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Feb 3, 2014 04:01
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DreamingofRoses posted:In with the 1960s and a DreamingofRoses, you have maybe two hours before this gets called in.
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Feb 3, 2014 04:14
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sebmojo posted:DreamingofRoses, you have maybe two hours before this gets called in. I'll take the Toxx like a big girl. It's my own fault for thinking I can write.
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Feb 3, 2014 04:38
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DreamingofRoses posted:I'll take the Toxx like a big girl. Horseshit. You start writing right now. Crank those words out. 1 hour 20 to go.
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Feb 3, 2014 04:40
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DreamingofRoses posted:I'll take the Toxx like a big girl.
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Feb 3, 2014 04:44
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DreamingofRoses posted:I'll take the Toxx like a big girl. You sit your rear end down and you deliver a story or you'll never be able to look at yourself in the mirror again.
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Feb 3, 2014 04:49
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DreamingofRoses posted:I'll take the Toxx like a big girl.  May buy your account back, but it can not buy back your self-respect. Write!
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Feb 3, 2014 04:55
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Don't give up, DoR! I got in my horseshit story, you can, too!
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Feb 3, 2014 05:21
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I want to see a loving story. You better be writing.
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Feb 3, 2014 05:28
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DreamingofRoses posted:I'll take the Toxx like a big girl. Write something you idiot. Nothing can be worse than my story this week anyway!
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Feb 3, 2014 05:41
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DreamingofRoses posted:I'll take the Toxx like a big girl.
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Feb 3, 2014 05:52
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Victory of Man (824) ”Neil, look,” the blue-eyed astronaut gestured out the window of the Lunar Module to the grey-white surface shining beneath them, and a particular problem for where the module was aiming. ”drat it,” Armstrong stared at the scene for a moment before pulling himself into position carefully in the small, machinery filled space. After flipping a few switches and adjusting the microphone embedded among the buttons, Armstrong peered through the window again. ”Houston, there’s a problem.” ”Roger. What happened?” The cracking voice from the speakers in the module belied the nervousness felt by the entire room at Mission Control. ”Something’s wrong with the landing sensor, the module’s overshot it’s original landing point and we’re aimed for a bad area. I’ll have to land manually,” Armstrong glanced at Aldrin. ”Roger, keep us informed,” The silence fell heavy on Mission Control. The only noise came from one of the workers relaying information from the Columbia into the module. ”We’re spinning, Buzz. employ detent,” Armstrong looked out the window and back at the sensor data. ”Houston, I’ve found a nice little crater to land in, I’m aiming for it now. Buzz, what’s our position?” ”Okay. We’re 100 feet from the surface, heading three-and-a-half feet-per-sec down, and 9 forward. Five percent of fuel’s left. Quantity light.” ”Five percent? Eagle, you have ninety seconds to land or you’ll have to abort.” They wouldn’t have enough fuel to get back to the Columbia if they didn’t. Silence reigned until Buzz’s next set of data. ”Seventy-five feet. And it's looking good. Down a half, six forward.” ”Sixty seconds.” ”Sixty feet, down two-and-a-half.” There was a brief silence as Buzz sought the rest of the information, ”Two forward. That's good.” Neil couldn’t let his concentration slip. His eyes were everywhere at once, monitoring the burn rate of the fuel as well as their position in relation to the lunar surface. His hands kept the craft in a steady direction despite Buzz’s next comment. ”We’re drifting forward and to the right a little, but that’s good. It’s good. Four forward, down a half. We’re 20 feet up. Our shadow’s on the surface now.” ”Thirty Seconds, Eagle.” Neil’s eyes saw nothing but the controls. One of the sensors on the bottom of the craft signaled that it had made soft contact with the surface and Buzz called out, ”Contact light!” A few seconds passed before the definite thud of landing on the surface shuddered the module. Neil let out a long breath he had been holding unconsciously, and began the landing protocol. ”Shutdown” ”Okay, engine stop,” Buzz began flicking the switches to shut down the burn engines. ”ACA is out of detent.” ”Mode control - both auto. Descent engine command override off. Engine arm - off. 413 is in,” Neil let out a breath and glanced at Buzz who was grinning from ear-to-ear. Aldrin was also standing, as was he. An odd feeling