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In! Flash rule: Your story must not be set after 1960.
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Nov 26, 2013 02:48
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Quidnose posted:In! I'll take that. Flash rule: No death, murder, violence or crime. Or divorce.
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Nov 26, 2013 03:12
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sebmojo posted:I'll take that. Must include characters from your country's mythology.
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Nov 26, 2013 03:19
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Done. Flash Rule: Your entire story must be set on a tour of some sort.
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Nov 26, 2013 03:20
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In. Flash Rule: Your protagonist has an STI.
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Nov 26, 2013 03:32
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Guess that one be mine. In. Flash rule: your story involves a lost journal of great personal value.
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Nov 26, 2013 03:32
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In. flash rule: Your protagonist is over the age of 70.
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Nov 26, 2013 03:35
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In. Flash rule: a pet has gone missing in your story.
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Nov 26, 2013 03:48
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Fumblemouse posted:Judges: FumbleMouse and some other people who know in their hearts who they are, but have yet to openly acknowledge it.
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Nov 26, 2013 04:21
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Obliterati posted:In. In. Flash rule: your story must include a verse from a country song.
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Nov 26, 2013 04:25
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 Sitting Beef Brawl“the conspiracy does not provide an answer so much as it provides an interminable narrative stretching towards an answer that never arrives.” Two tested, rangy combatants. A weird and gnarly prompt from an X-Files reviewer. And 1000 words. Who will be victor? Ceasefire by Erogenous Beef is a tightly written wartime romance with a fine gritty precision and well-observed historical detail to what it chooses to describe. I could quibble with the decision not to assign names to any of the other people in it apart from the protagonist; I think making them people rather than faceless entities would have placed the two characters in better relief. But that's a minor point. As to how it addressed the prompt - middling. The conspiracy is between the two lovers, the answer never arrives but it's not as interesting as it should be that it doesn't. There's a whiff of a sense that the conspiracy is the war itself, which could have been brought out more, but that's also a minor point. The final line is killer. Beef's competition, Sitting Here, current ruler of the Dome, enters the ring. Unfortunately her story is a weird 90s palimpsest of broken people and the overcomplicated lives they find themselves leading. There's juice in there, but this really doesn't squeeze too hard. The inserted capitals are unconvincing, there's no stylistic unity, the final line about the instructions is confusing; it feels like a story that was really, really hard to write. There's a nice seed towards the end of a conspiracist waking up to their real life, but it's too late to save the story. Verdict: Erogenous Beef, by a knockout.
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Nov 26, 2013 04:58
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RoeCocoa posted:In. In! Flash rule: your story must include a Chevy truck. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 05:44 on Nov 26, 2013 |
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Nov 26, 2013 05:14
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Bad Seafood posted:How's tricks. Tricky, co-judge. Tricky.
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Nov 26, 2013 05:16
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Nubile Hillock posted:In! I'm in. Flash rule: somebody needs to squeal like a piggy.
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Nov 26, 2013 05:40
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In. Flash rule: Someone ruins Thanksgiving. Again.
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Nov 26, 2013 11:49
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Mercedes posted:In. I'll bite for my first. Flash rule: Your story must include a stolen toilet.
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Nov 26, 2013 16:02
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Your Dead Gay Son posted:I'll bite for my first. I'll snag that one before Sweet_Joke_Nectar can get to it. Flash rule: Your story must somehow incorporate a movie considered one of the worst of all time. Nikaer Drekin fucked around with this message at 16:10 on Nov 26, 2013 |
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Nov 26, 2013 16:08
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That rule was made for me. I'm on it. Flash rule: Your main character is heavily medicated. The purpose and/or legality of said medication is none of my concern. Bitchtits McGee fucked around with this message at 18:04 on Nov 26, 2013 |
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Nov 26, 2013 17:48
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Well that sounds like fun. I'm in. Flash rule: Your story must involve a magic frog potion. Interpret that however you like.
