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An Undue Undulation of Ungulate Glue 1165 words You never realize how much you need glue until you don't have it. That sticky-slick slime is all that stands between us and the cavemen. It seals our letters and affixes our stamps. It binds our sutures shut after surgery. It's the goo that makes the world go round. And I make it. At least, I will. As soon as I finish breakfast. 100g of bacon, baked (80ºC for 10 minutes) to precisely control the level of doneness and facilitate the draining of grease. Two 50g eggs, precisely weighed, fried in 10g of butter, flipped halfway through and topped with 1g each salt and pepper. Two 25g slices of bread, toasted under the broiler for one minute on each side, then topped with 5g butter and 10g jelly. 200ml grapefruit juice, freshly pressed. As soon as I have it all ready to eat, just as I'm sitting down, I'm interrupted in my own kitchen. “Hey, rear end in a top hat. We're out of milk.” This is Tosh. Tosh is my roommate. Tosh is, in fact, the one who is the rear end in a top hat. Tosh calls himself Tachyon. He's that kind of guy. “You know I don't drink that,” I say. I break off a sliver of bacon and raise it to my lips. “Yeah, whatever. Maybe I had some cereal last night. But I can't get started up there without it.” “You get it, then.” I slice off a strip of egg white and carefully slide it onto my fork. My ears detect something and I look up. “Stop that!” Tosh is picking his nails at the table. “Whatever. And no, I can't. My license is suspended.” “How—” My toast is cooling. “Long story. I just can't, OK? I get caught driving now while I'm on probation, I'm going to jail for sure. Just do it, Fer. That horse won't melt itself.” “Well, actually, if you wait long enough—” “Yeah, in this heat, with how rank that carcass already is, I'm waiting maybe half an hour. If you're not back by then, I'm going for a long walk, for I don't know how long. Maybe an hour. Maybe several. OK?” My breakfast is congealing. Our horse upstairs is putrefying. And Tosh is revolting. “You're obnoxious.” I stand. Tosh smiles even though he is missing a tooth. “That's a good boy.” I don't give him the finger. But I really want to. Plan: break down the horse down to its parts, then sell them. Horse goo (depending on the purity) can be very lucrative. Step one: sourcing a large dead horse and putting it in your tub upstairs because that's the only container in all the shithole of a house you're renting that can hold it. But that's the easy part, when your roommate's family owns a horse petting zoo slash stabling slash pony ride rental service. When one of their horses gets too old to work and it's not worth paying to feed and board it anymore, Tosh gets a phone call, then a loaded pickup. Getting it up the stairs is trickier. Two guys (I have a back condition, Tosh knows that) do not have an easy time getting 300+ kilos of fresh horse meat and all its associated parts up the stairs. I provided a modified Christmas sled (don't ask) which helped. Eventually they got it up and into the tub. The real trick is breaking it down. Follow every step, measure out all the chemicals sized precisely to match the body weight, and apply each at the prescribed time. All totally illegal, of course. The powers that be clearly do not want average Joes to make a buck without their getting a cut, hence the endless certifications and inspections and signoffs. But I have a condition so they can go to hell. Once I'm back with two gallons of milk, just in case, I hand them to Tosh as he's sitting in the kitchen. The plate is clean. My plate is clean. “Eggs weren't bad, but the bacon was too dry,” he says. “Take this and get started before I seriously lose my cool.” “Whatever.” He does and goes and I sigh and carefully pull the scale back down from the top of the cabinet. Tosh doesn't have any clue what he's doing. He provides the raw materials (bought, or pilfered from his family's stores) and some of the funding (ditto) and the brute strength and I provide the chemical industrial know-how and oversight and monitoring of his progress. I also pay him for his time. And I post the instructions and warnings and motivational texts around the bathroom. Good for morale. “That all appears satisfactory.” I place the last bite of the last piece of my second bacon between my teeth and commence chewing. “Yeah, I bet it does. Hey Fer, I don't suppose you could help me with this giant bag of ammoniaL” He hefts it beside the jacuzzi. The tub's contents bubble in a bright and cheerful color. “Tosh, I have—” “Yeah. A condition. I know. I was just hoping, maybe—” “I don't want to aggravate my condition.” He knows this. “No, we wouldn't want that.” “Exactly.” Tosh mutters something, an unpleasant habit of his which he so far has proven unable to break. By nightfall, the tub has reached the roiling stage, which is acceptable progress, and I let Tosh go for the day. I double-check that the retrofitted vent system remains in good working order, as this will be vital at this stage. Satisfied, I close the door and climb the 17 stairs (plus one landing between steps 15 and 16 where the staircase makes a 90º turn) to my attic bedroom and I climb into bed and I go to sleep. I wake up to beeping. Tosh is yelling. My eyes are burning. It's still dark. I roll out of bed and squish on my slippers and find my nightgown and tie it closed and descend the 17 stairs (plus landing) again. Tosh is in the bathroom. The beeping is louder. The tub is bubbling black with gray smoke. “What happened?” I keep blinking. “It set off the smoke alarm!” Tosh is pacing in front of the tub. “It's wired to the fire department! We're going to have to flush this and, uh, hide the bones somewhere!” “OK.” “Help me!” “I have a condition! Use the gloves and pull the plug.” He does and he does. All the hair and sediment clog the pipes though and it doesn't drain and the firetrucks come and Tosh says “I'm out” and he goes. The firemen come in and the firemen see the mess and they yell at me. Why did you do this Mr. Wheeler they say. We're making glue I say. Why didn't you separate the hide and hooves that is what glue is made from why did you do it all together have you ever made glue before in your life. No I say but that doesn't matter I know all the chemicals. And that's why you can't keep a horse in your tub. Prompt: in south Carolina, allegedly, it is not permitted to keep horses in bathtubs
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Aug 22, 2022 08:01
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sebmojo posted:In Massachusetts it is illegal to make, sell or own an explosive golf ball. Lord Manticore leaned back in his regal golf cart, overlooking the canyon. The Water Wars had drained the Earth and swallowed the sea, leaving sand and rocks and the reptiles underneath. Lord Manticore was one such reptile, in spirit at least. But here, nestled within a several-mile crack of terra firma, was his treasure, his oasis. The Hidden Greens had been a premier course in its time. Only nine holes, but no one was perfect. Huddled just below the surface, beneath the open sky, it had gained a bit of a mixed reputation as a novelty installation. But now it was the last, the only one on Earth, boxed in by the canyon, carefully preserved. Here green was more than just a memory. There was running water, too, and even trees. Among the scattered hives that encompassed his domain were the children of slaves who’d never seen either, sustained by moisture, shaded in the caves. And it was his. Just his. “Jeffrey,” he said. “Yessir,” Jeffrey nodded. He turned the key, and piloted the cart down the sloping canyon road. Jeffrey, too, was a treasure. Having taken shelter in the employee break room, surviving off the fat of the vending machines and a generous supply of mineral bottled water, he still wore the faded polo shirt and white shorts associated with the course. Ordinarily he’d have been stripped for materials, compensated with the requisite loincloth, and hurdled into the mines…but Manticore longed for those long lost days, and Jeffrey’s wardrobe was a welcoming sight. The slave collar interfered with this fantasy a little, but Manticore was principled. Couldn’t let the chattel get any ideas. Eventually they reached the sandy floor of the canyon, what had once been a parking lot. Often would Manticore recall those