after the weeks of earlier weightlessness. ”Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.” The cheering at Mission Control could be heard through the speakers. When it died down, the congratulations had finished, and instructions had been given to prepare for the actual walk at 20:00, Buzz took the microphone for a moment. ”This is the pilot. I'd like to take this opportunity to ask every person listening in, whoever and wherever they may be, to pause for a moment and contemplate the events of the past few hours and to give thanks in his or her own way. ” He switched off the microphone and went to go give thanks in his own way, a private Communion, while Armstrong prepared for the walk-proper and suited up. The suit wasn’t heavy, at least, not compared to the weight it had been on Earth. The environmental-control was unwieldy, but not unmanageable. The only real problem came when he turned to go down the ladder. The suit was slightly too big to fit through the hatch easily. It required some squeezing on Neil’s part, with concerns being voiced by both Mission Control and Buzz, but eventually he was through and setting up the camera on the side of the module. The ground was silver talcum powder and flew up into the air at the touch of his boots. His suit would be coated in a matter of minutes of jumping about the surface, but for now that didn’t matter. He glanced up at the shining blue planet on the horizon and grinned at the thrill that leaped from his stomach and into his throat. He was the first, but the fact that he wouldn’t be the last made him happier than anything. ”Any words for the people at home, Neil?” Mission Control crackled through the head-set once more. Neil bounced forward on the ground once more and turned his suit towards the camera on the side of the module, ”One small step for a man. One giant leap for mankind.”
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Feb 3, 2014 06:00
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DreamingofRoses posted:a story Bravo!
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Feb 3, 2014 06:01
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Dreaming of Roses IRL. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBlFCH0d3o4
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Feb 3, 2014 06:06
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 You did it!
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Feb 3, 2014 06:09
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Thank you all for the kick in the rear end.
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Feb 3, 2014 06:10
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DreamingofRoses posted:Thank you all for the kick in the rear end.
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Feb 3, 2014 06:14
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 FILLER PROMPT Interpret the phrase viking party ends in disaster. I don't care how. 250 words. No signups, submission lasts until the next prompt is up. getiton
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Feb 3, 2014 06:40
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Unfortunately I'll need to withdraw, I don't have the time to finish my spy story with my nephew taking over my evening. I'll be sure to post in the redemption thread.
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Feb 3, 2014 06:41
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Sorry it's late. Evil Couch 547 words Era: 1990's The crack in my couch keeps stealing my things. At first I thought it was just accidents, I thought I just missed my pocket when placing an item in there, or things were sliding out of pockets. I mean how could a couch actually steal items? It makes no sense. It’s not like the couch massage the keys out of my sweatpants or make me drop the skittles out of my hands. Could it? Where else would dropped items go if not the crack? The cushions sloped towards it, gravity forced them along the hill to the valley of darkness. It couldn’t be helped that things would be found in that that I searched all over the drat house for. It’s just they always seemed to be in the crack. Any item that I lost nine times out of ten would be right there in the crack. A quick lift of the cushion would reveal them, staring at me as if they had a big dumb smirk on their face. Like they were saying “Gotcha” over and over and over again as I found item after item in my loving couch. I marked it up to coincidence until I started finding larger and larger items in my couch. When my bike went missing that’s when I knew that it could no longer be a coincidence. The bike should have been waiting for me in my garage, hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Instead it was wedged underneath the cushions of my couch, the handlebar sticking up like a cowards white flag of surrender. A bike in the couch is not comfortable, nor does it make any sense. If I had a roommate we would have had a stern talking to about boundaries and not hiding others items. But I don’t and I didn’t. Instead I sat down very hard on my couch and had a stern talk with it. I outlined the expectations I expected from my couch, that it be inanimate, that it allow me to sit on it without complaint and that it not steal my things. The second and third item shouldn’t have had to be mentioned as they are included in the first