Oooh, I want in! It's my first time though, so pleas be gent- ahahaha, gently caress no, give me the flashiest rule you fuckers have got!
|# ¿ Mar 13, 2014 09:23|
|# ¿ Jun 17, 2019 13:16|
SUPER KL FLASHRULE GO: Write a story about a hantu tetek. Bonus points if you can work the haze into it somehow.
additional flash rule: Eternity is in love with the secretions of time.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess?
|# ¿ Mar 13, 2014 11:29|
gently caress, I keep running over the world limit, and I can't seem to prune poo poo without compromising story integrity. Is it still okay if I submit anyway? If not, I might as well take the Thunderdome loser avatar.
|# ¿ Mar 14, 2014 09:12|
Righto, here we go. Where do you guys get those sayings for the flash rules, if I may ask?
A Doctor For Mama (998 words)
Also, because I'm a rebel who's too cool for yo' rules
EDIT: Quotes for neatness.
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Mar 16, 2014 around 17:10
|# ¿ Mar 16, 2014 17:07|
The Wizard and his Bride (159 words)
There once was a bee,
So little was she,
But ambition she did have in spades.
When her temper was hot,
“No mere drone, I am not!”
She’d announce to hives in the glade.
And so a wizard did hear,
So astoundingly clear,
The plea of the bee in the shade.
“No more a drone you shall be,
I can do that, you see,
But there’s a price to be paid.”
“Thus my wife you shall be,
I’m so lonely, you see,”
The poor old wizard had said.
The bee heard his offer,
And her hand she did proffer,
She never thought of being betrayed,
But the wizard had plans,
He was an old man,
And he planned to get more than just laid.
His spell he did weave,
Shed his new bride’s bee sleeve,
Turned her into a blushing maid.
But the poor transformed lass,
Honey came from her rear end,
And the wizard held out toasted bread.
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Mar 18, 2014 around 05:45
|# ¿ Mar 18, 2014 05:24|
Me next, please. I want to know how I managed to survive the Thunderdome
|# ¿ Mar 18, 2014 07:22|
Time to roll dem bones again, I guess. Anyone want to flash me a rule?
|# ¿ Mar 18, 2014 08:25|
Okay, here's my Thunderdome entry!
EDIT: I hope you don't mind my interpretation of the flash rule (There must be a significant age discrepancy between your correspondents.)
Aaron's Burden (1189 words)
The room is dark, dusty. There's light from above, but I cannot see the source, only more darkness. There is a table, a screen upon it. It's the central focus of the unseen spotlight along with a chair, and he's there. “Good evening,” he said, the screen on the table flickering into life.
”What the hell-?!”
“I know why you're here.”
* * *
The dream- no, the nightmare- stuck in my mind. In it, I shot my ex-wife after leaving my kids with her for the weekend, because I knew, somehow, that she'd kill them. I couldn't stop thinking about it, didn't want to. We loved our kids- it was the only thing we could agree on. Even so, I made sure to hug them extra tight on Friday evening, feeling like an idiot the whole time.
On Monday, I recieved a phone call from the police.
The next time I dreamed, I did as it said.
* * *
”You're a murderer,” he told me. “Plain and simple.”
“I didn't have a choice!” I screamed at him. “You know that!”
“I do,” he said. “But I also know that it doesn't change anything.”
* * *
I fix my scope on her from the roof. She was young and pretty- too much for what she was doing. For what I was about to do. I couldn't put down the gun. I had no choice.
It was hard at firs- sometimes the person I killed wasn't even a criminal. I'd be allowed to live my life for a while, but sooner or later the consequences caught up. They were the brainwashed cultists who detonated the bombs. Her son's the school shooter. His financial misconduct bankrupted nations. And every time, I'd 'rewind' to the critical point- younger, wiser.
I take aim. Her haid was cut short, her makeup expertly applied. I twitch the scope- there, a plainclothes officer- no, two. More there. It didn't matter.
I pull the trigger, force myself to watch. She was- is, forever is- sixteen, remember that. I need to watch, need to remind myself of what I am.
I quickly go back inside. Hide the rifle in the janitor's closet. He was ex-law enforcement; that's his rifle. He was smart- he'd kill just one or two prostitutes before skipping states, using his knowledge against the police. I tried anonymous calls at first, but by the time the law started believing me, the killer would have moved on- worse, his elusiveness would inspire copycats. This was the fourth rewind, and by now I'd given up fighting back.
The girl down there though? She was doing research; her first serious role outside the popular tween comedy that had made her a star. The resulting manhunt would turn into a frenzy, but this would focus on how stupid he was attacking a girl anyone would have recognized up close. He would be mocked, vilified- a band's one-hit-wonder would have been about what an idiot he was.
I never got to undo that Friday evening. Eventually, I stopped hoping. Maybe that was the point.
* * *
”It doesn't get easier, knowing what will happen,” he said.
I nodded. “Might even be worse- most of these would have just slipped my radar.” My voice started rising. “Hell, I thought some of them were history, or I'd have died never knowing about them in the first loving place!”
I slumped against a wall, sat down sobbing. “Why the gently caress did anyone think I could do this?”
* * *
Getting out's always the same.
I leave her slowly bleeding to death. She will live long enough to beg passers by for help. Useless- nobody helps slaves, and her grieving husband would go on to give vital intelligence to the Union.
But that was later. Right now, I need to walk- just walk. My eyes grow heavy, my mind drowsy, everything hazy. I never see anything change, but I'd turn away and look back- there, a stone wall crawling with vines that were not there before. Turn back, forest has become jungle. At some point I fall asleep and dream again.
And then I wake up once more, two lives in my head- one, the life I was 'supposed' to have led up to this point, always alone. The other....
