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  • Locked thread
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.
Who Named That Tune?

To come up with the pool of songs for this week, the judges fired personal favorites at each other to see what stuck. While we figure out who'll face the horror of judging next round, why not take a shot at guessing who proposed what? You get one clue in the form of a tally:

Kaishai suggested twelve songs that made the list.
Bad Seafood suggested fourteen.
Chairchucker suggested nine.

I'll post the answers after the results. There aren't any prizes involved, other than the fun and satisfaction of knowing way too much about the tastes of random people on the Internet.

Interprompt Proper

If you'd rather write your time away, then give me 200 words on the theme of Dancing on the ceiling. Submissions close when results are in, no crits, no winners, etc. etc.


Aug 2, 2011

by XyloJW

Kaishai posted:

Submission deadline: Sunday, June 22, 11:59 pm USA Eastern

It's only 11:31 EST! You can't close this poo poo a half hour early, that ain't fair!

Revenge of the Drum-stick Knight part 3: Money Never Sleeps Twice, OR, "How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Just Write It An Hour Before The Deadline".
1234 words

Crimson tinted smoke rolled over neon, reaching up and enveloping the descending hovercraft like a great red hand pulling it down into the slums. The sign said 'Wild Bill's ethical slaughterhouse' the words lighting up the darkness that would otherwise drown the street. The sign also featured a giant pig on a plate, biting a bouquet of roses in it's mouth. The sign was new, though the building seemed dilapidated. The neon flashed as the pig winked, and Hesh found himself oddly hypnotized. On the inside of the hovercraft, a small tone much like a doorbell dinged as he descended, outside the craft blared a deafening tone to warn anyone below, the tone changed with the season and in the winter they did their best to imitate sleigh-bells. But no-once could mistake the flying metallic brick for Santa, not even in drowning in the snow of the silver white winter it flew through.

"How does it look?" The radio cracked loudly, this deep into the slums and all forms of communication start to fail. No towers and lot's of thick concrete, there were conspiracy theories online that said the government was blacking out areas intentionally but no-one took it seriously.

"It has a really bad sign." Hesh answered, eying the blizzard outside from the warmth of his craft.

"Like an omen?"

"No, a neon sign."

"It could still be an omen."

Hesh didn't answer. At the beginning, he considered it a dry hump of an investigation. Another family who couldn't afford abduction insurance, or more likely any form of crime insurance at all, but they could afford the failing security firm he worked for. Still, it was over-time, and working with 'less fortunate communities' afforded several government granted perks, like the free crime-insurance his family enjoyed. He glanced once more at the sign, it had begun to rain through the snow and raindrops on the roses dripped into a dark pool below. He thanked God his kids would have actual police officers looking for them if they ever disappeared.

"I'm gonna go in" He said into the radio. "If I find any of the missing kids I'll call"

"Don't die." The voice answered.

He opened the door and stepped out. Any street-rats nearby had probably fled when they saw him land, his craft was intentionally outfitted to look like a police vehicle, very few in the slums could read the words on the vehicle so the camouflage usually worked. Wild Geese Security. Somehow, nobody made the connection when they hired them to chase down someone.

The weather was viscous. The warm woolen mittens his daughter had made at her school may have been pink, but they were warm. He thought of the over-time, if it kept coming then he could keep her in a category six school, perhaps indefinitely if the prices didn't rise again.

As he approached the slaughterhouse he chastised himself for hoping the disappearances would keep coming. He had worked on the first wave, fifteen years ago when he was still a 'real' detective. The children from that case would all be adults by now if they had lived, and he still remembered each of their faces. They never found the bodies, but after the first twelve were taken, any taken after that were delivered back to the parents in brown paper packages tied up with string. Their best guess from the scraps, was that he was feeding them to his dogs.
The front door was locked.

As he circled around he saw what looked like a dumpster full of used bandages, but as he walked by he saw that it was blood-soaked torn up clothes. He peered over the lid and the pile seemed endless, none of the clothes were whole except for a few white dresses and blue satin sashes.

He reached up grabbing the looming lid of the bin, looking side to side knowing no-one was there to see, his heart was racing and suddenly it felt like he was back in time, fifteen years ago. call it in something inside him screamed. Just be calm and call it in.

As he slammed the lid closed, he found himself staring into a broken window.

On the other side, a man with fire in his eyes stood completely still.

Hesh pulled his gun and fired, but the man was already moving. The bullet barely grazed his arm as he darted to the side, about as painful as a bee-sting. Climbing onto the dumpster, Hesh threw himself forward and through the half-broken glass shouting for the man to stop. He could hear the footsteps descending away from him as he righted himself, wiping the snowflakes still on his nose and eyelashes away. He could barely see through the snow outside, but he only needed to glance a shadow to know what he was looking at. Call it in the voice rang out again, but now a new voice joined it. He's going to kill them and run. He spared himself half a heartbeat to decide, and then gave chase.

In the back, there was a stairwell leading into darkness. Hesh could hear the man fleeing with an inhuman speed. Racing through the building portraits of madness passed.

A kitchen filled with mountains of unwashed plates, like a great valley leading to an oven with a single bright copper kettle boiling on the stove.

An empty room across a floor of broken furniture, written on the wall in dark brown 'IT HURTS SO GOOD'.

A bathroom of broken mirrors, shards reflecting the glow of a single blinking light in a thousand directions.

And then, solid concrete leading even deeper.

