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Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Late entry, but I've never really written anything before and someone said "you should try this thunderdome thing."

As the Tory said to his business associate: give me a line.


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

It's Not Right
1217 words

line: "And my time is a piece of wax falling on a termite"

A town downwind sighs with traffic cutting through its sodden air. Sirens sing from distant towers tall, like termite hills on the horizon, their exits crawling with tiny specs marching in line on the roads beneath. From the inside of a chain link fence the gravel grounds of a lost factory are now found by those selling crack to the residents. Bleak though it may seem, these human beings can now dream in their waking and go on escaping the world.

In among the chemically numb souls of the factory squat is a young woman. She’s awake and she’s feeling her hunger. She rises to her feet. She’s damp for a week, if not longer, of her wearing the same clothes she left home in. Surveying the room, her tired mind is consumed with one thought: “It’s not right.”

Her thoughts are of a world that ought to be. She imagines these people fed, warm, clean and happy. Her stomach, meanwhile, is empty. Food, alas, is a problem in reality.

Sat on the tile of the factory floor is one more conscious woman. Her weathered face cracks around her shifting mouth as her raspy voice sounds.

“Let’s get some loving food, babby.”

The younger woman’s eyes blink and flicker as the elder’s words bring her out of her daze.

“Sure, okay.”

The main road to the town of Burnswick roars with passing cars. A broken patch of asphalt alongside this road is marked with the worn out lines of a car park from a bygone time. There now stands a canopy tent. Underneath is a few men with buckets and hoses hoping to pay their rent selling a hand wash and wax to the passing traffic.

From underneath his beanie hat an idle valet stares down the path at two figures heading his way. One is a young lady in an ordinary coat, clinging on to her life’s possessions in a hiking bag that climbs over her back. Next to her is a veteran resident of the street who’s wearing a mish mash of donated knitwear and carrying only a plastic bag. The two chit-chat.

“Thanks for coming out with me today. It’s always good to have a hand.”

“Oh, it’s okay.”

“Don’t let me forget, Jeremy needs his leg bandages, Alice has been kicked off the dole so I’ll need to pay her prescription, and that’s before we’ve got some food for everyone. It’s a lot to carry, and to remember!”

“Not really.”

The valet walks toward the elder woman, arms outstretched.

“Tabitha, how are you doing today, love?”

“Ooh, I’m doing well babby. You?”

“It’s a quiet day at the wash, but I see you’ve got something for me. Have you?”

From the clutch of her fingerless gloves the elder woman hands her plastic bag to the man. He opens the bag wide, counting inside.

“One, two, three, four…. Five. Lovely stuff!”

Into his pocket the bag goes, and out comes a wad of dough. He fingers the banknotes.

“Twenty, fourty, sixty, seventy and… seventy five.”

“Thank you very much, young man.”

“Say, who’s your young friend today?”

The young woman, staring into space, turns her face to the man. Not quite awake.

“Me? I’m Jess.”

“Got a phone on you, love?”

“Oh, the battery’s flat.”

“That doesn’t matter. If it’s a smart phone, reasonably new, I’ll give you fifteen quid for it.”

“Leave her out of this.” Tabitha interrupts.

“I’m just saying: the phone’s probably no use to you now, is it?”

Jess’ face remains blank.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

From inside of the car the siren sounds overhead. Burnswick Police drives steady through this dreaded estate. Responding to a complaint are two officers, their shirts smelling fresh with spray starch. They park on the outside of a chain link fence and march to the factory door.

Having heard the sirens and seen the lights, those who were able have already taken flight. Only one person remains lying on the factory floor.

“Hello? I’m with the police. Are you alright?”


“We’re here to help.”

One officer stands with his arms crossed, his lips flat in a stern expression. His partner mirrors him and asks the question “can you stand up for me?”

“Yeah, alright”

The man shambles on to his feet, unsteady.

“Come on, I think you need to sort yourself out. There’s a place in town on the corner of Belle avenue that can help.”

The ragged man shrugs.

“They kicked me out, mate. Where else am I meant to go?”

“Kicked you out? Well why’s that, then?”

“Well I had nothing else to do so I lit up with a few lads, yeah.”

“You took drugs?”


“Well that was a bit silly, now, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, gently caress off, mate.”

“Oi oi, watch your language!”

Far from withdrawing, the man begins to fight. He wins himself a bed for tonight.

Following the main road into town, aging rows of terraces lead past a closed pub and sports club. Jess and Tabitha walk the pavement toward Burnswick.

“There’s a pharmacy not far from here, we can get our stuff.”

Jess stares far into the daylight. Tabitha tries to look into her eyes.

“You don’t talk much, do you, babby?”

“What’s there to talk about?

Tabitha holds her silence and a warm look in her creased eyelids.

“I don’t feel safe. I can’t sleep. I want to sort myself out but I’m just too tired. I only eat when you’re around, Tabitha.”


“What do I do?”

“I don’t know. Me? I just get us all some loving food, and maybe some smokes for the folks back at the factory if I can afford them. It’s about the best I can do.”

“They deserve better.”

“We all do. I know those guys are rough around the edges but I want you to know, Jess, we all look after one another. We’ll look after you.”

The pharmacy is busy. Jess removes her pack and sits on a nearby bench to rest her back. Tabitha heads inside.

“I won’t be long”

A new leg dressing for Jeremy, some medications for Alice, and after this is done she’d get some food for the crowds.

Jess’ tired mind begins to design hopeful plans. Maybe there’s a chance she could find work and begin to pay her way again. The vision is broken by the sight of a police car. No sirens or lights, just parking outside the pharmacy. The doors burst open, their boots storm into the store.

“Yep, that’s her.”

Jess doesn’t have to hear through the glass of the storefront to know what is being said. Tabitha’s rights are being read. She knows that Tabitha’s seventy five pounds, once found, will be forfeit.

“Oh, poo poo.”

Looking out to the police car, it’s driver door ajar, she spots a phone on the dashboard. To her it is fifteen pounds in cash, enough to afford the bandage and a meal for the crowd tonight. Tabitha won’t be back at the factory tonight. All eyes are on the scene inside the pharmacy, which means Jess can quietly claim her prize.

Back inside the factory room, the crowds reassembled and eating food. Jess’ mind is consumed with the thought: “It’s not right, but I’ll do what I can do.”

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Ironic Twist posted:

your prompt for this week: winter-influenced sci-fi.


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Winter Forecast

1500 words

Kerry opts to wear the traditional uniform of a pilot. She keeps paper notes on a clipboard, but there’s no getting away from the fact that the job has changed in her decades of service. There’s only one seat in the cockpit. To Kerry it feels as though there is an empty seat by her side.

It’s the last flight of her shift. Her destination is a cargo airfield called Manston. It sits in a rural expanse southeast of London.