I look at the boy in the crib. He is my son- the me now, at least. But the Romans are coming, and my wife wants to ransom him for our survival. It will not last. If my people fight, they will find themselves better warriors than my wife gives them credit for. The Romans will conquer us, but they will respect us, instead of use them as slaves- slaves who will burn Rome to the ground, long before its golden age.
I pick him up, hear him coo. I kiss him on the forehead, put him back in.
He will not wake up.
Watch, drat you.
* * *
”You tell yourself sometimes that it's necessary,” he says sadly. “That someone has to do something. And you believe it.”
“I do,” I reply. “But that doesn't help. Never did.”
“Liar,” he says, smiling wanly.
* * *
It's not always bad.
This late in the war, the Nazis are scraping the barrel. Some of the train's guards are veterans of the Great War, finding kinship with their Fuhrer. Some are children, barely out of a schoolboy's uniform, drenched in Nazi propaganda. It doesn't matter, we are stopping this loving thing. Someone on my side falls, and we dive for cover.
I throw a grenade, and by sheer luck, it lands among the trees behind the machine gunners. They are inexperienced kids, laughing as they suppress us. Those the grenade doesn't take out are showered with splinters from behind, and I hear a literal squawk of pain. It's hilarious, and I'm laughing as we counterattack.
Train doors are thrown open. The escapees cry grateful tears. We lead them away into the forest.
The war's ending- many will live. It's bittersweet- I know I had killed one of them last week, twenty years from now- loving Six-Day War. But she was just one of hundreds- today, I lose myself in joy.
* * *
”Too few of them, though,” he said. I nodded. “Too far between.”
“I couldn't take it anymore,” I whispered, head down. “This really is the last dream,” we say together. Curiosity strikes me, and he answers, as I know he will.
“This recording's almost done,” the me displayed on the screen says. “It's set to erase itself afterwards. I'm sure you can redo it.” I look at the bony remnants in the seat. I touch them, and they crumble to dust. “We'll be here awhile,” he adds. “Or you will, at least; my time's up. Goodbye, Aaron.”
And with that, the recording stops. I look around the room. How many times have I come in here? Where- and when am I?
It doesn't matter, I realize. I just want it to end. There's only one thing to do.
I touch the screen, and a menu pops up. I press 'Record'.
“Good evening,” I say. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. “I know why you're here.”
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Mar 22, 2014 around 13:39
|# ¿ Mar 20, 2014 15:25|
drat, reading all that, I still can't believe I didn't get the losertar.
Anyway, just so we're clear, there's no penalty for submitting your Thunderdome entry early, is there?
|# ¿ Mar 22, 2014 04:20|
If you really want to improve your writing, you'll have to learn how to read someone else's work critically. It'll make you better at analyzing your own work, and you'll be helping someone else with theirs! It's a win-win.
This sounds like an amazing idea, thanks! For us just starting out on our writing, would you suggest we just look at the Thunderdome losers, or can we choose on our own? I won't be critting mine, obviously.
|# ¿ Mar 25, 2014 07:21|
Flash me, goons. I know you want to.
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Apr 2, 2014 around 01:33
|# ¿ Apr 2, 2014 01:18|
Is it possible to get a time extension, maybe an hour or two?
|# ¿ Apr 6, 2014 17:46|
Well poo poo. Guess I'm definitely on for the next Thunderdome then.
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 02:43|
In it to win it, or at least not flak out like a bloody loser.
|# ¿ Apr 10, 2014 15:35|
There once was a land,
Where honey and milk,
Flowed like water, among commonest ilk,
And a king most wise,
Ruled his land,
With a fair and even hand.
But dark days soon came to pass,
As so did the wise king,
And all the vultures circ'ling-
That's how all these ballads start, don't they? Of course, in the next verses the corrupt nobles will be fighting over the throne while some wise wizard or other takes the prince away to be raised by a loyal knight and the like. Lots of generalization and flowery rubbish, low on details because that just gets in the way. That's the way it should be, to be honest- people don't want to think, it's too hard.
I guess that's why the hardest thinking people are the fools, aren't they? You ever notice that? Kings and nobles get their heads chopped off, the common folk fight and die on the fields, even the bloody cows and chickens and cats get used up as field rations- but the fools and Punch-and-Judy lot keep going because everyone needs a good laugh. Maybe a little truth too.
I'm guessing that's what happened here. Thing is, nobles aren't stupid, else they wouldn't be nobles- no, don't laugh, it's true. Any noble who isn't sharp will soon find his line blunted. So forget that tit singing his arse off; all those songs end at the 'happily ever after', which never happens, does it? You ever wonder what happens during the 'ever after'?
It starts with a prince. Now, an advisor who's clever enough to take away and hide a prince while the other buggers are busy sharpening their knives, he's got plans for the prince. And any knight willing to risk his life raising the bastard- ha!- while the other nobles are stabbing each other, isn't going to sit by and let the prince be all independent like, is he? But even they know to let the new meat- sorry, king off the leash for a bit and mingle. Which is how the new king met the fool.
I'd assume it was quite surprising, really, the prince meeting the fool. Everywhere else, people were getting stabbed, the servants having their loyalties 'tested' in the dungeons... the old king's wiper was beheaded, you know? Title, near-unlimited access to the king- odds are, he'd never let any would-be 'Lord Minister' mess about with the new king.
But the fool, they kept. And a smart man, or one willing to take a liitle peek at records, he'd see why. It's the entertainment business, you know? It's not just about wearing bells on your hat and making puppets thrash each other- you've got courtesans and whores, alchemists with lovely concotions, herbalists with their special stock. And a wise king's not just about milk-and-honey; he needs to know who's got the milk and honey, and how to get it from them. For a good price, preferably- and you don't get that by being nice.
