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I'm in for the moon one.
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Aug 28, 2012 14:55
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Moontopia Suicide was always an option. It beats being humiliated. Randy looked at himself in a wall mirror, his bloodied katana in his left hand. The only sound was the low, steady drone of his mining rig’s CPU fan behind him. This was it. His one and only chance to get a girlfriend. Kill or be killed. If he beat Darryl, he would get to make love to Cassandra that night, if not... well, it was best not to think about it. He would be gone. Dead. He would cease to exist. No more Randy. Darryl would get Cassandra, all of Randy’s Bitcoins and the moon would be all theirs. Randy took three long, loud slurps of Mountain Dew from the drinking fountain. Darryl was so huge. It would be like fighting a bear. His hands were shaking. He could stop them if he thought about it, but as soon as he looked away they trembled again. He might die.  “And in lighter news, a group of young men from the United States, United Kingdom and Canada have announced plans to establish what they call their own ‘Libertarian paradise’ on the moon; a utopia where people are free to act and think however they like, with electronic ‘Bitcoins’ as a de facto currency. It may sound like science fiction, but it is science fact according to founder and leader of the Moon Libertarian Foundation, Dr. Walter James. Dr. James has a doctorate in Physics from the California Institute of Technology, and he says he has developed a geodesic sphere that will be totally livable, even in a total vacuum. While Dr. James declined an on air interview, he says he’s able to fly the group of 150, all the materials to build the dome and an advanced aquaponics system to the lunar surface. In another bizarre twist, Pepsico has pledged to support the project, telling Dr. James that they will provide the group with funding and, ‘As much Mountain Dew as they can take with them,’ provided they set up a giant Mountain Dew billboard when they arrive. The billboard is expected to be visible from Earth with a telescope. Well, that’s the news in your world for today, December 16th, 2032. For WHBN News, I’m Tom Humpries. Have a great night.” As Cassandra looked around the passenger deck, she realized something; she was the only girl. How could Dr. James overlook this? How can you have an advanced society with only one girl? She straightened her cat ear headband and smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Randy screamed at the top of his lungs. A blood curdling roar. He shattered his reflection with the hilt of his katana. If he wasn’t ready now, he never would be. “Hey man, I really like Cassandra.” “Dude, no way. I like her too.” “Just do me a solid, man. Stay away. Don’t mess this up for me. She totally digs me. She smiles at me every time we pass each other.” “So what? A smile doesn’t mean poo poo. She came to my room and we watched the entire original series the other night.” “Hey, what are you guys talking about?” “Cassandra.” “I think she might like me. Our knees were touching on movie night and she didn’t even try to move.” He had done it. He had actually done it. Jerome had killed a man. He took his hands, put them around another man’s throat, and just choked him until he was dead. Just like that. It was done. The image of Arthur’s purple face as his eyes rolled into the back of his head was burned into Jerome’s mind. He liked it. Was Cassandra into choking? Of course not. Sweet, innocent Cassandra. Maybe if he just tried it sometime she’d like it. After all, you never know if something turns you on until you try it. “Hey Jerome!” Jerome turned around. It was Randy. He had a katana in his hand. Randy was so fat that he looked like a standard definition show being stretched to fit a widescreen TV. Before Jerome could say anything, Randy stabbed him in the stomach. “I dunno, Randy. I just think we’re better as friends.” “But why wouldn’t you want to date me? I’m literally the perfect guy. We like all the same things. Can’t you see how great we are together?” “The truth is I’m not sure if I want to date anybody. I’m happy just being me. Randy? Randy are you crying?” Darryl’s chest hair was matted with blood. He looked around. The only one not accounted for was Randy. Just him, Cassandra and fat little Randy. He cupped his hands around his mouth, “Randy! Buddy! I’ll tell you what. We’re going to need someone to scrub the toilets, so maybe we’ll keep you around.” Darryl walked down a darkened hallway, weaving around the corpses. Randy crouched, shivering, in a little broom closet. He gripped his katana in both hands. “I will not scrub your toilets!” he whispered aloud. He stood up. It was time to do this. When he put his hand on the doorknob, his knees shook uncontrollably. He crouched down again. You have to do this Randy. God damnit. You have to do this. Show Cassandra your love. Show her you’d be willing to kill for her. Maybe even die for her. He thought of the time he watched from across the lunch room as Cassandra laughed while she ate. She blushed, covered her mouth, and apologized. Her laughter was like music. Randy wanted to record her laugh and play in on an infinite loop. He wanted to take a picture of her blush and pin it to his ceiling so that it was the first thing he saw when he woke up. Randy opened the door. Darryl turned around. Randy crouched and slapped his shoulders and thighs with his hands and yelled at the top of his lungs. His voice cracked and went horse, “This ends now, rear end in a top hat!”
