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Wangless Wonder
May 27, 2009



Ol Sweepy
Nov 28, 2005

Safety First

Let's make this poo poo interesting.
In with a :toxx: I will not lose or fail to submit this week.

Dec 21, 2011


In. Theme fits in perfectly with where I'm going with The Nom-Nom Nutribar Project.

Barnaby Profane
Feb 23, 2012


Edited out linecrit for thread closure.

Barnaby Profane fucked around with this message at 19:06 on Dec 30, 2015

Fuschia tude
Dec 26, 2004



Also :toxx: because I am a :barf: person

Barnaby Profane
Feb 23, 2012


Edited out linecrit for thread closure.

Barnaby Profane fucked around with this message at 19:07 on Dec 30, 2015

Jun 20, 2013

I'm in.

Jul 21, 2014

You shouldn't be doing anything with fluorine.

Jack me in.

Apr 12, 2007
eat up

In and stuff.

Mar 22, 2013

it's crow time again

In, toxxed as per my rule.

Hugoon Chavez
Nov 4, 2011


In! My first Thunderdome, (don't) be gentle!

Aug 8, 2013


I keep failing. In, chucklefucks :toxx:

Nov 15, 2012

What will you say when
your child asks:
why did you fail Thunderdome?


A Classy Ghost
Jul 21, 2003

this wine has a fantastic booquet

Screaming Idiot
Nov 26, 2007



Fun Shoe

gently caress it, the idiot is in. I'm still bummed about losing last week's story and I'm tired from work, but this prompt is just too open to pass up. When you're creatively constipated, any excuse to squeeze out a nugget of creativity is a good one.

Also, the crits will be in soon, probably tomorrow or Friday. They won't be as academic as many of the others I've read, but I hope they're enlightening nonetheless.

oh god it's hard to critique better writing than your own

Aug 2, 2002

Screaming Idiot posted:

oh god it's hard to critique better writing than your own

I wouldn't know :smug:

anime was right
Jun 27, 2008

death is certain
keep yr cool


anime was right fucked around with this message at 05:50 on Oct 27, 2015

Oct 30, 2003

Screaming Idiot posted:

I'm still bummed about losing last week's story

There's no need to continue this charade.

anime was right
Jun 27, 2008

death is certain
keep yr cool


anime was right fucked around with this message at 05:51 on Oct 27, 2015

Jan 28, 2015



God Over Djinn
Jan 17, 2005

onwards and upwards


Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007




sebmojo posted:


also, anyone who I've promised a crit to in the past and haven't provided one, link me your story and i'll do it. here's a :toxx: to do it by end of submissions.

Sebmojo in 2013 posted:

I agree, but there's always at least one or two rounds of brief crits from judges (isn't there? Or did we miss one?), and there's nothing stopping contestants doing a Twinkle Cave and critting other 'domers. If you want more, fiction farm. Or win a round and you can set whatever crazy rules you like.

Incidentally I'll do a crit run on the poetry in round XXIII later today, as that's one I missed.

Here's one to get you started:

tia, cowboy

Nov 15, 2012

What will you say when
your child asks:
why did you fail Thunderdome?

oh yeah that interprempt thing

A Classy Ghost posted:

138 words

"I say old bean, *THING* sure happened!"

"Quite so, dear chap. *THING* was a sight to behold, and very funny."

"You kind of had to be there to appreciate *THING*"

"Oh well, I'm off to the missus *SLIPS, SLIPPING IS THING*

*Both laugh, iris wipe to Union Jack*

Humor is always a slippery slope ( :pcgaming: ) but I would have liked this more if you would have really built up the final confrontation to end with the hero dying accidentially, which wouldn't have been the most refined joke in the world, but I would have liked it more than what you did, which is exactly the same only you start telling the joke after it happened.

Rating: two noodles

Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

sebmojo posted:

also, anyone who I've promised a crit to in the past and haven't provided one, link me your story and i'll do it. here's a :toxx: to do it by end of submissions.

I can't prove that you once pledged in IRC to crit the stories from Wise Fool Week that Fumblemouse did not, but I remember. I remember.

