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could you, if you really had to flerp fucked around with this message at 02:21 on Jan 1, 2021 |
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Nov 2, 2020 04:08
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We sat in firetrain eggie to the Miral, grave her bloody hours and it waves back. "Ay, Tombass!” I ask. “It’s your blood forward.” I can still find a fire. Everything After 615 words Five more miles to Rivertown. Five more miles to the cookfires, and doctoring. Five more miles and Tombass is safe. “Jesus, it’s cold.” Tombass shufts around in the cart I’m lugging behind me. “Chance, you got any blankets?” “Nuh-uh.” The sun’s been baking this summer, and I didn’t reck to get blankets out of the old museum. How could he be cold, anyhow? I stop and eyeball him. “Ay, Tombass!” I ask. “It’s your blood forward.” Tombass peeps down at his leg bandage, soppy and red. “Oh poo poo! I didn’t even notice.” “Ya gotta keep still.” I rip my sleeve off, replace the bandage. “Not bein’ careful’s how ya fell through that floor. Shoulda seen it was rotten. Now ya been squirmin’ around and losin’ all ya blood.” “I’m lucky you came with me.” He leans back against the floor and breathes out. “I feel bad – we won’t be able to bring anything good back from the Galleria. I couldn’t even get in the cart myself, with my leg broken. Maybe I’m crazy to go out looking for old stuff from Before – ” he waves at the air. “Maybe ya are.” I shoulder the rope and start pulling. “But then I’m crazy too, for listenin’ to yer stories. Let’s have one. Long way back to Rivertown. May as well hear somethin’ good.” Tombass leans back and starts a story about Before. He’s different from most olds: they don’t like to talk about those times. Sometimes you catch them whuttering about The Event, keeping real quiet so the youngs don’t ask questions, but I reck they mostly want to forget those times. Guess I can’t blame them – lot of people died then, and it was a horrorsome time for the ones who lived. I was still tiny when the Event happened; I only remember hiding someplace underground, Mom waterworking like a flood. Then Rivertown, and lotta digging and planting and fixing up old poo poo, and sitting around the fire listening to Tombass’ stories. He never did tell how he got that name, but he always had time for me. Was a real good guy to have around, specially when Mom got sick. I mean to keep him close. That’s why we gotta get to Rivertown. Gotta find the fires. “Mel wanted to head back to Dallas, but the car was wrecked – you remember that part, right? We sat in firetrain eggie to the Miral, grave her bloody hours and it waves back.” I stop. Tombass talks a lot of gibber, but not like that. “Just hold on, Tombass.” I shoulder the rope again and pick up the pace. Just a couple more miles and I can get him to Doc Matibag. I can save him. Just need to get to the fires. “Chance, slow down!” Tombass groans. “Chance, the ground’s too bumpy!” “Can’t slow down! Ya need helping!” I can still find a fire. Not too late to save him. Can’t be. “Chance! Chance, please, just stop.” “No!” I lug my fist across my eyes, dash the waterworks away. “No, can’t give up on you!” “Chance, I need you to stop!” Something in his voice makes me slow up. I look back; his eyes are all sheeny. “Chance, I’m dying. I’ve lost too much blood.” “Doc’ll fix you. He has to.” “You know he can’t.” My legs don’t work all a sudden. “I don’t wanna lose you, Tombass.” “I know. But you gotta let go of the past. I just – I wish I’d learned that lesson sooner. Stay with me, okay?” Somehow I make it over to his side. “I will.” We sit there, alone in the night. I hold his hand til it goes stiff.
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Nov 2, 2020 04:16
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“I started school,” I say. “Stay a monk,” he says. He’ll need your tongue. The Canary 1083 words My birth father visits me once a year on my birthday. Part of it is to make sure I’m still alive, part of it is out of what he thinks is love. “My little canary,” he calls me. Sometimes it’s “Plan B” as he ruffles my hair with one of his huge hands. "Rock crushers," he calls them. The biggest hands I’ve ever seen in my life—which honestly, isn't that much, considering only 30 only people live in the monastery. And all of them are monks. Male monks. The old men who trade with us don’t even bring their daughters with them. The only woman I get to see is my mother on her much less frequent visits. On my eighteenth birthday, my father stays for a week, supposedly to assess what sort of man I am going to become. When dawn breaks on the second day of his visit, we sit in the main hall of the small temple. He leans back, resting against one of the pillars in the great hall because there are no chairs, just thin prayer mats. All of the monks scatter like cockroaches whenever he visits despite the fact that he’s the one who keeps them fed. “I started school,” I say. He laughs, one of those laughs that only came from men of enormous size. “What sort of school is there up here? It’s a bunch of old men staring into their belly buttons.” “I’m studying nursing,” I tell him. Even though the old men are devoted to the spiritual pursuits, their bodies are slowly turning to dust, and the urge to help someone is overwhelming—to actually do something and not just ponder the universe. Even after a thousand years, the monks are still arguing with each other over minor theological doctrine. The thought of dying and only being a spiritual footnote plagues me at night. “Stay a monk,” he says. “Why?” “It’s impossible to gently caress up,” he says. “No consequences. No heartbreak. No one begging at your knees, please, please, please save my family.” I know he feels me glaring at him. Every year I beg him to let me leave the monastery and he refuses. Instead of looking back, he flexes his great hands, making and unmaking his fists, gazing into the lines running across them like rivers. “You know I used to be the canary, too?” “No.” I cannot imagine the man stuck in a monastery. He radiates power; how much of it is him and how much is the crown, I can’t tell. “Not here. Another place. I was the second son as well. My father used to call me spare parts.” “What happened?” “When I was seventeen, the royal procession stopped by our monastery. My brother was touring the country, his first act as king. And he wanted to meet his brother.” “And?” My father places his hands around an imaginary head and wrenches it to the side. “Crunch,” he says, laughing to himself. “They found him at the bottom of a stairwell. I told everyone he fell. At that point, they could believe me or find a new king.” From the little the monks tell me about my father, his hands are dirty. He does not rule with love. On his infrequent visits, he teaches me that every king has to cut a few throats. But this is a new level, even for him. “Don’t try the same thing,” he tells me. “I have plan C somewhere, too. What? You think I only had sex twice?” he says, puffing himself up. I don’t take the bait. “So, what kind of man did my brother turn out to be?” I ask him. My father runs his fingers through his beard for a moment before responding. “Like you, just different. Strong. Angry. He’ll need your tongue.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “He stutters.” “And what does he do all day while I am cooped up here?” “He learns how to be king.” The next day, he cuts his visit short, claiming an urgent need to return to the capital. His regent has always been competent in his absence. The next year, he doesn’t bother to show up. My brother does. When Isaac enters the monastery, he pushes aside one of the monks waiting at the gates. His voice is weak and patchy, with a pronounced stutter. But even as he gets the words out, I’m staring at the circle of gold running around his head. “Are you Janus?” he asks me, even though he already knows the answer. We could be twins. I stand up from where I am kneeling in prayer before giving the king a deep bow. But the entire time, I’m boring a hole through him with my eyes. “I am.” “Let us g-g-go somewhere private.” I gesture around me. As always, whenever royal business is at hand, the monks flee like rats, cloistering into their tiny cells. “This will be fine,” I tell him. He has my habit of glaring. While looking at me, he clenches his fist, just like the old man; the tendons on his neck stand out like cables. After fifteen seconds of silence and glares, he stammers, “J-Just loving do it already!” I tilt my head. “Do what, exactly?” “Attack me!” “Why would I attack you?” I say. “That’s all the old man ever talked about, my blood-th-thirsty brother, locked in the monastery. How wise and g-great and w-what a good king he would be, training with m-monks all day to kill me.” I laugh, the sound shattering my half of the tension like sugar glass. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about being king. I’ve never even been outside of the monastery grounds. But I see he told you the story of him and his brother, huh?” My brother nods, his rock-crusher fists starting to unclench. “God, the old man was such an rear end in a top hat, wasn’t he?” With a practiced motion, he sheathes the dagger back under his armpit. “How long are you here?” I ask him. “Just long enough to settle this,” he says. “I have little desire to be a monk.” “I’ll make you a deal,” I tell him. “You can be king on one condition: when you go, take me with you.” He sticks out his hand and I shake it. Each of us grip as tightly as we can but neither of us grimace. I only hope I'll be as good a nurse as he is a king.