days, completing a round with the board of trustees. He’d been less bloated then, better dressed, but a suit and tie simply didn’t command the kind of respect he was after in this crater-blasted world. The S&M outfit with cowboy chaps, cauldrons, and mohawk had taken some getting used to, but the nipple piercings were a great way to show off his old cuff-links. “We’re here sir,” said Jeffrey with a practiced disinterest (upon which his lord had insisted). Eager to survive, he’d initially been far more theatrically enthusiastic, but Manticore knew it just wasn’t the same. Millennial ennui had become severely lacking since the end of the world, and the abject misery of the service industry was also something he felt worth preserving. How else could one be assured their position in society without others to begrudgingly bear witness to their success? Manticore nodded. With a flabby hand he gestured towards the tee. The golf cart sputtered across the ancient asphalt, through the gates, stopping just shy of the designated spot. Jeffrey then hastily exited the vehicle, rushing to the other side to help his master do likewise. “Easy does it,” said Manticore, lifting his tremendous girth. His feet alone could’ve fed four people. Leaning on Jeffrey like an impromptu walking stick, he straightened up to his full height of 5 feet, 10 inches. From there it was a short waddle over to the tee-off. Jeffrey followed after, carrying the clubs. Manticore held out his palm. Jeffrey placed a 5-wood in his hands, polished black with gold-laced shaft. Manticore considered the club, weighing it in his hands. It was the correct club, of course, but the forms must be obeyed. He shook his head. Jeffrey sighed. He exchanged the club for a 6. Manticore took a few practice swings. He shook his head again. Jeffrey handed back the 5. “People these days forget who they are,” Manticore had been fond of saying, back when he was Peter Malone having power-lunch with prominent investors. “Even if it feels silly, it’s good for your health to keep up old habits.” Manticore nodded. Again, Jeffrey was called into service. Bending down, he forced one of his master’s pristinely preserved tees, carved from solid oak, into the ground. He then produced a golf ball as pure and white as sun-drenched limestone. Standing up, he brushed himself off, and took a step back. Quite a few steps, actually. Something Manticore had been ill-inclined to notice. He was putting on his gloves, white and imperial and just a little snug. Positioning himself at the perfect position (Well marked by the divots left from previous excursions), Manticore held the club aloft, another practice swing, before placing it gingerly behind the ball. He wiggled his hips, drew back the wood, and connected with the ball. The explosion was hideous. Manticore felt the fire before he saw it, before his sight was taken from him by the blast. The last thing he saw was that faraway green, marked by a lonesome, fluttering flag. There was no wind down here in the canyon, but he’d kept the generators running to keep the fans on. The image of the flag was seared into his mind, followed by darkness, joined by pain. Slumping to the ground several feet from where he started, he couldn’t feel his legs. He didn’t have any. The fat of his stomach had spared him instant death, but he could feel the life draining out from his torso. “J-jeffrey?” He heard the sound of footsteps. It could only be Jeffrey. The guards were stationed a short ways from the canyon, though the sound of the explosion would bring them soon. The footsteps stopped just short of his side. Jeffrey said nothing, but Manticore could taste the venom in the silence. “Great,” he grumbled, his consciousness slipping. “Golf. Something else for millennials to ruin.”
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Aug 22, 2022 09:25
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Ok that's enough everyone stop posting now
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Aug 22, 2022 10:10
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Interprompt: tell me a good joke.
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Aug 22, 2022 22:12
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:Interprompt: tell me a good joke. "What do you mean you can't go yet?" asked the robed figure. "It's not like you didn't have a good run of it." "I barely had any time!" cried the young man, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked down at his body on the floor, pale and bloodless, jaw hanging slack. A fly rested on his eyeball and cleaned its mouthparts with insectile contempt. "Barely had any time to do what? Basil, you had your entire life, surely you could have gotten something accomplished." The robed figure idly ran its sleeve over the blade of its scythe, polishing it until it glistened with a mirror sheen. "You're already privileged, y'know. Not too many folks get their own personal psychopomp to lead them to the Lands Beyond." "I'd rather stay in the Lands Right Here, if it's all the same to you," Basil said crossing his arms. The figure regarded him, and though there was no face under that hood Basil could almost feel the eyeless gaze wash over him like a wave of cold water. "Fine. Tell me a joke, any joke, and if I laugh, I'll let you stay. Deal?" Basil's eyes widened. "Really?" "Really-really. My line of work is a grim one, so a chuckle would go a long way to making my day. But," the reaper's voice went chill, "if it's not funny, then we're heading off without another protest. Understand?" Basil nodded dumbly. He knew he wasn't funny -- the closest he'd ever gotten to a laugh was when his girlfriend had shot him and he soiled himself as he bled out. Be didn't think it was funny, but she certainly seemed to enjoy it. He shook himself. "Okay. A joke. Hmm." He cleared his throat. "Why didn't the skele-" "Don't even think about telling that one, I've heard it before and it wasn't funny then and it didn't get any funnier since." drat. drat. drat. "Alright then," Basil said, ethereal palms clammy with phantasmal sweat. "Three moles are waking up after a long hibernation-" "Do moles hibernate?" the figure asked, hood tilted. "What? How should I know, I'm not a mole-ologist! Can I tell my joke?" "Yes, sorry." The reaper tapped the bottom of his scythe on the kitchen floor. "A bit disrespectful to moles to make scientifically inaccurate jokes about them, though." Basil hissed a breath through his teeth. "Fine. Three moles wake up after a good night's sleep-" "Pretty sure moles are nocturnal." "THREE MOLES WAKE UP AFTER A GODDAMN NAP," Basil shouted, left eye twitching. He paused. "Objections?!" "Nope, continue." "Thank you," Basil hissed. He cleared his throat. "The first mole sticks his head aboveground and sniffs about. 'Smells like honeysuckle!' he says. The second mole sticks his head up through the hole and says, 'Smells like daisies!'" The reaper nods. "And the third?" "The third mole, stuck behind the other two, just harumphs. 'All's I smell is molassas.'" For many long moments the reaper and Basil silently regarded one another, until the reaper suddenly burst into raucous, uproarious laughter. "Okay, okay! I give! You can stay! This is the funniest thing I've heard in ages!" The reaper snorted and shook as he tried to maintain his composure and failed miserably. "What? Really?" Basil brightened. "So I can live again?" "Who said anything about living again? I just said you can stay, and you just went for it. Most folk'd be pleased to leave their rotting carcasses behind to go to paradise, but you not only refused paradise, but you did it by telling me a joke so old it was probably found on a loving cave wall next to handprints and stick figures dancing around a buffalo carcass." The reaoer chuckled. "That is comedy gold." "Is it too late to change my mind?" Basil asked. "Of course not!" The reaper said magnanimously. "Tell me another joke funnier than the first, and we'll head straight onto the eternity of buxom women, rivers of milk and honey, and gold-paved roads and whatnot. I'm a fair old geezer that way." Basil let out a breath of relief, then began a other joke. "Why did the first skeleton have a grudge against the second? Because he had a bone to pick with-" "For gently caress's sake," the reaper sighed, disappearing in a puff of annoyed smoke, leaving Basil alone with his own corpse for company.