When he finally made it to the bottom of the stairs, the building was silent. The stairwell opened up into a total void. For a moment he panicked, as if he might fall into a bottomless pit as he stepped into it. When he finally pulled out his flashlight, he discovered the walls, floors and ceiling had all been painted black. After a few steps, the stairwell dissipated, and he roamed a sea of darkness listening for screams or footsteps.

Then, in the ocean of darkness, a door.

Cream coloured ponies and cartoon kittens with giant whiskers, across a small lake of solid pink. As scanned the rest of the hall, he saw no other doors nearby, and though he dreaded to do so, he had to open it.

At first he thought it was fake, some trick, but the door was simply heavier than he had expected. It took both hands to pull it open.

He recognized her immediately, from the photos they had handed out. She was a lot older, but he knew it from just a glance. There was a chain around her neck, but it pooled beside her and must have been long enough for her to reach everywhere but the doorway. She's breathing the voices called in unison, and as he dragged the cone of light across the wall he began to see the rest, the ones they had never found.

At the center of the room was a red pool, with scraps of flesh strewn around, as realization dawned on him, he was thrown forwards, dropping his flashlight. On his hands and knees, sliding on fresh blood, Hesh could hear the door shutting behind him.

PootieTang fucked around with this message at 04:34 on Jun 23, 2014

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009

A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly

Gau posted:

Around the World Brawl: WeLandedOnTheMoon! vs. Broenheim

It's loving cultural sensitivity week for you two. Your stories will be set in a non-Western society where the characters and plot reflect the unique aspects of that culture. I want a story that could not be set or resolved anywhere else in the world. Your story shouldn't be about miscommunication between cultures, cultural stereotypes turning out to be true, or told from a Western perspective. Stories about Japan or any other fictional culture will be disqualified.

Word Limit: 2000. Use them well.
Due Date: Wednesday, 25 June 2014 at 1:37 PM Pacific Daylight Time.

So I wrote 2000 words on this thing, and was done yesterday night. Care to revise the due date, or should I go ahead and post now?

Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.
:siren: Week XCVIII Results: Music of the Night :siren:

The forums ought to win this week for doing the best job of horrifying us by miles. Fright and dread were thin on the ground when it came to the stories. Many of you wrote likable things that we enjoyed; the mean quality was high, but only a couple of entries made us fear for the main character--or fear her, as the case might be. On the other end of the spectrum, two of you missed horror altogether. The worst story of the bunch offered a protagonist whose death came as a blessed release from sentence fragments.

THE WINNER: Anomalous Blowout brought the goods with her heartwrenching story of a cursed creature driven to kill when she did not want to. This entry was tragedy as much as horror, if not more so. But the final line served up dread in spades and put a seal on her victory.

HONORABLE MENTIONS: All the judges agreed that crabrock wrote the other contender for the top slot. Chairchucker and Seafood had a more visceral reaction to it than I did, for some strange reason, but I appreciated being shown horrific actions in a manner that got their darkness across without devolving into gore porn. (Something everyone avoided, actually--good show!)

curlingiron turned in a well-written, haunting depiction of self-inflicted damnation that likewise stood out in the crowd.

THE LOSER: PoshAlligator. Sentence fragments. So many. The style. It can work, sometimes. Not here. The choppy rhythm and fractured structure of your prose made for tedious reading, and more tedium was something this not-at-all-horrific story of a walking tabula rasa could not afford.

DISHONORABLE MENTION: Drunk Nerds bemused all of us: where was the horror? Were we supposed to get goosebumps from the death of a jerkass caricature? Was Fritz even dead at the end? How much did we care? Not much, and that's what landed Mr. Nerds so close to the bottom.

Our thanks go to Tyrannosaurus for putting the final three entries in a Google document so the judges could read them. My crits will take a few days more, but they're in the works. Good luck, Anomalous Blowout, and may Something Awful hold together long enough for your round to run!

Kaishai fucked around with this message at 16:21 on Jun 30, 2014

Nov 18, 2003

I don't think you understand, Gau.

WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:

So I wrote 2000 words on this thing, and was done yesterday night. Care to revise the due date, or should I go ahead and post now?

Dude, just post it. With the forums going SNAFU, we're going to have to be flexible.

My brawl entry is finished and will be below this posthaste.

Edit: Changed my mind, Broenheim and WeLandedOnTheMoon you have until 1:37 THURSDAY PACIFIC to post your delicious stories for me to tear into pieces.

Gau fucked around with this message at 01:18 on Jun 26, 2014

Nov 18, 2003

I don't think you understand, Gau.
Brawl vs. CACHE CAB seriously I've had this ready since Sunday night do you know how difficult it was not to fiddle with it all week

A Reward for the Righteous (810 words)

The wind blew hot and dry across Isaac’s face, and God spoke to him - not as a booming voice in the sky, but as a quiet whisper in his heart. With eyes closed and lips animated in prayer, he heard his Father’s voice as the ineffable knowledge of what was right and wrong in this wicked world.

“Amen,” said Isaac. He was kneeling at the top of a knobby hill; sandy scrublands stretched in every direction, backed by increasingly impressive mountains. Isaac stood and pulled the hobble from his horse. Swinging a leg over, he gazed across the desert and saw a rising cloud of dust riding away at a hard run.

A man named Harcourt had shot two gamblers and a working woman in a tavern in Fort Hall. He’d stolen a horse and fled as fast as the nag would carry him. When Isaac rode out the next morning, he followed a steady trail leading south toward Utah. In Salt Lake, the badge on his vest wasn’t worth a hunk of tin.

