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I'm in. Hey are we allowed to ask what a wold is yet? I'm not sure about this setting. \/\/ Awesome, I kept derailing onto "woad" and I knew that couldn't be right.
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Dec 4, 2012 23:06
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:My circlejerks are always hardcore. This is only hardcore if you are in the same room with other people and throw it too far to one side or the other and both lunge for it at the same time and both end up in terrible terrible pain. Alternate theory: I am just an idiot.
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Dec 5, 2012 04:24
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Ronnie_Long posted:Baby's First Thunderdome. I'm in. Oh no, don't psych yourself out. Like I should have named myself Rose Confidence or something. But no I had to go for the fractured-fairy-tale feel. Now look at me. Anyway eat a couple  emotes and psych yourself up for action-packed chase scenes, this is Thunderdome and nobody wants a pacifier.
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Dec 5, 2012 21:24
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That's why you get a bite guard. With metal spikes on the side so nobody stands too close to you. And a chainsaw helmet. Also more people should post works in progress or projects, I want to concrit someone so hard their weakness bleeds out on the spot and makes them a stronger better writer.
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Dec 5, 2012 21:50
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I am pleased to be locked in combat with, uh, whoever that is.
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Dec 5, 2012 22:25
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Noir again But I don't listen to All right, these are my weapons, with these I shall most hatefully rend.
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Dec 5, 2012 23:29
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I might not have understood the challenge. If it doesn't make sense it's probably a failed challenge reference. Here is what I set out to fulfill: I want these stories, no matter the prompt, to have some movement, some weight, some kinetic bloody energy... ...write a noir story using the oeuvre of Trent Reznor – AKA Nine Inch Nails... ...Less than 800 words. Word count 799. You Know What You Are. The town was sleeping except us, her walking, me following. I’d been waiting for Mary down on the docks. We’d faced a gang of forgers and a pair of corrupt detectives together. But suspicion had buzzed at me until I finally checked the safe in my office. She’d taken the papers proving the gang’s links to Monty’s corrupt jazz empire. When I followed her clicking heels at first I thought her nerve had cracked. I’d thought she was going to take them to the press and save us a long battle against his lawyers. Instead she’d cut north, through the nighttime streets, to the little underground trolley system. I knew she was taking the evidence and running right to Monty. The streetlights vanished as I descended. I’d only taken the new underground once or twice. I wanted my familiar rhythms. I could barely see the shape I was following against the grungy walls. I wanted to hear her reasons. She wasn’t going to give me the slip. Head down, I followed the downward spiral. We were too far from development to be near the trains. There was just the scraps and bones of civilization, new lights and old metal. And there I was, following her down, for all the good it would do me. I’d drawn my gun when I’d stepped into the underground, but now, with everything to lose if I’d misjudged her, I had to think again. What was I going to do, shoot her in the back? I stood there stupidly, big man with a gun, until she turned and saw me. “John!” I couldn’t hear her, but I saw her lips move under the flecked veil that hid her face. I had the odd sense that it wasn’t really her, that I’d followed some ghost, but she turned and started running and I knew things were falling apart. I wondered when the lines had begun to blur. Maybe things had just been on this curve since I’d met her, I thought as I hurtled a piece of scrap and pelted down the half-built tunnel after her. She stumbled, kicking off her shoes, and I thought I’d caught up. As I got near she fell against the tunnel wall and rolled around the corner. When I got to where she’d been I could see her shape down the way, pulling something onto her foot as she hobbled. I looked down. She’d dropped her purse, now empty. Her spiked heels lay beside it, the squared nail shape seeming nine inches long, useless and heavy. I kicked them aside. Her new shoes made her silent. I couldn’t believe she recognized me. But then I hadn’t thought she’d play me like a cheap harmonica, like every instrument but the drums. I could feel the air starting to move. There was a train coming. That