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Aug 30, 2012 17:11
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I am totally tone deaf and I am totally in.
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Sep 17, 2012 13:44
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I am in.
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Oct 2, 2012 12:23
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Here's my submission: --- Mush Dick looked at the pile of corn-mush on his plate. He once chewed through a rope around his wrists while he hung upside down by his feet in Vietnam. Another time, he tore out a KGB agent’s colon with nothing but his teeth and a can of shoe blackening. Now they wouldn’t let him eat real corn. Too hard on the digestive system. Richard Davis. Korean War veteran. CIA special agent. Old man in Crooked Oaks Retirement Home who wasn’t allowed to eat corn or nuts. He poked at his corn-mush with a fork. He looked up. Barbra passed in her wheel chair, oxygen tank hanging on the back. The breathing tube snaked down into her lap, up her chest, between her sagging breasts and into a hole in her throat. Dick didn’t usually go for older women, but god drat she could wear that tube. He wanted to start at the tank, lick the length of the tube right up to Barbra’s face and deeply, passionately kiss those grey wrinkled lips. Leave her so breathless she’d need two tanks of oxygen to recover. “Hey there, good lookin’.” Howard tipped his cowboy hat, put his hands on his hips and smiled so widely that he had two sets of crow’s feet, “You here to visit your grandmother?” Barbra giggled, then coughed, then tried to catch her breath, “Howard, you are the devil.” “Well ma’am, I’ll tell you what I used to tell folks down at the used car lot,” he gestured toward himself, “You take this baby for a ride and I guarantee you’ll never know how you ever did without.” Dick spit a mouthful of mush back onto his lunch-tray and tossed it in the trash. Howard thought he was such a big shot because he still had both his original hips. He had to be hiding something. Everyone has something. A deep dark secret. A skeleton in the closet. He broke into the Kremlin with a spool of thread; he could break into Howard’s room and find out what made him tick. Something to keep him away from Barbra. Dick went back to his room. He locked the door. He stood on a chair on top of his bed. He steadied himself and carefully popped out the ceiling tile. There was an old wooden beam running through the ceiling. Perfect. His shoulders popped and cracked as he pulled himself up. All the dust made it hard to breath. He coughed and pulled his shirt up over his nose. Howard’s room was three down from Dick’s. He shimmied along the beam until he thought he was over Howard’s room. He moved the ceiling tile and poked his head through. The telltale smell of cheap cologne and worn leather wafted through the air. He began to lower himself but his right shoulder gave out and he landed on the bed. A sharp pain shot up and down his legs and back. He winced. Someone was outside the door. They jiggled the knob. Dick rolled off the bed and landed on the floor. His artificial hip snapped like a wishbone. He bit his hand so that he wouldn’t swear in pain. Howard wheeled Barbara into the room. They didn’t see him. He lay there like a pile of corn-mush. Howard hung his cowboy hat on the foot of the bed, “So miss, how ‘bout that test-drive?” Barbara opened her mouth and Howard slowly removed her false teeth. --- For extra points, I submitted it to this reputable looking publication: https://duotrope.com/market_4134.aspx 
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Oct 2, 2012 14:58
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I'm in.
