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Wrote bad story, now will write good story. In with a Bowie if you please.
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Jan 12, 2016 17:34
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I am signing up. I would like a dong. I don't care who gives it to me.
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Jan 12, 2016 17:50
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In with some Bowie, please!
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Jan 12, 2016 18:24
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Bleusman posted:In! I'll take a Bowie song, Sitting Here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v--IqqusnNQ Lazy Beggar posted:In and a song please, Sitting Here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaT6oZOW0vo Jeza posted:Wrote bad story, now will write good story. In with a Bowie if you please. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HSH--SJKVQQ Ceighk posted:In with some Bowie, please! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgPUxjQOk-w
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Jan 12, 2016 20:18
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Again, if someone would give me a song that would be great. Not feeling the Bowie though.
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Jan 12, 2016 20:22
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:I am signing up. I would like a dong. I don't care who gives it to me. WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:Again, if someone would give me a song that would be great. Not feeling the Bowie though. Oh, it was a song you wanted?
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Jan 12, 2016 20:26
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I wouldn't mind a bit of both tbh.
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Jan 12, 2016 20:31
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:I wouldn't mind a bit of both tbh. Twist or Curlingiron will give you one when they're about, don't worry.
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Jan 12, 2016 21:02
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In. Sitting Here, any chance I can get a Bowie song?
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Jan 12, 2016 21:15
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In with a  and a Bowie song if you please, Sitting Here.
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Jan 12, 2016 21:35
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CaligulaKangaroo posted:In. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA
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Jan 12, 2016 21:36
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docbeard posted:In with a https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dE4Mu_cZcIA
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Jan 12, 2016 21:37
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:I am signing up. I would like a dong. I don't care who gives it to me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dztURk0_DOg
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Jan 12, 2016 22:09
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After running out of time last week and basically spewing out something that would have struggled in a benny the snake week, it's only right I throw my hat back in the ring. Nothing to lose now! Give me some Bowie love too please sittinghere. Three times the words might mean I can write something three times as bad?
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Jan 13, 2016 00:19
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Masonity posted:After running out of time last week and basically spewing out something that would have struggled in a benny the snake week, it's only right I throw my hat back in the ring. Nothing to lose now! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPVrFIP0CMs
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Jan 13, 2016 00:44
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I'm in with a , and I'll take a Bowie song as well if they're still available.
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Jan 13, 2016 03:07
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Sitting Here posted:BTW I will be assigning exclusively Bowie songs, hit me up for a flashrule if you want to get your Bowie on IN, with I'm Deranged
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Jan 13, 2016 03:33
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ghost crow posted:I'm in with a https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tgcc5V9Hu3g sebmojo posted:IN, with I'm Deranged I was supposed to relentlessly own you for picking your song like some sort of Mr. Fancy Pants but actually I'll give this a pass.
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Jan 13, 2016 04:33
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In And I'll take a Bowie from whomever the first to provide it is. EDIT: If SittingHere is promising Bowie I want my song from SittingHere. SkaAndScreenplays fucked around with this message at 09:19 on Jan 13, 2016 |
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Jan 13, 2016 09:13
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SkaAndScreenplays posted:In https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiN32EkbqT8
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Jan 13, 2016 09:24
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In.
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Jan 14, 2016 00:22
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SPECTRES OF THRANGISM BRAWL Courses 1814 Words When Abelun's armies were out in the field, fighting in some war with Cruciline as they so often were, the untamed men of the Galfric Host rode down to threaten the capital city. This had happened many, many times before. Sometimes the soldiers remaining turned them away. Sometimes they reached the city, raided and looted it and left. Twice they have sacked it, leaving scarce few walls and buildings unburnt and unbroken. Excepting those few times the Host arrives in stealth, their leader always met with the King under flag of truce and challenged him to single combat. Now, unlike the debauched Cruciline tradition of duels and challenges, neither Abelun nor the Host had any truck with the use of proxies, seconds, or champions in such a duel. So as you might expect, the Abelun Kings refused that challenge. All of them but one. King Alfred the third, called “the Well-fed” at court and “the Fat” on the streets, was not in fact nearly as large as his father had been. He could, and did, walk on his own feet, for example. But he was far from physically fit, and when he nodded and said “I accept” to Rhys' challenge everyone gasped. “You have