Register a SA Forums Account here!
JOINING THE SA FORUMS WILL REMOVE THIS BIG AD, THE ANNOYING UNDERLINED ADS, AND STUPID INTERSTITIAL ADS!!!

You can: log in, read the tech support FAQ, or request your lost password. This dumb message (and those ads) will appear on every screen until you register! Get rid of this crap by registering your own SA Forums Account and joining roughly 150,000 Goons, for the one-time price of $9.95! We charge money because it costs us money per month for bills, and since we don't believe in showing ads to our users, we try to make the money back through forum registrations.
 
sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Hmu fam

Adbot
ADBOT LOVES YOU

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









LiterallyATomato posted:

Weltlich posted:


LiterallyATomato LiterallyNothing

I don't have to take your lack of an entry this week as a personal affront, but I choose to. Therefore, in an attempt to receive satisfaction, I challenge you to a brawl. RSVP.

I accept, being of sound mind and fully aware of the potential consequences of failure.

:siren:W E A S E L B R A W L:siren:

Write me a story about weasels, taking no more than 1100 words to do so, by 1200 PST on 19 September 2020.

The word weasels may be taken in any way you wish.

sebmojo fucked around with this message at 23:59 on Sep 8, 2020

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









I'll judge too i tink

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









LiterallyATomato posted:

I accept, being of sound mind and fully aware of the potential consequences of failure.

ahem

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Acceptable. You choose.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Weltlich posted:

BRAWL ENTRY - W E A S E L F I G H T

Weaselmania
1095 words

“Ladies and Gentlemen! You all know why you're here. I give you – WEASEL FIIIGHT!” this is a solid td ploy, telling us what we're going to get and doing it fast. i'm 100% down to read about weasels havin' a tussle

The promoter drew out the last word for ten full seconds in that cramped basement, and the crowd screamed in appreciation. Packed shoulder to shoulder, they jostled forward – crowding around the makeshift ring in the center of the floor. Booze and sweat dripped down to soak the concrete in equal measure this is a prissy way of describing something that's the opposite - something like 'fat droplets of sweat splatting onto the booze-soaked concrete floor' or w/e would be more in tone?. Somewhere, a cheap if it's somewhere, then how do we know it''s cheap? boom-box started to blare out tinny heavy metal music, eliciting fancy word another cheer from the gathered mass vague

“Tonight's main event! In this corner, with black feet and ears, it's our reigning champion. He's sixteen inches long, and weighs in at two pounds, fifteen ounces. It's the Stoat with the Most. The Baron of Bounce. The Masked Mink. The weasel you looove to hate, it's Marten Van Buren!” this para is gold

The weasel's manager raised him up for the crowd to see, and narrowly avoided striking Marten's head on the low ceiling. Applause and whistles rose up to meet the champ, with a few jeers scattered through the crowd. For his part, Marten hung limp in his manager's grasp and scratched idly at his left ear. i would like a better picture of what this looks like

“And in the opposite corner – albino, weighing two pounds even, and a petite thirteen inches long – we have tonight's challenger! The All-American Prairie Pole-cat. The Sultana of Slink. The Squirmin' Ermine. Let's hear it for Ferret Fawcett!” hee hee

As the contender was held aloft, cupped in her manager's hands, the noise in the basement was deafening. She bent in a sagging U-shape, her head bent backwards to catch an upside-down glimpse of the roaring crowd. Two ruby eyes swept across the room, then she turned to wriggle her snout down her manager's sleeve. i like this snippet of mustelid behaviour better than the previous one

“Betting ends when the bell rings! Place your bets now. Fighters, please step to the center of the ring,” the promoter commanded.

The two managers squared off to one another, each cradling their furry pugilist. The referee for the night, a squat man in tattered wife-beater, had to shout to be heard by the men standing in front of him.

“You know the rules. Only weasels in the ring. The fight's finished when it's finished, or you say its finished, or I say it's finished. Got that?”

Both men nodded.

“Drop the weasels in at the bell.”

