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Great. I don't quite qualify to be even the loser. I guess it was a burn indeed. 
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Feb 4, 2013 06:24
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| # ? Sep 9, 2024 15:53 |
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Oh well. Perhaps TD isn't the best place to experiment, I guess I'll just have to win next weeks.
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Feb 4, 2013 06:29
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Thunderdome XXVII: There is only PAIN Okay children, this week's challenge is ACTION. <1000 words. Don't feel compelled to write a finished story - that's not strictly necessary, just write a good, solid action sequence. It must excite, it must thrill, but it absolutely must not confuse. Characterisation should be evident, but taken as read (no need for contextualising devices such as flashbacks, just give us your characters doing what they do). The sequence itself should have an arc; it should begin, develop, and resolve, whether for better or worse. This is more difficult than it sounds. It's very tempting to dodge this kind of work by reporting after the fact and so on, but this week you have no choice. Should you manage to create something that stands on its own, more power to you; but all that counts is clarity and purpose. Your judges: Sebmojo, CancerCakes, and myself. Some very harsh criticism awaits the three worst entries. Condemn yourselves by midnight, Friday, Feb 8th GMT+8 Submit or seppuku midnight Sunday 10th GMT+8 STONE OF MADNESS fucked around with this message at 17:20 on Feb 8, 2013 |
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Feb 4, 2013 07:15
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:Holy poo poo. That was a burn. Well yes you do. Sounds like you two need to expunge the shame with a little brawl, since we didn't have one last week. It'll be just like that time on Martello's couch, except even more oily and brutal. Winner gets to pick an avatar for the loser to buy themselves. What do you say?
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Feb 4, 2013 07:25
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In until the blood on my teeth stops tasting so good.
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Feb 4, 2013 07:26
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In.
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Feb 4, 2013 07:30
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In.
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Feb 4, 2013 07:49
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IN
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Feb 4, 2013 08:01
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STONE OF MADNESS posted:Don't feel compelled to write a finished story In.
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Feb 4, 2013 08:24
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Yeah OK in I guess.
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Feb 4, 2013 08:29
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I have time, so yes, I'm so very in.
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Feb 4, 2013 09:08
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I'm in.
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Feb 4, 2013 09:08
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all up in this.
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Feb 4, 2013 09:23
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In, and now with new and faster Internet! Apparently they were working on the cable in my area Sunday. Thanks neonnoodle.
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Feb 4, 2013 11:20
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Looking forward to getting back into the groove. In.
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Feb 4, 2013 13:46
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STONE OF MADNESS posted:Thunderdome XXVII: There is only PAIN Awesome I have a great idea for this! STONE OF MADNESS posted:Your judges: Sebmojo, CancerCakes, and myself. Some very harsh criticism awaits the three worst entries. Hahaha this is a mistake right? right? Should be fun though. Edit: I mean TREMBLE IN FEAR MORTALS, I WILL STRIP YOUR FLESH FROM YOUR BONES.
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Feb 4, 2013 13:53
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I'm in.
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Feb 4, 2013 14:09
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Congratualtions Seb, I'm not really surprised. drat you for being the first to get five wins though. drat you. I'm in. My life is a hollow shell except for this blood drenched internet thread
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Feb 4, 2013 17:40
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IN!
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Feb 4, 2013 19:33
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Sitting Here asked this in IRC, and I figure it's worth clarifying: you don't just mean "action" to be "fighting," right? I know, prompt abuse in service to good writing is basically the whole point of Thunderdome, but I'd like to deliver what you're actually looking for.
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Feb 4, 2013 19:47
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CancerCakes posted:Awesome I have a great idea for this! You can enter as a judge, but you can't win. Probably can't lose, though I'm sure we could stretch the rules if you put in something really bad. Speaking of: in. Edit: Also, crits have been spotty to non-existent the last few rounds. This will be rectified. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 23:34 on Feb 4, 2013 |
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Feb 4, 2013 21:10
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In.STONE OF MADNESS posted:...It must excite, it must thrill, but it absolutely must not confuse. ... That, right there, makes this an excellent
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Feb 4, 2013 22:10
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Due to some stupid bullshit drama, this thread is temporarily closed. Keep writing guys, submissions are still due by the deadline. If you still want to enter and haven't had the chance yet, send me a PM.
