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Mar 21, 2010

sebmojo posted:

Surprise flash rule: story cannot be depressing.
:siren: Just in case anybody missed it, this rule applies to all of you already. :siren:


Nota bene: If your story contains one whiff of whiny woe-is-me bullshit, I will give you something to be sad about. You have been warned.


Mar 21, 2010

I'm thinking about entering this week, but I'm going to be moving to another country/exploring steamy jungles next week and probably unable to judge if I win. Can I like, take the crown but defer the judging onto somebody else or would that be a super lovely thing to do?

Mar 21, 2010

Excellent. If I win, Sitting Here, I name thee Judge Regent. I will send you the prompt upon my victory.


Mar 21, 2010

curlingiron posted:

Okay, I think I need a flash rule, since the more I think about it, the more the story I wanted to tell becomes an Amusing Anecdote. Also I apparently work better under constraints, or something.
Story must have a recogniseable plot: Beginning --> Middle --> End, Character --> Opposition --> Resolution, all that Jazz. No vignettes or shoe-gazing.

I'm not a judge but screw you guys I'm flash rulin' anyway.

Mar 21, 2010

I gotta drop. Plane leaves earlier than I thought it did, and the bank chose a hell of a time to wrongly suspend my debit card. As much as I love writing, I've got a real world crisis to deal with. I'll try to tidy up/post the draft I've been working on if tomorrow turns out less insane than expected, but I wouldn't count on it.

Mar 21, 2010


1) the bank accidentally cancelled my credit card
2) I got the time of my flight wrong and had to pack my entire life in 20kg in the space of about three hours
3) a volcano exploded and turned the entire town into Silent Hill for a day or two, rendering 1) and 2) hilariously moot.
4) my ISP blocked the SA forums as pornography.

So, it's been a fun and interesting week. Now I'm in Singapore, far away from ash clouds, weird ISPs and demons-built-from-my-guilt. They have this paper here that you're meant to wipe on your rear end after you poop. It's weird.

As such, I was unable to finish my story in time. Still, I'm here with an interprompt to shut you all up until the real prompt rolls around. As usual, no signup period, no winners, no losers, submission closes when the new prompt is up.

By popular IRC demand:


:siren: Write a story in the style of a soap opera :siren:

You've all seen at least one. If you haven't, watch this. So here's what I want: cliche coincidences, labyrinthian romance and most of all, ridiculous, ridiculous melodrama.

Max 300 words. That's a lot for an interprompt, so I won't accept a single word over the limit.


Mar 21, 2010

Alright kiddies, step aside and let me show you how it's done.

Trouble in Paradise

"Carmen!" cried the Generalissimo. His lady love swooned in his arms, the backs of her fingers making communion with her forehead. Her red dress was torn in three places, and she reeked of garbage. "Carmen! Whatever have they done to you?"

"I do not know!" she lamented. Each word was as a rose petal gracing an angel's feather down. "I awoke in an alley with a bruise on my head, having been afflicted by amnesia! Presumably related to the bruise on my head!"

It was true: she could remember nothing but her own name. The Gereralissimo had watched with tears as she failed to eat a peanut. Ten seconds later, he wrapped his barrel-arms around her slender waist and gave her the Heimlich Maneuver. Her hands grasped backwards at his hips, and his holster.

His enemies had done this, to get back at him for his Glorious And Revolutionary Seizing Of The Means Of Production And Also The Greater Good Of Statues Of Him Being Put Everywhere. He ruled El Pisango with a fist of Iron and Velvet.

He felt to his knees and screamed at the sky. "El God, why have you done this thing to me? Was I not an honest and just man? I'm really sorry I killed all those people but in all fairness they got in the way! Why God, why?"

"There is no God," said Carmen, "but the lead god, who comes out of the barrel of a gun, and goes into bodies and hurts them a whole lot."

"My love, whatever do you mean?" said El Generalissimo, tears carving his mighty features.

