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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


الخوف و الحمقى ! وسوف تساعد قاضيا من هذا الرعد قبة

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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


السنة هي 1985.
إنجلترا، شروبشاير، روك، صبيين بعمر ثمانية عشر سنة يدخلون مخبأ الجوفاء. الطحلب تغطية "لا تدخل" علامة فوق المدخل هو لا يكاد يقرأ، لم يلبس تلتهم الوقت أيضا. أنهم يتجاهلون ذلك. كان القبو ملجأ أولمرت الكمال بالنسبة لهم. لجيمس وريتشارد كان المثل الأعلى، وهذا يعني المكان الوحيد حيث أنها يمكن أن تكون نفسها.
روك، تشتهر سيصدره الآثار الرومانية القديمة وقليل آخر كان لا يكاد أحد معاقل التسامح. قرية صغيرة هادئة مع شخ أسواق العمل السيئة نادرا ما هم. اثنين من الصبية الصغار في الحب لا يمكن أن تكون مفتوحة عن رغباتهم في مثل هذا المكان من دون مخاطر. العزيزة طويل القامة، والعضلات والرياضي جيمس وريتشارد الاهتمام الذي حصلت عليه من الفتيات المحلية.
ولكن بواب المدرسة مع نظيره المحتاجة العيون الزرقاء وهزيلة الوجه أيضا عن تقديره مظهرهم. الانتباه عن مثلي الجنس يعرف مثله أنها يمكن أن تحمل سوء. وباختصار يمكن أن تكون الأمور أفضل بالنسبة لهم. الحمد لله أنهم كانوا يعرفون أنهم دائما كان بعضنا البعض والقبو الجوفاء. فإنه سيتعين عليها أن تفعل حين تخرجهم.
كان الربيع في انفجار لذة الجماع الكامل عندما زار ملجأ للمرة الأخيرة. ازدهرت الطبيعة، كان الأخضر، رطبة ومليئة أغنية الطيور. وكان التلال الخضراء شرق روك في افيريواي تنهد الجنة، وليس بما في ذلك إبرة التخلص منها غريبة أو فارغة البيرة يمكن. بدت حتى السماء السحرية، تتخللها السحب منتفخ بيضاء ويلبس لون قيصر. لحسن الحظ تم حجب المخبأ خلف الأشجار ولم تخل محيا رومانسية.
داخل القبو جيمس دفعت ريتشارد بلطف بعيدا لا، ليس بعد، العمل قبل المتعة يتذكر؟ ولا حتى قليلا قبلة؟ --- حسنا، ربما فقط على ... والقبلات، أنها كانت سريعة، وكان الحلو.
- الآن لهذه المهمة في متناول اليد، وقال جيمس وابتعد. الكذب رأسا على عقب في غرفة اسمنتية متفرق والدراجة من ريتشارد. انها تفتقر إلى العجلات الأمامية، قد القديم حصلت مارس الجنس حتى بعد سقوط سيئة خصوصا،. لشراء عجلة جديدة من المحتمل أن يكون أفضل، ولكن كان لا ريتشارد أو جيمس الكثير من المال لتجنيب. ومحتقر ريتشارد لقضاء بليغ بواب المدرسة صغيرة تدفع له "تفضل" الا للضرورة القصوى. بدلا من ذلك ان اثنين من الأولاد تمكن تدريجيا إلى حشده حافة كريمة وأنها تناسب مع المتحدث. الاطارات سرقوا ببساطة قبالة الدراجة عمال النظافة، مقابل له جدا العينين. ما الذي كان من المفترض القيام به، انتقل إلى الشرطة؟ كانوا يأملون أن تفعل كما عجلة جديدة.
بعد الكثير من شتم التعرق ومسرعا نحو داخل القبو جعلوا أخيرا عجلة تناسب إطار الدراجة. بدا الأمر آمنا على أية حال.
- يبدو بخير. أريد أن إعطائها الذهاب ريتشارد؟
- أنت تعرف ماذا أريد، الكالينجيون.
- ميت خطيرة، ركوب أسفل المنحدر لنرى كيف يعالج. ونحن قد تحتاج إلى إجراء بعض التعديلات.
ريتشارد التقط الدراجة وابتسم. - نعم نعم سمعت لك، إذا ما يجعلك سعيدا.
من أنا أريد فقط أن تكون آمنة باستخدام تلك العجلة. ريتشارد مشى خارج وجلس على الدراجة. -أنا أعلم أنك تفعل.
ريتشارد بدأت تتدحرج التل التل، في ميد بدأت الدراجة لزعزعة ونصفق. عندما اقترب أول منعطف في الطريق العجلة الأمامية لمست حفرة في الطريق صغيرة، في آن واحد انهارت عجلة الداخل والمفاصل عقد جاءت حافة معا بصرف النظر بعنف. والنائية ريتشارد دراجته وسقط خارج الطريق، حيث تراجع أسرع من أي وقت مضى إلى أسفل المنحدر. تشغيل بأسرع ما يستطيع وجدت جيمس حبيبته مستلقيا على سفح التل. جسمه ما زالت تماما على الرغم من نزيف كبير من فخذه مزورة حيث قطعة من العظام يبرز من لحمه. كما جيمس حصل أقرب اللعنة الرهيب يمتلك له. انه بالكاد يستطيع الوقوف عندما وصل أخيرا ريتشارد. كان الدم الأحمر الداكن مروع يثير الاشمئزاز، أنه تم تزويرها أسفل نمت بعض. مشى متثاقلا كأنه رجل في حالة سكر حاول جيمس الابتعاد لكن سرعان ما سقطت إلى أسفل. جعل الدم له بالدوار، جعلته يشعر وكأنه كان الغرق، جعلته قبضته على التنفس. الدم في المفكره الدم ..
جيمس فقد وعيه. عندما جاء إلى السماء كان أغمق قليلا والهواء في برودة قليلا. عشيقته وضعت في نفس المكان كما كان من قبل، الأرض الآن كاذب الثور رايات مع اللون الأحمر الداكن وريتشارد نفسه شاحب غريبة. مثل ورقة أو الثلج أو شيء من هذا.
بين الحصول على ما يصل ريتشارد الرجاء، لدينا للحصول على الدراجة الخاصة بك ثابتة. هيا ميت، الحصول على ما يصل.
ريتشارد، من فضلك، عليك ان تحصل على أعلى!
بعد عدة أسابيع بعد ريتشارد كانت قد دفنت في كنيسة سانت أندروز وجد جيمس نفسه خارج المخيمات عربة الصفراء. واقفا في الباب في مجرفة له ومع الجعة في يده وبواب المدرسة. مع ابتسامة قال ببساطة، لذلك سيصدره فقط لي ولكم الآن في ذلك، وتأتي للعمل يكون لك؟
- دفعتني ضعف ما قدمتموه ريتشارد واستخدام الواقي الذكري سخيف والثاني وأنا سوف تفعل ما تريد.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


