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A figure enters the dome: hooded in mystery, shrouded in mist, wreathed in mice. A forgotten face faces forth and shouts a challenge into the darkness - Uh I don't know any tmbg songs so uh can you give me one. Also flash me because I hate myself. 
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Mar 5, 2015 23:15
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| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 04:34 |
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The smackhouse at the top of the tree “I am King Chivas!” King Chivas’ redundant roar echoed around the tree top house, shaking some dust from the straw rafters. The grey specs drifted down to mix with the piles of white powder on the matchbox tables, but outside the window the leaves didn’t move. The leaves of the tree that has a house at the top of its crown are not disturbed by the roars of a mouse. The acorncaine rushed through his body. Tail pointing straight as an arrow, snout twitching with each tidal pulse of his blood, eyes blazing under his cigar-collar crown, he oversaw the industry of the place. There were the mice grinding, there were the mice delivering, and there were the mice packing the individual bubble wrap bubbles. Truly, he was the king. All except one mouse at the matchbox tables avoided his wavering, addled gaze. The king leapt from the Throne of Mouse Kings and stumbled towards the poor youngling who had been too slow to look away from his twitching countenance. Seeing the youngling’s plight one of the more experienced packers (she had lost an ear to the king’s benevolence) pushed an open bubble off the table. The powder spilt across the boards like a tide of fine dandruff. King Chivas managed to alter his direction with an almost imperceptible trip and stood, trembling, before his one eared underling. The ear twitched in defiance but she looked demurely enough at the rancid king. “Eduardo! Bring a tray of powder to my chamber, I shall have company tonight.” Eduardo tugged his hood in acknowledgement and shuffled away. King Chivas grabbed the defiant mouse and pulled her towards him in a most magnificent manner, flexing his muscles in sequence like a perfectly tuned locomotive. He put his snout to her ear and began to seduce her. “Manuel, what are you doing to that poor girl? Are you cussing? I am sure you are cussing you disgusting boy,” the wizened old mouse peered out from behind her flannel curtain at the back of the dusty treehouse, “Antonio would never have cussed at these poor girls.” “Shut the gently caress up, Mum.” “Antonio would never have cussed at me. Why couldn’t he have lived when those crows attacked our home?” “Shut. Up.” “Antonio would never have treated me this way. You should try to be a good boy, Manuel.” The old queen retired to her chamber. “Stupid bint,” he pulled the mouse away from the stupid bint towards his own chamber. Suddenly Eduardo appeared before him. He had an annoying habit of doing that, always appearing, and disappearing, and appearing again. “Eduardo, get the hell out of my way. Can’t you see I’m busy?” “Enough Manuel! This has gone on too long!” “Don’t call me Manuel, I am King Chivas!” He stabbed his regal hand towards the rafters to punctuate his words. King Chivas liked to repeat his name at every opportunity, it was important that everyone remembered he was the king. And Chivas. “Who are you, Eduardo, to question me?” “I am -” “Nothing, that is what you are, Nothing!” King Chivas was interruptive when incensed. Eduardo flung his hood back, as dramatically as possible. He had been practicing in front of his full length compact mirror for the last year. “It is I, Antonio!” King Chivas gaped at his brother. “I have returned at long last to bring your reign of terror to an end. You have turned the house of our ancestors into a drug den, and I shall avenge their honor.” Faithful Eduardo, the hero who saved him from a cat attack, the trusted envoy to the shrews, was long lost Antonio all along? Worse, was challenging the king? This could not stand. “I am the greatest mouse king there has ever been Antonio. Look at the triumphs I have wrought. I control the powder trade from here to that tree all the way over there.” King Chivas pointed out of the window of the house at the top of the tree and swayed in a breeze that wasn’t there. “I am untouchable. Look at my superior form, my body is like a statue made by the mouse god himself. I -” “-Ugh” Antonio yanked the point of the needle out of the Throne of Mouse Kings that pinned the skull of the mouse that had been king to the aforementioned chair as the assembled mice cheered with joy. At last, their horrible, tweaking bastard of a king was dead. They were free at last. Antonio raised his needle above his head. “I am King Jura!” King Jura resolved to be absolutely the greatest mouse king there had ever been. “All hail King Jura!” “What the hell are you dumbshits cheering about? Get back to work, that shipment to the marsh-side ferrets won’t pack itself.” “Antonio, is that you?” “Shut the gently caress up, Mum.” .... No idea how many words as I am phone posting, definitely less than 1000
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Mar 8, 2015 22:37
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Wattage "I'm sorry," he whispers as he slowly unscrews his old flame, surface too hot to touch for more than fractions of a second at a time. "You were too bright for this world." He caresses her curves, and her skin cools in his hands. Gently he lays her down beside him. Then he reaches over her to the young replacement. No tasteful curves here, but perfectly engineered thin sticks. He screws the new one in, and feels nothing. Later that evening he goes to the hospital and claims he fell over in a coincidental fashion.
