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im in, this is my first time doin' one of these.
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Jul 7, 2014 16:00
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you can fite a war w/ words and not weapons.... food 4 thought
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Jul 7, 2014 16:30
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i dont know what those stats are or why my name is pink, but i enjoy the mystery.
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Jul 8, 2014 01:05
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so as a total idiot, am i supposed to find out who im up against or am i up against the other team or what. if im against a person do i actually have to write about being against them or am i just judged against their story. is it kosher that this post isnt using question marks when it should. also chili garlic shrimp chips are really good, just thought i should let yall know about that.
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Jul 12, 2014 20:55
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i was specifically asking if there was supposed to be mention of the person i was fighting, not the team. yeesh!!! the details of how one is paired up against a person, and what that means, was vague. anime was right fucked around with this message at 22:05 on Jul 12, 2014 |
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Jul 12, 2014 22:02
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10 words mercedes I hope you’ve seen a doctor about your testicular elephantitis.
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Jul 13, 2014 04:31
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Muddy 941 words. Wind was the only resistance, the cool sting of sharp air her only foe. The only music her broken Walkman could play was country crickets, and the harvest moon was the only light in her eyes. Waves of corn rustled in the breeze. Twenty miles defeated, and only one more left before her heavy eyelids won. The sides of the road transitioned from farm to famine, night hued greens had turned to grays. Her scooter zipped past Turtle Pond and then the wooden gates of the dock. A jerk of the elbow moved her right around the corner, the smokehouse was now behind her. It was two more minutes to Wakefield Outpost. The bulky vehicle spat out a mechanical wheeze when it slowed. She kicked down the stand and stepped up to the outpost. Prominent white knuckles knocked a peculiar beat at the door. “When the Ock strikes thirteen, just lemme in Rudolph, only two people visit this dumpster!” There was a set of clicks, the door pushed open. “What’s up, New Bay?” Rudolph took his hand off the gun in his belt. “Mail’s in back, how long you here for?” “Enough with that dumb nickname already, call me Bailey, for gently caress’s sake. And probably four hours, need a nap, did runs up Dustbank all afternoon. You of all people should know help’s short and everyone’s gotta do their part,” Bailey kept her weight on her right leg. “Even you! Got a mailwoman that can’t even walk. C’mon in Bailey,” he stepped away from the entrance and extended his hand to offer all of what was inside. A table, some chairs, a sink, and a hot plate. “Oh gently caress off, I can walk, I just can’t fight,” she limped inside. “Everyone can fight, even if it’s with a scooter. Least your brother’s got enough working limbs for the front lines,” Rudolph sat down in front of a small bowl of yellow mush that sat lonely on the table. “Grits?” “Nah, I ate at the station, not hungry. And to hell with my stupid brother, shoulda sent me in his place anyway. Kid was still pissing his sheets till just five years ago. Hell, I was the one saving his rear end from getting beat in high school,” Bailey laughed. She closed and fastened all three locks at the door. Uneven steps were made over to the sink before she turned the water on. Her helmet was pulled off as Ice cold tap dribbled out. Bailey cupped her hands underneath and got enough of a puddle to drink from. She cupped again and used a little splash to rinse her face. Her bed was made of the wooden floor, her jacket, and crossed arms beneath her head. Sounds of drizzle started, the windows flashed white, and crackling came from miles away. “Night, Rudolph.” “Night, Bailey.” *** Bailey woke to the sound of thunder. She stretched her arms and crawled to a right leaning stand. A bowl of cold grits remained in Rudolph’s absence. The food was runny and flavorless, but breakfast at the station wasn’t for another few hours. Aside it was a note. Hey Bailey, Quit skipping your meals. -Rudolph Bailey smiled with a spoon in her mouth. She moved outside to the shed with the box in her hands and her helmet on. The box placed in the scooter basket, she gave it a good slap for good luck. With her jacket zipped as snug as it would get, she hopped on the scooter, kicked the stand, and turned the key. Careful treading was necessary