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Flip yes. I'm fuckin' in, chief.
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Nov 21, 2017 06:19
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In, 
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Nov 21, 2017 06:33
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In!
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Nov 21, 2017 07:04
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In.
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Nov 21, 2017 08:24
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Brawl Entry In the Belly of the Whale 1186 words My cheek burns where his knuckles broke my skin and my mouth tastes of blood. Fat raindrops sizzle off my hot skin as I sprint down the road towards the beach, asphalt biting my bare feet, trailing steam and furious tears. Salt wind hits my face as I run onto the beach. The approaching typhoon has turned the sky over the ocean a menacing yellow grey. Clouds bloated with rain sink low, skimming the frothing waves. Fists balled at my sides I stand at the edge of the sea and scream into the wind. Growing up in this lovely, vicious little town I used to always do this, come running down to the beach to hurl my anger and frustration into the sea, as if it would take them away and bring me back something better. I feel nauseous with shame as I picture the smug looks my friends will give each other when they find out the bastard actually hit me. Secrets don’t last long here. I’ve known most of them my whole life but I know they hate me, really. A loser who can’t give up on the only man who’s ever paid her attention. I pull off my thin t-shirt and shorts and step into the shallows. The sea feels electric as it swirls around my knees, foam glowing white in the eerie light. I crouch down and slide into the shallow, churning water, arms outstretched, letting the salt and sand scrub the tears from my face. I wonder if he will come looking for me. The current pulls at me as I drift just under the surface; much, much stronger than usual. I go to stand up, but instead of finding the sandy bottom right beneath my feet my legs straighten into empty ocean. Fear runs up my spine as I realise how far I am from the shore. My clothing lying crumpled on the sand is already just a dot, receding fast. A wave breaks over my head and suddenly I’m thrashing and gasping for breath. Bitter satisfaction twists in my gut as I picture him finding my t-shirt on the beach tomorrow morning and realising it was his fault. The current is swirling around my legs, tugging me down, the sea rushing inwards as if draining into the earth. Huge white teeth set in black skin are rising out of the waves around me. I open my mouth to scream but instead inhale saltwater as monstrous jaws close above me, swallowing the ocean and taking me with it. I tumble down and down, bubbles streaming from my nose and mouth. With a sudden rush of water I am washed up onto solid ground in pitch black darkness. I lie gasping for air, shivering with shock. A small sob escapes with my ragged breathing, followed by another, louder, and suddenly I’m bawling like a child. Where am I? Bastard, I think, it’s your fault. Why didn’t you come after me? “Shh, you’re safe now,” says a voice from the dark. A matchhead flares into life, illuminating the thin face of a young woman. She’s wearing only worn cotton panties and an ill-fitting bra too big for her skinny body. There are old bruises on her pale skin, like someone dug their fingers far too hard into the soft flesh on her arms. Carefully she lights the greasy candle she’s carrying, sits next to me and places it on the ground in front of us. In the dim light I can see we’re in a huge cavern. The walls glimmer wet and red in the flickering candlelight. “Why are you crying?” she asks. “Everyone hates me,” I say. “I hate this loving town.” She leans over, gently strokes my wet hair. Her eyes are green like mine. “It’s his fault you know,” she says. “All of it. He’s the only reason you’ve stayed here. And look how he repays you!” She touches the cut on my cheek, pressing painfully with her fingernails. I open my mouth to argue, to automatically insist that he loves me, but no words come out. Instead I hug my knees to my chest, try to stop shivering. “You should kill him,” she whispers. Her words reverberate around the cavern, a low susurrus coming at me from all directions. I jerk away from her. She leans forward, following me. She crawls over me, her body pushing me down onto my back on the slick ground, hips grinding against mine, wet hair hanging down around my face. “Kill him! It’s the only way to escape!” she hisses, sharp teeth glinting in the candlelight. “I can’t!” I yell, shoving her in the chest to push her off me. “You’re weak! You’ll never get out of here!” Her eyes flash with anger and the candle flickers and goes out. The ground jolts beneath me. In the darkness I hear the wet slapping of her running feet. I’m struggling to stand on the shaking ground. A grey light appears above me, like dawn breaking through thick fog. I see her running towards it, up a tunnel out of the cavern. I stagger to my feet and run after her. The mouth of the tunnel is yawning open. Pointed teeth are silhouetted against the sky. “Wait!” I scream, but the sea is rushing in now, turning the tunnel floor into a rising river. I lunge forward and grab her wrist, but she twists away, laughing, swimming up the waterfall. The sea surges over me, saltwater fills my nose and mouth. It’s your fault, I think, as my breath escapes in a stream of bubbles. *** The house is dark when I get back, the storm has knocked the power out. He’s not there. I dig a candle out from under the kitchen sink, light it. There’s a note on the table. I read the first line, “I’m so sorry…” before scrunching the paper in my fist and tossing it into the bin. I look with disgust at the dirty dishes in the sink, open a drawer and run my fingers over the handles of our kitchen knives. My wet hair drips saltwater onto the floor as I sit down at the table to wait for him. The rain pounds on the roof. The candle is guttering by the time I hear the door open and his footsteps in the hall. I touch my raw cheek and tighten my grip on the handle of the knife that lies in my lap. It’s just like she said, I think. The candlelight spreads up his broad chest as he walks through the kitchen doorway. I lunge forward, plunging the knife in deep, right under the solar plexus. Blood gushes out over my hands. The pain must be awful. But the look of pure anguish on his face is perfect. “Shh,” I whisper as his knees crumple and we sink to the floor. I cradle his head in my lap as his hands paw at me, eyes staring longingly into mine. I knew he loved me, I think, as the candle gives one last flicker and goes out.
