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Seldom Posts posted:Basically yes, it usually means that the metaphors are IN YOUR FACE, so you have to work hard to come up with a good one. For example, in Will Self's The Rock of Crack as big as the Ritz two young black guys in London find a giant source of crack and sell of parts of it to get rich, even though at least one of them knows that it is going to come back to bite him on the rear end. You're so distracted and entertained by the giant rock of crack and the dealing of it that you don't realize the how obvious the point is until later. Holy poo poo is your name apt. I just went and looked up The Rock of Crack as big as the Ritz as I simply could not believe that it was a real book, but it is. I drafted something for this week, but I didn't have any time to work on it and it wasn't magical realism so I binned it. Some interesting stuff though and I am looking forward to having some time to participate next round. At least it made me brush up my 100 years of solitude, which I read a long time ago and had forgotten most of.
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Mar 4, 2013 18:41
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Another note for anyone thinking "MUFFIN SUCKS HE DIDN'T WRITE MAGICAL REALISM": the thing that got described and most people wrote is actually closer to urban fantasy. Buffy, Hellboy and Supernatural are not magical realism, duders. "but the townsfolk know" is a really lovely point of genre distinction. Wouldn't that make Shadowrun magical realism? This isn't Spore. You can't just make up your own genre definitions. Magic realism explicitly has magical elements in it. It's right there in the name. Your story, while very enjoyable, wasn't magic realism. The fantastic elements were clearly just the perception of a small boy who sees the world in a typical childlike way. Everything that happens in your piece was easily explainable as a natural, rational happening. Nothing was questionable, and at the end of the story I didn't wonder if maybe his mother was an irl bird. Bohner's post didn't say anything about urban fantasy, neither did the Achewood cartoon, and "A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings" is a widely accepted example of magic realism. So I'm not sure which prompt post you're reading or if you've just drank too much whiskey, but suffice to say that if I could bomb all of New Kiwiland just to ensure that you never posted again, I would. I'd warn sebmojo to get the hell out first, though.
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Mar 4, 2013 21:48
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train is about to go off the loving tracks)
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Martello posted:This isn't Spore. You can't just make up your own genre definitions. Dude, he's in Indonesia right now. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, UNITED STATES FOREIGN POLICY 
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Mar 4, 2013 21:59
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sebmojo posted:Dude, he's in Indonesia right now. but its not my fault the S2 section gave us bad intel in the target packet...
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Mar 4, 2013 22:31
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Martello posted:but its not my fault the S2 section gave us bad intel in the target packet... Tell that to the smoking remnants of the Te Wahipounamu World Heritage Site, you monster.
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Mar 4, 2013 22:49
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This week we all lose. The winner is a displaced fisherman lost on an island off of Venezuala, who will receive word of his victory via message in a bottle.
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Mar 5, 2013 00:29
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The message itself is a voice in the bottle, which like every bottle will only say, "Soon."
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Mar 5, 2013 01:03
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But the man hangs in that moment, the voice holds its last note forever; he has won.
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Mar 5, 2013 03:49
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 WEEK XXX RESULTSOn Week 30, posted on Page 30, with 30 contestants, we had an abysmal turnout of actual work. Those that did turn something in, we wish they hadn't. Being that it was week XXX, you should have assumed that by signing on the dotted line, you were gonna get hosed. To further the hilarity, some of you apparently used Wikipedia's definition of magic realism.  So, over the coming days as we dig through your word salad, we'll take a moment to reflect on the pitiful nature of your crapped out brain spew. In the mean time though, we have a "winner" and a loser: The star of the money-shot closeup: Oxxidation The one handed a mop and told to clean the peepshow booths: Steriletom Oxxidation should report via PM or IRC to me for rerouting.
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Mar 5, 2013 05:39
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V for Vegas posted:A week in the life of a thunderdomer (Congrats Oxx. I missed your story when I was reading the entries this week, and I still don't know what magical realism is, but I like the writing.)
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Mar 5, 2013 05:51
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Congratulations Oxxidation. I hope we can re-visit this prompt in the future, this is not an easy style.
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Mar 5, 2013 07:58
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Martello posted:This isn't Spore. You can't just make up your own genre definitions. I dunno, if he'd gone further with it, it could've been like Tideland. That's the only problem, if he'd only gone further with it. In any case, I enjoyed the gently caress out of it. And gently caress that I miss this prompt by a hair. I could've shown all you sadsacks what magical realism is. I loving live it. 
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Mar 5, 2013 09:33
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Stuporstar posted:I dunno, if he'd gone further with it, it could've been like Tideland. That's the only problem, if he'd only gone further with it. In any case, I enjoyed the gently caress out of it. And gently caress that I miss this prompt by a hair. I could've shown all you sadsacks what magical realism is. I loving live it. It was a good story, for sure. As for you, Stuporstar, want a challenge? 1000 Magic Realist words at twenty paces, I'm feeling fresh.
