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 FLASH RULE Nubile Hillock, your source material took place in Shropshire, England. However, your version must involve the Russian peasantry, either as they were prior to the October Revolution or as they are in the post-Soviet Ukraine. Good luck.
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Apr 10, 2013 08:24
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So life has kind of dumped on me the last couple of days and doesn't look like it's going to clear up in the next week, so unfortunately I'm not going to be participating in this week, but I wanted to thank all the judges for the crits. Glad ya'll liked my use of the prompt, even if my prose was kind of bad.
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Apr 10, 2013 10:58
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Fanky Malloons posted:It's hard for me to put my finger on why I hated this so much, it's pretty technically sound, but the content is just...ugh. Right from the beginning you're beating the reader over the head with the fact that you're building up to some kind of punchline, and your apparent knowledge of headlines about the Royal family. It's just so unsubtle, it assumes the reader is literally retarded and it makes me want to vomit with rage. For example, this line: “Harry, my boy, I would like to pick your brain: have you ever wondered how my grandmother, The Queen Mother, lived to 101?” Why the hell does Prince Charles, heir to the throne, need to explain to Prince Harry, his son, second in line to the throne, who his own great grandmother, the Queen Mother, mother of the Queen of England is? Thanks for the crit, "pretty technically sound" is one of the nicer things said about my thunderdome stuff so that makes me happy. And I suppose making you want to vomit with rage is better than you just going meh. That's what I tell myself anyway. JuniperCake posted:This should be a fun prompt. Don't know whether to be flattered or horrified. Don't forget to put some bitching interrobangs in, bitches love interrobangs.
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Apr 10, 2013 11:35
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Erogenous Beef posted:
Post-soviet Ukraine sounds lovely. I've actually had the pleasure of bumming around some dilapidated bunkers on the outskirts of a dreary Soviet mining town. This should be a return to form, if nothing else.  edit: I will have to move the time frame up to at least 1992. It can't be post-Soviet and set in 1985, now can it? 
autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 12:36 on Apr 10, 2013 |
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Apr 10, 2013 12:29
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Nubile Hillock posted:edit: I will have to move the time frame up to at least 1992. It can't be post-Soviet and set in 1985, now can it? It also couldn't be set prior to the October Revolution and in 1985, so yeah, set it whenever. Just give us some choice, succulent words. I'm talking literary tenderloin here.
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Apr 10, 2013 15:32
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Nothing is grabbing me as I go through these old threads. Anyone have any stories in mind that they'd like to see rewritten? I'll take the suggestion of whoever is the first to post. Feel free to be as sadistic as you want (terrible story or really good story).
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Apr 10, 2013 21:57
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Jagermonster posted:Nothing is grabbing me as I go through these old threads. Anyone have any stories in mind that they'd like to see rewritten? I'll take the suggestion of whoever is the first to post. Feel free to be as sadistic as you want (terrible story or really good story). Since no one has suggested anything, and it was a lazy move on my part to solicit suggestions in the first place, I'll do Kris Kruel's losing entry Vambraces at Sea from two rounds ago: http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=42
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Apr 11, 2013 02:59
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Is there any particular reason why you lot are choosing losing/terrible stories other than to make the judges reread all the worst stories of the previous TD rounds?
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Apr 11, 2013 03:25
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Basic literacy, mainly:Sitting Here posted:
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Apr 11, 2013 03:32
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Capntastic posted:Basic literacy, mainly:  Still, I'd definitely love to see someone take a good story and make it better. FLASH RULE: Take an already good story and make it better, and I'll buy you the avatar of choice. Obviously "better" is up to my judgement so good luck fuckers.
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Apr 11, 2013 03:36
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The Saddest Rhino posted:Is there any particular reason why you lot are choosing losing/terrible stories other than to make the judges reread all the worst stories of the previous TD rounds? Personally, I picked the loser because I figured it had nowhere to go but up.
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Apr 11, 2013 03:39
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CantDecideOnAName posted:Personally, I picked the loser because I figured it had nowhere to go but up. Hrmmm yes all these bad writers taking bad stories and turning them into solid gold  I'm doing this because I want to ruin sittinghere's weekend, not because I want to be a poo poo alchemist.
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Apr 11, 2013 03:57
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Martello posted:
So if we're feeling fancy/procrastinating on our final papers of undergrad really hard, can we enter twice?
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Apr 11, 2013 03:59
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Nubile Hillock posted:Hrmmm yes all these bad writers taking bad stories and turning them into solid gold I didn't say I was aiming for gold, but turning poo poo into tin seems a lot easier than turning bronze into platinum.
