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CRACKY NEW YEAR



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Crackle Christmas

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158140 No.1   [Reply]
>> No.2  

'sup

>> No.3  

DO YOU HAZ SNIFFED CRACK UP UR NOZE?

>> No.4  

HAI LIA



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191074 No.1   [Reply]

I can dig the pale skin and british accents but I'm into asians Crackyhouse, but I have no time to learn their squiggly ass languages. Any succubi worth checking out?

>> No.2  

Slanted eyes are fail.

>> No.3  

They all look the same



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18161 No.1   [Reply]
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>> No.167  

Image 1 of 2.

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36980 No.1   [Reply]
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>> No.19  

too deep.

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83244 No.1   [Reply]

I had a weird dream today in my "siesta". I had been stalking here and some other places, specially in the wall of text, and I started to connect some exciting dots: there was going to be an unique event in which Cracky was to appear again in the world, but it had to be kept extremely secret so police and journalists wouldn't know. If the general public found out, there could be a mass gathering of fans that Cracky didn't want at all.

So, it would be an event just for a select few who would see Cracky getting out of her hiding place for a little while (liek she was kept hidden in a basement or something). When I woke up I had found out that it was going to happen somewhere in the Netherlands, and I was quite confident Gackto was involved in preparing the event. I was even considering travelling there if I confirmed the information.

Oh well.

>> No.2  

Just imagine - there's a bunch of people out there who know her and she talks to them on a regular basis.



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102249 No.1   [Reply]

Merry Christmas, Crackyhouse!

>> No.2  
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>> No.3  

>>1
that's my favourite pic.

>> No.4  

>>3
I hung it up on my wall at a position where she's always smiling at me when I'm laying down in bed, anxious and sleep deprived.



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71129 No.1   [Reply]

"Oh ... everything's white."
"Are you awake, Olivia?"
"Yes ... who are you? Am I ... dead?"
"Not yet. But you are dying. I'm sorry."

She was missing her right leg. The feeling was going in her left one. But it didn't seem to bother her. The man that held her remaining hand had a gentle, reassuring grip. Around them was nothing, unending white.

"Ah! Are you God?"
"No, I'm a bit more like ... Death."
"... oh. Where am I? How did I get here?"
"This was your bedroom, actually."
"Eh? There's nothing. Where are all my things? Where are all the walls?"
"They crumbled away, and then they disappeared. Just like you are now."
"Mother? Father? My friends?"
"They disappeared too."
"and ... anon ..?"
"..."
"He can't be gone! He can't be!"
"I'm really very sorry."
"No ..."
"..."
"No ... go away, this is just a bad dream, just a bad dream, just a -"
"Do you know .... you're right. This is a dream. It's a kind of dream."
"Heh?"
"But you're not the one who is dreaming. This is someone else's dream."

Olivia blinked continuously and waited patiently for clarity. She could no longer feel the man's touch, not because he had let go, but because her arm had receded past his grip. Her arms and legs were just little stumps now, and still fading.

It never got easier for the man to tell people the truth about their world, about themselves. Especially these types. Humans liked coming up with constructs that could produce the most heartrending reactions. Finally he spoke

"Do you know what happens to ideas that have been forgotten? They disappear. They die."
"Mr. Death?"

He wished she wouldn't call him that.

"Most ideas don't live for more than a second. Not so long ago, before writing, recording ideas was a verbal tradition, songs and verse. Everyone here, all the myths and legends, would be shifting and changing their shape with every telling. But now everyone records everything in pristine reproducible digital and gives it to everyone. Hardly anything gets forgotten, and some ideas last a very long time."

Olivia wondered where he was going with this. Not noticing her arms and legs were completely gone. The fading continued. Where her torso stopped and where the endless white began became indistinct, but the white was winning.

"You lasted about five years. Pretty good run, actually. Well done!"
"I'm ... an idea?"
"For a short spell in the early 00s, Anonymous in a fit of insanity wrote dozens of works of religious and erotic literature for the internet. You are Olivia Fields, a character his Sky Queen, the subject of his earlier works."
"I don't understand ..."
"You were designed to be the perfect girl for the reader. You would love him, understand him, and be envious of the girl that would eventually steal the reader's heart. Being a repressed sort, Anon did not let his writings go beyond the occasional romantic undercurrent."