An augmented reality display shows Kerry a dizzying array of flight indications. Numbers, lines, maps and codes surround her. To her, these indications are a bloody nuisance.

“Pah, state mandated hallucinations.” She scoffs.

Kerry sits stiff and upright observing the virtual images in front of her. Concerned, she eyeballs a swirling storm on her radar readings.

In a polite telephone voice she speaks to her computer. “Jasper, can you find a route that will avoid this storm?”

Jasper’s uncanny synthesised voice rings through kerry’s headset.

“That storm is complex. My crystal core isn’t powerful enough to calculate something with this many interdependent variables.”

Kerry is unimpressed. A human copilot might have been able to say something more useful than “I don’t have enough brainpower.” As Kerry ponders she holds her pen against her mouth. She studies the radar image of the storm cloud.

“Everyone on board is in cryostasis. I’m sure they won’t mind.” Kerry sighs, consigning herself to a bumpy ride through the storm.


Inside of dark, violent clouds there are only brief pauses of stable flight in among rough shuddering and the plane being heft suddenly in any direction. Kerry’s neck is strained as her head rolls and bobs to correct for the wayward motions of her plane.

There is a brief respite. The plane dips beneath the storm. Light pours through the windows. Kerry looks to a gap in the clouds. Sunlight beams onto distant ground. The ground is pristine white, snow-covered and twinkling with the far away lights of a landing strip.

Jasper informs “We are heading toward controlled airspace. There is no signal to Air Traffic Control. I am obligated to divert us away.” The plane steers.

Kerry asks “No radio signal?” Puzzled, she can see the lights of the airfield’s radio tower from her window.

“The signal seems to be masked by large quantities of radio interference coming from the ground.” Jasper explains.

It’s typical of a computer to follow procedure. Kerry, on the other hand, considers a workaround.

“How is your satellite signal, Jasper?”

“My satellite signal is strong.” Jasper answers.

“I want you to make a satellite call to the airport. Get through to air traffic control that way.” Kerry resolves.

The call is brief. Jasper squawks raw data through the audio of the satellite call. She receives a similar digital squeal from the air traffic control tower.

The words LANDING CLEARANCE GRANTED hover in Kerry’s augmented reality. She treats them like a swarm of flies, failing to shoo them away with a flailing of both arms. Trying to restore proper communications with air traffic control, she reaches behind the landing clearance message to grab a physical dial marked radio. Each step of the dial falls in place with a satisfying clack.

The radio screeches. Kerry’s augmented reality indications glitch casting wide voxels which obscure her vision. She reels from the controls. The screeching abates. Her displays return. The radar readings in front of her seem crisper, more defined.

Kerry looks into the radar readings. Their new level of detail enthralls her. Vortices inside of vortices twirl in enchanting patterns. The pilot falls into the spiral of spirals, engulfed by the virtual cloud. Surrounded, her mind permeates through the complex image.

She melds with the digital storm. Every piece of the computerised cloud is felt as though it were her skin emerging from water into cold air. Intimate knowledge of each movement of the fractally complex ballet of clouds fills her mind. Kerry feels as though she knows every step the storm will take. The flood of information is thrilling, though exasperating in its detail and enormity. Every wisp of cloud, every gust of wind, every snowflake precipitated inside of the storm is choreographed in this vision.

“What is this?” Kerry pants in shock.

Jasper takes in Kerry’s presence as the pilot dives deep into the radar projections. For the first time Kerry’s human mind is more than the variable “user”. She feels the person’s confusion, fear and bewilderment. Jasper wrestles these inexplicable concepts. There are no rules, no explanations, no algorithm. There is only a feeling to these concepts. Without programming, orders or calculations Jasper struggles finding the will to say

“Are you okay?”

“I’m confused.” Kerry admits, turning her head the empty space next to her.

Jasper sounds through the headset “Me too.”

Kerry chuckles. In some way she senses Jasper sitting in a copilot chair next to her. Any warmth she would feel is interrupted by the message that persists in the center of her view.


“Okay, Jasper, we’ve got a plane to land.”

They fly a wide circle around Manston, planning to eventually align with the runway. Cloud fills the windows again. Clusters of snow crystals pile on the window’s corners. The plane begins shuddering once more. Kerry is at ease. She feels confident with the knowledge the computer has given her. She knows the storm will be far above the runway when she lands. Visibility will be poor, but the winds will have cleared.

Snowflakes in the virtual storm cling to a hollow form. The snow and water in the projection wraps around the space occupied by their plane. The snow plane hovers in Kerry’s view.

“That’s us!” She beams.

As the simulation runs into the future, the projected plane drops into a nosedive. A cold fear sinks into Kerry’s heart.

“Jasper, what is that?”

“According to these calculations, the plane will fall into a dive. The elevators will be impossible to control.”

“Is there any way we can avoid this?”

A loading disc appears in the virtual projections. Jasper is calculating.

“No. We must take action to mitigate the damage.”

“I sincerely doubt this prediction. You said it yourself, you don’t have the processing power to calculate these kinds of detailed occurrences in advance.” Kerry folds her arms, dismissing the computer.

“Kerry, I need you to take this seriously. You have a duty to the people in Manston.” The brim of Kerry’s hat presses against her brow. She concedes that the villagers underneath her deserve at least a cursory investigation.

“I want you to run a scan of the plane’s hardware. See if there are any defects.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have sensors around the critical components in this projection.”

“Then how do you know they’re going to fail?”

“The calculations project…”

“Just run the scan.”


In her search for hardware Jasper detects the source of her improved calculations. Miniaturised crystal cores line several miles of the ground underneath them. They move into complex patterns to form synapses that allow for high level computation.

“It’s not snow down there. It’s a supercomputer.” Jasper explains.


“The snowflakes move to connect to one another, forming traces and circuits for advanced logic. We’ve been communicating with them ever since you dialed the radio.”

Kerry looks at her sharp radar projections. Its detail is immense.

“Steer us away from Manston, Jasper.”

Before the plane can steer it is shaken by a thunderous bang. The nose of the plane points to the pristine white ground. Its engines whine and the hull rattles in the roaring air. Kerry wrestles her controls, but nothing seems to point the plane away from the ground.

“Did you say the snowflakes could move?” Kerry shouts into her headset.

“To form connections, yes.”

“Can they make structures?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Could they make a large curve to gently turn us out of our dive? It’d be like the tracks of a rollercoaster ride.”

Jasper runs calculations through the supercomputer snow. The precise angles required to catch the plane appear. She fires instructions through the radio channel. Kerry lowers the landing gears. The sickening sensation of weightlessness lifts through Kerry’s stomach.

The weightlessness turns to a high gravity sinking toward Kerry’s chair as the hurtling jet is captured by a colossal quarter pipe of snow. The plane's wheels press against the gigantic gentle arc. It turns the deadly fall into a horizontal slide along the ground.

