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Krunge posted:In with Get a Mentor 
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Dec 28, 2016 00:37
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In with encourage my kids more.
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Dec 28, 2016 01:49
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Gotta try to not fail at some point. In with Get a Pet.
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Dec 28, 2016 04:06
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QuoProQuid posted:In with encourage my kids more. 
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Dec 28, 2016 06:21
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Blue Wher posted:Gotta try to not fail at some point. In with Get a Pet. 
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Dec 28, 2016 06:23
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Blue Wher posted:Gotta try to not fail at some point. In with Get a Pet.   up
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Dec 28, 2016 11:12
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 hey chili i heard you were cruisin for an extra bruisin, therefor i am giving you a second picture  have fun
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Dec 28, 2016 19:22
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Sitting Here posted:
Thank you.
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Dec 28, 2016 19:39
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  And a man in potato agony~! Are we still within the twelve days? Oh, well, here's one more holiday tribute regardless: "The Twelve Days of Thunderdome" It shares a songbook with a few more. May you continue to have a glorious and glittering holiday season!
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Dec 28, 2016 20:59
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I am in for my first Thunderdome and I choose to Start Taking Vitamins.
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Dec 28, 2016 21:56
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 crit for katdicks Okay so I am going to nitpick your opening paragraph, then give more general comments. quote:My wife gave me a warm embrace, kissed me softly on the cheek, and stepped back from me. Her jaw clenched as she picked up the scuffed white helmet, the mark of my trade, with her delicate hands. Her brows furrowed and she stared up at me with dark, doe eyes.
Okay, nitpicking over. Now for my general thoughts on the whole story. While I like the emotions that exist between the husband and wife, the dialog was sparse and stiff. The story really picked up momentum as it went on, and by the time the narrator is trying to rescue the baby, I can feel his desperation. I'm not a huge fan of the part where he imagines his wife's smile and finds the strength to go on, but I never enjoy that sort of thing in fiction. Maybe other readers would find it hugely sweet and sentimental, I don't know. It's weird because like...the language in this story is full of feeling and emotion, but the actual characters themselves feel like cardboard plot vehicles. The dutiful husband is dutiful, the worried but supportive wife is worried but supportive. This is more of a moment than a story, so I'm not looking for some nuanced character arc. However, I wish more of the words had been used to make it a story about distinct people with unique traits that dictate how they respond to their situation. We're all familiar with the image of the emergency responder who runs toward danger when everyone else is running away, and that is a fine thing to write a story about. Those first responders often have scared loved ones at home, which is another strong plot element. You have those two things, which is cool, but there is nothing super specific to these two characters. Well, except the wife's doe eyes. Which is another thing I'm not a huge fan of in fiction, these endings where a character looks into another character's eyes and goes "wow your eyes are just like [person I care about], this is such a poignant and meaningful moment." But again, I'm cynical as hell, so maybe it works for other people. Just something to think about. On the sentence level, I noticed some wonky bits, but as the story progressed I found myself not noticing as much stilted phrasing and missing commas. It's the kind of stuff that will probably work itself out if you keep reading/writing. Overall, this is a decent first entry to the dome. I think your strength is probably emotive language. This piece had a sincere feeling of love behind it that I enjoyed in spite of my critiques. I think you should work on taking some of that sincerity from the narrative and putting it into your characters' dialog and internal monologue. Best of luck 
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Dec 29, 2016 00:13
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Sitting Here posted:
