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ThirdEmperor posted:In.  A man's home is his castle, but it shouldn't have to be a fortress.
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Jul 25, 2017 22:46
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crabrock posted:i'm in, but give me a pic because im too lazy to go through and make sure i don't snag a repeat.  Chairchucker posted:Gimme a picture.  sebmojo posted:in, pic me up 
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Jul 26, 2017 01:14
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Fumblemouse posted:If you gotta flash rule me for my inexcusable presumption, that'd be OK, I guess. Thranguy posted:And a flash rule please. Solitair posted:and a flash rule. magnificent7 posted:I'm in. GIve me a picture of pure emptiness and poo poo. I love the empty.  The Yelp review was terrible.
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Jul 26, 2017 07:57
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Fleta Mcgurn posted:In,  It began when the thieves stole fire from Heaven. MysticalHaberdasher posted:I'm in. Pic, please. 
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Jul 27, 2017 08:17
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, please give me a pic and a flash rule.
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sebmojo posted:Flash me up doof, as fucky as u like, i believe we have uh history in that respect Also, your protagonist is an organ grinder with a decrepit monkey which speaks only in German proverbs. Chairchucker posted:flashruleme RandomPauI posted:in with the boats image, and a flashrule please. Just 800 words right? I think I'm anxious and tense enough to get that much out tonight.
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Jul 28, 2017 11:00
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Electric Owl posted:Question, do the locations have to be derelict in the story? Your location should preferably be derelict at the time of your story, yes, but I will accept locations in pristine condition if the story is about how they came to be abandoned.
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Jul 28, 2017 19:34
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To reiterate, you are only beholden to the previous post if you deliberately try to eschew the abandoned, decaying setting part of the prompt.
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Jul 28, 2017 20:32
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Obliterati posted:In. Picture, please.  flerp posted:in pic plz 
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Jul 29, 2017 05:14
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Sign-ups are closed.
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Jul 29, 2017 10:48
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The following is a gentle reminder to include your photograph (and flashrule) with your story: Please include your photograph (and flashrule) with your story. Thank you.
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Jul 30, 2017 09:30
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I could close submissions now but I've decided to have lunch first for the sake of you stragglers. Don't make me regret this decision any more than I already do.
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Jul 30, 2017 20:22
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Submissions are closed. Good job, those of you who submitted. As for the rest... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4DOKzTHaPfM&t=134s
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Jul 30, 2017 21:59
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Electric Owl posted:in, with:
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Jul 30, 2017 22:20
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 RESULTS https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uV53mhpc1Ww So overall I've gotta say this was a pretty strong week. Not without it's stinkers though, and otherwise mild but prevalent annoyances. While I gave you guys permission to use your photographs as a jumping off point without necessarily having to be married to it, a few of you jumped a bit further away than I would've liked. Letting that slide, however, there was still plenty to dislike with dishonorable mentions Jay W. Friks, Wizgot, RandomPauI, and Mag7 heralding in our week's true loser: Super Sweet Best Pal, who ain't no pal of mine if he's just gonna waste his bland protagonist's architectural ambitions on a story where his dead stoner roommate gets murdered over a random weed cache. And yet good has been done here with a strong stable of honorable mentions: Sebmojo, SurreptitiousMuffin, A New Study Bible!, Kaishai, and Thranguy. I'm not typically this generous but any one of these stories would've won a lesser week, and I wanted to acknowledge that. Special props to Sebmojo for tackling a monster of a flashrule and bringing it home like the biggest fish he ever caught, but unfortunately for him there was another fish this week a hair's breadth bigger: Fleta Mcgurn whose dark yet dignified piece masterfully combined her setting and flashrule into a softly emotional rollercoaster. The throne's all yours Fleta. Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta jet.
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Aug 1, 2017 07:55
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Also, prompt.
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Aug 1, 2017 07:55
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 Mercedes posted:gently caress it, I thought to myself. I rolled the body over, pieces crumbling in my hands. I sealed my mouth to the butthole and took a deep hit. As I coughed, the sensation returned to my fingers. Again I placed my lips to the butthole and inhaled. I felt them. I felt the swarm of locusts deep in the guards lungs and throats. I took another hit. 
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Aug 6, 2017 23:47
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Hit me up Babyflerp.
