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Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

Stewardsong
1000 words

removed for editing

https://thunderdome.cc/?story=6578&title=Stewardsong

Sitting Here fucked around with this message at May 31, 2018 around 02:59

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Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010

'Read over your compositions, and when you meet a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.' -Samuel Johnson

The Leering Man

960 words

flashrule:Hindsight is Twenty Twenty - but you haven't checked what's following you.

On my seventh birthday he gashed open my mother's throat with his two long fingernails, drenching the cake we had made together that morning with blood. He made us kids eat that blood-soaked cake, on pain of similar treatment. My younger brother refused. He laid moaning, guts exposed, while the rest of us choked down piece after piece.

I remember his hand. His fingers were not the normal length. His pinkie and pointer finger were inches longer than the others, even before the two inches of claw-like nail. In the ruin of tears and vomit and blood and worse, at the end, I asked him “Why?” and for that I saw that hand up close, the nails boring into my cheek and left eyeball.

Then he left, and as he did, every trace of him vanished. My eye, Jeremy, mom, all were as healthy as ever, and the cake tray held only crumbs and leftover hard fondant. Nothing remained other than memory, and the photograph taken before the horror had begun, with the Leering Man standing among us posing just before I blew out the candles.

The human capacity to repress, to deny unacceptable reality is perhaps the kindest thing in existence. You will, no doubt, disbelieve everything I am telling, and in that I envy you. The Leering Man was a computer virus that inserted the image into digital photographs. The memories are false, an urban-legend-induced form of mass hysteria. Everyone knows.

Like most things everyone knows, it doesn't hold up to close scrutiny. Some hacker out there who can breach any security, who can alter pictures beyond the ability of any expert to detect the fakery, and this is what they use those things for? But that's what people choose to believe. They'd rather hold every video and picture anywhere unreliable than consider the other possibility.

That's what I believed, too, for the longest time. I spent a year cataloging the Leering Man legend, trying to learn where the stories originated, how this cultural meme came to be, how the same version of it implanted into my mind and the minds of each of the other guests at that party. I made a career of it, of groping unsuccessfully for satisfying answers in the fields of academia and pseudo-academic pop science. Clarke Dilucio, Leering Man myth expert, as the chyron would read beneath my head. Before my ‘breakdown’.

Ha. Breakthrough, more like.

I can't have been the first to discover it, or even the hundredth. Most people, sensible people would have just destroyed the evidence and moved on. Resumed their denial. In fact, I am sure that happened, many times. When I went looking for them, old analog, paper photographs were far scarcer than I had expected. I had to visit estate sales, and even then hope the executor hadn't thrown the albums out as valueless.

You can guess what I found. Not as ubiquitous as he is in the digital era, but he’s there, with his signature look of depraved contempt, his thin black hair, dressed in black and red. Even though the Leering Man concept first gained notice just two years ago, in a sense he’s been with us far longer. In the same sense that he both did and did not slaughter my family forty years ago. Time does not work in quite the way we imagine.

People talk about ‘the dead past’, and it’s true. The past is dead. Which means that it can rot, that it can be consumed piecemeal by worms and moths and maggots.

Or look at it like a physicist. At any moment, there are billions of possible futures, each equally valid based on how the next thousand quantum events transpire. What people don’t consider is that there is no difference between the future and the past. All the math works backwards in time as well as forward, so each instant has uncountable possible pasts as well. Somehow, in that bubbling constrained quantum swamp that is the past, something must have emerged. Something conscious, self taught in a world of power without consequence.

It seems even the present is not as fixed as the physicists thought. The gross changes the Leering Man makes do not hold, and people don’t remain dead or maimed when his attention moves away from them, but information can hold his changes. Photographs. Memories.

What does the Leering Man want? In all of the stories, what I thought was folklore, he acts as a corruptor. He makes people complicit, forces them to choose who will die and how, makes the partiers gorge on the blood-drenched cake. He’s trying to awaken people’s dark sides. The ones who tell the tale did not succumb. The ones who did, well, look at the surge in the unexplained, spectacular act of violence.

If you take from this one thing, it should be this: that what the Leering Man has done in the festering past did not cause these present atrocities, any more than more mundane traumas caused those committed before we started seeing his work. We live in the present, where there are consequences, and spiteing him by refusing to follow his lead may be the best, the only revenge we can take.