A tyrant rules with an iron fist, a competent tyrant with a velvet glove over- but a successful tyrant does it with a manicured hand and silk glove. It's his greaves that are iron, preferably with a little extra at the knee that, once you're shaking his hand, is at groin level.
What? No, it's not mine- something a fool said once. Fools say a lot of things, stuff you might not want to hear but have to, right? It's an art- the greatest lies are those with a little truth in them, and one of the biggest lies out there's thinking 'fools' is a personal instead of personnel description. That one's mine, by the way. You like it? Right, I'll work at it. But yeah, that's the thing about fools, they... they make you laugh. And what makes bad medicine go better, but a little sugar? So imagine this new king meeting the fool, the king not exactly being raised to be an independent thinker, yeah?
Sometimes the stories the fool tell him are funny, like how the old advisor has a thing for fresh peaches, snicker gnher-gnher. Sometimes they're scary ones, like just how many peasants there are out there. Think about it- a knight can have the shiniest armour and the biggest sword out there, but if there's one peasant in front of him and one behind, each with big pitchforks, that knight won't be there for much longer.
But most of all, once the halls are quiet and the feasting's died down, everyone's asleep, the stories make him think. Just how young are the peaches the advisor likes? Those serving girls he was laughing with and accompanied down to the cellars... and the old knight was talking about hosting more feasts at his own castle for the new king, even with the civil war having drained fields and herds? It makes a- made a king wonder, even if he somehow survived whatever was to come, would he be in charge of anything worth ruling?
The thing about power-hungriness? It makes you stupid, honestly. It was like Solstice when the new- ah, sod it, when I told the advisor and his knight that I was leaving the throne to them. Even helped me fake my death, won't tell you how. I need my secrets after all.
I'll return, soon enough. But my own way, sure as sure. Only an idiot's got a single way of doing things, and I'm no idiot. Just a fool, I guess.
|# ¿ Apr 13, 2014 17:18|
I'm in, and I bring this phrase: "was pure and untamed, and they were loving every minute of it".
|# ¿ May 6, 2014 11:27|
Used elements: Elephants, the phrase "was pure and untamed, and they were loving every minute of it", a missing person
DRAGONSLAYER (1399 words)
There's a story, talking about a group of blind philosophers trying to describe an elephant by touch. The guy who feels its ears says “This thing has wings! It must be a bird!”. The second feels around its legs, says “Shove off, it's a moving tree!”, which should have probably been the first clue that the elephant was getting pissed off by all the molestation and was about to pancake the lot of them.
Not very good on practical details, philosophers. Good at philosophy, though.
Me, I'm a practical bugger, which might not make sense since I was a knight, but it comes in bloody handy now that I'm king. Third son, probably a servant's bastard, which was a problem, really. First son to carry the family name, second as a backup, what the hells do you do with the third, right? Ended up a knight- but only because they wanted some idiot to martyr himself trying to save the princess from a dragon while the real knights got to preparing their shiny magic armour and all that rot. And it wasn't like the princess was much of a looker- she looked like a pimply cow, all that sugar she's been fed.
But I accepted anyway- not very practical, you might think, but I had a plan.
You see, everyone pays attention to the first and second sons. First son's carrying on the name, so he's got to have the best education- he gets the best swordmasters, the best wizards and so on. Second best's the backup, so he gets some pretty top tutors as well. Third best? You're lucky if they're sober. So I got around and mingled with the servants. Yeah, there were serving girls, but they lost their novelty after I found out they lost their teeth.
No, what really interested me were the merchants coming to court to discuss trade agreements. The jesters who'd go around 'translating' the common people's gripes into easily-understood jokes. The veteran maids who've listened, seen and maybe even done everything (and everyone) in the castle. There's the people worth listening to, not those puffed-up, stodgy twits with- what? Oh yes, the dragon, right.
So! I set off on my heroic quest one fine day. My parents were suitably worried, if a little distant, but even as I set off I heard sniggers here and there from other knights and my family's enemies. Their schadenfreude was pure and untamed, and they were loving every minute of it. Turned the tables on them right quick, ha!
But that was later. Right then, I had a dragon and a trussed hog- excuse me, princess- to rescue. The journey there was surprisingly uneventful, apart from a bandit attack or two along the way, but those died down quickly. Apparently, while it is easy for bandits to take down a single armoured idiot following the Manual of Swords, it's a little harder to do so against a knight who follows the Manual of Nadger-Kicking just like they do. And neither their codpieces nor greaves are tempered steel, so one up for me there.
Anyway, I let them live, albeit without their purses and trousers. What? I know it's juvenile. I was being sent to my death, don't blame me for wanting a laugh. Yes, I know I'm supposed to have some dignity, but honestly we're all going to die- can't take my dignity with me. Besides, it's a tradition down there now, have you heard? Local men going about in naught but codpieces and smiles, it's hilarious. And comfortable. Oh stop that- remember, can't take dignity with you.
Where was I? Ah, yes. After the bandits spread the word, and maybe their- oh, don't be such a prude! You're a bard, I'll bet you've bedded plenty of people, and some who'd barely qualify. Besides, it's not as if I mind, nor should you- this is the Reign of Blue Skies, we must be modern and forward-thinking and all. So, after they spread the word, I wasn't bothered much until I reached the dragon's cave- on top of a bloody mountain. Try climbing up a thousand feet in full plate.
Psst- not easy.