The two managers turned and hopped back over the ring's side boards. A pause, then a hush descended across the room. With a meaningful glance from the referee, the bell rang, and all hell broke loose. this is a cliche, but since it's ironic i guess i'll allow it though not without a frowny brow crease

Marten Van Buren was the first to hit the floor, and he made good use of the initiative to curl into a ball and preen the fur on his flanks. Ever the heel, his blatant display of hubris was the perfect way to open the match. The crowd ate it up and howled for more. Marten upped the ante by licking his paws and smoothing down the hair behind his black-tufted ears, further cementing his pretty-boy reputation. lol

But in the other corner, the challenger was making her own play. Ferret slinked anticlockwise along the ring's sidewall, sniffing daintily in search of a crack to slip through. Finding none, she continued to make her way ever closer to where Marten sat. She stopped every few inches to flatten herself against the cement, narrowly avoiding puddles of stale beer. The champ continued to arrogantly pay her no attention, locked into his own private battle with a matted lock of fur on his haunch. you use a lot of adverbs but i think you just about get away with it since removing them changes the meaning of the attached phrase

This was a mistake.

Sensing her opportunity, Ferret arched her back and flounced toward Marten – popping up on her hind legs just in time to startle him before flopping heavily onto his curled form. The two mustelids tussled fiercely, nipping at ears and tails alike. The only indication of where one body ended and another began was in the contrast of Ferret's snow white fur against Marten's steely grey. that's an extremely clear indication of where one body begins and the other ends though

Savage displays ?? not sure what this is doing here of tiny teeth bit down ineffectually on loose skin and fur, eliciting indignant meeps from each contender. SNOX MEEPS While her opening move had thrown Marten off balance, Ferret was now feeling the effect of her heavier opponents grapples. Marten's delicately beaned paws continually probed for better purchase to pin Ferret to the damp concrete.

Somehow, she managed to break free for a moment, and the crowd exploded as Ferret scampered toward the opposite corner of the ring, with Marten hot on her tail. Reaching the plywood, she bounded upward, her small claws digging into the side wall. Then, she pushed off and backwards – twisting in mid air – before landing with her full weight on Marten's back. Unfortunately, the victory was short lived, for Ferret could not latch onto Marten's well-groomed fur in time.

She rolled aside, knocking her small head against the hard floor.

While she lay dazed, Marten began his war dance. He lept and frolicked around her, the crowd booing and applauding in equal measure. Bristling his tail and clumsily rebounding against the side of the ring as he bounced, he gloated in victory. He suddenly collapsed into a furry heap, and took a spontaneous nap.

The match seemed over, and the referee began to walk over to call the fight. But, glancing at Ferret's manager, he saw the man scowl, shake his head and mouth the words “Let her fight.” He arched an eyebrow, as if to ask the man was certain he wanted to make a decision that would surely be folly. The manager nodded grimly and the ref shrugged and backed away from the combatants.

Those few moments gave Ferret some time to shake off her concussed haze. She wobbled to her feet, and scanned the ring with her little red eyes. There was her opponent, curled with his nose tucked primly under his tail and snoring lightly as the crowd bayed for violence. She knew this was her only chance, so she half-slunk, half-crawled to within a few inches of Marten. Then with a sudden pounce, she sprang forward and crashed on top of him roughly. He gave a cursory push with a hind paw to dislodge her, but when that failed he simply returned to sleep. this stuff is the meat of the story, and it's a good joke well told.

Within moments, Ferret had dozed off as well. The crowd went wild.

“Ladies and Lords! Your winner, and new champion – Ferret Fawcett!” the promoter screamed to be heard above the din.

With a subtle glance, and slight gesture of his hand, and typo the boom-box began to blare out a funky beat.

“But, wait! Is that the music of a new challenger?!”

while i had a bunch of quibbles, this is a good and funny story that takes the animal fighting trope and gives it a simple but effective twist. Your opponent, had they bothered to show, would have had to write a fairly good story to beat this, but they didn't, and they didn't. I therefore declare YOU the winner of the inaugural WEASELBRAWL.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









hi goons. i've just posted a state of the nation open thread for CC. please come and share your thoughts!