through slop that was once dirt. Overworked tires slung mud as she struggled toward pavement. The scent of smoked fish caused her half empty stomach to growl as she turned the corner. She noticed the sign to Turtle Pond, and as her head returned to the full front, Bailey caught glimpse of something greenish brown. It moved. She jerked her scooter right and started to skid on wet road. Her front wheel rolled off pavement and hit mud, her back wheel threw itself aside. She let go of the gas, but the weight of the front dragged her down the steep hill. She stepped off the slow moving vehicle and tried to hold it still. The sudden jerk caused the scooter to stop, but the box flew forward and bounced twice. It landed in the flooded pond. Bailey kept weight on her right heel as she stomped and slid down the steep hill. “gently caress,” Bailey was knee deep in water while she picked the floating papers out one by one. Water caused the paper to stick together and the ink to run. The rain battered envelopes as she stuffed them into the uncovered box. Bailey salvaged what she could, whatever was in arm’s reach. She waded into deeper water to grab the last few remaining letters. Her pants were soaked to the thigh. The last one, a soaked card, was made out to Bailey Walters. She stuffed it in her jacket pocket. Bailey struggled to limp the water logged box up a less muddy part of the hill. Bailey dumped the water, separated the papers as best she could, and then threw the tarp back over the box. Her jacket hiked up and her shoulders arched forward to guard the envelope in her pocket from the heavens. Her thumbs and forefingers, caked with mud, peeled it open. The hint of sunlight, curtained by clouds, offered her just enough to read what few words remained legible. My dear Ms. Walters, Please accept my most personal regards and deepest sympathies on the recent… The rest was a blur.
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Jul 14, 2014 04:52
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i am genuinely surprised i did even close to that good was expecting to get creamed
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Jul 15, 2014 03:13
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ok in maybe this time ill write a character. (im assuming this is why crabrock gave me a brutally low score)
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Jul 15, 2014 05:06
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QuoProQuid posted:
holy fuk lol
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Jul 18, 2014 18:06
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Divine Dealer 1125 words. It wasn’t the best hit of Raziel’s life. He curled his fingers inward to invite and billow smoke into both mouth and nose. The only illumination, moonlight that filtered through curtains, made shadows off the sharp features of his face. The vapor started to rise through the sparsely furnished room. The cool scent of the subconscious, those exotic emotions hit Raziel. The fear of disappointing his parents, the uncertainty of how that girl felt about him. Every twist and turn was a new feeling to Raziel. Raziel’s middle finger and thumb pinched the bridge of his nose; his facial features scrunched. Two blinks. There was no telling the good hits from the bad beforehand, but tonight’s dreams had been especially thrilling. Those of young adults tended to be best, their imaginations were endless, untamed by the harshness of reality, but with enough information and emotional maturity to create variance between dreams. Thoughts of school and work were most common, and they rarely offered Raziel a proper high, but every so often there would be a gem. Every night now, he took all his chances on young adults, the ones that could still get him high. Tonight was nice, not great, but nice. When it was over he floated home. The white floor had no reaction to his steps, pillowed fluff beneath his feet. Home was comforting, but yet the door beckoned him to leave and seek dreams whenever he looked at it. He moved over to his coffee table, which had many papers scattered about. Raziel picked up the most prominent one on the top, a list of people with check marks next to their names. He had left three unchecked, which he promised himself he would take care of tomorrow. The paper was dated due three weeks ago, the date of expiration, in red, was tomorrow. He fell onto his couch and slept, his own dreams were disgusting and chaotic nightmares. Collages of his worst highs, the beatings Saint Peter gave him from letting in sinners, and the brain rotting boredom of repeating the same routine for centuries. He snored in sunlight. Every night was the same. Wait for the people of the world to sleep, enter their bedrooms, then inhale while standing above their heads. The dream fumes would sustain him another night, keep him going, they made sure he never gave up on his miserable existence. Sometimes he would just crawl into a corner and enjoy the high