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Nov 26, 2013 18:35
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Brawlsults for  Fraction v.  Mercedesgently caress the suspense: Mercedes by a mile. Mercedes, while your piece was rocky in many places and has plenty of mechanical flaws, it had a huge redeeming feature: it was fun to read and immensely entertaining. The clincher, the reason you won this one, was that I actually wanted to read more, not only from the first line to the second, but from the second to the third and so on through the story. Hooking the reader and keeping the reader's attention is a difficult but VITAL thing in fiction writing, and you pulled it off. Don't let this go to your head, as there were still significant problems, which I'll point out shortly. Fraction, you tried to go for deep emotion, but the delivery was too flawed for me to actually empathize with any of your characters, and your opening was both slow and unclear. I was deeply disinterested for half of your story. These sins cost you the win. You have better basic writing mechanics, and, once you drop the G-bomb, the emotion from the protagonist comes across as very genuine. Unfortunately, we don't know enough about her relationship with her parents for that bit to matter, and you seem to be leaning heavily on the parent-child interaction for this piece's weight. Let's dive in. Fraction posted:A Chance Taken (724 words) And on to Merc... Mercedes posted:Black Magic 799 Words DONE.
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Nov 27, 2013 00:37
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And this is how you grab my loving attention. Black Jesus slam-dunks bottled water into a basket of chicken. Tone: established. Set phasers for fun.
"interrupted" is unnecessary and "stepped" is a weak verb for someone breaking up a fight. The deal-sealer is great.
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Optimus Prime Ribs posted:Well that sounds like fun. I'm in. Frog me up. Flash rule: Your story must be in reverse chronological order.
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Nov 27, 2013 00:49
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V for Vegas posted:Frog me up. Sounds like a nice challenge. Flash Rule: Your story must be about something being "broken into pieces".
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Nov 27, 2013 01:08
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Jeza posted:Sounds like a nice challenge. I'd buy that for a dollar. Flash Rule Your story must begin with the protagonist dying.
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Nov 27, 2013 03:24
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Helsing posted:Flash Rule Your story must begin with the protagonist dying. In with this. Flash Rule: Your protagonist is mute.
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Nov 27, 2013 03:38
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Kaishai posted:In with this. Alright, I'll jump on this grenade of a flash rule for the good of my TD brethren who may be still waiting to sign up. Flash Rule: Your protag must be on an nontraditional vacation and your story must reflect that, not just be mere window dressing.
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Nov 27, 2013 05:51
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Walamor posted:Flash Rule: Your protag must be on an nontraditional vacation and your story must reflect that, not just be mere window dressing. Sure why not. Flash Rule: Your protag is a rhino. EDIT: That rhino is depressed. The Saddest Rhino fucked around with this message at 06:43 on Nov 27, 2013 |
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Nov 27, 2013 06:41
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The Saddest Rhino posted:Flash Rule: Your protag is a rhino. ...right then. Flash Rule: You must get your story's title from The Doctor Who Episode Title Generator and the title must be relevant to your story. (But probably don't write Doctor Who fanfiction.)
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Nov 27, 2013 15:45
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Right-o. Flash Rule Your story must take place in a kitchen. Or multiple kitchens. Also your protagonist has Alzheimer's. At what stage is your choice. Edit: First title I got was 'The Cold Terror'. Fits nicely with the initial prompt. Lazy Beggar fucked around with this message at 20:20 on Nov 27, 2013 |
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Nov 27, 2013 20:14
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Been awhile but I finished Nano and I want to run wild and free. Flash Rule: No characters over the age of ten.
