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Thunderbawls Chillmatic vs. Crabrock or Ike Vs. Tina or some poo poo. Worthy--748 words. Follow me around for ten minutes, and I’d be lost for nine. My friends say that, and, in fairness, that had been true until a year ago--the day I met Evelyn. I had taken a new job in Chicago, and even as I stepped off the train, I was hopelessly disoriented and fumbling in my backpack for the paper map I’d packed. The first time I saw her was in front of the train depot; she was in her car, rolling slowly past me as I stood fighting the wind to keep the map from blowing out of my hands. I heard a laugh and looked up. She was brushing aside her dark bangs and taking off a large pair of sunglasses. She looked at me, and right then I learned that it was impossible to appear sophisticated while wrangling a flimsy paper map in front of a beautiful woman. She called out, “You look lost.” “I am!” I said, having to shout over a departing train. She smiled, put on her hazard lights, and summoned me over. She asked why didn’t I carry a smartphone. I told her, three seconds before the map blew out of my hands and onto the roof of the train depot, that cellphones weren’t always reliable and that I could, at least, count on this. Then it was gone and we both laughed. And for the next 359 days, we would laugh together--for 359 days, she tolerated my wandering indecisions. With her to guide me, I didn't get lost. Not even once. *** On the 360th day, our apartment had once again become her apartment. Our things had divided, becoming either hers, or mine. Mostly hers. What little there was of mine was packed into a small U-Haul sitting in the potholed parking lot of a downtown diner. What little there was of us was packed into a small booth, sitting on opposite sides, neither of us touching our food. I’d arrived late. We’d been here dozens of times before, but she had always driven; I could have sworn it was on the other side of the highway. Last night I dreamed of a man on a ship, lost at sea in a storm. “The mail key,” she mumbled, twisting the paper wrapping of her straw into a rumpled spine. Last week, sitting in that same seat, she’d grinned and blown the wrapper at my cheek. “The what?” “The mail key,” she gestured to the envelope on the table. “Did you remember to leave it? With the key to the front door?” I hadn’t. I pulled out my keys, and she watched me fumble unsuccessfully with the ring. After a minute I said, "I don't think I can get it. Can I mail it to you?” “This was the only copy,” she said, flatly. “Oh. Right.” The god Poseidon took pity on the man, and gifted him his most beautiful, detailed nautical map. Our voices were tired. Yesterday morning we would have laughed, together, at the irony of one’s only mail key sitting inside a locked mailbox. I wanted to go home. To our home. But, so the man could prove himself worthy of a god’s intervention, Poseidon sent also a tremendous wave to crash against the man’s ship. I’d experienced Chicago like I’d experienced Evelyn: I had failed to learn the shape of the city as well as the shape of her mind, never quite knowing which dark alleys, which arguments, to avoid. But even still she’d helped guide me as I’d fumbled through my choices and my life, and she’d done it with grace. I'd lost it all in nine minutes. One decision. One wrong turn. The man’s grip was weak, his spirit unworthy. Finally I removed the key and put it in the envelope, and Evelyn said, “I guess that’s everything.” She started to stand. “Eve, wait--please.” The roaring, blistering water tore the map from the man’s hands. Her sigh was a mother’s frustration at a toddler with a full diaper. “You can’t ask me to be there, Alex, to take care of you anymore. Not after yesterday. I need to do this while I’m still angry enough to go through with it.” She grabbed the envelope and turned to leave and I never heard her voice again. Soon after, the man sailed off the far edge of the earth. Outside the diner I unfolded and stared at the new map I had bought. It began to rain.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 02:03 |
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# ? Mar 29, 2024 01:46 |
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Lord Windy posted:I'm asking about the prompt, not a crit on my piece. ... okay. Didja Redo is doing some crits, so s/he'll probably address it there. I thought that Zack's was definitely better than yours as a response to the prompt. See Sitting Here's in the other thread for another example of how to do it right. It's a hard bastard to do well, no question - you have to create an atmosphere by the interrelationship of things, without being really allowed any personality in the way you observe those things (which is where most people fell down). It puts the focus on the small, well-observed detail, which is what Zack did best. Specifically, there was an emotional kick from Zack's, a feeling of desolation and decay and forgetting, that was completely absent in yours. I think you had quite an involved story in your head but the point of that prompt is you can't tell an involved story in that form. TEll a simple one well instead. quote:THE SPECTACULAR CRABROCK V. FUMBLEMOUSE V. NIKAER DREKIN DUEL FOR THE HONOR OF NOT BEING DISQUALIFIED COMES TO A THRILLING CONCLUSION! I will crit these (and your prompt stories) presently. I've come round to accepting maybe 15% of the blame for telling you the wrong time, so I may walk the disqualification thing back but probably not WE'LL HAVE TO SEE. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 02:18 on Sep 10, 2013 |
