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 Seven hundred authors have written eighty-five hundred stories totaling over ten million words and they’ve all been loving garbage! THIS. IS. T H U N D E R D O M E!   CLICK HERE FOR CURRENT PROMPT I’m sorry, what’s a “Thunderdome” exactly? Thunderdome is Something Awful’s first, only, and best weekly flash fiction writing contest. Oh this like a writing group? I’ve done writing groups before! Ohh, my sweet little war pup. Not like this you haven’t. The prompts suck, the judges are blind, and the critiques are brutally harsh. We don’t give a poo poo about what you meant to write and we’re not going to hold your hand or whisper sweet, meaningless nothings in your ear. lovely stories will be torn to shreds and you might just get your widdle feelings hurt. But… if you’re strong enough, if you’re brave enough to stick around, you’ll see the burning flames of our hate leave your writings shiny and chrome. Neat! How do I join? Click the link above. Say “In.” Should I know anything important before I join? Yes. First and foremost, read the prompt post. Then read it again. Then read it a third time. Don’t gently caress this up. It’s just "reading." And the prompt post is going to give you a lot of important information. Such as:
What happens if I win? You decide the next prompt. You judge the entries. You give critiques. You continue to the cycle of blood. Click here for help. What happens if I lose? You get some harsh words on how to improve. You also get a fancy new avatar for dying historic in the dome.  See? That’s not so bad, is it little baby? Okay, I'm sold. How can I enter this wonderfully horrible arena of blood again? CLICK HERE FOR CURRENT PROMPT
Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 00:33 on Aug 2, 2022 |
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Jan 5, 2022 06:47
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Resources Discord PM me or post in the thread for a link. The Thunderdome Archive Lovingly created by crabrock, it has everything your heart desires: stories, stats, graphs, dramatic readings, and even a somewhat regularly updated podcast. You need to enter at least once to gain proper access. Fiction Writing Advice and Discussion If you want to talk about your story or just writing in general, this is SA's home for it. Previous threads: Thunderdome 2012: FYI, I do take big dumps, holla. Thunderdome 2013: If this were any other thread we'd all be banned by now Thunderdome 2014teen: Stories from the Abonend Bunker Thunderdome 2015teen: Weekly Stories with Positive People Thunderdome 2016teen: Fast Writing, Bad Writing Thunderdome 2017teen: Prose and Cons Thunderdome 2018teen: Abonen Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here Thunderdome 2019teen: Writing Our Wrongs Thunderdome 2020ty: This Dumb Joke Will Continue Until the Words Improve. Thunderdome 2021ne: Out of the Dumpster and Into the Fire Glossary by Sitting Here
HM - Honorable mention; a story that was in consideration for the win, or had some notable positive quality. DM - Dishonorable mention; a story that was in consideration for the loss, or had some notable negative quality. DQ - Disqualification; a disqualified story. Stories that were submitted before judgment, but after submissions close. Also includes stories that went over word count and stories that were edited after posting. Disqualified stories can’t win, but they can lose, which is better than failure. See also: Redemption. Flashrule - A sub-prompt given by the judges as part of the main weekly prompt, often serving as an additional challenge or piece of inspiration. Hellrule - A particularly unfair flashrule, requested at one’s own risk. Not every judge will issue hellrules. Redemption - A disqualified story submitted after judgment has been posted. Better than failure.  - Adding to your signup post indicates that you will forfeit your forums account if you fail to submit. Banned accounts may be unbanned at the owner’s expense.FJGJ - Fast Judging, Good Judging. A thing impatient morons begin shouting the moment submissions close. Brawl - A duel between two or more writers. Brawls are separate from the weekly prompt. See On Brawling by Sebmojo for a detailed explanation. The Archive - A repository of all Thunderdome stories, faithfully maintained by crabrock and Kaishai for several years. Losertar - Another name for the free avatar given to losers of the weekly contest Kayfabe - It is the showmanship that makes Thunderdome different from other, similar contests. Kayfabe gives participants the opportunity to show a little swagger, or act out grudges and rivalries within the arena of words. Kayfabe is optional, and it’s meant to be fun, not abusive. Come find out what you’re made of, you unblooded weenies. 2022wo Leaderboards The past is dead. The future is now. 
Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 13:08 on Jan 7, 2023 |
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Jan 5, 2022 06:48
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On Brawling, by Sebmojo: brawling what so someone said something mean and your bottom lip is doing that quivery thing and you feel like you can't go a single second more without punching a motherfucker? thunderdome has just the thing. you can't fight here it's the Thunderdome when two people hate each other very much, and one of them is you, you get to slap down a challenge. make it big, make it brassy; you're slapping your sex bits down on the bar, try and make 'em bounce a little. help someone's slapped me with something help accepting brawl challenges isn't required, but if you like to sling the poo poo around (and you should) then failing to back up your bad words with good ones will be remembered. brawl stories are good, being able to beat someone you're mad at is better. how does it work? once you've thrown down a challenge, and had it accepted, a brawl judge will step up just like that weird bartender in The Shining. they'll give you a prompt, a word count and a deadline. they'll also, and this is real important, state the this means if you fail to submit by the deadline then you get banned. the judge doesn't need to give you an extension.what do you mean banned brawl toxxes are obligatory. if you're actually a literal secret agent and you've just discovered you're parachuting into Syria in two hours time then get on Discord, snivel at your judge and maybe they'll remove the from the prompt, but expect that to be a one-time mercy if you gently caress it up.anything else? don't challenge anyone until you've done a few rounds, good grudges take time to fester, don't step up to judge a brawl unless you've at least got an HM or the participants have asked you to, and declining a random drive-by brawl is more acceptable than one with a grudge behind it. this place runs on words, and hatred, and you gotta fuel the fire. brawl judges, don't grab brawls if you don't have a prompt ready and don't be dicks; what matters is whose story is best, don't gently caress around. is that it yes, fight well you horrible monsters ===================
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Jan 5, 2022 06:49
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(reserved)
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Jan 5, 2022 06:50
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In with subprompt please.
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Jan 12, 2022 20:19
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in front of a funky green sky, a banjo player gets some bad news 1100 words The soup was very good, delicious even, and I love an excellent soup above almost all other dinners, but the commotion made me look up all the same. Backlit by the green night sky of the aurora australis, out on the deck of the airship, my future friend stood crying. His band had just dumped him and he was taking it hard. “Yeah, well,” he shouted as he wiped his eyes, “those tasty four part harmonies we’re known for? Well, now you’re going to be down to three!” He angrily held up the appropriate numbers of fingers but they continued walking away with neither pause nor response. Iosefa balled his hands into fists, thought about going after them, reconsidered, sighed, turned, shifted the banjo on his back, rested his elbows on the railing, and stared out at the stars. Quietly then he sobbed. I stood up, adjusted my bowtie, and motioned for the waiter not to touch my plate. I was an old dog, true, but a good boy once is a good boy forever. I waddled unsteadily across the slowly rolling floors. I tapped Iosefa’s side with one paw. He looked down at me. “Hello,” I said. “My name is Carl. It’s a human name.” “Hello, Carl.” “I thought I might offer my services to you.” “Yeah?” “Yeah! If you would like, you can pat my head or scratch my ears. I’m very soft.” After a moment, Iosefa reached down and gently ruffled my fur. I rested my head against his knee. He ran his hand across my head again and sighed. “They kicked me out of the band.” “I’m sorry," I said. “I’m a great banjoist!” “Oh, I'm sure!" He sighed. "Actually, I don't blame them. I've… started getting stage fright or something. I'll look out at the audience and I just. Freeze. Up. And instead of sweet sugary bluegrass filling the air, it’s silence and embarrassment.” “Oh,” I said. “Still, It’s pretty neat that you can play an instrument.” “I guess.” We stood there together for a while. Then he scratched at this very specific spot behind my left ear and it felt really good and that made me dance and that made him smile. “My dad supported me being an artist,” Iosefa said. “But he said I needed something to show for it. I could go out and give it a try for a while but then… I needed to come home if it wasn’t working. It’s been a while. I have nothing to show. So… I guess it’s back to the farm.” I tapped his leg. “Ah! I used to live on a farm!” “Really?” he said. “Whaja grow?” “Music.” “Us, too! Fiddlefern?” I smiled. “Bowtie gave it away, huh?” He nodded. “Lemme guess,” I said. “Banjotrees?” “Only one, actually. Guitartubers mostly. Some violastalks. And those are all fine. But that one tree, the way it sings when the wind’s blowing, especially right before harvest time, made me fall in love with the instrument. Made me want to make music. Not just grow it, ya know?” He looked down at me. “Why’d you leave your farm?” “My owner died.” “Oh.” “Yeah,” I said. “He was eating breakfast when a piece of debris from one of these airships came through the roof. Hit him right in the head. Boop. It was very surprising. Part of the significant settlement package from his deathsuit was free trips for life with full complimentary services. The soup here, in particular, is excellent. Would you like some?” “I’ve never had airship soup before.” “Oh, then I insist!” I tugged on his pant leg with my teeth and then headed inside. “Don’t worry. There’s plenty. I know it’s unhealthy for me to eat human-sized portions but I’m old and also a dog. I have almost no self-control with food. No food aggression, though, in case you were worried.” “I wasn't. And, sure, I’ll try it.” After a single spoonful, Iosefa’s eyes widened. “It is good!" “I told you! I motioned for the waiter to bring me a second spoon. I hopped up on the table and we dined together. And it was so pleasant just sitting there enjoying a meal with a new friend that my tail started tippy-tap-tippy-tap-tippy-tap-tippy-tap-ing against the wood and Iosefa put down his utensil and said, “Carl! You have perfect time signature!” I said, “What’s that mean?” “It means you’re a great drummer.” “I’ve never been a musician before! Would you like to play a song with me?” Iosefa started to nod but then he looked around at the other diners and shook his head. “I’ll just screw it up and freeze again. I told you, I can’t play in front of people anymore.” “Hm,” I said. “This was only recent, right?” “Yeah?” “Hm,” I said again. “Do you think you’re getting nervous because you’re approaching this nebulous self-defined deadline for success and you feel like you haven’t succeeded enough to justify your father’s faith in you and are self-sabotaging because you are worried that you actually don’t deserve to be here?” Iosefa blinked. “Well, uh, maybe. Maybe a little, yeah.” “There's no timeline for success,” I said. “But also no set definition for it. You can go back to your family farm and grow wonderful instruments and that could be success. Or you could find another band and get another gig on another airship. You could even get hit in the head with a piece of debris and die over grits. Honestly, the world is full of surprises.” Iosefa laughed and ruffled my headfur. “You’re a good boy, Carl.” Tippy-tap-tippy-tap-tippy-tap-tippy-tap! With a cry, Iosefa ripped the banjo from his shoulder and started picking the tune “Ruby (Are You Mad at Your Man).” And the longer he went at it, the more confident he became, the faster his fingers moved, jumping from string to string like fleas on the back of an unwashed animal. A clap started quietly somewhere amongst the diners but it quickly picked up steam as more and more people joined in. I glanced over my shoulder and the whole room was full of swaying and clapping. Iosefa stood to hoots and hollers, his fingers flying, and when he finished hitting those last, high pitched notes in the furious frenzy made famous by the Osborne Brothers back in ’72, he did so to applause. It wasn’t a standing ovation but it was a fine response all the same, especially for surprised patrons on the upper deck of an Antarctic touring airship. The waiter approached the table and gave a slight bow of his head to Iosefa. “Wonderful performance, sir. Wonderful.” Iosefa just beamed. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” “Another bowl of soup,” I said. “Thank you.”