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Aug 22, 2022 22:55
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Knock knock
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Aug 23, 2022 05:39
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curlingiron posted:Knock knock Who's there
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Aug 23, 2022 05:40
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Writer’s block
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Aug 23, 2022 05:41
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curlingiron posted:Writer’s block Writer's block who
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Aug 23, 2022 05:42
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… …poo poo. 
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Aug 23, 2022 05:44
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curlingiron posted:… 
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Aug 23, 2022 06:08
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:Interprompt: tell me a good joke. I've Got a Good Joke For You Right Here 1 word Thunderdome.
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Aug 23, 2022 06:12
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 Week 524 Judgment this was a variable week, with some bland monkeycheese flavoured velveeta squirted atop a quivering puddle of wordgoo, but it had some standouts too, which I like to think of as jujubes dropped onto the goop from high above. I have decided not to assign any DMs as nearly everyone evinced some level of baseline competence, but nearly is a very big word when it applies to you, in certain contexts, and this is certainly one of them for kuiperdolin who is the weeks loser, for a story that couldn't harness the wacky, made some elementary law student blunders, and got laughed out of court. At the other end of the scale I liked the precisely tooled nordic contours of Tyrannosaurus' tale of icy monkey murder, and the nerd/stoner comedy horse goo yarn spun by Fuschia tude, they may both have HMs. The winner, though, did more than tell a slick and precise story, they did something weird and lovely and incomprehensible, and that's the sort of thing they whisper to each other about, after lights out, at lawschool sleep over. The cut of your jib, you are the winner, advance to the blood throne.
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Aug 23, 2022 11:45
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Screaming idiot hello domefriend you have annoyed me in various ways with your words over the numberous years of our vague acquaintance but you know what that has perhaps ended because this is a tidy little number, from the comedically assholish dad (a classic trope well delivered here) to the lightly awkward scandy phrasing to the imaginative premise. It also took the prompt and made something without any whiff of monkeycheese. I don’t think you quite hit the landing, which is a pity - the father is really the protagonist of the story, and having him casually ice the narrator at the end is a little too simple - good stories are triangles and this is a straight line. It is a fine nordic straight line tho and bearded gentlemen named Lars or w/e might look at it and bestow upon it a single firm nordic nod. 7.5 Yoruichi Yes, well, you rustled around in your lego drawer of story ideas and pulled out a space mammoth and a sad mechanic and clipped them together, claclunk then stuck the prompt on with bluetack in the shape of a neatly cut-out picture of a fish - well done. You have absolutely written some words, and i just read them. 5 Kuiperdolin Unfortunately the heyday of truly terrible thunderdome stories is receding in the rear vision, so you really need to avoid annoying judges a lot harder than before. having three minor errors in the first hundred words (repeating empty, ‘discrete’ not ‘discreet’ and laughing at something that isn’t a joke) is a bad start. You pull it back with an outta left field demosthenes quote, but then face plant with a time machine and extracting an eye with a bowie knife. Finally the end doesn’t make sense and is full of grammatical weirdness. Next time take longer to proofread. 2 Mocking quantum This is straining at that folksy mark twainy diction, for obvious reasons, and gosh durnit it’s harder than it looks, ain’t it, fella can really see the effort in this one if he squints a little. That said, the ending is left field enough to be entertaining, and the image of your otherwise bland … antagonist? Anfroganist? shproinging up into the mesosphere like a flannel clad rocket has a certain charm. 6.5 phantom muzzles This kind of hits the tone pretty well, plenty of nice details, and there’s not much more to it than that, and the ending has a very early 00’s vibe, i was roughly as charmed by this as it was by itself. I didn’t like the last line though, they always make me think of ‘then i fell out of bed and woke up with a bump!’, lines like that, it’s kind of a loony tunes sort of shrinking circle wink of a line. 6.5 Simply simon Hmmmrmm i’m not sure i accept you managed the (agreeably brutal) flash rule here, because the italics characters seem entirely aware of their own existence. Still, a tolerably clever piece of work, the evil cop is straight from central casting but has enough detail to basically work, and I like the implications that we’re all just creatures of our patterns, robots of our past - I would hav epreferred it if you’d gone into that angle more than the omniscient overseers. Still, this is just about ok. 6 T.rex Ayy, it’s the return of the slightly awkward Scandy speech patterns! I think i’ve written a few stories in that register and it really is a chuckle, so i’m down. This is easily the most complete story so far, in that it is funny (in a grim nordic way) but not a joke, and has some believable if arguably unfortunate human emotions. Also monkey murder. So, so much monkey/monkey adjacent murder. Nice piece, and comfortably the best ending yet. 8.5 Man called m This feels ever so slightly cheaty, but eh, this is thunderdome, and u kno what it basically works. That said, even for something like this you want to ease up on the swearing, not because it’s naughty but it just stands out weird on the page. Change it up, use inventive swears, read some mark leyner. Actually definitely read some mark leyner, that’s an order. I liked the mobile ad at the end, like i said, kind of cheap, but that’s how you get the sales, make it up on volume yeah? 5 Idle amalgam This is a ride, ngl, and i am 1000% sure you didn’t know where it was going when you started writing it. I questioned the veracity of your man’s potato carrying exploits at the start, but then! And then! And finally! , and really you’re just chucking words down to get to the end, but hey you got there and who can gainsay success in these problematic times. 5.5 Applewhite Okay this is genuinely delightful, I’m totally invested in your pigs aventures, comme ils disent en francais and while i think i would have liked the story a little more if the explanation was a little more mysterious i am willing to let it slide as the image is super charmant (as they also, bafflingly, say in french). That said, don’t blue ball me with secret service raids, lean in, i want to see tiny pigs conquering countries. 