Crits posted:

You suck, kill yourself.

Entenzahn posted:

Should I pick my decade now?

Tyrannosaurus posted:

Make sure you include your choice of decade when you sign up.

Tyrannosaurus posted:

Erogenous Beef posted:

A point made often by our own SurreptitiousMuffin - you cannot hang a story on dialogue alone.

Entenzahn posted:

I read that, I was basically asking if someone wanted to flash-rule my choice of decade first. Signing in with the 1420s then.

The Saddest Rhino posted:

“Let me regale you the story of the Hantu Buntut,” Iqbal told Natalie.

“And then the hand becomes very long and snatches the boy by the butt, and pulls him into the toilet and he disappears forever.

Guiness13 posted:

Home (149 Words)

It was the summer of 1932, and Rose stepped up to the plate...

Paladinus posted:

Babushkina Skazka.
(150 slov)

So she looked from above into every corner of lions’ domain and she found no bears.’

crabrock posted:

Consequences
150 words

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I thought maybe you were using drugs. What sort of tomfoolery is this?”

“I have not heard of this leisure-time activity.”

After school, Chester went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and murdered his parents.

crabrock posted:

Shortcuts
150 words

Ned was high on cocaine, getting sucked off by a model, and racing down the street in his brand new convertible when he struck Javier’s mother and killed her.

He got 150 hours of community service.

When a thick envelope from Ned arrived, Javier thought maybe it was the apology he’d been waiting for. It was a notice of foreclosure.

J. Comrade posted:

Pop drove the mule cart down to Denver with all hundred fifty dollars. Plans to fix out a proper cabin for us all, doors windows and such. Buy two doors and window frames, in Denver. Making his way back from Denver (we suppose some cargo here), South of Laramie a wind caught the ash from his pipe. From here it goes: 'you knew Pop' (meaning that tattooed drunken savage drunk again as always) 'drove on hard as he could'. And the cart kindled into a blaze. No notice of danger he’d never let up on the mule (sure sounds like Pop). Finally a singe on his brim, he leaped clear of the wreck. The mule died in the blaze, cart and cargo of course lost. And so that is how Pop arrived safely back home with less-than nothing to show for all the money in the world.

Noah posted:

In, requesting a flash rule and a decade from someone.

Jagermonster posted:

In, also requesting a decade.

Martello posted:

Shameful edit

Nikaer Drekin posted:

I'm also in, but I'd also like a flash-rule as well as a judge-selected decade (preferably somewhere in the twentieth century!).

Whalley posted:

I haven't thunderdomed in a while and also haven't written anything I like in slightly less of a while; the two facts are probably connected.

I'm in, going for 1860s and gently caress it flash rule me someone

Entenzahn posted:

This story as cake: You didn't crit my story. No cake for you.

Entenzahn posted:

Questionable Content
150 words

“then a lunatic tailor runs in and cuts off the boy’s thumbs with giant scissors!”

The editor looks down at his notes, back up. “This is going to be a kid’s book, you say?”

“Okay, so there’s this little boy who slowly starves…”

The Leper Colon V posted:

I'm in with the 2000s, and a .

And you know what?

Flashrule me.

curlingiron posted:

Parting Shot
407 words

His hands shook as he developed the negatives. He couldn’t bear to let anyone else do it, to take away these last moments he would have with her. His private darkroom had always been his escape from the world; here, now, the smell of the developer and fixer, the feel of the black and white film he had always insisted on, all combined to form a safe space for him to grieve. I like what you do with this but not how you do it. Tell/show.

One by one, the pictures became clear. The camera he had given her as an anniversary gift had been her constant companion for the last year and a half. He loved that she had taken an interest in his work, and marveled that he had ever been so lucky as to be worthy of a woman like her. When we talk about tell vs show? This is exactly what we're talking about. Have a flashback, describe a scene, do anything but just tell us this kind of thing.

This roll of film was her last, found in her effects. 'Effects' is weak and cliché. You could have told us a lot by saying where it was found, particularly given that it's basically a suicide note.

The shots of the city skyline were expected, as were the shots of nature; she had always preferred still life over any other subject. The shots of the inside of their home were less characteristic, but with the move and the remodel, he thought he could see what she had been thinking. He even found a few shots of himself, sometimes smiling at the camera, usually looking away. This is a waste - you had a great opportunity for telling us all about the dead wife in an interesting elliptical way and you kind of muffed it.

The shots of the planned nursery were hard to take; he had kept the door closed for months, unable to deal with the reminder of his additional loss. Seeing them now, his vision blurred, cleared, blurred again as he blinked.

As he came to the last three shots, he felt his heart race. A wide shot of her, alone, at the kitchen table, facing the camera. Light streamed through the bay windows she loved so much, highlighting her hair, her face, the piece of paper she held up to the camera.