there, watching the vast darkness as his mind lit on fire. But now he had to make multiple invasions. They took over his wake. Now he preyed on night workers instead of working himself. Sometimes he would sleep in attics to make his commute less time consuming. The bridge between here and home took an hour too long. The next night he wandered into a pale green house with drought planters that hung off windowsills. A wicker rocking chair alone on the porch, it twitched in breeze. Through the door, the living room was piled with boxed magazines and furniture stacked on furniture. Trinkets of cats and useless knickknacks on every possible surface, save a twisted pathway through halls and rooms. He crept upstairs towards the first bedroom and turned the knob. The human snoring seemed especially unremarkable, a bland, tubby looking dimwit who slept in a twin bed. His room was littered with discarded building blocks, of transforming action figures. Plastic boxes piled high with old clothes and stuffed animals with ancient, dusty scents. Raziel stepped up to the bed. The dark room was barely lit, but a small night light near the corner guided him through the ruins of a childhood. Raziel was no monster, but listened to the one inside him. It told him to breathe the oncoming dream. It’ll be better than the last, it needs to be. He clutched his elbow and dug into skin with fingernails. He loomed further over the young man. Raziel inhaled, and he shook. Sickness tore through his gut. The young man was clearly in a deep sleep, but gave off nothing. Fury overtook Raziel. He had never felt a dream this weak, was he even getting a high from it anymore? No, there had to be another reason. Raziel looked around the room. Within three steps, something had crunched beneath his feet. A popsicle stick. Raziel knew what was blocking the dream. Get rid of it, get the hit, and go back to work. All he had to do was guide three more innocents and forgiven, see Saint Peter, and get a new list. Scoffed at, yelled at, but he would see another month of dreams. He had another three hours. He had time. He looked around the room. Raziel started with above the bed, taking careful consideration that it was most likely there. Nothing. He rustled the junk beneath the bed, only boxes and a lewd magazine. He searched on the desk, along all of the walls. He threw boxes around after he ripped out all of the the contents. Raziel swung open the closet door. Whatever happened to be inside was picked through and discarded into the sea of junk. He found it, the small thing had the craftsmanship of a child. It was flimsy, barely held together by white glue. The shoddy piece of craft was held high. With an enraged swing, he smashed the dream catcher on the floor, pieces scattered. The sole of his foot ground it to splinters. “Piece of-“ The young man stared right up at him, a closed eye rubbed with one hand, he clenched his blanket with the other. Raziel looked back with a low brow and tight blue eyes. Hide and sneak had ended. He recalled the orientation from Saint Peter, the indoctrination to the heavens, of what to do upon discovery. Raziel outstretched his wings far as they would go. Arms folded and his pearl white robe shifted. Intense pupils made direct contact with the young man’s own. “I apologize for waking you. I am your guardian angel,” he offered a solemn bow. His knees quaked, his gut felt as if it would pour out onto the floor below any second now. Satisfied with the response, the young man nodded and curled back into his blanket. “Mhmm. Yeah? Sure…” *** The young man dreamt the most vivid dreams of Raziel’s lifetime. The thought of his own guardian angel fueled intense swings of imagination and boundless creativity. Raziel inhaled in the corner, arms clutched around his knees. His wings started to crumble and his fingers turned to ash. He was blissful as the deadline passed for his work assignments. He was dust, lost in the filthy room. At 12:01 AM, Raziel was happy. 
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Jul 21, 2014 04:58
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in choosing: have you seen my trophy week 86 anime was right fucked around with this message at 03:49 on Jul 29, 2014 |
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Jul 29, 2014 00:26
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in yo
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Aug 13, 2014 06:58
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Are there literally no submissions yet? I don't want to read 30 terrible stories all in one day >:-[ i do mine on saturday night and then edit it when im not busy on sunday, sorry! 
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Aug 17, 2014 07:10
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:You would think the threat of being automatically disqualified would speed up the writing process for some people but nope what are ya gonna do sunset huh, so we've only got a few hours. nice foreshadowing.