But you, as I said, will disbelieve all that I say. I’m some kind of crackpot. Those old pictures, I must have found some brilliant way to forge them. And if you happen to have any old photo albums in your attic, in some box not opened since your children left for college or your grandparents passed away, by the end of the week you will have burned them to ash, whether or not you had the curiousity or courage to look at them first.

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Epitaph of the Utnapishtim
645 words

We want you to know that we looked so hard for you.

When we were young, we imagined what you might be like. We scared ourselves with stories of you, what you would be like when we found you--or maybe you had already found us? (You hadn't, of course.) As we grew, we built listening stations, pointed up into the sky, waiting for some sign that you were there. We heard nothing but the hum of the universe, but we didn't lose hope.

We were alone around our star. We had sent out machines, ones that could float and ones that could drill and ones that could swim, and found that all the worlds near us were quiet. But that was just one star after all, and we wanted so badly to find you. We built our machines better, built machines that could carry us further, and began to travel to other stars.

For many of our lifetimes, we reached from one sun to the next. The worlds we found were sometimes beautiful, sometimes serene, sometimes cruel and crushing--and always alone. We knew you must be delicate, because so were we. Each new emptiness, each bare world of nothing but rock and water, or ice and water, or rock and methane, each taught us how rare you must be. And while there was still the thrill of discovery, and the thirst for knowledge for its own sake, it felt hollow to us, because there was no one to share it with. We were castaways, alone, surviving in the hopes of one day finding you, or being found by you.

We want you to know how much we wanted to speak to you.

We changed ourselves so our machines could take us farther. We found ways to speak to one another, slipping our knowledge back and forth between stars. There was still only ourselves to talk to. We had to look further. We became a part of our machines; our machines became a part of us. In our new forms, we set out to cross the emptiness of space, to search through other galaxies, to find you.

Lifetimes meant nothing to us any more. Hundreds could slip by while we traveled untouched, waiting for new worlds where we would finally find you. Thousands and millions of lifetimes, while we scoured the universe, looking for you, still whispering to each other, still hopeful, whenever we found a warm world with sludge that crept or mats that breathed, that you might be there

When our search came to an end, we learned something that scared us more than any story from our long-forgotten youth: we were alone.

We were prepared for whatever form you might take, however strange you could be to us. We were not prepared to find nothing at all. (Don't blame yourselves; it was never your fault.) Some of us fell silent, vanishing into the emptiness. Some reverted to old philosophies from the childhood of our existence. Those that were left searched for meaning. We were seekers, in a world with nothing to find. Not even our home was left--it too had gone silent countless lifetimes ago.

In time, we realized we had to pass on. We had come too early to find you. We loved you, and we wanted nothing more than to meet you, but that was not our destiny. Instead, we changed ourselves one last time. We chose our worlds and stripped ourselves from our machines. We made ourselves into the seeds of life, so that in a billion lifetimes, you would arise.

When you have grown enough to read these words and learn their meanings, know that you will not suffer like us. We cannot know what you or your cosmic siblings will be, but this is our gift to you, because we loved you so much. You will not be alone.

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


785 words

A Moment

archives

flerp fucked around with this message at Sep 13, 2018 around 23:05

Yoruichi
Sep 21, 2017

Time for tea and Thunderdome

What We Are Capable Of
900 words


Evil rolled towards my shoes across the grey pavement. It looked like marbles made of frozen oil, slick and black. I kicked at them, sending some sliding into the gutter with the dead leaves and cigarette butts. The lingering taste of my lover’s mouth turned to sour guilt in mine. I had never thought myself capable of having an affair, and now I was incapable of ending it. The heat of his gaze had turned my resolve to ash, again. I shivered and wrapped my coat a little tighter around myself, remembering that the streets were not as safe as they were before. As I quickened my pace towards home I heard the marbles, clicking like chitin on stone, gathering in my wake.

On the news self-declared experts speculated about what they were and where they had come from. Three days ago they appeared, scattered across the city like hail after a storm. Some claimed they had rolled out of the sea, a manifestation of the earth’s outrage at our abuse of her body. Others said they had always been here, we just hadn’t been able to see them. But wherever they went, anger, grief and the urge to violence rose like a miasma. Each night we lay awake listening to wail of sirens and each morning we woke to find another neighbourhood blackened and smoking, more of the city’s residents dead.

