In! My first Thunderdome, (don't) be gentle!
|# ¿ Feb 25, 2015 09:00|
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2022 12:26|
As a Thunderdome newbie, how strict is the word count requirement? If I step over it by a few words (let's say...6. Hypothetically of course) is it still valid or should I trim the fat a little bit?
|# ¿ Feb 28, 2015 18:48|
If you're over it by 6 words you can definitely find something to cut out.
Yeah, it's done, I just didn't think it was a hard limit and 6 words was so little that I thought it would've been ok. Good thing I asked!
|# ¿ Feb 28, 2015 19:22|
People say that your whole life flashes in front of you when you’re about to die, but that’s bullshit.
What actually happens, as I’m finding out right now while the wind deafens me on my freefall to hard concrete, is that you get a painfully long introspection break. It's like your brain says “what, we’re about to die? Might as well go with a bang of anxiety, guilt, and repressed memories!”
Such bullshit. I wanted to see my Uncle Jerry playing baseball with me, or maybe taste my grandma’s chocolate cookies one more time. Instead I get a lovely internal monologue and fast forward through the events that led me here. poo poo, it’s even going backwards, like that boring french movie Laura once made me go see.
The balcony, moments ago. He and I, facing each other, with his revolver building a direct line between us. We’re agitated, sweating in the cold afternoon.
“WHY, JASON, WHY!? I JUST WANT TO KNOW!” he screams, pointing the gun at me, shaking like a madman. I’m shaking, too.
“You loving know. You loving know, Mark!” I spit back at him. If I’m getting a bullet to the chest, might as well go with my head high.
“I don’t! You ruined my life, and for what!? Because I made fun of your tie at the water-cooler once? Because I took too long fixing your loving printer once?” He is crying. Pathetic, but it just makes me angrier. Even now after all we've been through, this little poo poo won’t come clean and confess?
“You. hosed. My. Girlfriend.” I growl, my teeth clamped so hard I can hear them grinding.
“What?? I never touched her you bastard! I don’t even know her, I don’t even know you! We all just work together, you loving douchebag!” Tears run down his cheeks right before the impossibly loud sound of his gun being fired. I feel a sharp pain in my stomach and tumble back, desperately holding my blood in, trying to stop it from gushing out. It runs free through my fingers.
“Now both of our lives are ruined” Mark says, sobbing. I try to fight him as he grabs my shirt and belt, but I’m weakened. He pushes me over, and that’s it. Cue my current situation, the end of Jason Montgomery.
A few days before that, in my corner office. I’m typing on my work laptop, with a notebook to my right filled with different webpages, usernames and aliases.
Oh I’m pleased with myself alright. So pleased.
That son of a bitch thinks he can gently caress my girlfriend behind my back? He has another thing coming. Just because you’re Mr. Tech Guy around the office doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about the internet. Your username is the same you use on those weird forums you frequent, for gently caress’s sake. How stupid can you be?
I knew you were a creep, but finding this poo poo out was shocking even to me. You have issues old boy, and it’s only fair your coworkers know this before dealing with you like you were a normal human.
I’m not glad I had to get a crash course on this poo poo, though. “Vore”, “Furrydom” and loving “My Little Pony” fandom? poo poo, man. My niece watches that show, and she’s only five. And holy poo poo how did you actually get my Laura to even look at you twice? Maybe she’s also a creep, I need to check on her.
In any case, I finished my email. HR won’t do poo poo because of their “What you do outside the office is your problem” policy, but “accidentally” replying to their company-wide newsletter with my concerns for your mental health, with links to your blog and Tumblr should at least be enough for a good, good laugh.
See if you gently caress anyone’s girlfriend again, you poo poo. Next time stick with ponies.
Last week at my old apartment, the one we lived together in. Great views, incredible water pressure and a kitchen a bit too small. Usually, my happy place.
My suitcase lays in the bed halfway packed with crumpled shirts, dirty pairs of pants, and all the socks I can find while I trash around the house, screaming obscenities and punching the walls.
“Four years Laura! Four loving years!” a bunch of coathangers drop to the floor when I pull one of my shirts free. I don’t bother picking them up.
She sobs in response. There are no more excuses to be said, it’s a done deal. She hosed someone else on our own goddamn bed, and that’s how a great relationship ends so suddenly.
“You hosed things up for both of us, and for what?” I close my suitcase, giving up on trying to take everything. I can always come back later. “Because you wanted to try something new? Or you just wanted to hurt me?” I feel myself tearing up, and hold it in. When I turn my back to her I wipe my eyes with my wrist.
“We haven’t had sex in two months! We work together and even then we don’t see each other more than an hour every day!” her voice is distorted by her crying and it’s filled with pain and… anger? Like it’s my fault now? “When we do talk it’s like you don’t even listen to me!”
She babbles a bit then shuts up.
“Were you planning on telling me?” I ask. I know the answer, but I rather hope that there’s a chance she would've come clean. That she still respects me. “If I hadn't found the condom and the text messages, would you have confessed?”
“No.” she just said.
I headed for the door, grabbing my suitcase. I felt like yelling to her, like throwing stuff and breaking anything I could reach. I even imagined myself hitting her.
Instead I just asked, right when I reached the knob “Who is he?”
She stayed silent for a minute. I didn't move or turn around, still refusing to let her see my tears.
“It’s… a man from work. He was always hitting on me and I just… I relented”
From work. It was someone I know, someone that has worked with me while loving her behind my back. Who? Who was the son of a bitch that has ruined my life?”
“Matt… It’s Matt.” She whispers.
I go down the stairs, my head is ringing and my vision feels blurry. Now I guess I’ll head to my brother's….
My flashback is over and I’m once again aware of my incoming death, the windows of my office building rushing besides me as I approach the ground.
Matt. She said Matt.
Not Mark. Matt.
I ruined Mark’s life and killed myself in the process. I stalked him and his creepy perversions for nothing. Matt. Who the gently caress is Matt?
The ground is all I see. Coming closer, filling my view with the promise of quick death. All that pavement, all to me. My eyes are dry and there’s no more air in my lungs, and time still seems to pass so slow. So slow…
My last thoughts are of ponies.
|# ¿ Mar 1, 2015 23:26|
hugoon i owe you a line crit sometime this week
Looking forward to that!
I'm pretty discouraged about my loss, didn't think I did so bad so I'd love any criticism. Oh well there will always be the next Thunderdome!
Just probably not this one since I'm flying back to Venezuela tomorrow for "vacations".
|# ¿ Mar 3, 2015 09:48|