goaded me on, the thought she could whip into my life and right back into the void. I scrambled across the track that would be a train and followed a pitching shadow down a side tunnel. When I came around the corner she’d gone too fast, too far, and was slipping. Her arms went out, but she was falling sideways. She rolled twice with a little cry of pain. “What’s this about, Mary?” Adrenaline was running through me but I had to pick each step now. I couldn’t see the ground clearly between us. “It was never about finding forgers,” she said. Her hands were shaking, I saw. “It was always about who made a profit. I’m gonna be a star, John, unless your stupid mouth puts Monty’s lights out for good.” “What kind of hold did they have on you?” “They forged me a contract to trade for the real one, and then they blackmailed me. My boss was just making money off me. Treating me like a work animal, not an artist. Monty’s going to introduce me to a friend of his when I show up and then I’ll get on any stage I want. I’m gonna be a star, and nobody’s holding me back.” I knew there were a million miles between us. I stepped forward anyway. “Nothing’s going to change. He’ll just sell you to a bigger audience. I love you like you love me. Just come home with me. I’m testifying against Monty no matter what.” That did it, switched angry woman to pretty hate machine. I saw the change in her eyes and the way her mouth went to a thin line. I started forward because there was nowhere else to go. She was faster, little gloved hand snatching a pistol from inside her coat and swinging her arm up at me. The hole of the muzzle covered her head. “Love is not enough,” she said. And she fired.
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Dec 6, 2012 23:21
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You mean I did a lot of research for a band I don't listen to and a genre I don't read or watch for a fight in which I got stood up? I will find you, Canadian Surf Club, and I will tell you a bad story. It will be badly constructed in every aspect and not edited. You will hate it. I will make you listen to the whole thing and you'll be like "that was terrible." It will be harsh justice befitting the way you have thwarted my desire for a worthy foe. Or I'll just have some pizza.
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Dec 7, 2012 22:09
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A'right, you can share some pizza I guess. /\/\Those weren't fighting words, those were Disappointed In You words, but the judge said you're in so I don't have to write a really bad story now.
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Dec 7, 2012 22:13
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:The prompt is: two friends walk in the park. Your story must contain at least one dog, preferably more. Given how this last round has gone, I bet everyone ends up dead by the end. Everyone. Yes, probably the dogs too. However many there are.
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Dec 8, 2012 01:42
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V for Vegas posted:Sorry Rose Wreck, I know that the Nails may not be your thing, but just reading the occasional cameo of an album cover in the story was kind of jarring when reading it. I went after the spirit of the thing! If I lost I lost, but that was a thematic story with one woman unable to break out of the corrupt throes of the recording industry (unlike the later band) with song titles sprinkled in and at least one reference to the artist's playing style. And some other stuff because what is an ouvre anyway, is that like a window? Congrats CSC. [e: Also I literally set it in the industrial underground, I hope someone caught that.]
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Dec 8, 2012 14:50
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I hate to distract from the ongoing violence but I haven't learned my lesson either, so how prematurely can we post whatever we've mocked up for this challenge?
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Dec 9, 2012 01:38
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V for Vegas posted:I take your point that the story was about the music, not just throwing in titles, but goddamn they were annoying to read. Please never, ever, ever do that again. I went back through your story, pasted it into word and then deleted all the song references. You know what? It instantly became a million times better and I can see where you were going with it. Good work. Got it. When you said "ouvre" I had no idea what you meant and apparently go all  when I'm given marks to hit. If the prompt had been "impressionistic Kabuki theatre" I probably would have started looking up theatre design references. I will never, ever, ever do that again. If I do it will be because I am matched against you in Thunderdome. It will be personal. I will lose again. I will fall grinning at the pain I have caused.