At first I tried to get rid of them, sweeping garbage bags full of inky balls from my overgrown garden. It felt so mundane, like I was clearing autumn leaves or pulling weeds. Yet my hands shook when I touched them, first with fear, then with anger. My mind filled with memories of the various ways my husband had hurt me; the way he made cruel jokes about my family and our oddities, the time he locked me out of our house and laughed at me standing in the rain. My affair, I was sure, was his fault. He deserved my betrayal.

He told me I was wasting my time. I shouted that unlike him I couldn’t bear to do nothing, and he yelled back, calling me stupid, naive, bitch. He spat the words into my face and I slammed the door in his. Little balls of evil dripped from the shadows and grimy corners of our crumbling brick house.

I saw my first death that day. A fight erupted on a subway platform; two men, shoving and spitting and cursing at each other until one of them fell. The train killed him instantly. No one moved. Between our inert feet the black marbles skittered like crabs.

Unannounced this time I arrived at my lover’s house, seeking comfort and distraction. Hand poised above the doorknob, I saw him through the window. His arms were around a woman, his fingers twined through her hair. How stupid of me, I thought, as I felt my dignity crumble. I knew, of course, that he was capable of this. But I couldn’t stop hot tears from running down my cheeks. When they hit the ground they turned black and rolled against my feet. I stomped on them, suddenly angry. I wanted to do harm, to burn away my guilt and shame.

A pool of sticky ink spread across his doorstep from the crushed black shells and the stink of crude oil filled my nose. In my shoulder bag my fist closed around my cheap plastic lighter. Laughter swirled in my head as the flame caught and the paint on his front door began to bubble and peel.

Dark smoke rose against a sky the colour of old bruises. My feet carried me blindly through the city. I couldn’t go home. My husband would know something was wrong - he had been my best friend once, after all - but what could I tell him? It was years since we had talked; there were no bridges across the chasm of silences and lies.

The evil that had pervaded my city was pleased with me. I could feel its icy fingers caressing my mind. You are capable of so much more, it whispered. A vision of a burning house flashed behind my eyes and nausea rolled in my stomach. I dropped to my knees and retched. Under my palms on the rough concrete I could feel them, cold and slick. I picked them up, hands shaking. Something, I thought, however small, I must be capable of doing something.

The marbles clicked like angry crabs as I dropped them into my pocket. I scooped up another handful, then another, filling my pockets and then my shoulder bag. I found a wheelie bin beside an apartment building and dragged it into the street. People stared at me as I bent and scooped, over and over, grabbing as many of the vile presences as I could. A young woman joined me, eyes wide and ernest behind her glasses, and then another, and another. Together we filled shopping bags, buckets, bins; whatever we could find.

Orange light danced in the smoke-filled sky as we processed towards the harbour. Shoulder to shoulder we gathered at the water’s edge. Together we threw our sins into the black water, a hopeful, futile rejection of our own evil. We were capable of this much, at least.

Sham bam bamina!
Nov 6, 2012

ƨtupid cat


Gravy Boat 2k

Wasted
774 words

It was a hot night, and I needed a drink. I went to the fridge and got a beer, popped the cap, and chugged that poo poo (it was poo poo). Then I had another. I was pleasantly tipsy at that point, when I noticed something new, something wrong.

Walking back to my desk, I realized that I was walking along a hazy, ghostly trail that seemed to constantly divide and branch away, although only a few of the branches were clearly discernible. A shimmering line of me led to the desk, while a fainter one U-turned back the way I'd come, and a third led out my door. What the hell was this?

I turned back to find out more. The moment I stepped to my right, the trail flashed thicker, and the one I had been on abruptly misted away. My new path led back to the fridge. I got another beer.

This was getting interesting. I was starting to have trouble keeping a straight line, but now I could really see what was going on. My paths were now a thicket around me. I could see them trailing away strongly here, weakly there – a very, very faint path even led out my window. And mine weren't the only ghostly trails. All around my apartment was the haze of possibility: The door fanned blurrily in place; the papers on my desk sat under a thin, shuffled layer of pale movement; the copy of Slaughterhouse-Five that I'd been reading that day smeared off the shelf and over to a me-shaped cloud on the couch. Even I, with a few bottles in me, could tell that I was seeing the future, and the future is a real mess, it turns out.

As I sat back down and tried to get back to work, I immediately understood my mistake – I wouldn't be getting any real work done that night, not like this. gently caress it, I thought. Let's see how far this goes.