spirit,” bellowed Rhys. “I'll be sure to sing songs of you when I've finished running you through.” “Not so fast,” said King Alfred. “As the challenged party I choose the terms of the contest.” “You want to fight at a joust? Do you have a horse strong enough to sit you?” “No,” said the King. “We shall settle the matter with by feasting.” Rhys frowned. “How does one win at a feast?” “The question is more how one loses. We'll eat the same courses, plate for plate, with breaks between them for necessities and for sleep between midnight and dawn. The first who cannot finish a plate, or loses hold of their guts at either fore or aft, as it were, is loser.” King Alfred grinned broadly. “This is a most odd form of contest you propose.” “Do you refuse?” asked the King. “Are you backing down?” Rhys' eyes blazed. “No.” They dickered over terms, agreeing that the Host would take thrice the usual tribute if Rhys won and would leave to raid some other city and not return in Alfred's lifetime if he won, and that the city would provide food for the host during the feast, and that to ensure that the food was not poisoned or that other treachery did not occur, the host would take hostages from the city who would eat first, to be kept with their soldiers and horses under control of Rhys's brother and lieutenant Owen. Among those hostages was Alfred's own daughter, Princess Charlotte, who was called “the Shrewd”, although some wags often dropped the last letter. The feasting began on the next morning. The first day was a fairly standard day of feasting in King Alfred's court, starting with honey-glazed ham and eggs; a plate of fresh strawberries and melons, lightly sweetened and salted; crisped new potatoes with pepper-spiced pork sausage; and cherry-filled tarts before moving on from the breakfast courses. Enough food to feed the entire court was brought out, and eat they did, turning the matter into an informal competition. The courses continued through the day, moving to lunch plates of shrimp, cold meats, and cheeses from seven different countries, and on to dinner, steak with mushrooms and duck in a crispy lemon-almond glaze and eggplants stuffed with crab paste. Both Rhys and the king ate everything before them eagerly and they ended the day evenly matched. The court began to drop away on the second day, as the dishes continued, never repeating. Abelun cuisine featured simple dishes with complex blends of spices. Cruciline food tended toward rich and flavorful sauce. Alfred's chef was a master of both, and a fair hand at the foods of more distant lands, and the royal larders were virtually inexhaustible. As the dishes came forward the boundaries between breakfast, lunch, and dinner faded away. A plate of prawns sauteed in butter with garlic and a hint of hot pepper was followed by flambeed bananas served with a sweet cold cheese followed by chicken in a savory chocolate sauce. The last two members of the court had their final face off, with the master of spies begging off and leaving the exiled and by this point extremely theoretical pretender to the Cruciline throne the winner of this lesser contest. On the fifth day, a small black box was brought into the chamber along with the first course, a dark sausage with scrambled eggs. “What is this?” asked Rhys, indicating the box. “A specialty of my chef,” said Kind Alfred. “Today will be a feast of the whole.” “Of the...” “One animal, prepared in many different and clever ways, sparing no part other than the head and bones. The head is in the box, of course, and will only be revealed after the day is done. He is quite clever at disguising main ingredient.” Dish after dish followed, with meat sliced and ground, and the tripe and organ meats as well, all prepared with expert deception. There were sausages and casseroles and stir-fries, each with spices and sauces that did not completely overwhelm the meat's own flavor but brought it out and moved it in different directions. At the end of the day the box was lifted to reveal the head of a bull, a surprise to both, as the King had thought it venison and Rhys expected to see the head of a ram. The feasting continued. King Alfred's appetite was legendary, but Rhys matched him plate for plate. In the second week they agreed to allow each other to take turns making specific requests to the chef. Rhys called for a plates of insects, ants and snails and scorpions. The chef prepared them in ginger and honey and butter and garlic “My chef can cook anything,” said King Alfred, “And can cook nothing poorly.” Alfred in his turn called for a course of horse meat, which he had heard Rhys' people avoided. Rhys ate it without complaint. “I have eaten horse before,” he said. “In the wastes, where starvation threatened. For survival and victory, nothing is forbidden to the men of the Host.” They challenged each other with rat-meat, with peasant's gruel and soldier's field rations. True to Alfred's words, the chef's talent made the least appealing foods not just palatable but tasty. They challenged each other with sauces as spicy as the chef was willing to make them, then with a run of chilled deserts to chill their brains. No winner emerged. Both the practiced gourmand and the lean and hungry barbarian were human, though, and their endurance was not without limit. King Alfred could tell he did not have many more courses to go, and went to the man in command of the forces left in the city, General Erik. “Fall upon the barbarians in the dead of night,” he ordered. “Save what hostages you can, and bring Rhys's brother Owen back to the kitchens and instruct the chef to serve him up as a feast of the whole.” General Erik was not a loyal servant of the King. After all, the generals who truly had Alfred's favor, who have good future prospects, all of those were leading the war against Cruciline. He had already sold himself to Rhys, and reported this treachery to the horse-lord as soon as he could. Rhys ordered his camp moved, stealthily, and Erik suggested a plan for further revenge. “With this attempt, the hostages are rightly forfeit,” he said. “So follow the King's plot, but substitute Princess Charlotte for your man.” “Surely the King's own chef would never-” “The chef trusts me as he would the King himself,” said Erik, “And when I tell him that Alfred has discovered that Charlotte was plotting to betray his father and wed herself to you, he will believe.” “Truly?” asked Rhys. “Charlotte resents that her younger brothers would be crowned before her, and most would believe any dark plot of her.” “Very well,” said Rhys, and allowed Erik to put this double-cross into motion. The feast of the whole began, and both Rhys and the King ate eagerly, believing their victory at hand. Neither was unfamiliar with the taste of human flesh. In those situations in the wastes where starvation