakeside. Will had willed it. They had brought the things he asked: several young eucalyptus trees, a bucket of pigshit, a crate of almost-dead doves, and a 24 gauge shotgun. He had been very specific on all four counts.

“Fuckeen, fuckeen put those trees down around here. Pour the fuckeen bucket on 'em so they fuckeen grow faster.”

This order was carried out with all due haste and no small amount of tripping over each other. Apparently satisfied with the result, Willard nodded. “PULL,” he said. A dove was hurled out over the water. The brief moment between leaving the cage and being filled with lead shot was the happiest moment of its imbecile dove life: even better than that time it shat on Vladimir Putin at the UN.

“PULL,” said Willard again. This dove was less cooperative. It had seen the fate that had befallen its imbecile dove friend, and though it didn't fully understand it, it wanted no part of it. Much to the dove's indignation, it had little choice in the matter: a grinning acolyte grabbed it around its fat chest and hurled it through the air. It exploded into a ball of drifting white, like an avalanche in a pillow factory.

Their group looked at the downward drifting feathers, then at Will.

“Fuckeen,” said Willard, nodding, “Fuckeen Erogenous Beef can eat a dick.”

All in all, it was a good day.

[390 words]

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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
All my friends are chemicals

A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom.

It's the little things. Like, hands are really strange looking when you look at them, but not as strange looking as noses. Does anybody else see this? The mirror-me sees it, but he's also me, so he doesn't count. Man comes into the bathroom and starts going “aaaawooohukhukhuk” in the stall. I served him a steak earlier but he didn't want to eat it because it wasn't cooked enough. loving savage. I bet he burns his house down every night for warmth then dances in the ashes and builds it up again in the day. That's what savages do: I saw it on the TV.

His lady wife comes in and I'm like oooooooh gently caress because she's a lady and this isn't the ladies room and she's shouting about how she wants to jump his bones one last time and he's just going hukhukhuk like a cat about to make a bad on the carpet. What a weirdo. I bet he has hair on his underarms. She kicks down the door to the stall and I'm like oooooooh gently caress because if there's damage it comes outta our wages and she says “I love you,” and he says “I love you,” and they're all crying and it's weird because their noses and eyes get all big and moist. Noses are super weird, like the weirdest part of the body. Mine is all big too and itchy. It goes a hhnnnfffhnnnnffffhnnnfff when I sniff stuff.

“If I finish the steak,” he says, “that's it. It's the last thing we do together. I can't finish the steak, because that means it's really over.”

“You erogenous dick!” she says, “just eat the beef!”

[319 words]

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

sebmojo posted:

I'll take that.

Flash rule: No death, murder, violence or crime. Or divorce.
I'll take it.


Must include characters from your country's mythology.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

crabrock posted:

edit: :siren:Muffin BRAWL:siren:
I asked for a delay from DrK because of IRL crap, and she said it was due today, 500 words. I think. I didn't pay attention very well.
Wait, didn't she say Sunday? Was going to write it tomorrow after work.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
:siren: CRABRAWL :siren:

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

Muffin: Ekhidna

This was the divine and haughty Ekhidna, and half of her is a Nymphe with a fair face and eyes glancing, but the other half is a monstrous ophis, terrible, enormous and squirming and voracious, there in earth's secret places. For there she has her cave on the underside of a hollow rock, far from the immortal gods, and far from all mortals.

There the gods ordained her a fabulous home to live in which she keeps underground among the Arimoi, grisly Ekhidna, a Nymphe who never dies, and all her days she is ageless.

Mother of Monsters, the Eel of Tartarus, Queen of the Dark Forest, Serpent Womb. Consort to Typhon, the Rotting Lamprey was born from the residual scum left behind after from the Great Deluge.

All the corruptions of the earth: mandrake, dark myrrh, seaweed, swampy moss, black pepper, pimento, opoponax, tobacco absolute, and tarry clove.


As always, inspirations may be interpreted loosely, but not totally ignored. Word count is 800. Deadline is next Wednesday at 9pm PST.


Why a wise man dies under clear sky

She went under the earth without a sound. Funny that; how everybody is listening on the one day you're least equipped to speak. Listening hard, as if you're to open your eyes at any second, tell them they were wrong, and let the ache release its grip from their ribs and throats. On the day they buried her, not a sound was heard – not even birdsong.

