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crabrock posted:What about two young space sports varsity players racing their T-ship2000s through the makeout nebula? r u spying on my google doc
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Nov 26, 2014 23:10
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 MercHammer BrawlThe Most Dangerous Game 600 Words Darkness, a monolith of a man, pulled on his cigar. Bright embers sizzled and burned up the length, leaving an ashen stump. He rolled the cigar to the other corner of his mouth, crossed his bulky arms across his chest and sneered at the kodiak bear that paced on the other side of the raft. The kodiak stood a whole man taller than Darkness. He opened his maw and had bellied a roar that startled colorful birds from their trees. “You call me out in front of my boys,” the bear growled and stomped on the raft, dipping the corner into the rushing river. The other end launched Darkness and he landed hard in the center of the raft. “You’re an unknown, and you challenge the champ?” “Won’t even be a fair fight,” Darkness said with his cigar held between his teeth. “I kinda feel bad for you, so I’ll let you go first.” The bear’s laughter had a dangerous edge to it. “You must be soft in the head, boy. Challengers go first.” The bear picked up a square fist-sized stone off the raft and tossed it at Darkness, landing it an inch from his toes. “Let’s go, I’ll end it quick enough.” Darkness crouched and interlaced his fingers under the rock. His face was impassive, but his straining muscles gave away how heavy the slab of stone actually was. At the edge, he kicked the rope that had tethered the raft in place free, sending them careening down the roaring river. Stretched out between the two of them was a row of painted squares. Each square was numbered sequentially, starting at one from where Darkness stood, ending at ten where the bear loomed. Darkness had taken the rock and dropped it on the first square. He hopped over it, landed on two, and hopscotched onward until he reached number ten. He paused, balanced on one foot, and blew smoke up at the bear. He held eye contact as he hopped backward resuming his place at the beginning. He then took the stone, and heaved it with great effort. The bear snorted and reached out, picking up the rock from the eighth square. “You’re gonna have a hard time winning if you can’t even throw this pebble the entire length.” He dropped the stone on the tenth square. As nimble as a ballerina, he made his way through the numbers. He kicked the stone and it slid all the way back to Darkness. He grinned, the knives that pass for teeth glinting. The raft crashed into an exposed rock and water sprayed up, soaking the two. Darkness removed a cupped hand from his still dry cigar and drew from it in silence. The kodiak eyed Darkness nervously and then he glanced down the river. “Look at you, taking your sweet time. Not scared of the big bad waterfall, are ya?” he asked sardonically. “We’ll see how your nerves hold up in your little impromptu game of chicken.” Darkness took his cigar, flicked the ashes away and put it back into his smiling mouth. Minutes later, the edge of the waterfall was in sight and Darkness had yet to take his turn. “It’s going to be like that, huh?” The bear said. He gripped the raft with all his paws. “Bring it.” They then toppled over the edge. The bear hung on to a rock that jutted out of the waterfall. With dismay, he looked down and saw Darkness hanging from a tree branch with his cigar still lit in his mouth. “My nerves are fine,” Darkness shouted, smiling.
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Nov 27, 2014 03:32
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In.
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Nov 28, 2014 20:50
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Ah, I didn't see the word count, and I'm already at six pages. I'm writing a short of a meatier length. How important is following that instruction?
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Nov 28, 2014 22:07
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God Of Paradise posted:Ah, I didn't see the word count, and I'm already at six pages. I'm writing a short of a meatier length. How important would you say that reading comprehension should be in a contest focusing on the written word?
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Nov 28, 2014 22:15
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God Of Paradise posted:Ah, I didn't see the word count, and I'm already at six pages. I'm writing a short of a meatier length. lol
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Nov 28, 2014 22:17
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Critical. It's a major faux pas to be a handful of words over, much less hundreds. Being over the word count gives you an advantage over other participants and you'll be disqualified.
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Nov 28, 2014 22:17
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Your Sledgehammer posted:Critical. It's a major faux pas to be a handful of words over, much less hundreds. Being over the word count gives you an advantage over other participants and you'll be disqualified. :fellowjudgefistbump:
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Nov 28, 2014 22:29
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God Of Paradise posted:Ah, I didn't see the word count, and I'm already at six pages. I'm writing a short of a meatier length. sorry buddy, we already got a lovely-reading-comprehension TDer in Cache Cab. You'll have to think of some other gimmick.