threatened, the ban against horseflesh was not the only such taboo that was suspended. As for the King, in his youth he had a morbid curiosity on the subject, and he instructed his chef to settle it, with a suitable prisoner. The first time the chef substituted a boar, but he was caught at the act, and the King repeated his request, insisting on watching the entire preparation. Their eagerness did not quite overcome the exhaustion of their digestive tracts, and by the time of the final servings of long pork both of their guts ached mightily. They each forced the food down, thinking only of their coming moment of triumph. When the box was finally lifted, both men gaped in shock. The head beneath was neither that of Princess Charlotte nor Owen, but rather General Erik. It was then that the two would-be-victims revealed themselves, entering the feast hall hand in hand. “We decided to make a change in the menu,” said Charlotte. King Alfred tried to get up, but the pain in his gut stopped him. “Two changes,” said Owen. “You're right, dear,” said Charlotte. “Since the chef would never do it himself, we decided to pre-spice the meat with a touch of poison.” Nobody laughed. It would take months before the court learned how important it was to laugh at what Charlotte though was a clever quip. Rhys forced himself to his feet just before he completely lost control of his body, expelling partially digested food and blood – mostly blood – in geysers from both ends. King Alfred suffered the same fate seconds later. Charlotte and Rhys consolidated their power quickly and brutally. In the version of the story told to the commoners, the Host invaded and slaughtered the young male heirs before Charlotte negotiated a peace. Few believed a word, but open defiance was rare. Of course, rumor held that the youngest little prince was spirited away from the city by friends of the old regime, as it always does in these cases. The Host and the regular soldiers kept order until the ceremonies of coronation and marriage could be completed, forging a new empire that would go on to decisively defeat Cruciline and dominate the entire region. And it was many, many years before anyone even considered eating so much as a crumb in that hall.
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Jan 14, 2016 02:40
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hey sitting here this is spectres' brawl thing, so here you go The Bends i. Zoiei “Sometimes,” EVcrao said, “I forget my blood is toxic. I’ll be sitting there, perfectly at peace. Maybe I’ll be talking to someone. I’m completely focused on what they’re saying. Their words are dancing along my tristem and I’ll be lost. And then maybe they’ll stop for a second, try to think of what to say next. And I’ll remember that it’s in me, and there’s no way to get it out.” “But you forget again,” Sparky said. “Later.” “That doesn’t help me now,” EVcrao said. She shifted position, bringing herself closer to the robot. His three eyes whirred and focused on her. She knew that this was utilitarian; he used the information to triangulate positioning data, but she still felt, in a deeper part of her, the thrill of attention. Someone’s listening to me, she thought, and I might forget. But she didn’t, for it was cold on Zoiei, this far along on the ellipsoid orbit. Her blood was telling her body it was supposed to be cold, and her body was agreeing. The stars above Zoiei were constantly moving in brilliant kaleidoscopic patterns. Whoever had engineered the surface, though, had believed in a different philosophy. Everywhere you went,Zoiei was the same. The same ground covered in artificially grown nutri-moss. The same holographically coloured air, indicating comfortable breathability levels. The same dazed looking people and their blank looking mechanoids. “Sparky,” she said. “What’s lit right now?” “The depths,” Sparky said. “That’s where the mired children swim with each other. The critical consensus is that the memetic sharing doesn’t capture the essence of their play. That you have to be there to really experience it.” She thought this over, but not for long. Her body was losing heat, her gelatin beginning to chill. She tried to move one of her tendrils; it moved in slow motion, slower than her thoughts. She felt frustration at this, like she did at the end of every cycle. “Okay, Sparky,” she said. “I’m ready to sleep now.” And then Sparky’s eyes were snaking out through the gloom of the Zoiei half-light. She barely registered them. Sparky’s reflexes were thousands of times faster than hers; he used them to control the trajectory and speed of his eyes so perfectly that they were pressed against her head before she could feel the sensation of shock. His eye stalks were as fast as the pulses that radiated from them, washing through her gelatin, splashing against her tristem. Her friend, Sparky. Waves from his core, filtered through his chrome skin, and then, finally, fragmented through his eyes. It’s not enough, she thought, it’s never enough, but I guess it’s the best we can do right now. One moment she was looking at Sparky, seeing in his eyes the flickering lights of his thoughts, and the next she was dreaming, her dream, his dream, everyone’s dream, maybe no one’s. ii. The Sea The Sea. What was the sea? It wasn’t water. Maybe it was the chemicals sloshing around in your tristem, though. At any rate she was there now. Zoiei was gone; she could tell this right away just by looking around. Everywhere was the water, the thought water; you swam in it, and your core floated in ideas and associations. And around her were other Zoieians, experiencing the same thing. Floating and swimming, their tendrils (now dream-tendrils) waving in the ebb and flow. And somewhere below her were the depths, where she had never been before, because in the depths, she had heard, you could forget that you were in the depths, and that maybe at some point you should leave. And Sparky had told her, analytically, that they were lit, and had provided no other information. He had left her the choice. She still felt that choice, even as the concrete memory of Sparky began to fade away. Sparky, a friend, a feeling now. She could go to the depths, if she wanted. And why shouldn’t she? When she looked around she saw that she was still shallow after all. Treading water with all the other kids who were playing it safe. They were wisping around her; their loops were clumsy, asymmetrical; she saw them mess up at the apex of their crescents, flopping awkwardly and sometimes freezing in place. And what they were sharing with each other didn’t seem that cool to her, she realized. It was surface level stuff about their lives. Does he like me? Will he like me if I do this? How should I act to maximize my likeability aura, in the context of being around him, specifically? Everyone