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In! Prompt please!
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Jan 13, 2022 22:18
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 14:22 |
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Final Exam Word Count: 1099 Prompt: The story is about a cyberpunk. It starts in a distant fiefdom. The story begins with the passing of a test. The bombs echo like thunder past the neon adorned buildings. The holo-lights reflect off the Alaskan snow and smoke from downed aerofighters. The brick walls of the abandoned high school dull the soldiers' gunfire and barked evacuation orders. From inside the building, I reset all the security lockdown protocols as quickly as I can. The locksmith bio-augment runs it’s algorithm, quickly peeling back the code. Lines of data flicker in my vision like tiny sparks of numerals as I watch the metal blast shields cover the windows of my mother’s old classroom. A volley of bullets splinter the wooden frames and what little glass remains. I dive against the floor, watching the lingering cloud of snowflakes and sawdust until I’m sure they weren’t aiming for me. I can barely make out a pre-recorded message from the baron broadcasting from telescreens across the city. Something about the invasion, I think. Part of me wishes I could understand what he was saying. Because my dumb rear end isn’t sure if we’re being raided by Denmark or Detroit. And I highly doubt I could point to either on a map, much to the shame of the little family I have left. I’m angry at myself. loving careless. I could have tripped the alarm. I’ve got so much tech in my head, I can’t remember if I got these augs before my last school medical eval. But no alerts so far. Either it didn’t catch my tech or I dropped out at the right time. I check my pockets for the tickets I grabbed from the recruiters desk. I knew they’d have some. They always have a few handy. You want to join up that bad, they can ship you to bootcamp that day. I switch on my telecom aug. It rings inside my head. It keeps ringing. “Hey, you got Eddie,” the voicemail message says. “Say what you gotta say.” “Eddie,” I respond. “It’s Gray. I got the tickets. Call me back. loving pronto.” I disconnect. Hopefully he didn’t get dumb as try to stowaway on an evac-ship. It just takes one guard to catch them on facial rec before they catch a bullet. But if you got military clearance, they don’t care what your record says. I call again, but no answer. A third time, nothing. Maybe he’s just busy, I tell myself. I don’t stop telling myself. The flickering halogen bulbs light the room, illuminating the damp checkerboard patterned floors and moldy exposed pipes. The school looks like it’s been abandoned for centuries, but it doesn’t look too dissimilar from freshman year. Out of curiosity, I flip through the datascreen on the desk. Just to see if mom left any old lesson plans in her files. She has one unread email, subject line: North Anchorage High School - In Memorial. My stomach drops, but I still click it. Topping the list of recent casualties is the most recent Yearbook photo of Dr. Delores Gray, English department. Mom looks good in the photo. Healthy. There’s an odd comfort in her pleasant, professional smile in the image. Makes me feel like less of a disappointment. The picture must be from this year. I can’t tell if it was before or after the last time she saw me in juvie. Not that it really matters. It’s still nice to see her conscious. Not in the chem attack induced comatose state she was in when I broke out. I thought I got lucky when the bombs hit the south side of town, knocking down a couple detention center walls. Didn’t realize the nasty poo poo hit up north. Not that our conversation would have been pleasant anyway. I had a long list of gently caress ups to begin with before adding a jail break to that list. Regardless, the conversation would have ended the same way it had since I left North Archorage. “You were so close.” That phrase loving hurt every time. Like I was one decision away from not being an embarassment. A bomb hits a few blocks down. The building shakes in the rumble. The datascreen flickers as dust trickles from the ceiling. I steady myself and notice the screen clicked back to the default menu. I scroll through the files until I find the one marked “Tests.” I press it, opening a series subfolders. One of which says “General Education Development.” I laugh. Gotta kill time somehow. And while mom isn’t here to appreciate it, she would hopefully find it a little funny that I got bored and decided to pass high school. I hit the keys and sit at my old desk. The first section isn’t too hard. Mathematics. You spend enough time tech cracking, you get a little good with numbers. You understand how to work a formula. Language arts is next. You gotta read some bits from different book and say what they mean. Don’t know what a green gable is exactly. But I’ve used enough fake names myself to guess why this chick wants to go by "Cordelia." poo poo, maybe Mom did have a point. Maybe I should have just toughed it out. The questions I get, the more I want to try. A blast rings from downstairs. Shout follows with the distinct noises of smashing and grabbing. Could be scavengers. Could be baron’s men looking for hold outs. Could be whoever from Detroit or Denmark. I stand up and rush to the nearest bookshelf, tipping it over so it blocks the door. Then I dash back to the desk, because this test is timed. Social studies is next. Don’t know what the gently caress “Manifest Destiny” means, but they got a little description here. Last section is science. The shouting is coming from the hall now. Disrupted only by the quaking after two intense explosions from barely a few blocks away. The screen flickers again, but I don’t lose my place. The science section I breeze through. Mostly charts and data. poo poo I see in my ocular implants when I’m running diagnostics on the rest of my loving implants. I get to the end of the section, looking for the little “Next” button in the corner, but I don’t see it. Only one that says “Finish.” Riffle fire pierces the classroom door as I submit the test. I run the hack on the window shields the armed invaders shove their way through. As I wait for the shields to lift, I catch a glimpse of my final grade: 145 - Pass. Guess I did it mom, I utter to myself as the bookshelf gives way.
