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Hundreds of authors. Thousands of critiques. Millions of words. THIS. IS. THUNDERDOME!   CLICK HERE FOR CURRENT PROMPT What’s going on here??? Thunderdome is Something Awful’s first, only, and best flash fiction writing contest. Every week there will be a prompt posted, goons will write stories, and one will emerge victorious to post a writing prompt anew. What makes this different from any other online writing group? The focus of Thunderdome has always been honest critique and self-improvement. This isn’t where you go to get compliments just because you shat a story out, or to post memes about #writing while never actually producing any words; this is where you go to become a better writer. We will help you face your writerly weaknesses, and with luck overcome them. What happens if I win? You decide the next prompt. You judge the entries. You give critiques. You continue the cycle of blood. Click here for help! What happens if I lose? Not all judges will choose to give out a loss (whether or not to give negative mentions is up to the head judge, and they'll usually state whether they are going to assign a loss in the prompt post). NEW in 2025: Losers now earn the right to request the losertar. Avatars will not be assigned automatically to losers. However, by being the worst of the best, you have unlocked the privilege of carrying the losertar. Go forth to your glorious doom! Message me (Sitting Here) on the forums or elsewhere if you have lost a round and would like a FREE new avatar.  (gif courtesy of AHYCAH on giphy) Neat! How do I join? Click the link above. Say “In.” Then post a story before the deadline (this is the crucial bit). Should I know anything important before I join? Yes! First and foremost, read the prompt post. Then read it again. Then read it a third time. Seriously, read it. The prompt post is going to give you a lot of critical information, such as:
I keep seeing people with cool TD gangtags, how do I get one of those? Yes, it is cool, isn’t it? Here’s what that looks like if you’re curious:  There are three ways to earn a TD gangtag, with varying degrees of difficulty:
BUT BE WARNED! If you sign up for a week and fail, your count towards gaining a gangtag will be reset, and if you already have a gangtag and fail to submit, it gets taken away. You have to start over from zero. Them’s the breaks!
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Jan 1, 2025 17:53
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Resources Discord PM Curlingiron or post in the thread for a link. This is the general Discord server for TD and other CC writers. You don’t have to sign up for TD join the Discord, but you do have to be a goon, so please post your forums name when you join. Fiction Writing Advice and Discussion If you want to talk writing in general, this is SA's home for it. The Thunderlounge: A Thunderdome Sidebar Don’t feel like doing Discord but still want to talk TD? Check out the Thunderlounge! You can ask for feedback on your stories and chat about the thread to your heart’s content without getting yelled at! This is a kayfabe-free zone, so leave your beefs at the door. Previous threads: Thunderdome 2012: FYI, I do take big dumps, holla. Thunderdome 2013: If this were any other thread we'd all be banned by now Thunderdome 2014teen: Stories from the Abonend Bunker Thunderdome 2015teen: Weekly Stories with Positive People Thunderdome 2016teen: Fast Writing, Bad Writing Thunderdome 2017teen: Prose and Cons Thunderdome 2018teen: Abonen Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here Thunderdome 2019teen: Writing Our Wrongs Thunderdome 2020ty: This Dumb Joke Will Continue Until the Words Improve. Thunderdome 2021ne: Out of the Dumpster and Into the Fire Thunderdome 2022wo: The Stakes Have Never Been Lower Thunderdome 2023ee: Flash, Fiction, and other Choice Words Starting with F Thunderdome 2024our: Writing Past the Apocalypse On Judging The number of judges should be three. Since a normal week will only have one winner, that means other people have to step up. On any week where you don't have it in you to write a story, consider signing up as a cojudge. You sign up to judge by announcing your intention to do so in the thread, or by volunteering in Discord. Qualifications This is up to the head judge, but typically this means someone who has done a few rounds of the ‘dome and doesn't have a backlog of missing crits. You don't need to have won, HMed, or even no-mentioned to judge. You can learn a lot from judging, especially as a newer member of the 'dome. Expectations Read all the stories. Communicate your opinions with the head judge. Usually this happens in Discord but other methods happen, especially if there's a big timezone difference. Post crits to the thread. Crits The soul of thunderdome. Crits can be anything from two or three quick notes to a detailed line-by-line analysis. What's most important is that they get posted and that they be honest; no sugar coating here. If you do like the words you read, of course say so, but don't feel obligated to wrap up your opinions in half-hearted compliments. The point of crits is to help people get better, not stroke their egos. If you still feel like you have no idea where to start, you can also check out this handy crit sheet template, courtesy of beloved TD veteran Obliterati. Glossary by Sitting Here
HM - Honorable mention; a story that was in consideration for the win, or had some notable positive quality. DM - Dishonorable mention; a story that was in consideration for the loss, or had some notable negative quality. DQ - Disqualification; a disqualified story. Stories that were submitted before judgment, but after submissions close. Also includes stories that went over word count and stories that were edited after posting, as well as cases where the judge feels a prompt was ignored in a particularly egregious manner, or when, due to some shenanigans or other, the author was also a judge. Disqualified stories can’t win, but they can lose, which is better than failure. See also: Redemption. Flashrule - A sub-prompt given by the judges as part of the main weekly prompt, often serving as an additional challenge or piece of inspiration. Hellrule - A particularly unfair flashrule, requested at one’s own risk. Not every judge will issue hellrules. Redemption - A disqualified story submitted after judgment has been posted. Better than failure.  - Adding to your signup post indicates that you will forfeit your forums account if you fail to submit. Banned accounts may be unbanned at the owner’s expense.FJGJ - Fast Judging, Good Judging. A thing impatient morons begin shouting the moment submissions close. Brawl - A duel between two or more writers. Brawls are separate from the weekly prompt. See On Brawling by Sebmojo for a detailed explanation. The Archive - A repository of all Thunderdome stories, created by crabrock and Kaishai and now maintained by a small crew of excellent volunteers Losertar - Another name for the free avatar given to losers of the weekly contest Kayfabe - It is the showmanship that makes Thunderdome different from other, similar contests. Kayfabe gives participants the opportunity to show a little swagger, or act out grudges and rivalries within the arena of words. Kayfabe is optional, and it’s meant to be fun, not abusive. Come find out what you’re made of, you unblooded weenies. Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 17:57 on Jan 1, 2025 |
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Jan 1, 2025 17:53
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Thunderdome Archive by crabrock We've done a lot of weeks of Thunderdome, which can be a little overwhelming to keep track of. Enter the archive, which makes a robot keep track of everything so you don't have to. His name is TdBot, he is a creep, and we hate him. The archive is a repository of the thread's weekly entries, brawls, and even interprompts. In addition we track judges and has done their obligatory and extra story crits. There are statistics for all sorts of interesting things like author wordcounts, entries and more! If you're thinking "I wonder how many..." then it's probably already there somewhere. Even I forget how to find things. The Archive is by INVITE ONLY, and the only way to earn an invitation is by spilling blood in the dome. Do not ask for an account if you have not participated in at least one week. Please DO nudge us in the thread or in Discord if your archive account request hasn't been responded to after 3-5 days! Overall Records:   Your Profile Each Thunderdome contestant gets their own author summary page (e.g. here's mine). On your own profile you can change the privacy of your stories (set them to hidden) and mark your favorites. You can also use the archive exporter to build a fancy PDF to send to your mom.  TdBot TdBot not only looks after the archive, but he can pull information from it at will, which he uses to serve as the oracle of Thunderdome in his discord channel. Pop in and have a conversation with him, where he'll use your own bad words to make you regret speaking to him! Team Archive None of this would be possible without the help of Team Archivean ever rotating cast of trusted volunteers who have given their time to trawling the thread and checking for accuracy. Thanks, Team Archive! Patreon In addition, several people give REAL LIFE DOLLARS to keep the archive up and running and enable us to do things like the weekly recap podcast, so a huge shoutout and thanks to these fine domers! All the levels have the same rewards because of space socialism. Any donation gives you this cool wizard hat on the archives:  Errors & Feature Request PM crabrock on discord or SA and we'll get it fixed or see if it's possible to do. No we will not archive crits. Do it yourself. Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 17:55 on Jan 1, 2025 |
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Jan 1, 2025 17:53
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On Brawling, by Sebmojo: brawling what so someone said something mean and your bottom lip is doing that quivery thing and you feel like you can't go a single second more without punching a motherfucker? thunderdome has just the thing. you can't fight here it's the Thunderdome when two people hate each other very much, and one of them is you, you get to slap down a challenge. make it big, make it brassy; you're slapping your sex bits down on the bar, try and make 'em bounce a little. help someone's slapped me with something help accepting brawl challenges isn't required, but if you like to sling the poo poo around (and you should) then failing to back up your bad words with good ones will be remembered. brawl stories are good, being able to beat someone you're mad at is better. how does it work? once you've thrown down a challenge, and had it accepted, a brawl judge will step up just like that weird bartender in The Shining. they'll give you a prompt, a word count and a deadline. they'll also, and this is real important, state the this means if you fail to submit by the deadline then you get banned. the judge doesn't need to give you an extension.what do you mean banned brawl toxxes are obligatory. if you're actually a literal secret agent and you've just discovered you're parachuting into Syria in two hours time then get on Discord, snivel at your judge and maybe they'll remove the from the prompt, but expect that to be a one-time mercy if you gently caress it up.anything else? don't challenge anyone until you've done a few rounds, good grudges take time to fester, don't step up to judge a brawl unless you've at least got an HM or the participants have asked you to, and declining a random drive-by brawl is more acceptable than one with a grudge behind it. this place runs on words, and hatred, and you gotta fuel the fire. brawl judges, don't grab brawls if you don't have a prompt ready and don't be dicks; what matters is whose story is best, don't gently caress around. is that it yes, fight well you horrible monsters Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 17:55 on Jan 1, 2025 |
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Jan 1, 2025 17:53
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Thunderdome DCXLVIII (#648): Are all countdowns final? We were discussing in Discord if this would be the last Thunderdome of the year, or the first of 2025. We went with the former option, and I was a bit relieved because I don't know the first thing about starting threads and what kind of information goes there and so on. This leads to a very cookie cutter prompt, but nonetheless, I want to read a story where the protagonist(s) have to complete a task, don't feel ready, and are working against the clock. 1500 word limit Flash Rule 1: SA is also celebrating its long, funny and sometimes very dumb story. One of the sagas I enjoyed the most is the Zybourne Clock. Any reference to that will win you 100 words. That is 100 words for each, with a maximum of 5. Flash Rule 2: In fact, gently caress it. Make it a Zybourne Clock story and you have no word limit at all. You can disregard the prompt entirely too. The winner might or might not have to start the 2025 thread. I am not sure. EDIT: evidently not, since Sitting Here just did. Judges Cippalippus Quiet Feet ... Entrants Fridge Corn Abyss Chernobyl Princess Thranguy beep-beep car is go Sign-ups/Submissions close on Sunday 5 January 2025 (US format: 01/05/2025) at 11:59pm CST
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Jan 1, 2025 18:04
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Posting IN the new thread
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Jan 1, 2025 20:40
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Updating my "In" for this thread.