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Dec 9, 2012 02:01
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499 words. The Cheese Stands Alone. The door was shut. The producers were deliberating. The directors had gathered quietly, morose. “They’re all getting along,” Diane continued miserably. “We won’t get another episode out of this. They’re a great group but where’s the interest? Where’s the drama? I was hoping to get a bunch of firecrackers for this season of Marooned. They’re just camping out. Fun for them, bad TV.” “Like you have problems,” said Sid, director of Cheese Stampede, who had won corporate sponsorship for his show easily before unexpectedly losing half his carefully selected cast to a fluke of undiagnosed allergies. “Both of you are having big trouble with minor setbacks,” said Valerie, tap-tapping a manicured nail impatiently on her armrest. “We billed everything as ‘unscripted,’ we picked the right people, they played the right parts. We just hit some bad luck.” “You picked the wrong people,” Sid snorted. “You should have noticed your star was entering another reality show. Of course he’d give his real background. Now Mark’s the only one not called to this meeting.” He jerked a thumb at the closed door. “It’s not like he even had to add much interest in the editing room. Identical twins that hate each other? I’d kill for a couple of cast members like that.” Diane stretched a little, impatient to get up and pace. “Did you notice how slowly his cast got caught up in that drama? People are too used to reality TV. They’re too good at separating themselves. They’re using it as a publicity vacation, or a launch for their careers. Not a competition. We’ve got to find some new way to shake it up, something to get them kicking again.” The door swung open. Sid looked up sharply. Valerie flounced a little as she turned in her chair. Diane gripped her blackberry tightly. Voices beckoned them in. Twenty minutes later, they came out, shaken. The door closed behind them. They filtered apart into a loose triangle, standing further than they had before. “I have to say, I like it,” Sid said. “I’m looking forward to a few seasons from now, when I’m finally free of having to theme everything on cheese for my sponsors.” “You have to win, first,” Valerie reminded him. Diane looked between Sid and Valerie, sizing up the competition for the next reality show on who was going to have a director’s career. Sid, not going to do well with viewers on the younger end of the demographic, with his annoying paternal attitude. Valerie, polished and fashionable… well, she could set herself up as a kind of girl-next-door. Not too bad. She was going to have to cheat a little to keep herself in makeup at all times. “I hope you’re going to be careful to remember, whatever industry we make, that’s what we work in,” she said. “Oh, I think I’m ready to cut the indulgence,” said Sid. “No dairy, no cheese. Just ‘Choose Your Own Reality.’” They both cursed him for coining the name first.
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Dec 9, 2012 15:58
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Bear Sleuth posted:It reduced an established institution to its most extreme and stupid. How is that not satire? It sounds like parody, but a couple of those struck me as more parodic than satirical. That's pretty subjective.
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Dec 10, 2012 13:31
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Bear Sleuth posted:either I didn't go far enough or assumed to much from a general audience. I think about everyone here has had some exposure to TGWTG. I'd say it wasn't far enough. Plenty of internet reviewers have pushed well past self-parody already, so even the name felt too recognizable. Given how much self-awareness some have written in, you'd probably have to take a different angle. Like writing about the hard-working Time Police preventing another internet critic from going into the past to beat up some artist in his childhood. Anyone have any criticism to toss my way? I joined this to write something I'd never written and push my boundaries a little, if I can add onto that I'd like it.
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Dec 10, 2012 17:46
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Sitting Here posted:Also since I see some crits going around, if anyone could give me some general feedback that would be cool. Sitting Here posted:I was hoping anti-humor was still a kind of humor, I mean the word 'humor' is right in there. I didn't get what you were satirizing. If I had to take a guess it'd be projects like the giant salmon, where people genetically alter their food. I thought you got the ruin of the setting across well without much fuss. When it got to the threat itself, you use some evocative description, but some of your images are a tad redundant or conflict. The chickens are described as "dumb" like the progenitor, which is a reasoning, talking chicken. It's not until after we know that chickens are patrolling in army units that we learn they're not very big. I had the impression they were tall because he was hiding behind something much bigger than him. The proto-chicken is so huge that it rests in pillows of its own flesh but is capable of lunging? (And chickens don't have webbed feet, that's ducks.) So I had to read it twice before it read smoothly. The muumuu wasn't a problem, I was confused by it but nothing suggested abominations wouldn't drape themselves in festive wear, so I think that worked fine.