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Nov 28, 2013 05:41
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yay mag7 is back. preemptive  to sheriff sebmojo when he tells me to stop chatting.edit: Muffin BRAWLI asked for a delay from DrK because of IRL crap, and she said it was due today, 500 words. I think. I didn't pay attention very well. Ferment 467 words Samantha was the only one who still danced. There wasn’t much else to do since the storm had fried their electronics. Her twirling feet left intricate trails in the sand. The mercenaries--drunk with apathy and wine--whistled as she passed. The black tower dwarfed everything else in the dunes, and reminded her of skyscrapers back on Earth. She moved around it, keeping rhythm with the fans that thumped overhead. After another sweaty samba in the sun, she stopped at the front hatch. "I'd watch you all boil to death out there just to hear music one last time." Simmons reclined in his chair and took another swig of wine. "That’s no way to talk to the only men on the planet. We’re going to be stuck here a long time." Samantha looked to the plains where the ruined husk of their ship rested. “I’d rather die alone.” She ducked inside the hatch. Vines grew up the walls, thick with strange fruits. The air was chilly: the biosphere was a natural air conditioner. Samantha shivered and pulled on her lab coat. She climbed up the spiral ramp that hugged the side of the tower. At the top, Dr. Hüntger hunched over the still, tweaking his latest batch of wine. “Just because the magnetic shielding keeps out the radiation doesn’t mean you need to prance around with half your clothes off.” Samantha searched through her notebook. “It’s only dancing.” “You’re drunk.” “A little bit.” “I just want you to be safe.” She rolled her eyes and showed him her notebook. “I was going over our initial analysis of the fruit, and I noticed this small blip in the spectrometer data. I suggest we stop distilling until we can sequence it.” Dr. Hüntger slumped in his chair and took a cautious sip from his beaker. “That could take weeks. What do you suggest, we drink it raw? After what happened to Baker?” Samantha shrugged. “There has to be a water source somewhere.” “My decision stands.” He put his hand on Samantha’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personally.” She recoiled from his touch. “I have to check the soil pH.” After the sun went down and the desert went dark, the men started complaining about stomach cramps. They laid in their cots and cursed Samantha, who remained unaffected. They cried with pain and begged for a cure. Samantha did all she could, but the men suffocated on their own blood. Samantha moped for the first few days, and then went numb. She worked without joy, fixed her equipment and reanalyzed the alien fruits. Evolved in the steady breezes of the tower: compounds stable and innocuous under constant motion, mutated into deadly poison when stationary. All she had to do to stay alive was keep moving. But by then, Samantha didn’t feel like dancing. crabrock fucked around with this message at 09:02 on Nov 28, 2013 |
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Nov 28, 2013 06:19
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crabrock posted:edit:
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Nov 28, 2013 20:16
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Wait, didn't she say Sunday? crabrock posted:I didn't pay attention very well.
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Nov 28, 2013 20:19
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crabrock posted:yay mag7 is back. 
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Nov 28, 2013 22:08
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magnificent7 posted:Flash Rule: No characters over the age of ten. In. Why not? Flash Rule: Story must involve a list of arbitrary and slightly unnecessary rules.
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Nov 29, 2013 15:37
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missing journal of great personal value Memory Problems 911 words "Hannah, your mother's had a stroke. She's in the hospital," her father said. "Good," said Hannah. With a tap, she hung up the phone. She sat naked in the dark. The last time she had hung up on her father was so long ago, she could remember slamming the landline handset into the cradle. Somehow, that had been far more satisfying. She sighed and fumbled for her bathrobe. "Was that Frank?" her husband mumbled from his pillow. "Why's he calling you?" "Go back to sleep," she said. "I'll deal with it." Out on the balcony, she dialed her father's number. "Dad, I'm sorry. You woke me up, I was in a bad mood - " "Can it, Hannah." "Okay. Okay. What do you need me to do?" "Well, it sounds like she's out of the woods, but she had some brain damage. She's going to be there for a while, doing rehab. They need somebody to get her insurance information, her medical records and all that." He paused. Hannah patted down her pockets, fruitlessly, for cigarettes. "The papers have to be in that house somewhere." The way he said that house assured Hannah that he remembered it no more fondly than she did. --- Eight years of deleting