"I am not your love!" she said "I am the black widow!"

"The assassin?"

"The very same!"

And then she shot him with his own gun.

Mar 21, 2010

Arkane posted:

Sweet, thank you.

I'll stand by what I wrote, but I was pretty rude about it and sorry for that. I just think more than a few of the entrants got short shrifted there, even taking into account that judging is a huge time commitment (that everyone is thankful for).
We barbequed your rear end in irc, and I think that's enough. I may have gone a little overboard myself in there. I guess it's touchy because you're not the first person to do something like that and if you've been a judge before, you know how horribly time-consuming it can be. The judges aren't maliciously denying crit because they want to gently caress with you: it's just that it can easily take a whole day to get through all the entries and there's only so much time going free in a week.

Mar 21, 2010

Alas, the sting of defeat. All men must face it: I know that more than most.

This week, I have crossed oceans. I have outran the fire of god itself, and after such a feat, no mere 'domer can stand in my way. ErogenousBeef may have his victory, but it has only made me stronger. I must carry on, scarred though I am. There is one last fight that was promised, and I will not back down now.

Kaishai, you owe me a brawl.

Come and fight me, if you dare.

Mar 21, 2010

Kaishai posted:

'Have outran,' Muffin? Have outran?

I fear no confection that has not mastered the past participle. I call Doctor Kloctopussy to the top of this pagoda of blood as judge and witness, for my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great. Mine shall be the butter knife that spreads defeat across thy scars, forever.
Hah! A doctor will not be enough to heal the wounds I'll put in your ego, even one with eight arms. This is your Waterloo. You can't escape if you wanted to. Waterloo. Whoa whoa whoa whoa Waterloo.

Yeah, DocK suits.

Mar 21, 2010

In. Self Restriction: I will be writing about my very favourite lego set from my youth. A few goons know which that is, and can call me out if I change my mind.

Mar 21, 2010

Also if you're gonna slam flash rules on us later, can I just get for mine now so it's out of the way? I've got a bit of spare time tonight and I want to start writing asap.

Mar 21, 2010

Whalley posted:

I couldn't decide on a set so I hit random page until it gave me something and

you better fuckin' BELIEVE I'm not going to write a boring piece of poo poo this week.
Dude, that is some Shining poo poo going on right there. Why have the animal mask dudes/hellish man-animal hybrids taken over the fire station? What are they doing with it? Do they prevent fires, or do they set them? The fox appears to be carrying an icepick.

Their leader stands under a clock. He has conquered time itself: the lands of men should be a pushover.

Mar 21, 2010

'Sup people. In the Christmas of 1998, a young Muffin received the very best present ever: not love or any of that sentimental horseshit, but a LEGO ninja bridge-tower with a big trap door in it and a bad horse guy who wanted to get across.

Now, in the year of our lord 2014, he has written a story about his very favourite LEGO set, which might in fact be the most awesome LEGO set ever. It is called 6089 Stone Tower Bridge and it is even better than Pokemon Blue version and heaps better than Pokemon Red Version which my dumb sister has.

Also there's something about Robert Fortune who was a Scottish dude who went around Asia and brought tea back to England and was apparently very into eating trees or something. I dunno Beef flashed me and then he told me to.

Here is the story I wrote. It has about seven hundred and thirty words in it. I hope you like it. If you don't, you're a total egg.


Never interrupt teatime, especially if you are a ninja

Ito paused a second, with a drip of poison hanging from the bottle’s lip. He felt for Komojin Money-San. Though the foreigner was a stranger, he was passionate, especially on the subject of tea. He was a child stumbling through a quiet battlefield, thinking the men at play. Ito cursed his crescent-moon hands and block feet for taking him this far.

He moved the poison away from the boiling tea, and let the drop fall into Chief Kendo’s cup only, then two more drops into the sake. The drunkard ronin who’d come in with the chief would surely guzzle it down without a thought. It was riskier than poisoning all the tea, but Ito could not bring himself to kill an innocent.