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Dec 10, 2012 21:03
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Dave Barry has written repeatedly about putting words together to make people laugh. Some of what he says on it is in his books but he has a few interviews online. I think a lot of humor ends up being surprisingly formulaic. If you read a couple PG Wodehouse anthologies back to back, you can see the flips and reversals coming, even in one-sentence jokes. He does the same thing more than once, he's just creative in the variations, and he does it well enough to keep the reader looking for a new payoff. It's definitely something that can be learned but I'm not confident enough in mine to give advice on where to start.
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Dec 10, 2012 21:40
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Ronnie_Long posted:I think I would try listen to/read good comedy, humorous stories etc. so you can start to develop a feel for the genre and what works for you. I was thinking more about this, and this, as usual, is the best way. The other thing I'd say is search out a good cross-section and then do what does and doesn't work for you. I said Wodehouse was formulaic; so is Dave Barry; so is any other humor columnist. Once you've read them, you can recognize their humor later because they'll use the same knack. It works for them because they're established, but being predictable before then isn't funny. Based on how you've written, you might like Twain's satire and short stories. His Leatherstocking criticisms are his attempt at bitter career assassination, but they're still funny.
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Dec 10, 2012 22:16
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Stop asking for criticism, I have to keep saying "I didn't understand" but I'm getting tired of admitting I'm dumb. I thought you had some inconsistency going on. Liberals have taken over, but this gathering of True Americans is secretly gathering just to complain. They also have parted with their guns (what, no COLD DEAD HANDS?) At the end *zb speaks in praise of America but against liberals, who overrun America. It's a parody of conservative views, but Joanne sounds like a liberal parody with that "wanting to share." If she has a nametag on her forehead, does it have "Joanne" or her number? I think it would have been funny if it had actually been her number. It's not a helpful move otherwise, it lets you show things are dystopian but it doesn't parody anything liberals have tried to do. I think you could have tightened it by having the whole thing focused on the UN member listening, ready to rush in. I think it's not quite sharp enough because it could cut either way.
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Dec 10, 2012 23:02
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I'm actually at a point where I'd rather work on my stuff in the background and give constructive criticism. Which I'd like to think I can do without causing internal damage. If it's really important to people they can walk around with a printout of my crit, read it, and ask people to punch them in the face. I don't want to hold anyone back.
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Dec 11, 2012 03:19
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I don't know. Thunderdome seems to be subconsciously influencing everyone to write dark to grimdark, so I was happy when the prompt called for humor. I was reading your prompt waiting for the twist to comedy and it ended "then he got stabbed in the face." Which made me laugh. You should just claim it was some kind of transcendent satire.
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Dec 11, 2012 04:45
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I'm part of the problem, my solution is Thunderdome. I'm in.
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Dec 11, 2012 15:41
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Does that mean that it has to specifically have a Bollywood song, or just that it has to have a woman running through an open field and random dancing?
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Dec 11, 2012 21:54
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This prompt took no time at all to come back on me. I revisited some songs and now I have peppy, catchy, high-energy tunes sung by helium-voiced women stuck in my head. [E: I refuse to go alone. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-XblmAGqkk]
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Dec 12, 2012 04:36
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gredgie posted:I feel like whatever I write wont be Bollywood enough, which leads me to a need to riddle it with some cliches just to satisfy my mind. Seeing this is amazing. It's like a window into my thinking before I posted something and was told "never ever ever ever do this again." Don't do that.
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Dec 13, 2012 14:55
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Wait! Did I miss something or is Peel's flash rule "what have I got in my pockets?"
