Beezus fucked around with this message at 17:48 on Jan 6, 2022
|# ? Jan 3, 2022 01:03|
|# ? Sep 25, 2023 17:54|
Peas in a Pod
McGreer smirked at his stunned opponent on the floor. His hands that would be for helping are for hurting now. The jeering taunts and laughter only served to further embolden him. McGreer had spent his whole life playing the victim, the hapless bookworm, but all of that was about to change forever. He loomed over the man with his rear foot on a spring, his front foot was leveled and his hands were raised like those of every pugilist he had ever seen. It looked a bit unorthodox, but it seemed to work well enough for him.
The outlaw wasn’t out of the fight though. He sprung from the ground into a tackle that sent the two of them rolling away from the campfire. The others met this with even more uproar. All but one. The leader of the gang, Weston Daws. McGreer got the upperhand as he and the outlaw rolled up against a boulder. He mounted the man and delivered a quick flurry of punches that left him face down burbling in his saliva.
McGreer stood on his feet and spat phlegm into the dirt. He moved to retrieve his medicine bag when the outlaw he assumed defeated scrambled to his feet and began to charge. The man had a wild look in his eye, but what caught McGreer’s attention was the wicked looking knife that gleamed in its hasty approach.
What no one expected was Weston unholstering his revolver and putting a slug square into the outlaw’s face, stopping McGreer from being gutted. The crack of the pistol echoed throughout the ravine and everyone fell quiet as terror descended on the group. McGreer, covered in the dead man’s gore, fell onto his butt and scrambled away from the corpse, soiling himself in the process. He suddenly began to wonder why he had ever romanticized violence. The world seemed to tremble at the revelation, but Weston stood over him resolutely with a dispassionate look in his eye. All business.
“You got a name, kid?” Weston asked. It was the type of question McGreer knew to answer without delay.
“McGreer. James McGreer.” he said.
“Dumb name. You’re New Pete, you hear?”
McGreer nodded feverishly and threw up on some nearby weeds.
“Now, now, New Pete… easy, easy. I see by your belongings that you’re something of a medicine man. It just so happens that us fine ‘entrepreneurs’ could use a man educated in the life saving arts. Are you that man New Pete?”
“And it just so happens that we have an opening.” Weston said, gesturing at the dead man twitching in the dirt.
“Besides, what have you got to lose? Meek fellow like yourself probably ain’t got too many prospects for marriage and I saw that twinkle in your eye as you beat some sense into Jimmy, shame it wasn’t enough. What I’m getting at is that you and I are probably more alike than you think. Hell, after a while, you might feel right at home robbing and killing, yeah? And if you don’t, well… you got your herbs and tonics and know-how. So what do you say, partner? Partners?”
And just like that, hands that had been made for helping permanently fell in league with hands that delighted in hurting.
|# ? Jan 3, 2022 03:23|
A Story to Sink Your Teeth Into
Sheila woke up instantly; it was that dream again - the one with the face, and the man, with the face. And the teeth. Terrible, yellowing things, forgotten tombstones jutting out haphazardly from his gums, marking where a root had died, abused and abandoned.
She moved to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She stood holding the sides of the sink, staring at herself in the mirror, teeth bared.
It was the fourth time. She still didn’t know who the man was, she’d never met him - she would remember that face. Those teeth.
She ran her tongue over her teeth and they felt dirty, unclean. She began brushing them, desperate to get rid of the feeling.
Whoever he was, she had to find him. A mouth like that couldn’t be allowed to wander unsupervised.
She spit in the sink and bared her teeth in the mirror again. She pursed her lips and nodded to herself.
Sheila twirled her toothbrush like a baton and raised it above her head. A beam of blinding light shone down through the bathroom’s ceiling, engulfing her, an angelic chant filling her ears. It faded after a moment, and Sheila stood tall, wrapped in an enamel exoskeleton. Her face was entirely covered except for her mouth, showing her perfect, straight teeth.
