Gonna pop my babby Thunderdome cherry and say in.
|# ¿ Dec 5, 2017 09:04|
|# ¿ Jun 25, 2019 14:09|
How to Get Rid of Spider Webs
How to Master the Japanese Art of the Sword
“Deep breaths”, Ken whispered, “deep breaths.”
He was covered in sweat and had been shaking for a while. He breathed in, held the air for a few second, and exhaled again, continuing to do so for some time.
Tightening the grip on his sword nearly turned his knuckles white, but he didn’t seem to notice. His armor felt heavy, like he was wearing bricks rather than cheap plastic and leather.
He sized up his opponent, looking to expose some weakness from behind the faceguard, but his opponent seemed steady as a statue.
“Alright,” Ken said to himself “I can do this”.
In that moment, time seemed to slow down and, if only for a few seconds, he seemed ready for the first time.
The whistle sounded, signaling the start of the bout. Both fighters carefully circled each other, looking for an opening on the other. Ken bumped the tip of his sword against his opponent’s, carefully trying to probe for an opening.
Without warning, his opponent swung, forcing Ken to scramble for a parry. The speed with which the wood hit him overwhelmed and threw him off-balance. A quick follow-up caught him on the side of the head, sealing the match.
It took only a few seconds.
Gathering himself, Ken quietly excused himself to the locker room. After making sure that he was alone, he tore off the faceguard.
“gently caress,” he slammed his hand into the locker. “gently caress,” slammed it again. “gently caress!” flung the faceguard into a corner.
“Ken, you in here?” John asked as he came in. John was the coach of the club, or sensei, as he preferred. By all accounts a good teacher; it wasn’t his fault that Ken never got any better.
“Leave me alone,” Ken said, seating himself on the benches.
He was shaking harder than before.
John picked up the discarded faceguard and dusted it off with his hands.
It was showing signs of heavy wear, with the bars on the grille half-rusted and several tears in the fabric. It was in poor condition, even for second-hand gear.
“You alright, buddy?” he asked, placing the headgear beside Ken. “I can’t do it, man,” Ken replied, burying his head in his hands.
Tears were starting to trickle down his cheeks. “I’m sick of losing. It’s the same poo poo every night. It’s too much.”
“Loss is inevitable, even to the best of us. Best you can do is brace for the worst and do your best. It’s only practice, after all,” John said, a slight smile visible underneath his bushy beard.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Ken retorted, looking up to face him. “You’re not the one getting beat up every fight. I don’t want to lose anymore.”
John shrugged. “So you’re afraid of losing. Is that it?” Ken nodded. “Maybe that’s why you’re struggling; you’re letting your fear control you.”
“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Ken asked, equal parts confused and annoyed by the statement.
“Well.” John paused, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “Think of your emotions like a house spider. You may not like the spider, but it serves a purpose.
Like spiders keep unwanted insects out, your emotions keep your mind in check. It keeps your mind going. But if you let the spider grow, it’ll spin more and more webs until it covers everything.
That web is your fear of failure. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No?” Ken replied, “I think so. Maybe?” He was still struggling to analyze what he just heard. He never really was the philosophizing type.
“Look, we all have something that we fear. The difference is how we deal with that fear.” John smiled again.
It would be hard to ignore his advice, even if Ken didn’t understand it; in a way, John was like a father figure to him, supportive yet commanding respect.
“Besides,” he said with a smirk, “fighting’s supposed to be fun.” He handed the faceguard to Ken.
“Come on, we’ll find you some new gear after practice,” he said, making a beckoning motion as he walked back into the hall.
“I’ll be there be in a sec,” Ken said, staring at the faceguard between his hands. The metal bars seemed to mesh together now, forming a pattern resembling that of a web.
He shrugged and put the headpiece back on.
“Deep breaths,” he muttered to himself as he followed back inside.
|# ¿ Dec 10, 2017 22:12|
|# ¿ Dec 12, 2017 12:20|
Today you're a year older
And what great timing
Rewarding the ones bolder
To try more writing
Although it's still not Yuletide
Cheers are upon the Dome
Today you're the poster child
King both here and at home
|# ¿ Dec 13, 2017 23:16|
Prompt: Diablo II
“I think I see it now. Maybe fifteen minutes away,” Lyra said, peering into the distance. She could not see the town directly, but the smoke rising above it was a dead giveaway.
“Are you sure it’s safe to go alone?” The voice asked. Carrie was back at the farm, safe and sound. She’d cling to the radio every time Lyra was out.
“No, but I wouldn’t be better off in a group. I’d be putting others at risk, too.”
“Oh. I guess so. Just hate the thought of you getting hurt. Or worse.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“What were you going to look for, anyway?”
“Anything, really. Medicine, food, weapons, ammunition; whatever helps us get by.” Lyra sighed. “Just hope this backpack is big enough.”
“I still think you should have brought Dad’s gun.”