He brought the tray out where the men were seated. The drumming rain on the roof was almost pleasant, though Ito could not forget his grim task.

“Honoured Kendo-tono,” he said, bowing at the waist, “I am honoured that you have graced us with your presence. Please, drink.”

Chief Kendo was not honourable, nor particularly graceful. A brute of violent and artless aspect; his single skill was killing men more honest than himself, which was everyone. He spat on the floor-bricks and grinned.

“Gi-dan wouldn’t deign to have us lick his boots six months back, but now we’re closing on 6083 Samurai Stronghold and he sends out his fanciest man to take tea,” he said, “how very noble of him.”

One of the ronin had already snatched up the sake. He poured himself a generous cup, then passed the bottle around. It stopped at Money-San, who sniffed the bottle and smiled.

“Och, finally,” he said, “I thought you lads were afraid of strong drink.”

Ito realised his hands were shaking, rattling the tea tray.

“Well now,” said Kendo-tono. He thumped the floor twice, “looks like Gi-Dan’s got some real stones. I almost thought I was gonna be bored. Ninja-desu; cute. Would be a real shame if we saw that one coming a mile away.”

Ito saw a shifting shadow on the floor. One shadow more than he’d counted when he came in. He dropped the tray and stepped to the side just in time for an arrow. The pounding rain formed into something different: hoofbeats closing on the bridge. But how could they cross? Kendo-tono’s one eye seemed to stare straight through him.

“My boys unlocked the gate while you were getting drinks. We’ll be at the Stronghold before sunrise. You failed, kid,” said Kendo. He leered, then gestured to his men. “Disassemble him,” he said. The ronin stood, drew their weapons and stepped forward, spilling the tea-tray and its contents.

“NO,” bawled Money-San. He drew a pair of fine matchlock pistols. “WE WERE HAVING TEA, YOU POORLY-CONSTRUCTED SCUNNER! YE SKELPED THE HEID OF THE WRONG SCOTSMAN!”

The first bullet went into Kendo-tono, who was reaching for his weapon. He was blasted clean through the wall and out of the tower. After a few seconds, there was a splash. The second bullet went straight between the eyes of the foremost ronin, whose head popped clean off and rolled on the floor, cursing.

Ito leapt and drew his dagger, slicing through the rear wall. He darted through the halls, moving as quickly as he could down towards the secret basement room. The bridge shook, not from thunder but the hooves of a hundred horsemen. From the tea room, he could hear shouting, and the sound of weapons being clipped into hands, followed by “PUT ‘EM UP YA WEE BAMPOT! THIS ONE’S FOR MUM, AND THAT ONE’S FOR TEA!”

The bookshelf was in disarray, but the secret switch hadn’t been discovered. Ito threw aside Principles of Construction and pulled the lever. The wall rumbled and spun, disgorging Ito into the hidden room. He ignored the rubber band catapults and weapon racks: the Big Red Button dominated the room, raised in the centre like an altar. Ito clambered onto it and jumped.

Gears ground deep within the workings of the bridge: a hundred small pieces working towards a greater whole. There was a sound of mighty hinges swinging, then a moment of silence, then the screams of horses and men as they plummeted into the river far below.

6083 Samurai Stronghold was safe for another day.


Mar 21, 2010

Chairchucker posted:

Fast judgin's good judgin', argh where's my prompt you jerks.

Chairchucker posted:


Chairchucker posted:

Where's our prompt, you jerk?

Chairchucker posted:

Re: our prompt.

Where is it?

Season's greetings etc.

Chairchucker posted:

Fast judgin's good judgin', also Merry Christmas from THE FUTURE.
The other two judges have finished and sent in their results, but Chairchucker remains elusive.

Maybe a dingo ate his baby. :australia:

Mar 21, 2010

Bring it, Kai in the Sky.

