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In. And imma' win. Drinking gin.
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Jan 4, 2014 03:03
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 03:25 |
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Brother's Keeper (1250 words) From the street, the dirty row house looked abandoned; cracked brick and boarded windows covered in graffiti. Still, the signs of life were obvious if you were from the Neighborhood. An upturned plastic wheel cap filled with stubbed cigarette butts sitting on the front steps. Wadded McDonald’s wrappers on the sidewalk. Empty little glass vials lying beside their discarded multicolored plastic tops. The front door opened with a groan on its busted hinges. It stuck as Reggie pushed it open, forcing him to squeeze through the narrow gap. It was cold in the house, and even with the door shut behind him, he could see his breath clouding in the gloomy dark. He let his eyes adjust to the dim; there was a light switch beside him, he didn’t reach for it. If the heat was gone, the lights were too. “Reggie? That you?” a raspy voice asked from the dark as Reggie walked to the kitchen. A figure stirred there at the edge of the room, lifting itself up off the battered couch that comprised the only furniture in the room. “Yeah, it’s me Ma.” “Where you been, boy?” she asked angrily, sitting up on the couch. “I ain’t seen you in…in…” “Two days, Ma.” “Two drat days. Don’t you know your little brothers and sisters been hungry? You the biggest, you supposed to be the man of the house and you just off fuckin’ around, not caring about me or your family or nothing!” She grabbed something off the couch cushion and hurled it at him in a fit of impotent rage. The little glass vial bounced harmlessly off his chest to shatter on the slate floor. She fell back against the couch, tired by even that little exertion. “Where the hell you been, boy?” Reggie bit back his anger. “I been at the hospital, Ma. With Jimmy.” She clucked her tongue. “That fool boy, putting himself in the hospital like that. All five years since I brought him into this world I been slapping him around trying to get him to act right, but he just don’t learn. Told him to stay out of the kitchen when I was working, but Jimmy never had no sense. When he coming back? If I lose money off my check because he ain’t in my care I’ll put him right back in the hospital.” Reggie felt himself shaking, but it was no longer from the freezing cold of the room. He didn’t respond to her, afraid of what he might say, what he might do. She looked at him blankly, only the faintest bits of comprehension in her tired eyes. Her dirty black hair was shot through with harsh streaks of greyish white, and her face was lined with the road map of a hard life full of city miles. She was only sixteen years older than him, barely forty, but she looked closer to sixty. He used to feel pity when he looked at her, but now there was only anger. To him, the healthy, caring woman of his early childhood was gone, slowly siphoned off into those little glass vials. The ragged scarecrow in front of him now was a stranger. “Hey Reggie, you have anything for your poor momma?” she asked, forgetting about Jimmy. “This cold makes my bones hurt, it’d be real nice if I could have something to warm me up a bit.” Her eyes glistened wet and hopeful as she stared up at him. Reggie fished in his coat pocket for the lone vial there, the one with the black plastic top that he’d made special himself. He tossed it into her lap and turned to walk to the kids’ room. Behind him, he could hear her scrabbling, popping the top off and flicking on her lighter. The kids’ room had a window set in the wall, but the view was blocked two feet out by a brick wall. All the windows in the Neighborhood were like that, you could never see further than the walls of the next building. The kids were huddled together, four of them, on one lone mattress, packed together under a ratty blanket to keep warm. He stood there watching them for a moment, envious of their temporary serenity. The oldest, fourteen year old Kayla, stirred as he stood there, blinking rapidly as she swam back into consciousness. She smiled as she recognized him. “Reggie!” she yelped excitedly. He shushed her, pointing to the sleeping ones beside her, and she lowered her voice. “We missed you, momma’s been all lovely since Jimmy’s accident. Just been getting high and talking about how she won’t let the state take us.” She shrugged. “Don’t know what she’s worried about, they ain’t sent no workers out to even check on us. Is Jimmy better? He coming home soon?” He leaned down and ruffled her hair. “We gonna go see him now, how about that little lady?” He pulled the keys from his pocket, handing them to her. “You get the young’ns in my car out front. I’m just gonna grab some of Jimmy’s things.” When they had gone and he was alone again in the room, he went over to the