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Nov 28, 2014 22:59
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Out Don't feel like writing something else. Also as a person who writes professionally for a living, the possible publishing issues bother me.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:04
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you're really loving dumb.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:05
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God Of Paradise posted:Out Just edit the story out of the post when you want to publish it. Also, nut up.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:08
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God Of Paradise posted:Out Lol Let me guess you're a technical writer
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Nov 28, 2014 23:10
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Ironic Twist posted:Just edit the story out of the post when you want to publish it. Also, nut up. Fair enough. I'll post the longer piece and get disqualified. Criticism's not a bad thing.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:11
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God Of Paradise posted:Fair enough. If you can't be bothered to follow the rules no one is going to waste their time reading your story. That's just insulting to the TD.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:13
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blue squares posted:Lol I'm a stupid reporter. I'm a pretty good stupid reporter too. I've won a couple of stupid awards being a stupid reporter. Whether I am a bad poster has no relevance on my stupid job. I would rather shoot myself than be a technical writer.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:16
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Thunderdome is routinely assailed by hordes of publishers interested in the legal issues
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Nov 28, 2014 23:18
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God Of Paradise posted:I've won a couple of stupid awards being a stupid reporter. insecure person spotted. please stop talking.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:19
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God Of Paradise posted:I'm a stupid reporter. This is a flash fiction contest. No one gives a gently caress. No one will read your overlong poo poo when the judges already have to read upwards of a novella each week just because you can't read. Either follow the ONE RULE THAT MATTERS and write something new or get out quietly, defending yourself is just making GBS threads up the thread.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:21
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Echo Cian posted:Either follow the ONE RULE THAT MATTERS and write something new or get out quietly, defending yourself is just making GBS threads up the thread. Right, right. I'll pull something else out of my rear end and post it. I feel we should move on before I get myself lynched.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:22
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On the upside it's Friday and you've already got six pages which is six pages further than most domers will have gotten by Sunday evening.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:23
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God Of Paradise posted:I'll pull something else out of my rear end and post it. Now there's the Thunderdome spirit!
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Nov 28, 2014 23:24
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To clarify a bit: Good on you for getting excited enough to write that much. However, anyone here could blab on about nothing for six pages. Working with the low wordcount is the point. God Of Paradise posted:I'll pull something else out of my rear end and post it. That's more like it.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:26
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God of Paradise: note the above two posts. They are being genuine. I've been on the wrong side of the Thunderdome myself, but as soon as you fix yourself, they are encouraging. So don't feel bad. Play by the rules and you'll have no problem joining in.
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Nov 28, 2014 23:32
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OH SORRY TREX I ALMOST DIDN'T NOTICE YOU THERE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofn60wahLlU Do me proud
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Nov 29, 2014 01:51
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approximately 2.5 hours before signups close
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Nov 29, 2014 06:24
