The Last Man on Earth
Always remove stories in case you want to submit them later
Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at Sep 18, 2015 around 05:09
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 06:00|
|# ? Feb 16, 2019 09:17|
It was all a Teenage Fantasy
When the flaming vortex into hell opened up in the space above the band, Iron Maiden, Violet knew she done hosed up. She could hear her mother nasally scold her, “I told you not to partake in any Satanic rituals!” Violet struggled against the gravitational pull of the portal, grasping at everything within her reach.
Her neighboring concert-goer didn’t appreciate Violet trying to drag her along for the ride. Violet received deep scratches on the back of her hand and pulled her hand away in reflex. poo poo, she thought as she became airborne. Flailing around. she soared over the band and with one last frenzied swipe of her bloodied hand she latched onto the neck of a guitar held by a band member. Winded shrieked past her ears and her hair lashed her face as it whipped frantically. She saw many people fly past, including that girl who scratched the poo poo out of her just seconds before.
Below her head, she heard a chant, a deep thrum that ignored the howling of the wind and flying people. She craned her head toward the sound and saw the band standing around nonchalant. There was a shadow over their faces, a deep cloudy darkness that completely obscured any feature that would discern them as human.
Whomever held the guitar Violet clutched on to, let go, and she hurtled through the air. Violet felt as if she fell into an icy lake. The sudden cold squeezed all the air from her lungs in an involuntary groan. Just as quickly as the sensation came, it was replaced with an oppressive heat that stung her eyes and the back of her throat as she gulped the sulphuric air. She sprawled to the ground, sharp igneous rocks digging into her back.
There were panicked voices all around, doing whatever it was that useless people do in tragic situations. Violet could feed a third world country with all the shits she didn’t give. He hand felt like it had been dipped in lava. She looked down and saw she still clenched the guitar in a blood soaked hand. The guitar’s rust color pulsed with her heartbeat and blood ran down the fretboard in rivulets. She wrenched her hand away from the guitar and scrambled back from it.
“Run! Get out of my way, bitch!” A voice shouted. Violet looked over her shoulder at where the voice came from and her breath caught in her throat. Standing about a football field away from the damned concert goers stood giant demons. From that distance, Violet couldn’t exactly make out their features and she didn’t really care to get closer to get a better look. She shoved herself to her feet and turned to run, but a voice exploded in her head.
Don’t forget me, the voice said. It was so loud it darkness pushed in from the edges of her vision. You’ll take me if you’re not a fan of dying. Violet looked back at the guitar with incredulity. It was talking to her. It glowed against the black ground as it talked directly to her. We don’t have all day, grandma. Let’s go kill those loving demons!
“Kill the demons?” Violet asked with a raised eyebrow. Even though the giants were far away, they still looked like walking mountains. “You’re out of your mind,” she muttered. The crowd was already stampeding away and Violet thought it unsafe to be at the very tail of the group when the giants caught up. She snatched the guitar, slung it across her body and leaned into a dead sprint.
It only took a minute before the giants caught up to the group. The fat people were the first to go. Many were stepped on, exploding in a gory shower. Others were snatched up and bitten in half. Yet their deaths were in vain because they didn’t slow down the giants. They probably shouldn’t have smuggled car tires around their waists, quipped the guitar. You should have been a better leader and held donuts above your head or something.
“Holy poo poo,” Violet gasped as she and the group of concert goers ran down a steep incline to a dried up lake with a white sandy floor, “those are people you’re making fun of!”
They were people. Very large people. Like super wide. You should have seen them running, it was glorious!
Violet shook her head in disgust.
The ground crunched underfoot as the group ran into the open area. Violet looked behind her and saw that the giants stood at the precipice of the lake and glared at them. A few others noticed it as well and they all eventually stopped running to catch their breaths.
“What are you?” Violet managed to say between breaths. “I know you’re a guitar, but… you’re something else too.”
You read too many goddamn terrible books. There’s no time for an damned exposition dump. All you fuckers are in deep poo poo and you don’t even know it.
Violet flinched at the guitar’s vitriol. “We were just trying-”
If you would have listened to me first, everyone probably would have lived through this. The next thing the guitar told Violet made her blood run cold. Cockdammit, theres a reason why the giants didn't follow you in this poo poo!
As if on cue, someone nearby who was crouched investigating the crunchy ground flinched back with a sudden flail of his arm. “My hand!” He clutched his hand to his chest, red staining his shirt. “drat thing tore out a chunk out of my hand!”
All around, shouts of alarm and anguish were raised. The sand they were walking on was now vibrating up into the air, jumping off the ground like popcorn and latching on to people. Panic was widespread and people were running off in every direction in a futile attempt to escape. All around people were covered chest high in a gray cloud of hungry death. Blood splattered the ground in shiny sheens of crimson. At the center of it all, untouched, was Violet.
Do you want to live?
Violet looked all around like a terrified rabbit encircled by foxes, her eyes wide and her heart hammering in her throat.
Do you want to live, Violet?
She swallowed. Her throat was dry. Her lips made the movement, but no sound came out. She licked her lips and tried again. “Yes, yes I want to live.”
Hold me in your hands and play me. You do that, I’ll get you out of here and maybe even get some vengeance for the rest of these people.
In her mind’s eye, Violet pictured the voice in her head smirking like the devil making a deal. With shaking hands, she reached behind her and moved the guitar so it hung in front of her. She held it with one hand and hesitated striking the strings with the other.
I won’t be able to hold back the swarm for much longer. It felt like a threat rather than a warning. Do it.
The carnivorous cloud inched closer. The air around her vibrated and shuddered like a million insects swarming around a lightbulb. The screams are gone now. Just a few moans and whimpers. Just the thrum of the swarm. Violet’s fingers plucked the strings.
A lightning bolt arced out of the portal and exploded into the Iron Maiden’s drummer, detonated his corpse into chunks of charred flesh. From his smoking remains, Violet grimly straightened up and glared at the five remaining members with smoke coming out of her eye sockets. Without a word she charged the lead singer and split him open from his chest to his taint.