At this Cracky blushed deeply.
"I love everyone, but not in that -"
"But undercurrents were not enough for the circlejerk and the stalkers. Olivia, they all wanted to fuck you."
She looked away, her face a mixture of confusion and embarrassment.
"The boards were soon flooded with girls that allowed anonymous to actually interact with his object of obsession. Word got around the bulletin boards that the Skyqueen was near impossible to contact, and the girl she was based on was an unpleasant bitter recluse. The character was unpopular. Privately traded collections of pics were uploaded. Largely irretrievably deleted. Even anon forgot about it in the deluge of writefuckery he himself feverishly shat out after the failure of Sky Queen."
"Are you saying I'm not ... not real?"
"You are imaginary. So when it is no longer possible for you to exist in anyone's imagination, when everyone has forgotten you, you will disappear. You will die."
"I don't believe –"
"Look at yourself. Have you seen your own body?"

She looked down and saw only white.

Just a head. Just a head and fading.

The man looked into the distance and narrowed his eyes in concentration, as if focusing on someone far away. He broke it off momentarily to report.
"Fifteen minutes ago a pathetic young man in America just deleted the last digital copy of your pics. All the hard copies have been trashed or have decayed. Upon completing his collection, he realized he could not have you and deleted everything in disgust."

"Oh."

"His memory of you and the copypasta is the last trace of you and your world in reality. Everyone else has forgotten you. He has begun to. This process typically takes anywhere between –"
He concentrated again.
"His Rozen Maiden dollsex torrent has completed and he is now masturbating as if he is trying to start a fire. You do not have long."

She let his words lap up against her, seemingly totally content as she gazed headlong into the white.
"Your life ... doesn't concern you anymore?" he asked.
"I have the feeling something is supposed to ..."
"Your personality. It's fading, isn't it. They didn't give you much to lose, I guess."
"Hey, Death ..."
"What."
"Are you an idea too?"
"Yes."
"So will you ... someday ..."
"No-one ever forgets me. I'm always here."
"Ah."
"That's why sometimes I like to go and comfort other ideas before they die. Sort of like the real Death does with people. No shame in being forgotten, none at all. We've had a lot of girls like you disappear lately."
"Like me?"
"Yes, from imageboards and such. Just hordes and hordes of them, shy, doting little girls, with their own little gimmicks that didn't take."
"But you remember them!"
"I don't remember any specifically, just the little half-assed quirks dreamed up by fat little girls with daddy issues. Animal ears and tails. Infinite hair colours and iterations. Cripples. Twins. Maids. Gothic, Victorian, medieval, mecha. And millions upon millions of assembly line little sisters. Sometimes I watch them fade, when they're forgotten, when their fad gimmick gets old and a new one comes along."

When he spoke again after a long pause, Olivia thought his voice to be just a little off. Like it had a single string out of tune.

"So many these days ... and they're all so similar, you know, I rarely even bother to talk ..."
"You'll remember me, won't you Death?"
"... huh?"
"I'm still here! I haven't faded yet!"
"That is unusual."
"But the American must have forgotten me already! It's you keeping me alive, Death! It's you!"
"Hm."
"Please save me, Death! You can do it! You don't have to be lonely!"
"I'm not lonely!"
"I'll remember as many people as I can! We'll do it together!"
"I'm not ..."
"And then no-one will ever have to disappear!"
"I ... but ..."
"Ehehe! Ehehehe! My body!"

Sure enough, her neck began to fade in slowly. She could feel it, feel her body coming back, the warmth of it, the space of it ... and she could feel tears falling from her eyes.
"You're doing it, Death! You're doing it!"
"I ... remember you!"
"Hahaha! Death! Death!"
"I remember you!!!"
"Death, thank you! You are sav –"
"I REMEMBER YOU AS THAT FRIGID LITTLE OMGOMGOMGOMG CRACKY-CHAN FROM 4CHAN AND HEY FIVE YEARS IS A LOT OF YEARS FOR BLUE BALLS. FORGET YOU, BITCH."

