|
Also Noah, twinkle is coming down with a prompt for our delayed Thunderbrawl so be ready
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 18:52
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 19, 2024 08:14 |
|
|
WOO MORE CRITSSteriletom posted:The Sixth Republic Technically, there's very little wrong with this - no huge grammar/spelling/syntax errors that stand out to me or anything. I know you were trying to cut it down more, and I can definitely see some spots that would benefit from being trimmed - in the third paragraph for example, you could cut pretty much everything after the line about insourcing. With things like that, what you mean is evident enough since we all know the term "outsourcing", so it's a waste of text to then go into an explicit explanation of what the term means. The story as a whole fell kind of flat to me because I think you missed a great opportunity for some political satire. The line I quoted is one place where you could have just run away with the idea of the rich reforming themselves out of existence but you played it straight instead and it just didn't work as well. Baggy_Brad posted:Aware 494 words I'm not going to lie, I hated this a lot. I don't think the perspective works at all with what you're going for because the narrative voice ends up being too inconsistently and unbelievably self-aware. Lines like "I want to say "Tomorrow", but I don't have a noise for this" don't make logical sense, and they're just cringeworthy because of it. If you're writing a story where a character has no word for "tomorrow" then how the gently caress do they know words/concepts like "empathy", "comprehend", and "fossick"? Also, it's not clear what kind of creatures these guys are supposed to be - I'm assuming early hominids based on the whole blooming-consciousness thing you're shooting for? livethepostmetal posted:The Procession
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 20:44
|
|
|
Noah posted:Round 2 of 3. Find a judge. Let's make it a one-off - particularly as it's a three way. Long brawls make the place too messy with the blood and lymph ect ect.
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 21:45
|
|
|
Haha, well the original post was actually about challenging Nubile to the rematch he wanted, but it has evolved into much better. I wasn't expecting a best 2 of 3, three-way. One off will do.
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 22:26
|
|
|
Nubile Hillock posted:Somewhere in Seattle a girl sits alone in her room, typing. The door is closed; febreeze only partially masking the stale, sweaty odours. Blue light from her monitor scatters off the thumbtacks pinning her anime posters to the wall. Satisfied, she wipes her hands on her jeans. The cheeto-dust stain will be the day’s only lasting accomplishment.  You almost had it but for the anime posters. And it's flamin' hot cheeto-dust if you wanna get technical. Bring it, seductive land-feature. Your words are but cheeto-dust in the wind.
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 22:38
|
|
|
TD Week 35 Brawl Noah v Nubile Hillock v Sebmojo Food: Casu Marzu (Maggot Cheese) Words: 998 Blu Velvet Jim would have been satisfied with a nice gorgonzola. Staring at his sweaty socks, he regretted wearing sandals. This was all Rich’s fault, he thought. In the dimly lit storeroom, a woman sat at a wooden table, picking at her fingernails with a hooked cheese knife. She stuck her chin out. “So you are looking for something special, yes?” the woman said. “Formaggio della mosca?” Rich said. Jim rolled his eyes at the exaggerated accent. She cocked her eyebrow. “No, we don’t have that,” she said, returning to her nails. Rich stepped forward with his chest out. Jim gulped. “We want the Casu Marzu,” Rich said. “You know that is illegal in Sardinia,” she said, not taking her eyes off her nails. “I, I did not know that,” Rich lied. “You are Americano? Of course you are, popatz,” she said with a laugh. Jim felt hot and wanted to scratch himself all over. “20 euro.” “An ounce?!” Jim said. The cheese-monger looked at him blankly. “A gram, Americano. Ugh.” The sound of her disgust made Jim’s skin crawl. He turned to leave but Rich grabbed his arm. “Let’s see it first,” he said. The woman smirked and shrugged her shoulders. She retrieved a cloth covered wheel from a dark corner of the room. “You do not want them to escape too soon,” she said, pulling back the cloth. All other scents were forced from Jim’s nostrils. Only the Casu Marzu remained. Pungent and bold, it reminded him of feet at the end of the day. Grounded and down to earth, yet at the same time dignified and proud of the work that created the smell. It was personal and familiar, a part of his forgotten body. “That’s too much,” Rich began. She put the cloth back on. She twirled the hooked knife with a limp wrist. “Perhaps we could trade, gram for gram,” the woman said, grinning. “You have some to