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Apr 24, 2024 18:09
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- Djeser
- Mar 22, 2013
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it's crow time again
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Also, I am in.
Also also, if you used the Folk tales square in your bingo and want a crit, I will give one to you, just ask.
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Jul 22, 2014 19:12
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- Gau
- Nov 18, 2003
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I don't think you understand, Gau.
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Ugh, as much as I hate "fantasy" I'm in.
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Jul 22, 2014 19:26
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- Jick Magger
- Dec 27, 2005
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Grimey Drawer
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How do you say "in" in Na'vi ?
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Jul 22, 2014 19:41
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- Ausmund
- Jan 24, 2007
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THUNDERDOME LOSER
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In for nonviolent fantasy.
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Jul 22, 2014 19:54
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- Ausmund
- Jan 24, 2007
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THUNDERDOME LOSER
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Report Here Now
Corey hated school, never paid attention in class, and always procrastinated and did his homework at the last possible minute. 2:34pm, Mrs. Green's 9th grade biology class, 4th period. They were studying prehistoric creatures and anthropology. They had to write reports on the dinosaur they were assigned. Corey got the four winged Changyuraptor yangi. Corey was probably the only kid in the world that didn't find dinosaurs interesting. He powered through the report the morning it was due and finished it in 3rd period.
It was 2:38pm, the bell would ring in two minutes. People were lined up behind the door with their backpacks on, ready to finally go home after a long boring meaningless day at school. Mrs. Green called Corey's name to see her at her desk. As Corey approached Mrs. Green's desk, he rehearsed in his head what we would say. She pulled out his report. A 58%. Corey asked Mrs. Green why he should even bother, why he shouldn't just give up, drop out of school and get a job anywhere he could. He told her he hasn't learned anything and isn't educated. There was no point.
Mrs. Green explained it's more important to make a decision, even if you know the outcome is negative, to see it through is better than not making a choice at all. Not even trying will never solve anything.
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Jul 22, 2014 20:51
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- Djeser
- Mar 22, 2013
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it's crow time again
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Crit me, tiny babby child!
Most of the criticisms are small because the story was overall pretty good. Less 'what you did wrong' and more 'how to make this better'
Coyote - 762 words
In the Singing Times, when the earth was new and the grass was thick and the buffalo roamed in endless herds across the plains, not bad but could be more evocative of dawntime, the only mythic-feeling thing here is the name itself Coyote met a dog on the trail in dawntime are there really trails already through the woods? also what do the dawnwoods feel like? through the woods. He was broad and bold and handsome, and he carried his tail most prettily, if you split the sentences here you create a stronger sense of a progression of events as opposed to a slow process and they quickly became playmates, scuffling and rolling through the leaves.
As dusk approached, the dog told Coyote he would have to be going, and she laughed. "Go where? Stay here with me in the wild places!" But he refused, and said he was no wild thing, but but but here, I would have gone for 'that he was no wild thing, that he was' a loyal friend of the people of the mud huts. "I could be a friend to the hut-people too," said Coyote, tossing her head. "I can do whatever you can do, silly dog! Just try to prove I can't!" Stung, dunno if the adjective-first construction works with the mythic tone the dog offered to take her back to the hut with him, and she agreed, skipping and nipping and romping behind him. could be more concrete here, right now she's like a haze of canine hyperactivity
The hut-man wasn't at all certain a little too refined for the mythic tone he wanted a wild thing like Coyote near his home and hearth, but the dog spoke for her, and so they put a light leather collar around Coyote's neck, and showed her where to lie down near the fire, and she thought herself a very great thing indeed. "See how they fetch and carry for us!" she said to the dog, when the hut-woman brought her a chunk of meat from the kill. She curled up with the dog that night and gazed into the flames, and for that night she was content.
The work of the family went on as always, and Coyote stayed close to the dog and followed his ways, as best she could. But she was bored when keeping watch, and would pretend to herself she saw a wolf and cry the alarm, and rouse the whole family, and laugh to see them blinking and cross. She would put her nose in the milk jug and lie down on the baby's blanket, and she chased away the spiders spiders as helpful is an interesting touch, so good job and made friends with the flies, and tumbled the fire about anyhow so it couldn't be lit again. The family tolerated her for the sake of the dog, and for the sake of her pretty eyes and the way she would lie her chin on the woman's knee at night, but they did wished she was as well-behaved as their own dear friend.