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Jan 17, 2022 06:04
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oh subprompt: A farmer finds a good friend on an airship.
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Jan 17, 2022 06:05
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In.
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Jan 18, 2022 19:02
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Subprompt: birds, whoever your old person is just loves 'em, knows all their songs, can whisper sweetly to 'em, just all birds all the time babyyyy the kapua-man; or, don't gently caress with them birds 1200 words The first invader I met was dragged to me by the moa. I guess because he was a human and they figured I'd know what to do with him. Dumb birds, they are. And quiet. So unlike the clever ʻapapane or the curious ʻiʻiwi. Still, I searched in my bag for the appropriate whistle. "You tore him up with your claws," I said through the instrument. "He's dying. There's nothing I can do." They stared at me. I shrugged. They kept staring. I said, "What do you want me to do?" They kept staring. Eventually, I hit him in the head with a rock and they wandered back into the jungle. It was only when I started washing his body for a burial that I realized he even was an invader. Underneath all the blood and the mud was mamo-yellow hair and pale skin, bleached like a washed-up shell. Very strange. Very different from the locals. The second invader I met was also dragged to me by the moa. He was in equally bad shape so I hit him in the head with a rock, too. "Wait," I said as they started to leave. "Where are you finding these men? They are unfamiliar to me." Thinking they would actually be helpful, I followed them through the jungle but they were just looking for berries to eat. After the third invader, I said to myself, gently caress it, I'm gonna find someone that will actually talk back to me. So I grabbed my ʻiʻiwi whistle and played a seductive love ballad until one landed on a nearby branch. She looked around, looked at me, and shook her head. "Oh," she said, clearly disappointed. "It's just you, kapua-man." "Heya." "I thought you were a male looking to gently caress." "Afraid not," I said. "Just looking for information." She preened her red plumage with her long curved beak. "And what do I get in return?" "You'll sate your curiosity." "But I'm not curious?" "Really?" I said, gesturing at the pale skinned corpse. "So you know about the men that look like this? You know what they want? Where they came from? Why they're here? Because I've never seen anyone like that on any of the islands. Never ever ever." After a moment, she fluttered down to the man's chest. She hopped across him, peering this way and that. "Damnit," she chirped. "Now I am curious. Where'd you find him?" "Moa dragged him here. Wouldn't say anything else, though." "loving moa," she said. "I'll flock up. See what I can find out. Wouldn't mind a meal when I get back." "Fair enough." "Might be bringing some friends." "I'm sure you will," I said. She flew off and I rummaged for one of my plant whistles. Trickier to make since plants don't have bones but still doable if you're patient. Less fun to play, too, since plants, like the moa, rarely talk back. Still, it had been a while and the music is lovely in an old, nostalgic sort of way, reminds me of the time when the first birds were taking flight. I got so wrapped up in my grow-song that I was surrounded by great flowering stalks, plumeria and hibiscus and lehua, when she returned. It was enough to feast a hundred birds. Which was good because that was about how many came back with her. They descended hungrily on my flowers. Their singing filled the air all at once as they drank deep of the nectar. "-bone men!- shell skin men!- boats!- many boats!- don't like the sun!- don't like the birds!- big boats!- big sails!- many sails!- hate the sun!- pinken in the sun!- red skin in the sun!- loud voices!- angry voices!- don't like the trees!- attack the trees!- attack the birds!- killed a moa!- stupid!- stupid!- killed an ʻelepaio!- stupid!- burned them!- ate them!- burned the trees!-" "How many?" I asked, switching whistles. "-many!- many!- many!- many!- many!- many!- many!- many!- many!-" A foolish question. ʻIʻiwi couldn't count past about five. Almost as foolish as killing a moa. No wonder they were dragging bodies to me. I looked for the female and leaned over the flower she was drinking from. "Where are they?" She pulled out her beak. It was wet and shiny. "Mauka side. The big estuary." "Appreciate it." She went back to eating without a response. I kneeled beside the third invader's corpse and, with a sharp rock, carefully cut out one of his neck bones. I can understand every language of beast and plant but I can't speak them without assistance. I carved myself a new instrument. It was quick and sloppy but I figured if the invaders were killing birds indiscriminately then the jungle would be full of war-song by morning and I can't talk with ghosts -- nothing to make whistles out of. I followed the river down to the coast. I smelled the invaders long before I saw them. Smoke and fire and sweat and roasted meat. A bit further and I heard them, the chopping of axes on trees, harsh voices filled with rough consonants. Finally, I saw them. Couple dozen. I stepped out of the jungle and gave my new whistle a toot. "Heya." They stopped in place and stared at me. "Ah, poo poo," I said, mostly to myself. "Sorry. This was sloppy craftsmanship." I gave it a couple of blows, finding the right pitch. "Heya," I said again. Well, turns out, they weren't that friendly. They pointed weapons at me and shouted and tied me up and tried to interrogate me but I couldn't talk back without my whistle. Their leader went on and on about how they were sent here by "God" to bring "civilization" to the "savage lands." Also, that the only things that should have wings were "angels." Just a lot of nonsense. I would have liked to explain that they were pretty far off base, that I'd been around for a long time and had never heard of their God or their angels, and that they shouldn't have hosed with them birds and that they definitely should get back into their boats and go the gently caress home but… you know, hands tied, no whistle, yadda yadda. Then those fuckers tried to stab me! So I turned into a coconut and I rolled into the ocean and I waited for the war-song. A little before sunrise, the moa came. And that was that. After the slaughter, I turned back into a man and swam to shore. The moa were already dragging the survivors towards my home. I blew sand out of the appropriate whistle. "Ay, ay, ay," I said. "I'm right here. Chill." They started dragging them to my feet. "I don't- I don't why you're doing this," I said. "You know I'm just gonna hit them all in the head with a rock. You can finish them off yourselves. I am a super unnecessary part of this." But they just kept piling the bodies up in front of me. "Will you at least go tell the locals there's some stuff here they might like?" Shockingly, no response. I sighed and started looking for a rock
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Jan 24, 2022 07:05
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Zurtilik posted:Also, was I supposed to self snitch on toxes? Because I'm sure I've broken one or possibly two at this point and while I enjoy saving the $10 I also feel like it's poor sportsmanship. So I'm gonna let you all decide if my lovely tox break is still grounds for a one way ticket to Good on you for coming clean. You can pay  or you can write crits for all of this week's entries, due with 72 hours of judgement.
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Jan 25, 2022 16:33
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Zurtilik posted:UHHH I mean extra crits for the week that is happening right now for stories due Monday the 31st at 3am PST. To be courteous, wait until after official judgement has passed to post them.
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Jan 25, 2022 16:54
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In. Flash pls.
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Feb 4, 2022 20:48
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In. Can I take someone else's snippet or do I have to ask for my own?