here, she thought, is cool with their blood. But when I wake up I will go back to mine. So, as the other kids watched, she dove. As she dove there was a hushed silence, right away, and as she left them further and further behind she couldn’t shake the idea that she was leaving them forever. iii. The Descent When you descended, you descended into murk. The murk settled on you, slowed you down. The change was gradual but she could perceive it, once she had descended a couple of fathoms. The sheer terror of free fall into the abyss of the depths disappeared. In its place was an unsettling feeling, as she pondered whether or not this was a good idea. But even as she sank more and more slowly, the pressure above her increased, and soon she was not sure she could swim back even if she wanted to. She could see dimly lit figures floating around her. They were engaged in somber conversation. From what she could make out, it sounded… abstract? She could make out some words and phrases. Pseudo-primordialism. Spacetime wellspring. Angelic totality. Are they talking about the Sea, she wondered. Or life before the Sea? Whatever that was like. Vague now, like the light that was barely reaching her through the murk. And soon, she thought, there will be no light whatsoever. Except whatever I bring with me. iv. The Depths She forgot waking life entirely. Her dream-limbs were flailing in panic and she fought to get them under control. Desperately she sent out phero-transmissions, waves of greeting to someone, anyone. She felt annoyance. Not her annoyance; this came from somewhere else. Seemingly all around her, actually. Though it was harshly edged, it was meaning, and she strained to decipher it. Finally she was left with a single concept, and though she didn’t know what it was at first, she felt something in her stir uncomfortably when she finally unravelled it. The bends. What are the bends? She put an interrogative musk on the phero-transmission and sent it back out. More annoyance. But she got an answer; maybe the tristem of her subconscious had put something worthwhile in the fragrance. The bends, she learned, were a sharp descent from the surface level to the depths. You carry toxic associations and ideas with you. They spill out and pollute the depths. Toxic, she thought. I don’t fit up there, she pheromoted, and the response to this was more than just a pulse, more than even a wave. It was tempest of thought and feeling, blowing her away like a paper doll. She reached out with a dream-limb, and as she grasped desperately, the vortex of black water clawing at her, the dream-limb began to morph. She couldn’t see it clearly through the murk, but it wasn’t a tendril anymore. It was now a pale pink colour, and moving it she could tell it was rigid. And on the end were what looked like stalks, tiny ones, and she found, as her tristem began to bubble and burst, losing tiny pieces of herself, that she could move them too. v. ??? She was somewhere else. Her body was bent at what felt like a 90 degree angle. Conforming to a smooth hard surface that pressed against her back. In front of her was another flat surface, and she found that it was elevated to a height at which she could comfortably rest her new appendages. In fact, she seemed to already be doing so. “Dear, it’s rude to put your elbows on the table.” She looked up. Around the surface in front of her were bent three other pale pink life forms. They all seemed to be taller to her, though one was was smaller than the others. This one had a jeer on its face, as if anticipating whatever interaction was about to happen next. But there was no humour in the face of the one who had just spoke. Her head was decorated with strange curls that seemed just as rigid as EVcrao’s new limbs. What is the right response here, she thought. She told her tristem to communicate some sort of apologetic association using her new communication apparatus. “Sorry,” was what came out. But this seemed strange to her. Surely she hadn’t actually hurt anyone? Even if she had it wouldn’t be her fault She had only just gotten here. The life form was still glaring at her. With a start she realized that some further action was needed. She settled on moving her limbs; they awkwardly dropped to her side. “That’s better,” the life form said. “Now eat your greens.” There was one life form she hadn’t paid any attention to. She did so now. It was as imposing as its counterpart in height, but so far it hadn’t said anything. Indeed, she wondered if it could, because the lower part of its face was obscured by a thick mass of bristle. But its eyes communicated volumes. They communicated disappointment. More than that. They communicated regret. She felt the weight of those eyes on her. She bent her own head down, in the direction of the green things. She began to eat them. They tasted ugly. Not like the carefully managed inoffensive blandness of the nutri-moss. This was corrosive. She felt her taste organ twisting away from it instinctively, trying to keep contact to minimal levels. This is a test, she thought. You’re supposed to get this down before it kills you. She opened her eyes and saw that all three life forms were staring at her. She began to crush the food. She hated it. She was grinding it to dust. Over and over, until the inside of her mouth was splattered in its juices and she had forced down every last lump. She raised her head triumphantly. “What kind of daughter have I raised?” the curled life form screeched. “Eating with her hands? Like an animal? Your grandfather is watching you from heaven right now. He’s ashamed at what you’ve become.” The form with half a face finally spoke. “I’m disappointed,” he said. “So, so disappointed.” Something was nuzzling her lower body. She looked down. It was a small furred animal with flickering eyes. vi. Return. She woke up on the cold ground of Zoiei. Sparky’s eyes were retracting into his head; as she watched they snapped into place with a thunk. “Sparky,” she said dazedly. “Where am I? Am I really on Zoiei? Am I in the Sea? The depths? Am I somewhere else, somewhere far away, so far away that I’ll never find my way back home?” “I don’t know,” Sparky said. “That’s beyond my abilities to determine. I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” EV said. “I gave you your injection,” Sparky said, “while you were asleep.” “An injection?” she asked. “Why?” Sparky was silent. For a while she tried to figure out if this was important. After a while, she stopped. Instead, she cozied up to him, wrapping her tendrils around him, enfolding him totally. If she focused, she imagined she could actually feel the pulsing of his core, deep inside his chrome. Together they watched Zoiei’s shifting starscape. A blanket woven from billions of moving lights. They were always moving. They never slept.
