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Aug 8, 2013


This will be interesting.


Aug 8, 2013

Red Eggs All things in moderation
930 words

How Arnold loved the sauce freshly sizzled and piping hot, straight off the frying pan. About five jellied eggs was all that was needed for a thick, zesty broth. His guests loved it, too. He could have gotten away charging a lot more than ten dollars a jarful, but it didn't really matter all that much.

Two eggs would flavour an omelette for breakfast, and the aforementioned five could make an extraordinary pasta sauce if one added a little basil, salt, and pepper. Come dinnertime one could mix them into anything from salad to soup. It didn't matter if they were boiled, diced, fired, or baked; they still tasted heavenly. Like a perfect mix between a tomato and good, young veal.

Arnold scooted into his favourite comfy chair, huddled up with an extra large mixing bowl of pasta. Red sauce dribbled from his chin onto his ruined shirt, staining the once beloved garment further. Flavour came bursting from the melted remains of the foetal eyes smashing between his molars.

It was a perfect afternoon, a perfect day, and a perfect life. Well, as far as Arnold concerned himself.

He’d have to rub her again that evening. Every other day she needed to be rubbed, otherwise the eggs wouldn't make. Around twenty minutes of non-stop rubbing usually did the trick, but on colder nights this number could rise to almost an hour.

The sun started to set on that chilly October day. Arnold estimated that she’d need to be rubbed for about thirty or forty minutes. Arnold stretched as he shifted from his comfortable sitting position to a standing pose. Judging by the groans, he’d need the heavy-duty gloves and goggles for this one.

“Lord please give me the strength,” Arnold said to himself as he fumbled with his black trunk of equipment.

The groans grew in volume as Arnold approached the cellar with his equipment. They were especially loud now that he was out living room, which he had specially padded to keep out the groans.

The sounds continued to rise from the cellar, and were like a mixture of a young child bawling in pain and a furnace expanding from its own heat.

It had grown at least six times over since Arnold first bought it. She was more or less a fat lump of off-white flesh, groaning over its own existence. Beady black eyes peered back at Arnold, as if trying to intimidate him.

She had been somewhat cute when he first bought her. She was just a tiny thing, cooing softly whilst cuddling against his chest under his smoker’s jacket. The man in the ‘fake Rolex salesman'-type getup called her a wonder pet. A creature that needed almost no care, just water and whatever table scraps you had leftover.

He never mentioned how much it'd grow. Now it sat in that cellar all day, eating what little leftover pasta or soup he had to throw to her. However, the salesman didn't mention the eggs, either. They appeared underneath the creature daily, golf-ball size and usually forming in batches of ten or so at a time.

Arnold couldn't recall what possessed him to eat one of the eggs. Curiosity, perhaps? The smell?

Nonetheless, Arnold had become addicted to those little crimson gels. Occasionally a foetus looked out from its jelly womb, up at Arnold. If Arnold didn't know better, he’d have said that the foetuses wore an almost frightened expression, as if they knew their fate.

The creature gave an agitated moan as Arnold began to work his gloved hands over what appeared to be its abdomen. The now overweight Arnold grinned to himself, excited over the yearly block party coming over tomorrow. He couldn't help but thank the horrific creature he worked over for making him the host, as it was his ‘amazing home cooking’ that won the whole neighbourhood over.

The creature began to let out an atypically guttural moan. Arnold grinned ear to ear as reddish liquid began to pool under the pasty blob. There would be plenty of eggs for the block party.

The next morning, Arnold went down with his bucket and gloves to start harvesting. He wore a boyish grin as he trotted down the steps, ready to become the talk of the town. As he shifted the creature over to begin collecting, Arnold saw something that truly frightened him.

The eggs weren't there.

He decided to play it cool, and gave the creature a more vigorous massage.

It was mere hours before the party was scheduled. Arnold went down to check on his creature. He once again trotted with his big metal bucket to scope up eggs.

Once again the eggs were absent.

With thoughts of humiliation on his mind, Arnold flew into an unbridled rage. He pounced the creature, pounding its abdomen in blind fury. The skin of his knuckles broke on the surprisingly tough flesh of the beast, yet he continued to pound on the creature like an enraged gorilla.

He continued to beat the flesh until large, violet bruises formed. He continued to beat the creature until its groans turned into eerily human shrieks of agony. He continued to beat the creature until he felt a slight prick on his ankle.

Arnold looked down at his leg to see a dozen eyes, blacker than the darkness of the cellar, peering up at him. He could feel several sliding up the leg of his pants. Each one pricking him with increasing intensity.

For once, the cellar fell silent. The creature did not moan as her children ate their fill.

I had another ending that was much more trite that followed the prompt better, but I hated it. So it's now a 'don't be a fatass'-type moral deal, I guess.

Aug 8, 2013

This prompt seems interesting, in.

Also, thanks for all the crits on my Sci-fi/Fantasy week piece, folks!

Aug 8, 2013

This is an experiment for me, but I wanted a happy ending that my main character earned, Goddammit!

The Harvest
1,060 Words

The harvest moon watched over the fields as the Backers toiled away hauling gourds to the barn.

Twenty minutes before the harvest. They had twenty measly minutes to gather one-hundred of their best gourds. The word twenty repeated over and over in Mr. Backer’s mind as he and his family continued their labors.

Further back in the fields, Mrs. Backer loaded a pumpkin onto the cart with jittering hands. Time seemed to slip by as the moon looked down upon the family.

It wasn’t long before they nearly gathered their one-hundred gourd debt. While he carried squash to the barn, the eldest of the Backer children broke the silence.

“Do you think this will please him?” asked the son.

“We can only hope, boy,” said his father.

“Who do you think he’ll take if he isn’t?”

“Don’t speak of such things, boy.”

There was no time to rest as the youngest Backer girl carried the final gourd to the barn. Now the witching hour was upon the Backers, and they needed to work swiftly.

The entire Backer clan gathered in the center of the barn. Those children who remained exchanged glances as Mr. Backer led a young calf in from the stables.

The knife sat on the table, awaiting its dark duty. Mr. Backer sighed as the calf looked upon the children.

The calf was not at all prepared for when Mr. Backer gripped its neck. The tiny calf thrashed beneath the burly farmer as the blade approached the animal’s throat.

A haunting scream echoed through barn as the knife made its way across the calf’s jugular. The calf kicked and bayed, attempting in vain to avoid its fate. Nonetheless, the struggles soon died as dark liquid seeped from its neck.

As soon as the calf succumbed to blood loss, Mr. Backer dipped his fingers into the puddle around the animal. With this blood he drew what looked like a circle with a small dot in the center on the floor.

Not a soul spoke as the entire family waited, for he would soon arrive.

Mr. Backer pivoted his head from left to right, unable to breathe. Then, his heart almost gave as he noticed something.

The eldest child was absent.

He ruined the entire ceremony! There would be no forgiveness for such a grievance!

The unease in the air condensed further, as the family noticed the boy’s truancy, one by one.

As the light of the moon waned, an ethereal chill fell over the room, and the smell of autumn rot polluted the barn as he approached from the shadows.

