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Yoruichi
Sep 21, 2017


Horse Facts

True and Interesting Facts about Horse



The Void - Your story must contain elements of cosmic horror. (+400 words).

The Empty House in the Desert
720 words


Archive

Yoruichi fucked around with this message at 04:15 on Jan 6, 2022

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crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

Scissors - You may cut up one of your cards. You lose the requirements of the card, but you keep the words that it carried. (+400 words)

Tomorrow Today
1,447 / 1,450 words

I exist in todays but live in tomorrows. My alarm announces the start of another today. I press snooze, roll out of the sunbeam shining through my curtains, and drift off back to sleep.

The man sitting at the foot of my mattress huffs loudly, startling me awake.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, one foot in tomorrow, the other in right now. “Your manager was serious when he said you only had one more chance.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Some people’s personal gods help them get laid or warn them about an expiring parking meter. Mine tells me when something I’ve done was a mistake. Not in time for me to fix it or change anything, but just afterwards. Younger me would have gotten up, skipped a shower, and rushed to work to try and outrun the consequences. It never works. I would have gotten fired regardless. My god is impeccable with the timing of his useless information.

“I was going to quit anyway,” I say, getting out of bed and searching through my clothes pile for the least-dirty shirt.

He doesn’t believe me. Never has, but I keep lying to him anyway. Ignoring him doesn’t do anything but make him worse.

I pour a bowl of cereal and then remember yesterday he told me I’d regret skipping going to the grocery store. He told me the minute after it closed. I sniff my milk and of course it’s bad.

“You should look for a new job.”

Or… I could work on that novel I’ve been wanting to find some time for,” I say between mouthfuls of dry cereal. A gust of wind tousles my lone, unwatered fern on my otherwise empty balcony; the arriving clouds cover it in shadow.

Three hours later I’m still sitting on my ratty couch in the middle of my sparsely furnished apartment watching YouTube and haven’t started poo poo. Sometimes I don’t even need him to look at tomorrow to know I hosed up. My stomach growls and I promise myself I’ll work on the novel tomorrow.

I search through my fridge for something to eat. There’s an old baked potato wrapped in foil toward the back, and I debate eating it. I don’t, mostly because if I did and heard that smug fucker tell me I just got food poisoning again I might break something. I finish getting dressed and motion to my backpack. My god sighs, shapeshifts into a baby opossum, and crawls in. I used to walk him on a leash but people kept stopping to tell me how cute he was and it took forever to get anywhere, and I don’t like people.

The skies are misty with rain shortly into my walk and I pull my hoodie up. I’ve only gone a few blocks when I’m stuck waiting for a light. I briefly lock eyes with a cute girl standing on the other side of the road and immediately look elsewhere. In the city it’s not couth to stare at people, but I don’t have to stare. Her image is seared into my consciousness. The light changes and I give her a quick smile as we pass each other in the crosswalk. I’m half a block away when I hear muffled cries from my backpack.

“You should have said hi to her.”

I stop and turn around, still able to spot her red raincoat in the sea of moving bodies. I could probably catch her, introduce myself, but I know it’s too late. He wouldn’t have said anything in a timeframe where I could fix it. It’s like diet predestination—all of the helplessness but because you deserve it. I watch her round the corner and disappear.

“You should have run after her.”

“You’ve gotta be loving kidding me, man,” I say, throwing my version of an adult tantrum—which is mostly just me quietly crying inside with a gentle full body shake. It’s hard to believe in “the one” when you’re constantly reminded of how many women you’ve missed an opportunity with. I blink the rain out of my eyes and the memory of her melts away.

My whole trip continues with similar diffidence. Every step I make could be a mistake in the future, every interaction a missed opportunity or an unintended slight. I feel his judgement on me with every item I pick up off the shelves. Will this Totino’s pizza roll be the thing I choke on and die? If he tells me so, do I still eat it anyway? I can’t keep track of all the things he’s told me are gonna end badly for me, so my tomorrows are half full of awful surprises. So yeah, I’d probably forget and eat the pizza roll anyway. I sigh and put the pizza rolls back on the shelf, intending to grab stuff for a salad, but halfway down the aisle is a frozen turkey dinner that seems less likely to be a choking hazard, so I add that to my basket instead. I know making impulsive choices doesn’t actually trick him, but it makes me happier in the moment thinking that maybe I catch him a little off guard at least.

I head back home, deciding that my rain-soaked clothes count as both a shower and laundry day. I strip down to my underwear and throw my outfit over the shower door to dry. In my backpack is a dead opossum. “If only I was so lucky to be rid of you that easily.”

He opens one eye, looks around, and crawls out of my backpack. He turns back into his normal self so that he can display the full range of human disappointment on his face. He sniffs the air.

“You should have put the exact time on the microwave instead of pushing ‘9’ a bunch of times.”

A deluge of fat raindrops fall on the metal gutters, tap-tap-tapping as I pick at the burned microwaved dinner in my underwear. It was still light out when I got home, but it’s dark now. I sit in the dark, watching the cars on the freeway inch forward through traffic. “Glad I’m not out there,” I say, but at least they’re making progress. They’ll all get home eventually.

“You should have turned on the light.”

“Do I happen to kill you tomorrow?” I say, standing to get the light. Not because he said anything, but because I’m done chewing on dry, smokey turkey. I take a single step forward and my ankle catches on the cinder block I’ve been using to hold up my makeshift coffee table. Even in the dark I feel the warm trickle of blood down my foot.

He doesn’t have to answer for me to know I won’t kill him. He was there when I was born, and he’ll be there when I die. I’d already tried to drown him in booze and lose him in clouds of weed, and though it quieted him, he was always there in the morning to let me know tomorrow was already lost.

Just once I would like him to tell me tomorrow is going to be fine. That I didn’t do something to screw myself over. That my actions were going to lead to my rescue from this lovely life. But he never does. Not that my life is all bad, it’s just he’s not part of the good things. Any happiness I accidentally experience is in spite of him. I can’t remember if I have any rubbing alcohol, and don’t feel like looking for it. I slap a bandaid on my cut leg and make my way back to the couch.

“You should have cleaned that.”

I roll my eyes. “Well you should have told me that about three minutes ago. Doesn’t feel so good does it, having somebody always point out your mistakes? Making you worry all the time that you’re loving up even when everything is fine but you can’t stop thinking about that loving opossum in your backpack and his little quips and so even a fine thing is ruined.”