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MercHammer Brawl Fishing with rear end in a top hat 597 words The chimp stared at me while I blubbered into my bowtie. His name was Sammy, but I just called him rear end in a top hat. Three hours earlier he was biting me on stage (second time in three days) in front of the cruise guests. He had a moment in the middle of the show where he was supposed to come out with a top hat and cane and do a little dance, but that’s never what happened. Instead, with the malevolent glee of a toddler who has learned to say no, he’d do whatever came to his chimp brain. Usually, this entailed hurling his cane into the audience, slapping Sandra on the rear end while she tried to do her number, or, of course, biting me. The guests loved it. Now we were watching the ship sink together. I had tried to keep him out of the raft while I was launching it, but once we were on the water, I didn’t have the heart to throw the little bastard overboard. He behaved himself at first. He stared at me with a look of steadfast confusion while I cried, and then spent the next three or four hours doing chimp things like babbling to himself and picking his rear end. As the sun set, I was beginning to think that this might not be much worse than being on the raft by myself. Then the sharks came. I barely caught a glimpse of one fin before the little asshat had wrapped himself firmly around my head, his hairy arm completely blinding me. My senses became three: hearing (neverending screeching), smell (a petting zoo with children who have filled their diapers to the brim with diarrhea), and touch (prickly chimp hairs oh god I think it’s in my mouth). I snaked my hand under his arm and tried to pry him loose. “Quit it, rear end in a top hat!” I yelled. It was a common refrain, and delighted by the reminder of his past life as a performance artist, Sammy bit me on the ear so hard I felt a chunk of skin rip free. The more I struggled, the worse he got, so I finally just gave up, hoping only that if the sharks were going to eat me, they’d do it quick. After about 20 minutes with a chimp adhered to my head, the sharks moved away. It was hours before Sammy calmed down. I waited to make sure he wasn’t going to wind up again and then moved to the far corner of the raft to catch a little nap. I had barely gotten settled before that little shitheel was all over me, wanting to cuddle. I pushed and prodded, trying to turn him away. “You almost got us killed back there, rear end in a top hat,” I said. He was an obstinate son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. I had to resort to a swift kick to finally get him off me. He scurried to the other side of the raft and bowed his head pitifully. As I began to drift off, I felt a brief little guitar pluck of regret. I awoke to splashing. As I squinted into the bright morning sun through a haze of exhaustion and panic, I saw Sammy hunched over the side, pulling still-wriggling fish into the raft. He heard me stir and turned to flash one of those poo poo-eating chimp grins, the ones where you can tell they are trying to be an rear end in a top hat. I smiled. He was finally being a useful rear end in a top hat. “Good job, Sammy,” I said. He smiled back, a real one this time.
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Nov 29, 2014 07:25
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signups are closed now
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Nov 29, 2014 09:28
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quote:I am going to assign each participant a different song by the Beach Boys. Somebody brawl me. I need a lesson in lucidity.
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Nov 29, 2014 20:27
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Bluesquares has appealed to me for a reprieve from our brawl for such weak and worthless reasons as "family" and "obligation." I, being a merciful Gau, will oblige him and withdraw my challenge to preserve the honor of the 'dome.
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Nov 29, 2014 22:13
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Gau posted:Bluesquares has appealed to me for a reprieve from our brawl for such weak and worthless reasons as "family" and "obligation." I, being a merciful Gau, will oblige him and withdraw my challenge to preserve the honor of the 'dome. You didn't respond for days so I kept working..I'm still in if you are.
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Nov 29, 2014 22:14
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Phobia posted:I need a lesson  How's that homewfirstcricketmatchoftheseasontodayork coming along?
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Nov 29, 2014 22:17
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Gau posted:Bluesquares has appealed to me for a reprieve from our brawl for such weak and worthless reasons as "family" and "obligation." I, being a merciful Gau, will oblige him and withdraw my challenge to preserve the honor of the 'dome. nah blue squares posted:I'm still in if you are. you're still in either way gau too you are both still in i mean what the gently caress
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Nov 29, 2014 22:40
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Entenzahn posted:nah Lol ok sorry Ent
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Nov 29, 2014 22:57
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Entenzahn posted:i mean what the gently caress
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Nov 29, 2014 23:34