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Aug 17, 2014 07:37
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Pest Control (1035 words). The city lay before them. Strange how a single star can steal the eye, and change the shape of the night. Lyn squinted, the soot of the windshield blurred orange sky. The sun lowered like Hamel’s brows. “376 Winston Boulevard, right bro?” Lyn turned her head to the passenger seat. Hamel was already out of the van. The door slammed. Lyn stepped out, her eyes rose along brown bricks to the peak of the small building. A decapitated gargoyle perched high above them, another stared across the river. A breeze kissed Lyn’s hair, tips tickled her chin. She stepped around towards the back of the van, beyond the No Pests Till Brooklyn logo on the side; it was funny until they had to take jobs in Park Slope. Hamel’s fingertips pressed firm against his forehead, eyes tight as he explained for the seventh time this week into the phone. “Yes, this will get rid of the rats. Yes, we’re serious, we don’t use poisons, they’ll be gone in thirty minutes or it’s free.” Lyn took out the giant trap from the rear, a long box with weight towards the back. Her knees buckled to carry it. Dents decorated the back of the contraption from when she swung it against hallway corners and furniture. She carried it with her like a pendulum. “You got my guitar?” Lyn looked up to Hamel, it was already over his shoulder. *** The smell of salts from many sources made Lyn’s nostrils itch. A laptop on the table played reruns of a sitcom she’d never watched. The laugh track chimed in at inappropriate times. “So the infestation is in the basement?” Hamel groaned. “Yup, rats. There’s a family nestled somewhere around here. Not too many, but the store bought traps aren’t working. Called you because you’re…” Terry scratched his stubble with long, thin fingers. “The cheapest, because our methods are unorthodox,” Hamel looked around. “The junk food, you should probably-” “It’s my roommate’s. He’ll uh, get rid of it.” Lyn peeked down the hall into the lone bedroom, a single bed. “Alright Lyn, just drop it and we’ll be out in thirty,” Hamel handed her the guitar from its case. Lyn leaned in to whisper to her brother. “Bet if we do this in under ten, you treat me to falafel when we’re done.” Hamel glared back as if she were a client, then gave a thumbs up as he rolled his eyes. Lyn placed the heavy trap on the floor. The front opened like a pet cage, the last quarter of the box walled off. She plugged the rear of the trap into the wall before Hamel handed her the guitar. Lyn plugged the guitar and the mic into the amp at the rear of the trap. A few diddles of the strings. She played a quick tune that echoed out the hollow front of the trap and through the floorboards. “We’re set.” From the front of the cage, a sweet folk tune rolled through the floors. It rose high and low, loud enough to sound through the building entirely. Hamel tapped his mic thrice. Oh rodent oh rat, oh rancid young beast. Come home come home, we have such a feast. A bounty so grand, raise nose and follow. Come sing with us, let’s leave before morrow. Terry’s eyes were tight, his finger pointed in fury towards Hamel. Hamel sighed, he lowered his mic and raised his hand. “Just hold on a minute,” Hamel explained. They played the song again. Terry’s patience lasted up to the word home this time. He stepped toward Hamel and smacked the microphone downward, Hamel backed off in response. Lyn’s notes went upward, the tempo increased. There was always a problem. Like tuning a guitar, one had to tune a song to a rodent’s tastes. Always adjustments to be made, they never came on the first calling. This is always when the client would get angry. Hamel’s face looked the same every time. The humid scent led Lyn’s nose around, she looked down, a pack of Star Chips laid on the table, along with rolled up papers. She tapped Hamel’s shoulder and pointed to the mess. Hamel’s attention was short lived. “Is this a prank? Is there a camera watching us? Are you trying to rip me off?” Terry kicked the trap. Hamel stepped between Terry and the box with open arms. “Just give us the thirty we asked. We wouldn’t still be in damned business if this didn’t work. It’s weird, trust me, but it gets the job done. Rats aren’t as dumb as you think, they don’t just follow the same drat tune. Unlike you, they have taste.” Terry opened his mouth as if to take a bite into a very tall sandwich, and then snapped it shut. His arms crossed as he crinkled a wrapper beneath his rear end on the couch. Hamel started to sing again, Lyn kept playing the tune. She spotted a poster on the far off bedroom wall. Pink Floyd. Inspiration took over, her chords became more intense and erratic. She started to play progressive rock. Soon, the squeak and patter of rodents marching created a beat to the song. Hamel sung the same lyrics as before, now spaced out, imitating the style of his sister. The two played a song that lured the pests towards the back of the trap. The rats chirped inside, and the concert ended when Hamel snapped the front of the trap shut. Terry’s face was flushed red as his now twice blinked eyes. Hamel had the crooked grin Lyn had seen so many times after a job well done. *** The post bar rush was tight, but the falafel was delicious. “I think the problem isn’t the method, it’s that you keep acting like an rear end. No one’s gonna spread the word if you’re not nice to clients,” Lyn chewed into a bite heavy on sauce. “It’s just frustrating, you know? No one understands our art,” Hamel sighed. “Yeah.” Lyn smiled. “I know.” They were in and out before the sky was blue. The sun rose on a new day, just like any other. It was done. Not well, but close enough.