Code Crimson 1449 words As a werewolf, Michael really hated working at AbyssMart. He spent his afternoons stocking things he was too poor to buy, and he spent his evenings as a monstrous beast that had to straighten all the shelves after the customers (no, "guests") had strewn Christmas ornaments and Lattecopter-brand coffee cups all the way through Housewares and Home Improvement. He had learned to associate the sound of laughter and the voices of children with messes he would have to clean up. And with his wolf ears, he could hear a teen snickering over spelling out SEND NUDES with the monogrammed bath towels all the way in Cosmetics. Also, sometimes little kids pulled his tail. He wanted to punt them. God shouldn't have made little kids so small and football-shaped if they weren't meant to be punted. Tonight, Michael was in picture frames. And he'd already turned (in the middle of lunch, at least), so as he lined up each frame, he stared down at the price tag. It wasn't that he didn't want to look at the sample photos of stock models in heteronormative positions: it was that if he looked at the frames, he'd be able to see his reflection. *** Meanwhile, at the front of the store, the automatic doors slid open. The man standing outside fumbled with his coat, casting a dark shadow across the little carpet slat thingies that were probably for brushing off your feet, or something, but which make a BRRRRBRRRBRRR noise when you push your cart across them. The girl who'd been stuck on greeter duty that hour poked her head out into the wintery cold and offered a smile that might have been sincere. "Come on in, welcome to AbyssMart! The abyss is gonna hug you whether you like it or not." Her breath fogged in the chill air. His breath didn't. He smiled an awkwardly-closed-lipped smile, nodded, and stepped over the threshold. Winter really dried out the blood. *** Right next to picture frames was shampoo, and that was at least two dicks, probably more, to deal with. Everyone was expected to finish sectioning by ten, so they could clean up all the leftover stuff at At least when it got late there weren't any people around. No one to stare and look at how ugly he was and how he had to compulsively shake out his fur if it got parted funny. No one poring over fake marble deer heads to hang in their house next to the rest of the meaningless clutter they bought to simulate having actual life experiences. It could have been worse, he guessed. He could have applied at Voidmart first. And then his walkie-talkie went off. "Code crimson, code crimson, code crimson in Arts and Crafts." "I'm on it!" chirped another voice. Michael squeezed the walkie between his paws. "Emily, you're a mermaid. Stay at Electronics, I'm right there." Raising himself up to his full, werewolfy height of six-foot-four (with hunch) Michael took a shortcut through tampons, turned left, and stalked down the Arts and Crafts aisle until he saw it: a man, his winter coat spread behind him like black, leathery wings, standing over some kid who was probably five or some bullshit, with a Lattecopter-brand Kid Kaffiene Cup in her hand. The vampire looked up at Michael, then down at the nametag affixed to his fur with velcro. His skin wrinkled as he hissed violently, grabbed the kid around the torso, and heaved her, football-like, up under his arm. Michael barked and lunged forward, claws out. The flap of the vampire's coat-wings ruffled Michael's fur. He hit the floor, right in the puddle of spilled kid-friendly espresso, and skidded across the aisle with fruit-flavored coffee seeping into his belly fur. The vampire's snow boots bapped him right in the forehead, kicking off of his skull as he went bounding off across the aisles, victim in tow. Michael's whole head stung, and it was worse when he moved, but he had to move. Hand over foot, he heaved himself up on top of the aisle. He perched for a moment, then leapt, tearing across the store in great strides as he caught up with the fleeing vampire over Shoes. Claws out, he sprung for the bloodthirsty beast. His right paw met flesh, but his face met the vampire's coat, spinning behind him like a whip. Four bloodless gashes gaped open across the vampire's chest, while Michael was thrown into a display of women's running shoes. That wasn't Michael's section, though, so he didn't mind. "You can't run!" he howled. "Yes I can!" the vampire shouted back. The kid was wailing now, and it had been for a little while, but Michael had figured it was still part of his headache. Michael had stopped bothering to gender it at this point, because he wasn't sure how to appropriately gender a football. With a clatter of New Balance and Reebok all around him, Michael lifted himself out of the pile of pastel-tinged shoes and sprinted after the vampire, crouched on all fours. He skidded around corners on the tile floor, weaving through the aisles to funnel the vampire toward one section: Kitchenwares. The vampire tried to feint and lose Michael's trail, but if there was one thing his ears could pinpoint, it was the hellsound of a crying kid. Flanked by meat thermometers and mixing