imma poo poo everywhere then sit down in the poo poo and make bbbrrrppbrrprprpp boat noises with my mouth y'all need to step the gently caress back because this is the realest poo poo you ever gonna see just calm yourself bbbbbbrprrprprpppprprpbbbbbbbbbbbb






art, motherfuckers

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


imma just spin around and round like a lawn sprinkler spraying liquid poo poo all over the place ppppprprpbbrrbrbrpbpppppp bpppbrprpb

im modifying my body so I can shoot pop out of extra holes so when I poo poo, I poo poo everywhere. I poo poo on your lawn, and in your souls, and I grab you and poo poo down your soul boyyo better be ready

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


plop plop plop watchin baby domers drop

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


I am a fan of neither team so I'm just gonna get drunk and hurl abuse at you

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


im write a story

one day there was wizard

he says "all you stories are terrible!"

then he spin around a in circle and say "BADBADBADBADSTORIESNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

then he looked at his hands, and he said, in a trembling voice "all stories are solipsisms, and all solipsists are narcissists."

then he masturbated

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


okay so one day there was a man

he was a very tall man and very handsome

we said "I want to marry Kim Kardashian!"

but he couldn't, because Kanye West was in the way

so he strangled Kanye West with a piano wire and Kim said "now I have to marry you! This is how it works."

and they were married happily every after

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Music, heard & hearing

You - listen. If I could grab you by the shoulders
and shake you, and make you understand
one
small
thing -

it is this and this only

your words are heard,
your face is seen -
your love is grand and well-founded.

your hands may shake, and your voice may waver - it may be that the world takes you and shakes you, and the whole drat thing feels so very fragile; as if your ventricles were porcelain, as if your breath were crushed in a vice. These things may be true but

they are not alone. No? There was a man who lived on my street. Listen -

every day, he came walking down the road with his hands clapped over his ears. I asked him once why he did it. He shrugged; he couldn’t hear me.

One day, he found a skateboard. Hoo boy, did he love that skateboard, but he couldn’t skate and cover his ears at the same time. He gave it to me. I thanked him. He didn’t seem to hear.

here is the sound and the sound alone -

here you are, candle-flame flickering beneath your breast - a lone light standing staunch against that great villain night. Here you are - you are heard, you are seen - your love is grand and well-founded. Here is your voice - it is heard, as it is hearing. Here is your heart - which is muscle and blood - so marvelous and vital, so rich with music. Listen - it speaks: thok thok thok thok in perfect 4/4.

You - listen,

your hands may shake, but they do so in time. Your voice may waver, but it does so in tune.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Interprompt: WHOA THOSE BUGS ARE REALLY BIG - LIKE, WAY BIGGER THAN NORMAL BUGS. THIS IS NOT GOOD, STEPHEN. NOT GOOD AT ALL.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


sure, In.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


removed for publishing stuff

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at Nov 26, 2016 around 10:14

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


YFDHippo posted:

THANK YOU JUDGE CRABROCK! I appreciate and welcome all criticism.
i dont crabrock is a butt

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


In

quote:

90) The moon's my constant mistress, / And the lonely owl my marrow; / The flaming drake and the night crow make / Me music to my sorrow.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


removed for publishing stuff

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at Nov 26, 2016 around 10:20

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


How to Judge the Quality of a Katana Sword

1) do so as swiftly as possible: this will ensure quality judging

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


How to Get Fast Quick

1) don't be slow
2) be good

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


WEEK 179 LATE/DRUNK CRITS PART 1


Okay you losers, I am sleep deprived and high on painkillers and everybody on IRC is going MUFFIN WHERE ARE THE CRITS. I have a bottle of cheapass 15% “whiskey flavoured liquor” in front of me and every time you make me mad, I take a shot. You fucks want crits, you got crits.

THE FETAL FASTNESS - BY KLAPMAN

Congratulations you’re first so I’m totally sober, but you’re also going to be the first one to drive me to loving drink.

I mean it’s a dumb/funny patch note but you don’t really do anything with it. Your story is just the tweet but dragged out to 1200 words with nothing new or funny to say.

When I drank: I GUESS THEY’RE DEAD NOW YEAH THAT MAKES SENSE. “eachother”. What the gently caress why is this kid suddenly brain damaged nothing in this story makes any loving sense. Seriously what the gently caress happened in this story. Shot count: 4.