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Aug 13, 2017 01:29
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Fret not, friendo. Whether we face off or don't, whether you win or lose, your name will always be synonymous with BS around here.
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Aug 13, 2017 01:56
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Megabrawlin'. Charity (490 words) Boy ain't never been too proud to beg, not before. Not before. Dirt and blood, coughing up fierce, scrambling up on them scrawny-rear end legs. Ain't never seen no nothing like that. Good kick's always been plenty enough. Must've spent an hour polishing these boots. Seems a shame. What a shame. "Fear of the Lord's the beginning of wisdom," you remind him. Smile. Let him know it ain't too late. Got a good side, same as any. Settle this Christian-like. Boy's got time. "Ain't God," he says, "Ain't nobody. Just a has— An hour a day every day, seven years. Starting to fade. Now they're stained. What a shame. What a shame. "Mighty thin ice." You circle around. Taking his time, this time. Like a baby doe freshly just shat out it's momma. "Mighty thin ice. Standing at the precipice." Prec-i-pice. You say it sound for sound. Smile, to yourself. Should use that one more. "Don't think I ain't above knocking you in." There we go, on his feet. Kid's got sand, you'll give him that. "Can't sink no lower, Leslie. Getting with Marley. Getting out." "Getting out? You?" You take to his shoulder, his guardian angel. "Ain't nowhere for us Jimmy, nor no Whore of Babylon. Been thinking too much, I can tell. I can tell." "Can't tell poo poo." Pulls back, incensed. "Ain't never done nothing for me. Ain't never done nothing for no one ain't you." "And what she done for you?" "Taught me to be somebody." He swallows. "Taught me my numbers. Taught me count real good. Taught me some of that," he struggles in the moment, "Ar-ith-met-ic." "Arithmetic?" Incredible. loving amazing. The laughter just comes. Couldn't hold back. "Arithmetic. Gone be some kind of math magician? Jimmy boy, listen here: only reason that harlot teach you anything so you count out the change when she done with your little John." "Shut the gently caress up Leslie." "Ain't besmirching her honor, boy. Is what it is. Girl's a whore. Ain't no whore never did no good to nobody, putting me in this position." "Ain't taught me poo poo, Leslie." Keep an old shovel behind the bar. Lots a history with that shovel. Lots a graves. Even made a few. Ain't nobody left make you fetch without a reason, Jimmy boy giving you drat good reason. "Taught you respect. Seems you need a remedial lesson." You lean against the bar, hand groping in the darkness. Find the handle. Weight's just right. "Here's hoping you learn half as good as— The crack of the gun rings harsh and final. A thick leaden knot wells up in your gut. Boy's talking again, only ain't no words. You slip to the floor. Jimmy tucks the pistol down his pants. Ain't scared no more. Ain't scared. Ain't scared. Disappearing. Everything. It's all disappearing. Jimmy's gone. It's all gone. You're gone. All gone. Alone. Born with nothing, gone with nothing. Jimmy...don't go. Jimmy...
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Aug 29, 2017 17:16
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Sitting Here posted:hey flerp can i have til tomorrow night to post my brawl? Work is going to make it a v tight squeeze otherwise. If that's ok with you then i would also ask if the extension could apply to my opponent.
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Sep 17, 2017 06:33
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This is my forfeit post.
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Sep 18, 2017 16:42
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Insert 2 credits to continue.
