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I want some Country in Asia
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Sep 7, 2016 11:07
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QuoProQuid posted:I want some Country in Asia Progressive Bluegrass / Sri Lanka
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Sep 7, 2016 11:13
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Opera in Africa to help the most underserved.
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Sep 7, 2016 11:58
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a friendly penguin posted:Opera in Africa to help the most underserved. Zarzuela / Morocco
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Sep 7, 2016 14:11
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Soul, South America.
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Sep 7, 2016 14:29
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Fuschia tude posted:OK in gimme some a that electronic europe
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Sep 7, 2016 15:13
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Schneider Heim posted:Soul, South America. Psychedelic Soul / The Andes Fuschia tude posted:Electronic Europe Oh you were hoping I would just give you euro vision weren't you. Nitzhonot / Camino de Santiago Also after some thinking I'm amending the FAQ Q: Dear Rhino, I know you are sad and smart and therefore, there must be a catch which disqualifies my story about a struggling (but very cool and absolutely not me) artist trying to succeed in a [SUBGENRE] full of [POPULAR GENRE OF REGION] sheeple. Am I correct? A: Yes, I'm indeed very sad and smart. BTW still looking for volunteer judges
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Sep 7, 2016 15:47
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Electronic, Oceania. 
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Sep 7, 2016 16:16
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I will jam with you as a judge.
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Sep 7, 2016 16:21
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In with electronic Africa please
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Sep 7, 2016 17:10
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In with opera, Asia.
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Sep 7, 2016 17:34
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if you don't have a third judge, I'd be down
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Sep 7, 2016 21:23
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round 4 vs. Thranguy Reaver idk, under 4k The Black Spire The steam around the Spire is so thick it chokes. Over time Trist’s lungs have fused to the membranes of his belly. With more space they work the steam into breath. It still hurts. When he's tired he folds up on the mesh grating and the steam suffocates him to dreamless sleep. Trist feeds the Spire with his blood. He rams his arm down on it and the blood flows down the sides to the mesh and spills through. He doesn’t know why. He hears laughter. It echoes back and forth as the steam burns his ears. The Spire is thirsty. His blood licks its base. He tries to cry, but can’t. He’s all used up. There are no doors. The laughter comes through the mesh. He grips the grating, pressing his face into it as it cuts him. Tries to see. All black as his blood drips down, laughter rising, tidal waves breaking on lost ships. He wakes when the laughter turns to screaming. This time he doesn’t press against it. He stands on the mesh with cut up feet. Looks past his long tunic and pale toes and sees only emptiness. Looks at the Spire, tracing the angles of its edges, and looks away. The screaming starts as a wail but starts breaking up, fragmenting like glass shattering. Soon just moans, whimpers, gasps. Then silence. Trist has never heard silence before. Though the steam still chokes him, he breathes long and deep until his head clouds over and his heart starts to float away. The sound of heaven splitting. He whips around. His feet scrape the mesh and scream at him. He’s facing the Spire. The steam that shrouded it is sinking past the mesh. He feels the heat singe through the metal, needle at his scraped skin. He looks past it, at the Spire. Through the thin line of air that splits it. The Spire is cracked. It’s crumbling. Trist sees pieces breaking off, hitting the mesh, shattering, slipping through. A milky liquid bubbles in the breaks and craters. It pours out, seeps through the mesh, where Trist’s blood used to drain. It’s crying, he thinks. Trist’s hand is disappearing, fading into the smoke. It’s spilling in and out of him. The Spire is a sliver now, still breaking. Trist can’t feel the mesh. The hurt is gone. As his thoughts start to blur and his skin waves like a glass ocean, he tries to see the Spire, now a mound of dust, shaking through the mesh. Trist’s feelings wash him over. They are murked, putrid, like a fetid swamp. He’s never thought about them before. I wish I was the Spire, he thinks. Is there a word for this feeling? There should be. Serala The first thing Trist sees is a female. He’s never seen a female before. She is not like him. But he feels longing. This is when Trist starts to name his feelings. He catalogues them like flora, remembers when he felt them, why. He calls this one slace. Slace, the burning when a female stares at you with severity. She is tall and slender, lithe under tight, black clothing. Her skin is charcoal gray, tattoos under her sleeves snaking down her arms, thick black lines. Trist looks down her legs at black plated boots, at his own bare feet, which still sting from the mesh cuts. Then he realizes they’re not alone. This place is filled with beings, silhouetting the walls with violent shadows. The whole room glows blue, washing over scarred, alien faces. Thick ropes of hair and unkind expressions. They’re spaced around the female, the circle morphing, shapeshifting as she moves closer to him. “It’s cruel,” she says, “but sometimes you’re only good for pain. We don’t run our ships on blood. On kindness either, boy. We’ll put you out, and it’ll be quick.” He’s shivering. It’s cold here and he’s not wearing much. “Warp him,” she says. She says it soft. It echoes in him like a melody, something stringed, searching for higher ground. “Reaver,” he says. She looks at him with pink eyes. “I’m a reaver,” she says, “but I don’t run my ship on blood, and I don’t-.” She stops. She’s shaking. “Space is better than your life,” she says. “Serala.” It’s a deep tone. “He doesn’t know anything.” The speaker is a slight man with a shaven head, covered in dark spirals. A thick gray beard weaves wide more than it clumps down. The look she gives him could melt titanium. She doesn’t say anything. She just stalks away, a panel sliding up for her. Trist sees a long hall before her, maybe endless. The gathering dissipates. More panels open. They hiss shut after people pass through. Only the bearded man is left. He gives Trist a long look, not hard or soft. A look like bright water. Then he’s gone too. Trist is alone again. But this room is full of ways to leave. Edem. Alone but free. Luwin and Inanna Trist follows him down circular halls, awash in blue. The man sighs like the air in him has weight. In the light his spirals are deep as the black that was under the mesh. To himself he says, “Seralis keeps me around because I know Inanna better than anyone. But that’s as far as I got with her.” His head is tilted down, the back of his neck a steep slope. “Follow me,” he says. They pass liminal through halls marked by bends and panels that yawn open as if haunted. They slam shut to the pulse of the man’s breathing. Trist stays close. Later he calls this Obara, how it feels when someone lets you walk behind them. As they move into