He sits there and says nothing while I harraunge him until I run out of things to say. Every night I yell at him, plead with him, try to negotiate with him, but every night I’m left hoarse and despondent, wondering where my night went.

The only hope I have left is that the day after tomorrow will be where things start to turn around. I climb onto my mattress on the floor, pull up a moth-eaten quilt and sigh up at the moon peeking out between the retreating clouds. Until then, I might as well get tomorrow over with.

Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!


Prompt

(Copying the Devil I guess.)


All Time Travel Stories Are About Regret

950 words

The first time I met my future self I didn't recognize him. I was twelve, wandering lost in the woods between my grandparents' house and the cemetery, and he, the other me, was much older, looked sort of like my dad, or one of my uncles, but not like me at all. But he knew things.

He gave me the big cryptic advice, the things that all made perfect sense later. Not to join the military. Not to move to New York, or New Orleans. "I didn't," he said, "Any of that. But you won't quite be me." And he was already starting to fade. "But most of all, be bolder. Act without overthinking. The way to do it is to do it." And then he was gone.

I barely listened to what he said at all. I might not have remembered it, not for another two decades, when the reasons to avoid those places became clear. Except that that wasn't the only time.

The second time I met my future self, met a future self, I was older, between high school and college. And it was a different woods, a national park, me separated from a group of friends, out rappelling. I couldn't do it, couldn't  let go and start falling down the cliff. I wandered off and the sky opened up, raining grey sheets in front of the brown trees and green leaves. I tried to find the group but couldn't. Then the storm passed and there I was. He looked a lot more like me.

He had more actionable advice, like what major I would have just ended up dropping, when my wisdom teeth are due to come in and wreck their neighbors,that I should make sure to visit a dentist before it comes to that. Solid stuff. No lottery numbers though. "Wouldn't work. My being here changes things. Little things like which ball comes out of the tumbler. And big things, like which big dumb war gets started. But the shape stays the same. The butterfly wings may move one hurricane, but next week or next year there'll be another."

He was fading, but slower than before. I could hear distant noises up the trail, I was about to be found again. "Oh, one more thing. Darren. He loves you, you know."

I didn't. I didn't even know he was gay, although it wasn't a shock. "Wait, what?"

"Not like some huge romantic thing, just a tragic crush."

"But I'm not, I mean, you're not, are you?" I said.

"No."

I didn't really know what to do with that, as my future self faded, as my friends found me, wet and still embarrassed that I didn't go down the wire. At least I wasn't the only one who didn't make it, didn't have to walk down  the long trail alone. After that cloudburst nobody else was going that day. I did the things, got those rocks out of my mouth and didn't was a year on engineering courses I wouldn't be following up with. I didn't know what to do with the Darren stuff except be a better friend.

The last time I met my future self wasn't in a forest. It was in a library, in the lower stacks that seemed endless, especially as distracted as I was, forgetting just which bound academic journal year I needed every time I looked away from the scrap of paper with their Library of Congress letter. I had just met Amber a few weeks ago and was about to tell her how I felt. I knew she felt the same, knew it.

The lights flickered, and there he was. Much older. Sour. "You have to leave her."

"Like hell", I said. I hadn't noticed the cane until it was coming at my head. He didn't hit very hard, just enough to smart a little.

"Idiot," he said. "Do you think I would be here if I didn't mean it?"

"What happens?"

"She leaves you for another man. One of your best friends, although you haven't met him yet."

"You think you can lie to me?" I said.

"No," he said, sighing, leaning against the stack. "I guess not." He took a deep breath. "She died. Ten years from now, and I could barely take it. Cancer."

"Why not come to me later, whenever we can go to the doctor and catch it early?"

"You think we didn't? I had ten different encounters with my future selves, trying one thing after another to fix it. Nothing worked. And then another twenty later, when-"

I didn't want to know, but I had to. "When what?"

"Our son," he said. "Twenty times, and nothing we can do gets him past sixteen. He-"

"No," I said.

"So I went here rather than trying twenty-one," he said. "You have to end it, before-"

"How do we do it?"

"Don't call her tomorrow," he said. I can be an idiot even however many years on.

"Not that," I said. "How do we travel back in time."

"It just happens," he said. "When we want it enough. Knowing that we're going to fade away. Speaking of which," he said, looking at an increasingly transparent hand. "It hurts. None of the others ever told me how much fading hurts."

I'm going to call Amber tomorrow. And I'm going to ride it all out, ten years or anything more the butterflies give me. And do what I can afterward. And I don't think I'll ever see myself again. That was what the first me I met wanted, I think. For us to stop living in an endless timeloop of regret.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Nightfall

It was a lie to call the Pit a prison; the Pit was being used – for a time – as a prison, but it was never anything other than the Pit, it could not be a prison any more than the sky could be a cloud. There was no sunlight in the Pit, and very little torchlight. The only way in or out was through the single rickety cargo elevator, its mechanisms so gnawed-through by time that it hung at a vicious angle, just a great red hunk of rusted iron ready to fall and kill any number of the stupid and unlucky men who clustered around its base every day, hoping against hope for the guards to return. They said they could hear pipes sometimes, but no piper ever appeared.

“Reckon we outlasted the Empire,” said Bethan. “Serves ‘em right.”

They’d found something like a blind hairless rat down in the rookeries, Morveg had speared it with a piece of broken glass they’d managed to wedge into the end of a stick. In the old days they’d’ve cooked the rat before they ate it, but fire was a luxury they’d long since lost. Bethan took a bite out of its back, then handed it to Mor. Kid reminded him of more than a few folks he’d lost, though he’d never tell him that. Bethan had been a sailor once, broke his captain’s nose when he found him doing evil to a cabin nose, and that captain was the son of so-and-so and they couldn’t be having a commoner lay hands on him like that, no sir. The Pit turned every man maggot-white eventually, but Bethan liked to think was holding onto his tan – not even the Pit could steal the forty-odd years of sunlight that his skin had eaten. He was a big man, but down here that was a liability: higher caloric requirements, harder time getting around. That’s what Mor was for: sneaking into places the bigger man couldn’t reach. In their own way, they kept each other safe.