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Nov 21, 2017 08:53
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In
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Nov 21, 2017 11:34
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Hit me with that poo poo, I'm in.
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Nov 21, 2017 12:55
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In
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Nov 21, 2017 15:19
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One final bump. Do it. Do it and you're cool. I'm gonna lock signups on 11/22 at 11:59 EST. We've got a good number of folks in both circles, this is gonna be a lot of fun. What the hell are you waiting for? Chili posted:
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Nov 21, 2017 17:28
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Story Exchange: 
BONUS PRESENT EXCHANGE:
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oh, god, I shouldn't. but I'm in.
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Nov 21, 2017 18:46
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Chili posted:One final bump. Do it. Do it and you're cool. Also, sign up for this you grinches.
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Nov 21, 2017 18:47
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People love a sign-up week.steeltoedsneakers posted:Flip yes. I'm fuckin' in, chief. Stay Strong by Starter Wiggin The Job by Twiggymouse A Fool's Errand by kurona_bright The More Things Change by Jitzu_the_Monk A Man Alone With Himself by Hocus Pocus Delivery Man by Mercedes Exmond posted:In! For Every Moment of Truth, There's Confusion in Life by Blade_of_tyshalle Sunday by unwantedplatypus The Willow and the Ribbon by Benny the Snake Protect the Future by BeefSupreme Aesclepia posted:Hit me with that poo poo, I'm in. Future Not Included by ThirdEmperor Severance Pay by leekster Monster killers and child stealers by Exmond Nausea by RunningIntoWalls Sitting Here posted:oh, god, I shouldn't. but I'm in. Get off my magical lawn by Pham Nuwen Clothes Make The Man by Kharmakazy crabrock fucked around with this message at 02:35 on Nov 22, 2017 |
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Nov 21, 2017 19:42
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exmond story updated to remove duplicate
crabrock fucked around with this message at 02:37 on Nov 22, 2017 |
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Nov 21, 2017 23:01
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since i prolly wont get out of bed in time tomorrow vs. sparksbloom Gather Like Leaves in the Gutter 693 words I try to smile for the man working the subway till though the world is ending. My teeth freeze together. He doesn’t smile either. Just waves me through, slow, like his arms are heavy. Or like the air is murk, only broken through with effort, like he’s undersea. The tiled ground is grimed with thousands of traces. It’s raining outside. My hair plasters my face like the clouds blotting out the sun. There’s a homeless man standing just inside the turnstile. His coat is heavy but ragged, patches of skin showing through the fabric. “The end is here,” he says in a half-shout, his voice rising above the clatter of footsteps. Today, he’s right. I try to remember if I’ve seen him before, if he’s said the same thing on other days. I don’t have a smile for him either. I try to force it, and it feels like my head is splitting open along with my lips. The platform is crowded. Either people want to be with their loved ones, or they’re thinking the same way I am. The news ticker flashes messages about the only news that matters. The screen glares with the reflection of the oncoming train. I blink, my eyelids heavy with the futility of everything now. The news message unspools itself behind my eyes. The bombs are falling today. They’ll land midtown. If I want to die fast, that’s where I’ll be. Gone in an instant, vapourized in a wave that thins as it spreads, until at the edges brain cells cling to feeling like a drowning man clings to driftwood. I takes three trains for me to board one. When I manage to squeeze on, the car is so crowded that anxiety radiates through my body, starting at my bones, piggybacking on my blood to reach my skin. I hug myself, clutching my elbow, my legs stacked against each other. The people push and pull each other, push and pull me. I try to calm myself down, using what I’ve learned in therapy sessions. Micro-movements, my fingers pulsing. It doesn’t work. They brush against strangers, against legs, arms, backs. People turn to look at me, blood vessels thick in their eyes. Fear pushing at the corners as they turn away. I can hear the sounds of a fight, drifting through the train. A man is yelling at another for touching him. “I didn’t mean to,” I hear, notes barely audible when they reach me. The subway spills me out at the midtown stop. The people that flow me are a rising tide, up stairs and and the escalator like a waterfall in reverse. Before I know it, I’m outside, midtown square, looking up at the cloudbroken sky. The square is full. People did share my thoughts. I turn to see who’s standing next to me. Heavy coat, hooded to shield the rain. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl. It doesn’t matter. It feels like my bones are breaking as I lift up a hand. The moments feel like centuries. They take it, squeezing it tight. I can feel through the pulse that we’re breathing the same breath. It’s enough. I stare up at the sky. The falling bombs look like meteors, sparking through the clouds. “See you on the other side,” I tell my new friend. Micro-movements with my fingers, tracing their palm. They just nod, their hood whipping over their head and stretching back, back so maybe I could see their face, if there was time, just a few moments more.
