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It's been a long while since I Thunderdome'd, sign me up for a random present please. Edit: missed a line on phone. Question removed.
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May 4, 2021 14:05
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 17:00 |
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Chasing 1795 words ------- He awoke with a jolt, his blanket tossed aside in some frightful fit that left him exposed to the air conditioner on the wall. The sweat wasn't helping either, sending a chill through him as he looks over to the nightstand and reaches for the spiral bound notebook, a pencil clipped to the top and a bookmark placed carefully between its pages near the end. Keep it in focus. Write down every detail you can. He had been in a labyrinth this time, endless halls of gray granite that echoed into the endless stars above him, and he knew he was being chased by something. No features he could describe, no sound that remained in his ears, a pure and primal emotion that led him scurrying into the twists and turns of endless gray stone until he was chased into the pit and devoured. A meaningless dream with a meaningless end. But he was close now, he tells himself in the light of the alarm clock. To experience one raw emotion in a dream could quite easily lead to another, after all. Perhaps then he could reach that place once more, that blinding light and endless warmth and abundant joy, that dream that set him on this course for the past seven years. He set the notebook down and stood up, his heart finally calming down, taking the time to stretch before starting his morning ritual. Shower, shave, a simple breakfast, prepare a sandwich for lunch and with some extra time on his hands go back over the rest of his dream logs to find those connecting threads and prepare for the next night. Lucid dreaming was a skill like any other. You build small, practice the nightly affirmations, keep everything down in the logs, and then you'd become God if only for a few scant hours each night. At least, that's what the books always promised. Fly like a bird! Live your greatest fantasies, explore beautiful new worlds that live only in your mind! Control the greatest play to ever exist, again and again, for free*! Promises, promises. The books always have promises. Results, however, were scant. No matter how many kingdoms he saved or new worlds he discovered or vistas he soared above like an eagle, that one simple flash of joy eluded him again and again, night after night. So he'd try again tonight, he tells himself. He was close. * Everything after he left the house was a meaningless blur. The walk to the bus station, the trip to the office, another day of spreadsheets and quarterly reports, another sandwich, another long afternoon, and another trip back home. Once he was back, spend an hour on the bike while listening to a podcast at random, then dinner and a book. The idea was to get as many new ideas in his mind, give him new ground to grow the base for a dream then build from there. At first he'd end up going too far in, adding in shows or games alongside everything else, but it'd leave him a confused mess. It took him a while to realize that he needed to spread it out, only one or two at a time to keep things from running into one another. Otherwise, he'd have cyborg knights fighting talking planets, and he'd wake up confused and further away from that euphoria than when he started. He’d look back over his dream logs, from those first few years and infrequent dates, watching as more and more of the mental landscape opened up for him. And as he dreamed and improved in his dreaming, they became longer, more detailed. Rolling green hills that stretched on forever grew towns and castles, mountains and rivers. Faceless mannequins started showing features, and voices became distinct and new to him. Or maybe they were people from his work? Was there a difference? Seven years in and he was writing in narratives for his characters, letting his stories play out in his mind. But that first dream still eluded him. No matter the princesses he saved or the monsters he put down, he’d wake up with everything but that sheer, brilliant joy in his heart that brought him here. And so another day passed and he found himself back in bed, ready to set out once more. * The world around him came into sharp focus as he found himself surrounded by trees, their canopy stretching upwards into infinity, leaving him in a vine-choked gloom that closed in from every direction. Aside from the perfectly smooth ground he found himself on, the rest of the jungle around him was uneven and hazardous, daring him to step away from that one solid spot and into the tangled growth before him. Next came the colors, his mind painting over the scenery, the murky gray replaced with every verdant hue he could imagine hanging off branch and vine, sharp against the brown bark and forest floor. Jungle dreams were rare, restricted to scenes from nature magazines and documentaries or fantastical poems, which filled him with a sense of curiosity and caution. Stepping from