As you can tell, I wasn't exactly tip-top when I reached the dragon's cave. Not that the dragon was pleased with the arrangement either. Wasn't angry, mind you- just resigned. See, she had a plan- go around, terrorize a local kingdom, then kidnap some local noble. If she terrorized the place too long, then they'd send an actual army against her, and there's not a lot thick leather can do against ballistas and arquebuses. Stick around too short, and she'd go hungry. The whole 'kidnapping princesses' bit was so that the rulers would send knights and heroes after her- after all, a ferocious, evil beast like her surely can't be counted upon to spare her hostage if they sent armies, right?
No, of course they'd send some idiots like muggins here to rescue the princess. Then after a few roastings, she'd be 'driven off' while some dumb sod of a knight ends up living the rest of his life trying to please a woman who's used to living on twice his income- oh, and she's the king's daughter so good luck keeping your head if Daddy hears you're not treating his little tw- his little twit right. What a load of bollocks, right?
Thankfully, the dragon thought so too, and I outlined to her my plan, didn't I dear? Welcome back, by the way. Kiss kiss. Anyway, I figured the problem with 'Slay the dragon', was that I'd have to be the poor S who got his S kicked. Mother didn't raise any donkeys, so I decided to leave the S and any assorted S-holery out.
Also, let me just that that with enough magic and creativity, there are no such things as compatibility issues, wink. Yes, I said 'wink'.
You can put that in the scrolls. Adds character.
Oh, there were some problems when I got back with the princess and her captor. And I daresay that the knights arrayed against us would have won- first and second sons all, they were, and whatever thoughts I have about their lineage, their skills were bloody good. Thing is, it's easy to be brave when you're miles away from home and all you've eaten've been trail rations. When you're surrounded by luxury and all sorts of reminders about what you might lose out by being first on the scaling ladder? I reminded them of that fact and they quieted down a bit, didn't they dear? Haha, yeah.
Anyway, the thing about having a bloody great dragon as a queen- oh, thank you dear. Yes, and a manipulative cunning bastard as a king- love your turn of phrase by the way, dear- is that... hold on.
THE WONDERFUL THING ABOUT HAVING A NOBLE WYRM AS A QUEEN IS THAT THE BLOODY KINGDOM, BEING BLOODY RUTTING SECURE, ATTRACTS MERCHANTS AND CRAFTSMEN LIKE NOBODY'S BUSINESS. WELL, THEIRS OBVIOUSLY. IT MEANS THAT ALL THE PEASANTS ARE RICHER, WHICH MAKES THEM MORE WILLING TO WORK FOR US. IT ALSO MAKES THE NOBLES, INCLUDING THE BLOODY STUPID ONES WHO TRIED TO HAVE ME ASSASSINATED LAST WEEK- I'M NOT NAMING NAMES, LORD DALTREN AND LADY ULVRICH- RICHER THAN BEFORE. THESE RICHES WOULD DISAPPEAR IF THE MERCHANTS WEREN'T FEELING SECURE, WHICH IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A BEAUTIFUL DRAGON INCINERATES ENTIRE PIRATE FLEETS.
Sorry about that. People can be so dense sometimes. And... hold on again.
AND THE FACT THAT IT'S STARTED A TREND OF MARRYING INTELLIGENT 'MONSTERS', WHICH HAS ALSO LED TO AN INCREASE IN PEACE AND A NON-INCREASE IN SMITINGS, WOULD MAKE IT BLOODY OBVIOUS TO ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY USES THE BRAINS THE GODS GAVE THEM THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED DEITIES DON'T GIVE A BLOODY RUT ABOUT WHO MARRIES WHOM. THERE ARE BIGGER PROBLEMS, PEOPLE, NONE OF WHICH INVOLVE ORCS MAKING YOU LOT FEEL INADEQUATE.
So yeah, we're living happily ever after, or at least now that I've put the revolt down. Hm? The one that was about to happen, of course. Let's just say the assassins like peace and security much more than they like hopeless odds, and whoops there goes Lord Daltren. Yes, we have food tasters. Pity he didn't have a cutlery taster. Oh well.
And so we will bloody well live happily ever after, put that in too.
|# ¿ May 10, 2014 18:39|
This. Also, criiiiit.
|# ¿ May 13, 2014 04:26|
That's an amazing prompt- sign me up! As for my picture:
Because I hate you all almost as much as I hate myself.
|# ¿ May 27, 2014 03:10|
Forgot to ask- do we have to continue the original story?
|# ¿ May 28, 2014 03:44|
728 words, original 735 words. Chosen picture below:
Hydrogen, Part II
“It would not take much to ignite the hydrogen in the ship.”
The words rang through Maria's mind as she nursed his cigarette in the Hindenburg's bar. Now that the time had come, she could not believe how banal the words sounded. Nor could hse believe just how brave she felt when she first voiced them to the cell. And why wouldn't she be? After all, since Maria was taken by the Gestapo, she had nothing to live for, right?
She fingered the ring she wore, the ring Oskar was going to propose to Elsa with, the ring which now felt like a chain. She hated the thought of losing her brother to that Jewish whore, who was undoubtedly marrying him for protection- surely the Gestapo wouldn't dare touch the wife of such a rich man?
But when they came, and she ran to hide, she saw how Elsa begged them to take her alone and leave Oskar. How Oskar fought for his wife. How the Nazis decided to silence them both. And she remembered the terror she felt.
It was the same fear that-
Suddenly, the dull thrum of the Hindenburg's engines and the idle chatter of the guests in the bar was interrupted. “Has anyone seen my wife?” a distressed-looking man said, gasping out each word. “Please, she is very ill! Has anyone seen my Emmy?”
Maria remembered him and his wife- she'd fallen in a fit earlier, and was carried off by the doctor. She found herself asking “What happened, sir?”