open space he can see his blood flow in the light now, a steady stream. In the centre of the space the air is film over a bubble of floating motes, straying near each other but never touching. They glow fierce, an electric indigo. It bleeds outside the bubble, burning the air before Trist. He watches two motes dance around each other, getting closer. He moves to them. The bubble hovers at eye level, the motes kaleidoscoping air through the film in waves of dark light. He reaches for it. Luwin pulls him back, “You shouldn’t touch beautiful things,” he says. The motes whip apart, look for far edges of the film. “Inanna helps us take things,” he says. This close to the bubble his face is stretching, like he’s diseased. “She takes us far places, puts us on ships. Takes us back when we have what we need.” Trist finds his voice. “Is she alive?” “She must be,” Luwin says, “‘else she wouldn’t help us.” Then Trist hears her. She whispers, laughs, cries, always under his own breath, as the light casts and recasts them, different each time. Time + Blood Trist can’t process time. Luwin explains it to him. He’s older now, beard wispier, like a cloud. “They made you to feed the engine your blood. If you could feel how long you’d been doing it, you’d kill yourself.” “Why did you let me live?” he asks. He’s asked before. He still doesn’t understand. “Once you know a reaver’s name,” he says, “they can’t kill you.” His eyes search Trist. “Our weird rules are all we have,” he says, and rubs his face. He has a room somewhere else but Trist lives with Inanna. Tries to understand her. She’s complicated. Sometimes she’s happy, sometimes she’s sad. She lights him differently every time. Luwin brings him food. Sometimes Serala comes to talk to them. Inanna is nice to her. Her light softens her face, swells her breasts, centres her mass around her hips. Trist calls this Areo, when someone looks good in Inanna’s changing light. One time Serala grabs him close. One hand clenches his shoulder, gloved fingers pushing through weak skin, and it hurts more than the Spire. The other holds a jagged blade to his throat. His feeling is more in his skin than his mind. Then she presses the handle to his midsection. It’s made of white bone, freezing through his thin tunic. Then they’re warping together, their skin running. Inanna’s light is in them. She laughs as she explores them, pushing against cell walls, trying to get inside. Playing the core of him, making him faded, more firm. He and Serala are leaving the blue. He tries to remember what it was like to fade with Serala later. But there isn’t enough of him now to keep it safe. So he never names it, but he feels it in this moment, heartbeat tethered to hers, beating against her, and the cold bone in his empty hands. Hell This life starts in Hell. Blood splatters on the walls, dripping from above, dirtying his feet. He knows blood from the smell it, from the Spire cutting him. As he focuses he can see Inanna’s children spilling it, cutting so deep into cloth and body that all you can see is the bone handle their fingers clutch. Like before, screaming, and spaces breaking it up. One second, two seconds, three. There’s someone in front of him. Not a reaver. He wears the same cloth as these others, a dull yellow with an insignia at his heart. An arrow, maybe a spear tip. His is blanched with fear and anger. In one hand he raises a weapon. Trist hears Inanna sing. Her song is stirs him everywhere, his cells vibrating to carry her. The skin on his fingers is dancing. Time stops. “You don’t want to be here,” Inanna says, “when that beam comes. But it’s your choice. If you want to live, you can be somewhere else. There are a lot of reasons to die in this universe. Some to live, though. I think.” Trist remembers how the Spire felt. How Serala looked at him. How the bone knife felt through his tunic. How it feels now in his hand. “I’ll be somewhere else,” he says. He likes Inanna. Mae, when someone’s pretty even though they’re impossible. Then he’s behind, seeing the edge of beam where he was. It disintegrates in the distance as the man’s cloth valleys into the small of his back. He slides the knife in, until skin meets bone handle. The knife flows like his blood did down the Spire. He only feels it as a ghost, a flickering far away from his touch. The man falls. Trist’s blade is black, tattered with skin. He’s crying. Inanna’s harmonics push and pull his insides. Apart, together. “You can live without existing,” she says. Her tone is like frosted strawberries. Be my heart, he thinks, and she is a blood flow he can hear clear in the tomb silence of the ship. He moves his foot. The ground is slick with blood and grime. It ripples in dark patterns. He feels the floor through the blood. It’s like alabaster. When Inanna takes him back, he’s sad to go. Wayn, when a place is Hell but you’ll never see it again. Back with the reavers it’s silent and still. Inanna has brought them together, clustered tight. Serala lies In the hollow in their gathering. Limp like Trist when the Spire smothered him asleep. But Inanna tells him she’s more like the man who slipped off his bone knife and fell, splashing soft in rivulets of dark amber. Luwin swears. “Sometimes I can’t,” Inanna says. “Death fills the air and nowhere is safe.” Her voice flutters through his mind like a butterfly, but now he tries to pluck it away. Hold it still and study it. She laughs. She’s shy. She slips away and pulls out of him, and he feels her go. Inanna’s Children This is how it works now. He wanders the halls of the glowship. He sees Inanna’s children. They look higher when they see him now. He’s taller. Their faces are hard but when they see him, their eyes are soft milk, the blue swimming in them. He waits, and after enough time Inanna takes him back to her. They search each other, her probing in the bones of who he is, and his inner eye watching how she floods and ebbs, looking for patterns. And soon they scrape against each other, looking at each other like this with too much curiosity. At the end they hate it, but Trist doesn’t stop, because he has to know for sure who she is. And she puts him somewhere in the reaches of the glowship, where the blue is dim like a clouded moon. And then he waits again. This is Igpai, when you need something that hurts you. Luwin is drawn out now. The blue shines through him, bleeds out through his skin the other way. He can see his bones. Trist keeps wandering, eventually realizing he doesn’t see Luwin anymore. He holds his breath and waits for Inanna to call him. Every moment she doesn’t call him is torture. He breathes out, wonders how the next time will feel. Her children see him in the endless halls and smile at him. He smiles back, but behind his lips his teeth are bleeding. When Inanna calls him close she puts the bone knife in his hand. He holds it in front of him, watches it shine and twist in the dark light. The motes are moving fast, skimming off each other, hitting Inanna’s edges and rebounding at sharp angles. “Luwin,” he says. “He wanted to be put out, so I put him out. He isn’t much without Serala.” Inanna sounds cold. “If you can go into people,” he says, “why can’t you make them happy?” “I think you should hurt yourself,” Inanna says. “See the blade in my light. It’s beautiful. It wants to move through you. Don’t you know I like it when I move things through you?” She pauses. Inside the bubble the motes are spiraling and twisting. Trist tries to hold his eyes on them but they carve paths of white light in him. He looks away. “It’s you,” she says. “I can get it from you, I don’t need to move you anywhere. You’re used to pain and obeying. Just do it. I’ll go in you. Deep in you, and I’ll space you after. Everyone wants space.” “You never did this for us,” he says, and then he rams the bone knife deep, and the blade passes through smooth, then