spare, balena.” “10 euro,” Rich said. “No.” “But that’s too much.” “Così è la vita.” Rich shifted his weight and sprang forward, grabbing the wheel, and shoving the woman. She slammed into the wooden table. “Run!” Rich shouted. They bolted out of the storeroom, their sandals flapped loudly as the rubber struck uneven cobbled streets. They could hear the woman shouting; they didn’t look back. Alley after alley, turn after turn, Jim breathed heavily. “Stop, have to stop,” Jim said. They ducked into an alcove and sat braced against the walls of the stoop, barely able to say a word between breaths. “I can’t believe you did that,” Jim said. Rich laughed. Jim stood, but Rich grabbed him by the wrist. “It’s okay, we lost her.” “I-“ “Wait, just a little taste can’t hurt, can it?” Rich pulled the cloth completely away from the cheese roll. Its outer rind was easier to see in the daylight, and the soft curds in the center reminded Jim of a sour-dough bread bowl. The pungent aroma came back to Jim and his mouth watered. “Well, maybe just a taste,” Jim said. Jim swung his bag around and pulled out a baguette and a sweet red apple. He handed Rich a paring knife, and dug out a small jar of fresh clove honey. With two fingers Rich grabbed clumps of cheese, and giggled. “I can feel them,” he whispered. Jim dug in too, and could feel tiny movements of the larva, like butterfly kisses on the nape of his neck. The cheese was sticky and wet, and parts of it clung to his finger as he put it on his baguette. Rich and Jim locked eyes, each with a slice of bread next to their mouths. They nodded to each other and slid the bread past their wet lips. Tanginess crept across Jim’s tongue first, the acidity of the larva’s digestive juices making the first move. Soon the boldness of the flavor, heightened by the pungent aroma, settled in as his saliva began to mix with the acid. Saltiness dazzled the tip of his tongue, and as he bit down the slightest bit of crunch and pop turned the texture experience completely upside-down. Next he grabbed a wedge of apple and dug it straight into the cheese curds. The heavenly sweetness of the apple mixed with the saltiness of the cheese, and softened the boldness. Wishing for a smooth doppelbach to wash it all down with, Jim found himself a little disappointed that the apple’s crispness masked the slight crunchiness of the cheese. Jim played with the portions of the cheese crumbles, trying to find the perfect balance of fresh baguette to cheese, and drizzled on top a tiny bit of honey. The bread provided the best vessel for the Casu Marzu, allowing his mouth to be full, and let his jaw work, but not be overpowered with too much cheese. When his tongue hit the cheese, the taste explosion radiated, and right when it would be too much, the tiny sweetness of the honey layer mellowed the entire sensation. The cheese was soft, but not too creamy like goat cheese. With just the baguette and honey, he could feel the texture of the cheese entirely, savoring the crunch. Jim closed his jaw, allowing the sensation of the larva to tickle his gums, almost effervescent. After he swallowed, the taste changed, leaving his mouth with only the boldness. He thought of it like grapefruit, sweet at first, but then bitterness until the next bite. He tore off another hunk of baguette. Rich moaned as he slumped against the alcove walls. “What are we going to do with all this?” Jim laughed. “I guess we know what’s for dinner, and breakfast,” Rich said. As they dug deep into the cheese, shadows appeared over them. The woman stood there in front of them, with a much larger knife in her hands. Behind her stood several thugs. She looked at the massive crater in the cheese and sneered. “Gram for gram, yes?” e: italics/title. Noah fucked around with this message at 22:44 on Apr 4, 2013 |
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 22:41
|
|
|
Hello I would like to try to write a story. Please let me write a story about Mr. Linden's Library, it will be very bad. http://hrsbstaff.ednet.ns.ca/davidc/6c_files/documents/mysteries/library.htm
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 23:08
|
|
|
good thank you
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 23:13
|
|
|
also, hello
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 23:13
|
|
|
Hey judges, I noticed a lot of people are doing the 3rd floor window prompt. In the interest of diversity, can I change my prompt to The Harp? http://hrsbstaff.ednet.ns.ca/davidc/6c_files/documents/mysteries/harp.htm
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 23:14
|
|
|
Anyone can change anything up until the sign up deadline. By the deadline all "TBD" entries need to become decided and will be locked in.
|
|
#
?
Apr 4, 2013 23:25
|
|
|
systran posted:Anyone can change anything up until the sign up deadline. By the deadline all "TBD" entries need to become decided and will be locked in. House on Maple Street in that case.