# ? Sep 10, 2013 02:06 |
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Lord Windy posted:I'm asking about the prompt, not a crit on my piece. It's a fair question. Think of it like this. I, as your reader, am a lone detective at a crime scene. No witnesses. I don’t have a bunch of people around to re-enact what happened for me. All I’ve got is a bloodied knife and a torn bag of white powder. Let's take the second half of crabrock's piece, for example. An understocked fridge, dry toothbrush and unused bathtub all paint a picture of someone not taking care of themselves. Given the first half, we infer that the person is a depressed widow whose husband died in battle. But we’re never actually shown the widow or told how she’s feeling. It’s all conveyed in those incidental details. I think that piece fell down for other reasons, but I’ll get to those in a bit. That’s the kind of thing I wanted this week. It’s easy to set a scene, but it’s harder to have the details mean something.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 02:33 |
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Thank you Didja.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 03:15 |
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Hey judges, nuts to you *thumbs nose* *puts dog poop on your doorsteps*
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 03:25 |
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Sitting Here posted:Hey judges, nuts to you sitttiiiiinnnnggggg HEEEEEERRREEE!!!!
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 03:40 |
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sebmojo posted:Is that the Nubile Hillock no-show? About the coffee plant? Can't get it up?
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 03:42 |
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Capntastic posted:Can't get it up? Pshaw. I'll give you erectile dysfunction! quote:Cultivating de Clieu Okay this abounds with minor infelicities, but it's actually not bad. I like the restrained conversation in the middle, and the sense of calm in our dude at the end. It falls down on not having much point to the flashback - there's no change between the beginning and the end, so why not start back in PAris? You could have used the words to make a cool ironic argument that then got flipped around by the way he feels at the end. But a likeable piece. Nubile Hillock will have to do a good job to beat-- Nubile Hillock posted:CAPNTASTIC IS WINNER!!!!
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 05:04 |
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Lord Windy posted:Metal Men Meanwhile, a computer in the cockpit suffered a blue screen of death. The pilot wrote down the error message, then killed himself with a needle. Robot men huddle around the corpse and silently reminisce about Windows 95. If this is correct then fair enough, and I don’t get it. If it isn’t then I just don’t get it. Use of past perfect tense and occasionally awkward sentence structure made it feel clunky. Bolded some offenders. The Saddest Rhino posted:Technicolour Saturday Morning Daydream (approx. 600 words) Your prose goes from purple to ultraviolet in a few spots, and you’ve got some really weird sentences that just read like mistakes, but I don’t know how much of that was intentional. Example: quote:The television cabinet door is ajar, and from within spills out open boxes of the console’s games, adorning colourful art of mascot animals and caped supermen. Ultimately, I can’t give this a good score because the goal was to tell me a story. Parody or not, I never get a sense of what actually happened here besides some vague scary 8-bit poo poo. Go read TEH DAY OF ALL TEH BLOD and try again. M. Propagandalf posted:No Respect That isn’t why you lost, though. You lost because you missed the spirit of the prompt by personifying the dog. Your dog is a character. The prompt was called “No characters allowed.” I know I said animals were fine, but that just meant “It’s okay for a dog to be there.” Otherwise everyone could have just written about talking dogs. CancerCakes posted:Kurst It’s descriptive, but to no real end. The detail implies nothing beyond “this is happening.” I could probably squeeze 500 words out of a door being opened if I described the texture of the wood, the shape of the knob, the sound it makes, the internal mechanisms, but so what? Zack_Gochuck posted:Class of 2002 docbeard posted:Impermanent Record Even setting the prompt aside, I don’t think it’s necessary. You’d still have a clear, coherent story (well done there) without little asides like this: quote:Not that future missions are likely any time soon. Lightbringer was controversial at best before it ever launched, and has only become more so in the wake of what happened. Anathema Device posted:Expecting Fumblemouse posted:Tomorrow's fish and chip wrapper I don’t know. If I’m supposed to feel unnerved, unnerve me. Don’t tell me I should be unnerved. I’ll decide how I feel, fucker. As for the rest of it, I’m seeing purple and extraneous words all over the place. Gonna take an excerpt here to demonstrate: quote:To create a perfect facsimile is no easy task. Vast amounts of work have gone into the duplicate, crabrock posted:The Things They Left Behind Nikaer Drekin posted:Drift HOWEVER, the “dead man with gun sitting next to him” scenario is about the most obvious thing you could have done with this prompt, so right away I wanted you to surprise me somehow. You didn’t. It’s not really explored. I guess he just got tired and gave up. Blah. Mercedes posted:Counter Clock Wise That aside, it feels empty. You give us this bizarre situation and then don’t really tell us anything about it. They build ligaments. Then they build blood vessels. Then they build flesh. Then they build organs. How? What the gently caress does any of this look like? There’s no clear image. Just “this happened, then this, then this.” Sitting Here posted:*puts dog poop on your doorsteps*
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 05:12 |