More took a couple of big bites before offering it back. There wasn’t much left, truth be told, and Bethan’s stomach ached, but he smiled at Mor anyway and shook his head, then Mor went back to chewing on it, cracking the little bones apart and sucking out the marrow. Kid didn’t talk much, something wrong with his head, they’d had a doctor say he was half-animal and predisposed towards criminality, so they’d thrown him down into the Pit as a precaution against crimes to-be-surely-committed. There was a brand on his cheek from some shipping company that surely no longer existed.

They’d found a corner where they wouldn’t be disturbed, but Barlowe disturbed them anyway. Bethan almost didn’t recognise him; for as long as they’d known each other, Barlowe’s face had been a mess of chemical burns from the alchemical experiment that got him thrown in the Pit in the first place, and in the pitch darkness it was almost hard to make out what was different. Barlowe’s grin was fixed wide, and his eyes seemed to glint silver like twin moons, brightly enough that for a moment his face was illuminated, totally free of scars. He looked down at the rat and licked his lips. Barlowe was normally alright, he was a bit cracked but he could make hooch out of anything, but something about his expression made Bethan stand up and put a hand against his chest.

“Mate,” he said, “I think you’d best find your own.”

“My own,” said Barlowe. For a moment they stood there in silence, and Bethan could feel Barlowe’s heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird. He looked up at Bethan and made a sound halfway between a giggle and a chuckle, wet, throaty, and high-pitched.

“yYes,” he said, “finddh my owwn. g-Good bye.”

He walked away, and in seconds the darkness of the Pit had swallowed him entirely. Minutes later, the screams began. You didn’t get a lot of screams down in the Pit, most of the folk had long since grown cold to its horrors, and footfalls started moving towards it from every direction. When Bethan stepped towards it, Mor stood and motioned with the spear, and Bethan crossed his hands and shook his head. Wait here.

He’d barely gotten ten steps when a fist came flying at him from the darkness, got him right in the side of the throat and made him stagger back gasping for air. Suddenly ten men were on him, kicking and cursing, and when the assault stopped, Bethan found himself staring up at Arval and the Devil’s Throne, the gang who controlled the fungal pools that provided the Pit with most of its limited supply of sustainable food. Arval had been a loyal Imperial soldier and committed heinous crimes at their behest, until one day he committed a crime they couldn’t profit from. If he’d wanted Bethan dead, he’d be dead.

While the Throne held Bethan in place, Arval knelt down with a shard of broken glass, and put it inside Bethan’s nostril, then yanked it out to the side, splitting open Bethan’s nose and cheek, splattering them all with blood.

“Red,” he said. “Well, when I’m wrong I’m wrong. Let him up.”

Arval offered him a hand up, and Bethan spat. “Fuggh you,” he said, clutching at his face. It wasn’t much of a retort, but actual pushback would make sure he was eating rat for months.

“I did you a favour,” said Arval. “No oval office’s gonna mess with you if you’re scarred up. It heals, we don’t. And make more noise next time, slimy oval office can’t talk right, sounds like he’s trying to deepthroat a knife.”

“‘m point stands,” said Bethan. “Fuggh you.’

“Yeah,” said Arval, twirling the glass between his fingers and grinning wolfishly, “kinda like that. You want I should check again?”

Bethan met his eye only for a second, then looked down and shook his head.

The Throne pushed over him, giving him a few more swift kicks as they did so, and within seconds they too were gone, as though swallowed whole by the endless night of the Pit. Once he was sure they were gone, he pushed himself to his feet, and crept towards the direction of the original scream. It didn’t take long to find: the ground was so thick with gore that it nearly came up to his ankle. There wasn’t enough left of the body to tell who it’d been, but there was a chunk of torso with a large circular chunk ripped out of the center, right over the heart. It looked like the bite of a very large lamprey, and Bethan shuddered: he’d seen what even the regular-sized ones could do. He realised then that his boots were stuck, that there was something else mixed in with the gore, a layer of reeking hagfish slime that was beginning to congeal.

It was then he heard Mor scream. The kid was hardly vocal, but he’d scream and cry at night sometimes and Bethan would recognise it anywhere. He tried to take off running but the hardening slime tripped him and he fell face-first into the gore-nest. His mouth filled with offal and excrement and the slime seemed to rush in around him. You didn’t spend time at sea without learning a little ad-hoc fluid mechanics, and so Bethan curled up his legs and braced his feet against the chunk of torso, then when the slime flowed over top of him he kicked out. It didn’t get him far, but it got him far enough. Spluttering and cursing, he struggled to his feet and took off towards Mor’s hiding spot. He got halfway when Mor lunged out of the darkness with his little makeshift spear, barely missing Bethan’s ribs. They froze, staring up at each other, then Bethan realised what was wrong: no brand.

He roared in rage and grabbed the beast by the throat, and hurled it against the cavern wall. The spear had fallen, and he snatched it up and stabbed at the beast again and again as it shrieked and twisted out of the way. When it had fallen silent, he knelt down to get a closer look at the puddle of blood forming around it, and that’s when he realised the brand was there after all, that he’d missed it in the darkness, and he cradled the boy and wept for so long than he forgot all time, and when he was done he looked up into the face of Arval. He’d never heard the man arrive.

“Good work,” he said, “you killed it.”

Bethan’s mouth watered at the thought of all the food he’d get if the Throne considered him a friend. Guilt had a shorter lifespan in the Pit than even the prisoners, and much less sting than hunger.

“Yes,” said Bethan, “I killed it.”

“Are you hungry?” said Arval, “I think I saw a rat.”

“No sir,” said Bethan, “no more rat.”

“Ah well,” said Arval. He grinned, and his gums slid back to reveal row after row of circular teeth. “More for me.”

As the awful maw fell on him, Bethan sighed in relief.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









Hell in a Cell
950 words

Murph Scobey had always thought of himself as a Benvolio type. Not the tragic hero, not the one who gets killed in the second act to motivate the villain, the one who makes it through. The well-wisher. When the colony had its annual days-long showing of the Collected Works, upwards of four hundred whiskery miners crammed into the cylindrical GatherSpace watching all of Shakespeare, Murph would have his eyes out for the little characters, the ones on the sidelines waiting for their chance to speak.

After the last note of the scratchy string chorale that closed out The Tempest it was time for Wrestlemania 32, again, of course, and Murph would thrill to the antics of Dolph Ziggler and AJ Styles - not for him the showboating of Roman Reigns or Triple H. He’d never distilled it into a philosophy, but it still stung when the miners shoulder to shoulder with him would whoop for the ‘heroes’. It’s boring, he would think. Reigns doesn’t have star quality.