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Jan 14, 2016 02:45
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Well, I do want to practice writing, and this seems like an interesting prompt. I'm In.
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Jan 14, 2016 07:55
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I'm In
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Jan 15, 2016 03:59
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If anyone is on the fence about signing up and wants a Bowie song, I have preselected a few. First come, first served. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2y9inP4CqE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-AMec7yr7c ^^^I REALLY want someone to do this one so you will get brownie points from me if you grab and write something cool. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Gy94N_mcWs ^^^ No lyrics so this is like the double black diamond of prompt songs but it's v good https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1Z2pk5J9Ng
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Jan 15, 2016 10:07
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Sitting Here posted:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-AMec7yr7c As you wish.
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Jan 15, 2016 19:28
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Likewise, if you want a song but aren't feeling the Bowie angle, here are two that I like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCAqoMT_mts https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGbZq0Vwg-U
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Jan 15, 2016 21:36
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Well, I might as well join in: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIfKqgWPVvk https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dl-CcC7xRAw https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yg5eXOPvF3Q Double bonus points if you use vvvthisvvv one, because I might never get to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNA7yrIysDg Signups close in just over 8 hours
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Jan 15, 2016 21:48
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In.
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Jan 15, 2016 23:37
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I've never done this before, but I'm in. How hard can this be, I mean Goons do it. Pshaw, as if. Oh God please love me!
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Jan 16, 2016 02:48
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Under 3 hours left to make a total gut decision and write a story for this week~~~
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Jan 16, 2016 03:12
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I'm in and would like to request a Bowie song. However, since I said I wouldn't sign up again until I turned in one of my two redemptions, I must post one of them ITT before I am allowed to submit my story.
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Jan 16, 2016 05:06
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Bad Seafood posted:I'm in and would like to request a Bowie song. Sitting Here posted:
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Jan 16, 2016 05:24
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Signups closed, write and write some more.
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Jan 16, 2016 06:13
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Hey goons! The judges will be reading and reacting to your stories LIVE AND IN COLOR this Sunday. So if you need a bit of incentive to not procrastinate until the deadline, this is it. If you want to watch the stream, please be in #Thunderdome around 6PM PST for the link. We will be reading in Judgmode, meaning we won't know who's who, so it should be a ton of fun.