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Didja Redo posted:
Dang this dude reached Thunderdome enlightenment* in just one incarnation. And they said the Kwisatz Haderach couldn't be born this generation. tsk tsk reverend mother Crabrock. *A mix between experiencing Stockholm syndrome and being a permanently damaged misanthrope where is the prompt edit: The prompt must flow
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 05:52 |
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PPPPPPRRRRRRROOOOOOMMMPPPPPPTTTTTTT
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 05:54 |
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What's the attitude towards reusing characters for different prompts if all the stories stand on their own? I have a couple characters/situations I'd like to revisit with more tact at some point, but I don't know if that's cool.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 06:01 |
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sebmojo posted:Pshaw. I'll give you erectile dysfunction! Thanks for this. As much as I'd like to soak up the easy win, the actual duel that Hillock dropped from was Cyberpunk Blaxploitation 2.0. It'd be unfair to Jagermonster to not have this three-way settled proper, even if it's not you stepping up to judgement. Entries were this from Jagermonster and this from me.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 06:17 |
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I wasn't late! You were early!
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 06:33 |
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Anathema Device posted:What's the attitude towards reusing characters for different prompts if all the stories stand on their own? I have a couple characters/situations I'd like to revisit with more tact at some point, but I don't know if that's cool. Do what you must.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 06:36 |
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Anathema Device posted:What's the attitude towards reusing characters for different prompts if all the stories stand on their own? I have a couple characters/situations I'd like to revisit with more tact at some point, but I don't know if that's cool. http://lmgtfy.com/?q=somethingawful+thunderdome+bronco Yeah I didn't like this prompt because you weighted it towards an aftermath scenario, which I found boring and played out. I tried something different and it didn't really work, so I'll take my lumps and shut up n- Where is the prompt.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 10:17 |
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Yes, give us a prompt!
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 10:31 |
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sebmojo posted:Crikey, I kind of hated this one too. You're a solid writer, Rhino, but this is melodramatic and overdescribed where it isn't pompous. Also a possible loser. Didja Redo posted:I’m pretty sure this is a parody of haunted video game creepypasta. With that in mind, I’m not sure how to judge it. Brutal crit this time, and I can agree since this is possibly my least proud work in TD. I feel the inability to actually have characters hurt the story, since I wanted to write about the HAUNTED VIDEO GAME turning a kid in the 90s into a crazed zombie because HAUNTED. I'm not entirely sure where you got the parody vibes from (other than the alternate ending), since this http://invisiblegames.net/archives/killswitch/ was the atmosphere I was going for.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 12:00 |
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sebmojo posted:PPPPPPRRRRRRROOOOOOMMMPPPPPPTTTTTTT Am I supposed to make a prompt? I didn't even realize I won until this morning. *Edit* I'm going to assume that I'm supposed to make one. Week 58: Seeing vs. Seen Traditionally when you write a piece of fiction, you tell the story from the protagonist's perspective. We'll call this a seeing character. I want you to write a story where the protagonist is not your seeing character. In other words, we don't get to see things from the protagonist's perspective but through an unrelated incidental character's perspective. It's pretty much open besides that. Extra points will be given if the your seeing character's perspective skewers our view of the protagonist in some way. If you structure your story in a way that the seeing character/narrator/whatever-you-want-to-call-them steals the spotlight from the protagonist, you lose, loser. Limit is 1,000 words. Check out Kurt Vonnegut's Welcome to the Monkey House if you need an example. He does this in a bunch of the stories in there such as "The Hyannis Port Story." *Edit* Here is a good definition, but your story does not need to be in first-person: quote:A peripheral narrator is a first-person narrator who's not the main character. She gets to give us the lowdown on the juicy dealings of the true protagonists and antagonists, all while watching from a safe distance. Think Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Judges: Me and whoever. Signups due: Saturday, 14th September, 11:59pm GMT Submissions due: Sunday, 15th September, 11:59pm GMT Entrants: Jeza Lord Windy crabrock Mercedes Ceighk CantDecideOnAName Benagain sebmojo Sitting Here systran Fumblemouse Anathema Device Kaishai Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 22:59 on Sep 15, 2013 |
# ? Sep 10, 2013 12:18 |
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I'm in. Question: please say when you wrote 'skewers our view' you meant it literally? finally my chance to write about a javelin-cum-jousting tournament, waited so long for this so long
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 14:12 |
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I'm in!