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Aug 18, 2014 00:30
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oh i misread the word count gently caress me. oh well. i leave my mercy up to the thunderdome.
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Aug 18, 2014 00:32
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i wish to channel my failure into success this weekend but i am going to be gone, and now i have nothing to channel it into besides diet coke and reading. you dishonorable monsters. thanks for not DQing me tho. see yall in a week.
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Aug 19, 2014 04:10
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that major lazer sample is really good, and i enjoy this song a lot. thank you.
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Aug 19, 2014 06:45
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Club Sandwich posted:I know this is late, but sebmojo, your crits are phenomenal. Thanks a lot. they werent when i entered out of 3 entries, i only got 2 crits that were more than 3 sentences. i think i am cursed if i enter. also gonna try and enter next week since my weekends are slowing down 
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Sep 3, 2014 07:12
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Sitting Here posted:I will give you a full crit of the entry of your choice if you link it in the thread. http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=106 since i don't believe i got any form of criticism on it at all. i didn't mean to come across as whiny, i didn't really mind, i just thought it was a funny coincidence that the three weeks i entered the crits were exceptionally weak from what i could gather. that, or the crits were not posted in a way that was obvious, i scoured twice over to be sure when they happened. i appreciate it, btw, since i got a DM that week with zero explanation as to why (word limit? bad story? weaker prose and with my usual weaknesses? idk!) a full crit isnt necessary, just a quick one would be nice. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWJFfnHNOWI this song i received in place of a crit was nice SurreptitiousMuffin, i appreciate it dearly because i had it suck in my head for a week. anime was right fucked around with this message at 07:32 on Sep 3, 2014 |
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Sep 3, 2014 07:24
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cool, thanks. just a quick question then: how did you feel about the characterization? because i took a risk of sacrificing prose for it this time around (which was generally what i was praised for, good prose, bad content). the conflict and resolution were still weak, which is consistent now, and something i struggle with in 1000ish words.
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Sep 3, 2014 18:38
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His knobby nose knew, his knose. His knose knew if they had just put on deodorant, their exact brand of shampoo, down to the mix of floral scents. He could tell a cats color just by smelling it. His sense of smell sharper as a knife. The knobby knosed man knever let that get him down, his knowledge knew know bounds. He added the scent of gunpowder, of chemicals, to his knowledge base. He knew the difference between knitric acid and knitric oxide, and when he applied to the TSA, knothing on their application or interview made him knervous until it had ended, and then he was in the dark. For hours his stomach kneaded knots, his knees quaked. He knapped at his fingernails. Finally, his phone knelled at a knot so ideal hour. The knobby knosed man had a knack for that sort of thing, knowing it was time. He would become a defender of the country, a valiant warrior in the fight against knaves. “Hello, is this-” The man on the other end spoke. “This is Knorman, and god knows I've been waiting all knight.”
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Sep 8, 2014 06:11
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my thread dad can beat up your thread dad
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Sep 9, 2014 00:40
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ill win one day
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Sep 9, 2014 04:20
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i will become more powerful than you can even imagine, because my power will be my writing taking you places your mind could never, which is the point of writing, really.
