A schoolmaster realises that he does not exist. The only thing that exists is a huge ice moon.
Does the ice moon dream, Emilie asked herself. In the way you can ask yourself something without words, or even thought. So the deeper part of you, the part that knows these things, can answer it right away. Everything dreams, that part told her. She didn’t know what to call this part. She was twelve.
“Does the ice moon dream?” was not a question on the delta 6b Midterm Examinorial. But there were lots of questions about the ice moon, some of which answered other questions. What were the miners there mining? What was the quorium they mined used for? How did the quorium get to Earth so they could make more quorium gods to live on Quorlympos? Which member of the Quortheon was the most powerful?
Emilie didn’t answer any of these questions. Instead she drew the ice moon. You could only see it when it was at apoapsis from the planet it orbited, Selene, due to the nature of this corner of space. There were just too many other moons floating around. Debris too, which was probably, the Teachbot had explained, the remnants of moons that had crashed into each other. Emilie remembered these things. She just chose not to answer questions that were asked by Standardized Examinorials.
She drew the ice moon with craters and spikes. When she was done she looked at it. The ice moon was visible from Frigga about once a year, and when it was you couldn’t see the miners. But of course they lived in their mines, so even if you had a quantum televiewer, warping space and time so you could see the surface clearly, you wouldn’t see them. You’d just see the mines, the huge masses of quorium that they had tunnelled into. They’d be in there somewhere. They couldn’t see Selene, much less Emilie on Frigga. She thought about them all the time, but all they thought about, probably, was quorium, and quorium was all they saw. For their whole lives.
So it wasn’t realistic, but Emilie drew a little stick figure on the ice moon to represent the miners. She gave him a sad face, got up, and walked towards the Gradatrix. She pushed the paper into the slot and the Gradatrix buzzed for a second and spit the Examinorial back out with the failure mark stamped on, in a shade of red somewhere between blood and rust.
What was the point, she asked herself, of intentionally failing Examinorials for a machine? It didn’t understand rebellion. It definitely didn’t understand being frustrated beyond belief with a system that put everyone, including her, where they didn’t want to be. The Gradatrix saw that her answers were wrong (or nonexistent), failed her, and moved on to the next student. It didn’t consider the ice moon, and definitely didn’t consider the sad miners. So why did she do it?
Because, the deeper part of her said, everything matters. Nothing is meaningless. It’s all filed somewhere, so an administrator might look at her repeated failures and think, she’s not stupid, just angry. Or maybe the administrator is a robot too. That wouldn’t even matter.
What you do is real even if no one sees it.
The delta 6b classroom had no windows. The stars and comets and moons and everything else you could see from Frigga’s surface would be too distracting for the proper assimilation of knowledge. The other students were still working on their Examinorials, but she was finished and could leave. The system would come up with a new quest for her, but it had to let her out of the classroom first.
The second she permeated through the door membrane she headed for the observatory. The closer she got, the higher the chances would be that her quest would be related to it. She hoped that it would be a fetch quest, specifically for a quantum televiewer. Then she’d blast it on full power, so she could see through the ceiling, and through the debris, and moons, and the quorium, all the way to the miners. She’d fracture space and time and probably warp her bones into another dimension, but if she could just see what life was really like in the mines, it would be worth it. Because not knowing was unbearable.
We worship the quorium gods, she thought, but they don’t help us. As all-knowing and all-powerful as they are. It shouldn’t matter that we’re so far away from them. If they’re gods, they should be able to do anything. I’m twelve years old. What’s their excuse?
She was intercepted before she made it very far. But not by a robot. An android maybe, but he didn’t look like one. Androids didn’t have dark circles under their eyes, and usually they combed their hair.
“I’m the Head Philosophizer,” he said, stifling a yawn. His tone was apologetic. “Here’s your quest.”
The quest was a stack of paper. The page on top had a question written on it. He read it for her, as if she didn’t have eyes.
“Prove that we aren’t all a dream that the ice moon is having,” he said. “In standard essay format.”
He must have seen something on her face.
“They get you,” he said. “No matter how hard you fight them. You can wish yourself somewhere else, even convince yourself you are somewhere else. In the end you become a part of the whole thing. I used to think one day I would see Earth. See the quorium gods for myself. I was a dreamer. Now I’m the Head Philosophizer and I give out quests.”
“I can prove that we’re not a dream in a sentence,” she said. “In a dream you’re sad when you wake up.”
Then she hit the paper stack out of his hand.
Paper cascaded into the air. The top page, the one with the question, was lost in the white of all the blank pages. They seemed to float in the air for a moment, perfectly still, before they drifted to the ground. Snowfall, she thought. When it snowed on the ice moon, the miners didn’t even notice.
The philosophy head let out a drawn-out sigh. He activated his communicator. It hummed to life. The system waited expectantly.
She held her breath.
After a second he turned the communicator off. Gave her a weary look. Then knelt down and began to gather the papers up. She was aware that, for the moment, she could do whatever she wanted.
Somewhere near Selene the ice moon was being scraped hollow. Maybe, she thought, when it’s finally empty, the miners will go home.
Go home, and meet their gods.
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 21:15|
|# ? Oct 3, 2022 01:46|
Sugarplum Fairyland Home for the Insufficiently Exuberant
“We’re all so glad you could come and join us. Please don’t feel trapped here, we are here to set you free!” The mellifluous, if perhaps cloying voice of the nine foot tall bear shaped honey container crooned at Jeff. “It’s normal for new arrivals to feel nervous, just like we all did for our first day of school. Do you know what I find helps me when I feel nervous? I like to sing a little song. Won’t you sing with me?”
Jeff clutched his head in his hands, taking slow, measured breaths as he tried to piece together the sequence of events that had brought him here. Was this even was a physical place? Had he gone insane? He desperately reviewed what he knew about himself.
“Look,” pleaded Jeff “I am not sure what is going on here, or even where here is. I just want to go home to my family.”
“Jeff, sweetie, this is your home. We are all your family. We love you very much just the way you are. Unfortunately, you punched Princess Hugmuffin when she tried to embrace you. We can’t have that kind of violence here. When it happens we bring the loved one here to help them get better.”
“Last I knew I was having a nice dinner with my wife at home. Now I find myself in, in this place, and an anthropomorphic muffin is barreling towards me with what I guess were arms outstretched. I don’t know who Princess Hugmuffin is, and I am sorry I didn’t hug her, I’m just a bit freaked out, OK?”
“I understand Jeffy, everything is going to be fine. Let’s find you a bed and some real clothes and we will give you some time to settle in.”
The bear hopped around until it was facing the doorway, its plastic clattering on the rock candy tiles of the floor. It stood there, motionless. Jeff, not knowing what else to do, got up from the large marshmallow he had been sitting on. The bear proceeded out into the hallway and Jeff followed.
They made their way down the hallway. Jars of fireflies suspended from the ceiling cast a dizzying light on the gingerbread walls and crystalline floor. Jeff could hear muffled sounds from behind the occasional door, a whimper here, a burst of laughter there. He tried to reassure himself that none of this could be real, surely this was some bizarre dream.
His attempts comforted him little, if he did dream, it was always vague images, largely from childhood, always based in the real world. The real world, he decided he must hold on to that notion. He would play along with this surreal experience for now, but he was going to get back to the real world somehow.
“Here we are!” The bear announced merrily. “Why don’t you change into your new clothes and relax for a while? Dr. Snuggles will come by this afternoon to have a talk with you. He is so good at helping people, I am sure he will make you feel comfortable.”
The door clicked shut as Jeff eyed the pastel blue onesie laid out on the bed in front of him. He somberly removed his T-shirt and jeans and laid them at the foot of the bed. The onesie felt odd to the touch, tacky. It was finely woven cotton candy, surprisingly strong. It stretched around his body as he slid himself into it. He sat down on the bed in a stupefied silence.
He had no sense of the passage of time before a cheerful knock sounded from the door. It opened slowly. A wizened old man gradually came into view. He had a shock of white hair, seemingly desperate to escape the scalp from which it so frantically grew. Large, thick spectacles eerily magnified his glimmering blue eyes. He shuffled awkwardly around the door and slowly pushed it closed.
