|
Kaishai posted:Good stuff Thanks, seriously, for taking the time on a story that didn't meet the deadline. Was not expecting it, and I honestly appreciate it. quote:Was that intentional? Nope. I've got a couple of friends who actually make their living as astrologers, and I get so drat tired of hearing about it that I went utterly literal. quote:Scott telling Terri about her poverty and dependence (in the paragraph starting 'Yes, as a matter of fact, I did') verges on being a characterization infodump. Agreed. quote:I think you might be using the commas this way intentionally to keep the feeling of an unrelenting attack. I was, but if it's awkward to read, then it doesn't serve the story. Oh, and even though I have another two brutal dental appointments between now and the deadline, I'm in.
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 07:03
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 23, 2024 11:20 |
|
|
I am going to write one of these stories this week, oorah.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 07:07
|
|
|
Me, I will do this.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 07:30
|
|
|
Kaishai posted:I wish I could give the posters in the diving thread points, because they were all kinds of talkative and helpful. (Note to Bishop, should s/he be reading: I might not have noticed if you hadn't said anything in the thread.) You've worked terminology they shared with you into the piece. Diving is central to the whole thing.... I do think the story is and interesting concept and if Jeza wants to PM me or post more questions in the diving thread, we'll be glad to help with the technical details.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 07:33
|
|
|
In.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 08:15
|
|
|
In. I must erase the shame of this week's failure. I'm still going to put what I was working on in the fiction farm when I finish, since I was having a good time writing it until life decided to kick me in the nuts repeatedly. Preparing to cram-study some Gabriel Garcia Marquez as we speak.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 08:38
|
|
|
Kaishai posted:V for Vegas, "The Sons of Saranya" I think the word you're looking for is  Thanks for the prompt, I have a new found appreciation for Indian classical music, and good work on the crits.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 08:44
|
|
|
In for this week.Kaishai posted:Erogenous Beef, "Under Pressure" Thanks, this is good stuff. I had some more bits about Hell and the wells, but they were either too long or felt tell-y and boring, so I cut them in favor of keeping the core character interactions. I also had "cute" "local" phrases like "newdead" sprinkled in there (in place of 'new kid'), but they made me throw up a little in my mouth on a re-read pass. I've been reading some utter crap lately, and wordplay like that makes me want to punch the author. My alternate title was "This Is Not A Drill", but the Queen reference seemed superior. 
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 08:45
|
|
|
Martello posted:
A Gallant Swain words: 843 Rick sat in the back of his biology class scowling. The aced midterm exam sat on his desk in front of him, and he thought about how many people he helped in his study group, when they hadn’t helped him at all. Birds sang outside on the sunny morning, and he only cursed the fact he was stuck in class. Today was Valentine’s Day, and he was spending it alone, again. Five rows down and three seats to the right was Becky Winter. B emblazoned on her paper; she was all smiles. Not a word of thanks, Rick thought. But then again, she probably doesn’t even know who I am, just that nerd in her study group. Not the guy who was in her Intro to Biology class, not the guy in her Marine Bio class, not the guy who couldn’t work up the courage to ask her on a proper date. “Hey, good job Rick,” Sarah Plisky said, leaning over two seats. “Eh? Huh, yeah I guess,” Rick said. Becky flicked her blonde hair back over her left shoulder and talked to a guy next to her, some jock, Rick thought. He remembered trying to talk to her on Monday, to ask her once and for all, if she would like to do something that Thursday. He tapped her on the shoulder, and stammered, “Would you, would you like, you know, maybe-“ She raised her eyebrows, and smiled a little. “What’s up, Rick?” “Would you, I mean, do you-need to study anymore before the exam?” “Oh, no, I think I’m good for once, thanks Rick, good luck on Tuesday.” And then she was gone, down the hall with her pony tail swinging with each sway of her hips. “Study group tonight?” Sarah asked behind him. “Eh,” Rick said. And Rick sat in class grousing. She would have said no anyway, he thought. Save myself the embarrassment of being rejected at least. Rick stared off out the window when the door to the auditorium opened. “Uh, is there a Rick Stanton here?” A man said, holding a flower, a card, and a small red box shaped like a heart. Those in the class who knew Rick turned to the back instinctively, and the rest of the class followed suit. Rick’s face flushed and he sank a little in his chair, but he