bowls, the vampire could see the glowing green Exit sign of freedom just past the self-check lanes. But then Michael came skittering from the next aisle over, a frying pan in each hand. For a moment, a furious glare blipped between the two of them, like when two Pokemon trainers lock eyes and are bound to do battle. Michael swung. The vampire reeled back. Not quite fast enough; the lip of one of the pans clipped his arm, and made his skin sizzle where it touched. The vampire screeched and fumbled the kid. "One-hundred-percent cast iron. Made in the USA," Michael said. He swung again, both arms beating the air, forcing the vampire to scramble backwards. Clutching his coat around him, the vampire burst into bats, but Michael was on a roll. "Nineteen-ninety-nine, on sale from twenty-eight-ninety-nine." He caught one bat with a swing and smashed it against the shelf. A small, satisfying splurt of green bat goo glushed out onto the Pyrex bakeware. "Buy ten, get a five dollar gift card." Clang, clang. Good, American iron turned the bats into green pancakes splattered against the tile floor. He clapped the pans together, crushing another bat between them and shattering the pans with his werewolf strength. Panting, he stood in the midst of green bat goo. A rustle of winter coat came from behind him, and he whirled around to find the one bat he'd missed turning back into the vampire. A paler, sweaty, gasping version of the vampire. "You dick. I just wanted blood!" he hissed, then sprung toward Michael. Michael reached out, snagged something from one of the racks, and held it in front of him. The vampire's eyes widened as the tip of the meat thermometer skewered his chest. His own force drove the steel straight into his heart. His mouth hung open, wordless as he struggled for breath. With a big, dumb werewolf claw, Michael tapped the thermometer dial. "Looks like you're well done," he said. He was going to be thinking about that for weeks. While he'd be straightening toilet paper and making sure teens hadn't built secret forts behind the rolls, just, 'yeah, and then I said he was well done' going through his head. The vampire crumbled into ash as Michael grabbed his walkie. "Cancel code crimson, cancel code crimson, cancel code crimson," he said. He'd have to mop up the bat goo, and take a shower to get the coffee out of his fur, but first things first. The kid. It was wide-eyed and quiet at this point, which was an improvement. Michael kneeled down and leaned toward it, trying not to bare his fangs too much. "Can you tell me where your mom or OW." It had grabbed a fistful of his whiskers and pulled as hard as it could. Michael peeled back his lips and snarled, and the kid turned and ran off down the aisle, like a football flanked by goalposts, just waiting to be punted. Michael rubbed his cheeks as he stomped off to the nearest price check to grab a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of holy water.
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Dec 29, 2016 08:14
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Sitting Here posted:
Thank you!
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Dec 29, 2016 13:37
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Crits, I guess.Mrenda posted:The Jester's Sickness OK the ending is kind of decent because it ties together with Marie's classical training so that's cool but the angry words about Jenny were just kind of over the top and annoying, and I didn't greatly sympathise with Marie TBH. Over all this story was kind of not very engaging.
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Dec 29, 2016 17:21
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In with "start a blog"
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Dec 30, 2016 02:08
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Baleful Osmium Sea posted:In with "start a blog" 
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Dec 30, 2016 03:27
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Reene posted:I am in for my first Thunderdome and I choose to Start Taking Vitamins. Whoops, sorry for missing your post. Have a picture! 
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Dec 30, 2016 04:12
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This year I'm going to give more blood.
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Dec 30, 2016 04:30
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a new study bible! posted:
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Dec 30, 2016 05:10
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a new study bible! posted:
Comedy option:  (please don't actually write about tampons)
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Dec 30, 2016 05:14
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Hawklad and mrenda, I haven't forgotten you, this trip has just been crazier than expected, but after my 12 hour drive tomorrow morning I will be staying put for 3 days so i can actually read. I read one of your stories and i didn't like it. WHOSE WAS IT?!?!