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Dec 12, 2017 14:24
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Opuntia (540 words) He said he’d be back. She believed him. Eleven years later she still believed him. She’d grown up under the open sky, ten miles out from anywhere, lean and scrawny and full of gristle. She kept a vegetable garden on the roof, and a chicken besides. The chicken’s name was Ben. The chicken’s name was always Ben. Sometimes Ben was a rooster. Right now it wasn’t, and wasn’t likely to be again. She liked having eggs in the morning too much. She was good with her hands. Real good. He’d taught her. She knew machines. Better than people. They often sought her out, the legendary third-rate mechanic. They said she could fix anything. He found her peeling potatoes on the porch. A drop of civilization in the middle of the desert. “What can I do you for?” she asked. She wore a tired smile. She always wore a tired smile, with tired eyes. But her hands knew her work. He had quiet eyes and hard features. He wore an aviator’s jacket like a Roman legionaire. He stepped off his Harley and removed his hat. He always removed his hat for a lady. “Heard you got a knack for fixing things.” “Where’d you hear that?” “Around.” “If you’ve been around you know there’s better than me.” She got up out of her rocking chair and stepped out into the heat. Her shirt was dirty, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, but her hands were clean. She washed them thoroughly. Always. She scratched the back of her head. “Well, what’s the trouble then?” “Nothing special. Need some maintenance, that’s all.” “That’s all?” “That’s all.” Off the side of her house she’d hung an awning. There in the shade she kept her tools, her trinkets, whatever she was working on at the time. A menagerie of metal parts and protrusions. She cleared some space for his bike. He rolled it in. “There’s water if your thirsty.” She said. He wasn’t. After eleven years it came naturally. She did delicate work, her hands on automatic. In another life she was a concert pianist, a sculptor, a surgeon. It didn’t matter whether it was an engine or a toaster. She knew machines. Inside and out. He sat in silence as she worked. She was in her element, threading the chain, making adjustments. She was beautiful. She’d only become more beautiful over the years. He flexed his fingers, felt the pain. “There,” she said. She wiped her brow. “Should last you awhile longer.” “Much obliged. What’s the rate?” “Heh,” she laughed. “For an old dear like this? Seven hundred.” He didn’t correct her. He shelled out the price in folded bills, creased and crinkled. “Ought to set up shop closer to town. You’d do better for yourself.” “Well maybe I like it here,” she said. She didn’t tell him she was waiting for someone. He didn’t correct her. He sat himself down on the seat, his hands finding purpose in his grip. “Well then…later.” “Yeah, later.” He put the keys in the ignition. The motorcycle roared to life. He gave her one last look and was gone. She watched him leave, a thought in her mind. The sky was clear and blue and endless.
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Dec 18, 2017 09:00
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Late but I don't see no gate so in. Hit me.
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Dec 23, 2017 09:36
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Cookery (1,300 words) Patricia never asked to be a wizard. Highfalutin nonsense, all pop and fizzle. She wanted her own five-star restaurant. Somewhere quiet, away from all the noise and commotion. A little place, cozy, classy, and compact. Large enough, maybe, for a handful of patrons. She’d greet them at the door and cook just for them. She’d make it work. But a wizard she was. “Excellent as always,” said Mr. Cavendish looking a good ten years younger than he’d come in. Patricia forced a smile as he took his leave. He’d had the soup. He always had the soup. The door swung shut and, like a puppet whose strings had just been cut, she fell into a slump as she collected the tip. He was generous, at least. “Of course he would be,” she said to herself. “How many places...ah, nevermind.” She had reservations. A large party, it sounded like. She’d need to prepare. The clock on the wall sounded six, six. “Shoot,” she said. She’d spent longer chatting with the old man than she’d realized. Sweeping the perimeter of the establishment with her eyes, with a flick of the wrist she shut all the blinds. “Hard work. Elbow grease. Right, right.” She sighed and signed some symbols in the air. The remains of Mr. Cavendish’s meal stood up from the table and carried themselves into the back, and the room as a whole began to rearrange itself to better meet the needs of her incoming guests. Patricia made her way into the back, side-stepping a pair of dutiful brooms. There, near the freezer, she’d hung a calendar. It was the month of December, and the majority of days had already been ticked with cheerful little Os. Patricia drew her pen from her pocket and curtly added an X for the day; the first since November. “It’s not easy, is it?” asked Murray, solemn yet well-meaning. “Just...give me a minute, please,” said Patricia, “And back in your tank.” Murray offered her a nod and returned to his place in the aquarium. He was an eel, or at least resembled one. His name was Murray because Patricia couldn’t think of anything else at the time. She kept him around for moral support, her exception to the rule she’d set for herself. Curling around his favorite rock, Murray cast an auspicious glance in the direction of the