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Mar 9, 2015 23:35
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Sitting Here posted:this is love I just puked
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Mar 10, 2015 00:13
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Open invitation - crit me or brawl me Anyone want to throw down?
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Mar 10, 2015 13:51
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Maugrim posted:Benny the Cake vs. CancerSnakes BRAWL yeh ok sebmojo posted:i'll probably do some judgeburps but not gonna lie could be a light week for crittin so speak up if you want me to look at yours first
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Mar 12, 2015 19:45
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An invention is a product of the mind and nothing more 368 words The flames rolled and whipped around the giant sphere, tidal waves of burning plasma plunging into whirling sinkholes of incandescent fury. For countless ages this had continued: without rest, without pause the wild riders and flashing manes of coagulations hydrogen had raced around the slowly contracting globe. Finally, after a few more ages had passed, the contractions began to come more quickly. The globe shuddered and pulsed and whined and groaned, shivering and burping and making GBS threads out plumes of fire, spires radiant glory. A sudden tightness, a tiny vibration and, with a silent whisper of regret the star exploded. The light came first, burning ultraviolet and blinding white, sweeping across countless planets, moons and stars. It screamed over the strange landscapes of distant hills and mountains, destroying life and rock and all that other poo poo into atoms. This light travelled through the galaxy killing and maiming every lifeform before it. Yes everyone died. loving everyone. Far away, a long time later, longer than you can actually even comprehend, and further away than your mind can possibly fathom, an astronomer doesn’t spot the twinkle in the sky that was caused by the supernova because his loving telescope that he had written a new bit of software for (for which he had applied for a patent no less) didn’t function correctly. And he was just hopping mad, until his assistant (who had been sleeping with the astronomers wife) murdered him so that he could be first named author on the big journal article. A few days later mutually assured destruction destructed the world in a mutually assured way and killed everyone on the planet. Yes, every loving person. And those dudes who were on the moon. Aeons later the heavier elements that the supernova had formed coalesced into beautiful whirling structures, that mashed together to become vestigial planets, and on one of these planets a bolt of lightning struck some ooze and that tiny chain of life became the distant removed ancestor of your mum, so that, my boy, is why we are here. Fortunately the heat death of will resolve all of this some time in the future, because then everyone really will be dead. So loving shut up and eat your ice cream.
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Mar 12, 2015 23:42
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Maugrim posted:I am a dismal failure this week and will duly flagellate myself. Failed to judge a brawl as well. A shameful display. sebmojo posted:Captain James Sailor looked at his ship. It was a mess, with rubbish all over it. "This is a disaster", he said. Still waiting on that crit. A shameful display. You two failures should brawl each other, winner brawls me. Step up if you got game
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Mar 17, 2015 02:16
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Maugrim posted:Nope, not gonna accept a punishment based on a false accusation. Benny hasn't submitted his entry and the deadline hasn't passed yet. I understand. It's tough being a baller, some people can't cut it. It's not your fault.