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Mar 22, 2022 16:03
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Idolize 1230 words “Yo, nah,” he said, a blunt dangingly between his fangs. “I’m curious about the competition. Let the youngin in.” He waved his talons. After a moment, the goon quickly patted me down and then stepped aside and I stepped into the room. Rhymnonychus watched me with cold eyes. “So gently caress you want, youngin?” I kept my hands in my coat pockets. They were trembling. I mean, I’m not gonna say this dude was my loving hero but I had been listening to his mixtapes since middle school so I was a little starstruck. He’d also won this competition nine times in a row. He was also an eleven foot apex predator resurrected from the Cretaceous period and, according to the streets, a certified gangbanging killer with multiple murders under his belt. So. I licked my lips. “I, uh, um…” The room erupted in cruel laughter. All his goons started mocking me, shaking and stuttering, repeating, “Um, uh, um, uh!” Rhymnonychus hissed once and they all fell silent. He took the blunt from his teeth and offered it to me. “I can’t,” I said. “I have to do homework later. And I got a study group in the morning. Big calculus test on Monday.” “Big calculus!” the goons repeated, clapping and laughing and jeering. “Homework!” “Shut the gently caress up!” Rhymnonychus said. “Goddamn. How old is you, youngin?” “Sixteen.” “So, what? You want an autograph or something?” “Well, yeah,” I said. “But, no, that’s not why I’m here. This is… this my first real rap battle. And I got you for Round Two and you’re gonna loving destroy me- “-yeah, you dead, youngin!-” “-and my dad came with me tonight-” “-his loving daddy, y’all!-” “-and I was hoping, like, maybe when we were done that you could just, like, dap me up or something…” The room exploded with raucous, mocking laughter. I ducked as a bottle flew past my head. And then I was surrounded, pushed, pulled, slapped, spit on, I was knocked to the ground and I gasped as someone planted a boot into my stomach. In the distance, I heard Rhymnonychus say, “Get the gently caress out of here!” I was yanked off the ground and pushed towards the door when suddenly I felt his talons grip by the shoulder and jerk me backwards. “Not him!” Rhymnonychus shouted. “I want y’all to get the gently caress out! I wanna talk to the motherfucker in peace!” And then the room got real quiet. And the goons filed out one by one. He pulled me to a chair and sat down next to me. “You aight?” “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been jumped before.” “Bet. So. What the gently caress is this?” he asked. “You trying some weird-rear end psychological poo poo on me?” “No, sir,” I said. “I just want you to give me a fistbump or something after we’re done battling.” “Why?” I rubbed my forehead. “My dad thinks music is a waste of time and he especially doesn’t like rap and, I dunno, I thought maybe if I did well tonight then he’d… but then I matched up against you and, like… I just want him to be proud of me, man. And supportive.” “poo poo,” he said. “You’re for real.” He leaned back and took a hit from his blunt. “You realize telling me your loving weaknesses before we battle is stupid as gently caress, right? I could drop like six bars just on you bringing your loving dad here tonight.” “I knew it was a risk, yeah.” He laughed. “Aight, youngin, well, lemme peep what you’ve written so far.” “What?” “What you’ve written. Lemme get eyes on it. Bruh, I’m not trying to cop your poo poo. I’m gonna give you some touch-ups.” I blinked. “But… we’re freestyling?” He laughed again. Louder but kinder. “My god! You did Round One as a true-rear end freestyle? Sheeit, motherfucker, no wonder you all nervous! Aight, first word of advice? No one’s actually freestyling. Like, yeah, you do a little here or there, nawmsaying? But the real devastating poo poo? Plan that out, bruh!” He kissed his teeth and reached over me to grab a napkin and pwn. He blew smoke out his nostrils as he scribbled a couple lines. “Here,” he said. “Spit me something, youngin. And add these in.” He dangled the napkin in front of me. I snatched it. Read it over a couple of times. “Go on,” he said. “Show me whatchu got.” I gave him a nod. “I was twelve when I first heard your first mixtape Real hard poo poo to a kid with a cartoon pillowcase But now that I been past first base Now that I taught a bitch how the tip of my dick taste It pains me to admit it but poo poo it’s true what they say Meeting your idols is a motherfucking mistake Somebody pass me a rifle, it’s open season on dinos And I’m here for the title, spitting waves like I’m tidal Gold touch like I’m Midas, and bro there’s no silver lining Rhymnonycus, what’s ironic is you dropped the die-ing My hypothesis? You was just waiting for I, B I got the high beams, the red dotto, the drop shotto And you got disciples but what you really need is Geico So call up all ya lizards man, you up against gorillas, man I’m harder than the Flintstones, I’m badder than Bam-Bam Amd when I slam slam your face, it’ll be a relief You see you ain’t the only motherfucker here with sharp teeth When ya little homies run on down to the precinct And cry they little crocodile tears to the police chief They’ll call this a murder and be wrong, here’s the distinction This isn’t just a regular killing, it’s an extinction.” Rhymnonychus cocked his head to the side, After a pause, he slammed the pen into my chest. “gently caress you doing, man? Write that poo poo down!” “It was okay?” “Yeah, it was okay! Now write it down! drat, youngin, straight off the cuff, sheeit. Hey, your old man cool with all the cursing?” “His English isn’t great.” I said as I furiously scribbled, trying to remember word for word what I’d rapped. Rhymnonychus leaned over me, correcting me in places, touching up others. “Watch the syllables, youngin. The lines are solid but this ain’t rap for an album. If you get too mouthy, your audience won’t follow, feel me?” “I feel you.” He took another puff. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m still gonna kill you up there on stage.” “I know.” “You good. You okay. You ain’t great.” “I know.” “But keep ya head up. This is respectable, youngin.” “Thank you.” “poo poo,” he said. “Ain’t no thing.” He paused. “You really listen to my mixtape when you was twelve?” “‘Raptor Rapstar?’” I said. “Man, I had that on repeat.” “Heh. Dope.” The judges gave him the win, of course. Unanimous. But before I could leave the stage, Rhymnonychus wrapped his arm around my shoulder. He had us face the crowd together and he shouted. “Ayo! This youngin is only sixteen! And he brought some motherfucking heat, yeah? Let’s give it up!” And the crowd started cheering and I was grinning from ear to ear and I saw my dad out in the audience, stone-faced and serious as always but he gave me the smallest, tiniest of nods. And the world right then was good.
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Mar 28, 2022 03:11
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In.
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Apr 2, 2022 01:35
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Nae posted:Bixbite aka Red Beryl, or "The Red Emerald" Great Guy 1200 words I knew Mike was sketchy when I moved in with him but I didn’t realize he was stupid as poo poo, too. He’d been working as a landscaper for this hella rich Chinese dude but his eyes got to wandering and when the dude went out of town, Mike decided to break in and steal some poo poo. And maybe he wouldn’t have gotten caught except his phone automatically connected to the wifi. And, as it would turn out, this Chinese dude wasn’t rich through totally legal means. Thus, it wasn’t the police that came looking for Mike. So I’m eating breakfast, a warm Coors and a stale bagel covered in Taco Bell hot sauce, when Rocky kicks our front door in. It’s very violent. He’s a big guy. All muscley and tattooed. He points a sawn-off shotty at me and I, midchew, slowly raise my hands, still holding the beer and the bagel. I say, “Hey, if this is about Mike, he’s not here. If this is about drugs, I don’t know where they are but feel free to toss the place.” One of the infinitesimally small benefits of being hella poor is that you don’t have anything to lose in this kind of situation. Rocky says, “I’m not looking for drugs. I’m looking for a dragon.” I say, “Like a real dragon?” He says, “Nah. A statue. Got bixbite eyes.” I say, “What’s bixbite?” He says, “gently caress if I know. I’m just doing what I’m told.” I give him a sympathetic smile. “Bosses, amirite?” He laughs. Which is good. I know I’m not his exactly his target but I also know that, as a witness and a roommate, I’m well within the potentional-to-be-murdered-or-violently-injured-range. I need to make a human connection or prove myself useful or, preferably, both. And quick. “Hey,” I say. He’s a little closer now and I can see more of his tattoos. Lotta typical gangster poo poo but some Poly stuff, too. Including the Hawaiian islands on his neck. “Hey, weird question but… are you kamaʻāina, brah?” He gives me a look. “poo poo. Yeah. Howju know?” He has ‘WEST SIDE’ across his knuckles. Now, if he’s repping somewhere on the mainland, I might be hosed. But if it’s islander and he’s from Oahu (and, like, ninety percent of the population is) then he might be from… I say. “You just remind me of my boy from Waianae.” “Brah!” he says, slapping his chest. “I’m from Waianae! Whose ya boy? I might know him!” “Uh… Big Dog. You know a Big Dog?” “Big Dog what?” I grit my teeth. “I, uh, can’t… Guns make me kinda nervous, y’know? I can’t think straight.” He waves his hand and lowers the gun. “No worries, cuz. This just for show. I mean, for you. Mike? Aiyaa, that’s one kneecap, braddah, minimum. Bossman told me to gently caress him up good. Big Dog what?” I start thinking real fast and speaking real slow. I watch his face to see if anything catches. “Kea… something… Kea…loha? Uh. Ke…lamane? Keahi?” His face brightens. “Keawe?” “Yeah!” I say. “Maybe!” Rocky sighs. He kisses his fingers and points to the sky. “Miss you, brah.” I blink. This is extremely convenient. “Big Dog’s dead?” “Yeah,” he says. “Was driving his moped drunk. Fell off. No helmet. Hit the road. Dead. Just like that.” “drat,” I say. I kiss my fingers and point to the sky. “Miss you.” We’re both quiet for a bit. I lick my lips. “Do you want a beer? We couldn’t pay the electric so they’re warm but…” “Ah,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m working, brah.” “Right, right.” Rocky scrunches up his nose. “But maybe just one?” I say, “For Big Dog?” He says. “For Big Dog!” Well, one beer turns to two and two turns to three and three turns to four and then we decide we should walk to the corner store and get another rack and, well, unfortunately, all I’d had to eat was that stale bagel and I have a tendency to get real emotional when I’m shitfaced so I start feeling guilty about lying and then I start crying. Rocky says, “Brah? What’s wrong?” I say, “You’re just such a cool dude.” He says, “You’re a cool dude!” I say, “Nah, man.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. He says, “Ay. Hawaiian.” And that’s a very personal thing for a kanaka maoli to call someone! So I just start sobbing. He says, “You’re a great guy!” I say, “Nah, man. I lied to you. I didn’t know Big Dog. I just made it up because I was scared.” He says, “Brah! I had a gun! You was supposed to be scared! And you just came clean, right? That’s legit, brah. That’s big man poo poo. Not a lot of people will admit when they wrong these days. And if you had known Big Dog, he would have liked you. I know it.” I say, “Really?’ He says, “Yeah.” I raise my beer and make a toast. “To Big Dog!” He says, “To Big Dog!” Well, we keep drinking. We start telling stories. Laughing. Having a good time. And, eventually, Mike comes home. He sees the busted door. He sees all the empty beer cans. He freaks the gently caress out. He just goes ape poo poo, yelling, “Yo! What the gently caress? The loving door is loving hosed! loving gently caress, man! What the gently caress! And who the loving gently caress is loving this, man? gently caress!” Me and Rocky have our arms around each other's shoulders and we look at each other and we just start laughing. I say, “Hey, Milke. This is my friend Rocky.” Rocky says, “Wassup?” Mike says, “Who hosed up my door?” Rocky says, “I did.” And as Mike walks towards us, I can see that he has mad cocaine eyes and I realize he’s about to do something really, really stupid. But before I can stop him, he open palm slaps Rocky across the face. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t see what happens next but when I open them again, Mike is laying on the floor with a broken nose and Rocky is towering over him and pushing the sawn-off into his mouth. And I realize, Oh, poo poo, if I witness a murder then I’m probably going to be murdered, too! So I shout, “Mike! The dragon statue! With the… the bixbite eyes! Where is it?” Rocky pauses, glances at me, and gives me a small smile.“Ah. Thanks, Hawaiian.” Then he turns back to Mike and threatens some very intense, very graphic violence. And then he pauses again and turns back to me again and says, “You know what, brah, you don’t need to see this. It’s gonna be hosed up. I’m gonna drag him into the bathroom. You cool?” I say, “I’m cool.” Turns out Mike just pawned it. Well, I couldn’t exactly keep living there after all that and I didn’t have anywhere else to go so I ask Rocky if maybe I can crash with him for a bit and he says, “Sure.” Shows up with his truck the next morning, helps me pack my poo poo, lets me crash on his couch for a couple weeks until I can find a new place. Great guy.