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Apr 11, 2013 04:06
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Jesus Christ this was easy as hell when I wasn't actually trying to write something.
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Apr 11, 2013 04:36
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I'd love to make your excellent story better, fellow goon!Martello posted:Cherry Job I'm loving Bronco Holligan over the hood of his silver '35 Jeep Shadowrun. Or rather, Bronco is entertaining me in his rear end in a top hat, indulging my performance; the carbon nanotube muscle fiber buttocks and thighs that give him his explosive physicality on the battlefield are doing most of the work. I feel like some bizarre deep sea fish, a tenth the size of the mate who barely registers his furious rutting. Or more like that comic book guy from the days before The Incident, the one who always draws himself as a freaked-out sexual mosquito, convulsing on the back of a big-assed giantess like he's trying to siphon all the pleasure he can out of her pussy before she swats him away. Crumb? Art Crumb? That's the role I'm playing but it's also the closest thing to my real emotional state as i float in this precum twilight, waiting for Bronco to start bucking. He'll laugh while he forces me down onto the cracked cyberphalt. I'll be rock-hard with shame and real terror, the terror of being utterly subject to his will, to the slimy nanosteel fuckstick that smells like a grease trap after 36 sleepless hours of misting haji skulls. War... war never changes.
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Apr 11, 2013 05:54
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swamp waste posted:I'd love to make your excellent story better, fellow goon! I don't know what you lot have been waiting for all this time but loving finally. get in.
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Apr 11, 2013 07:58
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also this is what I mean when I said why are people just choosing losing pieces (regardless of that whole "if you win you get an internet picture" rule), unless you are sure you can turn that poo poo to fine threaded gold how about you challenge yourself like this fine gentleman here you plebs.CantDecideOnAName posted:Personally, I picked the loser because I figured it had nowhere to go but up. You are dead to me.
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Apr 11, 2013 08:03
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I chose suit on suit because it had a good premise poorly executed, which is surely what you want for a rewrite. And I hadn't done any sci fi for a bit. I will crit the last one in under the deadline, because that's what I like to do with my rare holidays.
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Apr 11, 2013 09:11
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swamp waste posted:I'd love to make your excellent story better, fellow goon! Hmmm slash-fic version, overused Fallout reference...this only redeems itself by being basically a kinda funny joke rewrite but really you could probably do a lot better bro. I mean, you're okay but you're no anne frank fanfic. The Art Crumb reference comes outta nowhere but he's a crazy motherfucker so I guess it's okay to just throw him anywhere, no context or connection to the original. Sorry can't buy you that avatar you wanted, this just isn't better.
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Apr 11, 2013 11:52
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Oh man, the stakes are getting higher and higher as Martello throws his  into the ring. Contestants, please be sure to indicate along with your rewrite whether it is a winner, honorable mention, or a loser. If it's not one of those things don't worry about it. Edit: Also I reserve the right for Martello to decide what is a good entry, and what constitutes "better". So if you're sitting there thinking you're safe from extra scrutiny, think again. If you're confused about whether it's one of the above, kindly go find the relevant resultspost and find the answer for yourself. If you're thinking "but Sitting Here that's effort and poo poo," imagine having to do that like 20 times and then ask yourself why you want to make an internet person suffer so much. Edit again: I edited the prompt post. Some of you may have updated flash rules and other caveats, so be sure to double check. Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 17:26 on Apr 11, 2013 |
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Apr 11, 2013 16:54
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Massive Edit: Due date is not Friday. It's Sunday April 14th. So I'm gonna edit and revise some more. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 23:23 on Apr 11, 2013 |
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Apr 11, 2013 22:32
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Fanky Malloons posted:So if we're feeling fancy/procrastinating on our final papers of undergrad really hard, can we enter twice? gently caress yeah. btw this crazy harpy is gonna try to improve on one a my stories. Can't wait. Also, twinkle, gonna judge my duel with Noah or what?
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Apr 11, 2013 22:36
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I still owe someone an avatar? Cancercakes was it? Let me know who/what and we'll get this sorted before Sunday, so you have all that much more to lose!
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Apr 12, 2013 00:33
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I thought I needed a couple more losses under my belt for a shametar! You should probably wait till after this week in case I win and sitting here buys me an AV. Ha ha ha. I thought the GIF of Ian mckellen with grenade in mouth would be a fitting ulraloser AV for me, with "this is how I thunder dome" as the text. Keeps the head injury theme that the losertar has.# Edit: This one 
CancerCakes fucked around with this message at 11:01 on Apr 12, 2013 |
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Apr 12, 2013 09:07
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Between classwork and the fact that I'm unexpectedly moving this weekend, I don't know yet if I'll have enough time to finish my Hank the Petulant Vibrator remake. Just mentioning this so that Twinkle Cave won't be too surprised and disappointed if I don't get anything finished and posted. I'll try, though!