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Nov 2, 2020 04:34
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A Zombie At The Gates 1103 words Archived! Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 22:39 on Jan 10, 2021 |
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Nov 2, 2020 05:07
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Tyrannosaurus posted:See I’m alive. May Include Happiness 1102 words Ahmancella only took drugs for their side effects: escitalopram to increase stamina, tamsulosin for retrograde ejaculation, and quetiapine stayed in his system longer than viagra. He smashed through frat parties and clubs’ VIP rooms like a libertine Mario, inhaling powerups and crushing goomba. The supplementary mood increases and prostate health were a bonus, the dry mouth and transient aphasia less so, but Ahmancella didn’t understand people one hundred percent of the time even when sober. Mere hours into a spur-of-the-moment Vegas trip—courtesy ropinirole’s boost to his affinity for prostitutes and poker—he was taking a five-minute smoke and piss break in the casino’s garden. A party bus, woefully bereft of hussies, rolled into the porte-cochère of the Bellagio. On cue, a bachelorette party galumphed from the hotel as a single unit, a cacophony of drunken “woos” and ironically misogynist endearments. Ahmancella zipped up, flicked his cigarette into the pristine fountain, and nodded at the party as he started to walk back to the tables. “Hey, boy,” shouted one of the ladies. “You’re cute. Wanna go see some big cats?” He stopped and turned around slowly. He pointed to his chest. “Me?” “Yeah, we’re collecting Vegas boyfriends.” She motioned toward the pack of people, offering a few confused but cautiously ecstatic men being led onto the bus as proof. “For twenty bucks they’ll let you stick your head in a lion’s mouth for your instagram.” “Oh. The cats.” The carbidopa-levodopa gushing through his veins said yes before his brain had time to evaluate the probability that this excursion would end with him in a panther’s stomach. The bus had a miasma of perfume and deodorant pushed to its limits. Various nascent couples were already hooking up, their various stages of undress an ombré of flesh stretching toward the back of the bus. Ahmancella sat on a bench seat and pulled a baggie out of his shirt pocket. He could differentiate each pill from memory by their slightest features. He popped a dramamine for motion sickness and a prochlorperazine to counteract the drowsiness. The woman who invited Ahmancella sat next to him and extended her hand. “Miral. Would you see what you’re sure?" The thumping base rattled his ears and he wasn’t sure which words were lost to the music, and which were simply scrambled by his brain. “Um. Yes?” Ahmancella found he could get through most of life saying yes when he didn’t understand. “Cool.” She smiled, leaned in, and kissed him. Things carried on this way as the bus drove them into the cold Nevada desert. When they arrived at their destination and disembarked, Miral handed Ahmancella her purse. “Watch this for me while I run to the bathroom?” “Sure.” “Don’t look through it,” she said. “I can recognize if I’m cleamed of merclan thingslings around.” “Uh huh.” Ahmancella waited until she’d disappeared around the corner before rifling through Miral’s purse, pocketing an norethisterone—useful for those long nights at the poker table. He closed the handbag and waited for her return, then they headed inside the erstwhile brothel that had been stocked with cages and kibble. The maroon carpets were stained with cat piss, and even though cleaned the traces of ammonia still burned his nose. A tamer—more mustache than man—greeted them and led them to makeshift bleachers. In the dim light the man gave them the requisite safety speech that was meant to do double duty impressing the viewers of the shear power and danger of the big cats as well as critiquing the exotic animal ownership laws of the United States—both tasks only meagerly accomplished. The party watched the cats tolerate being fed pieces of raw meat for half an hour. Each time a new one was introduced, Miral would clutch Ahmancella’s arm and squeeze closer to him. He liked that, but the labetalol he took because he liked the vivid dreams also made his heart beat steadily smooth no matter how excited he felt. Finally the mustachioed maestro removed his top hat and cape and leaned in close to the party, his voice lowered to almost a whisper. “Now who wants to stick their head in a tiger’s mouth?” Everybody looked at each other, jabbing and daring their friend or fugacious paramour to do it. Miral nudged Ahmancella. He shrugged and raised his hand. “I’ll do it.” Ahmancella followed the tamer’s directions and stood exactly where he was supposed to. “This is safe, right?” “Perfectly safe! Legal? Not so much. Ok, slowly lower your head into its mouth. Don’t make any sudden movements. That makes it decidedly less safe. Last guy almost lost his phone. He didn’t make up a lot just- symbically, but it dropped it inside.” Ahmancella shrugged again and put his head in the tiger’s mouth. He expected to feel fear, but instead it was the hot stench of recently devoured raw meat. In the crowd he watched Miral cover her mouth while the rest of the party held up their phones. He smiled and gave her a thumbs up to say “see, I’m alive.” The tamer said something, but Ahmancella couldn’t understand him over the heavy breathing of the cat. Just when Ahmancella thought he was a bit done with having a tiger’s fetid meat breath on his neck, he felt the dull pressure of the tiger’s fangs settle on his cheek. Ahmancella ripped his head out of the tiger’s mouth and hit it in the face with a perfectly placed right hook. He stumbled back as the cat yowled and retreated back into its cage. “What the gently caress’s wrong with you, man?” the tamer screamed, running over to his startled assistant. “It tried to bite me!” “He did not! I told you to take your head out, his jaw was getting tired.” “Oh. My bad.” The party laughed and cheered, less concerned for the well-being of the cat than they were the fulfilment of their Vegas debauchery. Loading back onto the party bus, the women flashed him smiles and the guys patted him on the back and compared him to Mike Tyson. “Didn’t know we’d be getting a free cage fight too!” Heading back to the neon glow of the city, Ahmancella turned to Miral. “I didn’t mean to punch that tiger,” he said. “I really thought it was gonna eat me.” She laughed. “It’ll be fine, don’t beat yourself up over it. Sometimes ya forgive your fist and a tiger, and just live in the moment, ya know?” Ahmancella nodded. “Now do you want some molly?” she said, pulling a little baggie out of her bra. Ahmancella blinked. “Depends. What are the side effects?”
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Nov 2, 2020 05:37
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quotes offered: Six perfect, the violent, her - I had to turn everything that had been a little while ago. He was only fire. “It’s, like, sure. For real!” She closed her eyes. "I’ve been doing drat morning with the gangster. Would you like to get it?" I put down the treeline and every mountain police. Then She said, “Yes, in you. Your matches. The city cold." Our words rolled in that big land war bus. quotes used: He was only fire. I put down the treeline and every mountain police. Our words rolled in that big land war bus. have you ever wondered if there's a militia of fascist christian warlocks in the american heartland 1111 words We’re meth people in meth country so no news crews ever show up to ask us about the Strongfaith Boys. Everyone’s so busy watching the big cities go to hell, they never stop to wonder if there was a militia of fascist christian warlocks in the heartland. “They’re here,” warns TeaTree from her perch by the window. “Four, five...seven of those armored Jeeps. Thirty guys, maybe.” I’m on the tail end of a five day run and my eyeballs feel like jawbreaker candies, dry and bulbous in their sockets. Something's digging into my back. Who ever thought metal springs inside a mattress was a good idea? I shiver up into a sitting position and gently caress I hate this squat. Embarrassing amounts of crap everywhere, the space pressing rudely against my senses. TeaTree couches like a shaven albino spider monkey on the backrest of the sofa, her spidery fingers parting the window blinds, her pointy nose fogging the filthy window. Mugwort is moaning and groaning in the corner all abscessed up and feeling sorry for himself. “You always let the ants into my arms,” he whines. “Shoot me. Who loving cares.” I prop myself up on my elbows, see splotches of blood and pus on the mattress next to me. “Man, don’t go picking your skin on my mattress,” I tell Mugwort. “We got stories for that.” “You poisoned me,” he says. “You put something in the stuff. Took away my stories.” “The Boys are getting into formation,” warns TeaTree. “Lotta guns.” “No, you smoked the best beans in the greater Scottsbluff area and forgot your stories,” I say to Mugwort. “You poisoned yourself, you buggy pile of goofballs.” Something about Mugwort’s self-pitying bullshit fortifies me, but I still need to shake these withdrawals so I can go deal with the loving Strongfaith Boys. I push myself up to a seat and press my palms against my closed eyelids. My storyspace appears in the darkness created by my hands: a small high school theater stage illuminated by a single spotlight. My proxy marionnettes onto the mindstage. She’s a scuffed, rickety old puppet with greasy brown hair and a wet patch of sick down her front. I yarn a quick timeskip; my proxy acts it out. She scratches and retches, picks, shits, writhes, and screams as a cardboard cutout sun and moon wheel overhead, days passing in the span of a heartbeat. As the story of my recovery unfolds behind my eyes, I feel my physical body getting stronger, the withdrawals sloughing off like dead skin. My proxy finishes the sequence, takes a bow, and the space behind my eyes goes black. Feeling a little more human, I kneel on the couch beside TeaTree and peek out the window. Sure ‘nuff, there’s a convoy of christian warlock fash loitering like coyotes a short distance from the house, all formed up like a cute little jackass battalion. There’re a few of our customers in the bunch but of course they’d never fess to patronizing the meth witches. Better for their reputation if we die. There’s always other kitchens. They got these big red, white, and blue crosses mounted on their Jeeps, and on those crosses is just a mess of christian symbolism and nordic runes, like they couldn’t decide whether to be American fundies or nazi heathens so they said porque no los dos? Except they’d never say that because they’re a bunch of racist witch-phobic apocalypse cosplayers. “drat that’s the most of them I ever seen in one place,” I say to TeaTree. TeaTree nods, her wan face set and unreadable. “I think they mean to end us” “Sure do.” Mugwort moans, still in a pile on the floor behind us. “Yarn yourself together,” I snap at him. “We got an opportunity here.” . “No,” TeaTree says flatly. “We’ll never find another bus this decent.” The old bus is in gorgeous nick, I’ll give her that. The perfect home for our mobile kitchen. “gently caress a bus. Burn the everything.” Mugwort says. He’s a little better than before. A little—he’s flirting with the amphetamine psychosis and his stories don’t spin like they used to. We’re gathered in a huddle out back the house where we park the kitchen. The chattery report of AKs laying into the front of the house crackles the air, but the real worry is the creeping haze of hosed up christo-nordic nazi magic oozing over the roof toward us. It’s not really an argument. We got a reasonably explosive meth bus. The Strongfaith Boys are huddled up in their little formation doing some kind of nazi fart magic. It would be irresponsible to not go for the sucker punch. It’s been a while since we’ve yarned our stories this way. The old way, using our voices, our lips, our tongues. The old language. TeaTree slowly steers the bus around the overgrown side of the house, me and Mugwort walking behind like a funeral procession. Our voices spin descriptions of potential energy, of spring-loaded fire, of unexploded ordinances. We tell these stories into the bus, suffusing the kitchen with rapidly-elapsing narratives like bomb fuses. As soon as they see us, the Strongfucks turn all their guns and magic on our rolling kitchen. TeaTree just needs to get the thing out of the weedy sideyard, set it in neutral, and send it careening down the slope toward the Boys, but she can’t do that under a hail of bullets and hexes. “gently caress,” I growl. “I’m gonna go draw fire.” “The hell you will,” Mugwort says. He smiles a bright, uncommon smile. “I put down the treeline and every mountain police.” And then he’s gone, doing his lopsided wobblerun out into the open, bellowing yarns in the old tongue as he goes. The gunfire falters, then re-orients itself toward the wild-eyed meth witch lurching toward them. They hit him again, and again, rounds chewing through his midsection, but Mugwort ain’t having any of that. From behind the bus I watch him shriek a plume of story and blood into the air around him, an arterial mist that ignites in a burst of copper flames. He’s only fire, an impossible earthbound meteor screaming upstream a river of bullets. TeaTree maneuvers the kitchen to the downslope, throws it in neutral, and hurls herself out the driver’s side window, landing hard on scrubby grass. Our words roll in that big land war bus. When the kitchen hits the Strongfaiths, our yarns go off like bombs, sending a huge column of fire into the sky, all the way to God, a newsworthy gently caress you from meth country.