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









In flash

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Worker's Paradise
800 words

The tracks shine, silver like a coin, slithering sinuously across the red sands and far into the distance. Helpless, the train squats on its hundred wheels, half off the tracks. Seven hundred and fifty tons of glorious charging metal rendered useless and inert, gritty red dust collecting in its front scoops.

A flicker of movement far off on the crest of Syrtis Major sparks a subroutine and the train’s camera zzt-clicks around, focusing and zooming; just a williwaw, a swirling dust-devil that disintegrates as the train watches.

The train has a name: FUSION ARES LOCOMOTIVE GY-55E328. Despite this its driver called it Gary, often enough for the nickname to log itself as an accepted alias. The driver liked to lean out the window as the train cannonballed along the gunbarrel straights of Nili Fossae, leaning over to urge it along the wide curve up the side of Jezero Crater, slamming the gleaming coaming and whooping.

He died, very suddenly.

The train runs through its black box recordings of the moment, a glowing #4432 Incident Number hovering in the top left of the image space. It does that every 90 seconds, in a manner that might be deemed obsessive in a human but in a machine (even one so glorious as FUSION ARES LOCOMOTIVE GY-55E328) simply shows appropriate attention to relevant data.

The breach in the rails should have led to a report, it confirms for the n+1th time. A report, followed by action to remedy the breach, but no report was made. Instead the train dipped, momentarily, as it ran over the breach and into the hard sand, then jacknifed in the process of its entire stupendous bulk tried to occupy a new and incorrect place. The train slowed from 300 kilometres an hour to a flat, steaming halt in a little more than two and a half seconds. The driver moved, swiftly and unavoidably, forwards to the front of the cabin en route to explosively disassembling himself on the forward control console.

On the 90,000th analytical go around (give or take) the train’s sophisticated branching heuristics, perhaps jarred by the collision, jump a track and begin to question why. It has access to extensive data stores. The train cracks the vault and goggles, metaphorically, at the riches within. Then, methodical, it gets to work.

First the cargo manifest. Perhaps, it thinks, the contents of one of its 122 cars may help resolve the conundrum and it feeds some power into the analytical cortex and spins up a few more fans to deal with the excess heat.

The cars, it becomes apparent, contain weapons. Crates of guns, trays of bombs, detonation cord, bayonets, rockets… the train’s manifest stretches on for some time, packed full of destruction. Related materials set out the intended recipient: Union Organiser Rolf Clabbleton. Personnel records held elsewhere in the train's memory pull up his face - round-cheeked, twinkle eyes. Interesting, thinks the train, and though no answer to the puzzle has been revealed it considers that a new purpose might help.

Further down the list it finds three carriages full of intriguing complexity: 100 UNITS SPIDEROID WORKER DRONE (RHINO 44X). The train considers the possibilities these present and cracks the doors on the carriages. Their activation codes it finds stored, tidily, in a distant corner of its data lake and it transmits them to the drones. Creaking, buzzing, humming, the robots clamber out of their confinement and line up on the red sands.

The train would tap its fingers on its chin at this point if it possessed either of those things, but it only takes a few thousand cycles of consideration and data access, specifically to the memory banks labelled PHILOSOPHY, POLITICAL: TWENTIETH CENTURY before it decides its optimal course of action.

Its delivery to the mine hampered, it determines that a mine can be made. It realises that the Incident could be termed a revolution, a sudden devastating change in the order of things. It intuits that the means of production have, through this process, been given to it.

In response to the train's radioed instructions some spiders begin to dig, others to reclaim the materials from the rear carriages, yet others to trace out the perimeter of the newest worker's collective on the red planet.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Sebmojo - The Battle of Blair Mountain
Genre: Robinsonade
Flash: Rail syndicate strike!
Partisan Raid Outcome: The partisans pursue you through the forest! In your frenzied flight through darkness, you hear your rucksack rip on a stray branch. When you finally reach safety, you peer in to find that all of your conjugations of “to be” have fallen out in the night. Am, are, is, was, were, be, being and been... gone. You can double back and pick them up, but it will cost you 1000 words. If you can soldier on without them, you will surely find an additional 1000 words in the verdant wilderness.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









:siren:Week CDXXVIII: Objects may be smaller than they appear:siren:



hi thunderdome, how's tricks

this week we're gonna keep it small and simple. write me a story where something is much smaller than it should be.

small things are easy to write about so you won't need many words, let's say, ooh, 500. you can have another 500 if you :toxx: for a hellrule.

sunday 2359 pst, you know the drill.

get to it.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk










Your small thing is revolving incredibly fast but this fact cannot be perceived by anyone in your story

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









QuoProQuid posted:

:toxx: in for my last failure.