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Jan 17, 2022 08:57
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IN GIVE ME AN ELDERLY
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Jan 18, 2022 18:28
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The Gods Haven't Killed Me Yet Word Count: 1156 Prompt: "old old old, a methuselah, has walked the land for an endless aeon and has seen it all, and more importantly they've seen what's coming " The eclipsed sun lingers in the crimson sky, as it has for the last three days. The wind glows as departed souls push through the cracks in the mortal realm. Cracks likely formed by Death himself crawling out of his eternal bindings. It’s been years since I’ve seen skies like this; centuries to be exact. I barely survived the last time the gods warred against Death. Even with the magicks keeping me alive, I was a much younger man. Boil-covered villagers of Lisindale huddle in the dead soil of the town square, leaving their withered crops and disease-ridden cattle to demand audience with the oracle. The bronze armored temple guards push the crowds back, clearing the sacred threshold. Aching bones make slipping through the crowds slow, but the invisibility spell eases my passage through the front doors. I cross into the inner sanctum, greeted by the azure shine of the floating woman. “I see you, Almondi,” the oracle says. “And I have no interest in your bribery.” “Bribery, dear oracle?” I reply, dropping the spell. My gray whiskers and woolen cloak peer through the air before the rest of my admittedly withered body. “Banish the thought! I’m simply proposing a trade.” My knees crack as I crouch before her, placing five crystalline shards on the dusty marble floor. Each crystal glistens with the scarlet aura of divine sauginemancy. “Blood of the gods,” I explain to the oracle. “Spilled over the centuries of conflict the last time the divine did battle. Should the gods be willing to discuss its protective qualities, I would be more than happy to return it. For the whole of humanity of course.” I pick one shard off the floor, lifting for the floating oracle to better see. The frescoes depicting the creation of the world and war of the heavens glisten behind her. Her arcane light reflects off images of Death declaring himself overlord, dividing the world amongst the gods. The painted deities rebelling against Death’s tyranny fade into the shadows as she drifts towards me. “The whole of humanity, Almondi? Or enough to obscure a lone sorcerer who again alludes mortality,” “Debate my motivations all you like, dear oracle. But I come here to bargain on behalf of mankind. After all, if the gods are rising again—“ “The gods are not rising again. Death is.” She examines every wrinkle in my leathering skin. Her luminescent eyes follow every shake of my unsteadying hands. I can almost feel her counting the wispy strands of silver in my beard, and the much lower number on the top of my head. A sense of shame passes over, as if I can feel her judgment. “And how many more years do you expect to steal, Almondi? Dare I say to bargain with him, it would be wise to offer the tribute he feels owed.” Two armored guards emerge from the shadows, spears pointed. I quickly brush the shards into my cloak and stagger to my feet. I want to dash out, my stiff joints make merely standing difficult. The men grab my arms and drag me out of the sanctum. I don’t resist, but do manage to palm a shard should I manage to think of something. The fact I haven’t already upsets me, stoking fears of feeble mindedness. “Pray your sacrifice be not in vain, Almondi.” I can barely move in the soldiers’ ironclad grip. Any movement I make to slip away invites brute force from them, nearly pulling my arms from their sockets. The outside sentries split the panicked crowds as I am shoved passed the temple doors into the town square. A barred prisoner cart arrives, likely summoned by the oracle’s will. I watched the confusion on the faces of the masses. The rabble grows loud with conflicting pleas for explanation and desperate cheers for the apparent sacrifice. Each cry tinted with fear of the specters piercing the wind. My mind races as I’m dragged towards the cart. I survived the last war by bargaining with the gods, each with their own grievance against Death’s demands. If only The Morbid One has risen, I cannot foresee a mortal way to repel him. I’ve let my fingers grow skeletal and my voice grow raspy. Even if I could conjour like I used to, I can barely recall the incantations that were once second nature. Earthly mortality proves enough of a challenge. I haven’t the slightest clue on how to combat the divine embodiment? But then a thought enters my mind. The god of death angered his fellow deities before with his overreach. Perhaps, I don’t need an answer now. I scratch the palmed shard with my thumb nail, spilling the dusted bleed of creation into the air. A whispered chant and dust strikes like scarlet thunder. The visages of the dead take form in the wind, the veil pierced enough for them to pull themselves halfway through. The blast and the spirits stun the guards and crowds. Since the fools didn’t think to bind the decrepit old man, I can vanish from sight in the confusion. The invisibility spell lasts long enough for me to make it to the docks. A bit of dusted bleed calls to the patron of the seas. I leap into the first unmanned boat and let magick carry me into the fjords. Lore states that when Death divided territory amongst the gods, he plunged his staff into the earth, cutting the cliffside shores of the Lisindale hills as he dragged it across the realms. Deep between the cliffs, I hold the shards in my hand and shout to the sky. “Death! You know this voice! You have forgotten many mortal names. But one has kept reminding you.” Scarlet fire tears the sky and spirits of sailors past claw at my cloak. The black hooded skeletal overlord parses the clouds with his scepter. “Almondi,” the terrible rattle echoes through the hills. The fades of humanity possess strength far past the temple guards. The blood magick can scare them away enough to maneuver, but my flesh rends like paper with their grip. I cast the shards into waters, watching the waves glisten with their energies. My vision grows dark as the spirits converge upon me. My body grows cold, but I am jarred awake by crashing waves of a sudden maelstrom. Fish and waterlife fly from their homes to carry the ghosts down. My boat is cast onto the shore as a titan emerges from the deep. “These are patrons of the sea!” shouts the rising goddess the oceans. “They are under my charge.” She strikes Death with her pinsers before dragging him underwater with her tentacles. I crawl onto the beach on which I landed. Limbs are sore, but nothing’s broken. I still don’t know how to stave off death, but knowing how long it takes the gods to settle disputes, this should buy me a few extra centuries.
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Jan 24, 2022 05:23
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In! Flash me!