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Oct 15, 2012 11:50
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I'm in.
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Nov 29, 2012 13:16
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quote:On The House
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Dec 2, 2012 17:28
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I don't want to edit, but I forgot to put the word count in there. It's 741 words.
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Dec 2, 2012 17:29
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To be fair, mine was intentionally bizarre to set up the punchline. I was trying to "Pilk's Madhouse" it. I find that poo poo hilarious. Primoman jacks off to his stories. I do agree with you looking back, though. I think the girl could have been much more threatening. It would have come off better if she was more visceral than sexual.
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Dec 4, 2012 14:50
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I yam in.
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Dec 4, 2012 23:25
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If testicles were dollars, Capntastic would be on food stamps. Just sayin`.
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Dec 6, 2012 16:17
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Check Engine (644 Words) Nothing. Not a god drat thing. Somewhere there’s this guy laughing his rear end off because he tricked some guy up in Newfoundland into paying $90 for a cactus. I could have paid for the whole night with that. I’m going to head down to the festival anyway. The cab pulls into the driveway. It’s an old piece of poo poo, but gently caress, I’m just getting a run downtown. The driver backs out of the driveway, “Where to, my buddy?” “George Street.” “Busy down there tonight. My jesus, there’s some nice lookin’ young women around.” “Oh yeah?” “I don’t know how half of ‘em don’t freeze. Goin’ around with nothing on.” We’re driving down Main Road and holy poo poo. Someone’s grabbed hold of my brain and they’re pulling it in three directions. I don’t say a word. We’re driving past the dairy farm. I’m glad the cows are alive. Does their life matter once their dead? Does anyone know they exist? Ping. The check engine light comes on. It’s the car screaming, “For the love of god! I’m going to die.” The cab driver floors it. This car is dying. It dies just like a man. The doctor/mechanic says “I’m sorry sir, you have cancer/a cracked engine-head.” Is there a difference? Am I just a car? Am I a machine made out of meat? Maybe the only difference between us is a few misplaced atoms. I’m just a machine made out of meat, pretending I don’t have a one track mind and that I have this god and that I’m special. A machine built to pass on DNA and that’s it. A car is a machine that carries people. People are machines that carry DNA. I’m a machine. Oh gently caress I’m just a machine. The cab driver interrupts my thoughts, “It’s alright, me buddy, it’s only the check engine light.” He knows about the mescaline. He has to. How could he? He can’t. He knew I was looking at the light. “You’re some quiet.” It’s sinister. This man is sinister. The universe is sinister. Fump! The car misses. Fump! It misses again. “You loving piece of poo poo!” Fump! Fump! Fump! “Sorry me son, I’m gonna have to bring her into the shop. My buddy got one just down the road.” We pull into the garage. He picks up his radio and calls another cab for me. I get out. The cab driver talks to the guy at the garage. I go off to the side of the building to wait for the cab by myself. I watch them talk. I know every word they’re saying. High b’y, high as a fuckin’ kite. What are ya gonna do? Call the cops I ‘spose. They’ll cart him off in the paddy wagon. It’s all a big loving trap. Washroom. Go in. Left foot right foot. I lock the door. I’m safe. No one exists outside this little box. I’m just a sperm machine floating through space in my own, quiet little box. I always existed in the box. Nothing else ever did. Never outside. Never in. The mirror this is not me the me in the mirror is not the me in my head is this the me that everyone else sees the machine the truck the pulley the shovel Calm down. Breath slower. Nobody knows. Nobody knows you bought a cactus. No one knows you made cactus tea. You look fine. You look normal. Smile. People go down the street high every night and nobody knows. I scrawl, “Everything is OK  ” on my hand. You can do this. I look at my hand. “Everything is OK .” Thanks hand. I leave the washroom and walk around to the back of the garage. Hordes and hordes of corpses. Broken down. Beat up. Every year, make and model you can imagine. My fellow machines.