one, but I felt that I should be thorough with such a renegade household item as this drat couch. He didn’t listen. When I woke up to wrestling my television away from the couch one night, I decided action must be taken. I slept the rest of the night in my room with my door locked. The next day I purchased an axe from home depot. It was a large axe with a wooden handle and a sharp blue-metallic blade. Perfect for couch destruction, the worker assured me. When I got home I made easy work of the couch. Each swing created another crack for things to fall into, but also was another swing towards its inevitable destruction. When I was finally done, and the couch was in 15 separate pieces, I lugged them into the back of my car and took them to the dump. I wasn’t sad to see it go. I slept well that night, knowing that the couch’s reign of terror was finally over. That morning I found my wallet in the fridge. No Longer Flaky fucked around with this message at 07:28 on Feb 3, 2014 |
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Feb 3, 2014 07:26
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
Hildegarde burst through the door and wedged it closed behind her, fighting off papier-maché axes. The entry point secured, she turned like a mad woman on Sven. “WHERE THE gently caress ARE THE CANAPES?” Sven jumped at the lightening bolt of her voice and nearly dropped the tray of pigs in a blanket he clutched in his oven-mitted hands. He bobbled it once, twice, snatched it from the hungry embrace of the thatched floor. “Five minutes, five minutes!” He blew a drop of sweat from the tip of his nose as he shoved the sheet metal tray over the open flame. “Are you making GBS threads me?” She descended on him, grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled his face close to hers. “It’s madness out there! What in Odin’s name have you been doing for the past half an hour?!” Sven looked at the fraying of her perfect braids, the crooked helmet atop her head, how the blonde hair of her upper lip was flecked with perspiration. She was beautiful and frantic; she smelled of desperation and wretched hopelessness; he had made certain vows at their wedding, hadn’t he? “Hiding,” he stammered. He regretted it immediately. All at once she was the pendulum of justice, and she swung wildly, threw him from the kitchen and into the waiting arms of the advancing horde. They tore at him, dragged him screaming into the abyss, and engulfed him in a puppet show. Braying the old songs, he prayed for eight bells and nap time.
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Feb 3, 2014 08:22
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
Whoops 193 Words “Olag, did you fart?” Pall asked. “No,” Olag said “It was probably you, rear end in a top hat.” “I didn’t do poo poo,” Pall said “Gurd, did you do it?” “No, I didn’t. I do smell it though, it smells worse than a sheeps rear end in a top hat,” Gurd said. The fart in question seemed to be gaining precedence as time went on. The smell began to overpower the feast that sat in front of them, pillaged from the villagers and cooked at knife-point by them. It was a sulfurous devilish smell, like hard boiled eggs that had been cooked in a hot spring. “Well would someone please open a window, that smell is disgusting,” Pall said. Olag opened a window. The smell intensified ten-fold with the opening. “Uhh, guys,” Olag said. “What,” they asked in unison. “D d d dragon,” Olag said. He tripped backwards away from the window then scrambled under the table. “What?” Pall said, then the hall was engulfed in flames. All of them died in agony, along with the other dudes that were there that weren’t privy to the fart conversation. Not only four dudes could possibly raid and plunder an English village, that’d be stupid.
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Feb 3, 2014 09:29
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
Mistakes 219 words Dear Professor Damme, Certainly you are aware of the old Swedish custom of Dryckenskap, originally a Viking rite to pay respect to most esteemed guests. As such, I am confident you will also understand what limited options I had when Olaf, anthropology junior and thus my charge, arrived at our doorstep carrying two kegs of mead and demanded the entire fraternity drink with him. I can assure you that it was not enjoyable in the least, despite unfounded rumors you may have heard of me lavishly making out with a certain Tina Damme, who, as I have been informed after the fact, which didn’t happen anyway, may be your daughter, or your wife. On the contrary; one of the few instances I still remember from that dreadful evening includes Olaf, me and an ancient honorable game called “Viking Master”. Post-celebratory research has concluded that this game should not, in fact, have featured actual paddles and that Olaf should not, in fact, have blown an actual horn in my ear. What I am saying is, I feel I have already been punished severely for my naive hospitality, and I hope you will be understanding when I must hereby announce my inability to deliver my Master's thesis in time. I will submit it in the redemption thread instead. Signed, A. Failure
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Feb 3, 2014 10:34