“Would you please join me at the table?” The old man inquired as he made his way across the room.
Jeff dutifully rose and went to the chair nearest him. He sat firmly in the chair, the oversized buttons of his butt-flap clacking against the hard surface. The professorial eccentric eventually managed to deposit himself in the chair opposite.
“I expect you would like an explanation for how you got here, and what this place is. My name is Albert Funkhauser, though the creatures here know me as Dr. Snuggles. I set up this facility to assist in repatriating those from our world who end up in Sugarplum Fairyland.”
“Our world? Repatriate? What is going on here?” Pleaded Jeff.
“You recently had an important medical diagnosis, no?”
“Well, I mean, I guess so, why?”
“And that diagnosis was for Diabetes Mellitus, Type 2?”
“Perhaps the 2 liter bottle of mountain dew you furtively drank in the bathroom during your dinner was not a wise decision?”
“What are you saying?”
“I discovered this world years ago, my weakness was for chocolate you see. Your body is still where you left it, in a heap on the floor of your bathroom. This world exists as a sort of superimposed state of consciousness, though the passage of time is not one to one between worlds. Your wife is probably only now beginning to wonder what’s keeping you.”
“So I am dreaming?”
“Perhaps in a way, but this is a persistent dream that we are both sharing. I’m not sure whose dream that makes it.”
“And I can return, right, to the real world?”
“Sure, this was just your first foray, perhaps last if you make some serious lifestyle changes. Personally, I love it here. I am currently in my home laboratory connected intravenously to a fifty-five gallon drum of glucose. I’ve been able to maintain this state for eons of Sugarplum time. I can give you something to help you sleep, when you awaken it will be on your bathroom floor.”
“I, uhh, yes, please.” Jeff managed to utter.
“Alright, I understand completely. Take this, and here is a bottle of water. Perhaps we will meet again someday, I will always be here.”
Jeff swallowed the pill and took a swig of water. It tasted salty as it went down. He staggered over to the bed, already losing consciousness.
He jolted awake, banging his head on the sink as he scrambled to a standing position. From down the hall he heard his wife calling out in concern.
“It’s OK honey, everything’s fine.” Said Jeff.
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 21:25|
Obvious phallic symbol
On the fifth day, Beniam came unto Onan’s Oasis. Aye, unto the forest of phalluses came the wanderer, and there he rested for some time in the shade of a mighty stone schlong. In the town were penises of wood, and penises of stone, and penises of steel, and penises of bone. Some were life-sized – hollow clay wind-chimes hung in the doorways of businesses and such. Many more were gigantic; many of the houses themselves had stiffy-shaped towers as if they were intent on loving the sky.
Came Beniam unto an old man and said “I have so many questions.”
The old man nodded, and pulled out a small calf-hide drum. He beat a syncopating rhythm on it, and spoke to his hypnotic beat.
In Axum, in Gondar, in Sa’na, in Jima, each man with skilled hands
must carve out a penis! The sheik decreed that he who made the
dong must noble would win his daughter’s heart. To be a king!
With tools a-hand each man went to work to craft a dork fit for his lord.
Beniam sat up straight. “My god!” he said, “such a prize! I have heard much of her beauty, and more of her lands. To be the king of Abyssinia! Find me a chisel, old man, and I will make a schwanz fit for a king!”
The old man shook his head. “Her heart is won, young sir; t’is done. Forevermore our town will be filled with willies, in memory of the great decree.”
He slammed his palm down on him drum once, then twice, then thrice, then he struck up another beat of greater intensity.
Came Mohel, youngest of his brood, who carved his schlongs from stone and wood –
great tallywhackers, strong and tall, arrayed into a fulsome wall for all to see and
cheer and sing “Young Mohel, you shall be the king!” But the Princess, nay,
was not at all impressed. “You prick, is this your loving best?” she said and shook
her head and sighed “no man is fit to be my bride.”
So Mohel built his wieners higher – he forged his steel in searing fire
and filled his wood with solid beams. In her tower, the Princess screamed
“no no t’is all wrong; no man amongst them can carve a cranny-axe
in the fashion I adore. Too big, too big, too thick and veiny –
these cumpump failures drive me crazy.” But she was locked away
so no man may hear her cries and come to realise his towering hubris.
Young Mohel worked through day, through night. “I’m preparing such a sight!”
he said, “you’ve never seen a disco-stick so mighty, proud and tall and thick.
It disappears into the clouds! Its shadow covers all the grounds of the palace
and then some! Surely now, the sheik will see, and let his daughter marry me!”
Young Mohel’s greatest schmekel tower’d over the lands, but in her keep
the princess lour’d. This latest pecker was so tall, it stretched above the palace wall!
and over it young Mohel slip’d while in their awe the guards were grip’d –
unto the princess, Mohel stole! She slapped him with a mighty slap
but Mohel didn’t give a crap. He opened unto her his hands! The princess cried
when she saw, inside -- a penis small; shrivelled, wrinkly, thin and curved!
the princess smiled. “It’s perfect. Mohel, I will take you for my bride!”
Beniam slumped. “That’s it?” he said. “Like, great things come in small packages?”
The old man shrugged. “What,” he said, “you want some kinda moral? Here’s one: royals are crazy. It’s all that inbreeding. You think we need penises? We need water. Now we’ve got thousands of big dicks in the middle of a desert, but only one well. Oy vavoy, I’ve had it with these crazy royals.”
The old man hobbled away, leaving Beniam to stand in the shadow of a thousand giant penises. The wind blew through Onan’s oasis, and rattled the chimes.
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 21:42|
Thanks for the crit.
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 21:57|
Until then, this is just a losing story. Yes, your prompt joke made me smile. Ha. Ha. Very clever. I hope it was worth it.
A smile is always worth it. Thanks for the crit.
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 22:10|
Our Most Illustrious Lady of Science 1,092 words
She smelts cannons for the Mouse King, drains moats for the The Northern Dukes, carves the Baby Pope a bathtub made of Ottoman helmets. At the Siege of Summer, she proves the moon is made of numerals, and a host of imaginary numbers descend from the sky and scatter the attacking hordes. She infiltrates the Sundown Sultan’s retinue and disproves the existence of triangles in his kingdom, so his bridges collapse and his towers lies in ruin.
And I am at her side. Every night I record each victory, each word she utters, each breath she draws, in the Book of Her Tales.
Her favourite fruit is melon, her favourite song, the Volga Boatmen’s March. When she sleeps, her hair is sunlight and each breath a wind-chime. Her bare chest, rising and falling, is the heartbeat of my world.
She is the Most Illustrious Lady of Science. I am her Guardian. I speak the language of blades. My eyes spot a spec of dust on the sun’s surface My ears hear a mole’s heart-beat from atop a cloud. I love her and will never have her. A Guardian is, as tradition dictates, an eunuch.
And I am at her side in Southport, in the bazaars of dream and spice, where each smile is a knife. I wait for more victories, more words for the Book.
Here we are by the ocean. Here we are in the Lady’s silk tent.
The two Cardinals-Who-Hate-Children kneel at the Lady’s feet. Before them, a chest overflows with golden coins.
“Our Most Illustrious Lady of Science,” they chant. “We beseech your help. Our Maharajah is old and feeble. Each day, he walks through the city, as is our custom, and the children pinch his wrinkled skin and call him a peach, and each day he resembles a peach more and more. Please, replace our Maharajah with a thorned rose, so these children of Southport may bleed and learn humility!”
The Lady bites her bottom lip, as she always does when in contemplation.
“We shall see”, she says.
The Youngest Cardinal gazes at my Lady like a wolf gazes at a sheep. He is young and handsome. Beneath his tight robes, his biceps are cannonballs. The Lady gifts him a smile, and my heart splits in twain.
“You long for her,” the Oldest Cardinal says. I’d heard him approach. My dagger is ready, even as I listen to the song of seagulls and write in The Book of Her Tales, scribbling each words spoken inside my Lady’s tent while she confers with the Youngest Cardinal. His speech is all sweetness and praise. Each syllable is an arrow through my soul. The air smells of salt and night.