that soft grass hill, he descended into the eaves of the trees, brushing aside the vines, feeling the knotted roots digging into his bare feet. The jungle seemed to move around him, roots rising up to trip at him, branches pressing in to scrape at his side, trunks twisting and obscuring as he was herded in deeper and deeper still as the darkness grows around him. The colors draining once more until everything was a muted, solid gray. Solid gray brick. He was back in the labyrinth. He turned and looked straight into the eye of an infinite void. What a waste. He awoke with a jolt. His alarm clock a light in the darkness, the numbers burning his eyes. He didn’t reach for his journal this time. * It was cold this morning, his breath leaving a fog in the air as he crammed his hands into his pockets, making his way down the street to the bus station as the sidewalk stretched laboriously under his feet. Had it always been this long? Did every city spread out stops like this, or was it just this one, with the bus with no shocks and the empty coffee cups in the rain gutter? Did the bus always need new shocks or was it supposed to jostle up and down on every turn like some sick carnival ride? At least the office was the same as ever. “Good morning!” A voice? Wait, it was the receptionist, a girl in a smart white blouse and a green streak in her hair. He could see tattoos peeking out from under the sleeve of her shirt, the smile on her face wavering a bit. “Are you okay?” She asked, and he realized he was staring. He gave her a wave and a smile, said he hadn’t slept well and moved on towards the elevators. Did they always have a receptionist? He squeezed into the elevator, briefcase held up to his chest, staring ahead at the door. Watching it open, letting out a little more pressure, closing again. Open, release, close. Then it was his turn to step out, and he took in a deep breath that smelled like coffee. Keys clicking, a soft murmur filling the air around him as he headed three cubes down, turned left, then two more on his right. At least he recognized the paperwork on the desk, the sticky notes plastered on his monitor in a cascading hue. Important dates, paperwork that needed to be done, the office potluck, new policies on workplace diversity. Noted, pasted and filed in a row along the sides and bottom. How old were some of these notices? Still, no bother. He just needed to get through another day and get back home to dream again. “Hey,” A voice said. He looked up and saw a woman. Janice. HR? “Just wanted to remind you that you’re coming up for PTO,” She said, her voice soft and comforting, most likely from years of practice with bad news. “You have some extra saved up, but you’ll lose it at the end of this fiscal year, okay?” He nodded, gave her some assurance about getting the paperwork in, then watched as she walked off, hearing her talk to another cubicle. He heard laughter from near the elevator, and saw the gaggle near the door to the break room. It looks like he missed the potluck. * The ride back home was worse, somehow, but he made it back to his home once again, sliding out of his shoes, taking off his coat and sinking into the couch. The weight of the day hung on his shoulders, the exercise bike sitting in the corner. Not today, he told himself. Today, he would induge a bit to make up for the horrible last few nights. Order up some fast food, catch up on some shows and go to bed early. The TV came on, his head rested on the arm of the couch, and he was out. * A snow-covered field. He found himself standing at the edge of a frozen woodline, looking up at a lonely cabin set on a hill, the light shining from the window warming him even from so far away. This was it. This was it! He moved faster than his feet could touch the ground, fumbling and scrabbling in the snow that failed to sting his skin, making his way towards that warmth in a frantic rush for the front door. It was locked. Locked! He roared soundlessly as he pulled on the handle, then turned to look at that window. It was right there, just inside! Even just a look for now, just to see it, just to feel that warmth on his skin again! He places his face to that unyielding glass, eyes wide, looking into the blazing sun before him. He was sitting in a cubicle. Janice was talking about PTO. The green-haired secretary was smiling. People were laughing at the break room. He turns to himself, and it all disappears. The cubicle, the laughter, the cabin, the snow. “What makes you happy?” He had nothing to say as the lights went out. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK He bolted up from his seat, the credits rolling on the screen as that knock came again. His food was here, and judging by the heavy knocking had been here for a bit. After stumbling to the front door and a minute of apologies, he closed the door and returned to that empty apartment and seven years of searching. What makes you happy? He bit into his burger and couldn’t dream of an answer.
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May 10, 2021 03:41
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You know what? Count me in, spooky man.
