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  • Locked thread
Walamor
Dec 31, 2006

Fork 'em Devils!


Screaming At Hecate - 998 Words

In the middle of a shattered town, ten men lay down to die. A priest moved among them, placing a concoction in their hands. He mumbled praises to Hecate and when he got to the last man, the man grabbed his hand.

“gently caress Hecate and gently caress her blessings,” said Alkides. The priest recoiled in shock. “She owes us this.”

“Only a fool bites the hands of the gods,” said Demonax, rising up on one elbow. “Even when they deserve it. Shut up and take the offering.”

Alkides stared daggers at the priest and grabbed the herb mixture out of his hands.

“Chew,” said the priest. “I don’t know how long you’ll have in the underworld, or even if you’ll come back.” He looked down at Alkides. “You’re probably hosed.” The priest spun haughtily and stalked away.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Demonax, stuffing the foul tasting mush into his mouth and laying back down. Pain coursed through his body and the world closed in around him. Soon the blackness enveloped him, and he lost all sensation.

When he came to, he stood up, surprised that he still had all his armor and weapons with him. The other men were doing the same, surveying the surrounds as they checked their equipment.

They found themselves atop a mound of compacted ash and bone. In the far distance there was a city, glowing with an unholy glow. Before them lay a foul bog, a dark river winding its way through it.

“Where is the ferryman?” said Hagnon. “This isn’t right.”

“Many things aren’t right,” said Demonax. “But we see the city. Let’s go.”

“I dislike that bog,” said Kimon. “It looks… unnatural.”

“No poo poo?” said Demonax. “The underworld looks unnatural? I’ll be damned.” Kimon flushed. “Would you like to stay here?”

“I’m not stopping until I get my family back, same as you,” Kimon said and marched forward, the other men falling in around him.

The distances were deceiving, and the group arrived at the bog quickly. The very ground sucked at their feet, and the trees seemed to block them at every turn. Finally they reached the river and stared down at the rushing torrent of blood that sped past them.

Hagnon reached out a hand as if to touch it.

“I would not do that, if I were you,” said a deep, thunderous voice. Weapons leapt into the men’s hands as they tried to find the speaker. A tree moved closer to the group and a strained face appeared in the bark, made of ever-changing knots.

“Where is the ferryman, tree demon?” said Hagnon.

“The boatman is for the dead,” said the tree. “The living may not cross. You must turn --” started the tree demon, cutting off his own sentence with a scream. Demonax raised his axe for another blow, cutting deep into the tree, sap pouring out of the wound.

Soon they had killed enough of the shrieking trees to make a raft, using young sapling children to bind the corpses of the adults together. The crossing was difficult, the blood rising until a wave surged over Machaon, washing him overboard. Then the blood subsided, permitting a safe crossing.

Their journey continued, with many challenges laid before them. Some were familiar priests’ stories, and some were beyond anything the darkest mind of men could have created. They were all overcome by might or wit, but the party’s numbers dwindled. Pammon succuumed to the wiles of a witch, Stentor chased a specter of his wife, and Thestor wrongly chose an answer. Vettias and Zenodoros simply laid down to sleep and never woke. Kimon wept until his tears turned to blood and his body dried up. Hagnon turned back to find the ferryman.

Finally the city appeared before Demonax and Alkides. The yellowish glow they had seen was a barrier laid before them. They beat upon it with their weapons, their fists, but it held strong, and there was no riddle to solve, no monster to defeat.

“No!” screamed Demonax. “Not after all we’ve suffered,” he said, starting to cry tears of frustration. Alkides looked at him in shock. Never had Demonax cried, even after the loss of the rest of their companions.

“drat you Hecate! Lower your barrier!” yelled Demonax, flinging his axe at the wall. It hit and shattered into pieces, raining metal onto the ground. “Give me back my family!”

The gate to the city ground open and a woman came out, riding a horse, a dog at her side. She glowed, the same yellow as the barrier. She was a dangerous sort of beautiful, with a snake draped around her shoulders. She didn’t hold a candle to his Callidora.

“Silly mortal man. I cannot give you your family back, for I only have influence over the barrier between life and death. But, you have traveled far, and endured much.” She motioned behind herself and his wife and son appeared. Demonax fell to his knees, his hands reaching out to them but stopped by the barrier. His family knelt on the other side, pressing their hands opposite to his. He stared into their eyes and saw his love reciprocated. He was weeping again, this time tears of joy.

“They want you to live, Demonax. Come join them with the time is right,” said Hecate.

“Can I talk to them,” asked Demonax, still looking at his family.

“Not just yet. But you will be with them, eventually. It is time for you to go.”

“No, please, just a little longer!” said Demonax, but it was too late. A white portal had opened behind him, and he was drawn inexorably towards it. Pure white blinded him, filled him completely.

Before he lost all his senses, he heard Hecate. “But you, Alkides, I have been saving for something special.”

Alkides’ scream was still echoing in his ears as he sat up back on the surface, gasping in lungfuls of air, the priest staring down at him in shock.

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Doctor Idle
Mar 7, 2008

Hey, if some hillbilly comes up to me, I'm gonna lash him in the face, that's all.

[Best GM 2013-2015]


Glorious Altars of the Blood-Red Insanity - 1000 words

Like an infant opening its eyes for the first time, Barnaby Dalton painfully peeled back his eyelids under, debatably, more precarious circumstances finding himself half inside a dumpster with assorted trash stuck to his person. A creaky door opens nearby and an older man peeks his head out.
“Barney, you out here son?” shouts a familiar voice. Barnaby stirs from his position in the dumpster. His vision begins to come back into focus, but coordination was still dragging behind. He tries to lift himself out, but only manages to sink further into the filth.
“Barney, I see your leg moving. Son, are you alright?”
Barnaby recognized the voices as his uncle Tate’s and although he couldn’t pull himself free of the trash, he could manage speaking.
“Yeah, uncle Tate, I’m here.” Barnaby says, not sure what to make of his predicament. “You need help getting out of there?” Tate asks his nephew. .
“Uh… Nah, unc’ I think I got it.”
“Oh, well ok son, you had one heck of a night, wanted to make sure you were ok.”
A flood of peculiar, unpleasant memories fill Barnaby’s head.