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Jan 1, 2025 21:54
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I am in this thread
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Jan 1, 2025 23:56
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Also restating 'in'.
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Jan 2, 2025 22:50
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Cippalippus posted:Thunderdome DCXLVIII (#648): Are all countdowns final? Title: Express Mail Words: 2235 Electron Lord Vincent McCool stood outside the door of the Gyrometry impatiently tapping his foot. The clock on the street hissed and ticked to itself, marking the inexorable march of time from then to now, keeping a complimentary rhythm with his pocket watch. The day was sunny, and the rain that was forecast had held off, but that meant that the heat and humidity of the day was already oppressive. He was not above rapping against the spun glass window to get the clerk’s attention, but he was not that impatient, yet. His missive weighed heavy in his vest pocket. He would not be late this time. Finally, at four minutes past ten, the ancient clerk arose from his torpor, shuffled with small, careful steps to the door, and slid the bolt free. Slowly, ever so slowly, he flipped the card from closed to open and Vincent had to restrain himself from bursting through the door and knocking the poor old clerk onto the tiles. When the clerk had retreated to a minimum safe distance, Vincent opened the door sharply, and the tiny calliope above the door tootled a buoyant tune, announcing to an empty store that a customer had entered. As Vincent stepped through the store and approached the front counter, the susurration of the thousands of mechanical movements ticking and tocking around them gave the room a background din, almost like the surf at the beach. He waited at the counter while the clerk made his way through the store, around the backside of the counter, up the three steps - Vincent could hear the clerk’s hobnailed boots clack on each step - and then took his seat above Vincent. “May I help you, my lord?” he asked, his voice wavering and gritty. “Is my item ready?” Vincent said, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can wait no longer.” He could feel the pocket watch in his other vest pocket tick, the motion of the spring reminding him of the seconds slipping away, each reducing the time he has to finish the task. A bittersweet task, but one that needed to be completed nonetheless. “I will check, my lord.” The clerk stood from his chair, his knees creaking audibly. He began to shuffle down the steps when Vincent grimaced and rushed behind the counter. “My lord, customers are not supposed-” he began. “I know, I know, but I am in a rush, and I must have it. Just tell me where it is and I will collect it and be on my way. I will pay an additional ten steam drachmas.” Vincent did not stop to see if the clerk would take the offer, and instead began to open cupboards and rummage. “My lord!” The clerk redoubled his efforts and shuffled slightly quicker, wincing at the expenditure of effort. “That is not where customer works are stored. They’re in the cabinet under the workbench.” Under the workbench was a series of baskets, and in each one was some piece of clockwork in various states of disassembly. Vincent peered into the dark, and upon finding what he was looking for, slid the basket out and took the item and its winding key. He tisked when he noticed the key. “I thought I had paid for a keyless works to be added?” “My lord, your requirement to keep it small enough to be palmed meant that a keyless works could not be added.” The clerk said as Vincent wound his pistol. Only when the key started ratcheting did he stop. He pocketed them both. “Very well. I am in a rush, and I will take what I can get.” He took out a velvet change purse, counted out thirty steam drachmas and handed the coins over. “Thank you my lord,” was all the clerk managed to get out before Vincent exited the shop. He stepped down from the steps onto the cobbled sidewalk when someone bumped into him. “That’ll be far enough, McCool.” Vincent felt the brass barrel of a clockwork pistol in the small of his back. “Keep your face neutral, just keep walking. We’re just two blokes headed down the street together, nothing to worry anyone about.” The soft voice was oily smooth and seemed to be well practiced in this matter. They walked down the morning streets a few feet, when Vincent said, without turning his head, “If you know who I am, then you know what I am doing right now, and why you should not delay me.” “I know plenty about you, Electron Lord,” the assailant said in a mocking tone “Which is why you’re coming with me to see the Baroness.” Vincent mentally rolled his eyes. It would be the Baroness - the queen of the undercity - who wanted to see him. As they walked, he quickly tried to remember if he owed her any money. He didn’t think so, he gave her the last payment a fortnight ago. It wasn’t about another dinner invite was it? The last one ended in a brawl that required fully a dozen officers to break up. It was time to lose this… distraction and continue his task. He pretended to slip on a puddle in front of a boulangerie. As Vincent went down, he pivoted, and before the assailant could fire, he shot his own palm pistol at him. The electro-round inside struck his shoulder and caused convulsions as the electricity crackled over him. Vincent got to his feet, straightened his long trenchcoat and flipped a steam drachma to the surprised server at the boulangerie. “I apologize for my friend,” Vincent said. “But he was just shocked at the news I told him.” Before anyone could say anything else, Vincent dashed across the street to a waiting omnibus. He stepped aboard, flashed the Lordship pass sewn on the inner lapel of his trenchcoat to the driver, and sat down. With a rattle and a nearly overpowering smell of ozone, the omnibus took off down the street. It weaved around stalled vehicles, vendors selling parts and fluids and even a mechano-horse or two, the trolley poles cracking and arcing in complaint. Vincent took the time to brood. He was not looking forward to delivering his missive, but it needed to be done. The last time he brought it there was so much yelling, shouting, threats. Vincent gritted his teeth at the memory. Still, it needed to be done. As they approached an intersection, the omni slowed down and Vincent took the opportunity to jump off just missing a rather deep looking puddle. “Freshen up your brogues, your lordship?” said a young voice on the sidewalk. Vincent looked at the shoeshine boy standing next to his electromechanical shine machine. It was brass and leather, and even from here, Vincent could smell it. He looked down and sure enough, his black brogues were scuffed, and had a few splashes of mud on them. The missive in his pocket reminded him that while he could not be late, he could also not show up disheveled. “Yes young master, I would like my shoes shined.” Vincent tossed him a steam drachma and the boy flipped switches and needed two hands to throw the johnson bar into gear. One at a time Vincent stepped one foot into the waiting maw of the shoe shine machine and he the vibrations of power barely restrained jostled his feet as the woolen brushes and leather strops made his shoes shine. When the first was finished, he placed the other in, and after not too much time, his shoes shone. “Very nice.” Vincent said when it was finished. “You tell all your posh friends to come see Jimmy when they need their shoes to look mirror deep.” The boy said as he applied the brake, and the machine slowed. Just then, his pocket watch chimed. The delicate ding ding ding of the complication startled him. He was going to be late! Vincent took off down the street switching between a quick run and a job. Electron Lords do not run. The electro-palace was almost painfully bright. Every edge was lined with lights, and they all shone, even during the day. Windows opened and closed automatically to help cycle the air inside, and in the rear, the dull whine of the dynamos that kept the palace lit were an ever present thrum, even out here. Vincent took his time, walking up the gravel path to the palace carefully, catching his breath and making sure his clothing was not out of place. As he passed the statue of Johnny - his friends had said it was a colorful imagination of the great gambler and didn’t look anything like the real Legend - he stopped and rubbed his palm on the bulge between his dungarees. There was no tarnish there, thousands of palms had rubbed the same place for decades, all giving thanks to the man who gambled with the lives of everyone… and won. “Johnny, I hope you’ve got some of that luck for me, I really could use it.” Vincent said to the statue, quietly. Vincent entered the palace and walked purposefully past the guards. Checking in was for the public. Here, he was an Electron Lord and needn’t bother himself with such niceties. As he passed the threshold to the Throne, he felt the hair on the back of his head stand as he was statically scanned. At the same time all of the clocks struck eleven. Vincent released tension in his shoulders he didn’t realize he was holding. He had made it after all. He entered the receiving line, and none other than the Baroness herself was next to him. Even without seeing her face, he would recognize those shoulders, that hair, that haughty stance anywhere. As he took his place in line she glanced over at him and he saw her eyes flick back in a double take, but she otherwise didn’t react. “Surprised to see me?” he said quietly, and couldn’t help grinning. “I do not know what you mean, Lord McCool.” She said, and tilted her head upwards slightly, but her eyes laughed. “Please, Lord McCool was my father. We know each other well enough for you to call me Vincent.” At that she smirked. “It seems that I will never truly be free of your presence, Vincent. In recompense, you shall take me to dinner tonight at the Velvet Room, and I expect you to cover the entire bill, so do remember your purse this time.” Before they could flirt further, the Crown Regent approached them, his face disapproving. “You will silence your sidebar conversations. The Princess approaches, and you will treat her with respect.” They both nodded, and said nothing more. The Princess made her way down the receiving line, taking greetings and the occasional gift, which was acknowledged and then handed off to a valet behind her. As she approached the Baroness, an attendant said “Baroness Julia Lightower.” and Julia bowed low and said “Your Highness, happy birthday! I sincerely hope that your day is as beautiful as you are, and that soon enough your light will shine upon us all.” and handed her a small package. She deftly undid the sateen ribbon and opened the small wooden box. As she did a tiny carved jade tiger pranced around the lid as a jaunty song played. She watched it rotate one time, closed the box and handed it to a valet. “Thank you for the gift, Baroness.” and curtsied. She then stood in front of Vincent. “Electron Lord Vincent McCool.” An attendant said behind her. “I know uncle Vince when I see him, I don’t need you to tell me!” She said, smiling, and ran up and hugged his legs. “I was sure you weren’t going to make it!” “He scooped her up and amid the gasps of the assembled court hugged her back. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything lightbulb. Here, I even got you something.” He reached into his vest pocket and handed her the missive. She took it in her tiny hands, and upon flipping it over and seeing the seal gasped. “It’s from mommy?” She said looking up at him excitedly. “It is, lightbulb. Go on, read it.” He smiled as he held her. She was seven years old, and her mother, the Queen was trapped in the Lands Between due to… trouble. There were those among the court that hoped that she was trapped permanently and they could begin to work against the Princess and Crown Regent. The fact that she was able to get a letter through to her brother was news indeed. There would be… trouble after this, but Vincent needed to give his niece good news. She popped the seal and unfolded the letter. “Dear Virginia,” She read slowly and carefully, but did not need help with either the words nor her mother’s fine penmanship. “I hope you are well. I am sorry that I missed your birthday, but uncle Vincent said he would come over and wish you a happy birthday from me. I hope that I can be home soon and hug you myself. Until then, take the hug from Vincent as being from me and him. All my love, mommy.” “She remembered!” Princess Virginia wrapped her arms around her uncle as best as she could. “Thank you uncle Vince, this was the best present.”