She saluted her reflection. “For the Institoothion!”
Sheila left through her bedroom window, her leaping ivory form a stunning contrast to the night.
Sheila was following the scent of halitosis through the streets of Chew York. It had been getting stronger the closer she got to the prosthodontic district.The stench was intertwined with the typical aroma of porcelain and metal.
She leapt from one rooftop to the next, and then there he was. The man from her dreams. She watched him walk down an alley and enter the side door of a nondescript building.
Sheila made sure no one else was in the vicinity and jumped down to the door. She clacked her teeth twice for good luck and swung the door open. The hallway beyond was empty, but the smell of halitosis that buffeted out was almost overwhelming. Sheila avoided the brunt of it by instinctively retracting the enamel nostril-lids of her exoskeleton.
At the end of the hallway was a stairway, descending further than any basement would be reasonably located, no doubt connected to the network of dilapidated tunnels rotting the city’s gums.
Sheila didn’t encounter anyone going down the spiral staircase. She crept forward with care, expecting traps but not finding any. Sheila looked down the central shaft and couldn’t see the bottom. She took one quick little step backwards, then flipped forwards into the darkness, the wind rushing by as she dove headfirst into the depths.
She landed in hard packed dirt, stabbing into the earth like a vengeful incisor. The group of people seated nearby in the cave stood up, startled. The man from her dreams stood at a podium facing the crowd. They all had the same face, the same teeth.
The dust around her settled and she pulled herself up out of the ground. The man at the podium pointed a finger at her.
“Sheila! I have been expecting you. We knew the Insitoothion’s dog would find us soon enough.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Tar-tar Stinks, Chief Decayer of this cell of 2Fake! And we’re going to destroy your tyrannical, ordered rule of teeth and dental hygiene! Chaos will reign in all mouths! Get her!”
The crowd of men rushed towards Sheila. She raised her voice above their shouts, and asked, “Could you clarify your plan? I don’t really get…” but she was cut off by something hitting her right arm.
A black spot immediately spread and decayed her exoskeleton where it was hit. Tar-tar had a cavity gun in his hand. They had been outlawed in Chew York since the 70’s, but unsavory sorts still knew where to find them.
Sheila did her best to dodge the barrage of shots that followed, but Tar-tar had good aim, and with the crowd closing, he got a couple more shots in. She took down the first people that reached her, but she was quickly overwhelmed and held still. Tar-tar laughed and lined up his final shot.
“Appolonia, I need your help!” Sheila shouted.
Giant, shining ivory incisors erupted from the ground all around her, shielding her.. Molars rained from the ceiling crushing men beneath them. Only Tar-tar remained standing. When the incisors retreated from around Sheila, she was holding a giant, halberd-like toothbrush, the legendary Polisher, in her hands. The bristles gleamed in the moonlight.
“Eeeearrrrgh, you dare utter that whore’s name in front of me? Perish!”
Tar-tar raised the cavity gun and aimed it at Sheila. At the same time, Sheila swung the tail end of the Polisher in his direction and a blob of toothpaste shot out of it. The minty projectile knocked the weapon out of Tar-tar’s hands before he could fire. Tar-tar cried out in rage and charged at Sheila. She swung the Polisher at him and it cut him clean in half.
His top half croaked, “You think you’ve won? There are more of us! There are others!”
“It doesn’t matter. Good dental hygiene always wins.”
Sheila bent down and ripped the teeth out of Tar-tar’s mouth, then crushed his head with the end of the Polisher. They might be in a sorry state, but they’d do. She tossed them in her mouth and chewed on them, crinch cronching the teeth, the sound having a certain softness to it, reminding the listener that they weren’t cared for properly. Sheila swallowed, and her exoskeleton regenerated and covered the holes where she had been shot.
Sheila would find the others and she would introduce them to the wonderful world of exodontics. The Institoothion’s views were that they didn’t deserve the teeth at all if they weren’t going to care for them.