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Dec 13, 2012 21:02
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I love romance. I wrote something sappy. I used around 900 words. (Edited word count correction!) I admit to no shame. In the background please enjoy this. Sleeping Beauty Returning from space was always a welcome rediscovery, first a little dot turning to a familiar planet, then the moon swelling to its usual pocked maze, and then finally, the tiny oblong of the hive becoming a world. Flyx chafed with every second wasted as her soldiers docked their tiny diplomatic vessel with the large structure. Protective membrane caught on her chitinous joints as Flyx forced her armored bulk through the hive’s outer wall. The rough floor, sawed and sanded by decades of rushing feet, rasped loudly as she struggled to pull herself free. The hive was usually all motion and bustle, waves of messages and words rattling through its whispering hallways. Now it stood alarmingly silent. Around her, workers stood listlessly. One’s antennae twitched a few times, hinting at a little awareness left. Flyx didn’t try to engage the silent figure. She shot up one of the winding tunnels, leaving her soldiers behind. The fungus that provided light to the hive was desperately overgrown, bogging her wings down, but she struggled onward. She’d gone with her queen through the winding hallways so many times she didn’t have to search for her pheromonal trail. When she slammed through the last portal, past slumped guards, her hearts stopped for a moment. Her Queen’s long body didn’t stand in its proud arch. She was draped over the royal dias, gills barely moving, a barest trace of her perfume in the air. Drones were scattered about her body like statues. Flyx crossed to her side in an instant, lifting her delicate thorax in heavy claws. The queen’s compound eyes glittered in the light, and for a moment Flyx thought she stirred, but she only settled further into her grip. Flyx’s hearts felt tangled with regret. How had she let herself spare the ship’s engines in returning to her Queen’s side? Flyx had been hatched from a war-captive egg and was expected to be only a worker. But when she came to the royal chamber to gather eggs to a nesting-chamber, the Queen had paused, reached out from the dias, and brushed one antennae curiously against Flyx’s. In that moment, they had sensed something in each other. Flyx’s body instantly began the transformation from drone to armored war leader. She should never have left the throne room afterward. “I’m here,” Flyx said gently. “You didn't make a mistake choosing me. I secured the treaty you needed. All our hive has to do is hatch enough workers. We will be secure all our lives. Nothing will cause you to send me away again.” Her antennae flickered wildly, fanning the fungus into brilliant whorls in the air. The whorls on the queen’s tiny wing cases shone, and for a moment she thought she had raised them. “Queen? My Queen? It’s your Flyx. I’m back.” The delicate lacework of the queen’s gills fluttered, but there was no response. Flyx despaired. A queen’s complex chemistry rarely became dependent on one hive member. But if she bonded closely with a war leader or a favored drone, her own body could become as dependent on their presence as the hive’s was on hers. The travel implant under Flyx’s chitin made her body temporarily independent, but soon it would break down. Flyx couldn’t stand the thought of living without her Queen, but the thought of all her hive dying was too much. Flyx settled down on the dias, laying her antennae along her Queen’s long abdomen until the faint spill of pheromones drowned out everything else. Flyx hitched her wing covers up into the air. They were heavy and cumbersome, unlike a drone’s gracefully sculpted curves, and the first clash together was just so much noise. Flyx adjusted slowly to the sawlike instruments, playing the melody every one of her species carried in its heart: the song of love. It soared up like a queen’s first flight, dove like a worker returning heavily home, shook like a hatching egg. Flyx’s body was unsuited to it, but every right thrum and every right note drove her through another iteration. A few spurs cracked from one foot, a spine flew from her wing cover and anchored itself in the wall, but Flyx played on. First her Queen’s gills fanned in a long, sweet breath. Then her perfume thickened into aware messages, the chemical rill of Flyx’s name, over and over. The first sound was the faintest chirr, the lightest trill of noise, from the queen’s tiny wing casings. Then her head turned, one of her feathered antennae fanning slowly. Flyx played on, calling her Queen from dormancy. Movement twitched around her, tiny stiff pops, as drones began to climb to their feet. The queen’s first notes were achingly high. Flyx rejoined that she still had strength to answer. She shifted to bear more of her weight. Their song echoed through the drum of the royal chamber and spread into the hive. Workers spilled from the walls, shaking off their dormancy. Drones leaped to action. Caring feet brought the Queen water, laying food out before her. Light shimmered and flickered as many wings and jaws bundled overgrown fungus away. Soon a crowd was dancing through the throne room, falling neatly into spirals and lines. Through it all, Flyx and the Queen sang a new version of an ancient melody, a song of love reunited.