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Quidnose posted:Hildegarde burst through the door and wedged it closed behind her, fighting off papier-maché axes. The entry point secured, she turned like a mad woman on Sven. “WHERE THE gently caress ARE THE CANAPES?” I really have no sense of the universe in which this is occurring. Why are they using paper-mache axes? They're in a thatched roof house, some of which still exist in England, but why are they in one? Why is the oven that they're cooking pigs in a blanket using an open flame? I've only cooked pigs in a blanket in a normal oven, but it seems like an open flame would be bad in a thatched roof house. (Maybe I'm wrong on that point, if so tell me why). Why was she wearing a helmet? Was that paper mache as well? What was the abyss? The arms of the others? What was the puppet show? Eight bells and nap time? I don't understand. Are these toddlers? I am just confused. Not all is bad in it, it's well written for the most part but the points I made above are things that are alluded to that I just don't understand. It's not technical faults within the story that I have a problem with, it's the allusions to other things that the reader should know that make no sense. (at least to me). Entenzahn posted:Mistakes Is the speaker a part of the fraternity? Why did he feel the need to drink with Olaf? So the MC got drunk and hosed the professors wife and or daughter? Well, that's not really relatable. It makes very little sense to be sending an email about this event rather than talking to the professor in person seeing as a lot is at stake for the MC. Maybe I'm biased as I'd never do that kind of thing to someone, but who knows. Those were the questions that were raised when I read your piece. No Longer Flaky fucked around with this message at 11:09 on Feb 3, 2014 |
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Feb 3, 2014 11:05
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
I don't know how this will turn up since I'm using a phone. I had a lot of Chang beer and Bangkok is not as crazy a warzone, don't have a computer, Didn't bother editing or counting words and I'm sure most of this don't make sense. But it's probably very Viking to write without giving a poo poo.    
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Feb 3, 2014 16:08
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Welcoming Party 246 words Ralf entered the hall, expecting a welcome. Warriors leaned in their chairs. Their bellies were swollen from the night's feast. "This will be your new home," the Valkyrie said behind him. Her armor glistened; Ralf couldn't quite look at her. "Cool, I guess." He felt tiny, imagining thousands of eyes staring at him. In fact, no one seemed to notice his arrival. "So, where can I sit down? Does the mead taste as good as the songs say?" "I assure you that it does," the Valkyrie said. "But the day is long and you shall have your fill of it later." Laughter began, sweeping the hall. Bodies untangled themselves from where they lay, picking up weapons. "Great." Ralf tested his axe's weight. It spun beautifully in his hand. He had used it since his mortal life. "I'm gonna like this." The Valkyrie smiled. "One more thing. They know you are a murderer of children, Ralf Vandersen. It is marked on your skin. The rules have brought you to this place, but it will not protect you from its denizens." The crowd swelled around them, faces dark and shrouded. Leering. "Those without honor will be the first to charge come Ragnarok, kicked like dogs." The Valkyrie walked away, her radiance fleeing Ralf. "Welcome to Valhalla," one warrior said, burying his axe at Ralf's side. The wound knotted and healed, but many more bites followed. The day couldn't end sooner, he thought, wondering how the mead tasted like.
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Feb 3, 2014 16:49
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Black Jesus? Nah, blood. Black Vikings. 250 words Jarl Deknut and his boys roll back into Grimness hood with a grip of swag. They raided them Irish fools in Lindisfarne. Pillaged a whole gang a monks, na mean? poo poo. Them gangstas throw a party at Deknut’s pimped-out meadhall. Thane Kayvon the Black and his thugs come too. That mead hall be poppin. Fine Viking bitches with weaves way down to they booty. Mead an beer an mothafuckin cognac. Fried chicken, wild boar chitlins like yo momma never made. Then poo poo goes down. Deknut’s girl Shahilda be sippin mead and lookin at this ill tapestry. Mothafucka name Malik Forkbeard come up behind, checkin out her booty an poo poo. Malik grab that bodacious Toccara Jones behind. Shahilda turn around with a mothafuckin sword in her hand. “Nigga, don’t you know I a gangsta-rear end shieldmaiden? Take yo grimy-rear end hands off me.” Malik drunk as gently caress. He laugh. “drat girl. That sword heavy for yo fine rear end?” Shahilda don’t take no poo poo off trifling niggas like Malik. She stab that mothafucka dead. Malik be Kayvon’s cousin, so the Thane vengeful as gently caress. His boys pull swords from they pants and poo poo gets real. Deknut and his posse start slicin an dicin. Smoke clears, an Deknut’s boys on top. His meadhall all hosed up, broken poo poo everywhere. Shahilda standin on a pile a bodies, blood all in her braids. She lift her sword. “Mothafuckas need to be keepin they nasty-rear end hands off my Kim Kardashian rear end!” “drat yo,” Deknut says. “Bitches be crazy.”
