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12-22-2013, 10:19 PM | #1 |
Mad fucking dangerous.
Join Date: Jul 2013
Posts: 12,072
Battle Record: 40-19
Champed - AOWL Season 3
- Art of Writing League (2x)
Rep Power: 85899402 |
Semifinals: No. 9 Diode vs. No. 5 PancakeBrah - PANCAKEBRAH WINS VIA NO-SHOW
WELCOME TO ROUND 3 Verses due: Sunday, Dec. 29, 11:59 p.m. PT Voting deadline: Friday, Jan. 3, 11:59 p.m. PT Line limits: 48 lines maximum unless agreed upon before either opponent posts a verse. Requirement: Vote on the other semifinal. Not voting will result in a three-vote deduction. Votes must be well-explained. Topic Take the bull by the horns Good luck, @PancakeBrah and @Diode.
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I'm just swinging swords strictly based on keyboards, unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws. |
12-23-2013, 09:40 AM | #2 |
SOBER
Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 13,052
Battle Record: 2-5
Champed - AOWL Season 2
Rep Power: 85899406 |
Oh shit its diode
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12-23-2013, 10:39 AM | #3 |
PR's Finest
Join Date: Aug 2013
Posts: 14,156
Battle Record: 12-7
Rep Power: 85899406 |
Hi Cake. Let us write about white women and the mean things they did to us.
You are me, five-to-ten years ago.
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12-27-2013, 09:34 AM | #5 |
PR's Finest
Join Date: Aug 2013
Posts: 14,156
Battle Record: 12-7
Rep Power: 85899406 |
Sorry brah I am going to be writing from my phone while I am up here in NJ as it is, can't give you an even bigger advantage. If I manage to get a hold of a computer I'll let you know, otherwise no line extension for now..
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12-27-2013, 10:06 AM | #6 |
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Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 13,052
Battle Record: 2-5
Champed - AOWL Season 2
Rep Power: 85899406 |
Fair enough sir
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12-29-2013, 12:15 PM | #7 |
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Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 13,052
Battle Record: 2-5
Champed - AOWL Season 2
Rep Power: 85899406 |
Horn
Yesterday We sat at the bonfire. We’d used the last of the kindling and tinder for this. It cracked. ***kled at the debris in the beginning of Winter. Dad wrapped up in his three blankets, with that cancerous cough while the black soot still fell. The very same that damaged the crops. I smiled at him weakly as the fire cooked our last batch of venison. He smiled back, with his eyes hollow from the lack of medicine. Six Months Ago He stood in front of me, in front of a pack of jackals, of thieves. Packed to the teeth. Two, maybe three, I didn’t look past him to see. “Take what you want from us and leave” At any sign of trouble As our supplies were ruffled through, without fight or any type of struggle the Walthier in my pocket’s weight felt doubled within my whitened knuckles. Our cart now barren. As they slinked away I sighed a silent cry of “Fuck you.” After they disappeared on the horizon we walked in empty silence, like our reserves. “I know you’re mad. But if we fought, it’d end in violence. We can find new food. We can’t replace us.” As he coughed up thick decay. He was weak and I looked at him as if were, in a different way. Two Years Ago My first thought was whether or not mom saw or heard the blast of the plume that followed that awesome, bursting clap of exhumed dirt and ash. I assumed she died of fumes or the ensuing savage human acts, while dad gathered supplies; the water, the blankets, the food, the axe. Any and all he could grasp. I bet she heard it coming, that Godless whistle. He shook me back to reality, handing me his Walthier pistol while people outside looted, newborn crooks eating off the gristle as the panic settled in comfortably. All from one rocket, missile. He locked the doors. The house was airtight, through to the bottom coughing all the while. Where do you do chemo in a nuclear autumn? How does parent visitation work now? It’ll be a long weekend this time, starting with the first aftermath dinner. Cold cuts and skinned limes. while the rest of everyone stockpiled in preparation for the weather we ate…cold cuts and skinned limes. And he told jokes to make me feel ‘better’. One Year Ago I kicked rocks off the gravel as we passed by the footprints in the soot that made use ignore the gas station. Supposedly freshly minted by crooks. Supplies low, axe dulled. Our cart’s axles squeaked, alignment was off, and we just walked past a few months of food. My father was soft. “We’ll find a better place to resupply, I promise. You can never be too safe.” Kick another rock, head down. Yeah, but you can be too late. Today I did cry. As I shook the heap of blankets, flesh, and bones that I called my father. Now just a weight. A heavy stone, flat, laying prone, back stiff and eyes lulled, black. I sat there for a while, idle. Until the tears dried. It’s a voiding feeling. He had his napkin by his rifle, all wrinkled with dried blood. Weak as he was. Emotions well and gone, I stocked the cart, hardly packed to the lid. I left one of three blankets still covering dad. I heard the snap of a twig to my left. “Hey kid, what you got in the cart?” Raspy and thick. I turned, cocked the hammer, and shot the stranger dead where he stood And went on my way, bull by the horn.
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If I ventured in the slipstream Between the viaducts of your dreams Where immobil steel rims crack And the ditch in the back road stop Could you find me? |
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