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Sep 9, 2014 04:21
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in a perfect world i will not get dmed or lose this week
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Sep 9, 2014 05:02
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Noah posted:Nettle Man 102 bingo, for noah, since that week was weak.
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Sep 14, 2014 21:39
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Cops and Robbers - 1189 words Dust crackled at the windshield, the motor hummed a tune I didn’t know the lyrics to. David was in the back seat covered in an old blanket with a duffel for a pillow. My fingers slipped through some ash as they found the lighter. I pulled it up and lit my cigarette at the stop sign. My lungs filled with the richest feeling I’d had in decades, what was once worth two cases of Top Ramen. The bottom of my heel pressed the gas, gently, I didn’t want to wake the kid after all. We made it through the fine town of wherever we were between Mexico. We slipped into a city of husks and stalks along the way. More corn than cows, and more cows than folk. The new signs pointed to places I had never heard of. Fernston, Aaronpoint. The tedium of the scenery gave me an itchy finger. I flipped the radio on. -7 days ago. White male, 40, 6’2”, no visible scars or tattoos. If you see any suspicious behavior, please call the- Click. And so I said goodbye, the roadside waved, I kissed the sky, my new road paved. An old folk tune with the same four chords they all seemed to have these days. It made me miss the good music from when I was a kid. The orange of sky started to bleed into purple. My shoulders pushed back against the seat, and I put both hands on the wheel. “Hey, Butch?” David said from the back seat, a yawn followed. “It’s been two days since you promised. Can you get me a comic at the next gas station?” “Sure thing, I need some cigarettes anyway,” I kept my eyes firmly on the road. “It smells like smoke back here. Mrs. Jackson told me smoking is bad,” David sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Well, so is driving without a seatbelt. C’mon kid, put it on,” I rolled down the window. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” the buckle snapped. “Sorta.” *** The smell of poo poo and cut grass made me forget about the crickets. Sometimes the wood of the barn would creak in breeze. David was reading a comic in a thin beam of moonlight. I leaned up against the wall with the jacket I found in the trunk. It didn’t fit me, and made for bad pillow, and a worse blanket. David had been chatting every so often. I would just nod and agree. He went on about the comic he was reading. The cover had a policeman chasing a man in a black mask. He kept repeating the plot, and would interrupt himself with an “are you listening?” I nodded and ignored him. I thought about what I was going to do with him; leave him someplace safe if I made it to Mexico? He was probably my last line of defense if I got caught. He would be a hostage. I hoped it would never come to that, enough went wrong already. Simon was never good news from the get go. 12 years for some real hosed up poo poo, not even the pastor would look him in the eye. Didn’t know what kind of hosed up until we found David in the back of the car and we tried to get some rest in a parking lot. Now he’s got horseflies, mud, and an old tire for bunkmates instead. “Hey Butch…” the boy turned a page with a shaking hand. “I’ve been afraid to ask, but why did you shoot the other man you were with?” “He was a bad man, he tried to hurt you. I wouldn’t do that,” I turned my shoulder away from David, trying to get some sleep. “You hurt him though, with that gun. He’s dead, isn’t he?” “Sometimes you’ve got to hurt one person to save others.” “That doesn’t seem very fair.” “It isn’t. When I did it to Simon, well, it wasn’t going to be fair to you, or it wasn’t going to be fair to him. Only difference is you weren’t the one who was bad.” David clutched his blanket and tried to read the comic for the fifth time tonight. He fell asleep instead. I turned and looked up at the ceiling, my eyes fell. *** When people talk about the severity of pain, after an accident or after surgery, I hadn’t believed them until now. That wasn’t the part that woke me up though, as the sound had left me rather deaf. I didn’t even hear my stolen gun hit dirt. I could lip read the sorry from David, though. He ran off and, despite the metal in my gut, I followed him. My torso wanted to move slower than the rest of me, on account of kidney feeling like it had been ripped out. Sirens replaced the ring of my ear. A couple miles off or so, I reckoned. David darted out of the barn and moved through the ocean of stalks. I pushed through the tall fields before a