***

Yesterday
23, recently graduated with only pennies to his name, Barnaby, or ‘Barney’ as he liked to be called, took the B-Line out of Cool Palms, New Mexico across Texas, where he eventually caught a bus to Yampaw, Louisiana. He planned to start his life anew as a Butcher, following in the steps of his uncle and grandfather.
His mother had always told him Uncle Tate was weird, but with few options and no income, this seemed like his only choice. It had been nearly 15 years since he had seen his aunt or uncle so he didn’t know what to expect when he arrived, but Barney found himself pulling into a quaint bayou town. Gulls flew high overhead, and the marsh waters left the air somewhat salty, and refreshing.
His aunt and uncle were waiting there for him at the bus station and were glad to see their nephew who was only 7 when they saw him last.
“Oh my goodness, boy, you sure have grown up! You take after your daddy.” His aunt says to Barney as he retrieves his bags from the undercarriage of the bus.
“Hey, aunt Deb,” he says coyly slinging his bag over his shoulder before walking over to give her a hug.
“Boy, it sure is good to see you.” Uncle Tate says placing a heavy hand on Barney's back before joining in on the heartfelt hug with his wife and nephew.
“Well, we got you a little bedroom set up above the deli. Not much, but it should be comfortable. I got the nintendo too. I know you like your games.”
Barnaby smiles politely. “Thanks, I appreciate it, and I’m really glad you’re giving me this opportunity.”
“Don’t sweat it boy. Your name may be Dalton, but you’ve got the blood of a LeRoy, and us LeRoy’s are butchers at heart.” Uncle Tate says with a toothy grin.

***

They arrive at the shop and Barney gets settled in. The store had been closed that day so they had plenty of time to get caught up.
“If you’re hungry, we got plenty of things to eat in the deli fridge up front. Help yourself to some grub and then come on back, I want to show you some things.” Tate tells his nephew who is gracious for the hospitality.
Picking a plate of leftover meatloaf, Barney quickly eats and puts his dishes away so that he could join his aunt and uncle in the back.
A chill runs down Barney's spine as his hand touches the cold meatlocker door and his stomach begins to turn. He ignores it and enters the frigid storage. The room was dimly lit, and the hanging carcasses cast ghastly silhouettes that twisted in the faint traces of light coming from a room up ahead.
As he moved into the locker, he began to hear the patter of drums and a bitter wind swept through the room. The carcasses turned to rolling hills and their shadows into desolate crags that jutted out spasmodically from the alien terrain. The drumming became louder, and a low and ominous chanting accompanied it.
Barney had never felt more terrified in his life, but he felt compelled to push forward. A glance back at what once a meat locker revealed only an abyss, speckled with forms that became increasingly distant before vanishing altogether.
He was close to the light now, pushing up a jagged, ice covered bluff. Upon reaching the top and found two cultists exsanguinating a virgin atop an altar covered in blood.
“Nay, you wicked fiends, I will strike thee from this world!” Barnabus cried out unsheathing his crystalline sword, leaping at the hag who tossed up her arms futilely. “Your wicked spell nearly cost me my life, but no more. You are slain. Now, your time is at hand foul warlock.” Barnabus declares slicing the warlock’s abdomen open.
He races towards the altar, but is too late. The dark ritual had completed, and madness struck the brave warrior who reeled away from the blood soaked stone. He gazes up at a starless sky and falls from the frozen crag into the abyss...
Today
Barnaby finally manages to pull himself out of the dumpster concealing himself with newspaper.
“We thought that you had gotten hold of that stuff, and I said oh lord, not my nephew, but then I saw what you had eaten I put two and two together.”
“W-what? I had a meatloaf.”
“Nah, son, that wasn’t no meatloaf, that was bad steak. Now get cleaned up, it’s time to eat breakfast.” Uncle Tate says chuckling.
“Alright, unc’ just give me a minute.” Barney says embarrassed, but he too found himself laughing at the strange circumstances.
“Good.” his uncle says staring into his eyes, smearing bloodsoaked palms across his face. “Prepare for a glorious meal.”
“Holy poo poo, mom was right. You are weird.”

Entenzahn
Nov 15, 2012

What will you say when
your child asks:
why didn't you invest in
Thunderdome?


Embers
999 words

Duran realized the spell had gone wrong about a heartbeat before Kilo. His friend stared back at him wide-eyed, and they both stopped singing their incantations, and Kilo dashed for the runes Duran had laid out, their engravings glooming in a wrong, fowl green.

The rift opened with a sigh.

An invisible force hammered Duran into the stone wall. Dark fog engulfed him, filled his nostrils with smoke and sulfur, rushed into his brain, an overdose of shock and adrenaline. His mouth was wet. It tasted like iron.

The rift emerged as a faint acid glow from the fog. Screams zoomed through the room, ooohs and aaahs of souls escaping through the gateway. Two bright, glowing embers wavered towards Duran. They stopped within inches and a demonic tongue clicked and hummed, the netherworld language of insults.

“I am Gozmorrag, He Who Sees,” the apparition said. “You have served me well. For that, you shall die a quick death.”

The claws flashed through the air, but stopped short. It took Duran a second to realize that the defense had been his. The demon’s embers hovered about uncertainly, and Duran pushed them back with a shout.