She clacked her teeth twice. It would be a long year.
|# ? Jan 3, 2022 07:06|
D Side of the Moon
It was a soft gray night with a half-moon forming a perfect D in the sky. D for what, Alex wondered. Danger? Discovery? Or Disaster? Only time would tell. Fortunately, it was time Alex had, as it inspired him to work towards heading over to NASA. He studied for ten years, getting his degree in Astronomy in the Army. Afterwards, he would be accepted to NASA.
During his studies, Alex told people of the D on the moon he saw years ago. There were many who justifiably called him mad, but he felt like he just had to press on. The D on the moon was as clear as day to him, and he was very much sober at the time. So, Alex continued his studies, while doing some research of his own. It was this research he brought with him to NASA.
Nowadays, for NASA, saying, “I’m going to the moon”, is basically as common as your average Joe saying, “I need to go into the office”, especially if said Joe was using it to cover an affair. So, Alex, after doing the necessary training, was able to get to the Moon quite easily. When the day came, he, along with a small crew, took a small shuttle. Obviously, NASA knew all the good landing spots, so things for the most part went smoothly. Thanks to his research, Alex was able to land close to the D.
Since the placement of the D was clear on Alex’s mind, he was able to pinpoint where it was, and was able to find it quickly. Everything so far was according to procedure…until it was not. When Alex set foot on the area where the D was, he felt an unearthly (Or unmoonly, for that matter) force drag him downwards, sucking him into some kind of portal. When Alex finally stopped, he noticed a small, Japanese-like castle. He moved towards it and opened the front door.
“Hello…?” Much like the outside, the inside had quite a far-eastern feel. Alex then heard a gong.
“Welcome, human! Make yourself at home!” The voice sounded like a woman. Alex enters further and sees a beautiful Asian woman in a light blue kimono laying on a couch-like bed. The woman gets up and prepares to speak.
“Where are my manners? I forgot to introduce myself! I am Princess Kaguya.”
“Wait, the one from that Asian fairy tale?”
“Oh, that’s what they call it now? I saw it as real life, but yes, the same.” Alex was stunned by what he saw. He has heard the stories about her beauty, and they were spot on.
“You can take off that foolish attire, dear. My home is hospitable to humans like yourself.” Alex takes off his gear. He was only wearing boxers under his gear, which Kaguya seemed impressed by what she saw. Alex, unnerved by Kaguya’s glances, asks the question he wondered all these years.
“Why was there a D on the moon?” Kaguya laughed, surprised that Alex did not get it.
“Long have I seen your slang after I left Earth long ago. Are you familiar with the term, ‘wanting the D’?” That’s when it hit Alex. It was a mating call.
“Alright, then why was only I able to see it?”
“A spell was cast so that only those that are worthy could see it, of course!”
“What made me worthy?”
“Long has it been since my old love passed away, and it can get quite boring on the moon. A woman like me can only be alone for so long!”
“Forgive me. I did not necessarily come here to get laid.”
“I figured that. In that case, could you at least keep me company?” Alex shrugged. It’s not like he has better things to do.
Years later, Alex returns to Earth to visit his family and loved ones. When he comes back, he is asked to come to the local tv station for an interview, since he vanished without a trace and suddenly returned. During the interview, he tells of the D on the moon, and how it influenced him to go into space. When asked about the D, Alex started with this:
“Basically, the Moon’s a woman, and she’s really horny…”
|# ? Jan 3, 2022 07:55|
Prompt: "The human body is over 95% water, and so too is the human family."
The Sam Jessop 679 words
The human body is over 95% water, and so too is the human family. Now, some so-called scientists may have some disagreement with that figure, but they don’t know what I know. It all started a week ago; well, strictly speaking it started a thousand years ago when an alien meteor crashed into the earth and the government of the day covered it up, but I digress. For me it started last week when Sam Jessop walked into my diner. The Sam Jessop!
