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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Ahaha, he just autobanned.


Look rear end in a top hat: Mag7 improved. Benny improved. Even Baudolino improved. There is no bottom floor that enough practice and and real criticism can't lift you up from. But those guys kinda went "yeah I suck, how do I fix it" while you scream "IT'S MY STYLE OKAY LEAVE ME ALONE". Good luck finding your more supportive group. May you be bad at this forever.

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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


QUICK EVERYBODY DOGPILE SOMEBODY NEW



WHICH NAMES DON'T I RECOGNISE THIS WEEK


...




...











...

CTHONIC BELL I BET YOU HAVE A BUTT THAT SMELLS LIKE POOP. EVERYBODY loving GET HIM.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Brawl me again, old man. I'm chasing a hat-trick.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


[EDIT: removed for publishing reasons]

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 02:25 on Dec 4, 2014

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Yeah I'm shitpost king but I will fight any motherfucker so that's cool.



You wanna step up you've gotta put your dukes up.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


I wanna fight loving Martello or somebody where is he.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Martello posted:

o good evening officer

what's that? where am I coming from? your mother's house.

yes exactly. in the butt, she seems to prefer it that way.

where am I going? your wife's house in fact.

no she makes me dress up as a ballerina, but otherwise vanilla.

o sure I can absolutely slow down, bit of a lead foot here, heh.

yes. well thank you officer, very kind of you to give me another chance.

you know what? you drive safe too. have a wonderful evening.

i'll tell your wife you said hi.
My wife's not vanilla you motherfucker you'll pay for that

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Sure. Hit me.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


DURINGPROMPT:


:radcat: :radcat: :siren: IT'S THESADDESTRHINO'S BIRTHDAY. :siren: :radcat: :radcat:


200 WORDS ABOUT A RHINO AND WHY HE IS SAD.



YOU HAVE 24 HOURS.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Wow, this week hates me even more than that time a volcano exploded at me but gently caress it I am not backing down from a brawl. Martello can suck my dick.

sebmojo posted:

:siren:The Hammer and the Muffin:siren:

Lets keep this fast and dirty; 800 words, a love story on a speeding train, no-one may speak. 21 Nov, high noon PST.


Fashionably late

Alaine clung to the top of the train. His fingers were almost numb, and his hands were gripping the railing tight enough to leave dents. He had wedding to attend in Marseilles, and one hour previous he had found himself stuck at Gare du Nord with empty pockets and no loving ticket. He doubted Josephine would be stood up at the altar a second time. The red-eye bullet train had squatted before him on the tracks, with maintenance ladders leading up to the roof.

Two cyclists stood on a bridge, slack-jawed, eyes wide. They stared down at him. He wanted to shout out a warning but he knew the wind would take his words and hurl them into some distant field. He thought of Josephine and the way she walked ever-so-slightly crooked from carrying her laptop everywhere and the way her freckles looked l- OH gently caress TREE BRANCH

One hand came free from the railing, and Alain twisted his body so the tree didn't tear him open and leave his guts streaming in the breeze. The whipping wind around the train picked him up and smashed him against the roof. Rich iron blood filled his mouth. The muscles in his arm threatened to tear. He brawled with the wind, then lunged out to get his other hand back into position.

Ding ding ding ding, ding ding ding ding, dee dee ding ding diing. His pocket vibrated. The old Vodafone ringtone. He never got around to changing it. If it bothered Josephine, she never mentioned it. A woman of endless patience, though probably even she had limits. He had other qualities, but he could never be where he needed to be at the right time. What nice things could he say about himself? Persistent, decisive, perhaps not very good at thinking things through. The phone stopped ringing for a moment, then immediately started up again.

The train blasted through another provincial Loire River town: a church, a sprawl of old and new houses, then gone again. Ding ding ding ding ding MERDE MERDE MOTHERFUCK LET IT GO TO VOICEMAIL. The ringing stopped. The phone vibrated once, then twice. A very confused herd of sheep followed him as quickly as they could, but they too were swallowed by the horizon behind the devil-fucker-train that needed to learn how to pace itself. Another town ahead. A big, conspicuously new station. Alaine had only a moment to process this new information before the bullet train's brakes kicked in, hurling him clean off the roof.