the handle, then it’s gone, while his chest is whispering to the air, the deep things that only they know about. Inanna laughs. Oas. When you hate who you’d die for. “Soon I’ll make you real for it. But now you have family. They see our closeness. They feel safer with you here.” Trist tries to remember if he’s already named what he’s feeling now. “I didn’t use to be like this,” Inanna says. “It wasn’t like this with Serala.” Her thoughts rise like a castle wall. Trist’s blood pounds in his ears. “Do you know what nostalgia is?” she says. “It’s when you see your past.” Trist starts to slip away. Leaving her has never hurt like this. The blue is fading into white, the light shining through skin, the blade of the bone knife washed into the gray cloth of his tunic. When he opens his eyes he sees himself lying dead in front of him. Past his body he sees the Black Spire, standing intact on the steel mesh. He sees it breathing. His Own Blood He stares at his body first. He’s never seen his totality. He kneels to look closer. Pale skin, visible edges of bone. The tunic is torn and he can see ribcage, raised in the air like a mainsail. The legs are bent at sharp angles. He reaches down, feels the body. It’s scraped, the blood cold where his fingers push in. He takes the shoulders and pulls the body over. The bone knife is buried to handle in the chestplate. Inanna, he thinks. Moved me into him. It’s someone like me, and she already has one. He leans over the boy, wrenches out the knife. Watches blood like his spill into the mesh. His feet are covered with thick wrapping now, and he can’t feel it. But the boy’s skin is crisscross with angry red lines. He looks at the Spire. It’s not the same one, he tells himself, but it looks the same. A monolith base rising to gore into thick steam. It’s set on a small solid circle in the centre of the mesh. He moves to it, weightless. Behind him his other self moans, shakes the mesh, and he wavers. Finds his footing and keeps going. He remembers how he felt when he saw the first Spire die. Saw the milk rush out, seeing something else’s blood and sad for it. Nothing stays in you forever. Trist’s skin is thin, wrapped in layers of cloth. It’s numb because it can’t feel the air. It’s numb because nothing hurts anymore. In quick movement he raises the blade and slams it down. It hits the apex point and keeps moving, passing through stone until there’s an inch of blade before the bone, and then it stops. It doesn’t matter. The Spire already splitting apart, like it was waiting for him. The two halves are almost peeling, breaking off and the milk is bubbling up the blade. He pulls it free, smoother than when he pulled it from his other self. Now the whole knife is white, except for strips of blade the milk is falling away from. This close to the Spire he can feel something, but he can’t tell if it’s sadness or anger. Maybe it’s something in between. Take me away, he thinks. I don’t want to watch. But he stands there till the Spire is ash and dust and the last of the milk drips from his blade through the mesh. Loneliness After that Inanna keeps him waiting. He wonders if he’ll ever be with her again. In the far reaches of the glowship he can barely see the cloth covering his arms and hands. It looks like alien skin, gray and webbed. He doesn’t see anyone else in the endless halls. He wonders if anything he’s ever felt mattered. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he meets Luwin again. Luwin is slumped against the side of the hexagonal hallway. Skin stretched taut over bone. Eyes sunk so deep Trist can see the inner skin of his lower lids. Breathing shallow. The space between each breath makes Trist think of screams and silence. Luwin’s pupils flutter up to meet Trist. His lips are moving, but not parting. Trist can’t hear anything. The halls are silent. He doesn’t have the bone knife with him. Instead he sits close. The angled wall curves into his back. He grips Luwin’s shoulder, like Serala gripped him, but soft. He can’t feel his fingers as they crease Luwin’s folded skin. He stays like that, trying to mark time by Luwin’s slow breathing. Luwin makes words when Inanna fades him away. Trist strains to here. His fingers slip into Luwin’s shoulder blades cold where they pass through, like stroking ice water. "I killed your Spire," Luwin gasps. "No gods, no masters." This time, Trist thinks, I’m telling her how I feel. The fading is slow and it's a long goodbye. Begin Again Inanna looks different. There are more motes. Where they used to skim, now they scrape, with less space. They spin out with vapour trails that curl and twist in the indigo light. The trails fuse in bursts of colour that cast dancing shadows over her bubble film. “I found Luwin,” he says. He kneels down, starts to undo the lacing of cloth wrapping his foot. “I lied,” Inanna says. “I left him, moved him when anyone got close. I put molecules of food in his belly, just enough to keep him alive. Too weak to move, because I should be the one to move people.” Luwin can see the toes of his right foot. Under the nails they’re dark with collected blood. He moves to the other foot. “I was born,” Inanna says, “as an idea. I teased him until he made me real. People want to travel far. The people that flocked to our glowship called themselves reavers. Do you understand? I wanted to exist, so I made him create me. I wanted a family, so I made people need me. I liked you, so I took you from that Spire. I hate Spires, so I’m making you kill them.” Both his feet are bare now. “How can I be real,” she says, “if I never go wanting?” Luwin unwraps his ankles, his lower legs. Under his skin he sees veins, gossamer fine. His hairs rise against the cold. Underneath, he can feel his skin breathing. “Are there more Spires?” A whisper of a question. “There are always Spires,” Inanna says. “People need them to travel far. They can never figure it out right. Cruelty seeps into the spaces they don’t understand.” He leaves a wrapping of cloth at his loins. Now he rips away at his chest, layers coming off in strips and tears. Starts to feel his ribcage, traces the bone with quavering fingertip. “Don’t suffer them to live,” she says. “I should be the only thing that moves people. Trist is bare now except the cloth at his waist. ”So they are alive.” The motes are slamming the film. Bouncing off, coming back, again and again. They’re darkening. Trist watches their light shine through the film, warping the outer light even more. Soon they’re shellac black, crashing, exploding bright. Trying to get out. “If you love me,” he tells her, “you’ll bring me to one. I miss them. I miss how they control you and hurt your skin. I miss how they don’t pretend.” “Maybe I don’t love you,” Inanna says. “Find another Spire boy,” he says. “If I kill you,” she says, “I’ll use the knife. You’ll feel the blade in you, see the bone outside, when your body arrives.” Inanna is hazy. The bubble hierophany becomes unseen heaven. The motes are souls, the children Inanna drew together. They crash and burst in hybrid rainbows, splitting arcs of solid spectrum light. I will always come back, he thinks, as a soul she cages in this body again. Or something else, as some other being, maybe even a Spire. The blue of the glowship is washing over him, burning his eyes, blurring everything white. Inanna hums the song of space. Trist sees the rivers of life under his skin. Death and rebirth, to find decades again. Is there a name for this feeling? He calls it Reu, and he takes it with him. In his new life, in the thick, choking steam, he forgets everything else. take the moon fucked around with this message at 23:45 on Sep 7, 2016 |
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Sep 7, 2016 22:05
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Dodged a loss last round! Now I'm back for more! In. Africa. Dance.