“What, and alert every demon in town?” She entertained the thought. It amused her more than it should. “Listen Carrie, I’m going to have to cut the radio before I hit town. See you soon?”
“Okay,” Carrie replied. “Oh, and Lyra?”
“Don’t die. Please.”
“Of course,” Lyra replied before she tucked away the radio and continued towards the smoke.
As Lyra approached the deserted suburbs, she paused to survey in front of her.
The entire neighborhood was covered in ash, reaching as far as the eye could see. There was far more than she’d ever seen in the countryside.
The roads, trees, grass, buildings, all buried under a thick layer of white. If it were closer to winter you could almost mistake it for snow, but the air was warm; uncomfortably so, and a stale air penetrated her nostrils.
Despite her fears, there was not a beast in sight.
“Christ,” she muttered, wrapping a scarf over her face. She moved further into town.
Leaving the suburbs, she cut across a field, not far from the main street. Only a fence stood between her and the loot.
Near the end of the field, she suddenly heard rabid, frenzied barking. She turned around; seeing what looked like two dogs, jet black and with flames for eyes, rapidly approaching. “Oh no,” Lyra thought, and started running.
“gently caress, gently caress, gently caress!” The barks grew louder; not far behind her. She reached the end of the field, only just barely managing to scale the fence before the dogs slammed into it. The dogs kept barking. She had to get out; they’d only attract more. She turned into a nearby alleyway and dashed into a backdoor, locked it behind her.
Lyra slid down against the door, panting.
The dogs were still barking. Her dad called them hellhounds. He’d shot a few of them when the demons first appeared. They expected more to come, but most demons stuck to the cities. Or what’s left of them.
The barking slowly died down, only to be replaced by sounds of grunting and scampering. “From one hell to another,” she muttered. She could hear the creatures crawling outside, scanning the area. They were called imps; incredibly stupid, but curious, and they always roamed in packs. She had to be quiet.
After what felt like hours, the sounds died down again. She got up, looking around the building. She was standing in the old general store. An elderly man named Henning had run it for as long as she could remember. Her dad used to stop by every other week. She still remembers his thick, rimmed glasses, infectious smile as well as how long Dad would stay and listen to his ramblings. Dad mentioned Henning had fought in “the war”, but not which one.
To her surprise, most shelves were still stocked; rows of canned foods, medicine, batteries, alcohol and more filled the aisles. Only a thin layer of dust would suggest how long the store’s been abandoned.
Lyra put down her backpack, starting to fill it with whatever fit.
Her mind wandered to her family back at the farm. Just a few weeks ago she was getting ready to leave for college, and now navigating hell on earth just to survive. She mulled over Carrie’s words. “Don’t die.” It sounded easier back then.
Lyra topped off the backpack with a handful of food cans and zipped it shut.
Just as she was preparing to leave, she noticed a figure staring by the storefront.
It was humanoid in shape, tall, easily 8 feet, with horns protruding from its head. She hadn’t seen a demon like it before. Before she had a chance to react, the beast charged at her, bursting through the façade as if it wasn’t there.
Lyra was pinned against the wall, hitting it with such force that she felt the air leaving her body. It had an inhumanly strong grip, squeezing her body tightly. She looked into its eyes, but saw only fire in the sockets. Feeling the energy leaving her body, she reached for a knife she kept in her belt socket. She fumbled, but eventually got hold of it. With her last ounce of strength, she drove the knife deep into the neck of the demon. The demon roared out in pain, dropped her and began stumbling.
Not long after, the fire went out and it fell on the grund, dead.
Lyra lied next to the now-dead demon, motionless. A pool of blood had formed between the two.
She wasn’t sure how long it took before she came to. By the time she did, the blood had dried and the sun was going down. She gathered her belongings and peered outside.
The town was quiet. The ash and smoke was gone. The air felt cleaner. Bodies were lying on street, but they weren’t human. They were small, slender and with long claws. Imps. Some had gaping wounds, others were missing entire limbs.
Carefully, Lyra trekked back through town.
When she reached the suburbs again, she paused. Someone was watching her in the distance. The figure had a faint, white glow around it. Lyra stared back. For a while, they simply looked at each other. The figure began moving, seemingly uninterested in her.
Back in the woods, Lyra got out her radio. “Carrie, are you there? I’ll be home soon.”
|# ¿ Dec 18, 2017 00:13|
Then you will have your answer, and one of the best video game experiences, in, like, ever.
Words cannot describe how glad I am you beat me with a moo moo story.
|# ¿ Dec 19, 2017 15:09|
|# ¿ Jun 25, 2019 14:09|
In, give me a genre.
Also, things I like here:
- Crits are a blessing.
- I get to pretend good writers are my equals(?)
- As a European, CST deadlines make me sad.
Freakie fucked around with this message at Dec 27, 2017 around 13:36
|# ¿ Dec 27, 2017 13:16|