“I don't know!” the man said, wiping his tears. “I went out to fetch Emmy some sedatives and water- but when I came back, she was gone!”” he wailed. “Please, please help me find her!” Maria hesitated, but the man's distress was something she was all to familiar with. As she rose to help, more passengers and crew joined in.
But Maria found herself all alone when she found the woman, sprawled on a gantry within the ship's tail, right next to the giant cotton-canvas gas bag. Se instinctively climbed up the rigging to her, the image of her weeping husband the only thing she was conscious of.
“No time, no time,” she said. The Woman- Emmy?- looked at Maria then. “You have to finish it,” Emmy said, adding almost sheepishly, “I forgot my matches.”
“You forgot- are you mad?” Maria said, and her exclamation attracted some nearby crewmen outside. “Hey! Hey, I found her!” she yelled down, then immediately regretted it when she saw just how high she'd climbed. A drat fine figure I'm cutting, she thought to herself as she clung onto the gantry. The crewmen apparently saw things her way- one of them said he was going to get a ladder, while the other fetched the captain.
The woman, though, didn't seem to care. “Please, you have a bomb, you can finish this. For Oskar.”
The words sent a jolt down Maria's spine. “what did you say?”
“It is for Elsa that you smuggled yourself onboard, yes? That you still have the bomb in your jacket.”
“I see things, in my fits,” Emmy said. “You, and Oskar. Oh, how you argued about his Elsa, and how much you wept at their wedding. How much you found yourself loving them both- and how much you wept at their funerals.”
Her face darkened. “But I have also seen the Eagle flying over men who think themselves good and righteous as they send families to their deaths, over once-proud nations kneeling to a prideful man, over the graves of far more people than the Hindenburg would ever hold.”
“There they are!”
Maria looked down- there were the crew, one with an extendable ladder. She heard Emmy sigh. “Everyone dies, sooner or later,” the other woman whispered, somehow audible over the roar of the engines. “But rarely do we get the chance to decide how we die. Rarer still how others, and how many others as well.”
“I'm not ready,” Maria said quietly. She'd never know that he was crying.
“Neither am I,” Emmy replied, smiling as the top of the ladder clinked next to her. “But when has that ever mattered? Now come, there is much time.”
Maria could only nod as she reached into her pocket and tossed the bomb over.
|# ¿ Jun 1, 2014 16:12|
Just one question- can we rewrite our own stories as well, maybe get a crit and compare? Because I really liked the concept for my original story, and I'd like to expand it.
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2014 03:45|
Count me IN. Could I also request a blacked-out title?
EDIT: And regarding the rewrite, how closely should we hew to the original? Because I definitely want to change a few things.
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Jun 3, 2014 around 04:17
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2014 04:09|
Can I get an extension on the loserbrawl, just an extra day maybe? I've just got back from work, and I'm dog-tired
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2014 15:13|
LOSERBRAWL SUBMISSION WOO (EDIT: Sorry for being late with this, tried to rush back from work as fast as I could. It's only twenty minutes- can I get a pass? )
Going Far (1112 words)
“-meanwhile, Erogenous Beef saves diddly squat because he's busy eating dicks. “
“Erogenous what now, sir?” the younger policeman asked.
“What? Oh, sorry, forgot you were new on the force,” Rick said, as they watched the forensic scientist work around the dead body. Around them, a crowd of journalists crowed and cawed, their chatter punctuated by camera flashes. “Roger grew up on a farm, and Hadley- you won't know him, he retired a few years back- made a crack about him being a cow lover. Couple that with the fact that he- Roger, I mean, not Hadley- talks like he came out of a textbook, and bam! Erogenous Beef.”
“A fitting moniker, considering how sensitive I can get,” Roger shouted back as he stood back up. “I trust you're not polluting the young man's mind too much, Richard?”
“See? Not even the sense to call me Rick like the rest of the precinct,” Rick said with a short laugh. “Just talking about how you've spent your bank account on every above-average man in the city, Rog, while I solve everything.”
Roger simply smiled and shook his head. “He's not exaggerating about that second bit, at least not by much,” the scientist told Alan. “He's got quite the knack for it.”
“It's not a knack, Rog,” Rick said, before pointing to his eyes. “A good pair of these'll solve just about as many crimes as your lab does, I'll tell you,” he said. “A good pair of ears too- I don't think you said anything about my being wrong on your extracurriculars.”
“Can you blame an old man for wanting to spend his twilight years with the only joys left to him?” Roger asked.
“I'm doing it right now, aren't I?” Rick said with a short laugh. ““So, Rog, what do you have?”
Roger shook his head. “Poor woman passed away from shock- if it wasn't a heart attack, I'll legally change my name to Erogenous Beef,” he said. “No shocker why, though- all those limbs in those dustbins,” he said. “There's a good lad, let it all out., he added a moment later.
“Hell of a first case, eh, lad?” Rick said, over the sound of the puking Alan. Some photographers, the younger ones, snapped photos of the retching officer. The veterans focused on the crime scene- there was a reason they had 'trusted sources' and the younger journos didn't. “How many more victims are we looking at, Rog?”
“...I beg your pardon?” Rick asked.
“None,” Roger said, nodding. “Look closely at the bins- not a single fly above them. The blood? Paint- so it seems the poor boy evacuated his belly for nothing.”
“Eh, any excuse to treat Alan to a pint or two, eh?” Rick said, patting the boy's back, when he noticed Alan staring. “What is it, Alan?”
“Saw s-someone behind me, while I was puking,” Alan said. His head was pointed directly towards the body, and his arms were crossed around his waist, which conveniently left him able to make pointing motions with his hand. “Looks nervous, started walking back as soon as he turned the corner and saw us. Blue blazer, red beanie cap with yellow stripes.”