He was shaped like an old man, but wore skin as white as the moon and as cold as the tundra. Staring at the family, he grinned with dulled teeth.

“Oh! My, my! Haven’t we gotten plump, children?” he asked in a voice that seemed to echo bitter cold.

He continued to approach the children, each step issuing a massive creak from the floorboards of the aging barn. The echoes reverberated through the entire family.

Soon he fixed his milky gaze on the smallest Backer girl.

“Oh, little Alice! Don’t we look cute?”

He began to outstretch his thin hands towards the trembling girl. She felt the frozen apparition’s presence suck the warmth from her cheeks. She clinched her eyes shut as she awaited her demise.

Then, just before the demon could touch the girl, a giant bang sounded from the corner of the barn.

The eldest Backer boy stepped from the shadows, clanging the knife that had killed the calf only moments prior against a wooden support beam.

“Boy have you lost your drat mind?!” yelled Mr. Backer.

The boy said nothing as he continued to clang the knife against the support beam. Even the demon stopped to look at the boy make an rear end of himself.

Then, without any warning, the boy hurled the knife at the demon, who was still standing over Alice.

“Think fast!” he said before wheeling away.

The creature winced in pain as the knife sunk into his frail shoulder. He quickly grimaced before furrowing his brow into a wicked snarl.

“That boy will pay for such an insult.”

The demon sprinted at a rapid pace from the barn, leaving the remaining Backers alone to just stare at the door with bemused expressions.

The boy stood on a nearby hill, and he waved as soon as he saw the white form come into view.
“Yoo-hoo! Mr. Harvest Demon! Over here!” called the boy.

The demon snapped his head to the boy, a snarl of pure rage drawn across his face.

Without a second of delay, the boy ran off into the woods. The Harvest Demon trailed after him, howling for blood.

The boy circled in and out of the foliage as the demon tried to keep up. Just when it looked as though the demon had the boy corned, the young man would dart into an unseen getaway hidden in the thicket. Every time the demon seemed to have the upper-hand, the boy knew of and abused an escape route.

The other Backers trembled in the barn, fearing the worst for their poor, stupid boy.

“Wow Mr. Harvest Demon, you’re pretty good at this! For a first timer, that is.”

“I will scrape every last morsel of flesh from your bones, child!”

“You have to catch me first!”

The creature continued his chase into the wee hours of the night, thwarted each time by the child knowing exactly where to be and where to go.

“Human, you are a fool to think you can hide from me! I can do this all night!”

“Can you do it all day, though?”

Just as the boy said that, the demon noticed for the first time that dawn was fast approaching. The creature sped off in the direction of the barn as the sun overpowered the moon for dominance of the sky.

Before he could make it back to the barn, the sun had finally made its appearance over the hillside. The Harvest Demon, for so long an inflictor of torment, was now being tormented.

The creature tried to shield himself from the harsh rays as the light caused his white skin to crackle and discolor. The demonic was still smoldering as he finally scurried into the barn.

The Backers never saw the creature after that.

Aug 8, 2013


Tyrannosaurus posted:

Don't preface your stories.


Aug 8, 2013

Intern -Interprompt

Words - 210

This story is true in every possible way.

I sat in the front lobby of the Nickelodeon Animation Studios, where I was currently working as an intern. A large, bulking man of Scottish origin came rushing down from the hallway. He handed me a VHS tape with a label that read, in hand written letters, "CatDog's Suicide.rar"

“Here laddy, spread the word.”

"What rubbish," I thought as I threw the tape into the nearest trash bin. Who uses VHS anymore?

Before too long, I was called in for my appointment. A man with no face sat in an office desk, dressed in a black business suit with tie. I correctly assumed this man to be the president of the Nickelodeon Animation Studios, Mr. Magallanes.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Magallanes said as he gestured towards the empty chair on the other side of the desk.

“You’ve been an excellent intern, Jeffery, and it is with great pleasure that I offer you a full time job as a storyboard artist here at Nick.”

“Thank you, Mr. Magallanes! I won’t let you down, I swear!”

“I’ll keep you to it.”

After all was said and done, Mr. Magallanes opened the door for me on my way out. And then a skeleton popped out.

Aug 8, 2013

Gimme a proverb, because this week I am in.

Aug 8, 2013


Sitting Here posted:

:siren: :siren: ALL HANDS ON DECK :siren: :siren:

It's been brought to my attention that Thunderdome has lost its perfect gold thread rating.

It's time to rise. Your day has come. Gather your wit, your will, your luck and your power, and go forth! And rate the thread a 5.

History will thank you.

Remember, Thunderdome loves you, and you love Thunderdome. If you see something, say something. Friends don't let friends vote TD down.

I rated the thread five and brought it back to gold. Just to test, I temporarily changed my rating to three and it went back down to four.

Long live the dome!

Aug 8, 2013

Submission for week CXX, please enjoy.

A Stranger in Gingerbread Junction
1429 words

Mr. Taffy floated in Cola Lake on that sunny afternoon. He felt the fizz trickle over his entire body as he lay idle, letting the cola tickle his nose. He turned his head as Mary Marshmallow skipped up to him, a smile on her face that could melt Ice Cream Corner.

“We have a new friend in town!” she yelled.

“A new friend? Well gee!” replied Mr. Taffy.

Within seconds, Mr. Taffy sprang out of Cola Lake and was right next to Mary. The two exchanged giddy glances before hopping into town.

Gingerbread Junction was abuzz over the newcomer. Gossip flew from one ear to the next about this stranger. The regulars of the Chocolate Milk Bar exchanged their juiciest insights.

“I hear he's from the Jolly Ranches,” said Carrie Caramel as she nursed a glass of strawberry milk.

“Well, I heard he comes from beyond the Rock Candy Mountains,” said Benny Ginger as he grabbed a handful of chocolate pretzels.

“You're all wrong, he hails from the Licorice Loch,” said Chocolate Charlie whilst rubbing his temple.

“Wherever he comes from, he's handsome,” said Sally Salt with a dreamy gaze.

Then, without warning, the doors to the Chocolate Milk Bar swung open. There he stood, his towering physique matching the height of a candy cane tree, and his mottled outfit sporting each color of the rainbow. Every candy-coated patron melted at the sight of the rugged stranger. There was a pause as they all waited for him to speak.

“Hm, I guess a root beer float, barkeep,” said the stranger, hands behind his back.

Everybody gasped at the stranger's order.

“Nobody's ordered anything that strong since Poprock Rick. Are you sure you can handle it, stranger?” asked the barkeeper.

The stranger rolled his eyes as he confirmed his order.

Later that evening, Mary Marshmallow and Mr. Taffy sat in the foyer of Mr. Taffy's cottage. The taffy man occupied his hands shuffling a deck of cards as Mary continued talking about the stranger.

“He chugged a root beer float, can you believe that?”


Mr. Taffy finished shuffling after a few more minutes of Mary gushing about the stranger.

“Mary, can you shuffle next time? The cards get stuck to my hands.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Did you hear about the stranger's game of Go-Fish? He took everyone to the cleaners!”

“Ha, I bet you he couldn't beat us. We're the Go-Fish champs. You ready to play now?”