Occasionally, though, as he was jamming his vibro-hammer into the menthicite ore vein he’d been assigned he’d wonder what it would be like to see something on a screen with characters whose every word he hadn’t memorised.

The solar flare that had blasted their primary data core and rendered the colony inaccessible for decades was, in some ways, miraculous - it should have killed them all. As it was only a handful died after the brutal ionising radiation of Zeta Prime swept across the planet, and most of the data core was still functional. They couldn’t call for rescue but only a few unlucky people had died, caught in the open; the Honoured Dead, whose names were muttered at each airlock transit.

One thing that didn’t survive was the extensive entertainment library that went out with each colony ship. Instead, all they had was a few scratched dvds found inside a storage locker. Eight years in, most of them had convinced themselves they didn’t mind. Murph was one of them, and was idly turning the events of the last showing, smiling at the thought of Brock Lesnar putting paid to Dean Ambrose hopes for the coveted belt, when his vibro-hammer hit something harder than the usual ore, something that clanged like a muffled bell at the pounding of the impactor head.

He yanked the whirring vibro-hammer free and stopped the engine, then took a puzzled step forward. Under the harsh glare of his helmet lights, the hole shone a dull gleaming silver.

An hour later he’d cleared enough of the claggy ore to determine that the metal didn’t belong to an air duct or power conduit. It was a room, with a hatch for entry. Murph considered hiking back along the access adit to call it in, then shrugged, an unaccustomed feeling of excitement creeping over him. He’d found a lost room, maybe there would be supplies in there. Maybe he could be the hero for once. He basked for a moment in the sweet revenge of bringing back an armful of fresh energy bars and dumping them on the table, strutting in like Intercontinental Champion Kevin Owens.

Then he shrugged. The hatchway might not even open, he cautioned himself as he slipped the prybar into the hatch dogs and strained, wrestling it open. The first one finally popped, and the loosened tension made the second come easy. Murph’s breath was loud in his ears. He balanced hope and realism in his mind for a moment, and came down on the side of a mild hope that at least it would be an interesting story, and pulled the hatch wide.

Inside was a smallish room, lined with shelves. On the shelves were a profusion of plas-wrapped packages. Murph took a careful step inside, checking his footing, and swung his light across the objects. It was a wonderland. Concentrated food supplies, luxury style. Extra-potent deodorant. Coffee essence.. It had been so long without any of these things that Murph's head felt too big for its helmet. Something was hurting his face and he took a moment to realise it was a smile. It felt like a long time since he'd had one.

He reached out to gather a few supplies, just tokens to show the crew what he'd found - he, Murph Scobey! - when the alarms sounded. He knew that sound, piped in from the last remaining ScanSat - Solar Event. The last time it had sounded was the Incident. Instantly his hands were on the grips of the hatch and slamming it shut. As he did he felt one of the hatch clamps click shut. He was locked in.

Murph slumped to the ground. His oxygen would last for another few hours, but the rest of the colony would be locked up tight, so-- Then his eyes fell on the container in the corner. Oxy-blue. He scrabbled over and pulled the lid, sighing in relief at the cylinders inside. A quick estimate gave him three days, better than even odds to find his vault and pop him out.

As he was strapping a fresh cylinder into his own rig, turned low to make it last, he saw on the ground a familiar face, emblazoned on a plastic case, bony, intense, staring up at him. John Cena, he thought. Looking up he saw a shelf full of them. The spines went from Wrestlemania 1 to 65. A portable player was wrapped up in plastic below them.

Murph's grin became thoughtful, reminiscent. With gentle hands he reached up and popped the first disc, laid it beside him, and began the careful process of unwrapping his new best friend.

Captain_Indigo
Jul 29, 2007

"That’s cheating! You know the rules: once you sacrifice something here, you don’t get it back!"

:siren: Week 488 results! :siren:



You activated my trap card!

It was a strange week with a lot of not very much. Would you believe that when you make people write random stories, the stories lack a little cohesion? Still, despite that, there was a lot of good meat on them graveyard bones.

The winner of the tournament was Surreptitious Muffin with Nightfall - a spooky prison story that fell somewhere between Riddick movie and Apocalypse World. It created an atmosphere and stuck with it and had larger than life, vibrant characters.


HMs go out to Thranguy with All Time Travel Stories Are About Regret. I found it strangely poignant and beautiful and I was very happy with how it came alive from the cards. There's another HM for Sailor Viy and The Marriage of Sea and Stone - a mini creation myth that built an expansive word with some good twists of vocabulary.

On the other side, DMs go to Idle Imalgram with a surreal body-horror story that didn't quite land. Likewise, Rohan's fanfiction piece took a few too many breaks from the action and gets the same. Finally, Yourichi snatches a third DM for cosmic horror that played its cards just a little too close to its chest.

The loss goes to The Man Called M who aimed for character and action, but didn't have quite enough words to weave either with the grace they needed.

Thanks for playing, dueslists. I had a blast with my first week judging.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
Week 489: I Can Fix Him



I hope I’m not blowing anybody’s mind when I say that writing has never been about ideas (ideas are cheap and easy and we’ve all had a million of ‘em), writing is about execution. There is no idea so squirrely that it’s unworkable in the hands of a skilled writer. Jim Butcher once said the same thing and somebody called him out and said “okay fine, write a book where the lost Roman 9th Legion all get Pokemon” and then he went and did exactly that. A swamp Western about guys who ride hippos? Sarah Gailey crushed it.

So here’s how this week works. When you sign up, I will craft you a terrible prompt. Just the worst poo poo I can think of. And I want you to make it work. They won’t be vague like “a man goes on an adventure”, they’ll be extremely specific and squirrely (like, for example, “a Western about a mercenary company who ride hippos”).

Also, when you sign up, I’d like you to post your own terrible prompt. Anybody who feels unhappy with the prompt I’ve given them can use yours (EXCEPT YOU, YOU CANNOT USE YOUR OWN), but I am trusting y’all not to half-rear end them. One person per hellprompt, post inthread if you want to claim one. When you trade it in, your old prompt goes into the hellrule pile. You can also trade prompts (hellprompt or regular prompt) with somebody else if you wish, though both parties need to agree and post inthread. When writing hellrompts, consider River of Teeth and The Furies of Calderon as a good guide for the sorta poo poo I’m looking for; go big rather than small, pulp absurdity and tabloid weird rather than abstract and floaty. Give it teeth. I'm going to try to fire off the first patch of prompts really quickly so folks can have more examples for writing their own hellprompts, so if you sign up fast you'll get a very fast turnaround (and also please use the prompts I'm handing out as further examples re the vibe).