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Dec 7, 2012 15:41
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Capntastic posted:Hold up, I gotta point some stuff out here. I'd suggest some minor spelling and grammar edits for your story, but I couldn't get past the first four lines.
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Dec 8, 2012 00:55
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V for Vegas posted:
If it's any consolation, I die a little inside every day or the car used to belong to Jimmy Stewart or some poo poo.
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Dec 9, 2012 13:45
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No Movement in Bowling Walkout (299 Words) Monday nights have been quiet in Neil's Harbour as of late, and it doesn't look like things are going to change anytime soon. Talks between Neil's Harbor Lanes, a local bowling establishment, and the Neil's Harbor Recreational Bowling League Player's Association have broken off again. As of this writing, League Night Mondays have been on hiatus since September of this year. Pat Blackwood, owner of Neil's Harbour Lanes, has given league bowlers a 20% discount at his restaurant, Blackwood's Family Chicken, for over ten years. “It was just my little way of thanking them,” says Blackwood, “They've all been bowling here for years, and they bring in an extra fifteen or twenty customers every week.” John Feltman of the Neil's Harbour Recreational Bowling League Player's Association says that's just not enough anymore. “Fifteen or twenty customers is a lot,” he argues, “It costs five dollars--per person--to bowl for an hour. That's $100 extra dollars we're bringing NHL [sic] right there. That doesn't include the extra beer they sell, vending machine sales or people who bowl for more than an hour.” The Association is looking for a 50% discount at Blackwood's Family Chicken. Blackwood says that's just not possible, “It just doesn't make financial sense. Did you see the size of those guys? If I give them a 50% discount they'll wolf down so much chicken I'll go broke!” Feltman disagrees, “Don't believe him for a second. He bought a new ATV last week, he's not hurting for cash.” For now, talks are still at a standstill. Perhaps Greg Walters, the regular spectator at Neil's Harbour Lanes put it best, “I don't know who's mad at who, but if they don't get this straightened out soon I'm going to go watch curling.”
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Dec 9, 2012 18:24
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V for Vegas posted:
And I thought putting "NHL [sic]" in there was going to beating people over the head with it. Oh well, lol Canadians amiright? Bear Sleuth posted:It reduced an established institution to its most extreme and stupid. How is that not satire? Yours read like a regular episode of Angry Videogame Nerd. No offense. What if someone who reviewed fiscal policy reviewed policies the same way AVGN reviews video games? What does that say about the gaming industry? I think that would be more in line with what someone would consider satire. I think you need the social critism. It's not enough to say, "This is what Angry Videogame Nerd is like. It is ridiculous." You need to be like, "Here's how removed video game culture is from the rest of society. It is ridiculous."
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Dec 10, 2012 14:33
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It's really valuable to have a group of guys who will call your writing out on its bullshit too. That can be incredibly hard to find.
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Dec 10, 2012 22:38
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I'm down.