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Nov 22, 2017 03:34
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sparksbloom fucked around with this message at 04:39 on Nov 27, 2017 |
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Nov 22, 2017 05:07
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Bar Brawl Managed 898 Words My happy cast and crew raise their glasses. They hold their beer, wine, and spirits on high as they turn to face me, their dear director, and fearless leader. “To The Westside Story, a stronger run I cannot recall in my memory. You are among the most talented, gifted, and hardworking cast and crew I have ever had God’s blessing to work with.” “Brava!” They all cheer in unison, clink their glasses together, and down their drinks. A cartoonish groan roars from the corner of the dank establishment, and as we finish our drinks, a lowly ruffian dressed in a football jersey rises to his feet: “If I had known Netta’s was gonna be filled up with faggots tonight, I would have gone somewhere else.” They turn to me. I shrug my shoulders and call out, “The next round of Moscow Mules is on me!” They cheer and I turn to the bartender. “And for our friend in the corner, make his a double!” He stands and shambles over to me. He belches a cloud of whiskey right into my personal space. “I wouldn’t drink this girly poo poo even with her lips wrapped around my cock.” He points to Anita Foley, our Maria. Scott Logan-Davis, our Riff, rises to his feet. “You gotta problem, fella?” He’s quickly backed up by his supporting Jets. “Chung chung!” “Cracko jacko!” “Riga diga dum!” “Pam pam!” His crew stands in a tight semi-circle behind him. I recognize the strained looks of masculine anger on their faces that we’ve rehearsed for weeks to get right. They look convincing. Convincing enough to get into some real trouble. “What the gently caress is this now?” The ruffian takes a step back. Louis Wiley-Daniels, our Action, starts to snap in rhythm, the rest of the semi-circle joins him. The ruffian cocks his head to the left and stares, his jaw slowly drops. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a bowie knife. “Rumble!” Shouts Riff. The snapping continues as the remainder of the cast make their way over to the scene. They brandish finger guns and grimaces at the ruffian who just shakes his head and points his knife at me. “Tell them to stop this poo poo. Y’hear me?” He asks. “Sir,” I stand from my high bar chair. “I have a vision. I have a vision of a world where good-hearted men like yourself and passionate thespians like my comrades and I can one day share the stage of life and show the world that we are better than our baser instincts. Can you see my vision?” He spits on my Allen Edmonds and slashes at my face. I pull back, but I’m not fast enough. He catches my cheek, and pain as I’ve never felt before screams out of me as blood trickles down my face. I lift my head up to the man and face him with shock and horror. “Why?” I ask. Suddenly, a small woman dressed in all black pushes me to the side. She’s moving quickly, and I don’t recognize her. She throws her balled-up-fist into the man’s solar plexus, and as he doubles over, she launches her knee into his nose. He drops the knife. She grabs it. And only as she straightens up do I recognize her, it’s Emily Collette, our stage manager. She turns to face us. “You’re all loving idiots.” The ruffian tilts his head up from the blood that's pooling around his face. She looks down and swiftly kicks him in the side of the head. “I am so done with this poo poo.” She says as she slips the knife into her back pocket. She reaches out to an adjacent table, grabs a shot glass filled with a brown liquid, and quickly downs it. “You are the most self-indulgent, delusional bunch of idiots I’ve ever gotten stuck with.” She walks over to her table, the whole of the bar watches in silences as she pulls on her coat and makes her way to the exit. “And by the way, that may have been the worst production of quite possibly the easiest show to pull off I’ve ever seen.” I gasp and pull my hand to my chest. “Why do you even direct plays?” She says to me. “You do know that the whole point of putting on a show is to have an idea, and execute it. Right?” “My dear, Emily-” “No.” She interrupts. “I’ve had to listen to your inane prattling for three months. You listen to me now.” I sit back in my chair, shocked at her mutinous behavior. “You don’t put on a show because you’re a bored accountant, looking for something to do on the weekends. You don’t put on a show because you’re so desperate to play make believe that you can't recognize a real threat when it’s standing right in front of your face.” The cast turns to me, but I don’t know what to do to comfort them. She continues. “You put on a show because there's a truth inside you that burns so badly you must speak it. Because you’re so grounded in reality that you must rattle your chains and force people to see things as you do.” And with that, she leaves Netta’s. She emerged as our savior and became the worst thing imaginable, a critic. And for that, I shall never forgive her.