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 00:10
|
|
|
A Thunderdome eh? Two men enter one man. Leaves. I've been lurking this thread and missed the deadline for two prompts now. The combination of Hockey games to watch and 47-cent beer to drink will no longer keep me from this bloodsport. I shall gird up my loins, for I know none of you will be gentle. I'm in. The Harp http://hrsbstaff.ednet.ns.ca/davidc/6c_files/documents/mysteries/harp.htm
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 02:13
|
|
|
Trimangle posted:A Thunderdome eh? Two men enter one man. Leaves. You're off to a promising grammatical start.
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 02:47
|
|
|
Trimangle posted:Two men enter one man. I have that dvd
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 02:53
|
|
|
(that man is Noah)
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 04:19
|
|
|
gently caress the police.
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 04:31
|
|
|
I Need a Med Pack!!! - Thunderbrawl: NOAH V. MARTELLO Write a story with main character as a medical professional within a violent milieu such as war. For bonus points you can read "a farewell to arms" just before writing your own story (that's not the one where the guy gets his dick blown off). I'm looking for a nice long read, so 2000 word limit, but won't penalize for shorter especially if it makes sense to do so. No stories about being forced to be the heal spammer on your latest MMO run. Let the wounding (and healing) begin! DUE DATE: 11:58 PM TUESDAY APRIL 9 WRD COUNT: 2000 twinkle cave fucked around with this message at 07:41 on Apr 5, 2013 |
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 04:36
|
|
|
Who shall be the Padma Lakshmi to my Tom Collichio
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 04:52
|
|
|
I came back from space. Gimmie the library.
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 07:39
|
|
|
twinkle cave posted:I Need a Med Pack!!! - Thunderbrawl: NOAH V. MARTELLO word
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 11:28
|
|
|
The Saddest Rhino posted:Who shall be the Padma Lakshmi to my Tom Collichio good show, gail simone has quite the rack
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 11:29
|
|
|
Signups close in eight hours At midnight EST, even if I forget to post here, signups will be closed. Everyone except for Dr. Kloctopussy has chosen a picture. Dr. Kloctopussy, please choose a picture before the signups close!
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 21:04
|
|
|
Man this is the first time ever where I've a word limit, gone over it, and still had more to write. I just want to take a moment and say this is a great prompt.
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 21:32
|
|
|
Same here- I was nearly 200 words over, am trimming the fat now. I'll probably hold off on posting it for a bit, though, to give it some time to sit.
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 22:25
|
|
|
leave it out there on the counter all night, it'll curdle bro
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 22:31
|
|
|
It's called aging 
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 22:36
|
|
|
In the library, stabbed to death by candlestick. http://hrsbstaff.ednet.ns.ca/davidc/6c_files/documents/mysteries/library.htm
|
|
#
?
Apr 5, 2013 23:51
|
|
|
First draft came in at 1,355. The House On Maple Street It was a perfect lift-off.  ------------------------------------------- Red Scare - 900 words egg-loving-zactly Agent Farrow pounded on the door of 55 Maple Street. No answer and no sound from within. “FBI!” he yelled. “Open up, Mr. Ares!” He was about to bang again when the lock began to turn. The door opened, and before Farrow stood a well-aged man, tall and white haired. Like the house, Ares was cleanly groomed and nicely dressed. “How can I help you?” Farrow studied him for a moment. “You don’t seem surprised to have a federal agent at your door.” “Your surveillance has been, shall we say, less than circumspect.” “Agent Farrow, Counterintelligence. I’d like to ask you some questions.” “I’m afraid now is not the best time.” Ares began closing the door. Farrow slid his foot forward. He pulled out a document he’d made, with nonsense legal terms and an official looking wax seal imprinted on it, and briefly shoved it in Ares’ face. “I have a warrant.” Ares sighed. “If you insist,” he said, motioning Farrow inside. Farrow took off his fedora and followed Ares through the house into a tidy sitting area. The room was what one would expect from the house’s exterior: Classic American made sofa and recliner, an oaken coffee table with a heavy book on it, and, in the corner, one of those new television gizmos. Ares sat in the recliner and motioned Farrow to the sofa. “Mr. Ares, the reason I’m here today-“ “Before you begin, I must make