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Apr 4, 2022 03:21
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Vinny Possum posted:Could I get a link to the discord? https://discord.gg/JgyUPgpw
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Apr 12, 2022 23:43
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Apr 16, 2022 05:23
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The Hyena; or, the Bar Exam 900 words I gained twenty-five pounds prepping for the bar exam. It was significantly less than I’d hoped for and, based on the appearances of the people in front and behind me, I was coming in on the smaller side by quite a bit. I rubbed my belly nervously. The man in front of me had a particularly powerful, prodigious gut that hung over his belt and strained the buttons on his dress shirt. The woman behind me was wearing a dress that could have been the sail to ship. Both of them, beautiful, enviable, yet as we marched forward in the queue, snaked as it was through the parking lot of the stadium, I passed bigger and better bodies until my companions were as dwarfed as I was to them. It took hours to get through the line. The man in front of me stepped up to the ticket counter, presented his ID, signed the health waiver, and the woman behind the counter asked, “Glue, three-hole punch, or staples?” “Staples?” the man said, surprised. The woman stamped his test form. And there was a groan from everyone who witnessed, myself included. The man took his test with shaky hands, crestfallen, already dejected despite the incredible work he’d put into his stomach. He must be from another, more enlightened state. One that removed or never had the old Jim Crow option. “Glue, three-hole punch, or staples?” the woman asked me. “Glue,” I said. Difficult on the digestion but easier than staples. And less likely to accidentally lose a piece than three-hole punch. She stamped my form. We silently filed into the stadium. Our desks were in the nosebleed section. By my count, only a few hundred more would make it inside this year for the exam. Down below, I could see those who arrived early and who’d been forced to wait in the sun fiddling with various canteens and thermoses, weighing the need for hydration versus keeping an empty stomach versus keeping a stretched-out stomach. In the tunnels, in the stairways, waiters in white shirts and red bowties mingled with masked security guards and members of the press. Finally, as the last seats were filled, as my neighbors arranged their sauces, as I finished sharpening my scissors, as the sun began to set, she arrived. The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Spotlights picked up her helicopter, solid gold with the glowing white seal of the Courts emblazoned on both sides, as it came down onto the middle of the field. She stepped out, raised her hands, and the stadium roared to life with wild shouts and thunderous applause. A waiter darted across the grass to hand her a microphone “Greetings!” she cried, her voice booming through every speaker. “I know you all are hungry for knowledge so I will be brief. To quote Shakespeare who was in turn quoting the brilliant Socrates, ‘To speak the law, one must first eat the law!’ Today we carry on that tradition that has stretched back into antiquity and has maintained democracy since we executed those first sets of kings! Tomorrow, you all will be different. Some will be judges, some lawyers, others police. Others still will return to their old jobs but not a one of you should hang your head. By simply being here, you are embodying the greatest strength of humanity. That is to say, you reach bravely, without fear, without hesitation, without knowing what is or isn’t in your grasp. Seek greatness. Eat well. And God bless you all.” She returned the microphone, bowed to ferocious applause, and flew off in her helicopter. Waiters filed through the aisles, carrying silver plates filled with law texts, and dropped one off on each person’s desk. Guards took up positions, working in pairs, one with a rifle and the other with binoculars. The stadium’s priest led us in a blessing and then quickly went over the rules. Every part of the law must be eaten in two hours. Cheaters would be immediately executed. He raised his holy rifle to the air, fired a single shot, and we began. I used my scissors on the spines first, scrapping the glue and sucking it off the blades. Better, I figured, to attack the most difficult part first than when my belly was full of paper. I was careful, though, to make sure some remained to bind the pages. The woman who was behind me in line and who had chosen three-hole punch, screamed as a gust of wind took one of her sheets. Unable to leave her desk, she could only watch as it floated through the stadium. She wept. Her dreams deferred if not dead. A giant timer was broadcast on the stadium’s center screens. I ate page after page. I alternated my sauces, ketchup here, mustard there, sriracha, a dab of honey, anything to break up the taste but not, in of itself, become irritating to eat. After an hour, I was almost exactly halfway through my texts. And then I started laughing. I remembered talking with my uncle and his friends, they’d all passed the bar themselves, and I asked what the test was really like. After a moment, my uncle said, “Hyenas eat bones.” I didn’t get it. He told me, and his friends assured me, that I couldn’t until I’d been through what they’d been through. As I chewed another page, I got it. An animal like that, like the hyena, will devour whatever it takes to survive. So it is with the law.
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Apr 17, 2022 19:48
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Yoruichi posted:Sign-ups will be closed, this time tomorrow. You can still enter, and you should! Okay in
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Apr 30, 2022 03:58
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a mall, a spirit, a friend 1200 words By the time the candle shop closed, I was twelve feet tall. My first memories were of the owner looking over his receipts, going through stacks of them, again and again. He’d always wanted to be his own boss. It was his dream. And he’d been so smart about it! He’d done his research, had compiled articles and magazines on the recession-proof, guaranteed success of mall candle shops. He found a factory overseas and signed a deal directly with them so that he’d pay more per item of merchandise but save plenty by not being a franchise. He’d convinced his wife to pull their retirement. He told his children they’d never have to worry about money after just a few years of work. And then he waited for the right retail space to be available and, sure, there was already one candle shop at the mall but it was way on the other side and it was a big mall. But way on the other side was better. There was a coffee shop. A Jesus store. A fancy women’s clothing boutique. He was next to a Hot Topic and a Spencer’s and a K-Mart and the white Christian ladies looking to purchase the scent of Warm Vanilla Cookies chose lattes and purses over rock music and teens with dyed hair every time. On top of that, the people that shopped at K-Mart weren’t typically the kind with a budget for vanity candles. The man kept looking through his receipts and comparing them to the spreadsheet he’d made on projected earnings and then he’d check his bank account and see that it was always a little bit smaller. It ate at him. And I ate on that. Him and the wife started fighting. She’d say, “Candles? You quit your job for candles? I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is how we have wasted all of our money. How are we going to pay for the children’s college?” And he’d feebly hold up his research, his frayed articles and yellowed magazines. And I grew bigger. I didn’t enjoy it. I didn't think about it. I just ate. I never considered my own existence or what I was until I met Lily. She was a child. She said, “Are you the Spirit of the Mall?” I, surprised, said, “You can see me?” I looked down and saw that she had an eyepatch. It had a horse on it. I said, “Oh. Your eye.” She nodded. “I was doing math and the boy behind me slammed my head into my desk except my pencil got in the way. The school’s Spirit said that, technically, I had sacrificed my eye in the pursuit of knowledge so I can see Spirits now. I think she was just lonely and wanted to talk to someone.” “Ah,” I said. “You don’t speak like a child.” “No,” she said. “Probably because I don’t really talk to other kids anymore. They make me nervous. Are you the Spirit of the Mall?” I hadn’t thought about it before. I said, “I suppose I am.” She asked, “Why are you so sad?” I hadn’t considered that I was. But, then again, that was the moment that I’d ever considered my existence at all. The more I mulled myself over, the more I realized that I was sad. And I was sad because I was parasitic and doomed. I peered into the future and saw myself taller and taller, devouring the broken hearts of failed businesses and the hopelessness of ruined lives. With every closed store and broken marriage, I’d grow. And the more I grew, the more depressive malaise I would subtly spread, driving away customers and killing more shops which only made me larger still. I saw myself sitting on the roof of the mall, my feet touching cracked, abandoned parking lots. And when at long last the entire place was finally and fully abandoned, I saw myself starving to death, shrinking, smaller, smaller… I told everything to Lily. She tapped her chin and, after a moment, said, “You should move to a cemetery. That’s where they put dead people. It would be okay if you make people sad there because they’re supposed to be. ” I said, “I don’t think it works that way.” She shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t have any depth perception. That means I can’t be a pilot, either.” “Did you want to be a pilot?” “No,” she said. “But I could change my mind. I hope I don’t.” We watched her brother through a storefront window as he clumsily hit on a green-haired girl folding pop punk t-shirts. Lily tugged on my hand. “Are you afraid of dying?” I said, “I suppose I am. At least, a little. What about you?” “Oh, yes,” she said. “I worry about it every night. Can you see my future?” I tried but I couldn’t. “Spirits never can,” she sighed. I took a taste of her despair but it was… wrong. Bitter. Probably because I was the Spirit of the Mall not the Spirit of Traumatized Little Girls Suffering Through Existential Crises. Which, suddenly, I hoped didn’t actually exist. “Wait,” I said. I’d never lied before but it was a conversation of a lot of firsts for me. “I just caught a glimpse. You are… very old. So you don’t have anything to worry about anymore.” “Really?” she said. “Yes.” Lily smiled. Then she cried. They were happy tears but her brother caught sight of her and rushed out of the store. “Hey,” he said, “Hey, hey, hey. What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m going to die when I’m really old.” He blinked. “Well, Jesus, yeah, I hope so, Lil.” “I’m okay,” Lily said. “You can go back to your girlfriend.” Her brother turned red. “She’s, ha, uh, she’s not- we’re not- no, no, no. No.” “Tell him,” I said, “that her favorite band is Queen.” I knew this because that’s what she always played when she had a closing shift. “Your girlfriend’s favorite band is Queen,” Lily said. “You should talk to her about it.” Her brother said, “What?” Lily repeated herself and with such conviction that her brother, albeit confused, went back inside the store. Their conversation became animated. They both started smiling. Lily tugged on my hand again. “Look! You don’t have to make people sad! You can make them happy, too!” “I’m not supposed to be that kind of Spirit, though.” “Well,” she said, “I wasn’t supposed to lose an eye.” And I didn’t really have a response to that. Eventually, she asked, “Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes,” I said quickly. Realizing as the words came out that they were very much true. “Spirits always do,” she said. “Would you like some ice cream?” I knew from much observation that children loved ice cream. “I don’t have any money myself but I know where every single dropped coin is.” Lily looked up at me with such wonder in her eyes. All she could say was, “You’re amazing!” And, you know, for the first time, I kind of felt amazing.