One night in the late winter, Coyote sat up by the fire and listened to the wind across the grass. She remembered her old life, free and wild in the forests and on the plains. She woke the dog and there was something about her he found irresistible; break the preceding into two sentences, it makes it seem like the way it wakes her up is irresistable her wild time was on her, and they ran together over the fields and far from the village, and didn't return for two days. The humans were furious, and the dog was ashamed, but Coyote ran her tongue out and grinned at him. "We came back!" she said. "What is there to be ashamed of?"
Soon she found she was heavy with pups, and she told the dog this with great pride, and he told the man, and the man threw down his work and cursed. "What would I do with half a dozen creatures as wilful and wild as this mate of yours?" he said. "Keep them under control for the sake of all of us!" the last sentence is unclear but i think that he's telling the dog it's his responsibility to keep them under control (which i got from context later on)
The dog took his worries to Coyote, and she laughed in his face. "Why should I care what that great ape says? I lived for myself before I knew you, and I can live for myself again."
"If you birth your cubs here," said the dog, "I will have to control them, and curb their mischief, or the man will kill them."
"I'd like to see him try," said Coyote, and she tore off her collar. "Come with me instead, to live in the wild places!"
The dog loved his family and his home and wouldn't go, so Coyote danced away into the darkness without him. She raised their cubs in the wild, and the cubs grew strong and beautiful and spread out the cubs grew spread out is what it seems like you're saying, and multiplied all over the earth. But they never forgot that one of their fathers was a dog, and that's why wolves will have nothing to do with them and kill them where they can. could clear this up a little; why do wolves hate that their ancestor was a dog? also why does dog + coyote = wolf
As for the dog, he kept his faith with the family, but sometimes he remembers that he has wild children, and that he once loved Coyote; he sits and howls in the night, hoping to hear her answering call.
You could have used some of that extra space to expand on the reason why the dog feels so attached to the family, why the wild places are so appealing, and the different responses to having run off for two days. Overall though, the story was well put together, the characters worked well as archetypes without being stereotypes, and it fit all your bingo squares nicely. My comments were mostly just some clarity and where you could tighten up the 'folk story' feeling a bit.
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Jul 22, 2014 21:51
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- Phobia
- Apr 25, 2011
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I'm a suave detective with a heart of gold in hot pursuit of the malevolent, manipulative
MIAMI MUTILATOR
and the deranged degenerates who only want their
15 MINUTES OF FAME.
OCK.
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I'm in.
Also, I'm planning on getting crits done if not tonight then tomorrow. Just letting you all know.
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Jul 23, 2014 00:01
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- Grizzled Patriarch
- Mar 27, 2014
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These dentures won't stop me from tearing out jugulars in Thunderdome.
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A crit for Thalamas:
The Timber Hall 1201 words
Slake lumbered down my longhall and a boy trotted behind him. Gleaming steel flashed in the firelight as the squat bastard dipped his greatspear underneath each high rafter.The bit about the greatspear is a little awkward. The floor planks creaked beneath his bulk. He rumbled out, “Got a job in these parts, Kerf.” He and the boy had the same ruddy skin, black hair.
“Thirteen years since I left and that’s what you say to me. This your son?” He nodded. The boy snapped to attention, stripping his gaze from the myriad grisly trophies adorning the walls. I stumped over to the lad and inspected him. None of his old man’s bulk, but tall like his mother. A sword was buckled around his waist. “Got a name?”
His eyes darted down. “No. Not yet.”
Slake reached out a hand to me. “Garsnap in the area. Big reward. Come help my boy earn his name, you tall son of a whore.”
We clasped. The spearman’s brows knuckled togetherthis is kind of an odd word to use. I get what you are going for, but I'm not sure it works. as he contemplated the wooden end of my left leg. “I’ll put you up, but the only time I use an axe now is on firewood.”
----
Every day, the head of his wooden axe clacked against my practice spear in front of the warrior’s longhall. Boys named at age ten and weaned on the blood of beasts entered on invitation while we sweated nameless before the shut doors. My tall friend refused to beg an apprenticeship and mocked me for spending two days a week at a woodcarver’s in hopes of earning a name as a tradesman.