it clear that I have little time.” “I’ll cut to the chase then,” said Farrow. “Tell me who you’re working for. The Soviets? Cubans? Chinese?” Ares did not answer. Instead, he picked up a notebook and began writing. “Are you really taking notes during an interrogation?” Ares finished. “These notes are for the revised edition of my book.” “I’d know if you had published anything.” Ares smiled. “I’d be surprised if you had come across my work.” “Mind if I take a look?” asked Farrow. “I’m afraid not. Perhaps I’ll send you a copy once complete.” Farrow seethed as the older gentleman remained at ease in his recliner. He decided to lay out everything. “You’re an interesting man, Mr. Ares. You have no known source of income, yet you moved into this huge house a year ago out of nowhere. You drive a brand new Chevy Bel-Air. New television and furniture. You’ve never filed any taxes and no birth certificate. It’s as if you washed up on shore with bags of money.” “I’ve been blessed in life,” said Ares. Farrow changed tack. “You aren’t even a good spy, Mr. Ares. Sitting in front of the Capitol, day after day. Taking notes without even trying to hide it. Do you think we’re stupid?” Ares looked pleased to have been noticed. “Ah, I was reviewing the dynamics of your tribe’s power structures.” “Tribe?” “Yes. American, I believe you call it.” Farrow jumped to his feet, energized. “So you admit to spying!” He began pulling out a pair of handcuffs when Ares, checking his watch, interrupted, “Don’t be silly. Anyway, our time is up.” As Ares stood up, Farrow reached for his gun. A loud chime brought Ares to a halt, confusion on his face. “My watch must be slow. Odd. Not like me to make such a mistake. Not at all. I’m afraid you will need to stay now.” Farrow whipped out his gun. That was when the house began rumbling. Farrow struggled to keep the gun level as he balanced against the shaking of the house and the fear-driven trembling of his own body. “What the hell is going on here!” he shouted over a roar like that of an avalanche. Ares ignored him and calmly closed any open windows—Farrow’s gun following. Ares’s skin began to run down his face in rivulets, blue peeking through in patches. The gun fell to the floor. “What are you?” Farrow yelled over the noise, backing away. The world shifted. A sound like the roots of a mighty oak tearing free deafened Farrow and an invisible force crushed him to the floor. Ares forgotten, Farrow dragged himself toward a window. He grasped the sill and hoisted himself up to look out. His heart fell. They were rising in perfect balance. Underneath the house, he could make out a great yellow flame, driving them upwards. America was dark with night and quickly receding. A light crept in from the east as they rose high enough to make out Europe and Africa. Higher and higher they climbed until the pressure pushing him down vanished and Farrow almost fell over from the sudden lack of resistance. Everything was silent. Earth was a blue and green sphere with wisps of white, surrounded by fathomless darkness. Farrow whipped around, searching out Ares. He was back in the recliner, mask totally melted off. An amorphous blue head stared backed at Farrow with cavernous holes where once there were ears and a nose. “What are you? Where are you taking me?” whispered Farrow. “I really did ask you to leave. Unfortunate,” it said. “I wonder what you can eat on the trip to Mars? Oh, I’ll worry about that later. At least you can read my book—I write in English when on Terra, thankfully.” He handed the tome from the coffee table to Farrow, who read the title. “Humans: A Zoological Study of Lesser Developed Alien Life Forms by Glarny agGlarn" Steriletom fucked around with this message at 00:29 on Apr 6, 2013 |
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 00:02
|
|
|
Steriletom posted:I know the judgement comes later, but if you fuckers are submitting early then I'm doing an annotated read-through early. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 03:53 on Apr 6, 2013 |
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 03:49
|
|
Post-read review: I loving love rockets. I think that mid century Americana is the greatest thing. I love pop sci-fi and I loving love aliens and space and hard-boiled detective dramas.
|
Noah posted:TD Week 35 Brawl Noah v Nubile Hillock v Sebmojo So it looks like my streak of judging self-pub erotica continues with "Reluctant Gay Cheese Wheel Thieves". E: Jeza posted:
Holy poo poo how did I not know this exists this is absolutely amazing The Saddest Rhino fucked around with this message at 05:08 on Apr 6, 2013 |
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 04:58
|
|
|
Sign-ups closed 13 minutes ago! You have until Sunday at 8PM EST to submit. I don't think Kloctopussy chose a picture. I will leave it up to Kaishai and Nubile Hillock to decide his/her penalty.
