Thunderdome 2021ne: Out of the Dumpster and Into the Fire

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > Creative Convention > Thunderdome 2021ne: Out of the Dumpster and Into the Fire

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Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

hanging out with

you might have to remind americans what this phrase means

(USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)

# ¿ Jan 18, 2021 00:14

Adbot: ADBOT LOVES YOU

# ¿ May 16, 2024 16:55

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

It is nice to see you Toanoradian!

# ¿ Jan 25, 2021 06:58

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

is it really a brawl if all involved parties are relentlessly blowing each other

# ¿ Jan 30, 2021 07:13

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

SEBMOJO :black101:

There's a new goddamn sheriff in town* and I'm calling you out. Your reign of tyranny has gone unchecked too long.

I swore I'd never brawl your procrastinating lackadaisical rear end again but circumstances have changed and I would be remiss if I didn't kick your rear end right now.

What do you say, pardner?

*the admins inform me that this town is, in fact, big enough for the both of us.

# ¿ Feb 10, 2021 22:52

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

# ¿ Feb 11, 2021 02:35

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

in, So much go the jar to spring that at last it break there.

# ¿ Mar 3, 2021 22:22

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Obliterati posted:

Sitting Here - Sebmojo Brawl: A Noon So High It's Illegal in Amsterdam

Your story takes place during the last high noon there will ever be.

Word count: 1500

Due date: 24th February, 2359 UTC

Gun Mettle

The sun is a hair�s width away from high noon and you don�t give a gently caress about who is at the other end of town waiting to shoot you dead.

It�s this thought that inspires you to prematurely draw your revolver and hurl it into the sky. The weapon arcs out of your hand, up and up and up through the stratosphere and the ionosphere and the magnetosphere, into the vacuum of space.

Your opponent, some anonymous figure in a black hat and poncho, smirks a villainous smirk and laughs a villainous laugh, and raises their weapon at you, because that�s the sort of thing a villain does in this situation. And you, being the defeated hero in your darkest hour, spread your arms and thrust out your chest and generally prepare for what you hope is a nobly tragic death, even though you hurled your gun into space, which was a remarkably dumb move even for you.

Your gun, though, is on a significantly less hackneyed trajectory than you and your villainous counterpart. After achieving escape velocity and entering interplanetary space, your gun, unimpeded by the friction of an atmosphere, begins to gather speed. As though, upon being hurled from your hand, it was impelled to leave you behind as quickly as possible.

In a matter of moments your gun is approaching light speed, passing Venus and Mercury in the time it takes you to blink away a single stoic tear and make peace with your doom.

And now your gun is entering the corona of the sun, just as the villain is narrowing their eyes to take aim, just as their finger is boa-constrictoring around the trigger, just as you turn your face noonward to say goodbye to the sky.

And your gun, it crashes through the sun with the sound of a breaking bell, a choked rooster, a laugh cut short, a shot gone wide.

Dust wends around your ankles like a hungry cat. The noon sky is dark and full of stars.

The first shard of broken sun lands between your feet. The next one takes your enemy between the eyes. The rest fall like knives into the town, turning the people and places you used to know into confetti. You stand and wait for your gun to fall back to earth with the remains of the sun, hoping to feel the cold catharsis of its handle again. But your gun is gathering speed, building escape velocity, accelerating out of your cosmic backwater, hurling itself toward places you�ll never go.

# ¿ Mar 4, 2021 05:06

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Prompt: So much go the jar to spring that at last it break there.

Saint Anybat
1800 words

I wake up just in time to see the emaciated cougar closing in for the kill, head low to the ground, eyes glinting in the moonlight shining down through the patchy barn roof. St. Anybat is in my hand where she always is, an extension of my body. I swing her hard and she collides with the side of the young cougar�s snout, splits its muzzle against one of those long fangs. The big cat�s eyes go round and perplexed like a kitten�s and it shrinks away from me, turns, and runs.

Shafts of moonlight hang in the air with insolent grace, pretty and lace-like as they shine through the broken roof, indifferent to the fact that I was almost a pile of blood and guts and frankly some poop dappled with smatterings of liminal silver luminescence.

�gently caress the moon,� I tell St. Anybat. �It doesn�t give a gently caress about us.�

I didn�t used to talk to baseball bats, aluminum or otherwise. I used to be a person with appointments in my digital calendar, and a refrigerator, and maybe even a few ideas about what I wanted to do with myself when I got old. If you had asked me back then whether I thought I could have taken a cougar in a fight, I would have told you that if I got to the point where I�m potential cougar food, I�d lie down and let it happen, just to get it over with.

But a cougar attacked me and I won, and the world is broken beyond repair, and I don�t think I�ll ever have a refrigerator again. I watched little bits of my life sheared away in translucent layers � small failures in infrastructure and government and human decency, things you tell yourself will get better in your lifetime � until all the skin of it was gone, leaving only ugly exposed bone, solid and incomplete.

My friends all died and the people left behind are awful. I think I�m basically okay, as far as solitary apocalyptic wanderers go. I haven�t actually directly murdered anyone, technically speaking, because I�m the kind of coward who leaves someone to die after whacking them in the head with St. Anybat until they go all twitchy and unconscious, though in my defense that particular person was going to murder me and take my few worldly possessions. After I�d already offered to share my canned corn, even. I hope he�s doing okay, I guess. I don�t think it�s especially his fault he wanted to murder me and take all my things because this is really a very traumatizing situation and no one is at their best right now.

I'm thrumming with adrenaline after the run-in with the cougar, and there�s a few hours before sunrise. If I move while it�s still night, I�ll be able to walk the roads awhile before daylight forces me back under tree cover.

One of the few things that didn�t die out with the old world was assholes with remote control drones. They�re all with the militias now, and militias are bored as hell. For the first few years, the apocalypse was everything they�d ever hoped for � lots of vying for territory, fending off the remnants of the United States military, that sort of thing. But then it all just kind of settled down, territorial lines were drawn, and the militias had to come to grips with how difficult it is to run an oppressive microstate without a federal government to vilify and unify against. If you�re traveling alone, however, and they spot you with one of their drones, they�ll absolutely get their poo poo together long enough to abduct and enslave you and, if you have a uterus, force you to populate the world with white supremacist babies.

The highway I�m following is marked 202, a cracked smear of concrete linking the remnants of three small towns along the length of a river valley. Mist hangs in low curtains over marshland, catching and diffusing the moonlight into a silver screen; elk move in silhouette like shadows on the surface of the mist. St. Anybat is a warm, comfortable weight in my hand, and for a little while I notice that I�m just breathing, not feeling any particular thing, but in a nice way, not a numb way.

In the beginning, all the good weapons were taken, like everyone else got to the apocalypse before me and already knew how to shoot guns and crossbows or swing a machete. Maybe it�s out of embarrassing necessity, but me, I like a bat. Bats are user friendly, the ultimate beginner weapon. Swing. Bonk. Repeat.

The first bat I found was made of wood and saved me from a lot of trouble with racoons and rapists and ultimately had to be sacrificed to become a campfire one particularly desperate winter night. I cried a lot as it burned, the first time I�d cried since coming to terms with the fact that my life was over and friends were dead. That night I dreamed of a sexy baseball bat with comically huge cartoon boobs and lips, with the lips kind of floating in front of the bat like a really bad CGI animation, and she told me that everything was basically okay and that she would always be with me. It was sort of stupid, like, not the kind of dream you�d put in a movie because the bat lady was so awkward to look at, but the next morning I found another bat almost first thing, and so St. Anybat was born.

There�ve been a bunch of incarnations of St. Anybat, but this aluminum one has been with me for a good three months now, the longest bout of companionship I�ve had since before all my friends died. It�s probably too much to ask but I�d like for her to stay with me this time, because those gaps between incarnations of St. Anybat are so lonely and dangerous, and I�m tired of being lonely and in danger.

The sky shifts from velvety black to drowsy grey, my cue to duck into the wet tangle of forest lining the road. It�s slow going; this part of the country still gets snow, so the rivers and wetlands are swollen with seasonal melt. I sound like a big walking queef as I move through the muddy forest, squelching and sucking my way through the mud, holding onto skinny tree trunks for balance, my skin Brailled with nettle bumps and bug bites.

Eventually I find what I�m looking for: old railroad tracks leading to a decommissioned railway bridge. There are a few old houses on the other side of the river, places the militias don�t go because there�s no real reason to. Rabbits, too. Lots of them. Fat ones, even, with lots of babies on the way come spring. I should be able to hole up there for a while, wait out the rest of the cold season.

I get to the railroad bridge and can barely hear myself think over the stadium crowd roar of the river. It�s strange to hear something so loud after so much quiet, and I don�t like it. I heft St. Anybat onto my shoulder, tilt my head so her cool aluminum body tickles my left ear.

�We�re gonna be okay,� I tell her, like she�s the one who needs to hear that.

I clamber onto the railroad bridge, careful on the rainslick wood. If I look down I�ll be able to see the muddy churn of the river below, so I don�t.

The thing about the rushing river is that it�s so loud I don�t hear the telltale hum of the approaching militia drone until it's on me, hanging overhead like a hovering insect, its four propellers whirring in a blur, a single red light glinting like an eye next to the camera. I'm in the middle of the bridge, perfectly equidistant from both avenues of escape. The drone is small and maneuverable, seemingly unarmed, but perfectly capable of following for at least some distance, even if I do escape into tree cover. They�d know where I intend to hole up, would be able to come scoop me up at their leisure.

It�s hovering surprisingly close, and after a moment I see why: the camera lens is cracked and foggy, probably close to uselessness, which means the operator is likely having trouble getting a visual on me. Maybe. I look toward the far end of the bridge, palms sweaty around St. Anybat. If I were on flat ground I could sprint for it, hope that the drone operator gave up before I lost my wind. But I�m not; I�m on a wet, slippery railroad bridge over a white water crush of snowmelt � another two minutes of slow, methodical clambering if I don�t want to risk falling to my death.

And then in my mind�s eye I see that big-titted baseball bat with her pouty lips hanging nonsensically in the air. Hey, she says. It�s gonna be okay. Just throw me. You�ll see.

�But you�ll fall,� I whisper.

You know I�ll be back, St. Anybat says. Just let me do this one thing for you.

The drone hovers just a little closer and in my guts I know I won�t get a better chance than this. I spin the part of my arm that is St. Anybat, build up as much momentum as my shoulder can stand, and then I let go, hurl her like a javelin out over the river, watch her arc arrow-straight toward the drone �

And miss. She sails past the drone in a graceful arc, lances downward into the river, submerging for just a moment before popping up to bob along overtop the toothy white froth, her body a toothpick in a cataract of spit.

I look up at the bleary-eyed drone. It looks back at me. St. Anybat is already gone, disappeared around a bend in the river, another dead friend.

As I pick my slow, frantic way across the bridge, drone following lazily behind, all I can think about is that cougar, whether it found something to eat, whether it�s holed up under a bush pawing at the gash I left in its face, whether agonizing infection has already started to set in, and I wonder if I � the old me � had it right to begin with, that it would have been better to lie down and be cougar food, to sustain life rather than cling to it.

# ¿ Mar 7, 2021 13:55

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Gorka posted:

While we�re waiting for the results of this week's contest, if you wondered what those gibberish words were from, well, they're mostly French and Portuguese idioms and proverbs, translated in an interesting way.