the house from memory, but her feet still knew to skip the rotted porch step. Hannah stood in the ruined living room in her husband's rubber boots. The ammonia reek of rabbit piss was unchanged. Time to play hide and seek, she thought grimly. It took her an hour to find the fireproof safe, buried in a heap of flattened liquor boxes. A fishtank, four fingers deep with mossy water, teetered on top of the pile. Her mother's insurance documents were tucked inside, under a paperclipped packet of Kool-aid points. And so was the journal. It was a waterbloated brick of a book, with the ragged look of a family pet that should have died years ago. Hannah recognized it, although she hadn't known it was a journal, back then: her mother perched on the kitchen counter with a double Jack and Coke, resurrecting the book with her hair dryer after dropping it in the bathtub. "What are you doing?" Hannah had asked. "Why, so you can judge me for it? Brat." It's easy to be close to someone when they don't know that you're there. Memories can't swat you away. She sat down on the sagging couch and began to read. --- Her mother had recorded their life in dark domestic vignettes. The kid finally left for college today. As for me, I'm sitting here rear end naked and tipsy at 11:00 AM. Sweet freedom! Hannah laughed. She flipped back, scanning for further mentions of herself. Crying today. The kid told me she wished I was dead. What was I supposed to do? You told me you wished I had never been born. The police brought her home today. She snuck out again. I don't know what to do. She said she didn't care if she got raped. I wish I hadn't said it, but I said fine, I don't care either. The entries recorded the wounds and indignities that underpin a life. The damage done by proximity to others. Hannah's teacher called today. She's been telling people I abuse her. Hannah cringed in shame. My mother keeps calling just to tell me I drink too much. She had done her share of unwitting damage, in the combats of her childhood. Frank called me today. Inviting me to his wedding, of all things. I told him to get hosed. He called me a failure. She had never realized that it was possible to damage grown-ups. Memory loss, Hannah thought, closing the book. My mother is awfully lucky, that she kept a diary. She'll be able to read it and know just how terrible we all were. Then in thirty years, we'll broker a peace - we'll get together at Christmas and joke about the past. Champagne, fruit cake, and "Oh, I hardly remember what we used to fight about, back then." But then again, she thought, I could always be merciful. Tear it up, and we'll never forgive each other. But there'll be nothing to forgive. Less pain for everyone, that way, she decided. She stood in her mother's cramped bathroom, flushing pages. Two hours later she tossed the flapping covers and battered spine into a grocery-store dumpster, very far from home. --- Her mother grinned at her lopsidedly. "Hannah!" she exclaimed. "That's my daughter!" "Oh, honey, she comes here every weekend," said her nurse, opening the blinds. "You've got a good daughter, you know." With a glance at Hannah, the nurse shuffled out. "I had a stroke, Hannah," her mother said. Even with the lisp and the tremor, the lap blanket and the prescription socks, she looked younger now, and fragile. "I know, ma, you told me last time." "Oh, I'm sorry. I forget things. Because of my stroke." "Here. I got you something." "What's that?" Her mother squinted at the leatherbound book. Hannah handed it over. "It's a journal, ma. You can write in it. I thought it might help you, you know, with your rehab." "Ah!" she exclaimed. "Of course it is. Silly me." She fanned the creamy pages. "I think I like keeping a journal. Did I have one before? I remember writing, but I can't quite - " "If you did," Hannah said, "you never told me about it." God Over Djinn fucked around with this message at 02:21 on Nov 30, 2013 |
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Nov 29, 2013 22:26
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Right then.magnificent7 posted:Flash Rule: No characters over the age of ten. Hide, Harry (842) Ma and Da gave Harry to me when I swam twenty-five meters without floats, and how far is that you ask? Twenty five meters is the distance we have to walk one two three four five SIX seven eight times to where Harry is now when we want to visit him and talk to him through the little hole in his lid. I drag new best friend Tobias Finch out the back door down the brick steps around the stone frog under the climbing vines and round the rosebush that I used to think held fairies though that is a baby thing to think and not the attitude of a SIX year old never mind one who is halfway to seven. Here is the Seeking place. There is a knack (a knack is a trick for grownups) to Hide and Seek and that is to Know The Terrain. I know the Terrain like the back of my hand which we drew in Art and then filled in with paints and since mine is now on the fridge next to other important pieces of paper (e.g. Shopping List and Faulkes Rise Funeral Parlour Invoice) then I know my hand. I know every patch of the garden from the beech tree where we let Harry stay because he always