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Apr 12, 2013 09:28
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I don't think that av's within the size limit, fix it!
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Apr 12, 2013 13:26
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Should you really get to choose your own shame?
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Apr 12, 2013 13:34
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It was part of the deal!
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Apr 12, 2013 13:56
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based on Sitting Here's "Don't Bite The Eye That Feeds", 746 words. http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=50#post414263489 Flash Rule Edition: Story must take place in the Old West or some kind of samurai dynasty thing. Feed The Eye That Bites 844 words I craned my head out of the stagecoach window and asked the driver how much farther. He pointed off in the distance to a rising plume of smoke. “Won’t be long now, Mr. Walden.” Mopping my soaked forehead, I said “make it fast as you can. The less time I’m in this desert, the better.” Back in the carriage, I ran a kerchief along my neck. New York in the summertime was hot, but it paled in comparison to the hell of Arizona. Luckily I wouldn’t be here long. My firm had been retained by Darius Barker’s daughters to retrieve his body and settle his estate. Barker made his fortune when the gold was still flowing from these Arizona hills. When the gold ran out so did his fortune and his sanity. A week ago Barker set a woman on fire, and then himself. When we arrived, the sheriff was waiting for me at the station. His tall frame was dressed in clothes far too formal for the heat; sweat soaking into every crease of his shirt, vest, and hat. Extending a sweaty hand, I said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Tate.” “Just call me Sheriff, if y’ don’t mind.” “Of course, Sheriff. I’m hoping to collect Mr. Barker’s body today, and arrange for his belongings to be shipped back to New York City.” I looked down at my black leather shoes already tinted red with the Arizona dirt. I heard the sheriff chuckle as I tried to wipe the red dust away. Pointing down the street, he said “You can get both today. Wasn’t much left. The body and his belongings all fit in the pine box. It’s around behind the jail.” — I had to scamper to keep up with his strides as we proceeded away from the station. This town was little more than an intersection and a few storefronts. Through the windows of each storefront, I could see a few faces watching us. I looked closer - every face was dingy and smudged with soot. Sheriff Tate’s arm shot out and caught me by the collar. “Whoah there Walden. You almost got run over like Barker did.” A stage coach went galloping by while Tate pulled me back up on the boardwalk. After catching my breath I asked “Wait - he was run over? I thought he burned?” He relaxed his grip and shrugged. “He wasn’t run over, he just jumped in front of a coach, chasing one of his imaginary demons. If I wasn’t there to catch him, he’d be dead — well — he’d’ve been dead sooner.” He smiled a stupid grin and nodded for me to cross the street with him. “Look Mr. Walden,” the sheriff said. “Barker was a good man. Hell, he was probably the richest man in town at one point. But once he lost it all, he just went batshit” “Batshit? How?” “I don’t know. He started acting strange, talking to no one. ‘Barker’ became more of a description, less of a name for the guy. He’d be barking at invisible people, loud. Said he saw things disappearing. And then he went and set that woman on fire.” We were stopped by an old woman standing in the walkway, a black smudge on her cheek. She met my gaze and whispered, “feed the eye”. Before I could ask what she meant, Tate patted her shoulder and said “leave it be Miss Jane, just leave it be.” Then he turned to me and said “you don’t want to know.” As we continued on I fetched a look over my shoulder. She never moved, just stood there. “Barker knocked her down a couple weeks ago, that’s when we figured he’d gone nuts. He screamed at her and went back to following the Miller woman.” “Who?” I asked. “You know, the girl he killed. He said she was swallowing people up.” Before I could press for more details, he stopped abruptly then pointed down an alley. “It’s down this alley, then around back.” I gasped to catch my breath. He removed his hat and wiped his forehead. “Damned heat’s just getting worse ain’t it?” Half way through the alley, the brick wall was smeared black with the words FEED THE EYE. “Feed the eye?” He nodded. “Doesn’t make much sense does it? Barker did that.” “But the old woman - she said it too - you heard her right?” Tate nodded and said “He’s right back here. I’ll show you. Come on.” Arizona was hot, but the end of the alley felt like a furnace. I could see all the walls were black with soot. Rounding the corner, I saw the pit. It was twenty feet wide, the cobblestone street ran down into it. It was like somebody had laid cobble stones onto the street and a giant boulder blew a hole straight down through them. Flames licked up, and at that moment I felt Tate’s arm around my shoulders, pushing me towards the hole. “I don’t understand wait what — ” “We’ve got to feed the eye Mr. Walden. We’ve got to keep feeding the eye.”