No, obviously I don’t own this place, it’s just my regular. I’m here every night, right here at this table.
All right, maybe you don’t know the name Sam Jessop, but I guarantee you know his face. He may be the finest character actor of our generation; you’ve definitely seen a bunch of stuff he’s in.
Anyway, he comes into my diner and sits down. There’s no one else in the place except me, and some of his people are wondering why I’m there. “Yes,” says the waiter, “we reserved every table in the place, except for Mr Cottrill’s.” They can’t take my perpetual booking from me. Not since the court case. There’s a bit of back and forth, but Jessop waves his people off and whispers something to the waiter. The waiter comes back with a five-litre bottle of water. I didn’t even know they made bottles that capacity, and ordinarily I’d think it was weird, but this is Sam Jessop, man. If he’s doing something, it’s not wrong.
I guess Jessop sees me gawking, which, don’t tell me you wouldn’t be starstruck. He shrugs and says, “Gotta keep hydrated.”
He’s started a dialogue, so I feel emboldened to keep the conversation going. I don’t wanna sound like a schmuck, I wanna sound clever in front of my idol. “Sure,” I say.
Maybe he feels like he needs to explain himself to me, which obviously he doesn’t, I mean, he’s Sam Jessop. He says the 95% thing. And I don’t mean to look sceptical of him, but that seems high. It seems high to you, right? “A healthy human, that is,” he says. “Like, a really healthy one. And a healthy family.” I’ve got photos of his family. Don’t act like that’s weird, he’s Sam Jessop. Anyway, the point is every member of his family radiates the same charisma and confidence he exudes.
“Oh,” I say. I’m trying to keep the dialogue going, because how often do you get to talk to Sam freaking Jessop, but I’m out of my depth here, if you’ll pardon the pun.
You see, because depth, and water. Oh, you got it? I wasn’t sure, because you didn’t laugh.
Anyway, the rest of the conversation wasn’t as memorable as those opening lines, there was some stuff about alien lineage and government cover ups, the point is we should be drinking so much more water. What? Well, first impressions just stick with you, I guess.
I dunno, where do aliens come from, space I guess, is it that important?
Oh, the meteor. Yeah, I suppose I did mention that before, didn’t I? That’s the thing, it landed just seven miles from here. Yeah, the old Jessop ranch.
Oh, I never thought of that. Yeah, maybe they’re related?
Anyway, he had his water. Downed all five litres. I don’t know what he ordered for his meal, it never ended up arriving on account of the kidnapping.
Well yeah, of course the kidnapping of Sam Jessop. His people must’ve been out of the room for a moment, I didn’t notice what they were doing because, you know, I was still high on having talked to Sam Jessop. The Sam Jessop! But a bunch of men in suits ran in, put a bag over his head, and stuffed him into the back of a van. I guess they didn’t notice me, people often tend not to. Sam did, though.
Can I go home soon? I appreciate that you’ve moved my diner here, wherever here is.
Well, can I have more water?
|# ? Jan 3, 2022 08:00|
Life Goes On
I used to be a detective, with my hat and my desk, until the war. Loved every cold and lonely minute of it. Missing persons, divorce cases, background checks, mostly. Same deal: they gave me a name and not much more. Someone who seems simple, normal, even boring. I looked closer. Dig enough and nobody is simple, nobody is normal, nobody is boring. I used to think there was a bias going on here, that the normal ones just don't inspire other people to hire detectives. The war taught me better.
These days, no hat, no desk, no detective. I can't do the soul of the work any more, can't wear out shoe leather. I help, a little, but Romey's the detective. I'm just the voice in his ear. Work's changed, too. The old jobs still happen, sure. But most of the time we're looking into the recent past instead. Where there was war there were war criminals. Trust me, I know.