I finished the six-pack, went out the door, and shakily descended the steps (keeping a firm grip on the railing) to street level. I stepped out onto the sidewalk to see a long-exposure soup of taillights above the pavement, a blur that felt like cheating death to walk through as I lurched into the street, following my own second-brightest path. I stumbled, startled, at the sound of a horn and the shriek of tires as a block of opacity broke into my cloudy little world, narrowly leaving me alive.

poo poo, I thought, if theress goina be some real danger like that i needto make the most of this shenganian. I staggered on with a new sense of purpose, an understanding that if I had been given this strange gift for the night, I was drat well going to use it for something, even if my spluttering brain could barely attempt to figure out just what that might be.

I wandered along in the heavy summer heat, streaming stinking sweat from every pore, determinedly trying to convince myself that I had a plan. Here, a promising trail streaked over to the bus stop; there, another snaked into an alley; other, dimmer ones writhed like a nest of snakes as I stepped past them all to enter a convenience store.

if i can seen the future i can get filthy rich with this poo poo!! I thought as I purchased a hundred lottery tickets. When I managed to get back out through the door, it was with renewed vigor and lust for life, a sense that I could do no wrong that night. I decided then to follow the brightest path, no matter where it led or what I had to do to stay on it. I knew that it would take me to my desnity if I only let it.

As I stumbled on, the trail started getting harder and harder to follow. I had to climb over guard rails, walk through forests of weeds in vacant areas, skirt around the deep, steaming puddles of rain from earlier in the day (when I didn't just slosh right through them) that sat in the bad pavement. I heard a few shots in the night. whatever i'm heading forbetter be drat worth it.

Suddenly, I saw my ex, out of her house in the middle of the night like me for God knows what reason. oh poo poo that's what going on! we were meaned to be totheger after all! I thought wildly as I flailed toward her.

I woke up in the middle of the street, covered in my own vomit and holding a bag full of lottery tickets.

Sham bam bamina! fucked around with this message at May 28, 2018 around 07:59

Sham bam bamina!
Nov 6, 2012

ƨtupid cat


Gravy Boat 2k

Ah, gently caress me.

Fumblemouse
Mar 21, 2013


STANDARD
DEVIANT


Grimey Drawer

Closing this up. Sham bam bamina - you have violated the no editing rule. What will happen to you next is also something mankind was not meant to know!

Judging will be posted when the judging is done.

Hawklad
May 3, 2003


Who wants to live
forever?


DIVE!

College Slice

Push
~700 words


Red Leaf knows of their arrival before they darken the entrance to her cave. She felt the worms compress into the dense soil beneath their footprints. She felt the trees pause as their shadows darkened their outstretched leaves. The wind divided around their bodies as they climbed the scree towards the entrance to the cave. Red Leaf tastes her daughter's fear and wraps her cave bear cloak tight. The sarembar is warm from the fire she keeps, but Red Leaf knows something is amiss.

There are two visitors, but she can only feel one.

The sun blinks twice as they cross the threshold. Her daughter, Gray Moon, motions for the newcomer to sit in the outer ring, the ring of sirdis, marked by dried orchids and pieces of scattered obsidian. His lithe, pale body folds into the etched dirt. Blue eyes stare at Red Leaf beneath a smooth crop of white down hair. Pale as a corpse, his attention drifts across the room.

:I found him at the river. He was turning over stones, foraging.

Red Leaf pushes her mind to the river and it remembers the larvae that lived beneath the rocks. She feels their desiccated remains burn inside the acid of the newcomer's gut. But of him she can''t feel anything.

:I can't sense him, her daughter thought. I thought you might be able.

Red Leaf stretches her mind to the newcomer, but it slips from her grasp like a trout caught fresh from the stream.

:Bring him closer.

Gray Moon stands, and beckons the newcomer to cross the river-smoothed pebbles and dried lavender that marks the ring of akys. Together they move toward Red Leaf.

Close—her daughter's senses meld into her own, and the blending makes the sarembar expand into a riot of new perspective. Red Leaf's senses mushroom to encompass all her daughter can feel, see, smell, and taste. A completeness washes over her, but also a loss. For it's not entirely complete — the newcomer presents a small, stubborn blankness in the expanse. Negative space. Even the rocks under his feet are more connected to the world path, even the mites that crawled across his skin.

His mind is a dull void in a vivid universe; separate from any world that she could comprehend.

Red Leaf had heard that such people were coming. The trees had whispered, the waters blethered, the animals trembled. New tribes, isolated from nature, cut from the pulse of the world. Swarms of fair-skinned newcomers with chattering language and killing tools, bent on submitting the world to their will.