Judges:
Me
Uranium Phoenix
Fuschia Tude

Word Count: 2000
Sign ups close: 11:59 PST Friday 17th December.
Submissions close: 11:59 PST Sunday 19th December (if everybody submits it will be a Christmas miracle and Santa says he will make me a real boy).

What are y’all waiting for? Giddy up, buttercup.

Entrants:
QuoProQuid: a story where Leonardo Da Vinci finds himself in the Pacific Islands during WW2.
Sebmojo: a boxer really fucks something up, just absolutely catastrophically drops the ball, and now has to fistfight the Christian God
Chernobyl Princess: okay but what if literally everybody on earth had a jetpack, and to become president or a CEO or the manager at a local Dennys etc you needed to prove you were the best at using a jetpack
Yoruichi: what if pigeons were REALLY big, like catastrophically big, so big that just looking at one makes you confront your own human fragility, and it caused the apocalypse, and also everybody was super into hockey
Pththya-lyi: the moon is alive now and also SUPER mean, she does not like humans at all, and she starts doing moon stuff at us and it's really really bad
Carl Killer Miller: Hot Nixon cottage cheese pics
The man called M: it turns out aliens exist and they've been trying to communicate to us via crossword puzzles/milk cartons/math rock and they are getting increasingly frustrated that we're not getting it and are now resorting to increasingly desperate measures to get our attention
Thranguy: It's the 1950s and fairies/pixies (tiny people with gossamer wings) are stealing the tubes from electric radios for some reason.
rohan: a clown is stuck in a timeloop which restarts in the middle of the clown pooing their own pants during a shootout at a party at which the clown is performing.
Idle Amalgam: war worms, and the tiny men who ride them against the aphid menace
crabrock: in a society ruled by the tallest, the only way to become taller is by eating your own skin, where a jockey is caught between his love of horses and his lust for power
Azza Bamboo: honk honk welcome to clownworld motherfucker, it's a whole planet whose culture and economy are built around clowns, and a deadly serious alien invasion is happening
Captain_Indigo: The President (or Prime Minister, or whoever leads the country) made anime real
Chairchucker: Anime body pillows are possessed by the ghosts of Pinkerton agents
Weltlich: animals all talk, all the time, it's just the most filthy rancid swearing, awful stuff
My Shark Waifuu: Hotel California but it's a Waffle House in Wilmington, Delaware.
Sailor Viy: A man dies and gets sent to Bird Hell on accident (or was it an accident??)
flerp: oh no! mothman is looking for love, but the evil doctors from LAMP want to capture him and study his beautiful wings. How will he beat them? Maybe with his legendarily powerful kicks, who knows though
Sonny: okay so you know tigers, right? they're tigers, but they're punk rockers and also they know karate or kung fu or something, I just want them to do at least one flip
ChickenOfTomorrow: a gang of skateboarding criminal witches are here to steal your girl and also your wallet
simply simon: Write a story set in a picturesque German village about a chemist who is working hard to try and win a Nobel prize and a talking horse who somehow saves the day, such that the chemist realises his long-standing hatred of horses was bad and wrong and the talking horse becomes his best friend AND satan and his army of motorbike demons have come to end the world but unfortunately for them, somebody is SUPER into classical music
tosk: okay so what if there was a magic system built around playing air guitar, like the more lifelike you played air guitar the more powerful your spells were, and different songs were different spells, like that (WE DON'T TALK ABOUT AIR DRUMMING, THAT'S FORBIDDEN, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT)
Burning_Conch: what if emotion were extremely infectious and also you needed to stop a nuclear reactor from melting down
Propaganda Machine: a man who has an extreme phobia of any and all cartoon mascots abruptly wakes up in the cereal aisle of his local supermarket between walls of trix and cap'n crunch (or similar, go nuts!!)

Unclaimed hellprompts:
* Hot Nixon cottage cheese pics
* animals all talk, all the time, it's just the most filthy rancid swearing, awful stuff
* Hotel California but it's a Waffle House in Wilmington, Delaware.
* a story set in a picturesque German village about a chemist who is working hard to try and win a Nobel prize and a talking horse who somehow saves the day, such that the chemist realises his long-standing hatred of horses was bad and wrong and the talking horse becomes his best friend.
* The President (or Prime Minister, or whoever leads the country) made anime real
* A story about one of the richest men on earth except he's seriously just a nice guy and he's just like us! We should all feel bad for making fun of his dumb bald head and the story is about how cool and misunderstood he is and how maybe we could all learn something by just being a little kinder.
* Using a real news article about Police Brutality, write something that makes the police sympathetic.
* Rival vinylmancers compete without rules or mercy over the rarest albums across the thirft stores of Chicago and the dreadful powers intact first pressings can unleash.
* Anime body pillows are possessed by the ghosts of Pinkerton agents
* Your character has lobster claws instead of hands, and they're an overlooked expert in open heart surgery.
* okay so what if there was a magic system built around playing air guitar, like the more lifelike you played air guitar the more powerful your spells were, and different songs were different spells, like that (WE DON'T TALK ABOUT AIR DRUMMING, THAT'S FORBIDDEN, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT)
* somebody has epidermodysplasia verruciformis but instead of skin they have sugary sweet growths that bugs, animals, and children are always trying to lick
* It's the 1950s and fairies/pixies (tiny people with gossamer wings) are stealing the tubes from electric radios for some reason.
* in a world where nobody has teeth, one man has the courage to have teeth
* A woman falls in love with a character in a book and undergoes an experimental treatment to become fictional herself so that they can be together.
* a clown is stuck in a timeloop which restarts in the middle of the clown pooing their own pants during a shootout at a party at which the clown is performing.
* a story about an Appalachian space program trying to beat another space program to the moon—but play it straight, no trying to get cheap laughs by making them out to be hicks or yokels.
* A man dies and gets sent to Bird Hell on accident (or was it an accident??)
* A woman who turns into a gun. A man who turns into a bullet. Together, they fight crime.
* what if dragons were super tiny, like the size of dragonflies, and each dragon was your best friend in the whole world ... until the bigfeet attacked
* what if every cute girl were super into you, wouldn't that be terrible, oh man it would be awful, and also you have 20 minutes to save the president from the crabs with shotguns
* bigfoot is at your door. he's angry. he's asking where his boyfriend the loch ness monster is. problem: you're dating the loch ness monster
* an Ancient Greek person finds an ipod nano containing only the sexiest of 90s R&B and attempts to use it in a nefarious plan to take over the Delian League
* you're a human who's been hibernating for a few hundred years and you wake up and go outside and the world has been overtaken by ants, and they're using your body as a building material
* A camping trip goes awry when a family is taken hostage by super-intelligent mosquitoes.
* Robot zombies attack and only my super cool D&D group can stop them
* a character sets out on a quest to become the least sober individual in human history but then it turns out – in the middle of their bender – they have to do a classic fantasy quest like pulling a sword from a stone or some poo poo like that, and they have to pretend that they're sober the entire time
* a man who has an extreme phobia of any and all cartoon mascots abruptly wakes up in the cereal aisle of his local supermarket between walls of trix and cap'n crunch (or similar, go nuts!!)
* so, videogame design is literally the most important thing in the world, right? The newest open world being game being kinda boring and rote has caused multiple international crises. Can our hero change the world with the power of Sports?
* A marachi band of mice have to play a gig on the cat side of town and it's a rager.
* La Cucaracha is a scene-stealing gig. Are they scurrying away from pesticide, or are they leaning into a family of musical adventure?