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Mar 5, 2013 12:20
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I'm going to rock this pyrite crown with pride.
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Mar 5, 2013 13:52
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Martello posted:This isn't Spore. You can't just make up your own genre definitions. gently caress you.
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Mar 5, 2013 15:39
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sebmojo posted:It was a good story, for sure. As for you, Stuporstar, want a challenge? 1000 Magic Realist words at twenty paces, I'm feeling fresh. If Stuporstar doesn't take up your challenge, I'll spar with you. Or judge your round if you would like.
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Mar 5, 2013 17:00
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HA HA YOU FOOLS. Oxxidation may have won but the spearhead is mine, and I'll be dead before I judge any more poetry. THIS WEEK ON THUNDERDOME, EPISODE XXXI, "Russian Nesting Dolls." You know what I dig about Russia? It's big. Stupidly big. But what else I dig about Russia is a lot of its literature focuses on the lives of the little people. This week I want a small story told within the scope of a larger one implied. Something small and intimate among a handful of people, but nested within a much larger narrative we never get to see the full brunt of, like having tea in the middle of no man's land. Something large and looming is stirring in the background, but all that concerns us is the scene that's before us. There are, of course, some restrictions to this:
You have until March 8th, 11:59 PM Pacific Time to announce your participation, and until March 10th that same time and place to disappoint me. Your judges will be myself, Oxxidation, and Budgieinspector. Additionally, Oxxidation has a little something he'd like to share with the class. Oxxidation posted:So, the latest prompt has a vague Russian theme, and for the last prompt, the majority of Thunderdome fell under a genie's curse that made them believe Wikipedia was a good venue for understanding vaguely defined po-mo literary styles. I think this is an ideal time for everyone to try and redeem themselves by paying some tribute to one of my favorite Russian authors, early surrealist Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky THE BRAVE AND THE BLOODY Sebmojo - Second Day of the Rains Jeza - Welcome to the Spiderdome Dr. Kloctopussy - The Garrity Incident Swaziloo - Further Orders Steriletom - Love Found and Lost in Phuket WilliamAnderson - Inside Tears Nubile Hillock - Coyote Noah - Downhill Toanoradian - Old Uncle of Old Street Erogenous Beef - Off Base 0 Rows Returned - Just a Blur Systran - Last Night at the Club Sitting Here - The Magician's Apprentice V for Vegas - Return to the BlackCat Benagain - Sitting Pug Wearing a Hat - Visitor Beezle Bug - When/If I Grow up Some Strange Flea - Recovery CancerCakes - The Night Before Battle HellishWhiskers - Distance Kaishai - Gravesite BarbarousBertha - Good Night Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 19:06 on Mar 11, 2013 |
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Mar 5, 2013 23:15
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I'm in.
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Mar 5, 2013 23:16
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In and such.
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Mar 5, 2013 23:18
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In, etc.
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Mar 5, 2013 23:22
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In. With bells on.
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Mar 5, 2013 23:38
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I'm in but am I going to be given a rough idea at some point as to why I'm such a loser? This crown lies heavy and I do not wish to bear the weight for two weeks in a row.
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Mar 5, 2013 23:49
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In. Let's do this.
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Mar 6, 2013 00:16
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I hate you guys so much. (in)
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Mar 6, 2013 00:16
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In.
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Mar 6, 2013 00:21
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In.
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Mar 6, 2013 00:56
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Sure, let's do this. I'm in.
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Mar 6, 2013 01:46
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Reading all of these has been entertaining, so why not? I'm in.