Aug 2, 2002

About week #88:

<Jonked> Can I get a crit from last week?
<sebmojo> imma do'em all jonked

edit: i would like mine from week 88 plz.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 06:03 on Feb 27, 2015

Nov 14, 2006

The man was stunningly well dressed. He had a smart looking jacket, and a really neat looking cape, the lining of which was shimmering and sparkling in more than Oriental splendour, which is a great deal of splendour indeed, just ask Kipling.

sebmojo posted:


also, anyone who I've promised a crit to in the past and haven't provided one, link me your story and i'll do it. here's a :toxx: to do it by end of submissions. <- Me claiming my rightful crit. <- My amazing story of love and betrayal or whatever that one was about.

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk


Time Vaster than Death

Death waits like the jaws
of a shark at the bottom of a rowboat
tipped on end.
Between sweat-soaked sheets at night,
you contemplate
how everyone you know will die.
Their neurons will go dim
and the latticework shadow that makes up themtheir very selves
will dissolve and run like ink
into a drain beneath the great faucet of inevitability.

But lest ye despair:
James Hutton was a man
who's long since met that dark and endless end.
First a farmer, then a turner of stonesstone-turner,
he found death in the bed of every creek, river and gorge.
Man thought the world young
in James Hutton's day, young enough to fit inside
our pocket-book minds.
It was off the coast of Berwickshire that a different tale was told,
not a tale of man but that of stone
and detritus

Once, a continent bled mud and sand
onto the floor of an ancient sea, sedentary grit
like so much sloughed off skin,
a slurry of things not living and things deceased.
James Hutton,
when he looked upon the rocky shore,
saw a wrinkle
in the gown of great mother earth, one wrinkle
from one swirl
of her green and blue ball gown and stole of clouds,
one turn in her long and stately dance.

Deep time,
James Hutton named the rhythm of the planet's slow song,
and he traced her steps backward
through plodding, calamitous prehistory. Whole lands
swallowed back into mother's skirts,
children called home by the light of her fiery core
to pay the debt of their birth.

And so there you sweat, and there you agonize
in a world of concrete, wood and petrol,
that your essence will someday not be your own,
that your life is so sacred,
that your love is so profound, that you should continue
where all else is given back
into mother earth's fold. One hundred thousand pictures embroidered
in the pattern of her dress,
and you've been them, you'll be them
as strata in stone,
as lichen and moss; as the mud between a child's toes
in generations to come,
and sandstone in sublime and majestic cliffs.

Living and dying, we feed the dance
and as James Hutton penned: We find no vestige of a beginning,
no prospect of an end.

I like that a lot

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk


Get What's Coming

Tom’s wife and kids had laughed at him when he buried his money in the yard. She left, took the kids and changed their last names back to hers. His kids sneered at him on Skype and questioned his manliness. The whole world laughed with them—until the trees started growing.

His wife piled the kids into the car and they showed up on his front porch with their alligator-skin bags overflowing with clothes and electronics. He didn’t let them inside. No, Tom thought, I don’t think I’ll ever talk to them again.

Instead he passed his days under his trees. Their bark shimmered like gold, giving way to twisting branches that reached out and drooped toward the ground. Buds glimmered on the tips of the branches, and dappled amongst the gold were green bills that unrolled in the early morning, wet with dew.

Tom took his usual early-morning stroll and plucked 10s, 20s, and 100s that hung low enough for him to reach. He trod over the withered bills on the ground: torn and ripped, serial numbers smudged, this is a nice detail faces of the founding fathers contorted into unrecognizable horrors and a nice expansion of that detail. It was a race to gather as many bills as he could before the desert sun baked the bills worthless.

He filled his bucket with the harvest until he could fit no more. With a few more people he could substantially raise his profits, but after they laughed at him he’d never entertained the idea for longer than it took him to soak one bill in lemon water. In the middle of his money grove was a lone lemon tree. The citric acid stopped the aging process on the plucked bills, much like it stops the oxidation and browning of sliced apples.

The only person Tom let into his orchard was Alex, the little boy from across the street, whose mother was too busy getting high to pay either of them much attention.