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Sep 7, 2016 23:40
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PALE SPECTRES posted:PALE SPECTRES hosed around with this message at Sep 7, 2016 around 22:45 
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Sep 8, 2016 00:26
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Djeser posted:Electronic, Oceania. Nintendocore / Papua New Guinea llamaguccii posted:In with electronic Africa please Italo Disco / Great Escarpment Jitzu_the_Monk posted:In with opera, Asia. Beijing Opera / Indo-Pakistani Border CaligulaKangaroo posted:Dodged a loss last round! Now I'm back for more! Disneycore / Amirante Islands The Cut of Your Jib posted:I will jam with you as a judge. Ironic Twist posted:if you don't have a third judge, I'd be down Thank you, judges found. (Officially, I'm Christina Aguilera)
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Sep 8, 2016 02:30
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Here are some crits for Punked Out. I was going to read all of them but eventually I got bored and skipped to the winner. Test Flight “metal massive face” is a really weird phrase. But I like that you have a semi-plausible reason for the robot to have a human face. I like ‘Palace Athena’ because I’m into dumb puns that make me feel intelligent. “no less for wear” – you probably meant “no worse for wear” ? OK, I enjoyed this just because it had the feeling of a mecha anime without being too silly. It ends really abruptly though. I know it’s hard to fit a full narrative arc into such a short space but you didn’t even try. You had another 800 words so you could have actually shown Noa trying to convince Devil Blue to help, which is where the story really starts. My other complaint is that this didn’t feel very ‘punk’ to me. I know ‘punk’ is vaguely defined but on hearing ‘mechapunk’ I was expecting something that reexamined the tropes of the genre. This was basically just a straight mecha story. In particular, the fact that Noa had singlehandedly built the BEST MECHA EVER would be fine in a cartoon but seems implausible in this context. One Hundred and Twenty One Again My first impression is you have a weird fixation on describing your MC’s bodily activities. “The patient loudly snorted from the back of his nostrils, seemingly in frustration.” – This is a bizarre sentence. Your dialogue is trying too hard to be funny. It seems like every character has to be spouting quips, even if they don’t make much sense. I think you didn’t spend very much time thinking about your setting and just made it up as you went along. Like, if the robot’s plan is completely implausible, maybe think of a plausible plan rather than just having the characters point out that it’s implausible. I’m not sure what you intended from the ending but I got a “lol stupid lefties” vibe from it. Are you voting for Trump by any chance? Schrodinger’s Fifth The first two sentences immediately confused me because I was trying to picture him playing the harp while holding the cigarette and the fountain pen. OK, I’m really digging the idea of the quantum concert. You could probably have led with that, it’s more interesting than “a guy sat in a room”. The paragraph that starts with “the wires inside him...” – I really don’t think it needs to be one big run-on sentence. You can capture the intensity of the moment without that. Halfway through the story I was thinking that I loved how you had given us a ‘punk’ story from the point of view of the upper classes. My favourite lines were when he was rationalising the exclusivity of his music. You lost that in the last few paragraphs. I would have enjoyed it more if you stayed in the musician’s POV for the whole thing. I still liked the ending though. With a prompt like this there is a fine line between telling too much, and not telling enough. I think you told too much. You could have shown us how the world worked rather than just flatly explaining it. (An example of where you did this well: you never clearly stated what you meant by ‘Ones’ and ‘Twos’ but I still understood it just fine.) I don’t understand how or why the bar band had learned to play his music perfectly. I guess it was to lure him into a trap? But that doesn’t make much sense, since all the other copies of him were kidnapped wherever he was. Also, about 3 minutes after finishing the story I am wondering how they coordinated kidnapping him if the whole point was that they needed to use him to coordinate themselves. Black Fire “trenches were grown like crops” – I don’t like this simile. I think you just wanted a simile in there so it would sound poetic but you couldn’t think of an actually good simile. (I think this because I often make the same mistake!) You have a problem with redundant words e.g. “I close the book shut” or “complete, pure white” OK actually you just have a problem with not editing. “I’m not a hero and I look back at my apartment build.” Did you really look at this sentence and say “Yep, nothing to fix here” ? You had a pretty good concept here—“graffiti artist takes on decopunk dystopia” is cool. You totally failed to bring that concept to fruition. Your main character, by his own admission, has no motivation other than to be an rear end in a top hat. We never get any indication of why he feels so angry at the city, except that it’s too much gold apparently? He comes off like a whiny teen. Sedna “despairing blue vanishing light” – please don’t chain this many adjectives together unless you have a really good reason. “She doesn’t remember her birth” – no poo poo?? I am confused about what’s happening in the first scene with her father. Is he trying to kill and eat Nuliayuk? Or her mother? “Her hair drapes around the blade at her neck. Nuliayuk watches it strain against the edge, split as the axe trembles.” These lines in particular just really had me scratching my head. Is Uki trying to offer her a raw fish? Wouldn’t he at least cook it first? Right so she turned into a seal at the end. I could have guessed that from the title. I have no idea what happened in this story, except in the very broad strokes of “woman has a lovely life, eventually escapes by turning into a seal”. What is her dad doing in the boat at the end? Your descriptions of things are vivid, but far too long and flowery, and when you are describing important events you write them so poetically that I don’t actually know what’s going on. Also this is a nitpick but I feel like life isn’t actually so difficult for Inuits, like they have lived in the Arctic for like thousands of years, surely they know how to live there. Your characters (apart from Uki) seem to be really undone by simple problems like “it is snowing” and “we need food”. NO TROJAN First paragraph is immediately engaging. The little detail about the dude being fat is good. So far your tidbits of worldbuilding are just the right mix of interesting and mysterious. Your descriptions of Rourke’s reactions are a bit too over-dramatic. Generally I