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Jan 31, 2022 21:19
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The Iron Duke Word Count: 1,746 [Date: 11.nov.63 - Time: 19:23:11] A few punks hurl rocks at my limo, spouting the usual ingrate rhetoric so popular during this famine. Two security droids break from formation to clear them out. The rest of the bot-unit continues searching the dockside warehouse. “You have been ordered by the gentry to submit all food shipments to the Duke of Norfolk,” Botmaster Edmund repeats, reading from the proclamation. “Your compliance will be rewarded in kind.” “There ain’t no more food,” the warehouse foreman screeches, his face beet red, damp with sweat and tears. “Rip open as many boxes as you like. You ain’t finding a bite.” The man buckles under the strength of a single metal hand as a droid keeps him away from the Botmaster. Edmund can only watch, his only movements being the shaking hands holding the gold embroidered scroll. His voice trembles. “You have been ordered by the gentry to submit all food shipments to the Duke of Norfolk.” I sit in my limo, watching the captured holo-feed, petting the corgi seated on my lap. The man’s vicious flailing terrifies little Bethie, who paws up to my chest as we watch. “What do you want me to do?” he screams. “There’s nothing here!” I put my arms around little Bethie, comforting the pup as the foreman grows more abrasive. Another brick hits the car window, followed shortly by a flash of orange plasma as the droids dispatch the punks. The loyal pup climbs up my dress uniform, pawing at the medals of office earned by centuries of royalty. I scratch under the frightened corgi’s snout. It’s her favorite, always seeming to comfort her when she’s scared. I glance down and see what looks to me like a smile, though that may just be my own sentimentality. “It’s alright,” I say to her. “I’m scared too.” [Date: 12.nov.63 - Time: 18:07:24] “Seal the exits,” I say, cutting into my corgi steak. The courtiers and I sit around the banquet hall table, watching the security holo-feed as we enjoy our single course of dogmeats. The crowds are forming outside the manor, tearing down the iron gates smelted by my great-grandfather’s metal interests. The marble statues commissioned by my renaissance ancestors toppled by bums looking to pillage. The security droids and Sergeant-at-Arms do what they can to push back against the horde. The holo-light illuminates the hall as we watch fiery bolts of plasma stave off the vandals. But as the blast shields cover the exits and windows, the humans fall back, opting to bang on the metal seals rather than dispel the mobs. Their cowardice leaves themselves open, letting the rioters drag them into the crowd. “You’re a bastard, Norfolk!” the Sergeant-at-Arms shouts as he’s drawn into the mob. “A bastard!” “Turn it off,” I command the Royal Security Officer. The golden pillars and scarlet drapery of the hall dim slightly as the holo-feed vanishes. The court sits in stunned silence, looking to me for guidance after the brutality we witnessed. If the rumors are true, there’s a good chance those men will be cannibalized. How regrettable they surrendered so quickly. I cut another piece of steak and dip the dry meat into what little au jus the kitchen could find. “I apologize for that display, gentlemen. It’s regrettable that our subjects lack the grace of their stewarts during this crisis.” The Court says nothing. Men in velvet capes and chains-of-office sit around the vast ebony dinner table, watched over by massive portraits of title-holders past. Each one wearing the finest garbs of their times, be it polished plate armor or silken suit. Yet the men I task to carry on my ancestors’ great works sit meekly, quietly poking at their meals like chastised children. I rise to my feet in the hopes my presence shall inspire them. “However, I am blessed to surround myself with men of caliber. The blood of nobility flows within your veins and these lands need you to call upon it.” “The lands are poisoned,” claims the Agriculture Minister. “The soil is irradiated!” shouts the Science Minister. “Forgive my bluntness, your grace,” adds Botmaster Edmund. “If you recall our conversation with the foreman yesterday, he mentioned his children becoming sick after eating the dirt he was forced to feed them. The symptoms he described before we dispatched him were consistent with radiation poisoning.” “Who cares about the soil outside the gate?” I retort, taken back by their pessimism. “Raving lunatics trample on it while they rip each other to shreds. True civilization begins in these halls and spreads out. We are the greatest minds of our time, standing on the shoulders of titans! If we can preserve nobility, we can preserve the world.” “And how do we do that?” the Property Master chimes in. “Do we build an entire ecosystem in the manor?” “Even if we could do that, we would starve before we even had the technology!” the Science Minister shrieks. “And we would need to have the entire west wing terriformed tomorrow just to replenish the emergency stock!” the Agricultural Ministry cries. “And that’s if the looters don’t break through the barricades,” the Chief Security Officer whimpers. Silverware clings and beverages spill as I slam my fist onto the table. “I don’t care about the bloody looters!” I look around the table, feeling the piercing glares of the courtiers after my outburst. “Gentlemen, if it’s all the same to you, I would like to end our dinner.” The droid box up the scraps on their fine China and lift the capes of the standing guests, helping to escort the defeated lot to their guest rooms until the crisis passes. Not joining them, however, is Botmaster Edmund. He stays seated at the table, whispering with the Royal Machinist sitting next to him. Though when he catches my eye, both rise and approach me. “Your grace,” Edmund says, “The shop has a proposal you may be interested in.” The Machinist quickly and nervously scutters towards. “That is correct, sir,” he blurts out in a panicked rush. “One that may sidestep many of our most pressing issues.” The young lord’s eagerness impresses me as his elders sulk out behind him. “I am interested,” I say to him. [Date: 12.nov.63 - Time: 