“I love you.”

It took him several minutes before he could find his composure, before he could begin to prime the next photo. My brother used to do B&W developing and it's a fascinating process and you clearly know about it, but I'm not getting a strong impression of the physicality of what your protagonist is doing. Given that's all that happens in this story, that's a significant failing.

The same shot, another page.

“I’m sorry.”

He felt a wrench in his chest. She hadn’t left a note, had never said the word ‘goodbye,’ but the shot stared back at him, oddly prescient. Why is it oddly prescient.

One more photo. He didn’t know if he could take it. He had craved resolution for so long, but he didn’t know if he could face it now that he might actually have it. why would he assume he'd get any resolution from this? you've given us no reason to expect that he would.

He owed it to her, though. To see it through.

The image appeared.

“It wasn’t yours.” Jeeeeeze what an awful person. This is clearly intended to have a big emotional impact but it doesn't, because we don't know her at all and we don't know him (though you come closer with that). I'm not a fan of trick endings, too, which this is. There're two possible things you could have done with this, 1. an interesting and metaphorical parallel between the elaborate process of manually developing film and the relationship between two people, 2. make us understand why placard chick topped herself. You failed 1 and mostly failed 2. Do better.

Mr_Wolf posted:

Tonight- 972 words.

I died a thousand times last night.

I woke up Though past tense is a good standard, I think this would all work quite a lot better in present tense to a blurred world. I ran my fingers across my belly, feeling the hundreds of scars deep on my body's landscape. Each one telling told a cruel story; a swipe with a poison-tipped knife, broken bottles tearing at my flesh and a hundred other vile full-stops to that current life, a punishment to for a deed I had long forgotten.

It once told me that it hurt when I was breathing. While this is a nice creepy idea, i think you're presuming too much by just dropping an 'it' at this end of the story and making us wait to work out what 'it' is My every breath was a dull ache in its stomach, my every blink was a crashing symbol CYMBAL FFFS inside its head. That's why it killed me. That's why it will always kill me. “It's not personal.”

I got up and stumbled into a damp wall. It felt smooth to the touch and was covered with a cloudy liquid that smelled like copper. I looked to where I had woken and noticed a dark stain marking my last end. I had to keep moving otherwise it'd find me again. I have been playing a lot of Demons Souls lately so this feels familiar

Every one of my deaths is carefully etched onto my memory, the pain sings a song I can't ignore. Sometimes I can remember things from my past life; the sun on my neck on a Summer's day, my baby's fingers wrapped round my index finger or biting the bottom of my boyfriend's ice-cream cone and laughing as the contents ran down his hand. I think this would work better if they were more random and weren't such Central Casting 'good memories'

I heard a patter of tiny feet scurry past behind me. DEMON BABIES!!! A cacophony of noise began to clatter in my head. ugh, this is a horrible sentence I held my head in my hands and began to scrunch bad word choice, 'scrunch' is cutesy my long hair as the noise increased. I needed to find it, I needed silence.

Running quickly between the narrow walls, my feet splashing through the shallow water, I didn't need to look where I was going: these walls felt like home.

It was shivering in the corner when I first saw it. It had a long robe on with a large hood covering its face. I felt like every time it breathed I could feel my blood begin to boil inside, my heart beginning to sizzle and burn.

I ripped its hood off and looked into its eyes. I felt as though I tumbled into them, spiralling into the dark. Then I saw the faces of a million people scream out of the darkness as I continued to fall. They all looked at me with despair, their eyes filled with tears and I remembered them all. I had killed them. I held their life in my hands and after ignoring their pathetic pleas I crushed them. you are pretty much writing a heavy metal album cover here

It pleaded with me to let it go, to let it scurry off into the dark again like a rat. Before I could respond I was digging into its back with my hands. I was tearing the flesh away from the bone, my nails began to scratch against its spine. I wrenched part of the lower spine out, the nerve endings flopped between my fingers, it felt like cold spaghetti. lol

The screams entered my head and I sang along with them. A song to score my beautiful act, a gift for a job well done.

“It's not personal” I said

I sat next to the corpse for a while and waited. My lower back began to burn, I tried to stand but my legs couldn't help me any more. A dull pain pulsated through them as the burning in my back intensified.

A light began to emit oh god no from the corpse's eyes. I looked into them and felt myself lifted away. I saw a blonde woman lying on a bed. She was sleeping and I sat next to her and smiled. I looked down and saw I was wearing dark bloody overalls. I was holding a large knife.

I was violently dragged backwards out of that place. A million memories began to flick through my head; in handcuffs on a warm Summer's day as screams rang out, holding my baby's hands before I dropped him in the bath and beating my girlfriend for making me spill ice-cream on myself. oh, ok, that's actually reasonably clever.