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Oct 12, 2021 03:55
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Love as sweet as blood 1192 words ------------ I kill the engine at the edge of the woodline, the lights focused on the broken windows of that old schoolhouse. The only thing left standing after a forest fire decades ago, left to rot with the bones of those who couldn't escape. I pick up the bag resting on the passenger seat before stepping out into the cool autumn air, pine needles and fallen twigs crunching under my boots as the door slams shut, lights out. I slip on my mask in the full moonlight, removing the cleaver from my bag before hefting it onto my shoulder and heading inside, the night perfectly still aside from my own footsteps. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of mold and a deathly silence, quiet enough to hear my own breath in my mask as I make my way up the stairs, the webs in the corners swaying in the air currents. When I hold my breath I can hear the chittering from down the hallways. The scent of fresh blood begins to mingle with the mold, the sharp metallic scent like ambrosia on my tongue. She's close. I hear her stumbling in a classroom, chairs and tables clattering as she gives away her position. I rush to the door and throw it open wide, my frame filling the doorway as I look it at nothing but a pile of broken furniture. Her weight hits me at the shoulder blades and I roll with the impact, watching the woman in the white dress jump to the wall. Her double-jointed limbs clinging to an old chalkboard, claws digging into the cinderblocks, hissing at me with hinged jaws and bloodshot eyes before leaping at me again. This time I'm prepared, my shoulder slamming into her to drive her back before swinging with my cleaver and missing her again. We dance. Her lunges met with my swings, her swipes met with my steps. I never land a clean strike, her nails only make scratches across my arms. But I swing wide, and her lunge drives the wind from me as she slams me to the ground, her claws at my chest. I can feel the tips pressing against the skin, each heartbeat threatening to pierce my ribcage and pull my heart out clean. But she doesn't move. My cleaver at her neck keeps her at distance, and she knows that if she killed me I would not go alone. Her head lowers to mine and we embrace, putting out weapons aside on that dusty floor. --------------- I watch her spin in the moonlight from that broken roof, seeing her chirp and smile as she inspects her new dress, my bag tossed away into a corner and forgotten as I watch her sway and spin. She was as beautiful as the first night I had met her in that old spillway, seeing her handiwork webbed to the concrete walls, desiccated and half-devoured. I found her covered in the viscera of my prey, glistening with blood and dressed in rags. She attacked me then as well, nearly took my life before I could escape. But I couldn't stop thinking about her. I brought her a dress that I had taken from one of my victims, unable to bear the sight of such a wonderful being in simple rags. And from there, we came to an understanding. We would continue to try to kill one another, of course. We couldn't defy our natures after all. But if she won, I could die knowing that my body would be a proper vessel for her eggs. And if she fell to my blade, I would throw away every skull in my collection to make place for her, to see her visage forevermore. She finishes her reverie and comes to rest at my side, her arm around me as I hold her close, a hand teasing one of those soft raven locks as we sit in the moonlit silence. Then we hear the laughter. We grow still for a second, straining to listen as the voices approach. Four...two men, two women. Most likely campers coming to explore the haunted school, probably drunk and looking for a place to sate their animal needs. We look to one another and stand. She passes me my cleaver and my mask, and I place a kiss to her forehead before we separate and make our way downstairs. I use the far stairwell, taking care not to let my footsteps echo before I reach the first floor, the sound of sweet laughter and desperate kissing coming from a classroom. The door is open as I look in on them, the woman pressed up against the wall, eyes closed as she embraces her lover, leg riding up on his waist as he fumbles at her jeans. They're too busy to notice me, even when I raise the handle of my cleaver and strike the man at the temple, sending him reeling to the ground. The woman screams and it sounds like music to my ears, my hand clasping over her mouth and driving her against the wall before I bring my cleaver to her neck. Bones splinter under the blade. I feel her arteries and veins sever and pour out over that well-forged steel, the twitch of her windpipe felt in the handle as her eyes flutter and roll upwards before going glossy and slack. The lifeless meat falls to the ground at my feet, and I hold her head up by those red locks. She'll make a good addition to the collection once the maggots pick her clean. I hear the man starting to rise up once more and place a boot to his head, driving him back down before tying his hands to a bolted-down cabinet to keep him there for my love. I hear a scream from down the hall, taking my time to walk to where she had captured the other couple. The man was dead already, eyes bulging and his neck black with venom as he hung from the ceiling, the wound in his chest webbed up cleanly. She'd even left me a gift, the woman looking at me with hope, then despair as my love comes to me and leans in close. I give her hair a ruffle and point down the hall, and she chirps before disappearing into the darkness. It's good to give and receive, after all. The man will make another good incubator, though she may have to move them to her den below to ensure the eggs are safe from the search parties. And with two extra bodies, she'll have more than enough food for her children. Speaking of bodies. I turn my gaze to the brunette stuck to the wall, watching the tears roll down her cheeks. The look of broken realization. The knowledge that not even a miracle will save her now. It's nectar atop the feast that is this wonderful anniversary. As my cleaver bites through the brittle bones of her neck and the life leaves her eyes, I can't help but pity the poor girl. Because she'll never know what love truly is.