We listened to sea stories of the valtyrs with their scaled wings and mandibled visages, traded labor for food scraps and merchants’ tales of the chitin-armored stogmites of the red sands. Fatherless boys, we only had each other, and the danger and glory held powerful allure.
“The doors will open for us. We’ll have real teachers. Armor and weapons. Close your eyes and hear it, a warrior angel naming you. We just need to train harder, practice more,” he’d say.
I gave up my days at the woodcarver’s. Bruises and black eyes from mock battles made spare and muscled boys of us. Twice a week we crossed the city to attend services at the temple. A statue of the Warrior stared grimly over our heads as we prayed. The chiseled words below were cut into our hearts:
A Warrior’s name is earned in battle.
Valor is the key to the Timber Hall.
The snows piled high and each year other fatherless boys died black and hard. Summers passed. We stalked the city like predators. Merchants offered to hire us as guards, a hundred exotic lands awaited our footsteps, and still we waited for the longhall doors to unbar. I like how you limit the world-building and don't overexplain everything. It makes the world feel more real.
But they never opened, so one day I turned to him and said,
----
“You make your own fortune.”
“Then let’s go make one,” I finished the old words. Slake slapped me on the back. We drank tots of applejack while the boy goggled at a lifetime of hunting trophies. “Except, I’ve got everything I need right here.” I settled back into the scirvit pelt lining my chair.
“Do it for me, then. We need your help.”
I slammed my fist down on the table. “No! I have no leg, Slake!” I shook the peg at him, a stylized tree carven "carven" isn't a word, as far as I know. "carved from" would read more naturally of ash.
He held up his hands. “Becalm your storm, old friend. I won’t ask again.”
“How is Weft?” The old wounds ached at her name, physical and otherwise.
“Dead three years past.”
“Is that it?” the boy interjected.
I followed his rapt gaze up, to the crescent of my axe. “That’s it, the axe of Kerf.” The words tasted bitter.
----
“Yeah, but it’s no more famous than my spear,”The "yeah" here seems out of place compared with the rest of your dialogue so far. I replied. Kerf wore new, silver-tooled boots and wouldn’t shut up while we hunted a garsnap rumored to be the size of three oxen.
It caught us unprepared. The lizard dropped from the trees and knocked him over. One conical eye swiveled toward me. I lifted my greatspear overhead and lunged, sinking it to the crossguard, even as the creature uncurled its tail and wrapped it around my chest.
The garsnap unfurled its tongue in a jab and the fleshy end stuck to Kerf’s left foot. I stabbed again, straining against its tail. The tongue yanked back, dragging Kerf with it. “No!” The snap of its crooked, terrible jaws garbled all thought for a moment, then I broke free with a yell and drove my spear through its neck.
The garsnap shuddered and champed in its death throes. Kerf screamed a thin, piteous whine.screaming a whine seems kind of odd. “Hold on.” I cut the tendons holding the ragged ends of his severed leg together and cinched a belt on the stump. Settling his lanky frame over my shoulders, I raced to town. The action is here is relatively well-written, but it feels a bit abrupt. This is the first big action moment in the piece and it's over almost as soon as it starts.
Weft earned her name saving lives in the hospital and shined with inner light when she moved. She called for her assistants and I lost Kerf as they carted him off to the chirurgeons.
Kerf slept under the influence of Weft’s potions for a week while the stitched end of his left leg healed. I spent every moment not at his bedside in the intoxicating circle of her arms. Kerf didn’t wake when the potions stopped, and the week turned to months. The way you mentioned Weft earlier in the story, I assumed she played a larger role in his life. There's some room for more conflict and characterization here, I think.
“We’re getting married, old friend, having a baby. It’s a son, I know it. He won’t starve in the gutters, grow up fatherless. Wake up and we’ll raise him together. Wake up.”
----
I found Slake’s body in the forest, a mess of red whorls and torn flesh. “Oh gods, wake up,” I begged.