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Nov 2, 2020 05:38
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Quotes offered: I thought on a lie and a culty voice was carried with tabally. I flipped myself uncouting eyes, picked up my hat, but never found a liberal page of heart. My gold pressed his perfect friend. "Oh right did worry. Not a world’s that it further rob fulls this twenty one thing. More buy, pleasant money. Six control of it, maybe we can move them.” I am a moment, and a very spectacle. "I was," I said, “Normal. Do you want me all-hate-” Quotes used: I thought on a lie and a culty voice was carried with tabally. I am a moment, and a very spectacle. "I was," I said, “Normal. Do you want me all-hate-” Musical Theater 857 words My friends think I am like my mother, but if that means I am even half as loving and kind and funny as she was, then I don’t see how this could be a bad thing at all. She was a very talented singer and actress, and she had fans everywhere we lived. I used to love listening to her practice songs before a show. We moved a lot when I was a kid. She told me that a bad man from a cult was chasing us, and we had to move so that he couldn’t kidnap me. I didn’t mind. I loved getting to know each place. You see, each city and town has unique sounds associated with them, and when you listen closely enough, you can hear the music. Some places have honking cars and screeching tires that flow into the wind blowing past trees. In others, the sounds of a nearby river form the bass line for all the other notes. Moving often meant that I would hear more and more of these soundtracks. I imagined having an album with them all - Emma’s City Songs. I haven’t moved in a while. It’s been harder to do ever since my mother died in a freak car accident on the side of a mountain. She was trying to escape the cult when her car slammed into a boulder. The investigators called it reckless driving and closed it without making any arrests. When they closed the case, I couldn't move for a week, I felt so lost in the world. After that, the songs got more and more coherent, with real melodies and riffs and sometimes it even sounds like real instruments. The city I live in now is very big and it sings me multiple songs a day now. There’s so much to hear here that I don’t feel like I need to leave yet. — Today, I’m meeting up with my closest friend Josephine for coffee. She says she has something very important to tell me. We meet at the coffee shop in the plaza with the beautiful fountain that tourists like to take photos in front of. I see Josephine sitting on a bench with two drinks, and I wave at her. Suddenly, I hear it. The note that defines this city. It is clear and high, and I know what I must do next. It’s a musical number, after all. I leap into the air, splashing into the fountain with aplomb. Here is where the song really starts. I can’t sing, so I imagine someone will dub over this. When I kick the water, the pigeons in the background fly off to accent my movement. When I get up to leave the fountain, I hear the bridge, and when I land on the sidewalk, the chorus begins. I start to dance, and the passers-by join in, matching my steps. The next verse starts to play, and this time, the main ‘singer’ is the hot dog vendor man, who is nodding his head in time to the beat in my head. I shoot him a wink, and my chorus starts again. I twirl around a light post, the cars are honking in time, and people are throwing their hats into the air. Everyone stares at me. I am a moment, and a very spectacle. I twirl on pointe, which is very hard in these sneakers. I land for my ‘ta-dah!’ moment, my feet placed wide and my arms raised triumphantly towards the sky. I hear the swell of the music as it reaches that coda. The cymbals clash and the song is over, and everyone goes back to their boring lives. Beaming, I walk back to Josephine with the air of a queen. She won’t look at me, and she is gripping her water bottle so tightly I think it might burst. She says, in a quiet voice, “Why can’t you be normal?” "I was," I say, “Normal. Do you want me — all-hate-” She cuts me off. “We’re not haters. We’re concerned for you. Please, just come with me to the doctor’s office. Just a consultation.” This hurt. Josephine is a hater. But narratively, this makes sense. She was my best friend, so her arc would probably involve doubting me before she realizes her mistake and finally we are reunited in the tearful finale. The cult people got to her, so her story will be all about breaking free. I must free her from the cult. “I can’t believe they got you, too. My best friend.” The music from the city grows louder in my head. This is new - now, it whispers something to me. Lyrics? I can only hear snatches of what it says but it sounds like, at least I thought, ‘…on a lie and a culty voice was carried with tabally…’. “Emma, please…!” Josephine pleaded with me. I walk away from her. There is work to do. All I can think about is how the music I hear will help me save her from this terrible cult. They killed my mother and there’s no way I’ll let them kill my friend.
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Nov 2, 2020 05:55
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sebmojo fucked around with this message at 21:22 on Jan 10, 2021 |
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Nov 2, 2020 05:55
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Termination Report: “Lucy K” - Red - Dissent and Violence This was a story about.... a computer? Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 23:39 on Jan 10, 2021 |
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Nov 2, 2020 05:57
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Sentences: This was good, just lay in the water and he’s next. Things are going to get refused. Metal shook her head. Wordcount]: 1096 A Dangerous Favor Daiki took a deep lungful of air before pulling his head down below the waterline. He stared up at the dark shadow of the bridge above him and willed himself to invisibility. This was good, just lay in the water and he’s next. They will surely just pass him by. Long seconds ticked by as he mentally ticked them off. How long is long enough? When he last saw them, the city watchmen were stopping to question people, but it seemed brief, cursory. They were otherwise walking quickly, just trying to get to the end of their shift and pass their problems onto the next shift. He fought his lungs as long as he could stand to, then resurfaced quietly, fighting the urge to violently expel the canal water that had seeped into his mouth. He grimaced at the garbage floating past him as he spat out the foul liquid. Quietly spat, he reassured himself. He was relieved to hear the periodic jingling and rattling of the watchmen’s armor grow fainter in the distance until it was indistinct, folding into the quiet murmur of the city going to sleep. After careful surveillance, Daiki pulled himself out of the canal. He snagged a cloak off of a low slung clothesline and wrapped it tight around him, pulling the attached hood snugly over his head. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way down into a residential quarter, thankful that the lamplighters stuck to the richer parts of town. His destination was not far off, but each minute he spent creeping there felt like hours as he dodged the few groups of people still out and about in the growing darkness. He knocked on an unadorned wooden door, then again after a brief pause. Come on, Konnor, Daiki thought. Another knock, another anxious pause. “Who’s out there?” said his friend’s voice, muffled from the inside. “Daiki,” he whispered at the door. “Hurry up and let me in!” The door parted slightly, outlining a large man holding a wooden staff against the flickering flame of a hearthfire within. “Daiki?” Konnor lowered his staff as Daiki tugged the hood off his head. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?” “Please, just let me in,” said Daiki, not waiting for permission to squeeze past his friend. As Konnor shut the door behind him, the patter of tiny feet announced the arrival of Konnor’s family. “Uncle Dak!” cried out the little girl, who ran and hugged Daiki’s legs. “Ew, you’re wet. And smell funny.” Daiki let out a half chuckle, trying to pry the girl from him. “Mette, let him go,” said the woman following the little girl. “You’re going to knock him over!” The woman laughed as she helped free Daiki from her daughter. “Thanks Raelyn,” said Daiki, smiling. Mette stamped her feet, looking up at her mother. “Say it right!” she said, pouting adorably. Raelyn sighed dramatically. “And just what is wrong with your actual name?” she said, looking down at her daughter, who theatrically stamped one foot. “Fine, Metal. Better?” “Look, you two, we need to talk,” said Daiki, looking from Konnor to Raelyn. Konnor nodded to his wife. “Time for bed, Metal,” said Raelyn. Mette shook her head. Vigorously. “Time for bed, or no tuck in,” said Raelyn, raising one warning finger. “Fine!” said Mette reluctantly, and went to grab her mother’s hand. “We can think of my new name for tomorrow! Good night Uncle Dak! Good night Dad!” “Good night,” said Daiki, waving to the little girl and forcing a smile until their backs were turned. Konnor pointed to a pair of wooden chairs by the fire and raised an eyebrow. Daiki settled into one with a sigh. “So,” said Konnor, seating himself in the other chair and looking over patiently. “So,” echoed Daiki. “The conscriptors came for me today.” “Oh, no,” said Konnor, leaning forward in his chair. “What did you do?” “I might have… knocked one of them out and ran,” said Daiki, slumping back in the chair. “Daiki!” exclaimed Konnor, his eyebrows shooting upwards. “That’s not just desertion, that’s treason!” “I know, I know,” said Daiki, holding up his hands towards Konnor in defense. “I panicked! And this was the only place I could think of to come to.” “Here? Where my family is? How could you bring them into this?” said Konnor, standing up and towering over Daiki. “Look, I emphasize, I really do, nobody wants to be an imperial pawn, but this is too much.” “I was careful, Konnor,” said Daiki. “Nobody saw me come here, I promise. I love your family, you know that. I would never intentionally involve them. But I don’t have any other options. Look, I was just hoping you could smuggle me out of the city in your cart. You have a delivery to the guard post at the gates tomorrow, right?” “Quiet down,” said Raelyn, coming back into the room to stand by her husband. “You’re going to get Mette all excited and she’s never going to sleep. What do you need, Daiki?” Daiki opened his mouth but Konnor cut him off. “He wants impossible things. An insane favor. He’s running from the conscriptors. Attacked them, even. And now he wants me to smuggle him out of the city tomorrow.” Raelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Well then. Things are going to get refused.” stated Raelyn, flatly. “Right?” she said, staring at her husband. Konnor violently ran his hands through his hair. “Please,” said Daiki softly. “I’m begging you. It’s the only way.” “We love you dearly,” said Raelyn. “But this is too much. What happens to Mette if you get found? Even you being here is dangerous. If they found you, we would be taken in.” Konnor nodded his head in agreement. “If it was just me alone, like the old days, you know I would try to help,” said Konnor. “But I have to think of what’s most important.” Hard pounding at the door made them all jump. Daiki leapt from his chair, fruitlessly searching for a corner to hide in. Konnor looked at his wife questioningly. Raelyn simply nodded at him in response. With a sigh, Konnor went to the door and swung it open. Mette stood in front of the door, flanked by a pair of city watchmen. “I brought them, Mom!” said Mette proudly. “To help Uncle Dak, just like you said!” “We have to protect Mette,” said Raelyn, looking sadly at Daiki. Konnor struggled to hold back his emotions, his voice rough and breaking. “I’m sorry, my friend. It is the only way.”