Which is to say they were translated word for word, without really trying to convey the original meaning.

I�ll try to dive deeper into those that were picked up for this Thunderdome.

To force to forge, becomes smith � French idiom � C�est � force de forger qu�on devient forgeron.
Phrasing is all over the place. A better translation would have been : It�s by forging/smithing that you become a smith.
There's a direct equivalent : "Practice makes perfect." It's the same for smiths and writers!

A bad arrangement is better than a process � French idiom � Un mauvais arrangement vaut mieux qu'un (bon) proc�s.
Translation is not that bad, just a bit ambiguous. Better translation : A bad settlement is better than a good lawsuit.
Meaning : People tend to lose less if they reach a settlement out of court than if they end up going to court.

He is not so devil as he is black � Never heard that one, might be an equivalent to �Don�t judge a book by its cover.�

It is better be single as a bad company � Old French idiom � Il faut mieux �tre seul que mal accompagn�.
A bit ambiguous and grammar is off. Better translation : Better to be alone than in bad company
Meaning is self-explanatory.

To build castles in Espagnish � Old French idiom � Construire des ch�teaux en Espagne.
Funny way of translating Spain, but mostly correct.
Building castles in Spain means having plans that will never succeed.

The stone as roll not heap up not foam � Old French proverb, originally from ancient Greece � Pierre qui roule n�amasse pas mousse.
Phrasing is weird, confusion between foam and moss. A rolling stone doesn't gather moss.
Meaning : someone that keeps on moving left and right without settling will never gather any riches

He has fond the knuckle of the business � No clue about that one.

So much go the jar to spring that at last it break there � French and Portuguese proverb � Tant va la cruche � l�eau qu�� la fin elle se casse. � Tanto vai o pote � bica, que um dia se la fica
Word by word translation of a phrasing that is awkward to translate as is. Equivalent to the idioms �The pitcher will go to the well once too often� or �If you keep playing with fire you must expect to get burnt�

Friendship of a child is water into a basket � Spanish idiom � Amor de ni�o, agua en cestillo
Translation is mostly correct. Meaning is that a child�s friendship is something that can be inconsistent and quickly forgotten by the child.
There might be a Portuguese version of the idiom, but I couldn't find it.

Few, few the bird make her nest. � French idiom � Petit � petit, l�oiseau fait son nid.
This one might be my favorite. I feel like the translator had no idea what the idiom meant and where he was going with that. Closest translation might be �Step by step, the bird makes its nest.�
Meaning : every accomplishment is made with small steps.

If you are curious about some of the other idiotisms, just hit me up and I'll add them to this list.

This is a cool post, thank you for making it

eta:

quote:

He has fond the knuckle of the business � No clue about that one.

Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 06:02 on Mar 8, 2021

# ¿ Mar 8, 2021 06:00

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

well gently caress

Thunderdome Week 449: Dysfunctional r/elationships

There are a good number of you who are familiar with the R/Relationships subreddit, and/or the various iterations of the r/relationships thread in GBS. If you're not familiar with that subreddit and its ilk, here's the gist: most people have problems. Some of them choose to go on Reddit and write up elaborate, drama-riddled posts about their problems.

This week we will be writing posts in the style of real life people sharing their real life problems on Reddit (or other advice outlets). Your job is to come up with a FICTIONAL(!) story of drama, pettiness, dysfunction, or human folly, and write it in the style of someone seeking advice on r/relationships, Am I The rear end in a top hat, Dear Abby, etc.

For extra inspiration, you may request a random Wikihow image when you sign up.

If it's not clear from the prompt itself, this week is supposed to be fun, so don't worry too much about getting literary.

FAQ

How should I format my post?

You should format your post just like any other Thunderdome story; no gimmicky formatting, no quote tags. The title of your post should resemble the titles of posts from R/Relationships, AITA (Am I The rear end in a top hat), or otherwise be in the style of someone seeking advice on the internet. Here are some random example titles from the thread linked above:

quote:

In love with the wrong (married) man

AITA for not apologising to my sister, at the cost of no longer being her bridesmaid?

My (M19) boyfriend (M20) has such bad breath, and really weird hygiene.

Are there any topics that I shouldn't write about?

Yeah I don't want to read about sexual assault, abuse of any living thing, your kinks, or anything gratuitously traumatic. The most memorable R/Relationships-style stories are the ones that are a little bit weird, funny, or infuriating in a low-stakes way.

Are there any genre restrictions?

No! If you want to write about a ghost who refuses to wipe their rear end or a sentient spaceship who wants to explore polyamory, go right ahead. It still has to read more or less like an advice-seeking post, though.

Help I don't read reddit or GBS, I don't understand this prompt at all

If you skim the r/relationships thread in GBS you'll get a decent idea of what I'm looking for. If you really don't want to do that, try writing as though you're seeking advice from a columnist like Dear Abby.

So this means I don't have to tell an actual story, right?

Wrong! Your post should still basically contain a story, even if on the surface it reads like an advice-seeking post. It's okay if your entry is a little more like a narrative than the standard advice post; we are still writing fiction here, after all.

I have other questions!

Ask in the thread or hit me up on Discord and I will add more answers to this post.

Maximum word limit: 1000 words
Entry deadline: Friday, March 12 at 11:59:59PM PST
Submission deadline: Sunday, March 14 at 11:59:59PM PST
Not The Assholes
Sitting Here
?
?

The Assholes

# ¿ Mar 8, 2021 10:29

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Please include your picture when you post your story (for archival purposes). That said, these are mainly for your fun/inspiration. I'm just mashing the random article button and grabbing the first interesting thing I see.

Oh and I keep weird as hell hours because my schedule is ridiculous right now, bear with me if you request an image.

Beezus posted:

I'm in. Hit me with a wikihow, please.

magic cactus posted:

seems like as good a time as any to throw my hat back in the ring. IN wikihow me pls.

Idle Amalgam posted:

In edit: wikihow please

Black Griffon posted:

My god, is that—
In
Wiki me.

brotherly posted:

In and Wikihow me please

Thranguy posted:

In, with a wikihow

Aardvark! posted:

in. Give me a wikihow image please

Chairchucker posted:

It's me, an rear end in a top hat.

EDIT: wiki me please

toanoradian posted:

Found this just when browsing the subreddit!

I brought my Drake posted:

In and wikihow please.

# ¿ Mar 8, 2021 21:10

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Rhymes With Clue posted:

In + wiki

# ¿ Mar 12, 2021 18:27

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Signups are closed :siren:

If you received a wikihow pic, please include that in your story post when you post. If you already posted and you didn't do this, don't edit your post! Just remember for next time.

QuoProQuid posted:

in and wikihow me

(Sorry for the delay QPQ, my weird schedule strikes again)

# ¿ Mar 13, 2021 11:38

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Submissions are closed.

My schedule is really weird and difficult on Mondays so you're all going to be very patient while we judge. Failure to be patient may result in me neglecting to notice your entry, because i'm in such a rush

# ¿ Mar 15, 2021 09:43

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

I (42069F) have to judge a really weird week of Thunderdome (8N/A) and it's hard.

Some background: I met Thunderdome on some forum nearly nine years ago. Before you're like "ew", first of all, it's STRICTLY platonic. Thunderdome is more like a child to me, i guess. It helps that they act like a huge baby sometimes. But I digress. Mostly things are perfect. Thunderdome posts stories, I read them and choose a winner and loser. Pretty chill.

Here's where I think I may have hosed up. I know that a lot of Thunderdome users are fans of a certain forums thread, where people argue about posts from from here on Reddit (weird, right?). I thought it would be nice to give them the chance to write stories in the style of those posts. Pretty straightforward, or so i thought.

Wrong. See some people basically tried to write stories that were basically normal stories with a reddit framing device. Other people tried to write reddit posts that weren't really complete stories. Myself and the other two judges (no it's not a poly thing) were at a loss as to how to judge the week. Did we give the win to the best story, or the best reddit post? Or just the submission that made us all feel the best overall?

You may be able to see where this is going.

Brotherly took the win, after some discussion, because they wrote a compelling story that presented a sad, believable situation. Me and the other judges agreed that it was a little more storylike than reddit-like, but still struck a better balance than some stories this week.

Baneling Butts gets an honorable mention for presenting a memorably weird situation with lots of fun details.

Chili gets an honorable mention for presenting a situation that seemed on its surface distasteful or absurd, then spinning it in a sympathetic way.

Rhymes with Clue gets an honorable mention by partial head judge fiat; their story made the head judge want to dispense life advice, and was satisfyingly subtle in a week of relatively shallow plots.

Curlingiron gets an honorable mention in spite of not signing up for the week because i laughed my rear end off.

tl;dr: Brotherly wins and a bunch of other people get HMs.

edit: STOP ASKING ME ABOUT A LOSER. This was a difficult week to judge due to reasons mentioned in my post. It would have been unfair to pick a loser.

# ¿ Mar 17, 2021 08:39

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Yoruichi posted:

What the bloody hell is this? I pull this stunt, with panache, I might add, and I get a DQ, and then the very next week Ms Curling-no-sign-up-iron rocks up and gets an HM?? What. The. Actual. gently caress.

Fight me, Curlingiron, you fire hazard of a hair accessory, you.

The HM was granted per S. Rhino v the people, week 214, (2016) wherein an unsignedup winner was selected

# ¿ Mar 17, 2021 09:19

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

sebmojo posted:

Gonna get so fuckin rich

uh this currency is backed by GOOD stories, bud

# ¿ Apr 1, 2021 09:51

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

I'm IN because i followed through on walking 5.4 miles today. I took a lot of photos and sat under a silver tree.

# ¿ Apr 14, 2021 04:59

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Day 1, 5.4 miles: A woman screaming, a silver tree, jeff bezos's balls.

Day 2, 3.05 miles: Looping people, tent city, evil eye, human suffering.

The Sad Girl and the Luminous Abyssal Nothing
740 words

There�s a tower on a hilltop in the city by the sea.

At the bottom of the tower lives a very sad girl. Each morning, between moonset and sunrise, when the birds have just begun their hymns, she climbs the ladder to the top of the tower. From here the girl might view the entirety of the city by the sea, spread out around her like the brocaded skirts of her dress, but she barely raises her eyes to look past the parapet. She goes instead to the thing resting on its slab at the center of the roof, and kneels.

The thing on the slab, dweller atop the tower, is called the demiurge. Its cardigan is moth-eaten and torn around the collar; its hair is a pale, matted nest for its head. Its lips have pulled back in a rictus grin that shows huge brown teeth and a receded gum line.

Each morning, as the girl kneels before the thing on the slab, a humid whisper curls from between those teeth: Bring me something that is not myself.

Frustrated tears cool her cheeks as she descends from the top of the tower. There�s nothing in the city by the sea that isn�t the demiurge, because the demiurge created the city by the sea. Even so � each morning, as starry black velvet gives birth to sungilt blue sky, the very sad girl leaves the tower in search of some aspect of creation that is not its creator.

The buildings below the tower are slanted and brown as the demiurge�s teeth, crowding out the sky so the narrow city streets are hooded in perpetual shade. There are people here: half-formed ideas of people dragging their legless bodies along the cobbled road with their knuckles. Emptied out people who sit with their backs to the toothy buildings, their heads between their knees. Vivisected people who sing fever dreams to a sky they�ve never seen.