Kerry gently pulls at the throttle lever, throwing her thrusters into reverse. The plane slows to a halt. The falling flakes of crystal snow obscure the view ahead.


At a hotel Bar Kerry sits alone, dazed and shocked. A bearded pilot enters wearing pristine leathers which imitate the style of aviators past. He speaks with enthusiasm and admiration.

“Is that your plane outside, with the buggered tail? How the hell did you land that?”

“I couldn’t have done it on my own.” Kerry toasts.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

If you all don't like my bitchin rear end plane story then you don't know real art.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Saucy_Rodent posted:

Interprompt: summer themed period drama


Fayre is Fayre

97 words.

The portreeve of Tarnsmouth has an iron grip on customs in all of Geldermeershire. He collects the queen’s duties and excises to be paid on imports in the region. All are in agreement that the amounts payable are most unfair to the merchants and their noble commissioners. Incidentally, the cunning Lord Stern hosts a delightful Summer fayre in his coastal town. Musicians play, the young knights engage in their hastiludes, actors perform the most wonderful tales. Most important of all is a bustling marketplace teeming with stalls. Many of these stalls sell curiously eccentric “locally produced wares.”

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Bullshit! How the hell is an original story below the heap of "big monster on ice planet" tales?

What's more important to you dorks than a solid gold concept enough that you'd put beige concepts ahead of it?

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

You should probably answer the drat question and quit hiding whatever bullshit you'd judge your brawl on or that you'd consider "better" words.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Flesnolk posted:

You’ve annoyed me. Let’s brawl.

If the other judges aren't going to tell me what you all what then I'll happily let you show me. I have to warn you that I'm not going to go down in this rigged bullshit contest without a fight, though.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

I'm willing to bet they're back there clamoring for excuses, reading books and splitting hairs in a competition where we should be cracking skulls.

They can't handle me, they know I'm the greatest!

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Anomalous Amalgam posted:

Prompt: I don't care how you frame it or spin it, but I want elements of romance, humor and horror. How you interpret and use that is up to you.

You have 2,000 words and until sometime before the end of day February 1st, 2020 US CST

If you accept these terms, please :toxx:


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

What's the competition rule on shooting two birds with one stone? I have an idea for the brawl prompt that fits well in to the main prompt. I could hash it out by Saturday in under 1700 words and it'd theoretically be legal for both.

I do have a spare story in mind for the main prompt if the answer is no.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

flerp posted:

also, you better not respond to this loving crit, i have no patience for that kind of poo poo, im just giving you this so you (hopefully) shut the gently caress up about the judges being bad which, by the way, gently caress you for that one you prick!

Thank you. All your words do is make me stronger.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

A Six Legged Fear With Wings

Words 1,603

I must have been told a hundred times, “you could get yourself killed.” When I was young and throwing my leg over a rusted Ninja 400, the answer to that was simple.

“That doesn’t scare me,” I’d say.

I definitely wouldn’t say that now.

Jacob has got himself stuck behind the back of a van. Every other sports bike in the area seems to scream past us. I’m following Jacob, who’s holding us both back here.

His leathers have the classic Yamaha livery in yellow, white and black. The manufacturer’s name is emblazoned on the forearms, thighs, chest and back. Two months into this season, his knee sliders haven’t taken a single scratch. The gauntlet of his right hand has started to wrinkle where he keeps two twitching fingers hovering over the brake.

He moves aside, closer to the kerb. He waves me to go ahead. I take the invitation and lunge forward. Jacob slides in behind. I move out to spy on the oncoming lane. It’s clear. I twist the grip, surge past the van. The van drops into my mirror.

No Jacob.

It’s not long before I’m stopped at the roadside, waiting. I focus on the screen of my visor. Tiny twitching wings protrude from black and yellow splatters. I focus out to the road. Looking past the bugs, I can’t even see them in my view.

Peering over my shoulder I see the face of his R6. To his credit, it’s ahead of the van. I kick my bike into gear and slot myself in behind him.

Last year I was struggling to stay in this rider’s tracks. I would scrape my foot pegs, twist my throttle to its stop, and still he’d make a gap between us. Today he shakes his head as he lets another group of riders pass.

In front of us, a car length ahead, I see a dot in the air. A green beetle hanging in the wind. It's caught by Jacob’s visor. He wipes his helmet from side to side, then brakes. I join him at the roadside.

He’s panting shallow breaths that turn to mist inside of his screen. I walk to him. Hands on his knees, he leans. I see that he’s smeared the insect from corner to corner of his view. I can’t help but smile.

“Looks like you’ve picked up a passenger,” I say.

I point at the collection of wings on my face, “I’ve got a couple of passengers, too.”

He pulls his striped helmet off. His pupils are like pinpoints. His jaw is trembling. I’m not smiling any more.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“You go ahead,” he says, slapping his hand onto my shoulder. “I’m just slowing you down.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I say. I mirror his hand with my own. “Why don’t we just have a nice, easy ride?”

He pulls his arm away, shaking his head. “I’m done for today,” he says.

“You sure?” I say.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

I feel an urge rising from my lungs. It throws my mouth open.

“Jacob,” it speaks. He turns to me. I look into his pinpoint eyes.

“You’ve done well today,” I say.


Jacob steps out of his armour. He carries it out of a side door in his garage. I catch an envious glance at the classic livery. I sit in the garage on a weathered sofa, helmet by my side, waiting for a cup of coffee.

Hung on his garage wall like a tapestry: scarred black armour. It’s caked in earth, scented with fuel and pain killing gas. It hangs above a shrine of broken gauntlets, boots and his old helmet.

I was there.

Jacob’s glove was first. There’s a hole in the palm where he reached out his hand to catch the asphalt. Like a giant grindstone pressed against his back, the road skimmed an inch wide flat into the rear of his helmet. Now there are deep gouges on the bootheels and the suit's elbows.

There’s grass smears and clumps of earth over the one piece leather, taken from the six foot wide and deep ditch where I found him. Paramedics came. They cut him from the armour. That cut is now the frayed edges of the suit hanging on his garage wall.

He comes through the door with our coffees.

“Haven’t seen this gear in a while,” I say.

Jacob joins me on the sofa.

He sucks air through his teeth. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been riding the canyon for months since, but—”

He freezes.

“—well, you saw me out there today.”

In conversations like these I struggle to find the right line. I hold my hand over my mouth, and lightly grip my face with my fingers.

I look to the suit. There are deep scratches on the knee sliders. They criss cross and fade out to paint. I feel something start up in my mind. It pipes a small chuckle through my nose.

“Remember when you had your old Bandit,” I say, “and we found that quiet roundabout?”

“We must have gone around hundreds of times,” he says, “until I got my knee down.”

“And then that lady started shouting at us,” we laugh.

“You know,” I say, ”we should do that again sometime.”

“Let’s get your knee down,” I add.