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Mar 6, 2013 02:07
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Steriletom posted:I'm in but am I going to be given a rough idea at some point as to why I'm such a loser? I'll be doing crits for all the stories, as hopefully will my lazy rear end co-judges. My problem with your story was a combination of flaccid word fog, cliched cardboard characters, and terrible lines. I quite liked your boxing story, so whatever you were doing for that: keep doing. Actually, let's do a line by line. 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.This is a dreadful line. It's telling not showing and is very hard to parse. Flowing along in a river of spectators, they made their way If you're already flowing along, don't have them 'make their way', it's very weak. westward to 6th Avenue, seeking to stake out a claim to any decent viewing spot they could discover or, through subterfuge, acquire. Dreadful wordy piffle. You don't even need to say why they're going to 6th ave yet - words at the start of a short story are at a premium, this is just kicking your reader in the balls saying 'STOP READING MY STORY'. Timmy’s hand trembled as he tried to catch glimpses of the soaring towers shepherding the crowd from all sides. Talking about his hand trembling as he looked at the towers is just confusing. Have him blink or something. And it seems weird to try and catch a glimpse of the towers you're telling us soar up high. They're up above, just look up little protagonist. “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.” DO THEY WALK DADDY? yes they do, son DO THEY WALK ON THE STREET DADDY? yes, son, they walk on this street with their feet DO THEY HAVE SHOES ON THEIR FEET TOO DADDY? yes son, they also have socks, some of them. WHY ARE THESE WORDS IN THIS STORY DADDY I don't know, son. 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. You've really given us no reason to feel either fear or excitement, so this is absolutely telling not showing. And a terrible sentence. 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. Reading this for the third time I guess you're going for surreal exaggeration here, but it really doesn't work. It's a clumsy image, and doesn't give any sense of the presumed urgency of being crushed by strangers. 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. Breath is not cold. “Hey! Youse guys looking to score primo seats to the show?” IT'SA ME MARIO a voice called above them. They glanced up to see what looked like a failed attempt at an audition for a Lil’ Rascals film. Show, don't tell. 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. okay who the gently caress is looking at this. is it the dad? the kid? some omnipresent narrator? 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. Very surreal, also comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. “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!” Why bother with this navigating (dreadful word)? Just have them climb up. “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. This is a terrible construction, it's all BEEP BOOP CARNIVAL ATMOSPHERE MAXIMISED. “The parade’s here,” Anthony announced. Well no poo poo fella. 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. THE gently caress? I kind of know what it's trying to say but you couldn't say it much more clumsily and it's probably not worth saying anyway. 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!” I thought he was a cliche Li'l Rascal, not Bart Simpson? 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. This is clumsily phrased, but I do like the idea of the ballons being alive. 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.” “ “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. Viewpoint check - who's talking about culinary horrors? Is HP Lovecraft looking out a skyscraper window? 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. OH GOD TERRIBLE SENTENCE at once flaccid and wordy. And why would they be silent if they'd just decided to go - Timmy says something when he makes his decision. “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 THEY WERE GETTING READY TO BEGIN THE PROCESS OF PREPARING TO START MAKING THEIR WAY oh god no. What's wrong with 'they were halfway to the ladder'? 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. i suppose this is okay horror, but it's way melodramatic and comes out of nowhere. 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. BLAH BLAH BLAH this is another example of the perspective being all over the show. You leap from Timmy to Dad to omniscient observer. Pick a viewpoint and stick to it - you did this very well in your boxing story. Timmy looked up at his dad, the child’s face still tear streaked. “Can we come back next year?” “Maybe. If you behave. This ending makes no sense.
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Mar 6, 2013 02:16
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sebmojo posted:It was a good story, for sure. As for you, Stuporstar, want a challenge? 1000 Magic Realist words at twenty paces, I'm feeling fresh. You're on. I'll have something up by tomorrow.
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Mar 6, 2013 02:33
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 Thunderbrawl: Sebmojo vs. Stuporstar Prompt: Magical Realism Word Count: 1000 Words or less Deadline: March 6th, 6pm PST (24 hours from now) Flash Rule: Raw meat. Full crits for both.
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Mar 6, 2013 02:48
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In for this week. I don't care how badly I do as long as I am improving!
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Mar 6, 2013 03:29
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I like this, I'm in.
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Mar 6, 2013 03:55
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Is it wrong that I feel just as happy(if not happier) reading a complete shredding of my writing as I do when reading someone praising my work? Thanks, Sebmojo.
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Mar 6, 2013 04:27
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A FLASH RULE DRAWS NEAR So, the latest prompt has a vague Russian theme, and for the last prompt, the majority of Thunderdome fell under a genie's curse that made them believe Wikipedia was a good venue for understanding vaguely defined po-mo literary styles. I think this is an ideal time for everyone to try and redeem themselves by paying some tribute to one of my favorite Russian authors, early surrealist Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky. The flash rule is as follows: Your story must incorporate the following concept: "memories of the future." Be as literal or figurative as you like within the confines of BS' prompt. I look forward to you all disappointing me in new ways.
