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Jan 5, 2016 04:54
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 10:04 |
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Broenheim, I'm calling you out. Despite how much I might have enjoyed the classics you sent me such as I Really Like Slop! and w/e that Minecraft novel was... I can't just let this terrible affront to my honor from my Secret Santa, of all people, to just stand. So back up your loving words. Really, this should be simple for you. Right? You. Me. And a  (tho i think you're still in a brawl that's due today, so you should finish that first or w/e)
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Jan 18, 2016 21:46
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Broenheim posted:Idk if you're ask for a sports or not, so I'm gonna give you one anyways. Djeser posted:k, gonna ignore this I'll do it if you won't! In.
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Jan 19, 2016 00:58
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Falling into Place WC: 1051 words (+100 gifted to crabrock) Flash: eSPORTS! I see the pieces falling, even when I close my eyes. The music follows shortly after, and I hum the theme from Tetris under my breath, before it starts to play in the arena. I open my eyes and remember the stupid lessons they taught me: count to one hundred, focus on my breathing, and try not to imagine the lines around me being filled and made to disappear. The fat youngster dressed in the bright yellow standing to my right would complete the row in front of me perfectly. The thought makes me glance at my own line, and I breathe a sigh of relief—we won’t be vanishing anytime soon, at least. He mutters something about the “wasted gramps” and thinks I can’t hear him. The massive screen on the stage finishes its display, and the towering pile of blocks vanishing in an orgy of lights sends a shiver down my spine. One by one, we march to the stage, our national anthems blaring in a display of pomp, pageantry and patriotism. I stumble on the steps up the stage, but thankfully recover quickly. My coach made sure to take my drinks from me before the ceremony, including both of my flasks. I cast about for courage elsewhere. Never in a million years did I think I would have a passport, but it sits in my pocket, even as I wait for my match to be called. It sits next to the picture of my son and I together. We both look so happy in that picture, with him holding my Syrena Tetris Nationals - First Place trophy. I didn’t have the heart to tell him there were only eight contestants - he had a papa to be proud of, for once. -- My son always joked that I was trying to see the end of Tetris. It was never a joke he laughed at very much. The audience roars, and I am jolted from my memories. The only match left of the first round is mine, with little unknown Syrena seeded against the Tetris champion of the world. Apparently, he’s never dropped a single game since getting in the sport. The controller they hand me feels right and comfortable in my hands. It may look different, but it works the same as all the others, even down to the first one unwrapped so many years ago. How long did my father save up, to buy it from our little town’s only entertainment store? Would he be proud of his son, for following so closely in his footsteps? I banish long forgotten ghosts as the announcer explains the rules. First to fill their screen to the top loses, best two of three. My opponent, dressed in orange and blue, crinkles his nose as he approaches. He doesn’t seem so bad, really, shaking my hand and even wishing me luck. The game begins. Immediately, I realize that I am outclassed. He cuts me off from my first Tetris with one of his own, and flame geysers at the edge of the stage spout fire several feet in the air. I don’t go down without a fight, of course. With what limited space I have to work with, I push back, making sure to send at least a few lines over to him. In the end, his victory over me is complete. Between rounds, I call for a timeout. --- Backstage, I carefully unfold the picture from my pocket - and realize just how old and fragile it is. “Hey, kid,” I say. The champion looks up at me, startled. He barely has a chance to open his mouth before I have the picture of my son almost shoved in his face. “Listen. I don’t want you to lose for me. I wouldn’t ask you that, but…” I want to hit myself. Are my words slurring? What is this kid thinking of a man twice his age rambling off about his son? “Could you. Could you maybe… let me win a round? Or at least let me look good. My son would love to see it, and if I call him, maybe, maybe he’ll…” The kid looks at me, and I can only wonder what he’s thinking as I trail off. Somewhere, the officials are calling for us to return to the stage, and the kid finally gives me his answer after what feels like forever. “Whatever,” the kid mutters. --- I drag myself out to the stage, hoping he understood my voicemail. The second round starts much the same as the first. There’s just no way I can keep up with the kid and the way he flawlessly clears out his lines. My screen fills up faster even than the first round, and I can already imagine the game over screen. And then he makes a mistake. An obvious one. He flips his long block at the last moment, and instead of another Tetris, he blocks himself off. I almost miss the opportunity, but I capitalize on it. The Tetris champion puts up a good fight, but I’ve got momentum over him, and nothing can slow down a dumb, determined Syrenian. The small group of Syrenians in the stands scream wildly as it goes 1-1. My heart fills with pride for my country. I turn to the champ, to offer him some kind of thanks, but he says nothing. His eyes never leave the screen, and his hands almost turn the controller over and over in his hands. When the third round begins, he confirms my earlier theory. The champion comes out swinging in full force, and I can barely keep my head above water. The pieces fall, faster and faster, blocks filling the screen and my vision. My space to maneuver in keeps getting smaller and smaller, but maybe I can pull off a Tetris and— Game over. With my fingers aching and not even a trophy for participation, I remove myself from the stage. I can only think of Syrena and the fans I have failed. At how I have let everyone down, including myself. At least I can finally drown my sorrows away. In my pocket, tucked away next to my passport and treasured photo, my phone buzzes. It’s my son, calling for the first time in years.