He jumped off to the side, fumbled along the wall as the stench intruded his thoughts, dragged at his conscience. Heavy steps followed him. A deep laugh. “Impressive,” the demon said. Through the fog, Duran got hold of someone’s arm. The darkness weighed him down. It dimmed his thoughts, filled them with brimstone and nightmares. The last thing that went through his head before he passed out was, away.

He awoke on a barren field. Kilo had the gravest look on his face.

#

“I’ve hit the books.” Kilo whispered. “Gozmorrag, He Who Sees. Leads an army of ghouls. They suck the life out of you, make you one of them: an empty vessel that contains a writhing, burning soul. Your own portable hell.”

Duran waved a finger towards the bartender. Research. As if they were going to do, what? The Demon Lord had almost squashed them.

“We can send him back like most other demons.” Kilo hefted the book onto the counter and pointed at the underlined passages. “It takes the summoners, that’s us, and the rune that binds him here. We could also try to straight-up kill him, but let’s be realistic.”

The bottle came sliding across the counter. Duran poured it all into his mug.

“So what do you say?” Kilo said.

“I’m still just a fukken peasant boy,” Duran said. He hefted the mug and chugged it all down in one go.

Kilo made a face and put the book aside. “I should have checked the engravings. I was responsible for you, so we both hosed up. Let’s fix this.”

“Sorcerer that can’t properly spell.” Duran waggled his finger towards the barkeeper again. “Imagine that.”

The bottle came up, but Kilo intercepted it. “Focus. We need to fix this.”

“How? The war has begun. The mages won’t have us. There’s a bounty on our heads. How are we going to fix anything? We’re worthless.” He reached for the bottle, but Kilo dragged it away. “I’m worthless.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over them. Soon, Kilo gave up and retreated to his studies, and Duran to his mug.

They went separate ways the next day. Kilo towards the warzone, to study Gozmorrag’s armies, Duran away, just away. They hugged goodbye. Duran didn’t expect to ever see his friend again.

#

They met half a year later.

The demonic hordes had made quick progress. Duran had tried to elude the fighting, hoping the mages and imperial armies would take care of business, or at least drag it out for everyone else to enjoy a few more years. But no matter what place he’d drifted to, it had gone up in flames.

The hordes caught up with him in the village of Gerakh, but it was Kilo that found him first.

“They are coming after you, you know?” he said, scaring Duran out of his sleep.

“What do you mean?” Duran said.

“Gozmorrag knows. He looks for us.”

“So what do we do?”

“The ghouls are almost here.”

“Fight?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I know where Gozmorrag commands his armies. I learned it only takes our tongues to banish him. I learned much. But truly, you have always been the stronger mage. Only one of us can go. So I am going to tell you what to do. You are going to travel to his base, and you are going to get caught, and then you will banish him.”

“And you?”

“You are going to have to kill me.”

#

Duran’s mouth was wet. It tasted like iron. The ghouls dragged him along the marble floor leading up to Gozmorrag’s iron throne. A deep laugh erupted from the Demon Lord.

“I recognize you, Duran. Where is your friend?”

“He is dead.”

A smile played over Gozmorrag’s lips. He inclined his head. “You speak the truth.”

“I know you can tell.”

“Have you come to kill me?”

“Yes.”

More laughter. “You are a gifted mage, I grant you that. Well then.” He stood from his throne and stomped towards Duran.

“I offer you my soul for a bargain,” Duran said.

The Demon Lord stopped. “I can take your soul anyway.”

“You could turn me into one of these… mangled husks. But that’s not what you want, is it?”

“Hmph! What do you have in mind?”

“I want to see the rune. Mine. I want to curse it with my dying breath.”

Ozmorrag cocked his head. “Truly.”

#

The rune still glowed, fowl, green. Duran took the pickled tongue of Kilo from his mantle and spoke the words, staring straight into Ozmorrag’s glowing ember eyes. The Demon Lord roared with fury, clawed at Duran’s face. Better get used to the pain.

“Your soul is mine, wizard,” Gozmorrag said. “I will take you with me.”

“I will be coming,” Duran said, “but you will be going back.”

He laughed all the way to hell.

Maugrim
Feb 16, 2011

I eat your face



Submissions are now closed!

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Greenwich Mean Time more like Greenbitch Scream Pine.

Flesnolk
Apr 11, 2012

If only, THUNDERDOME


gently caress. I was so close but I forgot about GMT because I was too into sharpening it up. Well, I'll take my lumps for loving up and put up a toxx for the next prompt I join, maybe keep writing this necromancer story for my own use.

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Finish that poo poo up quick and post it. Disqualified for being late is better than nothing at all.

Maugrim
Feb 16, 2011

I eat your face



Djeser posted:

Finish that poo poo up quick and post it. Disqualified for being late is better than nothing at all.

This. If you submit, you will be DQ (and can still lose if it's awful) but you will not get a Failure.

Your Sledgehammer
May 10, 2010

by Nyc_Tattoo


My late entry to fulfill my toxx:

The Acolyte
987 words

I was standing in the trash can again with a sign around my neck. This time it said “Zoophile.” I looked out at the twenty or thirty people that I once thought were my friends, before we started living in The Hole.

“You hosed five different donkeys when you were a teenager, didn’t you?” someone said.

I shook my head.

John took a step towards me and clubbed me hard across the face with a sock filled with oranges. Less bruising that way.

“Speak up, rear end in a top hat!” John snapped.

“Yes!” I yelled, as loudly as I could.

“This miserable maggot of an SP would probably kill David if he had half the chance. Wouldn’t you, maggot?” someone else said.

“Yes!” I shouted.

“You want to murder me right now, don’t you?” John asked.

“You could hardly blame him considering you cheated on your wife and stole money from the church!” another voice called out.