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

Lo, I have been summoned, and I have responded to said summons and do thusly respond, as follows:

You've written baroque, but I've had enough of it. Instead give me a story written clearly, concisely, verging on sparse, even. Not like that sentence.

In the spirit of eliminating the extraneous, this theme shall be your just desserts.


Interpret as broadly as you like, but please don't write a prose poem describing sand.

Upper Word Limit: 1000 words. MAKE EVERY ONE COUNT OR ELSE.

Due Date: Monday, Feb. 24, 2014, Midnight PST.

The Great Southern Waste

Want a cold beer at Scott Base? Stick it out the window. The bottle only: fingers outside and you’ll lose ‘em. For the summer crew, the temperature can reach a balmy 0 degrees celsius. The winter lot are less lucky- it’s called a skeleton crew for good reason.

Penguins and sterile darkness for a thousand miles. Nothing to do but drink, play poker and drill ice cores. The sign on the door says Climate Research. The manifesto on the wall has three points:

#1 save the world
#2 no kids until we’ve saved the world
#3 don’t talk about The Thing

Two months back, I was sitting across the table from Anna. Every day, she stared at ice cores until her eyes were red, and told me she’d not been crying. She is as close to magic as I have met: the ice is her crystal ball. She wrote a paper about it, then received death threats. She no longer talks about global warming to the press.

We were playing Texas Hold ‘em with Gibbs and Murray. I had a pair of 3s. Terrible, but you play your cards against those on the table. A bad hand can come through in the right place. Anna was not drunk. We had bags under our eyes. None of us had shaved in weeks. The rest of the crew were asleep.

“It’s done,” said Anna. “Tubes tied.” She threw down a few dollars. Her voice was hollow, resigned. I met the bet.

“Me too,” said Murray. “Vasectomy. Boxing Day, back in the world. Doctor asked questions. Told him I was a Catholic with a sex addiction. Shut him up.”

First three cards flipped over: Queen of Spades, King of Spades, 6 of Hearts. Fuckall for me. Two more cards to go, turn and river. The river is the last card- last chance. Two sorts of people chase it: fools, and those with nothing left to lose.

Dangerous thing, hope.

I hadn’t gotten the snip, but I didn’t want them to know. It used to be a joke. We’d made a pillow fort and wrote “no kids allowed” and went inside and got drunk and marvelled at the patterns of ice on the windows. It’d been cramped, boring and cold in the base, but we’d stuck with it because we were saving the world.

Making it a better place for our-

Turn: 5 of Clubs. Useless.

It was in front of us, clear as ice. The earth was dying, and we were paramedics. As news of Anna’s frosty reception made it south, our bravado faded. The first of many wounds. We realised we were undertakers, keeping the place neat for whoever wanted to look it over later.

Oh, humanity? Gone to meet Jesus, ain’t comin’ back.

We used to be scared of monsters that looked like people, then we cut out the middle man. The forbidden movie changed: The Thing into Mad Max. A monster can be killed, but a desert can only be survived. Welcome to the big empty: tickets are free, but food costs an arm and a leg.

Barren. Hell of a word. Conscious choice on our parts, except mine. You wouldn’t push your lover in front of a train, and you wouldn’t bring a kid into the mess that’s coming. Easier to-

River flipped: 3 of Clubs. I threw a few bucks on the pile. Murray folded. Chasing a straight, no doubt. Anna met the bet. She gave a lopsided grin, like old times. Gibbs saw the look, and folded.

“So, what’ve you got?” I said.

She shrugged and flipped her cards. Pair of Jacks. Good hand, in totally the wrong place. A bluff, or faith in the river? I laid my cards out. Murray laughed. “Trip threes,” he said, “bloody hell, saved myself some cash there. Lucky bastard.”

Gibbs crooked an eyebrow. “Just what the hell were you chasing?” he said.

“Dunno,” I said, “but looks like I found it.”