“I like you, kid,” said Tom. “You’re not some money-grubbing sycophant like everybody else.”

Alex looked up at him with confused eyes.

Tom laid every soaked bill out on a wire rack to dry. “When I die, I’m leaving everything to you.” The boy shrugged and helped Tom flatten the dry bills with heavy objects. Tom fixed them PB&Js for lunch and told his stories from the war, reminisced about the good ol’ days, and ranted about the liberal scourge that was ruining America.

Alex nibbled on his sandwich and listened attentively.

They watched cartoons until the boy’s mom came home.

Alex visited most days, and Tom, not needing to work anymore, welcomed somebody to talk with. The boy grew up and Tom paid for him to attend the best botany program, and bought him a house with its own small orchard. Tom insisted on giving Alex a money tree for himself, but Alex refused. Alex enjoyed flying back on weekends to help Tom flatten bills, even though the old man had more money piled in his basement than he knew what to do with.

“You should at least take a suitcase-full with you.”

“No, you’ve already give me more than enough.”

“I’d rather you have it, in the end.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Well, they’re sure as hell not getting it.”

The two men stacked the bills, ate sandwiches and debated politics. this is reasonably dull?

Shortly after Alex returned to school, he received word that the old man had died. They said he’d fallen asleep with a lit cigarette and burned the whole house to the ground.

Alex knew the old man never smoked, and smiled.

Everybody but Alex brought lawyers to the reading of the will. He winced under the glares shot at him when everything was left to him. There was screaming, and crying, and promises of drawn-out legal cases.

“There is precedence of overturning a will where the deceased had been conned.”

“Family comes first.”

“I don’t want your father’s possessions,” Alex said, quieting the room. “I am thankful for the time I spent with him, and for the gifts he has already given me. The money in my investments already make me more than I can ever spend.”

The shouts of anger resumed, but Alex held up his hand and they quieted.

“I only want one item of your father’s, and that is his old lemon tree.” Alex paused, but the shouting did not resume. None of them had ever been present to watch Tom process the bills.

“Whatever, let the bastard have the stupid tree,” said Tom’s eldest son. The rest of the siblings laughed and sneered at Alex.

“What an idiot to give up a fortune.”

“Why settle for some measly investments when you could grow billions?”

“Figures that dad would take in a stray just as stupid as he was.”

Alex took a taxi straight to the charred remains of Tom’s house. He retrieved a shovel from the tool shed that still clung to life, and dug the small lemon tree out of the grove. The tree was short compared to the giant, golden trunks that surrounded it. It’s growth had been stunted by the copper and nickel in the soil, which imbued the tree’s unique fruits with special preservative properties.

Tom’s children arrived by limo and rushed into the orchard, shoving their pockets full of wilted bills and drunkenly congratulating each other. They threw the keys to Tom’s old pickup at Alex. “Take that piece of garbage with you, idiot.”

Alex nodded and loaded the lemon tree into the back of the pickup, gave the taxi driver a sizable tip, and drove back home. yeah, i don't care about any of that. good enough words but rote conclusion, nice guy gets nice guy reward

Ironic Twist
Aug 3, 2008

I'm bokeh, you're bokeh

:siren: A little under EIGHT HOURS left to sign up, get a move on :siren:

Aug 2, 2002

walkin' on in

Aug 2, 2002

JcDent posted:

Will take Mr. crabrock's line-by-line.

JcDent posted:

Two wolves howl at the moon, one a wild animal, the other a holographic decoy for a cyborg mouse

John‘s ship decoupled from the docking station. I already commented in my main crit about how boring this is. A screen in the cockpit came alive and how passive this is with the face of a dock attendant. Bleary eyed and with a sagging cigarette at the corner of his lips, he blurted out “all clear” or something to that effect. who is your pov or your narrator here? why can't they remember what he said? wishy-washy stuff only does well when it's coming from a character. Right now you're telling me about john, so just stick with the facts. John had never seen an enthusiastic attendant, and neither had most people on the Big Grandia Great Circular how do you know this? is this 3rd omniscient? stick with telling me stuff from john's pov. Rumour had it that they all came from a malfunctioning cloning vat. rumors among whom? Having spent most of his life aboard the lumbering vessel, John was not inclined to disagree. barf with that wording.