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Feb 3, 2014 17:21
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I'm going to have to be a coward and bow out of the prompt this week. Work has won and i am a broken man. Had a quick bash at the viking story before i collapsed with exhaustion: 247 words Lothar looked closely at the slab of meat on his table. It took a while to banish the drink from his head but he saw it eventually: a belly-button. Lothar jumped up and pushed his chair tumbling backwards. “Stop eating. What is...” Elma started to laugh. She unsheathed her axe and began clinking it along the floor as she approached Lothar. “You should sit down.” Lothar's vision was already closing, he stumbled backwards over his chair as he reached for his weapon. “I told you” Elma said. Lothar looked at the slumped bodies at the table. His Son was fighting for breath, a white froth filling his throat was winning that battle easily. “Freja the Wanderer was cut apart by you and your friends. You left me with a reminder of your visit” Elma lifted her fur tunic to show an 8 inch scar across her stomach. “I never thanked you for this” She stood over Lothar. She kissed her fingers and then placed them on his forehead. She took a step back and as the strength of her family ran through her she took Lothar apart. Elma took the crown from Lothar's head. She wiped the red mush from it and walked over to his throne. She placed it on the seat and knelt on one knee. “Lo, there do I see my Mother And my Sisters and Brothers. In the Halls of Valhalla, Where the brave may live forever” Mr_Wolf fucked around with this message at 18:44 on Feb 4, 2014 |
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Feb 3, 2014 17:41
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Muspell (177 words) The world of politics is a strange place. What started with 3 seats in the Parliament won by an even less serious variant of Pirate Party, in a year made me find myself embroiled in events that may shatter the very foundations of our society. How many parliamentary sessions does it take for a party to be divided? Exactly three in this case. Who would have thought that Barney (or Björn as he prefers to be called) Nelson was very serious about bringing back Danelaw and joining Eurozone all along? Oh, and the Old Gods, of course. As I look from the window of my cabinet on a burning city being devoured by Fenrir, I realise there’s only one thing left for me to do. As the founder and the rightful leader of VNP I want to announce the dissolution of the Party and to express my condolences to those who've fallen victims to acts of violence caused by our radical wing. May Thor have mercy on our souls. And Jesus Christ I don’t want to die.
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Feb 3, 2014 18:12
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The Real Thing, 145 Words. He raised his face to the sky, the only survivor of the long battle. Around him lay the bodies of friends, enemies and monsters, all partially covered by the rapidly falling snow. If he didn't find shelter soon he might just freeze to death, and he badly needed to rest and regain strength for the next battle, for the real fight. Wiping the blood from his sword, he took a last moment to admire the patterned steel. It had been a birthday present, along with a light mail shirt and a horned helmet; his friends and family had pooled their money together to get him the whole outfit. Leaving the ruined garden, he didn't look back. Behind him, the Summer blooms wilted in cold air, snow hissed against the cooling barbecue, and the large paper sign slowly peeled from the wall. Happy 50th Birthday, Gerald.
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Feb 3, 2014 19:20
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Oh Martello, are we trying to combine things that don't really combine very well? LET'S DO THIS. Cyberman, cyberman, does whatever a cyber can "What do we want?" bellowed Ragnar. His cybereyes surveyed the crowd for threats, and found none. The punters' hearts were beating fast, caught up in near-beserkgang. He had first been a warrior, then a politician, and now, in 2115 in the smoldering ruins of Neo-Copenhagen, he was both. "To Vike!" they said. "When do we want it?" "NOW!" There was a dissenting note in the chorus. The siren implants attacked to Ragnar's spinal column were going mad. The robo-axe flew straight and true, but Ragnar Bjornsson hadn't lived four thousand years by being slow on his feet. He shifted to the right and let he titanium-alloy blade smash into the speaker stacks, sending sparks flying. The assassin was clapping. The crowd parted to reveal an impossibly muscled man. Despite the nuclear-winter cold, he was wearing a wifebeater and a cowboy hat. "Mr. Bjornsson," said the newcomer, "fancy meeting you here." "Mr. Lasercock," said Ragnar, "we meet again. But this time, you're not in a tank." "It's in the shop," said Brock Lasercock, mercenary extraordinaire. He grinned, then tapped his nano-mic. "_____________, baby, he standing still enough yet?" A tinny warbling came from the bead, though it was too quiet to hear. Brock nodded, then clicked his fingers twice. The last thing Ragnar heard was the SLAPthwip of a rooftop sniper, then his head turned into pink mist. His body had barely hit the floor when the brawl began. As is the way with cybervikings, it did not stop for several days, by which time Brock Lasercock and his lady love were long gone. SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 20:13 on Feb 3, 2014 |
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Feb 3, 2014 20:11
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What was his woman's name? How come you blanked it? Those were the questions that were raised when I read your piece. Your major fuckup is that you didn't name the immortal viking Ragnar Lodbrok. I mean, poo poo son. Missed opportunity, big time.