As he flew through the air, the world slowed around him. He saw a single cow staring at him with mad, rolling eyes. He saws its arse fertilising the field, and he wondered whether they would mention it in his epitaph

Alaine Lebeau, the always late-
he stood up girls on the first date
Alaine Lebeau, he caught the train
died in a field, in intense pain
Alaine Lebeau was quite the tit-
he died alone covered in poo poo.

He crashed into the giant turd-pile. Bones rattled around inside his chest. He bounced, flew again, hit the long, uncut grass and skidded through it, lubricated by the feces that clung to every part of his body. Once he was quite sure he wasn't dead yet, he sat up and took out his phone. His ears rang with the impact. A single text message awaited him:

WHERE R U???

He looked back to the bullet train. He could spend a week hitchiking to get to Marseilles, or an hour riding the beast. Beyond the cow, the train sulked on the tracks, ready to pull away again at any moment. A ladder extended from the ground to the roof. He looked to his phone, then back to the train before sending a single message.

OTW BEBE. 1 HOUR K?

He pushed himself to his feet, and wiped a trickle of blood from around his mouth. He stank, and he was injured, but damned if he was going to leave his woman waiting.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


blue squares posted:

Prompt: Some people can't see a priest on a mountain of sugar (can't see the obvious)
The Producer's Wife
Word Count: 1499
But where was the golden bean worth no more or less than one million US dollars? :confused:

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


blue squares posted:

What are you talking about?

edit: VVV Check the OP. No Docs.
TD has a standing 'no erotica' rule. The only guy to previously break it wrote a series about loving his dad, and finding a very valuable golden bean somewhere in the vicinity of his dad's penis.

Oh also there was an autobiographical story about a PUA loving himself with a dildo that could be a dictionary definition for TMI.

Any reference to golden beans means "lol terrible erotica".

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


blue squares posted:

Its not erotica dummy. Sex & fetishes != erotica. Grow up. Done with this convo to avoid angering the (mercedes) gods.
You're right. Erotica is the wrong word.

There is a standing "no writing sex" rule because goons are terrible about it and always write horrible "funny" poo poo that nobody wants to read such as puppetfucking.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


blue squares posted:

Ok well thats not the point and I am not into "puppet loving" and I am a good writer so deal with it
:allears:

I never said you were into "puppet loving". Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

You broke one of our longest-standing rules then immediately chastised somebody for breaking a rule that doesn't actually exist outside your head. That is the point. That's why we're laughing at you. But whatever dude, I'm done.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Training Wheels

Craig fell. Again.

It was the bicycle. It wouldn't stay straight since dad took the extra wheels off. Every time he tried to move forward, the back wheel would fishtail all over the place and take the rest of the bike with it. Craig hit the hot concrete cheek-first. “Chrrrrrp chrrrrrrp” said the cicadas, “chrrrrrrrrrrrrp chrrrrrrp.” They were laughing at him and he knew it. His face hurt. Mum's roses sat in their soil bed on his left, and the yard to his right. Forward and down the slope was the road, where the big kids took their bikes.

Dad knelt down and hooked him under the arm, then hauled him to his feet. “Bit of a tumble, aye?” dad said. He clucked his tongue and smiled. Craig didn't get it. Did dad want him to hurt? Was dad an rear end in a top hat? That was the second-worst thing you could be. Assholes didn't buy you ice cream or tell you stories before bedtime but on the other hand Good People didn't put you on a spinny-wheel deathtrap and push you down the driveway with a big happy look on their face.

“I want the wheels back,” said Craig. How had his friend turned into an enemy so quickly? His dad and his bike. The world had gone all crazydumb when he wasn't looking.

Dad chuckled. “You've already got two,” he said.