|
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 05:14
|
|
|
she pls don't gendershame
|
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 05:18
|
|
|
Also here's my story. The Cranes Came Home 899 including title Jade set her wine glass down so hard that some Nero D’Avola splashed onto the table. “What the gently caress? You told me it wasn’t business, this is supposed to be our vacation!” “I know,” I said. “I didn’t plan this, I swear.” I had both hands up, palms towards her. “You expect me to believe that Ash just called you up outta the blue?” She stabbed in the air with her fork, little bits of salsiccia still hanging off the tines. “Well that’s exactly what loving happened. I don’t lie to you.” Jade’s scowl faded just a bit. “Almost never.” “Yeah, there was that one time.” “Let’s not even bring it up.” She cut the air sideways with her fork. I sat and looked at her across the table, those beautiful eyes under thick, thundercloud brows. She just needed some time, maybe another couple glasses of wine. # “Gabe, I need you to do me a favor.” Ash’s voice on the phone, raspier than ever as the years went by. “I just loving knew this wasn’t a social call.” “Not like you don’t owe me,” he said. “True enough. Hit me.” I one last drag from my one-a-day vacation cigarette. “Friend of mine, goes by Captain Tory. He needs muscle for a meet in Venezia.” He seamlessly pronounced the name like a native. “Holy gently caress, he can’t get a local goombah?” I flicked my Mazedonia butt into the laguna, watched it sizzle and sink. “Not up there. Gucci territory and all that.” “Right. gently caress, man, this is supposed to be my vacation. How did you even know I was in town?” “Emilio, what do you think?” “Shoulda guessed,” I said. Emilio’s a crusty old fixer from Bari. The handful of jobs I’ve done here in the Allied States were all through him. “That fucker’s an old peeping tom.” “Yeah. So can you help me out or what?” “Only ‘cause I owe you. gently caress, Jade’s gonna be so loving mad.” # Ever since the restoration projects of the early ‘40s, Venice was tourist central. Me, I preferred it in the old days when the canals reeked of seven-day unwashed rear end and curdled milk. It was quieter then, no crowds except in the middle of the summer when people braved the smells and lack of cars to see the Piazza in the sun. Now the crowds were everywhere. Thankfully, Gavin Lewis was letting us stay in his summer house on the northern side of the island looking towards Murano. No crowds up here, especially in October when the weather was starting to turn. “Waiting for your ship to come in?” Jade said. I turned from where I was standing at the laguna-view railing and narrowed my eyes at her. She was curled up on a lambskin sofa in the sitting room, reading something on her Scroll. “Still on that Japanese book? When the Cows Come Home or whatever?” Jade flipped me off, but she was starting to smile. “It’s called And the Cranes Flew Home, rear end in a top hat. And you should really read it.” “That good?” I cocked an eyebrow. “Life-changing.” She took a sip of her Washington apple and went back to the Scroll. “poo poo’s translated by a Greek-Japanese-American-whatever mutt, not even the original text,” I muttered, turning back to the railing. “What’s that?” “I’m sure it’s moving,” I said. “That’s a loving lie,” Jade said. I could hear the smile in her voice. I turned around one more time and climbed onto the sofa with her. # I leaned on the rail again, watching fog roll in across the laguna with the dusk. Shipping in the evening had thinned, but there were still plenty of boats to look at. Skimmers, foils, trimarans, and a gondola here and there heading back to a berth on the mainland or on Murano to the northeast. And one or two sailboats. One of those was my ship, and she was coming in. # “Seriously, read the book,” Jade was saying. She had her head in the pocket of my shoulder, lying on her side facing towards me on Gavin Lewis’ king-size. “I dunno, I’m sure it’s great and everything.” I shrugged. “Just, a love story? Not really my thing.” “It’s more than that. The main character, Mariko, she’s this daimyo’s wife?” Jade gave me that cute sideways look from inches away. “Her husband dies and she has to run his estate, only one of her sons has her back and he’s the youngest. They pretty much have to keep the two older sons from taking over and ruining everything, and she just overcomes so much hardship.” “Does she overcome hardship by icing motherfuckers with a katana?” Jade chuckled. “Actually, she does kill people.” “Maybe I’ll actually read it now.” She slapped me on my bare stomach. “You’re the worst.” # A chat ar-box popped up in my field of vision. this is tory you ready I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped in an affirmative reply. One of the sailboats cut in towards the little dock, really not much more than a concrete step jutting out into the water. I opened the gate and stepped out. I looked back into the living room where Jade had fallen asleep on the couch, her Scroll resting on her lap. Maybe after this job I’d start reading that book with her.
|
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 05:20
|
|
|
The distinguished Hillock and I have conferred, and we set the following terms upon Dr. Kloctopussy: Your word limit is raised. You have the choice of either writing 1,500 words MINIMUM about The House On Maple Street, or 2,000 words MINIMUM about a picture of your choosing. Let it be known which challenge you will take (and in the latter case, which picture) at least 24 hours before the submission deadline. Good luck. May someone have mercy on your soul, for we will not.
|
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 05:36
|
|
|
Bad Seafood posted:I came back from space.