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Jan 3, 2025 20:16
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Ball Drop 1700 words flash rule: two zybourne clock references It’s 23:30 and the clock resets at midnight. There’s a story they taught in the creche about four balls at the edge of a cliff. One falls off, it’s replaced by the one behind it, and another ball appears at the end of the line. Time worked the same way. Worked. Then the oligarchs decided 3044 was the perfect year. Profits up, unrest down: the world exactly as it should be. So they decided to find that fuckin’ ball and make sure it wasn’t replaced by the next one. Sounds like Technomantic garbage, but there’s a seed of truth. That’s why I’m a half mile below the surface of the ocean and two miles away from the oligarch’s playground where they’re celebrating the Great Reset. That’s why I’m in a submarine with three people I only know by feed IDs instead of where I should be: preparing my brother’s hospital bed, so that when he resets I can watch him die all over again. Jane_5Aces is the archivist who found the location of the ball. She’s the most nervous of us to be in the submarine, clutching her tome with white knuckles. It’s real, the book I mean. Handwritten with chemicals on wood pulp. Maxxxximus sits next to her, armed and armored, head bobbing softly while he listens to music in the feed. Driver is lying down on the floor, so deep in the submarine they look dead. None of us speak. If we don’t talk then we can’t freak each other out by how familiar this feels. We can’t ask the question of how many 3044s we’ve failed to prevent. coming up on the city. Driver’s voice in the feed is clearer and stronger than it is in their mouth. turning on exterior cameras. you wanna see this. The external cameras broadcast into the feed. Jane and Maxxxximus close their eyes to view it, not having the neural splices Driver and I’ve got. It looks like we’re flying over a long dead city. Long dead and long drowned. Spires reach up like fingers, like they’re going to grab the sub and crush it the way I’d crush a fly. I feel feed-ghosts flickering around me, the awe and dread of my companions bleeding into the local network. One of the ancient towers looks like it’s wearing an ugly hat. Sweeping, noble lines become blocky and utilitarian at the very top. It must have been beautiful when it was first constructed. As we get closer it becomes obvious that it’s a modern construction grafted to the ancient one. I zoom in on the sub’s camera view. There’s the submarine dock. The airlock. “It’s real,” I whisper. Jane_5Aces opens her eyes to look at me. “You didn’t believe me?” “I wanted to believe you.” The structure is real, which means the Ball might be real. Hope feels like a lie. “It’s 23:48. We have eleven minutes. The Ball starts to drop at 23:59 and things reset at 00:01. I can get you in by then.” Jane nods, her knuckles white against her book’s dark cover. “Driver, get us as close as you can.” I lie down on the floor next to Driver and drop into the feed. Being in the feed isn’t visually exciting, even though all of us who’ve got neural splices tend to jazz it up for the folks who don’t. Even now I want to describe the defenses in colors: forbidding, cold steel. Ominous black. Hateful, sharp crimson. But it’s all code. Just strings of machine language. It’s a language I’m fluent in. My keybreaker’s running in the background on the off chance that it’ll work, but even with the time dilation we experience in the feed, the probability of a match is low. I find the comms network, which has filters on filters designed to keep folks like me out. I waste seconds dithering, wondering if I should ping it anyway and risk the ICE this early, but then I find the completely illicit server attached to the network by the poor shmucks who have to work security in a box under the ocean. It’s like building a bank vault and then just leaving the door open, swear to god. It’s all video games and porn, and one particular dummy apparently uses the same password on his porn sites as he does on his work email. “I’m in,” I make my body say. “Safe to dock in three minutes.” Well, poo poo, I hope I’m right about that. I’m trying to do a lot at the same time, downloading maps, opening doors, searching for the life support controls. Driver’s in here with me, they’re too specialized to do much help, but they’re lending me some of their processing space while I… …there. With thirty seconds to spare I find the controls for the air scrubbers. It’s not hard to tweak the mixture. I turn the oxygen way down, crank the nitrogen up. I don’t turn it off. I’m not a murderer. While I’m doing that Maxxxximus cracks his knuckles. “My turn.” He straps on his oxygen mask, seals his helmet, and pulls out his big fuckoff machine gun. He’s a murderer. He stands in front of the sub’s lock in his fancy power armor, all easy confidence. I wish I were that confident. The safety systems for the air controls are fighting me, I don’t know if I’ll have it done before they dock. The sub connects to the airlock with a massive clunk and a shudder that moves through the entire structure. It takes me a critical two seconds to find the cameras to see if my trick worked. I’m already in the personnel feed, I know there’s ten people here: two of them are on rest rotation, four are alert and ready for action, the other four are either preparing for rest or preparing to go on duty. The cameras show me that nine of them are awake, gently caress, and all of them are armed. Double gently caress. I stream that information over to Maxxxximus, who sends a brief acknowledgement. Five head his way, two take up positions around a door that must be what we’re looking for, and the other two head toward their comms tower to send a message. Good luck with that, guys. I intercept all their messages, but let them think they made it out. People who expect reinforcements might not fight quite so hard. Gunshots. They’re loud enough and close enough to my body that it yanks me out of the feed. I hear Maxxxximus laughing, his insane machine gun whirring. Jane_5Aces is curled up on the floor next to me and Driver, hands over her ears. The effects of my life support shenanigans start to show. Maxxxximus is mowing through these guys. I see one door guard slump on the cameras. The two in the control room become sluggish, bumping into each other. One of them still manages to send a distress beacon, like a torpedo with a feed signal on it. gently caress, Driver says on the feed. they got a databurst out to a relay station. can you..? Not this far away, I can’t. We’re in it now, no point worrying. But I’m worried anyway. The corridors go silent. Maxxxximus stomps back into the sub. “Jane, you’re up.” She stands, shakily. She grips the back of his power armor. I watch them through their cameras as they make their way through the facility. I hear her breathing through her mask and the soft whirring of Maxxxximus’ armor joints, everything else is silent. where will you be if this doesn’t work? Driver asks suddenly. I don’t want to open my eyes to look at them because I’m fighting a medical subroutine that wants to send a report about the supervisor that Maxxxximus just shot. A charity hospital in northwest Texas. You? back in the training facility, probably. it’s okay. i don’t spend long there. i’ve been planning my escape since 2043. They pause. why the hospital? something wrong with your splices? I don’t want to talk about this. My brother will have three months to live. Eight months if I go broke moving him to a private hospital. If I sell all my splices I can get him through the year, but then we’ll just reset. Driver processes this silently. “That sucks.” They say it with their living mouth, not on the feed. That means something to them, that they say it like that. I want to take it in the spirit in which it’s given, but I’m just so loving tired of it all and anyway we only have two minutes before the ball starts to fall. Jane_5Aces and Maxxxximus make it to the inner sanctum. The two door guards are on the floor. Maxxxximus shoots a sleep dart into each of them, just in case, and regards the only door still shut in the entire facility. I’m looking at it. There’s serious ICE here, black ICE, semi-autonomous code that’ll eat through my splices and fry my organic brain if I let it know I’m here. I steel myself and prepare for cyber-battle, but then Maxxxximus slaps a shaped charge on the door and just fuckin’ blows the thing. Okay. There are no cameras here. I tap Maxxxximus’s feed, a little impatiently, and he gives me access to his armor cam. I spend a whole fifteen seconds just staring at the horrible thing in front of me before I shake myself and loop Driver in, so we can all stare at the Ball. Like the tower it once stood atop, it was once huge and beautiful. It’s still huge, but the chrome mirrors are distorted. The LEDs are wrong, somehow. It looks cancerous. It’s no longer spherical, a lopsided, squamous shape. It looks like something that should have died a long time ago. Maxxxximus wraps det-cord around the pole holding it aloft. Jane_5Aces finds some hardware near the base and chants something Technomantic before plugging in a hard drive. The lights go dark. The Ball lights up and begins its descent. I grab Driver’s hand and pray for the world to stay the same.