Only, she didn't die, as such. As a germ of her soul fell through the pine, it took into itself a mouthful of dirt, and another. Greedy, feasting on worms, bones and char as the world turned in the far-and-away. The part of her that left her body behind called itself Ophiadne; the snake woman, for she coiled and uncoiled around the roots of the world, choking or giving breath as she saw fit, drinking deeply of the souls that fell down through the cracks. With their joys and sorrows, she strove to fill the hole the silence had left behind.

From her came others, shat out and taken on forms of their own, to suckle at that monstrous teat, and fail to grow strong. There was Jula; the Empty, Sawat; the Cavernous, Egritta; the Blasphemy of Stars. All grand names, struggling in the shadow of the snake woman, feeding on the scraps she left behind until they were little bone twists topped with gasping mouths, ribboned with their many grasping hands, staring eyeless and screaming tongueless against the tyranny of the mud and stone.

All starved, but were denied death. The tendrils of their dreams twitched through the veil and into the dreams of mortals, who woke screaming about a wasteland of souls, and a baroness who ruled the roots of the tree of life. A painter woke one morning unable to paint, and took his hand in a fit of rage. A poet, truly lost for words, cut out his own tongue. There were more, but they matter no more than raindrops on dirt, run together in a shallow trickle of lost souls, a million deep. The draught of gods, or something like them. A draught of which there is no cup deep enough, nor will there ever be.

When they feed, the sky weeps openly, as if a great flood could wash them away. If you would die in the rain, hold on. There are things worse than death, as Ophiadne herself learnt so long ago.




[400ish]

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
I live in a town dominated by a mud volcano that spews sulphorous ash out occasionally. When there's flecks of red-brown in the water, we don't drink. My excuse is that I caught something weird from (?) the water and was unconscious or delirious for most of Sunday afternoon. Apparently I wrote something for a brawl with Crabrock but I don't remember writing it.

I don't got no pussy seppo Thanksgiving bullshit excuse, but I did have a whole lot of unexpected heavy metals in my bloodstream. That's pretty loving metal, and I won't apologise for it.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
Free opening line to whoever grabs it first:

"They call me Hurricane Harry, because where-ever I go
I destroy homes and get bitches wet."

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

sebmojo posted:

Extra points if you make it a drawing room comedy set in the Regency period.
busted the word count, not quite the right setting, but screw you if you're that picky.



Fiat iustitia, et pereat mundus

"Well I hear that he wrestled a leopard with his bare hands, and will be mounting its head above the fireplace tonight," said Frauline Litz, the writer, trying to look coy and failing miserably.

"Leopards come from the Americas, dear," said Willheim, whose failure to marry the drat woman already was all the talk of Vienna. The only thing more over-discussed in certain social circles was the return of dashing Captain Reinholdt from the jungles of Darkest Africa. His correspondence had grown intermittent and strange, stopping altogether last June. The solicitor had been ready to pronounce the man dead, until Reinholdt's sudden appearance at a tea-den in Marrakesh. The captain had been pale and badly injured, rambling about a vast treasure he had found deep within the Belgian territories. He had been taken the household of a Frenchman jeweler named Reynard, who arranged passage back to Austria on the promise of treasure, and an extortionate fee besides.

"Well, I didn't know that!" squealed Frauline Litz. Madame LaRouche, a debutante from Alsace, rolled her eyes. "Perhaps you should write a book about all the things you don't know, cherie," she said, "though one would be hard-pressed to pick it from the rest."

The assembled men tittered, then had the decency to look embarrassed. Such poor manners might be acceptable in Paris, but not here. Frauline Litz ruffled in her overpriced dressed, looking for all the world like a tropical bird about to take flight. "Why-" she began.

The tiny creak of the door defied the science of sound; filling the room, turning every head. It sounded like a buried coffin coming open. The assembled gentry felt the room become impossibly humid. They smelt oranges, and spices, and decay, then tried to pretend they hadn't. A cane clicked against the marble tiles, then a body appeared through the gap. Captain Gustavus Reinholdt, formerly of the 3rd Royal Hussars, less Dashing now than Lurching, opened his mouth to speak.

"Meat," he said. "There is much meat, though little of it eaten."

The crowd laughed. What a wonderful joke! They swept forward to pat the man on the back, to give him tokens of affection, to ask him impertinent questions about the wiles of savage girls.

"STOP," he cried. It would be more possible to disobey the pull of the moon. "Stop," he said again. "The worm walks in the tomb of meat but there is noise and noise and noise. We have journeyed long amongst stars, and now we may journey no further than the bone-struts may take us. Why does the meat walk? The meat pumps, sluices: free us from this prison."