One of the vivisected singers notices the sad girl and seizes her by the wrists. �This isn�t me,� they say, and their breath smells like dust. �I swear this isn�t me.�

�I�m sorry but it is,� the girl says. Then, before she pulls her wrists away, she adds, �I really am sorry.�

She ends up, as she often does, at the great harbor by the sea. Ships here fly the banners of many nations, but they never arrive or depart. There is only ever the implication of arrival and departure. Faceless grey teamsters move empty containers off and on ships, then reverse the process the next day � elaborate pantomime, the facsimile of a bustling trade hub.

The girl looks down at the churning froth of waves around the pilings below the pier. Does the city end there, at the skin of the water? Does that mean the demiurge ends here, too? She knows, with the certainty of an appendage, that the demiurge does end here, because she ends here. Looking down into the waves, the very sad girl does not see her reflection against the sky. She sees nothing at all, except the idea of waves that should be there.

She gathers her brocaded skirts, hoists herself over the railing, and drops into the sea.

Below the harbor is an absence blacker than sleep, an abyss that reflects nothing except the limits of the demiurge�s imagination. But this is still a reflection of the thing itself, however oblique. If there�s something to be found here, some quality of creation that doesn�t reflect the demiurge, the girl will have to sink deeper to find it.

The pilings below the pier fade into darkness, then cease to exist altogether. Light ceases to exist this far down, too, because there�s nothing for it to illuminate. The girl wonders: was this how it was before the demiurge built the city?

She is suspended now in a place that is neither black or white, light or dark. It is the hue of longing, the craving of nothing to become something.

How do you find a part of creation that is distinct from its creator? You make it. The very sad girl from the bottom of the tower on the hilltop above the city by the sea extends the finger of her awareness into the nascent potentiality of the darkly luminous abyss and begins to write:

O

C

K

!

# ¿ Apr 19, 2021 10:29

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

ill be in

# ¿ Apr 21, 2021 09:05

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

hellerulle me bb

# ¿ Apr 22, 2021 00:13

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

sebmojo posted:

your characters are flies

come on i wouldn't even dip my tortilla chips in that

gimme something really spicy. Something from your private reserve.

# ¿ Apr 22, 2021 11:12

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

afaik all these sentences are 40 words each. I confirmed with Seb that hyphenated compound adjectives are one word. The archive count will most certainly be very off due to formatting and such.

Treehouse Herons
1000 words

Two decades later, the treehouse is still coated in trace amounts of Sean and Damon: on the walls, faded cutouts from swim magazines and crudely-drawn penises; in the air, a lingering odor of body odor, pot, and something vaguely assy. It seems to Sean that he and Damon were in the last wave of teenagers who did things like build treehouses for the purpose of clandestine sex and cannabis use, before everything went to kratom and TikTok and insular memes.

Speaking of Damon: he�s looking at Sean very seriously, and Sean snorts because it�s the same serious face Damon has made since he was an adolescent, a moody teen�s expression on the bone structure of a forty-three year old man. His lips pursed and puckered, the skin of his brow accordioned up between his furrowed eyebrows, self-conscious storminess in his dark brown eyes -- this is a look that would have made seventeen year old Sean�s heart tapdance behind his sternum.

When Damon continues to glower, Sean says, �Man, can we not do the thing where you act all coy and refuse to tell me why you called me here because you have it in your head that I should know already?�

Damon deflates a little, and it�s pretty clear that he wants to act out some arcane melodramatic old friend ritual, but this isn�t the long, lazy summer of 1995; Sean is taking an extended lunch break for this nostalgic interlude. He can feel obligations piling up in his email inbox, a game of tetris with no one at the controls, and, oh, isn�t this disrespect for his time central to why he and Damon drifted apart in the first place?

�Right, right, sorry, if I wanted the full friendship package deal I should have booked an appointment further in advance,� Damon says, then rushes to add, before Sean can retort: �I am here to negotiate the terms of a detent.�

Sean, on the drive over, was preparing himself for any number of things -- chiefly among them, the hopeful possibility that Damon might apologize for all the times he was a self-centered time vampire -- but now he can only say, �What?�

�I try not to give too many shits about what you get up to these days,� Damon says, �but I couldn�t stop myself from noticing you also RSVPed to Edward�s party, and I want to establish rules of engagement.�

Oh, dammit, Sean thinks, because he absolutely RSVPed to hot-new-guy-in-town Edward�s shindig with the intention of confirming his romantic preferences and, if invited, relentlessly flirting with him, but it seems Damon is in possession of a similar plan of action. Southbend is a small town not noted for having a robust gay population; as far as Sean knows, he and Damon are the town�s gay population, so the last thing he wants to do is alienate Edward with their bickering.

�We don�t know he likes men,� Sean says, though he�s a thousand percent sure Edward does; he�s got the energy of an aging millennial who just realized it�s 2021, which, for all its flaws, is an awesomely, triumphantly gay year.

Damon gives Sean another, more legible look: I know that you know that I know that you know the new guy is gay as the day is long, don�t try to make this about that, says Damon�s incredulously furrowed brow.

�Fine, I won�t flirt with him at the party,� Sean says, �but I do reserve the right to be freakishly charming and if he decides I warrant further investigation I�ll ask you to kindly not be an rear end in a top hat about it.�

�I won�t take up anymore of your day,� Damon says as he stands halfway up, minding the low ceiling, and crouch-walks over to the trapdoor, adding before he goes: �but it�s nice to see you, whatever happens at Edward�s party.

.

Edward, as it turns out, lives in an ultra-modern woodland-chic A-frame house, favors understatedly bold party motifs, and has a fantastically kind boyfriend who is both built like and employed as a firefighter; Sean thinks he�s actually going to die.

He settles for loitering on the back deck with the smokers instead; after two drinks he even bums a cigarette off a random partygoer, feeling very novelistic and angsty as he observes himself moodily smoking, brooding on an unrequited crush. Once it might�ve been Damon that Sean was brooding about; for all that he dominated Sean�s time when they were younger, Damon never dominated it in the right way, the way Sean wanted him to: sweet, exploratory, experimental, and intimate. gently caress, but this has to be the alcohol talking now, Sean chides himself, because he hasn�t thought about Damon in a romantic way in years, has spent most of his adult life building up a healthy layer of protective resentment.

�Damon, over here, I�ve spotted your Sean,� calls Edward, who is presently framed in the sliding glass door; behind him is a dim mass of swaying, grinding bodies, and a sheepish-looking Damon nursing a cocktail as red as his face. �Damon was worrying that you�d sulked off to have a terrible time, and I would be remiss if I let that happen under my roof, so I thought we�d us three have a little chat and sort you two out.�

�I don�t think there�s an �us two� to �sort out,�� Sean says, though now that the possibility is on the table, he feels within himself an achingly-in-love young man who wishes someone had sorted him and Damon out years ago.

Edward laughs--gentle, not derisive--and says, �Apparently, no one bothered to tell you braingeniuses that you�ve been dancing around each other like big horny herons for years, and the entire town has been waiting for you to sort �you two� out.�

Sean meets Damon�s eyes, sees on Damon�s face a look so legible it may as well be a kiss: let�s stop talking around this and talk about it, for once, that face says; Sean smiles and offers Damon his cigarette.

# ¿ Apr 26, 2021 05:55

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

i told myself before clicking this thread that if the signups weren't closed officially i'd sign up, so here's me signing up

# ¿ May 1, 2021 13:02

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

it's kinda like this sometimes but also not really
more than 1500 words rip

The empress Sanguira of the Drumfire Plains draped herself languidly across her throne of skulls, one leg slung carelessly over the bundle of polished femurs that served as the arm. Before her lie the audience chamber, her supplicants hidden in chiaroscuro, the grand domed hall too vast to light with magic or flame.

Shuffling from the gathered petitioners. Whispers. Murmurs of: I�m too anxious. You go first.

�sooo,� says the empress, �was anyone going to do an audience or�?�

After a muted interval wherein Sanguira could hear the side-eyes flying between her subjects, a single soul stepped forth. The empress sighed. It was Scruptis, one of the imperial arbiters. A diligent, competent man who was exhaustingly enthusiastic about his job.

The empress sighed again, making sure it was visible in the rise and fall of her shoulders this time. �scruptis audience time is for subjects not employees. if you have something to report there�s a form��

�I have served three copies of the requisite form to your office, empress,� Scruptis said, squaring his shoulders, the picture of righteous indignation. �It would seem that your staff did not get the memo �� he made square quotes in the air with his fingers � � that there�s a new, form-based procedure for making reports.�

�thats because most people just come talk to me, like you can literally just walk into my imperial office.� Sanguira held up a hand before Scruptis could tee up a screed on the impropriety of an imperial open-door policy. �what can i help you with my friend?�

�It�s come to my attention that � � he began, and the audience chamber doors boomed open. Dust fell from the high rafters in a brief trickle, caught in the sudden daylight from the doorway.

A silhouette stood where a moment before had been closed doors. �IS THIS THE DREADED WARRIOR EMPRESS, THEN?� sonored the stranger. �LOUNGING ON HER THRONE SUCKLING BUREAUCRATS AT THE IMPERIAL TEAT?�

�Ooooooooo,� said the petitioners.

The empress sat up straight on her throne. Not because the stranger had commented on it, but because her thigh was getting a little sore from resting on a bundle of femurs.

�hello this is the empress speaking how can i help you,� she said in a dignified sort of way.

The stranger strode into the chamber, parting the flesh of the crowd like a blade, the empress�s subjects drawing back from him with a deference that was frankly irksome.

�HERE�S THE DEAL, I WANT THAT CHAIR YOU�RE SITTING ON. AND ALSO, YOUR EMPIRE.�

The stranger was close enough now to see clearly in the dim of the chamber: He was of warrior stock and warrior posture, clad in the toughened hide of an apocalypse lizard, battle axe strapped to his back. The empress knew of only one man armored himself with the leather of an unkillable lizard: Tyranor, king of wrath. And he was coming for her realm.

�now there�s a name i haven�t heard in a long time,� the empress said, stroking her chin.

�I DIDN�T ACTUALLY SAY MY NAME YET,� Tyranor said.

�yeah sorry i did that thing where i�m thinking a thing but forget to say the whole thought out loud,� the empress said.

�OH YEAH I DO THAT A BUNCH ESPECIALLY WHEN I�M TIRED.�

�well let me tell you what you�ll be doing a lot of if you seize my throne,� said the empress. �it�s being tired, that�s what.�

There was a disgusted noise and a swish of robes. Scruptis leaving the audience chamber in a huff, the empress observed. She felt a pang of guilt; her office had mentioned Scruptis� repeated attempts to formally make a report, and each time Sanguira had put it on the backburner because there were always roughly seventeen other, more urgent things to deal with.