HEAR THE TRUMPETS, HEAR THE PIPERS - BY AMUSED FROG

This has a really good setup and then it gets to the joke halfway through and sits there going “HUH, HUH, HUH, WADDAYA THINK IT’S PRETTY FUNNY ISN’T IT” for the rest of the story.

When I drank: this man literally commands life and death why is he still hanging out with his loser bandmates and not making trillions of dollars. SUDDEN VIOLENCE ENDING. Shot count: 6.

THE ABLUTION FEAST - BY CALIGULAKANGAROO

I REMEMBER THIS ONE. I ACTUALLY LIKED THIS ONE. It’s basically Shadow Over Innsmouth written from the perspective of the fishpeople but it’s well-written and has a lot of emotional torque in it.

When I drank: I DIDN’T. YOU GO GIRL. SHOT COUNT: 6

BLISS - BY THE BLUNDERBUSS

Prettily written but not really suprising. I’ve seen a lot of the best sentences here in better books, but I don’t begrudge you for knowing what to steal. This is one of the stories that took the prompt and did something interesting with it, rather than just playing it out as a lolwacky joke. The fact that it feels a little stale and by-the-numbers is ultimately what pushes it down, but I still enjoyed it.

When I drank: I DIDN’T. At this rate I might start sobering up. SHOT COUNT: 6.

GET OFF MY MAGICAL LAWN - BY PHAM NUWEN

OH GOD I REMEMBER THIS ONE HOLD ON I GOTTA POUR ANOTHER SHOT. imma be doing that a lot for the next ten minutes

this is just a bunch of old dudes talking about boring poo poo and of my god can’t you just loving kill me. this is why I didn’t visit my grandad when he was in the retirement home because it’s just this poo poo endlessly and the smell of antiseptic ane i barely even knew the man anway im not a bad person i swear

WHEN I DRANK: DUMB FANTASY NAMES. ENTIRE STORY IS TELLING INSTEAD OF SHOWING. LOLWACKYRANDOMMONKEYCHEESE. CURRENT SHOW COUNT: 9. I keep dropping the cap ofg the bottle

THE UMBRELLA MAN - MASONITY


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAA

I am going to present myu critd in the style of your story. G’day chappo me matey innit this just fuckeen annoying an duch give us a monkeyshine for a bobbler dibby dabby dooby boo ive been to london once in my entire life and i know this is a load of horseshit from somebody who has never met a real english person in their life whattoo me flibber flab

WHEN I DRANK: its probably cheating but i just kinda turned the bottle upsidedown and sculled for about eight seconds i think. currnet shot count: gently caress i dunno. I think the alcohol has reached by bloodsteam by now

THE UNIVERSAL TRANSLATOR - BY HELLISHWHISKERS


people do not talk like this. i hate stilted dialogue where somebody is trying to sound fancy so they just throw in lots of big words and remove all thwe contratctions and they’re like “yup tyhat’s works’ and then they go home for dinner

““I will choose to ignore this impropriety as well as your previous refusal to treat this matter seriously. You will find me someone who will be willing to take responsibility for this incident! We are talking about a development on an intergalactic scale!””

WHAT IS THIS poo poo MY MAN, WHAT IS IT?

i have no idea what is going on in this story. There’s a man and he has a radio and then there’s Jerry Falwell and a ratpror and popopop watching fmotherfuckers drop

jam rating: this is not my jam but it could be worse

alcohol: good

A FELLOW OF MEANS - BLEUSMAN

oh no Bluseman is writing about Adele i dont wanna think about my ex and how much my sex life sucks you can go right to hell with your SHOOP BOOP A DOOP A BOOP. NO. NONE OF THAT.


this is everything wrong wit hthe fdialogue in the last story except its the wjhole loving story is like that. you dont write beautifully by throwingh $20 words at the screen and seeing what syicks goddam man read some hemingway or som,e salinger or some poo poo whwere the oldf dead white man words goofd

drunk\; yes! happyL: no! D:

sssh guys quiet i think there’s a mouse in my room

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Shoot, I'm in.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


The South Sea Shuffle

Marnie had the moves, man. When Marnie moved her feet, men fell to pieces - literally. Marnie, the Loveliest Leper - Queen Bee of the South Seas, who shuffled from town to town swaddled in bandages, leaving little bits of herself behind in every new bed. She wore an engraved silver mask, and her bloodshot-blue eyes stared out from behind it. When Marnie tweeted, a million Buzzfeed hacks screencapped it and worked it into a listicle. Marnie had men dying at her feet, but it wasn’t enough.

Marnie was terribly, terribly hungry. That is to say, her hunger inspired terror. She was done with Patrón and caviar: she wanted to eat somebody beautiful, and in consuming their flesh to steal their memories and their strength, and to become twice as beautiful and twice as wise. She met a man called Fitzgeraldo - he was tall, and blonde. He walked like a long-wandering king - each falling foot a gunshot to the heart of a sloppy and classless world. His eyes were green. He knelt before her, and she took a steak knife and pushed it into his eye. It split, and dead liquid inside spilled over her hands and made her shudder with pleasure. She fell to her knees and tore at his body with her bare hands. She ate him raw, on a golden floor. Her manicured fingernails dug deep into his guts. She chewed his intestines - so thick with muscle and poo poo. It filled her mouth, and she cried out - whether in pleasure or disgust was never clear, nor did it matter. She split Fitzgeraldo’s bones with her bare hands, then sucked out the marrow. By the end, her clothes were ruined with blood, and pus, and bile. Her three trusted attendants were present. They tweeted it, and their followers doubled overnight. #cannibalchic.