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Nov 22, 2017 07:35
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still need a third judge. i'll be traveling, so might be a little slow assigning stories.
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Nov 22, 2017 08:49
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Brawl entry A Meeting in Moscow 1137 words I didn't bother to get my umbrella. Maybe I should have. The evening October rain was like a curtain of whips when I stepped out, and the shock of cold, the growing weight of my hair and clothes, caught me off-guard outside the apartment door. Was I ready for this? It was too late. I had already started. The metro wasn't far, but I would have walked straight across the city if I had to. The street's incandescence gave way to underground fluorescence, grass to concrete to metal, but the rain stayed with me beneath the streets and buildings. It was a longer ride than I'd expected; more stops, though not as many people. I had plenty of time on the way to think about my brother. What would he be like now, in the Federation? We were young Soviets when he had run away. The scrap of paper burned in my hand as I looked down at it, sitting and dripping in the clattery yellow marshrutka as it grumbled down the street. 109 Lenintsev, #312, in ink that bled in my clammy touch. I heard the rain's roar overtake the quieting engine, felt the forward shift of gravity, took a second or two to realize why. I paid the fare and got out. Up the stairs, then up some more. Television babble behind one door, the merry beeping of a Dendy a few later. #312. My knock got no answer, so I tried again. The light was on in there. "It's me. Lena!" It was hard to be audible, polite, and familiar at the same time. I don't think I managed it. I heard talking on the other side, and the door eventually opened. She was a little over my height, her face a mask of forced composure. And leaning back against the wall, on a ragged mattress... I despised Andrey when he had left me alone with our broken, hateful parents. It was only a few more years of false love and real scars before I ran too, but I couldn't make myself forgive him. Now, seeing him as a man for the first time, I felt it all race into the past like the ocean after a breaking wave. There was nothing left to hate in this husk of a man. "Yelena," he breathed, and he held out his his thin, white right hand to me. His left was at the end of a dead green mess slumped beside him. I somehow forced myself from the doorway and dripped a trail across the apartment, past the other woman, past the pile of needles in the corner, past the pitiful clutch of first aid supplies on the table near the dark window. I began to realize just how rotten the air was as I came closer to Andrey. I bent down over him, trying to smell anything but his flesh, and took his hand. I knew he was twenty-nine, but that hand felt fifty years older. We didn't move. He broke the silence. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?" His mouth bent into something like a smile or a wince. "I was afraid that you'd find me first." I didn't know how to answer that. "I guess I did," I answered lamely. "Wish I'd remembered my umbrella." Andrey gave a wisp of a laugh. "So that settles it." He looked up, over my shoulder. "Nika. Come over." She came down to the mattress, at the worse side of my brother, who turned hesitantly back to me. "We weren't supposed to meet like this," he said to me with a tunnel's gaze. "I was going to get my foot in the door somewhere, get things ready, come back for you when I could take care of you. That was... that was how it was supposed to go, Lena! It was, was-" He broke down, sobbing silently and without tears. Just an awful shudder that wracked him again and again. My eyes were brimming, but I managed to hold the worst back for him. If Nika was there, I didn't see or hear her. At last, he managed to continue. "...But I guess a girl ended up taking care of me instead. So fuckin' much for Andrey Sergeyich! That's how it all works out!" The sudden spiteful life in my brother gave me equal joy and revulsion. I probably looked the way Nika had when she answered the door. Andrey turned to her. "Thank you, Nika. Thanks for everything, and I'm sorry for making it all a waste." "It's not a waste!" Nika immediately shouted back, hardly a seam between her words and his. "I don't know if I'll ever get you back up and about – hell, I probably won't! – but you're still Andrey. You were Andrey when we met and you always will be Andrey. And that's what's important! I have you. You finally have your sister. We have each other, and that's impossible to change. It's, it's..." She trailed off, grasping for a finish that she couldn't reach. "Come on, Andrey," I said. "Maybe it didn't happen the best way, but we're back together. I have some money, I'll get you to a hospital and we can-" "And what'll they do? They'll chop off my arm and send me to a clinic, where they'll tie me to a bed until withdrawal finishes me off. Look at me! I'm fuckin' dead anyway!" We had nothing to say. "Until you came here, Yelena, I was able to leave it all behind. Did I come back for you? No, but as long as that loose end was hanging, there was always a hair of a chance that I could eventually tie it up. Some small hope that I'd keep my promise in the end. But now it's final. I failed. I left you behind," he continued while I fought to get a word in, "just to let you down. And it took me fuckin' long enough! We have a whole new country now, just as lovely as the last one! And a whole lovely century to look forward to! Everything's horseshit! And it's not like I've been doing anything to make it better!" The moment passed before it could register. With a surge of his withered body, Andrey had lurched off the mattress and was stiffly striding toward the tiny kitchen. His arm flopped as he walked; the skin was splitting, and something yellow swelled through. We watched him grab a pan from the stovetop as we stood up, realizing too late what he was doing. With every cell he had left, he smashed the window. We scrambled for him as he climbed out and fell through the flooded air. I was frozen. Nika began to cry, the first honest crying from any of us that night.