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Nov 2, 2020 06:00
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submissions closed
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Nov 2, 2020 06:01
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oh christ i forgot about this and it was a toxx i have failed you glorious ruler tyrannosaurus, please make my death swift and/or toss me in the body pit, whatever is appropriate
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Nov 2, 2020 06:27
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Thumbtacks posted:oh christ i forgot about this and it was a toxx Get something down before trex judges and you will avoid both the toxxban and the failure. Do it, I belief in u
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Nov 2, 2020 06:33
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Solid week, kiddos. Can't say I'm surprised. I gave you everything you needed and you are very welcome. Crits will be up tomorrow. If you failed, gently caress you. If you toxxed, you have until crits to redeem yourself before the reaper comes. Shout out to UraniumPhoenix for being an excellent co-judge. I'm grateful to you for joining me.  j u d g e m e n t BabyRyoga loses. Old Binsby dms. take the moon hms. Antivehicular hms. Sitting Here hms. Dr. Kloctopussy wins.
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Nov 2, 2020 07:10
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An interprompt, courtesy of TDbot: "He had to find him, the fate of the Empire was at stake!" 250 words.
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Nov 2, 2020 07:23
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Week #430: Dino Monarch Week Overview: I think when some people saw the sentences they got, they figured the best way to hide some of the nonsense sentences was to make their entire story nonsense, or at least, incredibly hard to parse. My opinion: It wasn’t worth it. Don’t sacrifice coherence, characters, setting, and plot for a voice or prose trick. As some of the more excellent stories this week proved, it simply isn’t necessary; other authors found ways to integrate their strange sentences into the story flawlessly (or nearly so). Check out the excellent HMs and winner for examples. Crit Format Summary: Your story as I understood it Crits: What I have to say, good and bad Arbitrary numerical rating (please base your entire self-worth on this alone): An extremely important number, remember to think about it constantly Predictive Rex Generator Summary: A rabbit, uh, wants to… do… something? Something about mall fairies and art. Crits: Gibberish. Unintelligible. This sacrifices all hope of character, plot, and prose for embracing a gimmick. However, the gimmick isn't clever enough to warrant this. If this really did use predictive text, then it wasn't a story written by the author. If it's just built to sound like predictive text (which is what I suspect is the case), cool, you did it, it’s just as nonsensical. Arbitrary numerical rating: 2 I Got A Shot Time From The Door Summary: An archangel doctor confronts a possessed patient. Crits: This is a humor piece, so a critical measure of success is if the jokes land. Some good lines: "“It is I, Doctor Archangel Raphael, first of his name, Lord of medi- Would you stop that insufferable hip thrusting?”"; "We can't beat up our patients! Not anymore." / "Why the hell not?" Overall, the absurdity of the characters is amusing, with fun flexing and distinct (if shallow) characters. Fine, but not amazing. Arbitrary numerical rating: 5 yr heart is a sword Summary: A kid tries to save his internet friend's life, while avoiding pissing off his mom. Crits: Nice hook. Good characterization through voice and prose; sets it in modern times (words like ‘chaos emeralds,’ ‘downers’ make that clear) and shows the protagonist's mental health fight (angels vs demons) and mundane fights (convincing a best friend to live through online chat), setting a very bleak mood. Vivid descriptions also add to the mood and characters. Those details also do good work at hinting at larger relationship ideas. Captures the eternal struggle of mental health conditions viscerally. Ending is harsh, and feels like it needs some small victory (more of a response from the friend). Didn't use lines, but it feels like you could have integrated them. Arbitrary numerical rating: 8 harry Summary: Two people do drugs in an apartment, leading to an askew bathroom door and a punch, except I guess the lady was in an asylum or hospital the whole time or whatever. Crits: Several stories this week saw the strange sentences as an invitation to write nearly nonsensical prose and dialogue. Of the stories to do that, this one felt like the worst offender. It had a boring start. Boring conversation. The setting wasn’t clear. Bar? Home? We finally get a hint of the place in paragraph 5 (but not the time), and then it has a character make the nonsensical the ask of 'watch the bathroom' because... it's her apartment. "Plus and besides you ruined the door you idiot!" "There was no need for such startling and things" The weird turns of phrase and off-grammar felt like ESL errors. Given the number of stories that clearly did make intentionally grammatically off dialogue or narration, I don’t know how much of that was intentional. If it was intentional, I don't understand the purpose of the decidedly not-authentic way the characters talk. The annoyingly-hard-to-parse-prose detracts from the story, and I don't know what the hell the story here is. In the end, I guess she's in an asylum instead of her home being tranqed, but... so? Is that supposed to be a twist? What is the point of this story? I don't get a mood, a character, or a plot from it. Arbitrary numerical rating: 2.5 A Hank of Rag, A Sharpened Rock Summary: Two brothers get to bloody work on the streets as rival families try to seize power as their father lies dying. This takes place in a cyclical reality like ours. Crits: This is another story where it's written with weird phrasing and misspellings, though it's clear in this case deliberate since it's a word out of place in a turn of frays (haha see what I did there). I can't tell the timeframe, because we have hydrants, missiles, but also violin cases and Swiss bank accounts, and planetside crews and ships?? Vagueries abound. Who's the woman? References to mythology with Jove and the holly branch (Baldur, isn't it?). Finally, it ends telling us this is, like, reality but two steps to the left or something, part of a cycle, but that really doesn't clear anything up or excuse the mess here. Like the other stories that tried to do this, the incoherence impedes understanding, which in turn impedes the plot, characters, and anything else this is trying to do besides "be off." I thought the cost of manipulating the prose was too high. Arbitrary numerical rating: 3.5 Atmospheric Disturbances Summary: Two people want to marry but the Mom doesn't want it, so they all putz around and not much happens (except the normal weird poo poo) Crits: Ah, cloudy with a chance of goldfish, the pescatarian sequel to the meatballs one. "Very into attending zoning board meetings and arguing in strict opposition to whatever the first person to speak said" lol’d at that one. Well, there's a bunch of weird poo poo, like raining goldfish, and gold-weighed blankets, and shoe-rain (and rain you can order)--but... why? It's just a pile of nonsense, interfering with a rather banal story about an outdated parent interfering with true love or whatever and a meh ending. Arbitrary numerical rating: 3.5 Dancing towards the morning mind Summary: Two people lead some kids through some wilderness and kill some fen-beasts. One dies. They build a village nearby. Crits: Again, a story that saturates itself with nonsense simply so that 3 lines won't stand out as much. Dialogue and the voice impede understanding of the story. I can tell they go hunting, but it's hard to say much about the characters or setting. There's also a serious mood-mis-match from that last line and the rest of the story, which seems to prop itself up as a serious survival story. I don't think the incoherence of language creates a benefit that was worth sacrificing so much else. Arbitrary numerical rating: 3.5 could you, if you really had to Summary: A streamer broadcasts his suicide, which is to prove something about resisting the dystopian mind-control wires in him, and succeeds. Crits: The hook is fine: A man despairs and streams his suicide because… implanted wires? Literally? But we are in a blank white room, so the larger setting of the world is totally unclear, and we get