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Mar 17, 2015 21:44
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In and that
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Mar 18, 2015 01:48
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Maugrim posted:Benny the Snake vs CancerCakes Brawl - Judgment Hmmm Congrats Benny, thanks judge, kicks cat down stairs
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Mar 22, 2015 20:37
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Gloop 938 words A single outlet fan failed to siphon more than a little poison into the alley outside. Sammi had let out a little cough within a minute of stepping into the workshop, choking on the fumes that rose off the vats and the grainy smoke provided by the burners beneath. Each time Sammi coughed the woman next to her let out a little wheeze and the overseer who was concealed by the swirling smoke grunted in annoyance. After two hours of blistering her hands on the broomhandle mixing the gloop contained in the large tub, and adding substances and liquids by the scoop and bucketload, the symphony of bronchitis reached its peak. Sammi doubled over coughing, spluttering for breath. Her wheezing companion looked on with a whinging series of sighs that further drove the overseer to distraction. As the man strode out of the cloying smog he created a current in the air, a moment of freshness before his thunder crack slap struck Sammi between the shoulder blades. “You should go home. I do not want you to give anyone else an illness.” Sammi looked towards the door - a faint effusement, ethereal, impossible. Her chest ached and her back smarted, but she clenched her fists under her desk. “I just want to work, Sir. I am not sick.” He considered her, taking stock. Then, like many had before him, he smiled, and asked. “This is not the nicest work for a young girl like yourself. Why not try something more - suited to you?” “I am here to work.” The man looked at her not-quite-so-young-any-more face and chapped raw hands and bloodshot red eyes and considered. “Then get back to work. And no more coughing.” He set his eye on the wheezing woman, who held her breath as he walked away. The woman, only 3 years older than Sammi (whose hair had been lustrous in the way that women who buy expensive conditioner in the expensive supermarket in middle of the city only dream about) adjusted her hat and put another scoop of colouring into the gloop. The gloop was poured, and set and made shapes, some spelling out the names of scores of cities. The shapes seemed to amuse the foreigners who visited these other cities. In this city they walked the avenues, looking through the windows of the boutiques at shoes and such fripperies, and at the items displayed for them on blankets. They did not know, or perhaps did not care that the fripperies and companion tchotchkes were produced by similar hardship. The blankets had strings tied to their corners, so that if a policeman, or someone who looked like a policeman was thought to be nearby, the sellers could quickly gather them up, and scurry away. Patrice had travelled here by himself. He had been young then, but now he was fourteen years old, and had his own blanket. He smiled at everyone, because he was happier now than he had been before, and if he smiled enough he might forget before all together, and that he didn’t know where his parents were. He had been told before he made the crossing that however cold he was, however frightened of the waves and noise and the rain and the thunder and the rolling clouds and the lightning that he must stay on the deck of the boat. Do not go down into the boat, do not allow anyone to put you below a hatch. He had not. Others had, and they had washed up on the beaches of Italy for weeks. The people who bought the things on Patrice’s blanket confused him. They would not look at him, until they had to. They would stare at the shapes, and sometimes laugh, or smile, and point. “How much?” The man asked, without looking at Patrice. Patrice shrugged - money is a relative concept after all. “Ten?” The man laughed and walked away. “Five!” The man stopped. “Three.” The man turned and reached for his pocket. Patrice felt invisible. Sometimes they would haggle, sometimes they would argue, and Patrice enjoyed this. The haggling acknowledged his existence. But normally they were like this. Afterwards the strange people would stroll away and Patrice would arrange the things in the most pleasing way possible on the blanket and would watch closely for a policeman. Within an hour he and the other sellers would furl their wings and scatter. The thing that had been bought would travel. After the journey in the suitcase they would be placed with a little fanfare with others of its kind from different conquered cities. Returning to these places would be a waste of time - we did everything in the guide book already. The things huddled on the shelf together, forming a faint reek of their mother gloop. They certainly brightened up the place. And they were quickly forgotten, except when they are required to be a trophy of the owner’s cosmopolitan travels - and by extension the owner’s cosmopolitan nature. Time moves on, the solidified gloop remains, worn and chipped and flaking. Finally something changes, and they are discarded. They are considered, and perhaps some reach a charity shop of some kind, resigned to a dusty shelf that no one cares about. Finally, in exasperation, they are sent to be recycled. They cross the sea, a cargo container full or so. Sammi has been busy. They reach a city, and then a workshop, and they are crushed to rocky chunks. Sammi takes a handful and allows her life and health to run through her fingers. She adjusts her hat and upends a bucket - full into the gloop.