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Nov 22, 2017 08:52
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https://thunderdome.cc/brawls.php?story=529
Djeser fucked around with this message at 21:36 on Dec 28, 2017 |
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Nov 22, 2017 11:19
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Yoru-Bamina Brawl: Congrats, neither of these stories were terrible! Unfortunately, because none of you poo poo the bed, the matter of who wins is now up to my subjectivity. Maybe by the time I finish writing these crits I'll have decided. Yoruichi: What I'm getting from this story is that your protagonist's in an abusive relationship, runs off, has an experience with some weird lady in the belly of a whale that may or may not be metaphorical, and then kills her abusive boyfriend, who loves her. I thought your description here was decently detailed, though you did describe the rain as sizzling and steaming off of her a couple of times in a way that made me wonder if she was, like, a demon, or made of lava, or something. There was a sentence structure you ended up using a lot, which was two clauses either joined with "and", "as", or just a comma. It's something I end up doing too in rough drafts, but it's a good thing to watch out for in the edit, because a repetitive structure like that doesn't sound as interesting and it can make people glaze over bits of description. I'm not sure why she finds a lady who's way into murder in the belly of a whale. In general, I'm not sure what's up with whale lady, if she's supposed to have more meaning or if it's supposed to represent her mental state as she's deciding whether to give in or to fight back, or what. She's just kind of someone who shows up, goes "U SHOULD KILL UR BOYFRAN" and then vanishes into a whale's mouth. I'm also not entirely sure what the ending is meant to convey. The boyfriend actually loved her? That she regrets killing him? It feels like there should be something there at the end, some mark of growth or change or transformation in the protagonist, something to tie the story together, but if it's there, I might have missed it. The surreal stuff going on was interesting to read about for sure, but I'm not sure what it was trying to convey. Sham bam bamina!: The opening to this story has a lot of good moments--you do a pretty good job of capturing the dreariness of the setting and the mix of emotions your protagonist is feeling. The little details do a good job of conveying the broader idea you're getting at. The weaker part of the story is Arkady and Nika, not that they're poorly written but there's just not much to them, and not a whole lot to Arkady's relationship with Lena. It would have been nice to maybe see what she thinks of her brother, what she's expecting, or some event she remembers with him that's relevant to what he's like now. Nika's got a similar problem: okay, she's his girlfriend (I assume at least) and she's possibly been trying to help him out though apparently not doing a great job. But like, what does she see in him? There's that bit where she says she'll stick with him but I don't know why. I don't want to be a backseat writer here, but I think the idea of this extra person intruding on a moment between you and someone else is an interesting one to elaborate on. Like, these two strangers are here because of their relationships with this person, which were at two entirely different times in his life--and it's meaningful to both of them in different ways. You got into that a bit, how Nika's trying to support him and loves him while Lena's almost happy to see that he's had so much trouble, but I think if you're looking for a theme to draw out here, that'd be a good one. (The thing you had going with Arkady saying that now that she's found him, he doesn't have that resolution to look forward to, would also work well as a theme if you seeded hints of it earlier on.) As a final aside, this felt similar in tone (in a good way) to the story you did for ice cream week. Results: Okay so you both got a little weird with the rule, and neither story was perfect, but these were some pretty decent showings from both of you. Yoruichi wrote something kind of weird and surreal with an ending that didn't quite match up, while Sham bam bamina wrote prose that felt real and lived-in, but might have stretched the characters a bit thin. In the end, though you both put up a good fight, it's Sham bam bamina! whose prose let him squeak by with the win.