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Jan 16, 2016 06:26
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 Spectres of Thrangism brawl judgment Thranguy Your story was the more traditional of the two. It had an easily identifiable arc and its primary characters had distinct motivations. You definitely went all out with the food; not only did you make it central to your conflict, you were pretty lavish with the details. You succeeded in making me hungry. There were some clever things that could've been really clever things. I liked the thing with the "feast of the whole"; the way you worked it into the eating contest and then the multi-layered revenge plot was good. I would compare it to ASoFaI or something, but we're all sick of that series so I won't. The problem, I think, is that Charlotte didn't have enough screen time. She's mentioned in passing, but all of the important info about her character's motivations is kind of crammed into the end. I hate to say it, but you could've cut down on some of delectable feasting. I don't know if Charlotte's betrayal needed to be foreshadowed, per se, but she needed to be more of an active character in the story. Spectres This was...abstract. Your protagonist felt truly alien; unfortunately, so did her motivations. The frustrating thing, is I was almost with you. Almost. Like, there are so many individual elements of this story that I really love. The way you had this alien being kind of materialize into the body/life of a human girl was really good. Like, that transition from the surreal to the mundane was good enough that I actually smiled while I was reading it. While I didn't quite understand all of the things happening in the story, I felt sympathy for the character. Like, the imagery in this is so loving vague (very cool, but vague), but there's this relatable sense of alienation. Everyone else is cool with their blood (BTW I really like how you combine your sort of casual voice with your narrative voice), and they're existing in this dream sea with pleasant abandon. They frolic around in shallow places, concerning themselves with frivolous thoughts and social status. The scene where she goes down into the depths is ambiguous. It seems like kind of a good thing for the protagonist; you get the sense that the creatures who live down there communicate more...meaningfully? But the protagonist somehow contaminates the space by bringing her doubts and surface-level concerns with her. She finds herself momentarily in the body of a human girl who's disappointed her family. That's probably my favorite bit of the whole story. There's not much in the way of context, but it's a compelling scene. It's kind of a nice oasis in the middle of all this abstraction. So here's the thing, Spectres. I believe in your writing like, hardcore. I think you have all these huge ideas, and I think you are steadily finding ways to ground them in concrete, relatable stories. I want to swim in oceans of pure meaning and memetic sharing with you. And I think you are well on your way there. This story didn't quite give me enough to grab onto; other than the scene at the dinner table, I felt a little bit lost. I was trying to describe my feelings about your writing to another domer today, and it's like, I feel like I'm watching a really really good film with an awesome soundtrack, but the picture is out of focus. You dig? But you are slowly turning those knobs, and the picture is getting clearer. I feel like, in a couple years (maybe sooner!), you will probably be a powerhouse of a writer. The Verdict Ultimately, this brawl comes down to clarity versus ideas. I think Thranguy told the more deliberate, clear story, and so the brawl victory goes to him. But I was pleasantly surprised by the very distinct, different ways you addressed the prompt, which wasn't the easiest prompt I could've given. Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 02:25 on Jan 17, 2016 |
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Jan 17, 2016 02:15
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The Rondeau. Word count: 1,263 James told himself he knew he was wrong, that he always thought he could read people but in reality he had the social IQ of Sloth. However, knowing and feeling were two different things. She tensed up when she saw him enter the viewing room and he, rather immediately, convinced himself that she did not want to see him, she was disgusted by him. It was clear, one moment her hand was pressed on the sleeve of a consoling black-clad mourner, and the next she stood with a knitted brow staring at dead James. Her hand slipped from the sleeve. It was her hand that cinched the deal in his gut. He couldn't imagine her reaction coming from any place other than shock at the audacity of his being there at her Mother's funeral. You're not going to die James, you're not going to die. He told himself that whenever he felt the world beginning to close in on him. He talked to himself in the third person, he wondered if that was odd, perhaps it was a sign of mental illness. He always suspected he was touched by mental illness. He did that one, too, mentally wandering off whenever things got too thick and his anxieties got the better of him. # James told himself he was right. This was months before the funeral, they were celebrating a new job with his friends. Ever since he had accepted the position he had been hyping himself up. She wants me to make a move, he thought. He believed that women liked men who knew what they want and went for it. He wanted her and so he was going to do something grand. It was that sort of logic that always led James to his doom. “You're so good with people,” James said. “Everyone just seems to open up to you. I can't even get words to come to mind let alone properly enunciate them, unless I'm talking with somebody I've known for years. Hell, even then I stumble over myself.” “You have to learn to be comfortable in your own skin. You're such a sweet person, James, you should let other people see that, not just me.” “Thanks, Kel-Bella. You always make me feel like I'm a nice guy.” He loved the rush, the ooey-gooey mush of her attention, and believed he could secure it forever. He approached it as he did most things in life, as a series conditional statements, figuring all he had to do was discover which one resulted in the most optimal outcome. IF He said “I'm leaving tomorrow, unless you can think of a reason for me to stay.” THEN She would say, “Me. You should stay for me.” ELSE IF He said “I've always loved you, I can't see myself ever being with anybody else, you are my one and