raised his hand. The man strode up the auditorium steps two at a time and handed the package to Rick. “Happy Valentine’s bucko, from a Ms. Anonymous. Or maybe Mr.” the man said with a wink. Some people nearby chuckled uncomfortably. Rick looked around at the turned faces. Wishing he could melt under the intense heat he felt, he shifted in his chair. Then he saw her face. Just half of her milky face, framed by blonde hair and pink lipped smirk. They made eye contact for a brief moment, but Rick saw it. Becky smiled at him. Rick’s armpits moistened and his stomach flipped. He turned the card over and over in his hands. Inside it read “Do you like me, circle one, yes, no, maybe.” A little childish, Rick thought to himself, but that was just her sense of humor. He imagined her, just like himself, trying to work up the courage to ask him out. They had been one in the same the entire time, how stupid he was for not seeing it before. Each minute ticked by slower than the last. Rick tapped his foot and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. When class finally let out, Rick jumped out of his chair, stumbling on his bag. “Rick, are you okay?” Sarah asked. “I’m fine!” He pushed through the students herding at the small door. “Becky, hey Becky, I circled yes,” he said. She turned to him and smiled her little smile. “Hmm, what?” “Would you be my Valentine,” Rick said, holding the flower up at her. “Ohhh, umm, I’m sorry Rick, I have a boyfriend,” she said. Everyone stopped to watch the conversation. “What? But, the card?” Rick stood there. He could feel every drop of sweat on his body and began to itch all over. Becky’s eyes went wide and she shrugged. She turned, and he could hear her stifle a scoff. Students moved past him, some laughing, some patting him on the shoulders as they did. Everything moved past him in a swirling void, he was stuck in a tunnel, drowning, separated from them. He couldn’t figure it out, what did he do wrong? Why wouldn’t she want to go out with him, why would she send him that Valentine’s? And then it made sense. Rick took the card and ripped it in two. Crumpling it in his hand he threw the box, broken flower and scraps of card into the nearest trashcan. It was all one big practical joke, like high school had never ended. She embarrassed me in front of everyone, that was her plan all along, he fumed. Nothing ever changes, he thought, stupid loving Valentine’s Day.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 08:47
|
|
|
I'm a pretty good non fiction writer but terrible at fiction. That said, what better way to fix that than than a loving thunderdome? I'm in.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 08:57
|
|
|
Bishop posted:I'm a pretty good non fiction writer but terrible at fiction. That said, what better way to fix that than than a loving thunderdome? I'm in. 
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 12:18
|
|
|
Bishop posted:I'm a pretty good non fiction writer but terrible at fiction. That said, what better way to fix that than than a loving thunderdome? I'm in. Another falls into our clutches. Magical realism, eh? poo poo is about to get pretentious. (In.)
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 12:43
|
|
|
In. I loving love magical realism. Prefer the Angela Carter stuff to the Gabriel Garcia Marquez stuff though.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 13:43
|
|
|
The first sign I knew I was doomed was when I had to google "Magical Realism". Too late now! There's only one way out of the thunderdome and I'm going down fighting.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 14:07
|
|
|
'sup dicks. Miss me?
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 14:10
|
|
|
SurreptitiousMuffin posted:'sup dicks. Miss me? I did.  Purple Prince posted:In. I prefer the Gilberto Hernandez stuff to Marquez. Xaime not so much. His lines are beautiful and his draftsmanship perfect, but his characters just don't have the same life. But it also might just be that Beto is a breast man like me. 
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 14:30
|
|
|
In, from my phone, while travelling. I am a roaming spirit.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 17:11
|
|
|
Martello posted:I did. also "if you are worried about my coughing, murder a bureaucrat."
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 17:33
|
|
|
In for magic realism.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 20:57
|
|
|
In. Lethem you to death then Marquez all over your corpses.
|
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 23:18
|
|
|
Alright. Gettin' tired of these endless victories over here, everyone needs to step up their fuckin' game so I can't win with something I crapped out at work half an hour before deadline. I need to step up my game too though, so I'll be doing line by lines of all successful entries. So get it in on time. Edit: also, what was the link to that february story competition got posted a little while back, will flick my last one in to remind me what failure tastes like Edit: ah yes kenyon review. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 01:43 on Feb 27, 2013 |
|
#
?