The next morning when Marnie awoke, she laughed, then she didn’t. It wasn’t laughter as she’d ever known it - not a reaction to something on the outside but instead a literal gut reaction - something deep inside her pushing its way up through her windpipe and out her mouth in a hukhukhukhukhuk. She shivered, then she shivered again. She shivered so hard that her left pinkie, heavy with rings and precious stones, fell off; the skin and muscle tore, and the finger hung by a red thread for only a second, then the whole thing hit the floor with a splut. She laughed a-hukhukhukhukhuk, then something caught in her throat and she coughed. A small chunk of lung came up into her mouth and she tasted it only for a second before it flew across the room and slapped against her gilded mirror. She wasn’t sure whether the lung was hers or not.

“Who got the Kuru? You do, you do!” said her doctor, Mister Mistakolophese. He was short, and hairy, and had steely grey eyes. He swore up and down that he wasn’t the devil, and he had a habit of appearing behind people in locked rooms.

“You’re gonna shake shake shake until you die, baby,” he said. “It’s a two-for-one terminal disease special in Marnie’s body today!”

He shook his booty at her, as per usual. She clapped, then stopped when her right pinkie brushed against the place where her left pinkie had lived. She wept, and Mister Mistakolophese’s twerking hit a new tempo - a sort of vibrant madness, a spastic booty-bumping that was almost hypnotic. He disappeared in a puff of foul-smelling smoke, and Marnie was left alone in her bedroom, with the bits of her body flaking off all around her.

Marnie shivered and jerked her way to the kitchen, all the while hukhukhuk-ing up little bits of her insides all over her pristine floor. Some were red, some were green, some were grey. They were all different shapes, and smells, and textures. Mostly though, they just smelled rotten. Marnie took a pair of eggs from the pantry, then cracked them into a pan. Something changed in the weight of her body - she was overcome with vertigo and she was only on the fifth floor! All the blood rushed away from her hands, and she barely felt it when her whole hand came off at the wrist and splooshed down into the frying pan. The effluvium from it mixed with the egg whites, and turned them into egg pinks. She shivered and laughed, shivered and laughed. A-shake shake shake, no! She couldn’t stop. Her body was falling to pieces and she needed help, but she had nowhere to turn. She picked up the lump of flesh that’d once been her hand. She shrugged, then picked it up and bit deeply into it. Her mouth filled with a dozen different flavours - rot, pus, marrow. She licked her lips greedily, and drank deeply of her own discharges. It made her feel strong, and beautiful. She didn’t want to do it, but she needed to do it - some little voice inside her stomach and grabbing her tendons and tugging them and twisting her around like a puppet.

Marie staggered into the street, clutching her own ex-appendage. Her chin was covered in her own blood, and worse. A small group of paparazzos broke popped up from behind her gate and started snapping pics. It was all over the net in a matter of seconds. #needahand.

“Help!” she said, “I’m eating myself and I can’t stop! I’m shaking and laughing and I’m going to die unless you help me!

They tweeted it.

Her neighbours waved to her. They were standing around a grill, drinking beer. Some of them wore bandages over their own faces. As she watched, one of them took a heated knife from on top of the grill, and carved off his own nose, then popped it in his mouth. The other folks around the grill fell on each other with knives and fists and stones. Bones shattered, muscles tore, guts and blood and poo poo spilled all over the lawn. The paparazzos were going berserk - snapping snapping snapping and uploading it online. It was no doubt going viral as gently caress. People spilled out of the nearby buildings to snap their own shots. They carried bricks, and bats, and anything heavy they could get their hands on.

A portly man with a stuff moustache swung his kitchen kettle, and bashed his little daughter’s delicate skull right the gently caress in. Her brains spilled out onto the tarmac, and her father fell to his knees like a rooting pig, snuffling and chewing at the grey matter. Mister Mistakolophese popped into existence behind Marnie.

“Ooooh nooo,” he said. He farted. It smelled like the grave. “Ooooooh yes.”

“Help me,” said Marnie. Something fell off her face, and her vision went blurry. Something else fell, and the world went dark. She pawed at her face with her remaining hand, and found two sucking holes where her eyes had been. Her skin fell away, exposing viscera and bone. Her world was vile, and moist, and blind. Her whole body shook. Her knees buckled as the tendons fell apart, and she hit the road with a squelch.

Before her ears fell off, she heard her neighbours’ footsteps coming towards her. She smelled their drool, and the blood on their weapons and on their teeth. They bit into her, and she tried to scream in pain, but her tongue fell out and flailed around in her mouth before it went down her throat. She choked, and tried to scream, and choked again. Marnie died shaking, and choking, and laughing - Marnie died the #1 trending topic of the day, and the most beautiful woman alive.