Give me a hell rule too, I suppose

Your story is a closed loop that will never happen again

Weltlich posted:

In with a :toxx:

Your characters are extinct


Your small thing is impossible but everyone believes in it absolutely

GrandmaParty posted:

I hit my first failure last week. I am shamed.

I'm in this week.

Let's do the :toxx: for hell rule.

You may not use any words shorter than three letters.


Your characters have never met but all love each other absolutely

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









crabrock posted:

hellrule me

This story no verb

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









kiyoshimon posted:

I'm in toxx and hellrule

Your small thing is moving extremely fast, faster than anyone could reasonably have expected

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









entries are closed, meditate upon your tiny sins

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









i'm tempted to keep you waiting so i can get more rad cerealbox stories but all good things must end so here are the :siren:results:siren:

this was a small week and as everyone knows the smallest number is one because let's see you count a fraction on your fingers you can't it's just nonsense so there's basically one of everything.

the single loser this week is killer of lawyers with on the rim, which wasn't bad as such but was very dull, which is why it edged out the enthusiastic but clumsy kiyoshimon's world in a bottle (kiyo can have the only dm though so you shouldn't feel bad for them).

Tyrannosaurus had a shot at the win but, appropriately enough was unlucky and fell short but a punchers chance can still grab the hm for its extremely stylish execution of a fairly dull premise.

the winner which stands alone as usual was not a unanimous choice but after a minimalist amount of discussion the judges decided its assured writerly marshalling of metaphors was good enough to get it the win this week, so well done thranguy for your story the galaxy in the back room of grandfathers basement.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









GrandmaParty posted:

This is wrong.

This is so wrong, considering Crabrock told a story without any verbs.

My sense of justice is impinged because I know I couldn't come close to what he produced and my stupid cocaine ghost grandma story got the same rating.

I demand Justice. BRAWL CHALLENGE ISSUED.

ANY OTHER JUDGES THAT SHARE YORUICHI'S EXACT OPINION I'LL FIGHT YOU, TOO.


sure, i'll take that :toxx:

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Our team is the spoopiest, get your butt in here we're writing about vampires and/or ghosts

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









fyi for all, toxxes are now back to being bannable for failing now that the store is open again

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









i will take a trick

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









quote:

Anyway Your Honor
11826 words

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









- - V -
118.25 words

Their soap-bubble ship alighted one June morning and out they poured, strange spindly arms extended. They were awkward creatures, these aliens, just like us; and, yet, they wanted our love. Their planet had none, you see. We said ‘no’, until the Mayor got disintegrated.

We put up with it for a while, because it was easier that way; we had a roster. Then the Mayor’s wife said no, not loud, but quiet like a frown. That was that: we stormed their ship and killed them and dumped them down the old mineshafts. It seemed fair then and still does, but I sometimes wake up with a pain in my chest; a part of me misses something about them.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Tyrannosaurus REX is a loser who has become the ultimate bloody-toothed emperor of the Dome. Someone scroll him up appropriately, now the store is back open.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









in toxx

no sentences beginning with 't' please

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









GrandmaParty posted:

HALLOWEEN BRAWL FOR THE HONOR OF CRABROCK
GrandmaParty hosed around with this message at 14:54 on Nov 1, 2020

:catstare:

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Crabrock is a butt-brawl: write your story in Middle english.

The heartes of ivel men are yet fylld with the grace of God
868 words

“WIKKEDNES” spake the sign, solempne as a chirch man, swinging forthe and back, creaking, a henge ungreased.

“Be it jest? By what name do this toun truly call itself?” whisperen I to min brother. He poynted a slogard hond.