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May 2, 2022 02:30
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 Growing up, I would have wildly vivid dreams every single time I fell asleep. The majority of those dreams were nightmares. And I’m talking 4-5 times a week. And it was not uncommon for me to have the same nightmare over and over, week after week, month after month, the same horror and terror again and again for years. But, I was a pretty laid back kid so I never mentioned it to anyone. I guess I assumed that going to sleep just generally kind of sucked for everybody and went about my life without questioning it. To make a long story short, I was diagnosed with severe sleep apnea in my thirties, I have a neat little machine that helps me sleep restfully now, and I no longer dream. At all. Well, rarely. Sometimes I’ll unconsciously take off my mask cuz I get hot in the night or whatever buuuuut... I’m telling you all of this because I got a lot of creative legwork out of my dreams-- I’ve submitted multiple stories to Thunderdome, including at least one winner, that came to me almost completely fully formed while I was asleep-- and I’m kinda bummed that I had to choose between dreaming weird, intense poo poo all the time or wildly decreasing my chances of a heart attack, stroke, diabetes, Alzheimer’s, death, etc., etc. I think we can wring a little more juice out of my dreams if you’re willing to squeeze for it, though. So. Sign up. I’ll give you one of my dreams -- possibly, probably a nightmare. You will then interpret that dream. You will then write a story inspired by your interpretation. A super literal interpretation (ie, your assigned dream is about a scary alligator and you say 'you're afraid of alligators' and you write me a story about someone being afraid of an alligator) feels a little uninspired but is not, technically, against the rules of the week. I'd appreciate a little more creativity, just saying. Please post your interpretation when you submit. sign ups close friday midnight est subs close sunday midnight est 1669 words
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May 3, 2022 23:08
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Judges Me Writers The man called M Thranguy BabyRyoga The Cut of Your Jib Albatrossy_Rodent flerp Tars Tarkas Sitting Here Antivehicular kaom Uranium Phoenix sebmojo ...you? Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 05:35 on May 4, 2022 |
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May 3, 2022 23:09
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The man called M posted:To in, perchance…to dream? A child, it's unclear if it's my child, falls into a fast moving river is being swept away. The child is wearing a yellow raincoat like Curious George. I'm wearing a nice suit and an expensive new tie. It was a gift from my dad. I kick off my shoes and jacket and dive in to save the child but the current pushes me back while pushing them forward. My arms and legs get heavier and heavier. Finally, I can't kick one of my legs. It feels trapped. I look backwards and through the water I can see that an alligator has wrapped his jaws around my thigh. We make eye contact and then the gator pulls me under and begins a death roll. I start to drown. The child is washed ashore and is safe. Me and Jesus are in a treehouse. We're elementary school children. The treehouse is very nice, very well built, very fancy. The wood is that dark, old British mansion wood. There's a couch that my great-grandfather kept in his living room. Red and white spotted curtains on the windows. A working kitchen. Jesus has massive, thick black eyebrows and he scowls a lot as we play Pokemon cards even though he keeps winning. It starts to rain. I realize that it's not going to stop raining and that everyone is the world is going to die. I ask Jesus to make it stop and he says, "Why? Everyone out there is an rear end in a top hat." I can't convince him to stop the flood. BabyRyoga posted:Ok, in. I'm living in my old apartment in the projects of Honolulu. The one where I never bothered to lock the door because it was so easy to crack open anyway and I didn't really own anything of value. But I'm living with my roommate's first roommate -- a dude we'll call Skittles so I don't doxx him. Skittles keeps being behind in rent even though his mom sends him money every month because he buys weed and impulsive, stupid things like a turtle. I don't like Skittles. I do like the turtle. Skittles is like the poster boy of wealthy white privilege. My Native Hawaiian friends kick down the door because Skittles owes him money. We drink a couple beers until Skittles comes home and then my friend, who is in real life both a good friend and violent felon, begins beating the hell out of Skittles. My friend tells me, "You should leave. You don't want to witness this." I feel guilty because I could call the cops or intervene but I'm not going to do either. I hear a gunshot and terrible, skincrawling screams. The Cut of Your Jib posted:also in I'm being chased through the jungle. I've escaped from some kind of prison. I cut my hands on the corrugated metal roof I'd climbed and they're bleeding. Gunshots whizz past me. I hear the howls of dogs. I run faster. I realize that I'm running up the side of an ancient, dormant volcano. The dogs are nipping at my heels as I make it within fifty yards of the top. There's a tree that's grown on the very edge of the cliff and is stretched out over the drop. I know that in the middle of this volcano there isn't lava but rather tropical blue water. It's breathtakingly beautiful. I also know that the distance from the cliff to the water is right at the edge of human survivability and that if I jump, I might die when hit the water. I'll at minimum break my bones. I run up the tree like a ramp and Assassin's Creed dive out. As I fall, I howl a declaration of war at the water in the hopes that if the impact kills me and I'm at war with it then maybe a Valkyrie will take me to Valhalla. I'm in my elementary school gym but everything is made of brick. The walls are brick. The floors are brick. The basketball hoops are brick. The gymnast matts are brick. It's dodgeball day but the throwers are teachers armed with paintball guns and the paintball guns shoot acid balls that when they hit you, make you burn and blister. I'm not in elementary school so I don't have to participate but then I see my daughter (irl I don't have children) is next in line to go. She has long black hair like my irl girlfriend at the time. She's crying and scared. I tell the coach that she's not going to do this and we argue but eventually he says that if she doesn't then she'll be executed. I ask if I can do it for her and he tells me I can do it with her. She's now the size of a crow and she perches on my forearm. The gym is a brick obstacle course and the teacher with their guns are on various platforms through the maze. I carry my daughter, perched on my arm, through the gym. I protect her. I manage to dodge every shot until I get to the end which is wide open. I cover my daughter with my body and run. I'm shot between the eyes. My face burns and I'm blinded but we cross the finish line. My girlfriend sees me and in the most heartbreakingly cruel voice says, "Ugh. What did you do to your face?" My girlfriend and I are on a swampboat, one with the big fan on the back, and we're fleeing from something. Something bad that would hurt or kill us. We're not actually on it, though. We're hanging onto a metal bar on the back of it. In my dream, you can drive it like that. But the swampboat is damaged and is beginning to sink. I realize that we're too heavy. I tell her I'm going to let go. She pleads with me not to but I want her to get away and be safe. She's crying as I let go. I watch the swampboat disappear through the bayou. Have you ever been water skiing or tubing and you let go of the rope and then kinda slowly float backwards and spin around? That's exactly what it feels like. The swamp is quiet and I listen to the birds and the mosquitos and the frogs and the crickets. The sun begins to set, streaks of orange like a crayon across the sky. I feel the water around me start to shift and in front of me emerges a massive albino alligator. Like, bigger than a car massive. It's eyes have been sewn shut with thick white rope. It grabs me and takes me under. It starts to spin and I start to drown.
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May 4, 2022 00:49
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This isn't the dream but a little bit of context: I dreamed of the same places often and sometimes, even when I was asleep, I was capable of recognizing that. This was one of those situations. In the dream, I was on the bank of a specific river, one where I'd been dragged under by a gator an uncountable number of times. I realize that I was baptized here when I was younger. It was at one of those real old timey religion, Evangelical revival type things. Take you into the river and dunk you. Full submersion baptism. And I know that I'm dreaming. And I know that, eventually, somehow, for some reason, I'm gonna end up in that water and an alligator is gonna death roll me. I'm wearing these fancy dress shoes I bought in the 9th grade and wore every day to school because I wanted to look sophisticated. They're muddy now. I take them off, take off my slack, my dress shirt, fold everything real neat and lay it on the grass. I walk into the water. When the gator's head emerges in front of me, I place my right arm in it's mouth like Tyr with Fenrir and it takes me under. Sitting Here posted:ok then, give me your dream My brother and I are floating down the river on a makeshift raft, the kind that's just logs of wood crudely tied together with rope. We're escaping from something. It's raining hard. So hard that I can barely see him even though he's right next to me. He's laying on his back with his head under his arms and he's wearing sunglasses. He's drunk again at another inappropriate time. It's night. I'm trying to keep our raft together but the river is choppy from the storm and it's making the ropes come undone. I keep grabbing rope and tightening it but as soon as I fix one two more come undone. I'm yelling for my brother to help but he just keeps laying there. Logs separate underneath me and I'm plunged into the cold water. I hold on to two pieces of the raft, the side I'd been sitting on and the side my brother is laying on. The strain is making my muscles burn and I don't know how much longer I can hold it together. My brother looks at me, lifts up his sunglasses, rolls his eyes, and says, "Just let go already." This isn't the dream but a little bit of context: I dreamed of the same places often and sometimes, even when I was asleep, I was capable of recognizing that. This was one of those situations. In the dream, I was in the jungle on the sides of a dormant volcano, one that has water in the middle instead of lava. One with a tree at the edge of the cliff that I've used to jump off and escape in other dreams. I know that I'm dreaming. I also know that I'm being chased. But I know this jungle. It's my jungle. I'm able to outpace the men and dogs that are chasing me but instead of jumping off the tree and into the water I slide off the cliff edge and catch hold of some roots. I cling to them and watch as my pursuers leave over my head and go screaming past into the water far, far below me. I climb up and I'm face to face with an evil man in a green army uniform. I know he's going to kill my family. I fight him and I get him on the ground and I'm strangling him as hard as I can but I can't keep his windpipe closed long enough to suffocate him. It feels like I'm trying to pinch a water hose through his neck. I'm so frustrated I'm crying and every time my fingers lose strength and he takes a breath, he laughs. He tells me he's going to kill my family and there's nothing I can do to stop him. kaom posted:All right I’ve convinced myself to give this a shot at least once, in. I'm inhabiting multiple bodies. I'm not so much a bunch of clones as I am like an ant colony. I remember this being an important distinction in the dream. Because I have a lot of different bodies, I'm capable of doing a bunch of stuff at the same time, studying different subjects, working different jobs, meeting different people, but able to gain all of those memories as long as there's physical contact. High five, handshake, backslap, whatever. One of me bursts through the door with terrible news: another one of me was hit by a train. We head to the morgue to identify the body. There's like thirty or forty of me stuffed into this tiny metal room and we're looking at my body on a stretcher. I'm blue like I froze to death. One of me reaches out and touches the corpse and not only experiences what that death was like but, because this transference of knowledge is so outside the normal rules of life, also what their own death will be like further in the future. They fling themselves backwards, accidently touching other versions of me and creating a cascade of horrific experience transferal as they in turn flail wildly. I try and escape the room but there's so many of us in their that I can't get the door open. It just keeps jamming into different me's bodies. All I can do