As the crowd turned on John, I quietly stepped out of the trash can and took off the sign. A few minutes later, it was my turn to wield the sock full of oranges.

---------------------------

I looked at the items I’d gathered up over the last few months. A pen light to navigate through the darkness of the desert that lay beyond the fence line. A couple of beef bones to occupy the dogs. A thermos full of gruel and a handful of crackers to sustain me through the hours it’d take to get to Hemet. Some old towels to protect my hands from the blades that topped the security fence.

I’d been in the Hole so long that I’d moved from sleeping on the floor of the conference room with thirty other people to sleeping in one of the offices near the door. I practiced quietly walking out the front door in the middle of the night for the last two weeks. No one would wake up, I was sure of it.

I wrote out a quick note on a post-it – “LRH was a madman and so are all of you. Goodbye. Give my warmest regards to my wife.” Then I slapped it on the desk and quietly opened the office door.

The sound of snoring filled the hallway. I peeked down the hallway to make sure no one was up and about. All clear. Then I quietly opened the front door and stepped outside.

Gold Base’s security measures would rival that of a North Korean POW camp. The fence that ran around Scientology’s secret conclave in the California desert was topped with blades that pointed both ways – inside and outside. Motion-activated lights dotted the property. Rumors among Sea Org members told of a security watchtower on one of the nearby hills that had a view of the entire grounds. I would almost certainly be chased, even if I made it out.

I skirted around behind the building and then made a beeline for a thicket of trees that would conceal my movements all the way to the fence. I could hear voices and music in the distance, but they were far away. As I made it to the trees, I took a look back at the base where I’d lived for the last decade, and my eyes came to rest on the dorm building in the distance.

My wife lived in that building. I married her shortly after entering Sea Org, but nine years in the Hole meant I’d only see her from afar and barely spoken to her. Leaving the base and the church meant I’d be labeled a Suppressive Person. She’d divorce me and permanently disconnect from me, and I’d likely never see her again.

I often thought of her gentle teasing and the way she’d tug on my beard when she wanted a kiss. She introduced me to the church, and my punishment in the Hole had nearly convinced me that I didn’t deserve her. She thought she was pregnant when I got reassigned, though I’d never seen a child with her over the years. The thought of seeing my son or daughter is the only thing that made the humiliation and beatings bearable.

I could feel the sting of tears in my eyes. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I could find a new family and a new church, but I couldn’t find a new soul. I’d do everything I had to in order to protect this one.

I moved through the woods quickly without the fear of prying eyes. And then, the bladed fence loomed in front of me. There was no telling how long it’d take for someone to miss me, but at the very least, I’d have a head start.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I looked over at the man, and I could feel my entire body go numb. David Miscavige. The last and only time I’d ever seen the man was at the Freedom Medal of Valor ceremony, where Tom Cruise received an award for his contributions to the church. David had met Sherry and I at the after party, and that’s when we’d been asked to come live on Gold Base as a reward for our service.

David glared at me as he puffed on a cigar.

“You know what? I don’t give a poo poo. Go on, I won’t stop you,” he said.

I saluted. “Deepest apologies, sir,” I said.

He just laughed. “Are you loving deaf? I really don’t give a poo poo. Here, let me help,” he said.

He took the towels out of my hands and threw them up over the blades on the fence. Then he handed me a cigar. “Good luck,” he said.

When I got on the other side of the fence, I started off into the night. As the lights of Gold Base began to fade, I took a glance back. David still stood there, puffing at his cigar. He waved.

Quidthulhu
Dec 17, 2003

Stand down, men! It's only smooching!


Late better than never!

The Sweet Smell of Success
982 words

“Hints of strawberries and coriander. Under tones of pain, abandonment, and personal tragedy, but by far, much too saccharine to be anything more than bubble gum, at best. Prognosis for success: Absolute Bottom.” Thomas clicked off the recorder and made a note on the paper in front of him, then pressed the button connected to his microphone. “Next, please.”

A door at the end of the hallway opened to reveal five large tattooed individuals. They were dressed in what looked to be two thirds of a goat between them, and their faces were painted with what Thomas hoped was strawberry jam. They smelled of desperation and cocaine.

“Welcome.” Thomas nodded curtly at them. “Which of you is the band leader?”

The men looked at each other for a moment, then the one with the most spikes on his loincloth raised his hand.

Thomas made a clucking noise with his tongue and scribbled a note on their paper. “Name?”

“Arnvold.”

Another note. “Group name?”

Arnvold swallowed heavily. The slight stink of fear crept out of him. “Bloodstained Corpses of the Twisted Quest.”

“THE QUEST!” The remaining men all shouted in unison and brought their large fists to their mostly bare chests. Arnvold smiled sheepishly as he slowly brought his hand to his heart.

“Charming,” Thomas said. He picked up the breathing mask next to him and began to wipe it down with his handkerchief. “Well then, please set up while I ready my instruments.”

“Oh, uh…” The men looked at each other again, then Arnvold rasied his hand. “Excuse me?”

Thomas looked at him down the bridge of his nose. “Yes?”

Arnvold looked around helplessly. “We’re, uh… we’re ready?”

“I beg pardon?”

The men all nodded aggressively and one bounded forward a step. “Sing, we!”

Thomas looked at the lot of them. They were truly a hapless bunch, he could smell it on their faces; if he was generous, he would say that the five of them had the intelligence of a ten year old. They stood, grinning stupidly, stinking of dumb aspiration. Only Arnvold seemed to have a whiff of reality in him, and he smelled like he was about to poo poo himself.

“Very well, then, give me a moment…” Thomas stood up and disconnected two cables from the bass and guitar amps, then connected one end into the second microphone monitor. He motioned at the two mic stands in the front of the room. “Please sing into those, if you please.”