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 15:18 |
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In for protagonist-kebabs.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 15:23 |
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Gmt? Is that gonna be a 7pm est thing again? I'm in btw
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 15:24 |
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In.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 17:22 |
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It's been too long. Hopefully life will allow me enough time to pound something out. Let me in.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 19:03 |
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Aright. Still wearing my badge of shame which I have vowed to undo honorably. In.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 19:15 |
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Benagain posted:Aright. Still wearing my badge of shame which I have vowed to undo honorably. In. If you win I'll buy you an av. In.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 21:05 |
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Who want to help judge this poo poo show?
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 22:08 |
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I can judge if you need it.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 22:11 |
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sebmojo posted:
In.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 22:19 |
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Jagermonster posted:HillockXCapntasticXJagermonster Duel Capntastic posted:Professionalism I really enjoyed this one, though it could do with a few tweaks. The idea behind it is better and less cliche than Jagermonster's, and the execution is way better. So, again, CAPNTASTIC IS WINNER
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 23:28 |
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Nyarai posted:I can judge if you need it. Yeah sure, gently caress it.
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# ? Sep 10, 2013 23:52 |
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I'm in.
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# ? Sep 11, 2013 01:23 |
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sebmojo posted:I really enjoyed this one, though it could do with a few tweaks. The idea behind it is better and less cliche than Jagermonster's, and the execution is way better. Martello posted:THUNDERDUEL: Yeah this thing well dogs and dinner and honeymoons and whatever Capntastic posted:Professionalism Your little introductory paragraph is a little expospeaky, but it works here. It's just short enough that I don't get bored, and now I know what kinda dude Colaman is. Short fiction is where we have to find a balance between showing and telling. Sometimes a characters backstory is important enough to summarize, and you did that quite nicely. "Black Person Carrier" is either the most awesome name for a car or the worst. I think it's probably the worst. This is awesome: "two beefed up white guys with the neck veins and chrome look down solid" Starts to get a little too much into telling. It's sort of like a show/tell hybrid. It's tough because of the shorter word limit, but you could use a few concise descriptive sentences about the beefy white dudes staring him down and what the industrial neighborhood looked like. PDA is the stupidist thing, PDAs have been obsolete since last century. Say "phone" or "pad" or "tablet" or something. Seb already hit some of the other stuff I was gonna say. I'm gonna go ahead and disagree with him on the double twist, though, because I loving loved it. Totally didn't see it coming and it's funny as hell. It also fits the flash rule of "gets in trouble because of a lack of way with words." Overall this is a huge improvement on your "Hard Disk" story. Jagermonster posted:Cyborg Systa Settles a Score I like the "everyone meets in cyberspace" thing, very GitS. Woulda liked a little more description of the cyberworld, but maybe you didn't have enough . You still could have said that the meeting place was "a void, because Montag thought it was intimidating" or whatever. The dialogue is plain, nobody has any voice to speak of until Gretchen turns into Systa. The story loses clarity halfway through. I get that the other dudes at the meeting are Montag's business associates or whatever, but who's Viscone? Is he Montag's boss? Was Systa one of Montag's whores but got burned half to death and is out for Kill Bill-style revenge? What's really going on here? You have some decent potential here, but like seb said it doesn't really go anywhere. REDUNDANT VERDICT I'll have to concur with the grizzled Kiwi here and give it to Capntastic. Jagermonster should have to buy a new av for Capn. Just sayin.