"Well," said a wag in the crowd, "if Vienna is a prison, then London must be an oubliette!"

and again, they all laughed at the dashing Captain's wonderful joke. The matronly wife of some diplomat grabbed Reinholdt by the arm and swept him onto the dancefloor. "Now, Captain, you simply must dance with my daughter."

The waltz twirled, and let it be noted that Captain Reinholdt wept openly as he danced. Such a joy, to return to civilised society at last!

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
What am I, chopped liver? I outwrote both of you dumb pricks.


So what if I bent the rules: rules are for pussies. You're just sad you didn't do it first.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
Ug ug motherfucker. I found a place on the beach with free wifi and I'm gonna crush some skulls for the last 'Dome of 2013.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
It turns out there's no hard-and-fast definition for science fiction, so I went with this one:

Isaac Asimov, 1975 posted:

Science fiction can be defined as that branch of literature which deals with the reaction of human beings to changes in science and technology.

The Spinning Blade of Doom

Fela was the most beautiful girl in the tribe. It was only fitting that Bok, the brave, would court her. While Bok was out in the field searching for flowers, the Strange Thing fell from a maelstrom in the sky.

It was a big square rock with four wheels and the shapes “LAWNCO SUPERMOWER” painted on. It had two long branches pointing up diagonally, and a third branch strung between them at the top. These branches were not wood but lustrous beetleshell. Halfway up the righthand branch was a lump, and on it were painted three pictures: a red mountain, a turtle, and a rabbit. The rabbit was at the bottom of the mountain, and the turtle at the top. A black stone sat alongside the mountain, and could be moved up and down to meet the turtle, or the rabbit.

“The rabbit,” reasoned Bok, who was somewhat of a philosopher, “must make the big rock go fast but squishy. The turtle must make the big rock go strong but slow.”

Not wanting to squish his new prize, Bok put the stone onto turtle and wheeled the device back to his tribe.

All were impressed by the big rock, except Nuggtugg the Shaman. He waved his god-thing-stick and said “such rocks have I seen before. They mean doom upon us! It is not our place to toy with such matters,” but he was ignored, because he said that about everything. Narry a day passed that Nuggtugg did not declare a stick, flower, or passing cloud the imminent doom of his tribe.

Fela was most impressed off all, and gave Bok a kiss for being so intelligent and brave. “What does the red stone do?” she asked. Red stone? None had noticed it, but now the men of the tribe began to poke it, until Bok gave the stone a great pull and it came away from the rest of the Strange Thing, attached to it by a length of dark vine. The Strange Thing roared like a sabercat! All the men jumped back except Bok, who was as fearless as his reputation spoke. Bok moved the stone to rabbit, and the roaring became high and annoying, like Oeenag, wife of Nuggtugg. He pushed the Strange Thing swiftly forward and all were awed as it devoured the grass and flowers beneath it.

“Less a turtlerabbit,” said Flan, the fool, “than a noisy cow!”

“Much like Oeenag, wife of Nuggtugg!” said Bok, to great amusement. It was then that Bok noticed a trail of blue flowers that the Strange Thing left behind it. Such a prize he needed to have for his lady. He reached down to grab them, then screamed! His hand was drawn into the whirring maw of the Strange Thing, and gobbled up! Blood fell on Fela and she fainted away, her lust vanishing like skyfire.

Nuggtugg grinned and proclaimed “thus, the punishment for playing God!”

He always did that.

[500 words exactly]

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
In the twilight of this thread, for us to go out in as classy a way as possible, I'm offering up a new poetry challenge:

Write a haiku about genitals. Not sex, just genitals. Bonus points for creative euphemisms.

No need to sign up, submissions close when the thread does. Per-person limit on entries is 3.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
I

My balls are dangly -
my prick is too. My rear end
makes warm summer breeze.

II

Her mighty axe wound
was too well bearded for me.
Autumn for my schlong.

III

My nips are harder
than my weiner today. The
winter comes, alone.

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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

sebmojo posted:

Hello "brawl queen".

Do not get too comfortable on your bed of skulls and bloody wire. I am coming for you.
Speaking of, my first act of the new thread will be to challenge yourself to a brawl. After I've eaten you, it's Sitting Here, then EBeef, than Kaishai.


Better watch yo poo poo.

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