The men shuffled forward and crowded dumbly around one microphone. Thomas rolled his eyes and unplugged the microphone he had just taken the time to set up. Empty channels caused too many extra flavors.

He walked back to his desk, checking the monitor cable as he went, then plugged the XLR end of his breathing mask into his mixing board and attached it to his face. He took a deep breath to re-adjust his sense of smell to these men, to their heavy, nervous breathing into the mic. Their sweat smelled like dirt and the stale minutes immediately after a day of manual labor. Their hands balled and unballed, sending out waves of chicken casserole, the stink of high nerves. They weren’t ready for this; Thomas wasn’t sure how they passed the screening exam.

He leaned forward and pressed a button to activate the mic in his mask. “Began,” he said, his voice coming through the monitor speakers.

The men took a deep breath, and began to sing.

It was truly awful; there was no tonality, or rhythm, or sense to it. It was an assault on the ears, an affront to music in general, quite possibly the vilest, most disgusting piece of sound that Thomas had ever heard in his life.

It smelled absolutely delicious.

There were so many layers as it went along. Euphoria first, a sudden blast of intense joy that he wasn’t expecting and that took him out of the sterile room and sat him at the center of a summer breeze, the pollen and fragrance of flowers mixed into the warmth of the midday sun. Then a calm, the rocking of the boat on the ocean, a hint of the salt and sand of the sea air tickling at his nostrils, and was that a seagull call? He wasn’t sure, because he was drinking from a mountain stream as his goat companion bleated gently (or was that just the man with the horns?), and suddenly it was night time and he was smelling a warm cup of coffee underneath a blanket fresh from the laundry. It was all things good at once, and beneath it all was one beautiful, brilliant, pulsating stench.

Hunger.

Thomas watched them between the flashing images of his sense memory, and he saw it in their eyes. It was curious, because they didn’t seem to know it, had no sense or understanding on their faces, but it was there in their eyes. A slight flash behind a grind that was a tad too big; a note caught in the throat before it fired forward like the hammer of a crossbow; the fist clenching too tight around the microphone stand. It clung to them like a fungus.

It took Thomas a moment to realize they had stopped. Happiness hung in the air like a cloud of opium. “How we do, boss?” It was the imbecile from earlier, grinning dumbly.

Thomas smiled coldly from beneath the nose mask. “I’ll have my people call your people. Thank you for stopping by, you may see yourself out.”

He watched them exit, then flipped on his recorder. “Recommend applicants #1592.43.122 for Homeland Security Weaponization division. Casualty estimation: Large, township or city. Training required. Reprogramming required. Prognosis for success: Mid-High.”

He pulled the mask off his face and clicked off the record, then pressed the button connected to his microphone. “Next, please.”

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


Wait what the poo poo, really? Welp, I'm gonna be super late then. I thought we'd kinda standardized the submission deadline at this point. It's usually about 4-5 hours from now. No big (I was probably gonna take the disqual hit anyway this week) but it could be worth adding to the OP to stop this happening in future.




pre-emptive "shut up, sebmojo"

J.A.B.C.
Jul 2, 2007

There's no need to rush to be an adult.


The Choices of Dead Men
842 words
Prompt: The Angel and the Reaper

She looked down upon the broken and twisted bodies piled upon the shore with a smile. These men had made it on land and braced with their foes, deep blue against forest green matching axe against spear in cold, quick conflict. Weapons lay in the sand alongside their former owners, blood streaking across their gleaming edges. Only the stirring of the waves could be heard as she surveyed, took it in and held back a laugh.

A fitting end for these brave souls.

Her steps led her to the twisted body of a young man, his torso propping up the broken shaft of a spear. Blood had long since poured from the wound and stained his tunic to black, now cry and scabbing. She reached down for him, hand plucking his spirit from his eyes to pull it free.

“You are...” His voice whispered past closed lips and deadened eyes.

All she gave was a nod before the chariot flew overhead. He reached to grasp it, being dragged away from her grasp and onward into the sky where the Allfather awaited him.

And so her task continued. Soul after soul were brought forth by her hand and sent to the Einherjar or the Valhallah, as fitting their lives and deaths. Some wept with unseen tears and joyous sobs. Others pleaded for another day in their world. But all were sent forth. It was her duty, and duty could not be shirked lightly.

A blade behind her went snicker-snack. She wheeled, pulling the gleaming blade from her hip and stared at the morning fog as something moved into view.

The first thing she would see was the massive hat, brim stretching out far wider than a tree's branches, black cloth fluttering with each step forward. Under the eternal shade stood a pallid man, black cloak hung around his shoulders with little care, face and hair as pale as a dead man. In his hand he swung a long and mighty blade to and fro over the bodies of the slain landsmen. Each swing brought their souls upward from their forms and stacking them neatly in the cart he pulled behind himself like cords of wood.

She had seen this one before. Unlike herself, filled with purpose and seen as a savior of warriors, he was feared. No soul ever thanked him, ever cried for his presence. They were silent, still, waiting in acceptance of his gleaming blade. It sickened her.

Continue on. His mission is not yours and yours is not his.

Her hand reached down for a warrior cut down at the end of his life, gray hair mixed with blood from a gash in his neck, beard speckled with his dying breaths. She could feel his spirit reaching up for her, hand out fully for her grasp.

The scythe stopped short of her palm and the spirit fled.

She stared up at the pale man and drew her sword. “What insolence is this?”

His face never moved from that flat, shallow expression. “He was born of these lands.”

“He was a warrior of the Allfather,” She stated plainly. “He is not yours to claim.”