18:23:48] I usher to two men past the gold latticed corridors into my private study. The massive oak bookshelves, filled with tomes collected through either purchase or conquest, dwarf us as we pass through the double-doors. Historic documents watch over us, framed in tempered glass. Stained glass windows flank the centuries old writing desk at the end of the crimson carpet, matched with the curtains accenting the entire room. Though the windows’ view is only of metal shields. An occasional knock from thrown rocks outside disturb our peace. Still, it was hard not to feel a sense of awe at the history held in this room. To ponder its history was to be crushed under the weight of laws written and theory argued over the course of centuries. “Speak, Machinist,” I say to him. He trots toward me with eager energy, though a bit staggered by apprehension. “Your grace, if you would allow me the honor, I would prefer to show you.” His smile further widens with a slight motion of my hand. He offers a slight nod to Edmund who rushes to the doors, muttering orders into his earpiece. He opens both before turning for my reaction. I only see an empty corridor until I look towards the floor, my attention pulled by a digitized bark and metal trotting against the tile. Running towards my feet and up my calves is a small, metal beast fashioned to resemble a Welsh corgi. I pick up the automaton to see the name “Bethie” inscribed just below its neck. “It’s the same dog,” the Machinist says. “It’s simply a matter of transcribing brain patterns into an operating system. The technology is new. Very new. But the process for transferring a dog’s mind into a cybernetic body would be the same for a human. The dogs are a special cast. But we can interface our minds with the average droid unit model.” “Have you tested it on humans yet?” “No. We would be the first. But our victory would be celebrated for generations to come.” A stirring claim, as rigidly rehearsed and nervously delivered as it was. I scratch under the robotic corgi’s snout. The machine responds just like Bethie would, pawing at the medals on my chest as her nose brushes my neck. I glance upwards towards the towering bookshelves and rare metal-laced architecture, each layer of decoration weathering centuries of imperial decline and growth. And I have before me the chance to view that glory fully realized into the next millennia. “Machinist,” I say. “When the lands are clean, I will grant you as many acres as you wish.” [Date: XX.XXX.XX - Time: XX:XX:XX] I am awake. Perhaps for awhile. My memory has worn. Maybe I was awake yesterday. Maybe yesterday I could move. Gears in my limbs stall. Maybe rust. Maybe the cobwebs. I see the cobwebs on my arm. I can only see the arm. My head cannot move. But the arm is not clear. No lights in the study. Vision needs calibration. Can’t run diagnostic. Power supply low. I can hear voices. Room lights. Explosion from door. Two humans enter. One man. One woman. They carry long weapons. Cannot identify. They carry torches. LEDs torches. Their skin have sores. Greenish sores. Cannot identify. They have tubes coming out from their coats. Fluid in tubes. They wear masks. Gas masks likely. One puts weapon down. Takes off backpack. Pulls books from shelves. Books have cobwebs. I hear woman say: “You think the buyer can even read?” I hear man say: “I don’t care if he can read. Long as he can count.” They pull down curtains. Smash glass frames. Then they come to me. Woman says “Check it out. Old droids.” Man picks up dog. Dog has name. Bethie? He pulls open head. Pull out circuits. He says: “This tech’s bloody ancient. It ain’t gonna sell.” Woman shines light at me. Reads chest plate. Puts a crowbar under it. Says: “Says here this guy’s a Duke. So he might.” Casing open. Tactile sensors failing. I cannot feel my processors being removed. Wires unfurling. Power supply depleted. Visual offline.
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Feb 7, 2022 03:09
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Pththya-lyi posted:Interprompt 122592 Word Count: 353 I offer the elderly datekeeper some wine we scavenged from the last town, and a few sugar cookies we managed to bake in what passes for an oven here. He glances up from his calendar notes with a puzzled look, likely wondering if he’s seeing clearly in the dim-bunker lights. “Would you like some?” I ask. “Where did you get those?” “We found some extra sugar and flour rations. Figured it would be appropriate considering the day.” The old man smiles. There aren’t too many in this bunker who remember the before-times. The datekeeper’s records often feel like the last thread we have of stability. And as we huddle in this shelter, hiding from the mauraders roaming the desert, even just knowing today’s date provides an odd sense of comfort. “It’s nice to know someone listens.” A series of dull roars, muted by the thick bunker. Muffled shouts break the peace, followed by the rattle of machine gun fire outside the walls. The datekeeper and I run to the viewing port to see our campguards beset by leather-clad roughnecks. Marauders. The few guards we have in here try to calm down the civilians. But the datekeeper rushes to the nearest supply closet, grabbing a small brush and some scrap cardboard. I don’t see what he paints on the scrap board, but he immediately dash toward the exit. “Do any of you read?” he shouts, charging onto the sand outside. “Do any of you know what today is?” The marauders stop, holding their rifles and blades steady. They recognize someone important has presented themselves and wait to see his next move. That move to hold a cardboard sign above his head with the “Merry Christmas” written on it in black paint. “Not today,” he says. “Please.” The marauders remain still, lowering their weapons and glances towards the largest one in their party. He waves his hand towards their motorcycles. They all leave following his lead. The guards and datekeeper watch as they leave. As the last marauder exits camp, I approach the datekeeper with a single question. “Didn’t you say it was New Year’s?”
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Feb 7, 2022 21:38
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In! One weirdo please!
