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In, don't want a flash but do want a horse gif. Got any laser horses?
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Jan 15, 2021 22:18
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 06:02 |
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Man Plans; 890 Words Misshapen children giggle as they frolic in the sands, unaware of how their cursed parents labor beneath the eye of their creator. An ignorant onlooker might assume they toil for my sake, but I am merely here to provide instruction. My humanity puts me above these creatures, for their webbed fingers and slick skin prove their many sins, but I am not above God. He is the one who gives me purpose; he is the one I honor with this castle. I linger beneath a broad umbrella as I direct the workers, so they may have shade when they seek my guidance. They do this often as they cannot read my blueprints. Such simple minds! But I am grateful for them. After ten years of sailing the globe, seeking my life's purpose, I feared I would have to return to the interminable business of business. What luck it was to meet these island worshippers! They were stricken by God, rendered sickly and hideous, yet they joyfully celebrated him. Their God gave them the very purpose I longed for. Can it be any wonder that I have chosen to build him a palace? In supervising the construction, I have taken one of the creatures into my confidence. He is a toadish thing, beady-eyed and round, but he is quick for his kind, and his keen humor amuses me during these long summer days. His name is a string of foreign garble that does his intellect a disservice. I have taken to calling him Ozwald. He comes when I call him; truly, a bright lad. "Ozwald," I call one morning as I recline in the shade, "We must pick the tiles for my bedchamber." As Ozwald waddles over, his great girth rocking from side to side, he passes younglings building castles out of the sand. Their imitation of my efforts renews me, as it must renew Ozwald, and I smile generously as he approaches. "I must choose the right configuration of tiles," I say, "so that I may properly honor God as I slumber." Ozwald nods thoughtfully. "Good thinking. I'll have to put some art in my room, too." "You will not need a room. You honor him with your work." "You could work." I pat his shoulder in a show of kinship; my hand comes away sticky and wet. I take care to hide my disgust as I shake off my tainted fingers. "No, lad, I was not built to toil as you do. I must honor God with something greater. Now help me plan the design, will you? Our God perceives all, so I want to honor his watchfulness with an eye of some sort. Something metaphorical, perhaps? A lighthouse, or maybe a telescope." Ozwald stares for so long that I think he does not understand, but then he chuckles gently. "Sure, I'll help you…if you think it'll be enough for God." "What do you mean?" "You want him to like you, right?" "A pedestrian assessment, but yes, that's the gist of it." My breath catches. God watches Ozwald's kind closely; I must not disregard his musings. "Do you think he will not like it?" "There are a lot of tiles out there, that's all I'm saying. A lot of tiles and a lot of castles. If you want God to be impressed, you should offer something only you can give." His words haunt me as we complete the tile selection, and the concrete mixing, and the glass carving, and a great many other matters that require my attention. My wife used to mock me for my exacting tastes, as she would mock me for everything that mattered. 'You sold your father's mill so you could sail the world looking for work?' She laughed quite forcefully when I said I sought purpose, not employment. Now my purpose is worshiping God, yet I fear my method is insufficient. Many men have made tiles and castles. To pay proper obeisances, I must offer something only I can provide. On the final night of construction, I climb the spiral stairs to the roof. Ozwald follows, his bulky shadow bouncing merrily in the light of the moon. The astral eye leers at me, doubting my final offering, but my resolve is unwavering. "I am going to jump from the tower," I proclaim. Ozwald blinks. "Say again?" "You were right. To honor God properly, I must offer something unique. After a great deal of soul-searching, I have realized the only such thing I have is my life." "Listen, when I said that…" He glances over the ledge. "Are you sure this is a good plan?" "I cannot expect a simple creature such as yourself to understand." He closes his eyes, chuckling. "You know, it sounds like you've got it all figured out. Good luck, friend." "And good luck to you, Ozwald." "That's not my name," he replies, but I have already jumped. The mirthful wind howls as the ground rushes towards me. I open my arms to embrace it, but the air buffets them back. A jolt of fear charges through me. I look for the children, but they left when the joyful sun fled, and the mocking moon took their castles with its tides. All that remains of them is their laughter, growing with the ever-expanding pupil of darkness: a God that swallows me whole.