With that, the two commenced their game.

The stranger had grown quite a following in the days that passed. People lined up to get his autograph, and he had become the undisputed Go-Fish champion, beating out even Mr. Taffy and Marshmallow Mary. However, the stranger seemed to grow bored with Go-Fish, and devised a new game the whole town could play together.

“Alright folks, we're gonna line up into rows. I want everyone that's chocolate over here,” he said as he pointed near the Lemon-lime Fountain

“Everybody who's caramel, line up to the right of the chocolates.”

“Everybody Marshmallow, come to the left of the chocolates. Taffies, come next to them.”

And on it went, until the entire town had lined up in multiple single file rows.

“Now, if you'd please, follow me.”

“This game is weird, Mary,” whispered Mr. Taffy as they followed the stranger.

“Shh, he's gonna give us instructions.”

“Come on folks, just a little further,” said the stranger as he led the entire town in his game.

The town came to a halt as they approached it. It looked like a small building, although the candy it was made from was impossible for anyone to discern. It also lacked windows, having just a single, large door leading in.

“In here. Chocolates, you guys first.”

Mr. Taffy felt, in the pit of his gut, that something was truly off. The chocolates filed into the building, softly chatting each other up as they marched. Soon, they disappeared within.

“Mary, please, we gotta leave, this isn't gonna be fun,” whispered Mr. Taffy, panic growing in his voice.

“Worrywart,” she said as the caramels joined the chocolates.

Something inside Mr. Taffy broke as the stranger called the marshmallows. He flung himself at Mary, and grabbed her in his arms.

“Hey, let me go!” shouted Mary as Mr. Taffy carried her off.

The town watched as Mr. Taffy, with Mary in tow, sprinted into the Gingerbread Woods.

In the woods, Mr. Taffy shot from one gingersnap spruce to the next. He heard the stranger following from behind, slick as a vanilla viper. Mr. Taffy's saltwater heart beat out of his chest as he plowed through the truffle thicket. Without thinking, Mr. Taffy hurled Mary and himself into a small cave. With his hand clasped over Mary's mouth, he gave a mental sigh of relief as he heard the stranger pass the two of them.

“What the heck?!” hissed Mary as soon as Mr. Taffy took his hand off her mouth.

“I'm sorry. But didn't you see how he chased us? I really don't think this is a game!”

“Then, what do you think it is?”

Mr. Taffy paused.

“I really don't know, but whatever it is, I don't like it.”

The moon had crept over the horizon when Mr. Taffy and Mary finally left the cave. The duo made their way back to Mr. Taffy's cottage, neither talking to the other. Mary gave Mr. Taffy the occasional look of contempt as they made their way back.

“We missed out on what could've been the best game of our lives. Thanks.”

Mr. Taffy said nothing as he sat on his bed, rubbing his eyes. Mary huffed as she settled down on the floor.

“Please stay here tonight, Mary.”

“Why should I stay with a meaner like you?”

“Please Mary? I'm really, really sorry.”

“Fine. But you're still a meaner.”

The next morning, Mr. Taffy and Mary came back to a ghost town. The Chocolate Milk Bar was devoid of life, as was every house and cottage. The two made their way across Cola Lake, also void of its usual fishers and swimmers. It was then on a hunch that Mr. Taffy decided to visit the building from yesterday.

When they reached the building, they saw something they hadn't noticed yesterday. It was a window, tucked behind the rightmost corner. Mr. Taffy took a deep breath as he stole a peek into the window.

Inside he saw the stranger, although he was dressed differently. In place of the colorful outfit he wore prior, he instead sported a white coat of sorts. The stranger also seemed to be doing something with a brown object that Mr. Taffy couldn't quite make out.

Then, Mr. Taffy got a better glimpse of what the stranger was working on. He had his arm deep inside Chocolate Charlie's head. Just as Mr. Taffy made this realization, the stranger turned his gaze, locking eyes with the taffy man.

Mr. Taffy sprinted with Mary in tow through the gingerbread forest, but he did not stop in a cave this time. They continued running, sprinting up the Rock Candy Mountains. It appeared the stranger wasn't following them, although Mr. Taffy kept turning his head every other minute.

“Where are we going, Mr. Taffy?”

“I don't hopefully know.”

With that, the two through the Rock Candy Mountains, into the unknown.

The stranger shook his head in confusion. Those two were a strange couple, albeit great at Go-Fish. Still, he was a doctor and couldn't dwell on a couple of weirdos for too long. At least, not with a brain surgery on his hands. He did his best to find them in the vanilla viper infested woods yesterday, and they weren't worth anymore effort.

The stranger, who came to be known as Dr. Rainbow, did help in the search for Marshmallow Mary and Mr. Taffy that ensured in the following weeks. The two seemed to vanish into thin air the day after Dr. Rainbow showed everyone his new practice.

“Mr. Taffy was always a little unhinged. A real fruitcake who always thought people were out to get him,” Carrie Caramel told Dr. Rainbow on a search around the Jolly Ranches.

“Had a real creepy thing going for Mary,” Benny Ginger said as they searched around the Rock Candy Mountains.

“Yeah, the little weirdo was looking for any chance he could to get with that Mary girl, if you get what I mean,” said Chocolate Charlie on a search near the Licorice Loch.

The search was cancelled after a few weeks, with both persons presumed dead.

Aug 8, 2013

At last! The losertar is mine! Mwhahahah!

Anyhow, I'll probably submit something better next week.

Aug 8, 2013

Holy yes I'm in this week.

Aug 8, 2013

Last Reflections

Words: 727

The revolver falls to the ground as my vision blurs. The taste of iron is overpowering as I join the firearm on the ground. I don’t even give a poo poo. Without her, what good will living do me?

Huh, the stars are out in full view tonight. Looking at them, I can’t help but remember our walks in the woods. She’d point out all the constellations she learned as a child while she indulged my rants on the native plants and animals of the woodlands.

We met in college, me a Freshman and her a Sophomore. When we met, there weren’t any sparks or explosions, nor fireworks dancing in the sky. No, I met Terri at my school’s Starbucks. She was working the counter and I was ordering another no-fat caramel Frappuccino when we started talking. Now, Terri had always manned that Starbucks, but this was the first time I really talked to her.

I was waiting on my drink when I overheard her conversation about some movie I liked. Now, at the time that movie was the highlight of my life, you couldn’t shut me up about it. It’s funny how I can’t even remember what that stupid flick was about now. Zombies perhaps?

Anyway, with mention of that movie my awkwardness melted away, leaving a hyperactive young man that could talk your ears off in its place. I chatted her up about that movie and, hey, she thought I was funny! We arranged to maybe pick up something at the cafe the next day.

As we dated, I learned she was an astronomy major. I was myself a biology major, but we both appreciated having someone to geek out to about science.

Hm, what were those constellations again? Well, I think I see the big dipper up there, or is it the little one?

Numbness is starting to take over my mind, but the day she died is still as clear as crystal. I sometimes replay the events of it over and over, stressing on what could’ve been done differently, what could’ve prevented such a tragedy.