1271 words. Taylor Swift's Shake It Off.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


SEBMOJO I FOLLOWED YOUR INSTRUCTIONS WHAT DO I DO NOW

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Anime is bad. In.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Mojo still hasn't posted crit from that brawl that StealthArcher bitched out on like six months ago, so don't hold your breath.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


your knight has sworn to obey the laws of an obscure and hated religion

1300 words exactly

give a little

Sarg wiped his forehead. It was one regular summbitch of a night - almost as dangerously hot as the daytime. Could be another solar flare was on its way, but that wasn’t something to worry about – if it happened, he’d be too burnt and dead to care. His armour was one of the last sets of BOSTON SWAT in the Order’s vault, complete with see-through plastic shield; what wonderful poo poo mankind had once known. He sat in a temple of the Pale Lady, in the ruins of Providence. The central idol lay on her side; her head smashed to powder, her bundle of wheat long rotted away and her gold coins stolen. The words on her plinth were worn away; the nig t is gen rou

The old city of Providence was long abandoned, and nobody came out this way except the Lady’s mendicants. Our Pale Lady of Blessed Charity; what a joke- what a gods-damned-bugfuck joke. Some days, Sarg thought about climbing one of the old burnt-out skyscrapers and doing the ole fifteen story concrete high-dive. Then who would beg for alms, and give those alms to those who needed them more? Then, who would tend the Lady’s gardens and protect her unwilling servants? No-loving-body, that’s who. Nobody gave a single highfallutin’ poo poo about the Goddess of Charity, not even her most faithful keeper. Barely even, anyways. He caught himself in his dark thoughts, then spat. Some days were worse than others. What was the old song? Doo-doo-doo, I do the needful, doo-doo-doo, I walk alone.

His old soldier’s senses caught the movement before his eyes did, and his hand was on his sword before he knew what was going on. The newcomer was older than Sarg, with a red-paint hand splashed across his face.

“Well,” said Sarg, “didn’t know you folks had a mission out this way.”

He said folks like another man might say pigfuckers. Devotees of the Invisible Hand, the god of the old world; Hallelujah, praise the dollar, gently caress you got mine.

The new man shrugged. He was unarmed. “God helps those who help themselves,” he said. Then he grinned - the little grin of a man who thinks he’s a wit and he’s another half of one. “Mine, anyway.”

His manner was disarming, but Sarg knew better. The old man wore a nametag. HELLO, MY NAME IS: fELLo. HOW’S MY SMILE?

“My oath,” he said, “compels me to kill looters. And I might take it as a sign from both our gods that I’ve got a sword, and you don’t. Piss off before the market decides your guts look better on the outside.”

“Me mate, me mate, me mate,” said Fello, “you don’t want to kill me, not with the things I know. I’ve got a knowing I do and ARGH-”

Sarg had lunged forward and grabbed Fello by the shirt collar. He didn’t say anything; the point of his sword did all the talking for him. Fello got the point.

“Bank vault,” he said. “Pre-fall. Untouched. Underground. Here in Providence. Gold, none of that flimsy rotten paper poo poo. Think of how many people you can donate to, aye? Won’t that be a pip in your heavenly soul or whatever you lads do. Lemme go and I’ll tell you. You’re an honourable man- I can smell that a mile away. Smells like roses and blah blah etc. You ain’t gonna stab an unarmed man who helped out your Order.”

“Hells I won’t,” said Sarg. He pressed the sword’s tip in a little deeper. “But I’d be better disposed if you told me.”

Fello grinned a GOTCHA grin. “Corner of Eastwatch and Allen’s Street, across from the belltower. Found it wrote on the back of an old photo. Did some digging, made my way out here. You get there before me, it’s yours. Otherwise, well, God helps those etc etc blah blah. Now let me go. You promised, big man. You made an oath, even if your mouth didn’t say it. You made an oath on the inside. Lads like you always do.”

For a moment, Sarg considered putting the tiniest bit of extra pressure on the handle of his sword, and spitting Fello like a stuck pig. Nobody in Boston would know, and nobody who knew would mind. Doo-doo-doo, I do the needful. Sarg tasted blood, and leaned in a little. His muscles tensed, then he shoved the man away. Fello’s rear end hit the dirt, and he scampered to his feet, and off into the overgrown ruins of Providence. Sarg watched him go. His palms itched. He didn’t feel like he’d done the right thing.

***

All the old street signs were worthless- their metal poles twisted and warped from the daytime heat. Sarg was looking for a clock tower - they’d built those outta stone in this part of the country, hundreds of years before the world went to hell. What a great irony that with all the old world’s fine tech, only their old stone buildings remained. Stone ain’t pretty, but it don’t melt. The forest was working hard at taking back this part of the city - nature’s an adaptable beast, and she finds a way around any obstacle. They’d burned and drowned half the world, and kudzu simply didn’t give a poo poo. Hell, kudzu treated it like Christmas: plenty of sunlight, and nobody to cut you back when your nimble green fingers got too close to the windows.

After two more hours of searching, he saw it piercing up through the greenery- in the night, it loomed like the disapproving finger of the Lady. Sarg spat, then cut through another bank of vines. It took another solid hour of clearing away plant matter to reach the clock tower. There were no other buildings nearby. Sarg cursed, then leaned against the cool stone, dropping down just a fraction. That little movement saved his life.

The first arrow smashed into the tower where his head had been only a second before. The second got intimate with his riot shield, and the shock of the impact tore the slab of plastic from his hands. He staggered and tried to draw his sword, but Fello appeared out of the darkness, crossbow loaded.

“Me mate, me mate, me mate,” said Fello. “Ain’t no gold left outside enterprising hands this side of the Rockies. Woulda thought a learned man like you would know something like that, but I’m no fancy lads like you, am I? The real gold’s what you’re wearing. It’s not right that you hold onto a suit of armour that fine, while fine men like me have to go around unprotected. Why don’t you do the good thing, and donate it into my poor little hands?”

Doo-doo-doo, I do the needful, doo-doo-doo, I walk alone.

Ain’t principles a bitch?

“You coulda just asked,” said Sarg. He moved as if to undo one of the straps.

Fello grinned his disarming little grin - his nasty little sawtooth monkey smile. He took a step forward, and Sarg’s armoured knee caught him right in the twigganberries. He doubled up, and let out a strangled cry. Sarg kneed him again, for good measure. His sword found a familiar place, pressed up against Fello’s bellybutton.