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Jan 25, 2016 05:37
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brawlstory Axe to Grind Words: 635 Luther swung his heavy axe at the doomed man’s neck. And missed. The crowd murmured, confused. A clean execution was one thing, and a messy kill was interesting - but a miss, that was something new. None of them could remember a miss of the axe in the current headsman’s long tenure. Luther tugged on his executioner's hood, his axe still stuck in the stage. “I’m sorry, sir,” he called, looking up to the balcony where the prince sat. “It’s my wrists. They just haven’t been the same, of late…” Luther trailed off, squeezing exaggeratedly at his wrists. It wasn’t a complete lie, but the executioner figured he probably had at least a few years left in him before retirement. The crowd turned on the headsman at once. Wrists lightly bruised or shattered in a million pieces, they came for an execution. More than one of the peasants close to the stage pointed out just what a sham Luther was, all while others readied their tomatoes. From behind his mask, Luther winced at both the bloodthirst of most of his audience and just how quick on the uptake some of them were. From his balcony, the prince called for silence. “Very well. As reward for your many years of service, loyal headsman, I grant you your rest early, for this day--” A day without blood spilled for a careless system. A tiny victory, at best, but one Luther could live with. “--and for the rest of your days. You may live your life as a normal citizen once more.” Luther’s head jerked up - realizing that his plan had worked a little too well. “Sire, I don’t--” “Bring your son here by noon tomorrow so he may begin learning his duties as your replacement.” --- Luther kissed his son goodnight, locked the door tight, and set out on his grisly task. Getting in the palace dungeons was easy enough. He knew almost every guard, several of the hidden passages and was often seen at the dungeons. Unlike his father, Luther believed a man should get the chance to see his executioner face-to-face before their fatal meeting. The first few were easy enough: a rapist, a father turned murderer of his own children and a minor noble found guilty of treason. All asleep. Luther didn’t hesitate in slitting their throats. Dying sighs and blood splattering on his clothing gave him no pause, used to both as he was. He came to the last prisoner slated for execution, and recognized him as the man from the previous day. The skinny, rag wearing man slept, curled in a ball, as far away from the door as possible. Full collection of taxes was never going to be possible, but the collectors occasionally dragged in a few peasants to be made example of. The sickly peasant opened his eyes as Luther towered over him. Luther froze, flickering lantern light illuminating his blood streaked knife. How many had Luther killed in his over thirty years of executions? The tax-dodger died that night without Luther ever learning his name-the guard on duty hadn’t even bothered to write it down. --- That brief, pitiful gaze stayed with him for the final five years of his life. Even after countless nights of his quiet murders, never caught, Luther went to his grave remembering the knife dragging across the man’s neck. In reality, the peasant was found dead the following morning without a scratch. Eventually, his crimes and desperate attempts to save his son’s innocence caught up with him. Luther’s confession to a priest of his deeds, in an attempt to redeem himself, was the first of his two last requests. The second was for a bag, so as not to see the look in his son’s eyes as he dropped the axe on his father.
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Jan 28, 2016 01:45
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Kaishai posted:Critiques for Week CLXXIII: Broenheim, C7ty1, Clavius666, Sitting Here, Killer-of-Lawyers, BoldFrankensteinMir, jon joe, crabrock, XzeroR3, and kurona bright yo, thanks, also for the reminder that I have some decently overdue crits to give.
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May 6, 2016 20:41
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Crimes against literature? Oh boy! let's do this. in
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May 31, 2016 00:44
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What the hell. Gimmie a flash rule, seb. clearly nothing can go wrong with this plan
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May 31, 2016 15:44
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Sitting Here posted:please stop sending me sultry glances from across the room it's unprofessional yo, sup. I already got a rule from mojo, so let's do this too. (this can't possibly go wrong!)
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Jun 2, 2016 00:38
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Sitting Here posted:Your LOSER of the week made the curious choice to write a story inspired by the ecchi anime genre, which wasn't technically against the rules, but how well did you really think that was going to go over? Fuubi, your entry was less a sincere story and more misguided parody. And even calling it a 'parody' is generous, since your use of anime tropes bled over into a straight of caricature of Japanese characters. Please come back and try again, though! I knew what I was getting into when I assigned anime as a prompt, so I'd love to see what you do in a more sincere attempt. Fuubi posted:I found this wonderful oasis of inspiration and constructive criticism through the good samaritan C7ty1's helpful post in a seedier part of these forums. gdi man, you had one job (said one of the failures that week)
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Jun 9, 2016 17:23
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don't forget your toxxes, nerds
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Jun 10, 2016 01:38
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In. Gimmie a flash, please/thanks.
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Jun 22, 2016 22:23
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In and for my string of terrible failures, goddammit. Also will take a flash.
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Jul 20, 2016 14:21
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 10:04 |
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C7ty1 posted:In and Call it. Be back when I'm not (as) terriblebrains, TD!
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Jul 25, 2016 05:03
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