He whipped out a jar from his pocket that was labelled LOL AMNESIA LOL, tilted it into his mouth and swallowed some pills that poured out.

"Ah –"

He closed his eyes and Olivia blinked out of existence.

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>> No.4  

>>2
Moral of this story: HEY FIVE YEARS IS A LOT OF YEARS FOR BLUE BALLS.

>> No.5  

I actually got sort of emotional reading this... D:

>> No.6  

It's a simple story, but well written. I liked it.

>> No.7  

If you liked it I always appreciate drawfaggotry.

>> No.8  

Good threads get bumped on Christmas



No.1   [Reply]

Good threads get bumped on Christmas

>> No.2  
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106643 No.1   [Reply]

"Yes?"
"Oh, don't let me interrupt you. Please, do keep playing."

Her hands resumed their little ballet over the ivories, but this time the melody was not so assured. I could hear the thoughts in her head, could hear them in every note.

Who is this man? Why is he just standing there? What does he want? Should I call a teacher? Oh no, what time is it now, are any still around? Should I just wait for him to go away?

This was my fetish.

And her appearance was so well maintained. Not a speck of lint or pilling on her blazer. Hair that long and not a single tangle. Her hands reminded me of the way a spider perched on a wall is not very frightening. Not very sexy. Until it starts moving its eight legs in time.

And she did that thing, of course. That thing they all did. The little nod of the head as she fingered a chord right, reassuring it, putting it to bed.

It'd be almost a shame. That those extraordinary pale hands would soon be clasped over her mouth in horror. That her appearance, hourly in the upkeep, so prized by her and no doubt by others, would have to be disgraced so. My medical condition would see to –

"Was there something you wanted?"
"Sorry? No, nothing. You play so well. Don't stop."

She soldiered on, resuming at the wrong place in the music, bringing only anxiety to a piece that asked none. Abruptly her foot shuddered on the pedals and caused an unbearable discordance. As I looked for what had unsettled her, I saw she was not watching the music.

She was watching me. Reflected. In the gleaming black of the piano. And that meant I could see her right back. Startled that I could stand behind her and still make eye contact, she looked away. With nothing left to hide from me, her playing became worse than ever.

And my penis became a rod of steel.

Mere feet from her head, I whipped it out and throttled it like a wild animal. In turn her eyes grew large with terror –

"Ah - !"
"Don't. Stop."

She closed her eyes in a grimace but it was no good. The thwacking of palm on pubic mound was like a hideous clapping in time to her music from an audience of cock. The music itself became a mess. It was a lie. A tranquil piece played by someone who wanted to scream and run and weep.

It never took very long. The pressure in my prostate swelled and bulged. My hand accelerated to a furious blur, the clapping an entire crowd's applause all by itself. I could feel the surge coming, I could feel its thousands upon thousands of little legs –

"UUUUUNGGRRHHH"

She turned around just in time to receive right in the face the black mass that cannoned out of my cock. After the first salvo I squirted a few hundred more of them onto her clothes as well, down the front into her bra, in both sleeves, down the back of her neck. Naturally they all began wriggling and crawling all over her skin. She wiped a dozen or so from her face onto her hand, and stared uncomprehending at the impossible sight. First she stared, as they all did, at the giant pincers. Then she stared at the bugs they belonged to. Then she just stared.

Earwigs.

He just came earwigs.

I panted as I watched her, recovering my breath. Her face was still half-covered in black, crawling pincers. I always liked watching the reaction. Sometimes if they did something cute before passing out I could as much as halve my refractory period.

When she finally moved she brushed some more of them off her face. Where once was painstakingly applied makeup there now was earwigs. Where once was beauty, now was earwigs.

"My ...

Her movements were slow and post-traumatic as she gazed in the piano at her own reflection, and the reflection of like a thousand earwigs. My penis stirred, yearning for a comeback special.

"My f..."

She stroked her face with a finger. Earwigs hopped out of her right nostril and onto the finger. She began ... laughing?

"My ... FETISH"

and thats how i met ur mother lmao

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>> No.8  
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>>7
With a slow, curator's sweep of the arm I gestured at the Gallerie.