So they stood as the sun disappeared behind rolling clouds and rain began to fall. Their blades shined in the darkness as they glared over the bodies of the slain, each one waiting, watching, feeling the tension in the air build. The distant flash of lightning gave way to roaring thunder. Blood, trapped underneath the bodies, oozed upwards as the rain pushed it towards the sea, bathing the beach in crimson as they faced one another.

She wished to take his head and be on her way. Such insolence could not stand. Yet, if she killed him, if she could kill him, what would become of their dead? Would they rise and become restless? Would they seek out others? How many souls would meet such an ignoble end?

These were not her lands. She did not care for their men who died in battle. So why did she stay her sword?

“Let the soul decide.”

His head shook in surprise. “This is not proper.”

“No, it is not,” She said, holding her hand above the spirit. “None of this is proper. But he will decide who is right.”

He held his hand over the body beside her hand. They waited, watched, held their breath as the spirit rose from it's body.

It touched his hand and his soul joined the others.

“So it is done,” He spoke, turning away from her to continue his harvest.

She stood above the broken and twisted body upon the shore and wondered upon the follies of mortals. He could have a paradise of battle unending, preparing himself for the great Ragnarok in glorious bloodshed. And he chose silence?

Another spirit was ushered forth, carried upon gilded wheels to the great halls of the Aesir to prepare for the Twilight. She hardly noticed, her face a pale stone as she continued to bring them their just rewards.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:


pre-emptive "shut up, sebmojo"

add this to the OP too imo

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

I'm gonna add a preemptive Shut The gently caress Up to the OP i think it's solid advice for everyone

Interprompt

Due to science, I need everyone to participate in a survey. Go to http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/ and choose your favorite prompt. Then write 200 words inspired by it.

Please include the prompt you use, though. I'm genuinely curious what people like best.

edit: if you just want to post which prompt you think is the coolest, that's fine too.

Sitting Here fucked around with this message at Jan 19, 2015 around 02:09

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



While you're looking up your favorite prompt, I've cooked up a little survey because I'm interested in what makes a prompt tick.

THUNDERDOME SURVEYDOME: MAY THE BEST THUNDERDOME WIN

Link to the survey here, dumbs!

Open to anyone who's read most of the stories for one or more weeks. If you've judged, even once, that means you! Or if you're like Jitzu and subject yourself to all the stories just for kicks, that too. All you have to do is write down which weeks you thought were good (or, at least, notably above-average) and which were poo poo (or, at least, notably below-average.) It's a highly unscientific survey, so don't get too worried about it. You can put in week numbers or what the prompt was or whatever. It's a chill survey so

To clarify, this is about which prompts produced submissions of higher or lower quality.

Once we get enough entries here, we can make STATISTICAL MAGIC HAPPEN but only if you judges step up and tell us what weeks were good and which weeks were bad.

SO FILL OUT THUNDERDOMESURVEYDOME NOW!

Djeser fucked around with this message at Jan 19, 2015 around 02:21

Screaming Idiot
Nov 26, 2007

The turtle moves.


Fun Shoe

god have mercy

Interprompt: Favorite TD prompt

Words: 197


"Fanfiction?" I scratched my unshaven chin as I looked at the Thunderdome thread. "Let's do this."

I have a problem: I suck at writing. I've committed to memory Orson Scott Card's How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy, Stephen King's On Writing, and scads more. I'd spend hours with my nose in a book -- it's why I flunked college.

Nowadays, not so much. I've spent too much time in other people's worlds and not enough time making my own. But a good author needs a voice, and mine's stuttery, lispy, dull as cold mashed potatoes. Unpracticed.

"I need a change," I'd mutter to myself as I flipped greaseball burger-patties into a tray at work. "Gotta get outta this rut, gotta do something, anything, anything..."

Thunderdome's my answer. I've wasted too long working on my "epic" novel series -- I need an excuse to just sit down and write. Christmas Mermen, Russian boxers, naked drug-peddlers: all things I'd never have written about were it not for Thunderdome kicking me in the balls and telling me to get in gear.

And it all started with fanfiction.

God have mercy.

dreadmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

Wait what the poo poo, really? Welp, I'm gonna be super late then. I thought we'd kinda standardized the submission deadline at this point. It's usually about 4-5 hours from now. No big (I was probably gonna take the disqual hit anyway this week) but it could be worth adding to the OP to stop this happening in future.




pre-emptive "shut up, sebmojo"

haha get hosed you impossible whining nonce

dreadmojo fucked around with this message at Jan 19, 2015 around 06:33

Capntastic
Jan 13, 2005

A dog begins eating a dusty old coil of rope but there's a nail in it.

Fallen Rib

Hahahaha it's good to be back

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


While I see what Mojo's getting at, he's also loving wrong. Earlier on the the 'dome's lifecycle I was a lot harsher and more arbitrary with deadlines because, well, I was dumb. I hosed up, and I apologised for it in the past, I changed what I was doing and moved on. If you track the last couple of times I've judged CC stuff, you'll notice I'm a lot more lenient and flexible about letting people in under the wire. I'm more lenient with entries in general, because the nastiness was creating a climate that discouraged people from writing and that's the exact opposite of what we want to do. I was wrong back then. You live and learn.

On the other hand, I'm regular hosed off at Mojo right now. Totally stepping out of kayfabe here, he's been a total stinkyhole to me recently and I'm sick of it. We could sit here trading lovely little jabs and pulling at each others' pigtails all year, but all that's gonna do is turn an argument into a grudge. Let's get this out of the way in a storm of stories, so we can bury the hatchet on move on.

MOJO, I'M CALLING YOU OUT.



Brawl me, motherfucker. Three stories over three weeks. And just so you can't pussy out, I'm offering you a sweet little deal.