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 08:45 on Dec 18, 2021

QuoProQuid
Jan 12, 2012

Tr*ckin' and F*ckin' all the way to tha
T O P

:toxx: sign me up, bb

HELL PROMPT: “Hot Nixon cottage cheese pics”

QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 00:59 on Dec 15, 2021

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

QuoProQuid posted:

:toxx: sign me up, bb

Prompt is that your viewpoint character/protagonist must be an inanimate object
I want you to write me a story where Leonardo Da Vinci finds himself in the Pacific Islands during WW2.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk







im in, prompt is that animals all talk, all the time, it's just the most filthy rancid swearing, awful stuff

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

sebmojo posted:

im in, prompt is that animals all talk, all the time, it's just the most filthy rancid swearing, awful stuff
a boxer really fucks something up, just absolutely catastrophically drops the ball, and now has to fistfight the Christian God

Chernobyl Princess
Jul 31, 2009

It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.

:siren:thunderdome winner:siren:

In.

Prompt: Hotel California but it's a Waffle House in Wilmington, Delaware.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

Chernobyl Princess posted:

In.

Prompt: Hotel California but it's a Waffle House in Wilmington, Delaware.
okay but what if literally everybody on earth had a jetpack, and to become president or a CEO or the manager at a local Dennys etc you needed to prove you were the best at using a jetpack

Yoruichi
Sep 21, 2017


Horse Facts

True and Interesting Facts about Horse


In

Write a story set in a picturesque German village about a chemist who is working hard to try and win a Nobel prize and a talking horse who somehow saves the day, such that the chemist realises his long-standing hatred of horses was bad and wrong and the talking horse becomes his best friend.

Pththya-lyi
Nov 8, 2009

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2020
Okay, time to get back on the horse.

The President (or Prime Minister, or whoever leads the country) made anime real

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

Yoruichi posted:

In

Write a story set in a picturesque German village about a chemist who is working hard to try a win a Nobel prize and a talking horse who somehow saves the day, such that the chemist realises his long-standing hatred of horses was bad and wrong and the talking horse becomes his best friend.
what if pigeons were REALLY big, like catastrophically big, so big that just looking at one makes you confront your own human fragility, and it caused the apocalypse, and also everybody was super into hockey

Pththya-lyi posted:

Okay, time to get back on the horse.

The President (or Prime Minister, or whoever leads the country) made anime real
the moon is alive now and also SUPER mean, she does not like humans at all, and she starts doing moon stuff at us and it's really really bad

Carl Killer Miller
Apr 28, 2007

This is the way that it all falls.
This is how I feel,
This is what I need:


In

A story about one of the richest men on earth except he's seriously just a nice guy and he's just like us! We should all feel bad for making fun of his dumb bald head and the story is about how cool and misunderstood he is and how maybe we could all learn something by just being a little kinder.

The man called M
Dec 25, 2009

THUNDERDOME ULTRALOSER
2022



In.
Using a real news article about Police Brutality, write something that makes the police sympathetic.

Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!


In.

Rival vinylmancers compete without rules or mercy over the rarest albums across the thirft stores of Chicago and the dreadful powers intact first pressings can unleash.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

Carl Killer Miller posted:

In

A story about one of the richest men on earth except he's seriously just a nice guy and he's just like us! We should all feel bad for making fun of his dumb bald head and the story is about how cool and misunderstood he is and how maybe we could all learn something by just being a little kinder.
okay so what if there was a magic system built around playing air guitar, like the more lifelike you played air guitar the more powerful your spells were, and different songs were different spells, like that (WE DON'T TALK ABOUT AIR DRUMMING, THAT'S FORBIDDEN, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT)

The man called M posted:

In.
Using a real news article about Police Brutality, write something that makes the police sympathetic.
it turns out aliens exist and they've been trying to communicate to us via crossword puzzles/milk cartons/math rock and they are getting increasingly frustrated that we're not getting it and are now resorting to increasingly desperate measures to get our attention

Thranguy posted:

In.

Rival vinylmancers compete without rules or mercy over the rarest albums across the thirft stores of Chicago and the dreadful powers intact first pressings can unleash.
in a world where nobody has teeth, one man has the courage to have teeth

rohan
Mar 19, 2008

Look, if you had one shot
or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted
in one moment
Would you capture it...
or just let it slip?