We were walking back from the doctor’s office in the fading light. We’d just gotten back from the results of the ultrasound, and it was going to be a boy. I teased about how I could’ve done the procedure back at the university for free while she threatened to strap me to a rocket to the moon.

We had already agreed on the name, Tyler. It was after her brother, a good man who worked as a plumper in Illinois. Things were on the up and up.

Then, he approached us. He appeared young, yet tattered. His attire consisted of a black hoodie, black sweatpants, and a dark, most likely black bandana that covered his mouth. The white skin of his face and hands were the only thing that contrasted with his dark clothes. Without a word, he drew his pistol and fired at us.

The world stopped. For a moment, my mind forgot the situation completely, and all I noticed were what appeared to be beer cans whizzing past my head. I couldn’t do anything as he kept firing down to his last bullet.

The next thing I remember is seeing my lovely, wonderful wife Terri kneeling on the ground, holding her stomach. She groaned as blood poured from her abdominals, letting the world know she had been mortally wounded.

She was pronounced dead that evening.

Just a couple of days ago, Tyler flew in from Illinois to visit. He wept while drinking a lot of my beer, but it was nice to have some company. I didn’t care if I had to do a few extra late night beer runs, because we both felt the same thing inside.

On his last day here, Tyler gave me the thing that would change my life. A Smith and Wesson six-shot revolver. He wanted me to know that he thought of me as a brother, and he wanted me to be able to defend myself if something like that ever happened again.

I wonder if I’ll ever see Terri again, in the afterlife. I’ve never believed in the supernatural, but as the taste of iron builds in my mouth and my vision blurs, I’m feeling a bit more religious.

I wonder what’s gonna happen next? I suppose God only knows.

Aug 8, 2013

Entenzahn's Keys
80 words.

Hey kids at home! Where oh where are Entenzahn's keys?

Are they in the Thunderdome? No, only brain encrusted crucibles here!

Are they in GBS? No, only mindless poo poo-posting here!

Are they in E/N? No, only goons telling goons to sever here!

Are they in games? No, only goons feeding Gaben's wallet here!

Are they in the Crackhead Clubhouse? No, only crackheads here!

Are they in DnD? No, only Marxists here!

Oh well, gently caress the keys let's go home.

Aug 8, 2013


Gau posted:

I completely punked out on my brawl, which is fuckin' lame. However, I offer this dramatic reading as my plea to avoid the blood price of the Dome.

Aw crap, I just got done uploading my dramatic reading. Mine has funny voices but bad diction. Especially with that purple prose yikes.

Volume warning.

Oh, and in for this week.

ZeBourgeoisie fucked around with this message at 03:06 on Dec 2, 2014

Aug 8, 2013

I almost made it through this shitfest of a story in one go before I couldn't take it anymore.

systran posted:

stop making GBS threads up the thread!!!

We're just following the Blood Queen's orders.

Aug 8, 2013

Words: 975

How would I describe Oma? Batshit insane is the best descriptor I can come up with, but even that doesn’t do it justice.

The house often looked like a hurricane had ran through it. Mom and Danielle’s tampons would be strewn around the living room and kitchen. Oh, and the spaghetti and stew that would be left over in pots and pans for days to rot, attracting hordes of flies.

The flies must have loved us, seeing Oma as some benevolent God that brought the rotten harvest. When we ran out of toilet paper, for example, she kept a bucket of washrags in the bathroom that we all had to use and rinse. The flies really liked that one.

Danielle stayed in her room all day, knitting most of her wardrobe. That girl could and would loving knit, because it was cheaper than buying ready made clothes. Hats, scarves, pants, panties, sweaters, you name it she made it herself. All of her pocket change was spent on yarn to clothe herself with.

I, on the other hand, was content to just laze about in filthy, rancid clothes for days. And why wouldn’t I be? Oma’s lifestyle made it easy to get used to filth.

Now, I gotta admit, I’m to blame as well. I squandered most of my SSI checks on lotto tickets and steam, but they felt like my only escape from life with Oma. It’s not like I got to see most of my checks, anyway. Oma took over six-hundred of my seven-hundred dollars every month.

The worst thing I remember about Oma, however, was how she screamed. She called the house a shithole, and blamed everyone, excepting herself, for it. Whenever someone tried to clean or tidy the place, however, she screamed at them for doing a subpar job of it and told them to gently caress off.

Oma loved telling people to gently caress off, next only to calling people shitheads.

The lagoon wasn’t too far from our house, and I would walk there every day. Walks helped me cope with the lovely living conditions, and Danielle would often join me on them. She mostly did it to keep herself from stabbing someone with a knitting needle, although she liked my company as well.

“Take the garbage out, shithead!” was the sound that that fateful day.

As I tugged the maggot-infested trash out of the house, I felt overcome by a need to go for a walk. I could hear Oma bumbling about outside, breaking a few cups in the process and screaming at mom about it.

As I walked back up from taking out the trash, I slipped into my wet shoes to travel down to the lagoon. Oma screamed at mom and mom tried to reason with Oma as I just slipped out of there.

The water of the lagoon shined a bright blue as I approached it. Almost content with how my day was shaping up, I couldn’t help but sing a little tune to myself.

“If I needed someone to love, you’re the one that’d I’d be thinking of.”

Then, from the shoreline, I heard an unexpected reply.

“If I needed someone.”

I didn’t know what to think. Danielle wasn’t around, but I swore I heard a female voice sing along with me. On a hunch, I continued singing.

“If I had some more time to spend…”

“Then I guess I’d be with you my friend.”

While this was a bit freaky, I couldn’t help but find it kinda cool. Someone on the shoreline must have been a Beatles fan to have known that song. The fact that they were a girl also helped reassure my confidence. Wearing dirty clothing tends to not attract the ladies.

I climbed the embankment to see who my singing buddy was. As I approached the water’s edge, I saw her.

A woman floated happily in the water, a wide smile on her beautiful, pale face. I walked up to her, my confidence melting away.

Her singing echoed in my ears as she pushed away from the shoreline, deeper into the blue waves. Although I felt nervous, I poked a tentative toe into the water as the woman beckoned me to follow. It was then I knew what to do.

The solution to my life’s problems was right in front of me, swaying in the waves. No more Oma, no more filth, no more lotto tickets or Counter-strike. All that would be left for me would be simple bliss.

I didn’t have to think twice as I jumped headfirst into the waves. That’s when everything went to poo poo.

I felt the water turn boiling hot as the woman raced back to me, her beautiful gaze replaced with the wrinkled, spiteful face of Oma.

“Stupid rear end in a top hat,” she hissed as I dodged her tackle.

This mutant version of Oma grew more disgusting by the minute. I gawked at her aged body becoming ever more wrinkled and skeletal. Despite this, she vigorously attempted to tackle and drown me.

Her next tackle connected. I felt trapped in Oma’s chokehold as she began to descend into the waters with me.


Oma howled in pain as I felt her grip loosen. I made a hasty retreat to the shoreline, unable to fully comprehend what had happened.

When I came back home, the place was swarmed by EMTs. It didn't take me more than a second to know what had happened as they carried out the bodybag.