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Mar 23, 2015 00:26
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Ha o poo poo you guys must have sucked hard to be worse than what I put out I hate picture rounds, it is like a Rorschach test and all I see is kloctopisses mum
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Mar 23, 2015 18:33
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Monster's INk is made using ground up monsters for sequel brawl
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Mar 25, 2015 19:54
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SEQUEL BRAWL Perfect Action Hero 2: Ho's Revenge 497 words Jack Magnum rattled the ice in his sloe gin and considered his position. He crossed his legs. “What makes you think I do want to sleep with you, Mrs Vanderhilt?” She raised a perfect eyebrow. “You mean you don’t?” He looked at the legs. At mid-thigh he hit the towel that covered the curves. Up past the bare shoulders his eyes continued, past the slightly wet auburn hair, the delicate chin, the pouting lips, to the green irises - and then they ran for the cover of the gin glass. Suddenly she gasped louder than the sexual tension merited. Two giant boots demolished the window as Jack’s instinctive dive connected and they slid across the floor on his leather-clad rear end, halting behind the tatty high-backed red leather sofa. She had somehow ended up on top. Jack Magnum reached for his trusty Sig Sauer P226. Not there – back in his Shelby GT500 Classic. The Vicuna coat hung by the door, too far away. He felt naked without it. He wished he was naked, that Leah was naked too, and that he wasn’t being shot at. And that she wasn’t married to most ruthless gangster in Auckland. “I was looking for one woman, but here are two! Come out, Mr Magnum, I expected a test.” It should have been easy, a favour for a mutual friend. Leah was leaving Jimmy Holt and planned to give everything to the NZP. Jack was just here to keep it off-book. Now Jimmy’s hitman had them pinned down, and Jack hadn’t even nailed the gangster’s wife. Typical. “I will give you a chance, Jack. Here –“ A huge knife embedded itself into the wall, it sang as it vibrated. A slow minute passed. “Such a shame.” The barrage ripped through leather, splinters filled the air the wooden back began to give way - Click Jack in a single motion threw Leah off, yanked the knife from the wall, threw it, and dove towards the door. The huge knife plunged into the huge leg, and the assassin shouted with delight. “That’s more like it!” The Hyena examined the great Jack Magnum sprawled on the floor, holding up the treasured Vicuna by its pockets. “What are you going to do, shoot me with a coat?” Jack Magnum pulled the triggers of his twin Desert Eagles and sprayed the brains of the most brutal hitman in Australasia across the ceiling. The expensive new holes in the coat smoked as the body thundered to the floor. Jack tried to remember when he had last taken a breath. “This is for Brad Thorn!” Leah flew at him, knife coming straight at his heart, too fast to stop. Her face went from beautiful angry, to beautiful surprised in the same instant that her gorgeous chest turned into a fine red mist. “That’s two you owe me now, Jacky boy.” Harry Ho pointed the shotgun at the skeletal sofa, “and what the hell have you done to my apartment?!”