The drummer somersaulted through the air behind Violet, striking from behind, but Violet managed to roll backward out of his ground cratering attack. From the portal, the carnivorous cloud shot out like an arrow and enveloped the two guitarists. They flailed around as their flesh dropped like rotten meat from their bones.
Again, the drummer dashed forward with a powerful attack, but Violet was able to repel him with a violent horizontal slash of her guitar; snapping his drum sticks and smashing his body against the wall.
“I looked up to you once,” said Violet to Steve Harris without looking in his direction.
“Save me your shite, mate,” Steve Harris said, hefting his bass guitar on one shoulder, looking just as badass as Violet. “I’ll gently caress you up, you cheeky stinkyhole. Come get some, eh?”
In the blink of an eye, they dashed passed each other and exchanged places on the stage. Violet dropped to her knees and coughed blood. Steve Harris laughed. And then he exploded.
Fuckers should have run to the hills.
“Goddamit! Puns? Really?”
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 06:02|
Cervical Fracture (622 words)
Still Waters (Kaishai, winner)
It was five seconds before Nicole broke the surface again. Her limp braids floated by her shoulders, drifting from the force of raindrops.
Jefferson stared down from the bough above, and cupped trembling hands round his mouth. "Nicole?"
She didn't move.
Wet bark slipped past Jefferson's fingers as he swung himself down into the dark waters pooled in the gravel pit. As he made his way to where Nicole rested on the water's surface, facedown, he kicked up sediment, which formed puffy stagnant clouds. A clumsy, desperate shove, and his sister's face was shown to the rainclouds above, bone-white and bent back. He held a hand above her mouth to check for breath, pressed two shaking fingers to her wrist and exposed neck in search of pulse, all the while bobbing up and down, spitting out water that tasted of rot. The rain and his efforts to stay afloat made it impossible for him to tell tell if either breath or heartbeat was present.
Jefferson hooked an arm underneath Nicole's armpit and across her neck, then started kicking, dragging her towards the shore. He tried twisting his head back far enough to see his destination, but every time he did so, the swamp water found its way into his mouth. After a mouthful had finally made it down his throat, he decided to just focus on kicking.
Floating on his back like this meant the tree they'd been in dominated his view, rising above the jagged wall behind it. Water surrounded him, rushing past his ears, splattering down onto his face - and when one of Nicole's braids brushed against his neck, it was also up his nose after a bout of frantic splashing.
Finally, finally, one of his feet sunk into the muck below. Jefferson unwound his arm from around Nicole's neck and stood, and she drifted for a second, before he grabbed her wrists and started dragging her up and out of the muddy waters. As he stumbled backwards, he found grit digging into his heels instead of the grass and mud that usually encircled the waters here. The pool had evidently swelled past its usual bounds.
But not enough. He had managed to pull Nicole's body halfway out onto land before he finally noticed the impossible angle of her neck.
* * * * *
It would be thirty years before he returned, but less than eight hours between that visit and now.
Silver light guides his first step off the pit's edge and onto that familiar, steady branch. As he continues down, a branch nicks him, just below his eye, and liquid seeps out down his cheeks. He doesn't care. Ever since he'd woken this night, every blink had shown her leading him here. Even now, he can glimpse ethereal snapshots of her descent, showing which branches to clutch and which footholds to use.
By the time he's made it from crown to bough, his sleeves have a thousand pulled threads and his pants are are shot through with rotten splinters. He doesn't care. He crouches, then slowly begins edging out on the bough as far as he dares, ignoring the creaking protests beneath him.
When he finally stops, he looks down at the pool - so close he could reach out and dip a toe in - and in that mirrored facade below he sees a dark shadow, squatting right by his reflection. As he watches the waters below, it extends a hand, and when he reaches out clasps it, he swears he can feel skin instead of air. He doesn't bother looking over to check.
Let's do it together this time.
"Ready when you are," he says, smiling.
Get set, and... go!
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 06:10|
From Moment to Moment
The family sat quietly around the dinner table. Their near-silence was periodically punctured by the sound of Father hacking his way through his chunk of ribeye. Father did so with a vigor that suggested he wished there were something else beneath his blade. Mother gave up on small talk after the first glare from her husband's direction, a look as sharp as any slap. She bowed her head and shoveled the food into her mouth without another word.
Gustave kept his head down, too. He didn't need to look up. He had the perfect image of the scene sketched out in his mind: Father at the head of the table, with Mother and Gustave flanking him. He gave grudging consideration to the heavy, taut lines of Father's hand gripping his knife but laboured over remembering Mother's grimace, the whiteness of her knuckles, her periodic glances in Father's direction as though awaiting instruction.
If this were a painting hanging on the wall of somebody else's dining room, all would be well. This would just be an isolated moment, instead of one of a series quite likely to culminate in pleading and bloodshed.
Gustave pictured himself making the brush strokes. He might change Mother's expression, if only to ease that tension in her jaw. He could make them all smile. He could make this moment last. He could -
"Pass the salt," Father said, and then the moment passed.
The evening progressed and Gustave retreated to his room. He watched the sky change colours and thought about capturing them, but there was no inspiration there. Gustave couldn't focus on a sunset or the inky night sky when he was trying so hard not to listen to the voices in the next room. He needed something stronger to drown out the way his mother's voice cracked when she was pleading, so he got out of bed and took out a pen and some paper.
Gustave drew them. The knife, Mother's knuckles -
"Stop it, Peter! Oh God -"
No. That wouldn't do.
He drew his mother, and left Father out entirely. She was luminous, bathed in light. Gustave couldn't quite picture her smiling, not with that noise in the background, not until he could think of something worthy of her smile. He didn't draw her in that room. Gustave drew the forest he saw through his window, and as he sketched his mother's unbowed head looking upwards, he finally had reason to draw the sky.
There was some mad alchemy in it. Gustave’s pen touched the paper and he created moments without consequence. He drew his mother riding into the forest, something she had never done. He drew her standing over the pond with someone else’s blood dripping from her hands. He drew her in a hundred different moments. She was a witch, a goddess, a fleeing princess - anything but his mother, cringing away from another sudden blow at the dinner table.