“Dad, I'm serious!” said Craig. A big grin split Dad's face. A sort of contentment filled him from his belly to his balding head, and he took in a deep breath. He paused. For a moment, he looked out over the beautiful summer's day and his son, and the bike. Then he exhaled. “Hello serious,” he said, “I'm dad.”

Clearly an rear end in a top hat then. Maybe even the other word.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaad,” said Craig. “Chrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp,” said the cicadas. Craig bet the cicadas didn't have to deal with badword dads and worseword bikes. He bet they got to live in the trees and hang around all day and not have to do anything. They didn't have ice-cream but they had the stuff that's inside trees which is probably nearly as good to them. The sticky stuff. Sap. That was it: sap. Like Craig was a sap for getting on the two-wheeled bike of death.

He kicked the bike, and his dad's smile disappeared. “C'mon,” he said. He wandered over to the bike and pulled it upright, then slapped the seat. Craig grumbled, and got on. He gave the pedals an angry kick. The bike rolled forward a little. It wanted his blood. A car rolled by on the road ahead. Its windows were big dark eyes and its wheels were spinning lamprey mouths ready to gobble him up.

Dad pushed the bike. Craig screamed as he flew forwards down the driveway, the garden a red-and-white blur beside him. He hit the road with a bump. The car had passed, and he was out on the tarmac cycling-

He looked down at his feet in the pedals, then up at his hands on the bars. The spokes of his wheels went clickaclickaclickaclick as they turned. He pushed the handlebars to the left and the bike curved back towards the driveway. Dad's smile was so big, it was gonna take the top of his head off.

Craig smiled too, then he put his feet in the pedals and he rode back to his father.



[556 words]

A ship in the harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010





SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


systran posted:

In even though the prompt sucks
Same.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Yo there's a thing happening next month. Not affiliated with Thunderdome, but I'm throwing the link down around the place.

The more people sign up the angrier I will get at everybody.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


[EDIT: removed for publishing reasons]

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 02:26 on Dec 4, 2014

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


God Of Paradise posted:

Over the word limit. Longer short story. Second attempt at writing a 1200 vignette, but it didn't work as one. So I wrote this short story instead. Disregard it due to length if you'd like.
Man I understand why you couldn't cut a single thing this is amazing and also proof-read.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


I'm still really curious as to how a professional reporter who has won awards could write "He nods gravely, then waives his finger at a fat brown woman in a wicker chair."

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Where the sun don't shine

Up your bum.






[3 words]

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


I got a real David Foster Wallace Kurt Vonnegut vibe from its cool cat voice.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Mr. Greedo was my obese Uruguayan business associate. If you could sell sweat he'd be Donald fuckin' Trump. He was a hip-hip mogul, which is like hip-hop but for the cool people. We are flying in my private jet to Barbados. A glass of brandy had been taken by Mister Greedo from the serving whore's cart. He downed it in one go because he was so cool. Lujiburously, he lifted his hand and put his on his chest and then he scratched his chest with his hand/

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Gau posted:

Apologies to any Aussies, I realized about halfway through the first sentence that I have no idea how to pronounce Brisbane.

"poo poo whole."

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Generally we disapprove of excuses for poor performance because otherwise the thread would be a million pages long.

That said, the candor and sincerity are appreciated. I have hope for you. Come back next week and give it a thorough edit before you submit. It's okay to write high, but you've gotta edit sober.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


and now a public service announcement

:siren: IT IS CLOSING ON THE END OF THE YEAR, WHICH MEANS THE THIS THREAD WILL BE LOCKED SOON AND A NEW ONE LAUNCHED. THAT MEANS YOU CAN'T EDIT OUT ANY STORIES YOU'VE POSTED HERE, AND NO, THE MODS CAN'T DO IT FOR YOU EITHER. NOW WOULD BE THE TIME TO GO BACK THROUGH YOUR ENTRIES IN THIS THREAD AND EDIT OUT ANYTHING YOU THINK YOU MIGHT TRY TO GET PUBLISHED. :siren:

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


This is my jam. In.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


the watchers from on high

Trevor knew the windows were watching. They clung to every surface- every office and apartment, every television and smartphone. It was all over the news- the Gee Men were in your house and in your phone, stealing glimpses at all your dark little thoughts. Some Gee Men claimed they were NSA, or KGB, or MI5 or GCSB, but they were all Gee Men, all hungry for the private things. The rain made the windows weep. The wind said pssssssst. A bakery's leftmost window winked at Trevor. The glass was bulbous, covered in a thick membrane. The venetian blind inside closed, stayed shut for only a moment, then dragged itself back open. It looked at him imploringly, in a gross display of vulnerability. Psssst. It made him furious.

Trevor needed to buy a lamp, so he walked to the Mall. The Mall, that drew men from all corners to explore its soft interior. A temple of the machine. Two pink pillars stood at each side of the entrance. They glistened in the rain and sagged beneath the heavy roof of the world. A speaker came to life. “Come,” it said, “come inside and sleep forever.”

The Mall quivered. It wanted him. Its windows leered down. The shadows in each coalesced to form a pupil. The gaudy windows of the shops behind made irises. The rain moistened them. Trevor looked up at the grey sky. Each and every part of his body sagged beneath its weight. He hated himself for that, and hated the sky more. The speaker clucked its plastic tongue at him. Each and every eye turned towards him.

He crossed the threshold, head ducked low. The sudden change in heat sent little rivers of pain through his bare fingers and into his wet palms. The mall’s shops lay open, bustling with activity. The happy people with wide eyes did not know they were being watched, and consumed, by a beast a million feet across that hungered only for answers. A wide world that needed to know, then reassemble information in databanks, distribute to corporations and employers and worst of all Gee Men, who wore dark glasses and knew the secrets about yourself even you didn't know.

Trevor very much wanted to buy his lamp and leave. A bank of televisions perched on one wall. Pssssst they said. They cut from static to a man in a dark blue suit, with a crisp white beard and a fatherly affect. He smiled, with too many teeth. “Hello,” he said, “breaking news on wiretapgate case: the jury has been presented evidence that Trevor Mendellson sucked his thumb until he was seven years old and sometimes pisses himself while drunk. The judge is awaiting their decision. Shocking, to think we have fallen so far.”

He shook his head, and the televisions switched back to static. Pssssssst. Trevor bit his lip. The Mall’s soft, pulsing lights lulled him, and he stood rocking back and forth for a second. A clatter brought him back to reality: a man had dropped his phone, and smashed the screen. A ruined, sightless eye, now. The man mourned over it, then put the remains in his pocket and wandered off to buy a new one. Trevor followed him until they both came to an electronics store.

Would they stock lamps? He would have to enter to find out. The warm hum of the place filled him and he crossed the threshold. The televisions and computers spat static at him. The channel changed to Mister Too-many-teeth-and-all-smiles. “Further allegations in the Gee Man wiretapping scandal,” he said, “the People's Union Party accuse their opponents of using stolen information in attack ads. They are pressing charges against key members of the Federalist Party for undermining the democratic process, and unlawful use of information. Pundits are calling for an early election. Furthermore, Trevor Mendellson cannot maintain an erection. We'll keep you updated on that worrisome and unstable situation as it plays out.”

Trevor did not engage them. He kept walking. In the far back of the store, he saw a display of hair dryers: quiet, private housethings. He was so focused on his goal that he didn't see the man step out in front of him. Sunglasses indoors, suit expensive without being showy, and an earpiece. Slicked back blonde hair cut short, perfect teeth curled in a sneer. A Gee Man made manifest. They could travel through televisions, and smartphones. They converged sharklike on the miserable and confused. Trevor turned to run, but two more had arrived behind him.