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Jan 5, 2025 21:51
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Did I But Dream 1288 words Did I but dream this figment of mine, this part of me, this being in which inside is encapsulated a sort of perfection, an ideal of which one might only dream to possess, this dream of mine, but I did dream it (surely, I must have) and like a dream it fades the instant one awakens from it, it scatters and dissipates and dissolves before the very eyes and though it remains a faded memory, haunting and lurking, any attempt to confront it is thwarted by the inscrutable barriers of one’s own mind, cowed and chastened with no further recourse but to turn back, (do we but turn, or back away) back into the harsh glaring light of reality where I am not that thing which I think I am, I am not talented, I am not special, I am a blind unsentient barrow of deluded clay, I am an inert mass of ossified flesh—this is the harsh glaring light of reality, the harsh glaring bright white light of the nothingness of this empty page (I sit in front of it unblinking while the cursor blinks back at me keeping time, the inexorable march of time, each instant it wicks away it takes with it that moment from me and deposits it into the ether, some repository forever out of reach and then it returns mechanical and insensible to take the next moment, and the next, and the next) and as much as I writhe and struggle to flex these muscles which I do not possess, I cannot banish this nothingness from the page; my fingers sit delicately on top of the machine which gently hums and vibrates, serene and pliable it waits patiently, patiently waiting for my commands but I am unable to command these fingers of mine because I have no commands to give them, and this is the predicament I find myself in presently, where no amount of garrulous ratiocination can emancipate me from this doubt, this pity, this shame of being helplessly unable to carry out this most simple of tasks: to turn my thoughts into words and in turn put those words on the page, the page which yet remains clean and clear and pure dressed in white virginal raiment aside from the demonic cursor silently mocking me as it takes yet another moment from me, and another and another and another and now it is Saturday and I am quickly running out of time for this submission is due by the end of the day tomorrow and still despite my agonising yearning reaching desperate pathetic cajoling I cannot persuade this slumbrous lump I call my brain to issue forth any shred of idea or even the mere artifice of one no matter how insistent the gnawing sensation of there being one, if only just one, good thought with which I could use to form the basis of this story I am attempting to write, but even as I try to violently shake and upend this barren container I hear nothing rattling inside—it is clogged and perhaps requires a different manner of tool to dislodge its contents, but alas I am weary (I get up from my seat and traverse the comfortable trappings of this dwelling which is my home into the kitchen where, with the only sense of satisfaction felt in perhaps several days, I switch on the coffee machine, absorbing its vigorous hums and machinations as the pump primes and the coils warm into my body, its promise much more inevitable and enticing than my halted workings with the other infernal machine, and as I set to the task of grinding the beans, tamping the puck and twisting the portafilter securely into its slot, this succession of actions rote and ritualistic and performing them clears my mind briefly, even of the nothingness, and as I press the button to pull the shot, a double, always a double, and the heady tones of sweet scorched earthiness enter into my olfactories I am released of my duties, my obligations, my hitherto wherefores and therefores, but as I start to steam the milk I am reminded once again of the white nothingness that plagues and pesters me wherever I seemingly go) with the sort of weariness that only comes after a great exertion or expenditure of energy in some necessary and worthwhile pursuit but I have nothing to show for my efforts except for the currently upturned and unsettled fragile state of mind, I, having assaulted it with mad vituperative ragings, am solely to blame for, which could only been brought about (my self-esteem typically quite robust) by this wholly unexpected impotent anxiety of sitting here dumbly suppurative and festering before this screen—the cursor goading me once again, incessant, but now it has acquired a voice, a stilted, pointed HA, HA, HA, each time it flashes at me, so surely I must have crossed some manner of threshold just now having discovered that I am having auditory hallucinations, or at the very least so strongly imagining them that they may, perhaps, serve some sort of purpose namely to distract me or otherwise remove from my focus the unbearable pain of this incarceration, this locking away of my most treasured possession: an adroit and erudite mind (I take a sip of the coffee which has already gone cold) which erstwhile has been, its idiosyncrasies and brief moments of weakness notwithstanding, an earnest and dependable companion of mine for the entirety of these nearly 40 years I have found myself to be cognisant upon this earth, but now it appears these assumptions of my own intelligence are instead frustratingly specious and eminently fallible to such a degree that I can see no other option but to surrender my faculties and capitulate to this new truth and accept myself as the stultified ignorant and ignoble fool that others most certainly have known me to be for such a very long time—HA, HA, HA—and sleep of course is restless and anguished, for now it is the morning of the final day and still nothing blemishes, not even a spot or a jot, this page to draw one’s eye—HA, HA, HA—away from this out-sized, over-stuffed—HA, HA, HA—self-important tiny demon, away with you—you cannot write anything because you know that anything you write will be no good, it will be a laughable mockery, an illegitimate bastard, you will pour your soul out onto these pages for all to see and they will see that there is nothing in you, an empty void of recycled regurgitated ideas stolen shamelessly and unrepentantly from genuine minds of great intellect and worthy experience, things which you cannot and will not ever obtain, your existence forever condemned to drollery and drudgery, a banal existence which serves as no interest or example for anyone, yet you have somehow convinced yourself that this is not the case, surreptitiously and insidiously you have invented this false self for you to believe in, when nothing else of your being is of any consequence HA, HA, HA, because you need to believe that these things matter, HA, HA, HA, when nothing matters, HA, HA, HA, you do not matter, HA, HA, HA, and all because you chose to step lightly into the Thunderdome, HA, HA, HA—away with you, you tiny pestilent incorrigible pustule of a blinking demon, I will banish you, I will evict you, I will chase you forever to the end of this page and I will do it with my words, flowing uproariously, furiously indulgent and effluvial like a river bursting its banks I will wash you away and I will write: did I but dream….