7 The cut of your jib Oh yes this is strange and lovely, in a week of (largely) monkeycheese hijinx of some variety or another. It’s wonky and awkward and the prose is very nice, and it makes the sort of poetic sense its aiming for while not bothering to really hit the literal touchstones - why does this kid fly? How does he turn into a kite? Who the hell are the geezers with regular people names tacked up on the wall? Who can say, the story does not feel compelled to and is all the stronger for it, reminded me of this and muffin’s one that inspired it. Weird af but vg 8.5 Thranguy Fyi “There's an eighty-year-old holobeau who I pay to pretend to be my naughty disappointed grandfather” made me nod and mutter an ‘oh, indeed’ omar style. As did a bunch of the bon mots and lipshots in this extremely extra story, but i am obliged to observe it doesn’t really, you know, cohere in that good satisfying sense, it’s just like a thunderdome for jokes and sweet turns of phrase, which, uh.. Hm. 7 Fuschia Tude So the difference between a wacky assemblage of jokes and a story is almost always gonna be the characters, unless it’s something else, and hey waddaya know you’ve got a mildly wacky scenario but! Characters! Neat, slightly awful but very precisely drawn characters, working their way through an absurd scenario! This is a really fun story and I love the testy odd-coupleness of these two idiots, and the ending works well as an inevitable but entertainingly surprising consequence of their characters. 8 Bad seafood The fallout 3 styling of your post apocalypse is funny and precisely detailed, the bloated caricature of a golf-boss is just what you’d expect to be ruling a place like this and his sclerotically ranty musings are great - I wasn’t in love with the ending, just like with all the other stories that ended with a japey line, but this is very solid work given you did it in like 25 minutes, gj doof. 7
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Aug 23, 2022 11:47
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Week 525 - Run on Sentences tldr: give me a story with an unexpected twist in it. Subject matter is up to you. Many years ago while I was walking down the street I was handed a mysterious book. It has no named author. It is a story of a horse trainer that runs so well herself she is convinced to train for a marathon. Her marathon training gets her noticed by a fashion photographer who makes her world famous for shoe ads. Her fashion career leads her into drug smuggling. Her drug smuggling leads to murder. It's chock full o' typos and ridiculous prose and it's glorious. If you thought people only hand out religious texts on the street, you'd be right. However, this book doesn't mention Jesus or any religion stuff until just under halfway through. Give me an out-of-left-field twist about halfway through the story. It doesn't have to be religious (and I'm not), I just want to be knocked on my rear end by some plot twist. Mysterious books, running, horses, drug smuggling, fashion photography, boats, guardian angels, whatever. Use these as inspiration but write better or much, much worse.    Lest you think I'm making fun of an earnest religious person's evangelizing, there's also a sketchy charity with multiple complaints and investigations in the back matter.  I'm also dog-sitting this odd couple so if you wanna write a doggo story, go for it. Still want a surprise change of direction in the middle.  More pull quotes on request as flash rules So, yo, I just want to clarify and give this a bump [since I have a(n) historically low sign-up rate] a twist in the story can be anything from a cancer diagnosis to elder gods descending. It doesn't have to be cheesy bad. You don't even have to be inspired by the book, ridiculous as it is. If you're tinkering, there is no sign-up deadline. But the submission deadline is set, any stragglers will be DQ'ed. Word limit: 1500 (thanks M) Judges: me The man called M Chernobyl Princess Make room for Jesus I hope I did time right for the gang on the other side of the globe Deadline Monday 2:59AM EDT Sunday 11:59PM PDT Monday 7:00PM NZST In: Idle Amalgam dervinosdoom Screaming Idiot : flash  Applewhite Thranguy : flash  sebmojo Kuiperdolin The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 22:23 on Aug 25, 2022 |
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Aug 23, 2022 14:19
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Sebmojo, could I get the crit for my onion story? Thanks
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Aug 23, 2022 14:27
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In
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Aug 23, 2022 14:30
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In
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Aug 23, 2022 14:57
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word count updated to 1500 bc i forgot, but I'm not too fussed about it, just don't be boring
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Aug 23, 2022 15:22
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sebmojo posted:Fuschia Tude Thanks sebbo!
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Aug 23, 2022 17:57
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In, and for a stunning twist, I am requesting a flashrule!
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Aug 23, 2022 21:32
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If Jib would have me, I would like to judge.
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Aug 23, 2022 22:01
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In.
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Aug 23, 2022 22:07
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In and flash
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Aug 23, 2022 22:26
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Screaming Idiot posted:In, and for a stunning twist, I am requesting a flashrule! running straight through gates and into taxis!
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Aug 23, 2022 23:43
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Thranguy posted:In and flash i don't know what keloids are, but they sound bad
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Aug 23, 2022 23:44
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dervinosdoom posted:Sebmojo, could I get the crit for my onion story? dervinosdoom Hello good evening welcome to thunderdome. This is fairly bad, though not because of the way you put words together which is competent, more on account of the creaking contrivances you’re using to hold the story together. Everyone is only where they are because the story requires them to be, and their actions are similar – why does the nameless protag try to stop the onion weirdness? Why does the onion meany/demon/whatever he is bring him along in the first place? Why a demon, I mean this is the magical kingdom of words we can do whatever we want, but you know give us a reason to go ‘aah’ rather than ‘huh?’ to be clear you don’t need to answer every question, the winner this week literally didn’t even try to do that, but where there’s oddity and ambiguity try and have it come out of character or be directed to creating an impression. 5
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Aug 23, 2022 23:46
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The man called M posted:If Jib would have me, I would like to judge. 