cringe whenever a character “exhales” or some oddly specific action like that. The bit about the photograph is great. Totally crushing. I was disappointed by the ending. Clearly you were up against the word count but I wish there was more resolution. I literally scrolled down the page because I assumed there was more. It didn’t come off as an ambiguous ending, it just stopped. I think you should have trimmed some of the earlier scenes to give yourself more room at the end. I still really liked this one though. Ghosts in a Churchyard At the bottom of the first page you mention that ‘Wright’ is dead. There was no mention of him beforehand and I had assumed Kane was alone. I don’t really understand the thing about them switching between the real world and virtual chess reality. But I like the way they teleport around. You could probably have thought through this combat system a bit more and made it more interesting. I found the story very lopsided. The first passage is just Kane walking around thinking about stuff, and the way it’s described makes it seem like he’s alone and aimless. Then suddenly there’s a big fight and then it’s over. I don’t think you elaborated enough on the mechanics of combat, or on the concept of designated battlefields, or on Bischoff’s relationship to Kane. Or anything really. This definitely fell into the “not enough explanation” camp for me. Carter’s Lucky Streak Sometimes your Guy Ritchie-style voice works and sometimes it goes too far. “if you will recall Lt. Nickel’s brief but severely pissed expression, it was a permanent resident of Sinetti’s face” – this is an example of a phrase that didn’t work for me. It’s trying too hard. “the other mob bosses would never let him hear the end of it, and possibly also kill him” – this is an example of a line that actually made me laugh. Everything in this story was done pretty well but overall I just wasn’t feeling it. I’m not sure why. I think maybe I couldn’t get attached to the main character because I didn’t know if he really had just gotten lucky. Obviously that mystery was at the heart of the whole story, but it also meant that I didn’t really know what kind of character Carter was until the very end. Those kinds of stories are very hard to pull off I think. How I Got My Dad To Stop Worrying And Love Tolerate Rugby I don’t know if this will be resolved later but in the first paragraph I am thinking “Why is Megan tackling her if they are on the same team?” Otherwise decent start. “He took up most of everything from the center console left.” I guess I understand what you were trying to say here but it’s a really difficult sentence to parse. Your prose is okay but I think it could benefit from having someone edit it line-by-line to show you how it could improve. There are just a few words that feel like they don’t need to be there, or are awkwardly phrased. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. There was nothing terrible about this story but I didn’t feel much about it. Possibly just because I don’t often care about sports. I guess the conflict between the two characters was a bit too subdued to get me engaged. They were too accommodating towards each other. I didn’t get any sense of Amy’s hurt at potentially being kept from doing something she loves. Nor much of her father’s suffering from sci-fi racism. Playthings Outgrown I had to google two words in your first sentence, and I still couldn’t figure out what ‘pom’ means in this context. I actually don’t mind having to google words but it’s a bit heavy going in the first sentence. (Although maybe ‘barrette’ is less obscure in America?) First paragraph is a good bit of characterisation. “A hush descended, then dropped to cold silence.” This is an overly flowery way of describing something simple. Also it doesn’t make that much sense, I think people would start screaming if they saw the queen get assassinated. I don’t believe it would be that easy for her to escape the throne room. There are quite a few grammatical errors or just badly phrased things that irk me. “Merritt barreled over the farmhand” – you can’t say “the farmhand” if you haven’t mentioned the farmhand previously. “She kept moving, no time to apologize” – No poo poo? I don’t think she would even be thinking about apologising, so it’s a bit jarring. OK so my story this week was a little bit guilty of the same thing, but I find it completely implausible that she could escape the whole castle and all the guards that easily, and it just makes it more ridiculous when she is finally defeated by falling off a cart. Oh ok so she didn’t know it was going to kill the queen. I think you should have made that clear earlier. The skeleton key is cool. Do not use these words: thwunked, lunked. It’s weird that she shoots a guy in the shoulder and then immediately after says “OK, fine, I’ll surrender.” Killing the dude with the metal powder is cool. “The thugs fled, unnoticed.” Why?? Then it just ends without any resolution. And you even hosed up the ‘ambiguous ending’ thing because you ended it with her running after some irrelevant character who just appeared in the last scene. Would have been much, much more powerful if she at least came to a decision about what she wanted. This felt like the first third of a longer story. The plot was meandering and the main character lacked drive. However, you do have a decent grasp of pulp action, and the story flowed along well enough that I never got bored. Blazintrees.exe Going to be honest that I’m coming into this story already prejudiced against it based on the prompt and title. Stop switching tenses god dammit. “users possibly not even in the same continent” – wow, tell me more about this strange new technology called ‘the internet’ ?? I’m at the end of the first scene and nothing has happened apart from the protagonist looking at various memes. So now the main character got beaten up and thrown in a bin but we didn’t see that happen? I’m confused. OK yeah I have no idea what the gently caress you’re talking about. Right, I get it, they turn their avatars into memes to communicate. This isn’t clever. The situation of him pretending to be part of the gang is actually one that has potential. But it doesn’t work because I’ve got no clue what’s going on or who the MC is or what they’re trying to do. I’m skim reading bits of this. Your prose isn’t actually terrible on a technical level, but it’s just so overloaded with technical terms and names of characters who don’t matter. Also the talking cat’s pseudo-philosophy is loving annoying as hell. Yeah so unsurprisingly I have no idea what happened in that story. Look, making ‘memepunk’ into a not-annoying idea was a tall order, but you chose it. You shouldn’t have picked it if you weren’t up to the task. The Legend of Makoa Kalawai’a, Daughter of the Ocean, She of Oahu This was great. The only thing I found to criticise was the shifting between past and present tense. I guess you must have done it on purpose, but I don’t see what it adds to the story.