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Feb 8, 2022 20:48
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 Dumpy and the Fortune Teller Word Count: 903 On a lonely side of the hill Evercolder Lives a sad little rock named Dumpy the Boulder Dumpy never has much and very little to gain No friends, no comforts, no roof for the rain Dumpy wished he could play, dance, even laugh Then one day a carriage comes up from the path The driver’s a man in dark cape and top hat He tells little Dumpy he’s The Great Mudgothplat. “Hello little one,” he says with a smile “It seems you’ve not had any joy in awhile” Dumpy nods yes. The man seems so nice. “I can help you with that. But for a price.” The man steps down from his traveling stall He holds in his hand a crystal ball “I’m a teller of fortunes and all that will be. I can point you toward joy for just a small fee I’ll show a future of mirth untold And all you need do is bring me some gold.” The crystal shines bright with a mystic glow With magic like this, how could Dumpy say no Dumpy ran down the road, ever so bold Until he stopped to wonder where do you get gold? But then he remembered, though it’s melted in blocks Before gold’s made into bricks, it’s just shiny cave rocks So he gathers the best looking stones on the ground And returns to the cart with more than one pound But Great Mudgothplat’s eyes were pointed in rage Dumpy soon realizes he’s angered the sage The man pholds forth his orb in its glorious light “Dare you insult me with this pebblish trite? Out of my sight, you sniveling cur And don’t dare return without any treasure!” Dumpy rolls away and thinks it’s not fair He wants to be happy, but has no treasure to share. He crawls the dirt, and looks through the grass There’s so little of value on this mountain pass He had some pebbles, some sticks, and the sort It wasn’t much, but it still gave him comfort. He may not have gold, a crown, or a gem But these little scraps were treasure to him So Dumpy digs through the very little he owns And he gathers his favorite branches and stones He takes them down to Mudgothlat’s cart He hands them to him with all of his heart The magician snatches his gift, throwing it down “You call this treasure?! It belongs on the ground!” He picks up his orb and its magic shines bright “The magic in this crystal is mine by right. This craft is not meant weaker hearts But I have spent years mastering these arts I can see all that was and will ever be And how dare you expect me to do it for free So come back when you have something of worth Unless you don’t want a future of mirth.” So Dumpy rolls on, his heart all but shattered He rolls on defeated and emotionally battered But still he goes up to the mount’s highest peak Not the slightest idea of what he will seek Land grows strange as hidden beasts roar He’s never been to this hillside before The trees have claws, the flowers all hiss His vision’s obscured by poisonous mist But a glow in the distance cuts muddled sight He rolls further to see the source of the light The shines in the distance that sooth Dumpy’s fear Are crystalline rocks in the shape of a sphere Dumpy looked deep into each crystal ball Enough to then know they’re not magic at all So Dumpy returns his circular prize The wizard’s mouth drops and his eyebrows do rise He mutters and stammers through his excuse Though inside he knows there’s really no use For this boulder’s stone glowing so odd Proves Great Mudgothplat to be a mere fraud Mudgothplat flees back to his cart Snaps the horse reins. Forward they start. He shouts as he leaves “Fine! Keep your stone! You won’t tell anyone. Because you’ll still be alone.” The carriage disappears as it speeds down the hill Its rattle grows quiet, and the mountain grows still Dumpy sits there, a weight in his heart Poor boulder’s back to where he was at the start So he picks up his orb and rolls back to the peak Past the claws and the mists to lands ever so bleak Further and deeper than he ever dared roam But he may as well, there’s nothing back home The path’s jagged, unclear, and covered in snow But still he pressed on, his crystal in tow The mists cloud the sky, he can’t tell if it’s day How long has it been? Is this even the way? He almost surrenders, but then a voice from the road “Where’d you get the ball?” says a friendly young toad There’s several from where he heard the toad speak So Dumpy takes them up to visit the peak They hop and jump from crystal ball to ball Then misty dark peaks don’t seem so scary at all The claws aren’t so sharp, the plants may not be mad The mist isn’t poison, though it smells a bit bad But while boulders can’t leap quite just the same He chased all of the toads in a fun little game And though Dumpy has little on mountain bends As of this day, he finally has friends
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Feb 14, 2022 04:06
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IN I'm taking: quote:growing up to become a Pope is a lot of fun.
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Feb 16, 2022 23:17
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quote:growing up to become a Pope is a lot of fun. Christopher Word Count: 1099 Reprobus Dog-faced killer from far Canaan kingdom Cynocephalus bringer of death Standing five cubits tall, face of mastiff Handed a sword and told it was his life His form made him a challenge for warriors To them, he was mere beast, trophy to mount Though inside he felt a deep emptiness Unfulfilled with the path laid out for him Though such sorrow can be unspeakable When the only language you have is war He often felt the gods watching from high Or something else pointing to his true path So he sought out the most powerful lord Finding himself in the senate of Rome The brave centurions feared the giant But not the Emperor Valerian He promised the great cynocephalus Martial glory and a name that echoes Reprobus Valerian pointed his hound towards The Christians who recruit in the empire They gave him a gladius and round shield And sent him to Syria to slaughter The zealots could not comprehend the hound Nor could they defeat him in fierce combat But most surrendered with little conflict Letting the beast take them to grisly death Then came the day Valerian arrived Confidently laughing at his hound’s work The Romans throw Christians in the fire As crowds cheer the public executions But then the priest Petilianus is called Dragged to the pyre screaming fierce curses “May the devil take you, Valerian!” Shutters the crowd as he is burned alive The cynocephalus looks to his lord To find Valerian crossing himself The hound throws down his sword and shield, leaving No longer confident his lord is the strongest As the hound leaves, he sees a single child With a knowing smile and up breaking stare But the emperor watched shocked Watching as his blunt weapon walks away “Reprobus!” He went to Mount Hermon where the demons played And served the one they called King Lucifer He could feel the gods watching him again And he felt the closest to them