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Dec 11, 2012 14:05
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Bert's Friend (437 Words) Bert’s mother left when he was eight. He never forgot the day. His mother stood in the doorway, rubbing her hand up and down a swarthy man’s chest. Smile stretching from cheek to cheek, her lipstick thick and clown-like, “I’m finally happy, Berty! Isn’t it wonderful?” His mother and the swarthy man closed the door behind them and Bert never saw his mother again. When Bert was 17, his father drank a flask of spiced rum and got in a fight with the ice cream man. They tumbled into the street and the police came and sprayed his father in the face and wrestled him to the ground. “Don’t believe a loving word anyone says!” his father shouted as they put him in the back seat. He watched his father’s face in the back window as the car drove away. His father’s face vanished as the car crested a hill and Bert never saw it again. Twenty years later, Bert stood in the big glass porch at the Wal-Mart. His reflection was faint in the window. When people walked by the Wal-Mart, Bert would shuffle along at the same speed so it looked like his reflection was friends with them. Just an average, everyday couple and their older, bald friend walking past the Wal-Mart together. When he got to the end of the porch, he waited for someone else to come by. A stranger grabbed Bert by the forearm. Bert slowly raised his eyes. Black shoes. Black pants. Belt. White Shirt. Tag that said, “Dyson’s Security” and “Trevor.” Thin goatee. Brown eyes. “Let’s go. Not here to shop, you’re not hangin’ around.” Trevor towed Bert across the parking lot by his forearm. Bert looked up at the sky, “Nice day.” “Not raining, I spose.” “Been working at Wal-Mart long?” “Security company. They move us around.” “Nice.” “Yeah. Beats Fast food.” he let go of Bert’s arm at the edge of the parking lot. “Goodbye.” Trevor turned around and headed back toward the Wal-Mart without saying goodbye. Bert never saw Trevor again. Bert shuffled away from the Wal-Mart. He stopped at a McDonald’s. There was a man on the bench out front. He was dressed in yellow and had garish red hair. His clown-like smile stretched from cheek to cheek. Bert sat next to the man. The man didn’t move. Bert moved closer. He touched the man’s leg and drew his hand back. The man was cold to the touch. He lay his palm on the man’s thigh. The man didn’t flinch. Never lost his smile. Bert sat next to the man for a long time. ---- Late because I'm a big stupid baby who can't tell time. Story is based on a Bollywood fight scene I saw once where a kid's drunk dad beats the poo poo out of an ice cream man and gets arrested. Listen to this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5I6uMCLevA
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Dec 15, 2012 17:56
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sebmojo posted:
Thanks for this. The ending started out a lot happier in my head, then I started changing it to fit the flash rules, and then I just kind of forgot that this was supposed to be happy.
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Dec 17, 2012 00:17
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I'm in. If I'm not the first person with a losertar to win Thunderdome, I will buy the first person with a losertar to win an avatar of their choice.
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Dec 17, 2012 10:47
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It's good to have a goal to work towards.
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Dec 17, 2012 14:12
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I have read like five wildly different interpretations of my card.
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Dec 19, 2012 18:10
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Meis posted:Is that a complaint? Naw
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Dec 19, 2012 22:24
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 ------ New Friends (858 words) Kevin’s fiances were a fragile ecosystem. The smallest change upset the natural balance of things. When the radiator sprung a leak he paid for it with his Visa, but he used his Visa to pay the gas bill, so he had to take a little from next month’s rent to cover the gas. Then he needed rent. The phone rang, “Kevin? It’s Jack.” “Hey.” “Listen buddy, I have to cut your hours. Too many hands on. “Ok.” “Stay home Tuesday, come in Thursday.” “Ok.” “Alright. Have a good one, buddy.” “Ok.” Kevin hung up the phone. “Ok. OK ok Ok oK okay.” He got in his car and drove. He drove past the grocery store, the gas station, the liquor store and out of town. He stopped when he ran out of gas. He lit a cigarette and sat on the hood. Then he lit another, “You’re hosed. Totally