Isaac sang as he spurred his thoroughbred on down the hill:

Well you may throw your rock and hide your hand,
Working in the dark against your fellow man.
But as sure as God made black and white
What's done in the dark will be brought to the light.

You can run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time…
Sooner or later, God will cut you down.

Harcourt nearly made the mountains before his horse lolled and fell over into the brush. Harcourt’s stout, bow-legged shadow walked away from the screaming mount. Isaac was surprised that the outlaw’s third-rate quarter had made it this far; his own horse was covered in foamy sweat. No longer in need of a hurry, Isaac reined her back to a walk.

The spent horse brought Isaac a to a moment of pause. Its breath came in ragged, painful gasps. Blood poured out from the spur-cuts on its flanks. Harcourt had left this poor animal to die in the hot sun when a single bullet would have ended its suffering. It was a monstrous creature indeed that would murder three people in cold blood, but left a stolen nag in agony to save a bullet.

Isaac cocked his pistol and took deliberate, slow aim at the creature’s head. The shot echoed off the foothills and across the flat. Harcourt started and began to sprint away.

Isaac spurred his horse into action. Like an avalanche gaining on an unfortunate traveler, the marshal rode the murderer down. Harcourt tried to juke and cut, but Isaac just circled around him. At ten paces, Isaac halted and brandished his revolver.

“Right there is just fine, Harcourt,” he called. “Get those hands up.”

Harcourt raised his palms next to his chest and turned around.

“All the way up,” said Isaac. He slid off the horse, his boots drawing up a puff of dust.

Harcourt’s scarred, wicked face twisted into a smile. “I’ve heard ‘bout you, lawman,” he said. “Says you ride hard, but you ain’t got guts to kill a man.”

“You do as I say,” Isaac said, “and we won’t have to find out.” The smile on Harcourt’s face faded, but didn’t disappear.

Isaac felt the pull of the Enemy on his soul. Some part of him wanted to shoot this man, to have it out here and now. Just a squeeze of the trigger and Isaac could drag the body back behind his horse, instead of escorting him back to Fort Hall for three days or more. He’d sign the papers, claim his reward, and no one would miss a thing.

It wouldn’t be justice, though. Isaac was a man of the law, but he was no judge. He had no God-given right to name himself executioner. The voice of God whispered: Thou shalt not kill.

Isaac pulled the hammer back. “Get those hands up right-”

Harcourt’s iron leapt out of his holster like a snake striking at the air. It was all impossibly fast; Isaac never heard the shot. There was a flash, and hot iron burned in his chest. Blood dripped from the hole in his heart as he fell to one knee. In the distance, his horse ran into the brush, spooked by the shot.

His crooked smile back in force, Harcourt took a few steps forward and placed his boot in the center of Isaac’s chest. “Thought so,” he said, pushing Isaac over his legs onto his back in the dirt. Harcourt laughed and spit, stomping off after Isaac’s horse.

Isaac’s breath was gone, but his voice mouthed a prayer. Even as his life faded and a murderer rode off on his horse, he said the words. They were the only justice he knew.

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009

A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly

Nothing to see here, just double posting.

Lily Catts
Oct 17, 2012

Show me the way to you
(Heavy Metal)
Week XCVII Crits for WeLandedOnTheMoon!, Jick Magger, V for Vegas, Kaishai, Nikaer Drekin, Surreptitious Muffin, Fumblemouse, sebmojo, Grizzled Patriarch, Tyrannosaurus

WeLandedOnTheMoon! - Making the Grade
Maggie does absolute poo poo in this story. It's like Bridgette is the real main character. I don't know what you were smoking when you interpreted the prompt--Maggie ditches her best friend to go with a bunch of bad influences to the prom, what the gently caress is up with that? She even doctors an exam, how is that a good deed? For a valedictorian she sure changes her mind quickly. It's not a bad story by far, but I don't smell a trace of honest goodness in here.

Jick Magger - The Mirage
Tight stuff. I have no major complaints. One thing that wasn't clear, though, was why they needed to cross the border. I still cared, nonetheless. I think you have a good eye for pacing.

V for Vegas - Ceiling Guy
The tale of either an altruistic man or someone slowly going insane. I can't tell if the ambiguous tone is deliberate or by accident (I truly wish for the former, so don't say a word). You have a good, off-beat hook. I think it's pretty believable for the main character to be flustered by Ceiling Guy, forgetting that Home Depot exists. I like your final paragraph, its breathlessness pulls off the "is he insane or not" ambiguity well. Adherence to the prompt is decent, but honestly I cared more for the light but somewhat depressing tone that this piece had. This isn't going to win anything but I'm glad to have read this story.

Kaishai - Writing on the Wall
I think this is a great story but I fought against it winning. I found the main character unsympathetic. I guess it boils down to what he's been doing in the story: making graffiti art. He's not doing it for others, he's only doing it for himself. What keeps him from making art elsewhere, in more wholesome mediums, though? Why can't he just walk away?

Everything I've read about him here suggests that he's some stuck-up artist who ~can't let go~ of things because of artistic pride or whatever. I also feel miserable that the gangsters would keep on defacing his work anyway. This would've nailed the prompt but the thing that the protagonist does is not altruistic at all--he's just a man fighting to stay sane every day of his life, and I'm depressed instead of uplifted.