is watch as the horrible knowledge is pushed closer and closer towards me. It looks like a twisted version of 'the wave.' Like, the thing that happens at baseball games. Uranium Phoenix posted:Tread softly because you tread on my I know that my wife is having an affair (irl I'm not married). When I'm out of the room, I can hear moaning but whenever I enter, she's laying in bed, fully clothed, reading a book of poetry and listening to jazz. She doesn't like jazz. Also, the bed is wet with seawater. I ask her about the seawater and she looks at me like I'm an idiot and suggests that I spilled my drink and then starts berating me because I'm not supposed to eat or drink in the bed, that's how we got bugs at the old house. I leave the room, close the door, the sounds of the affair start up again. I realize that the problem is going through the door. I climb up into the attic, carefully make my way across the wood beams, estimate where I think the bed is below me, and jump feet first through the pink drywall. It's like jumping through cotton candy. I land in the bed and a man is loving my wife. He is French. They both scream and I lunge at him but he's just out of reach. I chase him across the room but he shrinks in size and jumps into a tiny aquarium. I watch him swim down to the little plastic castle inside and let himself in. He must have come with the fishtank. I ordered it on Amazon. I return it. My wife won't stop crying because I took him away from her and when I leave a one star review she starts crying harder for being unfair and the begins hitting me in the back of the head with her purse. It's the end of the world and I'm at a bar doing trivia night. I hate trivia night. It's such an antisocial social event. I think it's for people that don't know how to hang out so they spend their time in a way that doesn't require them to actually communicate with each other. It's like Cards Against Humanity -- you don't actually have to be funny or clever. Anyway, I'm having a particularly bad time here because there's this group of greasy douchebags wearing ill-fitting black suites who clearly think they look super cool and bad rear end in them. They do not. I can't remember exactly what their team name was but it wasn't even a pun (which I also don't like). It was just something dumb like 'The Masturbators.' And the questions weren't even trivia! They were just personal information about the host. One of them was, "Where did my mom get her first kiss?" The Masturbators are friends with the host so they know all the answers. So not only is the whole thing stupid, it's blatantly unfair. I finish my drink and walk outside for some air. I remember its the end of the world. A helicopter comes crashing down in front of me. The president at the time, Barack Obama, is in the chopper. He's okay, a little bloodied, but okay. All of his secret service dudes are dead. I realize that he's going to be attacked if the bad guys realize he doesn't have any bodyguards. I remember that the Masturbators are all wearing suits and that will work until the Secret Service can send backup. I take him inside and he's safe but I have to watch as those idiots become friends with him.
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May 4, 2022 05:31
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May 7, 2022 05:02
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May 9, 2022 05:01
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Despite a disappointing 25% failure rate, I enjoyed this week’s entries. And I thought the prompt was cool. I hope you did, too. Ideally, when I give a prompt, I want to do something that will create inspiration without being overly confining. I’d like to assume that by making you write something based on your interpretation of a dream, you had the freedom to explore in whatever wild and wonderful direction you desired. I also got the added benefit of being able to glimpse into your creative process. I know writers love to talk about writing but I usually find that more irritating than anything else. Despite the fact that I’m thoroughly curious about what people’s process is like and how it is similar or different from my own. More than anything else, really, that’s been the most fun -- tracing your lines from dream to interpretation to a story that you just pulled from the void of nothingness into existence, seeing how you pinpoint themes or motifs and then transcribe into your own creative works. Thank you for indulging me. It has been a pleasure. I’ll be posting crits soon. As I am the only judge, you will only be getting only one set of critiques which is a shame. It would be cool if everyone wrote a crit for the story that was submitted before them and for the story that was submitted after them. If everyone does that, everyone gets a total of three. I have no way of enforcing this. You should still do it, though. There are no dms this week. Our loser is The Man called M for a story that was in no way actually terrible. It was mediocre at worst. It just happened to be middling in a strong week of submissions. Honorable mentions go to Uranium Phoenix and Thranguy. Our winner is Sitting Here.
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May 9, 2022 05:26
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crits Gaby Baby This is a well written story. It has all the pieces (easily identifiable conflict, character development, interesting characterization, etc). It also has a lot of stuff I’m particularly a sucker for (time travel, dinosaurs, etc). One thing that I think would have made this stronger, though, is a change in POV. As is, I’m reading from a child’s perspective in first person which means things will/should be described as a child would see and understand them. It can be very tricky to write this way well. You did fine but… it feels mostly utilized for humor (“sex is a bad word,” “butts”). And the humor is fine! I think you would have been able to do more, though, if everything was through the lens of adult Gabriel because you’re way less constrained by child Gabe’s perspective and the trappings of having to write that way. I think it would give you some interesting creative space, too, to explore just how traumatizing and life altering this moment is and what a weight it has been if we’re seeing things through the eyes of the man who only later in life understood what it signifies. I thought your interpretation was fascinating. The Work Delightfully dystopian and depressing. I find the trapping of a consciousness to be utterly horrifying. The two voices were impressively distinct -- which is tricky since so much of this is heady, cerebral poo poo. You’re out of words so, with this limit, you’d be hard pressed to use the suggestion I’m about to make but I think this could be made slightly stronger if you started building up Senya’s horror/rage at being trapped earlier on. The gently caress you bits at the end was nice but needed more runway to be really punchy. “Aren’t we all?” is a delicious little line. High. I thought your interpretation read loving professional. Like, the sort of thing someone would pay money to receive. I mean that as the highest compliment. As I Went Down In The River… It’s difficult to put my finger on what doesn’t work here. I think you have some issues with tone. It’s like you couldn’t decide how serious you wanted this to be and because of that, certain sections felt silly but not in a rewarding way. Not in a break-up-the-mood-with-humor sort of a way. The dialogue didn’t feel natural. It didn’t always fit with the way the rest of the story was written. Maybe you just didn’t leave far enough into the dreamy surrealism. Have you written much surrealism before? It’s a rewarding but difficult genre to tackle. One thing you kinda nailed was the feeling of “this feels like it’s symbolic, like it’s a metaphor, but I am not confident I get the allusion.” Also, I did like the story, by the way. It just lacks a sort of… consistency. Much like in my crit above, I thought your interpretation came across as true and real interpretation one might get from a professional. In fact, it reminded me of a tarot reading example from this tarot book I have -- particularly the last sentence! Court Case #TYR509 - Exhibit F 1669 words available and you use less that 500? Bold. I appreciate bold. Tightly written. I’m assuming this about time travel, yeah? I’m a fan. Don’t have much to say here, to be honest. You didn’t reinvent the wheel but, then again, you didn’t need to. This is pretty good. Short but good. I thought your interpretation was surprising.. Not the direction that I would have gone but I like the way your mind worked it over. Death and the Emperor That’s some fun world building you’ve done here. And you didn’t ever make me think, oh, we’re setting the stage here. It was a very natural build that progressed with the story. The very last paragraph is off. Specifically, when you switch to the second person addressing. There’s no foreshadowing that such a thing will occur so having it just pop up right at the end feels abrupt. If you were to another pass as this, I’d either change that part of the end or sprinkle in more of the talking-directly-to-the-reader-who-is-clearly-representing-another-character bit throughout. Otherwise, tight little story. I thought your interpretation was super solid. Limits of personal control/helplessness is a just a solid take. Can't Fight the Flood This is going to sound wild but my absolute favorite part of this is about kissing for the first time behind the Krystals in Savannah. Something about that specificity just grounds the whole piece -- and I’m sure it could have stood on its own without it but, drat, that just made it feel real. It’s just such an honest reflection. Like, yeah, maybe the world is flooding because of an alien attack or whatever but people are still going to be people. Lovely writing. Really enjoyed this. High. I like that you looked at all the dreams! Halfway through the submissions and you’re the first person to look for overarching themes and motifs. I appreciate that attention to detail. big stick ideology Fabulous world. Fabulous imagery. 1600+ words can be a lot of words to read. Sometimes stories feel “heavy.” Like, not emotionally. But the process of pouring through all of the words can be tiring. Not the case here. Light as feather. I breezed through this despite not ever really feeling like I had a solid grasp on what was happening. I was so engrossed that I just devoured by way through it and then immediately read it a second time. The language, the dialogue, the descriptions, the relationship, the opener, the ending. Just solid writing here. High high. To answer your question, we’re not currently speaking. I had the dream, though, back when I thought we were still very close. In retrospect, the cracks were there. I just couldn’t see them yet. I thought your interpretation was an understandable take on the dream. I appreciate that it made you so curious. I imagine you’ve done interpretations before. If so, undoubtedly many. Cat's still in the Cradle Like I said in the judgment post, this isn’t loving terrible. Your biggest issue is that it isn’t lean. You got so much fat here -- and by fat I mean poo poo that’s unnecessary. Whole paragraphs could be cut and the story isn’t worse for wear. Also, look at where you introduce the conflict. It’s late, yeah? Get that up front! Sometimes, as you're writing, you just have to give yourself some runway. You don’t yet know the story that you’re trying to tell. The trick is to recognize when that’s the case and start taking a knife to your words. One of my historically most common critiques when I’m judging Thunderdome is: cut your first paragraph. Because for a lot of people, it’s usually their personal creative runway that they utilized to get to the story they wanted to tell. “When he was young, Jake wanted to be like his dad. He got his wish.” That’s a good rear end line! I’m intrigued! I’m hooked. You’ve written a hook! And that sentence, imho, should be the first very first one of your story. It’s intriguing and it makes me want to know what it means. Now, I don’t need to immediately know (maybe ever know) that “today” Jake had a bad day at work. I don’t need to know what he ate for dinner. You can jump straight to him reading the note from the teacher, the question about why his son is saying he doesn’t exist (another dope line btw), and the son’s tearful response. All in all, that’s like a hundred words or so. But you’ve streamlined me straight into the action and you’ve now left yourself a lot of room to grow. I think your interpretation is fine. I’m saying that in case you feel self-conscious or worried that your much shorter interpretation compared to everyone else (save the next entry) affected my view on your story. It didn’t. Your interpretation was fine. It was good. It did what it needed to do. Where the Rubber Meets the Road I think you needed more time with this. And I think you’ll agree with me. The idea of this story, just the general loving idea of it, is wild and I dig it. But there’s quite a bit of sloppiness. The pacing is a little funny. You def revved up as you got going. If you had a few more hours, you could have probably polished this into some pretty sharp. Your interpretation made me laugh. Short and sweet.