hosed.” There was a run-down tar paper shack at the edge of a corn-field. A woman answered the door. She was an aging neo-hippie type, “Can I help you?” Kevin walked past. He sat on the floor. “You need to make a decision,”she said. “What decision?” “There’s only one decision to make.” “How can there only be one?” “Time is like a roller coaster. There’s a start and a finish, and only one track. Whatever happened, will have always happened. You can’t change the past or future. Are you going to open your eyes or keep them closed? That is the only decision.” “That’s some movie bullshit.” She held up a pipe, “Here. It is the pipe of insight. He looked at the woman. He looked at the pipe. Already hosed. He didn’t know where he was. He might as well take drugs form a hot, weird, hippie chick. He inhaled. I fall over on the floor. There’s a half empty bottle of vodka next to my face. I’m crying. Oh god why am I crying? I’m so sad. “Snort.” My head is open. “Snort. Snort.” The pig. The pig is eating my mind. He’s chowing down on the grey mush that is me and everything I will be. Kevin sat up, “What the gently caress?” “Insight. It is what will be. You have chosen to keep your eyes open.” “What was that?” “Looks like you have a little piggy in your brains.” “The future.” Kevin headed for the door, “What am I even doing? Why am I here? I have work Thursday.” “You are welcome to stay.” You are going to leave the house. Kevin walked across the field. The breeze blows through my hair. It will cool your scalp. The blades of grass buckled underfoot. I stop at some kind of farm. He’s there. The god drat pig. A big black patch over his right eye. That bastard. I grab a fence-post. He pays no attention to me, ignorantly rooting through the dirt. Kevin leaned back. He swung the post. He struck the pig clean between the ears. The pig squealed. He swung again and again and again. Blood and brains and pig poo poo and squeals until there was nothing left. You will turn. She will be there, hanging upside down on the fence. Naked. She will be beautiful. “Well,” She’ll say, “I guess you showed me.” You will tell her you have no where to go. You will like seeing her naked. She will ask if you’d like to see her naked every day. You will move into the tar-paper shack. The fresh air will be wonderful. gently caress. Jesus gently caress. I’m squatting in a loving shack with a forty-year old woman who doesn’t shower. We eat fro dumpsters. I used to have money and a TV and a car. I’m a joke. “Oink oink oink oink.” Kevin sat up. He and Matilda slept on a pile of dusty rags. The moonlight shone through a hole in the roof and onto her buttocks. Kevin reached down beside the rag-nest. Scotch. He panhandled until he had the money. He twisted the top. You will have sex a lot. You will love it. Who doesn’t love sex? It’ll be the best part about living in a shack. No bills. No job. You will be able to take your woman whenever you please. She will get pregnant. It will be joyous. I knocked her up. Oh gently caress. I knocked up a crazy homeless woman. What the gently caress is wrong with me? She has my kid in her belly. I don’t even know. How in the hell do you raise a kid in a tar-paper shack? Kevin sat in the hospital waiting room. It smelled like hand sanitizer. The doctor came in,” It’s a boy.” You will go into the hospital room. Isn’t this wonderful? A pig! My son is a loving pig! Oh my god! He’s a pig! Kevin flipped the little plastic hospital crib and the baby cried. He punched the walls wildly, “My son! My son is a pig!” A nurse shouted something into a receiver. An army of doctors, security guards and orderlies ran down the hall. You will make some new friends. Isn’t that nice?
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Dec 23, 2012 00:04
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I'll only buy it if it's printed in the true spirit of the Thunderdome. With blood.
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Dec 24, 2012 05:10
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Yeah, I agree with the critique thing. The one line ones are helpful sometimes, but an in depth critique would be super.
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Dec 31, 2012 14:56
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toanoradian posted:But what if my critique sucks and I couldn't satisfy my partner? I think you could totally offer up some standards. Any thoughts? I picture something like a minimum 150 word critique with a suggested line edit? It's easy enough to put together in 15 or 20 minutes, but still has a bit of substance.
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Dec 31, 2012 18:17
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I'm in. I am going to write a teen supernatural semi-erotica romance story, being the genre of literature I hate the most.