|
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 05:52
|
|
|
Hey fuckers here's a story in the form of a fictional document that furthermore contains references to/a snippet from ANOTHER fictional document within it. The Diary of Georgia Munroe, Age 10 Words: 803 April 2 Dear Diary, I finally got my window open tonight! The moon is full and all the tall grass outside is swinging in the wind. I wish I could go run through it… The whole farm belongs to us, after all. Daddy gets so angry whenever I ask to go outside though! I don’t even want to think about what he’d do if he knew that I figured out how to open my window. Oh well, at least I can pretend I’m out there when my window’s open and my eyes are closed. Whatever Daddy’s so scared of out there, I’m sure it can’t jump three stories high. April 3 Dear Diary, I wish I knew another kid. Mommy used to tell me to talk to the birds on the wallpaper when I get lonely but that seems silly now that I have you to write in. I wish I had someone real to talk to though. April 6 Dear Diary, Oh no! I fell asleep next to the window and Mommy almost caught me this morning! Luckily she knocked on the door before she came in and I got the window closed in time. At breakfast I asked why we can’t go outside again and Daddy got angry (as usual) and told me that if I kept asking he wouldn’t let me work in the greenhouse today. I was really mad at him so when we were going through the stupid connecting hall thingy to the greenhouse I kicked the wall and Daddy got more scared than I’ve ever seen him! He told me to run to the house quick and I did but I stayed in the doorway and watched him. He looked all over the wall I kicked to see if I hurt it or something. I don’t think I did, but he got a tarp from the greenhouse anyway and stapled it over the wall. Then he dragged me into the study and made me wait FOREVER while he flipped through that white book that he always reads when he’s scared. Eventually he sighed really big and told me not to do anything like that ever again and then he gave me a spanking. Working in the greenhouse wasn’t very fun today, even if I did get to spend the day in the sun. What’s even so special about that dumb book? April 7 Dear Diary, I snuck down to Daddy’s study tonight and looked through that white book. Mommy says I’m pretty smart but I didn’t understand any of it! I accidentally ripped out part of the page that was bookmarked when I opened it but maybe Daddy won’t notice and give me another spanking. I’ll hide the page in you since Mommy says it’s rude to look in other peoples’ diaries. Maybe I got lucky and it was the page that says I can’t go outside or have any friends. ~~~~~~~~ The Congressional Genetic Modification Oversight Commission Report [TO BE DISTRIBUTED TO ALL AGRICULTURAL CENTERS] Part IV: Potential Risks of Unregulated Commercial Genetic Modification>>Section 6: Uncontrolled Mutation Scenario>>Subsection 2a: Potential Mitigating Factors for the Public It is the opinion of this commission that human life may be sustainable in this scenario if the following conditions are met: - Basic air filtration systems should be installed. - Food should be grown from trusted seeds in a controlled environment. - Doors and windows should be tightly shut at all times. - All water should be boiled before use for consumption or irrigation. ~~~~~~~~ April 9 Dear Diary, Daddy didn’t look at his book today so I’m safe for now I guess. My parents are acting kind of weird though. Earlier today I was picking tomatoes in the greenhouse with Daddy and when he finished one row he just kept going like there were more tomatoes and before I could say anything he bumped into the glass and snapped out of it. And after dinner I heard Mommy scream so I ran downstairs and she was yelling about spiders and pointing at the floor but there weren’t any there. april 1000 dear diary mommy and daddy are really sick i think and i am too probably daddy was screaming that somebody named ergitt sporrs had gotten into the food but we had plenty of food at least enough for dinner mommy was even chopping some tomatoes when daddy freaked out but then she freaked out too and started trying to chop him instead so i ran to my room and i started writing in you but i don’t know why id do that cause the birds on the wall are real now theyre flying all over the place haha i dont need you anymore sorry diary bye i think this is what it feels like to have real friends
|
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 07:19
|
|
|