“You love her, yet you wallow in torment,” the Cardinal says.
I ready my dagger. “Mock me and I will paint the sand crimson.”
“Fool. She will never love you, since you are no man. My Cardinal-Magic can restore what was once lost. Perform one trifling task for me and I shall restore your manhood - eunuch no longer! Then, mayhap, she may love you. Or she may not - love is fickle, beyond all magic.”
The Oldest Cardinal’s eyes are kaleidoscopes. The colours turn, and in them I stand tall and naked and complete again.
“Lend me your Book for five minutes, and on the morrow, I shall make you whole. Permit an old man his curiosity. What harm could it do?”
My Lady wears a gown covered in roses. She is the new Maharajah of Southport. Children scream and flee on her approach, and do not dare touch her. The few that did nurse bleeding fingers. The air is sweet with her flower-smell.
The Youngest Cardinal walks beside my Lady. They speak of trifling things - of the flight of sparrows, of fruits never tasted, dreams never dreamt. I walk behind them, alongside the Oldest Cardinal. My silence is heavy. We stroll through the many-coloured silk tents of the bazaar, and the people bow as we pass. Somewhere in the distance, a sitar plays softly.
But then, my Lady slows her pace. My Lady slurs her speech. I rush to her side, just in time. With a soft sigh, she falls unconscious in my arms. Her pulse is weak, her lovely face, pale.
And the Oldest Cardinal cackles.
“Finally!” he yells. “Revenge for my Uncle, the Sundown Sultan, whose palaces the Lady destroyed! Foolish eunuch. Five minutes with the Lady’s Book was enough to deduce that she possesses a fatal allergy to the smell of Southport roses in the mid-afternoon!”
Of course! I should have known! I hold her nose shut to slow the allergy effects. I shout for help, but who can help her, now?
And then, the Youngest Cardinal is at side with a carafe of wine, taken from a nearby merchant’s tent.
“This is the most potent stench in all of the Sword-Seas!” He speaks rapidly, his eyes wide. “Pour it over her gown of roses! Their smell will be masked by the wine!”
I douse the Lady in wine, from head to toe, the blood-red Merlot flowing over her pale skin like blood, The stench is putrid, sickly-sweet. Around us, on-lookers pinch their noses.
Her eyelashes flutter. I breathe relief and stroke her golden hair.
The Oldest Cardinal turns to flee, but he is too old, too slow.
I leap upon him. I drive my dagger into his stomach, cradle his body as he falls. My only chance at man-hood lies dying in my wine-stained arms.
“My reward, old man,” I hiss. “Where is my reward? Work your Cardinal-Magic with your dying breath if you must!”
He laugh, and the blood that flows out of his mouth is rainbow-coloured and faintly luminescent.
“You could only have regained your manhood, eunuch, had you spurned my offer me,” he whispers. “Cardinal-Magic works only on the faithful. Your betrayal of the Book seals your fate.”
There is a stern cough, and then the Lady - stripped of her rose-suit, soaked in wine - looms above me. Her face harbours a thousand thunderclouds.
I kneel at her feet, beat my head against cobblestone, beg forgiveness, but her eyes are frozen pools where no mercy can dwell.
“You have betrayed me, and I banish you from my service,” she says. “I have found a better servant than you.”
The Youngest Cardinal beams like an eager child receiving praise.
“Come,” she tells him. “I will perform the ceremony and appoint you as my new Guardian. There is just the matter of the procedure. As tradition dictates…”
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 22:38|
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 23:50|
Rotten at the Core
Jimmy enjoyed working the land. But he didn't enjoy eating its food. Potatoes, carrots, and cabbage, he hated. But he ate it all because he disliked hunger more. The one thing that he did enjoy though were apples. And they were in short supply. There was only one tree bearing them. Every day, when Jimmy came to that tree, he would take a short break and savour a bright red, juicy delight. He dreamed of his daily apple as he worked in the mornings, and he dreamed of the next day's apple as soon as he tossed the core away.
One day Jimmy drove his truck down a path, thoughts only for his apple. In the distance, he saw the tree and salivated. He drove faster. There was a particularly appetising one on a low branch. He wouldn't even have to jump for it. He picked up his lunch box, sneered, and cantered towards the tree.
“Good day, old tree!” Jimmy said. The tree grumbled back at him.
Jimmy stretched up and plucked the apple. A smile strained his face. He sat down with his back resting against the tree. His smiled faded as he opened his lunch box. Dry meat and raw carrots. Jimmy wondered if his wife hated him. No, that wasn't that. It wasn't her fault, it was all they had. He devoured it all despite his distaste for it. He went to pick up his apple, his reason for getting up every morning. But before he could take a bite, a branch plucked it from his hand.
“Get your own apples!” the tree said with a furrowed brow.
“What are you doing?” Jimmy asked. “You've never complained before.”
“Yes I have. You just didn't listen.”
“Give it back. What can you do with an apple anyway?”
“Give it to someone I like.”
Jimmy jumped, but failed to grab it. The branch swung upwards every time he reached for it. He tried countless times, and each time he almost got the apple, the branch would move just enough to thwart him.
“I'll get that apple, you grumpy old tree!”
The tree laughed and taunted him. Jimmy returned to his truck and rummaged through his tools.
He returned to the tree with a rake.
“Ha! You need to use the remains of a tree to best a living one!”
Jimmy knocked the branch with his rake. Its grip began to loosen. Jimmy's eyes widened. One more hit and the apple would fall. As he brought the rake behind his head, he heard a cloud of cawing overhead. He looked up and saw a murder of crows. One of the crows clutched his apple and took it to the highest part of tree. It was now out of reach of his rake. He gripped the rake until his knuckles ached. He went to knock a different apple out of the tree. But the rest of the murder grabbed all of the apples and deposited them high above him in the tree. The birds and the tree guffawed together. Jimmy threw his rake to the ground and clenched his fists.
“I will eat an apple today, you dastardly beasts!”
He marched back to his truck with his head drooped and back slumped.
He returned to the tree with a ladder. The crows flew away, still laughing. He set the ladder against the trunk of the tree and climbed. As he made his way towards the ruddy gold he coveted, the tree slapped and scraped him.
“Silly man,” it said. “You shouldn't be so high!”
Jimmy heard scuttering beneath him. He looked down. A scurry of squirrels surrounded the base of his ladder. The tree laughed louder. The squirrels began pushing and pulling the ladder.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Jimmy asked.
The tree stopped laughing. “They are helping a friend deal with an ill-mannered thief!”
The ladder swayed, and Jimmy whimpered. The ladder and Jimmy stopped moving for moment. They slowly continued to move away from the tree, and the squirrels rushed away. The ladder's descent accelerated, and Jimmy crashed to the ground. The tree's laughter brought tears to its wooden eyes. Jimmy rolled and groaned on the ground. Pain brought tears to his.
“If only you'd asked, silly man!”
Jimmy stood. He stomped back to his truck, grinding his teeth.
He returned to the tree with an axe.
“Hey, what are you going to do with that?” the tree asked.
Jimmy said nothing. He swung his axe with all his might.
“Ow! Stop that!”
Jimmy swung and swung. Now the tree wailed in pain.
“You can have all my apples, if you just stop!”
But Jimmy ignored the tree.
It took all afternoon for him to fell the tree. It was silent now. Jimmy bit into an apple and forgot about his ordeal.
That evening, he sat beside his fire. He had eaten more apples in one day than he normally would eat in a week. He watched the fire as he dreamed about succulent apples. Bright flames licked the grumpy tree's face, its featured crumbled to soot. “Silly tree,” Jimmy said to himself. Beside his chair lay a basket of apples. He had more than he knew what to do with, but he was happy for now.
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 23:54|
Who Ordered That?
While Master Hu talked both us through
Another sparring session,
The dojo doors flew open in
The middle of our lesson.
Behind them stood old Master Hym,
Our teacher's ancient rival
Hym's Flambeaux Dojo stood opposed
To Hu's Nature Revival
“Your martial arts are limp and weak
While mine are just superior.”