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Apr 12, 2013 19:24
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Nubile Hillock posted:It was part of the deal! DEALS CAN CHANGE, HILLOCK
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Apr 12, 2013 20:41
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It was all a (Teenage)Dream by Chairchucker, ultralosing with 1,179 words too many: http://goo.gl/Qz9aw Has become The Opera House - 783 Words V. must not have suspected that her husband had deceived her, for she awoke on her twenty-seventh birthday and entered a building which she would never exit. V. walked down the aisle of the opera house and then settled into her seat. For years she had longed to see the Maidens of Eisenberg perform and had now only to wait a few minutes longer. The man to V.’s left asked if she was attending unaccompanied, to which she replied, “Yes, my husband is at a labor rally in Czechoslovakia, but he has allowed me to attend alone.” “K. is your husband? He told me you would be here.” V. found it strange that any of her husband’s acquaintances would appreciate the opera. Her husband only associated with others of low birth such as farmers and factory workers. V. imagined how things could have been were she not the seventh daughter and had she married into a good family, as her older sisters had done. Though her husband was allowing her to attend, he had stipulated that she must not allow the opera to, “Corrupt her with its bourgeois spirit.” A man’s voice filled the room. He sang not of Tristan and Isolde and not of the Nibelungen, but spoke; rather, of gross domestic product, united labour, and Austrian resistance to the German Nation. V. asked her husband’s colleague when the Maidens would perform. The man laughed. “There will be no opera! Your husband sent you here to purge your dawdling apathy and join the party’s struggle.” “The party?” “Die Kommunistische Partei Österreichs, the KPÖ.” “I have no interest in this. If I have been deceived, I will simply leave.” “There are no exits in this hall. Just as the working class cannot escape its toil, you shall not escape this opera house!” V. looked toward the direction she had entered, but the rhetoric of the speaker and the throng of the crowd disoriented her. All in attendance had stood up and were shouting along with the KPÖ Stellvertreter. She left her seat and fell into the aisle. The Stellvertreter continued as V. searched for the exit, “And if the Bourgeoisie is confined to the same circumstance to which it has subjected others, what is its reaction? Does it accept its lot and toil in the fields or go deaf in the factories for the benefit of the ruling class? Does it become humbled to find that its previous position was an unjust and exploitative existence, enjoyed on the backs of our sweat and blood? No! Look at the bourgeois rat, scrambling along the walls in the dark, clawing desperately to escape its predicament.” V. could not find any doors. The walls were black and the aisle was curving in on itself. The KPÖ Stellvertreter’s voice broke her concentration and bore into her mind. V. thought she was nearing a door, but a mass of party members formed a shoulder-to-shoulder wall and blocked her advance. The human wall kicked her to the floor. Unable to press through, V. tried to crawl around, but the wall of party members continued farther than she could see. After several hours, during which the KPÖ Stellvertreter rattled off the names, incomes, and land holdings of the wealthiest 2,200 members of the aristocracy, V. found a door guarded by only one man. She begged him to let her out. He replied, “We have endured such conditions since at least the advent of feudalism, can you not even tolerate a 27-year rally?” “27 years... no, I must leave at once.” The doorman dragged V. back into the throng where she was kicked and trampled until she lost consciousness. V. awoke next to her husband. She was strapped to a bed and surrounded by a curtain, bright lights shining beyond. Her husband spoke, “Ah, you’re awake. I knew you were raised in a system that made you ill-suited to reality, but I never expected you to be so weak. Fortunately you are paralyzed from the chest down, so you will not be tempted to escape again.” V. did not have time to register the loss of her body, as she heard a familiar voice from beyond the curtain and asked, “Escape what?” “The rally! You have slept for weeks but there are decades to go! The Stellvertreter just finished his introduction. In a year or so the founding members will begin speaking. In fifteen years, the KPÖ Vorsitzender himself will speak. Perhaps you will have forgotten all about the opera by the end of this decade or the next.” Her husband pulled back the curtain and V. saw that she was still in the opera house.
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Apr 12, 2013 21:35
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In it to lose it with Close Door Button.
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Apr 12, 2013 22:51
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sebmojo posted:DEALS CAN CHANGE, HILLOCK Hillocks are forever.