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Jan 5, 2025 22:27
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Tick Tick Bake! (1577 Words) Flash Rule: At least three references to the Zybourne Clock & its lore. Lucius Rose was in trouble. His hands were moving but his eyes were focused on the other people around the tent. He really didn't know what he was doing. He had to keep going. It was so, so difficult. They really didn't lie when they said, "You'll never know what you're capable until you're in the tent as the last three." It was hour number three into his Showstopper dish on Season 30 of the Great British Baking Show. Sugar work, chocolate work, and an ice cream dish were the parameters. Of course, it was 30 Celsius in the tent and rising as the ovens started to preheat. We couldn't just make a replica of Big Ben of chocolate, it had to accompany a sort of pastry or five tiered tart. Lucius had practiced his bake several times over the course of the past week. He thought he had it mastered. His ingredients and step-by-step process had been printed out in triplicate. That was where the twist for this season had come in. They had taken their bloody lists away, and allowed an AI to create a shortened list for each of them. Paul Hollywood-bot and Merry Berry-bot didn't know two figs about actually baking, but he now had instructions written by them that had steps and quantities that didn't make sense. They all had protested without any result. This was the challenge - decipher their recipes out of this AI nonsense to gain GBB fame. That fame was what Lucius was chasing. The cookbook deal, the TV hosting opportunity, the Instagram followers, and the name recognition were all appeasing. But what he wanted more than anything was to gain the approval of his eight-year-old daughter who was watching at home. Rose's narrative in the show was of a military intelligence veteran who retired to spend more time with his family. During the bird flu lockdown of 2037, he had learned to bake to stretch resources and provide entertainment for his little girl. He was detailed oriented from the beginning, so baking brought out those qualities even more. He excelled and in 2040 was encouraged by his daughter to apply to the show. Thus far, he had wowed the judges by combining studious practice, near perfect recall, and elaborate designs to propel himself to the final. The reality of the matter was entirely different. He was a military veteran, that was true, but his background was in special operations not intelligence. Their last mission had gone badly with four out of seven of his squad dead. He was allowed to retire with full honors. Baking was an escape for him, but he was only passable. He had applied to the show upon his daughter's request and received an invitation to join. However, the judges hadn't been impressed with anything he baked in the first week, but there's always someone worse who gets eliminated. The second week had his name on it, yet another baker broke under pressure and failed their Showstopper. It was the third week that he had decided to use the Zybourne Clock. The "ZC" was disguised as a toy wrist watch with pink flowers on the face. It was an iconic piece that drew attention for one of the first conversational interviews he had on the show. It was a gift from his daughter, of course, and every time he wore it she knew he was thinking of her. The special mission had necessitated that he hide the "ZC" in plain sight. The watch was an easy, if not ironic, place for it to be. The first time he used it during the competition was nauseating. It was as if he had jumped off a cliff face. Something like wind buffeted his face. He could barely see the strands of light that represented timelines rush past his vision. He scanned for what seemed like hours until he saw the familiar outlining of his own timeline and reached out for it. It no longer felt like he was falling. He was in control of his own destiny. Lights swirled as he found himself back in his assigned apartment hours before the third week's filming. Amazingly, his memories were still intact. He looked up the Sicilian Cassatelles and quickly set to memorizing what he needed to do. "Bake the dough" and "make the filling" were now more detailed in his mind. He refreshed himself on his Signature bake and Showstopper as well. During filming, he aced all bakes and was awarded his first Star Baker achievement. It felt so good. He cried a little during the post-show interview as he called his little girl and told her the good news. He swore to himself never to use it again until his daughter said, "I hope you win the whole thing!" Since then, he had utilized the "ZC" several times each week. As the bakes became more and more intricate, he needed more practice to excel in them. He did not have the training nor expertise that these other former bakers had. Some of these homebodies could be professional bakers in their own right. Week after week, he managed not to come in last. He had made it to the finale. Everything had been going well until this AI jumble occurred. The worst thing was that he had already activated the "ZC" seven times so far. It never got any easier. He was starting to get concerned. He had to win for his daughter. He had to activate it again. It was almost as if an itch was in the back of his mind willing him to skip timelines again. There was also a sense of dread as if someone was hunting him. It was fantasy, though. That anyone else could navigate through time like himself was an inane concern. He looked down at the mess that was his Showstopper bake and sighed. He was determined that the eighth time would be the last. He turned the face of the watch counter-clockwise and hit the activation stud. ~~~ "Lucius, would you please bring up your Showstopper for us?" the judges requested. Like waking up from a dream, Lucius got his bearings and then carried his bake to the judging table. It was his turn to speak. "I present to you a take on the American ice cream cake and a Baked Alaska. The inner layer is a vanilla ice cream infused with orange liqueur, rosemary, and chili. The middle layer of sponge is white chocolate and raspberries with ribbons of salted caramel throughout. The top layer is a tart pineapple and lime meringue. The sauce is made with thyme, lemon, and sweet cream." The judges took one of the biggest knives he had ever seen and cut into the creation. "What did you say you called this?" One of the judges asked. He looked new. That was strange. The creation hadn't had a name, until it did. "The Golden Egg." Lucius said. "The sponge is a bit over baked, but the ribbons of caramel work beautifully. It's put together well. I'm not getting the rosemary in the ice cream, but I don't think it's needed." Prue Leith said. "I think you could have done more with the time you had here in the tent. We wanted a Showstopper with three layers and you gave us a week one bake with minimal variation. It tastes good, but I'm disappointed with your creativity. Considering all the timelines you used, I expected more. Thank you." Paul Hollywood stated firmly. Lucius took his creation and walked back to the counter. He had heard this before. He wasn't going to win this time, but he just needed to go back and try again. He reached for the watch to find it wasn't there. Then his brain caught up with his mind, "timelines"? He looked at the judges again. Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith were no longer there. He shivered as grim recognition dawned on him. Figures from his special operations brief were there, in the flesh, looking at him. Dirk McLauren was finishing off a piece of the meringue, Sylas was tossing his watch up and down, and the legendary Doctor Zyborne was wiping his mouth with a silk napkin. His eyes darted this way and that for a weapon and then a way out. Nothing else was in this tent. He thought about rushing them, activating the Zybourne Clock, and hightailing it back to his timeline. That fantasy was eliminated when the hand with an Ace of Spades grafted on his middle finger took hold of his shoulder. The man spun him around and said, "I finally caught up to you. Johnny Five-Aces always gets his target. You should have stopped at Star Baker." Lucius stared into Johnny's eyes. They were now swirling black orbs with pinpricks of light representing each timeline he had ever used. He saw every iteration of himself that he had replaced. The last of his existence was fading away, muddled by recreating his essence so many times by utilizing too many second chances at baking the perfect dish to impress his daughter. He would likely never see her again. The thought broke him. Like cracking the top of a crčme brűlée, Sylas brought down the watch on the counter to destroy the Zybourne Clock. And like his hybrid Baked Alaskan would do soon, Lucius Rose's reality melted away into obscurity never to be thought of again.
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Jan 6, 2025 03:35
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The Fifth Ace 1380 words “Pick a number,” said the man in the red lab coat. “Any number between one and a thousand.” “Five twenty-nine,” I said. He held out some kind of instrument and waves it up and down my body. He squinted at the display, grunted, and said “Acceptable.” Ace High There's a loud ‘pop’ as my body displaces the air and I'm in the past, about a hundred years back. The first year of the Regnum. The mission is to destroy the Clock in the center of City5, but this is my first attempt. I'm not expected to succeed. This one is more about basic information gathering. That doesn't mean I'm not going to be careful. I learn the layout, find all the shops. I read the sports pages. I spend the money in my kit on gear, weapons and such. And then I go in, break into the fortress that is the Clock. I realize it's futile almost immediately. Too many Clockworker Legionnaires, and Steammechs at a dozen entry points and checkpoints. I find a small closet and duck in, and set the bomb to harmlessly implode, and then go back in and get captured. The deadline passes while I'm in captivity. They think I'm just some kid on a prank. I'm recruited out of the prison, put in leather and gears and recruited to the Clockwork Legion. I serve my twenty on the green glass fields, lose an arm in the fighting. They give me a weaponized brass one and send me back to the front with a steam boiler on my back. When the war ends I'm discarded, left to beg for booze and grease and coal and kindness, all scarce in City5. I die and street children fight over the salvage in my arm. High Pair Not everyone is good at picking a number. Most people use only deterministic parts of their brain and don't split at all. Next most common are the ones who only tap one quantum resonance, only split in two. Me, I got damned close to the full range. “Much more than strictly necessary,” said the man in the red lab coat. There's two loud ‘pop’s in quick succession, the first as I enter this time, the second as the other me arrives in the exact same space forcing me to teleport two meters away. He's lived a different life than me. Each trip changes the timeline, but the changes don't propagate instantly. They had enough time to send each split version after a tiny delay. So this me is a medic, a trained doctor. We assign names, since we can't both just call ourselves “John.” I'm Ace, he's Doc. We get to work. I hit the bookies right away, put our combined stakes down on a broad spread of bets. Most come out the same way as they did the first time. I take notes, which games are rigged or deterministic, which are truly random. Second pass is mostly recon too, success may be possible but that would mostly be showing off. We're better equipped than I was. I've been inside the Clockworker Legion, know their patterns and protocols. The Steammechs are still a huge problem, though. We came loaded for bear, but we can't carry the elephant gun assembled and field-constructing and loading takes an eternity in a fight. Doc manages to keep the one on level one busy long enough for me to shoot a massive round through its brass head, but the one on the next level mauls him with a piston punch early. I'm captured with the futuretech bombs. Interrogation and execution. Three of a Kind “Imagine four balls at the edge of a cliff,” said the man in the red lab coat. “Say a direct copy of the ball nearest the cliff is sent to the back of the line of balls and takes the place of the first ball. The formerly first ball becomes the second, the second becomes the third, and the fourth falls off the cliff. Time works the same way.” “So maybe don't put the insertion point at the edge of a cliff,” I said. He laughed. “It's not that kind of cliff. The point is, four is the limit.” So the third run is where you want to get serious. After that there's real existential risk, one of the team knows they aren't coming back again. Third me is a she, I guess time went very different this time. The Legion did capture working time bombs, maybe that was the thing. We call her Specs on account of the goggles she wore, flippable lenses like an optometrist’s rig. See far, see close, dark vision, flash filters, one that let her see electricity moving. She’s a tech expert. She and Doc get on like a house of fire, flirting up a storm. I don't see the appeal. We make a serious go. The bets are even more refined and we have more stake money to start, so we get properly equipped. Specs has plenty of tools and tricks for the mechs. We almost make it. There's an ambush set up on the top floor and the first thing that happens is Doc getting shot in the back. I try to fight my way out but Specs has given up, sets the bombs to detonate. Not going to destroy the Clock from here, but at least they won't be spoils of war for the Legion again. More than enough to kill us and the Legionnaires we’re fighting. Four of a Kind Splitting up is a mistake. I go with the newest me. Abe, on account of the long beard. He's a talker, too. Lawyer, fast talker, good with the long and short cons. We all figure we may be able to bypass a lot of fights this time. But we split up, Abe and me doing some social engineering prep work while Specs and Doc handle the money and equipment side. At first I think it’s Abe being incompetent; we get rounded up almost immediately and tossed into the Legion's most rusty jail cell. But I have plenty of time to work it out. Doc and Specs sold us out, gave up the mission for a long life of happy incestuous masturbation or whatever you call getting with your alternate timeline self. I spend forty years, give or take, rotting in that prison cell. I probably go a little mad. And then I fall off a cliff. Wildcard It's a good metaphor. Falling. I'm outside time, somewhere out in the sixth or seventh dimension, accompanied by an infinite strobe of ghost selves. But they're just ghosts. I'm me. I keep reminding myself of that. I fall for an eternity before I see it. A branch I can reach out for. I extend my hand. No, not a branch. A brass arm. I wrench, almost dislocate my shoulder as I stop falling. But it isn't really my body, is it? I pull myself up. If I think of it as a cliff, it's a cliff. I start to climb. I think it might take forever, but I can do forever. One ‘pop’. I'm not at the original insertion point, but I'm not far. I'm older. I have the old brass arm with its brass bolt-thrower. I don't have the steamrig backpack but it seems to be powered somehow. Raw time, maybe. Or just pure cussedness. First things first. I kill Specs first, copper bolt to the back of the head. I'd have been happy letting Abe and the new guy go, but they won't let me kill Doc without a fight, so there's a fight. I win. I live it up that life, follow that timeline down as good a thirty years as you can have in the Legion's burgeoning steampunk dystopia. And when I die it's the first time I don't know what happens next. One ‘pop’. No other wildcards appear. No other me makes it up the cliff. So I make my plans. Obviously have to kill Specs one more time. After that, keep an eye on things. Wait for a set of versions of me that have a decent shot at the mission and aren't total assholes, and make it happen.