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Oct 18, 2021 00:58
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My first win. And now I get to make it everyone's problem. Thunderdome 481: Identity is just a favorite disguise 'Who we are' is a question that holds infinite promise and possibility while keeping us up at night with the dread of not knowing the answer. The question of identity is one that plagues all of us at one time or another, especially those of us who might have to hide an identity to protect ourselves, or adopt multiple identities to make it through the day. And during Halloween, we even put on disguises and costumes to create and obfuscate our identities even further. So for this week's prompt, I want you to give us a story about leading a double life. We'll even make it interesting: If you add in a Flash rule, you get an extra 500 words and an occupation that commonly requires a double life. If you're brave enough to  , we'll throw on an extra 500 words for a consequence of your duality or re-roll your flash rule.Standard rules apply: No fanfiction, erotica or web links. If you do poetry it must be as part of the story and not the story itself. Signups Close: 11:59 Pacific Standard Time, Friday Oct. 22 Submissions Close: 11:59 Pacific Standard Time, Sunday Oct. 24 Word Count: 1500 (without additions) Judges: J.A.B.C ? ? Masks: The Man Called M BabyRyoga - Flash: Vampire SittingHere sebmojo - Flash: Michelin Star Critic AzzaBamboo - Flash: Corporate Spy Thranguy Captain Indigo Carl Killer Miller - Flash: International Assassin Albarossy_Rodent - Flash: Insurance Claims Adjuster t a s t e - Flash: CIA Field Agent SolusLunes - Flash: Superhero Rohan - Flash: Filmcrew on a closed-set production Flesnolk - Flash: Nuclear Engineer My Shark Waifuu - Flash: Serial Killer ChickenOfTomorrow - Flash: Private Investigator Yoruichi J.A.B.C. fucked around with this message at 08:59 on Oct 23, 2021 |
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Oct 19, 2021 11:47
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BabyRyoga posted:Ok, sure, In, Give me a flash rule Vampire. sebmojo posted:In flash Michelin Star Critic.
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Oct 19, 2021 13:14
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Azza Bamboo posted:In and flash Corporate Spy
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Oct 19, 2021 15:16
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Carl Killer Miller posted:In w flash International Assassin Albatrossy_Rodent posted:In with a silly/ridiculous/hard flash please Insurance Claims Adjuster t a s t e posted:In, flash please CIA Field Agent SolusLunes posted:In and flash, what the hell. I need to un-rust my writing bones anyway. Superhero
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Oct 20, 2021 00:34
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rohan posted:In, flash Filmcrew for a Closed-Set production
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Oct 20, 2021 03:42
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Flesnolk posted:inflash Nuclear Engineer My Shark Waifuu posted:In, flash please! Serial Killer
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Oct 20, 2021 11:03
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ChickenOfTomorrow posted:Yolo! In, flash please. Private Investigator
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Oct 22, 2021 02:51
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Signups are closed. Best of luck!