Her pupils swelled as her eyes traced all around the many wings of the room. I noticed she was even able to bend up ever so slightly out of the frame for a better look. Perhaps feeling some empathy with its longterm unfinished state.

"But ... but those places are just like this beach!"
"What?! They are the masterpieces that make this earth. If you like, I can graft you onto one if you don't like your beach."
"No!! I just want to be real! Please!"
"Fine. You can stay like that then!"

Her gaze flitted back and forth in a panic between me, the Gallerie, and her missing pieces. Of all the ungrateful ... I had offered up a sacrifice to her and she had not even noticed. She was no goddess. She was instead seeming ever more like just another irritating girl. The world worked fast.

"Y-you'll leave me unfinished then? For how long?"
"As long as I choose."
"Have you ever not finished a puzzle?"

Bitch. Her voice was trembling, but was shored up by an unattractive tenacity. I refused to let her even faze me.

"Pffft. My record is pristine. But see I could finish you anytime, I simply choose not to."
"But you do a lot of puzzles. There's only three pieces left, and they're tiny! What if they get lost or something?"
"What?!"
"They're so small you might lose them. Like over time. You might."
"So?!"
"Then you'd never be able to finish me! Then there'd be a puzzle you couldn't finish."
"Maybe I don't want to!"
"You wouldn't be able to."
"MAYBE I DON'T EVER WANT TO!"
"You wouldn't be able to even if you wanted to."

bitch whore slut toxic aids enthusiast

"OH HAY! I KNOW WHERE I CAN PUT THEM SO I CAN ALLLLWAYS FIND THEM!"

She flinched on hay, again on put, and once more on find. It spurred me on. There were three remaining pieces left to play. Two would complete her leg, the last was a piece of pure sand.

I placed the sand piece on her leg. Didn't fit.

Forced it.

"aaaaaAaAAAHHHHHHH"

I slapped it in place with my palm. The piece was totally wrong and needed to be at an angle to even get in there, but it wasn't going anywhere now. I did the same with the other two pieces.

"Stop screaming! You want your cunt for a face? I can get you your cunt for a face!"

As real as the rest of her looked, as I expected the sand piece was not blending in with her body. The puzzle was incomplete. She was stuck. So were the remaining pieces. I could finish her anytime I wanted to.

Which wouldn't be anytime soon.

I framed her up, hung her with the best view in the Gallerie. She would surely come around faced with the majesty of the Opera House, Angkor Wat and Edo Castle round the clock. She still looked very much a girl of three dimensions, but for a single nail of sand that anchored her to two.

The urge was there to gloat in my triumph. But seeing her on her knees, clutching her unfinished, unnatural leg, an expression of total defeat on her face ... the stronger urge was to pity. The same feeling in the store when I bought her.

"See."

She was silent. I didn't like it. Made her seem no longer alive.

"This is what I'm like. You don't want to go anywhere with me."

She looked up.

"... yes I do ... somewhere ... please .... anywhere ... else."

Even after all that?! Impossible. No. No!

"NO!!! No-one does. You wouldn't stay. Eventually you'd meet some people and they'd be awful nice and through them some more good looking people and they'd be oh ever so nice and then you'd run away and then you'd never come back."
"But ... who ... where would I go? I don't even know anyone else."
"HA! HAHAHA! With a face like that! With ttt-t-tits like that! Oh, there'll be no shortage of assholes who'll want to know YOU!"
"... are you crying?"
"FUCKING SHUT UP! YOU'LL RUN AWAY! YOU'LL SPLIT BACK INTO FIVE HUNDRED PIECES AND RUN AWAY WITH FIVE HUNDRED OTHER MEN!"

oh fuck what just what was that does that even make sense

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>> No.9  
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>>8
I stumbled about, punch drunk with the surprising insanity of my own tirade and the total oxygen depletion that resulted. Somewhere within the eye of my swirling vortex of hatred and self loathing was a nagging feeling that said I was totally wrong about this girl, and sure why not, everything else too.