"Call it," shouted Perry, looking back at me, away from his sights. The gun went on doing its work away from his gaze, spewing bullets in a slow arc. Suppressing fire. I had the phone. The old mall was practically a fortress. The enemy wouldn't be dislodged, not without artillery. It was a solid target. Signals marked it as a drone control center. I made the call.
I made the call. I was a soldier, with my helmet and hardened phone. Perry kept up the suppressive fire as the missiles flew. When the soldiers streamed out they weren't coming out hands up. Guns up, trying to shoot. Perry and the other gunners kept shooting.
I made the call. The airstrike turned the old dead mall to rubble. We didn't learn until the next day that it was kids, teenagers running the drones on laptops set up in the old Hot Topic.
There's people who want to say they thought they were playing a game. That would be nice. Put it all on some villain officer old enough to know better. But I've seen the interviews. They were kids, not idiots. They knew exactly what they were burning down or blowing up, who they were shooting. We all taught them to hate early. So yeah, plenty of war crimes to go around.
Romey was working one of those cases. Old one. From before the open part of the war. Extreme blackmail job. Someone found a good family man and put on the pressure. Make a credible threat. Laugh when he offers money. Give him the mission: go to this place and start killing. Don't get taken alive. Let the world wonder what your motive was forever. Next to impossible to prove. Wasn't even until after the war, after Citizen D's confession that people ever realized it was a thing that happened.
Romey did the walking and the talking. He had his hat. He had his desk and car and license and taser and notebook. He was a detective. I was the voice in his ear. No hat. No desk. No head. No rear end.
The war was almost over when it happened. House to house action in Jacksonville. Rounding up ringleaders and pockets of resistance. Our snipers had just taken our three drones incoming to our position, but they were just a distraction. Their own guys with the long guns fired at the same time, and one of those high caliber bullets had my name on it.
The paperwork says 'exploded heart.' Almost a miracle the field medic kept my brain warm and wet long enough for the upload to take. I'd raise a glass to that guy any day, except, well.
I'm the voice in Romey's ear. I'm good at that. During the war the web got worse. Disinfobots trenched in everywhere. Ask any question and you'll find convincing lies. The living don't have the time to filter anything and other bots are helpless: the disinfobots evolved on fooling them. You want to find anything more sensitive than restaurant hours you need an upload. You need a voice in your ear.
My therapist tells me I shouldn't have used that word. 'The living.' That it implies that I'm not. I tell her I'll stop once they let us vote again.
So I dug. Some people say nothing ever gets really deleted anymore. They're not right, but they're not entirely wrong. Some things go away forever, especially when someone really wants them to, and when your puppeteering some poor soul into mass murder you really want to cover those tracks. But it's easy to make mistakes. And this guy, who wasn't even political, wasn't even fighting the coming war, he made a mistake or two.
Romey took it all in. The guy was dead, part of the statistics. It was a revenge thing, hiding one victim in a pile of bodies. The client was somewhere in the middle of that pile. There wasn't anyone to put away. Still, the client was satisfied. Sometimes when they think they're paying to win a lawsuit or get even or find a long lost someone, what they're really getting for their money is closure.
At the end of the day, I went into idle mode, dollar-a-night discount digital dreams to keep my fake neurons from seizing up. At the end of the day Romey took off his hat, got up from his desk, and went home.
|# ? Jan 3, 2022 08:09|
It was a beautiful sunrise, but Brian was not happy at all. This morning was a mystery; all of his chickens have disappeared and his rooster was not alive; he did not sing this morning as he used to.
“Feathany? Beaeggtrice? Poultricia!,” he shouted.
Only silence from the darkness within the coop. As Brian’s eyes acclimated, objects came into view: a miniature robe and tiara from last week’s Fancy Friday, a framed watercolor of Feathany in a crimson pantsuit, and a laptop with his collection of pretty tasteless action movies.
But no chickens.
Then he spied a twisted bundle on the floor at the far end of the coop. He approached it cautiously and knelt to examine it.