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Apr 12, 2013 23:18
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I rewrote Yard Work (461 words) as was assigned to me. This won the first round of a duel, and the sebmojo won the whole thing (but not with this story) so I'm not exactly sure how to classify it. Yard Work 2: The Reworkening 548 words I took a deep breath; the bandana did little to keep the dust out of my lungs. Almost finished. Even though the ground resembled the paint on a dilapidated shack, deeper down the moist dirt still managed to cling to my spade. I stepped out of the hole and it was instantly twenty degrees warmer. I kicked the back of the shovel with my boot, sending soggy soil splattering against what could loosely be classified as a fence. Behind me, I heard the screen door slam shut. I didn’t need to look up; it could only be Tracey: my late neighbor’s wife. I heard a rattlesnake in the distance, followed by her meek voice: “Dan, if we’re not going to talk now, when are we?” she pleaded. I took a moment to turn around and look at her, squinting as sweat beaded into my eyes. Her golden locks were plastered to her forehead and I could tell she’d been crying. “Talking isn’t going to do us any good right now,” I said. I climbed back into the hole and put my foot down hard on the shovel like that litter of rat pups I found out under a bale of hay last spring. “I’m scared,” she cried. I threw another load over my shoulder. “Get inside and pack the drat suitcase already!” I yelled back at her. Jack, my recently deceased neighbor, had kicked down my door and caught me by surprise. His white knuckles gripped a buck knife. I remember falling backwards in my chair onto the roughhewn floor as he lunged at me and let the knife slip from his hand. He kicked me once and I spit blood. A second time and the crack of my rib breaking sounded like a far-off gunshot. Tracey had screamed as I picked up the knife and thrust it upwards into his flesh. Jack stopped kicking. The hole was still shallow, but after I had filled it back in I would put a few rocks on top. That ought to keep the coyotes away from the body for at least a few days. It was simply too hot to continue. I stuck the shovel into the pile and noticed Tracey had gone back in the cabin like I told her to. I walked around to the rolled-up rug and gave it a nudge with my foot, but it did not move. I don’t know if Jack and I could be called friends, but we had been known to share a bottle or two at the saloon. I had gone to his house to collect a poker debt when I first saw Tracey: mad as hell and a hatred in her eyes that was years in the making. Her downfall came so fast I’m not sure if it was true attraction or just a way out for her. I shoved again with my foot—harder—and the drunken fool fell to his final resting place. At least he was somewhere dark and quiet. I thought about the journey south that awaited Tracey and me, and felt the desire to climb down there with Jack and pull the pile in on top of us. Able to close my eyes and escape my burden; to swaddle myself in the earth’s cool embrace. crabrock fucked around with this message at 02:02 on Apr 13, 2013 |
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Apr 12, 2013 23:31
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Thunderduel Decision by way of Forbidden Fanfic. Killgore: Good evening, this is Killgore Mene Genome: And this is Mene Genome, and we're here in the underbelly of the THUNDERDOME covering live the mayhem about to ensue between Martello "THE HUMONGOUS" vs Noah "THE BARNACLE" in: THUNDER DUAL 11 - "I NEED A MEDPACK" Prompt: A medical professional in a violent milieu. KG: Where do you think he got that lovely prompt? MG: I'm pretty sure while playing an FPS. He took five seconds away while waiting for a respawn in a death match. KG : You know, Noah doesn't have an official nickname but some call him THE BARNACLE cause he's so drat tough and scrappy, you can't scrape him off. MG: It's true, ever since these unsanctioned THUNDER DUELS began, Noah's been taking all comers and their immediate families. I count 4 times he's gone mano a mano. KG: He's definitely not afraid to stab a first born child, and he's shown a range of skill. I'd say he's got a good chance here. Martello is looking a little weak from hard living and fatigue. He's been doming for 37 weeks now. MG: Noah does look good, yet the brass ring eludes him. He's never actually won the full dome. Regardless, one of the things that really stands out about his story tonight is how dead on the medical jargon is. You'd almost believe he holds down a sidejob as a meth-head doctor with all that knowledge he put on the page. KG: I'd find that hard to believe. Most these folks don't have jobs, they just write crappy stories, troll SA, and look at porn all day. Even meth requires leaving the house. MG: Ahh, wait, hear the trumpets call. That means THUNDERDOME Royality is entering the stands. I see Sebmojo LEGIT CYBERPUNK six time champion and Sitting Here BLOOD QUEEN with 5 wins herself. And bringing up the rear as usual, pinching young girls' asses, is Shawn-Boner, aka electricus smokus, aka Professor Boner, aka DADDY. KG: Uhmm, it seems that Shawn-Boner is taking his dick out. Wait, oh! He just tried to take a piss on the combatants. Martello side steps but I think a little got on Noah's