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Oct 23, 2021 08:59
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A bit late but Subs are Closed!
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Oct 25, 2021 08:08
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Thunderdome: Week 481 Judging We had a solid week this week. The hardest part in our group was thinking about who would get the loss rather than the win, so congrats to everyone who made it. As for that loss, Albatrossy_Rodent holds the L with both hands for a story with some confusing character motivations. No DMs this week, so everyone else can breathe easy. For Honorable Mentions, Sitting Here gave us a compact but chuckle-worthy story about a stormy relationship, ChickenofTomorrow gave us a sweet if somewhat strange story about motherhood and marsupials, and Carl Killer Miller gave us a Nic Cage movie. Congrats to you all. The win for this week goes to Yoruichi for their poignant tale about skeletons falling apart and what it takes to build them up once again. I abdicate my throne and leave it to you.
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Oct 25, 2021 23:23
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In!
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Nov 9, 2021 23:55
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flerp posted:your piece must have a point of view A literary retrospective of the Lusty Argonian Maid Words: 1411 One can find a copy of the blasted thing anywhere: a dog-eared book held in a merchant's robes; sitting with pride on a mantle in a Jarl's chambers; bound in dragon-hide in the ruins of long-dead legends. There are even reports of copies found in Dwemer ruins, as if pulled through time to rot in an automaton's chassis for some sick joke. It would be endearing, if not for the contents within. For some reason lost on most literary scholars, this unassuming manuscript from the Third Age, drafted and published in a land now erased, has somehow endured when countless of its contemporaries have been forgotten by time and memory. The Lusty Argonian Maid. A tawdry tale written by Crassius Curio (which could be a pen name: the eruption of Red Mountain did no favors for the publishers of Morrowind or their records) that has, absent of any sense or class, endured. It now stands as one of the most published tales in all of Tamriel, beloved by man and elf and wild race alike. But how? Even a cursory glance can allow one to see that it is a juvenile effort at best, a 'my first erotic romp' written by a soul too much in love with themselves to draw any meaningful passion from the page. From the first act, set upon the 'beautiful flowing channels and cantons of Vivec, city of swords', to when our deuteragonist 'Crantius Colto' (Talos save me I nearly died from disgust at the allusion) is training with his 'spear', one can see the farcical nature of this tale before the page is turned. It is a work that, on it's face, deserves nothing but scorn. The trees that died for this work deserved better and would find a happier fate being dragged across a peasant's rear end. But then, how has it survived as long as it has? How does it continue on through the centuries, outlasting the Tribunal Gods, the Dragon Emperor, the return of Alduin? The world itself shakes and yet, this trashy romance remains. I suppose we should begin with the work itself, of which we know surprisingly little. We know that Curio was the name given to a baron of House Hlaalu (leading to the theory of a pen name, as non-Dunmer were seen as N'Wah, or outsiders) who lived in the city during the Corprus Plague and the Nerevarine incident of Year 427 of the Third Age. From what writings survived the destruction of the island, he was an eccentric but fair man, respected by those he worked with and seen as a pursuer of equality in the Houses. Such a role would have given him a much broader view of the world, the leisure time to write the tale, and the money and connections to get it printed. Of course, that doesn't explain how it left the island and made it's way to Tamriel proper, let alone the capitol province of Cyrodiil where it saw a surge in popularity in 3E 431, with the Imperial Capitol's printing presses producing the first editions of the novel until their destruction in the Oblivion Crisis of 3E 433. It wouldn't be until Year 5 of the Fourth Age that printers would pick it up again, after the eruption of Red Mountain and the subsequent destruction of Morrowind. Since Crassius Cuiro was thought dead from the eruption and he left no heirs or estate, the Lusty Argonian Maid was, in a sense, free money for those willing to print it. That, and being one of the surviving works of Morrowind it was seen both as a way to celebrate the unique culture of the island and serve as a link to the lost homeland of the Dunmer. Though many Dunmer associations will