only.” THEN She would say, “I've always loved you too, James.” ELSE IF He said “You are perfect in every way, you're beautiful, kind, and intelligent, and you make me a better man. I want that in my life.” THEN She would say, “but James, you're a turbo-creep. I mean, what makes you think you're worthy of me?” He settled on a poem. He did this after dinner in the living room with all their friends gathered around. He chimed a fork against his wine glass and brought everyone's attention to him. His focus remained solely on Kelly. “Kel-Bella is a wretched being. Tho she shines bright in the twilight, her heart is small and turgid green. Kel-Bella is a wretched being, But my love for her is oft' seen in flight of my poetic might. Kel-Bella is a wretched being, but she shines bright in my twilight.” Of course it was never going to play out as he imagined, life should have taught him that lesson already. He had bought into subprime loans in early 2007, and he had believed Windows Vista would quickly replace XP. When something did come to fruition it was never as he envisioned. The land between expectation and reality was a barren expanse of anticlimax. So, instead of getting a mutual pronouncement of love, James got a knife fight. By his reckoning the first blood went to her, as her features dropped when he spoke. By the time he was done she was in the kitchen. “Kel-Bella-” “No. No more Kel-Bella.” She crossed her arms. “James, you can't do something like that, what makes you think you could do that?” “I just wanted- I mean, I wanted you to know how much you mean to me. I'm leaving and-” “No, you wanted to tell me that you love me. That I am the girl of your dreams.” “I- I do. I do love you.” He watched as she sharpened her blade. “No,” she sank the blade into his heart. “You love the idea of me. This idea that I'm some kind of Virgin Mary, healing the sick, working with the poor. But I'm not. I can't fix you. Christ, James, I've been seeing Kevin. I would have told you but I didn't want to hurt you.” The words kept flowing along with his blood onto the linoleum floor. He would have felt sick if his stomach and intestines were still in his gut, instead they sat wiggling on the floor like worm suicides after a summer shower. Soon the blood would dry and they would shrivel up along with the rest of his insides. Good riddance, he thought. “I thought you wanted this. You kept saying how much you were going to miss me. That you were going to be thinking about me. And we get along so well, we finish each others sentences, we're always quoting the same stuff, and I-I make you laugh.” “You think I wanted this?” She twisted the blade. “You are my friend, and yes I am going to miss you. But, James, I am not in love with you. You're fun to be around, and sure we have a lot in common, but that isn't love. And if you can't keep that straight then you're not even my friend.” # James told himself he had changed since then. He had spent the next few months questioning every belief he held about how he perceived the world. He asked his therapist how it was that every time he saw her heart breaking and thought it was over him, he had been wrong. Her heart only ever broke for him, not over him. His therapist didn't have an answer, but thought it was a good question. A mutual friend told him that Kelly's mother had passed away. He got on a plane the next day. Then when he entered the funeral home and saw her standing in a crowd of mourners he felt the old swell of emotions, as raw as ever. He told himself that it is only in his mind. I am not my feelings. I am in control. Then she looked at him. He wanted to spill his guts all over again. I'm sorry for being a terrible friend. I'm sorry for embarrassing you like that. I didn't call, or write, like you wanted. I've seen a shrink. I'm better now. I understand my problems now. I tried to send you a message on Facebook before I left but I had unfriended you. But none of it came out. She detached herself from the group of mourners. “Stop standing there awkwardly and hug me,” she said. James told himself that he had changed.
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Jan 17, 2016 17:57
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So as you can already see you should all just pack it in and cal it a week, cause I got this poo poo locked down. Tight. As tight as... Um, something sexual. gently caress yeah! If you think you're up to the task of critiquing me, go ahead, I double dog dare you. But my poo poo is going to blow your mind. You're going to be like "Omgz did he just reference a simple poetry form? I'm not even sure what that means! I should just go back to stuffing coal up my butt to make diamonds." I won't be around for the live event, not that you even need to do it now, but whatevahs. I hope you butt miners can think of something new to occupy your time. Cause this poo poo is done. Outie. -T. That's right, I only need one letter to identify me, that's how cool I am. This post in NO WAY constitutes a challenge to anybody, because I am a scared baby.
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Jan 17, 2016 18:11
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Smitten Word count: 1,435 Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v--IqqusnNQ (David Bowie - Life on Mars?) I never thought myself an especially trusting person, but it was only when Eli had plied the boards off the abandoned factory door that I realized how absurd of a first date this was. I guess I couldn’t imagine someone as twinky as Eli, he of the puffy hair, spectacled blue eyes, and impeccable taste in flannels as someone who’d have malicious intentions. He’d posed for his OKCupid profile with his fancy rat, for goodness’s sake. When he said he’d like to take me urban exploring, all I’d thought at the time was that it sounded a lot more interesting than bowling. Even at lunch, I’d been disarmed by his slow smile and chatty, self-conscious conversation. Boys this cute and put-together didn’t usually look twice at me, but here he was, listening with what appeared to be genuine interest to my dumb stories about the bands I’d been in, laughing at all the right places. And he told his own stories with verve and candor, self-deprecating tales of high school embarrassments and thrilling yarns of exploring abandoned asylums and condemned schools. By the time we paid our checks, I was smitten, not only by him but also by the romance of exploring a place lost to time. I knew it wasn’t a smart move, following a stranger into a boarded-up building. But in the moment, I felt I’d be a fool to do anything else. The inside