I was back sat on the cold floor, the pain in my back had spread up my back. I couldn't feel my legs, my arms began to tingle and I felt the dark trying to seduce me, trying to make me go into it, never to come back.

Lying there I felt someone's presence in the room. I heard them drag the man's corpse away, fearing I would be next I let out a noise I thought would be “Who's there?”

“Don't worry dear. This one is finished, he's going to pay his dues now.”

I tried to lift my head to see who this person was but that proved impossible: my whole body was limp.

“Lie still, another one will be along soon. You're not done just yet”

With that my body fell through the floor. GET BUILDING INSPECTRE IN HERE STAT I hurtled backwards through the air as I watch the ceiling disappear at a rapid pace. was its velocity also most considerable? Freezing cold air whipped through my bloody clothes as I continued to fall. dum de doo. you could cut these two sentences.

I wondered where I was going. I began to wonder if the scars weren't inflicted on me, maybe my body had to take some of their pain. The suffering I gave them had to be paid back to me, my body a canvass for a painting centuries old.

The dark took me into its arms and held me for a while. I woke up on a damp floor, I looked at the walls and they were covered in a cloudy liquid. I had to leave before it got me again.

I saw a shadow flit past to the side of me. A voice deep in me told me what had to be done.

“It's not personal” I repeated to myself. I suspect you think this works better than it actually does - it's a good element, but I'm not convinced you make the personal/impersonal distinction important enough for it to matter.

I died a thousand times last night and tonight i'll die a thousand more. ok this is about a pound of clever in a five pound bag of story - there's an ok 'Harlan Ellison on a bad day' horror vibe in your overall set up, but there's way too much wibbling about with lifting, and falling and dropping through poorly constructed flooring &c. Plus, present tense really would work better.

quote:

Professor Lindoff perched on the edge of his oak desk, he removed his glasses and placed them into their case.

This is two complete sentences, but you’ve joined them with a comma. It should be one sentence with no ‘he’, or two sentences. The ‘he’ just reintroduces a subject you were already talking about.

It was quite obviously too far away to have a normal conversation from but Lindoff had spent £11,000 on his marble floor and nobody was to move any furniture.

Watch your tenses. The story is already taking place in the past, you want to specify that the purchase is even further in the past.

The professor's forehead formed a thin layer of sweat across itself.

quote:

Inspector Isaac looked down the young man lying dead and stiff on the frozen parking space outside of “ Grootz`s Golfing shop”. Isaac waived the pathologist over to him” Good day Larson, give me the facts”.

You want ‘waved’ here, not ‘waived’, and you need a full stop at the end of the sentence before Isaac speaks.

” The victim`s head, neck, and forearms have been smothered with extreme force. It`s possible that he might have been dragged around post-mortem.

You don’t need both ‘possible’ and ‘might’. Either one establishes uncertainty.

Very little blood on the scene, so he probably did not die here. His clothes are partially covered in grey dust. We also found his keys and wallet, his driver`s license was inside.” Larson gave him the card” Tommie Mathieson” it said and included his address.

You want a full stop between ‘card’ and ‘“Tommie’. The same error as in the second sentence.

Isaac bade Larson give him the keys.

‘Bade’ isn’t in common usage in modern English.

Kaishai posted:

Sitting Here vs. SurreptitiousMuffin Thunderbrawl: John William Waterhouse

Each of you can craft beautiful imagery; I want to see what you do with beautiful imagery as your starting point. John Waterhouse is one of my favorite artists, not least because he draws so often from literature, poetry, and myth. I don't want you to consider the source when you write about the women in these paintings, however. Come up with something entirely new.

Sitting Here: The Shrine

SurreptitiousMuffin: Boreas

Turn the picture you've been given into a story of no more than 1,000 words by Saturday, January 25, 11:59pm US Eastern.

J. Comrade posted:

Pop drove the mule cart down to Denver with all hundred fifty dollars. I like the narrative voice you establish here, and 'mule cart' and 'all hundred fifty dollars' (implicitly a lot of money) economically places us in period.Planned tense to fix out a proper cabin for us all, doors, windows and such. Bought two doors and window frames, in Denver. Making his way back from Denver (we suppose some cargo here), South of Laramie a wind caught the ash from his pipe. From here it goes: You're already in reported narrative, you don't need to go the extra step of reporting your reportage. 'you know Pop (that tattooed drunken savage drunk again as always) He drove on hard as he could'. And as the cart kindled into a blaze. No notice of danger; he’d never let up on the mule (sure sounds like Pop). Finally a-singe on his brim, he leaped clear of the wreck. The mule died in the blaze, cart and cargo of course lost. And so that is how Pop arrived safely back home with less-than nothing to show for all the money in the world.