Nikaer Drekin - Small Victories
So... you threw away an entire story just to write a punchline? What had Jeff been doing in the first place? Why did he get shot? Because his wife asked someone to, but gently caress that. Jeff worries about his wife for most of the story, but nothing's clear about him for me to latch on to. You did try, but your opening didn't help to pique genuine interest at all (it's just a barrel of what). This doesn't follow the prompt either.

Surreptitious Muffin - Constable Xinling lands the graveyard shift
I would have seriously considered this for the win, if you only followed your flash rule. Don't let anyone say there aren't consequences for ignoring those!

I kind of wished they broke into a fight, Kung Fu Hustle style, but them's the breaks. At first I was surprised that the protagonist didn't risk her life in the name of ~Justice~, but with such a gray world it's believable for her to choose to live and fight another day. I was sold on her indignation.

Fumblemouse - Getting his wings
I wasn't as bothered with this Vietnam War pastiche unlike the other judges. Colorful prose and language saves it from clichedom, but only by a hair's breadth. I think the ending is cliche and demotes the rest of the story.

sebmojo - Justice is a good machine
Competently-written, but I did not care for the story at all, for there was no one really worth caring for. Demagogues are almost always eye-rolling, and Saruk is barely a character and more of a camera to point at whatever's happening (bad things happen and they lose).

Grizzled Patriarch - Fresh Powder
Mostly pointless. Albert learns nothing and achieves nothing. He tries something and fucks up, the end. Like Fuschia tude's story, this one suffers because of the man vs nature conflict. Nature is not the best opponent for the prompt--the entries that were good worked because they were human-centric. (Seriously, read all HMs and the winning story). Your words are actually good but I don't care for the story at all.

Tyrannosaurus - O.G.
I liked this. The towel was a funny touch and it ties in to Juko's characterization as someone who cares for his nephew. The slang added a lot of color, too (and didn't befuddle, unlike that one cyberpunk story). My only complaint is that the ending's cheesy, the "keep studying" bit. It dampens an otherwise solid piece.

Mar 21, 2010
What's happening with brawl deadlines and poo poo? Especially the tandem brawl has been harder to coordinate with all the server issues. Can we shift all current brawl deadlines forward a week to compensate?

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009

A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly

Gau posted:

Dude, just post it. With the forums going SNAFU, we're going to have to be flexible.

My brawl entry is finished and will be below this posthaste.

Edit: Changed my mind, Broenheim and WeLandedOnTheMoon you have until 1:37 THURSDAY PACIFIC to post your delicious stories for me to tear into pieces.

The Kabaddi Raider’s Path
(~2000 words)

It started with the rich, hungry men, as most incredible things do, in their floor seats and silk shirts; then it spread to their discontent and beautiful wives, who only knew that something special was happening based on the sole occupation of their husband’s faces. Then it spread a few rows up, to the ignorant men more interested in those women than the showman who had just crossed the midfield line. In moments, the silence climbed to the starry top of Punjab stadium as Duleep Bhatt drew a single deep breath and eyed Omio, the man he would soon destroy.


They met in a trash pile during a time when Duleep and Omio’s fists were only slightly larger than the apricot pits and crumpled paper that they sorted. He didn’t know where Omio came from, but it didn’t matter, because the glass bulb was pristine. Its base was uncorroded, filament, perfect, and when the boys looked into its surface they saw each other, distended and warped with clenched fists. They were fighters.

Duleep was first to the prize, but unfortunate to hold the glass in the palm of his hand. Omio held the corkscrew bottom.

“Finders keepers!” Duleep shouted.

“Saw it first!” Omio demanded.

In the years that would follow, both would disagree about whether Duleep squeezed too hard, or whether Omio shoved the glass into his palm. Regardless, when the momentary melee was finished, Duleep was bleeding out. Omio wasn’t a murderer yet, but the child was scared and ran away like a child does.

Duleep collapsed into the pile of filth, and in the process found something sharp piercing the fragile skin of his back. By the time his father found him, the bleeding had slowed to a thick, syrupy, seeping. There was time for him. There was a time for a beating first.

Duleep “cost the family” with his, “reckless behavior,” his father told him nightly. So, for every day that Duleep didn’t dig, for every day he let his weakness contain him to the tin shack they occupied, he spent a night without food, and he spent the night under his father’s drunken fist.

Children grow quickly and perversely under a heavy hand, so one night, when his father had spent an especially long time in the Sonti hut before his nightly visit, Duleep left in the darkness.

The following days were wasted under the blistering sun as Duleep walked until he no longer recognized the buildings or faces dotting his path. He found an alley to sleep in, and managed to scavenge enough scraps to stay living from the rancid disposals of the houses nearby. At nights he would lay and think about Omio and his father, unsure of whom to blame more for his troubles. He finally settled on Omio, reasoning that he could have met his father’s expectations, even if they were unfair, if it hadn’t been for the evil child.

Duleep fantasized about what he would do if he ever saw Omio again.


Duleep spent those first weeks hungrier than he’d ever been before. One evening, he considered picking up the very trash he sorted through and eating it just to calm his raging gut. It was just as he eyed the plastic bits that Duleep could have sworn he saw Omio on the distance. So he gave chase, and the boy ran, and as Duleep chased the specter the throbbing in his back and wrist faded away. He was lost in the hunt, like a panther, and when the gangly beanpole tripped cutting a corner of the ramshackle houses too close, Duleep caught him.

He was swinging before his knees slammed into the rough dirt, and by the time the two stopped their slide, leaving a heavy trail dug into the caked mud, the boy’s blood was heavy on Duleep’s hand. He was going to take a fistful of the boys hair and ears, when he was shoved off by someone new.