Said Master Hym. Hu simply grinned
And said “Up your posterior.”
They stepped into the circle and
Took up their fighting stances
While Hym was sizing up his foe
Hu launched The Heron Dances
Up to this point we students thought
The stylish appellations
Was just a way to give punches
So when we saw before our eyes
Surprising as a muon
A startled seabird fly at Hym
I thought “Well, that's a new one.”
Now Master Hu Hewed closely to
Hu gave us both new names to use
Names you might call laconic
He won't call me Bartholemew
He won't call him McGonick
While in the gym, I'm Fat, he's Slim
(The names are both ironic)
Beyond our names, our Master said
“Fat, Slim, get it through your skull:
When serving food, I hold it rude
To waste a tasty morsel.”
As Hym fought off the flying bird
With Blazefist of the Flamepit
The scorched fowl flew across the room.
I knew I should reclaim it.
I caught it and handed it off
To Slim. I told him “Pluck it,
And skin it in a flash.” That's when
Old Hu's Down-diving Duck hit.
Now Master Hu did not subscribe
To the rule of three seconds
If Duck struck floor, our luck'd be poor
A waste, the way Hu reckons.
I dived into the fray just as
Hym launched Volcanic Broadsword
I caught the bird, then rolled away
And caught Hu's Headbutt Hard-gourd
I bobbled them around the gym
Towards cooking station struggling
Hu's Ginger Snap bounced toward my lap
Which forced me to start juggling.
Hu's Goring Boar with Hym's Sun's Roar
Combined to yield a roast pig.
Hu's next two moves improved that dish
With apples, and a stuffed fig.
Hym answered back with an attack
called Pyrcoclast Tornados
Hu stopped that with Tuber Barrage
So we made mashed potatoes.
The fight went on and on and on,
With Hu's Beehive Blow technique
And Hym's Flamboyant Flambeaux Flame
Making us a fine gastrique.
They fought and fought. The feast grew fit
To feed the entire village.
We students proved ourselves as well,
With not one grain of spillage.
Hu's Lobster Punch hit Hym's Hot Rocks
And bounced right into Slim's face.
Slim was out cold. I cooked alone,
Putting me in a grim place.
How could I cook and catch the food
At once? It seemed a quandary.
I clenched my teeth and...other things
As not to soil my laundry.
Hu called his shot, and said out loud
The name of his next attack.
“You won't be able to avoid
Unseen Iron Frying Pan Smack”
Hym scoffed. “That isn't even in
The purview of your own school.
Critters and weeds are more your speed-”
That's when I clocked the damned fool.
I flipped the fish, from Trout Assault
Into a serving platter,
Then swung the pan at back of head.
Hym tumbled with a clatter.
Slim came around as all the town
Came to the feast at our gym.
Slim asked the whys and hows. I said
“Hu ordered that. I served Hym.”
|# ? Dec 6, 2015 23:56|
Barrel of Fun
Twirling high above, the acrobat entertains the lively market below. Within the crowd, there is a pair, a pretty parrot and a greedy rat.
“Need more, need more,” the greedy rat declares. He’s picking through a barrel of stuff and things and doodads and widgets, filled to infinity.
“Oh greedy rat, you always need more,” the pretty parrot complains.
“Buy something,” an angry snail says, “or leave.”
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes-yes-yes.” The greedy rat digs in further, half his body inside the barrel. “Found it, hehehe.” When he grabs what he found, the barrel sucks him further in. The pretty parrot tries to pull him out, but the barrels suck her in, too.
The stuff and things and doodads and widgets form walls of the pit the pair is falling through. The pretty parrot flaps her wings, but it doesn’t help. The greedy rat tries to grab onto the walls, but it causes the walls to fall with them.
The acrobat is still twirling when a hole appears above her. From it spills stuff and things and doodads and widgets. More than that, it spills a rat, who hits the acrobat and knocks her from her rope, but the acrobat lands gently upon the ground. She’s holding a furry ball, which opens to reveal the greedy rat. “Thanks,” is all he says.
The pretty parrot glides gracefully down. “We’re so sorry,” she says to the acrobat. Then she glares at the greedy rat.
“Please, can you two help me get back to my rope?” The acrobat asks. “If I don’t return soon, I won’t be able to be an acrobat anymore.”
The greedy rat hops from her hands to the floor, “Okay, only because I found this.” He holds up nothing. “Where? Where?”
“It must have mixed with everything else when we fell, but that’s what you get for being greedy,” the pretty parrot says.
“Have to find it, have to find it.” The greedy rat searches through the scattered items.
“Greedy rat, this is no time for that. We have to help the acrobat.”
“If you return me to my rope, from that point high above, I can find your missing object.”
“I can fly you, but I need to know the way up first. I have bad sight,” the pretty parrot explains.
The greedy rat says, “This way, this way. Market is back of my paw.”
The pretty parrot and acrobat follow him through winding stalls. A very angry snail soon blocks them. “You stole my inventory!”
“We’re really sorry, Mr. Snail, we-” the pretty parrot begins.
“I don’t want sorry! Fix it! Give it all back to me!”
“But I need your help to get me back to my rope.” The acrobat tugs the pretty parrot’s wing.
The pretty parrot’s feathers ruffle. Then she calms down. “Greedy rat, can you help the acrobat while I pick up Mr. Snail’s inventory?”
“Yes, yes,” the greedy rat agrees.
“Mr. Snail, I promise I’ll get you all your stuff before the day is done.”
Soon, the pretty parrot is picking up the stuff and things and doodads and widgets to place within the infinite barrel, but her eyesight is too bad to find them all. “I wish greedy rat was here, he’s good at gathering.”
Meanwhile, the greedy rat reaches the acrobat’s pole. “Can’t fly? Can’t fly? You’re a bat.”
“I’m an acrobat. Acrobats aren’t bats.”
“Pole too high. Pretty parrot can fly.”
Thus they go to find the pretty parrot, while she tries to find them. Soon, the pretty parrot is lost, too many people and stalls and noises and options. She flies above it all, trying to find them, but can’t. That’s when she sees the angry snail again. “Mr. Snail,” she says.
“Where’s the barrel?”
“I tried to find everything, but I couldn’t, so I tried to find my friends, but found you instead. Can you help?”
“Where’s the barrel?!”
“I got lost. Sorry, I-“
“You useless parrot! I don’t want your help anymore!”
The pretty parrot, no, the useless parrot doesn’t respond. Instead, she uselessly wanders towards nowhere useful.
Meanwhile, the greedy rat and acrobat go to where the pretty parrot was, but all they see is the barrel. They look for her. Then the angry snail arrives. “My barrel! Give me back my barrel!”
“Pretty parrot?” The greedy rat asks.
“That useless parrot? She left my barrel, so I left her. Now get away from my barrel, I don’t want you jumping through it again!”
The greedy rat frowns, but then smiles. He grabs the acrobat and they jump into the barrel. As they whistle down the pit, the angry snail’s rantings follow them. They pop out above the rope once more, but this time the acrobat grabs hold. She swings herself atop for balance and steadies the greedy rat with her. “We made it,” she says.
“No time, no time, where’s pretty parrot?”
The acrobat studies the crowd. “Found her, she’s over there.”
“Come with me. Promise we’ll get you back.”
Useless parrot is perched atop a stall. When she sees greedy rat, she says, “Go away greedy rat, I can’t help. I’m useless.”
“Not true, not true. Pretty, flying, and good at making friends. Unlike me,” the greedy rat jokes.
“But I can’t find anything and Mr. Snail hates me for losing his barrel. I’m no good.”
“Always angry, always angry. Not your fault,” the greedy rat explains. “Need your help. Acrobat.”
The acrobat stands beside the greedy rat, “Can you please help me? Greedy rat found the way you can fly me up.”
The useless parrot, no, the pretty parrot flies from her perch to the pair. “Show me the way.”
Finally, the three are atop the rope. “Thanks for the help,” the acrobat says.
“No problem, no problem. Where’s the item?”
“Oh greedy rat, even after all that, you still want whatever it is you found?” The pretty parrot asks.