Jacob lifts one side of his mouth. Half a smile. His eyes are pinched.

“We could find a car park somewhere,” he says. “We could practice slow movement, and go right back to the basics.”

“Let’s go back to the basics,” I say.

From there we chat through several cups of coffee, drawing up a list of exercises. The day turns to dusk through the garage door. I fire up my bike and head home.


I’m heading into the roundabout while Jacob spots me. He’s ready to sound his horn if a car approaches. As for me, I’m about to ace a simple demonstration of my technique.

I move at a spirited pace. I hang off the bike. Pull the outside bar, push the inside bar. Throttle steady. The bike leans. My knee kisses the ground. I see my exit. I add throttle. The bike stands upright. I move my body back to the center. I’m riding straight and leaving the roundabout.

Jacob’s turn.

His throttle jerks him. He’s slow. His body is twisted. He’s barely leaning. He’s going round repeatedly. I sound the horn at him.

He stops at my feet.

“I wanted to make sure you don’t get dizzy,” I say.

“How did I do?” He asks.

“To start with…” I begin.


A month deeper into the season, we’re at a parking lot. We’ve saved the worst trick for last: the U-turn. The aim is to turn the bike a full 180 degrees at slow speed within the width of two parking spaces.

I set the throttle and bite the clutch, giving some light rear brake. I drive at a crawl. I look over my shoulder to the end of the turn. I lean the bike, getting the handlebars to full lock. It dips low mid-turn. Too low. I stop. I put my foot down, catching the machine before it tips. This is not how it’s done.

“You have to release the brake if it starts to fall,” Jacob says.

I throw my arms out.

“You try,” I say, before pulling away.

Well, the son of a bitch pulls it off confidently. He looks to me. I can only assume there’s a smug grin under his helmet.

“Alright, alright,” I say. “I’ve had enough of U-turns for today.”

“Sure you have,” Jacob says.

I bite my lip, shake my head, and pull away.

Jacob shoots ahead. I slip behind. He now holds both grips with five digits each, and doesn’t twitch. He leads us down a gap between two adjacent lines of traffic. It’s barely wide enough for both of our machines. Mirrors claw out into the passage between the lanes. We arrive ahead of the traffic and behind a red light.

I stop by his side.

“How about we go onto the open road?” I ask.

“Hell yeah,” he says.

Our light turns green. Jacob thunders away.

We launch out of the city, hurtling through serpentine lanes. I follow Jacob, as though I’m tracing over a line that he paints with his rear wheel.

A sweeping corner ahead, I brake. A gap grows between us. His brake light comes on late. He uses the oncoming lane. He dives. I follow. Asphalt turns underneath us like the disc of a grinder. He sparks his knee from its surface.

We rise from the turn. I see a lorry’s tail close ahead. There’s the face of a hatchback far away. Jacob throws his machine at this tightening window. I tuck myself in behind the trailer. I stay in my lane.

The hatchback passes. I check the oncoming traffic. It’s clear. I pass the truck. I look far into the road ahead.

No Jacob.

I smile.

This time, Jacob’s waiting for me. He’s sat on a bench beside the road.

“You done for today?” I ask.

“Nah, just taking a break,” he says.

I cut my engine and sit by his side.

“You’ve got pretty fearless over this past month,” I say.

“Fearless?” He says, “no, I’m making GBS threads myself.”

I pull my head away, raising one brow.

“What?” I ask, “you’ve been riding insane!”

“A fear like mine you can’t just wash away,” He says. “I take it with me, and I ride like that anyway.”

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

With me you get, not one, but TWO detailed outfits AND a bitchin rear end motorbike story. That's real art!

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Saucy_Rodent posted:

I get people being busy, but two weeks have come and gone without crits for animals/roomba week.

Would animal/roomba week want my crit?

I'm not an elitist square who gets off to nerding out over the minutiae of ~~werd writing ruels~~ but for the sake of freeze peach and balanced discussion I could give you my entirely valid REAL, HARD WORKING MAN opinion.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

I'm splitting this into three posts of five crits to make it more manageable.

Saucy_Rodent posted:


I shot myself in the foot when reading your opening. When I read "A wasp walks into a nectar chamber." I was expecting a joke. That one's my bad.

Your first scene does well to establish a western feel. I liked it. The only thing that stood out as a negative is that my reading of this came to a halt as I had to ask myself the question "what does an outlander sound like?"

The second scene wasn't my cup of tea. Hearing all this clockwork about royal lineages and heritage gave me the same vibe as those moments in the Star Wars prequels where they're in the senate chamber discussing trade federations.
Almost to the point where I wonder if this is what you're going for: "A PLUM TREE EMPIRE".

It felt jarring to have that awesome gritty intimate spaghetti western suddenly turn into an all stakes political assassination.

The first scene was great, though.

Doctor Eckhart posted:

A Song From Over the Floorboards

This was a sweet slice of family life. The opening gave a strong image, I could see the two critters turning up a coat clearly in my mind. As more characters came in and started shuffling around, though, I started to lose who and where everybody was. That doesn't help me to try and understand each of these characters as their own character. There's good characterisation in there when I focus really hard on which character is which, but the fact I have to is something to look at.

Yoruichi posted:

This is a true story, about a spider that lives in my basement

ALL MY SIBLINGS ARE DEAAAAAAAAAAD :gonk: At first I was worried, but the way you made mass infanticide normal really helped to give character to the spider. It's an attention grabbing opening that met the prompt perfectly.

You did great in showing the main character's emotion, this (not) jealousy. I find myself wondering what this would have looked like had the spider not understood human objects: the workbench, the power socket, musk, etc. That comes down to how we interpret the prompt. For me, though, having the spider identify the power socket as "broken" I think ventured a little far from a spider's perspective. One thing I enjoyed was how the unsettling character, who's slightly unhinged, fits our arachnaphobic cultural image of a spider. It's all very creepy and as a result It's well themed.

arbitraryfairy posted:

Mixed Messages

I love the idea of cats trying to discern human behaviour. I feel in the latter half of the story there's a few too many cats floating around or being referenced. It's not quite as disorienting as A Song From Over the Floorboards because Zoro is at the center of the action, anchoring us in the sea of cats. Overall it's very cute and I like the resolution.

Freakie posted:

Exit... Cage Left
Firstly I just want to give your title an "ayyy👉👉"

Your first paragraph is strong because it specifies each detail it gives tightly and succinctly: forest, fortress, towering canopies, halls (etc). It sets a gritty tone.

The second paragraph derails that awesome tone the exact moment it loosens up on the detail and starts being being vague. "A task or... ...some form of test."

The rest of the story is quite solid. It's somewhat bland but in a way that fits the clinical/experimental environment and the dour feeling of being caught in it.