cob corned me in the face. My toe caught a rock and I fell. When you scratch your knee and twist your ankle, you tend not to notice it; at least not when you’ve got a gut ache worse than the kind you get from eating meatloaf made by the fine folk of cell 41F. In retrospect, I don’t know why I did it, why I chased after the boy like he had an answer of some sort. Maybe he would reason with me, help me get away. Or maybe I’d get some medical help from the police, join 41F, and make sure the meatloaf wasn’t so sickening. Finally, after I shambled a bit further, I looked up. David was trembling in a tree. The leaves sounded like rattlesnakes when he moved a little forward, the branch shook beneath him. “That’s dangerous, you know, that isn’t gonna hold if you move forward,” the words fell out of me like the vomit that wanted to. “I’m not allowed to be near you.” “You’re a smart kid, you know that? So I gotta ask, why’d you shoot me?” I patted the front of my pocket for the pack of cigarettes. I must have dropped it. Sirens became louder, then stopped. The flash of red and blue flickered up on the far hill still, about twenty or so minutes away at a guess. “You’re a bad man. Like in the comic.” Every step forward hurts, really hurts. Oh well, just a couple more. There we go. Just a little turn on the good ankle, a little lower, and I’m sitting. My fingers are red, my shirt is stained. I look up, and the kid is there. He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look sad either, just giving me a blank stare. Honestly, I can’t tell if he’s terrified or curious. Well, I figure I’m not going anywhere for at least a little while. “Hey David, do me a favor,” I’m coughing and laughing in the same breath now. “Tell me how that comic ends again?”
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Sep 15, 2014 04:37
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i have stumbled back into my throne of mediocrity, hooray
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Sep 16, 2014 15:09
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i am offended you think i own dice, but i am in
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Sep 16, 2014 18:19
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Fanky Malloons posted:This is true. If a more evil beast exists in this dimension, I'm not aware of it. 4 and 1 im not sure i appreciate this attitude towards my aversion to dice, and number generation. my dad was a mathematician and well, i dont have fond memories of him.
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Sep 16, 2014 18:26
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this is the first average thing you've submitted to the thunderdome
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Sep 17, 2014 04:07
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i am nice and took 2 seconds to copy paste that into word, thats 1038 words (excluding title)
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Sep 20, 2014 19:55
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systran posted:I am failing to submit ill never be in the dome w/ u systran buddy
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Sep 22, 2014 03:23
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Flesh - 978 words. Rabbit had never worn heels before, his feet felt blistered and raw. At a thin creek, he took them off and lifted his dress so as not to get them filthy. When he arrived at the large cabin at the top of the hill, he clutched his painted nails into his palm to make a fist; Rabbit knocked on the door. Every year, on Maneater’s birthday, the village offered the creature their youngest adult as a sacrifice. If Maneater was not offered a gift, it threatened that it would eat the entire village. If they sent a man, the namesake was supposedly proven true, and they were never heard from again. If they sent a woman, she became Maneater’s new wife. Rabbit had grown rather accustomed to living over the course of 18 years. After the village had sent him up the hill, he smuggled a dress with him, among other things. He fancied himself up in the woods. The door opened and Rabbit’s shoulders greeted the height of the creature’s hips. Maneater had a maw like a bear. Eyes sharper than its already fearsome teeth; the creature spoke with a forked tongue. “It is a bit early for my offering, is it not?” Maneater growled, “And there is something odd about you.” Maneater’s jaws were nose hairs away from Rabbit’s neck. The creature sniffed, “Indeed, I have never had a wife with such fragrant hair. Please, come in.” Rabbit forced his eyes down, woven into a mat were the words Not Welcome. He stepped forward slowly. “And do not worry, despite my name, tonight we shall feast on elk,” Maneater said before it turned. The cabin’s halls were expansive, seemingly larger than the building