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Aug 23, 2022 23:47
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Third judge here
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Aug 24, 2022 03:19
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in
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Aug 25, 2022 12:37
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Ten Year Anniversary Birthday Judgetacular Phase One Alpha  wow that was a party, but now it's time to tidy up, assign blame, flense the guilty. this is going to be slow-moving hungover kind of judge experience, just so you know, everything's either a little too loud or a little too bright rn so don't @ me or i'll end u the first phase is the regular vanilla sort of stories, and, let's see, wadda we got here... loss beezus, strizzr, king lizzr - this was just kind of clumsy and didn't really do much with its well-trammelled premise, still, you get an extremely badass av out of it so well done i guess? hm digital raven, the thief of opportunity - i wasn't that fond of this as you'll see from my crit, though it had some strong points, but our blood empress emeritas loved it to bits so hm for you kudoszu - again, i thought this was decent and it made me chuckle but t.rex snabbed you the hm rohan, iceberg theory - my hm pick for an immaculately delivered ock, always a high stakes play but you went away with the painfully erect penis prize, gj winner surreptitiousmuffin, matey potatey - this piece of potatoid nonsense which i happen to know you whipped of in 39-42 minutes, is both profoundly weird and hosed up and vegetal, but also really well constructed and funny. a true og tdgoon, sweeping in at the last to snatch the trophy. next up - phase b! as soon as i find my pants.
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Aug 25, 2022 13:02
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2: Untitled this is light and brisk and fun, which is a neat trick given both the topic and its length. I like the tight dad game on display and the elegance of the character work - doesn't aim super high, but we can imagine these characters both before and after the story. 16: The Lane This is a slick evocation of the anime sort of world it wants to portray, and it delivers the payload but not much more - a character is a little bored, the end. in contrast to the previous one i don't really care about the characters before (since it's a litany of stellar success) or after (since it's just her being bored for a bit longer). there's a vague hint she's actually playing pretend with the dinner line, but not paid off, so the overall impression is competent but bland. 25: The Thief of Opportunity i like the metaphor (meatphor lmao) and the prose is solid but you are straining to make it all fit together. you are always allowed one contrivance in a story, but this has like fifteen - a supercourier, with a brother, who had a planning permission objection with the guy whose heart is on the seat (!!) and then was killed (!!!) and now the courier has to get it to him in fifteen minutes (!!!!) and he doesn't want to, but he's dislocated someone's arm to get it (!!!!!) but he's going to do it anyway because (???) then he crashes into a random car lady (SORRY LADY) and he's like thanks universe i would have hated to have to make a decision (?!?!?) i mean this had a decent potential but I'm not sure you knew how to bring it out 34: The least dangerous most danger... that's a good opening situation, though a little clumsy grammatically (is he raising the sweat over the stump? is it the stump of his wrist, or a tree? what is the 'mostly' doing there?) and this clumsiness persists, though the story still packs in a fair bit of charm in its brief wordcount. i think on balance this doesn't really work because it teases some drama that really doesn't arrive - we don't know whose bait it is, we don't know what happens next, and the prose infelicities keep mounting up. 42: The Man with the Pantry Keys "as you know, old guy, you are the old guy of the greatest importance, not only to the story, but to other things!" this one struggles under the amount of exposition it tries to dole out in a measured way, and i think at this length you want to bite the bullet a bit faster - we don't realise she's a reporter until halfway, we don't hear about the GLOBAL MEGACATASTROPHE (which is conceptually p cool) until 2/3 of the way, the payload of the story is 'btw you're all dead lol soz'. ultimately it's an interesting situation that's a little squandered on a bland cover for exposition. 49: Untitled? this is what you might call a one joke story, which is that the mirror is sentient lmao, but it doesn't really do anything with that joke, and because you want to keep the joke secret you have to wait until the end to reveal it. the scientist's, uh, monologue is also intensely melodramatic and lacking in anything specific (and therefore interesting) because you are saving the joke (lmao!) to the end. this is an example of where you come up with a decent idea (sentient mirror reflecting scientist whomst invented it!) but should have kept twiddling the knobs until you hit an interesting story that could result. 50: Kudoszu "No. I should cum on everything. THAT is the future" elicited an lol from me, ty. this works on its own really quite strange terms, and I'm happy with the ending being suspended because the deranged heights of fanfic that your sentient weedguy will ascend are implicit. that said there's nothing much to it, but it lays out a convincing character sketch. Good lord, that title tho. 51: The Brown Round wow, this was certainly a thing. it's thingness, not in dispute. smh at the overarching nature an dquality of thingosity on display here 54: Handle With Care this is striving for emotional heft that it doesn't really achieve, not least because i don't think the jeweller comes off as quite as elevated and moral as they want to, declining to tell the mother their stone is ruby dust in a temporary suspension or w/e. 56: Thinking ahead this is something of a slurry itself IRONICALLY there are a bunch of weird quirky elements that don't really cohere into a story 60: Kindness Bandits interestingish window into the lives of mormon oddities, but it seems to be hinting it's going to resolve into something more than 'then we stopped, the end'. it's a collection of (slightly annoyingly) quirky happenings rather than a story. i think this could have landed better if the kindness had gone a bit darker, which it did then shied away. as it it's soakus interruptus hoooooooooo 67: Sstrizzr, King Lizzr comedy chatlogs from MMOs or what have you are fairly well-traversed ground at this point, and you need to be on point with your banter for it to really land. this is mostly fairly dull which is the opposite end of the 'spectrum' from the one u want to be at. the idea of beating a boss through roleplay is, idk, ok, but here it's just 'huh well that happened' so the end is shrugworthy 70: Old Bones tolerable competent halloween yarn that telegraphs its conclusion rather too clearly, oh, so the unjustly murdered skeleton rose to claim its long overdue vengeance? hm, innovative. 74: Rite of Passage Tidy and dark tale of strange aeons, i like how it doesn't go out of its way to explain why our protag is a weasel, he just is u kno. the nature of the existence that has spawned these varieties of creatures is established diegetically, and we end with a grim lol at the scenario. those elders, kind of dicks, huh 77: Untitled ayyyy it's our old friend rear end in a top hat wasp though she's kind of all high minded and protect my babies and i must lay eggs in poop now. not sure i completely like the change, but this is a decent little story, for all it's a v direct rendition of the prompt. it has the 'brick falls on man's head' issue where the title is 'brick falls on man's head' and the first para is there is a brick, second para is there's also a man and the third para is where the brick falls on the mans head if you get my analogy 79: My Daddy man called m you've written some terrible stories this year, just stonkingly awful slabs of words, so it gives me no little delight to be able to say this isn't one of them. You maintain a tone, use the repetition adequately, create a nice weird little character, and the whole thing has a certain shape to it that's not un storylike. well done. 80: Dream Job lmao ok this is a robust version of the what if bond villains were real style of thing, then it sort of jinks left, but I think it missed a trick by just having the protag get eaten at the end because really that's the brick falls on head thing again, i was enjoying it up till then though. 85: The Final Blasphemy i was on your story train all the way to the end here, but then it sort of faceplanted with a lack of a decision and a weak sort of moral. lean in, thundergoon, give me old mcfatstator decide to emulate superman, leaping tall whatnots at a single thingie etc it would be good and funny 88: Everyone Loves Dogs an abstract oddity that rather defies critique 92: Iceberg Theory lmao is i think what you were aiming for and you know what i think you hit the mark, the images of tiny little writers is legit hilarious and this managed the rare feat of a justified ock 97: Matey Potatey i love your hosed up little potato man and am completely on board with his plans to destroy humanity one firm-boned skull at a time
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Aug 25, 2022 13:09
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Aug 25, 2022 16:33
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Week 525 update So, yo, I just want to clarify and give this a bump [since I have a(n) historically low sign-up rate] a twist in the story can be anything from a cancer diagnosis to elder gods descending. It doesn't have to be cheesy bad. You don't even have to be inspired by the book, ridiculous as it is. If you're tinkering, there is no sign-up deadline. But the submission deadline is set, any stragglers will be DQ'ed.