�THAT�S A GOOD INDICATION THAT IT�S TIME FOR SOMEONE WITH A LITTLE MORE VERVE AND ENERGY SO REINVIGORATE THE REALM,� said Tyranor, adding, �YOU FEEBLE MARTINET.�

�nonetheless you�re going to have to fight me. like,� the empress paused, considering, �not to the death but pretty darn close to death. like one of us is on the ground gasping and daring the other one to finish them off but the victor graciously reaches down and offers the loser a hand up? that kind of thing.�

�I THINK IF I WIN IT�S KIND OF MY CALL HOW THE END OF THE FIGHT GOES,�

�ok,� said the empress. �well that�s not going to happen so it�s sort of academic. but yes if you really want to murder me in front of my generally happy subjects and employees immediately before taking over a supervisory role go for it. you can�t kill me in any way that matters anyway.�

She smiled mysteriously. Tyranor could absolutely kill her in all the ways that mattered, but for all he knew she had some sort of imperial myco-thaumatic regeneration invocation tattooed on her rear end. It was good to sow that sort of doubt.

�WHATEVER YOU SAY. LET�S TANGO.�

With a mighty coil and release of his muscular thighs, Tyranor launched himself at the throne and the empress seated on it. In one smooth motion the empress lunged beneath Tyranor�s opening attack, unsheathing her blade as she rolled gracefully across the floor, and came to land in a crouch. Tyranor unslung his battle axe from across his shoulders.

Sword sparked against axe. Tyranor hurled a lance of sizzling thaumatic lightning; Sanguira retorted with a flurry of spectral ravens with scythes for wings.

Those supplicants brave enough to stay for the fight pressed themselves against the walls of the chamber, knowing even so that a stray bolt of magic or thrown blade might take them instead of the intended target. Such was the price of spectating blood sport.

The air took on the ozone stink of war thaumaturgy. In the third hour of the fight, a bold vendor crept into the chamber to hawk greasy ockpig sausages to the crowd.

Sanguira saw an opening in Tyran�s defenses, dropped down, swept her leg out in an arc that took the warrior in the knees, knocking him onto his back. The empress sprung up, raised her sword �

�Empress!� cried someone from the doorway. �Arbiter Scruptis has lost his mind!�

Empress Sanguira turned her head, just as Tyrano regained his feet and unleashed a battering ram of magic that took the empress fully in the side, knocking her to the floor. The wrath king swung his axe in a wide killing arc, halting the blade at the empress�s throat, a kiss of steel on skin.

Sanguira scowled up at him. �really?�

�YOU WOULD DO THE SAME IF YOU WERE THE ONE ON YOUR BACK.�

�i legit wouldn�t,� Sanguira said. �can i go check on my guy before you seize my throne or whatever?�

�TECHNICALLY HE IS �MY GUY� NOW,� Tyrano said. �BUT I CAN SEE HOW I WOULD BENEFIT FROM SHADOWING YOU ON THE JOB BEFORE THE HAND-OFF. YOU TYRANNICAL CRETIN.�

The empress batted the axe away, picked herself up, and strode quickly to the messenger who�d interrupted the fight. �where is scruptis?�

�He got frightfully drunk, empress,� the messenger said, still winded from their run. �Tried to start a fight down at the Golden Dangler, then when there were no takers, he got real morose. Talking about how he�s a worthless good-for-nothing so-on-and-so-forth. Shambled down to the docks, threatened to arrest anyone who tried to stop him.� The messenger gulped. �I don�t think he ought to be near all that deep water, empress.�

�no indeed,� the empress said, and ran for the stables.

Scruptis was a sorry sight, tottering around at the end of a pier, tunic askew, shouting at seagulls.

�Keep fuckin� laughing you winged ingrates,� the arbiter yelled at the wheeling birds. �You n� the empress and everyone.�

The empress dismounted from her horse and approached the despondent arbiter, Tyranor close behind her. �hey man what�s going on i heard you�re having a hard time down here.�

�Oh, good, the empress is here,� Scruptis said, apparently still addressing the seagulls. �Here to mock the bureaucrat with her macho lizard man pal.�

�WE ARE NOT PALS. I AM A WRATH KING.�

�scruptis i�m sorry. you�ve been trying to do your job and i keep blowing you off.�

�drat right you do!� Scruptis said. �Running an empire isn�t all pissing magic at muscular rivals. There�s ledgers n� operating procedures and fuckin�...signage. For example the signage on the royal highway, which currently is neglecting to warn people of the massive landslide outside of Shorpshire, namely that there is a detour around it.�

�oh,� the empress said. �dang that is the sort of thing i should have someone look into.�

Scruptis made an agonized noise, flapping his arms like a seagull taking flight.

�I THINK THAT�S WHAT HE�S BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU,� Tyranor said helpfully.

�i got that,� said the empress. �scruptis, when you sober up i�m giving you full latitude to go ham all over the signage in this realm. and i don�t ignore your communiques anymore. deal?�

�UM. I THINK THAT�S MY � �

The empress whirled around to face the wrath king. �you are absolutely right. i�ll forward you all six hundred of my inbound imperial communiques as well as the dossiers on all the other heads of state who are as a rule fairly unhappy with me. and you can sort out scruptis here.�

The Tyranor the rath king regarded her for a long moment, a warrior�s regard. �I THINK I�LL SHADOW YOU A BIT LONGER. I CLEARLY HAVE MUCH TO LEARN ABOUT THE ROLE,� he said at last.

The empress clapped her arbiter and her imperial understudy on the shoulders. �that is a rad choice my nemesis dude. now who�s up for an ockpig sausage?"

# ¿ May 3, 2021 05:50

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Tosk posted:

I haven't done any creative writing that I've actually finished for a few years, so I'm very rusty and very purple (I kind of always have been). I had the idea as soon as I read the prompt and after realizing that my flakiness was being chronicled (!) I realized I needed to churn it out.

Hope someone enjoys it, I enjoyed writing it! I didn't edit it at all so I'll go over it with fresh eyes in a few hours.

The random Greek thing just came to me after initially thinking about not giving the protagonist any name or using any references to locations, and then it seemed like it worked as a similar device so I rolled with it.

I like your moxie. Just rolling up into thunderdome and saying "why are you tracking everything i do you weirdos, well anyway here's a story!"

You should join our discord if that's your thing: https://discord.gg/Vkmd7ad2

# ¿ May 11, 2021 04:28

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

i have no idea what this prompt is asking me to do so clearly i'm in

# ¿ May 26, 2021 07:55

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

crabrock posted:

what the gently caress

# ¿ May 30, 2021 09:03

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

The Flagon's End
<4k words

The pour

You and your companions smell the township of Crossways before you see its modest roofs and steeples: the verdant odor of hops underscored by the briny pungence of a shallow bay. And, because your nose is sensitive after weeks in the sterility of the eastern deserts, you detect subtle notes of ash, along with something eggy and foul.

Crossways resides on a series of hills that slope down toward a small inland sea; the sea, your guide tells you, is like a maze, rife with rocky inlets and deep fjords. As you and your companions approach from the east, you get the sense that this city has its back to you�all the buildings seem oriented west, toward the shallow bay and the inland sea beyond.

Your guide points out a strange cloud on the southwestern horizon, which you first took to be a distant thunderhead. They explain that it�s an ash cloud from Mount Fear, one of the three volcanoes that tower over these strange western lands. All three could erupt at any time. The guide seems perplexed that, having glimpsed the towering pillar of smoke, you and your companions don�t simply turn tail and flee back across the desert from which you came.

It would be no use. This land is most certainly doomed, but the doom you and your companions escaped was so much bleaker. You don�t dare even think of what you left behind. It�s too horrific. At least in the land of volcanoes there�s the tiniest chance you might survive the dark winter of ashfall and poison air.

Crossways� hills are quite defensible on their own, but at some point in the township�s history a wooden curtain wall was erected to protect the city�s east-facing backside. From a distance, the spindly wooden guard towers look like knobby fingers; flickering electric light shines from some of them, but most of Crossways is lit by torch and by candle.

And where there is a wall, there is of course a gate. Where there is a gate, there are bored customs officials, shabby in their oft-patched uniforms, rattling with weapons. You�ve heard some of them even carry guns, though that may just be a rumor.

It�s nearly nightfall by the time you, your companions, and your guide reach the outskirts of the city. You decide to make camp before heading in; you don�t want to deal with surly customs officers at the end of their shift, and you�re not sure you�ll be able to find accommodations for your party in the township before the morning.

Everyone is exhausted from your desert crossing. You fall instantly asleep in your patched and threadbare tent.

Your guide, however, remains awake. As you and your companions sleep, they make off with the box of ancient circuitry you were going to use to barter your way into the township. When you and your party awake, you realize you now have nothing to offer the officials at the gate, and you will most certainly be turned away with no guide, no supplies, and no hope.

Some of your party suggest trying to persuade the officials. Some of your party believe that stealth is the ticket; surely the old wooden fortification can�t be that hard to breach. Still others advocate for a more assertive approach: wait until nightfall comes again and incapacitate the tired, irritable township officials. A few mumble about magic or strange technologies.

Ultimately, all eyes turn on you and your trusted inner circle of companions. It seems that you are the deciding vote.

The head

By some miracle, or perhaps through your own application of skill and strategy, you find yourself and your companions inside the township of Crossways.

The smell of hops and brine is overwhelming; brewpubs stand on nearly every corner, alive with laughter. The township is surprisingly lively for its size, with people from all over the western lands coming to sample the hundreds of different beers on offer.

There is a deep sadness under all the merriment. You observe, as you and your party make your way through the narrow, crowded streets, that the pubgoers all laugh a little too loud and drink a little too fast, as though the flagon in their hand might be the last one they ever taste. You infer this is because of their impending volcanic doom, though you can�t understand why all they do is sit around and drink about it.

You always thought of these mysterious western lands as a place of heroes, of people who brought down deranged sorcerers and thwarted technological monstrosities. Surely someone is working at this very moment to prevent the catastrophic eruption of Mount Fear and her two sisters.

You work your way toward the water, stopping by several inns on the way, but they�re all full of tourists who�ve come to, in their worlds, drink at the end of the world. As a refugee from your own apocalypse, you find their fatalism nigh-intolerable.

Finally, you and your companions find yourself in a muddy, derelict part of town near the docks. Here you can hardly smell the brewpubs beneath the sickly green odor of rotting kelp and drying fish. The voices of dock workers echo off the buildings around you as they load flat-bottomed cargo ships with pallets of beer kegs.

At long last you reach an inn with claims to vacancy. It�s a sad, stooped old thing, and you�re fairly sure it�s scowling at you as your party approaches, but the steady glow of a neon sign implies a healthy patronage; most of the surrounding businesses sport wooden signs illuminated by lanternlight. The neon sign above the dour-seeming door reads Flagon�s End.

As you and your companions approach the door, you consider that you�ve never been sure whether neon is a chemical thing or an alchemical thing; you�re not even sure whether you understand the difference between the two.

You�re met at the door by the proprietor: a short, handsome woman with a wry grin and heavily lidded eyes. A spidery scar puckers her left cheek and she has the stance of someone who knows how to throw a punch.

�Ah,� she says, as though your arrival is the least surprising thing in the world. �A merry band of adventurers, then?�

If you say yes, then it�s clear that she very much wishes your answer were no. Had your answer been no, she might�ve allowed you inside straight away. At the sound of your yes, however, her wry smile gives way to a rueful grimace.

�We don�t allow adventurers here,� she says apologetically. �No protagonists. No heroes. No chosen ones. It�s for your own good, really.�

There�s a hint of doubt in her voice. An opening. Perhaps you could appeal to her sense of hospitality. Perhaps you could convince her that you�re not really adventurers after all. Perhaps you could learn more about her, use her own painful history of adventuring to your advantage. Your companions are exhausted from wandering the township and all of you stink to high hell; you need a bed and a bath, urgently.