The house shaped up after that. Eventually we drove the flies and roaches out, and we’re more or less happy now.

Even with Oma gone, I still like to go on walks around the lagoon’s shoreline. I had long since dismissed the demonic Oma encounter as a vivid mirage, but that changed today.

There, embedded in the sand, was a bloodied knitting needle.

Aug 8, 2013


systran posted:


Write up to 5,000 words on why the judges from a few weeks ago, the week where all three failed to crit anyone, are all total poo poo.

On Judgement and Missing Critiques: An Introspective
Words: 1013

It has come to my attention that the judges of the 'Thunderdome' thread on the comedy forum website "Something Awful" have failed to deliver their promised critiques. As a gentleman who believes strongly in the growth of literary prowess through constructive criticism via peer review, this transgression will not go unnoticed. For example, consider the great Socrates who, while a great writer, was not born a great writer. This is due to the simple fact that human beings are not born with the innate ability to speak, write, read, or communicate in any meaningful way.

When one considers this fact, that humans do not come with innate communication abilities, one must ponder on the greater implications of human interaction and affairs. Take, for instance, the inability of other great apes to speak. While gorillas have been taught sign language, their ability to truly communicate is still hotly debated. There are many competing theories on why humans, in particular, are capable of speech. One such theory postulates that human females, huddled around the historical cave fires, invented language. However, more information is needed to confirm or deny this claim.

One must not dwell too deeply in such topics, for fear of getting into ‘biotruths.’

Alas, we must move back to the topic of the "Something Awful" comedy forums. Created in the year 1999, the forums were founded as the personal website of Richard C. Kyanka as a personal website. The site is unique in that it charges a fee of ten United States dollars to register a forums account.

It is my personal, albeit professional belief that the judges of this ‘Thunderdome’ competition ought to be criticized themselves for failing to maintain their duty of providing valuable feedback to the authors and content creators who have submitted their fictional work for scrutiny.

On the topic of fiction, it should be noted that the earliest stories in recorded human history are mainly of the genre of epics. Epics are long, narrative poems that tell the story of a hero who must achieve some form of goal, typically in the face of Gods or other supernatural advistories.

For an example of an epic poem, take Homer’s the Odyssey. Odysseus must return from war with the city state of Troy to Greece. However, for ignoring the help of the Greek god poseidon, he is punished in a variety of ways. Because I have not had high school English in over three years, and due to the fact that I do not have the desire to google a synopsis of the Odyssey, I will discontinue talking about this Hellenistic epic.However, I will leave this topic with the note that, in the film adaptation of the movie that I was shown in English class, I liked the cyclops scene.

Now, to get back on the topic of fiction writing. Fiction was typically written on a typewriter in the 1800s to the early 20th century. However, in this modern age, fiction and most other forms of writing are usually created with the aid of a text editor. Text editors, or word processors as they are often times called, are software applications that the user may interact with via a piece of hardware referred to as a keyboard. In fact, I am currently typing this essay on such a keyboard, currently installed into a laptop.

A laptop is a small computer designed to be portable, in contrast to bulkier, less portable desktop computers. Computers can find their history traced back to Charles Babbage, who created a device referred to as the Difference Engine. This machine was designed to calculate difference tables or some poo poo for British people and sailors.

Britain was colonized by the Anglo-Saxons in some far off year that I don’t freaking remember. British people are not American, and therefore they are often hated by Americans. While the British do hold different standards of dental hygiene, they do not universally have terrible teeth, as is the perception in America.

Despite being birthed to his mother in the American state of Alabama and currently residing in the American state of Ohio, this author does not condone American politics. However, these positions are reserved for another paper. Although I will say Republicans are, more or less, loving stupid, and gay marriage should be a thing because this author’s aunt is gay.

Now, allow my to return to the topic of the ‘Thunderdome’ on the internet comedy forums “Something Awful.” This author, having previously written a few fictional stories for this weekly flash fiction competition, believes, in his humble opinion, that the Thunderdome is an excellent outlet for aspiring new writers to come and be butt blasted with eyeball melting critique. Critique that was not provided on whatever week the forums user Systran.

However, I am getting reports from forums user Jitzu_The_Monk that a judge did give critique on this week that is possibly being thought of by Systran. However, he also claims there was no third judge on this week, which goes against the ‘OP,’ or original post of the thread which states that the number of judges shall be three, with the number five being right out. Still, I do not doubt the expertise of forums user Jitzu_The_Monk and will take what he says at face value, for rules were meant to be broken.

In regards to rules and law, the first written instance of legislature was the Code of Hammurabi, which called for death for many offences. This makes it similar, in some ways, to the laws of Draco when he governed the city state of Athens in Greece. In fact, the word Draconian derives from Draco’s name.

In conclusion, whatever the circumstances may be on the critiques that were or were not delivered in the Thunderdome, not delivering critique in such a group is what many would call ‘not cool.’

Still, it must be noted that there is definite doubt that critique was not adequately delivered. If this is truly the case in this situation, then I must end on a resounding “tsk tsk.”

I was gonna make it 5000 but jesus, gently caress that.

Aug 8, 2013

Holy poo poo a week I might not get a DM or loss in I'm in

Aug 8, 2013

This week I'm gonna actually try so I can keep Zoditar. Hell, maybe I'll win or HM one of these weeks. One of these weeks.

Edit: Anybody want a line-by-line? It'll be my first but maybe reading something in-depth will get me in the right state of mind. Can be a story from any week.

ZeBourgeoisie fucked around with this message at 08:35 on Dec 11, 2014

Aug 8, 2013



(Caribou Lou-Bicardi 151, Malibu Coconut rum, pineapple juice)

“Alright, whelp, Style choice here, but I’d remove that whelp; it doesn’t go with the ‘great tribal warrior’ character you’re trying to build here” my Father Silaluk said quietly. “The rest of the hunting party is in the distance,” he pointed out towards the horizon. I could faintly see a few other figures stalking a herd of caribou grazing on the tundra grass. “Once they spook the herd, they’ll corral them towards us and that’s when we start shooting. You understand?”

I nodded and got my bow ready. My Father was the finest hunter in our tribe, and that day was my first hunt. Looking back, there was a healthy amount of trepidation in my motions and fear that I would let my Father, and the tribe, down. We were both crouched low underneath the high grass and as I looked back at him, I wondered why he never told me how he got that rough scar on the side of his face. I shivered--it was almost winter, but it wasn’t the cold air that made me do so. I know you're trying to show and not tell here, but this is a sloppy way of doing it

“There!” he whispered. Against the rising sun, I heard our other tribesmen whooping and hollering at the top of their lungs, scaring the caribou into a panic and causing them to run. Father grabbed an arrow, the tip made of sharpened bone and hawk feathers attached to the back, and drew his bow back. I did the same. After an agonizing moment of eternity, the caribou stampeded right in front of us.

“Now!” he cried out as he let his arrow fly. As I let mine fly, I made a silent prayer to the spirits that my arrows would strike true through the dust and dirt flying in the air. I saw my arrow strike the flank of a young caribou. Stumbling, it regained its footing and kept running, narrowly avoiding being trampled underfoot. This was good, because a trampled caribou was almost completely unsalvageable.