The greedy rat whispers into the acrobat’s ear. She scans the scattered stuff and things and doodads and widgets below. “There it is.”
The pretty parrot flies the greedy rat to the item. He scoops it up, singing, “Yes, yes.”
“What is it?”
The greedy rat turns around. He places the folded glasses atop the pretty parrot’s beak, so now she can see. “Present.”
The pretty parrot hugs the greedy rat with her wings. “Thank you, greedy rat. I almost think we should change your name.”
After the hug, the greedy rat runs to some people and tries to sell them other stuff and things and doodads and widgets he has.
The pretty parrot laughs. “Almost.”
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 01:48|
Into the Unknown Redemption Story for Broenheim
Week old leftovers as promised...
1650 something words
When the cancer cells in my neck were impalpable zygotes, betrayed by a neckline mosquito bite that just wouldn’t settle, Jasmine told me. She said, “Nicolai, the bump ain’t red; the bump ain’t soft. Squeeze it; bet you a coke that nothing comes out.” She explained it so simply then. “If it was a bite, pus would ooze out.” When I told her that I was fine and that no doctor needed to look at something so small, she told me that I was choosing to be stubborn.
One morning, after weeks of staring at the swollen little thing, Jasmine stepped into the bathroom holding her shiny white mug, stained with the tacky residue of her amaranthe lipstick, sipping her coffee slowly. As I brushed and tied and coiffed, Jasmine finished the dying gulps of her morning brew. Then she broke the mug over the countertop.
I hadn’t noticed the tears in her eyes until she held my face towards the mirror, forcing me to stare into my own reflection. She held the ceramic handle tight, and pressed the sharp edge against the swelling.
“What if I cut it off for you?” she asked.
By the time I made it to the doctor, and then the oncologist, the prognosis was dire. The little zygotes in my neck had gestated, and the goiter grew full and pregnant with all the dread of a mortal world. Anaplastic Thyroid Cancer. Rare.
The doctor told me that any procedure would simply be a stalling tactic, perhaps buying me a year at best. When I told the doctor that I didn’t want to waste anymore time or money on stopgaps, Jasmine told me I was choosing death.
She was right again.
I was born in a village called Mochart in the southeast of Poland. When the Carbon Accords of 2076 were passed into a global standard, Mochart was selected to be the home of the Eastern European Fusion Core, a high power, high efficiency, modern nuclear plant. Despite the protests of the five hundred residents of the insignificant, mossy, villa, construction began and the plant started in full operation five weeks before I was born.
It’s a story that I always heard in flashback. The baker with a missing hand. The cobbler and his seven children. The alley where the drunks would all sleep off the good, cheap red wine, one Euro a bottle. Two for the good stuff. The construction. The protest chants. The looming smokestacks. The storm. The accident. The evacuation and governmental response. The mother who refused to leave her home and would die there. The father who left her. The wall.
If I was going to die, I wanted to visit the place where it all began.
My Polish was in no state to go back and forth with a checkpoint guard; I knew this from my research. I also knew that no translator in the country would be foolish enough to travel within several kilometers from the exclusion zone. The radiation, the wall, and, most importantly, whatever was behind it, was just too much.
Very few people, if anyone, had seen the other side of the wood and concrete, and its gargantuan facade had fallen into disrepair in some of the rougher spots. In the dark of wood and night, scaling it was a simple matter of patience and rope.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. Glowing green landscape? Giant bugs? From the top of the barrier, the only thing that I could discern against the mottle of black and grey was a jutting spire against the starry array. The creased photo in my pocket revealed it to be a belltower.
As I hiked the brush towards the point, I could swear that I heard laughter.
Even under the rustling and crunching of the dead foliage under my feet, and my ears ringing harder and louder with every step towards the village, I could hear the mirroring of footsteps behind me. Walking when I walked, stopped in my frequent pauses. I thought of my stomach, the calcified stone sitting heavy on my intestines, soaking in the dread and radiation.
There were two of them, whatever they were.
So I ran, sprinting into the dark with a complete disregard for direction. The steps weren’t closing in, but they weren’t fading. The night was bolting past in switches and tree trunks and snake holes, and one, small, deep ravine.
I ran track in school.
I could clear it.
I landed on the other side with a stumble and a trip. Moments later, a crash behind me.
There wasn’t much in the darkness: oblong, hunched, one meter tall. From the edge of the ravine it appeared as a fountain of skin and fat and cartilage flowing, however now solidified, from a bony peak.
It wore a dress and tattered, red, sneakers. A third shoe, blue with an errant velcro strap, lay strewn beside her.
The other was attached to the girl in the river.
The water in the stony basin flowed slowly from the upward slant. Like chilled molasses, it wrapped itself around and between my fingers, clinging to them with it’s deathly cold. The second girl wore a romper with a picture of Minnie Mouse across the chest. The boils from the first girl descended from the crown of her skull in a similar pattern, and her eggshell ankles were broken into bits within the sticky liquid.
By the time that I had lifted the girl from the flow, the other was gone, so I set her on the lip of the ravine.
“Hello,” I said in broken Polish, “my name Nicolai. What’re yours?”
She didn’t answer. Unsure if it was a lack of cooperation or understanding driving the silence, I continued.
“Minnie,” I began, “do you live in the village? Plants of nuclear? Ruins?”
Again, she gave me nothing.
Finally, I reached into the breast pocket of my jacket and produced the yellowed photographs from the only album I had. I held the picture of Mochart to her face; she took it in her hand, and I took it as a request.
Minnie was a slight little thing, nearly weightless, yet the pustules and tumors, and general body shape made her awkward to carry. As I continued to trudge through the darkness, leaves clinging to the residue on my boots, Minnie would occasionally reach up and rub the egg-like goiters on my neck with her skeletal hand. I tried to imagine the perimeter wall, and orient myself towards the direct center of it before continuing.
Soon, I heard the mirroring of my footsteps yet again and Minnie tugged on my sleeve. I faced the noise, expecting that red shoes had come back to us.
It was a wolf, or rather, it appeared to be a wolf: hairless, angled in that aggressive downward stance, mostly toothless save for eight sharp fangs in the front of its mouth. Its body was covered in the same boils as the girls, and somewhere hidden within the bubbled skin I could make out two pointed ears. I barely had the time to drop Minnie before it lunged.
I’m not sure how, but I managed to evade the beast on its first pass. Scanning the ground with desperate fingers I felt for anything that I could use to lodge in the thing’s neck. I managed to clutch a stick as the wolf bit into my shoulder, causing me to drop it and throw a punch with my left hand blindly over my shoulder. I threw it again, and again, until the beast let go.
There were only a few moments of calm after it unlocked itself from my shoulder. In them, and in my search for the stick I’d dropped, I found a stone the size of my fist.
Then I heard a scream, guttural and animalistic. Minnie.
My left had never been as strong, but the rock sufficed. The thing was dead, and Minnie was bleeding out.
I wasn’t entirely sure what a fireman carry was, but I did my best to replicate it as I carried Minnie in my worsened state, stopping every few feet to ensure she was still breathing. I was still lost, and all I could do was try to walk in a straight line, hoping to find the wall or, perhaps, the village.
All my hopes were dashed when I ran into the river. I’d circled this dreadful place like a washbasin.
My shoulder was fading fast, Minnie faster. I set her on the lip of the same river she fell in, and wondered if I was to blame for her injuries.
Down on the distance, hidden behind the shrubs and trees, I saw the flicker of lights bouncing towards me. As the lights approached, I saw red shoes leading the pack with a dozen villagers on her heels.
It was all as the picture depicted. The village square. The belltower. The cobbler’s place. The narrow alleys, all worse for wear compared to the sepia images, yet still as clear as the morning daylight. We marched Minnie’s body through the town on the way to the churchyard.
The village matriarch had the strongest English of the bunch. She had married a GI years ago, she explained, back before the evacuation. I showed her the photographs, and even through the deformities on her face, I could see her tears.
The last image in the stack was one of the entire family.The family stood in front of a building as I was cradled by my mother. It was our home; the address numbers were cropped just outside of the frame.
“I take you,” she said.