battered plastic bin of toys and fished out Jimmy’s old stuffed rabbit. It was torn in ten places, missing an ear and a leg. Reggie had always said that Jimmy loved things too hard, and the rabbit bore all the scars of that. His brain wasn’t right, hadn’t ever been right, probably from everything floating around in mom’s system when she’d been carrying him. He was slow in a lot of ways, one being that he couldn’t seem to comprehend that he could hurt things, could break things. Then there’d been that day in the kitchen. His mother had been cooking up vials for the neighborhood dealers; they gave her the ingredients, she put in the work and got a taste off the top. Then one day she’d gotten high mid-cook and left the boiling mess on the burner with Jimmy playing in the corner with his rabbit, blissfully unaware. His mom had gotten out in time when Kayla came home and found her, Jimmy hadn’t been as lucky. The paramedics said the phosphorous gas had burned away most of his lungs, popped all the little balloons inside your lungs that let you breathe. He’d only lasted a couple of days even with a ventilator. He’d died hacking up blood on the clean white hospital sheets. He left the empty room, the rabbit clutched in his left hand. He stepped over a pile of children’s clothes, hand-me-downs that Jimmy would never grow into now. His mother looked up at him as he walked by, needle still buried in her arm, empty black-top vial in her hand. Her nose was bleeding, and her face was marked with a dim look of realization of what was happening to her. She reached up, weakly grabbing his hand. “I was a good momma to you, wasn’t I Reggie?” she asked, tears in her eyes. “You ‘member when I used to sing you to sleep? Before your daddy left, when we still had the house?” “Yeah momma, yeah I do.” His voice caught in his throat. She coughed, scarlet speckles spattering her chin. “Sing me to sleep boy, can you do that for your momma?” Reggie sniffed, fighting back tears. Slowly, weakly he sang to her as she closed her eyes in the darkness, leaving him alone.
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Jan 6, 2014 05:42
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Thunderdome LXXV: He's Not Quite Dead As human beings, there are things that tie us all together. Universal experiences that tap into what it truly means to be human. The comfort we feel in the embrace of a loved one. The exhilaration we feel when newly in love. The respect we feel for Kanye West as a musician, and the disdain we feel for him as a person. But nothing is quite as universal as death. The fact that we die affects nearly every aspect of our lives, cultures, and shared history. Empires have been carved out of flailing attempts at immortality. Religions have been birthed from the ephemeral promises of eternal life. Throughout most of human history, power has been derived solely from one's ability to cause the deaths of others. Your story is going to be about a world without death. The mechanics of this aren't important, but if you think including them in your story makes it better then go nuts. I want you to give me a glimpse into a world where no one ever need fear death, and how this would redefine what it means to be human. You can focus on society at large or one schmuck going about his day or anything in between. Just so long as you present a compelling view of what it would mean if none could ever die. Otherwise, go nuts, be creative.  The Saddest Rhino's flashy new ruleThe Saddest Rhino posted:Do not give me worldbuilding poo poo as the entirety of your story; I'll make you want to live in a world without death. Judges: Me SurreptitiousMuffin (because his avatar reminds me of Chumlee from Pawn Stars) The Saddest Rhino (because I find the idea of a sad rhino funny) Sign-up Deadline: 11:59 pm, Friday the 10th, EST. Submission Deadline: 11:59 pm, Sunday the 12th, EST. Word Count: 1250 immortal words or less Lazarus wannabes: The Leper Colon V Peel Black Griffon Erogenous Beef (Self Flash-Rule - Story must be centered on the colonial tea trade.) JamieTheD No Longer Flaky petrol blue Chairchucker Play Mr_Wolf Captain Trips Docbeard Martello Schneider Heim ThirdEmperor God Over Djinn magnificent7 Meinberg Uranus Quidnose Djeser Sitting Here Zack_Gochuck Bigup DJ Ihmemies Rainbow Unicorn Chair Bird Entenzahn Barracuda Bang! Emy Tyrannosaurus QuoProQuid Baudolino Mercedes Nikaer Drekin V for Vegas Crabrock Seldom Posts Feste Amused Frog Guiness13 Agnostic Jihad WeLandedOnTheMoon! ThePopeOfFun El Diabolico DreadNite Kaishai sentientcarbon fucked around with this message at 10:06 on Jan 11, 2014 |
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Jan 7, 2014 11:23