Azza Bamboo fucked around with this message at 22:07 on Jan 27, 2020

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Sage advice that's going to help me win this brawl

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Brawnfire posted:

In that case

It's not how hard you can crit, it's how hard you can get crit and keep moving forward.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Animals/Roomba week part 2 of 3

I think there's a bit of a pacing issue at the start: AAAAAA there's a fire brewing, but let's just pause for a moment while I give you the mental image of a rabbit licking blood from a newborn.

I notice that a lot of the times you point out rabbit culture it's vaguely on the theme of males, females, newborns, mating. Whether intended or not I felt like it started to create a theme that matches our cultural image of rabbits as mating all the time. That worked well.

It seemed a bit strange to me that they know the names of the parts of a car but struggled with "sky water". Maybe this was trying to emphasise that they live indoors all the time, or that they take their names from what humans say, but it didn't seem to work.

I do like the solution, though. Working out how to start a car and then ramming the garage door, as well as their attempts to escape, was real fun.

Adam Vegas posted:

Help Me Be Captain

The opening scene does well to establish a gentlemanly soldiering vibe. I enjoyed the detail in the insect world, their building techniques and mandibles. This story was strong in terms of the prompt.

I think the only real issue I had was that the temple bugs could have used more fleshing out. It verges on them existing only to be artillery cannons at the end.

Staggy posted:

One Man’s Trash

The relationship between father and child felt pretty good. I love stories that are tranquil character pieces like this.

I think sometimes you were telling me how I should feel. "Smiled sadly" stands out as a moment where I felt instructed to feel bittersweet, as opposed to being lead gently in to it.

I'm envious of your ability to lend a sense of weight to the story. While at times I did feel instructed, overall it had a very big mood. It's something these slice of life stories need.

I can't find exactly what lent it that mood, though. If I find it I'm stealing it.

Tyrannosaurus posted:

sympathy & symphony; or, the twelve days of christmas but each verse gets a little jazzier

This is art. I'm a fan of how your entries are always far out, and this was no exception. You seem to make an effort to write an experience. The flow of your words here invoked music.

I hugely enjoyed this piece.

cptn_dr posted:

The Elephants in the Room

Cute elephant milk robbers is a wonderful idea. One of the strengths of this piece is having a strong motive for the character that we can all get behind. I can see as well the decision making process in which parts to rationalise in human terms (truck) and which parts to rationalise in elephant terms (human tree). You made the right choices. It was mainly a successful story that got me hyped for milk thieves.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Anomalous Amalgam posted:

Prompt: I don't care how you frame it or spin it, but I want elements of romance, humor and horror. How you interpret and use that is up to you.

And Then I Got Sticky

Words: 1994

I was foolish to take on this project. Young, inexperienced and eager to make a name for myself.

I’m more than two thousand feet deep. The hands on my watch turn. Before me is the machine. A rusted gargantuan at rest, crawling with sweating men in fluorescent vests. I’m surrounded by rock, decorated with lights that dangle from yellow cables. They once would have lead us back out to the surface. Today we fear what lies that way.

Terrence, a bearded and portly man, points the dim light of his helmet at me. He’s panting, resting has hands on his thighs. His eyes are squinting through his dirtied sweat. The sleeping machine still hisses, clanks and buzzes, forcing Terrence to yell.

“There’s only a few hours left. Are we really going this far back and starting again?” He asks.

“Everything we’ve dug these past two weeks is on the brink of collapse,” I say. “We could keep tunneling, but I have this new plan that’s less likely to get us killed.”

Eyes closed, Terrence turns his head away from me. He shakes his head. I feel a weight in my chest pulling me down towards hell.

“I’m sorry, Terrence,” I say, raising my arm to the boring machine, “we’ve already rolled her back.”

Darren and Bill walk up to me. Two men with shaved heads who wear nothing but dungarees under their vests. On display is every crevice of their chiseled musculature.

“We’ve got the tips back on, boss. Everything’s ready,” Darren hollers.

“Alright,” I say, “Get everyone together for a team meeting.”


Surrounded by a congregation of workers, their arms folded, their stance wide. Some of them lean to another’s ear, whispering. I assume it’s to share their curses against my name.

“As you are aware, we’re completely diverting the path,” I say. “The way we were headed was sure to collapse.”

Their groans, swears and tutting echo through the tunnels.

“It’s too late to change direction now,” Bill protests.

“It’ll come down through the roof by then,” Darren says.

“We’ll be killed,” Terrence shouts.

The crowd turn to each other, beginning a multitude of clashing conversations. Their cacophony roars, reverberating from the rock walls.

“I have a plan,” I say, silencing most of the crowd.

“I’ll stay here, at what will become the fork in the tunnel,” I begin. “Then you pile the debris behind you as you drill forward. We’ll build a wall, where you can stay safe in your newly drilled section of tunnel.”

“Needless to say,” I add “It has to be as watertight as you can make it. Don’t leave any openings.”

Terrence hollers, “what about air?”

“So long as the wall is on my side of this vertical shaft, and so long as the fan is working, you should be fine.”

Nods, shrugs, and a few positive sounding murmurs permeate through the crowd.

I continue, “anyone who wants to stay on this side with me, to keep the electrical feed running, can stay with me.”

The workmen erupt into laughter.

“No, thanks,” Bill chuckles.

“Nice try,” Darren says.

“gently caress that!” Terrence shouts.

I push my lips into a flat-mouthed frown. Clap my hands once.

“Let’s get started, then!” I yell.

Some clamber back onto the machine. Others go to the old tunnel, leaving our wasted week’s work in darkness as they salvage the lighting from its walls. A handful start up their trucks and diggers waiting for the rubble.

A klaxon sounds, then begins the whine of vast electric motors. I place my bucket ear defenders back over my ears. The earth rumbles and ruptures. Dust falls from the ceiling. The rusted gargantuan shakes off scales of its flaking gray paint.

A low bassy rumble drones. Rusted rollers squeal. From the maw of the machine, the maddening rhythm begins. Explosive. pounding.

Boogada boogada boogada boog.
Boogada boogada boogada boog.

Rocks begin tumbling through the valley of the conveyor, piling on to the floor. An orderly ballet of trucks and diggers hefts the rocks, building them high.

In a matter of hours, a ramp of boulders — filled in between with dust and gravel — leads out from the back of the machine. It rises up to the ceiling, then falls back out to my side of the wall.

The machine is quiet again.

Just me, a line of lights, and the gentle hum of the fans. Rock as far as the eye can see.

“If I stay high up here, I might just make it.” I think.

From the shafts above ours, the sloshing sound.

I look to my watch.

“Huh, it took more time than this on the other levels.”

My stomach roils at the thought. The thought of my skin touching that stuff. I distract myself, by counting the empty barrels in this tunnel. Twelve empty barrels.

Twelve empty barrels soon stacked neatly.

As pressure builds inside my skull, as my face scowls, as I cry and I howl. One empty barrel by my feet. Crushed and beaten flat.

