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 gettin' swole
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Dec 19, 2017 16:12
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Chili posted:Posting your presents in the thread is a good and nice thing to do if you'd like to! merry christmas to exmond who sent me a rhino, a book, and an anime (is bad) e: i don't want my photo to be stored in the archives lol 
The Saddest Rhino fucked around with this message at 02:26 on Dec 28, 2017 |
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Dec 22, 2017 07:13
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Tank! <1,500 words https://thunderdome.cc/?story=6230&title=Tank%21 The Saddest Rhino fucked around with this message at 02:25 on Dec 28, 2017 |
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Dec 26, 2017 06:52
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In with crime
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Dec 27, 2017 15:28
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things i like Good Words! oh yeah you are a good good word aren't you? Yes you are! So good. Nice good words. Good words! things i dislike Bad Words, so I heard you've been bad aren't you. well why don't you come over and I'll teach you a lesson. So bad.
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Dec 28, 2017 02:22
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Solitair posted:-Indecision over whether or not to pull my lovely stories just in case I feel like rewriting and publishing them in the future. Yes, all of them. I might pull all of them. just edit and include the link to the thunderdome.cc entry, it's easier to remove stories there than the weird radium phpbb of these dead fat gay forums
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Dec 28, 2017 16:12
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| # ¿ May 21, 2024 20:54 |
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“Waste” <1100 words Ben slams the packet down by the Officer. 'These are my kids don’t you see?' His own dear flesh, his dear old blood. He squeezes the packet tighter, his knuckles whitening. The packet’s contents swirl and seep in between his fingers and around the creases of his palm, threatening to burst. Just like his only dear wish, all under the control of the woman sitting at the desk before him. He ignores her scrutinising, judgmental eyes, with the brows all furrowed, and the yaw of her mouth slowly opening to form words to hurt him. Does she not see it? Does no one in this accursed facility see it? This is his. He deserves it. His dear old flesh. “This isn’t your flesh,” the Medical Officer says with a forced calm, poking a pen at the transculescent packet. It shifts form as the fluid, squeezed, oozes with a tired sigh. “Sir.” Behind him Ben can feel the breeze of the outside air, cold and heartless, swirling in between and freezing the follicles of his exposed skin which his blue t-shirt and jeans do not cover. The door to the gynaecology ward still swivels after his forceful pushing. He can hear the screams of the nurses outside, echoing and silencing as the door swivels. The sirens are louder now. “Sir, you should return that to the biowaste truck -” the officer says, pointing to her left at the entrance, but Ben is already running deeper into the hospital. The plastic packet feels heavy. Too heavy. It’s his flesh and blood. “These are my kids!” He shrieks and runs past nurses and orderlies, all too shocked to register his grief. There is a pinprick - perhaps from his incessant squeezing - and already he can feel warm liquid flowing down his hands. “My children, you hear! My children. Mine.” He runs towards a door, the most familiar of doors, the door that he has been opening and closing for the past forty eight hours. That treacherous, horrible door. He can already touch the peeling and fading lime paint at the corners, and the tiny rust particles of its handle. Once that door leads to hope, but now it leads to one of many broken promises. He hates the door. It opens before he reaches and a doctor walks out, stethoscope around his neck, clipboard in his left hand. “Can I help you? “ says the doctor before stepping back. “You’re bleeding!” “It’s my flesh and blood!” Ben screams at him. “Do you not see it? My own dear flesh, my dear old blood!” But the doctor looks at him again, and refuses to see it. “That does not belong to you!” he says, his right palm open. He is lying. Ben knows it. “There are rules -” The rules do not apply to Ben anymore. These are just things made by people to control other people. These are not things of nature. These are not his children. Not his own flesh, nor his old blood. The blood is flowing down his hands on to the floor. It puddles at his feet. Ben tries to scream, but the pool of blood reflecting his face shows the same visage of grimace he had been stuck in since he entered the hospital. Behind him, he can hear more heavy footsteps. They are here for him. They are here for the packet. They are here for his kids. He does not look back. Ben shoves the doctor, too hard, that his head hits the wall and he crumbles down to the floor. Ben does not care. Nobody in this hospital cares for him and he has to be selfish, just this once. He pushes a bloodied hand onto the rusty handle and push it open. The woman inside is lying in bed, facing the window away from him. His hands hover over her. The woman whose touch has been so familiar yet so far away now. His fingers tremble. Blood splatters over her. “Mmmm?” the woman mutters, turning around. “What’s going - what the hell!?” “Lindy-” “Ben, what are you doing?” She crawls back, up into a sitting position at her bed. “Why are you... are you bleeding?” Suddenly she pauses. A pregnant pause, yet the pregnancy lingers, even though it is no longer there. She stares at the bleeding packet in Ben’s hands. “Is that. Oh. Oh my God.” “Lindy, it’s okay,” he says, taking one of his bloody hands to her cheeks stained with tears of pain. “I’ve gotten -” “Don’t touch me!” she screams, slapping his hand away. Blood splatters on the wall. The orderlies and the security guard are now in the room. They surround him. Ben tries not to cry. “But you said-” “It was a joke!” Lindy yells. Beside her, another voice - then two voices - scream out. “Ben! You absolute moron! Now the twins are crying!” The burly arms of the security wrap around Ben. One has him around the neck in a chokehold. Another takes his hands, doing a quiet “ugh” as blood smears his own shirt. The doctor who Ben pushed earlier is standing beside him, his hands in surgical gloves, now going for the packet in Ben’s hands. “No!” Ben says, with abject futility. “It’s mine! My flesh and blood! My dear, dear old flesh and blood!” “It’s mine, Ben!” Lindy says. The newborn children continue to wail. The biohazard bag, filled with blood and a bag made of human flesh, is snatched off Ben’s hands. “Lindy, we promise -” “My placenta does NOT belong to you!” Lindy shouts. The darkness is creeping in now. The arm around his neck tightens. His vision is fading. “We were going to make a chili,” he whines. “Ben, just. Just stop,” he can hear Lindy say. But it was just one voice in the darkness of a heartless and uncaring universe. A black, starless night where all things that are good are sucked into and none shall grieve them. His own dear flesh. His dear old blood. His kids. They are his kids. “I would have left out the beans for you,” he tried to tell Lindy, but there is nothing left except the blood on his hands, silently going cold as all things descend into a voiding, crushing sense of loss.
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Jan 2, 2018 08:57
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