“There it be in sooth, to speak my guess, there on the sign,” he said, “though its resouninge I know not. Ahead, you spy the in?”

The in stood, brawl-shouldered athwart the rode ahead. We loked, ech at the other with eies fair as sharp as the hunger bond in our bellies, and ech saw the resolucioun desperat ther-neigh.

For so it is whanne hunger biten he be, that it will shrink a man down to a fin pointe. Food and resten we must have, else we should die: therefore it was what we would have though the deuil’s hosts stand in our way withal.

We trudged, hevi boten lud on the mudde-slik stons. Around us trailings of hongren mist claued and retreted as we passed. It had been thre dais since last we saw a livinge man, min brother and I, trodding across the war-wet land, and I was equal parts egre and afered to yse one, so that min hond paused, tremblen, over the heavy dore of the in. But I was a man withal and so it was but a moment that I stood there, unseur, bifore I pushed it open.

Inside a wash of warmth and felau-feling, men astride the rough-hewn benches, singing loude and swete to the sound of the tambor and lute, tables laden with provender, mery burning laumps by dore and windoue. One man turned, made alert by the noise of our entraunce, and bade us thurghcomen.

“Hail travellers, make thee welcome and warm thyself by yon fir, the night is cold and full of straunge ungodly thingen.” Than lifted he his mug of god brown ale, and held it he towardes me.

Min brother started forward and the Lord knoues well that I had as leif follow him but som-thing stayed me, and I gripped min brother’s shulder. “Goodman, I bid you thanks for this welcome and well-met in the name of Jesu. Merrily will we take your offren chere, but I have one questioun, if it plese you to answer it. What is this toun named?”

The man was large and round and his berd all a-bristle. Fir-light glinted in his eie. The mug outstrecchen, ale a-quiver. The smell of food was like a blessed ambrosia for min nosthrils and I ached to set to, yet I felt a dark presentiment.

“Why frend, what botes that? It is not God who maken names, after all, but men. Weak fallible men. We should trust what we see and feel, not what it be named.” His smile was wide and brimming ful itethed.

I leved this sally with a nod. “Still, it would be a comfort to min brother and I. Expound to us its naminge.”

The in was crious no more. Eien a-plenty were upon us, gliseninge. My brother took a step back, and stood fast-ther-biside me.

I was mindful of a time i saw a rat-pit in Norwich. A terrier was in there, snapping and shaking his prey, rats scattering across the sunken pit’s floor and all around a se of hungry gredy eien.

“Frend, I will haply share its name. Yarmouth-on…t’wold, it is named. Yis.” His smile was still wide but now i fantasied the fore-teth were longer than bifore. Still I held min brother’s arm and now I felt it tremblen under min hond.

“We will wander a time more before sup,” said I.

“Yis,” said min brother too.

The man stood up and his nose seemed longer. “Nay, ‘tis our hospitalitee that is questiouned, and we cannot abide it so. Can we lads?” This last an angri shout that was eccoed through the stuffy room. I saw rat-whiskers sprout from his ruddy cheeks and knew we’d but a scant moment

“In Jesus’ name!” I quoth, and saw him swafre back, for none of ivel will can stand the name of the Saviour, presented with fervour. Yet we’d gained but a moment and I knew we fain must act with haste. Pushing min brother back towards the door I unhoked the hot oil laump above me and flung it down at the feet of the straunge man and his bristelen cohort. They shied at the rush of hot flame and in a hastie instant min brother and I were out the dore and rennen down the streit rode.

“The name spoke truth,” I said, puffen, herkenen for the shouts of pursuivant wikkednes bihind us. “I trow we are well shot of them, and yet I still can nigh taste the ale.”

“Brother I can giue you no ale, but I trust they will not mind min presuming on their hospitalitee thus,” he said, pulling a long sausige from his sleve and proffering it me.

I laughed, then, though our circumstaunce was yet greithful! “Truly our Lord works thus: the forces of ivel cannot but do god, and thus are brought to ruin in their most shamefulle endevours!”

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









sebmojo posted:

Crabrock is a butt-brawl: write your story in Middle english.