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Let's Go Away for Awhile 1197 words Mick Jagger was screaming at me, the rough twang of 'Satisfaction' suddenly undercut by a voice that threatened me with it's youth. “Welcome back to your Flashback Friday on your one and own KSAN, the Voice of the Bay!” He called out, the riff fading out under him. “That was the Rolling Stones with “Satisfaction”, coming in at number six on our countdown. They put one a heck of a show, folks...” I turned down the radio as I took the hills and let the hum of the engine wipe my head clean. I hadn't been up this way in nearly a decade. I didn't have a need to since the divorce. And if it wasn't for my mailman, I would probably still be at my place sleeping off the jet lag. A few minutes either way and I would have missed it. But the small white postcard made it, and now I was making my way back home to Pacifica to attend Mary's funeral. I turned the radio back up “some Beach Boys, bringing you some Good Vibrations on this Flashback Friday!” The DJ cut out, replaced by high notes and a familiar voice. I, I love the colorful clothes she wears... ---------- It was 1966, and I was eighteen again. We crowded around a radio as the song cracked to life, feeling Mary Elaine's hand on my arm as we listened to it again. She started to sing along when the chorus kicked in and I joined her as back-up vocals. We'd been steady for weeks now, and each day made me feel like I'd explode. I still remembered the lump in my gut when Bobby dared me to ask her to the winter dance, the childishness of it all forgotten in the immediate joy of her 'Yes'. She was amazingly close as we sang, her hand in mine and her head on my shoulder as we sat in my upstairs room, resting against the dresser with the radio on above us. Her blonde hair catching the light from the bulb above us, making her smile stand out. Even with the clouds outside it felt like I was going to melt from the sunlight. It felt perfect. I turned to join her again on the back-up and her lips touched mine gently. A second that lasted forever in my mind, her gentle squeeze on my arm as she looked in my eyes. ------------------------------- I was back in 1986, gravel crunching under the tires as I pulled into the driveway, gray clouds hanging low in the sky. There'd be rain tonight so the funeral would be clear. I made my way from the driveway, across that soft grass and up those old stone steps to face a white-painted door. Halfway up it opened, a tall and ragged woman standing there. Her mascara was running. Her hair was frazzled. She hadn't slept. It didn't blunt the sharpness of that glare. “It's you,” Donna, Mary's mother, said to me. I could see the venom dripping from each syllable. “Yep,” was all I could say. “I got the invitation.” “We didn't send you any invitation.” She shot back. I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out the small card. “To be delivered to Randy McKulski upon notification of my death,” I read off the back of the card. “P.S., My mom still doesn't like you.” She stepped back from the door, allowing me inside. “You made that last part up.” I didn't. But I didn't tell her that. I heard voices coming from the living room off to my left and someone was moving in the kitchen ahead of me. As I walked past the door of the basement I could smell the sweet tinge of whiskey floating up from below. Her father was still drinking, it seemed. I turned into the living room and ran arms-first into my mother, feeling her give me one of her bone-crushing hugs. I tried to reciprocate but she pinned my arms to my side, only adding to the pain. “Mom?” I stuttered, lungs fighting for breath. “What are you doing here?” She backed away and looked up at me with red and puffy eyes, that same smile quivering at the corners. “Same thing as you, I imagine,” She said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Going over everything for tomorrow.” I couldn't respond with words, so I nodded at her strength and finally returned her hug. “Good to see you again,” I said, holding her close and trying not to cry on her shoulder. “You too, Rando,” She moved back towards the sofa. I took a seat next to her, my eyes drawn to the fake roses on the table, pink cloth petals taking me back. -------------------------- The pink cloth petals shuffled gently as I pinned it to her dress shoulder. We were standing across the street from the gym, watching as people filtered in. Music and lights poured out from the wide doors like an invitation. She took my hand and we crossed the street. I took the time to go over every way this couldn't be real. I wasn't much more than a kid who worked at a record store. I didn't play football. I didn't have a nice car. I had an uncle who worked at Capitol records but he only came down for Christmas, usually half-drunk and telling me about all the jobs I could have in the industry. I was nothing. And Mary Elaine was everything. Only a few inches taller than I was but standing straight enough to make every inch count. Blonde hair worn in a Jackie Kennedy cut that seemed to catch every stray beam of light as we crossed into the gym. I barely heard Bobby's voice, turning around to smile before that heavy flash blinded me. ------------------------- I was numb. It was a perfect day outside when they lowered her into the ground. The ceremony was beautiful. But I couldn't recall anything else but that. I was home now, looking at a box labeled 'Old House' in that neat, small lettering of hers. It was all I got in the will, a final passive-aggressive lashing out from beyond. She mastered the art when I was out on business, honing it to a deadly edge to greet me with every time I came back home. After nearly a decade, she'd finally sharpened it enough that 'passive' was gone. Soon our marriage was the same. “Mutual differences,” the paperwork stated. That was then. This was now. I opened up the box, dust lilting off the cardboard. The old cloth flower from Prom. Some pictures we took at a concert in Ventura County. Various fragments and memories. Pushed up against the back of the box I spied something red with white letters on top. I reached back to pull it out, five faces cut out on the cover against fingers of off-focus lights. The lettering for “THE BEACH BOYS” was scribbled over with a long, wavy signature. I remembered her face when he signed her favorite record. How she was so happy. I set the record down and cried to her memory.