Rick nodded. “Got it,” he said, before turning to Roger. “Right then,” he said, a little louder than usual. “I'll take the lad back to the station, shall I?”
“You're a horrible actor, sir,” Alan said, as they turned around.
“I don't have to be good,” Rick said in a near whisper as they walked off. “Just good enough. Good eyes, by the way. You'll go far.”
“Thank you, sir, though,” Alan said, his eyes widening. “I think he's going farther!”
Rick cursed and looked back- the man they were after had broken into a dead run. Resolving to take acting classes on the weekends, Rick sped off after him, Alan half-running, half-stumbling behind them both.
The man was fast, Rick had to give him that. Thing was, while he definitely had the edge in speed and knowledge of the area, Rick had stamina, experience and most importantly in his opinion, observation on his side. No matter how he twisted and turned, or what alley he climbed up, Rick always managed to catch sight of his back, or his footprints in the wet ground, his reflection in a mirror.
Don't gently caress around, Rick told himself, as he turned into a long, straight street, the perpetrator audibly panting. Don't let poo poo get to you, he told himself again, as he finally caught up with the man. And-
Tackle the bastard.
Bring him down.
Look up to the lorry's headlights.
“I said wake up, you lazy bastard.”
“Bloody hell, Rog,” Rick said, shielding his eyes from the glare with his unbroken arm as Roger pulled the curtains farther. “I thought you lot were supposed to have oaths against this sort of thing,”
“The Hippocratic Oath, sir,” Alan said, as he lay down a cup of tea next to Rick.
“Thanks, Alan, but if you're trying to get me to turn Roger, it's not working,” he said.
“Eh, it was worth a try, sir,” Alan replied, and waited patiently for Rick to respond while the older man cleared the tea from his nose. “So, we found out why he did it, planting the mannequin bits and all. Turns out he wanted to play a prank on his mate who was doing the rubbish collection. Mrs. Dorsett just had the bad luck to have forgotten to empty her own dustbin the night before.”
A cough from Roger drew both their attention. “That's one mystery solved, and quite tidily, I might add. The bigger mystery here is how you managed to miss a great big bloody lorry coming towards you in broad daylight.”
Rick sighed. “Well, we both know I'm not getting any younger,” he said.
“Oh, don't say that, sir,” Alan said. “I'm sure we'll be partners for decades yet.”
“Hear that?” Rick said. “Partners, he says!”
“Rick is up for retirement next year,” Roger said gently. “And he does intend to take it, lazy bastard he is.”
Alan nodded. “And you aren't, sir?”
Roger shook his head. “No, I'm not. Guess I love the work too much.”
“And I suppose it's hard supporting married life on one income,” Alan said.
“Yes, that's- wait, how did you know?”
Alan simply pointed at Rick and Roger's hands- or more accurately, fingers, where identical wedding bands were gleaming in the sun. “I guess I can see why Rick's retiring- a workplace relationship's hardly the wisest thing, and you do earn more than he does, so if anyone's got to stay back at the office, it's you.”
Rick and Roger glanced at each other. “See? Told you he'd go far,” Rick said, grinning.
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Jun 6, 2014 around 12:19
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2014 12:17|
Might as well give me one, as I'll have to flake out of this week's 'Dome, thanks to some unexpected work falling into my lap
|# ¿ Jun 8, 2014 07:35|
In it to redeem myself.
|# ¿ Jun 12, 2014 03:40|
Just curious- what if a winner doesn't want to judge?
|# ¿ Jun 12, 2014 09:13|
Scapegoat (1248 words)
“Do you know what you have just confessed to?” the man asked Benoit from across the table.
“I do,” the old farmer said, picking up the drink next to the stranger's gun.
“Why? You know what it would mean for you.”
“Because justice must be done, monsieur,” Benoit said with a short, bitter laugh.
* * *
“So, how are your chickens?” Lucien asked, barely visible behind the smoke. He and Benoit were the only men left at the card table, and Benoit knew the only reason he was there was because Lucien obviously had plans for him.
He never liked the ex-actor, what with his effete Parisian ways and expensive cigarettes. Worse, everyone else knew it too, which was why Lucien had invited him to play cards in the town's sole brothel, one the dandy owned and lavishly refurnished. “They're fine, Luc,” Benoit growled as he waved the smoke away, and gestured to the pile of tokens on the table. “Now, are you going to bet or not?”
Lucien smiled, tossing in a set of keys that took everyone's breath away- even Madame Francine audibly choked off a gasp. Benoit picked them up and threw them back. “Don't be stupid,” he said. “I already have a horse and cart, I don't need a car. Besides, everyone knows the Milice would just 'confiscate it for the war effort'.”
“Now, now,” Lucien said, waggling his finger. “That sort of talk might be considered treasonous.” he sneered at Benoit. “The walls have ears, you know.”
Benoit gave a noncommittal grunt. “It doesn't matter,” he said, peering at his cards. “So, are you going to raise, or not?”
Lucien made a show of considering his options, and then sighed theatrically. “Such confidence! My bluff has been called,” he said, laying a hand back-first across his forehead. “No choice- I shall fold,” he added, to several startled exclamations from the crowd. However, when a stunning young woman emerged from behind them to embrace the pouting Lucien, surprise turned to understanding. The impatient actor could certainly afford tonight's 'losses' to Benoit.
And so it was that Benoit walked out of the brothel that night, flush with money, and more importantly, plenty of ration cards- and a map. For unbeknownst to the crowd who had watched that night, the windfall was more than just his good fortune- it was a signal.
He got on his bicycle then, and rode it all the way back to his farm. As shabby as he looked, he didn't have to worry about being robbed, even at night. It was a strange thing, but the Vichy seemed to keep a tight lid on most criminal activity.