chest plate. MG: Lucky for them Prof Boner was too busy laughing to aim well. Oup, now it looks like Martello is chucking a grenade up in Boner's direction. KG: Well that's not going to work. MG: Nope, Boner easily swats it away with his bottle of R&R. The nade seems to have landed inside the Ghost of Etherwind's former skull cavity. Whoa, an explosion of ectoplasm. Everyone seems to be cheering. KG: It's hard to catch Boner with his pants down, at least figuratively. He's got those preternatural drunk reflexes. MG: There are no friends in the dome it seems. Despite that, its quite benevolent of the Royality to show themselves at these DUALS, in some circles DUALS are consider a lowly desperate act. The DOME unofficials had to limit their occurrence because they we're "making GBS threads up the threads". KG: Bunch of asshats, who doesn't like a no holds barred street fight between two sole combatants. MG: Martello steps forward now with some virtual sex hacking. The crowd really enjoys those sci-fi oddities. KG: You know Martello THE HUMONGOUS was named that during a THUNDER DUAL where he beat tonight's judge Twinkle Cave. MG: Exactly, where do you think Twinkle got that losertar? It does make you wonder if Twinkle will hold a grudge. KG: I'd say most definitely. MG: I agree. KG: Shut up Genome, Twinkle is entering the scene. Twinkle Cave: First of all, both combatants may verily gently caress off. And 2nd of all, so may everyone in the stands. Let the death begin. MG: There's your answer, he seems to disdain all equally. Despite being filled with rage at his loss, hate seems to have a limit and everyone in the dome is topped off. KG: I don't trust it one bit. That guy is know for being a dick, he'll probably stick a shiv in Martello before the bell rings. MG: Alright, after five days of battle, lets look at the official score card. SCORE CARD Winner: NOAH Both stories we're very well written. Martello receives points for his usual well paced story telling. I felt compelled to read the next line, moving faster and faster. When I read the part about the virtual sex hacking my eyes got wide. I'd never considered that before. Great detail. Also his inclusion of an interesting female character that wasn't a princess, excellent naming and jargon use, and scene setting all deserve praise. I almost tipped the scales in his favor and while reading thought he was going to win, but it just didn't quite wrap into a short story finale. It read a little more as a chapter from a book or a character treatment than a short story that led you to an inevitable and crushing end. Noah's on the other hand did exactly that. You got the feeling that OD was the only way out. Points for his use of convincing medical terminology. His sentences were complex but not confusing (which made for a rich read), and the way he turned the prompt on its head by choosing dog fighting was creative. I also enjoyed the hallucinatory dog talking to him stuff. And +1 for using the name Jorge. Although this story isn't going to win the pushcart or anything, it has that gritty depth of seriousness and emotional engagement of better lit-fic. It seems quite publishable to the right magazine. The story didn't overwhelm me but was well constructed and convincing. It's getting harder and hard to judge the more experienced writers in the dome, relying on subjective tastes of judges more than "who did the worst of the two bad". This one was close, but Noah noses ahead mostly by merit of creating an inextricably intertwined narrative that attempts to crush the soul. Claim your prize of bloody bandages and unsanitized medical equipment for use in your next encounter. twinkle cave fucked around with this message at 04:08 on Apr 13, 2013 |
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Apr 13, 2013 03:56
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also in for this week with a re-write of: chips beer babies shirts blood by Martello
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Apr 13, 2013 04:29
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And here's my re-write of Martello's story. Based on the original full length version not the watered down linked above ^^^: Thunderdome Week XXXVI chips beer babies shirts blood twinkleized - 1400 words As Seth and Kaitlyn pulled toward the town's stoplight, Seth nodded to the car ahead. A black Geo Tracker with pink highlights and feet hanging out the passenger window, toenails equally pink, kicking to the beat of some song. "Isn't that your losertard friends," Seth chuckled. Kaitlyn repositioned herself in the truck seat. "Classic," Seth said, "roadshow head." Kaitlyn slapped his dick through his jeans as she propped her butt out the window. Next to the Tracker, she lifted her skirt and let one rip, then spun around, "What's up bitches!" Courtney, hands on the wheel, stayed straight ahead while her sister Toby leaned forward to wave, "You slut, where's your panties. I could see the wobble from here Katie-O-Asses." Kaitlyn hated that name. Kids called her Kate or Katie. Said she was stuck up when she insisted on the full Kaitlin. But the drive-by-farting, that was hers, a bygone cheerleader stunt. They used to "rear end bomb" out the bus window on the ride home drunk on vodka, "Cause it doesn't' leave a smell," Kaitlyn always said. "Don't mind her, she's all stoic and poo poo," Toby