no details to tell us about the character or anything else. We can glean there's dystopian mind-control wires that strip certain emotions. He appears to succeed in his suicide, never knowing if anyone saw or anything changed, and dying in fear. A rather... bleak story. Coherent, but there's not much in the way of character, and the mood produced is shallow due to that and the barren setting. Pathos is not established for the protagonist or world, since both are too shallow here. On a completely separate level, I also dislike this story for the message it seems to intend: Questioning the reader if they could kill themselves if they ‘really had to’ which seems a downright sinister title. Arbitrary numerical rating: 4 Everything After Summary: A young person rescues an older man from a looting expedition. He starts a story, but he's too hurt and he dies. Crits: It's impossible to take the name "Tombass" seriously, so there needs to be humor in this piece. I do like that we get a concrete setting her (post-apoc with them looting old American malls), and that the non-grammatical sentences are mostly confined to the dialogue (making it more of a dialect), and only occasionally the narration. There's an incorporation of language change without it overwhelming the story into incoherence. However, by the time the backstory finishes, the story seems to run out of room and concludes hastily. Tombass explicitly announcing the lesson he learned is sloppy. I think there was a chance to show that moral (let go of the past) through actions, through the two interacting. I think you could have shown the past that he was attached to. Arbitrary numerical rating: 5.5 The Canary Summary: A king visits his son, who is his succession backup plan. The heir visits later, expecting, like his father did, for his brother to kill him and take his place, but instead, they promise to be okay to each other. Crits: "considering only 30 only people live in the monastery" hmm. That typo, plus a continuity error where the brother sheathes a dagger he never drew call for an editing pass. The story starts a little slow and hazy, but once the situation comes into resolution, I like it. The resolution is satisfying. The father is decently characterized, through a few concise actions. Still, character depth is lacking somewhat, especially for the brother, and the story could use more explicit setting, especially in the start. Other things feel off, like "nurse" used in what feels like a medieval setting. Or is it medieval? No idea. Symbolically, the “canary” is an early warning symbol, but it’s not used here for that at all. Arbitrary numerical rating: 6 A Zombie At The Gates Summary: A husband and wife, their souls (but not bodies) raptured, hunt unicorns so they can leech divine ichor and re-experience the real that was stolen from them. While hunting, the wife mounts a unicorn and sees their son in heaven and tries to get him back from God; this request is left open. Crits: Great hook. I'm sorry to see that it becomes a hunting trip as a follow-up. There's shifts between first and second person, but I question who the narrator is speaking to. "Seawons" shouldn't be repeated 3 times in close succession. "This was the best part of the hunt, and the most dangerous: the part where the reality overwhelms you, all the experiences God stripped out of us, the ones we steal back piece by piece." I want that line earlier when it can clarify the setting and goal of the protagonists. It's doing a lot more work than early paragraphs are. The son comes out of nowhere, and the early and middle need a bit of work, but the end feels solid and impactful, needing only a stronger setup. It felt like this story found itself at the end, and needed a revising pass to the start and middle, rewritten with the ending in mind. Arbitrary numerical rating: 7.5 May Include Happiness Summary: Man does drugs. Parties. Sticks head in tiger mouth. Punches tiger. Does more drugs. The cycle of life. Crits: The "protagonist on a lot of different drugs" is a classic start. The second line makes him feel like a party animal, but his dialogue does the opposite. The 'bus of ladies arrives and yells at him to join and he does' feels forced. "Head in tiger mouth" is a good tension builder, also classic. The protagonist sort of bumbles into his heroics, and I don't know what the story is trying to accomplish besides a sort of bat-country vibe. Arbitrary numerical rating: 4.75 have you ever wondered if there's a militia of fascist christian warlocks in the american heartland Summary: Meth-wizards sacrifice to blow up american nazi warlocks. Crits: Well, the title's question sure is answered quickly. There's a setup of an--invasion, maybe--of fascist christian warlocks (fcws, as we call them), then some weird dialogue, which is a pattern this week, I keep scrolling up to see if the dialogue is weird because it's a given sentence but they never are they're just weird because vOv. The tension is killed by the protag needing to cast a spell to get the marionette to act out the withdrawal, which is clever, but also takes away from the "evil militia" literally right outside. The magic cool, and I like how it plays out. I didn’t like the heroic sacrifice as much, even though I’m a sucker for a good heroic sacrifice. The resolution is conclusive, but it felt like some other parts of the story were missing. The voice and prose had some excellent lines. Arbitrary numerical rating: 7 Musical Theater Summary: The kid of a singer copes with her mother's death, poorly, possibly with paranoid schizophrenia. She hears music, dances, then abandons her friend who tries to help her. Crits: Coherent, but it feels like this story isn't sure what it is. There's background missing. It's not really about coping with tragedy or about being non neurotypical, because the story glances off both too quickly. The first section and the second section don’t feel like the mesh together very well. If you’re going for the pain that comes from trying to help someone going down the wrong path, the friend needs more characterization. If the story is about dealing with death, it needs that. If it’s about dancing to the tune of your own song, the first part is utterly irrelevant. Once this story knows what it wants, it can proceed with what it focuses on and what it cuts. Arbitrary numerical rating: 4.5 We folks admit real Summary: Scientist working in lab who at yells at wormhole remembers an old flame. Crits: Nice hook. Good descriptions ("building takes a deep breath"), and others that tell us something about the characters. In keeping with the week, there's a bunch of nonsensical dialogue, and enough of it I'm sure it's not all generated sentences. I like the ending, but feel the story is missing something to truly shine, and that the ending doesn’t quite land as hard as it needs to without that something. Arbitrary numerical rating: 6.75 Termination Report: “Lucy K” - Red - Dissent and Violence Summary: A machine AI protects a girl who wanders in its library. They bond, it raises her. Then hunters are able to kill the girl and disable the AI. Crits: The intro makes clear the premise, and shapes the story into a tragedy for which the ending is known, making it inevitable. The story gives empathy to the characters, so even though we know what happens, it’s painful—so great work there. There are some great lines doing some heavy listing here, like the "Human belief" lines. The corruption of lines is a perfect excuse for the prompt. Arbitrary numerical rating: 8 A Dangerous Favor Summary: A dude hides from guards in, I assume, a fantasy city, then with a friend's family. He asks them to risk their lives for him; instead they turn him in. Crits: I'm gonna say it: too many characters here. The start can get cut. There’s not enough words for us to be able to waste them on the main character hiding. The story is about betrayal and risk, so that needs to be the focus. I don't feel for the characters, so there’s not much weight to the decisions they take. You might consider telling us more—with short details—about the setting and circumstances in this city. Noting a few objects in the house can bring that, and make the world more concrete (I don’t know what house looks like at all, or what’s in it beyond ‘chairs’ and ‘fireplace.’) We also need to get to know the characters a little better. Again, little details can help with this. I also don’t buy the mom sending out the little girl to get the guards. Arbitrary numerical rating: 4
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Nov 2, 2020 08:23
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Thanks for the fast critting Phoenix!