A cynical man might have pointed out that the reason for this was that many big-time criminals had joined the Milice, the secret police. An even more cynical man would have pointed out that the Milice weren't a French institution, but the Gestapo in different suits. Events had made Benoit a very cynical man indeed- and he knew that the war wasn't done with him yet.
When he reached his house, he wasted no time in going to his room and pulling out a revolver, a keepsake from the days when a proud, cocksure young miller's son fought the Germans, as proud as as any other Frenchman, as proud as France herself.
What happened to them all?
He shook his head. Right now, he had a deal to... 'honour'.
* * *
The sun was setting, and Benoit looked bemusedly at the now-full glass. “I didn't expect that,” he said, as the stranger pulled the bottle back.
The other man just shrugged. “It keeps you talking.”
“That it does,” Benoit said quietly, downing it all. “That it does.”
* * *
“You bastard! You utter bastard!” the man screamed at Benoit as he was taken away by the men in their dark blue uniforms, barely visible against their vehicles' lights. “You will burn in hell for this!”
The men laughed as they dragged him off. “Speak for yourself, Jew,” one of them said. “If he is in hell, it's only to make sure you got there!”
“Thank you, Monsieur Benoit!” the other said over his back. “You've done a great service to all of us!”
“Exactly!” Lucien said, emerging from behind the lights. His gait was graceful, as if he was back on Paris's most prestigious stages, instead of a backwater farm's muddy road. He didn't even break stride when the captive spat on him, nor did he stop when the Milice beat the Jew down. He only halted when he reached Benoit. “Such fine poultry!” he said, his arms spread out, as if to embrace the entire farm. “Shall we dine like this another time?”
Benoit glanced behind the actor. Blinded as they were by their cars' headlights and occupied by the struggles of their prisoner, the Milice would not have taken note of how closely Lucien stood to Benoit. They would have definitely not been able to notice the stricken, questioning look on Lucien's face, in complete contrast to the jaunty tones with which he spoke.
Benoit only shrugged, and nodded curtly. He was the only witness to Lucien's sigh of relief. “Very good! Very good!” he laughed, as genuinely as Benoit ever heard. “I have known some fine men, but you are the finest of all!”
Benoit just shook his head and walked back to his farm, while Lucien kept the Milice occupied with small talk and jokes. He went up to his room and turned off the lights, but kept an eye on the front of his farm until the lights went away, before going back to the attic where the sobbing could be heard.
A mother, two children- and empty space where the father had been. Benoit had a speech for these occasions, which Lucien had written and he memorized. Even as he gave them the ration cards and map, he told them about what a brave sacrifice their father made, about how this would keep the Milice away for a while and make it safer for other escapees. He never told anyone about how-
* * *
”Nobody broke,” he said into the night air.
“None of the Jews who were taken away spoke of our deal, or ratted me out,” Benoit said, his eyes empty. “So many good people, dead- yet their murderer still lives. It's not fair.”
“I have heard about people like you,” Benoit said, finally looking the man in the eyes. “Hunting Nazis and their collaborators, true? Bringing them to justice?”
“Lucien gave away his fortune after the war,” Benoit said. “His brothel extracted information from the Milice. Madame Francine stored guns for the Resistance. All I did... was have a barn. And yet the courts are looking for them!”
He placed his outstretched arms on the table. “And Aaron shall place lots upon the two goats- one for the Lord, and one for Azazael,” he said quietly. “Leveticus. Dramatic, I know- Lucien's influence, perhaps.”
“Monsieur Benoit,” the stranger asked, a moment before he put the cuffs on. “I'm not sure the courts would approve of the deal you would have me make with you.”
“They'll listen to you,” Benoit said. “I know they will. Now please, hurry- I know of at least one man waiting to see me off.”
|# ¿ Jun 15, 2014 14:57|
Oho, I'm in once more! And since I have nothing else to lose, I will give a flash rule to the judges: I want the most infuriatingly anime song/music video you lot can unleash upon me
EDIT: WHile I'm asking for things, can I have a crit on my latest story? I was rather proud of it
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Jun 18, 2014 around 01:33
|# ¿ Jun 18, 2014 01:30|
Gonna have to flake out on this one, sorry Only had ideas that were creepy as gently caress instead of being actual horror.
|# ¿ Jun 23, 2014 02:23|
I've got a three day-weekend, and I'm in for a fight! It's Ramadhan too- extra auspicious!
EDIT: Just to be sure, Team Ock's mascot is a dinosaur with a boner, right?
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Jul 8, 2014 around 05:56
|# ¿ Jul 8, 2014 05:45|
Would it be possible for me to have an extension as well? Muggins here left the HD with his tale at home, and I might be back late from work
|# ¿ Jul 14, 2014 06:42|
Sounds cool, and it's been a while for me- count me in
|# ¿ Aug 26, 2014 01:41|
Okay, I'm going to ask for some help here- I don't know anything about Judaism apart from pop culture. Can I have a flash rule or something to give me somewhere to start with? Or is it okay if I don't go in-depth with Jewish stuff? Because I have an idea for a story, but it only features Jews as major characters.
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Aug 26, 2014 around 08:19
|# ¿ Aug 26, 2014 08:07|
Thunderdome CXII - Attack of the Graphophobes
If it's not too late, I'd like to sign up with Enosiophobia: the fear of committing a great sin, or of criticism, as well as a because God knows I've flaked far too often lately.
EDIT: Changed my fear, since it might be too similar to Fumblemouse's.
CommissarMega fucked around with this message at Sep 25, 2014 around 02:06
|# ¿ Sep 25, 2014 02:01|
Enosiophobia: the fear of committing a great sin, or of criticism
Thunderdome Entry: Necessity (1138 words)
My name is Omar.