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Mar 27, 2015 23:27
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Monster in your head 744 words The eyeball flapped its vestigial legs in rhythmic distress while Johnnie examined the iris. “It looks a little - worn,” Johnnie said. The eye squelched and wiggled its optic nerve, tickling Johnnies wrist. “Only one previous owner, only used for a few weeks.” Mr Wong smiled in a way that he thought was reassuring. “And it’s semi-sent, only six thousand.” “I could get a bespoke job for six thousand.” “Not with these features, Sir! Infrared mode and zoom to up to 30 times - and being semi-sentient it can help you focus and track items of interest. It has a very high efficiency as well, it only needs 10 ml of nutrifeed -” At the mention of nutrifeed the dingy back room was engulfed in chaotic noise. Disembodied limbs flailed against cage doors, uncased vocal chords screamed and strange mouths that had not been fully subsumed into other body parts chittered in expectation. After they had got the hang of growing body parts on the back of mice the science people had realised - why cut them off the mice at all? Why not program the organism to be subsumed into the new limb or body part after a growing cycle? Thus The Monsters had been born. All the biggest celebrities had Monsters. Guitarists in bands had hand replacement Monsters with ten fingers and two thumbs. Sportsmen had Monster lungs that doubled their oxygen intake and businessmen had Monsters that fired out notes of everything they said, in triplicate (and secreted single malt scotch from the thumb). Pornstars had Monsters you wouldn’t believe. These people had chosen to have whole body parts removed, changed, enhanced. They said it was just like getting a tattoo, or a piercing. Some people had so many Monsters that they didn’t even have to think for themselves anymore. Johnnie squirmed at the thought. “Does it hurt?” “Yes, but it’s worth it. Tell you what, take the eyeball and i’ll give you an extra finger, on the house.” “Just the eye, thanks.” - Johnnie walked through the city and marvelled at the colours and shapes that he had never imagined before. The world was a beautiful place, and he was one with it - up high a bird wheeled on the sky, he blinked and he could see the worm in its beak. Another blink and he could see the fine detail of a single feather. "Whoa." A bump sent him tumbling to the ground, smacking his shoulder and bruising his hip. "Hey man, watch where you're going!" Hands pulled him up and Johnnie blinked rapidly to try focus on the face swimming in front of him, causing it to whirl through 20 different magnifications in quick succession. He doubled over and vomited. The eye gave him a close up of the glistening chunks of half digested burger and he brought up the dregs. "What the hell is wrong with you? You on drugs, boy?" Johnnie clamped a hand over the Monster eye. An angry man with vomit on his shoes stood before him. "I, uh, new Monster, you know, er," he took his hand away, friend of the family The world flashed above the man, beamed into his optic nerve. Johnnie gasped and stumbled away. Slut. Bitch. Dickhead. Spaz. Neon words appeared above the people around him. The pink flashing human being was almost blinding. "What the gently caress." Johnnie stumbled through the city with his hand over the eye. Each time he took it away the hatred crashed down the optic and made him feel dizzy. At one point he could have sworn that he felt the eye's tiny little legs scrabbling about in his eye socket, trying to get out and attack the poor people around him. He got home and tried to ignore the giant flashing yellow oval office in the mirror. The next day he went straight back to the shop. "Where the hell did you get this?" He screamed at the confused Mr Wong. "No refunds," was the only answer he got. He lasted a few more days before extracted the disgusting eye himself using a pair of pliers and some wire cutters. The optic nerve still bonded to his brain flailed and whipped around his eye socket while its missing eye furiously wiggled the pathetic little legs. A tiny stamp on the underside of the Monster eye caught Johnnie's original eye. He giggled as the Monster smashed like a ripe tomato against his bedroom wall. "Grown on 100% pure white mice - no mixed DNA guaranteed."
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Mar 29, 2015 22:51
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You drop the n bomb you're going to get at least a mention. It is unlikely to be favourable.