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Jan 18, 2021 02:42
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All right, you heels and faces, I'm hurling myself into the fray as Brawl Judge. I have no idea what I'm doing, since I've never done this before, which makes me the absolute perfect referee for such a high-stakes duel. This brings me to the prompt: Rivals in Random Places  Every good competition has its rivals, and every rivalry has an appropriate battlefield. Wrestlers fight in the ring; chefs duel in the kitchen; Cloud and Sephiroth fight in Final Fantasy VII. When rivals fight in those spaces, everything is right in the universe. When rivals fight in the wrong places, nothing makes sense. Wrestlers start dueling at chili-cookoffs, chefs start punching each other in parking lots, and plumbers start getting stabbed. Write me a story about rivalries heating up in the wrong location. Rival businessmen dueling it out through their kids' book reports? Great. Rival boxers taking their aggression out with Tetris? Fabulous. Give me any rivals anywhere, as long as those rivals are out of their comfort zone. After all, why should they be comfortable? This is Thunderdome! Word Count: 1500 Due Date: Tue, Jan 26, at 11:59pm PST Additional Rules: No fanfic allowed, but erotica IS allowed
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Jan 21, 2021 06:00
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Rivals in Random Places: Results Two rival writers enter the Thunderdome; one must inevitably fall. But which of these strapping young posters will triumph? Will it be Weltlich, who had a strange rivalry play out in a conventional place, or Sebmojo, who had a conventional rivalry from play out in a strange place? Both stories had their strengths, and if I had my way I'd let you both live, but unfortunately, only one of you can survive this bout, and the other (I assume) must die in real life. The Winner: sebmojo Crits: The Belle of the Butcher's Ball by Weltlich You’ve got strong prose, which I’m sure you know, and the backstory behind the premise is vivid and creative. The problem you have is a passive protagonist, and a rivalry that can’t heat up because the object of the rivals’ affections made her choice before the story started. The story would be a lot stronger if Ernie’s actions had some impact on the outcome. As it stands, you don’t really have a rivalry playing out; you have one guy trying his hardest and failing, and another guy doing nothing and succeeding. Does life work like that sometimes? Sure, but it doesn’t make for a compelling story. Sending the Clowns by sebmojo This was a solid story all around. You delivered on the prompt, you maintained tension the whole way through, you made me care about the characters, and you stuck the landing beautifully. My only real critique is that the opening was pretty conventional, since Russian Spy vs. American Spy is not exactly uncharted territory, but it was so well-executed that I don’t really care. Nice work.
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Jan 27, 2021 21:16
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In, gimme a hellrule!
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Feb 16, 2021 22:08
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The Traveling Sommelier 898 words Hellrule: 'imagine being married to johnny depp' The oppressive air in the wine cellar clogs Amy’s lungs, making every breath a chore. Jack loves the room because he thinks it's dramatic, but the shadows make him look sickly and deranged, and the stink of old wood reminds Amy of the inside of a coffin. There’s a stranger sitting across the table: a traveling sommelier. He seems familiar, but Amy can’t put a name to his mustachioed face. “I usually bring a large selection with me for house calls,” the sommelier says to Jack, “but after talking with you—and watching your movies—I knew the exact vintage you’d like.” “Hear that, Amy?” says Jack. “He’s a marvel, just like the magazine said.” Amy wrings her hands. “You told me I should never believe what they write in the magazines.” “Not the tabloids, no. Mr. Stone was in Vanity Fair.” “Oh…” “Are you feeling unwell, Miss Amy?” says Mr. Stone. “No, no, I’m fine. I just thought I knew you from somewhere else, that’s all.” “Most girls say I remind them of their fathers.” His chuckle makes Amy shiver. “Shall we get to the tasting?” Amy hesitates. “I’m not sure I should be drinking this early.” “It’s hardly a drink,” says Jack. “You won’t even feel it.” “I will.” “Would that be so bad? You could stand to relax a little.” He rubs her shoulders. She shudders, but she doesn’t withdraw. The sommelier fills three glasses with a practiced pour. The burgundy liquid settles with an oily smoothness, rounding gracefully at the edges. “It’s beautiful…” Amy murmurs. “It’s a meritage,” Mr. Stone replies. “Meritage is French for ‘cheap.’ Do I look poor to you?” Jack says. “I’d thought a man of your discerning palate wouldn’t be duped by labels.” He slides his hand overtop Jack’s glass.“But if you’re not interested in Martin Scorcese’s favorite wine—” “Marty likes this?” “I thought you were mad at Marty,” Amy says. “Of course not. We just had a disagreement. I just need to get some face time with him again—get him to see how much I care about the craft.” “You could invite him over for the wine,” Mr. Stone says. “Perfect! I’ll call him over tonight.” “You might want to buy the bottle first.” There’s something in the sommelier’s tone that makes Amy tense. It’s familiar, just like his face, but she can’t name it any more than she can name the sick feeling crawling under her skin. “Did you know Jack was fighting with Marty?” she says. “Everyone fights with Marty. The man cares deeply about his work.” The sommelier liberates Jack’s glass. “Shall we?” “You haven’t said what it costs.” “Really, Amy?” Jack says. “You sound like my accountant. Whatever it is, I can afford it.” “I won’t lie to you: wine of this quality comes at a high price.” Mr. Stone touches the bottle. “If that’s a concern—” “I said I can afford it.” Jack picks up the glass, then shoots Amy a dark look. “Smell it.” Amy lifts the glass with a shaky hand. It smells like fresh earth on a misty morning, piled next to a waiting grave. She sets it down with a start. “I feel faint.” “It can have that effect on people.” Mr. Stone looks to Jack. “But what do you think?” Jack’s eyes take on a distant sheen as he swirls the drink. “It smells like passion…like success.” “And you can have both; all you need is a taste.” Amy clenches her hands. “Jack, wait—” Jack’s dead stare sucks the light out of the room. “No one tells me what to do.” He drinks. A smile plays across his lips. He leans forward as if about to fall, but instead hangs in a state of cold suspension. “It can have that effect on people, too,” says Mr. Stone. Amy’s teeth clack together. “What have you done to him?” “What I do for everyone: I gave him what he wanted. You could have that too. You could relax.” “I don’t want to relax!” “Are you sure? It would be so easy: one sip and all your troubles would disappear.” “Like his?” She gestures at Jack. “He’s dead!” “Don’t be gauche. He’s not dead. As soon as I leave, he’ll be the same as before. Really, this was just a formality; he paid the cost for that drink a long time ago.” Inside Amy, there once lived a pious little girl who believed in gods and demons and prayers and sins. The adult in her will not let her say the cost of that wine aloud, but the ghost of that little girl knows what it was—and that girl wants to run. “You need to leave.” She stands. “Now.” “Are you sure? You could be so happy here, if you’d only let me help.” “I can make my own happiness.” “Maybe you can—but not with him.” Mr. Stone gets up from the table; he leaves the bottle behind. As he disappears up the stairs, he whistles to himself, stifling the air with song. Jack stirs with a shudder. “Good wine…” “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” she murmurs. “I did, but I confess, I could use a quick nap. Will you stay with me?” Amy gazes at the shaded stairwell. There’s no trace of Mr. Stone, yet his whistle endures, bouncing around the closed casket of the cellar.
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Feb 21, 2021 00:32
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I'm in with Undersea New York Rat Network
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Feb 23, 2021 08:22
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A Tiger Can Change His Stripes 1459 words In the Expanding Tiger Empire, offenses against tigers are considered especially heinous. In Undersea New York, the giant mutant rats who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Undersea New York Rat Network. These are their stories. — SUB-CENTRAL PARK JANUARY 10th, 8:09 AM Detective Whiskers clutched his coffee between his paws, shivering as the rain that slipped through the cracks of the dome sprinkled his fur. “What’ve we got here, Cheddie?” “A real headache, Whisk, that’s what.” Detective Cheddar knelt next to the bloodied corpse of a tiger in spandex pants. His nose twitched as he tapped the hole in her head. “A jogger heard a gunshot and called it in at 7:16. The medi-gorillas pegged it as a mugging, but then one found her wallet. Take a look.” Cheddar held out a leather bifold. Whiskers took one look at the license