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Nov 2, 2020 08:33
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 Canterbury Tales: Blood Throne Edition Bifel that, in that seson on a day, In Thunderdome at the Tabard as I lay Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage To the Blood Throne with ful devout corage, At night was come in-to that hostelrye Wel nyne and twenty in a companye, Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle, That toward the Blood Throne wolden ryde; A new king requires patronage, but the Blood Throne is inconveniently located. Luckily, you do not need to travel the road alone, for I and your fellow travelers from across the multiverse will accompany you, and regale you with myriad and sondry stories, in exchange for your own. Who am I? The Narrator According to Sparknotes: In the General Prologue, the narrator presents himself as a gregarious and naïve character. Later on, the Host accuses him of being silent and sullen. Because the narrator writes down his impressions of the pilgrims from memory, whom he does and does not like, and what he chooses and chooses not to remember about the characters, tells us as much about the narrator’s own prejudices as it does about the characters themselves. Which member of the party will you be? Sign up, and you will be randomly assigned one pilgrim from the Canterbury Tales, and one semi-random adjective (I'm not going to give out boring adjectives). Will you be the Electric Knight? the Shivering Prioress? the Pathetic Man of Law? Sign up to find out! Each pilgrim will be assigned only once. There are two pilgrims that come with surprises. Your pilgrim should somehow relate to your story, at least a little bit, maybe. They do not have to be the main character of your story. They do not really need to be telling the story, though that is how it works in the actual Canterbury Tales. You do not need to read the actual Canterbury Tales -- I am certainly not going to! Your story does not need to be set in the middle ages, or be written in Middle English, in fact I would really prefer it if you did not write in Middle English. Sounds simple, right? WRONG. This is a five day pilgrimage. We are going on a trip. Things are going to happen. Will they be bad? Definitely. Will they also be good? Possibly. First, you will need words to spend along the road. The longer you travel with us, the more words you start out with. But that doesn't mean you'll end up with more at the end! We are all honest travelers here, so no words will be stolen from you. Whether to spend or save is entirely in your hands. Monday: Sign ups will get 1500 words to start with Tuesday: Sign ups will get 1400 words to start with Wednesday: Sign ups will get 1300 words to start with Thursday: Sign ups will get 1200 words to start with Friday: Sign ups will get 1000 words to start with Each day we will have a special encounter. You can spend 100 words to avoid the encounter. If you do not like the results of the encounter, you can spend 200 words to purify yourself of its effects. Oh wait, you actually wanted simple? If you wish to avoid all encounters, you may hire a private coach. Your word count will be locked-in at 1000 words, but your trip will be much more relaxing. (You can do this at any point, but you will still have all the effects you've already garnered) At any point, you may  to purchase a mystery item from the Hideous Hermit on the Side of the Road. I DO NOT RECOMMEND DOING THIS. The Hideous Hermit is well known for selling goods that are fraudulent, defective, or worse. Do not be lured in by the promise of a "free gift with purchase." You may get 300 extra words, but you will surely regret it.Those divers things which art forbiddene No google docs, no editing your post, no political screeds, no erotica, no non-fiction, and no fan-fiction, unless it is about Chaucer, the Canterbury Tales, King Arthur, or Sailor Moon. Deadlines Days will run from 8am-7:59am pst. Some encounters may be delayed due to unrest in the kingdom. Pilgrims may join until Friday at 11:59pm pst. The grand telling of stories will end Sunday at 11:59pm pst Framing Story Devices: Narrator: Dr. Kloctopussy Hideous Hermit: ???? Travelling Hedge Magician: Maugrim Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 00:02 on Nov 6, 2020 |
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Nov 2, 2020 17:31
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HITHER BE A list of PILGRIMS with FUL DEVOUT CORAGE, and a true and honest accounting of their adventure CURRENT DEADLINES Friday, Nov. 6, 11:59pm pst: * Join the pilgrimage with 1000 words * make any amulet attempts * request purification/other things from the Hedge Magician. Good news: he can't say no! * post your word bounty hunt entry 1am Saturday Morning: I will make some kind of post/posts summarizing everyone's current status, which will then be Permanently Established. (subject to appeal if I gently caress anything up, though) Sunday, Nov. 8, 11:59pm pst: *Submissions close Permanent Requests: When you post your story, please include your entire chronicle in the post! When you post your story, please make the title "The {Adjective Role}'s Tale: {Your actual story title}" (this has no relation to your actual story, but will look Extremely Cool in the archives) MONDAY'S PILGRIMS Grandma Party, the Finicky Host Lion Pitcher: One of the main characters in your story is obsessed with getting another specific person to take a bath (+300)* Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and developed an AVERSION to wells and an AFFINITY for being thrown * Tuesday's terrible inn: DRUNK, now singing "A dizzy twister dance, can't find my drink or man / Where are my keys? I lost my phone, phone" * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like an awkward way to wake up your guests?? (+50) * Surprise fairy attack: Picky Blackheart demands BLACK * Thursday's Encounter: the HIEROPHANT: Spiritual wisdom, religious beliefs, conformity, tradition, institutions / Personal beliefs, freedom, challenging the status quo * Limerick: Entered (+50) Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1900 words Thranguy, the Hellish Pardoner * Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and and developed an AVERSION to ancient grudges and an AFFINITY for ancient grudges * Tuesday's terrible inn: DRUNK, now singing "Now the moon's rising / Ain't got no time to lose" * Won the drinking contest! and developed DOUBLE VISION: can copy someone's flashrule from the same encounter. (+200 words) * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like gently caress if I know. How did you even find this?? (+50) * Surprise fairy attack: Fiery Coinage demands SILVER * Thursday's Encounter: TEMPERANCE: Balance, moderation, patience, purpose / Imbalance, excess, self-healing, re-alignment * Friday Card Draw: 2 of Clubs (+75) Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1825 words Antivehicular, the Greedy Mancible * Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and and developed an AVERSION to parsimonious people and an AFFINITY for candles * Tuesday's terrible inn: PURIFIED (-100 words) * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like unappreciative lawyers?? (+75) * Surprise fairy attack: Grabby Bluebell demands BLUE * Thursday's Encounter: the MOON: Illusion, fear, anxiety, subconscious, intuition / Release of fear, repressed emotion, inner confusion Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1475 words Magic Cactus, the Wretched Miller Broken Bowl: You always get three halves, but never a whole. (+300)* Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and and developed an AVERSION to dirt and an AFFINITY for staying in bed * Tuesday's terrible inn: DRUNK, now singing "I'm not big on social graces / Think I'll slip on down to the oasis / Oh, I've got friends in low places" * Lost the Drinking Contest, and developed DOUBLE VISION: can copy someone's flashrule from the same encounter. (-50) * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like a knight giving a man a nougie at sword point?? (+100) * Surprise fairy attack: Sadface Pennyblossom demands COPPER * Thursday's Encounter: the LOVERS: Love, harmony, relationships, values alignment, choices / Self-love, disharmony, imbalance, misalignment of values * Friday's Card Game: Ace of Spades (+75 words) Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1925 words Weltlich, the Nebulous Shipman * Monday's spooky castle: PURIFIED (-100 words) * Tuesday's terrible inn: DRUNK, now singing "Lie still, little bottle / Don't twist, it ain't twistin' time / With every move you make you just disintegrate my ever-troubled mind" * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like someone who does not understand the concept of personal space?? (+50) * Surprise fairy attack: Foggy Barksworth demands BROWN * Thursday's Encounter: INVISIBLE (-100) * Limerick: entered (+50) Won Special Prize (+0) Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1400 words flerp, the Divergent Monk but no purchase from the Hideous HermitIs in a private carriage Began with 1000 words. Currently has 1000 words Walamor, the Screeching Summoner * Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and developed an AVERSION to things that come in threes and an AFFINITY for swords, blankets, and basins with lavers (only need to choose one) * Tuesday's terrible inn: DRUNK, now singing "I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier / I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist, Like it doesn't exist / I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry" * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like an alarmed person in a beret?? (+50) * Surprise fairy attack: Yellalot Snowflake demands WHITE * Thursday's Encounter: the STAR: Hope, faith, purpose, renewal, spirituality / Lack of faith, despair, self-trust, disconnection Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1550 words BabyRyoga, the Macabre Merchant * Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and developed an AVERSION to cattle and an AFFINITY for short-distance racing * Tuesday's terrible inn: DRUNK, now singing "He sings the songs that remind him of the good times / He sings the songs that remind him of the best times" * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like…a horse with a man’s face being kissed by a panther with it’s spine on the outside?? (+75) * Surprise fairy attack: Darkness Darkness demands BLACK * Thursday's Encounter: the EMPRESS: Femininity, beauty, nature, nurturing, abundance / Creative block, dependence on others * Limerick: entered (+50) Won Surprise 3rd Place (+125) Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1750 words take the moon, the Sophisticated Plowman Stolen Brooch: Your story involves the theft of something highly improbable, because it is very small, very large, or non-corporeal, and thus sizeless. (+300)* Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and developed an AVERSION to drunken wrestling and an AFFINITY for broken things * Tuesday's terrible inn: SICK, now quoting Emily Dickenson "After great pain, a formal feeling comes – / The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –" * Lost the drinking contest, and developed DOUBLE VISION: can copy someone's flashrule from the same encounter. (-50) * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like man with an overly sensitive sense of smell?? (+50 words, Weak Amulet) * Surprise fairy attack: Fancy Indigo demands * Thursday's Encounter: STRENGTH: Strength, courage, persuasion, influence, compassion / Inner strength, self-doubt, low energy, raw emotion * Limerick: entered (+50) * Polished Stone: * Friday's Card Game: Queen of Hearts (+150) * Used Weak Amulet to successfully get rid of GRANITE! Began with 1500 words. Currently has 2000 words thumbtacks, the Lucky Second Summoner * May choose any already-assigned role, up until sign up deadline: chose to be the Second Summoner. * Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and developed an AVERSION to husbands and an AFFINITY for coats * Tuesday's terrible inn: PURIFIED (-100 words) * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like the three old wisemen spying on the Virgin Mary?? (+125) * Surprise fairy attack: Blessedbee Meadow demands GREEN * Thursday's Encounter: the SUN: Positivity, fun, warmth, success, vitality / Inner child, feeling down, overly optimistic PURIFIED! (-200) Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1325 words MockingQuantum, the Magenta Parson * Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and developed an AVERSION to bells and an AFFINITY for pigeons * Tuesday's terrible inn: PURIFIED (-100 words) * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like a priest with no more fucks to give?? (+50) * Surprise fairy attack: Pink Daffodil demands YELLOW * Thursday's Encounter: the CHARIOT: Control, willpower, success, action, determination / Self-discipline, opposition, lack of direction Began with 1500 words. Currently has 1450 words Liquid Communism, the Wet Friar Corrupt Chrismatory: Your story involves something corrupt disguised as something pure, and something pure disguised as something corrupt (+300)* Monday's spooky castle: HAUNTED and developed an AVERSION to things being spilled and an AFFINITY for shoes * Tuesday's terrible inn: DRUNK, now singing "Get outta your mind (what), get outta your mind (what), get outta your mind (what) / Bump that poo poo, get outta your mind (what)" * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like two friars. A little on the nose, but ok?? (+100) * Surprise fairy attack: Limpid Goldeneyes demands GOLD * Thursday's Encounter: INVISIBLE (-100) * Limerick: entered (+50) Won 2nd Place (+150) Began with 1500 words. Currently has 2000 words TUESDAY'S PILGRIMS SkaAndScreenplays, the Real Wife of Bath * Monday's spooky castle: ABSENT * Tuesday's terrible inn: * Hired a private guide: Word count = 1000. * Surprise fairy attack: Actual Citronella demands ORANGE Began with 1400 words. Currently has 1000 words Hawklad, the Ultra Monk * Monday's spooky castle: ABSENT * Tuesday's terrible inn: DRUNK, now singing "I get knocked down, but I get up again / You're never gonna keep me down" * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like a priest with exactly two more fucks, and who is giving them to the world right now?? (+50, Normal Amulet) * Surprise fairy attack: Mega Rosepetal demands PINK * Thursday's Encounter: DEATH: Endings, change, transformation, transition / Resistance to change, personal transformation, inner purging * Limerick: Entered (+50) * Friday's Card Game (+75) Began with 1400 words. Currently has 1575 words WEDNESDAY'S PILGRIMS Sebmojo, the Faded Squire Confusing Horse: There is something in your story that no one understands, but people keep trying to use it anyway. (+300)*Monday's spooky castle: ABSENT *Tuesday's terrible inn: ABSENT * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like two serfs unwillingly fighting each other with paper shields and t-squares?? (+50) * Surprise fairy attack: Dwindledum Bowtie demands RED * Thursday's Encounter: the WHEEL OF FORTUNE: Good luck, karma, life cycles, destiny, a turning point / Bad luck, resistance to change, breaking cycles * Friday's Card Game: Queen of Diamonds (+100) Began with 1300 words. Currently has 1750 words. Sparksbloom the Blushing Man of Law *Monday's spooky castle: ABSENT *Tuesday's terrible inn: ABSENT * Wednesday's treasure hunt: You searched under this weird tile that looks like me, if I were holding a squirrel?? (+50) * Surprise fairy attack: Shy Battleship demands GRAY * Thursday's Encounter: JUSTICE: Justice, fairness, truth, cause and effect, law / Unfairness, lack of accountability, dishonesty * Limerick: Entered (+50) Won 1st Place (+250) Began with 1300 words. Currently have 1650 words. Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 10:00 on Nov 7, 2020 |
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Nov 2, 2020 17:32
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1) In. 2) Gimme whatever that Hermit's got in his sack.