Even through the mangled nose, Duleep could see the familial roots in the boy’s nose and jawline. His prey had a brother, much larger and older than Duleep. The bloody child ran to his guardian and held his hand. In a solo fight, it was clear that Duleep would leave the child and broken wreck, but in the company of the bigger and faster, he developed an unfounded confidence.

However, Duleep was not deterred; the sounds of the child’s squeals were still ringing in his ears. He took the stance that came naturally, and taking care to not let the two hinge shut on him like a trap, Duleep fired a bullet-kick to the brother’s ankle.
“Mader chod!” the brother hollered as he collapsed.

As quickly as he fired that first kick, Duleep sent a second punch to the little one.

“Children,” a heavyset man interjected, “the world is hard enough, don’t fight each other.” Duleep got in another good blow before the man grabbed him by the shoulder.


He called himself The Ploughman, “because,” he told Duleep, “I take little animals like you and train them to use their aggression. I’ll take you in, and put you to work, a man’s work. What do you say, little Paśu?” If it meant not sleeping in the alley anymore, Duleep would have sliced his thigh from hip to knee and paid The Ploughman in flesh.

Duleep soon found him paying with flesh in other ways, as The Ploughman trained the boy to work, and sweat, and he would have trained him to bleed as well, but he knew his little Paśu could do that already.

In his first fight, Duleep recoiled when thrown into the center of the crown, a tiny circular pit where the men would gamble and watch the fights. Paśu lost that first battle.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” The Ploughman said, “I bet on the other one.”

After more training, Duleep was fighting again. Again he lost, and again The Ploughman told his little Paśu that all was well.

Duleep swore that he would cause The Ploughman’s pocketbooks to bleed, and sure enough, he did during the very next fight, when he imagined that his opponent was little Omio. The Ploughman didn’t wager against him after that fight.


Paśu slammed the Sonti jug against the counter with a belch, another victim, another victory, another stack of rupees to line his mattress. Reaching as he would for a new bottle, Paśu wrapped a sinewy arm around the waist of one of the new girls. The new place he began to visit always had the best women, and Paśu liked the way this one’s rear end felt against his hard muscle. He pulled her onto his lap.

What a life little Paśu had grown for himself on the backs of his knotty, broken knuckles in this fertile world. Here, with a belly full of food, a bottle full of drink, and this beauty, his for the night, he was the ploughman.

It was grand, wasn’t it?

Paśu wondered what the old man was up to now that he was without him. Then he wondered if The Ploughman had regained his ability to walk yet. Paśu really went to town on the man’s legs when he discovered just how badly he was being screwed. Still, the man had discovered him and taught him how to turn his gifts into gold, so he stayed at the knees or lower, just rough enough to make sure the old man wouldn’t follow when Paśu left for Delhi. Had pussy always made Paśu this reflective? gently caress, he needed some more to drink.

She was a good lay, and Paśu had half expected to wake up still inside of her. She was far better than the others, he knew, despite the difficulty in comparing the blurred stable of physical conquests immediately afterwards. That was a just-started-drinking-activity, and what Paśu needed most was sleep.

He awoke on the floor, blanketed by the wet canvas of his gutted mattress. Every last rupee was gone. The kutti. What was her name again? Paśu thought for a moment, brushing aside the damp cloth. Then it came to him. It didn’t matter, it was early. She couldn’t have gone far.

The night was such a blur that Paśu found it even difficult to remember her face, only her covered areas remained in the fog of his addled brain. So Paśu did the only logical thing he could; he went back to that red light district and looked for the shapeliest rear end walking Garstin Bastion Road. After hours of searching, Paśu understood that he was walking a fool’s errand. Still, he continued to walk in until he reached the river Jamuna.

There, against the surface of the water like reflecting glass, Paśu’s vision caught sight of a baptism, men locked arm in arm in the water. He approached the men.

“Good afternoon,” Paśu said. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping that you men might be able to provide me with some spiritual guidance.”

One of the men spoke up with a laugh. “Well,” he said, “I’d be happy to instruct you in the six domains; however, I am not sure if the voice of a kabaddi raider is the most godly.” As he finished, one of the man’s partners, struck him with an open palm in a snakebite slap. Immediately, the raider and one of the men he held hands with tried to snatch up the offender, but the offender cut the water like a canoe and successfully escaped the pursuit.

Paśu began to leave the men with their game.

“You,” the raider called. “I owe you a slap for the one I was just given. Take off your nice shirt and shoes, and leave them on the river bank. You won’t need them.”

Paśu held his breath.


Duleep emerged from the water and knew that even in that short afternoon, he was one of them; he was a kabaddi man. In the days and weeks to follow, Duleep understood the call of the kabaddi. He was a natural. When he stepped across the half-court line, if Duleep was facing two defenders or less, he was guaranteed the point. He struggled against three; after all, three versus one is hardly a fair fight, but Duleep drank the challenge like the liquor he had long forgotten in the cupboards of his apartment. None of the women he chased were as difficult as a raider who had successfully made the tag and were steps away from getting him out. He stopped wearing the nice clothes he purchased; the delicate fabric couldn’t hold under the grip and pull of an attacker.

One evening, after the Delhi Dervish Kabaddi Raiders had secured another win, Duleep was met by an official man in official clothing. The India National Team needed him.