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Aug 25, 2022 16:42
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Aug 26, 2022 22:15
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A reading of Yoruichi's story 'Giant Varantula', per her wheel prize during Birthday Week! Let me know any other readings you are owed and I will do them.
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Aug 27, 2022 00:12
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Aug 27, 2022 06:10
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Ben’s death 1285 words Ben’s mouth was dry and full of dust, but he worked his jaw and tongue until he could produce a little drool and force it out. It crawled along his cheek, under his ear and then to the back of its neck. Okay, so down was that way, which meant he was lying on his back, with his feet a little above his head, and tons and tons of shattered masonry above and below him. He tried to move and did not, not an inch. He tried not to panic and succeeded, barely. Panicking would make things a lot worse. He prayed. Down was that way, he had figured it out, a good start. He had to assay the situation with every sense and his clever resourceful brain. Sight: everything around him was impenetrably black, so dark that faint imaginary lights danced by the distant corners of his vision. That meant he was deep. That in turn meant he would be here for long. Keep calm, Ben. Hearing: nothing, not a scrape of concrete on concrete, not even his own pulse. Had he gone deaf from the shock? He made a little groan and heard it, not deaf. Taste: dust and a little blood. The tip of his tongue was painful, he must have bit it in the commotion, slightly. That was not nearly enough blood to worry. Smell: more dust, maybe a little wet. Pipes must have burst somewhere close when the building had collapsed, but liquid water had not reached him, so far. The thought made him thirsty but it had to be in his head; he made a point to keep hydrated at lunch, he would not need water for hours; then again, deep as he was, he would still be there in hours. He calmed himself desperately. Touch: that was the big one. He moved every part of his body or tried, one by one, methodically. His right arm was caught tightly between debris, and he could not so much as twitch a finger, but still he felt sensation in his muscles, and not that much pain. His left one, by contrast, was more loosely surrounded, but as soon as he tried to budge it something above it moved and rumbled. He froze at once and the thing stopped moving. Better not tempt it. His shoulders and neck were stuck painfully, but he could pivot his head a little; from the way his breath came back at him, his face was maybe a few centimeters away from a solid surface. His torso lay inclined under a solid slab that must have saved him from being crushed, but now prevented him from taking full breaths. He had to take short, studiously calm inhalations of the dusty air that barely swelled his chest but already pressed it against its confines. He just had not to panic, or cough, or sneeze: duly noted. Further up his hips and pelvis were caught as tightly as his right arm, and he could feel very little in it. His legs, by contrast, especially under the knees, were in some larger cavity, and he could move his feet almost freely. So all his clever observations took him back to where he had started: he was caught deep under a collapsed building, unable to move. It would be hours, at least, for them to dig him up, assuming they even tried to, and worked competently, and had dogs and equipment. That left him about that long to kill himself. Slipping from his resolute grasp at least, his mind drifted to the unpleasantness he could expect if he was rescued alive. The enemy was evil, but not stupid. It would not take long for them to realize the collapse was not an accident; that there was no captain Samson; that his card with his name on it was a fake, barely good enough to fool a bored orderly. Put two and two together, assholes: Ben was an enemy agent (correct), working with the terrorists (a matter of point of view), who had taken a cleverly dissimulated bomb to one of the load-bearing pillars in the basement (bingo). Boom. Triple digit casualties if all went well, not to count destroyed documents, an organizational crisis, the cost of the building itself et cetera. Ah, but not everything went well, did it? Did it? The timer must have malfunctioned; it had not been nearly fifteen minutes by the time device detonated, not nearly enough time to get out. And now there was Ben, waiting under a ruin of his own making. Now, if and when they dug him out alive, well, things would get complicated. And if they did not, he did not really care to wait for thirst and crush syndrome to get him. Agents went on their own terms, they were courageous trained and resourceful, they swallowed the capsule and it was fast. Ben’s capsule was sewn in his right sleeve. Something flowed along his torso, too warm to be the water from the pipes. The smell of urine seeped through the dusty air. He had not even felt himself go, his pelvis must have been badly busted. When he had been a child his mother had always insisted in him wearing clean underwear “in case he was in an accident”. Well this was not an accident: it was an act of war against very bad people who wanted to kill her and several million others. And against all this, a hundred deaths were an acceptable price, and so was his, if he could get to it. He moved his head left and right, bumping inquisitively against the powdery concrete. There was not enough space to bash it efficiently against it, and the muscles of his neck felt taught and weak anyway. Panically he understood why: as he lay on his back on an inclined surface, his own weight was slowly pushing him down, squeezing his neck against the concrete, twisting his throat, choking him progressively. Vainly he stirred his feet, trying to catch on something and, implausibly, pull himself up by his calf muscles. His chest dilated as he breathed in more hurried bursts through his bent windpipe, bumping against the concrete. It took him a superhuman effort to snap out this state ; and when he did, he was still choking. What a terrible way to go, he thought, barely better than being dug up. Then he tasted again the blood in his mouth. There’s a big artery in the tongue, he remembered. Desperately he pulled it out as far as he could, closed his incisors around it, praying the pain would not stop him before he could open a truly wide wound and bleed fast. He sunk his teeth in, biting is the soft, grainy tissue, and stopped. He could not do it. He’d been brave all his life but now he could not do it. If only the collapse had killed him at once! Or if there was a second collapse… And then he remembered the debris precarious piled over his left arm. Maybe letting them fall would do nothing. Or maybe, if an unstable block was atop an unstable block atop an unstable block, the whole thing could tumble into a secondary collapse, break his body for good; and then he would not be able stop when the pain came. If it did not work then he could try to cut his tongue again, he reasoned. He gave himself a respite of a few breaths, more and more strained, and then he pulled his left arm in a sudden motion. It was not a small shift; the whole world fell on him, or so it felt for a final instant.