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Mar 6, 2013 04:31
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Noah posted:Flash Rule: Raw meat. I'm gonna put as much thought into that prompt as you put into making it—none. I'm an OT.  I'm gonna write what I drat well want, and you're all gonna drat well like it. Edit: And here it is. The Girl in the Mirror (962 words) The girl in the mirror won't stop staring at me. Every time I look, she's there, standing beside me. I wash my hands and avoid her eyes. "You look like Mom." I turn back to the mirror. She never spoke before today. "I wanted to look more like Dad." I smirk. I could never grow a beard like I wanted. "No, I mean the glasses. You don't wear any." She had no idea how lucky she'd be not to have his bad eyes. "Why do you always look so tired?" She cocks her head. First sign of pity in her frown, and I hate it. I don't sleep anymore if I can help it. Too much life wasted away in bed. Not enough time. "You don't sleep, you don't dream. I like dreaming." That's all you ever did. She twirls a finger in her long brown hair, begins to chew the ends. I don't do that anymore. Turn the light off and she's gone. Haven't slept in three days. Guess it's time for bed. The next morning, she's standing in the kitchen. "I want cereal." "Don't have any." "You don't have milk either." Can't anymore, like mom. drat her genes. "Want some toast?" Her eyes light up. Always liked toast. I don't know what to do with her. Have to go to work, and there she is, sitting at my kitchen table. I hand her my ipad. "You break it, I'll kill you." "What's it do?" "You're smart. Figure it out." I sound just like dad. She smiles. Come home from work, back killing me from slaving over a tablet making crap logos for companies I couldn't give two shits about. She's still there, fingerpainting on the pad. "Look!" She hands it to me, covered in little people with triangle bodies. "You forgot the arms"—again, but she'll learn. "Why don't you draw anymore?" "Because it stops being fun when it starts being work." "Why aren't you a famous artist yet?" "Because you don't get to be famous just because you can draw. Life doesn't work that way." "That's not fair." She pouts. "No, it isn't." She asks too many damned questions. All of them amount to, "Why do you suck?" All the answers amount to, "Because life sucks." I'm sick of her already. Later that night I catch her on Skype talking to my parents. She's crying. "I want to go home." "We don't live at home anymore, sweetie." Mom looks like she's about to cry too. "Why do you want to come home? I thought you were doing well out there." Is she crazy? Why is she talking to a figment of my imagination? "Because life is mean," says the girl who shouldn't be there. "Aw, honey." Mom looks over at Dad, and he nods. "We'll buy you a plane ticket. You can come home any time you like." I step behind the chair and Mom looks up. "Could you drop her off at the airport?" "What?" "She needs to come home." "Mom, she's not real. She's not me. What the hell?" "What do you mean? She's standing right there, and you're standing right there. I know my baby anywhere." "Oh, for gently caress's sake." "Don't swear." "Yeah, don't swear." The little girl glares. I glare right back. "You don't think this is weird?" "Life is weird," says Mom, "and I don't look a miracle in the mouth." "That makes no sense." "It doesn't have to." Pull up at the airport. She's rubbing her eyes and yawning. So am I. It's 5 AM, but I haven't slept a wink. She just woke up. Had to carry her to the car. "Mom said the plane leaves at seven," she says. "Have to get there early to stand in line." "That's dumb." "Yeah, it is." For two hours I watch her marvel at everything—tacky statues, smelly crowds, shops hocking cheap crap to tourists. She wants to buy everything, of course. We watch planes taking off that aren't ours—hers. I mean hers. I walk her to the counter. Maybe she'll disappear once she's out of view. I don't care. She's safely on the plane. I don't look back. She's out of my hands. Go to work early that day. Get home late at night. Skype's been ringing. It rings again. "She made it here safe." Mom's beaming like I haven't seen in years. "Look!" My younger self pops into view. "Mom found our old toys. Remember Patty Rabbit and Bobby Bear? They've been sad, stuffed in a box for years." The little plush plastic toys dance in front of the screen. She's making Patty hop up and down, and I just want to reach through the screen and grab it. That was mine, dammit. "Do you think Davey will come home too?" she says. "I don't know, honey," says Mom. "I don't know where he is anymore." "Mom and Dad live in the woods, just like we always wanted." She's grinning ear-to-ear. "Tomorrow I'm gonna go hobgoblin hunting." "What are you gonna do if you find one?" I smirk. Weirder things have happened. "Uh—" She bites her nails—stop that. "I don't know." Never did think that part through. "Mom," I say, "don't let her ruin her teeth this time. No Coke. No sours. She'll regret it later." "I'll make sure, hon. Do you need any socks?" "Mom, I can buy my own socks." "But I found the cutest socks in the store today. Brown stripey socks, knee-length. Remember when you said you couldn't find any?" "That was a decade ago." "I know, but I saw them and thought of you, and little you said, 'Let's get them. They'll make her smile.'" I did. Stuporstar fucked around with this message at 10:19 on Mar 6, 2013 |
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Mar 6, 2013 07:56
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signing in.
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Mar 6, 2013 11:38
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I'm in, I either need to lose horribly to properly justify this avatar or win gloriously to get rid it. I'm tired of being one of the great unwashed.
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Mar 6, 2013 15:42
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I'm in.
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Mar 6, 2013 16:49
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I'm in
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