Entenzahn posted:

I think, I *think* I may have recently run my mouth in IRC about how I fear no man and preemptively invited every judge of this week to give me a flash rule if they so please.

I *think*

Well anyway, you still have to read that poo poo, so Please inform me regarding your decision re: flash rules ASAP so I can get to work. Should I pick my decade now?

The Leper Colon V posted:

Signing up for this was a terrible idea.

Nikaer Drekin posted:

too bad baby bitch

Fanky Malloons posted:

Based on sage advice from my esteemed fellow goons in IRC, I restarted my submission completely at 9:08.

The Hum 757 words

Oscar stood in the middle of the stone circle with his eyes closed, his backpack at his feet. The hum filled his whole body. He could feel it in his stomach, like the bass thrum when he listened to music with Talise. The hum also filled his head, although he had given up trying to determine if it made a sound, and if he was hearing it, or if it was just a vribration What are these "vribrations" you speak of?, or if it was something else entirely. It was difficult for Oscar to tell. He had no baseline for comparison when it came to what sounds sounded like this is a little awkward. I know what you're saying but you might want to come up with something that doesn't repeat "sound" twice. because he had been deaf since he was born. Good.

Talise had explained the hum to him though. She said that lots of people heard it, but that more people didn't, and that was why no-one believed it was real. Talise said that she heard it too. Sometimes it was so quiet that she wasn't sure if she could hear it at all or if she was just imagining it, and other times it was so loud that she didn't understand how the whole town couldn't hear. Oscar hoped that Talise wouldn't be mad at him for running away without her, but the feeling that he had to come and find the source of the hum by himself was too strong ignore. She would probably understand. She had helped him learn sign language since he was a baby, and even when she didn't babysit him any more, she still let him hang out with her after school, in the book store where she worked. She always let him sit up by the counter, so that he could watch her and the customers talk with their mouths. She would probably definitely understand. Good telling paragraph. In a short like this, as some of us know, you sometimes have to tell a little.

He opened his eyes. The dusky gray of the deepening twilight had been replaced by the flat glow of the moon. The hum in Oscar's head got louder, pressing against the inside of his skull. This is good but I want something more evocative. A more unique simile or metaphor. I know you can come up with something, I've seen you do it. He wondered if this was it felt like to hear all the time. I have no frame of reference for the way deaf people think of sound, but this feels right. He wasn't sure he liked it. This is also good because it raises a question - if you've had a certain disability since birth, is it possible you might not want to change? Maybe you're comfortable with it and the idea of gaining that ability is frightening. He unzipped the backpack and took out a trowel. He hadn't been able to make the shovel fit, and he didn't want anyone to see him carrying it and ask him what he was doing. This is too on-the-nose, make it shorter and less explicit. Also, you have four sentences in a row starting with "he." Might want to change it up. Most people in the neighbourhood couldn't read his signs, but he wasn't sure he would have been able to explain even if he could talk normally. I feel like Oscar wouldn't think of it as "normal." He might say "talk out loud" or "talk with sound." He knelt between two of the largest stones in the circle and began to dig.

It took a long time to make the hole as big as he wanted it, Shameful comma splice working with the trowel was difficult. The moon sat high in the sky by the time Oscar stood and stretched the kinks out of his back. The hum was almost unbearable now. He felt like his bones might splinter and fall apart Redundant - and again I think you can come up with something more lyrical., it was all he could do to stay upright. He looked down at the lake and briefly CUT wondered what would happen if he let himself fall and roll down the hill towards it. He had heard that there were mermaids in the lake that came out during the full moon, and that they liked the taste of human flesh. Part of him wondered if that might be better that what he was about to do.

Slowly, Oscar removed his socks and shoes, stuffing them in his back pack and zipping it back up. Then, CUT he climbed into the hole he had dug CUT - what other hole is there? and reached out to touch the stones on either side of him CUT. The hum reached a crescendo End sentence here. Then something like "His skull was splitting down the center." I think most readers would know it was metaphor. that made him feel as if his skull was splitting down the center. He screamed silently as he realized that he couldn't see.

And then he could hear. He could hear. He could hear the sound of waves on the lake down below, the wind in the trees, and the rocks. The rocks had voices. They whispered and crooned and Oscar let the sound wash over him like rain. He tried to look down to find that he still couldn't see. His movements were slow. He tried to wiggle his toes, shift his feet in the little hole that he had dug You're really insecure about the reader thinking it might be another hole, huh., but he couldn't feel them anymore. Shhhh, said the stones, sing with us. The ground around his ankles closed as Oscar's skin slowly petrified, the gray and white patina of the other stones creeping up his arms and legs and down his forehead over his eyes. Sing with us whispered the stones. And Oscar began to hum. Great ending. Nice

The Hum

EDIT: Fixed the line breaks so that SaddestRhino doesn't cry about it. Deal with it.