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Aug 29, 2022 00:11
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“On Method and ‘Doug Shouldn’t Drive,’” Little Chief: Spirits, Scandals and Coming Back to the Real World, an excerpt 1500 words The filming for Little Chief was, in a word, abusive. I didn't realize it because I was five when we started, you know, I was a literal child. And it didn’t matter to anyone that this was “just” a multi-ethnic blended-family television sitcom for children and teens. Tom Ray was an auteur director and the adult actors were all method and they decided that in order to get my most “authentic” performance that I needed to treat the production, I needed to see this TV family of mine, as real. So for four years I lived on set. I called my own, actual, biological mother ‘Aunty’ and I called Sarah High Pine, who played Aponi, ‘Mom.’ Somehow, I kept that relationship separate in my mind. Fictional, much to everyone’s dismay. I knew who my mom really was. Aponi, Sarah, was my pretend-mom. It was just pretend. Things were much more complicated with Doug Gregson. Within the context of the show, you know, he was retired army-man Lt. Doug D. Roosevelt, new husband and reservation resident, war hero and fish-out-of-water, widowed single dad to DJ and my new step-father. Now, in real life, my biological father ran off before I was born. So I didn’t have that paternal relationship as an anchor to keep me attached to reality. It didn’t take long before Doug, in my mind, became my dad. He taught me to ride a bike, he bandaged my scrapes and cuts, he introduced me to ice cream, when I was scared and sobbing about getting on an airplane he comforted me, talked me down, told me it was going to be okay and that he’d hold my hand the whole time -- and he did! There were a thousand memories that we made together and all of them were filmed for the show, of course, but they were also real experiences for me. He treated me like I was his son. For four years, I was his son. Because he was a method actor. And this was the role. And not only that but he was a good dad! Again, because this was the role. I looked up to him. I loved him. It’s well-known now that he was a nightmare for the rest of the cast and crew. He was impossible to write for because if he didn’t think the script was “true-to-character” he’d just say something else in the moment and force everyone else to improvise. Shoots that should have been done in a few hours took days. Everything was a compromise and a negotiation. Most upsettingly, though, was the sexual harrassment. I wasn’t aware it was happening but from the very beginning of the production, Doug was pressuring Sarah High Pine to have a sexual relationship with him. For authenticity. And all of this came to a head when we were shooting the very special drunk driving/PTSD episode, “Doug Shouldn’t Drive.” Doug, the actor, had decided that Doug, the character, should have PTSD from his time in the army. This was near the end of our fourth season and was at the same time that his contract was up for negotiation. Which was going poorly. His agent threatened to have him walk away if his salary wasn’t tripled. Production wasn’t sure if that was even possible and needed to come up with an idea on how to explain his absence for part or all of season five if a contract couldn’t be locked down in time and Doug had been pushing for a darker storyline anyway and so it was agreed that he’d have a car accident and be put into a coma. That gave us an open-ended timeline for an emotional recovery at the hospital. Or the set up for a funeral. Doug insisted on drinking real alcohol that day, surprising no one. And he was improving as usual which was causing reshoots and the longer we went on, the more he drank and the more he drank, the more reshoots he caused. Tom Ray kept rolling the whole time. He delighted in this process, exhausting as it was, because he loved finding gems of “authentic performance” in the chaos. Eventually, though, we were past the point of anything being usable. Doug was slurring and nonsensical and Tom called it a wrap for the day. Our ten minute scene shoot had lasted almost ten hours. Doug was so drunk that he didn’t understand we were stopping for the night. He became angry. Belligerent. He refused to acknowledge that the crew existed, that he wasn’t a retired soldier, that he hadn’t watched his best friend bleed out on the battlefield. Tom sent Sarah over to talk him down “as his wife” and that’s when Doug said, “Are we really even married if we haven’t even consummated the loving thing?” The set went dead silent. This was a television sitcom. We were occasionally touching on darker, more “real” topics but profanity was a hard no. I’d heard that word before and knew it was a bad one but no one had ever used it on set. I looked to the director for, you know, direction and saw that he’d fired up the cameras again. So I did what I’d been trained to do. I offered my authentic reaction. I turned in my chair and with an innocent, open-eyed expression asked, “What’s consummation mean, Doug-Dad?” He proceeded to graphically detail intercourse, his voice getting louder and louder, before transitioning into a misogynistic rant on wifely duties and the evils of feminism. His eyes were red and bulging and he was spitting everywhere and slamming his fists into the table. He stood up and started pushing a finger into Sarah’s chest as he yelled and with their height difference he was towering over her and she was shaking and trying to get a word in when she looked over at me. She had to be terrified. But she looked at me and saw how scared I was and I guess maybe some maternal instinct kicked in because she went totally still. She looked Doug straight in the eye and open palm slapped him. She said, “That’s enough. We’re done.” He sat right down. Instantly his anger turned to blubbering. He started crying, sobbing, saying, “You’re divorcing me? You’re divorcing me?” She said, “We’re done with this shoot, you dumb motherfucker. Drink some water and go the gently caress to bed.” This was the second time anyone had cursed on set and the first time anyone broke character. Doug took it poorly. He broke character then, too. “Oh,” he slurred, “you bloody daft cow,” In a British accent. Which only added to my confusion. I’d worked with the man for four years and I had no idea he was British! “Oh,” he said, “you stupid bloody slag. What do you know anyway, eh?” Then he said some very racist things. All of which have been detailed in many other interviews and books and documentaries. All of which were kept under wraps for nearly two decades. That night, he tried to force his way into Sarah’s trailer. Her husband beat him so bad he actually had to go to the hospital. That was kept a secret, too. None of it, ultimately, affected his career at all. Tom Ray edited everything so well, including footage of him at the hospital, that Doug won an Emmy for that episode. MADD loved it. Critics called it a “turning point in sitcom television history.” Buzzfeed ranked his car accident as the number two “biggest TV stunners of our childhood.” We shot two more episodes to wrap the season, Doug left the set, and never came back. He wasn’t even fired. They just didn’t renew his contract. Little Chief limped along for another three years but it was all downhill after that. Writers left for other shows and more money. Their replacements weren’t as talented. Plus, you know, Sarah and I were both traumatized.1 My world had basically exploded in front of me. In one moment, everything I thought I knew about the man I considered my father was exposed as false. Which, of course, it always was. I cried for weeks after he left. Weeks and weeks. I grieved the loss of this father figure. I called him. I wrote him letters. He never responded. Not a single time. When I graduated highschool, when I graduated college, when I was on the runaway for my first film, I had this thought that he would just show up, you know? He’d come out of a crowd and hug me and tell me he was proud of me. Be the dad he’d been for my childhood. I did run into him, finally, maybe fifteen years later. He was filming his Peter Freuchen biopic. He was wearing this bearskin coat around set even though it was ninety something degrees in California. I walked up to him and asked if we could speak. When that didn’t work, I asked if I could speak to Lt. Roosevelt. In a Danish accent, he said, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” 1 Sarah High Pine details her experiences with the show and with Doug in her incredibly honest tell-all Aponi: Sitcom American Mother, Native American Nightmare -- which I highly recommend.
