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sebmojo posted:On the solid assumption that muffin and as sneaks toxx up for this, I will judge it. 
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Sep 17, 2019 01:47
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SneakyMuffin Brawl 2K19 Lepisma saccharina 395 words Underneath the farmhouse there is a box. It was painted green, now flecked and faded, soil feeling its way through the cracks in the buckling timber. She left it there, and you left her next to it. In the box are sunbleached bones. You have begun your own collection now. You spend nights sorting them by size, by origin, by date - your macabre archive. We gave your our hunger. We marvelled at the intricate designs, the delicate machinery of your plane’s inhabitants. We tasted wisps of it on the cosmic winds and we lusted for the source. She heard us first. She heard us whispering, writhing, reaching up through the soil. We became a monstrous appetite, so strong that it was tangible presence in both your lives. A silent passenger. We wanted to taste life as you do. We wanted to drink of the world. Those nights you lay awake in the empty bed, hearing her close the door as quietly as she could. The click of the latch a thundercrack through the house’s still, stale air. You knew what she did, where she went, you might as well have been the passenger yourself. We did not ask for her to be our butcher. Nor you. We ask for pretty things. We ask for your desires. Yet you reap. Sculpt, write, dance or build and we would have drunk deeply of your labour, your sweat, your joy. But you destroyed. You unmade. You ate holes in the world. You did not have to fill the void by pouring your base desires in, but you poured and poured, flooding it. These were your appetites now. We did not ask for blood, but we were as a wanderer in the desert, a child in a famine. We drank because we are bottomless and we are endless. The day you turned on each other, the day you buried her, you birthed a new hunger within yourself. Underneath the farmhouse there’s a hole. It is a new hole, and it is not our hole. It is the same hole that you have carved inside yourself now. You could stop. Now that you have swallowed the ocean. You will not. We know because you did not, and you never will. We are the record of the world, we sought to fill shelves with your wonders and you have become silverfish.
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Sep 25, 2019 00:09
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 Zine subs Domers, if you're too embarrassed to tell your family and friends you're a goon - but still want a pat on the head from them for your garbagewords - boy do we have a deal for you. For the price of a story you're proud of, and the knowledge that it might not make issue #1, you can submit your words to be published in the first Thunderdome zine. We plan to chuck some words up a fancy pdf or somesuch, and place it far far away from this wasteland so that you can share it unabashed. Get your poo poo together and send a story link to us - preferably in the discord zine channel, or pm Sitting Here. Subs for issue #1 close Friday 4 October, 11.59pm PDT.
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Sep 26, 2019 20:47
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Oh, go on then. In.
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Oct 22, 2019 20:00
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In.
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Oct 29, 2019 23:27
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Mercedes posted:Porn was left up on your cellphone Someday Never Comes 927 words https://thunderdome.cc/?story=7788&title=Someday+Never+Comes steeltoedsneakers fucked around with this message at 20:13 on Dec 31, 2019 |
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Nov 4, 2019 04:42
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Anomalous Amalgam posted:Although I have a brawl pending judgment, any of you other cowards feel like getting cut with poorly used words? Let's dance.
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Nov 16, 2019 00:50
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Antivehicular posted:Okay! Sneakers, Amalgam, this is your brawl prompt:
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Nov 16, 2019 02:33
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Antivehicular posted:Okay! Sneakers, Amalgam, this is your brawl prompt: Dream/Comfort/Memory/Despair 741 words In a house without windows, a pot boils slowly. Small bubbles rush to escape the sputtering flame underneath, the primus gasping on the last fumes in the tank. Martin can’t remember the last time he had a proper cup of tea. Every morning he fills a small cup with boiled river water and dips an old tea bag in it. The bags don’t taste of anything except rucksack, but he drinks the paper broth anyway. The walls creak and stretch as the first rays of the sun warm the timber. The heat radiating from the chipped mug in the crisp morning air is one of the last small pleasures he has left. Today’s a gathering day - find enough tat that they can trade for food over the winter. The small child sleeping in the corner isn’t a hunter, and Martin isn’t about to leave her to head up into the hills for pig. They’ll make do for now with the odd bird or cat senseless enough to pause in their vicinity, but when the weather shifts? Martin puts the thought out of his mind. It’s been years since the turmoil, but nothing ever really settled down. There’s an edge to everything now, a harshness, as if the riots burnt off whatever softness was left in the world. Martin had always thought of himself as one of the good ones, using what he’d been given to put kindness back into the world. But when the wolves came to eat the rich, they didn’t care that he was good - they cared that he had more. Because more was bad when so many had less. He knew that now. He had less now. But in that knowledge hung a thread of bitterness - he’d been a good person, doing what he could inside a lovely system. In the opposite corner of the room, the wall unfolds. Long limbs crack and flop into place, the colour of faded wallpaper and dead memories. It’s tall and thin, like old branches lashed together into a rough forgery of a man. As it rearranges its arms and legs, the creature’s body squeals and groans. It moves, staggering out of the wall in jagged, stilted strides. There are no eyes, but there’s enough knotted wood and torn paper to tell that it wears a sadness. It always came out when Martin remembered the time before, fed the illusion that if people would just have put people like him in charge things would be better. It’s always there in the corner, just like it’s been in every other shelter they’ve slept in for the past 3 years. The little girl has never seen it. It stands in the centre of the room. The burner is out of gas now, and the wind has stopped whipping and whistling across the broken glass in the window frames. It’s quiet. It’s just him, the creature and the gentle breathing from his child in the corner. “Oh god.. not today” Martin mutters, rubbing the blur of sleep from his eyes. He whispers “Just - would you please just gently caress o-.” Wood splinters and paper tears as it lurches forward a step, now standing between him and his child. He yelps reflexively. It’s never seemed malicious or violent, but the houseman still totters unsteadily, looming over him. Martin takes a step backward as it brings its face down to his. He’s still holding the old, stained mug. The sound of a roaring southerly rushes out from its toothless maw, rattling the boards with the force of cold stormfront rushing in from the Cook Strait. He holds the mug tight, screwing his eyes closed against the raucous din. The child sleeps. Martin has tears in his eyes now. He collapses to his knees and sobs. He curses the unfairness of their poverty, the broken-down cruelty of their homelessness. He weeps now, as he does every morning, letting just a little bit more of the old world go. As the tears slow, another line added to the slow calculus of his psyche. Years of tiny subconscious observations and computations to decide what to take forward and what to leave behind. He looks down at the mug, hesitates for a minute, and then puts it in the tat pile. Someone will want to cling to the old world more than he does, they can have it. He wipes the tears before he rouses his child to face a new day.
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Nov 27, 2019 08:11
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| # ¿ Apr 16, 2024 05:52 |
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Thanks AV, 'grats AA
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Nov 27, 2019 10:31
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