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Jan 6, 2025 04:34
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Submissions closed! We'll emit a verdict within 24 hours.
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Jan 6, 2025 09:12
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I really, really wanted to start the year with a loss, but nobody loses this time. However, Chernobyl Princess is the first winner of 2025! Honourable Mention for Thranguy's story. Thank you Quiet Feet for helping me with the crits. I will post my crits in the next days or on discord - I had a relaxing 11 hour day in the office due to year's end closing process 
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Jan 6, 2025 19:09
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Thunderdome Week 649: Let's Keep It Simple And Write Dragons Write me a story that features dragons. They can be clever dragons, animalistic dragons, greedy dragons, sexy dragons, or not technically dragons but wyverns, it's all good. All genres are open. 1500 words max. If you would like a flash, I will give you a thing your dragon collects, a tarot card, or a song. Be warned if choosing a song: I listen only to trash. No: google docs, political screeds, poetry Yes: one story about dragons of 1500 words or less Deadline: Sunday January 12 at 11:59pm Pacific Coast Time Judges: Chernobyl Princess curlingiron ???? Entrants: YOU!? Abyss ObamaAkbar. Quiet Feet Jeremor, Page of Wands Chairchucker, Six of Shields and The Coast by PUP Antivehicular, Seven of Swords Thranguy, sea glass/ships in a bottle hoard and I Am a Nightmare by Brand New rohan, porcelain hoard Chili DigitalRaven Vinny Possum, King of Shields and I Don't Wanna Be An rear end in a top hat Anymore by The Menzingers Chernobyl Princess fucked around with this message at 20:30 on Jan 9, 2025 |
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Jan 6, 2025 21:16
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In.
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Jan 6, 2025 21:24
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In
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Jan 6, 2025 21:46
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In
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Jan 6, 2025 22:31
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in, flash tarot please
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Jan 6, 2025 23:08
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In and may I have a song, and if this is an option may I also have a tarot.
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Jan 7, 2025 00:01
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In, tarot please
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Jan 7, 2025 00:16
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Jeremor posted:in, flash tarot please Your flash is, appropriately perhaps, the Page Of Wands  Chairchucker posted:In and may I have a song, and if this is an option may I also have a tarot. Your tarot is the Six Of Shields (this decks version of pentacles)  Your song is The Coast by PUP https://youtu.be/7_Cyy9-PHB8?si=Lz5UXM-0M7Oq8nPx
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Jan 7, 2025 00:17
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Antivehicular posted:In, tarot please Your tarot card is the Seven of Swords 
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Jan 7, 2025 00:19
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In, hoard and song.
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Jan 7, 2025 01:56
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Thranguy posted:In, hoard and song. Your dragon hoards sea glass and ships in bottles Your song is I Am A Nightmare by Brand New https://youtu.be/28YFesvcLS8?si=PGpUnv6k2LVkROe7
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Jan 7, 2025 02:38
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in, hoard please
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Jan 7, 2025 09:53
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rohan posted:in, hoard please Your dragon hoards porcelain. Teacups, dolls, figurines, toilets and bidets
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Jan 7, 2025 12:45
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In to help judge
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Jan 7, 2025 15:48
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in
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Jan 7, 2025 16:37
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Crits! Get your red hot crits for week 648 here! 1: beep-beep car is go - Express Mail It might be a little too much detail though as it seems like every single action is given lots of description, and they all crowd into one another. As an example. quote:“Is my item ready?” Vincent said, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can wait no longer.” He could feel the pocket watch in his other vest pocket tick, the motion of the spring reminding him of the seconds slipping away, each reducing the time he has to finish the task. A bittersweet task, but one that needed to be completed nonetheless. You've already let us know that Vincent is feeling impatient in the first paragraph. The second paragraph lengthily details the clerk's journey behind the service counter, and stretching that bit works great to emphasize it. But we get it by that point. There's often too much here and not all of it is useful. The part with the shoeshine boy could be omitted or at least heavily truncated as it really only serves as yet another prop to push the setting. The payoff for all of this doesn't really feel like enough. There's no real reason to omit why Vincent's delivery is so important to him. Why is his "missive" important to him? That would have helped us feel a little more involved I think. Setting is the strength of this one. Though I harped on it, the extra detail makes it easy to picture. I think it just needs better focus and a bit of fat trimmed away. 2: Chernobyl Princess – Ball Drop Bam! New Year's Eve and a Zybourne reference right off that bat. Does exactly what it needs to and a lot of the worldbuilding is dropped in while the story is in motion. For me, this got the wikn because it had just enough of everything it needed, including general stakes for the character's involved and specific stakes for the protagonist. Not quite sure what to make of the last line, if I have to nitpick something. Sometimes stories here get that "piece of a larger tale" tag. This feels complete in itself but I could also see it as the opening to a much larger story about what the world looks like afterward. 3: Fridge Corn – Did I but Dream I hate to say it but this one was a tough read. The lack of formatting really didn't do it any favors, and the prose is all overwrought. Wish I had something more specific to say but this one is really tangled up in itself. I get it: it's a story about the story you wrote. Sounds like you had a hard time this week but I'd like to at least say it's always better to submit something than just to drop the week. 4: Abyss – Tick Tick Bake! Love the premise right off. It's a cooking show! The stakes don't feel super high at first and that caught my interest. Honestly, I think I would have preferred it to stay that way, although I have no idea how the consequences would play out given how much of an advantage the extra time would give your MC. If you were going to go with time enforcement or some supernatural punishment, I'd have liked to have those issue addressed as possibilities earlier. As it is, they feel a bit tacked on. The AI bit in the beginning felt like it was meant to be the primary obstacle to be overcome, but nothing much seems to come of it. 5: Thranguy – The Fifth Ace Another time heist! And an enjoyable one at that. Clever use of the Zybourne "four balls" reference and using the cards as a framing device. Details paint an interesting picture but I think the one thing this is lacking is what's driving the main character to go through with this. Some hint at motivation would have helped this one. Strong contender that missed out on the win this week by a hair.