Feb 26, 2013 23:36
|
|
|
Martello posted:
Study Hall (820 words) The food court was crowded, but Myra's target was easy to find, huddled in a far corner away from the bustle. She'd noticed him here before - alone, reading or taking notes or listening to music. Today he was doing at least two out of three. She slipped through the crowd clustered near the doors and smiled when he glanced up. "Busy?" Carmine frowned across the mess of books and papers spread before him and slipped his headphones off his ears. "What do you want?" Myra shrugged. "You're always hiding in the corner. Thought I'd give you some company." He gave her a dry look. He had sharp features, high brows and cheekbones - an imperious face. But she didn't think he was arrogant. She'd seen him help others in class. "The real reason?" She shrugged again as her smile turned sheepish. No reason to get bristled, yet. "Okay, you caught me. I need help with class. I saw you exchange notes with Sandra, so I thought it was worth a shot." "Ah." He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, flicked his phone on to pause his music. "I gave her a copy of my notes from when she was sick last week. How much do you need?" Her mouth twisted as she hooked the chair out and took a seat. "Everything?" He laughed. It was more of a snort, like it caught him by surprise. "That would take a while." He looked much better when he smiled, she decided, even if it was only a thin one; it softened that highbrow look. "Can't you just take them to the copier?" Carmine shuffled loose sheets into a stack at his left hand and dragged a binder from the corner of the table, flipped it open to a page marked with a green tag. "I write shorthand. Have to copy it out fully." "Oh." Myra moved her elbow out of the way as he gathered up a stray blank paper that had drifted across the table. "Then...yesterday and today's, I guess? I can usually at least get the gist of it, but the professor went too fast for me this time." He was already writing, left-handed. She hadn't noticed that before, but he wasn't one to draw attention to himself anyway. He only spoke up if he was asked a question, or if he was the only one who knew an answer, but he knew a lot when he did. She chuckled at that thought. "You're way ahead of most of us. I'll never catch up." "Study," he said, without looking up. She glanced at the books he had scattered around and registered their titles for the first time. Forensics books from the college library, one from a bookstore with a label still on it. "That's what you do here?" "Usually." She pulled the one with the price sticker over and checked the cover. But what caught her attention wasn't the content of the book - it was the marker. She flipped to the marked page and found a guitar pick. And found the book flipped back shut and pulled from her hands. She looked up to see Carmine glaring at her. "Do you mind?" He set it at his elbow well out of her reach and stacked the rest on top of it with more thumping than was necessary. Strange. No musician she'd met had been shy about their talent. "You play guitar?" He went back to his writing and didn't answer, but edged his elbow protectively in front of the book stack. Myra propped her chin in her palm and stared at his bowed head before her gaze slid back to his hands. Long, slender fingers. She couldn't tell if they were callused, but she could easily see those hands strumming a guitar. "My mom plays violin." "That's nice." But he'd hesitated mid-letter. Had she found a chink in that antisocial armor? She eyed his phone and decided to ignore that comment in favor of a different tack. "What were you listening to?" Carmine let out an irritated breath and glared at her again. "Do you want these notes or what?" She raised her hands disarmingly. He held the glare for a moment longer, then bent back to his copying. So much for that. But after an awkward moment, he murmured, "Nightwish." Aha! She pounced. "Which album? My favorite's probably Imaginaerum." He straightened, still writing. "Once, but I like Imaginaerum too." "My favorite song's 'Rest Calm'. I think. But there's so many good ones." He hunched his shoulders and paused to glance at his phone. "'Song of Myself', I guess." But before she could ask more, he shook his head. "Look, I'd be happy to talk about music any other time, but I'm trying to write your copy." "Okay, okay, sorry." Myra watched him return to his work and hid a smile. She'd remember those words.
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 01:06
|
|
|
Good job sacking up. Hey noobs check out this link. "A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings" by Marquez. P much the most straightforward example of magic realism you can find. Some of you worthless fucks may have even read this in college, especially if you ever had a gay Jamaican CW professor.
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 01:29
|
|
|
Martello posted:Marquez. It's going to be a long week  
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 02:32
|
|
|
STONE OF MADNESS posted:It's going to be a long week Suck it up ninny and read and write until you cry--until the panties you wear on your malformed head are soaked in the sweat and salty tears of true literary greatness.