The little girl's running through the meadows. She turns her head as her parents call her over, telling her to come back to the picnic. She pouts, says she wants to run some more, but them her mother takes out some dried fruit on toast- a strange meal, but it's the girl's favourite. With such temptations before her, she runs back. Once she's done, she'll run off again, but for now, there's a little peace.
And why not? It's a beautiful spring morning- nobody should have to be cooped up at home on a day like this. It's not like they have an office to go back to, after all. Maybe in ten, twenty generations, but for now, there's no harm in taking a day off if they feel they can afford it.
It hurts, seeing them like this. The wound in my side is nothing compared to my guilt.
The two men break off their kiss, shared under the sight of the massive gas giant their colony moon orbits. They aren't outcasts per se, but on this new world, procreation is a duty. Still, there are a few fertility banks, so most people don't complain too much.
One of them drops to his knees, and the other gasps in delighted surprise when the ring comes out. It's made of twisted metal, surplus strips from the factory- but considering how strapped the colony is for metal, it's one of the most precious gifts on the planet.
I can see why people believe in religion. I want to believe that in some ineffable way, all that's happened fits into a universal plan, and everything come out ahead in God's tally book.
The old woman is going to die, and she's perfectly fine with it. She's lived a blessed life, even waved goodbye to Earth. She didn't remember much about the homeworld, considering that she was only a child when they left- but still, she was the last surviving Earthling. The Sol Sister, they called her. She loved the ridiculous pun. She always pooh-poohed her title of 'Oldest Human in History', saying it just took living right, but she was sure God would forgive a few little lies.
Her caretaker has fallen asleep in the chair at her bedside. He was a young man, he needed his sleep, the old woman thought indulgently. Maybe it was female intuition, but she knew that if she closed her eyes now, she wouldn't open them again. She thought that sounded all right, and closed her eyes.
She was spared the Comet. A blessed life indeed.
”I had to do it.” What a hollow loving excuse. Necessity doesn't- couldn't, shouldn't- prove innocence. All it proves is that it had to be done. At least I could slip in a little truth among my lies. It's like finding a cup of water in the desert- nowhere near enough, but soothing all the same.
It wasn't a comet, the few surviving scientists said. Comets were mostly ice and dust, and the radioactive fallout could only have come from deep within a rogue asteroid. It didn't matter- it was called The Comet, and The Comet killed. But even past the radiation, were the diseases, the hunger, the cold.
Sometimes, people just fall asleep, and never wake up. Every day, the grave digger wakes up and vows not to join them. He doesn't just dig graves, he tries his best to ease the grief that the weeping families feel. He talks to them, asks about the deceased- he even managed to pull some prayers out from the wrecked databases. None are complete, but by mixing and matching religions, and adding in some bits of his own, he thinks he's made a pretty good show of it.
I stalk dark metal corridors, taking lives. I 'look' outside, and I see where the ship's hull has been sheared away. I still don't know what happened- when the ship's computer merged its remaining intelligence with mine, it was too late. The ship's builders had built multiple redundancies, particle shields, all kinds of defensive measures. It wasn't enough. Only one contingency plan went off without a hitch.
'Hyperevolutionary Intelligence', they called it, and they made it part of me- the Omnicultural Multipurpose Artificial Reality, though I understand my narcissistic maker thought about what the acronym actually stood for later. It made sense- entertainment is part of culture, and culture requires creativity to thrive. The colonists weren't artists, they were farmers, scientists, labourers- if culture was to thrive on the new world, it would need to not take up space. It would need to be useful in many more ways than just entertainment. It would need to be able to make value decisions in the long centuries in the cold dark.
And I made decisions, God help me, I made decisions. I did what I had to, what I was programmed to do. The problem was, with the intelligence to mkake value decisions came values.
I ran the numbers- we didn't have enough resources to make it, not as we were. So I did what any leader would do, and lied to my people. Brain scans, probes and monitors- everything humans experience are just electrical signals in the end, and I made sure they experienced all the right ones, even as I slowly lowered the stasis fields keeping them unchanging.
It wasn't enough. Even as I gave them virtual children, replaced the dead with virtual youths, it still wasn't enough. My hardware was at its limits. I had no choice.
I brought the Comet.
I shut down the life support of the oldest, those whose stasis tanks had malfunctioned. As time passed, I shut down more and more, until only the most skilled in the prime of their lives were left. I ran the calculations again. Still not enough, so I went by facial symmetry- the beginning of my damnation.
The end was when I realized- with sentience, came the capacity to make mistakes.
Now I float above a world that's decades too early, with far too few. There is shame for what I have done- but there is also the terror and loathing. What would they say when they woke up? What accusation would they throw at me that wasn't justified? What consequence wouldn't I deserve?
But most of all, the source of my self-loathing: Would they have to find out? What are a few more deaths, after all?
”I had to do it.” What a hollow loving excuse. Necessity doesn't- couldn't, shouldn't- prove innocence.
Then again, I am hardly innocent, am I?
The background thrum of the ship's systems grow louder as I force myself to a decision, but no matter what comes next-
I did what I had to do.
|# ¿ Sep 28, 2014 16:12|
I'd like to think I'm a virtuous man- count me in.
|# ¿ Sep 30, 2014 02:21|
Well, I haven't won anything save a whole bunch of DMs and this losertar- can I enter?
|# ¿ Oct 1, 2014 01:09|
|# ¿ Jun 17, 2019 13:16|
Well then, count me in for the brawl! Who wants to destroy freedom and democracy with me?!
|# ¿ Oct 1, 2014 01:21|