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Jan 8, 2025 02:31
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Jan 8, 2025 16:47
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In, tarot and song, porfa
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Jan 9, 2025 17:16
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Vinny Possum posted:In, tarot and song, porfa Tarot: the king of shields/pentacles  Song: I don't wanna be an rear end in a top hat anymore by The Menzingers https://youtu.be/TQBG7wAVWAA?si=AsMxeCVt8QXhQzuN
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Jan 9, 2025 20:27
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In, tarot
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Jan 10, 2025 17:06
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kurona_bright posted:In, tarot You get the five of wands 
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Jan 11, 2025 01:25
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Dragonfly (1499 words) "C-37492515-A" whispers Remi over Cassie's commlink. They know that they don't need to whisper, that it's the presence of the radio traffic at all that might give them away, but Remi has a flair for the dramatic. And at least if they're whispering, they aren't using their drat fox avatar. Cassie swipes her fingers over the access control app, confirming her identity so she can input today's code. Just getting that app had cost way more than she was comfortable with; the bratva don't exactly offer favourable credit terms. But with the app telling the building's security expert system that she's a mid-level executive from Hazbech head office, she can go wherever she has the codes for. The elevator takes her down into the underground hangar level. She thought she knew what to expect: a broad manufacturing and assembly space for cutting-edge vehicles and equipment, five hundred and thirty metres long by a hundred and eighty wide, and fifty metres high. Lots of gantries, moving platforms, and automated assembly facilities; mechs and ground vehicles and aircraft in both bleeding-edge civilian and military varieties. Two large cargo tunnels that surface nearly two kilometres away, and an opening roof for VTOL access. While the space she descends into is all that, it's significantly more. The sheer scale of the place is incredible. The idea that this vast factory and storage space could be underground is mind-blowing. Remi could probably tell her how many times Cassie's cramped studio in Ostrava could fit into this place, but she didn't want to know. Somewhere in this massive tangle of machinery and equipment is her target: the Dragonfly. The kind of private jet that leaves private-jet-havers uncomfortably aroused. The elevator slows, maybe ten metres from the plant floor and she turns away, fixing her hair. Just a routine inspection from head office. She's lucky, because she's not facing the glass as it shatters, she's not resting on a handrail that turns into sharp twisted metal. The elevator falls the last few meters but doesn't crash, so she can turn and clearly see that everything is on fire. Cassie quickly dismisses her first thought---what the absolute gently caress?!---into a mental file of "things to worry about later". She doesn't wonder whether she'll have a later to worry about it, that just compounds the worry. Besides, if she had a Euro for every time she'd ridden a hidden elevator down into a burning hangar she'd have three Euros fifty cents. Ljubljana was a weird job. "Remi, why is everything on fire?" "I don't..." she has an image of their fox-avatar darting between cables, searching for camera feeds to give her off-site support some eyes. "I can't find any cameras on that side of the factory." "Sadly, I left my exospecs back with the rest of my very obvious corporate spy kit. This was meant to be an easy job--" Cassie turns as a pair of MRAPs, no doubt destined for a border war or American police department, explode. That's when she sees it. "Oh god. Remi, I... oh hell." "Cassie? I need to know what you can see, I can't help you if I don't know what's going on!" Another explosion, this one even closer. She can smell her burning hair. "It's a mech. But, it looks like a dragon? Some fantasy-novel reject with too much firepower. Missiles, flamethrowers in the mouth, a couple of autocannon–" "A _dragon?_ That doesn't sound right." "You can worry about that. I need to get out of here. I'd be glad I had a distraction, but it's between me and the exit!" "Do you want the good news or the bad news?" Remi asks. "Just tell me!" Cassie's last iota of cool has melted like an ice cube in front of the dragon-mech's flamethrowers. "Hasbech security is on route with the kind of thing that might actually shut this down. Except they're pretty much a private army and they're going to turn the whole hangar into a warzone." "That does it. I'm scrubbing the op. The payoff isn't worth my life. I'm heading towards section Q, it's as far from the chaos as I can get. Remi, find something that can get me out of here!" "On it." The roar of explosions and scream of missiles is joined in Cassie's ears by the crackle of small-arms fire and the whomp of EMP grenades. drat thing must be shielded. She ducks and stays low. Everything's wrecked, but that's working to her advantage. People aren't pointing their compound-eye multi-vision goggles in her direction. It makes it easier for her to duck between the wreckage, using the smoke and fire to her advantage. Remi in her ear again. "Q4 has a short-hop stealth quadcopter that I can put under the roof hatch. They're going to notice as soon as it starts moving so get your rear end there now." "Security's all busy with the loving dragon." "Not the people in the command centre. Bays M and onward have working cameras, too." "And less cover." "And drone-gunners." "poo poo." The next ten minutes are some of the longest in her life. Ducking behind crates, scurrying under gantries and raised pads. Relying on Remi's reactions to tell her when she's about to jump out in front of a camera . Twice she sees a drone-gunner turn towards her right as she dives out of its field of view. That single moment stretches out for what feels like hours. And as she runs, the hangar explodes behind her. Clearly the security team are losing ground." At last she sees it. A squat, angular quad-rotor barely big enough for one person, on a mobile helipad. "Remi, get me in!" "Get close. I can fool the cameras but not for long. Can you do something to block vision?" "There's going to be plenty of fire and smoke real soon!" "Okay, okay…" "I think there's enough headroom that I can lift off without needing you to move the pad?" "I can pop the cockpit, and open the roof hatch?" "Do it!" By the time she's made it into the chopper, Remi has got the hangar door above opening. High-velocity rounds crack out in her direction, but the helicopter's stealth coating confounds their targeting algorithms for just long enough for her to skip out through the half-open hangar roof. She kills her comms so she definitely can't be traced, and gets the gently caress out of there. * * * A week later, Remi's startled by a knock on their door. Nobody should know where they live---they're the hacker, the voice in the ear, a digital fox with no trail. They don't even get takeout delivered here (that's why they also rent the apartment two floors down); since moving to Lyon they've scrubbed their trail well. They open the door a crack, and see Cassie standing outside. She doesn't wait, pushes past them and kicks the door shut behind her. "I'm not being followed, but I didn't want to do this online." "How did you even find me?" "Remi, I've been working in espionage since you were in diapers." Not a real answer, but they know better than to push it. "My phone's somewhere in the Adriatic. You can set something up if I steal a new one, right? I've hardly got two Euro to my name." "I suppose. Though in the meantime, I figured out what happened. We were hosed by an intern's autocorrect." "You're making GBS threads me." "Nope. What you saw was a black project codenamed 'Dragonfire'. Next generation armoured air unit, drops out of the sky and kills a city. But 'Dragonfire' ain't in the intern's dictionary, so when he was keying it in it autocorrected to 'Dragonfly'. The jet we were after was in the Ottobrunn facility this whole time." Cassie looks on in shock. Her eyes glaze over as the reality of the situation sinks in. "We were in. The wrong. Country?" "I've also seen a lot of chatter about the heist. When you went in, so did some mob called Thunderhead. From what I can tell, they're setting up as some kind of transnational paramilitary group, a private army based off a couple of old aircraft carriers in the mid-Atlantic with no ties to a given country. This was their big intro onto the world stage, and now Dragonfire's going to be their trademark weapon." Her voice, when she speaks, comes from far away. "I need a drink. And another drink. And something stronger. What's cheap on the streets?" "We can find out." Now Remi's really worried. "You can crash here for a while, but don't get too hosed up." "I won't. I'm a professional." They see her eyes, and for the first time Remi is scared by their teammate. "We're going to build up. Get a bigger crew. And then we are going to gently caress Thunderhead into the sun."
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Jan 12, 2025 17:07
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Let us Worship This God of Destruction (1492 words) Lieutenant Winter had escorted Arn to the site, but there'd been no need: the landscape for a mile in any direction was nothing but ash and half-melted stone. Hs mother, the Empire Killer, the great and ancient dragon Armusheiraioptietryatyx, had obviously been here, and she'd left nothing of the landscape to hide the great red rise of her dead body, collapsed in a pool of blood a hundred yards wide. Arn didn't feel anything yet. He still didn't believe. She was over eleven-hundred years old. Her hoard could buy a continent! Humans had feared her, hid from her, worshipped her, bargained with her. She'd been a god, even when they were still squabbling among themselves in stone houses. Some of the more foolish ones tried to fight her; dragon hunters who'd fancied themselves heroes after they'd taken down a youngling or two with some trickery or cunning. Their people praised them as saints. But any who'd gone on to fight the Empire Killer had perished. Mother and he were here for the dollars of the American Empire, or whatever their nation was called. Dragons rarely remembered the exact names nation states called themselves; most were gone in a century or two. Often shorter, if mother had been involved. This was some small East Asian country. The air was thick with water, and the earth covered in luscious green growth that hampered the Americans efforts, and had to be burned. Arn nudged her side, expecting a sudden intake of breath, a groan, anything. Mother was lying on her belly, eyes closed. His insides flared hot. Was this even real? "Where's the wounds!" he exclaimed, a flicker of fire bursting from his mouth. "Is this a joke?" Lt. Winter, his liaison with the Americans, nodded, taking a nervous breath before saying "Mighty Arnuthirax, the round struck her belly. You can only just see the black marks on the other side. We did not wish to disrespect The Empire Killer by attempting to disturb her." Arn nodded. Lt. Winter knew it's place, at least. Mother could call him Arnuthirax, or just Arn. Humans knew to use a dragon's full name and title. Anything less by the squealing little things would be a killing insult. Mother forgave them the use of just her title; they scarcely seemed capable of pronouncing her name, and she wasn't always hungry. Arn climbed over her body, gave it another nudge. She still didn't stir, but it was as Winter had said, there were the jagged edges of a black scorch mark along her side. Something had struck her from below. From the crater she'd left on impact, it had been while she was in flight. He remembered a sunny day somewhere along the north coast of Africa. A good day. He and mother were warming their wings on a rocky hill, stretching to catch the sun's rays as they prepared for a raid. Arn recalled how his belly rumbled, and thought of fat sheep and tiny little people living in a town a few miles away. He was probably about forty then and still just a little nervous. "My first time, they tried arrows," his mother'd told him with a smile, "By the time a dragon is about your age, an arrow isn't going to give more than a scratch, even in the belly." "But they got better weapons, right?" Arn'd said. "Ah yes, my mighty one!" she'd said with a nuzzle. "The