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May 9, 2022 06:05
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May 12, 2022 21:48
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Grace 770 words I was just about to start brewing my morning coffee when Ria, my neighbor, called. “Thank the Lord you pick up,” she said. “You must come over. There has been… a murder.” Now, for anyone else, I would have said, ‘What are you doing talking to me? Call the cops.’ But I knew, vaguely, that something had happened way back when in the Philippines and Ria didn’t trust the police so I said, “Okay. I’ll be right there.” “Thank the Lord,” she said. “I already make you a coffee.” She pronounced it like ‘copy’ and I found that wildly endearing. When I broke my hip, she’d brought me meals out of good Catholic compassion and we’d chatted for hours for weeks and discovered we both had adult children living in other states and that we were both widows and I discovered that I was in love with her. She was waiting for me by her mailbox. She was only two houses down but my arthritis was acting up that day so I was hobbling slowly. Her little dog, a Bichon named Mr. Washington, ran excited circles around her feet as soon as he saw me. We were good buddies, me and Mr. Washington. I gave them both a wave. Ria shook her head and put a hand on her hip. “Why you are wearing a bathrobe?” she asked before she handed me a cup of coffee. “My goodness. What would my husband say?” “You told me to hurry.” “Kaya! I say to come! Not hurry!” “Well, I can go back and change if-” “No, no, no,” she said. “Come, come. Look at this murder.” She looped her arm around mine and helped me walk to the back of her house. She then pointed dramatically at her flowerbed. The dirt was kicked up. The plants broken and torn. I peered down at them, looking for a body or blood or signs of a struggle when she said, “Someone, some masamang man, he murder my flowers!” “Ah.” I said. I couldn’t help but smile. “Ria, ‘murder’ usually, kind of specifically, means that a person, a human person, was killed.” She gave my arm a light smack. “I know this! But I like the word. My heart is hurting. So it is a murder.” I poked at the ground with my cane. After a moment, I uncovered the head of chewtoy. “Well,” I said, “I think I know who the killer is.” “Yes?” Mr. Washington darted between my legs, grabbed his half-buried toy, and then ran through the yard, squeaking and barking. “No...” Ria said. “Mr. Washington! I change your name to Mr. Murder!” We watched him play, still arm and arm. I took a sip of coffee. She glanced back at her flowerbed and sighed. “Well,” I said, “I’d, uh, I’d be happy to drive you to the store. We could buy some more flowers. Have them in the ground before lunch.” “Hm,” she said. “Lunch. You eat breakfast?” “No. Not yet.” “Good,” she said. “I already cook tapsilog. Would you like?” “I would like,” I said. “Though I am still wearing my bathrobe.” “Tsk, hay naku. What would my husband say?” “What would my wife?” She smiled. “Maybe they are having breakfast, too, up in Heaven.” “That would be nice.” “Come, come.” She gave my arm a squeeze. “We eat first.” She helped me up the stairs and through her backdoor. On the table, there were already two plates piled up with beef, garlic rice, and fried eggs. The smell was incredible. Her bringing me food was the best part of me breaking my hip. We sat down and she offered me her hand. “Will you say the Grace?” I took her hand in mine. Gently, she rubbed her thumb across my knuckle. I looked at her hand and I took a deep breath and instead of a prayer I said, “Ria, can I take you to dinner?” She gave me a look. “What?” “Tonight, I mean. Can I take you to dinner?” “Oh,” she said. “I thought you meant now. Yes, okay.” “Really?’ “Yes.” “I mean, uh, as a date. I’d like to take you out on a date.” “I know this!” She shook her head. “Take you so long to ask, ano ba. First, though, say the Grace. Then breakfast. Change clothes. Go to store. Flowers. I cook lunch. Maybe… pancit?” “Pancit sounds good.” “Then dinner date.” “Dinner date sounds very good.” She nodded. “But first-” “Grace,” I said. “I know.” “Good." She squeezed my hand. “Go ahead.”
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May 16, 2022 03:47
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May 21, 2022 00:37
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inspiration: I wanted to write a story because I wanted to contribute blood to the blood-o-meter. I didn't particularly care for the music. The album cover, though, made me think of a bird general ordering birds to war. And when I thought about how birds might war against humans, the idea of them dropping acorn bombs popped into my head. And as I wrote about that, I starting thinking about druids. And here's the result. she had a name once 963 words On the last day the girl had a name, her father savagely beat her. And although it was not the first time, it felt the most tragically unfair. She had been playing with the dog and she had waved her hands in an imitation of magic-casting and she had yelled, “Be careful! I’m a druid!” She didn’t know her father was watching. He said nothing. He simply picked up a stick and when he put it down, she was bloody and the dog, who had attempted to intervene and protect her, was dead. “Druids,” her father said, “Don’t ever even pretend.” Then he went back inside. And the girl cried! Oh! How she wept! Her best and only friend -- a broken heap! She would have traded a hundred, nay a thousand, such beatings for his life! And for what? Harmless make believe? She wiped her blood-mixed tears, grabbed her few possessions, and left for the Deep Forest. Her father said not to pretend so she wouldn’t. She would be. Of course, she knew the stories of the cruelty of the druids, that they ran naked in packs, that they were terrible as wolves, but she thought they couldn’t possibly be worse than her life in the village. Her father didn’t even notice her absence. Not for several weeks. Not until he needed to blame her for one of his failings. But by then, she was far, far into the woods. Past the painted red warning signs. Past the crumbling stone walls. Past the skeletal remains of soldiers that jutted out of treebark like white branches. She discovered that she was surprisingly well-prepared for her new life of self-imposed sylvan exile. She had long ago learned to scavenge for her own meals and the Deep Forest was plentiful in berries, mushrooms, and tubers. Avoiding predators was little different than avoiding her father. She filtered water through moss. She caught fish with her bare hands and ate them raw. She slept peacefully in a nest of soft leaves. She lost track of time. She loved the Deep Forest and the freedom it gave her and every day that love grew and grew. And as her love grew, so did her disdain for civilization. A disdain which itself grew to hatred. And the druid who watched her found that hatred to be… acceptable. Not good. Not bad. Those concepts are nonexistent in nature. A beaver ponders not on the righteousness of its dam. A wolf never worries over the pain of its prey. A deer seeing a split in a path is not wracked with indecision over which way is best. So it is with druids. Things are acceptable or they are not and those that are not are destroyed. And, if edible, eaten. Back in her village, and in the neighboring villages, and in the more distant villages, and in the even greater distant capital of the kingdom, druids are believed to be cannibals. This is only true if one considers them still human. The girl was knee deep in river mud and sinking her teeth into a freshly caught trout when the druid finally approached her. Neither spoke. Instead, they eyed one another warily as passing bears might. After a moment, the girl lowered the fish from her mouth and offered it with outstretched arms, an act both kind and submissive. Another moment passed before the druid accepted it. They would spend the next decade together. And day and night the girl watched and the girl learned. She learned the subtle magiks first. Then the stranger, stronger ones. She spoke in growls, glares, and snorts. She called storms. She lost the need for clothing. She forgot the language of man. She killed hunters and devoured them. Back in the village, her father transformed, too. He would drink in the tavern and speak of his lost daughter, the apple of his eye, the light of his life. He spoke so convincingly that even those who had once witnessed his abusiveness offered him pity. He was a tragic man. Wounded in the body during the foolish king’s war against the Deep Forest. Wounded in the soul by the loss of his only child. It is important to now point out another misconception people have about druids: they are not like wolves. They do not roam in packs. They maintain strict territories and they socialize only to mate (an event which only occurs rarely, once a century or so) and children are cast off once they are old enough to fend for themselves. So, one day, the girl went to follow her companion only to be met with the gnashing of teeth, with snarls and ferocity. The girl was not hurt by this because she no longer had emotions. She understood that the Deep Woods was not hers and that it was time to make her own territory. Her father stepped out of the tavern and saw a stormcloud of birds flying towards the village. He cried out in alarm. He remembered the war. He remembered how the birds had dropped acorns which exploded into full grown trees -- hundreds of years of growth in the blink of an eye! He remembered how the beasts had followed, killing those who were too slow to flee. He remembered friends cut down by bears and cougars and beavers and rats. And he ran. But he was old. And slow. An acorn landed at his feet. If the girl had been a human, she might have enjoyed his demise. Likewise, she might have been irritated that in his final moments he, like most men, failed to recognize that he was responsible for planting the seeds of his own destruction. But she wasn’t. And her homecoming wasn’t vengeance. It was simply nature.