:siren:"THEIR":siren:



in

Anime body pillows are possessed by the ghosts of Pinkerton agents

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

rohan posted:

in

Anime body pillows are possessed by the ghosts of Pinkerton agents
what if every cute girl were super into you, wouldn't that be terrible, oh man it would be awful, and also you have 20 minutes to save the president from the crabs with shotguns

Idle Amalgam
Mar 7, 2008

said I'm never lackin'
always pistol packin'
with them automatics
we gon' send 'em to Heaven
In

Your character has lobster claws instead of hands, and they're an overlooked expert in open heart surgery.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

Idle Amalgam posted:

In

Your character has lobster claws instead of hands, and they're an overlooked expert in open heart surgery.
war worms, and the tiny men who ride them against the aphid menace

K THIS IS IT FOR SUPERFAST PROMPTS, I NEED TO GO GET SOME SHOPPING DONE, I WILL BE BACK LATER BUT PLEASE USE THE CURRENT JUDGE-GIVEN PROMPTS AS GUIDES FOR YOUR OWN HELLPROMPTS

Uranium Phoenix
Jun 20, 2007

Boom.

as more of an ideas guy, i'm judge

Albatrossy_Rodent
Oct 5, 2021

Obliteratin' everything,
incineratin' and renegade 'em
I'm here to make anybody who
want it with the pen afraid
But don't nobody want it but
they're gonna get it anyway!
gently caress I love this prompt so much but there's a sermon I have to write this week gently caress

Carl Killer Miller
Apr 28, 2007

This is the way that it all falls.
This is how I feel,
This is what I need:


Hey I'd like to claim Hot Nixon Cottage Cheese Pics

Carl Killer Miller
Apr 28, 2007

This is the way that it all falls.
This is how I feel,
This is what I need:


Crits

Uranium Phoenix

I enjoyed the descriptive prose in this story. You’re in a tough spot, as that’s one of the few things you can lean on in a story without any dialogue, but I think you handled it well. I think that your story suffers a little bit from the ‘too many questions’ problem. It feels like a whole lot of your descriptions, your setting, your character’s motivations, they’re all questions that are left unanswered. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing (and sometimes makes for a good flash fiction piece) but in this case it didn’t hit well for me.

Idle Amalgam

I’m really not sure about your framing device. It’s an internet post, but it doesn’t read like one. It reads like a short story, which is kinda the point, but you see what I’m saying? I’ve read plenty of people grousing about their disastrous lives on reddit, but people don’t really describe their lives in this style? If you’re going to opt for a known framing device, I’d try to stick with its style.

Examples:

“He would twist fate in his favor no matter the cost.”

“ His urethra was too narrow like a certain cartoon Texan’s, and I just stopped producing eggs one day.”

“It thrummed with a sickly energy, and I began to grow weary of it.”

Despite the framing device, and the sudden jerks forward in time that it provides, not a lot happens in the story. There’s not much emotional upheaval and I’m left not really knowing about the relationship between your protag and her husband, which is where the meat of this story should be. However, I think that would mean you’d have to discard your framing device, which I think would have done you some good (although I get that you were constrained by your story having to take place on the internet).

I don’t get the ending and I didn’t care for it. It’s not fleshed out enough and I don’t care enough about your protagonist for it to matter.

In short: you wrote about something happening to a person, but didn’t write enough about the person to make me care.

Chernobyl Princess

I appreciate that you took a solid crack at writing dialogue. There’s not enough of it in Thunderdome, or at least not enough good dialogue, so there’s some merit there. The voices of your characters (besides the imp, I suppose), were a little inconsistent. The elf saying “ain’t”, the kid talking about “job creators”, it didn’t fit so well.

At your conclusion, I’m not sure what the gift was? Was it an early plane ticket? If that was your twist, I don’t quite understand that either. I’m being a little quibbling, but that felt like more of a resolution than a twist; it didn’t surprise me.

The last line about anger management is superfluous. I thought that the first third of the story could have been heavily edited too, I don’t think it added much to your narrative.

Flerp

Ok, full disclosure: my eyes glazed over a few times while reading this. Why is your character that specific kind of AI? Why did you tease a more interesting world, then write about something completely different? It’s so much description, I don’t know where any of it is going, and a lot of it feels completely superfluous. I wrote a CYOA a few weeks ago and I know how tough it is to make each ending mean something, or even to have each ending contribute to the tone and thesis of your narrative, but a gimmick for the sake of a gimmick is no good.

I actually just got done reading the Murderbot series, which has an excellent robot/AI voice. The difference is that the AI voice is interwoven with important story beats actually happening, which propels the voice forward. Didn’t catch those story beats here.

It’s very possible that there’s some larger, overarching story that I’m missing.

My Shark Waifuu

It’s a personal preference, but I am really not a fan of the style of worldbuilding you did in your first paragraph. It’s stage-setting, or scene-setting, but none of the details you included felt like things that were impossible to weave into the story. As a result, it’s not compelling even though it feels like you came up with a fresh, clever setting.

I appreciate that you went for a dialogue-heavy story. It’s difficult to pull off and I thought most of it sounded realistic, although I would have preferred your characters being a little more distinct. The attempts at humor did not get me.

Rohan

What’s the deal with the second section? It comes out of nowhere, is more of the tell-y style of worldbuilding, and crushes the momentum you had going.

The bit with the chess is clever, I like the solution. I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.

And then BAM! Out of it again. More prose, more description, more lost momentum.

The thread of your protag finding his identity is good, but it really feels like that’s what the story should have been about. The framing device is almost too big for the ‘reveal’.

And you ended on another one of those segments!

The man called M

You’re getting better, for sure. There’s a little too much telling and not enough showing in this story. I think a lot of your past crits have focused on that so I won’t belabor the point, but it’d do your writing some good if you tried to show the audience why things are important, and not just tell them.

Don’t put yelled things in all caps. Write the story to indicate that they’re being spoken that way.

It’s a boilerplate cop drug bust story in a standard sort of voice. Not much to expound upon there.

Sailor Viy

Okay, the intro line hits what I think is a great balance of telling me about the world without being too wordy about it. Nice.

Your pacing is quite good. I think you ride a little too far toward description for my taste, but I think it’s well-done regardless. The ending was sweet and satisfying.

My biggest critique here is that you’ve chosen subject matter that would be suited toward a longer piece. This is a compliment, too, as I want to hear more about this world.

Yoruichi

You’re obviously a skilled writer, I’ll get that out of the way. Your descriptions are good, the setting is suitably eerie, the pacing of the story is solid. Then-

Nothing? The conclusion feels limp and unfinished, I’m not sure what any of it actually means, and, maybe most unsatisfyingly, all those breadcrumbs you dropped along the way didn’t seem to mean much of anything at all. Maybe I’m just not picking up what you’re putting down, or maybe your writing is a little too oblique for me. Either way, you lost me at the conclusion.