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Feb 4, 2013 23:40
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Martello posted:Due to some stupid bullshit drama That's why I'm here. No more drama from this thread or it goes away forever and I start banning the people I see causing the drama. Very simple, imo. Please just resume whatever you do in here and leave it at that. Please don't quote or reply to this post, this isn't a discussion or a derailment, it's just an fyi. Also please do not bother other admins or mods about this, as they are fully aware. Thanks everyone.
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Feb 5, 2013 00:15
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 FLASH RULE To myself: Must be written in the style of Matthew Reilly.
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Feb 5, 2013 00:26
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Finn's right, and just to clarify a bit further: Thunderdome as a contest is welcome here so long as people are able to contain their work to this thread, prevent drama from spilling over elsewhere, and keep their own egos in check. This should be a collaborative writing effort, not a fiefdom, and I think it would be a shame to deprive folks of the opportunity to do this so I hope that the message comes across loud and clear.
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Feb 5, 2013 00:28
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Please come back for a poetry week 
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Feb 5, 2013 00:30
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I suck at action scenes. In.
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Feb 5, 2013 01:11
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I don't know what happened that earned us this warning so I'm just confused by it. I'm guessing it's a result of the message not being aimed at me. But just in case, is the usual Thunderdome poo poo talking of the submitted works going to be seen as causing drama? I'll be somewhat disappointed if the dome is supposed to go all nice and friendly input only. Like I said though I think I've just missed out on the whole drama thing entirely and therefore my interpretation of the warning is suspect at best. Also, I actually kind of enjoyed writing a little something for a previous dome so I think I'll go ahead and say I'm in this week. (USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)
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Feb 5, 2013 01:15
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Sedgr posted:Also, I actually kind of enjoyed writing a little something for a previous dome so I think I'll go ahead and say I'm in this week. If you don't know what it was about then it was nothing to do with you. Nothing else about the 'dome has changed, poo poo talk accepted and expected. Entry noted.
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Feb 5, 2013 01:21
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I'm in, please.
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Feb 5, 2013 02:04
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Etherwind posted:Sitting Here asked this in IRC, and I figure it's worth clarifying: you don't just mean "action" to be "fighting," right? A good question, and while fighting's what I generally think of because  , the answer's no, definitely not. I'm not even going to say it has to be fast-paced (although the odds are good it will be). Action could be anything from bull-wrangling to bullet-dodging. Arguably a loving sports story shows action.However, I'd like to see people posting the sorts of action they're going to be dealing with in their own writing. Only the very safest of lit-fic pabulum is going to totally avoid anything that could be described as such; good, exciting sex scenes are action sequences. That said combat/chase scenes are what I'd expected, so if you're going to go out on a limb, just be certain you're meeting the prompt.
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Feb 5, 2013 03:29
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STONE OF MADNESS posted:good, exciting sex scenes are action sequences. Man, don't taunt Martello like that. 
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Feb 5, 2013 12:26
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STONE OF MADNESS posted:...Arguably a loving sports story shows action... I knew I should have gone with extreme croquet. I KNEW IT.
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Feb 5, 2013 13:18
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A desperate, adrenaline-filled rush of frantic keyboard spasms to collect enough electrons to summon a half-legible assortment of tense errors count as action, right?