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May 23, 2022 00:58
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Tarot me the gently caress up
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May 23, 2022 21:06
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sephiRoth IRA posted:Your Inner Guide Speaks: Ninkyō Dantai 1000 words As the man spoke, I could see the edges of the gangster tattoos on his chest. He hadn’t buttoned his shirt all the way to the neck. He was a hand talker, too, and he gestured I could catch glimpses of something in a holster under his arm. A butcher knife, probably. Maybe a pistol. “-so, yeah, I decided after that that I needed to cut my long, beautiful hair, you know? It was such a liability in a fight. I take a razor, schp, schp, schp, shave it off. And what do the guys do? First they call me Hollywood because of my hair and then I take it off and they call me… Little Priest! How funny is that? Bunch of jokers. Great guys! I mean, why do you join an organization like this if not to have a little fun? And look at me now! Chatting with a real priest in a real Buddhist temple! Wow!” In my mind, I tried to conjure the words of the nenbutsu... but I was filled with such rage! I’d never felt such rage! The calligraphy brush trembled between my fingers. My temple had been corrupted! “You shouldn’t be here,” I said. Little Priest paused. “I have an appointment.” “With Takumi Kudo?” Takumi Kudo. The boss of one of the most bloody families. Arrested, charged, on trial, definitively guilty, and the government let him become a monk! Saving taxpayers dollars, they said. I’m sure there were multiple generous donations to numerous campaigns to allow such a deal. Including one to my temple. And it filled. Me. With. Rage. “Hey, buddy, buddy,” Little Priest said. “That is not his name anymore. He is a monk. Use his monk name. Don’t be rude.” “He is not a monk. He is a criminal boss. And you are a criminal. And you are here to do crime. And you are in a temple and that is very, very wrong!” “You are extremely rude for a Buddhist. You know that right?” Unable to control myself, my hands clenched into fists and I accidentally snapped the brush. The tip fell onto the page, splattering ink over the name of the Buddha. Little Priest’s eyes widened. Then he grinned, reached over, and tugged on my robe, peering at my skin. “Ah! What were you before you joined the temple? I don’t see any tattoos!” I smacked his hand away. “I was a boxer.” “I can see it.” He shadowboxed a few punches. “With your height, your frame, you could do some real damage, I bet.” “I didn’t like hurting people.” “Who does?” He smiled again and pulled out a cigarette. “Do you mind?” “Yes.” He shrugged and lit it anyway. “I don’t like hurting people,” he said. “I mean, I do it. A lot. But I don’t like it. It’s a job, you know? Like you being a boxer.” He exalted a stream of smoke into the air. “I bet, if we met when we were younger, we would have been good friends. Maybe best friends.” I shook my head. He didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, what’s the line from that American musical?” he asked. “Rent. You seen it? No? Oh, right, you live in a temple. It’s very good! I’ve seen it live twice.” He snapped his fingers. “‘No day like today!’ Let’s start today. Being friends.” “I’m not going to be your friend.” Little Priest gave me a disappointed look. “You are so rude for a Buddhist. You should talk to the head of the temple about that. I’m sure it is going to interfere with your enlightenment.” I wanted to punch him in the mouth. Punch him and not stop until his face was a red smear across the floor. And then go to Takumi Kudo with my bloody knuckles and do the same. I desired it! I took a breath. I summoned my mantra. I take refuge in the Tathagata of Unobstructed Light Suffusing the Ten Directions. “Hey, buddy,” Little Priest said. “Do you want this? You look like you could use it.” I opened my eyes and the cigarette was inches away from me. There was no religious restriction to smoking. But I gave it up when I joined. That was eleven years ago. But I thought, better this than violence. And I took it. And I breathed deep. The buzz was immediate and refreshing and good. “Nice, right?” he said. “I rolled it myself. Cheaper than if you buy a pack at the store. Better, too, if I do say so myself.” A gangster in a suit stepped into the room and motioned for Little Priest to follow. Little Priest patted my shoulder and said, “Enjoy it. I’ve got a whole pack.” I couldn’t find peace after that. For the next several weeks, I watched in anger as gangsters traipsed through the holy temple, meeting with Takumi Kudo at all hours. Kudo himself sauntered through the rooms like he owned the place, tattoos bared, a cigarette in hand. I smelled liquor on him. I confronted the head priest, explained my emotions, my rage, my fear of corruption, and got only a sad smile and a weak explanation that: ‘this is how it is now.’ I quit. And no one tried to stop me. That hurt more than anything. I just wanted to know if one person cared the way that I did. No one said a word. As I was walking out the door, my meager collection of belonging in a box under one arm, I bumped into Little Priest. “You’re leaving?” he asked. “Did I sell you on Rent? No, it doesn’t open for another month…” “I quit.” “Ah, well, it’s not for everyone right?” I didn’t respond. Little Priest wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “You know what, buddy? You look like you could use a drink! When was the last time you had a drink?” “Eleven years ago.” “C’mon! I know a place!” With his arm around my shoulder, he led me down the sidewalk. I looked back at my temple, a piece of antiquity nestled in the shadow of modern skyscrapers, and I stared until we turned a corner and it disappeared from view.
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May 30, 2022 08:46
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Nae-M Brawl You have decided to bloody the sands -- good! Your brawl is open ended, free for exploration of theme and character and genre, but must end with the following sentence: "drat! That was a lucky shot!" 666 words. Due midnight tonight EST>.
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May 31, 2022 18:06
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Nae-M Brawl Judgement First of all, Nae wins. Let's just get that out of the way. Second, the fact that y'all agreed to a get your knives bloody on a hella short deadline is dope as fuuuck. I love this poo poo. Nae, the "lucky shot" line in attempt 45 legit made me laugh. If you had a week to write this, I'd probably tell you to do another pass on some of your dialogue because there are some bits that are a little stilted but you wrote this in a few hours. I'd be an rear end in a top hat to expect things to be perfect and it's very good for something you just blasted into existence from the void of nothingness. Most importantly, and most impressively, your prompt feels utterly effortless. The line is essential, integral really, but doesn't feel forced. It doesn't read like you had to make it your ending line. It just fits. M, this... Isn't really a story? I could read this on, idk, Yahoo News or whatever and it would come across as an earnest (if not particularly well written) summary of an Olympic competition. But it isn't a story. The idea of it, the formatting, the form, isn't bad. I loving love sports and I've read plenty that are excellent reads, that say something, that make me feel something, that leave me having experienced something. But this is short and gives me nothing. The ending line doesn't feel particularly natural. "Ho Le Sit" also comes across as dangerously close to a racist "Holy poo poo" Chinese joke which I'm going to assume is just something I'm seeing and not intentional. If I'm being overly generous in this assumption, please do not correct me. Thanks for the blood, goons.
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Jun 1, 2022 04:27
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Jun 15, 2022 20:38
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Breaking News: Industrial Giant Caterpillar To Relocate From Illinois to Texas 500 words Every blimp, as far as my eyes could see, displayed the same scrolling text: the company was moving, it was moving down I-44, stay off the roads and out of its way. The decision happened while I was asleep. I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to my girlfriend. I propped my elbows against the railing of the upper deck carapace and silently watched as streetlights, trees, dividers, abandoned cars, all were crushed under the mighty weight of the Giant Caterpillar. Massive holes dotted the highway behind us from where its feet had punched through to the earth. Todd, from the silk line, appeared next to me. He slapped my back. “Oh, boy! Do you really think we’re going to Texas?” I said, “I have no idea. I only just found out we were going anywhere at all.” He said, “I hope it’s Texas. My passport is out of date. If we cross into Mexico I will not have fun with the paperwork.” Off in the horizon, I saw the flashing blue and red lights from the police blimps. No doubt, “officially” on their way to escort us. Unofficially, they clean up any casualties. Big company moves always had casualties. People who were just on the road at the wrong time and couldn’t get away. For a moment, I contemplated trying to escape. I could steal some silk, makeshift a rope, climb down the side. If I timed it right, I could hit the ground between steps and not be crushed or trapped in a footprint. But then what would I do for work? It hasn’t been easy to get a union gig like this. The pay was good. The hours weren’t too long. The boss was, technically, a giant insect that just wanted to eat leaves all day. No micromanagement. No bullshit. Just silk. Still. I asked Todd, “Are you sad at all? Are you leaving anybody behind in Chicago?” He laughed. “Like who? My wife works here. My friends work here. I’m all in on the ecosystem, baby.” He paused. “You didn’t buy into the ecosystem idea, did you?” “I just… you know… the heart wants what the heart wants.” “Where’s she work?” “Fox.” “Giant Fox?” I winced. “... News. Don’t tell the team.” Todd’s smile dropped immediately. “Please,” I said. “Don’t tell the team.” “Why the hell are you dating someone like that?” “She’s… she’s attractive…” “Boy,” he said. “You know what I think is attractive? Not working for a company that’s trying to destroy our democracy. That’s trying to attack our livelihood. That wants to break up our union. You wanna go back to slaving away for eighty hours a week while some fatcat tycoon smokes cigars on a velvet throne? gently caress you.” “She’s not like that.” “Sure,” Todd said. “I’m sure she’s one of the good ones. She just chooses to work for the bad ones.” Underneath us, the Caterpillar continued its march, crushing steel and concrete, creating construction and repair jobs with every stop.
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Jun 16, 2022 19:40
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 06:15 |
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Great Apes 400 words I noticed Hagen was still wearing his wedding ring. He glanced up from his bottle of scotch as I walked into his tent. His table was covered in loose papers and cigarette butts. "Well," he said. "If it isn't Dr. Fuckstick. You here to apologize?" "Jesus," I said. "You look like poo poo, man." "Ah. You're here to continue making my life goddamn miserable." He swatted a fly. "I'm here," I said, "to gently, gently, suggest that maybe you take a sabbatical. Get out of the jungle a bit. Spend time with people instead of chimps. Maybe go talk to your wife, ex-wife, in person." Hagen took a long drink straight from the bottle. "And why is she my ex-wife again?" "Because -" "Because you couldn't shut the gently caress up!" I shook my head. "Don't put that on me. I'm not the one that slept with a twenty year old primatology student. That is a gross violation of-" "-What? My marriage? Gimme a break." "Of your position of power," I said. "And I am legally required to report that to the University." He pantomimed jerking off before taking another swig. "Think about taking a sabbatical," I said. "If you keep getting shithoused like this, it might not be voluntary." "You think you're better than me?" he growled. "You think you're loving better than me?" I turned to leave and an ashtray hit me in the back. "You're not loving better than me!" "You know what?" I said. "Actually, I am. My research is stronger, my data collection is better, and I'm actually getting published in places where my old fraternity brother isn't the Chief Editor." Hagen wiped his mouth with the back of hand. He stood up. "You know what like about chimps?" he asked. "No bullshit. When one sets his eyes on the crown, no bullshit. He goes at it direct. No skulking. No backstabbing." "I'm not after your loving job," I said. "I have my own grants." Hagen looked at the bottle in his hand. He slowly turned it upside down. He swung it once. Like a club. "No bullshit," he repeated, swinging it again. "Their way is better."
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Jun 20, 2022 06:07
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