The Blissful State

Duleep steadied his trembling foot against the turf before starting the attack. Was it Omio? Was Omio Bangladeshi? The man had the darkness in Omio’s eyes and cheeks, but Duleep couldn’t be sure. Not after so long. It didn’t matter. There was a job to do.

Duleep danced to the man, initiating a game of will he or won’t he with his right and left feet. Duleep preferred to make contact with his foot, even if it meant being less able to escape the pursuit. The game lasted seconds, but the burning in his chest, the oxygen within fading away, made it feel like much longer.

He slapped out with his left, catching the man on his cheek. Duleep backed up and turned, but he was caught like a child running with stolen candy. In the moments it took for him to tumble to the sod, Duleep knew by the grip along his wrist that he had found a friend after a long journey. The impact caused the air to rush from his lungs. The game was over.

“Kabaddi. Kabaddi. Kabaddi,” he praised through his exhalation.

God Over Djinn
Jan 17, 2005

onwards and upwards

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

What's happening with brawl deadlines and poo poo? Especially the tandem brawl has been harder to coordinate with all the server issues. Can we shift all current brawl deadlines forward a week to compensate?

Sure. You/docbeard/Enten/Meeple have until 9:30 PM PST a week from tomorrow.

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006


It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.



Judges: A. Blowout, Djeser, curlingiron

There's more to setting a scene than just what it looks like, and people who aren't poo poo writers are already aware of that.

The established cultural wisdom is that human beings have five senses, a credit that goes all the way back to Aristotle. Modern scientists agree there are more than five--some say nine, some say up to 21!--but this is Thunderdome, not Sciencedome, so we're going with the five-sense model.

This week, I want stories with sensory depth. I want to smell the bloat off that carcass. I want to hear the disappointment in your protagonist's voice when his crush tells him she's already taking someone else to prom.

But wait, there's a twist!

One character in your story must be missing a sense or have an extra one.

Blindness? Deafness? Telepathy? The ability to sense temperature on his or her skin with incredible accuracy? Show me your characters who are sensory deficient or overburdened!

Sign-ups close on Friday, June 27 11:59pm Pacific Time USA
Submissions close on Sunday, June 29 11:59pm Pacific Time USA
Word count is a maximum of 900 words.

PM me if you'd like to judge and aren't a retard. I'm chucking the prompt up ASAP in the interest of conserving time due to the forums' fuckery. Word count this week is also somewhat shortened to take that into account.

Sensible Individuals and Senseless Shits
God Over Djinn
Sitting Here
Grizzled Patriarch
Kalyco :toxx:
D.O.G.O.G.B.Y.N. :toxx:
Schneider Heim
Ironic Twist :toxx:
Benny the Snake :toxx:

Anomalous Blowout fucked around with this message at 11:00 on Jun 28, 2014

Nov 18, 2003

I don't think you understand, Gau.
I object to being deemed "sensible" but am otherwise in.

Edit: much better

Gau fucked around with this message at 04:14 on Jun 26, 2014

May 16, 2009

Look! A teddybear doll!
It's soooo cute!


Aug 2, 2002




yeah i'll do this one

God Over Djinn
Jan 17, 2005

onwards and upwards
In & calling a shot: I'm going to write a poem for this.

Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Your blackness has gone on far too long Nethilia. There can only be one token black writer on these forums, and bitch, you gots to go!

Time for a brawl. We'll finally see who's the blackest!

Oct 17, 2012

Hullabalooza '96
Easily Depressed
Teenagers Edition

Mercedes posted:


Your blackness has gone on far too long Nethilia. There can only be one token black writer on these forums, and bitch, you gots to go!

Time for a brawl. We'll finally see who's the blackest!

Oh, so it's like that, after all our people have been through.

You talk big words, motherfucker, but can you write them? Survey says no. You're gonna need Black Jesus to save what's left of your scrawny rear end by the time I'm done with you.

Let the Black on Black Brawl commence.

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.
:siren: The Boys in Black and Blue :siren:

...And girls, I guess.

Mercedes and Nethilia. I've no doubt the two of you have overcome many years of adversity, the likes of which might spawn any number of hit lifetime dramas based on a true story. But you're not alone. Not anymore.

You know what I miss? White guy black guy buddy cop movies. The just don't make them anymore. Thanks Obama. To fill this yawning emptiness, the two of you are gonna treat me to your best white guy black guy buddy cop routines with the following caveat: one of your loose cannon public servants is to be dictated at the discretion of your opponent. You will each be allowed 124 characters and 24 hours from this post to define them. That's basically as long as a tweet. Your other character is up to you.

Aside from that, you've until July 4th to impress me and a whopping 2,000 words to impress me with. Additionally, here are a few questions I've premeditated that you might ask.

Do they have to be a white guy and a black guy specifically?

Do they have to be 'guys'?

Do they have to be human?

Go get 'em, champ.

Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


She's an ex-KGB, narcoleptic, NARC detective who is haunted by the brutal murder of her pet turtle. She takes poo poo from no one and often lets her imposing physique do the talking.

She's living on borrowed time.

Oct 17, 2012

Hullabalooza '96
Easily Depressed
Teenagers Edition


He's a financially unstable, smart-mouthed scandalized former SVU specialist from a bygone 50’s era he's not even a little bit nostalgic for.

Apr 12, 2006
You two are adorable.

Also- I'm in.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

These dentures won't stop me from tearing out jugulars in Thunderdome.


Jan 9, 2012

When SEO just isn't enough.
Yeah I've gotta be in.

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009

A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly

Signing up to post my 6th sense fan fiction.