Gustave’s lines grew surer as the days and weeks and months went by. Surely reality was the lesser cousin to these confident portraits. Any day now, the world would right itself, and submit to the reality contained in those sheets of paper.
He heard screaming coming from the kitchen and lifted his pen to block it out once more.
The screaming continued through the night until finally, finally, it stopped. When Gustave emerged from his room, a moment existed where he could not think of anything but the sight before his eyes: his mother, not his muse, lying bloodied and still in the kitchen with Father crying over her prone body. There was nothing for him to draw, no next moment to evade. There would be no more such moments again.
Gustave stopped drawing. He stopped talking. He didn’t eat. The world around him continued, but he had no response. They took his father away in the back of a police car, his bloodied fists chained uselessly together. They buried his mother at the very end of a long row of grey tombstones, each inscribed with phrases such as “beloved wife,” and decorated with bouquets of rotting flowers. Gustave went to live with a distant aunt in a house that was never tense with looming violence. His hands never itched for a pen or paper. His mind was blank.
The child psychologist he was every other Thursday would offer him watercolours and urge him to paint “whatever springs to mind, dear.”
Gustave shrugged. Nothing came to mind. She placed the brush in his hand and guided it to the paper. Her hands were slender, with rings on the same finger his mother had worn her ring. He thought of those same hands, ruined, pawing against Father’s chest as she had struggled to get away from him. Gustave had seen the red prints on his father’s shirt that night, in the moments after he entered the room. Mother was already dead by then, but she was still wearing that ring.
“It seems silly, but sometimes it can help to express what you’re feeling,” the psychologist pushed on. “Art is a powerful tool. It can give voice to what we can’t say, and it can help us to work through pain we might otherwise avoid. What do you feel like painting today?”
Gustave considered the question. The answer was an old one.
Gustave still wanted to capture that one moment. The moment before his father took the knife to Mother’s body, stabbing and slashing until exhaustion - not remorse - gave him pause. The moment before Mother went still and cold, her red prints left forgotten on her husband’s cotton shirt. He wanted to paint it, and seal it off so that nothing could follow it.
In that moment, Mother could be happy, sad, or indifferent. She could be in the kitchen or hiding in the forest. She could be anything at all.
Anything that Gustave put to paper.
He would keep painting it until he got it right and that final, bloody moment went away forever.
Gustave picked up the paintbrush and got to work.
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 06:24|
Did somebody say "toxx ban"?
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 06:37|
Did He Who Made the Lamb Make Thee?
Originally Lessons by Saddest Rhino.
Every month, that dreaded sound – the hollow clap of hooves on the cobbles, the mewling cries. Albanus stood in the courtyard to greet the praetor’s chariot. Fit for a triumphal procession, piebald stallions in full regalia, the praetor himself standing in its basket. And always a new child, a Hun or Berber or Syrian torn from its mother at the moment of birth.
The praetor raised them in his cellar. There were rooms made up for them, dirt floors lined with straw, bassinets, a single grated window each. The wet nurses were forbidden to speak to them; it was the praetor’s belief that, deprived of language, the children might come to know the true tongue of God.
For years Albanus tended to their needs, watched them grow. There had been another physician before him, a drunkard who neglected his duties, let their hair become matted and lice-ridden, their arms and legs mottled with sores. Albanus had agreed to work for half the man’s wages. A pittance. A room in the villa and a handful of denarii to take home each month.
In truth he had nothing to spend it on. His wife fallen to ague, his son to the fields of Adrianople. For a time after the war he delivered children in the countryside. Now and a then a mother would name their child Albanus in gratitude, so that there were, by his count, at least a dozen boys and one unfortunate girl who shared his name. It was enough now to keep his himself occupied.
Yet he pitied the prateor’s children. Confinement turned them feeble-minded, no brighter than beasts of the field. When they were fed, they could only gibber, clap, stamp their feet. In all the time he had cared for them, none had uttered a word. It was impossible to imagine any of them speaking in the honeyed tongue of Eden.
Only one among them seemed different, as if there was a single, flickering ember of understanding behind his dark eyes. The boy didn’t babble like the others. He sat in the corner with his arms and legs folded and wouldn’t move. They’d named him Calvinus, after the consul whose severe glare was rumored to have silenced senators where they stood, but some of the nurses had taken to calling him “little grandfather” instead.
At night, Calvinus would scratch shapes into the sandstone walls of his cell, until his fingernails turned ragged and bled. He drew what he could see through his window – the crude silhouette of a tree, or the form of clouds. Each time, Albanus daubed his hands with salve, always seized by the urge to speak to him, to make him understand.
When the cellar became crowded, the praetor ordered the children placed two to a room. The boy paired with Calvinus, a fat Turk, would not leave him alone. He slapped Calvinus’ face, pinched his forearms.
Once, Albanus arrived to find Calvinus with blood crusted around his nostrils, and more on the Turk’s knuckles. A week later, the Turk was dead. An adder had wormed its way in through the window and bitten him in his sleep. The nurses shouted for a guard, but the adder was nowhere to be found.
Only, scratched into the wall, perhaps a few days old, the unmistakable shape of a serpent.
For days afterward, Calvinus refused to eat. He fell into a black mood, hung his head, and wouldn’t even look up when Albanus visited. He inspected the boy for signs of illness, any swellings or lesions, but found none. At last he decided that the Calvinus was lonely.
The next morning, he brought a gift. A doll that had belonged to his son. It was a tiger twisted together from dyed sackcloth and twine, something he’d brought back from the amphitheatre. Albanus knelt beside the boy and pressed it into his open palm. Calvinus stared at it for a moment, head cocked like a wise owl, then held the doll against his chest and turned over to face the wall.
For days, Calvinus’ mood did not improve. Instead of trees and clouds, he scratched tigers into the sandstone. Dozens of them, prowling every corner of the room, as if he were marking the movements of a beast on the hunt.
Soon enough, a new boy filled the Turk’s place. Calvinus watched him with a new intensity. For three nights he woke to the new child’s crying. A horrible, braying sound. Yet there was never anything wrong. The boy only wept and made wild gestures toward the wall, where the tigers had multiplied, an overlapping mass of them facing every direction.