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 02:57
|
|
|
Hell yeah I finished my story and instead of posting it immediately like I did last week I'm going to edit it throughout the week so that I don't lose again. For the record Borges and Hesse (see avatar) are the best magical realists.
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 04:00
|
|
|
in
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 04:35
|
|
|
Include me in.
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 07:02
|
|
|
Alright, I'm in.
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 16:29
|
|
|
In like Flynn
|
|
#
?
Feb 27, 2013 22:48
|
|
|
I've stared into the abyss, there's nothing left. Even the fear is gone. If the blood spilled is mine, so be it. 615 words Same as Mine I was there taking pictures of a dying breed, a dying art. I was dropped off Chile’s coast, told to find a man: the last Curandero. He was the only one left who knew to mark the skin, to write the letters of God. I met them on the beach, the last believers. Told them I was a tourist, a seeker. I made sure to keep my shirt on, always. Months passed, I lived with them in the shanty town. I knew I was leaving, soon; knew I couldn’t let myself fall back into old habits. This was the last one, I promised myself; the last of their festivals I’d attend. Two days of feasting, of ceremony, and I almost believed it again. I almost let the drummers force me into Transcendence. I pointed my glass eye and thirty-five millimetre memory at the revellers, snapped shots fast and loose. That’s when I saw her. We locked eyes for a split second, but I already knew she’d have them, same as mine. I saw them already - the twin spiral nebulas of pinpoint scars all down her back. A memory came, clearer than the present moment could ever be. I saw Agatte’s lips moving; she spoke from a time that rushed by like so much floodwater. She spoke in tones of wind and rain, the way I had always thought she could. But the words slipped by, memories latching onto memories and streaming past before I had a chance to slow them. The feelings and the tones and the colours came all at once. I remembered what she said; it was like having wings of flame, when the blue pill fog wore off. I remember feeling her shudder as my fingers brushed against the raised skin, those pinpoint scars. I followed the spiral without looking, down to her waist. They’d done hers all at once; she’d insisted. Agatte disappeared, swept up in the frenzied beating of the cajon and feet on beaten sand. The girl was gone. A dull ache crept into my shoulder. I knew I was going to slip out of the crowd. An amplifier kicked in with a squeal and a guitar slipped into a rhythmic growl as I walked out from under the tin roof and into open air. I knew she’d be by the water’s edge, past the big dune on the empty side of the beach. I sat down beside her, my hand brushing her shoulder and those scars. “Agatte” she spoke. She was still a seer, an empath, I wasn’t even a savant. I’d never asked the question; never stared my own mortality in the face. I preferred not knowing. I’d let it fade – that edge, that thing that kept every lesson bound to marked to flesh. I wanted to tell her; about my Father and the village and the ceremonies. About the way the soldiers took him on the day the tanks came. About the way I’d lost favour with the Elders. Cursed, they said, after the drought hit and I brought no rain. An Imposter, they said, after I had no visions or dreams or prophecies. I wanted to tell her about Agatte and the ring she’d worn on her finger. Instead I knew I’d do the cruel thing, out of fear and jealousy and hate. “How many days do you have left?” I asked. “None” she said. I sat by her, watching the rolling waves. She said nothing and smiled as the water extinguished the sun. I cracked my camera open, using the last orange rays to destroy the film. This day would die with her. The Curandero is dead, I would write. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 13:52 on Mar 4, 2013 |
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 04:02
|
|
|
With the three submissions I have in Thunderdome, I've noticed that my prose tends to be very spartan. I've forced myself to be more "flowery". Enjoy, fuckers. Read it. Kill it with fire. Take a shower. In that order. ----------------------------------------------- Macy’s Day - 1,488 words Timmy stepped out of the 5th Avenue subway station, clinging to his father’s hand. The rumbling of the nearby crowd swelled and merged with the tremor of the departing trains, forming a new sound that echoed the day’s excitement. Flowing along in a river of spectators, they made their way westward to 6th Avenue, seeking to stake out a claim to any decent viewing spot they could discover or, through subterfuge, acquire. Timmy’s hand trembled as he tried to catch glimpses of the soaring towers shepherding the crowd from all sides. “Daddy, where did all these people come from?” “A lot of them live here.” “So many?” “A lot are also visiting. Like us.” “To see the Macy’s Day Parade?” “Yes. To see the