"Stop!" Father shouted over the din of the caribou stampeding. When the herd had passed, my father put his hand on my shoulder. "Good work," he told me. "Now we track." Does he really have to talk like Tarzan?

We followed a loose track of hoof prints and blood further into the harsh tundra landscape. Caribou hooves are like horses in that they are whole and not split, unlike the antelope’s. We came to a small hill where bellow below was our prey--a young caribou, mortally wounded with my arrow in its flank. I drew my knife, ready to finish it off. My father put my hand on my shoulder again. - Combine these two bolded sentences, sounds choppy otherwise

"Wait," he told me.

"For what?"

"Something isn't right."

At that moment, I don't know what possessed me, be it over-eagerness or simple, youthful recklessness. Whatever it was, I got up and made my way towards my prey. "Don't!" Father said, but I ignored him. This paragraph didn’t do it for me. Why is the protagonist suddenly so impulsive? There’s no foreshadowing that he’s impulsive. Take advantage of your leftover words and build the character instead of just saying ‘well, I wanted to do it hehe’

There was a certain macabre and eerie beauty to the mortally wounded animal. Looking it in the eye, I wondered what was the last thing any of us saw. This sentence doesn’t really make much sense I was about to slit its throat when I heard a low growling behind me. I froze and slowly turned around. Crouching behind me was a vicious wolf. To my left and to my right I found more. I was caught between my flight-or-flight instinct and at that moment, I knew if I ran, they would pounce and kill me. At the top of my lungs, I screamed all sorts of obscene words and sounds, hoping to scare them away. Instead, the largest, the alpha, pounced on me. Announcing that the largest is the alpha is pointless. We can infer that the largest wolf is the big boss without throwing around the word ‘alpha,' we’re not morons.

This whole paragraph in particular reeks of a problem I’ll go on about later. In a word, your voice is too drat passive.

I shoved my arm in front of my face to protect myself, to keep him from ripping out my throat. This sentence stood out by how weird it is in its construction The alpha sunk its teeth into my arm as blood and spit sprayed in my face. "Father!" I screamed pitifully at the top of my lungs. I heard a whimper as the wolf on top of me stopped biting and slumped, an arrow in its side. I heard somebody shouting, wolves barking, and then I felt a great weight being rolled off my body. My Father helped me up, put him against me, and helped me walk across the barren plains of the tundra. Our medicine man did the best he could, but I still bear the bite marks on my arm. It's there as a reminder of my foolishness.

Your prose and voice is passive as hell. You overuse ‘was’ and other such state of being verbs, and you take the action away from the subject by doing so.

Take this sentence as an example: “I was about to slit its throat when I heard a low growling behind me.” You could put so much more emotion and action into this sentence, this one in particular since it’s leading into the climax. “I prepared to slit the Caribou’s throat when I heard a low growling from behind,” sounds better, don’t you agree? Not much better, but I’m just trying to give you an example.

You use a lot of adverbs that serve only to weaken your prose.

In summary, your prose is your weakest point, although your plotting also needs a bit of work. Look at my complaint about the protagonist’s recklessness for an example. Foreshadowing and taking advantage of your wordcount would’ve helped you a good bit. My other recommendation is to read more and examine how other authors construct sentences. Prose can make or break a story, and in this case it broke it.

This is my first crit so take what I say with a bit of salt, I guess.

Aug 8, 2013


Benny the Snake posted:

Hey everybody! So, I love brawls. A lot. A little bit too much. So instead of making GBS threads the thread with asking, I'm gonna take it into a different direction.

:siren:To my former lostertar brothers and sisters, I am putting a bounty on myself! Win a brawl agianst me, win a new avatar! One brawl at a time, only if I accept, no refunds OPEN TO LOSERTARS ONLY. If you're down, post with the words "Benny Bounty Brawl" in bold.:siren:

Sittinghere, mind putting this in the OP?

As a former Losertar I wish your endeavor the best of luck. I don't think this would be worth putting in the OP at the moment, however. We're having a new thread made in, like, twenty days. We can put it in that one.

Aug 8, 2013

The Steel Castle
Words: 1189

The ceiling fan swirled above Lance’s head, his eyes tracking the lazy blades. Once upon a time, the fan held a working light bulb, but now it housed only the shattered remains of the bulb’s base, which gave off sparks that trickled down to the bed. After watching the blade’s rotations for several minutes, Lance fell into an uneasy sleep.

The physician's prescription worked its horrid magic on Lance’s mind as he slept. Beetles scurried over his flesh, biting him and leaving behind swellings that quickly erupted into squirming hordes of larvae. The newborn maggots burrowed into his bones and suckled from his veins and arteries.

When he first awoke, Lance cried hoarse screams. He tried crawling out of bed, but his muscles felt as though the larvae still lurked within, feasting on his blood. Several minutes of struggling finally saw the young man standing upright.

Lance knew the pills waited in the drawer, eager to be ingested. Although he resisted, his programming forced him to grab a bottle and pop the lid off. After downing two yellow capsules, he staggered into the kitchen.

Rats scurried under the young man’s feet as he began the most enjoyable part of his day, breakfast. The cereal rations had been infested with beetles for weeks, but he didn’t care. It was just extra protein.

After breakfast, the day really began. Beginning to feel the pill’s effects, Lance marched off to work. Several dozen barrels of organic compounds awaited him, and he had to add enzymes to all of them.

Nothing felt out of place as Lance walked through the factory doors. The machine dropped another massive drum of biological reagents to the floor, where it waited to be impregnated with additional chemicals.

The young man felt a great, almost romantic kinship with the substances he worked on. The clear gel within jiggled at being treated, almost as if it enjoyed Lance’s company. Whenever he smiled, it felt like the gel smiled back. Still, Lance knew it was only a mirage. Polypeptides and esters don’t smile, after all.

If programming had taught Lance anything, it was that only humans felt emotion. He remembered when the instructor brought in the puppy. He let all the children pet and play with her, the hound’s happy barking filling them with excitement and joy. Then, when the pup had gone around to everyone, the instructor took a knife to its throat.

“Dogs don’t have souls, children,” said the instructor after killing the pup.

As Lance neared the entrance to his complex, he hesitated in opening the door. Something had snuck inside with its shadow visible through the window. Lance couldn’t quite make it out, just a silhouette on the sofa. That’s when it called to him.

“We dogs don’t have souls? Is that so?”

Lance trembled as he stepped into the complex. There, on the couch, sat a rather large bulldog.

“Young man, I must assure you, dogs do have souls.”

Lance couldn’t speak, but he could make a hoarse gasp of surprise. Before he could gather his thoughts, the dog was gone.

That night, Lance took his blue pills and stared at the ceiling fan. The strange event of the day didn’t really affect him all that much; mirages and hallucinations were a part of daily life for him. As sleep overtook him, Lance prepared himself for the incoming onslaught of beetles and their maggoty offspring.

For the first time in his memory, however, he dreamed of something other than insects. He found himself in a field, green and lush with sunshine not obscured by smog. There, in the middle of this paradise, was the bulldog.