On the fourth night, no crying woke him. Albanus rose at dawn and made his way to the cellar. He opened the doors one by one, left fresh water and crusts of bread, a bowl of broth for the sickly. When he reached Calvinus’ room, a smell stopped him. The hot smell of straw, and something else. Meat.
Albanus pressed his ear to the door. A faint rustling. He cracked the door open. Enough to see the far corner of the room, the straw black with blood. A jumble of parts, wet and shining in the pale light. Calvinus smiling, and behind him, clawed into the sandstone, the enormous head of a tiger, jaws open and dripping. The shape of a boy in its center.
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 06:48|
Rewrite of: Helios
crabrock fucked around with this message at Jan 1, 2016 around 05:40
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 06:50|
flerp fucked around with this message at Sep 18, 2015 around 23:02
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 06:58|
Taijitu - 747 words
It had been a long, cold winter, hungry and lean, but the arrival of the sacrifice did little to stop the bickering of the two giants of the mountain. Cyra looked out of their cave to see robed men slinking away back down the treacherous slope. They had left the girl there, quivering, exposed in the bitter cold.
She grabbed the sacrifice from the field, brought her inside, and tossed her in a pile of discarded rags and damp, gnawed table scraps. “That’s a pretty one,” she said. “Should be able to get a lot of value out of that one.”
Bollo didn’t respond. The red-skinned giant barely lifted his head to look at the latest gift from the keepers of the order.
“Don’t tell me youre full!” Cyra shook her head. “You know you shouldn’t fill up on yaks and giant eagles on ceremony days! Besides, they’re too stringy. There’s nothing so delectable as this!”
He shook his head, and flakes of ash fluttered from his hair. “Not interested anymore. Go and eat without me.”
She looked at him for a moment. Then she grabbed the girl and stomped off deep into the cave. Stalactites shattered and boulders fell behind her as she walked.
—“I decided against it.”
The fire giant was lying on the side of the room. “You didn’t eat her?”
“No. You should really be the one to do it. I’m starting to worry about you. You don’t have the same feeling, that passion I once knew.”
He found the girl quivering in a corner, trying to hide under some discarded trash. “Come here, little one.” He reached out and picked her up, cradling her in his arms.
The other one stared at him with eyes dripping poison. “Be quick with that one,” she warned. “You can’t let them sit out too long. They go off.”
He ignored her and carried the girl back to the living and eating chamber. He sat down in the lounge seat and set her on his lap.
She froze for a minute, then cautiously moved out to explore her surroundings. She reached out and touched the exposed red skin of his arm, then made a funny squeal that made him laugh. “Warm, is it? You must not be used to that.”
She stared up at his face, uncomprehending.
“Wear this, little one.” He picked up some cloth scraps from Cyra’s clothmaking endeavors earlier in the week and dropped them beside the girl.
She jumped back at first, the quickly burrowed underneath and wrapped the warm furs around herself. Within minutes, she was asleep in his arms.
Cyra was watching from the doorway. “It’s not right,” the blue giant said. “We’re to eat these offerings made to us. It is the way things have always been. Denying this gift will anger the providers. How can you do this?”
“I’m not hungry,” he said. His eyes smoldered. “I ate my fill of mountain goats and birds this week. And I like this one. She is amusing.”
“And the villagers?”
“I can kill them when they come,” he said with a great belly laugh. “—if they object.”
Cyra shook her head. “This is not the way.”
“I’m tired of the usual way. Eating them grows dull. The purity of sacrifices—did you ever really notice a difference in them? Did the last sacrifice fill the stew better than the bears you trapped last year?”
She had no answer, and retreated.
Bollo lifted the head of the creature in his lap. “Are you hungry, little one?”
Cyra stormed into their sleeping chamber. Feeding a sacrifice? What an outrage! She would see to it that his mind was changed.
She rummaged in the trash heap for a suitable tool. Soon enough, she found it. She pulled out a great mammoth bone. Frost zigzagged across it at her touch, encrusting the entire surface with a frozen sheen. In seconds, it was a solid mass of ice.
She hefted the club onto her shoulder and walked back to the main chamber.
—Cyra picked her way down the mountain pass, careful but implacable. The club was still frozen, unblemished, in her hand. The air was filling with the first birdsong of the year.
The sight of the two of them asleep in the lounge, the girl nestled in his arm, was too much. He could have his pet. No more sacrifices.
And she would kill any villager or keeper of the order who disagreed.
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 07:01|
Giant Robots are Cool and Awesome
"G'day Dave," said Captain Tyrone Banks. "We need to check in real quick, all right?"
"Um, excuse me," said a woman at the front of the line. "There's a queue here."
"Sorry," said Dave, "I really do have to serve these guys." He scanned Captain Banks' ticket, and those of Captains Kate Walker and Jade Marcel, and Tom the work experience kid. All four of them then grabbed their satchels and headed to the nearby wall, which they walked through.
"What. Did they just?" asked the woman.
"No idea what you're talking about," said Dave. "Now where were you off to today?"
She was off to New Zealand, as it happened.
Meanwhile, Captain Banks, Captain Walker, Captain Marcel and Tom the work experience kid had gotten into their space robots and were pressing buttons and whirling dials and stuff for launch. "Is it all right if I put some tunes on?" asked Tom. "I just find it helps me concentrate when I'm fighting monsters, and also it's just a little bit cooler."
"Sure," said Captain Marcel. "Long as you can still hear the rest of us, knock yourself out."
“Rad,” said Tom, and slipped a cassette of kickin’ rad 80s tunes into the tape deck of his roboty thing.
A flower shape opened in the roof of the airport, and the four space fighting super robots flew smoothly into the air. “Right,” said Captain Banks, “where are those monsters?”
Back in the airport, a man at the front of Dave’s queue pointed to the four robot shaped aircraft and said “Hey, those look a little bit like flying robots.”
“I think it’s the new Comac aircraft,” said Dave. “They’re a Chinese company.”
“Ah,” said the man. “Makes sense.”
They found the monsters hiding behind the traffic control tower. “Right, you lot are in for it,” said Captain Marcel. The four of them flew their robots over to the monsters and started pummelling them mightily. (The monsters, not the robots.) They were giving them what for, beating them senseless, when suddenly the monsters all flew right at each other and turned into one big monster.