Nov 13, 2012

Pain is inevitable.
Suffering is optional.
Thunderdome is forever.
I, too, am in.

Apr 4, 2013
In, despite the insanity of forum down-ness.

Looking to makeup the disappointment that started two weeks ago.
I think I only need to do this after two missed thunderdomes (protocol?), but I'm gonna do it now and just save everybody the time.

Feb 25, 2014

Gau posted:

Edit: Changed my mind, Broenheim and WeLandedOnTheMoon you have until 1:37 THURSDAY PACIFIC to post your delicious stories for me to tear into pieces.

Alright, here you go:

Wordcount: 1676

The Blood of an Emperor

The emperor’s life is above your own. Those words rang in Weng Zhou’s mind as the fires roared outside the carriage.

He brandished his knife and stood up. The emperor, calm as ever, pulled him down.

“Father, let me go!” Zhou said.

“Don’t be foolish. You’ll die if you go out there.”

“I’m not going to watch you die!” Zhou’s body trembled as he heard the clashing of blade outside.

“You’re inexperienced. If you step out there, you’ll be killed in an instant.”

“I don’t care! I’d rather die than watch you be killed!”

“You’re hardly fit to wield a blade. You dying here will accomplish nothing.” The emperor said.

“Then what do I do?”

“You run.”

Zhou’s heart stopped at the mention of leaving his father to the bandits.

“I can’t.”

“You must.” The emperor stood up and pulled off his insignia, “Take this and flee to the palace. It should not be more than a day’s travel south.”

Zhou hesitated to grab the ring, “No. I can’t do this.”

“Son, you have to do this. Not for me, but for the good of the people. You must take up the throne.”

“Father,” Zhou started, but the tears stopped him.

“Go now, before it is too late.”

“Ok,” Zhou wiped away the tears and took the ring. “Father. I love you.”

“I love you too, son.”
Zhou pressed his hand on the carriage door, and before leaving, took one final glance at the emperor. The emperor sat down, awaiting for the inevitable.

Zhou charged through the door and buried his head to protect himself from the flames. Grunts and screams pierced his ears as he fled quickly into the forest on the side of the road. The sound of cracking leaves followed him and he took a look back. Three or four men, swords drawn, chased after Zhou. He picked up speed.

A thunder clap sounded through the air and rain feel onto Zhou’s cheek. He prayed that the storm would save him.

Zhou stopped just before he feel into a raging river. He was trapped. Too far to jump and too strong to swim through. If he jumped in, he would surely drown.

The storm was not enough to stop the pursuers. They had him surrounded. Either die by the blade or by the river. Those were Zhou’s only choices.

Lightning then stroke behind the bandits and lit the forest into an inferno. Zhou and bandits watched the fires burn in awe.

“We must leave! This boy has control over the heavens themselves!” One of the more superstitious ones shouted.

“Silence! If we leave, Lady Feng will have our heads.” Some of the bandits inched closer to Zhou.

A spark in the sky caught Zhou’s attention. A great serpent swung down and landed between the boy and the bandits. The impact of dragon nearly sent Zhou falling into the river.

“Leave vile men, lest you wish to challenge a dragon?” The beast’s voice boomed.

The bandits knew better than to face such a foe and fled into the forest. They would rather endure the fury of the flames then the wrath of a dragon.

The dragon turned his head towards Zhou. “I am Shenlong, servant of the emperors. As the rightful heir, I offer you my services.”

Zhou could hardly believe that a dragon had appeared before him. He had heard legends, but none spoke of one coming to protect a man. “Noble dragon, thank you for your assistance. But I do not understand. Why have you come to help me when I am nothing more but a coward?”

“You are China’s true emperor. I am here to ensure that they are safe and that they maintain the throne.”

“Thank you Shenlong, but I cannot lead the people. I am hardly even a man. I am not fit to rule.”

“Ah, but you can lead.” Shenlong poked Zhou in the chest, “It is in your own blood, and if you do not, I fear that the peace your father worked so hard to create will end.”

“No. I don’t know the first thing about being a leader.”

“You must, or all of China will suffer.”

Zhou remembered the name the bandits spoke of. Lady Feng. She was ruthless and cunning, but he never thought anyone would betray his father like that.

“I can’t.” Zhou shouted.

“If you do not, this land will be plunged into chaos. Peace was finally returned. With me by your side, peace can be restored.”

“Ok. I’ll do it. For everyone else.”


Zhou pushed through the crowd of people. Lady Feng called for everyone to witness her coronation, and Zhou took the opportunity to reveal her treachery.

The clamor of the crowd revealed that Feng had shown herself. He quickened his pace and almost reached the front.

“All hail the new empress Feng, bringing forth the Feng dynasty. May her rule be long and prosperous.” A voice said.

The crowd bowed but Zhou stood tall. He saw her, dressed in a golden robe, staring at him.

“Why did you not bow to your new empress?” A guard shouted.

Multiple heads from the crowd looked up at the defiant Zhou.

“You are not my empress Feng. I am your emperor. I am Weng Zhou, son of Qin Zhou, and I am here to take back the throne you stole from my father.” Zhou raised his hand high with the ring. “And here is proof of my lineage.”

The crowd gasped but Feng only smiled. “Poor child. You father is not Qin, and you do not hold the blood of royalty. You are nothing more but an orphan, and adopted by Qin because he lacked an heir. Guards, take this fool away.”

“Blood does not give me the ability to lead. It is my actions.”

“Silence!” Feng shouted.