You could give up, lie down in a gutter, and sleep in the noisome muck of the township, beholden to no proprietor, but something tells you this is at best a very last resort. There�s a chance the proprietor might come to your rescue out of a deep sense of guilt, but it�s best not to count on that happening.

The brew

Against all apparent odds, the proprietor, whose name you learn is Cassandra Flagon, finally ushers you inside Flagon�s End.

You squint in the sudden crispness of electric light. You�ve never seen decor like this before; everything is blanched and white, gleaming in the way that only old-world plastics can. The dining tables are somehow lit from within, their creamy translucent surfaces glowing like a sorcerer mid-incantation. Your boots ring crisply on the tiled floor as you follow Cassandra through the dining room and down the opulent hall leading to your party�s quarters.

After a luxurious bath and a brief nap, you return to the dining room to discuss payment with Cassandra. She waves you off and gestures that you should take a seat at the table where some of your companions have gathered.

Within moments, a flagon of beer and a deep bowl of mushroom stew appear before you. After weeks of old ration packets and tepid water, the fare at the Flagon�s End is almost too good. You see your companions having similar reactions, savoring every bite with a kind of reverence. The beer has a sharp, citrusy bite that invites you to sip slowly, which you should be doing anyway, after going so long without.

Cassandra takes a seat across from you and observes thoughtfully as you enjoy your meal.

�So,� she says, �What will you do now that you�re in Crossways?�

Some of your traveling companions pipe up as you swallow a mouthful of stew.

�I�m here to start a new life and make my fortune,� says one. Several voices rumble agreement.

�I came to make a name for myself and do great deeds,� says another, and this too is met with assent.

Cassandra turns to you and your closest companions, one eyebrow raised. �And you?� The earth stirs as you consider, a light volcanic tremor that makes the walls grumble and creak. Cassandra barely seems to notice.

...if you came to start a new life and make your fortune:

Cassandra leans back in her chair and smiles broadly. She seems relieved.

�You were asking me about your bill earlier,� she says. �I would of course consider anything you have to barter. But I have an offer that you might find appealing, one that doesn�t involve trading away your worldly possessions for a few nights� rest.�

As it happens, Cassandra recently lost her entire staff to a clandestine quest, the nature of which grieves her too much to describe to you. As a consequence, she has no one to send to purchase supplies on her behalf, no one to mind the Flagon�s End when she�s away.

After some deliberation with your companions, you accept her offer. Your first task as her employees will be to either:

Find the missing mushroom hunter she commissioned to harvest rare specimens in the forests to the northeast of Crossways.

The forest, you discover, has been overrun by a gang of bandits who�ve been modified by a rogue sorcerer, their bodies a warped amalgam of modern magic and ancient technology. It�s clear Cassandra�s missing mushroom hunter likely isn�t their only victim, and you refuse to imagine what might happen to those people if no one comes to their rescue. Hardened by your recent trek across the desert, you and your companions agree on an approach strategy, then make your way through the bandits� cleverly hidden, well-fortified defenses in search of kidnapped travelers and townsfolk.

By the time you exit the forest with whatever survivors you can muster, you aren�t even sure whether you won or lost the fight with the rogue sorcerer. It doesn�t matter. You stagger toward Crossways with your mind and heart full of death. It doesn�t matter that they were raiders, that they were heavily modified and all but mind-controlled by the sorcerer. You can still feel the impact of sword on bone in your wrists, elbows and shoulders. You don�t think you�ll ever stop smelling the blood and viscera.

Cassandra pays you double the promised rate when you return with the bloodied sack of rare mushrooms, and says there�s more work if you want it. She won�t meet your eyes.

Or

Mind the inn while Cassandra seeks the mushroom hunter herself.

Playing innkeep isn�t the busywork chore you thought it would be! In spite of the apparent opulence of the place, Cassandra�s patrons treat the Flagon�s End as an extension of their own homes. You have to fake your way through gossip about people you�ve never heard of, [/b]convince belligerent drunks[/b] to go home and sleep it off, and hastily put together rooms for a group of sailors whose ship had grazed a rock and had to make an unexpected stop in Crossways� harbor for repairs.

Now and then the earth shakes � Mount Fear and her sisters� reminder that doom is imminent, or at least probable. The patrons at the bar cheer and raise their flags whenever this happens, a drunken salute to death itself.

By the time Cassandra returns with a slightly bloodied sack of mushrooms, you�ve more or less got the hang of things, and the Flagon�s End is bustling. She offers you a relieved smile that doesn�t touch her eyes.

As the weeks go by, Cassandra becomes more and more withdrawn, leaving more of the day to day operations to you and your companions, who you now think of as coworkers.

One day she emerges from her quarters wearing ancient hiking boots and a few pieces of lovingly preserved plastic body armor.

�You�ve taken to this work quickly,� she tells you and the others. �Too many times have I sent hapless adventurers on hopeless errands, based on rumors, no less!� She�s despondent with guilt. You ask her what she intends to do.

�The Flagon�s End is yours,� she says with finality. �The transfer has already been filed with the township, so there�s no arguing with me, I�m afraid.�

You ask her again, more urgently, what she intends to do.

She laughs and says, �Stop the eruptions, of course. Save the world.�

After she�s gone, there�s nothing to do except keep the Flagon running the way Cassandra did; over time, her customers become your customers, and you stop expecting her to return. Mount Fear continues to stir, shaking the earth and sending up plumes of ash, but after the first few years, you stop noticing it.

The mountains will either blow or they won�t, but you, for the first time in your life, are content.

...if you came to make a name for yourselves and do great deeds:

Cassandra sighs. �Greatness of deed is in the eye of the beholder,� she says. �And there are many ways to make a name for one�s self.� You either:

Ask her if she has a particular great deed in mind.

The wry grin returns to her handsome face and she reaches inside her tunic for a folded piece of paper. On it are carefully-written instructions for a beverage that is made from, of all things, fermented honey! Cassandra calls it �mead�.

You can�t recall the last time you saw a bee, much less an apiary, but Cassandra has a plan. On the roof of the Flagon�s End, you�re thrilled to discover, is sequestered a small flower garden; Cassandra explains that she�s been hand-pollinating each plant for quite some time. The only reason she hasn�t acquired her own bee colony is simple: she is allergic, and would die from a single sting. You and your companions, as far as you know, have no such allergy among you.

Acquiring a colony is nearly as hard as you thought. You have to convince a group of conservationists to sell you a queen, which they will only do if you can demonstrate that you have the proper beekeeping equipment, which you have to retrieve from an abandoned farm outside of the city. It�s entirely possible that you quietly fudge a few steps along the way and have to come up with your own solutions, but so long as the Flagon gets its meadery up and running, Cassandra isn�t interested in the details.

Eventually, the roof of the Flagon�s End hums with the labor of bees and the flowers no longer require human intervention to pollinate. Making mead from scratch, you learn, is a long process; first the bees have to make the honey, then the honey has to ferment. One batch of mead is months of work.

By the time you take your first sip of sweet, golden honey wine, you have all but ceased noticing the tremors from the distant volcanoes. The patrons of the Flagon�s End have a habit of toasting the small quakes shook up by the restless Mount Fear; you find yourself joining them in this salute to your imminent demise.

Cassandra, for her part, seems content in a way she was not when you first arrived. She dotes on you and your companions, seeing to your every need, ensuring you want for nothing. For the first time in your sad and weary life, you go to bed with peace in your heart. You realize that even if Mount Fear and her two sisters were to erupt tomorrow, you would die with honey and a smile on your lips, which is, all things considered, a lovely way to die.

Or

Tell her you are going to stop the eruptions and save the west.

Cassandra puts her face in her hands and says nothing for a long moment. When she looks at you again, the anguish in her eyes is almost enough to put you off the idea. Almost. You are a newcomer to this land, scarred by the unspeakable horrors inflicted on your homeland to the east. You have no ties except to your companions, no reason to live except to make life better for others.

�I heard a rumor,� Cassandra says woodenly, �about an ancient fortress with the power to stop earthquakes. Would you like to know more?�

You would.

Cassandra furnishes you with a carbon copy of a map. Someone has scrawled all over the original, marking quake epicenters and circling plausible sites for the anti-earthquake fortress. Most of the latter are crossed out, eliminated from consideration. Peering closer, you realize that the map features several different flavors of scrawl � the handwriting of many people making many marks over many years. Your carbon copy includes these, too.

�You�re not the first to try this,� Cassandra Flagon says as she sorrowfully offers you the map, �and you won�t be the last.�

In addition to the map, Cassandra gives you a set of ancient plastic body armor, a sword that�s light as a sparrow and stronger than steel, and a gun. She doesn�t have ammunition for the firearm, but, as she explains, the person you point it at doesn�t have to know that.

�None of this will help you find the fortress or stop the eruptions,� she says, somber-eyed, �but you might die a little harder.�

Some of your companions stay behind at the Flagon�s End, content to remain in Cassandra�s employ until the volcanoes either erupt or they don�t. The rest, like you, are not content to sit idly by and toast death with the impenitent drunks of Crossways.

You decide to focus your search on a relatively unscrawled region of map�what looks to be a forest that stands some distance to the south of Mount Fear. You circle your destination on the original map, adding your mark to those of your predecessors.

To reach the forest, you�ll have to cross a wide saltwater straight, on the other side of which are sheer cliffs and few places to disembark from a vessel. The straight is patrolled in many places by pirates; you�ll have to defend yourself constantly.

If you reach the other side, there are bandits and marauders to consider; rogue sorcerers wielding magic and ancient tech, commanding grotesque fiefdoms of enslaved and altered people. You�ll have to fight off hordes of them, and even though they�re barely human, you�ll still hear their screams in your sleep, smell their viscera every time you try to eat.

Your party, devastated by the stress and trauma of constant embattlement, will suffer from intolerable psychological fatigue and you will have to hold them together, in spite of your own worn and threadbear heart. There is nothing joyous to think of, no hope to cling to, only the slog toward an uncertain point on an old map.

Mount Fear stands in the distance, visible no matter where you are, flaunting her hateful cloud, taunting you with the threat of eruption.

Your map will be tattered and bloody by the time you find the low hump of earth with the ancient metal hatch. Your companions will be reduced to a handful of dead-eyed ghosts, little more than bodies shambling forward as if yoked to your terrible purpose.

You�ll fall to your knees and sob into the earth. The hatch is locked, the rusty metal no less impenetrable for its age. You won�t know if this is the entrance to the fortress or some long-dead survivalist�s bunker, and if you want to find out, you�ll have to locate the code to the old, still-active keypad attached to the lock.

You won�t locate the keypad. You�ll continue to sob into the dirt until your tears make mud. Your companions will look on numbly as the flagon of you is drained to its dredges.

You see all of this in Cassandra's eyes as she stands on the frowning stoop of the Flagon's End, waving a sad goodbye. Her face begs you to come back, choose again.

Will you?