“That’s gross,” said Tom.
“OK,” said Captain Banks. “Time to do our cool thing where we combine all of our robots into one bigger robot.”
“I never really got that part,” said Captain Marcel. “If we’re stronger as one, why not go to that straight away?”
“It’s cooler this way, though,” said Tom.
“Kate,” said Captain Banks, “can you please do the thing?”
Captain Walker did the thing. Her robot picked up Captain Marcel’s robot and jammed it into one side of itself so it was an arm, and did the same with Captain Banks’ robot on the other side. Then her robot’s feet grabbed Tom’s robot and jammed it in down the bottom. Kate gave a thumbs up.
“I guess I’ll make the call,” said Captain Marcel.
“Yeah, he likes you best,” said Captain Banks.
“Are those strange Chinese aircraft sticking to each other out there?” asked the bearded gentleman at the front of the queue.
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Dave. “I don’t think any of our aircraft have that sort of capability.”
“And it looks like they were fighting something out there.”
“Nah,” said Dave. “We don’t have any military aircraft here. Excuse me, I gotta get this.” He picked up the phone. “Hello, Brisbane Airport, this is Dave speaking.”
“Dave,” said Captain Marcel, “we’re doing the thing, how would you feel about helping us out?”
“The thing?” said Dave. “I was never really big on the thing.”
“Come on, please?” said Captain Marcel. “I will totally owe you one.”
Dave sighed. “Yeah all right. I’ll be right up, just gotta get someone to replace me.” He looked around. “Hey, Terry?”
Terry looked up from his mop. “Yeah?”
“I’ve gotta go do the thing, can you take over from me for a bit?”
“Sure thing,” said Terry. He slid behind the desk while Dave rushed over through the wall. “Now, where were we?”
“Did he just? Also, aren’t you the janitor?” asked the bearded gent.
“We’re doing a lot of cross-training,” said Terry. “Good to be skilled in other areas, right? Now, where are we off to?”
“Oh, man,” said Dave, once airborne.
“Problem?” asked Captain Marcel.
“Forgot my nausea tablets,” he said.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, “we’ll be gentle.”
This is going to be the worst, thought Dave.
His bladey looking aircraft flew up towards the big robot, and the arm that was Captain Marcel’s robot grabbed his ship. “We’ve got you,” said Captain Marcel.
“I am definitely going to be unwell,” Dave said.
The big robot flew at the big monster, which for some reason had elected not to attack them while they’d been forming into a big robot and grabbing a sword, and they swung the sword at the monster and cut off its head.
“Another job well done,” said Captain Banks.
“Awesome!” said Tom.
Captain Walker gave a thumbs up.
“Good job, team,” said Captain Marcel. “Dave, how’re you feeling?”
Dave was not feeling well, and the inside of his cockpit was coated with what he’d had for breakfast. “I think I’m gonna take some sick leave,” he said.
“So, those Chinese aircraft definitely just killed some massive monster, right?” said the unaccompanied child who was now the only person in the queue.
Terry looked around. “Yeah. Pretty cool, right?”
“Yeah,” said the kid. “Pretty cool.”
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 09:09|
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 13:10|
slow judging good judging
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 13:19|
post apocalyptic slash fic
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 15:31|
Frances looked through the empty window frame out across the remnants of Alexanderplatz. The Fernsehturm rested across the square, its needle splitting a toppled tram in two. The vista was curtailed by a great gray smog; she could see no further than an hundred yards.
“It's odd to think that we're in that awful cloud too,” she said.
Amanda put her arm around Frances, “Can't do much about it, Fran.”
“Nope. But I feel it every time I breath.” Frances shook her head. “It makes me want to stop breathing.”
“Course you don't want to stop. Don't be silly.”
“I'm not being silly. I feel it inside of me.”
“So can I,” Amanda said. “But maybe if we stay away from the cities, we'll stay away from the cloud.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She turned from the broken window, untangling herself from Amanda's embrace, and lay on the floor. She stared at the ceiling. “It's as if we've traded people for pollution. It's too grim.”
“I kind of like it. Wait! Don't interrupt. I like it because it makes us seem more special. All this space and just the two of us. I know there are more, but it seems like just the two of us right here in this moment.” She lay beside Frances and tucked herself under her shoulder. “And it means I don't have to share you.”
Frances laughed a light laugh, “You're ridiculous. I don't think that cloud has an edge to draw a line around, never mind one that shines. But if it did, you'd be the one to see it.” Frances sat up, helping Amanda stay nestled in her arms as she rose, and kissed her on the forehead. “Shall we get going then? Find this cloudless utopia you spoke of?”
|# ? Sep 14, 2015 17:22|
When a man speaks of this "fast judging" his words are clouded by ideology; there is no greater move in debate to make the question above questions. I conjecture that this so-called "fast judging" is a farce, a ruse and so on.
And then of course, he speaks of "good judging" which is even more nebulous and ridiculous and so on. We must resist this ontology: this house made of falsehood. It is vile, and cheap: it is a backalley rimjob.
So when this capitalist says "fast judging good judging" you must spit in his face and cast down his ideology and so on.
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 07:16|
I sit alone. No lights are on, but the day has ended. I peer through my window, waiting. In front of my home, the orange glow of the street light casts the shadows of passers-by as they travel to unknown destinations. I wait for them to shorten, to see what shapes their origin make. I see, but am unseen. A small shade; a child skips by. It is much too late. A longer shadow darkens the child's face. I wait. It is his her father. I hope.
Countless pass by. Still, I see, but am unseen. I have forgotten what I await; but I remember my ambivalence. A stretched umbra, and a woman strides by. Her head turns! She looks at my window. At me surely? She sneers! I am arrested. She spits. My heart pumps painfully. She cackles. My hands contort, gripping the chair. She shakes her head and leaves the light. And I begin to weep. I await no longer; a smile arrives.