by these hills Even if the tasked ordered were brutal The entities felt so close to divine Though it felt as a holy corridor While the necessary door remained locked But the acts they demanded were violent Speaking in the language he understood When an errant child wandered towards The devil demanded his soul taken So the hound gathered legions of demons And corned the scared boy in a valley The weeping child had two stick to find them But rebuked them without a single strike The cynocephalus watched them recoil As the child crossed the two sticks together This was not a victory understood This boy conquered an army without blood When the vile specters dissipated The cynocephalus asked him his name “Melchiades,” he said. “I’m a Christian.” The hound understood why he was hiding He begged the child to follow him downhill “We’ll be safe if we can cross the river.” As he ushered Melchiades away He wondered if the other child watched on Still smiling as he did so long ago Melchiades asks what the hounds name is Reprobus They run, they swim, until they arrive North In Turkey, by the Esen, they camp Melchiades tells oral stories while The hound teaches him how to swim rivers Soon, other Christians need passage across The cynocephalus offers his own back Months later, while drying off, he sees him The lone child who smiled so knowingly then Asking for a ride across the river The hound does accept, but to his surprise Struggles under the child’s deceptive weight “Tell me,” the boy asks, “How many have you killed?” The hound can’t answer, he can barely breathe “Did you have a choice?” The boy asks. “Or not?” Again the hound has no answer for him “Have you sought forgiveness from their families?” The hound crawls onto the shore, his back pained “Your weight was the weight of the world,” he says “Of the world? Or of He who created it.” Taking a single stick the child plants it Jamming it in the soil as it glistens Twisting, expanding, blossoming, until A full bloomed fig tree where there was none “Who are you,” the pained and shaken hound asks “I can forgive you, but I cannot change The actions you’ve committed and their harm But know there will come a time when you can Stop harm like you wrought, but at a cost.” The hound asked the child “What is your name?” The child replies “Let me tell you yours.” Christopher The hound with new name returns to campsite Though finds little more than wreckage left there Suddenly knowing the Romans had come He panics but soon feels a sense of peace This was the moment the boy spoke about This was the moment when thing were set right He leaves his sword and takes a walking stick Making his way towards Byzantium The sentries let him through without challenge They remember the slaughterous giant He makes his way to the open fires Past the captives in hay lined prison carts Past Melchiades full of childish awe Approaching the emperor with great ease Valerian shouts in angered horror “How dare you, Reprobus? You mock this court” “I have no fear of your wrath,” the hound says “I will not fight you. But you will free them” Valerian rushes his former hound Slapping his snout and spitting upon him “You are a coward,” the emperor shouts Though the cynocephalus laughs it off Legions of centurions draw their spears Circling the beast they had grown to fear He laughs again, taking his walking stick Shoving it in the ground, as he was shown And it does grow and stretch and blossom as such The ground rumbles as roots form under it The branches spread out over the town square The guards that don’t trip still fall to their knees Valerian looks around as his men Unlock the prison cages one by one Melchiades rushes out, looking back Seeing the few guards not kneeling approach They swarm towards the lone cynocephalus Who nearly walks himself into the flames The Christians escaped, though one child did cry But the hound felt right as he faced his fate “Before I die,” he says, “I ask one thing. Let them know the true name of the martyr.” Christopher Melchiades would grow old in the church He joined the priesthood, later became Pope He returned to Byzantium one time Those in those days, it was Constantinople King Constantine requested a meeting To discuss the Christian empire Though Melchiades would share one story About a saint, patron of safe travel Christopher
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Feb 21, 2022 09:59
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In! Conflict please!
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Feb 22, 2022 19:14
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Staggy posted:How soon is too soon to respond to a message? Texts Word Count: 1130 Mark Ferrier Dad’s funeral is tomorrow. Will you be there? Yesterday - 2:58pm Mark Ferrier Cool. Glad you haven’t changed. Yesterday - 3:15pm Tony Ferrier I’m going for a smoke out back. You can join if you like. Today - 10:59am Mark nervously waddles into the church parking lot. He hadn’t worn this suit in years and wasn’t acutely aware of every imperfection in the fit. He struggles to adjust his tie to ease the irritation his collar causes his neck, scratching his knuckles on his poor morning shave. The buttons of his shirt barely hold in the pounds he gained over quarantine, feeling more like chains across his emerging gut. The inside of his jacket vibrates. He fumbles the iPhone out of his pocket finding a single new text message. Stephanie Black Hope it goes well. Today - 11:01pm “loving milennials and their phones,” a raspy voice says from behind, followed shortly by the flick of a Zippo. Mark turns to see his older brother Tony walking down the sidewalk, lighting his Marlboro. His suit fit better, but Mark figured he bought it for a recent court date. Though he figures his dad would appreciate it covering up most of his tattoos. “Year and a half and that’s the first thing you say,” Mark snaps back. The memories of their last argument come rushing back to him. Mark can nearly recite his desperate attempts to convince Tony Dad needed him, and Tony lashing out at their father’s manipulative tendencies and temper. Deep down it still killed Mark that it all started because Tony wouldn’t answer his text messages right away. “Calm down. It’s a joke.” Tony takes another drag off his cigarette. He ashes it on the street before pointing it toward Mark’s phone. “Unless there’s somebody more important you gotta talk to.” Mark tucks the phone back inside his jacket because hold his arms out, like a magician making a rabbit disappear. “There! It’s gone! Dad’s loving funeral can’t let the phone poo poo go?” “No, I’m serious. Who ya’ texting?” His brother’s sarcastic smirk and smoky chuckle betray his insincerity, but Mark decides to answer anyway. “My girlfriend.” “Girlfriend?! Lose contact for that long, your younger brother finds true love. Let me ask something. The day after your first date, did you text her that morning? Or did you give it at least forty-eight hours?” “For gently caress’s sake! What was dating like back in 1998?” “You never want them to