Eye (892 words) Above all else, I am a man of culture and poetry, a collector and self-taught historian, and so I cannot imagine why this ragtag assortment of so-called scientists asked me to accompany them on their little excursion. Perhaps it was because they knew that I own three of Janove’s journals, and that I have actually read them. I suspected that this trip of theirs was in fact a search for one of the strange things mentioned in that famed explorer’s diary. There were five of us. Myself; a man of science named Eugene Vemberly; a woman botanist, Constance Hart, and her brother Reginald; and a tracker they simply called David. I found David immensely fascinating, as his appearance pointed to having some Northerner blood in his lineage, and I wondered if he adhered to the same beliefs as his possible brethren. Janove had briefly touched upon the Northerners fear of the valley, and how they called it a cursed place and would not set foot within it despite all the bribes and reassurances he gave them. Foolish they had been, he said in later entries, foolish that they would even attempt to gain a native guide to this region when upon reflection it was clear they had no more knowledge of the area than he had himself. But that had been in late fall, when the sky madness would threaten with great storms of snow and blowing wind. This was high summer, with close on to twenty hours of light in the day, and no winter storms would blow up unexpectedly in this. Upon leaving the city, we walked for some time in the taiga. I admired the trees with their rich evergreen needles, and listened to the songs of birds within their boughs. The man Vemberly consulted maps and did cartography notes of his own, and the Hart siblings found a flower they had never seen before. David was silent and watchful. The sun was low in the sky and the trees cast long shadows, leaving the five of us in a dark forest, before David spotted our treasure; a blue glow to the west of us, mercifully close. Janove, in his journals, had said that the mature tree was roughly fifteen to twenty-five feet tall with a diameter between three and five feet. The bark is rough and very dark, almost black, and there are no limbs or branches to speak of. If there are needles or leaves on the tree, they are not immediately obvious. The trunk is pliable, bending as easily as one might crook an arm, and at the crown of the tree is inset a large blue globe, called an “eye”, which is the same diameter as the trunk at its base. The immature tree that we found was a mere six feet tall, and no wider than a foot. The eye was of a middling sky blue color, and glowed with a gentle, steady light. It turned to look at us as we approached it. Janove had mentioned this as well. These trees, although rooted with a system similar to any oak or pine, above ground moved with such deliberation as to be animal-like. He noted that they would track a man as he walked across the clearing in which it stood, such as a dog might watch a stranger in front of its yard. They would turn and crane their necks, so to speak, when one would approach them, and could intensify the light emitted from the eye for a short time. They seemed to have some crude animal intelligence, and would examine the explorers with as much curiosity as they examined it. This one was no exception. The Harts moved around it, taking measurements and drawing sketches, and it watched them as they did. Their easy demeanors implied that they had seen such creatures before; they did not gasp or grow pale at the sight of it, as Vemberly did. I myself felt some small shock at its appearance, for reading about something and experiencing it for myself were two very different phenomena indeed. David had averted his face, and would not look at it. At one point Constance pulled out a small knife and knelt by the tree, which curved to look at her and brightened the glow as if to illuminate what she was doing. She lowered the knife to rest against the bark of the tree and it grew even brighter. There was a pause, then she pressed the blade in and down, slicing off a piece of the bark. The tree did not react, but how could it? It wasn’t as if it could feel pain. It watched her put the piece in her jacket pocket, then looked over at me. I could not say why it did this. I had only gone near it once, to touch the bark and feel the rough texture of it for myself, and after had retreated and begun to write my own journal, and had not left the rock that I sat down upon. But often I would watch it, and as the sliver of wood was put away it watched me. I do not think I will join the Harts, Vemberly, and David again, for I am sure that they are exploring the region for these trees. Once was quite enough.
|
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 07:24
|
|
|
The Library of Unwritten Books - 805. Captain Tory. "So, uh, Uncle Tory, what exactly is it you do here?" said Tim. "Well, I'm a librarian aren't I," replied Tory. Tim looked around the bare apartment. "I don't see many books." Tory smiled. "Ah lad, right you are. That's because it's a library of unwritten books, see?" "Uh," Tim hesitated. "How can you be a librarian of unwritten books?" "It's like, well. It's like I'm a harbourmaster see, standing out on the pier at night. All I have is one small lantern of me own imagination to try and see out over the water. I know ships are out there, in the darkness, sailing to and fro. But I can't see what they look like or where they're going. Occasionally one may venture closer to shore where my small lantern can shed some light on it. But many of these books, like the ships, stay out in the darkness. But they still need a light to refer to. That's my job." "Well wouldn't that make you a lighthouse, not a harbourmaster?" "Look kid, it's my metaphor, I'll call it what I want." "But if no one has written a book, there's nothing to catalogue," said Tim. "You'd think that, but it's not quite true. Everyone wants to have written a book, but very few people ever want to actually write one. It's the writing