balloons and floats.” Timmy walked the rest of the way to the parade route in silence, breathing in the intoxicating air of big city life, drunk with excitement and fear, the two fighting for supremacy. When they neared the barricades lining 6th Avenue, fear dealt excitement a decisive blow as father and son found themselves caught in a crushing press of jostling, pressure building from behind and pushing the two into the backs of strangers. Timmy began crying, a puddle soon forming at his feet. His father, recalling his first trip to the Big Apple, pulled Timmy out of the crowd, using his shoulders to force his way through the reluctant wall of onlookers. Free of the claustrophobic crush, Timmy hyperventilated as his father held him. The man shivered at the cold being expelled in great gusts by Timmy. “Hey! Youse guys looking to score primo seats to the show?” a voice called above them. They glanced up to see what looked like a failed attempt at an audition for a Lil’ Rascals film. The scrawny kid, dangling off the six foot wall separating some prestigious bank from the street, had smears of soot painted randomly across his person like a Pollack painting. He was wearing a pair of school shorts in a condition that would never be allowed into any academic setting, and topped off the image with an antique newspaper boy cap that barely contained his curls. As he stared down on the visitors, a bubble of snot pulsed and expanded from one nostril, growing to the size of his head before popping without the boy taking notice. “How do we get up there,” shouted Timmy over the buzz of thousands of spectators. “I gots a little ladder set up back around the corner,” the kid explained. “Just go north on Sixth and hook a right at the first driveway and makes your way back here.” Timmy’s father looked at his son and raised his eyebrows in question; Timmy answered with a quick series of nods. Together, the two navigated the urban jungle, taking a wrong turn at one point and finding themselves in a dead end parking lot before coming to the promised ladder propped up against the hidden side of the wall. Reaching the top, they were greeted by a raucous yell, “Heya!” “Hey,” Timmy said, keeping close to his father. “Why’s youse so mousey?” asked the grimy kid, sticking out his hand. “Name’s Anthony. I don’t bite.” Timmy hesitantly stepped forward and shook on the offer. “I’m Timmy. This is my dad. It’s loud, huh?” “Stick with me and youse’ll be alright,” said Anthony. A new noise began to intrude on the scene, steadily growing in volume until a carnival atmosphere had descended over the crowd. “The parade’s here,” Anthony announced. North of them, rounding the corner of 59th before continuing south, the balloon version of Spongebob Squarepants appeared, a giant floating yellow mass, impermeable despite its namesake. Timmy jumped up and down with his new friend, squealing in delight as his favourite cartoon character floated toward them. Following Spongebob, Pikachu and Kermit bobbed as they turned the corner. Timothy hooted and clapped his hands together as Spongebob turned in his direction and gave an exaggerated wink. “Did you see that, daddy? He knows me!” “Yes, I see,” his father said, smiling with his arms around his son. Timmy turned to Anthony. “Wait a minute! What are you doing out here alone?” he asked the boy. “You know why no kids come out here by themselves.” “That’s bullcrap! I been here plenty before.” “Have you ever stayed at the parade until the end?” Timmy’s dad asked. “No….” “I think you should go home.” Anthony turned his back on Timmy and his father, arms crossed. “It ain’t true,” he whined. “Nothing bads happened before.” Timmy and his father look at each other until Timmy shrugged and put an arm around Anthony’s shoulders. “Look, Buzz Lightyear is shooting the crowd,” Timmy said. Anthony turned back to the parade, a smile blooming on his face as he watched Buzz pantomiming shooting his laser gun at children who played along by dropping, with their eyes rolled up, against the bodies pressing the parade route. “This is awesome!” Anthony perked up again and the two returned to watching the incoming balloons and floats: Ronald McDonald throwing fries into the crowd; Pappa Smurf lowering his arms to the ground, allowing adventurous children to climb up, carefully balancing them before setting them down; and Snoopy, indifferent to the entire spectacle, reading a giant newspaper as he reclined on his back, bobbing as he floated along. The blaring music hitting the crowd began to fade as the parade drew to end. An uncomfortable mood descended on the revelry as everyone watched one final balloon round the corner. “Why’s he so angry, daddy?” Timmy asked. “The Pillsbury Doughboy?” “Yeah.” “Nobody knows. Some think it might be because he’s mad about his weight,” Timmy’s father said. “He’s the one you always say will eat me if I don’t listen to you and mommy?” Timmy asked, casting a sideways glance at Anthony. “Yes, so you should make sure you behave at all times.” Timmy’s father turned to Anthony, who was pretending not to listen, and asked