# ¿ May 31, 2021 04:59

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

missing the deadline but posting anyway is extremely good and :black101:

# ¿ Jun 7, 2021 22:16

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

I'm in

# ¿ Jun 16, 2021 02:05

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

woops

Gorgeous Attaction Warrior Rumina: Calamity Witch Redux
an amount of words

The calamity witch seized Rumina by the wrist and flung her into the roiling portal of cold black fire. Her powers of Gorgeous Attraction drained and her summoning rod broken, all she could do was tumble blindly through interstitial non-space. The last thing Rumina saw was the cold white nothing of the witch�s eyes. The last thing she heard was the heartbroken screams of her friends.

For a while everything was numb and fuzzy and black, as though she were floating through a particularly thick, unctuous cloud of sleep. Rumina decided, with what faculties she had left, that this wasn�t the worst fate she might�ve met. Some of her fellow Gorgeous Attraction Warriors were presently enjoying an eternity of being slowly digested in a trap dimension that consisted entirely of stomach acid, while others had simply been stripped of their souls, leaving their minds and bodies to persist without purpose.

Wafting numbly through nothingness was, as far as Rumina was concerned, an unexpected vacation.

Then the universe clenched around her like a sphincter and, with a muscular heave, extruded her into a penis dimension.

.

�Penis dimension� wasn�t entirely fair, Rumina told herself as she cowered beside a relatively non-phallic stalagmite of meat. Certainly, the cave was bristling with meaty shafts that jutted from the walls at insistent angles, but there was also a healthy assortment of flesh orbs and flesh humps, and even transparent flesh domes containing little clusters of flesh flowers.

What light there was came from the flesh orbs, which glowed a dull bioluminescent red. Everything was the color of exposed muscle and the whole place smelled like a sinus infection.

Rumina felt an absurd burst of nostalgia; the last time she�d had a sinus infection was a few months before her transformation into Gorgeous Attraction Warrior Rumina. Her mother had insisted she leave the university dorms and spend a few days at home recovering. They�d watched terrible old sitcoms, laughed at awkward memories from Rumina�s high school days, and generally bonded like a mother and daughter acknowledging their mutual adulthood for the first time.

Now she didn�t get sick, and her mom was a blank-eyed puppet under the control of the calamity witch.

The lacy cupcake of Rumina�s battle skirts was sodden and heavy with alien mucus. Her knee-length pink hair hung in dark, sodden clumps. At least nothing was actively digesting her, she thought bravely.

One of the transparent flesh domes burst with a sound like a ripping sausage casing. From the meaty flowers within came a stream of rust-colored spore, which drifted away on some subtle current of air. Rumina clapped her hands over her mouth and nose, though she knew it was little use; the air was likely full of the stuff already, which meant her lungs were, too.

The cave had the feel of an ecosystem, rather than one of the calamity witch�s trap dimensions, Rumina decided. Her thesis on ecological interdependencies was still fresh in her head; the protective dome around the flowers was clearly an adaptation, and there was something faintly comforting in that.

She wasn�t the only thing here that felt like it had to fight to survive.

Then a huge glistening tumbleweed made of long, phallic tentacles and way, way too many eyes slurped into view, and Rumina stifled a scream.

.

It was the stuff of pornographic nightmares, the sort of creature that particularly cynical magical girls liked to describe to gullible new magical girls to drive home the grim nature of their role. As if anyone needed reminding.

The mass of knotted appendages heaved itself toward Rumina. All that lay between them was the burst flesh dome and the meaty stalagmite behind which Rumina was cowering. She stepped fully out from behind the stalagmite, hands curled into fists. Her powers of Gorgeous Attraction were gone, but she still knew how to throw a punch, and fully intended to go down swinging.

The creature froze, its dozens of eyes fixed on her, bulging in an alien parody of surprise. It raised several of those dick-ended tentacles in the air.

Rumina braced herself for whatever was about to happen. Her entire body trembled with adrenaline.

With exaggerated slowness, the creature moved its raised tentacles over the burst flesh dome, and ejaculated all over the flowers inside. On contact with the dull-colored liquid, the flowers dissolved into a pink and white slurry, conveniently contained within the shell of the burst dome. Then, with a secondary set of tentacles, it sucked up the viscous mixture it had created.

It did this with the deliberate motions of someone explaining something to a very stupid person. Rumina gagged.

When she was finished gagging, she found the creature watching her, motionless. The way she might watch someone from whom she was awaiting a response.

There was one power the calamity witch couldn�t take, one power that didn�t require a summoning rod or transformation sequence.

Rumina clasped her hands in front of her heart and called on the power of friendship.

.

...and so what your people think of as �dark matter� is syphoned through the cosmic substrate, and its byproducts accumulate here, in the fibrous tissues of these...plants? Organs? Your language doesn�t have a word for a thing that is both a plant and an organ. Regardless, that byproduct is what my kind eats.

�So you�re sort of like the sapient gut flora of the cosmos,� Rumina said, then hurriedly added, �and I mean that in the most awestruck way. I�m legit fascinated.�

Presently she was being held aloft by one muscular tentacle as the creature carried her through the squelching warren of caves. Rumina had to admit that, as revolting as they were, the tentacles were well-adapted to navigating the bulbous protrusions on the cave floor and walls. Aside from the tentacle around her waist, the pair were connected by a prismatic aura of pure friendship, which translated the tentacle monster�s slurping and burbling into words.

It is a noble comparison, if a bit facile, said the monster diplomatically.

�And the calamity witch just dumps idiots like me down here thinking you�ll dispose of us for her?�

There were a few unfortunate incidents where we misunderstood your kind to be food, the tentacle monster said, then quickly amended, A very few. You�re not actually edible to us. Carbon! Blech.

There was a break in the conversation, but it didn�t last long because the sound of the creature�s tentacles moving over the slick, meaty cave floor made Rumina feel nauseated.

�So the calamity witch, she sees you do your dark matter-digesting spooge thing on a couple magical girls, completely misunderstands, and thinks to herself, �yep, this here is a sex assault dimension, better make sure I have this one on speed dial�?�

It is refreshing that you are getting all this so quickly, said the tentacle monster. Some of the other survivors still seem to think we�re going to try and impregnate them with 1,000 arthropod eggs, or something. Impregnate them! With one of these? It waggled one of the tentacles it had used to vomit digestive goop on the meat flowers. How are we going to impregnate anyone with our mouths? Why would we even try?

�How many other survivors are there, anyway?� Rumina asked, trying to contain the small upwelling of hope she was beginning to feel.

See for yourself, said the monster as they rounded a fleshy bend and the cave opened up before them.

.

The refugee settlement was horrible, though someone had clearly tried to make it less so. There were buildings, of a sort. Long, sinuous cables of meat stretched from one side of the cavern to the other. These overhead cables supported squat, tear-drop shaped structures that hung low to the ground, just brushing the fleshy floor of the cavern. Each of the hanging buildings had what looked to Rumina like a gaping, slack-jawed mouth.

From those mouths, humanoids emerged. They came in tattered school uniforms and mucus-crusted battle gowns. They came covered in arcane jewels, armored in runic plating. They came in every shape and color, from across all of space and all of time: magical girls.

No one cheered as Rumina�s monster carried her into town and set her down with a wet squelching sound. They received her with silent resignation. A few tentacle monsters of varying sizes and shades of meaty red hovered at a respectful distance, slurping and slapping conversationally amongst themselves.

A leaderly sort of girl with short black hair and a very short green skirt stepped forward with unmistakable I�m in charge here swagger. Across her back was strapped an improbably large sword with half of a shattered emerald set in the pommel.

�When and where are you from?� she demanded of Rumina.

�I�m from the year 2030. Earth,� Rumina said curtly. �Also, my name is Rumina.�

The leaderly girl rolled her eyes and said, �Which Earth, genius?�

Rumina fixed her mouth in a beatific little smile and said, �The original.�

The gathered magical girls gasped and looked to their leader. A few wailed and clutched each other tearfully.

�Don�t look so smug,� the girl in the green skirt told Rumina. �Since you apparently don�t have the first idea how much trouble we�re in, I�ll tell you. All the other Earths�the parallel dimensions, alternate universes, and evil bizarro worlds�have fallen. You were the last line of defense against the calamity witch.�

Rumina�s expression hadn�t quite caught up with the conversation. She processed this terrible news while grinning like a girl who�d just done her first transformation sequence.

�But that�s stupid,� she heard herself say.

Your worlds were nested like layers of...what�s the rude, stratified flesh thing that�s not an organ? Ah. An onion, Rumina�s monster said helpfully. Apparently, your world was at the center of that onion, which means�

�No more onion,� Rumina said, closing her large golden eyes. This couldn�t be happening.

When she opened them again, the other magical girls were staring at her in horror and revulsion.

�Who are you talking to?� the green skirted girl said in a quiet, careful voice.

Rumina looked back at the tentacle monster who�d carried her to the settlement. �Um, I don�t know their name, but they�ve been very kind and helpful.�

�You talk to these things?�

�Just this one so far,� Rumina said, reaching out to give her monster an awkward pat on one of its long, tubular mouths. The tentacled creature made a movement like it wanted to shift away, then thought better of it and consented to be patted.

The girl in the green skirt looked like she was going to be sick. �How?�

�The power of friendship,� Rumina said.

.

�You legitimately didn�t think of trying the power of friendship on those guys?� Rumina asked the girl in the green skirt, whose name was Chiaki. Chiaki of the Ultra Gem Rangers, defenders of Earth number twelve�the first Earth to fall to the calamity witch.

They were seated together on a bulbous promontory of flesh that overlooked the refugee settlement. Down below, two of the tentacle creatures were working together to suspend a teardrop-shaped pod of flesh from one of the support tendons�a home for Rumina.

�No one else has the power of friendship,� Chiaki said irritably. �We have one girl who can talk to animals, but it didn�t work on the tentacle beasts. We figured it was because they were demons, or something. Prison guards for the flesh prison.�

�They eat dark matter byproducts syphoned through a cosmic substrate,� Rumina said helpfully. �They�re sort of like big phallic algae-eaters.� She was still working on an apt simile.

Chiaki was shaking her head. �I still can�t believe that the destined hero of the original Earth was granted...the power of friendship. What are we supposed to do with the power of friendship? Join hands with the monsters and sing campfire songs until the calamity witch has a change of heart and sends us all home?�

�The power of friendship comes in handy when I�m summoning demigods. And anyway, my friends are still fighting out there, I can feel it.� Rumina said with more confidence than she actually felt. �They don�t need me to win.�

�Not how it works. Everyone the calamity witch trapped here in meat hell? We�re all big time heroes. We all failed, and all of our worlds were destroyed. Magical girl squads don�t work without their big time heroes, this is basic stuff.�

�I don�t like this �big time hero� business,� Rumina said. �I�ve already thought that everyone was the big time hero of their own life.�

�And yet you�re here and all your friends are dead,� Chiaki said, offering no quarter.

�They�re not dead,� Rumina insisted, though her voice lost a little bit of conviction every time she repeated those words.

.

More and more, Rumina found herself seeking the company of Yvonne. Yvonne wasn�t the tentacle monster�s real name�as far as Rumina could tell, they didn�t have a name�but Rumina had known a very nice lady named Yvonne once, and it was a lot nicer than calling them �tentacle monster.�

�It�s called learned helplessness,� Rumina explained as Yvonne carried her over the lumpen cave floor. �The other girls gave it everything they had, and they still failed to save their worlds from the calamity witch. Now they don�t believe anything they do matters.�

And you? What do you believe?