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Jan 2, 2013 17:26
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Here's my teen supernatural romance not featuring werewolves or vampires. Bernard (486) Stella finally figured it out. Bernard was a one-eyed ogre! That’s why he was 700 pounds at age 15. He wasn’t fat like Troy had said. He wasn’t a weirdo like Nancy had said. He wasn’t even an exchange student from Madagascar like the principal told everyone. He was an ogre. She was surprised no one else noticed. The other girls went for jocks and theatre geeks, but something about the eight-and-a-half-foot-tall freshman drew Stella in. Everyone assumed he sat alone at lunch because he took up and entire table, but Stella saw something fragile, almost spiritual. Each day, she admired the delicacy with which he ground leftover bones into bread and slathered them in jam. The world had no place for an eight-and-a-half-foot-tall, 700 pound, one-eyed ogre, just as it had no place for Stella. She thought that maybe, just maybe, they could find their place together. A place with a ground-level entrance and reinforced flooring. Everything was set. Bernard was going to come over and meet her parents and have dinner on the 22nd. On the big day, Stella put on a yellow dress. She looked in the mirror, shook her head and threw it in the closet. Simple. Keep things simple. She put on a blouse. Mom was making salmon. What if Bernard didn’t like Salmon? She stared herself down in the mirror, “Stop worrying. It’ll be fine.” Three loud knocks at the door. Then a grunt. Then Bernard’s size 32 boot kicked the door off its hinges. He was dressed in a loincloth. Turtlenecks for 700 pound, eight-and-a-half-foot-tall, one-eyed ogres must have been on backorder down at the Gap. “Bernard,” Dad wore a sensible black polo, “So nice to finally meet you. You’re all Stella talks about! Put 'er there!” Bernard tore dad’s arm off, grunted and ate it. Dad nodded appreciatively, “Now that’s a nice stiff handshake. Just the other day I was saying how too many young men have weak handshakes. Never make it with a weak handshake.” The cat hissed and the hair on its back stood on end. Bernard stepped on it. “That drat cat,” Dad pointed at a mound of goo under Bernard’s foot, “That’s no way to behave when we have a guest!” At seven, everyone sat at the dinner table. Mom served Bernard first, “So Bernard, I hear you’re from Madagascar. Must be nice this time of the year.” Bernard grunted and flipped over the table. Mom laughed, “Stella always goes for the kidders.” At nine, Stella and her parents showed Bernard to the door. Dad nudged mom, “Let’s leave these two love birds alone so they can say goodnight, eh?” Stella giggled, “Tonight went well, don’t you think?” Bernard cradled her in his arms and raised her to his lips. Stella puckered up. Her first kiss. It was perfect. Bernard grunted, opened his mouth and swallowed her whole.
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Jan 7, 2013 02:04
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Thanks for the critique, Noah! I agree with most of your points. The insignificant thing that the character deals with was supposed to be deciding what to wear, but it was tacked on. I was never great at following prompts once I get going. I'll have to work on clearing up some of the redundancies, fill in some of the blanks, and fix the pronoun confusion. The entire joke behind the piece was supposed to be the idea that Bernard is a horrible monster and everyone in this "world" is too retarded to realize it, in the same way that everyone in the Twilight "world" is too retarded to realize that Edward is a vampire, but I'll have to work on bringing out the humour behind that a little more. I tried to make the piece romantic at first, I really did, but this genre is just too ridiculous. I just couldn't do it. Here's yours: Noah posted:Man, cranking out 4 things this week was kind of exhausting. I hope that was helpful. I think you could do a lot of cutting, but there were two things you did quite a bit that generally weaken your writing. The first is the misplaced subjects. Here is an example, you say, "Darryl could hear more and more birds joining the fray." You're making Darryl the subject and the birds the object because he is hearing the birds. Darryl is the one performing the action. The birds should be the subject and the object should be the fray. It should read something like, "More and more birds joined the fray." Watch things that make your story excessively wordy like "It began to deflate." Just say "It deflated." Putting that "Began" in here and there also makes your story excessively wordy. I really like the general idea. I think that digging through the sand and the metal detector is a great motif, and I think you can explore that more. I think that this is a great idea, and a great framework, but now that it's outside the confines of this weeks prompt, you can expand. What is the root monster? Why is it there? In terms of the prompt, I'm not sure what the insignificant thing is here, because I would poo poo my pants if anything in this story happened to me.
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Jan 8, 2013 03:12
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| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 02:56 |
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You're all alright, I guess. Thunderdome is alright.
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Jan 9, 2013 13:33
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