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Sep 8, 2016 03:16
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nvm
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Sep 8, 2016 04:53
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quote:I’m not sure what you intended from the ending but I got a “lol stupid lefties” vibe from it. Are you voting for Trump by any chance? Absolutely not. I can't even express how opposite that is to my political and personal beliefs, and I'm a Brit anyway. If there was any kind of 'lol stupid lefties' vibe then it was absolutely not an intentional one, I *am* a stupid leftie. But It's far from the only thing about the execution of the thing that I messed up very badly.
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Sep 8, 2016 08:12
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Daeres posted:Absolutely not. I can't even express how opposite that is to my political and personal beliefs, and I'm a Brit anyway. nobody cares dont respond to crits
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Sep 8, 2016 08:23
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Just a reminder that you're always more than welcome to discuss critiques in the Fiction Advice thread if you didn't know that before, grats now you do!
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Sep 8, 2016 08:31
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i wish more people would talk shop in FA, actually. It's like the same 5 questions over and over and there aren't even funny dogpiles anymore
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Sep 8, 2016 08:36
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Daeres posted:Absolutely not. I can't even express how opposite that is to my political and personal beliefs, and I'm a Brit anyway. u may repent for your cardinal sin by entering this week
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Sep 8, 2016 08:57
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I am prepared to release my voting records for the past 16 years
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Sep 8, 2016 13:47
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In with a , as promised. Rock/Oceania.
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Sep 8, 2016 17:00
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Alright then, in with Classical/Oceania.
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Sep 8, 2016 23:06
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Paladinus posted:In with a Pornogrind / Pitcairn Islands Daeres posted:Alright then, in with Classical/Oceania. Ballet / Samoa
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Sep 9, 2016 03:08
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Rap. Asia.
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Sep 10, 2016 00:01
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Classical in North America
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Sep 10, 2016 02:20
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Tyrannosaurus posted:Rap. Asia. Rap Opera / Myanmar Entenzahn posted:Classical in North America Carnatic / Cuba
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Sep 10, 2016 03:40
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The Saddest Rhino posted:Oh you were hoping I would just give you euro vision weren't you. Nitzhonot / Camino de Santiago Nah im american 
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Sep 10, 2016 04:55
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Gonna do something different. Instead of closing submission calls I will throw out some combinations anyone can claim until close of submissions in two days time Drill / Tibet Quiet Storm / Fargo Gregorian Chants / South Africa Retro wave / Bali Celtic Harp / Mauritius Chiptune / Argentina Visual Kei / Mexico White Noise / Greenland
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Sep 10, 2016 08:45
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Also this was what inspired the intro of my submission call https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8moePxHpvok
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Sep 10, 2016 08:47
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Megabrawl round 4 vs Pale Spectres 1585 words Underfoot “It was Darien's nineteenth birthday,” says Jacob. “He was out, celebrating with his friends. And a-” Jacob choked up, gripped the lectern to stop himself from reeling and falling. He swallows. “And a giant stepped on him.” The rest of the room breaks into subdued applause. After it ends, he clears his throat and says “I-” and nothing more. “After, I-” Again, he can go no further. “I'm sorry,” he says, and steps back. Marcus, the group's facilitator and leader, leads a somewhat louder, shorter round of applause, and signals another member to take the stage as Jacob abandons it. One of the regulars, a man who has polished and rehearsed his biography, cut away all the sharp edges. He still feels, or looks like he was feeling the emotions of each moment, but they, too are polished and provided on cue. Jacob shuffles clumsily through the ranks to his seat. After the speeches are done, Jacob pours support group coffee, hot, bitter and strong, for Eliza, a woman who is not his wife. His wife does not go to these meetings. She finds them boring. She has other ways of coping. Eliza takes the coffee and smiles weakly. She's shared with the group even less than Jacob. It doesn't matter. Her story is out there, in the papers, and it's the same story. In a week Jacob will be in Eliza's apartment, listening to her tell her version of that familiar and terrible story, handing her tissues when she reaches out her shaking hand. The evening will end with awkward intercourse and an even more awkward 3 AM exit. In a month Jacob will be giving her flowers as an anniversary gift even though he will have already decided to end the affair. In four months Jacob will be dangling by the collar of his fraying suit before a giant's gaping maw. Right now he is pouring the coffee and watching Eliza smile. * * * Darien was a quiet baby, an adventurous one-year old, a finicky two-year old. Stubborn and negative at four and five, curious and moody at six and seven. As he grew his personality became more fixed: social, athletic. Sometimes a bit cruel. Never the lead bully, Darien was often the kid by that kid's side. He always knew his dreams of professional sports were nothing but that. His more realistic hope was college football and a degree, then running a car dealership, sports bar, or