“Leave your crossbow,” said Sarg, “and everything you’ve got in your pockets. They’ll be fine donations for the Pale Lady. If I see you around here again, I’ll reconsider my current charity.”

There was a tinkling of things-from-pockets hitting the dirt.

“That’s not fair!” bawled Fello, “you ain’t giving, you’re taking!”

“I’m giving you the greatest gift you’ll ever waste, rear end in a top hat; I’m giving you your life. Now beat it.”

Fello stumbled, found his footing, then shuffled off into the darkness. Sarg knelt down to examine his new haul, and smiled. The night was generous indeed.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Interprompt: the worst soup

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Is your cabal good?

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


WEEK 191 CRITS #1: Chairchucker, Titus82, Jocoserious, Mercedes, Sittinghere, Spectres of Autism, anime was right, kurona_bright

Oven of Life

Knowing this is Chairchucker and not some random newbie is infuriating: this is like something you would’ve written in the first year of TD. You’ve improved so much, but this is some prime-quality backsliding. It’s pointless LOLRANDOM wackiness that does nothing and goes nowhere. In a refrain I’m going to find myself repeating all throughout these crits: writing a vignette does not free you from telling a story. The difference is, you’re taking a snapshot of a story and that snapshot has to do the same amount of heavy lifting. So many of stories this week were bad punchlines dragged out to 500 words. 3/10.

Addiction 101

I had no strong feelings about this either way. It is the beige wallpaper of stories. You just took your flash rule and wrote a story about two people discussing the flash rule. There’s no emotional hooks whatsoever. It is I guess competently written, but it’s totally empty. 5/10.

Cosmic Catch-Up

I am going to ctrl+V this every time because nobody reads everybody else’s crits, but goddam this was the very worst example of it in a week that was stuffed with this kind of story: writing a vignette does not free you from telling a story. The difference is, you’re taking a snapshot of a story and that snapshot has to do the same amount of heavy lifting. This is a bad punchline dragged out to 500 words. “What if Cthulhu was also a suburban dad?” Okay, and then what? It does absolutely nothing with its concepts. I could find and replace maybe 15 words and it would just be two dads making dad jokes. 3/10

Harbinger

The first thing this week that I actually liked, though it’s still pretty middling. I think the issue is that it’s a story that’s been told a LOT (my driveby crit was “GROUND CONTROL TO MAJOR TOM”) and despite being well-written, it doesn’t really add anything new and it’s not well-written enough to justify not adding anything new. 6/10

Just Like That Day in Reno

This worked pretty well. It’s cute, and competently-executed. It stops there though: the whole thing is the leadup to the ‘daaaaw :3’ moment at the end and that’s not really up there in the pantheon of emotions that actually move you, you know? It's cotton candy. It's happy hardcore. It’s the sorta piece that could maybe HM in a worse week, but at the end of the day I’d totally forgotten about it by the time I’d finished the next story. 7/10.

Tremulous

The first in the crop of stories that furiously mugs the camera as if to say “HUH? HUH? WHAT ABOUT THAT SETUP? WOWEE, WOWZERS, THIS STORY HUH?”
There is no story ever that was improved by the author interjecting and going “lol this is dumb”. Even with tongue firmly in cheek, this sort of thing benefits from a real core of sincerity. Otherwise it’s worse than a waste of time: it’s a waste of time that knows it’s a waste of time, and keeps on plowing ahead anyway. “It’s okay officers, I murdered that dude, but I knew that I was murdering him the whole time so that makes things fine.”

Underneath the grating smugness, there’s a core of a decent scene in there. I can dig a funny scene about a nihilistic captain who is loving determined to go down with his ship, but it needs to stop trying to convince me that it’s funny and just let the funny happen on its own. It’s a good setup, but the story treats it like a worthless throwaway. Try rewriting it with a little more honest humanity and it’ll be funny as hell. 5/10

In-Putt

Really solid, but seems to think that the reader is kinda dumb and needs to be beaten over the head with the moral of the story. It’s far from the most Saturday Morning Special piece this week (hi Kurona_bright!) but you’re a good enough writer that you should just let your writing speak for itself instead of shoving it down our throats. That said, I genuinely enjoyed this story, and it’s one of the ones that stuck with me afterwards. Nice work, just ease off the gas a little next time. 8/10

Night

Hi Kurona! Part of me feels that my burning hatred of this piece is that I’m an LGBT man and this reads like a terrible episode of Sesame Street, and that in turn felt like it was trivialising a lot of very real and difficult poo poo from my own life. But then, in judgechat, Crabrock said basically the exact same thing without any prompting from me, and that was the final nail in the coffin; it’s a GI Joe, Fat Albert, BK Kids’ Club incredibly patronising look at an issue that has been simplified to death already.

The whole thing is such a simplistic take on an incredibly complex set of issues, and it doesn’t read true to life at all. Trying to write about LGBT experiences is cool and important, but it’s also hard, and requires a lot more love and attention than you’ve given it here.

More than that though, it doesn’t actually say anything. “Preudice bad.” “K, then what?” “Prejudice bad.” Much like Addiction 101, it seems content to show a bad thing happening, then kinda shrug and walk away. It’s somehow both incredibly hamfisted but also really limp and unfulfilling. 2/10

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


I never really clicked with the whole genre until I saw somebody describe it like this in an essay

DEFINITION OF MAGICAL REALISM: in a world where metaphors are literal ...

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


"What are you drinking?" he said.

His chest was big and nice, and he was very hairy.