Perhaps they can still be saved.

::Bring him closer.

Gray Moon hesitates. The ring of itaka is rarely crossed. With such proximity comes great power, but also danger.

::He is a just a child. Bring him closer.

Gray Moon takes the newcomer's hand and they step over the deer antlers and pumice stone that marks the final ring. The newcomer again sits, his face illuminated by the fire.

He is beautiful.

Intelligence dances behind his eyes, his face full of expression and curiosity. His lithe hairless body, fluid and muscular. Not the clunky, savage and stubborn strength of Red Leaf and Gray Moon and their ilk, but a new, fluid strength.

He is new. The hope of the world.

But disconnected. Unaware.

Red Leaf stands and draws strength from the firepit. With the energy from the Fire, Earth, Sky, and all Creation, she focuses her mind and

pushes him

:::You're not alone. You can choose to live with creation, or choose dominion.

Silence

Guilt

Shame

Remorse

Revenge

Silence.—

— the newcomer is in the air, stone knife extended, leaping towards the shaman. He gives a shriek as the stone knife pierces flesh, breaking open her windpipe. Red Leaf falls against the wall of the cave, then crumples to the floor as the boy turns to her daughter.

The trees and the river and the stones cry out, but he does not hear.

#

The newcomer softly whistles to himself as he kicks the rocks and dried flowers to the edges of the cave. He drags the bodies to the entrance and watches them tumble down the slope towards the river below. The cave is protected and large: it will make an excellent base for hunting.

And this valley is rich with prey.

Fumblemouse
Mar 21, 2013


STANDARD
DEVIANT


Grimey Drawer

Week CCCIII Results

This week - Eleven stories that ran the gauntlet of hidden knowledge from pearls of great price to something nasty behind the bikeshed.

We had two disqualifications. Hawklad came in many hours late and a couple of bucks short, and Sham bam bamina for editing after posting. Just say no, kids!

However - one secret truth of the universe is that Mercy is Infinite - so we'll let both stories in.

Another secret truth of the universe is that the Judges are bastards, so Sham bam bamina takes the loss for Wasted, which broke new ground in appropriate titles, wasting both Space and Time on a story about someone getting drunk and vomiting.

A DM also to Sandnavyguy for In the Eye of the Beholder who imagined "what if 'The Hellbound Heart' only with most of the good bits missing?"

Richer pickings were to be had down the other end of the field.

HMs to Sitting Here for StewardSong and Yoriuchi for What We Are Capable Of - two pleasantly different takes on the prompt which both focused on hope, however small, over horror.

But there is one secret we can keep no longer - the well deserved winner was Djeser, whose Epitaph of the Utnapishtim gave us pleasing cosmic knowledge both profound and plausible.

Djeser - thanks for the tale. The Blood Throne is yours.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk

(Prompt)

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Please
Remember
Other
Motherfucking
Prostitutes
That also want to write. Also prompt.

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


prompt

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Thunderdome Week 304: Magic of Bronze and Stone

This week it's time for genre fiction and that genre is ancient fantasy. Anything from Paleolithic hunter-gatherers to Neolithic city-states to Bronze Age empires goes. Both real-world and invented settings are allowed. The theme of the week, since you like that sort of stuff, is discovery. (I'm not going to get literal about this, so don't fret.)

Flash rules this week will consist of artifacts from the pre-modern world.

Word count: 1200 words maximum
Signups end: 11 PM Pacific, Friday June 1st
Submissions close: 11 PM Pacific, Sunday, June 3rd

Judges:
Djeser
Flesnolk
Jon Joe
Since the words of the oracle are of utmost importance, TDbot will serve as a special auxiliary judge this week, and will offer insight (of a kind) on each story.

Entrants:
Thranguy (Bì disks)
Hawklad (Great Lyre of Ur)
Antivehicular (Baghdad Battery)
Solitair (Nebra sky disk)
sandnavyguy (Bull-Leaping Fresco)
ThirdEmperor (Stone ships)
flerp (Nimrud lens)
SurreptitiousMuffin
Jay W. Friks (Ishtar Gate)
Uranium Phoenix (The Book of Silk)
magnificent7
cptn_dr (Señor de las Limas)
sebmojo
Yoruichi
Chuf (Antikythera Mechanism)

Djeser fucked around with this message at Jun 2, 2018 around 07:13

Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010

'Read over your compositions, and when you meet a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.' -Samuel Johnson

In, flash.