�Everything I do matters,� Rumina said resolutely. �Everything you do matters. Even if it�s just having a conversation like this one.�

I do not know if this conversation has matter, Yvonne said diplomatically, but I am enjoying it regardless.

�Not �matter� in the sense of the physical stuff,� Rumina said. �I meant��

There was a nearby pop sound; somewhere close by, one of the flower-filled nodes of umbral byproduct had burst. Yvonne hastened toward the sound, Rumina held aloft in one tentacle. While most of the cave growths contained some measure of byproduct, Yvonne had explained that the bulbous domes and their flowery occupants were particularly concentrated and flavorful.

And Rumina had an idea.

�How does dark matter byproduct get from our universe to here, anyway?� she asked.

Yvonne finished sucking up the meat slurry and made a squishy contemplative noise that sounded like a sweaty fart.

What you call �dark matter� is a reaction between time, space, and...what�s a word for something that�s both blood plasma and an anecdote? Ah. Meaning. Dark matter is a reaction between time, space, and meaning. When a universe produces a meaningful event, which is quite often, all of the inert, meaningless events that might have occurred are syphoned off, absorbed into the cosmic substrate, where�

�Slow down,� Rumina said. �You�re saying that the stuff that gets filtered down here�the stuff you eat out of those exploding penis flowers�is everything that never happened?�

Meaningless events, Yvonne repeated. Meaninglessness is dense and heavy, so it sinks through the cosmic substrate. Meaning is dynamic and light, so it rises. Ergo, all universes are comprised of mostly meaningful events.

�Let�s pretend that my mind wasn�t just debilitatingly blown by the revelation that most events in the universe are probably inherently meaningful,� Rumina said. �Have you ever tried to refine the meaninglessness into something, well, meaningful?�

.

�It won�t work,� Chiaki told her. �If the monster is right, and meaningful events rise like cream while meaningless ones sink like stones, then by definition everything we do down here is meaningless. Deal with it, Rumina. We don�t mean anything.�

�I still have to try,� Rumina said.

.

By now Rumina was adept at making her own way through the meaty chthonic realm, and no longer required Yvonne to carry her. The two had grown inseparable in other ways, in any case; both as colleagues and something more. Rumina had abandoned her hanging house-sack, opting to sleep in the protective nest of Yvonne�s limbs.

Presently, they were looking for one of the fleshy domes�what Rumina had nicknamed �burst flowers�. She suspected that the secret to the refinement of meaninglessness into meaning lay somewhere in the flowers� production of spore. The burst flowers were the only thing that propagated themselves; all the other fleshy bulbs, shafts, and nubbins were outgrowths of meaninglessness.

�There�s an old adage in Earth Prime biology,� Rumina told Yvonne as they searched. "Evolution is cleverer than you are.�

Studying the spore was nearly impossible; to collect it any amount, she had to be standing directly over the burst flower when it popped, ready with a specialized collection sack made for her by Yvonne. The inside of the sack was lined with material from Rumina�s pink battle skirts, since the spore absorbed into indigenous meat on contact.

There was another obstacle: Rumina, who had been a consummate lab nerd in her pre-magical girl life, was at a complete loss without her electron microscope, petri dishes, pH testing swabs�things she could have found in any high school chemistry classroom on Earth Prime. Even if she had wanted to spend a millennia figuring out how to build her own microscope, there was no source of silica for glass.

She had amassed a palm-full of powdery spores like rust-colored flour in her sack, which she kept on her person at all times. She didn�t trust Yvonne�s siblings, well-meaning as they were, not to eat it. She didn�t trust Chiaki, ill-meaning as she was, to not destroy it.

Rumina had no earthly idea what she was going to do with the spores, but she was trying to do something, and she had Yvonne at her side, and that made her less afraid.

It is a revelation that evolution occurs in this place at all, Yvonne said.

�You had to come from somewhere,� Rumina said, hauling herself over a particularly mucus-laden hump of cave.

I have been considering some of your ideas regarding the origins of my people, said Yvonne. It is...a lot. Before you arrived, I ate. I wandered. Sometimes I found a lost girl and brought her to the settlement. When one has lived simply, it is tempting to assume all things are simple.

They didn�t find a burst flower on that outing, or the next, or the next.

The further their research took them from the magical girl refugee settlement, the more they discovered dark, dead caverns whose walls were smooth and nubbinless. At first Yvonne dismissed it�irregularities occasionally occur in the cosmic substrate�but after dozens of outings, it was clear that a cold, clammy death was circling in on magical girls and tentacle monsters alike.

.

Rumina took one precious strip of skirt and laid it out across her bare knees. Yvonne slept beside her, trilling softly in their strange cephalopodan sleep.

Onto the strip of fabric, Rumina spread a careful line of rust-colored spore.

This wasn�t good science. It wasn�t even good non-science. It was the behavior of someone who had lost the thread entirely and felt they had no recourse.

Rumina raised the line of spore to her face with a slowness bordering on reverence, and snorted the whole thing in one go.

Her world turned the color of rotting blood.

.

She thrashed. She punched. She bit down on the tentacles holding her firmly in place.

�It�s loving over,� she wailed. �It�s all the poo poo-filled corner in the darkest, deadest part of a dark dead universe. It�s over and no one cares and no one cares that no one cares because there�s no one to care that no one cares that��

Yvonne murmured every comforting phrase they could think of, but Rumina only heard the gurgling of a monster.

.

A meaningless amount of time later, the smog of rotten blood lifted, was replaced by a soft, rainbow haze.

Rumina looked up at Yvonne. Dozens of alien eyes looked back down at her, watery with concern.

�Yvonne,� Rumina said, �I understand.�

And Yvonne said I�m sorry.

.

�Of course everything is dying,� Chiaki said at the emergency meeting. �The calamity witch destroyed all of our universes. The whole goddamn onion. There�s nothing meaningful out there anymore. Even meaninglessness has dried up.� She laughed ruefully. �Even the dick monsters die in the end.�

The other girls muttered and whimpered among themselves. The tentacle monsters slurped pensively.

Rumina, Yvonne, Chiaki, and all the magical girls and monsters were huddled together at the center of the refugee settlement. The only light in the whole chthonic dimension came from a single cluster of redly glowing flesh orbs protruding from the ground near Chiaki�s house sack; all else was dark and smooth and deceased.

Rumina, who�d been chewing her thumbnail, stopped. �What do we know about the calamity witch?� she asked.

�Looks human but isn�t. Skin like frosted glass. Empty-rear end eyes,� Chiaki said. �Kills heroes, destroys universes. Am I missing anything?�

�She didn�t kill us, though,� Rumina said. �She killed our friends, our fellow warriors, and our families. But not us...big time heroes. Why?�

Chiaki shrugged violently. �Because she�s a sadistic monster? Because she�s saving us for last to maximize dramatic tension? She�s evil, Rumina. She does evil things.�

�Most lifeforms do things that make sense for their survival,� Rumina said. �The calamity witch doesn�t, unless there�s something we don�t understand about the way she survives.�

�Why are you still acting like this is a problem we can solve? Just lie down and accept it. We lost,� Chiaki said.

Rumina planted both feet firmly on the dead meat of the cavern floor. She reached up and took her long pink hair out of its sensible bun, let it cascade over her shoulders like a blush-colored cape. Yvonne took their place behind her, tentacles splayed like a rearing spider.

�Magical girls come in all shapes and sizes, all ages and colors,� Rumina said. �No two of us have the same power. No two of us have the same story.� Her voice resonated in the dark, cavernous space. �But all of us, every single one of us, stand for one thing: Hope. Hope for all the people of all Earths.�

�Oh, lord,� Chiaki said.

The other magical girls had ceased whimpering and clutching each other and were watching Rumina. The tentacle monsters were still and quiet.

�Nothing about this place makes sense,� Rumina continued. �Things evolve and adapt, except when they don�t. By Chiaki�s logic, nothing meaningful should be able to happen down here, except it did.� She glanced over her shoulder at Yvonne, who was suffused in the soft prismatic light of friendship. �And if this place really is a sponge for meaninglessness, then it should be thriving, not dying, right? If the calamity witch won, then everyone in the onion would be dead, which means there are no external observers to qualify events as containing meaning, which means all events would be inherently meaningless, ergo they should all sink down to this place to feed the various meat knobs.�

She paused to take a deep gulp of fetid air.

Chiaki had crossed her arms across her chest. In the waning red light, she looked pitted and ominous. �Okay,� she said, �I�ll bite. Wouldn�t the calamity witch herself count as an observer?�

�Yes,� Rumina said briskly. �But that actually makes it more strange that this place is dying. If things work the way they�re purported to work here, then the presence of the calamity witch should still be enough to produce a steady runoff of meaningless reality byproduct.�

�Maybe the frosty bitch destroyed the multiverse and killed herself,� Chiaki said. �Now that everything is dead and gone, there�s no reason to live, and so on.�

�Or maybe,� Rumina said, feeling some of the old vigor, �maybe this whole reality is a farce designed to produce despair. Big, heroic amounts of despair.�

�We agree this place is a despair pit, at least,� Chiaki said. She ran her hand through her short black coif a few times.

Rumina put one hand on her hip and with the other pointed at Chiaki. �Give it up, witch,� she said. �You�re not smart enough to fake a whole reality. Your monsters don�t gently caress. Your despair spore has got nothing on purestrain magical girl hope. Didn�t even account for the power of friendship.�

Shameful, said Yvonne.

�This place isn�t just a despair �pit�,� Rumina said. �It�s a despair farm. You eat despair. And you�re a terrible farmer.�

Chiaki looked around at the assembled magical girls and tentacle monsters. She lifted her palms in a beseeching gesture, opened her mouth as if to say something. And then she exploded outward around a swollen ball of white light.

When the light had dimmed slightly and Rumina could lower her hands from her eyes, she found herself face to face once more with the calamity witch.

.

�I wanted it all to make sense,� Rumina had said a little while before the emergency meeting. �I wanted your explanation of this dimension to be real, because that would mean you�re real.�

I am real, Yvonne said. The thing you call the calamity witch forced me to be real. She thought if she made us look like monsters, we�d act like monsters. Except that didn�t make sense for us. Most creatures, given the choice, do not want to act like monsters.

�Is there still a world out there? Is there a place for you and I in it?�

I do not know, and I do not know, Yvonne said, but all any of us gets is the chance to see what happens next. I would like to do so, with you.

.

The calamity witch was as terrible and ethereal as ever: skin that shone like ice and was frosted like glass. Eyes the hueless blank of death. Her face and body a cruel, rigid mockery of a human�s.

And Rumina was back on Earth Prime, broken summoning rod in dusty pieces at her feet.

One of her fellow Gorgeous Attraction Warriors had been in the middle of screaming something like, �Rumina, watch out!�

The calamity witch was smugly teeing up whatever dark magic she was about to use to banish Rumina to the farcical penis dimension.

It was all precisely as it had been, with several new additions.

All around the calamity witch were magical girls. Tired, mucus-sodden magical girls with some serious trauma to work out, but magical girls nonetheless. They were helping each other to their feet, taking up ragged battle stances.