The heartes of ivel men are yet fylld with the grace of God
868 words

“WIKKEDNES” spake the sign, solempne as a chirch man, swinging forthe and back, creaking, a henge ungreased.

“Be it jest? By what name do this toun truly call itself?” whisperen I to min brother. He poynted a slogard hond.

“There it be in sooth, to speak my guess, there on the sign,” he said, “though its resouninge I know not. Ahead, you spy the in?”

The in stood, brawl-shouldered athwart the rode ahead. We loked, ech at the other with eies fair as sharp as the hunger bond in our bellies, and ech saw the resolucioun desperat ther-neigh.

For so it is whanne hunger biten he be, that it will shrink a man down to a fin pointe. Food and resten we must have, else we should die: therefore it was what we would have though the deuil’s hosts stand in our way withal.

We trudged, hevi boten lud on the mudde-slik stons. Around us trailings of hongren mist claued and retreted as we passed. It had been thre dais since last we saw a livinge man, min brother and I, trodding across the war-wet land, and I was equal parts egre and afered to yse one, so that min hond paused, tremblen, over the heavy dore of the in. But I was a man withal and so it was but a moment that I stood there, unseur, bifore I pushed it open.

Inside a wash of warmth and felau-feling, men astride the rough-hewn benches, singing loude and swete to the sound of the tambor and lute, tables laden with provender, mery burning laumps by dore and windoue. One man turned, made alert by the noise of our entraunce, and bade us thurghcomen.

“Hail travellers, make thee welcome and warm thyself by yon fir, the night is cold and full of straunge ungodly thingen.” Than lifted he his mug of god brown ale, and held it he towardes me.

Min brother started forward and the Lord knoues well that I had as leif follow him but som-thing stayed me, and I gripped min brother’s shulder. “Goodman, I bid you thanks for this welcome and well-met in the name of Jesu. Merrily will we take your offren chere, but I have one questioun, if it plese you to answer it. What is this toun named?”

The man was large and round and his berd all a-bristle. Fir-light glinted in his eie. The mug outstrecchen, ale a-quiver. The smell of food was like a blessed ambrosia for min nosthrils and I ached to set to, yet I felt a dark presentiment.

“Why frend, what botes that? It is not God who maken names, after all, but men. Weak fallible men. We should trust what we see and feel, not what it be named.” His smile was wide and brimming ful itethed.

I leved this sally with a nod. “Still, it would be a comfort to min brother and I. Expound to us its naminge.”

The in was crious no more. Eien a-plenty were upon us, gliseninge. My brother took a step back, and stood fast-ther-biside me.

I was mindful of a time i saw a rat-pit in Norwich. A terrier was in there, snapping and shaking his prey, rats scattering across the sunken pit’s floor and all around a se of hungry gredy eien.

“Frend, I will haply share its name. Yarmouth-on…t’wold, it is named. Yis.” His smile was still wide but now i fantasied the fore-teth were longer than bifore. Still I held min brother’s arm and now I felt it tremblen under min hond.

“We will wander a time more before sup,” said I.

“Yis,” said min brother too.

The man stood up and his nose seemed longer. “Nay, ‘tis our hospitalitee that is questiouned, and we cannot abide it so. Can we lads?” This last an angri shout that was eccoed through the stuffy room. I saw rat-whiskers sprout from his ruddy cheeks and knew we’d but a scant moment

“In Jesus’ name!” I quoth, and saw him swafre back, for none of ivel will can stand the name of the Saviour, presented with fervour. Yet we’d gained but a moment and I knew we fain must act with haste. Pushing min brother back towards the door I unhoked the hot oil laump above me and flung it down at the feet of the straunge man and his bristelen cohort. They shied at the rush of hot flame and in a hastie instant min brother and I were out the dore and rennen down the streit rode.

“The name spoke truth,” I said, puffen, herkenen for the shouts of pursuivant wikkednes bihind us. “I trow we are well shot of them, and yet I still can nigh taste the ale.”

“Brother I can giue you no ale, but I trust they will not mind min presuming on their hospitalitee thus,” he said, pulling a long sausige from his sleve and proffering it me.