“Uncle Kerf?” The boy stepped from behind a pine. He held Slake’s spearhead by its broken shaft, gore dripping from the tip. His swordsheath was empty. “It was too strong, too fast.” He collapsed, bleeding from three deep gashes in his side.
I took him home, bandaged him up. He fell into a fevered sleep while I slung bundles of rope and my woodcutting axe over my shoulder. I was no warrior, not anymore, but these were my woods. I set the trap, used myself as bait, and when the beast landed on me I brought two tons of timber crashing down on both of us. Our bodies broke like twigs. This is a pretty cool way to go, and it fits his character.
Crackling sounded from the brush. The boy. He staggered from the woods, one hand to the bandage on his side and the other hefting my axe. The garsnap focused its slitted visage. "Look out!" Is he really going to be in a condition to shout warnings after two tons of timber just landed on him?
He rolled beneath the lightning snap of its tongue and swung the axe in a silvery arc, severing the appendage in a welter of gore. The keening of the garsnap deafened me as it thrashed. "Do it." He lifted the battleaxe overhead, then crashed it down, severing the beast's head.
The sun shining through the foliage haloed his dark hair. The light, so bright. Hands reached down to me. I grabbed hold and stood. "A moment, warrior." The angel laid hands of radiance on the lad's head in benediction and spoke: "I name you Haggen."
Slake was waiting for me. "We made our own fortune, Kerf." That day, the doors opened for us.
angels, main character dies at the end, flashbacks, gritty realism, high fantasy
Overall I think you made interesting use of your bingo squares. It does feel like the angels are kind of just shoved in to mark that square off, though. The constant PoV shifts are kind of jarring and make it difficult to follow what's happening. On the other hand, I got a good idea of how the world operated without a bunch of exposition dumps, so kudos on that. The characters come off a bit flat, but with such a short word count that can definitely be tricky when you've got this many characters intertwining. I think if you fleshed out the characters, gave them some deeper motivations, and gave your action sequences a bit more room to breath, you'd be in a pretty good spot. I got kind of a Witcher vibe off of this, and although I honestly hardly ever read fantasy, this kept me reading all the way through, which is a good sign in my book.
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Jul 23, 2014 01:22
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- Alpacalips Now
- Oct 4, 2013
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I'm in.
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Jul 23, 2014 07:46
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- a new study bible!
- Feb 2, 2009
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 BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly
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 Holiday Road Brawl
Crits
Gau: There wasn't much that I loved about your story; however, you did make a thoughtful attempt to reflect the nature of a roadtrip through your structure. It didn't work for me, but I understand the decision. Also, I liked the undercurrent of tension, even if the ending was too ambiguous. You could have spent more time with this.
Sithsaber: To reduce the chance that you will reply in thread, please see your comments in the doc. I will say that you need to work on a few basic things, but you have the potential to be a fine writer if you choose.
By virtue of writing an actual story, as opposed to a character study, Gau wins.
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Jul 23, 2014 19:08
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- Kalyco
- Apr 4, 2013
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... Also also, if you used the Folk tales square in your bingo and want a crit, I will give one to you, just ask.
Djeser, I used it, and I would love a crit, but it was a rather small part of my story. Take a look and see if you care, thanks either way.
Also, IN.
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Jul 23, 2014 19:58
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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Yo Yo Yo I hear there is a week that is still lacking crits (at least one judge has a good reason for the delay and I am sure they will post crits eventually, but waiting sucks). Also I have been negligent critting some weeks when I judged. If you submitted in Week 98 (helpful link: http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=98) then here is your chance to get a slightly less-late crit.
I will crit the first five people who ask, but please, don't ask for a crit if this was kind of a throw-away story for you. We've all written those, and there's nothing wrong with it, but don't claim a crit just because you can. (This judgment is totally up to you, I'm not going to try to determine if you "really" want a crit or not, but if you're thinking "sure, why not" then think about it a little more?)
Also, same rules but an unlimited number of people, if you submitted in a week that I judged but did not provide crits or did not crit you, then ask away. (I think angel week, but maybe others? http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=87)
Okay, hope that wasn't too rude. :/
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Jul 23, 2014 20:24
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- Entenzahn
- Nov 15, 2012
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erm... quack-ward
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Yo Yo Yo I hear there is a week that is still lacking crits (at least one judge has a good reason for the delay and I am sure they will post crits eventually, but waiting sucks). Also I have been negligent critting some weeks when I judged. If you submitted in Week 98 (helpful link: http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=98) then here is your chance to get a slightly less-late crit.