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Feb 5, 2013 15:54
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The Blues - Word Count: 1000 Smoke hung in the club like fog from a cheap horror film. The patrons were gone for the night but their cigarette shrouds remained, watching over their green leather barstools like wraiths. They graveyard feeling was appropriate. His club, Brass Tacks, was now closed for good. Behind the bar, Edgar polished what would in all probability be his final set of tumblers. Row upon row of pristine glasses already sat drying on a cloth on the bar. His calloused fingers worked the grooves from muscle memory, coaxing out the sticky residues from their hiding places. The place had a lot of memories. Too many memories. Signed photographs of famous bluesmen hung on the wall like little windows to happier times. The nicotine on the ceiling was thick enough to study geologically. Countless couples had scuffed their way over the woodwork locked in intimate embraces, beholden to the mesmer of forgotten jazz. He heard the familiar heavy thunk of the doors and the shudder of multiple pairs of feet stamp down the stairs. They burst through into the room in a flurry, great woollen overcoats billowing all about them. Not so much entering, as storming. Four of them, greasy wops from uptown. They revelled in their stereotype. The one at the lead had a rhythmless swagger to his step. An ugly pencil moustache completed his portrait. He wore a matching ugly sneer to go with his ugly face. Disdain oozed from his every oily pore. He approached the bar and sat at Charlie's seat. He wrinkled his nose, then with his greasy fingers took one of the clean glasses from the cloth and poured himself some bourbon. “Stinks worse than a chop shop in here old man.” Edgar said nothing. The man took a theatrical slug and made a theatrical face. “This the best you got?” the greaseball “Figures.” The three goons standing behind him chuckled on queue. Edgar said nothing. “The thing is...” the man continued “The thing is about you niggers, is that you just don't get business.” Under the table, Edgar's hands flexed. “When you put money in, you expect return on investment...” The words faded into the humming of the bar lights. Edgar couldn't stop looking at the glass the man had just put down. The lip-prints on the rim. The translucent smears across the clear crystal. It was then that the fracture happened. Like when you drop an ice cube into whisky, the outer integrity is preserved, but on the inside the perspective simply breaks. A hairline crack formed along Edgar's psyche. With an expression of icy calm he picked the bourbon bottle up neck-first. With a smooth and graceful action, he brought the bottle round into the man's temple. The force of the impact toppled him from his stool, and he tumbled to the floor in a shower of glass shards and cheap booze. So sudden was the blow that he hadn't even made a yelp. “What the fu...” The mobsters rifled comedically through their many layers, attempting to find their stashed weapons. They were too slow. In one swift motion, Edgar was over the bar. In his hand he clutched an ancient looking saxophone. It was beat up and had lost most of its shine, a bit like him. He swung it like some primaeval club into the forehead of the guido on the left with a wet thump. He hit him so hard that the saxophone dented. The man fell to his knees and Edgar brought it down twice more. He keeled sideways, hair now slick with more than gel. Another grabbed him in a bear hug so tight the air was squeezed out of his lungs. Edgar wheezed and dropped the sax. He could feel his ribs buckling. Before the life was literally squeezed right out of him, he threw his weight forward in a manoeuvre he would have not imagined he was capable of. The man crashed over the top of him and onto a thick wooden table. It broke down the middle in a bone-jarring crunch. Edgar wrenched one of the splintered table legs free. The man tried to get up, still dazed. Edgar rammed the makeshift stake right into his belly and pinned him back down. He was drawing from a deep well of savagery now, animal and vicious. The mobster groaned and emitted a pitiable whine. Surveying his work, Edgar almost heard the footstep too late. He spun to see the final flunky charging right at him with a switchblade. With all the poise of a martial artist, he diverted the man's momentum and clenched his wrist and upper arm and pressed, hard. The man's elbow popped in a way it was definitely not meant to. The man screamed and dropped the knife, his arm going limp. Edgar swung a violent kick into his groin, and then another for good measure. He let go of the man's arm like a puppeteer dropping a marionette, and the man collapsed gasping for breath. “You crazy loving coon! You motherfucking lunatic!” Edgar turned to see that the lead gangster had staggered to his feet, still wobbling unsteadily. Rivulets of blood trickled down his cheek. In his hand, a Colt 1911. Its black eye waved back and forth, watching Edgar, who stood in a fighter's pose. “Stupid loving old man. Now look what I gotta do.” The man fired, three harsh guttural barks in languid succession. Smoke coiled up from the barrel to intermingle with the rest. Edgar slumped sideways and stumbled into one of the room's pillars. He slid down it like a man relaxing. From one of his chino's pockets, Edgar pulled out his ancient Zippo. He stroked the burnished brass cap backwards and sparked the flint. The flame danced to some unheard tune. He saw the lighter topple from his fingers and the gasoline soaked floor erupt. Edgar smiled. He'd always wanted to go watching somebody howling to the blues.
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Feb 6, 2013 02:43
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First blood of the week 
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Feb 6, 2013 03:51
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In.
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Feb 6, 2013 04:26
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Alright, dicklords, I'm back and I want youuuuu.
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Feb 6, 2013 07:50
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Gon' do this, for real this time. In.
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Feb 6, 2013 23:57
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