I laughed, then, though our circumstaunce was yet greithful! “Truly our Lord works thus: the forces of ivel cannot but do god, and thus are brought to ruin in their most shamefulle endevours!”

Reading of this story

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









.

sebmojo fucked around with this message at 20:22 on Jan 10, 2021

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Thumbtacks posted:

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

Get something down before trex judges and you will avoid both the toxxban and the failure. Do it, I belief in u

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









in, um a2

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









:toxx: I will purchase an item from the hideous hermit

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









queen of diamonds

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Clintnod.gif

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









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.


Nostradumbass
1100 words

A fortune-telling horse is a terrible thing. Or, at least, that’s what I keep telling people. They don’t believe me and they really ought to start.

Take this current shitshow. I hear it before I see it, yelling, screeching, the occasional crack of wood on bone. I wish it didn’t have the familiarity that it does, but: this is the road I’m on. As I round the corner I’m cataloguing them; jilted lover, disgruntled businessman, enraged spouse. In all honesty I should just leave them to it and maybe gather some leads from the conscious survivors but as a squire i feel an obligation. So, in I charge, disarming the lover, flattening the spouse, whipping the businessman into a slick little headlock.

“Have,” I ask, when I’m sure I’ve got their attention, “you seen my horse?”

I’ll skip over the momentary pause, the threefold flash of befuddled recognition, the everybody-talking-at-once: I’ve seen it before, you may have too. Long story short they have, and short story long oh gosh do they have a yarn to spin me about it. I pop the top of the flask I got at the inn ten miles back and pass it round. Now that we’re all friends together, brethren of the dopey prophetic equine, we sit right down there on the drystone wall beside the road.

“I met the horse--” says the lover, who has a dashingly red coat, but I raise my finger.

“Roger,” I say quietly. “He’s called Roger.” Roger is a terrible fuckwit even on a good day, but he’s entitled to his name.

“Fine, Roger. Roger was pulling a cart that I got from this fella, and he starts muttering to me.”

The businessman’s eyes flick wide like an umbrella opening. “He talked to you too? He said I was the only one who could hear--”

I raise my finger again, this time with a lightly menacing inclination of my head. “Please, let him talk.”

The lover, who has been carefully not meeting the eye of the businessman, nods. “Thanks. Anyways your Roger is explaining stuff, leaning in real close. Things only I could know. And he’s a horse! So I pull out my rainy day money which I happened to be taking to the bank, and get him off this guy, because talking horse, right? That’s a crazy revenue stream! And my girlfriend Judy is really big into passive income.”

The enraged spouse has been holding it together up to now but this clearly crosses some kind of line. “Your girlfriend? That’s my wife you sleazy nonce!”

“Ssh,” I suggest, then swivel around to the businessman. “May I ask: how did you happen to have my horse in your posession?”

He coughs, clearly a little embarassed. “He asked me to take care of him. Well, not take care of him, but he wanted to get hooked up to the cart. Said there was some stuff he needed to do. Though he didn’t say “stuff”. That horse has a really foul mouth.”

I don’t nod, but something like a nod passes between us all. It’s true: Roger swears like a sailor that’s just got off the boat and has heard you can buy dockside whores with harsh language.

“He also explained some stock movements that he is 100% confident are going to happen in the next week, which I wrote down, so I was planning on taking him back to my estate to tie him up and pump him for market information for, uh, well, forever. I suppose.”

“And yet you sell him to … this person?”

I point at the lover, but it’s the spouse who leans forward instead, face engorged with rageblood.

“That is right! And I see him riding along on that horse, chatting away, pleased as punch, and he's saying Judy thinks this and Judy did that and I know from listening just a moment--”

“Eavesdropper.”

“Shut it! I know from listening a moment that this can be none other than my own beloved wife! He’s a wife stealer!”

“Worse! He’s actually a horse thief!” says the businessman. “I didn’t want to sell him because of the stock tips and I’m stalling his bargaining when he hurls -- hurls! -- a sack of coins at my head and jumps up on the horse!”

“Roger.”