used to watch for birds under there to the bench where Nana would sometimes let me sit when I was being good though now she isn’t here anymore I don’t really want to because the bench is too big for one. I cover my eyes and say okay Tobias ready steady GO and count from one up to twenty, then I keep going to forty because Fair Play and also it is nice to know that I can. Forty is the number of steps from one end of Nana’s I mean our house to the other. When we first got there for living rather than just visiting it seemed too big, with loads of creaking rooms filled with rocking horses and old books and no TV. I sat down on the creaky bed that was supposed to be mine and started to cry like I’d seen Ma do on the telephone the week before when she found out the news. That was when Harry jumped up next to me, and bopped me on the head to say okay Catrin, it en’t the end of all, and slinked out the door flicking his ginger tail which has always meant come and look at this in our language. Tobias may have his own boys’ knacks for Hide and Seek, because he is not behind the shed, he is not under the brick steps, he is not even inside the fairy bush. When Harry played Hide and Seek with me he always went somewhere new and scary, in attics and bedrooms that Da hadn’t yet cleaned out. Once he meowed from under the stairs and I had to go in. I never would have gone but cause it was only a game I sort of could, and that’s how I made Nana’s House into My House, and why I can show new best friend Tobias Finch around and let him hide. But he is clever in a way that makes me have these memories, and so I have to explore further. It is five times twenty five (one hundred and twenty five) metres to get to the tangle of thorns in front of the Secret Garden. The wind is cold, but I don’t have my stockings on because I’m being a boy today, so getting through will be difficult, but I straight away know that is what Tobias realised too: that sacrifices must be made to win. Da had said girl, you have to know when to let go, and he had pushed the box containing Harry into the flames and I had screamed so loud it must have gone twenty-five twenty-fives, then we sat on the bench for a long time watching the rain sink into the ground, and I knew somehow that things had to go back to where they came from when it was time. I have a cut in my leg like a tiny road but it’s worth it because beyond the thorns there beside the beech tree is the defeated Tobias Finch and he is pointing at- “I di’ent mean to-” White dust cakes the toe of his black trainer. It streaks in one line from where he’s sitting, shaking, back to the tree, back into Harry’s upturned jar. The tiniest white sprinkle remains on the lip. Tobias scrambles to put it back in, “I di’ent know, Catrin!” But the cold wind blows through the garden, picking up ash and sprinkling it through all the trees, over the bench, out into the fields and maybe beyond forever, and when Tobias Finch sees my face he smiles, because I’m smiling and maybe he understands what I know, that Harry will be happy in his new home of a thousand hiding places. drat, nearly sign-up and entry in one go
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Nov 30, 2013 00:34
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Sign-ups are now closed. Actually they closed a couple of hours ago, but I was having a nap on the bones of those I crushed to attain the ThunderCrown.
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Nov 30, 2013 07:09
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Nov 30, 2013 20:50
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The Naturalist - 800. flash magic frog potion Day 344. Sasak was hit on the head by a Durian today. We were about 3 hours out from the village when I spotted a what looked like a new sub-genus of the Kakatua. Sasak was trying to climb the tree to get a better shot at it when his clumsy shaking of the tree dislodged the fruit. Worse, the noise and movement scared the bird away. Fortunately I was able to observe it for some minutes beforehand. It looked very similar to the Australian sulfer-crested Cockatoo, however I have never seen one this close to Bali and the Wallace line. (cf. notebook XVIII plate 32 for the sketch I made this afternoon). Sasak gave me the Durian. It is sitting on my table before me now. The spines that hit his scalp are turning brown from the blood. I must make sure to eat it tomorrow as they are at their best when they are ripe. Day 345. We returned to the Durian tree where we saw the Kakatua yesterday. Sasak looked quite amusing with his head swathed strips of banana leaves. I observed several Durian on the ground that appeared to have been ripped open by narrow beaks. I wonder if the Kakatua in this region have learned how to eat the fruit? They are certainly formidable plants (cf. notebook II, sketch 5). The fruit is slightly oval shaped, like a small Rugby ball, weighing approx. 