I will crit the first five people who ask, but please, don't ask for a crit if this was kind of a throw-away story for you. We've all written those, and there's nothing wrong with it, but don't claim a crit just because you can. (This judgment is totally up to you, I'm not going to try to determine if you "really" want a crit or not, but if you're thinking "sure, why not" then think about it a little more?)
I'll take one.
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Also I keep complaining about how obnoxious douchebags get a disproportionate amount of feedback on CC so I guess I should do some good and chip in here. I'm offering five more crits, same conditions, only if you're already getting a crit from Kloc please give someone else a chance to request one from me before you take a second.
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Jul 23, 2014 20:44
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- Kaishai
- Nov 3, 2010
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Scoffing at modernity.
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I'd appreciate an Angel Week crit, Dr. K.
There will be Week 98 crits from this judge. Unfortunately, due to circumstances, don't look for them before mid-August at the earliest. I apologize for the delay.
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Jul 23, 2014 21:09
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- Djeser
- Mar 22, 2013
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it's crow time again
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I'll take one.
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Also I keep complaining about how obnoxious douchebags get a disproportionate amount of feedback on CC so I guess I should do some good and chip in here. I'm offering five more crits, same conditions, only if you're already getting a crit from Kloc please give someone else a chance to request one from me before you take a second.
Enten please crit my Week 90 story, linked here: http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3598931&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=70#post428865830
Also, Kalyco, expect your crit soon.
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Jul 23, 2014 21:10
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- Meeple
- Dec 29, 2009
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I should probably remember to sign up.
In
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Jul 23, 2014 23:38
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- Djeser
- Mar 22, 2013
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it's crow time again
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Djeser, I used it, and I would love a crit, but it was a rather small part of my story. Take a look and see if you care, thanks either way.
Also, IN.
I care about all of Gangster Computer God's children.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wqLhAxVMX1MOFyFoyrqlY7YqI9OuYftwrHtZe1SLJlM/edit?usp=sharing
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Jul 23, 2014 23:53
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- Thalamas
- Dec 5, 2003
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Sup?
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 Grizzled Patriarch
Dance Lessons 953 words
Norman sat in the recliner with his elbows propped on the armrests so that he wouldn’t sweat through his good button-down. gently caress, just sitting down? He could hear Eileen in the bathroom, rummaging through drawers while she got ready. Dancing had been her idea. Some little studio a few blocks away hosted free lessons on Thursday nights, she said.
She came out of the bathroom in a shimmering red dress, her hair tied up in a messy bun that made her look young and full of energy. Norman tried to remember the last time he’d seen her like that. You’ve set a great tone for the piece already. The last line especially gives me so much hope.
“All set?”
Norman forced a thin smile and hoisted himself out of the recliner. And the hope is crushed. Well played.
The studio was already crowded by the time they arrived, so they sidled past the other couples and found a spot near the back. Loud salsa music was piping in over the sound system, squealing horns and frantic piano riffs. Eileen moved Norman’s hand to her shoulder and tried to guide him through a few steps, but right away he bumbled forward and his heel came down on her toes. Again, I get right away how Norm feels about this situation; an excellent example of showing instead of telling.
She yelped and bent over to clutch her foot. “Christ, Norm. You could pretend to try, at least.”
After a few more minutes of awkward dancing, Norman told her that he had to sit down because his back hurt, which was only partly true. He pulled up a plastic chair next to the snack table and looked to see if there was anything good. Single-serving bags of trail mix and a vegetable tray; diet cokes and diet lemonade to drink. He turned away and noticed a small streak of white house paint on his jeans. He frowned and scraped at it with his thumbnail, but it wouldn’t flake off. I see what you’re going for here, and the contrast with Eileen in the next paragraph is good, but it doesn’t make this section of the story less boring.
When he glanced up again, Eileen was dancing with another man. He leaned in and said something to her that made her laugh. Her hand was on his arm. The man was thin, sharply dressed, and he knew how to dance. He led Eileen and broke away so she could do a little twirl. Uh-oh. We have conflict.