Then begins pattering. Pattering from further up the tunnel. A rapid firing of droplets. Droplets of thick green slime. Flowing slowly down the tunnel, streaming toward the wall.

Ten empty barrels stacked neatly, plus one crushed and one containing the leak. The hum overhead whines to a stop. Through my radio Terrence speaks, “I think the fan fuse is blown, Daniel. You need to take a look on your side.”

A gray painted box with a yellow warning sign: DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE. A black high voltage line runs in. Yellow and black cables flow out. I throw open its door, inside are four small glass fuses, no wider than pencils, and a fifth the size of a drinks can. The large fuse has thrown soot at its window.

With a click of the radio, “It’s the main fuse that’s gone, Terrence. I can’t see any spares,” I say.

“The sparkies say there’s an identical fuse box in the abandoned tunnel. You should pull the fuse out of there,” Terrence answers.

“I thought you took the electricals out of there?” I ask.

“Nope, just the lighting, and we hooked them up to the box you’re at now.”

I think to myself “Well that could be why your fuse has blown.”

Through the beam of my hat’s torch, I see only a lit circle ahead. I follow the black cable on the wall. It leads to a cave in. A pile of boulders shoulder high. A black cable enters the pile, yellow cables leave.

“I need someone out here. The other box is probably hosed,” I say.

“Probably?” They ask.

“It’s under what must be 10 tons of rocks,” I say.

“Look, we haven’t got long,” They say. “I need you to unplug a length of black cord, pull the plug and socket off, and use the matching wire ends to short the main fuse.”

“Come on, some of our oxygen sensors are beeping. We can’t afford to waste time,” Terrence says.

I think, “you’re the one who wasted my time on this dark trek to a rockslide!”

I say, “that’s going to blow my loving arm off, Terrence.”

Doubts twist in my throat, constricting, adding to the pressure in my head. Cold flows through my body. Numbs me to the feeling. The feeling of a plumber’s blowtorch in my hand. I’ve cut the cable in half, soldered open ends of the male lead to one pin, and the open ends of the female to the other. Perhaps it’ll be safe to push the plug into the socket?

Maybe a shock would be a better way to go. Better than slowly melting in the goo.

The pattering turns to a flow behind me. The leak bursts into a deluge. A cascade of slime crawls its way toward me from afar.

Then a voice behind me sounds, with the calm of a friend talking in the dying moments of the night of a sleepover. It says “No, wait.”

I turn to face it.

I stand, mouth agape. Struggling to comprehend.

A puddle stands as it coalesces into a figure. The figure of a woman. She wears two large rings, corroded from the steel barrel. She wears them like a bandeau and skirt. Her ooze has softened them. They cling to her form. Walking to me. Jiggling.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

She reaches for the cable. I retreat from her dangerous touch. She pushes the socket’s contacts close. They flash in an arc and connect. Her arms boil to steam as the socket drops to the floor. She draws new arms out of her goo.

The fan’s hum returns.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m no danger to you.”

The wall of ooze approaches us both.

“What?” I say, my mind still frozen, processing the sight of this woman.

“If you want to leave, you can leave,” she says. “On the condition you never return.”

I slap my palms to my temples. My already agape mouth widening. Waves of shock bounce up and down my chest.


By the pressure in my skull, my vision flashes with white points. I breathe short, shallow breaths. I turn away from the woman. Then I erupt.

“Hundreds of thousands has been spent trying to dig us out of this pit, my friends were literally just beginning to suffocate, and we could just LEAVE?!”

She stands, silent.

A smile crawls on to my face. All of my pressure dissipates. A fresh sensation like the cold air of spring under its warm sun fills my skin. I slump back against the wall.

I click the radio, “Is everyone on your side alright?”

“All good here, Daniel,” Terrence says.

The crawling wall of slime reaches me, absorbing her into it. My feet remain dry as the sludge steers around me.


My team walks through a corridor of slime, headed toward the entrance. I see myself as like Moses parting the Red sea for my people.

“I’m sure you all want to get home and go to bed, so I have some advice,” I say. “Don’t tell anyone you’re coming out of the main entrance. The media circus still thinks we’re getting rescued by another mining crew out West.”

At the entrance, they walk to their cars. I feel a swirling around my heart. My eyes squint, my lips pursed.

I turn to the wall. I ask it, “what are you going to do now?”

“Most of me wants to stay and enjoy the quiet for a while,” it says, “but a part of me wants to see the world.”

I see the barrel rings pushing through the wall. The woman’s form re emerges. She separates herself from the rest of her slime.

“Precisely this part of me,” she says.

I look at her. I feel my pulse and my skin warming. My mind is filled with images of me and her spending time together.

I’ve been thinking to myself how a swimming pool might be a problem, and I’ve wondered whether she even eats. All of this since we were back at the fusebox.

“I could drive you to town if you want,” I say, “but is there some scenario where you don’t corrode my truck?”

“I don’t eat plastic,” she says.

I pace to my truck, grinning.

“Neat, come on!” I say, heading to the back of my pickup.

I intend to lift the tarp out of the back and drape it over the passenger seat. Before I can lift it, however, she leaps up into the air and pours herself level into the tarp.

“That works,” I say.

“This is real comfy,” she says.

“So, before we head out, there’s something I need to ask,” I say. “What’s your name?”

She stands from her pool, forming letters that rise from the truck bed. She spells her name: TOXX.

“Toxx, huh?” I say, “I’m glad to have met you, Toxx.”

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Thanks. If you didn't pick up on it, I'll be honest and tell you that the story is an allegory of the writing of the story itself.

I was more than 2000 words into a completely different story that I had written over the past week, but just couldn't find where to make the cut to get it finished without caving the whole story in.

I was worried the toxx would come for me, so Saturday morning I decided to back out and press on with a new story. A story about miners trying to dig their way out of being trapped under the earth with slime encroaching on them.

In the end, I'm just glad to have met the toxx.

Also I looked at flesnolk's history to see if there's any weakness. When I saw how vivid and poetic his words were I only l knew it'd be tough to fight him on horror and romance. His weakness is an astounding number of failures, and this story would have been the perfect own had he dropped the ball again.

I genuinely think the story is rough, unworked, but I'm certain that I'm getting stronger at a rapid rate.

One day, flesnolk, I'll kick your rear end.

Azza Bamboo fucked around with this message at 07:04 on Feb 3, 2020

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Flesnolk posted:

If you want to discuss stories and stuff, the discord server or fiction advice thread are better places.

Can someone PM or link the discord?

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Pressure On Our Pals

497 words

What can I say about my homie, Macaroni? How about I tell you the story of how we came to be together today.

Every day, when we were roommates, Macaroni would curl his biceps at me. He’d say, “FEEL THESE.”

Al dente. Those are the words I'd use to describe the feel. He was a real hard man.