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 08:40|
these were all pretty bad tbh. I guess burying your fist in the stinking guts of corpses is neither hygienic nor a good route to storytown. live/learn eh
thranguy can have an hm for improving on my yardwork, because ha, yeah, that protagonist guy really is kind of a retard isn't he.
lazy beggar can cop a dm for loving up kai's pumpkin piece so egregiously, heh thought you were safe you were not safe 'this is thunderdome' he whispered
newbie no beer left takes the loss for an endless blurry vaguely cyber yarn that is so clunky it actually made me die (briefly) in the middle
and OG actual real life doctor slash octopus Dr Kloctopussy takes the bloodthrone, exactly one hundred and sixty something weeks after she was cheated out of it by someone writing a better story than her
take it away doc! somewhere far from here for preference, bury it deep under the earth and let us never speak of it again.
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 10:43|
STOP FARTING AROUND IN BOSTON AND- PROOOOOOOOOOOOMPT
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 15:37|
YOUR STUPID poo poo BELONGS IN A MUSEUM
The British Museum is (enter fawning description in booming voice here.) Whatever, it's big and it has a bunch neat of stuff in it that has been gathered (plundered) from around the world. Over 3.5 million of those objects are in a searchable online database. Now that is just cool! http://www.britishmuseum.org/resear...ine/search.aspx
Pick an object from the museum and write a story that might have happened in its past or might happen its future. Or could be happening to it right now. RIGHT. NOW. The object should actually matter to the story, not just be window dressing, but the story doesn't have to be ABOUT the object. Preferable the story would be ABOUT the characters. Please for the love of god be able to tell the difference. I have faith in you.
Important prompt update: You are not constrained by historical accuracy. It's a fiction contest, not a history class. Please write a good story. It's not a big deal if a dude is wearing the wrong kind of helmet or something.
Since I know all you assholes are weak-willed thumb-suckers who can't make your own decisions, the judges will assign objects if you ask for them. If you only need training wheels instead of a stroller, there is a collection of 5,000 highlight objects here: http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore.aspx
LOOK HOW loving RAD THAT ELEPHANT IS.
Hopefully that isn't an image that randomly changes, but if it is, sucks for you if you don't get the rad loving elephant.
Anyway, post your object when you sign up. No two people can claim the exact two objects, but seeing as the museum has 2,932 Roman lamps, this shouldn't really matter.
Max Word Limit: 1250
Sign up: 11:59pm PST Friday
Submit: 11:59 PST Sunday
Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at Sep 19, 2015 around 00:26
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 15:51|
you have to make a prompt just for me huh? gently caress it im im, throw me an object
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 16:17|
Clever Fusing of Ent's and Jonked's Names Brawl
also you guys have 15 hours to dog it up (police optional)
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 16:20|
you have to make a prompt just for me huh? gently caress it im im, throw me an object
Colossal statue of a winged human-headed bull from the North-West Palace of Ashurnasirpal II
Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at Sep 15, 2015 around 16:56
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 16:36|
I'm in. Please pick an object for me.
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 16:49|
I'm in. Please pick an object for me.
Gold mourning ring with a painted eye
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 16:54|
I'll try this. Please assign me an object.
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 17:03|
In, and I'll take an object.
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 17:07|
fyi, me and Dr. K are about to get on airplanes so no assignments will be given until 8 pm PST at the earliest. Also I'm going to embarrass crabrock by saying he is an excellent host who for some reason put up with goons in his house all weekend. Thanks crabby!
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 17:20|
In with the Lewis Chessmen
I was at the British Museum a couple weeks ago and it's rad
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 18:22|
Bronze gladiator's helmet
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 18:29|
Salutations, Thunderdome. I'm your third judge this week, so I will hand out objects while Sitting Here and Dr. K are in the air.
I'll try this. Please assign me an object.
Gold earrings shaped like wild goat heads
In, and I'll take an object.
The Borradaile oliphant
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 18:32|
In with Gilded brass astrolabe, made by Humphrey Cole
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 21:11|
Lapis lazuli amulet in the form of a vulture.
|# ? Sep 15, 2015 21:19|
Clever Fusing of Ent's and Jonked's Names Brawl
The Rover Street Cubs gang found the unknown object at five busses past When the Bars Close in the Alley that Smells Like Spaghetti. Mad Dog was the first to investigate, because, well, they didn’t call him Mad Dog for nothing. The easily unsettled newbloods whined in the background while he sniffed on the rectangular object, focused, listened, gave it a soft pat with his paw. The object didn’t want to play. It smelt of dead animal. Cow. Leather. A hint of piss, but that might have just been New York City.
“Anything?” Rufus said.
“Just a stupid box.”
“What’s inside?” Puppy said. “What’s inside what’s inside what’s inside oh my god what’s inside--” He drifted off into incomprehensible barking. One of the newbloods got excited and howled at the moon.
“Silence,” Rufus bellowed. Last thing they needed was talk of a bunch of gutter dogs harassing the townies in their sleep. He inclined his head towards Puppy. “It’s probably nothing. We would have smelt it.”
But Puppy’s mind had long since run off into the land of fables and treats. Like, gosh, it was a box. A box! Who knew what could have been in there? It could have been steaks. Certainly it must have been steaks. Puppy could smell the steaks right now. Steaks. Steaks!!
“I said silence.”
“Look, chief,” Mad Dog said, “that little pup ain’t sleeping tight until we get whatever’s in that box, out of the box.”
Puppy was chasing his own tail now, completely oblivious to the package. But Mad Dog was right. He’d remember eventually. And then he wouldn’t. Shut. Up.
“Any suggestions?” Rufus said.
“We could try scratching it,” one gang member interjected.
“How bout we bark at it?” another said. “Like, a lot.”
“Yeah, go open, dumb box!”
“Silence!” Rufus bellowed. He threw Mad Dog an unsure look, but the veteran’s snout betrayed no worry. Rufus prowled towards the box. Nothing scary had popped out of it yet, no dog catcher or vacuum cleaner or cat-piloted dog catcher robot that sucks you up with a vacuum cleaner – which was any dog’s worst fear – but it still unsettled him. Because it hadn’t been here yesterday.
He sniffed. It was just a dumb box.