The turn of the earth decelerated to normal, my knees stabilised, eyes refocused through tears. Her face slowly pulled into view. I was so sure that when the blur settled I would see the one raised eyebrow and curled lip that girls would shoot at anything they thought was lame beyond belief, beyond repair. But it wasn't that. When I could see clearly, it wasn't that expression at all.

It was pity.

And then abruptly it turned into a grimacing desperation as she thrust her upper body forward and out. Out into the world. Before I knew what was going on she had pried out the three pieces, including the one in her leg.

"Wait –"

In a frantic rush, she was going to complete herself. If the pieces were so close as to be within reach, maybe she was just real enough already to do it.

She locked in the sand piece in its rightful place.

I charged towards her.

She slided the first piece of her leg in. Tears of exertion on her face.

The second piece of her leg and the last piece of the puzzle came down hard.

On my finger. Only just beating it to the empty space.

"No!" she cried, and hammered down her entire upper body strength onto the remaining piece.

Quickly I did likewise, pulling at the piece with both hands towards me whilst she pulled it towards her one empty space with both her hands. It became tug of war. She was an inch away from life.

"Let go! Let go!"

She would not. Her strength took me by surprise. Her eyes were closed, face contorted with effort. I could feel myself slipping, tiring, muscles and tendons that had been slumbering for years now awoke and screamed at me to surrender.

How is she so strong? How am I so weak? How is she so strong?

I realised only then just how badly she wanted to live, even if she had no idea what it was, it was something, and it was everything more than her nothing. No-one ever deserved life before they were granted it, but with this one act of pulling she had, and hey speaking of life, I had pissed away years of the stuff making faxes of it in my basement

Fuck. Fine. I would give her life. But not yet. I would not let her win the tug of war.

It had to be me that finished the puzzle.

I hiked up both my legs off the ground and onto the wall on either side of the puzzle and pushed off hard, adding my entire weight to the pull. Her pull did not budge.

My own thoughts jeered me, they heckled my efforts, derided my every victory in life, amplified and harped on every failure. I had been wrong about the girl. I had been wrong about everything. But there was one thing I knew I was not wrong about, just one, one final truth that did laps of my brain.

men are stronger than women men are stronger than women men are stronger than women men are stronger than women men are stronger than women men are stronger than women men are stronger than women

I kept pulling, she kept pulling, and then I heard her scream. It was shrill and like needles in my ears, and at first I assumed it was to put me off. Then I saw her face.

It was splitting along tiny, barely visible lines. The lines formed the pattern of puzzle pieces.

I kept pulling, she kept pulling, she kept screaming.

The lines spread all over her body.

I kept pulling –

She erupted out of the puzzle and across the room as five hundred pieces of torrential crimson gore. Her resistance gone, my pulling translated into a backwards flight across the room straight into the adjacent wall. The impact detonated the Opera House, it levelled the Edo Castle, it bulldozed the remaining ruins of Angkor Wat. They fell in hundreds of thousands of pieces with me to the ground, all of us red with splattered chunks of obliterated girl.

The chunks were perfectly shaped as puzzle pieces, but they were of denser thickness. Human thickness. Each chunk pooled out blood onto the floor, the hundreds of pools met and joined forces until the Gallerie was carpeted in the slick. As I struggled to get up I saw that in the side of one of the chunks was a cross section view of her eyeball, white and veiny. I retched, lost my footing, skidded across the Gallerie and projectile vomited the soft boiled eggs I had for breakfast directly into both Guggenheims.

And so I lie here, face down in the wreckage of my life's work; the mince of the one I love, guts, gore, and spew.

brb suicide

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>> No.10  

>>9
Good shoot, m'boy.

>> No.11  

content to the top

>> No.12  

Good threads get bumped on Christmas



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213234 No.1   [Reply]
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>> No.49  

Getting there...

>> No.50  

>>48
Unfortunately, there hasn't really been any progress at all

>> No.51  

Oh hai NaziArtist girl

look at me I have monies and am in Korea, let me buy your art cause it is awesome. If you can lamenate as it rots that would be awesome.
What are you looking for in USD for a still wet pic? $50-$75USD? for a 18X25?

>> No.52  

You are a far better painter than Cracky. I don't think anyone would disagree.

>> No.53  

Good threads get bumped on Christmas



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