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# ? Sep 11, 2013 02:09 |
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Okay so here's what happened there was some errors made and that led to some other errors and through the natural and organic process of the Thunderdome these three assholes had to crap out some stories and here they are. But were they any good? Dunno! Let's find out! crabrock posted:THE SPECTACULAR CRABROCK V. FUMBLEMOUSE V. NIKAER DREKIN DUEL FOR THE HONOR OF NOT BEING DISQUALIFIED COMES TO A THRILLING CONCLUSION! Fumblemouse posted:THE SPECTACULAR CRABROCK V. FUMBLEMOUSE V. NIKAER DREKIN DUEL FOR THE HONOR OF NOT BEING DISQUALIFIED CONTINUES NOW! Hm. This is a sweet, gentle sort of story where nothing really happens and that's just about okay. However the language isn't quite precise enough to put across the old lady vibe you're aiming at, and it falls just this side of the line where something really ought to happen to make the story worth reading. The bit about the service ending could definitely have been it, but it was unsupported and so did not. If you'd given her a reaction it would probably have inched over the line. Rating: a slightly curled but still tasty cucumber sandwich quarter, left over from the bridge club. Nikaer Drekin posted:THE SPECTACULAR CRABROCK V. FUMBLEMOUSE V. NIKAER DREKIN DUEL FOR THE HONOR OF NOT BEING DISQUALIFIED BEGINS NOW! This is breezy, but effective. You paint a tight picture of the latest excursion from the Fuckup Brothers and give good banter. Rating: A Whopper with extra cheese eaten in the BK carpark before the heist while arguing about football. BRAWL JUDGMENT Crabrock steals the win, Nikaer Drekin and Fumblemouse in the rear. Were I to retro-disqualify anyone it would be Fumblemouse, but on the advice of my therapist I'm trying to make a new life where I don't do that kind of stuff anymore. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 07:23 on Sep 11, 2013 |
# ? Sep 11, 2013 06:00 |
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no sorry, it wasn't "it's all a dream." I was trying to do a little riff on that. He fell asleep, and started dreaming at the end. I realize I didn't make that quite clear. But I would support you killing me if I had done that. My chillmatic brawl piece: Cities & Identity 511 Words The city flows around us at glacial speeds. Steel highrises with reflective scales swallow homes whole. While we sleep, the metamorphosis continues. Sometimes subtly, sometimes entire neighborhoods erode in the night. Each morning we wake to find a stranger lurking outside. Machines scurry ahead of the looming behemoth, erasing the past beneath sheets of asphalt. Men in orange vests rapt their fists on our door, a timeline of two children notched into the jamb on the other side of their insistent fists. We needn’t speak; widening eyes and twitches of our cheeks convey complex thoughts. Fleeting touches the equivalent of long embrace. We hold each other as colors flow through frosted pane, and finally fade. The city’s two roads come from and lead to the same place. The young pick their favorite road through irrational and fictitious criteria. There is no demonstrable proof of greater prestige or utility of either road, but superstition, habit, and pride make the choice permanent for life. Our son emigrated using one road, and our daughter another. We have no interest in leaving. The skyscrapers climb higher, and their shadows grow longer. I used to lay out in the backyard to tan; now there is only dark. The only remaining way to entrain circadian rhythms is the television’s terminator between primetime and infomercials. Even looking straight up, it is hard to tell where the night sky begins. The haze washes out the stars; I gaze cityward for that same beautiful sense of insignificance. Constellations of flickering street lights snake around the darkened buildings. After watching the lights long enough, their ghosts persist in every blink. My view wanders, and the lights of reality amalgamate with the phase-shifted wraiths, creating an imaginary boulevard through downtown. It both circumvents and penetrates buildings and plazas, vivisecting the sleeping giant. An artery and a sword, ferrying goods and slicing the city into pieces. But like health that deteriorates after youth, it too evaporates. Our son calls to demand we emigrate to the countryside, where he says there is still fresh air. Even with his medical degree, he can’t diagnose our condition through copper. The monster grows in all dimensions simultaneously, and not in any discernible pattern. A third floor grows west while a fifth floor grows down. Buildings change direction, merge, disappear into the collective of the city. The skyline is Medusa’s hair. The buildings converge to block the sky. We are being digested. Our daughter calls to say she is proud of our commitment, and to say good bye. On our wall she is immortalized in intermittent ages. Then the constellations begin to go dark like the houses before them. We are afraid to step outside. The water stops flowing, the food runs dry, the television is only static and the phone lines are dead. I recall our agent hammering a wooden sign into the lawn. Sold. Before we knew who we were. I thought I knew, but it only lasted for a short while. Like an afterimage, it becomes harder to grasp, buried beneath the city.