"Scotch and soda," I said. He smiled at me, and his beard bristled.

we did a sex thing

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Hey, this week isn't insane for me. Hit me with your rhythm stick.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Brood
302 words

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgrlG6hQbNM

They came for the children.

There’s more to it than that – there always is. In the end, the end is all that matters: they came for the children. Two fae: two by two, in blood-red coats, with their hair styled into cruel golden horns. The old stories were wrong - horseshoes and milk outside the door did nothing. The old stories were wrong - they didn’t want our children for themselves.

When a cuckoo places its eggs in another bird’s nest, it doesn’t steal the eggs away to raise them as its own. That seems obvious, so why did we think different of the fae? They are beautiful and walk on two legs, but they are animals just like us. They don’t need youth or laughter: they need a warm nest for their brood, so they can flit off and hunt and gently caress and do whatever else they do in the deepest autumn night. They’re parasites, but they are so beautiful.

They took Willem, the baker’s little boy, and smashed his skull against the stony ground. His brain left a grey-and-grey streak painted across the dirt, with fragile eggshell-shapes of skull scattered throughout the grisly trail. Willem's father fought, and then Willem's father wasn’t. They didn’t kill him - they only kill for fun. They unmade him. All they left was a cowled shadow in the shape of a man - one of dozens that followed them in a spectral procession. It made no sound, but we knew was screaming.

They left as swift as they’d come - all shadows in red and gold as the forest swallowed them whole.

And in each crib, they left a single golden-haired child, with blood-red eyes. Willem’s mother screamed at us to destroy them, but we couldn’t: they were so very fragile, and beautiful. The fae fathers knew this, of course --

they came for the children.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Yo in with http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?...+not+Rimbaud%29

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


sebmojo posted:

oh you are all so horrible

who wants a brawl

i will gently caress you up

lol

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


sebmojo posted:

ok you yappy cocksucker, you want it, here it is

you choose the prompt, i do the word count
lol okay I've used this brawl prompt before but it remains one of my absolute favourites and brings out the best in everybody


Write a story set in a secondary world that is totally different from our own. It must be almost unrecognisable. It cannot be a world you've previously written about.

This does not free you from the obligation to write an actual story.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Flipped: http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?...+not+Rimbaud%29

The original piece is bile and invective, and honestly pretty insincere. It came from a weird dark time in my life, when I was lashing out at everybody and everything around me and I thought it was somehow funny and interesting to be an rear end in a top hat. So that's the flip: instead of looking out, it's looking in. Instead of being insincere, it's aiming for honesty. Instead of anger, it's aiming for kindness.

I used to be
750 words

I used to be angry. That undersells it, but it’ll have to do. I never hit anybody, and I took pride in that; “It’s just words,” I’d say, “they need to toughen up.” In the same breath, I took pride in how good I was at hurting people.

I used to drink, and scream. I probably said some harsh poo poo to you, and that’s why I’m here. Consider it an apology, I guess, or something like it. Consider it a warning;

in my darkest night, I took a bottle of pills, locked the bathroom door and didn’t come out for three hours. Those three hours are almost gone from my memory - trying to grab them is like boxing fog. The one thing I do remember is the sensation that I was standing on the edge of a great cliff, looking down and down forever into the big barren below. It was empty, but it wasn’t - looking straight back up was some wall-eyed titan ten thousand miles across and even further down. Something hoary and damp. It exhaled, and the whole world shivered at the stink of fish guts, ethanol and rot.

Funny how the mind processes these things. I don’t know if it was a demon or a metaphor or somewhere in between, but it scared me out of my own soul and I’ve been running ever since, planting flowers behind me as I go. Some of them die, but some don’t.

So here we are - here’s the point insomuch as I bloody have one: you matter. I may have said different, but I was angry and scared. That’s a reason, but it’s a shitshow of an excuse. You matter, okay? Maybe not in the way that the men on TV want you to matter, but you loving matter. There’s a million people in every city who are convinced that they are totally isolated, and nobody else understands. When somebody tries to get close, they lash out, because they don’t understand. Do you see it? Maybe not- let's keep rolling.

Anger is a cage. I want to pretend that I’m doing this for you, but I’m doing this for me because anger is a cage and this is my loving key. So sue me it’s selfish - it doesn’t make it less true: you matter. If it were insincere, it wouldn’t mean poo poo to either of us.

There’s a guy who used to live on my street, and he’d walk down it every day with his hands in the air, muttering to himself. White guy, older: fifties? Hair so filthy that it was starting to stick to itself. Every day, same time, he’d walk down the road with his fingers as high as they’d go. “Please please please please” he’d mutter and we made fun of him because he was crazy and we were scared to admit we might be crazy too. He just up-and-disappeared one day, and we lost our punching bag, and we had to go back to looking at ourselves until we found somebody else to project our fears onto. It’s a story with a fuzzy gauze of fiction laid over it so I could pretend that I helped him out, but that’s a drat lie. He disappeared, and it only affected me because -- for a moment only– my anger wasn’t able to look outwards. That way lies the cliff; goodnight sweet prince - bought the T-shirt, rode the waterslide, smashed my head on the rocks and let the little fish gobble my marrow.

I used to be scared, and angry. I probably hurt you, because I hurt a lot of people. You matter because there are countless other people like you, and they need to know that you’re alive. You are never alone, and even if your feet are in a cubicle your ka is is bigger than you could know. Forests grow in your footprints.