him. “You’ve definitely been here before without any problems?” “Huh, wha’? Oh!” Anthony returned to them. “Yeah, it’s fine. No worries.” Timmy and his dad looked at Anthony for a long moment before they returned to the Pillsbury mascot, now bearing down on them. The elephantine balloon moved its legs through the air as if walking, his chest puffed out, and his head sweeping left to right, taking in the crowd with the ponderous regularity of a pendulum. The minders leading and holding the surly pastry to the ground moved mechanically, as if in thralldom to the culinary horror they were attached to. In his wake, the crowd grew silent as a mausoleum, spectators trying to depart as soon as they were able to given the pressure of thousands of people simultaneously realizing they had somewhere else to be. “You know what, we don’t need to see the end,” Timmy said to his dad but more for Anthony. “I think that’s a good idea, boys,” Timmy’s father replied looking to Anthony for agreement. “Sheesh, youse guys are pansies,” Anthony said with relief. “Alright, let’s go.” They began making their way to the ladder when a massive shadow fell on them. As they turned around in trepidation, Timmy’s dad began, “How did he get here so quickly-“ The Pillsbury Doughboy’s furious eyes bore down on Anthony. The boy was backing up, his hands in front of his face, palms out in supplication. Ignoring the child’s contrition, the monstrosity’s left hand shut out faster than Timmy had thought possible and grasped Anthony, now screaming at the top of his lungs, in its tensile embrace. As fast as it had shot down, the hand flew back up to the Doughboy’s mouth, tossing the boy down its gullet without ceremony. Scattered shrieks emerging, the crowd watched in horror as the silhouette of Anthony plunged down the abyss until it struck the bottom side of the balloon, bouncing up and causing a ripple to swell through the ivory canvas. Timmy sobbed into his father’s side, watching as Anthony’s shadow got to its feet and began trying to tear through the balloon’s fabric. With horror, Timmy noticed that the bottom of the balloon was littered with what looked like the outlines of child sized ribcages and skulls. Anthony continued to beat at the inflatable prison, his movements having grown more frantic as his body recognized its desperate need for the oxygen that was only millimeters away. Only a minute had passed when Anthony succumbed, his body toppling to the floor, sending one last ripple through the Pillsbury Doughboy. The macabre spectacle having come to an end, the crowd began filing out of the parade corridor in silence with a noticeable lack of jostling and shoving. Timmy looked up at his dad, the child’s face still tear streaked. “Can we come back next year?” “Maybe. If you behave.” Steriletom fucked around with this message at 20:08 on Feb 28, 2013 |
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 04:05
|
|
|
 THUNDERDUEL RESULTSNoah posted:A Gallant Swain Echo Cian posted:Study Hall Not bad, both of you. For such a short word-count and banging them out on short notice, these were both competent stories. Both of these college tales ended up seeming more like high school to me, but sometimes high school never ends. Odd that your stories were so similar, but maybe you guys are telepathic or some stupid poo poo. Noah, you win this one. Your story established tension, and the protagonist was unlikeable in a good way. The ending is vague enough that we can choose our own, though I figure Sarah must have been his irl Valentine. Echo, your story lacked tension. The characters were decent but the story didn't really go anywhere. Everything is going great for the protagonist - it's clear that Carmine's unfriendliness is just bluster and the two will be happily banging a couple thousand words later.
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 04:09
|
|
|
Updated the record post. Realized sebmojo has won a wopping SIX times.
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 04:30
|
|
|
Ai. I don't see how this can possibly end well but I've got an idea I've been bouncing around a while so what the hell--I'm in.
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 09:27
|
|
|
sebmojo posted:Alright. Gettin' tired of these endless victories over here, everyone needs to step up their fuckin' game so I can't win with something I crapped out at work half an hour before deadline. Your skillz are without question, noble SIXER. That being said, unfortunately in the dome just having a beginning/middle/end, understandable transitions, a point, some tension, and good grammar/spelling/no-typos will put you in the running every time. So even when you poo poo out something, seems like you've gotten to the point that you can poo poo confidently with the above automatic. I'd like to get there. I spend eight hours on a drat story and still looks my writing power animal/editor is a retarded sloth. Some day the dome will be full of stories that make sense... maybe. oh, and: Max: I don't know anything about methane. Aunty Entity: You can shovel poo poo can't you?