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Dec 14, 2012 18:47
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V for Vegas posted:It's dais not dias. I looked it up and you're right. I have been writing that wrong my whole life. I must even pronounce it wrong. And you're right on words! I guess when I think "I am writing sci-fi" some switch in my brain flips and I try to use technical terms like they were everyday terms in hopes that I can bullshit everyone into thinking I know what I am doing. [E: Wait, you didn't say if it was good or not. Judgement?]
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Dec 16, 2012 02:16
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I think I liked this! And its inevitable rain of color! It felt true to the challenge. I'm not a judge so you can have a poptab of appreciation. I would say we let the losers wrap themselves up in this comforting story to sniffle for a bit before we shoot them into the sun or whatever we were doing. Did we have a more humane option hidden somewhere?
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Dec 16, 2012 04:46
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sebmojo posted:Rose Wreck The impression I am getting is "Rose, you could be a decent writer, but you need a goddamn editor like the abominable Dr. Phibes needs the sweet, sweet nectar of revenge." True or false? I'm debating entering the next round just because I'm not sure I can do better than that,* so it's possible that stylistically speaking I don't write what Thunderdome wants. *I can spell "dais" right now, that's well worth the price of admission.
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Dec 16, 2012 22:32
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sebmojo posted:Stick around if you want to improve your writing. Fair enough. I have other projects I'm working on outside Thunderdome, and I'm concerned for those. If I need to search out an editor I will. But they're not entries so I won't keep discussing them here.
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Dec 16, 2012 22:45
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Etherwind posted:Tooth update: medicated. Could be worse. Also I miss your old icon, try to win. Passing on this round. Why? Because I need that time. I'm going to rewrite my first Thunderdome entry and add a chapter to both works in progress by the time this one closes. Not posting the chapters, will post the rewrite, and if I don't have it all done I'm automatically in next 'dome. For two entries.
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Dec 17, 2012 04:11
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Sitting Here posted:I still have to locate and dump out some errant pee bottles  Yeah make that three chapters for me by the time this round's wrapped, it's only fair.
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Dec 17, 2012 04:35
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Where would I post a Thunderdome entry rewrite? That's done, but it's too long to drop into the critique thread. I don't know I should post it since it's a self-set goal. I've still got three other things to finish before I've hit all the marks anyway.
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Dec 18, 2012 06:16
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Maybe we could use a Thunderdome Gallery thread for chitchat, idle tossing of axes, noncontestant comments, and creepy fanfic of other 'domers? Followed Martello's advice, watch me get probated.
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Dec 18, 2012 07:04
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swaziloo posted:it's apparently going to "print": "Congratulations!" No, congratulations. Why are you using scare quotes?
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Dec 19, 2012 01:17
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Fanky Malloons posted:Motherfucker. Welp. I believe in you! Also, three chapters + 1 rewrite = done, done, done, and done before deadline. Self-challenge complete. 
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Dec 22, 2012 23:59
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| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 02:33 |
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:Who here would donate their stories to a TD anthology in good ole print (with possible e-book edition--but why bother)? Either it'd be sold at cost or at low profit to support something like a literary magazine, remove marks of shame from losers that do well, donate to a charity, or some other poo poo. As is? I'm leaning away from that. It's enough pressure trying deliberately to do something different for peers and judges, even though honestly nobody cares how well I do. Producing non-judged, non-critiqued, first-version flash fiction worth publication on the first try? That's intimidating. Okay, I'd put the bug story up for charity because a lot of people did great that round and helping someone is worth the slight embarrassment. I'd buy one copy and then hide it. [e: Martello posted:very noir and within my oeuvre
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Dec 25, 2012 05:05
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