muskets. But by the time they had those, I was almost eight-hundred and they weren't any worse than a bee sting to me." "But the cannons!" Arn'd added. "Heavy, easy to spot, hard to turn and can't really hit anything in the air worth a drat." Mother shook her head. "I've taken a direct hit or two and they left me very sore the next morning, but," she finished the thought with a shrug. "As for you, you're no bigger than an elephant. I know one day, you'll be stronger than them. Maybe even stronger than me! But for now, stay high, stay safe, my little one." They took off and burned down some petty kingdom around Morocco. Arn didn't remember it's name but remembered the smell as it roasted; a pall of burnt earth with a delicious stream of cooked meat running through it. What a feast when they landed! He longed for it now. Arn had been so lost in thought that he'd scarcely noticed the vehicle drive up. One of those carriages that burned oil. An American soldier jumped out of it, adressed Arn properly, and then saluted and spoke to Lt. Winter. "Sir, we believe we have the one who," the man paused, as if pained to speak, "who fired the uh, weapon. It's a village just a couple of miles away." Finally, there was something. A feeling. A notion of anger. He would end this. They had the warrior who killed her. He would eat him, and then melt their weapon to slag. He would see this God of Destruction that they've made! *** The soldier led them on, Arn reluctantly keeping pace with the vehicle, not trusting the air. What if they had another weapon? Anyway it was not far. The place they'd brought him to was a village. A little village, concealed among the trees and branches. There were several dead bodies lying in blood, the poses they fell in suggesting that they'd been running, and a half-dozen other humans who'd been rounded up and were kneeling in the dirt, hands over their heads. "Which one!" Arn roared. "Which one killed her!" The prisoners trembled and shrank away, only for the Americans to nudge them forward with the butts of their rifles. "It isn't any of these, Mighty Arnuthirax," a soldier said. "We have the killer secured in that hut at the far end. We were able to identify him because—" Arn didn't wait for the explanation but rushed towards the structure, just a piddling thing of wood and straw. He let out a roar, rearing back and smashing his head into the side of the hut, the blow knocking it twenty feet away, where it landed with a crash. There was a human whelp, it's legs tied to a chair, and its arms similarly tied behind it with ropes. Arn didn't have a very good idea of their ages; this one couldn't have been more than maybe ten, he guessed. Possibly younger. It was a scrawny, bestial little thing in rough clothes. The right side of this one's head was freshly burned, the flesh mottled red and black, its ear barely recognizable. It stared straight ahead, Arn's flames reflected in its remaining eye. "This thing? This tiny little thing slew Armusheiraioptietryatyx, the Empire Killer!? Winter, are you joking?" The prisoners gasped and threw themselves flat on the ground, while the Americans each took a step back and nervously raised their rifles. What an insult! Lieutenant Winter stepped forward. "It's the weapon, you see?" and he held forward a badly burned metal tube. "We found a small cache of others. As far as we can tell, it's single use. It fires a rocket with an explosive head. Looks unstable though. The blowback from holding one of these, well," he gestured to the child. "I guess that's what you get from something this cheap. Couldn't have cost more than eight dollars to make, Arnuthirax." Arn spun quickly around, his tail knocking down several Americans and all of the prisoners. His jaws closed around Winters' head before the man had time to even scream. To suggest she was killed by something cheap! A killing insult! The villagers ran off into the underbrush but the Americans opened fire at him. The tiny rounds stung a little. Maybe it made them feel better before he killed them. He finally turned back towards the little thing, the new saint, and sneered hot air into its face. "Well, whelp. Did you do it?" he laughed. "As if you could have." The whelp, the little God of Destruction, just looked ahead with its dead eye. And swiftly stabbed Arn in the face. Arn reared back in shock. The knife hadn't cut but merely wedged between two scales. The little thing had evidently managed to cut its arms free with the hidden weapon, but it hadn't had time to unbind its legs. It stood now, still staring, leering straight ahead at Arn with the same contemptuous look that Arn had regarded him with just a moment ago. Arn roasted him alive, the flames leaping through and past the thing and lighting the surrounding forest ablaze. There was nobody left to ask where the remaining weapons were. He turned and readied himself to fly, only to stop at the last second and, instead, slunk away down the road instead, too worried that anyone might see him flying alone, just a tiny, insignificant red dot against the vast grey sky.
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Jan 12, 2025 17:28
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The Beithir (1350 words) As they crested the summit of Braeriach the spectacular view floored them. On this clear Spring day you could see for miles in every direction. The snow topped peaks of the Cairngorms were dotted about the horizon. In the middle distance lay the glistening waters of a small corrie loch. Past it and up the side of the next mountain was the cave. From this distance it was simply a small dark spot on an otherwise rocky slope. Iain knew how far they had yet to walk, some quick mental calculations put its size at least at 5 meters across. ‘I’ve been up this mountain every year for the past 20 and I’ve never seen that before,’ gasped Euan. They had made very quick progress to the summit and he was clearly starting to feel his full 44 years. ‘Aye. I’ve heard it’s only been here for a week or so,’ replied Iain. ‘Surely something of that size would take millions of years to form no?.’ Iain had no answer for that, all he could think about were the wild stories of the old boys down at the village pub. The recent surge in missing livestock. As he stared at that dark patch on the rocky mountain face a deep sense of foreboding swept though him. A slight twinge of animalistic terror hidden beneath. At that moment the landscape before him transformed in his mind from that which was familiar to him, it appeared to him like the surface of an alien world. *** As they skirted the corrie loch details of the large cave started to become clearer. Euan was certainly correct in his assertion that it wasn’t naturally formed. Neither man nor the effects of weathering could have created what they now saw. The opening was like the entrance to an enormous rabbit warren. Massive claw marks scarred the ground of the tunnel. Large clods of dirt were scattered about the entrance, some even as far as the bank of the corrie loch 50 meters down the slope. They paused just short of the debris field. ‘I don’t know Iain, this is freaking me out a bit. What do you reckon caused this? No one is bringing heavy machinery up here surely?.’ Euan never was the adventurous type, Iain had kept him in the dark as best he could this trip. ‘Who knows, why don’t we go and have a look eh?’ ‘I’m not sure I want to know to tell you the truth.’ ‘Ah come on, stop being a fanny.’ Euan looked particularly irritated by that last quip. Nevertheless they made their way up towards the gaping maw. As they approached the entrance a foul smell assailed them. Iain had never personally worked in an abattoir but he imaged the stench wasn’t dissimilar. ‘Smells like absolute death in there man. Maybe the tunnel drops down and a load of sheep have fallen inside?’ Euan’s face was scrunched up in disgust. Iain said nothing, the initial twinge of terror was now rapidly growing and threatening to overwhelm him. He had come too far to turn back now though. With a look of stoic determination he trudged straight in. Euan following rather reluctantly. The tunnel seemed to have no end. Neither did it appear to narrow or widen at all as they ventured deeper. It did slope downward slightly but not enough to trap the occasional stray wildlife that might wander inside. As they started to lose the light from outside the terrain underfoot changed. The squelch of mud gave way to crunching. Iain reached into his backpack and brought out a powerful torch, he’d obtained it specifically for this trip. He pointed it just ahead of his feet and depressed the power button. Smashed bones lay like a grotesque carpet across the entire cave floor. He instantly began to tremble. His fear betrayed by the shaking of the torch’s beam. Euan’s voice also betrayed him. It trembled just slightly as he whispered loudly to Iain, ‘This is so messed up man, how did all these bones get here?’ ‘Wild animal maybe?’ Iain whispered back. ‘What wild animal could do this?’ Iain didn’t immediately answer, instead he raised his torch to get a better look further down the tunnel. It looked like maybe the tunnel ended just a short way further in. ‘Come on, I think see the end.’ What had initially looked like a curved stone wall now appeared to be some kind of cylinder that extended along the length of the tunnel. Although it blocked most of the passage Iain could see the tunnel actually didn’t appear to end for some distance. As they moved closer the light revealed at the head of the cylinder what appeared to be a large snake’s head. ‘Is it some kind of carving? Carved out of the rock face maybe?’ Euan cautiously walked up and touched one of the many scales on the serpentine face. Each was the size of a dinner plate. He quickly recoiled. ‘It feels real! Cold but like real snake skin.’ They began to inspect the head. On top sat an unusual crest more reminiscent of a large lizard than a snake. It’s eyes were the milky white of the dead. Its gaping mouth held 2 massive fangs, a pool of congealed liquid had pooled below it. Iain knelt down and collected a sample on his fingers. He inspected it under torch light. ‘Blood, and quite a bit of it.’ ‘Are you telling me this thing is real?’ Iain shrugged. Inspecting down the body he could see a leg, then another, and another. One leg every 2 meters down the thing’s body, as far as his torch could illuminate. Its entire body was covered in scales that glimmered like precious gems, they had a greenish-purple tinge that was hard to pinpoint. Down its long snaking back were fish like frills, highly irregularly spaced and in wild meandering patterns. The thrills themselves had the same greenish-purple tinge but the effect was more of a fine silk than gemstones. It was a truly beautiful creature. This artwork was ruined however. Hundreds of smalls cuts, pockmarks wounds and infected looking lacerations covered large parts of the body. There was even more blood on the ground here. Iain felt like he’d swallowed a rock. ‘Death by a thousand cuts.’ He muttered. ‘What was that?’ ‘It came back here to die. It must have been preying on live stock. Got caught in a few traps, shot at or caught in barbed wire. Each time it went out to feed it sustained more wounds.’ ‘Man, I wish I’d brought my camera! We gotta take some evidence!’ Iain started making his way out as Euan worked on ripping one of the large scales off the creature. As he stepped out into the sunlight he felt a void inside him. The feeling of terror was gone. He glanced over the landscape. A landscape not alien after-all. Not even wholly natural. A simulacrum formed by thousands of years of human activity. Sadness and regret slowly dripped into that hollow left inside. *** They barely spoke to each other on the return trip. Over the next few weeks Euan delighted in regaling anyone who would listen about their trip and showing off his prize. He had his fans but it wasn’t long until it became yet another rumour spread among the old boys down the pub. In the early days a few had taken the trip out to see the ‘Cairngorms Dragon’ but heavy rain and mudslides had covered up the old slope, burying any evidence of the enormous den shortly after their discovery. Iain for his part never spoke to anyone about that day. Him and Euan went walking less and less until they eventually stopped seeing each other at all. Not long after he packed in the hillwalking altogether. He could never recapture the feeling he had when he first saw the Beithir. Although it was bitter sweet, he felt honoured. Honoured that he was possibly one of the last to witness an ancient and magnificent breed.
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Jan 12, 2025 21:16
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