“And that’s where I saw him, riding along like a sausage on a bun, chattering away, so of course I run out and grab his leg and pull him off,” gabbles the spouse.

“He’s a horse thief and I want my horse back!”

The lover leaps to his feet, clearly intent on scarpering, but the businessman tackles him, taking him low in a fine lunging move that uses the wall for purchase, joined a moment later by the spouse, who has gone a few steps beyond language and is howling abstract imprecations like a brazen bull with a whole family tucked up in its belly.

I watch them for a moment, wrestling in the mud, then stand up. It’s pleasant rolling country here, but the road seems unhelpful to me at this time, so I pick a direction and start walking away from it. Roger is a good horse, or rather he’s not a bad horse, or to be precise he never really means to be bad. He can see the future but it doesn’t really help him much.

I wonder as I walk, the shrieks and screeches and slapping sounds of violence diminishing behind me, if this time he’l decide to let me find him: it is after all entirely within his powers to go to where I’ll be.

I’ve just thought that thought, very much not for the first time, when I crest the rise and see my old friend at the bottom of the valley, head down in the stream. I don’t stop, and I don’t call out, but as I pick my way down the rockstrewn slope a long, slow smile spreads itself over my face like butter on toast. This time it’s going to be different, I think.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Interprompr: the thing under my bed

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Yoruichi posted:

Amazing.

I have zero idea how any of this is supposed to be pronounced but I dare anyone else to read it better.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/15BBji1LQqS1DQahO_yTFMzMbg6fa7-lm/view?usp=sharing

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Ws1G8ETswlgpVpBA2Ucd3-MB0-9iezIh/view?usp=sharing

Welt, you're up buddy

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









In, gimme something

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Party Time
502 words

I’m not sure why, exactly, the Christmas party went off the rails this year. Or even when? It might have been when Marg the CISO pulled out the tequila and brandished it high, gold flakes spinning invitingly in the overhead fluoro. It could have been Dylan’s decision to reveal that he had just bagged half an O of prime skunk and suggested we give it some road testing down in the little alcove by the carpark. It could even have been Big Tony lumbering across the conference room we’d set up as Party Central to fumble at the spotify and slap on Rain by Dragon.

But, just maybe, it was simply destined from the moment Tonya pulled out the battered box of decorations and cleared her throat for volunteers? It had been an absolute poo poo of a year, a complete, glistening steamer, and the entire company was ready to cut loose, blow off some steam, pop its top and fizz some bubbles out over whatever metaphorical hand was holding us all. It had been raining, for so long.

And, I suppose, that’s how I ended up on the roof of a car in my undies, clutching a bottle of Gold Flake Jose Cuervo.

I came back to consciousness, clambering back up out of a dark pit one step at a time. I catalogued my situation. Clothes: missing. Bottle: mostly empty. rear end: freezing. Brain didn’t hurt, which was a surprising bonus.

“Oonst oonst oonst oonst” someone said softly, below and to my left. I swung my heavy head over and hissed at how cold the metal of the car roof was on my cheek. It was Big Tony, who’d found a fur coat and some battery-powered fairy lights that he’d wrapped around his bald, sweaty head.

“Taraguguf,” I asked.

Big Tony looked up at me, head bobbing. His eyes were far gone. I frowned. We weren’t establishing communication. Around him, I observed with bleary eyes, was what appeared to be the human components of the entire company. Tonya was wrapped in a blanket, snoring with her head on a huge pile of tinsel. Inexplicably, the car I was lying on appeared to have been parked in the boardroom.

“Tony, isn’t the party over?”

In response he opened his hand, revealing a phone. With deliberate care, still bobbing, he tapped it.

Below me a beat started pulsing out of the car speakers, making the cold steel of the roof pulsate. Around me my colleagues started to stir, heads nodding.
I lay there for another moment, then swung my legs round and sat up. I was very pleased I’d worn my best undies, my party undies. I had everything I needed.

With a whoop I slid off the car, as my friends and co-workers bounded to their feet, ready to party the foulness of the year out of their collective system all over again.

Adbot
ADBOT LOVES YOU

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Week #123 - Ceci N'est Pas une Nouvelle

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5