The latch was held close by a lock, and on the lock were three of these fancy symbols that the humans used for… whatever. They were on the busses. Nobody knew why. Some dogs believed that it helped them tell one bus from another, but Rufus found it hard to imagine that the dominant species didn’t have the olfactory capacity to tell the bum bus from the chicken lady bus. Seriously, that was just stupid.
He bit into the lock.
“Not sure that’ll work, chief. I’ve seen these before. The humans use them to contain mighty secrets--”
“Like steaks!” Puppy pounced on the box.
“Simmer down, pup.”
Puppy ignored him. The youngster nudged the box with his nose, jumped in the air and waited for a reaction. None happened. A bus thundered past. Puppy struck a paw at the lock, and got caught up in a notch, his claw turning one of the fancy symbols down along a wheel, a different fancy symbol taking its position. There was a click.
“Mad Dog, do you have the same idea I’m having?” Rufus said.
“I think I do.”
Just before seven busses past When the Bars Close, the Rover Street Cubs gang was all over the Big Bar Street. They hid behind post boxes and lamp posts, in the shadows and under newspapers. The box was in place. Any moment the seventh bus would drive over the box and pop it open.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Puppy said.
“Keep your cool now, pup,” Mad Dog said. “We’ll crack this case any second.”
Vibrations in the ground, a faraway rumble. Puppy whined, pulled his ears close to his head and then over his eyes. The newbloods picked up on his sorrow, and whined too. Impatient youngster getting worried about phantom steaks. Rufus reminded them to be quiet. It didn’t help much.
The bus came round the corner, roaring like a hungry wolf.
“The bus will destroy it,” Puppy said. He pressed his feeble puppy claws into the concrete as if they would make any difference in holding him in place.
“It’ll be fine,” Rufus said.
The bus came closer.
“It will run over the steaks.” Tail wagging, nostrils flared, butt in the air, Puppy was no longer attached to his hiding spot by anything more than the formality of being in the same place as the shadows.
“Simmer down, pup,” Mad Dog said.
The bus was upon the box, and Puppy exploded out of his hiding place, the excited barks and shouts of the others only fueling his surge. He disappeared underneath the bus, and everyone’s heart skipped a beat.
There was a faint pop. The bus rode on.
Puppy stood on the road, colored neon-pink, broken box colored neon-pink, ground colored neon-pink, the air frugal with the stench of fresh paint. Sheets of green paper hovered in the air, some also colored neon-pink, taking the long way down, flitting about like a swarm of fireflies on one of these warm summer nights out in the fields. They certainly weren’t steaks. They were trash. It was no surprise.
And yet neon-pink Puppy danced through the cloud of green and neon-pink paper, jumping and biting and whining and barking and playing with the dumb paper in the stinking air. And then the newbloods joined him. And then the veterans joined them. And then even Mad Dog. And then Rufus remembered his own youth, back when the world had still been magical and when he’d chased the fireflies and when dumb, pointless boxes had been full of steaks, and then he was already inside the paper cloud, forgetting himself with the others, for as long as it lasted, and all night long if possible.
|# ? Sep 16, 2015 00:28|
In with this Edo-era katana
|# ? Sep 16, 2015 01:14|
Dog Days, 1000 words
“Yeah, so, that’s the pretty cool thing about our ‘near neighbor’ stars. Even though Sirius A has swallowed Sirius B, and we know it, we’re not going to see the fireworks for eight years. Eight years! And that’s nothing, in terms of astronomy,” said Jimmy from the Things We Just Researched podcast.
“That’s right. Most times, when you’re seeing supernovas or black holes, the events happened centuries, even millennia ago. So something like this is a real treat, watching a star get devoured,” replied Charlies, his co-host.
I had been too distracted by looking at stars and listening to the podcast that I almost didn’t stop in time. The dog, a dirty, half starved Bichon Frise, stood shivering in the middle of the highway. I had irrationally slammed on the brakes and came to a complete stop - incredibly stupid and reckless. Luckily, even I-79 was abandoned at 3 o’clock in the morning. The dog stared at me, not afraid but defeated. I set my blinkers and stepped out.
“Come here, boy. Let’s get you somewhere safe.” I said calm and relaxing things as I slowly walked forward. I was afraid it was going to run away, but the dog just stared at me, sizing me up. Suddenly, it ran forward into my arms, and I felt an overwhelming sense of thankfulness and gratitude.
“That’s alright, boy, that’s alright. Let’s just get you home… no collar. Well, we’ll just call you Mr. Fluffy for now, and my name is Semele. You sit right there.” The dog obeyed, and promptly fell asleep on my passenger seat. As he closed his eyes, the feeling of gratitude slowly ebbed.
“You-!” I stumbled backwards and tripped on the edge of the carpet. I landed hard on my butt, and scuttled a few more feet away. “Did you just talk? You can talk in- in my head! Mister Fluffy!”
Yes! Yes! Words think! Semele mind words! Mister Fluffy was jumping up and down on the couch, barking with excitement. Learning English think words - hard. But learning. Yes!
“This… oh my god, I’m going insane. I’ve been single too long and gone crazy. This is some Son of Sam poo poo.” The initial shock had started to wear off, and now my butt hurt. The whole situation seemed absurd.
What - Son of Sam? Who? Mister Fluffy stared at me, and all my memories and knowledge of the serial killer rushed through my head. Mister Fluffy growled and ran in little circles. No! No! Not Demon! Am good. Am… Angel? Am Star Angel. Not evil!
“Okay, okay! Geez, sorry, I didn’t meant to offend you. Just… it’s a lot to take in. Star angels? Telepathic dogs? That’s some crazy stuff. I mean, really… what are you here for? What do you want from me?” I stood up now, and joined Mister Fluffy on the couch. He seemed to be pondering the question.
Me want treats. He thought with mock seriousness. Me demand walkies.
I collapsed into peals of laughter as Mister Fluffy jumped on me and licked my face.
Mister Fluffy had been sulking for an hour now, ever since I started getting ready for my date with Chris. I finally broke down and turned to him. “Okay, spit it out, dog.”
I just don’t trust him, is all. He looked up from his bone and gave me a concerned expression. He just gives me a bad feeling. There’s something off about him.