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Nov 2, 2020 17:35
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In
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Nov 2, 2020 17:41
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In
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Nov 2, 2020 17:42
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I'm sure this is a great idea that I will in no way regret. IN and gimmie those tchotchkes
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Nov 2, 2020 17:55
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BabyRyoga Yo. You gotta fix your formatting issues. That’s such a simple thing. It’s also such a stupid way of making me dislike your story before I’ve even started reading. I have no idea what you just wrote. It has some surprisingly interesting/funny bits (ie not being christmas, absolute truth) but there isn’t enough here for me to hold on to. I get it, okay? You’re shooting for an absurd, surreal, Alice in Wonderland, Jabberwocky fairy tale thing blah blah blah fine cool idgaf. The problem is, though, that there isn’t enough to establish some level of tangibility for your reader. What solid understanding do I have of this world you’ve created other than its ya ya kooky random? Use the rest of your words to better establish the setting, edit, loving edit, and maybe you’ve got a charming little piece of writing here. Maybe. Low. Mercedes Ha. Good use of your nonsense. Laughed at the patient/HR stuff. Pretty amusing piece. Got through it easy enough. I don’t know, though. There’s something about this that doesn’t work but I’m having a hard time putting it into words… It’s… it’s unbalanced. Early on, you drop a poo poo of adverbs and I’m left wishing you have spent more time describing things in greater detail. What does it mean when something is majestic or magnificent? What does that look like? I feel like maybe there’s just a lack of consistency across the story. This feels like a draft that you really had fun writing. It’s not tight though. Needed more time to percolate through some edits. ALSO what the gently caress merc? Double spaces, motherfucker? C’mon! Edit. Your. poo poo. Brooo. take the moon I just wanna open this by saying that you’re scratching a lot of itches for me thematically. As for the opening of your literal story, it is s h a r p. I’m four sentences in and I have a motivation (unattainable but that's fine), a distinct character voice, and a general kinda environmental feel for what I’m about to read. I so so dig it. Dialogue is real solid. Even the computer messaging bit which can be very troublesome for people flows natural and easy. My only criticism would be, imho, your piece would be stronger if the relationship with Palmer was stronger. I get that it’s a choice, probably an attempt to further highlight Kory’s isolation insofar as his best friend is a methhead that he’s never even met irl, but I think I would recommend making the relationship closer (ie siblings or school friends) and maintaining that desired feel of social isolation by simply inserting “and only” between the “best friend.” High. Old Binsby So you nailed the shattering of reality. Her breakdown of speech was a delightful reflection of the, kinda, cosmic falling apart of truth and certainty. And that’s dope because that should have been the hardest thing for you to do. My problem with what you’ve written lies, though, in pretty much everything that comes before and most of what comes after. I don’t have a great or, honestly, any sense of your characters, their personalities, their motivations, their desires. I have no idea what the setting is -- which isn’t necessarily important but the lighting a half-roll using a candle gave me vibes of older times so the first mention of a phone was quite jarring. Additionally, pinpoint for yourself, if you will, when you first introduce conflict to this work. When do we understand the plan for resolving this conflict? When is it resolved or failed to be resolved? There’s a lack of clarity all over the place here. If I had to explain this story in a single, simple, short sentence… I don’t know how I would do it because I’m not sure what happened. One good scene does not a great story make. Thranguy This is a mighty fine demonstration of your skill with the craft. You took some real fucky sentences and carved out a world for them where they make sense. While this was unanimous between the judges, I never tired of the weirdness of the language. It felt fully-formed. Real, in a strange way. You give a great sense of history, of something more, of this being but a piece of some greater narrative. High. sparksbloom Maybe its all the k-dramas I’ve been binging to distract myself from the horrors of gestures vaguely at everything but man I was all about this cooking. You could cut the bon appetit. Feels strange. Your dialogue meanders a bit and I wish it didn’t. Nothing you had them say about the mom really added to the story. You bring up the question of how to entertain her but there is never a need to entertain her. Why include monster trucks? Silly is fine but it becomes interesting if there’s something more to it. Zone meeting stuff is good because it gives insight as to Frances’ character. Yes. Nice ending. I think it's the k-dramas. I wanted this to be a k-drama. Idk why. MockingQuantum Ooh excellent excellent use of the dead line. Probably where your language felt best and most “true.” It’s also where your story carries most of its weight because there’s an emotion to it. The action scene, the wandering, even the pseudo-magic, that’s all competently written but it lacks emotional power. At the end, “sweet” felt anachronistic. You maybe should have used it once or twice earlier, give it a deeper or more important meaning, describe something with it, have it exist within the vernacular previous to its introduction. I did like where it was used, by the way. It just didn’t sit right. flerp Flashes of Hamlet. You set clear stakes early on which is good, which is what I like. And the contemplation of it is interesting enough. However, I need to know more about why this is so important. The reasoning for the wiring up, the supposed benefits of it to individuals and to society, it’s all too vague. It lacks the necessary impact to really make what is happening here pop. Instead, I’m left with a meandering monologue from a theatre student killing themself on a webcam. Pththya-lyi Clever use of a tough line to disguise it as bad gibber. Having one character ask another for a story never sits well with me. I think you could have rearranged things a bit and really nailed an emotional impact. Keep your first three sentences, cut the ask, and just go straight into the stuff about Tombass talking, the break it up with your dialogue. Maybe try to keep him talking. Even if it’s nonsense. It would be interesting to see how this would hit if Tombass was less aware that he was dying and if Chance had to break it to him. Good opportunity there was a painful realization. GrandmaParty Isaac sheathes a dagger but never pulls it out. Big fan of brother stories just fyi. Your ending feels contrived. You were on the right track when you made them both hate their father but you did yourself a disservice when you didn’t go father with it. The implication that perhaps the Canary would be a better king, that the older brother is weak, that a true king would do what is necessary (ie snapping a neck, taking power) and the rejection of that would be much more powerful. Especially if you could find the space to have a bit where its not only their mutual hatred that binds them but an otherwise unknown love, a tenderness, a kindness or a kind act that connects them… That would make for a solid ending. Needs more seasoning is what I’m saying. Metaphorically speaking. Antivehicular Dope. Props for using all your sentences. And doing so competently. What a fascinating idea. I love the image of a sad corpse husk riding a unicorn to the gates of heaven and just being super pissed off. You have an enviable ability to paint striking mental pictures. Qualia as a capturable thing is nuts and super cool and I way dig it. Absolute brutal sentence to use and you used it well. My only issue here is that you didn’t seem to really find your feet until the end. You could definitely go back through this later and make some cuts to tighten everything up. High. crabrock Didn’t understand people made me laugh. Good characterization early on. Oh, drat, it’s over. I was waiting for a big kick, a real solid climax, but I guess you either ran out of time, ran out of inspiration, or this is just one of those stories. The only thing that didn’t land for me here was the ending. You left me wanting more. Excellent and fun use of your sentences. Clever and appreciated. People found similarly creative ways to disguise their garbled sentences this week but I think I’ve enjoyed yours the most. sitting here Oh I loving love the title. loving love the first sentence. Goddamn I’ve stopped reading just to say I’m gonna be real pissed if this is great and I’m kinda feeling like it’s going to be godamn it. Cute little jackass battalion haaa I love it Okay. Well. Goddamn it this is great. gently caress. Favorite of the week. I think you know this but I, personally, love to use my titles as a bit of extra flair so I was all about the call and response. The magic was creative and inventive and perfectly described -- I had a great mental image of what was going on (which can be super loving tricky when it comes to the fantastical). Good names. Good dialogue. Funny, evocative prose. The only, only thing that stuck out for me was “treeline and mountain police.” I’ve been reading and re-reading it but I can’t get my finger on what it's supposed to say. Seems superfluous. Win. tab tabby To crib a review of a book I was once read: this is particularly horrifying because the main character doesn’t know that it is (I’ve always thought that would make a good Thunderdome prompt…). You leave a nice breadcrumb trail for your reader to follow along until they reach the sad realization of the narrator’s state of mind. But, like all breadcrumb paths, it takes a while to reach the end. You meander with the dancing and the song. It’s characterization, sure, but you used under 900 words. This poo poo should be tight. You probably don’t need a story break in the middle here. You could just jump straight to having coffee with Josephine. It’s more streamlined for your narrative and can also be an indication of the narrator’s scattered thinking. I’d consider rearranging your first three paragraphs. I love the even half as kind etc etc etc line but could open this up with some nice weight if you throw out that the mother was killed running from a cult… only to reveal the truth later... sebmojo Publishable, high-brow, intelligent, time travel sci fi that doesn’t delve into the unnecessary scientific machinations of what is possible but explores the personal ramifications if it is. Just lovely writing. You probably wrote this in forty-five minutes while taking a poo poo and it pisses me off because I’m not sure I could replicate it ever. Well done you. Love me some time travel. Also, Sox Sisters was one of my favorite lines this week so I’m glad to see you used it. High/Win Dr. Kloctopussy This is a deft example of well-written heartbreak. You tell us exactly what’s going to happen right away but still manage to make it sting with your step-by-step revelations. Props for using all six sentences. Even your most difficult, least sensical were seemingly effortless in the way they were weaved in. I particularly enjoyed the multilayered method of storytelling. Very high risk. I appreciate risk. But it paid off. High Walamor The escape isn’t important so it could be cut. I know it’s not, though, because you needed to find a way to squeeze in that sentence. Which means that you fell into the same trap as a lot of your other fellows: you utilized one of your sentences but did so to the detriment of your story. This is solidly middle. It’s not bad. It’s not good. It’s not ungood. Frankly, I think you chose the wrong perspective. Daiki is very reactionary. He’s running from the law. Does it matter why he’s running? Does it change anything? Does it affect who he is as a person? Does it help me to grow or to learn something about himself? I think it would have been more interesting to write from the kid’s perspective. Now we get to see the powerful emotions of joy (when seeing Daiki), sadness (when learning he’s in trouble), and grief (when learning that “helping mom” was actually a vicious act of betrayal).