Dangerous thing, hope.

We drink, we play poker, we drill ice cores and send them home. They are more worrying each year, but the world is not worried. Terrible, but you play your cards against those on the table. We can only bet big, and keep chasing the river.

[714 words]

Mar 21, 2010

Curse you Systran! You've taken my two favourite 'domers as judges, and broken my power trio!

I am not defeated yet sir, no! I will take a team of plucky newcomers and I will teach them my art. Consequently:

I have PMs. I will collaborate with the first three people to PM me, regardless of who they are. This will be a single team of 4, and you'll be told who the others are as they arrive. If the team is less than 4, then so be it.

EDIT: Team Muffin Is The Best Sexman now consists of 3 people. 1 space remains!


SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 14:20 on Feb 25, 2014

Mar 21, 2010

Greetings, Fräuleinen! Thought it is the work in progress, I have video footage of my team working on zer writing.

I regret to inform you zat zis week will be excruciating.

Mar 21, 2010

Sure, why not. Something something flowery I gotta go to work in ten minutes so whatever.In.

Mar 21, 2010

Ugh, I ran out of time.

The Treasure of Sierra Hermano

The tires of the truck hit another stone, and the whole vehicle shook like it was Christmas Morning and Satan very much wanted to know what was inside the box. Benjamin drove with one hand, and waved his phone out the window with the other. No reception in this misbegotten corner of Texas.

One bar. Ben rammed the brakes. Things jangled, things squealed, things rattled and reeled. Piece by piece, the truck crawled to a stop. The weight in the trunk drat near rolled the thing into a ditch. He couldn’t forget the weight, oh no. The engine coughed. Ben turned it off, then sighed. He clambered out of the truck and onto the roof, then dialed Miguel.

“Yo, homes,” answered Miguel, “what up?”

“What is up,” hissed Ben, “there's an is you are missing, Miguel. Grammar is important.”

He paused, and chose his next words carefully. “There has been,” he intoned, each word piercing the phone’s speaker like a coffin nail being driven into wet earth, “an incident.”

“Incident, huh?” laughed Miguel, “did you try ask Katey out again? She doesn’t want your skinny rear end, pendejo. You follow her around the mall again and being dateless is gonna be the least of your worries.”

Cataplectic with rage and exhaustion, Ben held the phone at close to his mouth as he could without swallowing it. “James,” he spat, in much the same tones a lesser man would say motherfucker, “is dead.”

After about two seconds too long, the reply came: “You got a hosed up sense of humour, man. That’s not cool.”

“I am not joking,” whined Ben. The weight of his sin filled the back half of his truck. It glowed wan-yellow, and could buy a lot of cheeseburgers. “We- we-”

His voice broke. He felt his meagre vestige of strength flee. His hands shook. The words fell out of his mouth and hung in the air for a second too long. “We fought,” he sighed. The rest of the story bubbled up like blood from a wound. Money is an ugly, simple motive, but there was so very much of it. Enough to live like a king, or never work again. In his mind, he was taunted by gilded birds and iron cages, and an ocean of blood that flowed from his friend’s mouth and eyes and fingernails and rear end in a top hat until it drowned the world.

“Benny,” a voice moaned out of the wind behind him. There was something vile it, like an open sewer on a hot day. The speaker coughed and spat, then something hit the ground with a wet thump. Benjamin went ice-cold, despite the Texas summer. He dropped his phone. It bounced off the roof, then fell and shattered onto the dirt road. Miguel’s confused squawking was cut short, eaten by the endless tyranny of silence.

“Lungs go in,” muttered the voice, like a mother scolding her errant child. It could only be one man; James. The sound that followed was like vomiting, but in reverse. James cleared his throat. “Turn around,” he commanded, with the menace of somebody who knows what your insides look like, and exactly how to make them outsides. Benny obeyed.