chain store franchise. It was not to be. His skills, strong enough to keep him on the local team, were not up to the standards of the sort of school that could afford to give full athletic scholarships. Neither were his academics particularly outstanding. He remained popular, perhaps a bit too popular, with two pregnancy scares involving two different classmates, both of which turned out to be false alarms. He ran with bad crowds. He may have partaken of illegal drugs, although neither the police nor his parents ever caught him at that. He absolutely partook of alcohol despite being underage. He had a minor criminal record: one juvenile shoplifting charge, sealed, and a series of moving traffic violations keeping him just short of losing his license. And, on his birthday, no doubt drunk, on the streets late at night he encountered the giant, and said or did something insufficiently deferential, and was stepped on. The doctors said that death was nearly instant. That the blow to the head would have snapped his neck, that the force of impact to his brain, or when his brain impacted the front of his skull would have been instantly lethal. Jacob, a man of no strong or particular faith even before this, does not know if he considers the soul to be linked with the mind and brain or with the body on the whole, or if he thinks it actually exists at all. He hopes that, if it does exist, that it dies with the brain. What happened in the next seconds make the alternative terrifying and horrible. As the foot continued downward, it smashed Darien to a bloody pulp. That's a phrase that Jacob has been thinking of closely ever since, one used most often figuratively or as an exaggeration but in Darien's case completely literal. Darien wasn't flattened, as might happen in a cartoon. The road and the bottom of the giant's foot had too much give for that to happen. Bones snapped, organs ruptured, and blood vessels sprayed out their contents into and out of the mess that had been Jacob's son. Jacob did not find out any of this for days. Whichever of Darien's friends had been with him fled at once. Scavengers of the human sort dug through the flesh and muck for anything valuable, stealing his wallet and burning everything this his name on it. It wasn't for days, long after Jacob and Elaine had been told to give up hope but before the actually did that their missing person report was connected to the one on giant incidents. The identification was made through DNA testing. Jacob insisted on looking at the body anyway, over Elaine's protests and the officers' assurances that it wasn't necessary. He memorized every jutting bone, ever curve of dried-blood covered flesh. * * * Another support group meeting breaks up. There's an AA meeting right afterward, so the group splits up between the mourners who have already developed a drinking problem and the ones who are still working on it. Jacob heads to the nearest bar, with Freddie. There are about a half dozen types of people at the meetings. There are blank faces like Jacob, weepers, ragers, the apparently well-adjusted, the non-stop talkers. And then there's Freddie's type: a forced smile, a strained chipper attitudes, and wild eyes that let you know an explosion or breakdown could happen any minute. Jacob tries to get Freddie to turn around as soon as they enter. He sees the louts arguing at the bar and knows exactly what's going to happen. But Freddie is having none of it. They're talking giants, saying the dumb things everybody says. “If we didn't have them we'd just be at the mercy of our neighbors who do.” “Even if we wanted to get rid of them, it's not like we could.” “Most of those people, they had to have it coming, right?” Jacob is not the sort of person who punches people, but he's never wanted to punch someone in the face more than he does at this moment. Freddie doesn't have Jacob's restraint. Jacob gets his chance as the brawl quickly spreads. It feels better than being with Eliza, better than anything has. The fight is vicious. Freddie is unrestrained, and the opponents escalate. When it's finally broken up, Freddie and two of their opponents are taken to the hospital. Freddie knocked one of them unconscious, inflicting minor brain damage that will not be recovered. Jacob only has a black eye and assorted other bruises, so he's taken to jail instead. Eliza bails him out. She walks into the police station radiating anger and disdain and transacts the business with as few words as humanly possible. The drive home is silent. It's only when they're behind open doors that the argument beings. It's as vicious as the fight, although without physical violence. Every weapon, every accusation and hurtful revelation is deployed. Jacob is surprised to learn that Eliza, too, has been unfaithful. He had thought that her constant immersion in distilled rage and drinks had been a full-time occupation, but somehow she found time to Luke, Darien's best friend. Eliza describes the skills and endowments of her barely-legal beau in lurid detail. Jacob moves to a cheap hotel. Jacob accepts a plea bargain, serves thirty days in jail. His job is not waiting for him when he's released. His house is nearly empty, the rent past due. * * * Jacob is on the street. All his worldly possessions are in his pockets or in a locker at the Y. He's come to this corner because he's heard the footsteps of a giant in town. He doesn't know what he's going to do. He's had plenty of opportunities to kill himself less messily than deliberately angering a giant. He has no illusions of being able to fight it. He doesn't even know if it's the same one. But he's drawn to the site and unable to resist. He sees it, sees it raise its foot in rage. He had no idea what the man under that foot has done. Jacob screams, rushes forward, slams himself into the giant's other foot, into the big toe. The giant steps back. The young man runs, so wild and blindly that he nearly runs into a wall before turning and running further away. The giant stoops down, picks Jacob up by his collar, and raises him up to its head. The giant roars. Jacob feels the breath like a hurricane wind, smells the compost stench of it. He does not flinch. He looks the giant in its massive eyeball. The giant works its mouth in chewing motion, licks its lips, and dangles Jacob just above those boulder-like teeth. Jacob doesn't cry, doesn't beg, doesn't close his eyes. The giant frowns, and shakes its head. Then it tosses Jacob away with the motion of a child trying to skip a stone across a pond. Jacob flies. It seems like eternity of flight. It is.