said, "Party forth." As if on cue, the light shifted, and Seth gunned the gas. Courtney, deliberate, sat a few beats before pulling forward. "I wonder what's up her rear end?" Kaitlyn said snickering but still sheepish from her public display. Maybe the "cut and run" wasn't the innocent raunch it'd once been. More gathering than party, the rundown trailer house had a ring of mostly shirtless men swilling beer in front of a rotting porch, Courtney's boyfriend Gavin among them. When offered a beer, Kaitlyn said, "Keep your dick wash, the good shits inside." As they went through the door, Gavin slurred to the group, "I don't want that ugly bitches baby. I don't want any baby." Kaitlyn felt Seth tense, then smoothed his arm. They'd been trying to have a baby for three years. Since graduation. "No dice," is all Kaitlyn ever said wagging the test stick and flicking it into the trash next to the toilet. She refused to be glum, humor was her armor. The kitchen table presented three younger guys around a pile of chips in need of new ownership. "Deal me in you slack jawed faggots," Seth said in his best Jessie Ventura impersonation. About five games in Seth was already cleaning them out. He kept up a smooth banter egging the amateurs deeper in the hole and then bluffing them out or dropping a mean hand depending. Most of them were having a good time, despite losing. Then Courtney arrived followed by a argument in the yard. "Who the gently caress is that guy?" one of the kids said over his cards redirecting annoyance of getting broker. Gavin's yells drifted through the window over the sink. He was from the next town over, practically another planet. He was tolerated on account of Courtney. After a bit, the two sisters came in angling themselves behind Seth where Kaitlyn stood. Toby was hopping mad. But Courtney just stood there cold as ice. She took the whiskey bottle from the table and swilled, keeping it in her hand instead of returning it, starring Gavin down. "What bitch?" he slung at Courtney before looking at Seth. "Deal me in." "It's time for you to go," Kaitlyn said, squaring up with the other two girls. The three of them made a powerful shoulder to shoulder wall of no bullshit allowed. Just like old times; Toby the frenetic nerd, Courtney hard as a coffin nail, and herself, the poo poo starting sass. "You heard her boy," Seth said passing his chips from hand to hand. Kaitlyn could see what would happen next. The agitation in Seth's movements, a dam before bursting. The others leaned forward, the stink of violence rising from their sweat. There would be nothing left of Gavin. As much as she wanted it to happen, as much as it tuned her up, she knew they were getting too old for poo poo kicking. It was ok back then, but not now. "What?" Gavin said backing up into the living room behind the counter top that divided the two areas, "What are you going to do," pausing, looking dead down at Seth, dripping with not giving a gently caress, then, "human being." But just before the moment fractured one way, it erupted as a different one. Courtney, bottle still in hand, cantilevered herself onto the table with a wrist plant, grabbing a handful of chips on the way before coming to a foot and springing from the table to the counter in a stride, choosing the only spot without dirty dishes, slinging the chips in Gavin's face, then flying again with an aerial clothesline while arcing the bottle around to slam in his head. They landed in a pile. Courtney got up, tested her legs, then took a swig. She'd never let go of the bottle. "I think you killed him," Kaitlyn said breaking the silence as everyone laughed until they almost died. "Nobody calls me a bitch." The boys scraped Gavin up and carted him to his car over their shoulders cheering as they went. Now trophy hero. They'll probably love him forever Kaitlyn thought. The guy that got ninja-ed by the crazy bitch. The girls went into the master bedroom to regroup. "More like kept him from being killed," Courtney corrected Kaitlyn. "I know," Kaitlyn said back. "Here." Courtney shoved the bottle in Toby's hand, removed her shirt and twisted it into a rope. She passed it through her teeth then lay on her side grasping a pillow to her stomach. "Kick the pillow," she told Kaitlyn. Toby stood stone faced knowing better than to get involved. Her sister was in insane mode. "What the gently caress Cor?" Kaitlyn said. "You heard me you worthless whore," she said through the shirt, Kaitlyn gave her a little kick. "There," she said, "done." Courtney popped up and slapped Kaitlyn then laid back down. "Just because you and that dickweed in there can't get knocked up doesn't mean I have to go through life with some fuckwit's semen spew under my arm." She'd removed the shirt so she could hiss, "Now kick me Kate-O or I swear to god...." Whether it was the slap, the name calling, or the insult to her ovaries; all of it mingled with the residual air of alcohol and violence, and something snapped. Kaitlyn kicked hard. Her foot slid past the pillow causing shoe to skin contact. Courtney sucked down a squeal, her eyes watering and body shaking. The other girls stepped back as Courtney rose slowly. "That did it," she said, "I felt it happen." Her face was slack but satisfied. She took the twisted shirt and wiped her crotch beneath her skirt as if blood might be there. Then she walked into the