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# ? Sep 11, 2013 06:53 |
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Chillmatic posted:Thunderbawls Chillmatic vs. Crabrock or Ike Vs. Tina or some poo poo. With the caveats above, I loved this story. A nice evocation, with the involuted philosophising about cities tweaking my Calvino nerve nicely. My one issue is your decision to keep the misdeed secret, unless it was hinted at and I didn't pick it up. I can see why you'd do it but I think it's a mistake - feels... cowardly, not exposing the protagonist? Not sure.
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# ? Sep 11, 2013 10:07 |
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sebmojo posted:BRAWL JUDGMENT Crabrock steals the win, Nikaer Drekin and Fumblemouse in the rear. Were I to retro-disqualify anyone it would be Fumblemouse, but on the advice of my therapist I'm trying to make a new life where I don't do that kind of stuff anymore. Your badly programmed psyche is no concern of mine. I accept my retro-disqualification from the last round with humour, grace and absolutely no hint of a concealed weapon. Thankfully my detail piece was poo poo (4am turns out not to be a magical hour of wordsmithery) so no real loss to the dome. Congrats to the crab in the hat. Clearly I'm on a downward spiral TD wise. I need a photo-opportunity. I want a shot at redemption. Don't want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard In for this week.
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# ? Sep 11, 2013 22:20 |
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Inadequate brawl entry. The Conference (188) “And you are?” Rachel tried not to stare at the large ring distending the purple-haired girl’s earlobe. “Rachel Parsimmon. I’m the keynote speaker?” The girl plucked a badge from the standing ranks of plastic as Rachel rubbed her trouser pocket between thumb and forefinger. “Talking about Psychoanalysis I bet. I did it at school,” the badge changed hands, “Shag your mother and kill your father: Achilles Complex. That Fraud chap was crazy, thought everyone was a pervert or something.” The girl winked. Rachel bit her lip. “I’m Francesca, if you need any directions just let me know.” She sat on the table and crossed her legs, a flip-flop dangling from her toe. “You must be the best, they charge a load for this conference.” “Well I’m quite well known, but there are probably people here who are better.” Francesca arched back, grasped the back edge of the table, and yawned beautifully. Rachel fumbled with the badge pin and managed to attach it to her shirt on the third attempt. “What did you say you’re talking about?” “Cognitive Biases, specifically the Dunning-Kruger effect.” “Yeah, I know all about that.”
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# ? Sep 11, 2013 22:44 |
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# ? Mar 29, 2024 01:46 |
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CancerBrawl: Inadequacy Offside 200 words Derek Wiblage had sex for the first time in the toilets of the Taumaranui Football Club just as Jeff Tamati knocked in a winning header. Derek heard the cheers. Bloody hell, he said, wilting and withdrawing. But it was too late, he’d missed it – and a local home game didn’t warrant instant replays. His paramour, Tracey from the chip shop, gave him a look redolent of hot fat and its effects on battered sausage. The relationship did not last; Derek moved to Chinese food. He struck up a conversation with Kelly Huang at the Golden Bowl Takeaway on Seddon Street ane thing led to another, which led to a knee trembler under the stands while Taumaranui battled arch rivals Pungapunga for the season decider. The penalty shoot-out went to extra time and Derek muffed his shot. He saw the red card in her eyes and went off, defeated. Ten years later he saw the headline in the morning paper, embezzlement, fraud, malfeasance. Football club wound up. Misty-eyed, he tossed the paper on the floor; put in his old home video of their greatest games. As it played he unzipped his fly. The lads were flickering and golden through the static rain. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 20:55 on Oct 8, 2013 |
# ? Sep 11, 2013 23:41 |