not openly express their affinity for the book, believing it to be the work of an Imperial. So, with the background out of the way, we have a foundation for how the book itself survived. But a backstory alone doesn't make success like this book has known. Its twelve acts are seen as entertainment enough to be repeated or, in the case of the 'Lusty Argonian Footman', almost completely ripped off. So, what draws people to it? Is it the simplistic humor? The outlandish setting? Or perhaps some degenerate hope of fantasy becoming reality for those of the reptilian persuasion? Whatever it may be, its success alone warrants a closer look. The first act serves as a way to introduce Crantius, his 'mistress' (though clearly meant to be a wife), and the Colto Estate, a place of honor and finery won in many battles and dealings. It's written elegantly enough, though how he "polishes his spear in the sun-sparkled waters of Vivec's Canals" makes the reader wonder how he wasn't arrested by the guards or the priests. But it segues into the second act and our true protagonist is shown: Lifts-Her-Tail, an Argonian of 'emerald and jade finery beset with rags, claws of ebony and eyes of amber left to wither in the shade', homeless and looking for any job she can. After a chance meeting with the Baron and some bawdy jokes about his 'coin-purse' bulging in his trousers, the bold Colto takes her in. The third act is a voyeuristic endeavor, describing the process of Lifts-Her-Tail being fitted for her maid's attire as Colto watches on, intently 'cleaning his broom-handle' as a Dunmer seamstress gushes over the Argonian's beauty. A standard 'soul gem in the rough' story, peppered here and there with all manners of euphemisms. Unless Colto is obsessed with cleanliness, that is. It's hard to tell given the source material. Acts four through seven are then obscene, bordering on near pornographic. Talk of spears and loaves, barely disguising the true intentions of the writer, interspersed with Colto's self-effluent boasting and political mastery and Lifts-Her-Tail's doubts about her place and run-ins with the 'mistress' of the house. There is a certain tension, here: Colto's story feeding into a web of intrigue that seeks to undermine his loyalty to the House, and Lifts-Her-Tail's continued efforts to hide her all-but-said tryst with the Baron. Though the moment is cut when Curio makes another crass joke about 'loafs'. It is in the final third of the play that the story grows a proper spine and dares to push it's boundaries, though perhaps a bit too much so. The plot to usurp Colto succeeds due to his mistress' vindictiveness, and the Baron and Maid are forced to flee to the streets. But it is there that Colto finds supporters in the Argonian and Khajit members of Vivec, inspired by Lifts-Her-Tail and her success, to aid him in a plot to expose his betrayers to the Tribunal Deity himself. It...somehow works. The amount of wine it would take to explain how it works properly would drown a Nord, so we will skip over that part. But, it works. The evil are cast down, the mistress is stripped of her titles and their marriage anulled, and Colto professes his affection for Lifts-Her-Tail. Oddly, they do not marry: The final act is on a sunny day, with Colto having found other maids and workers to make his palace more grand, ending on a scene of Lifts-Her-Tail offering to polish his spear after a long day of being a majestic tosspot who does nothing of note. And as the scene closes and the book is finally over, one could see a glimpse of what makes 'The Lusty Argonian Maid' a tale that people continue to enjoy. It's crass, predictable and pointless. One of the protagonists is nigh-infallible and the other is so overtly sexualized as to be nearly a parody. But the themes of the common folk allying with the noble Baron, the sight of the wicked being cast down, perhaps adds a bit of hope and inspiration between the terrible metaphors and 'jokes' relying on the bust size of a non-lactating species. Or perhaps we are all abandoned by the Nine and left with our degeneracy, as Lifts-Her-Tail was abandoned by her caravan and left with but her rags. However one decides to view it, the popularity of the story is hard to deny. Books, songs, stage plays, the growing market for water-resistant Imperial Maid outfits designed to accommodate tails, 'Colto's Concoctions', a drink made with all manner of foul ingredients. The mark this tale has left on Tamriel cannot be understated. We just wish it wasn't so large. Like his spear.
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Nov 15, 2021 13:51
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 17:00 |
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Get me IN on some sweet Orb Pondering, CrustaceanStone
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Dec 1, 2021 05:20
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