I looked down from the cliff and you know what I saw? I saw me, writ large. I saw my ka floating free, and it scared the poo poo out of me. A demon, a metaphor, a vision, a vital spark - however the gently caress you spin it, it’s the same thing: it’s your own reflection bounced back from a broken mirror. Your words linger in the world after their form is gone - your warmth lingers large in the hearts of everybody it touches. You are bigger than you know. You matter - how you choose to matter is up to you.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Sitting Here posted:

Muffin, toxx up laddy
LOL :TOXxX: like a bossxsc

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Mojo is a bad writer he can eat a poop

Seed
996 words

Come, come - come down into the dredge. That’s right, pal: see the stony sky, with its stalagmaybe hands hanging down (or whatever counts down down here). Whole damned world’s turned inside out with its stony guts spun heavenward and its grass buried so deep that miners spend their whole lives digging and never see so much as a single blade.

Barry Rutledge died weeping, though nobody cared to watch - least of all me.

Now Barry Rutledge - there’s a miner worth talking about. Real old country bloke. Big fella, cut up to hell from all his time spent in the green-down-deep. Wore his sins on the outside so he could keep his insides clean. Barry dug like he had a grudge against the stones - dug every drat day a whackwhackwhack bringing up all kinds of shine for the pitboss. Never a man to jostle you around, or waste your time. That was, until he found the flower.

It grew up through the stones but it didn’t so much as grow as

There’s classifications of mad, you know. A bloke might be “weird in a good way” or “a big loopy” and everybody keeps ‘em around because they’re a fun time. Push that madness further and you hit “weirdo” and “outcast”. Push it even further, beyond the horizon, you get “mad as a shithouse rat”, which in some circles is even a term of grudging praise. Barry Rutledge weren’t mad until he found that flower, but he was (sure as you can spit) mad as a shithouse rat from the day he found it ‘til the day he died.

Nothing grows on the topside of the dredge, and nobody lives there willingly - you’re either sent there to serve your time, or you’re born there and you’re hosed from the outset. Nobody knows why it ended up green on the inside, but the universe can be funny like that - I hear there’s a planet of solid gold but the air’s so caustic it melts any ship we try to land. I hear there’s a race of people with assholes for faces, who talk by spraying poo poo on each other. I hear a lot of funny poo poo, when the miners are deep in their cups. So mad from all the endless stone that they imagine a big wide universe just as poo poo as their own.

Is this a bit fragmented? Time doesn’t work the same way in the dredge. What’s up is down and what’s back and fore and I can’t even follow myself sometimes. Let’s get on top of our chronology

1) Barry died
2) He found a flower

wait

poo poo

1) Barry was born in Devonport, outside Christchurch, on February 30th 1869
3) Barry died
4) he found a flower
2) he became detached from the timestream (lol, who didn’t?) and found his way to the dredge

Wait no that’s not really right either. Let’s just keep going.

Barry Rutledge died weeping, though nobody cared to watch - least of all me. Wait - we’ve been here before. We’ve been here before. We were down in the hole, down in the dredge, where up is down and back is forward. We’ve always been here before, because we were always here - we came from elsewhere but we were always here, do you see? If we were plucked from time and placed here, then we left behind families, and friends, and a teenage daughter named Frannie who had blue streaks in her blonde hair we’ve been here before, and nowhere else. We’ve been -

we’ve

We are displaced. Time does not exist. The surface of the dredge is stone, and at its heart is a maelstrom of every damned colour that will grow and shine.

It’s all a bit fragmented. Sorry.

Now Barry Rutledge - there’s a miner worth talking about. He had a daughter named Frannie who -

wait

I had a daughter named Frannie, and a friend named Barry. I came from Devonport –

NO


I am mad as a shithouse rat, you know. I found a flower that grew topside and I died for it. We are all mad as shithouse rats, and we are all Barry Rutledge, and we all have a daughter named –

Let me find some earth for you to plant yourself in. Here’s your frame of reference - in Japanese there’s no word for the colour ‘green’. Instead, there’s a word for ‘turquoise’ and green is just another shade. The names of colours are arbitrary patterns put over specific wavelengths of light. That doesn’t mean green doesn’t exist, it means that we invented the colour green. Colours are easy, but what about directions, then? What about memories? What about identity? It’s all a big snarl of razorwire that matters because we say it does, and it does matter. Magic, no? On the dredge, down is up and Frannie is my daughter and we are all Barry Rutledge with his rough hands going whackwhackwhack against the soft stone. No pick no, because we’re lost in time and our memories don’t matter –

The flower grew topside. Memory is a cage that each man makes, and the shadow of the bars shapes the way he sees the world. Barry was a big fella. Me, I’m short. I’m a little shortass with no hair on my chest and delicate pianist’s hands that were wasted cracking rocks together to see what grows topside.

Over the horizon, freed from our cage, we are all mad as shithouse rats. A flower - and flo-wer cannot exist topside any more than identity can exist topside so we dig and dig with our hands if we must because at the core of the world there is a colourful maelstrom where up is up and our memories are our own. We, plucked from time - from Devonport, from Shenzhen, from Persepolis, from Novgorod - from every age and every corner because these things mean nothing to the dredge.

We come, and dig – and at the core we find ourselves again.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Sebmojo I know the brawl isn't due for a day or so but you should motivate your withered bones to get it done anyway because maybe (due to your advanced age) you will sleep through the deadline and deny me a proper fight

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


the keys are difficult for your OLD finger to navigate just as the simple elements of a narrative are difficult for your OLD brain to piece together so for your own sake I think you should get cracking

I mean get motivated - do not crack any more of your feeble bones

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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


the galapagos turtle can live to 500 years old I guess it's nice that Sebmojo has somebody else he can reminisce with about a past age when his haircut was cool

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