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Feb 3, 2014 20:27
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Viking Party 246 words “Viking? Party of…” The hostess turned her pad sideways. “Party of eight?” A mild-mannered English family stood. A lanky fellow who shook with fear like a chihuahua, and a short, round lady who was somehow wearing three separate sweaters. And then the kids: three boys, three girls, all mashed up with genetics that favored nobody. The hostess greeted them with a smile. “Good evening Mr. Viking.” The dad pushed up his glasses. “Did you say ‘V’iking? Oh dear, no, we’re--” “PILLAGED!” Shouted a burly man wearing a plethora of animal skins. He shoved dad to the floor and threw mom over his shoulder. A stream of men clad in furs and spikes flowed into the restaurant behind him. “Bring us a round of your finest mead-lite!” Still more men flooded the restaurant until they hung out the windows. The waitresses scrambled to keep the drinks flowing amid all the shoulder slinging. Finally the merriment stopped, and a lone manager approached the table and laid a bill down in front of the man he presumed to be their leader. The manager took a few steps back and watched his toes. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.” The Viking (with the English woman over his shoulder) opened the bill and threw it to the ground. “What is this 18%?” “Oh yes, it is Sizzler policy to charge a gratuity on any party over--” “A forced tip?” The Viking stood up and drew his axe, burying it into the table. “Attack!”
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Feb 4, 2014 00:06
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THUNDERDOME LXXVII JUDGEMENT We had a record number of folks drop out this week with promises to post in the redemption thread. I cordially invite those people to go gently caress themselves. Go on. Go gently caress yourselves. Nobody cares about the redemption thread. Can't commit to writing a few measly paragraphs in a week's time? Maybe something like the Thunderdome isn't for you. You know who you are. Please don't pull that poo poo again. Toxx yourselves if you need the extra encouragement. With that being said, I don't have anything cute and demeaning to say about this week's entries. You guys didn't absolutely poo poo the bed. Fantastic. However, there was still an awful lot of mediocrity. No dishonorable mentions this week. So average was the level of entries that we would have had to give out a dozen DMs if we gave out even one. Paladinus. You're the Loser. You missed the prompt. You missed the setting. You missed basic formatting. You truly were the lowest of the low. God Over Djinn. You get an Honorable Mention for a wonderful little period piece that just fell short. Kaishai. You're the Winner. You were neck in neck with God Over Djinn and squeaked by merit of a slightly tighter piece. Good work. Good luck. Crits to follow soon.
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Feb 4, 2014 03:42
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Kind of Honorable Runner up mention goes to: BAUDOLINO!!!!