We were joined by red shoes as we walked the blocks to the building. The woman produced an old key, tied with a faded, periwinkle ribbon, from a massive ring of otherwise indiscernible pieces.
“This door I haven’t opened in thirty year,” the woman said.
The tumbler slid into place with a thud.
“I’ve missed you.”
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 02:01|
Emil, Who Climbed The Mountain To Find His Face
Djeser fucked around with this message at 05:43 on Jan 1, 2016
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 02:25|
The first thing Mark saw when he opened his eyes was a strange woman bent over him. The second thing that stood out to him was the small deciduous tree embedded in his chest, bobbing and waving gently with every breath.
“Easy there,” the woman cooed, as he tried to sit up and nearly blacked out from the pain. “The roots are still delicate. They stitch everything back together. You need rest, at least another day.” He lay back down, and a soft pillow enveloped his head.
He remembered driving, dark country roads, the moon and stars hanging close in the sky. He had been rushing to get home, to make some kind of event on time. He’d turned off the main road to take a shortcut when a sudden mist congealed around his truck, turning everything into an alien landscape. He remembered a large animal jumping in front of his car, and he’d swerved... and then nothing.
“There was an accident,” Mark said.
The woman nodded silently, still bent over the growth in his chest.
“Call me Mia.”
“I’m... not dead, am I?” He felt stupid even as he asked the question.
“Not dead.” The woman didn’t look up. Her face was knit in concentration as she worked. She wrapped some sort of dark material around the base of the tree's trunk and tied it off.
“What are you doing?”
“Grafting.” She sat back. “There, it’s done. You'll live. Now, sleep.”
Icy cold fingers touched his forehead, and he was out.
It was difficult to get used to his new structure. His truck was in no shape to drive; he could see it from the window, lying upside-down on the side of the road. But he had to talk to his wife.
His pockets were empty. When he asked Mia, she pulled a small carved wooden box down from the shelf above the bed. He opened it: keys, knife, pack of cigs, gum, some loose change. But no phone.
“Broken,” she said, and shook her head. “I threw it away.” She didn’t have a phone of her own—not even a land line!—and no neighbors lived nearby.
He couldn’t stand, at first, and every attempt was met with dire warnings, transitioning to advice for how to care for his new addition: Shower every other day. Try to get at least an hour of sunlight. It might be a good idea to augment his diet with large multivitamins for the trace metals. “And you can trim it, of course, if you like.”
“It would be nice to wear normal shirts.”
“Yes.” She nodded sagely.
But every day he felt stronger, as new shoots erupted emerald green from his trunk. Soon, he was ready to set off from the cottage, to walk out to the road and try to reach civilization, or a phone, maybe even hitch a ride. Mia tried to warn him of the dangers, but she could only watch with a frown from the door of the cottage as he took his first hesitating steps out to the road and disappeared around the bend.
Months later, Mark returned to Mia's doorstep. The tree was just too unwieldy. Branches tended to stab the unwary or inattentive. Mark had to have clothes made custom for him, and he had worked trimming the thing's shape into his daily routine, but getting dressed remained a perennial ordeal. Intimacy was all but impossible.
“I don't mean to sound ungrateful,” he said over a cup of tea, “but can you remove it? Without harming me, I mean? I’ve tried to cut it back, hard. But every time I try, it grows back, thicker than before.” One of his leaves dipped into the tea as he gestured, and it wilted in the heat. He didn't notice.
The woman shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said, and clicked her tongue. “The tree is life. It’s a part of you, now. You can’t live without it. Lucky you didn’t cut it out entirely. Your fate and its are linked; one can not die as long as the other lives.”
A pause. “I can’t die?”
“The two are one.”
“Great. One more thing for my wife to worry about, she’s going to die first.”
Mark returned, many years later, to the squat little house nestled on the edge of the woods. Again the old woman met him at the door with a fresh-brewed pot of tea. His growth had become tangled and gnarled from the regular trimming, but the base of the trunk was thick and strong.
“That day has come,” he said once his cup was empty.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her face showed no emotion.
He looked out the window behind her, rustling in thought. “I was wondering about that forest behind your house...”
“The dreaming woods. I have a spot in mind for you, if you’d like to see it.” He stood, and Mia pointed to a shovel by the door. “Take that with you. You can help dig.”
And from that day he stretched towards the sky.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 02:34|
You have a little over 2 hours to get in your more nonsensical than usual scribblings.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 02:50|
For the Price of Postage
One day, Snigdha received a phone call from her mother, who tearily informed her that the family’s pet fern, Ferny, was on its last roots, and was due to be put down. She would Paypal Snigdha the money for a plane ticket home, she said, so the whole family could be together for the funeral.
Snigdha purchased the tickets, packed her suitcase, and arrived at the airport just in time for her flight, which she missed because of the tremendous pile of limbs, heads, and torsos at the security gate.
“Should’ve been here two days ago when we were dismembering passengers for your flight,” a frowning security guard told Snigdha when she showed him her ticket and identification card.
“But is it safe to travel that way?” Snigdha asked.
“You’re hurtling through the sky at supersonic speeds in a metal tube,” the security guard snapped, “Of course it’s not, in the traditional sense of the word, safe.” He went on to tell her that they could get her on a flight two days hence, if, and only if, she agreed to be dismembered right then and there.
“I’d like to fly in one piece, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“For security reasons, all passengers must now travel in a disassembled state,” the security guard said, and the look on his face suggested there would be no exceptions.
She left the airport, went back home, and dug her musty childhood stationary box out of the junk closet.
Snigdha was of course familiar with the practice of mailing one’s self across the country in a letter, but she’d never had a reason to try it herself. It didn’t help that there were stories of travelers being mistaken for a bill or an eviction notice, who were ripped up on the spot and never heard from again. There was the issue of having to remember every single little thing about yourself, then commit it to paper--though some people were known to conveniently forget to mention unsightly moles or awkward knees in their letters. Snigdha’s own neighbor had a notable lack of toenails due to an oversight while on a budget business trip.
Ferny was worth it, she told herself, her pen poised above the parchment like an uncertain record needle.
She began to write. Her name was Snigdha Sengupta. She was five feet, five inches tall, had long, black hair and brown eyes. She paused. Now that she was trying to commit herself to paper, she wasn’t entirely sure what made her Snigdha. Perhaps it was how she looked, or perhaps it was her memories: Unicycling down shady suburban lanes; playing with Ferny while her family gathered together for cozy Arbor Day celebrations; the time she won the school award for standing still the longest (one entire semester--a two-footed feet that she’d received a scholarship for). Soon, Snigdha was tumbling down a deep pit lined with personal factoids, who rowdily tried to get her attention as she fell.
“You’d be nothing without me!” scolded the memory of Snigdha’s first tentative triumphs on her unicycle.
“Don’t forget about us!” called the collective sensations of going on errands with her mother.
As Snigdha plummeted resolutely downward, she lost her long, black hair, her brown eyes and all five feet, five inches of her height. She lost her name, one letter at a time, like so:
(You get the idea)
When she hit the bottom of the pit, she was only Herself. Herself looked up and realized she could no longer see her memories or the mouth of the pit. She was in some dark, cavernous space, whose only notable feature was the expanse of envelopes upon which Herself now stood. There must’ve been millions of them, labeled with addresses from every continent on Earth.
“Oh dear,” said a voice. Herself spun around to find a postman’s uniform regarding her sadly. “You’ve gone stream of consciousness.”
“What does that mean?” said Herself, because she didn’t know what else to ask. She’d left all her reasons for asking questions in the throat of the pit, along with her memories.
“It means you didn’t pack enough baggage when you put yourself in the mail,” the postman’s uniform said.
“Why would I put myself in the mail?” Herself said.
“Because the postal service is a cheap, populist option for travelers who won’t tolerate being criminalized at airports and train stations!” The suit’s voice echoed authoritively from its collar.
“But where was I trying to go?” Herself asked impatiently. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed like she ought to have something to do besides standing around talking to postman suits all day.
“Do you know why you were trying to go?” said the suit.
“No,” Herself admitted after a moment of thought.