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Mar 31, 2015 09:12
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Crabrock which racial slur has the best win rate? This is important work
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Apr 1, 2015 00:54
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Cool prompt, I'm in
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Apr 20, 2015 23:42
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Fast judging is good judging
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Apr 21, 2015 18:17
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I was actually thinking of helping out with judging this week but crabrock beat me to it. I think I can hear the screaming from here
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Apr 22, 2015 23:01
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"I don't need to prove myself to you unpublished losers" "I'm in! Now I will really show them who is the best semi published writer on a comedy forum!"
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Apr 23, 2015 23:09
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Corruption and Power *Less than whatever the word count was* words The wizard smiled, and Tom saw his wife clearly for the first time in five years. He tasted tear drops and clutched her hand. Roger Toinby leant closer to the television and squinted to see the football players running through the fog. He swore at his wife and grabbed another beer to make the headache subside. The wizard smiled, and Mrs Walsh felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. “Oh doctor, just seeing you smile already makes me feel better about the future.” Roger Toinby’s grip on the saw suddenly loosened, and he swore loudly as it sliced into his thumb. Blood splashed across the fresh pine wood. The wizard smiled, and Jill’s sleeping frown smoothed into a gentle sigh. The machines around her clicked off automatically as her chest rose and fell under her own strength. Roger Toinby gasped for breath and the roller dropped from his hand. He toppled off the duck egg blue paint splattered chair and hacked up foul bile onto the dust sheets. The wizard smiled and Roger Toinby’s skin began to peel. The wizard smiled and Roger Toinby’s hands swelled up. The wizard smiled and a giant goitre appeared on Roger Toinby’s neck. Roger’s knee twisted and he fell down the stairs. Roger twitched and dropped his painkillers. Roger twitched and dropped his son. The wizard smiled. The media arrived and the wizard appeared on television to explain that there was no such thing as magic, that modern science was to be thanked for the recovery of so many seemingly terminal patients. And smiled. Roger’s cuts stopped scabbing over. Roger’s hair fell out. Roger’s teeth fell out. Roger Toinby lay in the hospital bed, peering at the television, struggling for breath. The bald head was whiter than the pillow it rested on, the huge goitre crooked his neck. Sores wept across his body and his skin flaked and stuck to the sheets. His joints were swollen, his finger and toe nails were long gone. His eyes were red, his throat raw, his testes painfully swollen. He smelt of hospital steriliser and poo poo. The wizard stood at the foot of his bed. “Good morning neighbour! I see you are a little under the weather.” Roger struggled a nod. The wizard smiled, and Roger felt a stabbing pain in his back. “Lumbar puncture,” said the wizard, with a wink. The wizard walked to the head of the bed. Lips next to Roger’s ear, the wizard whispered. “I told you that if you let your drat dog poo poo on my lawn again…” The wizard straightened. And smiled. Roger braced himself for the pain. He made peace with himself and the world. He made peace with any god that would care to listen. Every muscle, sinew and tendon tensed in horrible anticipation. Then relaxed, as they hadn’t in weeks. He felt strengthened, renewed, able to breath. His follicles fizzed and his gums itched with promise. A scream from down the hall brought Roger’s wondering inventory of his own body to a halt and he looked at the wizard, who shrugged. “What do you expect? He cut me off on the freeway this morning.”
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Apr 27, 2015 00:14
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Jagermonster posted:Of a Feather Quick Crit for an old brawl buddy Initially your sentences are too short, so that rather than ramping up the tension it just seems primary level. Should have started in media res, with the second paragraph. That Trutlag can control the birds is made obvious later anyway. Because the first section of story is establishing why the main event occurs it should take less time, spend more words on the main event at the declaration. You could have cut this closer to the bone, and had a tighter story out of the plot. Each paragraph has at least one sentence it doesn't need, and you could have lost 1 paragraph in every five without altering the plot or characters. Slay your darlings (starlings) a little more. Slow start, nice bit of unexpected regicide, I really quite enjoyed it.
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Apr 28, 2015 17:42
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