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 10:46
|
|
|
In for magical realism. 3 You and Grace spend all the money you have on toothpaste, and boxes of Frosty Lemon and Raspberry Mint Explosion pile up in the corners of your respective bedrooms. You don't tell anyone why, not even your mother, who's used to a certain level of weirdness from her children and has the wisdom not to ask about things that are merely strange... although you catch her with a tube of Frosty Lemon one day, tasting it gingerly. When it turns out not to be cunningly concealed cocaine, she leaves the matter be. Unfortunately, the rest of the world isn't so discreet. Mr. Zopper's video goes viral on Wednesday, and all of a sudden the grocery's toothpaste shelves sport gaping cavities of which no dental hygienist would approve. It takes weeks for you to find the final box you need, but at last you and your sister assemble the clues into something like sense: First look high, then look low Not as East as East can go Past the pale in a predator's claws Teeth and wealth sleep in red jaws The hunter stands both south and west Of the ground with beauty blessed No place older No place colder A trove of wonder and delight: Vivid green concealed in white. You're stumped. So is Grace. The two of you throw theories back and forth, but you can't come up with anything convincing. It would be easy to get discouraged--except no one else comes forward with the prize. You're sprawled on the living room floor with your homework; your mother has gone outside for a smoke and left the TV turned to Jewelry Television. You ignore the hosts' cheerful prattle until you happen to catch two words: "Vivid green!" You glance up. The camera spins around a green jewel the same color as a Mountain Dew can. "And folks," a jolly man says, "it's a wonder we can bring you this stone, because Russian chrome diopside can only be mined in Siberia three months out of the year. The rest of the time it's just too cold over there." Siberia! A fast trip to the computer turns into an hour of searching and reading, your heart beating fast as piece after piece slots into place. Grace is sleeping over at a friend's house, and this information is too good, too precious to share over the phone or in text. You keep it to yourself through a sleepless night. "Mines in Russia, but not the eastmost part. The Russian Bear. Red--that part's out of date, sure, but it still fits." You confer with your sister in the recess yard after lunch the next day. No one else is around except for Ms. Gannet, the supervising teacher. "I've got a plan for how to get there." "I think you're wrong." Grace digs through her backpack and pulls out a slim black-bound hardback with an image of pyramids on the cover. "I figured it out last night after Jeanine fell asleep. The treasure's here." She opens the book to a marked page. "Shangri-La?" "Shhh!" You slide your eyes toward Ms. Gannet. Is she staring at the two of you? You are hunched over and mumbling like madmen. Grace whispers, "It's supposed to be in the Kunlun Mountains, north of Tibet. In China. Red China? The Chinese dragon? And this book says it's a green valley full of peace and delight." "Grace. Shangri-La isn't real." "I believe," she hisses. Of course she does. "Mr. Zopper must have found it. Somehow I'm going to find it too. You can come with me, but I'm not going to Siberia in December!" You suppose if Shangri-La existed, Grace would have a case. If it were real, it would be old. The mountains around it look awfully cold in her book. But the part where the place was made up by some dude is hard to get over. Unless Grace is right to believe. Is that possible? And can you risk her going off to Tibet on her own, treasure or no treasure? If you hatch your scheme to get to Siberia even though it means going alone, turn to Page 15. If you go along with Grace on her quest for Shangri-La, turn to Page 6. Kaishai fucked around with this message at 04:15 on Jul 15, 2013 |
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 20:46
|
|
|
Martello posted:Updated the record post. Realized sebmojo has won a wopping SIX times.  Twinkle Cave posted:That being said, unfortunately in the dome just having a beginning/middle/end, understandable transitions, a point, some tension, and good grammar/spelling/no-typos will put you in the running every time.
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 21:40
|
|
|
Popping my thunderdome cherry here. I'm in.
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2013 23:46
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 23, 2024 11:20 |
|
|
Why the gently caress did I, someone who writes almost entirelly legalistic non fiction, enter a contest where only an english major would even know the premise of? I have accepted death, but I will not lay down.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2013 00:24
|
|