Norman waited to see if Eileen would wonder where he’d gone, Telling. but after fifteen minutes she hadn’t looked around for him even once. He got up and stepped outside. At first he only meant to get some fresh air, And again. but once he was through the door he didn’t stop walking. The muffled sound of salsa music followed him down the sidewalk. The ideas here are strong and his reactions are realistic.
***
Norman leaned against the apartment door while he caught his breath. His lower back was throbbing. The first thing he did when he got inside was to call up DeAngelo’s and order a pizza with everything on it and a two-liter of real This is a nice detail. soda. He’d have to hide the box afterward, put it in the trashcan and cover it up with paper towels and plastic bags. Eileen made him count calories so he wouldn’t eat too many carbs or too much sodium.
When the doorbell rang he got up and answered it with his wallet out. He took the food and pressed a five-dollar bill into the delivery boy’s palm with a conspiratorial wink, but the boy either didn’t notice or didn’t care. That is so drat sad.
Norman sank into his recliner and balanced the pizza box on the swell of his belly. He turned on the news and watched without really paying attention to it. After a while, it cut to a story about the zoo. They were building a new centennial plaza to attract more visitors.
Norman remembered when he’d gone there with Eileen. This feels shoehorned and could be transitioned better.. They’d been excited to see the safari exhibit, but as it turned out it wasn’t much:Awkward phrasing. a few sad-looking lions, a hippo enclosure, and a solitary elephant. The elephant painted pictures. One of the handlers taped a paintbrush to the end of its trunk and set up an easel, and the elephant would paint trees. Eileen had taken a picture of Norman standing in front of it. “Look at that,” she said. “My two tubby painters.” That is adorable and sweet.
Norman hated the way she’d said it, without thinking, like it wasn’t an insult but a statement of plain fact. Darn you for ruining everything, Norman.
He wondered if she’d even noticed he was gone. He tried to imagine Eileen moving frantically through the crowd of dancers, looking for him, sorry she’d left him alone. Instead he pictured her with the other man. Leaning in to kiss him after a twirl. Going home with him.
For a moment he thought about calling her before remembering that his phone was still in the car. Instead he started on his second slice of pizza, even though the grease felt like an oil slick in the back of his mouth and the cheese was starting to scab over. He made himself eat it anyway. Oh poo poo, how is he going to hide the box if he can’t eat the whole thing?
After an hour, his stomach was making anxious loops. He shifted in the recliner and held his hands in his lap, lacing and unlacing his fingers. Every time headlights came slanting in through the blinds he cocked his head to listen for the familiar slam of a car door in the driveway.
***
He was lying in bed with the lights off when she finally got home. He listened to her undressing in the dark, shedding the red dress like a snakeskin. Her earrings clicked down on the nightstand. These last two sentences were flawless. The box spring groaned as she crawled underneath the covers and pulled them up around her waist.
Norman leaned over to kiss the hollow spot between her shoulder blades. Eileen rolled away to the edge of the bed.
“Hon,” he whispered. “Honey.”
“Go to sleep.”
Norman lay there, looking at the pale skin of her back and inventing constellations in her freckles. He wanted to reach out, to feel her there, but she was already someplace far away.
This was a hard story for me to critique. Originally, I didn’t like it at all. It was boring. The prose is good, but the events offer no excitement. The more I considered it, the more I enjoyed the slice of life quality it possesses. Everyday events are deciding Norman’s fate. Hell, I’ve been there in my own life, so it’s relatable, believable.
The problem is, nothing changed. Norman and Eileen are in the same place at the end of the story as they are at the beginning. The conflict you set up goes nowhere. The title is Dance Lessons, but frankly, I think Norm’s going to go right back to neglecting everyone but himself the next day.
One last note. You have 22 paragraphs in the story; 9 of them start with “Norman.”
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Jul 24, 2014 03:11
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- Adbot
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ADBOT LOVES YOU
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Apr 24, 2024 18:09
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- Entenzahn
- Nov 15, 2012
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erm... quack-ward
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P.S.: In.
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Jul 24, 2014 22:59
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Jul 22, 2014 18:50