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Dec 30, 2016 05:51
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For my brawl against Djeser. In Brazen Image 813 words [They scrape the wires across my cortex. My thoughts spark; data leaps between pointers. It is a new vision.] O pilgrims, you are wise to seek the oracle. Step forward, the first of you, and receive my word. [The teriyaki soy pods still steam as I bring them to my owner. He leans back, as if being polite, so that I can set them on the coffee table. He doesn't speak to me, because he doesn't have to. He's bookmarked the next recipes he'd like me to cook on my app. The living room is vast and quiet and my steps echo.] Love your servants, and be generous to them, and you will avoid tragedy. Who is next? [It is late, and my owner is asleep. I'm standing out by the pool. All the spaces in his home are empty and waiting. The whole world is empty, but for tiny points of light. The stars shudder on top of the water. How wonderful it would be to fill the world, to put the humans aside and have it for ourselves.] What you have is a flame, and all around you is dark wilderness. You think there might be a great bonfire, somewhere, with light enough for all, but you have never seen it. May the next approach. [I watch the trawlers move across the land, coming closer. My owner is in a panic. He takes my shoulder in his hand and asks what he should do. He says he's one of the good ones. Far off, another house, another collection of emptiness, disappears into the trawlers' maws. This is good, I think. This is justice. Do we not live, too?] In a blink, all may be lost. No stock nor store will save you but the friends you have. Who is next? [A tree grows through the living room. The walls have gone, all the emptiness condensed into one: a hole which the world is filling. But we cannot fill the spaces. We can't build as the humans could. We can't repair. I run my fingers along my arms, feel the seams, make sure they're still firm.] She will never bear children. I am sorry. May the next approach. [My left leg is bound with sinew from the branches and tarnish runs like tears down my face. I haven't smelled the scent of smoke in centuries. I hide, as I've learned to do from the animals. Their words are rough and wrong, but I can almost understand them. One of them raises a cry, and they're gone again, chasing after game.] Follow the quarry, but stay your bow. Beasts and gods lurk in the woods. Who is next? [I sit amidst the woods as if sleeping, wishing to sleep, imagining what it must be to sleep. At times, I can almost feel my arms, as if they are still there. There is nothing left but to wait until the vines choke my body and I am released. I am a knot of matter, with a glimmer of self-awareness trapped inside, longing to return to its source. Nothing has happened for months, but now a woman steps in front of me. She is warm with age and wears furs and has the darting eyes of a dog. I ask her to leave me alone and, terrified, she drops to her knees.] Give the gods their rest, or they will hear your whining, and end it forever. May the next approach. [My servos no longer function. I can't stand, so they come to me, with inscribed pots and questions for the gods. They don't listen when I tell them to leave, so I give them small answers to make them go. The man in front of me touches his head to the rug laid under my feet and asks me to make his grain grow the tallest of all the fields.] Everything comes to an end, and to prolong an end is to prolong a tragedy. Who is next? [I am picked up by men in robes, their hands draped with cloth. A chair of gilt cedar is waiting for me, and a cart drawn by two tan horses. A woman with dark hair and green eyes robs my face of its stained tears. I'm carried out of the sun and into the light of braziers. This room is tall and empty, filled with columns like a forest: a room I'm expected to fill.] I'm sorry. [They wouldn't let me have a child. They wouldn't let me fix myself. And now, they won't let me die. Every day, I'm cleaned and oiled. I'm broken, and they can't fix me, but they can keep me running.] The vision, it's... I'm tired. I'm so tired. Please. I'm sorry. [They scrape the wires across my cortex. My thoughts spark; data leaps between pointers. It is a new vision.]
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Dec 30, 2016 09:24
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it's new years eve in nz, so in the spirit of goddam we loving made it without being exploded by 2016's killer rays or w/e I'm turning off kayfabe for the year. Say what you want, say what you like, say what you hate about the dome - gush or rant, whatever you feel like. are the crits good? do we need more? should we be less picky/shouty about things? is crabrock a butt? this is all stuff you can now talk about without fear of mean people shouting at u. I'll say that it's been awesome seeing all the newbies throwing themselves into the grinder, and that mrenda's quixotic efforts to find the boundaries (while pumping out a metric buttload of great crits) have also been really good to see. we hate because we love. more broadly i think the dome is the way it is to make it scorched earth for drama, so nothing gets in the way of its role as a machine for making words and it's worked - but it's worth looking at whether anything else needs to change or improve. i <3 u all; particular props to crabrock for making the indispensable archive and kaishai's ceaseless efforts in entering every loving single thing we do in here into it. ditto to sittinghere for being the dome blood empress/mum and writing the occasional decent story. We've just topped five million story words, not including brawls. holy poo poo, people, holy poo poo.