and let out a low whistle. “Mrs. Anatolia Tigris—the mayor’s second-wife.” “Yeah, soon-to-be ex-wife. From what I read in the papers, she was gonna clean him out in the divorce.” He stood and dusted off his paws. “Guess that’s two Tigrises who didn’t get robbed.” “You think he did it?” “Every man thinks about killing their wife at one time or another. Maybe one tiger went through with it.” “Seems like a risk for an election year.” “It would be if the Tiger Emperor didn’t pick the winners.” Cheddar smacked Whiskers with his tail. “You wanna get thrown outta the dome?” “Hey, I might find work with the Leopard Sea Pirates.” “Yeah, and I might be the next president of the United States of Lions.” Cheddar rolled his eyes. “Let’s work this case like any other. No noise, no fanfare—just another job.” “You really think that’ll be enough to keep us from getting ejected?” Cheddar glanced at the dome again. “The cracks are getting worse up there. They don’t get fixed soon, it won’t matter if we’re ejected or not.” — HOME OF MRS. ANATOLIA TIGRIS 57th STREET, CLAMHATTAN JANUARY 11th, 12: 38 PM Anatolia’s maid kept her expression as still as her paws as she poured Detectives Cheddar and Whiskers two cups of tea. “She hated her husband, but she never felt threatened by him.” Cheddar eyed the teacups as the houserat set his drink on the table. “Looks like Mrs. Tigris had some nice stuff here.” “Mao-Tse Ceramic. A gift from Mr. Tigris, just last month,” she added, eyes narrowed. “He’s a good man.” “You’re saying he paid you on time,” Whiskers translated. “The Tigrises were most generous.” “You think there might have been anyone Mrs. Tigris wasn’t paying so regularly? Maybe someone she owed, someone who might’ve gotten tired of waiting?” “Goodness no.” The maid opened her mouth, then blinked. “Something the matter?” Cheddar asked. “No, it’s just…Mrs. Tigris was on the dome renovation committee. I’m sure you’ve seen in the papers that it’s in a state.” Cheddar nodded. “Hard to miss.” “Well, it seems Mrs. Tigris played a large part in selecting the contractor who was awarded the bid, and…Oh God…” “And?” “Two weeks ago, after she awarded the contract, she received an irate phone call from the head of one of the companies. It was Mr. Lupis, I’m sure—you know the Wolf Napoleoneks? Terrible creatures, but him? He’s the worst, and she didn’t pick his bid!” She folded her paws around her snout. “I should have known it was him!” — SACKER’S COMPANY - HYDROBROOKLYN OFFICE 11th STREET, HYDROBROOKLYN January 12th, 3:09 PM Mr. Lupis paced around his office, teeth bared. “You think I murdered the mayor’s wife? Are you crazy?” Cheddar crossed his arms. “We got word that you made a real nasty phone call to her when your bid didn’t get picked.” “You think I’d waste my time pulling a stunt like that? The Sacker Company’s an international enterprise. If I called everyone who shot us down, I’d spend half my day on the phone with those snoozejobs in Raji-Land.” “So if you didn’t call her, who did?” “I don’t know, her husband? He was the one who was trying to divorce the old housecat—why aren’t you looking at him?” “He’s outside the dome on business,” Cheddar said. “But we’ll be talking to him when he comes back.” “You’d better. Doesn’t matter if he was out of town; a connected guy like him can get a job done.” “Oh yeah?” “You think he doesn’t have friends in the Mao-Tse-Tigers? All the stripes run together—you know how it is.” “How about you tell us where were you on the morning of January 10th?” said Whiskers. “Asleep in my drat bed!” “Can anybody corroborate that?” “Yeah, my doorman can, which is exactly why I pay through the snout to live there. So quit wasting my time and ask him!” — RAT NETWORK HEADQUARTERS 01 RAT PATROL PLAZA , CLAMHATTAN January 12th, 7:30 PM Whiskers combed his greying fur as he leaned back in his chair. “The wolf’s story checks out, Loo. Doorman had video and everything. Lupis didn’t leave his apartment that day until two.” Lieutenant Temple sniffed at a mug labeled ‘Mom to 54 Bad Sons’ as she nodded. “Any word from the husband?” “He’ll be back under the dome tomorrow,” said Cheddar. “We’ll meet him then.” “You still like him for it, Whiskers?” Whiskers shrugged. “He wasn’t in town for the murder, but Lupis was right. Tigris could’ve used a hired gun.” “Lord knows he’s got the money,” said Cheddar. “What’s a job like that cost these days, fifty grand? Compared to how much Mao-Tse ceramics cost, a contract killer comes cheap.” Cheddar’s leg bounced up and down against his seat. Lieutenant Temple cocked her ears at him. “Something wrong, Detective?” “Those ceramics Mr. Tigris bought…Whiskers, didn’t their maid say he’d just gotten them for Mrs. Tigris