think you’re desperate.” “Is that why you got pissy with Dad? Didn’t want to think you were desperate?” Mark barely realized what he let slip out, only realizing with the shift of Tony’s expression. The feeling of unease between them grows thicker than the nicotine cloud the frustrated elder exhales. Though does his best to break it with a bit of forced laughter. “Sorry, I had to. God, can you believe our last conversation was a blow up over texting etiquette?” “Yeah, well maybe if I was one of those assholes who texts in the movie theater, Dad might have given a poo poo about me.” “gently caress, Tony! Dad was sick!” “Dad got sick. But before that he expected us to be at his goddamn beck and call. And suppose you were busy. Suppose he didn’t have access to you for two loving minutes. You might as well never loving call, because the hell you’d catch ain’t worth it.” “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry our elderly father had chores he needed his kids to run.” “And how many times did you do it? Better question, how many times did you not do it? Tell me about the fits Dad threw when you couldn’t.” Mark exhales as if trying to release the anger building inside him. He nervously glances around, hoping no friends or family see this blowup. “Dad could get cranky. But I’m not going to ignore him if he needs help!” “Cranky? One time I didn’t text him back because I was on the freeway. Before I even get home, he sends a paragraph calling an ingrate, saying he didn’t have to tolerate the poo poo I put him through. Of course he did, because he was ‘such a good father.’” “Dad gets frustrated. And no offense, but you’re pretty notoriously difficult to get a hold of.” “That’s what you gotta do with manipulative assholes. Set that boundary. Let them know you don’t jump when they say jump.” “So you think everyone that texts you is trying to manipulate you?” “I think anyone who does will catch on fast.” “So did Dad catch on? Because there’s a pretty definite yes or no now.” Tony stops talking, letting his brother’s words sink in before taking a seat on a concrete flower planter. He flicks his spent cigarette onto the street before removing another from the pack. “Dad was different with you. You know that right? I don’t know if it was just him being older when you came around or me just being a poo poo kid—“ “You were a pretty poo poo kid.” A smoky half-cough laugh from Tony answers Mark’s joke, much to Mark’s relief. “Yeah, I guess I was. But it was always a push and pull with him, y’know? I’d go one way. Dad would get pissed. So I’d push back. Then he’d say the nasty poo poo.” The tobacco odor sickens Mark a bit, but he still feels compelled to take a seat next to his brother. “For what it’s worth, Dad didn’t always say poo poo around me. Most of the time, it was always some random memory. Like that one in Tampa. The golf course?” “Oh poo poo, when I got that hole-in-one on the eighth hole?” “We were on the seventh!” The brothers share a laugh. Tony coughs a bit. “I can’t remember the last time I went mini-golfing.” “They did just open that place on 5th street.” “Mark! Are you asking me on date? Your girlfriend must be very open minded.” “gently caress you. But it would nice to do something like old times.” “Yeah. I’d like that.” “Just look at your goddamn texts next time.” “Give me more than ten minutes. I’ll get to it.” They share a laugh as they rise to their feet. Mark starts to head back to the church before realizes Tony hasn’t moved. When Mark turns to look at his brother, he sees the elder Ferrier with arms open. He laughs before accepting Tony’s offer and embracing him. A vibration in Mark’s jacket pocket pulls his attention, breaking the brother’s apart. He fumbles the iPhone out to find another message from his girlfriend. Stephanie Black Is everything okay? Today - 11:13am “Girlfriend again?” Tony says with a laugh. “Yeah.” “You better text her back.”
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Feb 28, 2022 08:06
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The man called M posted:Welcome to M World M-Yule Word Count: 490 Another Dilophosaurus was born at Camp Sinclair. It was an informal name for the tent city the local homeless population established. But in the days since we’ve been here, it’s been embraced readily by M World’s indigent. Makeshift signage has appeared on the camp’s boundaries, though I can’t recall them being constructed. Odd yes, but there’s a strange comfort in the reality’s malleability. “Your little dino is perfectly healthy, Ms. Spielberg,” I say to the poor human mother letting me examine her hatchling. I don’t know if that’s her actual name or not, but she responds to it just the same. Of course, I didn’t realize paleo-pediatric healthcare was within my personal skill set either. “Thank you so much, Professor Cindy,” the desperate woman asks. There’s a faint touch of an accent in her voice, possibly some shade of Eurpoean. I quietly laugh to myself. I’ve never taught at the university level, but I feel no need to correct the title. “Are you going to tell more stories by the fire tonight?” “Of course! I can do another Avengers tale if you like.” The woman eagerly agrees, tears of excitement rolling down her smiling face. I gather the shockingly sterile equipment I found in a nearby trash heap and return it to the abandoned car the police said I was welcome to. “Cindy,” an angered voice shouts from behind me. “We need to talk.” Dave storms toward me, out of another random phone booth that wasn’t there half-an-hour ago. “Let me guess,” I reply, “another phone call from a superhero?” “Yeah, Tony Stark, wanting to update you on his fight against A.I.M. And by the way, those little stories you’ve telling? How many of them were about Thor?” “They like the Simonson stuff. Why?” His hands shaking in fury, Dave digs through his coat pocket, handing me a tangled ball of chain necklaces. Each one adorned with a different Norse pagan symbol. “Yesterday they were celebrating Christmas. Today they’re celebrating Yule.” I rotate the wolf’s crosses and mjolnir medals in my hand. “This is a good thing. It’s a sign of universal consistency.” “It’s a sign that we need to stop what we’re doing and leave.” “And what happens if we do? We are stabilizing forces in an unstable world. Literally. At a molecular level. And if we have the power to do this just with a few superhero stories–” “--then it’s not power we want. Now come on!” Dave grabs at my sleeve, trying to pull me away from the vehicle. I struggle against him, cursing him as I try to escape. My cries draw the attention of a few patrolling officers, large bearded ones wearing chainmail under their uniforms. Their weapons may be polished metal crackling with cosmic energy, but they are distinctly medieval axes and warhammers. “Are you injured, Jarl Cindy?” one asks as Dave is dragged away. “I am,” I reply. “Quite well now.”
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Mar 3, 2022 19:44
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In! Gimme all three!