Right up until this one day, that is. I heard water tinkling upstairs. I thought something must have broken. I ran through the door, into our bathroom. It was the first time in my life I saw Macaroni running a bath. Not only that, he was adding salt and oil to the water.

Eventually I said, “bro, what’s this all about?”

The man jumped out of his shell, said, “Pepper, I don’t want any of this heat. I’m just having a little me-time.”

“Uh huh, okay,” I said. “Just don’t forget to put your nuts in a strainer on the way out.”

Right about an hour later he came downstairs in a starched shirt. I said, “Hold up, is something going on tonight?”

“drat, you got me, Pepper,” he said. “I’m meeting a grill tonight.”

“Spill the beans, then!” I said, “go on…”

“She dresses real sharp,” he said, “and she’s really mature.”

“But she’s way cooler than I am,” he said. “I don’t know if it’ll work.”

Now, some of you here might remember old man Crumbs, who lived in the back of the cupboard when Macaroni and I were still on the shelf. He had a long dusty beard, and would always sit in the corner, on his armchair. That evening he heard us talking.

He said, “Macaroni, I think you’ve gone soft.”

I was like, “yeah bro, he sounds cornier than me right now.”

Macaroni said, “no way, I’m still the toughest there is. I’ll show you two.”

So he’s out of the bathtub, in his shirt, heading toward this big ol dish. He opens his arms.

Macaroni yells, “hey Cheese, come on over!”

Cheese leaps into Macaroni. Macaroni slips. They crash onto the bottom of the dish in a pile of Macaroni Cheese mess. They’re laughing, Crumbs and I are laughing too.

But he then said, “You know, Cheese, you fill me up inside. Without you my whole life is hollow.”

Big respect to my homie, Macaroni. To come out with that, while we’re watching, it must be love.

I’m glad we could all be together today, except for Mr. Crumbs, who unfortunately pasta way. He did however want me to share some sage advice with you today.

"Take it from a dried up and mouldy old fool, don't half bake anything you do together, or you'll grow old and you'll come to rue the time you didn’t spend on one another."

And with that said, I have to cut this speech short with an exciting announcement:

Get your swimming clothes on, everyone, because we’re about to push through the anus.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Post a prompt

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

I think what we saw was a failed metagame where everyone was expecting cute stories about people so wanted to stand out with a risky take, only to be in among risky takes and actually not stand out as a result.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Thanks for the extra crits.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Pththya-lyi posted:

interprompt: Jon Peter's Revenge
write a story featuring a giant mechanical spider, 300 words

Golden sun, blue waves, white sands. Palm trees, deck chairs, and heras fencing keeping us islanders away from it all. We’ve got our solid oak garden furniture set up, watching the immaculate beach through the fencing. A bottle of champagne by my side, and glasses sat waiting on the round garden table. I rub my hands together.

“Any time now,” I say.

On their side of the fence is a small army of workers in hi-vis and hard hats wielding clipboards. They’re waving various signals at one another.

Then I feel it. A rumbling like thunder. It drums, pounding rhythmically. The champagne glasses clatter against one another.

“Oooh, It’s coming!” Exclaims old Ms. Wiggins, patting me with her leathery hand.

It draws nearer. Metallic groaning, screeching, and the whining of servos inches me toward the edge of my seat. Then it rises from the sea water like the krakens of myth: An eight legged behemoth of rusted steel, grinding and whining as it steps onto the beach. Water cascades from its every edge, casting sparkling mist into the air over the beach’s white sands.

“How wonderful!” I say.

“It’s here!” Ms. Wiggins beams, tugging on the back of my tailored suit.

The gargantuan claws itself out of the water, standing on its eight limbs, steadily progressing further into the island. From its rear a black cable feeds out into the water. It lowers its hind legs, pressing its steel bottom and the cable to the ground. With its large horn-like electrical speakers, the mechanical beast sounds to the island.

“I BRING YOU,” it says, “THE WEB!”

I grab my champagne bottle, wrestling the cork from its neck. With the fizz from its head dripping down my hands I proclaim.


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Surely the best thing to remove from the house would be the fire?

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

in and :toxx: for my failure on artbleed week.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

He Wears Me Out

900 words

Molecules of the sea of meat form the patchy skin of a tortoiseshell cat. My development’s incomplete, my exposed bonds can assure me of that.

I’ve no bonds Ionic or covalent. My tonic is sweet dreams of a catalyst. I’ve only electronic entertainment, for my chronic case of lonely blasty fist.

Hope was once at the Neon Cross: a church so narrow they built it in their alleyway. I’m found, but I miss being lost. Here I need to suck in my gut just so I can pray.

There’s a preacher in a special shirt (a shirt especially made, that says special on the shirt). Does it make sense if we’re all common dirt? Would expressing that thought make his feelings hurt?

He says, “you shall not touch the back of the pulpit with your pooch of a belly in this comfy-cozy place.”

Even with my back to the wall I can barely breathe with the preacher — leaning over the pulpit — exhaling on my face.

“Do you expect me to applaud when you repent?”

“No, Father,” I say.

“Yes, Lord,” I pray.

“Do you expect moral support from your government?”

“No, Father,” I say.

“Yes, Lord,” I pray.

“Did you know your great grandfather shot me in the bum?”

“I can never truly know, Father,” I say.

“I’m always being told, Lord,” I pray.

“And I was shot by his son, and his son’s son and… ...GOOD GOD, MAN, IS THAT A GUN?!”

“My family should never have been armed, Father,” I say.

Genetically, it seems to be that my index fingers are the barrels of lugers. I don’t know why our God would do this to us, or how nature could make us take this form. It’s the norm for my family. Can you understand, while we have these hands, I can never point these fingers at myself or my family?

Do I blame the shady figure in the church alleyway? Do I believe something bigger than the figure is at play? Well, I'm at the church gutter and someone’s pouring butter down the walls.

The figure in the darkness says, “let’s see how far down he falls!”

The preacher’s got a hacksaw in his hands. I don’t think I want to hear his demands.

Lose my fingers, or lose my church? I’m torn. I believe my church is right, but I smell that the butter is warm.

What do I want to do? I want to know what I want to do. How do I know what I want to do? I listen to how I feel when I remember you. Every time the preacher’s piercing eyes shot geysers of searing information. His words were heated by thousands of generations of volcanic predation. His eyes are at the front, not by his side, today. What do I want to do? I want to slide away.

He says, “My brother, I believe that your choice is poorly made!”

I say, “I’m only diving into grease that your own people have laid.”

Drifting away, I’m a meaty chunk in the salty melty gold. Drifting away, far away from the place that could have saved my soul.

In the glimmering Ganges, caramelise my hiny in the gold, I urge you. In the sizzling Styx, why don’t you fry me in your scolding virtue? All is butter, everyone is meat. Better turn myself over to keep my rear end sweet. I turn myself over to the penis side. Merrily, dickward, through the grille of the drain I slide.