If you win, I'll toxx in every 'dome entry I write for the year of 2015. Everything. Brawls, weeklies, the works. I'll also toxx in that I'll enter a minimum of 10 stories during that same year.
If I win, you knock off this unwarranted "thread sheriff" bullshit and you apologise. Plus, I get one free flash rule on you, valid for one week only during the year of 2015.

Somebody screencap this poo poo. You got the better deal than I do here. Not that it matters, because I've beaten you two-for-two and I'm ready to take the hattrick.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


And yes, I'm ing in with the brawl itself, and Mojo will be too if he accepts.

Armack
Jan 27, 2006

Corde pulsum tangite



Or instead of guaranteeing yourself a toxx suicide after you lose to Mojo, you could just quit your drat bellyachin' and learn how to read a prompt. This hyperventilating is unseemly. But if you do manage to load your gun in between breaths, save a bullet for me.

SadisTech
Jun 26, 2013

Clem.


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

he's been a total stinkyhole to me recently and I'm sick of it. We could sit here trading lovely little jabs and pulling at each others' pigtails all year, but all that's gonna do is turn an argument into a grudge. Let's get this out of the way in a storm of stories, so we can bury the hatchet on move on.

Echo Cian
Jun 16, 2011



So are you trying to push yourself to the stress point of actual suicide or

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

aka sticklegs



Grimey Drawer

REMEMBER THE GOOD TIMES YOU GUYS

Jim Spaceman’s Adventure and the Fuel

Jim Spaceman tapped the fuel gauge. The fuel gauge which showed how much fuel he had was pointing towards ‘low’ which meant his fuel was very low. “Oh dear,” he said to himself. “I am nearly out of fuel.”

Verily, he was! The radio had ceased transmission, and Jim was struck by the sudden lack of candour. "Friends!" he said unto the empty air "though we have parted, I hear you in my heart! Such sweetness you brought. Oh, but a flower plucked too early smells only the sweeter!"

Luckily he was flying in his space ship through a patch of space that was full of space rocks that had space houses on them. They drifted by outside his space ship like grey pitted golf balls with space houses on them. “Hello in there,” he called through his radio after first depressing the radio call button. “Hello in there,” he said again.

From the houses came no reply. Jim wondered by whom they had been abandoned, and why. Their windows stared at him in the manner that eyes would stare at him. He would not be alone for this final tranche of his journey into death. The last lonely eschatonaut would drift his last through the suburbs and flower beds of joyous decay. Suddenly, there came from a window a haunting sound. It reminded Jim of honey, ash and love. "Shut up bro I'm watching TV," it said.

"Comely maiden!" cried Jim into his space intercom, "I must know you!"

Jim activated the thruster button of his space capsule, flicking up the polycarbonate plastic protector shield and pushing down on the red button labelled ‘thruster’ before realising that he was out of fuel and the thrusters were unable to provide thrust without fuel. Hastily he put on his space suit. He opened the airlock by turning the key labelled ‘open airl ck’, noting in passing that the ‘o’ had worn off the ‘open airlock’ sign. In a few minutes he was in space.

He alighted upon the space rock, and walked towards the house. The haunting sounds of rugby came from within, presumably coming from a television set, as it would do difficult to play rugby inside such a small domicile without causing significant damage. Jim knew what he must do to woo his love. He began to pound a seductive rhythm upon the walls, then let loose his heart's song. It was "Too Drunk to gently caress" by the Dead Kennedys.

At that moment the space door opened and there standing in the doorway of the space house was the most beautiful woman Jim had ever seen, wearing a spacesuit. The spacesuit had a shiny visor. The woman beckoned Jim Spaceman inside and he entered the space house. And he lived there in that house until he died, 34 years later.

crabrock fucked around with this message at Jan 19, 2015 around 07:56

newtestleper
Oct 30, 2003


dreadmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

While I see what Mojo's getting at, he's also loving wrong. Earlier on the the 'dome's lifecycle I was a lot harsher and more arbitrary with deadlines because, well, I was dumb. I hosed up, and I apologised for it in the past, I changed what I was doing and moved on. If you track the last couple of times I've judged CC stuff, you'll notice I'm a lot more lenient and flexible about letting people in under the wire. I'm more lenient with entries in general, because the nastiness was creating a climate that discouraged people from writing and that's the exact opposite of what we want to do. I was wrong back then. You live and learn.

On the other hand, I'm regular hosed off at Mojo right now. Totally stepping out of kayfabe here, he's been a total stinkyhole to me recently and I'm sick of it. We could sit here trading lovely little jabs and pulling at each others' pigtails all year, but all that's gonna do is turn an argument into a grudge. Let's get this out of the way in a storm of stories, so we can bury the hatchet on move on.

MOJO, I'M CALLING YOU OUT.



Brawl me, motherfucker. Three stories over three weeks. And just so you can't pussy out, I'm offering you a sweet little deal.

If you win, I'll toxx in every 'dome entry I write for the year of 2015. Everything. Brawls, weeklies, the works. I'll also toxx in that I'll enter a minimum of 10 stories during that same year.
If I win, you knock off this unwarranted "thread sheriff" bullshit and you apologise. Plus, I get one free flash rule on you, valid for one week only during the year of 2015.

Somebody screencap this poo poo. You got the better deal than I do here. Not that it matters, because I've beaten you two-for-two and I'm ready to take the hattrick.

lol get hosed you impossible whining nonce

e: shutup crabrock that was a great goddam story

ee: See you thought so too can't memory hole this, bitch

dreadmojo fucked around with this message at Jan 19, 2015 around 08:13

Walamor
Dec 31, 2006

Fork 'em Devils!


Sitting Here posted:

right that sounds good, how do i participate?

Step 1: Read the prompt post.
Step 2: Read the prompt post again.
...
Step 5: Post your story by the submission deadline.