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Feb 4, 2014 04:17
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Thunderdome Week LXXIX: Periodic Stories of the Elements Judges: Kaishai, Sitting Here, and sebmojo. If you've ever taken a class in chemistry or listened to the discography of Tom Lehrer, you're familiar with the Periodic Table of the Elements. This week I want you to choose an element from the table when you sign up and use it as inspiration for your story. To make this more challenging and avoid three dozen stories set in The Future, speculative science fiction is not allowed. You may write about scientists doing science, but your setting had better be no farther in space than the moon and no later than the present. Fantasy and other genres are fine. Also note the element doesn't have to be physically central to your piece. A Neon story set in a seedy bar would do the job, as would a Silver story about the stars. We need to be able to see your element in the story, though, so keep that in mind. Elements are first come, first serve, and entrants may change their elements until sign-ups close. Can't decide? Then ask for an element to be given to you! Caveat: your likelihood of receiving seaborgium or yttrium will go way, way up. Sign-up deadline: Friday, February 7, 11:59 pm USA Eastern Submission deadline: Sunday, February 9, 11:59 pm USA Eastern Maximum word count: 1,200 Elemental Wizards: WeLandedOnTheMoon! (Phosphorus): "Matchstick" El Diabolico (Lead): "Drain pipe" inthesto (Aluminum; Flash rule: Cultural differences between America and England must play a part in your story.) God Over Djinn (Helium): "Fruits of Her Labors" Nikaer Drekin (Tungsten): "Jude Sherman's Squeeze" DreamingofRoses (Carbon; Flash rule: Your story must revolve around someone who isn't comfortable in their own skin): "Precious Gems" QuoProQuid (Hydrogen): "Self-Fulfilling Prophecy" Anathema Device (Iron; Flash rule: You must use a verse from Rudyard Kipling's "Cold Iron" as additional inspiration.) Jonked (Unbihexium): "Theoretically Hopeful" Whalley (Antimony): "Medicines and Poisons" Little Mac (Oxygen): "Room to Breathe" Chairchucker (Arsenic): "Out of Love" Entenzahn (Uranium): "A Matter of Energy" Quidnose (Yttrium; Flash rule: Your story must revolve around taking that which is out of place and making it commonplace): "Rabbits" No Longer Flaky (Francium): "Alley Deals" Meinberg (Xenon; Flash rule: Your protagonist must journey into the depths of darkness): "Hazard Pay" Max22 (Sodium) Nettle Soup (Copper): "As Good as Gold" Djeser (Iodine): "The Sky" docbeard (Lutetium; Flash rule: You must incorporate a lute-like instrument into your piece): "Miss Annabel Yoder Finishes Her Quilt" Jagermonster (Sulfur): "Toil and Tenure" Seldom Posts (Thulium): "Ultima Thule" Noah (Bismuth): "The Crawling Statue" Schneider Heim (Lithium): "The Lightest Metal" Mr_Wolf (Cobalt; Flash rule: Someone or something in your story must be fragile): "Dust to Dust" Martello (Nitrogen): "LOGPAC" Lake Jucas (Chlorine; Flash rule: Your story contains a swimming pool. No character gets wet): "American Werewolf in America" Benny the Snake (Silver): "The Oracle" Fumblemouse (Seaborgium; Flash rules: Moustaches; someone must be concerned about what is real): "Quiz Night" Black Griffon (Tellurium; Flash rule: Your main character must suffer from an extremely low abundance of something other than money): "Enforcer" JuniperCake (Mercury): "Empathy" Jay O (Tin): "Salvage" curlingiron (Rubidium; Flash rule: Your story must include an auction): "No Time Like the Present" Tyrannosaurus (Calcium): "Because He Was" elfdude (Caesium; Flash rule: Your main character must get into trouble by overlooking an important detail): "Modern Magic" Paladinus (Palladium; Flash rule: Your protagonist must try to overcome a loss): "Of Little Faith." crabrock (Silicon): "Growing Cold Together" Baudolino (Polonium): "Clouds of poison." Lead out in cuffs (Osmium): "Heavy Metal Roses" Jeep (Neon): "Little Things" Mercedes (Gold): "The Need" Kaishai fucked around with this message at 06:20 on Feb 10, 2014 |
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Feb 4, 2014 04:24
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Crabrock: boring preachy self reflection. Technically impressive, reads very well. A few passing items are the only things that tie us into the 90s. You failed to capture the zeitgeist of the times. Djinn: A good story. I like bicycles and this delivered in droves. I got really confused reading this because I thought for sure there’d be a plot twist. It’s well written but the plot is a straight A -> B trajectory and everything ends up back at square one. It’s period correct, which I suspect shall not be a trend this week. The characters experience absolutely no growth, and there seems to be a piece 'missing' from the story. We never get the full picture of what exactly went on behind the scenes, and it's a little maddening. Leper Colon: A full five percent of your story is simply “Daryoush’s eyes ached”. You used a fraction of the wordcount to deliver a thoroughly unsatisfying piece of pseudo sports fic. No action happens, there’s no way to know when this story happens. Soccer’s