Crabrock

I like the concept and, per usual, your craft is excellent. Good mechanics and fairly good pacing throughout. Sometimes you trip over yourself when trying to be clever, to the disservice of the story at large. It’s a tough thing to criticize: when it hits, the streak of cleverness works quite well and adds charm to the story, but when it misses, your writing comes off smug. I think in this particular story, it was more of a miss than a hit for me.

I think this story falls into the problem of nothing really happening while a lot of things are happening. It’s a slice of life story, but it feels like it could have been so much more.

Thranguy

A nice, melancholic story. I struggled a bit at the beginning, with segments like:

“He gave me the big cryptic advice, the things that all made perfect sense later. Not to join the military. Not to move to New York, or New Orleans. "I didn't," he said, "Any of that. But you won't quite be me."

I get what you’re trying to say, but it’s a little clumsy. It seems to me like you’re going for a cryptic voice, or a haze of mystery running over the whole piece, but sometimes it’s a little overbearing. I could use the story being more rooted, and the latter half does that pretty well.

Still, it’s a well-done story and a lovely concept done in a manner that feels fresh.

Surreptitiousmuffin

Solid setting, great descriptive language, very creepy vibe you’ve run through the story. Good mechanics, too.

My major critique is that there’s not much new here. The motivations are all pretty standard, the monster turn is well-done but a little predictable. I don’t mean to say that you always have to innovate, but I think it’d do you some good here.

Sebmojo

I like what you’re doing here, but I’m a sucker for stories about mysterious locked rooms. My problem is that it takes such a long while to get there. The first half of the story doesn’t do much for me. It’s a little too much world-building for a piece this long, although many of the details are tantalizing and hint at a world I want to read more about. Unfortunately, they get a little buried amongst everything else.

I also found the writing sloppy in portions, with some sentences being difficult to parse out. Not a major crit, but I generally like your stories a lot and don’t often see that issue in your work.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002
in, give me your worst hellprompt you coward

my prompt is somebody has epidermodysplasia verruciformis but instead of skin they have sugary sweet growths that bugs, animals, and children are always trying to lick

Azza Bamboo
Apr 7, 2018
I'm in

Prompt idea: It's the 1950s and fairies/pixies (tiny people with gossamer wings) are stealing the tubes from electric radios for some reason.

Captain_Indigo
Jul 29, 2007

"That’s cheating! You know the rules: once you sacrifice something here, you don’t get it back!"

In.

Prompt: A woman falls in love with a character in a book and undergoes an experimental treatment to become fictional herself so that they can be together.

Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010

Yes, the good words are gone.

Why are the good words gone?!


Azza Bamboo posted:

Prompt idea: It's the 1950s and fairies/pixies (tiny people with gossamer wings) are stealing the tubes from electric radios for some reason.

Mine now.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

crabrock posted:

in, give me your worst hellprompt you coward

my prompt is somebody has epidermodysplasia verruciformis but instead of skin they have sugary sweet growths that bugs, animals, and children are always trying to lick
in a society ruled by the tallest, the only way to become taller is by eating your own skin, where a jockey is caught between his love of horses and his lust for power

Azza Bamboo posted:

I'm in

Prompt idea: It's the 1950s and fairies/pixies (tiny people with gossamer wings) are stealing the tubes from electric radios for some reason.
honk honk welcome to clownworld motherfucker, it's a whole planet whose culture and economy are built around clowns, and a deadly serious alien invasion is happening

Captain_Indigo posted:

In.

Prompt: A woman falls in love with a character in a book and undergoes an experimental treatment to become fictional herself so that they can be together.
an Ancient Greek person finds an ipod nano containing only the sexiest of 90s R&B and attempts to use it in a nefarious plan to take over the Delian League

SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 06:57 on Dec 15, 2021

Chairchucker
Nov 14, 2006

The man was stunningly well dressed. He had a smart looking jacket, and a really neat looking cape, the lining of which was shimmering and sparkling in more than Oriental splendour, which is a great deal of splendour indeed, just ask Kipling.




In

Prompt idea: a clown is stuck in a timeloop which restarts in the middle of the clown pooing their own pants during a shootout at a party at which the clown is performing.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

Chairchucker posted:

In

Prompt idea: a clown is stuck in a timeloop which restarts in the middle of the clown pooing their own pants during a shootout at a party at which the clown is performing.
a character sets out on a quest to become the least sober individual in human history but then it turns out – in the middle of their bender – they have to do a classic fantasy quest like pulling a sword from a stone or some poo poo like that, and they have to pretend that they're sober the entire time

Weltlich
Feb 13, 2006
Grimey Drawer

sebmojo posted:

im in, prompt is that animals all talk, all the time, it's just the most filthy rancid swearing, awful stuff

This is my prompt! This prompt was made for me!

And in turn,

Prompt: Write a story about an Appalachian space program trying to beat another space program to the moon—but play it straight, no trying to get cheap laughs by making them out to be hicks or yokels.

Weltlich fucked around with this message at 15:34 on Dec 15, 2021

My Shark Waifuu
Dec 9, 2012



In!

Prompt: A man dies and gets sent to Bird Hell on accident (or was it an accident??)

Sailor Viy
Aug 4, 2013

And when I can swim no longer, if I have not reached Aslan's country, or shot over the edge of the world into some vast cataract, I shall sink with my nose to the sunrise.

In.

Prompt: A woman who turns into a gun. A man who turns into a bullet. Together, they fight crime.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

My Shark Waifuu posted:

In!

Prompt: A man dies and gets sent to Bird Hell on accident (or was it an accident??)
Robot zombies attack and only my super cool D&D group can stop them

Sailor Viy posted:

In.

Prompt: A woman who turns into a gun. A man who turns into a bullet. Together, they fight crime.
what if dragons were super tiny, like the size of dragonflies, and each dragon was your best friend in the whole world ... until the bigfeet attacked

Adbot
ADBOT LOVES YOU

rohan
Mar 19, 2008

Look, if you had one shot
or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted
in one moment
Would you capture it...
or just let it slip?


:siren:"THEIR":siren:



Chairchucker posted:

In

Prompt idea: a clown is stuck in a timeloop which restarts in the middle of the clown pooing their own pants during a shootout at a party at which the clown is performing.
okay I will write this

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