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Nov 30, 2014 04:13
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Phobia posted:Well poo poo. I love the Beach Boys. This is what I get for staying off the web for a week.  As pennance for missing my last toxx, if you win Phobia, I will buy you a shiny new avatar! Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 19:07 on Nov 30, 2014 |
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Nov 30, 2014 19:02
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Phobia posted:Somebody brawl me. I need a lesson in lucidity. Benny the Snake posted:Hey Phooooooobiiiiaaaaaaaaa!!!! Come out to plaaaaaaaayyyyy!!!!!! Benny and Phobia's Race-to-the-Bottom BrawlAlright maggots, I've been given dispensation to judge this train wreck.  Due date: Wednesday, December 10th at 10:00pm EST Count: 1000-2000 words. Prompt: Write a mystery. Your stories must fit squarely and obviously into the mystery genre. IN ADDITION, you must explore the concept of "the last shall be first." That is, you must develop a circumstance by which someone/something disadvantaged rises above people/things who were more advantaged. "Disadvantaged" will be interpreted broadly. Be creative!  I can't wait to see this.
Armack fucked around with this message at 20:54 on Nov 30, 2014 |
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Nov 30, 2014 20:51
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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:
same 12 hours to submission deadline
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Nov 30, 2014 21:00
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Sitting Here posted:Week 121: Pet Words https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUfoJIiOvvo Taking the Lead - 741 Words I killed a dog today. It wasn’t my hand on the steering wheel of the car that hit it. And I didn’t pick it up and place it in that white van with the rusted undercarriage. And I wasn’t the guy who stuck the needle into it. But the dog’s dead now, and I’m responsible for that. I saw him lying in cold grass. The kind of grass that snaps as you walk over it. If you lied down on that grass, it would stab you before giving way. It resists but ultimately collapses when something bigger overwhelms it. I was confused at first because normally he came up to greet me when I walked past. Today, he just lifted his head. I walked towards him, the grass crunched under my boots. When I got to him, he stood up best he could. Three legs stood shakily while a fourth was held close to a too-skinny chest. I felt sick. I went to the owner’s house. I knocked on the door. Nobody answered me. It was early, I reasoned, and so maybe they’re still asleep. I walked back down the street to where the dog was lying. I sat beside it and wondered what to do. I don’t live in a city, I live in an unincorporated territory. I’m far away from everything. I thought about this as I scratched the dog’s ear. This dog knew me. I loved on him. I told him he would be okay, that I’d take care of him. How much did it cost, I wondered, to take a dog to the vet. I wanted to lift him up, take him to my car. I was worried that I’d hurt his leg more. At least that’s the reason I had then. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Hello, what’s your emergency?” The voice was monotone, calm, disinterested. “Hi, I don’t have an emergency. I just don’t know the number for the police department. I need to talk to somebody.” “Okay, go ahead.” “I’m with a hurt dog. I tried getting ahold of his owners, but they didn’t come to the door. I couldn’t think of who to call, so I called you guys.” “Tell me where you are.” It felt like a long time until the police officer arrived. I asked him what would happen to the dog. “It depends. The owner’ll get cited. He doesn’t have tags.” His voice was monotone, calm. I started walking back to my house as the officer drove past me, up to the neighbor’s. They opened their door when the officer knocked. I overheard only a part of their conversation before the wind picked up. The guy said the dog wasn’t his. I had seen that dog lie on his porch nearly every day for years. There was a bag of dog food next to the door. Why would he lie? How could he lie about this? His dog was hurt! I told my dad about it when I got home and he said, “It’s just a dog.” Later that day I saw a white van go down the rarely frequented road in front of my house. Big bold letters spelled ANIMAL CONTROL on its side. “What’s going to happen to that dog, dad?” “They’ll probably put it down. It’s for the best anyways.” “Can’t they fix a leg though?” He didn’t look up from the television, “Who’s going to pay for it?” --- When I was 18, I moved out of my dad’s house. He told me I should find a college near the house and that I wasn’t mature enough to live on my own. I disagreed. About three hours into my trip, I came across a stray dog eating out of an overturned trash can. I approached him and he cowered. His hair was matted and he had brown crusting around his eyes. He was missing teeth and had hard lumps on his stomach. I looked at the nearby house. The roof was missing tiles and a window Air Conditioner unit lay on the ground. The lawn was a mix of dirt and brown grass. There was an unopened bag of dog food sitting beside the door. I led the dog into my car with some gas station jerky. I removed some clothes from my duffel bag and made the best bed I could. I bought a collar and lead for him. I called him Dennis.
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