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Nov 22, 2017 12:55
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I gave you both a deadline of high noon but I guess you couldn’t wait to start shooting. He comes judgement. Tyrannosaurus posted:
Both pieces were fairly bloated and neither, despite a remarkably short prompt, managed to get to the point before the last 200-ish words. But both stories were interesting at a conceptual level and I’ll forgive a lot of stupid writing for a smart idea. Ultimately, though, I wanted some stories about finding love, falling in love, and/or being in love in a hopeless place. I’m a sucker for a good love story. You both gave me hopelessness which was good. You both gave me the seed of a love that might one day be which was... alright. No one gave me an actually story with a character finding love. Sparksbloom had tighter, cleaner descriptions while Spectres needed to legit go back through and clean up some grammatical/spelling errors and trim the fat of his sentences. Sparksbloom had better one liners-- “I suspect, though I don’t have evidence, that she might have self-committed.” Spectres gave me a better and more interesting “seed” and I think, in a way, better fulfilled the prompt. In the last moments of death and doom, there was a small spark of something special as opposed to this mixture of shared, violent experience connecting two strangers who have suffered from physical torture and their own torturous self-doubts (which is still an interesting read). Spectres of Autism wins despite putting the wrong word count down for his story and almost eating a DQ until I double-checked and with an equally interesting, slightly worse written piece that hit the prompt slightly more. Take from this victory/loss what you will. Here is a video that inspired the prompt
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Nov 22, 2017 17:57
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Thanks Djeser, good fight Sham Bam! Regarding being insufferably smug, erm, as you were : ) Yoruichi fucked around with this message at 20:46 on Nov 22, 2017 |
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Nov 22, 2017 19:38
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SECRET SANTA ASSIGNMENTS WILL POST TONIGHT AT 11:59 EST If you're in IRC you can find out who you got. I'll put together full things later that give you all the info you'll need to ambush your santee with presents and stories but if you want to find out who you drew, be in IRC tonight!
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Nov 22, 2017 23:09
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Chili posted:Bar Brawl Djeser posted:Moist Lads and Milky Dicks <= sweet title sebmojo fucked around with this message at 23:56 on Nov 22, 2017 |
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Nov 22, 2017 23:52
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thanks for the crit and judging, tyrannosaurus
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Nov 22, 2017 23:58
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good brawling and good judgements, the blood court would be proud
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Nov 23, 2017 00:31
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In (USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
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Nov 23, 2017 01:06
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In.
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Nov 23, 2017 06:43
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Just popped in from my temporary home away from home at this place with free wifi to say good job on all those crits T-Rex
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Nov 23, 2017 10:30
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Aesclepia posted:it's is only short for it is
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Nov 23, 2017 12:48
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Thunderdome Recap!  What does fate hold in store for you, Thunderdome? If the Tarot is to be believed, a recap of Week 20: Face Your Destiny and Week 273: A Wicked Pack of Cards lies ahead, and your journey through it will confront you with certain challenges: sociopathic scientists. Eager female anatomy. Max Storm busting a succubus ring. You know, the usual. Survive, and you'll join Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and myself in our heartfelt and prolonged enjoyment of BabyRyoga's "A Transgression." "SCRAWWWWWWK." Episodes past can be found here!
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Nov 23, 2017 23:50
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Home Office by Metrofreak Builds Character by kurona_bright Discretion by Jagermonster A Constant Itching Behind the Eyelids by lambeth
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Nov 24, 2017 08:47
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Deltamojo Brawl At the River Volkhov (719 words) I remember Father Claes’ words when I considered joining the Flemish Legion. “Good Christians, falling to their knees and thanking you for delivering their souls from the Soviets,” he promised. He reassured me that the nazis were the lesser of two evils. At least they were believers. And so I volunteered, to the Eastern Front. Our tank was a converted Czech hand-me-down, prone to breaking down if you pushed it too hard, with metal plating thin enough that a well-placed rifle shot could pierce it. But it was all our division had. It used to scare me, but now I saw the T-34 tanks rolling down the hills, I almost felt at peace. When death is certain, panic seems undignified and petty. Captain Reimond’s orders were barely audible over the engine’s bellowing. Artillery barrages crept along the Volkhov riverbanks. In the distance, a munitions depot exploded, colouring the winter mist orange. Projectiles from the Soviet tanks missed us by mere meters, but I zig-zagged us between the trees and snowy hills to close the distance for our underpowered gun. I heard Marcel load a round. “I gotta piss,” he added. “Wait, what?” I said. Reimond chuckled, “Don’t make me laugh. Makes it hard to aim.” “Seriously, Marcel?” “I am completely ser--” A muzzle flash to our right. I slammed the brake on the right tracks, angling our armor just in time. The tank emitted a metallic groan. “Ricochet!” Reimond yelled. “drat, drat, Goddamn! Nevermind about me needing to piss!” “Oh, lovely,” I laughed, “the smell will complement the sweat and diesel nicely.” I circled the enemy tank with a sharp turn while Reimond cranked the turret handle. When we were squarely behind them, he fired. The hull erupted in a pillar of fire, flinging the turret into the snow. Our celebrations were cut short by a shot from our left, hitting the tracks. Our tank spun out of control, rolling down the hillside, into a ditch between two rows of poplars. I pulled myself back into the driver’s seat. “Well, then. Not the glorious last stand I was expecting,” I said. “We’re not done yet,” Reimond said. Beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks until caught in his six-day beard. Marcel loaded a second round with trembling hands, puffing through his red-flushed cheeks. His raspy, nasal breathing irritated me all the more now I had my hands free. “Anything I can do, captain?” “Just keep your eyes open. Whoever fired that shot will want to confirm his kill.” A T-34 rounded the hill, and Reimond fired. The shell bounced off the front armor. The Russians returned fire, their shot glancing off our side armor. Deafening reverberations echoed through the tank until the riveting gave up, scattering a buckshot of nuts and bolts through the interior. Behind me, Reimond slumped from his chair and Marcel screamed, clutching his bleeding forehead. I crawled over them to reach for a jerrycan of diesel. With my free hand, I opened the hot exhaust valve, cursing the scorching heat on my fingertips, then dumped as much fuel into the exhaust as I could. The tank belched forth thick, black clouds which carpeted the land. Helped by Marcel, I dragged Reimond out of the tank through the back hatch, and we ran through the obsidian smog until I slipped down an unseen incline. Pain seared through my ankle and we tumbled into some shrubs next to the riverbank. Pistol in hand, I lay in wait, ready to fire on the first Soviet to stumble upon us. But they never did. On both sides of the river, tanks and infantry pressed on, pushing our comrades further and further towards Leningrad, until dawn broke the cold air. We were alone. “Now what, captain?” I said. When no answer came, I turned, only to see Reimond and Marcel face-down in the snow. Their skin was cold to the touch, and I stopped myself from turning them on their backs. Better this way. I tried standing up, but collapsed in misery when I put weight on my left foot. On hands and knees this time, I crawled up the riverbank’s incline, towards the smoldering wreck of our tank. Propping myself up against a poplar tree, I watched the flames dance across the tank’s remains. “There are no good Christians here, Father.”
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Nov 24, 2017 15:22
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I was entertained by that reading and analysis/crit just a smudge less so than you guys were, thanks for that Kaishai, Sitting Here, and Ironic Twist. I had to kick a nasty cold over the weekend, so I didn't get a chance to work on last week's prompt. I feel better, let's do the right thing and In, for this one.
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Nov 24, 2017 16:56
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Secret santa assignments are all out! THIS IS NOT A SWAP. YOUR SANTA AND SANTEE ARE TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE. DO NOT CONTACT THE PERSON YOU ARE ASSIGNED Get writing, buying,
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Nov 24, 2017 22:05
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BabyRyoga posted:I was entertained by that reading and analysis/crit just a smudge less so than you guys were, thanks for that Kaishai, Sitting Here, and Ironic Twist. Thank you, dude. If you want to take me up on it, I will do a line-by-line crit of your entry this week, straight-up constructive, no jokes.
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Nov 24, 2017 23:50
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TheGreekOwl asked for some Post DM-Crits! Allright lets get started, first off a reminder that I, Exmond, Master of the cardboard character is a worse writer than you! So take this all worth a grain of salt. I'll go over the story and since I'm ever the optimist, tell you what you did well and then tell you why I think you got a DM. Things you did well: There are some good prose here trying to escape the shackles that the bad grammar put around it in this story. "A sickly patience demanded his focus." "What wings had brought them here" Hey I think I get what you are trying to do with Camilo. Kind of like an outcast who is always sick, finds the one thing in his life that is good and it's in his way. Neat character! LOVE ON THE BATTLEFIELD! DM reason: Grammar around verbs A similar event was happening in dark lit chambers all around the floor, where the men of the Valencia Military region. where doing what? Also its were doing, not where doing. Grammar around dialogue You forgot periods and commas in your dialouge. You seem to have a good head for dialogue tags, so just remember your actual dialogue needs grammar. (I still gently caress this up to this day) “Remember Galaxia,” the commander Antonio said near him, addressing them, “Counter-attack if you need to. Just don’ smell any saboteurs.” Clarity Whenever "the action" starts your sentences get a bit clunky and hard to follow. If you fix the top two I still think this will be an issue. When Camilo finds Andre, it almost sounds like Camilo is pushing the gun against Camilo's ribs. Andre exclaimed, Camilo grabbing him by the arms and dragging him by the shoulder, pistol aimed at his sides, an onrush of force directing him back to where the hostages are. They reached the floor above, the few arms that could detect them were really weird because arms don't detect poo poo. Eyes do. Oh you meant other security personnel The Ending AND THEN SUDDENLY I HAD TO END IT. The gently caress is that ending? If your story is about Camilo and Andrew, have it end with those guys. You almost (kind of) had it, Camilo closed the door forever on Andrew and THEN SUDDENLY ALL CAPS ENDINGS, DEMOCRACY IS GREAT GUYS . I get what the ending was supposed to do, but it's too sudden, to clunky to not make me angry. Suggested Fix: I feel like a jerk but, umm, maybe get someone to do a pre-review, ask in the IRC! There was a lot of bad english (Grammar, verbs,periods) that could of been fixed. Re-read your stuff , do it outloud and do it with the ending sentence first and go up from there. Doing it that way will slow you down, giving you a chance to really examine the sentence. Things you could improve upon, but are not DM worthy in my opinion (Which is useless, my opinion that is) Some weird sentences like "He stood there, not knowing who he was. Protagonist immediately knew who he was. This might be your style, where you say X didnt know Y, Z knew Y! So take the above with a grain of salt. It popped up a few times where you contradict yourself in a few sentences. I think if you fix your grammar and clarity we will be able to provide more insight onto this. "... or i could start a sentence with elipses, because that's really weird" Your start. Just , get the whole rara we have guns done in one, two paragraphs. The more interesting thing here is the Camilo and Andrew relationship, and I get it, lets set that relationship up against a tense scene. Maybe cut the whole running through parliment and get to the meat of the story. Exmond fucked around with this message at 18:48 on Nov 25, 2017 |
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Nov 25, 2017 03:44
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In.