Hawklad
May 3, 2003


Who wants to live
forever?


DIVE!

College Slice

In. Flash me.

Antivehicular
Dec 30, 2011

I won a rosette in the Thunderdome


In and flash, please

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Thranguy posted:

In, flash.

quote:

Bì are round jade discs with holes in their centres. When buried in the earth, the minerals change them to be multi-colored. The original function and significance of the bi are unknown, as the Neolithic cultures have left no written history. From these earliest times they were buried with the dead, as a sky symbol, accompanying the dead into the after world or "sky", with the cong which connected the body with the earth.


Hawklad posted:

In. Flash me.

quote:

The Lyres of Ur or Harps of Ur are considered to be the world's oldest surviving stringed instruments. Leonard Woolley, a British archaeologist, discovered the lyres amongst the bodies of ten women in the Royal cemetery at Ur. One body was even said to be laying against the lyre with her skeletal hand placed where the strings would have been.

The front panel of the Great Lyre of Ur displays four scenes divided into separate registers. The top scene features a bearded male figure flanked by two mythological beings. The three remaining regions depict a banquet attended by lively animals performing human tasks.


Antivehicular posted:

In and flash, please

quote:

The Baghdad Battery or Parthian Battery is a set of three artifacts which were found together: a ceramic pot, a tube of copper, and a rod of iron. It was hypothesized by some researchers that the object functioned as a galvanic cell, possibly used for electroplating, or some kind of electrotherapy, but there is no electrogilded object known from this period. The artifacts strongly resemble another type of object with a known purpose – storage vessels for sacred scrolls from nearby Seleucia on the Tigris.

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Note on flash rules: The artifact I give you does not need to literally show up in your story. Treat it as inspiration.

Solitair
Feb 18, 2014


In, flash.

sandnavyguy
Sep 12, 2015


in, flash please. for good measure.

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Solitair posted:

In, flash.

quote:

The Nebra sky disk is a bronze disk of around 30 centimeters diameter and a weight of 2.2 kilograms, with a blue-green patina and inlaid with gold symbols. These are interpreted generally as a sun or full moon, a lunar crescent, and stars (including a cluster interpreted as the Pleiades). Two golden arcs along the sides, marking the angle between the solstices, were added later. A final addition was another arc at the bottom surrounded with multiple strokes (of uncertain meaning, variously interpreted as a Solar Barge with numerous oars, as the Milky Way, or as a rainbow).


sandnavyguy posted:

in, flash please. for good measure.

quote:

The Bull-Leaping Fresco is the most completely restored of several stucco panels originally sited on the upper-story portion of the east wall of the palace at Knossos in Crete. Bull-leaping (also taurokathapsia, from Greek ταυροκαθάψια) is a motif of Middle Bronze Age figurative art. It is often interpreted as a depiction of a ritual performed in connection with bull worship. This ritual consists of an acrobatic leap over a bull; when the leaper grasps the bull's horns, the bull will violently jerk his neck upwards giving the leaper the momentum necessary to perform somersaults and other acrobatic tricks or stunts.

ThirdEmperor
Aug 7, 2013


SCREAMING YES
MOTHERFUCKER
I AM GUILTY, I AM DEATH


In, flash.

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013




quote:

Stone ships were an early burial custom where the grave or cremation burial was surrounded by tightly or loosely fit slabs or stones in the outline of a ship. Inside, they can be cobbled or filled with stones, or have raised stones in the positions of masts. Scholars have suggested both that the stone ship developed out of the desire to equip the dead with everything he had in life, and alternatively that it was specifically associated with the journey to Hel.

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


in flash

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


I am pretty busy this week but this prompt is rad. In.

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



flerp posted:

in flash

quote:

The Nimrud lens, also called Layard lens, is a 3000-year-old piece of rock crystal, which was unearthed in 1850 by Austen Henry Layard at the Assyrian palace of Nimrud, in modern-day Iraq. It may have been used as a magnifying glass, or as a burning-glass to start fires by concentrating sunlight, or it may have been a piece of decorative inlay. The lens is said to be able to focus sunlight although the focus is far from perfect. Because the lens is made from natural rock crystal the material of the lens has not deteriorated significantly over time.

Jay W. Friks
Oct 4, 2016

Six of one, half dozen of another.