part that's hard, see. Much easier just to dream up your perfect book in your head without all that messy writing business. All I do is catalogue what people are thinking. And there you have it, a perfect library filled with perfect books that are never written." "I'm not sure I understand Uncle Tory." "Tell you what kid, as a favour to you for helpin' me, I'll catalogue your unwritten book in the library." "I don't have one." "Don't piss about with me, you must have a book that you think about, in the quiet hours, that you want to have written." "Well, yes. Sort of." "OK then out with it, and I will catalogue it. Only a twenty dollar stocking fee." Tim frowned. "What? Twenty dollars for me to tell you a story? Shouldn't you pay me?" he said. "No it wouldn't work that way see. I'm cataloging you right? Your work will be in the library, numbered and all. The money is just a way of confirming like, in your own mind, that makes it a real transaction." "I don't know Uncle Tory. Twenty dollars?" "Flat rate. Applies to all writers I'm afraid." "OK then, if you say so," Tim fished out his wallet. "But this is my entire week's pocket money. I don't have any more." "That's fine Timmy boy. Fine and dandy." Tory's eyes focused on the note. "Now just hand it over, there's a good boy. No need to tell your ma 'bout this by the by. You'll go right in the library you will." Tim slowly held out the note and Tory leaped forward and snatched it away, stuffing it down into his pocket, smiling. He could taste the whiskey already. "So," said Tim. "Do you want to hear the story?" "What? Oh right then. Let's have it," said Tory. "What's it called?" "It's a murder mystery called 'The Mystery of Murder Mansion.'" Tory frowned. "That's it?" "Yeah, what's wrong with that?" "Nothing, nothing. Just kind of, well, boring innit?" "I think it sounds mysterious," said Tim. "Well if by 'sounds mysterious' you mean it sounds like the word mysterious, being that the word is right there in the title, then yeah. I guess. But it's a bit vague. What's it about?" "Well, it's about this boy who solves..." Tory slapped his face. "Oh gawd, stop stop stop," he said. "Look kid. People don't want to read about that guff nowadays." "Well what do they want to read?" "You know, stupid poo poo. Like robot vampires that have sex with zombies while fighting off an alien invasion." "I don't read that sort of stuff." "Well you're not most people. Tell you what, instead of 'mystery house of mysteries', or whatever you called it, lets call it, uh, 'The Unctillious Adventures of Candyshreikers Anonymous'. A classic whodunit where a three hundred year old Jack Russell terrier must solve an ancient pharaoh's curse with the help of a talking prosthetic." "Prosthetic what?" "Never you mind. Kids these days, I don't know." "That's it?" "Of course, that's a grand book," said Tory. "And that's my entry into the library of unwritten books?" "Too right it is. Now shove off, it's almost closing time down at the local and your Uncle Tory has to go and check out some works by Glen Livet." "Is he a Scottish author?" "Yeah, well, Scottish at least. Now I tol' you. Bugger off."
|
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 09:56
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 19, 2024 08:14 |
|
|
SpaceGodzilla posted:I really wanted to be mean, but gently caress this story was pretty good. Some of the writing I have issue with, but it's only because the narrator's voice is unconvincing at times. There's a clear narrative arc, it's clever and the plot takes unexpected turns. You're most likely not going to be in the bottom bracket this round! CantDecideOnAName posted:Christmas comes once a week in THUNDERDOME, and I always get the same thing: poorly written period pieces! You guys must love me because there's nothing I want to do more than read stale purple prose on a Saturday morning. I honestly tried to do a read-through first but I had to bust out my fat tipped sharpie right around the third paragraph. There's no narrative arc, no conflict. I guess it kind of relates to the picture? You introduce a ton of characters but this story would suffice with two. No one dies, David remains an International Man of Mystery(TM), and the story just ends. I didn't feel shocked, though the story hinges on the idea that I do. The tree doesn't make anyone confront anything within themselves, doesn't show them horrifying pictures or put crazy ideas into their heads. The implication here, I take it, is that the tree is magic and alive but really the story is more like an Arctic expedition full of autistic retards. This story should be titled "Brown Eye" because it is a turd. Martello posted:This I'll crit later, have to go over it with a finer toothed comb. One thing, though: V for Vegas posted:
autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 18:14 on Apr 6, 2013 |
|
#
?
Apr 6, 2013 16:34
|
|
This was high summer, 
with close onwat to twenty hours of light in the day, and no winter storms would blow up unexpectedly in this.words words WORDS words words WORDS words plot words words WORDS words
The manREDUNDANT Vemberly consulted maps and 
BUT I WILL NOT DESCRIBE THIS BIRD IN A SCIENTIFIC WAY BECAUSE gently caress YOU David was silent and watchful.and I wanted to caress his buttocks.