The bullet had done a number on the left half of James’ face. It was all bone, and hair, and grey-pink brainmeat. Each breath passed over shattered teeth and out the cavern in his cheek. Three-quarters of a tongue hung out of the hole, dribbling a trail of spit and pus. The man was very dead, though apparently untroubled by it. He was holding a gun. Without looking, Benny knew it had six barrels but only five bullets.

“Death,” drawled James, “hurts like a motherfucker. I didn’t like it, so I chose this instead. We’ve got business, me and you.”

In the whirring machinery of Benny’s brain, something was already beginning. He saw his disapproving finger rise, felt his throat go taught, and the pitch of his voice rise with indignation. He felt like he was watching an old man fall onto the train tracks: horrified, but completely powerless to stop what happened next. How important was grammar, really?

You,” he wheezed, trying to steal back the words before they became real, “and I.”

The bullet missed, though not by much. The hot devil-wind of it painted a trail of flame through the air. When the ringing in his ears had died down, Ben noticed that James was holstering the gun.

“I’ll give one thing to death,” eructated James, like a Roman Emperor giving the thumbs-up to his least-favourite gladiator, “it’s lonely. You win, rear end in a top hat. One life with you is more than enough. I hope you live forever. May you miss everything cool, because you’re too busy alphabetising it. Take your drat money. Maybe you can buy yourself some sense.”

He turned, and walked off into the boiling sun, back towards the cave. Benny got into the truck, and drove all the way home without stopping once. Once there, he locked his door, pulled the curtains closed, and did not go outside again for quite some time.

[850 words]

Mar 21, 2010

Ghost stories? Move over kids, daddy's home. In.

Flash Rule me.

Mar 21, 2010

CommissarMega posted:

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! :unsmigghh:
Rhino is being a huge pussy hemming and hawing about this flash rule in IRC but I think it's hilarious so

SUPER KL FLASHRULE GO: Write a story about a hantu tetek. Bonus points if you can work the haze into it somehow.

edit: while I'm here, there's currently a Thunderdome game of XCom going on. I suck and it's Classic Ironman, so I need fresh meat. If you would like to get murdered by aliens, sign up below.

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 11:01 on Mar 13, 2014

Mar 21, 2010

Ah, that would explain why you've been asking Fanky and Sebmojo to help you edit your piece, then.

We talk, dude. You are the worst cheater. As in, you are terrible at it.

Whatever you submit had better be an entirely new story from the one you've been passing around this week.

Mar 21, 2010

[EDIT: removed for publishing reasons]

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 02:17 on Dec 4, 2014

Mar 21, 2010

Do me!

Mar 21, 2010


Mr Boogie's Bad Day

As usual, he came in darkness. He started simple: branches of trees scratching the window like a witch's fingernails. This failed. What he specifically did next was complicated, but every dog and cat in the neighbourhood started catterwauling and later had very strange dreams.

This too, got no reaction. The fear-o-meter should've at least been spiking by now. He slid through the walls of the house where his targets lay. They were playing the x-box. Haloes, it looked like.

"Give me the controller, Tim," said the fatter boy, "if we die to the boss, we won't pass the level and I don't have any more coins!"

"Sod off Jim," said the fat boy, "you're useless at killing the space invader men."

"BOOOOOOOOOOO," said Mr. Boogie. He called all the shadows from the place beyond and bent them towards the two boys.

"Piss off monster, you're not as cool as video games," said Jim.

Mr Boogie left, defeated, through the closet.

Mar 21, 2010

Critting this one:

The Saddest Rhino posted:

Firstly, I don't understand how a Rhino could be sad. Being dumb beasts, they have no emotions. Fix this.

INTERPROMPT Oooh. Direct, forceful hook. I like.