“Speak,” commanded the dog.

“What, I can’t… I spoke!”

“Alright, I feel that we can have a much better discussion now.”

“Who, or what are you?”

“A dog, my good sir. An English Bulldog to be exact.”

“Why, why did you come to me?”

“For one, I wished to inform you that dogs do have souls.”

“That goes against everything I learned in programming. Although, you did take the beetles away.”

“So, are you inclined to believe me?”

“I, I really don’t know. Perhaps you are just a mirage, albeit a good and noble mirage. But, I really don’t know.”

“Oh, and there was another thing I wanted to tell you. Something of much greater importance.”

“Go on.”

“Save her.”

The young man’s eyes popped open with that final statement. For once, he didn’t struggle getting out of bed.

As he got to the drawer, Lance felt his programming begin to kick in. It was a beast, nay, a serpent within that demanded the hell drugs to fuel itself. The draconic influence possessed great strength, and forced Lance to remove the bottle of yellow capsules. As he clutched the container, Lance turned and, for the first time in his life, defied the serpent. He tossed the pills straight out the window.

Lance felt something within him scream in what could only be described as sheer agony. He felt the agony as well, but at the same time a powerful feeling of satisfaction, and Lance knew exactly what he had done. He’d slain the serpent at last. Now, Lance had but one final thing to do.

Strolling into the factory, Lance watched the familiar sight of the machine dropping a barrel. He walked up to the container, sweaty hands grasping at the lid. He felt as though these moments were eons, the slime within gurgling for him. She was his princess in the steel castle.

The lid came off and the goo blorped at him. How adorable she was. Against all procedures, he sunk his hands into her mass, letting her accept him.

Music exploded around the loving couple. Lance felt his new meaning in life, the Princess, gently rising from the barrel, embracing his hands and arms. Together they were no longer in a dirty, run down factory ruled by beetles and rats. No, that hellhole had been replaced.

The walls glistened white and were adorn with gold and fine tapestry. Lance could see the Princess rising around him, her shining, crystalline form the most beautiful thing he had ever gazed upon. Truly she fit her role as royalty.

The jumpsuit Lance once wore transformed into a tuxedo fit for a king, an appropriate attire for a date of this scale. Locking lips, the two began their dance.

Moonlight hit just the right spot, and the two swayed in perfect rhythm to the music. There were other people there, men and women of various sizes and shapes, and all of them beautiful. However, none were quite as beautiful as Lance and the Princess gliding around the ballroom floor. The remains of the serpent within turned to dust in that place where no beetle could crawl.

As Lance danced with the apple of his eye, he saw the bulldog in the corner, although he looked markedly different. His head was the same, but his body was now that of a human dressed in royal regalia. The dog gave Lance a wink as he and the Princess slow-danced into that good night.

Aug 8, 2013


Write about somebody failing.

200 words. GO!

Oh, and I also made this:

ZeBourgeoisie fucked around with this message at 06:52 on Dec 15, 2014

Aug 8, 2013

In, and I changed my mind once more. Let me at Of Mice and Men, please.

ZeBourgeoisie fucked around with this message at 02:23 on Dec 17, 2014

Aug 8, 2013

Thank you kindly for the crit, GP!

Aug 8, 2013

A Story from the Backroads
Prompt: Of Mice and Men
Words: 1191

The thing looked like a spider, but was about the size of a cow or a horse. It crawled out of the woods and pierced Stan with hollow eyes complemented by fangs that dripped white fluid. The farmer didn’t hesitate as it approached his jeep. He floored it deeper into the backroads, deeper into the night.

The path Stan found himself on was claustrophobically straight, and he did his best to keep on the road. The spider stared at him through the rearview mirror with those black eyes. Sweat drenched Stan’s forehead as the creature’s mandibles grazed the jeep’s bumper. With no chance left, he accepted his fate.

Feeling his car grind to a halt as the spider sunk its fangs into the trunk, Stan prayed to God for a swift and merciful end. It crawled to the front of the jeep, ripped the doors off the hinges in one swipe, and stuck its claw on Stan’s abdomen. He screamed as the spider hoisted him out of the car. He knew he was doomed.

The spider gently nuzzled Stan with its fuzzy face, cooing softly as it did so. Stan felt himself being hugged closer to the spider, his struggles no match for the creature’s impossible strength.

The spider bounded into the woods, cradling the farmer in its arms. He kicked and screamed as the creature pet him on the head. A cave came into view and the spider stopped, energetically hopping up and down. As he watched in terror, another spider emerged from the cave. This second spider cried a roar so massive that it made Stan’s ears ring.

The farmer thought himself a goner, but then he felt the grip of the creature loosen. Taking his only chance at escape, he jumped forward, breaking the spider’s grasp.

He didn’t look back as he ran as fast as he could.


“Dammit! Where have you been?!” said the other, skinnier spider.

“Gosh, I’m sorry. I just love to pet humans.”

The skinny spider, Paulie, sighed.

“It’s fine, Benny.”


Benny chased more cars that week trying to catch a pet human. A female human with a minivan full of adorable infants got away on Monday, and on Tuesday he failed to capture a farmer driving a truck full of chubby piggies.

Wednesday saw the worst luck by far, however. Benny chased a human in a pretty black and white car down the road. This car, unlike the others, did not speed away. Instead, it flashed a display of red and blue. Benny gazed in complete awe. Not only did this human want to play with him, he wanted to impress him with beautiful lights!

The human leapt out of the car, clutching something in its hand that Benny had never seen before in his life. He crept closer to get a better look at the human and the object in its grasp.

“Finally,” he thought, “a human who likes me!”

Then, there was a pop and a flash. Benny stumbled back, feeling a terrible pain in one of his legs.

The spider scurried back into the woods, ichor seeping from his hindlimb. Paulie clacked his mandibles in concern when Benny came limping into the cave with yellow fluid dripping down his leg.

“What happened?”

“I chased a human and he hurt me.”

“Stop it!”

“But I wanna pet them.”

“They don’t wanna be pet!”

“I love them so much, though.”

Paulie held Benny’s injured leg. He examined the wound before stretching his spinnerette muscles.

“Let’s just get you bandaged up, okay?”


A female spider waited outside the cave, having overheard Benny’s screech. As soon as the injured arachnid came outside, she rushed over to him.

“Are you okay you poor thing?”

Paulie exited the cave as the female examined the patchwork on Benny’s leg. She snapped her head upright at Paulie and greeted him.

“Oh! Is this your webwork? It’s lovely!”

The male spider clicked his mandibles loudly.

“Why, yes. Only the best for my friend Benny here.”

The female chirped out a sound similar to a motorboat.

“I’m Cynthia, by the way.”

Paulie and Cynthia went back into the cave, still chatting each other up. Benny dribbled white venom before sulking off.


The word spread quickly; a giant spider lurked in the woods, terrorizing motorists. Stan stood in the center of town, near the hardware store.

“And it almost got Susie, with her boys in the car no less!”

Another, more grizzled farmer by the name of Henry stood next to Stan.

“Yeah, it chased me too! Thing wouldn’t give up either, and I reckon it was on my tail for ‘bout an hour.”