4lbs. The hard skin is covered in strong, sharp spines. It is so heavily armoured that it is no small matter to even pick one up off the ground. The inside is made up of five cells containing a mass of firm, cream-coloured, edible pulp. Certainly the Kakatua I observed were the only birds in this region with the tools necessary to break into such a well fortified fruit. Did they attack them while they were on the tree or did they gnaw at their stems to drop them onto the ground first? If the latter, perhaps the birds are Sasak’s true enemy from yesterday? I ate his Durian this evening - the taste really is indescribable. Hopefully some of the seeds I am bringing back will sprout at Kew. Day 346. Total waste of a day today. Sasak could hardly carry the equipment a mile before he collapsed. His head has swollen up under its banana leaf bandages to almost twice its size. The willingness of these natives to push their bodies to their physical limits really is remarkable but he is not going to be much good to me for the next few days. Day 350. Sasak was still in the local shaman’s steam hut so I returned to the Durian tree by myself. I arrived early and was greeted with a fantastical sight. Approx. 30 Kakatua’s were perched in the tree, flying around and emitting a tremendously high pitched squawking noise. Just as I had thought, the birds would grab onto the husks of the fruit with their claws and bite at the stem with their sharp beaks. The soft fibre of the tree would be cut away quickly and the fruit would fall to the ground some 30 feet below. Several birds would then descend on the fallen fruit, working on small fractures in the outer casing to get at the pulp beneath. I observed at least half a dozen fruit dispatched in this manner. It was almost like a game to the birds, swooping in, ripping at the flesh and then scooting away before the next one could get in. But within 40 minutes it was all over. I stayed there for the rest of the day but the birds did not return. Hopefully Sasak is better tomorrow and can carry my equipment so I can make a decent observation. Day 351. Another interesting day, if no further observations of the Kakatua. Visiting Sasak in the shaman hut he had not improved. Although with the treatment he is getting I am not surprised. I observed the village shaman (cf. notebook IV, plate 55) make up a poultice to dress Sasak’s wound. It mainly consisted of some small orange frogs that are found in the jungle in these parts, ground up into a paste that he would spit in from time to time. He would then mutter some shamanic mumbo-jumbo over the repulsive unguent before smearing onto Sasak’s head. All I can say is I hope I don’t require his services. Day 356. Tremendous day at the Durian tree. cf. XVIII plates 35, 36, 37, 38 and 39. Specimens 156, 157 and 158. The only sour note was Dyak still hasn’t learnt to secure the cages properly so the live specimens we took such pains to capture escaped. We will try again tomorrow.
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Dec 1, 2013 01:28
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CRABRAWL Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Muffin: Ekhidna Why a wise man dies under clear sky She went under the earth without a sound. Funny that; how everybody is listening on the one day you're least equipped to speak. Listening hard, as if you're to open your eyes at any second, tell them they were wrong, and let the ache release its grip from their ribs and throats. On the day they buried her, not a sound was heard – not even birdsong. Only, she didn't die, as such. As a germ of her soul fell through the pine, it took into itself a mouthful of dirt, and another. Greedy, feasting on worms, bones and char as the world turned in the far-and-away. The part of her that left her body behind called itself Ophiadne; the snake woman, for she coiled and uncoiled around the roots of the world, choking or giving breath as she saw fit, drinking deeply of the souls that fell down through the cracks. With their joys and sorrows, she strove to fill the hole the silence had left behind. From her came others, shat out and taken on forms of their own, to suckle at that monstrous teat, and fail to grow strong. There was Jula; the Empty, Sawat; the Cavernous, Egritta; the Blasphemy of Stars. All grand names, struggling in the shadow of the snake woman, feeding on the scraps she left behind until they were little bone twists topped with gasping mouths, ribboned with their many grasping hands, staring eyeless and screaming tongueless against the tyranny of the mud and stone. All starved, but were denied death. The tendrils of their dreams twitched through the veil and into the dreams of mortals, who woke screaming about a wasteland of souls, and a baroness who ruled the roots of the tree of life. A painter woke one morning unable to paint, and took his hand in a fit of rage. A poet, truly lost for words, cut out his own tongue. There were more, but they matter no more than raindrops on dirt, run together in a shallow trickle of lost souls, a million deep. The draught of gods, or something like them. A draught of which there is no cup deep enough, nor will there ever be. When they feed, the sky weeps openly, as if a great flood could wash them away. If you would die in the rain, hold on. There are things worse than death, as Ophiadne herself learnt so long ago. [400ish]
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Dec 1, 2013 09:42
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