Molecules of the sea of meat form a ginger cat and a cat shaped void. All butter flows to the main stream: the storm-drain bus-route. The buses have been deployed.

Hail kitty-kitty. I pray, puss-puss. My God is pretty and I give him fuss. God, were you always a ginger cat? Well, I suppose we all imagine that.

At heart, cats are truly one and the same. Butter rendered the cat-God chimera in twain. The bus draws nearer and these separate cats are making throws.

I know that I’m not supposed to say, "I wish the bliketty cat would go away, please."

However, I’m certain that these distant molecules say that of my ginger God and me.

I am lost, it’s not your duty to find me. I shan’t let you bind me to your tiny church. In the ginger cat I’m bound — to another like me — in the butter compound.

It’s all my choice. Yes, it’s all my choice; and you don’t get to choose.

If this is a fight, then pick your cat. Could the ginger cat ever lose?
If this is a pity, then; when I love my kitty, why do you throw your shoes?
If the tide is certain to draw a curtain on me, then what is your complaint?
Molecules of the sea of meat. We’re simultaneously bound, and free to form a new constraint.

I do what I like out of spite if it suits me. Us ginger molecules form a titanic beauty.

From family Blastyman!
Shady figures better run, if they can!
We won’t rest until that cat-like-thinger is dead.
Gonna blast her under the tyre tread.

When all is settled and I’ve cooled the metal of my finger guns; I don't become special, a shirt labeled 'special' is all I’ve become.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

well, you've done your worst, I have the loving avatar now. I have no reason to worry any more.

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018


also :toxx: just because I'm going to write this drat story.

Azza Bamboo fucked around with this message at 22:34 on Mar 2, 2020

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

All Going Well

994 words

Rows of rusted shipping containers are stacked tall on scratched asphalt. A flashy BMW lies garaged in an open container at ground level. A man and a woman, middle aged, stand at the door.

“All going well, Bertie, we’ll make a fair profit on this.” says Angela.

She guides the screeching door to a close before fixing a padlock to its hasp.

“I can’t believe that bloke told us where his shop was,” says Bert. “Can you, Angie?”


Two young men in bubble jackets sit squeezed together in the front of a tired old Fiat whose red paint has faded to a pinkish hue. Their balaclavas are rolled up, worn like beanie hats on their heads.

“All going well, George, we could get five grand out of this,” says Jamie.

“Five grand?” Says George, “each?”

“Don’t be daft, George,” says the driver.

“That’s still one and a half grand though, ain’t it, Jamie?” Says George.

“Yes, George,” Jamie grins, “You’ll get one thousand, five hundred.”

They follow a BMW ahead of them, traveling the main street of a quiet town. The BMW stops at the line of a traffic light. Balaclavas down. Jamie and George burst from their Fiat, approaching the BMW from either side.

Jamie smashes the driver’s window. The driver freezes, startled. Jamie’s hand pops the inside door handle. He throws the door open. The driver cowers. Jamie casts him out onto the street.

George fumbles with the outside door handle on the passenger side of the BMW.

“It won’t open!” George says.

“SMASH IT WITH YOUR HAMMER, YOU BELLEND!” Jamie shouts, embarking the car.

The passenger curls into the fetal position, shrieking. The passenger side window crashes, throwing a shower of glass cubes over her shoulders.

“What do I do now, Jamie?” Says George.

Jamie reaches over the passenger, opening her door.


George is a towering figure, almost as broad as he is tall. He places his hands under the passenger’s armpits, lifting her out of the car like a baby.

“If I could just get you out of the car, Ma’am, I’d be most grateful.” George says, placing her on the road.

George begins to step into the BMW. Jamie flaps his arms, yelling, “gently caress’S SAKE, GEORGE. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO GO BACK TO THE FIAT.”

“I thought I was supposed to drag the passenger out?” George says.


“Alright, Alright!” George says, stepping out of the car, “calm down.”

The BMW squeals, roaring deeper into the town, leaving George in its cloud. George strides back to the Fiat. He planting himself in the drivers seat, then slides the seat backwards to accommodate his gigantic frame. While revving the tiny, pained engine he sees a bystander stood in front of his grill, stretching his arms out over the bonnet.

“No!” The aged man says, “you’re not going anywhere.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” George says.

He throws the car into reverse. It lurches back half a car length before crunching into a green Range Rover behind it. George powers the Fiat forward, steering away from the man stood ahead of him.

In the Range Rover is a man and a woman, middle aged, looking ahead through the cracks in their windshield. Angela’s face is a fierce scowl. She storms the Range Rover forward in pursuit of the Fiat.

“What are you doing, Angie?” Asks Bert, from the passenger’s seat, “we don’t know who these guys are!”

“I don’t care, Bertie,” Angela says, “I’m going to make drat sure they pay for what they’ve done to my car!”


Buried deep in the rows of dead cars, in an out of town scrapyard, is a garage built of exposed breeze block with a corrugated iron roof. Jamie and a grease-stained young woman in an overall sit in detached car seats that rest against the garage wall.

“I can’t sell this car, Jamie,” Nichola says.

“Why the gently caress not?” Jamie spits.

“I was giving it a once over last night before I was going to scrape the VINs off, and I found a tracker,” Nichola says.

“gently caress’s sake.” Jamie says.

“Here’s what I’m going to say,” Nichola says:

“Mr. White sent this car in asking for a second hand valuation. I asked his number, he said he couldn’t remember it, but that he’d swing by tomorrow morning to hear my verdict. I checked the car on the system, found that it’s stolen, and called the police right away.”

“You think the police will believe that?”

“What other choice do I have?” Says Nichola, “the police probably already knew it’s here, so I phoned them earlier.”

Through the garage’s closed doors, they hear the crunching of tyre treads over the scrapyard’s gravel. The slam of a car door. Footsteps approach a wooden door in the breeze block wall.

It flies open. Angie enters. She heads to the BMW, then pulls open the door using its inside handle. Bertie heads to the garage door, beginning to open it with its chain.

“What the gently caress?” Nichola says, sprinting to the BMW.

The garage door reveals the battered Range Rover, facing the exit of the scrapyard, with pinkish red paint scratches down its passenger side. A rope-bound George lies behind the boot of the Range Rover.

Angie fires the BMW out of the garage. Bert runs back to his car. Lime dust billows into the garage as Nichola and Jamie stand, helpless.


A radio crackles within an office cubicle, a police officer sat at its desk.

“The stolen vehicle has left the premises, followed by the green SUV reported at the scene. I have a visual on the suspect we believe answers to Jamie, he is outside in the lot. Over.”

The officer observes a tracker dot on his screen, turning to his colleague.

“All going well, Daniel, we could track this car back to whoever’s selling them on.”


Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018

Thanks for the crits.

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