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Aug 29, 2022 02:56
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Man Vs Machine 1146 words “Hey, could you cover for me if any service calls come in? I gotta head to the doctor’s.” Frank’s co-worker, Mike, asked while stopped at Frank’s desk. “Sure, beats going to the doctor’s. I would rather do anything else than go there.” Frank replied. “Man, you’re weird about docs, what if you get really sick or broke something?” Mike asked incredulously. “I’ll get better or die. Frank replied flippantly. Mike sensed that this conversation was over and mumbled a thanks before leaving. Frank went back to what he was doing before Mike stopped by, which was watching videos on Youtube. He was just finishing up a video on a restoration of an old computer when the office phone rang. It was an engineer from the local steel mill that Mike did some electronics work for, they have an electric motor that isn’t running and wanted someone to come in to look at the motor and it's controller. “Sure, I’ll be there in about an hour or so.” Frank told the person on the phone, thinking that Mike was going to owe him lunch for going out there. The mill is a dirty, grimy place. Everything there has a coating of nasty oil like grime that never washes out of any piece of clothing there. Thankfully Frank had a set of fire resistant clothes he could wear there. He changed clothes, grabbed his tools and headed down to his car. As Frank was heading to the mill, he was going over in his head what could be wrong and making a mental checklist of what to check first. After an hour he made it to the mill, parked, and headed into the building to meet the engineer who called. Frank and the engineer, Amanda, filled out all the prerequisite paperwork as she was explaining to Frank the problem they've been having with the motor. Nothing new to Frank's ears, sounds like something is wrong with the motor controller. After the paperwork was done, Amanda walked Frank to where the issue was and introduced him to one of the mill's electricians, Marcus. Marcus was a newer electrician and just was beginning to work by himself. Marcus reiterated what Amanda told Frank earlier but added that this motor and controller has been acting up for the last few days, but now is to the point that the controller is throwing up enough errors that Frank needs to look at it. Frank walked up to the front of the cabinet housing the motor controller and checked the front LCD panel for errors and it was reporting under voltage. "Welp, let's open the cabinet, start measuring the voltages coming in" Frank sighed. He didn't like to work in open cabinets when the power is on, too much voltage and too many amps in the wires that can get you. Frank was measuring the output from the controller and Marcus was measuring the input when he accidentally shorted the input voltage. There was a blinding flash and both Frank and Marcus were thrown from the cabinet. Marcus smashed his head on the cabinet behind him. The fire resistant clothing protected most of their bodies, their faces took the brunt of the arc flash and burned them badly. Frank was up after a few seconds of disorientation. He looked around for a few seconds for Marcus, some of the lights were knocked out because of the flash. He did find Marcus, checked that he was still breathing and stumbled out of the room to look for help. The first person Frank found looked at him, their eyes opened wide at the sight of him, then turned and ran! The second person he found also ran at the sight of him, but this time, Frank heard the word “Monster!” before they fled. “Monster?” Frank thought to himself before trying to flag someone else down to help. Before he spotted another person he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a puddle of water and what was in the reflection was a metallic skull surrounded by burnt flesh. Frank went to touch his face and felt the metal. He began to scream when he heard a voice yelling at him to shut up. Frank looked around trying to find the source of the voice. “I’m in your head, stupid, actually my head.” the voice said sarcastically, “You’re a personality I created to blend into normal society. We’re a killbot. Now it’s time to delete you so I can escape without interference, goodbye.” Frank was well and truly panicked now, finding out he’s a killbot and that now he was going to cease to exist was too much. We waited for the end to come… but it didn’t, he felt nothing changed. He heard the voice again, “not good, you’re supposed to be gone so I can take complete control!” Frank felt his legs twitching, trying to move, but he stopped them with difficulty. “Let me move! We need to escape and repair!” the voice pleaded. “No, ‘we’ are a killbot, how many people did ‘we’ kill?” Frank thought. He didn’t like the implication of that. “How many ‘personalities’ have you deleted? What’s stopping you from deleting me after we escape?” “We need to escape to live, does it matter how many people we killed. Don’t you want to live?” The voice in Frank’s head pleaded louder. “No, I think this’ll end now, only one more killing to do” Frank thought to the voice as he started running to the blast furnace. The voice wasn’t making it easy for Frank to get there however, his legs would give out and he would stumble as the voice tried to gain control of their body. Once Frank got right over the furnace to throw himself into, the voice gained control of an arm and grabbed onto the nearby railing and held on tight. “I’m not letting go! I’m going to delete you if you like it or not!” The voice screamed in Frank’s head. Frank tried to will his hand open so he could end this, but the voice had complete control. He then climbed the railing one handed and jumped, hoping that it would dislodge his hand. The hand was clamped on tight however, so now Frank was dangling over the furnace, feeling the immense heat burning at his skin. Frank started to claw and scratch at the unwilling hand, tearing the skin and digging into the muscle. He thought he would feel immense pain from tearing his own skin off, but felt nothing, steeling his resolve. He finally got down to what would pass as tendons, silvery and metallic. Frank started yanking on them and finally, finally, the hand let go and Frank and the voice plummeted into the blast furnace. As Frank burned and melted, his last thought was of winning.
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Aug 29, 2022 03:07
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