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Nov 25, 2017 06:04
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Kaishai posted:In. Strike Duty by epoch. Squawk at Night. by widespread BabyRyoga posted:In, Purgatory by Killer-of-Lawyers The Fire and the Slave by Jonked SUBMISSIONS CLOSED
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Nov 25, 2017 09:10
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Wild Yeast 800 words The sky over Bruges was the color of cornflowers, and the sun was a blinding 20 franc coin someone had tossed up there and gotten it stuck. It was brewing day so Maxime was pouring brown beer bottles full of water straight down the drain, one in each hand, gloop bloop. "Just like Friday night, eh?" said his father. Maxine smiled because it sounded like a joke, then handed him the two empty bottles to rack up next to the others. The bleach smell made his nostrils sting. "Brewing is all about cleanliness", said his father. "No contamination." He sucked in a big gust of air, straining it through his moustache like a whale extracting krill, and plunged two more bottles into the hot sterilising liquid, down, up. Maxime took the two full bottles, covered in bubbly bleach. The sun in the little stone courtyard was hot, and he raised his arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead. The slippery wet bottle slithered out of his hand. He flung out his foot to stop it from hitting the cobblestones. Instead his foot clipped the bottle in the middle and sent it spinning away to smash against the wall in a thousand spinning shards. "Klootzak!" yelled his father, face instantly purple. In a moment he was on his feet and towering over Maxime, fist cocked for the first blow. To be fair, Maxime's father was full of so many hot words that it was only reasonable he had to let them out sometimes. Maxime knew to tiptoe when he'd been sitting at the kitchen table for an evening, the stack of brown bottles beside him growing. Sometimes that helped. But since Mama died the words had become angrier and the blows harder. Brewing is all about heat, thought Maxime later that evening. He was touching the lump on his head, gently, like stroking a mouse. Barley is malted with hot air, then soaked in hot water, then boiled with hops. The hot stone of the courtyard wall had met his head like a hammer after his father punched him. Then, without having made anything he'd call a decision, he saw himself reaching under the bed for his suitcase, and filling it with things. Underpants, shirts, a wallet with some money, a picture of Mama. He tiptoed past his father, who didn't look up, and pushed the door closed behind him gently, like stroking a mouse for the last time. Twelve years later Maxime was in a pub in London. It was late, and the air was hot. He held up his pint to illustrate a point he was making, something about beer - there was a girl with eyes the colour of cornflowers, they reminded him of someone. Someone was shouting at the other end of the bar, so he raised his voice. "Brewing," he said, "it's all about the yeast. Got to be the right one. Very careful, very vigilant. Wild yeast. Floating. It's all around us," he said, gesturing. "But if you let it in, then, pfff." He spread his fingers wide, feeling a hot flush of delight at how her eyes drank him in. "Sour beer!" She smiled at him and started to say something but whatever it would have been was cut off by a flying pint glass that clipped her beautiful forehead in a spray of hot red and shattered into a thousand spinning shards. She dropped to the ground, heavy as a sack of grain. Maxime was instantly suffused with a rage so pure and perfect it made his ears ring. Maxime saw the man who'd thrown the glass, saw his stupid mouth fall open. Without having made anything he'd call a decision, Maxime saw himself running towards the man, fist cocked for the first blow. The man put up arms to shield himself from the blow, and the pint glass Maxime was holding in his hands shattered on them, the sharp edges cutting a deep gash. The beer splattered over the man and over the floor. Maxime took another step and slipped on the wet floor, crashing down on the slick wood. The broken glass was still in his hands, and the floor rammed it into his throat as he fell. The broken glass made a slick, meaty sound as it entered. He gasped at the heat of his bubbling, frothing blood. Brewing is all about patience, all about waiting to see what time, and heat, and yeast have made. It's not always what you want. Still; what you get when the bottlecap finally pops off is always, and only, the sum of all the things that you put in. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 12:45 on Dec 1, 2017 |
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Nov 26, 2017 07:36
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