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The Leper Colon V posted:Did someone really red-text you for saying you wanted offline play in Diablo 3? Yep. Diablo 3 ain't nothing to gently caress with, apparently. loving hell a lot of people are signing up. The crown of Thunderdome is heavy. And itchy. I'll do you for this, Roguelike. Side note, I don't have PM's because they're for prattling sissy boys. How do judges normally communicate? PM's? Morse code? ..---.-...-.--.---.-.-.--...-.-.-.---.-..-....-..., etc. EDIT: Roguelike posted:If This Story Was An X-Man It Would Be: I like this comparison more than the fact that I won. VVV Gracias sentientcarbon fucked around with this message at 00:44 on Jan 8, 2014 |
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Jan 8, 2014 00:41
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Zack_Gochuck posted:Is insect death OK? Sure, if it makes the story better. I'm solely interested in what happens to humans/humanity when they can't die, but animal death is allowable on a as-long-as-it-makes-the-story-not-suck basis. uranus posted:what about farts, can they die All we are is farts in the wind
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Jan 8, 2014 21:52
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Sign-ups closing in about 4 hours, thank loving god I expect art from you chucklefucks if I have to read drat near forty stories. I want a single, poignant tear of raw emotion for the human race to be rolling down my cheek at the end of every story. Or so help me God we'll hand out losertars with the casual ease of an old white man dropping jarring racial slurs in otherwise benign conversation.
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Jan 11, 2014 01:50
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Signup's done. With 48 motherfucking entrants. gently caress you guys, gently caress you all 
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Jan 11, 2014 10:08
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Aaaaaand that's the deadline. Submissions closed. Everyone go home, nothing to see here.
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Jan 13, 2014 06:14
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Attention ye wretched peasants! I have read your wretched dross. Judgement shall be passed on the morrow, when the sun is at it's peak. Or when my hangover wears off, whichever comes first.
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Jan 14, 2014 09:18
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Thunderdome 75 Judgement Thunderdome hit a milestone this week. For our 75th showdown, we had a record number of entries. Which means we also had a record amount of suck. I wanted you chumps to challenge my innermost beliefs on what it means to be human and instead I got wonky sci-fi exposition and stories with people who behave exactly the same only more XXXXtreme because lol death amirite? That said, some of you managed to get your poo poo together and write something that resonated if but for a brief moment of our fleeting lives. This week's winner is Peel, who gives us a subtle, finely crafted peek into what eternal love might really mean. It was a little dialog heavy, but sensitive and poignant, and miraculously managed a sci-fi setting without jizzing on about it forever. Honorable mentions go to the following chaps/chapettes: God Over Djinn for a beautiful, simply told story that cheekily skirts the rules. QuidProQuo for a tale that feels like it could've been pulled right out of The Canterbury Tales, with remarkably evocative descriptions (side note Quid, the other judges loved you and were it not for my scepter of judgement you probably would've won this week). Fumblemouse for a story that starts as a brilliant reversal of Genesis but then kinda falls apart midway through (seriously if your whole story had been as good as the first couple paragraphs, you would've won this week). And Seldom Posts for a horrifying story of how cheap life can become when it is infinite (also your story reminded me of that one level in Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines, which is always good) This week's jerky loser jerkface was No Longer Flaky. Humanity is changed in a deeply profound way and the only impacts are quicker car access and marginally more violent motorsports? Ok then. This wasn't horribly written, just kinda meh, but it utterly failed to strike any chord with me, alas. Special Achievement in 'The Story Was Bad But He Kept It Short So He Doesn't Lose': Feste Special Achievement in What The gently caress: Mercedes (seriously, was your beard story an entry for a brawl I didn't notice? So confused.) Peel, you're up. You poor bastard.
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Jan 14, 2014 19:21
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 03:25 |
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Crits are still on the way, just stupid busy with work and helping a friend move this week. Uh oh did I just cut my word count if I decide to go in this week? Oh no no ...what have I done
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Jan 15, 2014 17:12
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