stewpot. “He seemed to enjoy it.” “It reinvigorates his lifespan, of course he enjoys it.” The recipe was an old classic. Perfectly mundane. Patricia had been happy to learn it. No rare ingredients or bizarre rituals. No incantations. A simple soup. But a wizard she was. Patricia clapped her hands together in front of her face. She shut her eyes tight, then opened them with a big smile. “Right, well, back to work then.” She ducked her head out the doorway in time to see the room finish assembling itself. Touching her fingers together, she drew them apart, and so too were the curtains. And so too were they who stood out in the cold. Patricia’s eyes snapped wide. “That’s my girl!” boomed the exceptionally large man among them, “Cutting corners in all the right places!” He could be heard even from outside - and no doubt across the street. The front door swung open, the little bell affixed to the top signalling the official arrival of guests. “Dad. Mom.” Patricia blinked. “...Everyone?” “Of course,” her father said as he squeezed in the door. He was larger than life in all ways which were possible, and quite a few which were, perhaps, impossible. “We know you’ve been busy, but your mother and I thought it would be easier to make time if we were paying customers! Well-paying, of course.” He winked. He took off his hat and stepped out of his coat, both of which hung themselves neatly on the rack. “And well-behaved,” her mother said. She was a willow of a woman, but a sharp look was enough to temper her husband’s bountiful energy. “Yes, yes, of course, of course! Ha ha!” Her father’s laugh was loud and boisterous. Patricia’s own was awkward, stilted. “Ah ha ha well then.” She scratched the back of her neck. “What...what would you like, then? For dinner?” “Oh surprise us,” said Aunt Mildred, her fingers covered in rings. “Something warm,” said Little Irwin, her cousin who wasn’t quite so little anymore but cherished childhood nicknames were hard to shake. “A warm surprise!” said her father. “Like family for the holidays!” “R-right then,” Patricia nodded, doing mental arithmetic. Seventeen guests. “I’ll just be...right back then. Please, please, take a seat, all of you.” She disappeared into the back. Murray watched her shut the door and slink down in front of it. “Larger than you thought? Though I guess it’s like your father to invite a few extra people.” “Did you know about this?” “What? No. I just took down the reservation.” Patricia stared at him. “Honestly master, I didn't know. He didn’t give his name, and you word-speakers all sound alike to me. Even I sound alike to me when trapped in this form.” Patricia sighed and stood up. “A surprise. Something warming. Okay.” There was a knock at the door. “Patricia? Can I come in?” It was her father, only it didn’t sound like him. Not quite like him. Patricia peeled open the door, and her father filled the kitchen, the sound of chatter and laughter at his back. He shut the door behind himself, and the room was silent. “Is everything alright, Patricia?” “Yes, yes, it’s fine, all fine.” Her father’s face furrowed. “I was recommended this venue by a friend of mine. A small place, he said, but very homely, down to earth. He spoke of the owner who would sit you down, take your order, but also stay awhile to chat, to get to know you. He said it always felt like going home.” He looked down at his daughter, his eyes black and glittering like the midnight sea. “I suppose it might be different when it’s family but I detect there’s something not quite with everything.” Patricia leaned back against the countertop. She chewed over the words she wanted to say. “Are we a problem?” “What? What? Oh, no, no, you’re not.” “Then what is?” “It’s just...I said I never wanted all that. Said i wanted to be a chef.” She spoke as someone tired and weary. “And your mother and I gave our blessing.” “But it keeps happening. Whenever I cook anything, no matter the recipe, I always get a little magic in it. And people say they love the food, but do they really? Or is it the magic? Maybe my food is awful but the side-effects keep people coming back. And now you’re here, and yes, I love all of you, but it’s like this big reminder I can’t escape who I am. I can’t just be a chef, I’m a magic chef.” She waved her fingers around for effect. Patricia’s father nodded. “Well you know me Patricia, I keep my ears pretty close to the ground. I’ve heard a lot of good things from a lot of different people about this place, and none of them ever mentioned anything remotely magical about it... except of course, for the service provided by the industrious young women who runs the place.” Patrica sighed. “I know, I know, it’s probably just in my head, but all the same.” He father clapped her on the back. “Well, you know I’d tell you if it were bad. So hurry up and cook something so we can be the judge.” He gave her a smile and returned to the front. Patricia considered his words. She turned and grabbed a ladle. Murray watched on.
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Dec 26, 2017 09:40
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2018teen: Arguments Against Literacy. 2018teen: Reading Rambo. 2018teen: Book Retorts. 2018teen: The Hero With a Thousand Facebook Accounts.
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Dec 27, 2017 18:18
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Also, in.
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Dec 27, 2017 18:18
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Last post.
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Jan 6, 2018 15:50
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