itself. Before Rabbit was a stairwell and on each side were massive rooms dressed with stuffed game and fine furniture. Rugs with wild reds and deep blacks made walking in heels a newer experience. In the dining room there was a pale, lithe woman seated. She fidgeted with her dress before an empty plate. Maneater spoke, “This is my wife Ella. Please make yourself at home…” “Rabbit,” his high pitch cracked. “A fitting name, but no need to be so jumpy. Sit, dinner shall be ready soon.” Rabbit pulled a seat away from the table and sat next to Ella. Maneater walked on all fours toward the kitchen, next to the door rested a meat cleaver like a large axe. Maneater grabbed and dragged it into the kitchen. Squelches of meats and crunches of bones could be heard for minutes behind the closed door. “Is it truly going to marry me?” Rabbit said softly. “Doubtful,” Ella folded her hands in her lap, “you’re a fool to have tricked it. When it finds out after the wedding, it’ll eat the whole village,” Ella said. “And what of us?” “It ate its last wife before me,” her eyes dropped, “I was forced to… partake. I truly fear tomorrow, but have given up hope. I have tried running, tried killing the beast. It has stopped me every time. I imagine due to your trickery you shall be eaten as well.” Screeching wheels filled the silence that followed. A slaughtered creature chopped into massive chunks, raw as it was living, rested on a cart. “Eat,” Maneater dropped a piece on each plate, the ceramic made an odd clank against the tablecloth. “I am not hungry,” Ella said. “And what of you?” Maneater loomed in closer to Rabbit to look him in the eye. Rabbit shook his head back and forth. “I politely ask that you do not eat, to save food for those that are hungry.” Maneater consumed flesh like water consumed fire; in an instant, all that remained were scraps. In single bites it removed flesh from bone, and then swallowed those next. Blood dripped from his chin like a drunkard’s red wine. Finished, Maneater hobbled toward the stairs. “Join me in bed, Rabbit. We shall take care of the preparations tomorrow, as a good meal exhausts me. Ella, you may stay in the guest room until dinner tomorrow.” Footsteps turned to creaks from above; a door slammed. “How do you know when he’s truly asleep?” Rabbit looked at Ella. “When it snores, it sounds as if a hurricane is blowing within the house,” Ella said. He had not noticed the black bags beneath her eyes until now. Rabbit rose from his chair and stepped into the kitchen. Inside the room there were no counters, only corpses. Heads of beast and men hung from strings to preserve, mouths stuck gaping. The cleaver rested beside them. Rabbit grabbed the handle and dragged it; the weight strained him, but it was not unmanageable. He kicked off his heels at the foot of the stairs and waited. Ella watched him with a curious fear. A window rattled open. The halls were filled with gusts. Rabbit dragged the cleaver up the stairs, the clunk of metal against floor was silent in Maneater’s slumber. Where wind grew stronger, Rabbit followed with hair and dress billowing behind him. A door slammed open and shut. Rabbit waited until it flung open once more to enter. The powerful slam of wood against frame left them in growing moonlight. Rabbit could barely lift the cleaver over his head and his arms shook from strain. He swung with the aid of weight, and the blade severed Maneater’s head clean. Down feathers dusted the air and Rabbit’s dress was soaked red. The storm ceased, Maneater’s eyes were now dull. Rabbit dropped the cleaver and lifted the creature’s head by the hair. He descended the stairs. Ella was waiting at the front door. She smiled. The two ran off to the village with Maneater’s head in tow. The next day, and every year after, a marriage was held in celebration. The groom always wore a red dress.
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Sep 22, 2014 06:24
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competition looks good this week yall, may the loudest work of word flatulence win
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Sep 22, 2014 18:44
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i think crabrock would want me to quote this for him
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Sep 23, 2014 02:38
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Fanky Malloons posted:well i think i want you to shut the hell rear end up im sorry
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Sep 23, 2014 04:39
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| # ¿ Apr 28, 2024 12:58 |
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*pats the throne of mediocrity* hey crabrock there's room for one more.
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Sep 23, 2014 05:06
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