Maugrim posted:

SUBMISSIONS due by Sunday, 18th January at midnight UTC.
PAY ATTENTION. This is UK TIME, you fucks. If you don't like it then gently caress you.

Maugrim posted:

PAY ATTENTION. This is UK TIME, you fucks. If you don't like it then gently caress you.

Maugrim posted:

gently caress you.

I love you Muffin but this is kinda dumb. You're mad at yourself for not reading the prompt carefully or had a lovely day or something else, but regardless this is a bit of an overreaction. Not to say that a discussion about the merits of a consistent signup/submission time wouldn't be worthwhile though.

blue squares
Sep 28, 2007


Soiled Meat

Muffin's a big baby

/my first post ITT in weeks

Screaming Idiot
Nov 26, 2007

The turtle moves.


Fun Shoe

Man, why's everybody gotta be so angry? Write stories and laugh, goddammit!

Also, I found a couple of major proofreading errors in my stupid Void Vampire story I missed before I posted it, so I want to go ahead and apologize.

blue squares
Sep 28, 2007


Soiled Meat

Screaming Idiot posted:

Man, why's everybody gotta be so angry? Write stories and laugh, goddammit!

Also, I found a couple of major proofreading errors in my stupid Void Vampire story I missed before I posted it, so I want to go ahead and apologize.

no one gives a gently caress

Screaming Idiot
Nov 26, 2007

The turtle moves.


Fun Shoe

ok thank you

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry



blue squares posted:

no one gives a gently caress

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


blue squares posted:

Muffin's a big baby

/my first post ITT in weeks
Ahahaha.



AHAHAHA.

You are the biggest loving baby in the thread. You threw a shitfit when nobody "got" your muppet erotica. I'll take the hit from the others, but not from you you little poo poo.

Quidthulhu
Dec 17, 2003

Stand down, men! It's only smooching!


This is a very angry thread :/

Screaming Idiot
Nov 26, 2007

The turtle moves.


Fun Shoe

But no, seriously, we're here because of our shared love for writing. Grudge matches are great when they're for writing, but non-kayfabe anger is essentially lovely white noise.

...like this post, I realized.

EDIT:
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Screaming Idiot fucked around with this message at Jan 20, 2015 around 01:09

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

GUYS IF YOU DON'T ALL SHUT UP AND GO THE gently caress TO SLEEP JUDGESANTA CAN'T COME AND TELL YOU HOW poo poo YOUR STORIES ARE

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


Hey everyone stop being a bunch of mad/sad/mean babies and shut up and write

thanks

bye for now

autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007



Fun Shoe

Muffin-san I unironically love you~

Maugrim
Feb 16, 2011

I eat your face



Mewling creatures, cease your noise. Your judgment is at hand.

As I sat high upon the blood-red Thunderthrone, I looked upon the masses arrayed before me, and I despaired that such vermin should occupy my precious waking hours. Yet it is the duty of a King to pass judgment.

Truly, vermin you were. I suffered through over thirty stories that ran the gamut from dreadful to merely confusing. The few that weren't rife with grammatical, tense and punctuation issues were like tiny lighthouses guiding me through an ocean of blithering lexical incompetence. A significant number of you decided that the prompt made a good title for your story; you were almost without exception wrong.

Quite a number of you failed to observe the secondary requirement of demonstrating emotional range, although only one of you completely failed to hit the prompt itself. (Special mention to JcDent who managed to hit almost every prompt, which would probably have earned him an HM for sheer gumption if only he'd managed to do it within the word limit.)

How do I hate thee all? Let me count the ways.

Dishonourable Mention to asap-salafi for managing to completely miss the personal tailored prompt. An ambiguous line shoehorned in right at the end doesn't count.
Dishonourable Mention to Doctor Idle for his Glorious Altars of the Blood-Red Insanity. Using such an overblown prompt as your title was a terrible idea even before you juxtaposed it with a boring mess of a story that contained precisely one memorable sentence.
Dishonourable Mention to ZeBourgeoisie for a low-effort non-story that you blatantly hadn't bothered to edit.
Dishonourable Mention to Bad Ideas Good for following up one of my favourite opening paragraphs with a schizophrenic mess of tense issues, continuity errors and a confusing non-ending.
Dishonourable Mention to newtestleper, special courtesy of sebmojo, for ITS ITS ITS ITS ITS JESUS CHRIST THERE'S NO APOSTROPHE IN THE POSSESSIVE RRAAAAGGHHHH.

Our loser this week, by unanimous judge decision, is leekster. As a very basic starting point for your next effort, please at least try to make us care about your characters.

The honourable mentions this week gained that honour simply by virtue of being somewhat competent stories amidst a sea of festering wordvomit. Let's see who didn't make the judges want to claw their own faces off!

Honourable Mention to Ironic Twist for an enjoyable story with, crucially, a somewhat clever title that wasn't the loving prompt.
Honourable Mention to Auraboks for a funny, readable and memorable story about a misunderstood guy who just wants to slaughter things and make beautiful gifts out of their corpses.

Well that was a short list.

Much to my despair, every week has to have a winner. Fortunately, I am saved from taking a knife to my own throat in protest of this rule by one person, who submitted a story that stood out to every judge as a well-written, impactful tale of brotherhood and redemption, despite its comically awful title. Congratulations crabrock, your Some Artificial Raspberry Flavoring Comes From The Anal Gland of a Beaver has earned you your week on the Thunderthrone.

Maugrim fucked around with this message at Jan 20, 2015 around 02:22

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Phobia
Apr 25, 2011

I'm a suave detective with a heart of gold in hot pursuit of the malevolent, manipulative
MIAMI MUTILATOR
and the deranged degenerates who only want their
15 MINUTES OF FAME.


OCK.


PROOOOOOOMPT

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