“So the question you should be asking yourself,” said the suit with a flourish of its empty blue sleeve, “is where do you want to go now?”
Herself looked down at the thousands of sealed envelopes around her. They were all labeled with interesting destinations: New York, Tokyo, Shangri-La, Alexandria, and Atlantis. For a moment, Herself considered that maybe she’d like to visit all of those places. Maybe she could become a postman’s suit, and ride the letters to the furthest corners of the Earth. But an envelope bearing a handwritten address caught her eye. The handwriting was prim and neat, yet loopy and whimsical. The destination was Park City, Kansas, which, in Herelf’s opinion, wasn’t a very interesting-sounding place at all. But something about the tidy, motherly handwriting made Herself think of a potted fern happily waving its fronds from a faded front porch, the friendly smells of barbecued cabbage wafting from the back yard, and familiar voices raised in Arbor Day carols.
“I want that,” she said out loud, quietly, with barely a whisper of voice.
The suit gave the impression of nodding. “Then it is so.”
A young woman found herself standing in front of a modest but stately home with yellow paint and quaint white gables. The front door clattered open, and a robust older woman scuttled down the front steps with open arms.
“Snigdha, what a surprise!” her mother cried. “You didn’t tell us you were coming by--but nevermind, Ferny is going to be so delighted you’re home.”
Snigdha felt a slight twinge of anxiety at the mention of the fern’s name--some half-forgotten fear, like the echo of a bad dream. But her mother was beaming, and the air smelt of cabbage, and all was right with the world.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 03:57|
Joey Romaine's Live House of Wax
Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at 17:08 on Dec 30, 2015
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 04:06|
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 04:26|
That Jerkface Moon
"The Moon is a jerkface!" young Frederick Hall said.
"Smirking so smugly up there in the sky.
I'll build a fast rocket and paint it bright red
And fly up to punch that dumb Moon in the eye."
Fred gathered up coffee tins, seventy-nine,
The driver's seat of his grandpa's Chevrolet,
Some cords and some wires, some tape and some twine,
Glued them all together, then--off and away!
His ship flew on caffeine fumes toward the far stars;
Fred realized soon he had no way to steer.
He shot past the Moon and flew straight into Mars.
The crash dinged his ship and, alas! bruised his rear.
The Martians who saw it were mightily vexed,
For he'd interrupted a tense cricket match.
The best Martian bowler grabbed Fred's ship, and flexed,
And flung it toward Jupiter, calling out, "Catch!"
Fred rattled and shook through his wild, spinning ride,
And hollered with glee, I am glad to report.
The gas giant loomed in his view from outside--
But hitting Europa's ice brought him up short.
He broke through the glassy stuff, down to the sea
Where he came to land by a table and chairs.
For this time he'd crashed a noon luncheon, with tea.
His sudden appearance drew Europan stares.
Yet they made a place for him to join their meal:
Fred drank from a cup filled with oxygen sweet
And stuffed himself sick on fat, five-tailed space eel
And sampled ice pudding, their specialty treat.
A boy his own age with ten arms and six gills
Helped Fred mend his ship and then asked, with a grin,
"Would you take me with you? I'm looking for thrills.
A rocket like yours may not come by again!"
So Fred and Eumonstace (for that was his name;
We'll call him Eu henceforth, I'm sure he won't mind)
Arranged themselves inside the coffee-tin frame
And left the tea party light-hours behind.
Since Eu had installed a cut-ice steering stick,
They flew toward Fred's nemesis on a straight path.
The rocket touched down in a dust field so thick
That Fred and Eu both got a fine Moondust bath.
"Dumb Moon!" Frederick Hall yelled. He jumped to the ground,
Then bounced right back up, thanks to point-sixteen G!
Eu leapt from the ship and turned cartwheels around,
Which, given his arms, was a grand sight to see!
And somehow both boys got so wrapped up in fun
That Frederick completely forgot to be mad.
With Moon games to play and Moon races to run
And no smirk in sight, the Moon wasn't so bad.
A new voice called out to them, "Can I play, too?"
The boy who had spoken was made of grey grit.
He held out his hand, and his bright smile was true.
Fred slapped the boy's shoulder and told him, "You're It!"
They romped in the dust, those three children of space,
Until it was suppertime back home on Earth.
Fred said, "You should both come and stay at my place!"
As friends and companions, they'd proven their worth.
Three boys filled the rocket ship up to its brink:
Eu, Fred, and the Moon's son, chaotically piled.
In the rearview mirror, the Moon seemed to wink,
And Frederick, however begrudgingly, smiled.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 04:33|
That's it - it's all over but the judging which will be FAST and GOOD.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 05:03|
Disqualified for lateness-
On a Sour Note (357 Words)
Every year my brother and I see all of the parade.
A million things go walking by, and we always get lemonade.
Up goes the baton, and the band begins the show.
the oompah signals Clydesdales and the cavalcade is go!
The camels shuffle afterward, then elephants stomp through
The drummers lead the pipers and the bear that plays kazoo.
Such exciting things to see, when it's just my brother and me.
Every year we see the parade, and we always get lemonade.
It's hard to miss the fire-eaters, swallowing their swords
a float made up with flowers carries ribbon winning gourds.
The beauty queens in limousines blow kisses to the crowds.
The astronauts braved space and now face dense confetti clouds.
But of all things I get to see, my favorite is my brother and me.
Every year we see the parade, and we always get lemonade.
Then they bring in the big balloons, and Santa Claus of course.
The banners announce the guilds by craft and workers show up in force.
They wheel along a captured plane, and so many flags unfurl
To be twirled by world-class color guard of entirely beautiful girls.
Whatever goes by, it has to be, every year my brother and me
It simply won't be the same parade, and we ALWAYS get lemonade.
Tiny cars whizz figure eights with sizzling sparklers lit
past lions clad in cages and a Punch-and-Judy skit.
We will always have a sip and watch the fireworks and the fun
That's how things are, they mustn't change, it simply can't be done.
Everything else I know is hers, but we still had the parade.
He always says he's glad he stayed, to see it and drink lemonade.
The fireworks crescendo and the crowd's deflation starts.
The only beasts left marching are the nags at sweepers' carts.
A straggling banner, one last toot, the men find trash and spike it.
My drink is sour, I'll admit, but not the way I like it.
Every year my brother and I saw all of the parade
But a million things have walked by since, and I don't like lemonade.
BoldFrankensteinMir fucked around with this message at 05:45 on Dec 7, 2015
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 05:34|
Interprompt: GRIMDARKNESS OF SKULLS AND BLOOD AND GORE
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 14:11|
Searches for heretics,
Guts them alive.
In this dark future he
Tortures for God-and-King
And all that jive.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 18:00|
The skull scribbled upon the flesh with a blood-dipped quill, "To whom it may concern, it is too dark here now. I have no eyes, but I seek the light, and so with this I say goodbye. -Skull"
It went outside from its cave, which broke it into dust. But the dust still traveled by the wind, 'till the forest edge it met. There it soaked the soil, and in twenty years a might oak stood proud.
A lumberjack found the oak, thump thump with each axe swing. The tree did fall upon his skull, which tumbled to the cave. It found the darkness most pleasing, and stayed there for eternity.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 19:19|
GRIMDARKNESS OF SKULLS AND BLOOD AND GORE: a fanfic
Brothers Grim were of in a cave. "Is muchly dark in here!" say Grim 1. "Do not worry, I have matches." Say Grim 2. He take a match and make a lightings. Suddenly, all the skulls around them! "NOW IS NO LONGER GRIM DARK IS GRIM LIGHT!!!" a shout all the skulls. Brothers Grim run but match go out and they fall down hole and die.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 19:38|
Grimdarkness of Skulls and Blood and Gore
Grimdarkness was a cute dog who lived in the city of Skulls and Blood and Gore. Despite the name, it was a pretty nice place, and everyone was really nice to Grimdarkness and pet him a lot. One day, though, skeletons showed up and everyone was too nice to fight off the skeletons. However, Grimdarkness looked at the skeletons and saw they were made up of juicy bones, so he chased after the skeletons and started chewing their bones. The skeletons had an oath not to hurt dogs, so they couldn't defeat Grimdarkness. They all had to leave, although Grimdarkness was able to get some of their bones. Everyone was really happy and Grimdarkness became the mayor. He was still chewing on some skeleton bones when they put the mayor hat on him. He changed the name of the city into something less stupid.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 20:31|
GRIMDARKNESS OF SKULLS AND BLOOD AND GORE: a fanfic
Docbeard makes a happy danube.