Soon it will be 1 April 2014 nice, setting and genre in one neat package. What wacky hijinks will ensue?, where companies will put up "hilarious" pranks and deface their websites sarcasm is v. postmodern. This will sell well in Portland. and we the consumers laugh and laugh because ah how silly and how like people they are, ha ha ha, don't tell me how I'm feeling, make me FEEL it the capitalist culture of our society will soon be humanity's downfall a political angle, nice. I heard from the boys in PR that teenagers are going nuts for that poo poo right nowand we are not wis-

Ah, screw that. NO PORN IN TD MEANS NO PORN IN TD. DISQUALIFIED. Write 250 words about a prank gone horribly right / wrong. BURN IN HELL.

Mar 21, 2010

Kwasimodick has given the entire thread rageboners.


Mar 21, 2010

Nobody should crit crabrock until he goes back to crit me and Mojo's brawl.

Mar 21, 2010

Also he gets back to writing his novel about a giant happy tortoise and some magic poo poo also.

Mar 21, 2010

Oh thank god crabrock. You were so late, I thought I'd gotten you pregnant.

Mar 21, 2010

systran posted:

Okay, you choose a judge etc.
I'll do it, if you two are interested. Got a prompt lined up.

Mar 21, 2010


This is a prompt that’s been brewing a long time. I had it planned way back for the first thread, but I despite a lot of HMs in the time between, I’ve never managed to clinch another win. In the meantime, the number of entrants has gone up, and the word counts have gone down, and it’s not really viable for a big ole’ whole ‘dome rumble any more. This feels right, though. This feels just. The universe was waiting for this moment, for me to lay down the rules by which you live. This is gonna be epic, lads. Your prompt is:

:siren: Set a story in a new world. Not America, not Mars, not Neo-London: something totally unrecogniseable from the earth we know and love. I want to be able to taste it in the air, I want to be able to smell it, to hear its songs. I want a living, breathing place constructed entirely from your imagination, as different from Terra Firma 2014 as a siberian tiger is different from a big mac. :siren:

Furthermore, you must tell a story. Characters, motivations, plot. No encyclopedia entries or blog posts or naturalists taking notes. You don’t have the time nor the space for that. You need to sell your world through the fabric of the story, through the way the characters perceive their world and choose to act in it. May God help you if it reads like Malazan: Book of the Fallen.

Finally: Mojo no cyberpunk, Systran no Chinese/Turkish-esque mashup.

Your limit is 2500. That is a hard limit: one single word over (title inclusive) and I will fail your rear end so hard that your children will be born with losertars instead of faces. I will count every single word and every single one over the limit will be taken as a personal insult that I will avenge by coming to your house and making GBS threads in places that poo poo does not go.

Deadline is 11:59pm Wednesday May 7th. Since you’re both in wacky-rear end timezones, we’re running by the only true clock: Singapore standard time. That’s UTC+8.

C'mon little doggies, let's rumble.

Mar 21, 2010

:siren: OPTIONAL BRAWL THEME: Hope in strange places. :siren:

Mar 21, 2010

I like this. In.

Mar 21, 2010

I've got something half done but I'm at work and won't be able to finish on time. I'll try to get it in late anyway, but I'm DQing myself.

Mar 21, 2010

It's late and it's not very good. Sorry about that.

When you think about it, dolphins are the most spiritual animals

Larry Meyers should've worn a condom. The morning after his bathroom encounter with a trustfund crustpunk, his regrets made themselves known through an itch in his balls that had developed to a full-on rash by lunchtime. It was purple and green, with psychedelic swirls in it. Larry, being a diligent and serious accountant, knew that these things would go away if you ignored them hard enough.

Returning from lunch (a hummus and cheese sandwich and a soy vegan latte) he bought a crystal to put on his desk, to catch good vibes. By the time he returned to the office, his beard and hair had each grown nine inches, and he tried to engage the secretary in conversation about how they should totally go to Burning Man together. All the while, his hair writhed and twitched with a manic energy of its own, growing and growing until it graced the floor and swelled around the man's feet.