been around for a while, bro. Better hope someone fucks up harder than this. You didn’t bother to really research the game you were describing. Quidnose: A good story! ...if everyone wrote stupid bar bullshit stories. To be fair, though, if you're absolutely going to write about a man in a bar, this is probably how to do it. This wasn’t tragedy so much as pathos. Well evoked. The only issue I have is there are no clues as to the time. This could have happened anywhere from 1930 up to 1970. You could have saved a bit of the description of things like wood grain and added some tie-ins to the 40’s. Wouldn’t have taken much! Baudolino: Oh man! This was exciting. You managed to portray an oft-forgotten time in aviation history with surprising competency! Your character was a scout so of course he’d know where the troops were coming from. Nice way to hide an info dump. One issue, the one that knocked this story out of the competition, was the action getting unclear at the end. Also, the enemy seems comically evil. Biggest issue: How does one lean upward? I don’t understand what Hans did in the end. Did he turn and shoot straight back as he was levelling off his descent? Did he shoot upwards and back, his plane cutting in a deeper arc than John's? Mercedes: Top of the heap in Judas vs. Jesus storytelling. I would like to see the entire New Testament rewritten as a Dragon Ball Z ep Whalley: Takes too long to get going, doesn't really explain the dinosaur thing. I kind of feel it doesn’t need to, though. What did need explaining, however, was all the talk of "bloody Sunders". You can write action pretty well, I suggest you do it instead of going on and on about cowboys riding towards a place. At least it managed to portray a sense of time. Little Mac: Neato black history piece. Hits the prompt well. I still don’t know these folks are so opposed to vacuums though. Seems like you needed a Deus Ex Machina for your story and penned yourself something so bizarre it brings us into an alternate reality. Unless this is supposed to be some sort of American Gothic bullshit. Chucker: wat Really pie in the sky sci fi, but it’s nice to see something other than grimdark cyberfuture. I guess the guy built some atmosphere generating towers? The sense of scale is really messed up, but it's not exactly a detriment. The concept doesn't stand up well on its own. If the 3140s are different than what you protrayed I will resurrect myself and time travel back to this week to give you a loss. Entenzahn: oh man, you did it! You got some totally unreasonable flash prompts and you wrote a thing. The constant break up and shifting in time totally fucks with the story, the last 1/3rd I have no idea what is happening. Someone is getting stabbed or not stabbed or something. The historical accuracy is dubious, but who cares. No one remembers the old times anyway. You at least managed to firmly plant your story in a time and place, which is more than some of these chucklefucks can say. Paladinus: What the gently caress is this dog poo poo garbage? You missed the prompt by trying some sort of clever trick and dropped the ball anyway with tense changes and a story that sucked major bag. Jagermonster: This isn’t a story, it’s a glimpse into some sort of dystopia. Neat political ideas, boring premise and I’m not even going to touch your possible opinions on the world as a whole. Monkeyboydc: This could be set in any god damned time. It was coherent as a story but it missed the prompt entirely. Noah: Hit the prompt, but spoon fed me the story. I don’t understand the character’s motivation. He works by hand and has no vested interest in the industrial revolution. There’s nothing there except for psychopathy as far as killing his sister goes. Lake Jucas: competent, well paced, hits the prompt. The story stuck with me, but for the wrong reasons. I'm not totally 100% sure what happens at the end, and this is really more a vignette than anything else. Who the gently caress are these people and why do I care? Nikaer: I don’t get it, who the f is Eddie? Why are they arguing? What happened? Jonked: I don't get it but I feel like I'd be a bigot if I spoke out against this thing. Opposing farce: a man talks about robots, possibly has a robot arm. The end. Hot drat, call the presses we got ourselves the next Bladerunner!! Kaishai: The 80s were magic. if I missed anyone, tough poo poo and write a more memorable story ReptileChillock fucked around with this message at 04:44 on Feb 4, 2014 |
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Feb 4, 2014 04:36
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I didn't lose with my horrific story! In, with Gold!
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Feb 4, 2014 04:42
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ReptileChillock posted:Kind of Honorable Runner up mention goes to: v  v
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Feb 4, 2014 04:44
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| # ? Apr 19, 2024 04:54 |
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I'm in with Phosphorus.
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Feb 4, 2014 04:52
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