The guards clamored down the stairs with their weapons raised, but Zhou stood tall. A spark appeared in the sky, and Shenlong landed between Zhou and the guards. The crowd gasp at the sight of the dragon.

“Dragon, who do you serve?” Zhou asked, attempting to hide his shaking palms.

“I serve you, Weng Zhou. The true emperor.”

Feng stood there, mouth agape.

“Guards!” Zhou shouted with feigned confidence, “Take Lady Feng away. I shall decide her fate later.”

The guards moved towards Feng and she stood there silently as she was restrained. Zhou watched as she was moved deeper into the palace.

“Zhou,” Shenlong said, “The people.”

Zhou turned around and saw the gaze of hundreds of eyes locked on him. He froze.

“Do not be afraid. You are the true emperor” Shenlong whispered in Zhou’s ear.

Zhou took in a deep breath.

“I, Weng Zhou, son of Qin Zhou, am the emperor of China. I shall serve this land as best as I can.” Zhou said.

The crowd stood silent for a moment. Shenlong moved to the side of Zhou, and together they looked at the crowd. One by one, the people bowed to Zhou. Zhou tried desperately to stop the shaking, but a strike on his back got his attention. Shenlong grinned and Zhou look at the backs of those he now served and remembered what his father had done for them.


Zhou rushed to the open field with his burlap sack and jumped on Shenlong’s back.

“Are you sure you wish to do this?” Shenlong asked.

“Yes! Now go, before the guards realize what I’ve done.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere but here.”

Shenlong pushed off the ground and rose into the sky. Zhou looked back at the palace and saw it slowly fade away. They rode along in silence as they raised above the clouds.

“Zhou, this is extremely foolish. We can go back.” Shenlong broke the silence.

“No. I’m not fit to be the emperor. I found a worthy successor. He’s young, sure, but he’ll do a fine job.” Zhou said.

“This is incredibly selfish, think of what your father…”

Zhou interrupted the dragon, “My father wanted me to do what was best for the people and I’m doing that right now.”

The dragon sighed. They travelled for several hours before a great mountain came into sight.

“Shenlong, what is that?” Zhou asked, “I’ve never heard of a mountain so large.”

“Neither have I.”

“That seems like the perfect place.”

Shenlong found a shallow area to land and Zhou jumped into the deep snow. They looked across the horizon, but all they could see was clouds.

“It’s like we’re in the heavens themselves,” Zhou said.

They trekked along the rocky surface and Zhou found a cave to make his home. Shenlong lied down outside as Zhou created a fire and began preparing a makeshift bed out of leaves. He opened his burlap sack, and brought out a piece of parchment and ink and walked into the cold.

Shenlong watched as Zhou walked over to the ledge and sat down. Zhou focused on the paper and began painting, his brush strokes quick and strong.

“You left your duty to paint?” Shenlong said, his voice echoing in the mountain.


“You have a duty to your people, you have no right…”

Zhou interrupted the dragon once again. “You do not understand. I’m an orphan. I don’t have the blood of a ruler. All I want is to be free.” Zhou looked across the sky.

“You we’re supposed to rule!”

“I’m not a ruler, I’m just a kid. I just want to paint.”

“You cannot just run from your problems!” Shenlong’s voice echoed in the moauntains.

“Not alone, at least.” Zhou smiled at the dragon. “So, thanks. For everything.”

Shenlong laid back down and looked at the boy, “You were right. You are a coward.”

Zhou laughed, “Yeah. I am.”

Zhou continued to paint until the sun had fallen. Zhou grabbed his canvas and moved towards the cave.

“You can leave if you want. I’m not going anywhere.” Zhou said.

Shenlong looked towards the land below him. “I’ll stay here. I prefer the company of a friend.”

angel opportunity
Sep 7, 2004

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Dec 31, 2011

In, or my name's not Botched Wonder Showzen Reference. Also :toxx:ing for my previous failure.

Aug 2, 2011

by XyloJW
In also.

Lily Catts
Oct 17, 2012

Show me the way to you
(Heavy Metal)
I am in.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007
:siren: :siren: :siren: a small announcement :siren: :siren: :siren:

I'm told by people who can read those dumb roman letter-numbers that this is week 99. I'm also told that Bad Seafood has something special in mind for Thunderdome's prompt centennial.

The winner of week 99 will judge week 101.

More details after this week's submission deadline.

Ironic Twist
Aug 3, 2008

I'm bokeh, you're bokeh
In, :toxx: it up.

Jul 4, 2010

I find dead men rout
more easily.
Last week ended badly for me. As penance, I shall attempt a couple of line-by-lines for this week's stories if anyone wants 'em (or for last week's, if you insist) - first come, first served.

Ironic Twist
Aug 3, 2008

I'm bokeh, you're bokeh
I'll take one, just as extra incentive to submit.

Dec 5, 2003

I'm back from my trip, I'm engaged, and I'm in.

Tyrannosaurus, your crit will be up this weekend. Gau, you'll get exactly as much as you deserve.

No more. No less.

I'm watching you. :zoid:

Aug 2, 2002




Sitting Here posted:

:siren: :siren: :siren: a small announcement :siren: :siren: :siren:

I'm told by people who can read those dumb roman letter-numbers that this is week 99. I'm also told that Bad Seafood has something special in mind for Thunderdome's prompt centennial.

oh cool, Seadoof has something for us to do. I'll be sure to ignore that.


Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

crabrock posted:

oh cool, Seadoof has something for us to do. I'll be sure to ignore that.



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