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 21:57|
One day, demons! But Marmaduke fight the demons and say "foolish demons, ÿou have fire of hells but I have the fire in my heart!" and he bites the demons but they say "hahaha you cannot bite us we are teething proof!"but Marmaduke had a secret his teeth were diamonds and he bit the demons the end
|# ? Dec 7, 2015 22:05|
Lord Skullfucker looked down from his skull throne. All the Space Marines (tm Games Workshop 2002) were dead. He had killed them with his Power Fist, Plasma Pistol and Mark of Slaanesh, ([stats removed by GW IP control team]), and his squad of Chaos Space Marine Chosen. "Bring me their skulls" he said.
"For what, my lord?" said the Chosen Exalted Champion with Lightning Claw, Bolt Pistol and Meltabombs.
"Lol take one guess."
and then everybody had a party but it was gross and Pinhead and Sam Neill from Event Horizon showed up and did a dance but it was a really gross dance the end
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 01:05|
One day, a Blood Zombipire went to the bank to get a home loan.
"What are your rates?" he said to the bank man.
The bank man was racist against the undead, so he moved his body to cover the poster advertising their really good rates and said. "12% annually."
it turns out the real monster is man, particularly the man who works in the bank on Cooper Street Steve
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 01:11|
Grimdark sentences loosely tied together or Things I'm writing in hopes that TDbot uses them for horoscopes later
Nothing's been the same since you killed those kids. You kill one kid, and it's easy to get over. You always remember the first one you kill. His name was Benny, and you liked it. Hell, he probably liked it too, the little fuckup. But there was something about the way all those little dead-kid faces blended together after a while that made your stomach churn. You fill a trash can full of vomit, but it's not enough. Plus, the trashcan was made of wire mesh, and now there's vomit all over your floor. The only way to keep the feelings down is to kill again. Like eating atomic fireballs, one after the other, just to keep the burning away. You grab your knife and wipe the blood of poor 8-year-old Annie off on your knee. You laugh in the mirror, at death, and at your own loss of control. No, the knife is too easy, you think, and grab the claw hammer. Today will be better, you think, tightening your grip on the rusty bludgeon. Today will be fun.
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 05:07|
Results will be suspended until the interprompt is less interesting.
But seriously. I had all my picks sorted by three hours after submission. Sebmojo was indulging in his favorite activity of parenting. Sorry. I misspelled shooting robots online. I wrestled with him for control of his attention and lost. I blame myself. Almost as much as I blame him. Anyhow.
Interestingly, our favorites were different. Sebmojo likes the stories and I like the nonsense. If your piece was none of these... be very afraid. Our intellectual battle over who will win will be epic and many robots may die. For unrelated reasons, admittedly, but the scene needed to be set. There will be a truckload of DMs though. So disappointed. How can you gently caress up things that don't have to make sense? Thunderdome has found many, many ways that did not need to be found.
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 05:26|
"Judge Skullington," said the blood-clerk, "we await your decision eagerly. Fast judging is, after all, good judging."
Judge Skullington rose from his blood-chair and shook his ceremonial blood-helmet (which was actually made out of bones but dammit when you pick a theme you gotta stick to it). "What if," he said "like, there were puppies and stuff. I'm bored of skulls."
"take your time" said the blood-clerk.
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 05:34|
BLOOD POURED FROM THE HEAVENS TO FORM THE LETTERS:
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 05:39|
Results will be suspended until the interprompt is less interesting.
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 05:41|
Week More Fingers than I have RESULTS
Judging is over, and you, ThunderDome have been found wanting.
Some of you, it appears, have no concept of what nonsense actually is and have no fingers with which to google the subject . There's lots of examples there of what you all mostly failed to do. Also worth noting: A single odd element does not a nonsense story make.
So -let's begin with the DMS
Ze Bourgeousie: Into the Mineshaft - On the plus side, an actual story - on the minus side, painfully dumb fantasy twaddle.
Silmarildur: Sugarplum Fairyland Home for the Insufficiently Exuberant - Dr Snuggles is an actual character and this is pretty much fanfiction, but also, your protagonist sleepwalks his way through a lack of plot to reach an 'it was all a dream' ending. Thankfully your version was such a non-entity we're going to put this one down as a childhood cheese dream brain fart and not outright plagiarism.
Grizzled Patriarch: Joey Romaine's House of Wax - Could be a passable story, but Complete Prompt Fail. Seriously. I even bolded whimsy and charm to help you out - and all I got was some bleak tale of people in a fire. Just...why?
jon joe: Barrel of fun Sebmojo saved this from the loss for reasons I cannot fathom, because it read to me like a children's story for dead children that don't care about stories anymore. You owe him beer and loves.
On the the HMs
Despite there being so much pain, a couple of people did provide some joy
SurreptitiousMuffin: Obvious phallic symbol I lolled. It was a great comic piece, didn't quite nail the nonsense.
Djeser: Emil, Who Climbed The Mountain To Find His Face We loved some of the imagery here - but it was a little close to a straight fantasy story
The loser, who we really hated a lot
Lazy beggar: Rotten at the Core - Aside from the fact that at one point your character's truck turns into a horse, this story is proof that even if you have an arc it can be a terrible one that you shouldn't inflict on anyone.
And the winner, who actually wrote what was possibly the only actual nonsense story.
Sitting Here: For the Price of Postage
There was nonsense. There was a story. That was all you really needed
Sitting here, kindly sit atop your Sitting Here butt indented throne.
EDIT: SPECIAL NOTE
Terrible as this week was - all of you should be proud that you weren't as bad as Broenheim, who tried to get out of a failure by offering to judge an hour and half before entries closed.
Nice try, Broenheim. You win the special Turd in a punchbowl of Pee award for this week.
Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 09:09 on Dec 8, 2015
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 08:58|
pre-emptive in without even seeing the prompt because gently caress you I live on the edge
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 09:25|
Week 175: Speels of Magic
how i do magic???
1. First, go to http://www.spellsofmagic.com/ and find a spell to help you out. IMPORTANT NOTE: It's important to make your intention clear when doing magic. For best results, either post your chosen spell in your signup post, OR indicate that you wish for the judges to choose for you. No mere "in" post will appease the
2. Magic works best when you either include your spell in your story OR make sure your story is somehow inspired by your chosen/assigned spell. Magic can be any genre, even scifi! Magic shouldn't be fanfiction or erotica, no matter what your headmates tell you.
3. Take a bath
4. Make sure your magic story is no longer than 1400 words long! In order for the magic to work, all witches and wizards need to be signed up by 11:59 PM PST on Friday, December 11th. All stories should be submitted by 11:59 PM PST on Sunday, December 13th.
All prayers, pleas, and incantations should be directed to Sitting Here, Twist, and Djeser
Grizzled Patriarch http://www.spellsofmagic.com/spells/trick_spells/illusion_spells/20635/page.html
spectres of autism http://www.spellsofmagic.com/spells/trick_spells/time_spells/9715/page.html
jon joe http://www.spellsofmagic.com/spells/luck_spells/misfortune_spells/10937/page.html
A Classy Ghost http://www.spellsofmagic.com/spells/spiritual_spells/power_spells/14076/page.html
Benny Profane http://www.spellsofmagic.com/spells/trick_spells/flying_spells/5536/page.html
Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 17:34 on Dec 12, 2015
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 10:08|
in with http://www.spellsofmagic.com/spells/weather_spells/fire_spells/15126/page.html
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 10:15|
Gimme some magic. In
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 12:12|
|# ? Oct 3, 2022 01:46|
So mote it be. Gimme a spell, you craggy hag.
|# ? Dec 8, 2015 14:15|