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Sep 10, 2016 18:35
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 SITTING SPECTRES BRAWL RESULTS I have recovered from the first week of school, and the traditional followup weekend of drinking (I'm tipsy rn, tbh) to bring you BRAWL RESULTS: SPECTRES, I appreciated how you were able to turn your talent for evocative language towards the more mundane interactions between two people (lovers? friends?) in this piece. Your prose is strong as ever, and there were some images in this piece that managed to really stick with me. However, I felt that even for a vignette, this piece was a little scattered. I wasn't sure what the ultimate message was that you were going for, and the occasional perspective switch didn't do you any favors either. Sitting Here, I felt like you did a better job of having an overall message in your piece, and it left me feeling generally satisfied. Along with your prose, this made this piece a strong contender. My main gripe with it was that the Summer/Winter forbidden love pairing has been done before, and I felt like the piece suffered a bit for it. A good literal interpretation of the prompt, but I would have liked to see you stretch it a little more outside of the box. RESULTS: Sitting Here wins
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Sep 11, 2016 08:42
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Thunderdome Recap!  "Salt Factor One, Mr. Twist." It's Sitting Here versus a sane world* in our contentious scrutiny of Week 212: Vice Week and Week 213: Punked Out! We divide into camps as Ironic Twist and I scorn magic mushrooms and refuse to cozy up to Daniel Radcliffe's nocturnal lactic treat, while SH sees the light of intricacies of human communication hidden under memepunk's bushel. Djeser battles illness to lend his voice to dramatic readings of Some Strange Flea's "Purely Coincidental" and Daeres's "One Hundred and Twenty One Again." In the end, it's the magic of Rod Bollocks and Garth Brooks--unless they're one and the same?!?--that reunites us in laughter and harmony. "The more I think, the more poorly thought out this is!" * Not true. We've all been reading your stories too long to have any sanity left. Episodes past: pre:Episode Recappers Week 156: LET'S GET hosed UP ON LOVE Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Djeser Week 157: BOW BEFORE THE BUZZSAW OF PROGRESS Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 158: LIKE NO ONE EVER WAS Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Djeser Week 159: SINNERS ORGY Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 160: Spin the wheel! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 161: Negative Exponents Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 36: Polishing Turds -- A retrospective special! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, and The Saddest Rhino Week 162: The best of the worst and the worst of the best Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, and The Saddest Rhino Week 163: YOUR STUPID poo poo BELONGS IN A MUSEUM Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 164: I Shouldn't Have Eaten That Souvlaki Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 165: Back to School Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 166: Comings and Goings Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 167: Black Sunshine Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 168: She Stole My Wallet and My Heart Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 169: Thunderdome o' Bedlam Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 170: Cities & Kaiju Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 171: The Honorable THUNDERDOME CLXXI Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 172: Thunderdome Startup Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 173: Pilgrim's Progress Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 174: Ladles and Jellyspoons Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 175: Speels of Magic Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 176: Florida Man and/or Woman Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 125: Thunderdome is Coming to Town -- Our sparkly past! SH, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, Grizzled Patriarch, and Bad Seafood Week 177: Sparkly Mermen 2: Electric Merman Boogaloo SH, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, Grizzled Patriarch, and Bad Seafood Week 178: I'm not mad, just disappointed Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 179: Strange Logs Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 180: Maybe I'm a Maze Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 181: We like bloodsports and we don't care who knows! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 182: Domegrassi Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, and Bad Seafood Week 183: Sorry Dad, I Was Late To The Riots Sitting Here, Djeser, Kaishai, and crabrock Week 184: The 2015teen Great White Elephant Prompt Exchange Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 98: Music of the Night -- Songs of another decade Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 185: Music of the Night, Vol. II Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 186: Giving away prizes for doing f'd-up things Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 187: Lost In Translation Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 188: Insomniac Olympics Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 189: knight time Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 190: Three-Course Tale Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 191: We Talk Good Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 192: Really Entertaining Minific Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 30: We're 30 / Time to get dirty -- A magical time Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 193: the worst week Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 40: Poor Richard's Thundervision -- Let the ESC begin! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 144: Doming Lasha Tumbai -- Classic performances Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 194: Only Mr. God Knows Why Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 195: Inverse World Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 196: Molten Copper vs. Thunderdome Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 197: Stories of Powerful Ambition & Poor Impulse Control Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 198: Buddy Stuff Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 199: EVERYBODY KNOWS poo poo'S hosed Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 1: Man Agonizes over Potatoes Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Kaishai, and sebmojo Week 200: Taters Gonna tate Fuckers Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Kaishai, and sebmojo Week 201: Old Russian Joke Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 202: THUNDER-O-S! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 203: MYSTERY SOLVING TEENS Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 204: Hate Week Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 205: the book of forgotten names Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 206: WHIZZ! Bang! POW! Thunderdome! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 207: Bottle Your Rage Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 208: Upper-Class Tweet of the Year Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 209: WHAT DO YOU GET A DOME THAT HAS EVERYTHING?? Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 210: Crit Ketchup Week Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 211: Next-Best Friend Week Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Special Features! The Top Ten poo poo Scenes of Thunderdome Sitting Here, Kaishai, Ironic Twist, and Djeser Kaishai fucked around with this message at 18:44 on Sep 11, 2016 |
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Sep 11, 2016 18:22
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GUERRILLA STORY! The Explosion of Gold, a beery bar-tab collab by Sebmojo & Erogenous Beef (236 words; transcription follows)   He was fifteen feet high when the blast hit him, chiaroscuros of colour painting him like a teenager with a torch. "This is a hold-up--" was all he managed, then the shockwave crumpled him up like a bar napkin. It was the King that held him up -- supported his sagging shoulders as he fell. Which was preposterous, the King was - he prayed - half a dozen kilometers away, safely ensconced in the evening prayers. Rajj hauled himself to his feet, feeling the creak of a busted bone in his hip. He could not let them take the pipe. He glanced down and saw it nestled in his arms, intricate + gleaming. Across the bar, Balthazar stood triumphant, hands wide. "Your path to the half world is closed, cousin," he said. "Now is the Age of Faith come again." He unfurled his arm, the pipe rolling out between himself and his opponent like a cannon between enemy lands. "Kneel." Fire leapt from the pipe's bowl, gold and rosy like the dawn. Rajj hauled himself up against the wall as it crashed over his cousin. "The King sees your lie, 'Zar. He raises them." Balthazar's hands curled as the force hit them, then straightened. "Your king is a paper prophet, his disciples breastfeed illusions." He reached for the pipe and it crumpled before his grasp. A hand closed on Rajj's throat. "It is time you faced the true world." Blackness.
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Sep 11, 2016 22:29
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Erogenous Beef posted:GUERRILLA STORY! what is this blasphemous and unholy union god help us
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Sep 11, 2016 22:37
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Erogenous Beef posted:GUERRILLA STORY!   
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Sep 11, 2016 22:39
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http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=5047&title=Time+Writes+No+Wrinkles+On+The+Bay
Djeser fucked around with this message at 20:11 on Dec 31, 2016 |
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Sep 11, 2016 23:20
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