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Nov 2, 2020 18:12
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make it quick and painless, im sorry i failed you also before im killed for the word blood gods, some clarification. i assumed a new prompt was posted by the winner of the previous prompt but a new one was posted before the old one was even critted, why's kloc making a new prompt? not that im complaining that's a solid prompt and if i return ill join it and definitely not toxx this time
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Nov 2, 2020 18:19
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In christ name, I grete thee and wolde acompanye thee on thy pilgrimage.
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Nov 2, 2020 18:22
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Thumbtacks posted:make it quick and painless, im sorry i failed you The new prompt is posted after judgement. Crits take longer to do so they come later. Sometimes never if the judge sucks.
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Nov 2, 2020 18:27
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in but toxxing simply to avoid failure i do not wish for any other nonsense and ill go on a private coach too my brain is too small for all this
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Nov 2, 2020 18:32
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I'm in, though I feel like I may want to get off DocKloc's wild ride.
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Nov 2, 2020 19:37
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Still on vacation, but I like the cut of this prompt's jib. In!
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Nov 2, 2020 20:53
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GrandmaParty posted:1) In. You are the Finicky Host Sparknotes says: The leader of the group, the Host is large, loud, and merry, although he possesses a quick temper. He mediates among the pilgrims and facilitates the flow of the tales. His title of “host” may be a pun, suggesting both an innkeeper and the Eucharist, or Holy Host. AND ALSO FINICKY. You currently have1800 words. You are the Hellish Pardoner Sparknotes says: Pardoners granted papal indulgences—reprieves from penance in exchange for charitable donations to the Church. Many pardoners, including this one, collected profits for themselves. In fact, Chaucer’s Pardoner excels in fraud, carrying a bag full of fake relics—for example, he claims to have the veil of the Virgin Mary. The Pardoner has long, greasy, yellow hair and is beardless. These characteristics were associated with shiftiness and gender ambiguity in Chaucer’s time. The Pardoner also has a gift for singing and preaching whenever he finds himself inside a church. AND ALSO HELLISH. You currently have 1500 words. You are the Greedy Manciple Sparknotes says: A manciple was in charge of getting provisions for a college or court. Despite his lack of education, this Manciple is smarter than the thirty lawyers he feeds. AND ALSO GREEDY. You currently have 1500 words. magic cactus posted:I'm sure this is a great idea that I will in no way regret. You are the Wretched Miller Sparknotes says: Stout and brawny, the Miller has a wart on his nose and a big mouth, both literally and figuratively. He threatens the Host’s notion of propriety when he drunkenly insists on telling the second tale. Indeed, the Miller seems to enjoy overturning all conventions: he ruins the Host’s carefully planned storytelling order; he rips doors off hinges; and he tells a tale that is somewhat blasphemous, ridiculing religious clerks, scholarly clerks, carpenters, and women. AND ALSO WRETCHED. You currently have 1800 words. Weltlich posted:In christ name, I grete thee and wolde acompanye thee on thy pilgrimage. You are the Nebulous Shipman Sparknotes says: Brown-skinned from years of sailing, the Shipman has seen every bay and river in England, and exotic ports in Spain and Carthage as well. He is a bit of a rascal, known for stealing wine while the ship’s captain sleeps. AND ALSO NEBULOUS. You currently have 1500 words flerp posted:in You are the Divergent Monk Sparknotes says: Most monks of the Middle Ages lived in monasteries according to the Rule of Saint Benedict, which demanded that they devote their lives to “work and prayer.” This Monk cares little for the Rule; his devotion is to hunting and eating. He is large, loud, and well clad in hunting boots and furs. AND ALSO DIVERGENT. You are in a private carriage. You have 1000 words. Walamor posted:I'm in, though I feel like I may want to get off DocKloc's wild ride. You are the Screeching Summoner Sparknotes says: The Summoner brings persons accused of violating Church law to ecclesiastical court. This Summoner is a lecherous man whose face is scarred by leprosy. He gets drunk frequently, is irritable, and is not particularly qualified for his position. He spouts the few words of Latin he knows in an attempt to sound educated. AND ALSO SCREECHING. You currently have 1500 words. BabyRyoga posted:Still on vacation, but I like the cut of this prompt's jib. In! You are the Macabre Merchant Sparknotes says: The Merchant trades in furs and other cloths, mostly from Flanders. He is part of a powerful and wealthy class in Chaucer’s society. AND ALSO MACABRE. You currently have 1500 words Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 06:45 on Nov 3, 2020 |
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Nov 2, 2020 21:47
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THE PILGRIM TIMES: Monday Afternoon Edition Our party of pilgrims has grown to eight members! There is safety in numbers, but how much safety? Announcement regarding private carriages: You may get in or out of the private carriage at any time, however your word count will remain at 1000, or lower if you spent so many words. That is, you cannot spend your words down to 800, then get on the private carriage and have 1000 words. Hideous Hermit words are not removed by getting on the carriage, though, so actually you can possibly have 1300 words!For pilgrims who don't like parsing the law or doing math: I will update the prompt post with your current number of words after each announcement/encounter. Starting later this evening. For those of you who unwisely wish to make a purchase from the Hideous Hermit: we will pass by him later this evening, as well. Or possibly earlier if another judge signs up and volunteers to be the Hideous Hermit. Rumors of Narrator mistakes are entirely unfounded. ENCOUNTER: Tonight we will be staying in a HAUNTED CASTLE. You may pay 100 words to have our traveling hedge magician purify your room, or you may sleep in an unpurified room, where you may be (definitely will be) visited by a ghost! You have until 7:59am pst tomorrow to decide whether or not to purify your room. People who don't decide will stay in a haunted room by default. Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 07:50 on Nov 3, 2020 |
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Nov 2, 2020 22:01
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in, , haunt me
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Nov 2, 2020 22:05
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take the moon posted:in, You are the Sophisticated Plowman Sparknotes says: The Plowman is the Parson’s brother and is equally good-hearted. A member of the peasant class, he pays his tithes to the Church and leads a good Christian life. AND ALSO SOPHISITICATED. You currently have 1800 words.
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Nov 2, 2020 22:11
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in, i will have to rereg soon i suspect but im posting now to be safe i know better than to toxx now so i definitely won't do that this time but i'm not a coward, haunt me (USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
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Nov 2, 2020 22:33
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In, and if I made it in today, I will NOT purify my room.
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Nov 2, 2020 23:15
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not purifying because i wanna see what these spooky spirits are up to 
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Nov 2, 2020 23:29
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My spiritual advisor has advised me to not purify my room.
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Nov 3, 2020 00:19
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Ghosts need love too. No purifying for me!
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Nov 3, 2020 00:30
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I am reliably informed that ghosts are impossible, as all souls must go directly to either Heaven or Hell without cause to linger. Thus I shall not waste words on phoney purification-mongers.
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Nov 3, 2020 01:31
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