They opened their mouths. They had no tongues; only wet, toothy maws that went on forever and down. Psssssssssst they said. Pssssssssst. A rattle of air against the back of a moist throat, or a television in its death throes. A sound of submission. A thick cluck came up from inside each man, and they simultaneously spoke in the measured tones of Mister Teeth, The Newsman. “We gotcha, Trev. We know everything. We got black bags and waterboards and poo poo you don't even know about. We got worse than that though: we got your family and we're gonna tell 'em everything. Every little thing. Every debt, every failure, every missed change. You hosed up Trevvy boy, and now the machine is gonna grind you to paste.”

In their eyes, Trevor saw television screens. They were strong in this place, deep in the belly of the temple of the machine. Each television screen was a twitching, febrile eye. Psssssst said a 52-inch plasma tv.

Trevor lashed out at with his foot. Glass shattered, sparks flew, Gee Men screamed. Trevor stomped on the television’s carcass. He was aware of shouting in the store, but he was beyond that. He kicked another television, and another. He picked one up in both hands, then slammed it down hard on the tile floor.

“gently caress YOU,” he said, “I AM FREE.”

The Gee Men shrieked, then collapsed inwards, leaving only suits and circuitry. The smiling man on the televisions stopped smiling, and returned to his regular broadcast. Breaking news, investigations, something that sounded an awful lot like static. He was in the store, with furious shoppers staring at him. A policeman approached him from the front. Trevor smiled at the man, then a great weight slammed into him, and forced him on his side. Rough hands pulled his arms behind his back.

“I am free,” Trevor said as the officers slapped on the cuffs. The spilled electric guts of the televisions and Gee Men lay in tangled heaps on the floor around him. He smiled.

"I am free," he said.

[1105 words]

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Wait, so must be change the names? Are we allowed to write straight fanfic, so long as it's not terrible? This isn't entirely clear.

EDIT: gently caress it, IN with Discworld, I guess. Men at Arms, if I need to be more specific.

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 10:12 on Dec 16, 2014

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Yeah, I won't be entering this week. I could probably find time to write but I'd rather find time to Christmas. I'll try to post the story at some later date.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


I will assist in judging this.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Bad Seafood posted:

While we're on the subject, only six hours left for Muffin and Twist.

Don't think just because I'm the kinda guy who'll extended a deadline means I won't call in a toxx.
Breaking kayfabe, you can't do that. I didn't agree to a toxx and you can't suddenly give me one just before the deadline.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Oh loving fine. You assholes never listened to me or enforced it before. How lovely you're choosing to start now. I can't do this poo poo right now. I can't write any more. There's nothing there.

three leaves

I

Rain stings his skin.
He grasps his jacket;
as if he floated below an ocean seeking
to reclaim the land. His
hair carves rivers
down his back
in drips and drabs. He
shivers thrice and swears
to never leave her side again.

II

Dressed in pristine white, the town
is swept clean. Snow
covers every street
and every scene
of longing. Intolerable
peace of mind, buried
beneath deep drifts
and easy dreams. Water
trickles down his boots-
summons memories
of the past promise. He
fears the future- but
keeps a hearth alight.

III

The earth bursts
with new life lifted up
out of loam in fragile
honeyed scents. He
removes his jacket-
a bulwark against
the budding
sense of rebirth, and the new-
and the old
restored to beauty. They
drift together through winter's laughing
child. He kneels to pluck
a yellow flower.
A gift given thrice- from earth
to him, to her.

Epilogue
day without number


Warm rain bathes them
walking home through tumult
and bustle they come across a jacket
left lonely and crumpled at the corner
by the store. Water
trickles down his back and he
remembers a promise kept. They
dance without cease, with the passing
of each brutish day, in a fury gorgeous
to behold. Restless, endless- a charge
towards some slice of heaven
while the years bear on down.

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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


sebmojo posted:

This is pretty much the way we are looking to go, though the mechanics are tbd.

Brawls are important and should be meaningful, and that can't happen if people blow them off. That was the intent of Muffin's ragespasm up there (lolololol) and he was right. Toxx is a
Okay you can shut the gently caress up now thanks.

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