Rumina couldn�t bring herself to turn around. She couldn�t bring herself to check whether that familiar, tentacled mass was behind her. Better to lunge forward, to attack, to fight the calamity witch like love depended on it, then see what remained after the battle, when the dust settled. If she looked now and saw Yvonna wasn�t there, she would be undone, and the despair-hungry witch would win after all.

And the calamity witch turned her chilly features toward something above and behind Rumina. No, the witch rasped in her true, terrible voice. You�re not real. I created you. You're a monster. You�re not real!

A tentacle settled gently on Rumina�s shoulder, a touch so light it might have been an errant strand of wind. Several more tentacles wrapped themselves around her waist, under her armpits, and around her knees, pulling her in toward the central mass until she was ensconced within Yvonne like a pilot in their mech suit. The fierce rainbow power of love thrummed at every point of contact between magical girl and tentacle monster.

As they readied themselves to lunge at the calamity witch, Rumina said, �Change of keikaku, bitch.�

# ¿ Jun 17, 2021 10:16

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

I'm in obviously, are we grabbing snacks when we signup or are you assigning them?

# ¿ Jul 26, 2021 22:28

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Cake Haver
600 words

You are exactly thirty-seven years from the moment you were born. You�re sitting at the kitchen table with three items in front of you: a cell phone, a piece of white chocolate raspberry birthday cake, and a large plastic bag, the opening of which is lined with velcro. On the floor beside you is a helium tank, rented to you from a local party supply store. You had to show the clerk your ID to prove it was your birthday; you�d even bought several packs of party balloons for verisimilitude.

The woman you love more than anything is sleeping in your bed upstairs, having gone to bed early in preparation for the trek back to Amundson-Scott Station. Your family always tended to wallow in midwestern goodbyes�doorway anecdotes, too many hugs, protracted porch waving�but you prefer the french exit. Leave while the banter is fresh and the laughter is spirited.

The slice of cake looks like an Instagram photo: dense and moist with fresh raspberries baked right in, buttercream flowers smooth as marble. You�ve already had some, fed to you from across the table by your lover. This slice is for the french exit, a silent witness to your sudden goodbye.

You and her were always impossible�you the state department spook, her the Antarctic researcher. That�s not why you�re sitting at the table with an exit bag and an indelible slice of cake, though. You�re an awful person and you�ve done awful things. You are an apparatus of the state; you�ve helped topple populist movements around the world, blackbagged protestors, agitated for factional infighting. You don�t understand why the woman in your bed loves you, even after you rested your head in her lap and spilled state secrets into the confessional of her thighs.

Her absence compromises you more completely than any foreign agent could. You can�t survive another departure gate, last kiss, lingering look, long lonely season. Your world is a revolting place without her, but you know too many dangerous secrets to hate the world.

The thing you�re about to do is hideously cruel. You wonder if she�ll still bake cakes after you�re gone. You hope she can throw herself into her work, bleach you away under the cold glare of the Antarctic sun.

You pick up the bag, adhere a length of medical tubing to the makeshift one-way valve you cut in the side. The other end you affix to the nozzle of the helium canister. Now that you�re on the home stretch, there�s something intensely intimate about this ritual, as if you�re disrobing yourself for death.

You finally notice the persistent buzzing on your phone�push notifications coming from apps you�d set to silent. You skim the civilian news first, then check with your own sources to confirm. The gamma ray burst hit sometime in the afternoon; the ozone layer is rapidly depleting, with photochemical smog already darkening the sky.

You�re more of a social engineer than an astrophysicist but even so, you understand that the thing happening to your revolting world is worse than any unclassified model could have predicted. The words �total extinction event� run through your mind like a stuck jingle. You wonder who knew this was coming, and for how long. You wonder if they�re saying goodbye to their loved ones, or whether they�ve ended it all in some secluded bunker.

You hurl the exit bag onto the floor, take the slice of cake to the bedroom where your lover greets you with half-awake murmurs. You spend the rest of time licking buttercream off each other�s bellies, tasting raspberry on each other�s tongues, bodies wallowing together in a long goodbye.

# ¿ Aug 2, 2021 07:23

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Jesus christ you've let sebmojo have the helm again? Goodness me. I'll have to judge this to make sure it doesn't all go horribly wrong.

# ¿ Aug 10, 2021 18:36

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

kurona_bright posted:

In, two characters please.

aw poo poo KB's first 2021 appearance, hell yeah

# ¿ Sep 4, 2021 09:44

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

in??

# ¿ Sep 15, 2021 04:02

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

prompt: the 'many worlds' interpretation of quantum mechanics ---|--- bees

Foulbrood
1300 words

It was what passed for the busy season at the Queen�s Cup Inn, which meant a whole ten guests in temporary residence. It was a real casual, homespun sort of place with pleasantly sagging stoops and climbing tendrils of ivy that gave those sagging stoops a tree house quality. Which is to say, Ada, the proprietor, felt relatively comfortable going and getting stoned with a couple of her guests out by the apiary, at night when her bees were sleeping.

The stars were thick as lace. Ada caught herself wondering if the sky was so vivid because of a power outage�but then, there hadn�t been light pollution from distant Seattle in nearly a decade.

Her companions were Braden and Lilah. In his former life, Braden had a job title so tedious Ada couldn�t commit it to memory. Now he was an honest scrap runner, and one of Ada�s few regulars. Lilah had just arrived three days before, looking fresh as a daisy with zero baggage to her name. Ada had raised an eyebrow, but it settled back down when Lilah paid in solid gold and, later, proved herself to be a competent hand in the kitchen besides.

The trio were sprawled out side by side in the dry grass. The earth was still warm from the March heat, a living thing against Ada�s back.

Out of nowhere, Braden said, �I always thought the glowstrom was like, our universe bumping up against another universe, you know?�

Ada groaned. The glowstrom had been all anyone had talked about for, like, two years. And then for a year after that it was all about glowstrom fatigue because everyone was so psychologically wrung out from talking-slash-thinking about that horrible, churning red glow in the sky, plus the accompanying groan like twisting metal, which had been heard from the Arctic Circle to the Antarctic and lasted for seven solid days.

�Universes aren�t just floating around out there like bubbles in a bath,� Lilah said. �They�d grow in orderly, crystalline structures. Or�� she stretched an arm overhead to point at the nearby apiary. �� like a cells in a honeycomb.�

Ada prided herself on being one of those people who could get stoned and remain immune to tedious pop science bullshit. �Okay. Okay, first of all,� she said, propping herself up on her elbows. �No one should want an infinite multiverse. That means infinite versions of yourself getting murdered, tortured, or eaten alive by ants. Second��

�I don�t think what we want is really a factor,� Lilah said.

�Second, if universes form like crystal, or are made like honeycomb, then there are outside forces way beyond our control acting on a scale I don�t like to think about. Like, at that point you may as well believe in god.�

�I believe god is the universe,� Braden said sagely.

Lilah rolled onto her side so she was facing Ada. �What would your ideal universe be like?�

�Whole and perfect unto itself,� Ada said. �Self-contained. Living, dying, and living again, and so on. A flawless mechanical process without beginning or end.�

�Mmmm,� Lilah said. �Appealing.�

There was a thoughtful lull in the conversation, which Lilah broke by saying, �I smelled smoke earlier.�

Ada winced. �Had to burn one of the bee hives. A real nasty case of foulbrood.�

And then of course she had to explain to Lilah and Braden what foulbrood was, all the while seeing the sickly hive in her mind. She inspected her hives every drat day, and yet�

She had taken the brood trays out like normal, expecting to see healthy golden larval cups. Instead, the wax nursery looked greasy and pockmarked, the caps of the little hexagonal cells sunken or broken. The smell of rotting larvae had made her wretch. Larvae who�d been fine the day before were now dead in their own jelly, each tiny body a geyser of bacterial spores. It was apocalyptic, a biblical plague on a bee scale.

So yeah, she�d burned the hive, boxes and all, killing one world to save others. She�d check her remaining hives three times a day, see if one of the scrap runners knew of anyone still selling those antibiotics�

�Does anyone think you�re strange, living at this inn with just yourself and your bees?� Lilah asked.

�Do you think I�m strange?�

�No,� Lilah said, smiling. �But people think I�m strange for loving my hives like I do.�

�You keep bees?� Ada asked, genuinely and pleasantly surprised.

�Not exactly,� Lilah said, her smile turning sad and distant. Then: �I think it�s good you love your bees. I think you should have to love the things you burn, or you�re just evil.�

�Does anyone ever wonder if we�re, like, in the book of Revelations?� Braden asked no one in particular. �You know like maybe John the what�s-it didn�t know how to interpret stuff from our time, so he just did his best? I mean, the sky did turn red, and the sound wasn�t totally like a trumpet, but you could sort of imagine how��

�I�ve got a mug of homemade mead for anyone who doesn�t bring up the glowstrom again,� Ada said.

�If someone could tell you definitively that the world was ending, would you want to know?� Lilah asked. �Would you have told your bees their world was ending if they could understand you?�

�No, I wouldn�t want to know,� Ada snapped. �And no, I wouldn�t have told my bees. Just like I wouldn�t want to know the exact date of my death. Just like I wouldn�t want to know if there were infinite versions of me getting eaten alive by ants. Ignorance is the greatest gift of human nature.�

Her stoned languor had worn off, replaced by a serious feeling of unease. Something about this conversation tickled her dread glands; every word Lilah said made Ada feel like she was brushing up against something huge and slimy in a deep dark lake.

Lilah went on as though she hadn�t noticed the sharpness in Ada�s tone. �If your bees could comprehend the concept of love, do you think it would matter to them�the ones you burned, I mean�that you loved them?�

�No, I think they would have felt betrayed and would have demanded I try any and every other solution,� Ada said. �Just like if I knew there was some god burning this world, it wouldn�t matter if it loved me. It wouldn�t matter if it was some well-meaning cosmic beekeeper doing the needful.� Her hands were shaking. �Which is why it�s lucky that bees don�t know poo poo from love.�

�So, to be clear, you think forewarning a hive of its imminent doom is unethical?�

�For the purposes of this pointless conversation: sure. Yep. I think that would be bullshit.�

�Noted,� Lilah said, and she was gone. A momentary breeze stirred the grass where she had been, then nothing.

Ada and Braden stared at the sudden vacancy in space. Ada was so maximally filled with deep dark slimy dread that she was expecting some terrible thing to happen�another hellish red glow on the horizon, a sound like twisting metal. Some vast horrible thing to match the small horrible fact of Lilah�s abrupt disappearance.

A coyote chattered in the distance. Somewhere, a motor hauled rear end down a cracked and forgotten highway.

Braden said, �I used to think I was smart, but times like this, I�m grateful I�m dumb as poo poo.�

Ada looked up, found the starlight as it ever was: gauzy and dead, raining softly on the dark side of a sickly world.

# ¿ Sep 20, 2021 03:44

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene.

Let's keep the thunderdome thread focused on the thudner dome, friends

# ¿ Oct 9, 2021 15:00

Adbot: ADBOT LOVES YOU

# ¿ May 16, 2024 16:55

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

The man called M posted:

Am I foolish enough to enter after I just lost?

The answer is yes.

In.

e: and I may as well be in since i took up a whole post

# ¿ Oct 19, 2021 12:54

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > Creative Convention > Thunderdome 2021ne: Out of the Dumpster and Into the Fire

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