#tom cassady

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Mystery #3

This week, our befuddled writers are tasked with writing a scene that conveys mystery

Mystery of Doom #3 by Tom Cassady

There wasn't anything left. The sun beat down on the camp, water boiled in the pot, there was a gentle ripple of material whenever the wind whipped up and caught the corner of a tent. There was no-one lef tin the camp, it was dead but what was unsettling were the still sparking embers i the fire. Colonel Benitoff mixed the half burned ashes with the corner of his boot, scuffing them into the ground with a half thought irritation at being brought out here without any sign of the squad of men he has been set to meet. "Any sign of them Sanders?" He called over the the unit's sergeant. The two couldn't have been any more different, Benitoff with his crisp white shirts and Sanders with the fraying scraps of his poking out from the back of his jacket. "No, Sir." we didn't find anything of them, just this" Sanders held up a few unfired rounds of rifle  shells one of his men had found near the river. "There must be something around here somewhere?" Benitoff asked, dismissively. HQ would find out about those mines or it'd be his arse that'd in the fire if he didn't bring back anything. Who cares if the locals said they were haunted.

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Sapience #7

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #7 by Tom Cassady

Theres a meaning to it but he couldn't quite see it; he didn't have the eyes. Nor a brain for that matter. It was something he'd been meaning to get around to but he didn't have a concept of time either so that just went to hell in a handbasket, though it was obvious he didn't have a clue what religion was either, nor weaving for that matter. This thinking nonsense was hard hard when all you have to run together were grains of mince. But there was something horrible and disturbing he felt gradually seeping into his soul. There was a melange of spice tickling the back of what he might've called a throat as beans fell through his body, enfusing him with a sense that he had never truly bean, nor ever would truly be. Gelantineous thought fermented in unappetising ways as the mince man gently cooke under the growing knowledge he'd come out wrong. "But surely he thought, surely I can't carne, I'm too zesty. There's a meaty treaty I made with myself as soon as I came alive a few minutes ago. I swore I'd join my Bolonge brothers. The once uddered transformed into heavenly surpass and go the the place that we post-bovine call 'cow-vala'?" Just then, the odor of rice cut through those thoughts of paradise like a hot knife through dead flesh and ground the poor mince-mans dreams to gristle and dread. "BUT, the only real accompanyment to Bolognase is Spagetti?" The horror has set in

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GCDof Doom #7

Goal/Conflict/Disaster of Doom. Each writer had 10 minutes to write a scene to the following prompt:

Goal: Protagonist must convince their offspring to follow a ‘set path’

Conflict: The offspring has their own plans and the protagonist is themselves conflicted about the right choice.

Disaster: ? Your choice…

GCD of Doom #7 by Tom Cassady

Now Pratrolias, what we do, you see is take this, this is called Plaster right? First we paste it on, evenly and not too thick. " The old man smeared the wet liquid across the smooth put pock-marked brickwork, the soft material filling the gaps and creating an even surfacer across the wall. Pratrolias was staring out the doorway "Dad, I think you might need to see this?" there was a stunned wonder in the boys voice but Ventra was already fuilly into his stride. "No, no, no, don't get distracted now, this is the difficult part. Stop all that gawping and get over here. Okay, here's the important bit right, get the plaster up on the wall then give it a little bit. No more than a little bit mind you! Okay when that's happened take the paint and get to work on the fresco. If you don't paint on wet plaster then the picture won't set properly and we'll have to come out here again in a couple of weeks and do this all over again.  Paint it wet and it'll stay set! Remember that." "Dad, I think we need to get out of here." Said pratrolias but Ventra could barely hear him over the rucus going on outside. Thats why he didn't like coming into the city, too much bloody noise everywhere, too many people, not like in the countryside where He and Pratrolias' mother moved a few eyars ago. But you know howww things are, sometimes you just need to come back to make some money to enjoy the really nice things, ah well you know what they say Pompeii pays