of the factory, a picked-over warehouse floor, seemed pretty barren at first glance. Eli removed a pair of surgical masks and an electric lantern from his backpack. He strapped my mask on first, his fingers brushing my neck, before attending to his. Then he switched the lantern on, illuminating the cracked concrete floor and splintering walls. “I know it doesn’t look like much,” he said, “but the good stuff’s downstairs.” “It always is,” I said, and met his gaze in the low light. The mask muffled his giggle, and we crossed the floor to a narrow, descending wooden staircase. I peered into the pitch blackness of the basement. “Um,” I said. “I know it looks scary. But I’ve been reading up online. Lots of people have been here and they say it’s totally safe. Just creepy as hell.” I hesitated, but then I noticed his eyes again, and I was helpless. We were going basement exploring, I guess. Eli went first, catching the cobwebs. Below, our lantern illuminated a long hallway, stretching in both directions beyond our light, with corridors branching off every few yards. He whistled and stared down the passage. “drat, this place is huge. Okay, you’re the urbex virgin,” he said. “You decide: left or right?” “Um,” I said again. “Left.” I led the way. “Do you know what this place is?” “So people online think it’s some sort of research lab, but no one knows what they studied. Some electronic poo poo, I think – people from a few years ago said they found wires, microchips. But I guess they’re all gone now. Let’s go left here.” We turned into a side corridor, which led us down another set of stairs. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing ahead of us. A faint glow came from somewhere down the hall. “Huh,” Eli said. “Let’s check it out.” On the way, we passed a few office doors. From my passing glance, they too looked like someone had picked them over thoroughly. On the left, a room with nothing but a broken wooden desk; on the right, an empty classroom, save for a pegboard studded with Polaroids. Then we reached a third room. In the midst of this derelict basement, an old, family-sized CRT television sat plugged into a fraying extension cord and coaxial cable. The screen broadcasted some fuzzy black-and-white film without sound. A naked man, lying belly-down on a bed, stared desperately at the camera, and at first I couldn’t see why the man seemed so afraid, until a woman came up behind him and sliced his throat open. “Jesus,” I said. “What the hell,” Eli said, but when I turned to him, his eyes were wide not in horror but in a fascinated rapture. The video changed. Now it showed a low-res cell phone capture of a dank alleyway. A young man in a Red Sox cap cowered with his back to a brick wall before a boot came up hard under his chin. A police officer entered the frame and kicked the man hard again in the temple. I winced and inhaled sharply. “Can we get out of here? Look, I don’t want to watch snuff films.” I said. “Oh, yeah, sure,” Eli said. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and snapped a photo of the TV. “Yeah, we can get going. Out of this room, or—“ A rat darted around the TV and brushed Eli’s pantleg. He screamed, and his high yelp echoed down the hall. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.” “I thought you liked rats,” I said, smirking, as we reversed our path. “Yeah. Pet rats. Not vermin.” He shuddered. “How do you think that setup got there? Kids playing tricks? Criminal enterprise? A spooky ghost?” “I don’t know. Ancient aliens? I don’t want to think about it too hard. It just made me the wrong kind of uncomfortable, I guess. Sorry.” “Oh, it’s fine,” he said, touching my arm. “But you know, the doors—“ I squinted down the hallway and stopped walking. “Hold on. Are those stairs going down? I think we went the wrong way.” But as we turned around, I saw the same empty offices I did before – the one with the broken desk followed by the one with the Polaroids. “What the gently caress?” Eli pulled out his cell phone again and took a picture of the staircase. Then he cleared his throat. “The people online said it’d be easy to get lost in here. I’ll see if there’s something we missed, okay?” He looked over the phone. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure this out. Just… let’s walk a little further and see if I can find some reception.” We walked a little further up the hallway, and just as we approached the doorway to the TV room again Eli said “Wait! Here’s a bar. Give me a second.” I tried not to look at the room next to me, concentrating only on the screen of Eli’s phone. “Yeah,” he said. “Here we go! This guy says he got really turned around, felt he was lost and would never get out… oh.” “What?” “I guess he followed the rats.” “Okay. That’s doable. I mean, not ideal, but—“ Eli grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the TV. Eli himself was on the screen, sitting on what I was sure was my living room couch. He looked uncomfortable – not terrified, but uneasy, anxious. I saw myself walk slowly into the frame, a thermos in each hand. I held my breath, waiting for some senseless act of violence. But the version of me on the video handed one of the thermoses to Eli, who took it and drank, hands shaking. Then the video cut again, and our images were replaced with those of cows hanging by their ankles at a slaughterhouse. “You didn’t kill me,” Eli murmured, looking down. “I think.” “What the hell,” I said. I should have been fearful, either for my life or at least my sanity. But what ate at me then wasn’t how in the world someone had recorded events that’d never happened. No, I was worrying that Eli wouldn’t like me anymore. Surely now he’d never agree to see me again, now that we’d just starred on the Murder Channel. But what if we were exceptions? What if the powers that be just thought we’d be a cute couple, and wanted to treat us to a domestic scene of what that might be like. “What do you think—“ “You were right,” Eli said. “It’s probably better not to think about it too hard.” Another rodent squealed and darted behind us, back down the hall. We tracked the rats back through the hall again, and on this return journey the stairs were going up again. Neither Eli nor I said much of anything, even when we’d gotten back to the fresh air. He said that his head hurt and he wanted to go home, but he’d text me. I watched him retreat to his car, his hair and eyes vanishing from view. It took all my restraint not to text him and invite him over for coffee.
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Jan 17, 2016 19:12
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