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Mar 9, 2022 17:21
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Bad Seafood posted:Well-meaning hillbillies on a deserted island must uncover a local conspiracy. Jake and Cletus vs. The Utukku Word Count: 1477 I wanna say the suped up fan motor of Cletus’s swamp boat woke me. That or the drat awful grinding noise the bottom makes when it scratches against the sandy rocks lining the shore. But the truth is, I got no idea how long I been passed out on this beach. Last thing I remember we were blasting full speed toward an island we ain’t never seen on any map and drat fool Cletus realized he shoulda’ suped up the brakes too. But maybe all that internet hoodoo bullshit he’s been reading online finally rotted his brains. “I told you, Jake!” I hear Cletus shout over the horrible racket his swamp boat is making. “Legba Isle! The lost Axis Mundi just past the Florida Key and trans-dimensional prison of The Utukku!” “Cletus,” I manage to grumble as I pull my busted rear end outta the sand, “Least give me a minute to wake up before you start with that crap.” “Oh drat! You okay?” “I’m fine. Just give me a minute before you start in with the whole monkey tutu business.” Takes a few minutes to pull my rear end up, but Cletus’s already ran up the first cliff he saw. I get frustrated for a minute, ‘til I see the cuneiforms carved right there into the rock. I’ll be straight with you folks, I ain’t what you call a worldly man. I got my daddy’s shop out by the swamplands. That’s all I need to worry about in my day to day life. Ain’t too many folks up in our neck of the woods. But that meant when folks started disappearing, we noticed, even if the rest of the county didn’t seem to. Even if these weird little logos started showing up on the property of the folks who went missing. It makes you feel helpless when your neighbors start vanishing. Especially when nobody cares about a few swamp rats getting plucked outta their homes. But credit where credit’s due, Cletus keeps up on all sorts of weirdness. Managed to stop looking for UFOs long enough to help out. He ain’t a bad guy or anything. He’s just a little off. Even by our standards. Even in a small little patch like ours, I was probably one of the few friends he had, even if he did push that poo poo a bit. But he didn’t hate nobody. And he didn’t wish nobody ill either. I pull the key out of his swamp boat and follow him up the hill. Ain’t much on this island ‘cept for sand and rocks. Maybe a handful of sad looking palm trees. But on these rocks are lines of, according to Cletus, pre-Abramic incarnations invoking the Akkadian Udug Hul. This text is carved into the rocks real neat like too. Almost exactly as deep, like a laser machine did it. Turns out you follow these little scribbles for long enough, they’ll lead you to a cave with a bunch of shapes and poo poo carved around the entrance. You go inside, you find a drat Cletus trotting along with his bag of dynamite, nearly jumping for joy at the creepy rear end faces carved into rock wall. The dynamite he insisted we bring, in case we have to blow up an portal gateway. “Look at this poo poo, Jake,” he blurts out, echoing all the down. “They carved themselves a genuine hall of fame. That’s the governor. Couple of European Union trade ministers over there. This here’s Chief of the General Staff of the DPRK. That’s North Korea if you’re curious.” “Why the hell they make these?” “You know how you got like your cellphone. And your phone got all them apps on it, but you still need to plug it into the wall and poo poo. Like you’re gonna post on your own Facebook or order from Door Dash or whatever, but you’re using someone else’s power. It’s like that. Also, the electric company murders a whole lotta people. And they use their Facebook to like start wars and use super powers and poo poo.” “The hell you talking about?” “They’re tryna reverse engineer godhood. You get mortal power over people first, kill a bunch of undesirables to prove you got it, build your own temple, then power it up with someone else’s power. Course they probably do like little rituals and poo poo to make the demons think they’re the big bosses, but you think these rich assholes bowing to anyone?” “How do you know so much about cellphones?” “I got this one from the Five and Dime!” As Cletus shows me the smart phone he has in his dynamite bag, his flashlight passes the cave floor. We both leap up as we realize some of what we thought were rocks we on the ground around us got teeth and eye holes. It hits me that we might be standing on our friends, our neighbors. I feel like I gotta run away or throw up. But right now, I can’t do either. Can’t do much of nothing. If Jake’s weird rear end rambling is anywhere in the ballpark of being right, even at a fractional level, then I may have stepping into something I haven’t the wherewithal to even comprehend. “Jake,” Cletus mutters. “Don’t lose it brother. We came this far.” “I ain’t doing this, Cletus. I said I wanted to catch whoever been taking our folk. But this I can’t even make sense of.” Cletus grabs my shoulder like he knows I’m about to run scared. “Brother, I know this poo poo’s big. But it’s made of parts. And knock over enough parts—“ He gets cut off by a club to the back of the head. As he goes down, I see traces of a purple velvet robe as the flashlight flies from his hand. Someone grabs me from behind before jamming a damp rag in my face. I go light headed with foul odor before the cave goes darker than it already is. # I wake on a slab of rock. Orange light flickers from the stalactites from torches surrounding my new bed. Men in hooded purple robes hold their arms open. I can’t make out their faces, but the few features I can see look a whole hell of a lot like the big rear end statues carved into the cave stone. They chant. Real fervent like. Starts picking up pace, gaining momentum with every Latin phrase they utter. I struggle to move my arms and legs, ‘cuz those boys got us chained down to this drat rock. But I see Cletus next to me, laughing. Laughing his head off as those nut jobs chant their drat Latin. “What’s so drat funny?” I shout at the giggling rear end in a top hat next to me. Sparks flying from torches start to flickering in color. I pull myself up to see what looks like a giant stone gate at the end of this side of the cave. It only leads to rocks, but those rocks glow with whatever color the sparks flicker. That glow gets real distinct the more these hooded weirdo chant. Beams of light start to pour from it. On a table next to the gate, Cletus’s dynamite bag. “They picked our folk off because they thought we was a bunch of dumb hicks,” Cletus shouts. “But they didn’t even look in my bag before they put it next to their fancy portal.” “What?” “You know that phone?” “Yeah.” “It had a timer.” “A timer?” “One I had to actively start and stop.” “You mean—“ “Jake, do you know what a contingency plan is?” The bag explodes. The fiery blast burns bright orange before the fire twisting and shifting color. The statues around it shatter, as whatever magic mumbo jumbo starts getting real unstable. The hooded folks run for cover, but a a few get vaporized in the chaos. I look up to find Cletus picking the shackles on my wrists with a safety pin, having somehow slipped his. “How’d you get loose?” I shout at him. “Remember when I hosed up my thumbs fixing my truck?” He pops the remaining shackles, but it may be too late. The cave is rapidly collapsing. Whatever energy that’s filling it seems to either disintegrate or suck in the folks in the purple hoods. The gate itself glows like a drat color changing sun. “How do we get out, Cletus?” “You see that up there?” “Of course, I see it! It’s all you can see!” “It’s a portal, right?” “I don’t know! Maybe!” “That means it’s an exit!” So Cletus, in all his infinite wisdom and logic, charges full speed into the unstable blinding light that may have been keeping pre-Biblical demons from reeking having on this earthly plane of existence. And maybe because I owe him, maybe because I don’t see any other way out, my dumb rear end runs to catch his rear end.
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Mar 14, 2022 08:46
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In! Flash me please!
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Sep 29, 2022 18:43
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