It was McClaine. Dead, of course.
But not just dead, no: the rooster had been annihilated. His feathers were scattered, some of their shafts still bearing gibbets of meat where they’d been yanked free from the flesh. Brian nudged the body with his boot then backpedaled in shock.
McClaine’s beak had been ripped from his head, leaving an oozing void between his beady eyes. This wasn’t a coyote or a stray dog from a neighboring farm, Brian thought, as a grotesque notion floated into his mind:
This was an execution.
Brian walked out of the coop, his heart in his throat. He’d wasted so much time on conflict resolution, on equitable arbitration and organizational de-siloing, just like the internet message boards had suggested, all in an effort to mollify a real shitbird of a rooster. He thought back to Fancy Friday with all his hens, with McClaine sulking alone in the corner and refusing to wear a jaunty tricorn hat.
He was about to head back to the house when he noticed something peculiar in the dirt around the henhouse: a wide scuff, running from the coop to the woods that abutted the farm: chickens covering their tracks, and doing a truly awful job.
He followed the scuff to the edge of his property, took a deep breath, then plunged into the dense wood. He stumbled over logs and leapt over patches of ivy, upturning rocks and shaking shrubs in an increasingly desperate effort to find his hens.
Then, from somewhere off in the distance, he heard a cluck. It was almost inaudible in the cryptic tangle of the wood, but to Brian it was unmistakable: Feathany.
He drove deeper, shoving furiously through the trees until he burst upon a small clearing. He saw an ancient shed, its walls leaning precariously after years of frost and thaw. Brian heard a particular squawk, starting low and ending in a high trill.
His chickens were inside.
Brian closed the distance to the shed with a series of lightning steps and threw open the door, casting light onto the chicken tribunal.
Feathany stood proud in a circle of nests with one wing raised and a foot frozen in half-march. A squawk died in her blood-smeared beak as the rest of the chicken coup whirled to face Brian.
He put his hands up.
“Uh, ladies? What the heck happened back there?”
The chickens looked nonchalantly around the shed, as if the answer were under an upturned bucket, or behind a deteriorating wall panel. Feathany hastily covered her sanguine beak.
“Look, I know that the chicken-rooster negotiations had kinda come to an impasse, but we coulda all sat down, hashed it out. Made a few concessions, you know?”
The chickens all seemed to ruffle their feathers at once; the differences had been irreconcilable. Brian shook his head.
“I mean, at least come and tell me? We’ve always been so close, I don’t get why you just wouldn’t…”
As he looked out over his flock, their rationale slowly dawned on him: the chickens hadn’t been running from their crime, or even striking out on their own. The truth was simple, and it was Brian’s fault.
“Oh my god. You thought I’d take his side. That’s it, isn’t it?”
The chickens looked at the ground, scratching and pecking in feigned indifference. Brian swallowed hard.
“Look, I don’t know why I kept trying to keep things even. McClaine was the worst. And his attitude! Like, I didn’t even know a rooster could be so…”
He waved his hand, searching for the word. Feathany clucked.
“Yeah, smug! Look, I don’t want to be flippant or anything. What you gals did was seriously horrible.”
The chickens seemed unconcerned with decorum.
“Well come on, let’s go back home. It’s getting late, we can talk about it tomorrow. Hey, I even got Bloodsoaker Four on blu-ray. It’s the director’s cut.”
Feathany cooed, then put a wing in the air and drew a lazy circle. The chickens slowly filed out of the shed, hooting and flapping. Brian smiled; she’d always been leadership material. His favorite hen waddled toward him, then stopped to rustle under a pile of debris. She popped out a moment later, dangling something from her pinion. He looked down at his chicken’s offering.
It was McClaine’s beak, all wound around a garland of bloodsoaked grasses.
“Good god, girl. No. Absolutely not. That’s the line.”