This did not unduly trouble him until the beard started to grow backwards, through his skin and down his throat. Little hairs twisting inwards on themselves, them driving down through the soft mess of muscle and trachea. His last strangled word was “bummer”. His nearby coworkers noted that it was indeed a bummer, but it was ok because he was going to go live in harmony with the dolphin spirits. Greg Hoskins from HR went to hit the panic button – because it might summon Pan and he might get a totally sweet wooden flute out of it - but gave up because it was all the way over there, man.

The hair, oh, the hair. A forest of it, every inch unwashed, flowing from the heads of Wigg, Hong and Associates like a totally trippy waterfall. Some of them tried to tie ribbons in it, which was like holding a drum circle in the middle of a busy interstate. It burst through the windows of the third floor, ran down the walls and tried to hug pedestrians, who stood awestruck and more than a little confused. They were caught in the hairy embrace, then came to simultaneous revelations that they were very spiritual but not like, religious, you know? Their own hair grew, adding to the ur-dread that now consumed the building and totally stuck it to the man.

It burst through their skin, through their eyes, out of their cocks and tits: years of hair in seconds. Each one died with a kumbaya on their lips, desperately jonesing for weed, consumed with the thought of how this would make a trippy album cover. Within three days, Boston was nothing less than the world's largest hairball. It spread from there: body to body, mind to mind. A nation of 300 million making tie-dye t-shirts and wearing gnarly headbands. Then, like a flash, their essence was sucked from them, through their hair like a million tiny straws into the mouth of a hungry god, a god borne from pure good vibes. Within a week, the continental United States was a wasteland from which only the sounds of the Grateful Dead could be heard. Grateful indeed: though their bodies are gone, they swim with dolphins.

The Dread-Locks come for us next. This is not a disease to be fought with medicine, nor quarantines. We have clippers, razors and spray bottles. We have boom-boxes filled with mixed tapes: punk, metal, Streisand – anything to ruin the vibes, to thaw the chill, to derail the train of cosmic love barreling down. With shaven heads and rage in our hearts, we hold our scissors high and scream:


[560 words]

Mar 21, 2010

sebmojo posted:


i hate you both very very much

In other news


Your pretentious, poorly worded bullshit spammed all across CC has driven me to the point of madness. It's almost Lovecraftian how very bad you are. It's like you're a shapeshifter sent to infiltrate a liberal arts college, or the Patron Saint of smug 19 year-olds. You need somewhere to hone your skills, and the 'dome is that place.

Brawl somebody, and I'll judge it.

Since you're not a 'dome regular, I'll lay it out for you:

Somebody else from this thread steps up to word-fight you. You both get given the same prompt and the same deadline, then after that I'll put them out side-by-side and pick the best. Even though my annoyance at you knows no bounds, I promise to judge it fairly and give credit where it's due.

Normally I'd be the one brawling you myself, but that would be like throwing a kitten under a steamroller. I'll submit a story alongside if you really need me to prove my chops, but the person you're brawling should be a volunteer from the thread. For you only, I'm dropping the special "winners brawl only" rule. Hell, I'm reversing it: if you want to fight Rich, you've got to have a loss or DM on your record.

Deadline will be set whenever your opponent steps up, but the prompt is this:

Write something sincere, humble, and featuring no words with greater than 2 syllables. The protagonist must not be you, or your pen-name, or your alter-ego, or anybody that resembles you in any way whatsoever. No formatting tricks, no funny business, no trying to be "clever" and dodge around the rules. Your goals are to stop masturbating all over your thesaurus and to make me give a gently caress.

800 words minimum, 1000 words maximum

You wanted CC's attention brosef, now you've got it. Step up.

Mar 21, 2010

leekster posted:

I'll fight Gamingo if no other brother/sister in blood wants to canonize this punk
Leekster, you're up. As soon as Gamingo accepts, the game is on.


Mar 21, 2010

Then as of now, you have one week to submit. 11:59PM Wednesday May 7th Singapore time.

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