bathroom. Courtney pulled her hair back tight and washed her face. "Don't ever let a man get over on you," she said to them in the mirror. The three of them were framed by its edges like a photograph, and for a moment it seemed their faces detached in the reflection and floated from their necks, burned into the glass as a separate thing. Maybe they'd never been innocent. Maybe Seth was a dickweed and she was a goofy delusional jackass secretly stuck up. Maybe Courtney had orchestrated the whole night's events to propel Kaitlyn into performing the white trash abortion. And they were all just a bunch of hosed up rednecks hell bent on destroying their own lives and each others. She didn't know, but all that seemed to matter was that instant captured in the mirror. The three faces that meant something if only then. Courtney broke the spell, hanging a fake smile on her face and grabbing them around the shoulders. "Now lets get drunk," Courtney said. She lead them to the kitchen, still shirtless, the boys yelping about strip poker. "Who wants to play," she said trading her whiskey for a beer taunting the boys with her tits. Kaitlyn and Toby removed their shirts in fidelity and sat down to drink their way into the night's dark tunnel. Kaitlyn only knew one thing she decided, and that was the certainty of the next drink. That was an action she controlled. "Let's get this poo poo done" she said, and tipped one back. "Chips, beer, blood, or shirts," she heard Courtney say as she dealt the cards, "Nobody plays for free." twinkle cave fucked around with this message at 05:07 on Apr 13, 2013 |
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Apr 13, 2013 04:33
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To assuage my inassuagable shame for failing to follow through after calling "in" on a total of 4 (four!) occasions, I inertia ruled myself that I cannot call "in" without posting my actual entry for my next 4 entries. (This means I need to submit before the sign up deadline.) So here, making everything worse, is my rewrite of Bad Seafood's The Lion and the Jackal. Slave and Slaver, Weave and Waver 544 Words Sharp teeth, sharp teeth on that one, the Slagland master, high on his sand-colored horse and looking down, so sharp. Those teeth, filed and plated silver, spitting image of Kuraket-the-Consumer. Smiling teeth spitting orders now, walk slaves, walk. And Old Tet, he is walking, is he not? Watch me walk, sharp tooth. Old, familiar sharp tooth. I carry you yet. Yes me, Old Tet, in these stinking robes I hide you. You fetch a pretty penny yourself. A prettier penny than Old Tet can fetch, perhaps, but it’s a shame, such a shame, to pass up a such pretty penny. Sharp whip, sharp sun, sharp teeth, sharp tongue; a Slagland slave again, it’s true. But Old Tet will make out, I always make out. It’s the young ones should be pitied. Ground to bones and skin, to sand and blood, to death or close enough. One here, so close, he’s bound for that, sure as he’s bound to me. Stands proud yet, the beautiful fool, under whip and sun alike. Just like Akham—but no—no sense in that. Sense old man, sense. What has caring ever bought you? But the hot, hard strength, it pulls. He bears it, the heat, the sun, the black knife rocks underfoot; bears it all in silence just like Old Tet, who’s used to bearing what must be born, but with a pride that died in me sometime back. Pride like that will get him killed, get us both killed, just as sure as it pulls me to him, pulls my hand towards….No no no, you old fool, haven’t you any sense left? Wait and live. Like Bashta lived? Like Akham lived? What use is sense or life, when everyone else is so drat dead? Give it to him, give it to him, your precious shining talisman. Worthless for so long, probably worth even less now, but fumble and find and pass in silence. A look, and yes, he understands. It’s in the lock, the master’s tooth, chipping, turning, opening. The chains fall loose and the pull is gone, just the chains all along, pulling deeper into the nothing. There’s nothing but— Don’t fall, old fool! Get up, get up, drat you, drat this old head, splitting. The splitting image of Torgoth, savior maned in glory—but no, just the boy, the boy, standing tall, the young fool! Get down, you fool, get down. Kuraket rides down, and it’s all over again soon. Two gods facing off, and I see it, glinting. The chain. Torgoth is the whip now, dragging down the Consumer, grinding him into the sand. Another comes riding, and Torgoth-the-Boy takes him down roaring and there’s a sword in his hand and he takes them all down till it’s silent again. And look at him, son of blood and sun still standing. He looks at me, says words I’ve never heard, and turns. They’re all looking now, watching him walk into the sun; to a place I’ve never walked. And they follow; because they have no where else to go or perhaps because he is worth following. And maybe I’ll follow, too. For a while. But there’s time yet, before he sets over the horizon. Time for Old Tet to fetch a few pretty pennies.
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Apr 13, 2013 07:28
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Slave and Slaver, Weave and Waver I still haven't forgiven James Joyce for this.
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Apr 13, 2013 10:03
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