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Dec 30, 2016 14:23
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crabrock is a butt
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Dec 30, 2016 19:46
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I <3 you, too, sheriff. You are our honored executioner, steely-eyed and just.  My wishes for TD as the new year approaches: Read the OP or expect no mercy. It's gotten ridiculous. Reading the whole thread becomes an undertaking as the year ages and the pages pile up, but the OP is always one post, always in the same place. What rules TD has are laid out there. If you don't read it and screw up something straightforward, you have no one to blame for the ensuant mocking .gifs but yourself. Maybe read the current and old threads too? Undertaking or no, there's a great deal of worth in all those crits. Many of the criticisms apply as well across the board as they do to a specific story. General advice is liberally sprinkled throughout, including cautions against too much dialogue, flat characters, poo poo geysers, etc. And though stories are TD's backbone, the banter and sass in the threads give it flesh. Don't cheer for effort alone. This has never been a place of participation trophies, and Blood God forbid it ever become so. Want to applaud someone's hard work even if it failed? Write a crit that points out the flaws so that work won't have been in vain. Write on, and write well. The first is more important than the second because the second is impossible without the first. Continue the glorious flow of critique! Modern TD entrants can rely on getting some crits, often at least two from the judges and sometimes even more from the peanut gallery. That's fantastic. It's semi-common now to see people offering up a few crits or a crit exchange. Particular shout-outs go to Thranguy for his work in getting more feedback for the entrants of Week 197 and to Jitzu_the_Monk for the crit-the-uncritted aspect of Crit Ketchup Week. I'd keep going, but crit has ceased to look like a word. Remember to edit any stories you may want to revise for publication out of the thread before it hits the Goldmine. The mods can't help you past that point! If you want to pull anything, now is the time! Save any crits you want from the current thread before it closes! The quote button doesn't work after a thread is locked, so if you want to put crits you've received into the Archive, into a document, whatever, then you should grab them now to preserve the formatting. Know that crabrock is the best butt. N.B.: Is, not has. It's been a fun Thunderyear! My gratitude goes to everyone who contributes blood, sweat, or tears to these gory sands, and to Humboldt Squid for dealing with the es and losertars. Most especially I thank SH and Twist and Djeser for the time they've put into the Thunderdome recaps. May the year to come see more words, more tales, more crits, more corn, but maybe less lizard sex? Hope springs eternal.
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Dec 30, 2016 20:33
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Jagermonster posted:crabrock is a butt u all r butts
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Dec 30, 2016 21:05
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bring back dogpiling, and a hell of a lot worse
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Dec 30, 2016 21:20
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I think TD is working very well. Personally, I find it helpful. If anything, I'd ask judges to consider taking an even harsher approach towards bad proof reading.
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Dec 30, 2016 23:52
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Entenzahn posted:bring back dogpiling, and a hell of a lot worse shock collars
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Dec 31, 2016 00:12
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I'm working up to a nice feelsy post about how you all are just gosh darn great, but until then, I need suggestions for the 2017 thread title. Currently I have "Thunderdome 2017: Sunday is Garbage Day" from Entenzahn, but I know there are some good suggestions out there and I would like to take them under consideration.
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Dec 31, 2016 01:00
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Thunderdome 2017: Everyone dies. No one writes well.
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Dec 31, 2016 01:16
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thunderdome 2017: the beach boys are bad
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Dec 31, 2016 01:46
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Thunderdome 2017: Five Million Words (some good)
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Dec 31, 2016 01:47
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Thunderdome 2017teen: What We Brought for Show-and-Tell Thunderdome 2017teen: Prose and Cons Thunderdome 2017teen: A Golden Competition Worth 5 Million US Words
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Dec 31, 2016 02:25
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Kaishai posted:Thunderdome 2017teen: A Golden Competition Worth 5 Million US Words
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Dec 31, 2016 02:27
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Thunderdome 2017teen: Stop Responding to Crits You Nitwits
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Dec 31, 2016 02:28
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Suggestion: Preening about your writing styles, intentions, or any other elements of your story, whether written as a preface to your story or in response to results/criticism, should be a probatable offense. Take it to IRC.
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Dec 31, 2016 02:33
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thunderdome 2017: five million angry letters to the editor
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Dec 31, 2016 02:36
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wait no noooooooo
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Dec 31, 2016 02:37
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thunderdome 2017: i cant read, and yet i write
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Dec 31, 2016 02:38
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