Feathany squawked, then tossed the beak onto the floor. Brian scooped her up, gently stroking her head as she nuzzled him.
Maybe he’d sleep through sunrise tomorrow.
|# ? Jan 3, 2022 08:35|
Submissions are closed!
|# ? Jan 3, 2022 13:44|
TD 491 Results: Cripes! I Yelled
This week... definitely happened. Limited turnout, several failures, and a lot of stuff that read like first drafts. I appreciate the effort from those who showed up, at least.
Your winner, with a well-written piece that actually felt like a complete story, is Beezus's "Not My Type." Some good vampire stuff here.
Your HMs are Simply Simon's "Top to Bottom," also a pretty complete piece despite some judge caveats, and Cark Killer Miller's "Coop Dynamics," which was extremely charming.
No DMs -- the quality slope was pretty shallow this week.
Your loss is The Man Called M's "D Side of the Moon," mostly for the "punchline."
Beezus, the throne awaits you... in the 2022 thread.
|# ? Jan 5, 2022 04:26|
Simply Simon - Bezos guillotine party
A light wish-fulfilment read. Elton was maybe a bit too much of a braod-strokes caricature but your writing smoothed that over. If this were a longer piece I'd tell you to tone it down. Slight nit-pick, though - gallows are for hanging people, not guillotinin' them. Mid-high.
Captain_Indigo - A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, but with Mars
Ah, meta. The end felt tossed off, but I expected that because you lampshaded it. I found it hard to tell what was purposefully precious and what was accidentally so. Mid.
Beezus - O-positive werewolf
Cute. "So distracted was he that he nearly failed to register the sensation of a very large, very coarse hand on his hip" threw me out of the story because it felt like a sudden switch of perspective (if Jake didn't notice it, how come we do?). High.
Idle Amalgam - Red Dead Redemption fanfiction
Three named characters in 546 words feels like too many. I got what you were going for, but it didn't mount me and deliver a quick flurry of punches like it could if you'd used your full word limit and given me more actual story. Low mid.
A Classy Ghost - Militant Tooth Fairy
This is gonna be tough for you because I've read Hogfather dozens of times, sorry. Sheila's characterization seemed a bit uneven - is she actually good at this, or not? According to this thing, you are the reincarnation of my brother in arm, coribaus. Mid-high.
The man called M - A dude fucks the moon
I think I read an Oglaf strip about this. You've got something here that you could have really worked with more - the Kaguya mission's original name brings in Selene, then it's a hop skip and a jump to pull in more moon goddesses and you've got a potential slumber party. Lose the terrible punchline. Low.
Chairchucker - The Sam Jessop
Who is Sam Jessop? Who is this short order cook speaking to? What is going on? Use the rest of your word allotment to help me follow this idea of yours, please. Low mid.
Thranguy - Private Dick Implant
I want to like this more than I did, and I can't figure out what gives. Maybe because it reminded me of Altered Carbon a little too much? I want to know how therapist works for implants. Mid, mid-high.
Carl Killer Miller - Chicken Conflict Resolution
Aw, did you write this just for me? Thank you. Paragraphs 4 through 6 don't hang right, because they're telling us something we already know from the opening line. Move paras 3 and 4 and things will flow better. High.
|# ? Jan 5, 2022 04:58|
THERE IS A NEW THREAD
This thread will remain live until the end of the week. Clear out any stories you don't want archived forever on a dumb dead comedy forum.
|# ? Jan 5, 2022 06:57|
May we meet in Valhalla
|# ? Jan 5, 2022 07:02|
Bye bye 2021ne thread
|# ? Jan 6, 2022 03:59|
just so this very true post doesn't get overlooked...
This week has been archived now.
|# ? Jan 6, 2022 06:16|
|# ? Sep 25, 2023 17:54|
Yoruichi is your 2021ne Champion!
And so ends the Year of the Horse.
|# ? Jan 10, 2022 16:20|