Concern spread through the community as more and more people reported the spider. It was only after the sheriff’s standoff with the creature that they decided to put an end to it. Every farmer in town banded together to organize a hunting party. Their goal was simple: take the hell-spider out.


Shouting and barking echoed through the woods as Benny moped about, trying to forget about his awful day. When he heard the humans, his mood picked up. They’d come to play with him, and they’d brought puppies too!

Benny crawled towards the noise, his laughter filling the woods.

“Did you hear that roar, Stan?” asked Henry.

“Yep, it knows we’re here.”

Benny poked his head out from some spruce trees, seeing the humans looking in the other direction. He called to them, hoping they all wanted to play.

They turned and aimed their rifles.

“Blast the son of a bitch!”

Benny cried as the humans unloaded into him. Ichor flew everywhere, painting the spruce and brush yellow.


The rancorous sound of gunfire echoed in Paulie’s cave while he and Cynthia were sharing a stolen cow together. They rushed out of the cave, to the spruce trees that Benny always liked to play around. Paulie trembled as he saw Benny lying there, mortally wounded with the humans coming closer, rifles readied.

Something inside Paulie snapped as he let out a massive cry. The cacophony Paulie unleashed sounded like the full force of a tornado merging with an atomic explosion. The humans shielded the sides of their heads, blood gushing from their busted eardrums. The terrible boom hurt even Cynthia’s ear-slits, causing her to wince.

The humans retreated, but Paulie wasn’t done with them yet. He charged full force into the dazed riflemen, flinging several into the air and ripping one clean in half. Stan looked back at the carnage, frozen where he stood. Paulie reared a massive limb to impale the farmer, but the arachnid caught the look of fear in the man’s eyes. The spider lowered his limb and watched the human scurry away through the brush.

Paulie crawled back to Benny.

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

Paulie lined his fangs up to where Benny’s head and thorax connected. With one swift bite, he put an end to his friend’s suffering. Unable to do anything else, Paulie laid his body flat on the ground, cuddling with Benny’s corpse. He looked at Cynthia and used the remaining strength in his vocal cords to ask one last thing.


Aug 8, 2013


docbeard posted:

I feel like critting some stories this week. Three of 'em, first come, first served.

I may or may not judge you on the names you have given your characters. It will be an adventure finding out together.

Wanna do my story from this last week?

Aug 8, 2013

Tis the season, I guess.

In with these cheerful fellows.

ZeBourgeoisie fucked around with this message at 13:25 on Dec 23, 2014

Aug 8, 2013


Phobia posted:

Blatant theft

Those gay mermen are mine!

Just kidding there's enough of em to go around.

Aug 8, 2013

Merry Christmas, Thunderdome. May the streets run with the blood of our enemies.

Aug 8, 2013

Thank you! And Merry Christmas!


Aug 8, 2013

The Lockbox
Words: 916

I looked out the window as raindrops splattered against the pane. Calvin fooled around on his phone in the livingroom, the distant music of some mediocre IOS game humming in my ears. The honeymoon phase had worn a bit.

The neighbors’ SUV pulled into their driveway, and the happy family jumped out in their bright yellow raincoats. Their young girl seemed like the happiest creature on the planet as she bounded through the puddles.

“Calvin,” I said.


“We should adopt a child.”

Calvin put down the phone, and gave me the look of a parent telling their kid there isn’t a Santa Claus.

“You know we can’t. It’s illegal here for gays to adopt.”


Calvin and I walked through the plaza, the puddles left over from yesterday already beginning to dry. I kept my head tilted downward so I wouldn’t have to make eye-contact with anyone. As we passed by an alley, we saw he crawl from the shadows.

He wore an overcoat, long and seemingly made of black leather. This, coupled with his wide-brimmed hat made him look more like a character from a movie than an actual person. He walked towards us, a small grin on his face.

“Hey, strangers.”

Neither of us answered.

“Strangers, I’ve got the solution to your problem.”

“What problem?”

“Why, your childless situation.”

Before I could reply, the man tossed a small object at me, which I caught thanks to years of forced football practice. The man vanished back into the alley while my brain tried to process what had happened.

I inspected the object in my hand to find it was a small, steel lockbox. Still shaken I placed it in my pocket. Calvin and I cancelled the rest of our shopping trip and bussed straight home.


When we got home I decided to inspect the lockbox further. A padlock secured the box shut, and the lid had something written on it in what looked like permanent marker.

“To open, please ask for Mr. Nachash at your convenience.”

Wiggling the lock, I thought how dumb this was. Ask who? He didn’t leave a phone number or email anywhere on the box. After grabbing a pair of metal cutters, I snapped the lock off with ease.

Inside the box sat what looked like a clump of silly putty and a small instruction booklet. Opening the booklet I found it contained one large pictogram of a finger pressing down on the putty. For some reason I decided to risk poisoning myself by touching the pink mass. It felt warm and moist as I pressed my finger into it.

The mass jiggled the second I took my finger off of it.

Varicose veins appeared on its surface, and the texture took on a visceral appearance. The goop grew to the size of a football, and what appeared to be a heart bubbled to the surface before disappearing back into the mass. Fear and disbelief gripped me as I stood, my own heart pounding against my chest.

In a few moments the mass fell off the table, unidentifiable things squirming beneath the pink and purple surface. Disgust overtook me and I couldn’t look anymore. I turned my head away until I felt a small tug on my jacket.


I to see a small, blond haired girl looking up at me. Her face and eyes reminded me of my own in a way that sent simultaneous waves of fear and joy up my spine. She giggled when she saw how startled I looked.

“Daddy, you’re silly.”

Looking down at her, I asked her name.

“Carrie, daddy,” she said with a smile.


It proved difficult to explain the girl to Calvin, even after showing him the instruction booklet and the box. He probably have thought I kidnapped someone’s kid at first. However, my daughter’s adamant defense of me seemed to keep him from calling the police.

It must’ve been the eyes that won him over. When he got a good, hard look into them he saw my eyes. He stopped threatening to call the cops after that.

The three of us embraced after that, finally a full family.


Carrie was watching TV in the livingroom when I heard a loud knock on the door. When I opened it to answer, I almost choked on fear.

The man in the overcoat stood there, looking pissed.

“Going to cheat me out of payment, eh? I’ll fix you good, human being.”

He slammed the door before I could say anything back.

From the living room I heard Carrie crying. I sprinted into the room to find her arms and legs bloated in size to the point that they looked like nothing but tubes of fleshy fat.

I took a step to approach her, but her stomach exploded into a shower of acid, gore, and half-digested food, forcing me back. Her tiny arms ripped open, worms or maggots or something crawling from the muscle and wriggling onto the floor into whatever dark corner they could.

“Dad! It hurts!”

My baby’s bright and loving face bloated in size as what looked like strawberry jam poured from her nose and tear ducts. Those eyes, my eyes, looked at me one last time before melting into a white broth that flowed all over her now massive body. The entirety of her being was soon reduced to a puddle of pinkish fluid.

When Calvin came home he found me on the floor, weeping into the slime.

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