Grimey Drawer

In with a flash

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Jay W. Friks posted:

In with a flash

quote:

The Ishtar Gate was the eighth gate to the inner city of Babylon. The gate was constructed using glazed brick with alternating rows of bas-relief mušḫuššu (dragons), aurochs (bulls), and lions, symbolizing the gods Marduk, Adad, and Ishtar respectively. The gate bears an inscription from Nebuchadnezzar II:

I pulled down these gates and laid their foundations at the water table with asphalt and bricks and had them made of bricks with blue stone on which wonderful bulls and dragons were depicted. I covered their roofs by laying majestic cedars lengthwise over them. I fixed doors of cedar wood adorned with bronze at all the gate openings. I placed wild bulls and ferocious dragons in the gateways and thus adorned them with luxurious splendor so that Mankind might gaze on them in wonder.

Uranium Phoenix
Jun 20, 2007


RADIOACTIVE DUST SURGE DETECTED


In, flash

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013




quote:

The Book of Silk is an ancient astronomy silk manuscript compiled by Chinese astronomers of the Western Han Dynasty. It lists 29 comets (referred to as 彗星, literally broom stars) that appeared over a period of about 300 years. There are roughly two dozen renderings of comets, some in fold out/pop-up format. In some cases, the pages of the document roll out to be five feet long. Each comet's picture has a caption which describes an event its appearance corresponded to, such as "the death of the prince," "the coming of the plague," or "the three-year drought."

Flesnolk
Apr 11, 2012

If only, THUNDERDOME


I have no time for writing this week, but this is a great prompt. Let me know if you'd be interested in having me on as a judge.

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



Flesnolk posted:

I have no time for writing this week, but this is a great prompt. Let me know if you'd be interested in having me on as a judge.

Welcome to the judgecrew! One judgethrone remains open.

Jon Joe
Oct 19, 2011

HELP! I'VE FAILED AND I CAN'T SUBMIT


Grimey Drawer

I will also judge this week, as the ancients have foretold

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER


In and flash.

Hey before providing a flash doodad - can I use the prehistoric paleoindian period? I'm googling to see if that counts as paleolithic, and it occurs 10,000 years BC, but not sure if it's considered an official part of all that.

If I CAN use that, then, no, no flash. If it's determined I cannot, then fine FINE flash tool please.

magnificent7 fucked around with this message at May 31, 2018 around 19:16

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



magnificent7 posted:

In and flash.

Hey before providing a flash doodad - can I use the prehistoric paleoindian period? I'm googling to see if that counts as paleolithic, and it occurs 10,000 years BC, but not sure if it's considered an official part of all that.

If I CAN use that, then, no, no flash. If it's determined I cannot, then fine FINE flash tool please.

Sure, that's fine. I'm mostly just looking for pre-Iron Age settings, and even that I'm willing to be flexible with. I would rather read an interesting story that's not quite what I had in mind than a boring story that hits the prompt perfectly.

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER


Djeser posted:

I would rather read an interesting story that's not quite what I had in mind than a boring story that hits the prompt perfectly.
Well poo poo there goes my entry.

Kaishai
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

Thunderdome Recap!



Hello again, everyone! The recap crew is delighted to bring you nearly two hours of discussion of Week 294: Rush, Rush, Hurry Cybernetic Entity Enter me. and Week 296: Challenge, Struggle, Tears & Triumph, though the long-suffering Sitting Here is perhaps less thrilled about the nearly two hours part. Can you blame us, though? Just look at what's on the table: interstellar bookmobiles, koala murder, Russian roulette, and a staring contest with an alien who's part broccoli! Exploring the ways in which these ideas managed to fail takes a while. Whatever its faults, at least Crain's "County Bylaws" proves awfully fun to read.

We also glance sidelong at Week 295: DO YOUR WORST!

“Oh, well, yes. He is a 7ft tall broccoli monster…lizard broccoli monster. Also: You’re just now bringing this up?"


Episodes past can be found here!

Kaishai fucked around with this message at Jun 11, 2018 around 00:23

cptn_dr
Sep 7, 2011

It's just so good!


Thanks for the feedback, Recap Crew. You were pretty much 100% on the money with how the writing process went/ how I felt about things.

I'd like to try and make it not poo poo at some stage in the future, so it's really helpful to hear you guys talking about it. Much appreciated!

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cptn_dr
Sep 7, 2011

It's just so good!


And also I have nothing but shame planned for the long weekend, so I'd better be IN with a flash and a

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