last month? Isn’t that strange for a guy who was supposed to be in the middle of a divorce?” “Who initiated it?” said Temple. “Who always initiates it?” Whiskers laughed. “The wife.” Cheddar’s leg bounced faster. “Which means maybe Mr. Tigris didn’t want to get divorced. Maybe he was buying gifts to keep her.” “Seems like a waste of money if she’d already made up her mind.” “It would be if it was your money.” Whiskers leaned forward in his chair. “Loo, you got a list of the other bidders for the dome?” “Right here.” She slipped a folder off her desk and handed it to him. Cheddar skimmed the list, then poked the page with a grin. “Mao-Tse Glassworks.” “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Whiskers. “I guess those stripes really do run together.” “Maybe not. Says here they didn’t get the bid either.” “Woof. Bet they didn’t like that.” “I’ll bet they didn’t,” said Lieutenant Temple. “And I’ll bet if you check her phone records against the directory for Mao-Tse Glassworks, you’ll find your match.” — STRANGE FIRE COFFEE ROASTERS CLAMHATTAN SEADOME AIRLOCK, CLAMHATTAN January 13th, 8:30 AM Mayor Tigris pulled his collar up and sank into his chair. “You can’t let them see me talking to you…they’ve already proven how far they’re willing to go.” Cheddar reached across the table. “We know how hard this must be for you, Mr. Tigris, and we’re sorry for your loss.” “Anatolia was a good woman…headstrong, proud…too proud. She had no idea the Mao-Tse were leaning on me for that contract. I did what I could to make their case without getting directly involved, but when she awarded the contract to the Communi-Bears…” “They called her, didn’t they?” said Whiskers. Mayor Tigris nodded. “I begged her to do what they asked, but she refused! She said that just because I was a puppet didn’t mean she had to be…and that was the last thing she ever said to me.” “Did you know the Mao-Tse were going to kill your wife when you went to visit them?” said Cheddar. “I had no idea! They told me they wanted to work something out in person. If I had known…” He buried his head in his paws. Cheddar and Whiskers glanced at each other. “If we go after this, we’re taking on the Mao-Tse government,” said Whiskers. “The Tiger Empire, too,” said Cheddar. “You up for it, old timer?” “Come on, Chedd, go easy on me. I’m not that old—only eighteen months.” “Is that a yes?” “That depends.” Whiskers rapped his knuckles against Mayor Tigris’s head. “You willing to risk it all to get justice for a woman who hated you?” Mayor Tigris looked up, eyes brimming with tears. “She was a better tiger than any of us—the kind of tiger I ought to be. Whatever you boys need, I’m here to help.” TO BE CONCLUDED ON HOMICIDE: LIFE ON THE STREET
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Mar 1, 2021 03:37
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 06:02 |
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Obliterati posted:Interprompt: What the gently caress Did You Just loving Say About Me, You Little Bitch?? The President of Pizza 251 words WHO THE gently caress DIED AND MADE YOU THE PRESIDENT OF PIZZA??? YOU THINK BECAUSE YOU ONCE BURNT A SIGNATURE SELECT SPICY ITALIAN SAUSAGE PIZZA IN YOUR MOMS TOASTER OVEN, YOU CAN COME IN HERE AND ARGUE WITH MY 42 YEARS OF PIZZA-EATING EXPERIENCE? YOU PART-SKIM MOTZERELLA MOTHERFUCKER. YOU BARBEQUE CHICKEN BITCH. YOURE’ PROBABLY ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO RESPONDS TO TWITTER POLLS ABOUT WHETHER CHICAGO-STYLE IS A PIZZA OR A CASERROLE. PEOPLE LIKE YOU MAKE ME WANT TO SHOVE MY PIZZA PEEL UP MY OWN rear end, PEEL FIRST; BUT YOU WOULDNT KNOW WHAT THAT LOOKS LIKE, WOULD YOU?? YOU’RE A TRAY-USING TITOS-EATER, SHOVING A BIG OVEN MITT OVER HIS SMALL DICK BECAUSE HE’S AFRAID OF A BABY-PISS-COLD 425 DEGREES. 425 DEGREES; DONT MAKE ME LAUGH. MY HANDCRAFTED BRICK OVEN REGULARLY RUNS AT OVER 1500 DEGREES KELVIN. IN THE TIME IT WOULD TAKE YOU TO BLOW THE FROST OFF OF YOUR RED BARON MINIS, I CAN MAKE THREE NEOPOLITAN MARGERITAS. DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT IS?? OF COURSE YOU DONT’, BECAUSE IT’S NOT ONE OF THE DOGSHIT SAUCELOGS YOU SOLD DOOR-TO-DOOR WITH YOUR BOYSCOUT TROOP WHILE YOUR MOM WAS SUCKING THE LITTLE CESAR’S GUYS’ UNCOOKED BREADSTICK DICK. MAYBE IF HED STUCK TO HER SLICEHOLE INSTEAD OF BLASTING HIS RANCH DIP IN HER OVEN, I WOULDNT’ HAVE TO SIT HERE READING YOUR lovely POSTS ABOUT WHAT MAKES A GOOD PIZZA. “DOMINOES ISN’T BAD IN A PINCH?” YEAH, NEITHER WAS THE HOLOCAUST, YOU PERSONAL PAN POLESMOKER. gently caress YOU. GO TO DR. OETKER AND ABORT YOURSELF.
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Mar 2, 2021 21:14
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