“You don’t like any of my boyfriends,” I replied dismissively.
Which means I’m batting a thousand so far. Listen, just… stay safe. I can’t hear his thoughts as clearly as yours, but they didn’t seem nice at all. I’m worried.
A seed of doubt started to bloom in me. Mister Fluffy seemed genuinely concerned. “I’ll stay safe. And if I get any creepy vibes, I just won’t take him up on another date. It’s not like we’re serious yet.”
I wasn’t sure what woke me up. All I knew was that I was afraid in my dark bedroom. I wondered if something had frightened Mister Fluffy.
Then I noticed Chris, standing at the foot of the bed. He was staring at me, and holding something. I froze, not even breathing.
“I know you’re awake, Semele.” I stared at him as he came closer, his hand gently caressing the side of my face. The neighbors wouldn’t hear me - thick walls. “You won’t answer your phone, you won’t see me. I’ve been worried sick about you, until I figured it out.”
He yanked me out of bed by the hair, and I screamed. “You cheating whore! Who is he?!” The knife glinted, mere inches from my face.
“Please, Chris, I don’t know what you’re talking about, please!”
Close your eyes, Semele. Mister Fluffy was standing at the doorway, silent as a ghost. Close your eyes, and do not open them, no matter what! Close. Your. Eyes!
So I did as Mister Fluffy said, and closed them. I felt Chris turn to look at my dog. “What the gently caress? Hey, your dog… he’s glowing… No! NO! God, it burns!”
The room became bright beyond belief, so bright that I felt like I was staring at the sun, even through my eyelids. The heat came next, as Chris let go of my hair. I heard the crackle of fire, the pungent stench of burning hair and fat, I felt the sudden inferno mere inches away. Through it all, I kept my eyes closed.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the light left. I heard his paws as he approached, and felt him gently lick my face. You can open your eyes now. A fine powdering of dust covered me and my bed, and I had to hold back the urge to vomit. I looked at Mister Fluffy, questioning.
There’s a reason you don’t look directly at the Sun, He replied simply. Now let’s go get you cleaned up.
I nodded my head, and followed him to the bathroom.
|# ? Sep 16, 2015 03:42|
|# ? Sep 16, 2015 04:25|
In with this Bolivian dance mask:
|# ? Sep 16, 2015 04:42|
Fast brawl judging good brawl judging
Dog Brawl Results for Entenzahn vs. Jonked
Entenzahn wrote a cute little story about dogs trying to open a briefcase that ended with dogs playing around in neon paint that made me laugh and smile. Jonked wrote a story about telepathetic dogs saying walkies then has the protag kidnapped by a crazy ex-boyfriend that ended with the dog becoming a sun and burning someone to death that made my neck hurt from the tonal whiplash.
Entenzahn wins the brawl with good dogs, funny writing, and well placed details.
Entenzahn: Honestly, your prose is pretty clean, and there aren’t a lot of mistakes in this, at least from what I can tell, so a line-by-line isn’t really necessary for this story. Also I’m lazy. First off, pro level dogging. You really captured the best part about dogs, aka that they’re stupid, but endearingly stupid. The plot was a bit basic, and I wish there was some more action rather than them just kind of staring at it and talking about it. I enjoyed the character, they were very dog-like and that’s like all I need from a character. They were endearing and cute and played off each other well. They were also distinct, though Mad Dog felt a little bit not like Mad Dog tbh. He could’ve been madder. Puppy captured that energy of a puppy, but not so obnoxious that I hated him. You hit the right balance. The prose was nice, besides for a few instances where your dog-speak got in the way rather than being cute like in the first line, but most of it was good. You do the generic “I bet this is how dogs see the world” thing, but it works well because it’s realistic and doesn’t hamper the story, just a cute little detail that made me smile. Your humor worked for me almost every time, though sometimes you laid it on a little too thick. It was dogs doing dog things. I was almost disappointed in your ending when it was just paint, but then the ending image was sweet and nice and made me smile so it gets a paws up from me! You also made the dog story only dogs, which is nice and I did say that in the prompt and I kinda wanted it, but didn’t clarify it, so no points lost or gained them, just appreciated. I don’t have much to say about this story, really. You hit the prompt nicely and I’m really enjoying a lot of the stories you’ve been writing lately. So keep up the good work.
Jonked: This story is both a bad story and has a lot of technical problems, so let’s just dive in head first.
“Yeah, so, that’s the pretty cool thing about our ‘near neighbor’ stars. Even though Sirius A has swallowed Sirius B, and we know it, we’re not going to see the fireworks for eight years. Eight years! And that’s nothing, in terms of astronomy,” said Jimmy from the Things We Just Researched podcast. Ok, Sirius, the dog star. How are you gonna add in real dogs. Post reading edit: This is the lamest attempt at foreshadowing because it has nothing to do with the story until the end. Like you had to throw this so your dog sun would make sense but guess what it still doesnt make sense in the context of the story.
Yeah, Jonked, this was pretty awful. Your prose is clunky, a bunch of unnecessary words, wasted space, poor pacing, and really bad dialogue. It was a chore to read. The story itself is pretty bad. There’s no real conflict for most of the story, just things kind of happening, and the jumps between scenes are so far apart that they feel disconnected enough that they don’t quite work together. Their tones are also all over the place. Scene 1 is kind of a generic saving a dog, which is probably my favorite tone you had this story. Scene 2 is cutesy, hahahaha look at this dog talking and he's saying words silly, which was more annoying than actually funny or cute. Scene 3 is just bleh in general, just a setup to scene 4. Then Scene 4 is dark. Like, really dark. Incredibly dark in a story where we just had cutesy dog telepathy. This is just a mess of a story that has no idea what it wants.
|# ? Sep 16, 2015 04:56|
In with a cool 1,000 roubles.
|# ? Sep 16, 2015 09:13|
|# ? Feb 16, 2019 09:17|
and where are the crits? They do not exist. They are a farce, also. All of these are toys dangled in front of the baby's crib to help it to sleep, no? All these capitalists and communists and papists and so on they are children in the crib, and these crits are dangled before them until they sleep and they forget.
|# ? Sep 16, 2015 10:29|