His little ship, the Red Lightning, had to clear away before he could engage the main engines. man this poo poo is boring. like right now you're telling me about the finer points of docking protocol rather than telling me a story about john. In the mean time, cliche John watched the surface of Big Grandia float by. zzz. sensing verb, pointless really. a more action-oriented sentence here would build a better mood and let you add some detail. "Big Grandia floated past John's window, its surface studded with dildo-like protrusions that ejaculated tiny space bees." Like all circulars, she possessed a spherical design and the side with inset engines was considered “the back“. telling me the placement of engines is really not as exciting as you think it is. this is the same as giving me a detailed layout of the warehouses in an industrial yard. (somebody did this once) Grandia used to be round (before several collapses and expansions happened) this is passive and confusing without backstoryand probably white (the Imperials where the only ones building golden circulars, because they could). don't know why you're telling me this. what are you trying to accomplish? right now it's a bunch of facts. furthermore, reading this for the second time: i don't remember ANY of this, which means it really failed to stick in my head. It's like reading a text book. The years had not been kind to her, and John wasn‘t going to be kind, either: judging that he‘s far enough from the ship not to care, he fired the engines. Off to meet Alice! what

Red Lightning looked, as one technician described her, “like a World War Two fighter stuck atop a pair of torpedoes” – not that it meant much to John. HERE ARE THINGS MY CHARACTER DOESN'T UNDERSTAND OR GIVE A gently caress ABOUT. then why bring it up? tell me what is meaningful to HIS life. As a so called who calls him this? why doesn't he feel like one? “manager”, he didn’t have time for history – he had to do things. like? this is just a tepid cliche in lieu of any REAL characterization you could have put here. it's lazy. Like many other members of this loose caste huh? the caste of people with things to do? (Alice included), he didn’t know what those things were or how to do half of them. this is.... just vague bullshit that sounds like you have no idea either. People said who are these people? do they say it to his face? does he share this opinion? stop telling me poo poo about other people while your main char sits around and says "DERP" that “manager” was an animal on Old Earth, that looked busy, but was entirely useless and sometimes dangerous, and so the name stuck. HURP HURP I GET IT! have "clever" poo poo like this come out in dialogue, or else it looks like you think you're super funny. this line could have been good, but instead it's smug.

A six legged hyphenate creature rubbed against John’s leg. The metacat was the reason why John couldn't go with Alice when she left on her expedition a year ago where dat period?
. thar it is. why it on its own line?
“This is big business, babe,” John told her while she was packing her plasma torches, “everybody knows what a cat is but nobody has seen one in three sectors. We can be rich.” this is an ok setup of motivation for the story.
Since Alice believed that both boyfriends wording is a bit ambiguous. i was like "wait, BOTH boyfriends? who is this other guy!? and managers are a lot more pleasant if you’re not criticizing them, she kept her peace. a bit awkward Of all the things one can do after hooking up with some geneticists on the ship who hooked up? her? John? I think you meant John, so throw a noun in there, or else this reads like she went and banged a geneticist. which is fun and everybody should do, btw., trying to engineer cats was probably the least deadly one. line breaks are your friend.

As Red Lighting was accelerating away from Grandia, leaving behind a tail of flame and a horrid plume of smoke (“gently caress me if I know” was the official explanation of the shipboard scientists) Ha. Again, this line would be good out of an actual character's mouth. but you're just kind of telling me that somebody said it once. it's weird. this story has no real POV, John picked up Moneybags and set him on his lap. awkward introduction that the cat's name is moneybags. just flat out tell me this earlier. The venture to produce metacats was successful-ish. Not having any DNA samples, they had to get creative. Six legs weren’t ideal, but John marketed it as an improvement or, at the very least, a bargain: 20% more cat for the same low, low price!
Bags yawned and his jaw unfolded into a six pronged abomination of a meat flower filled with jagged teeth not a good description no matter what your brain tells you. John hoped the boys would iron out this kink for the introduction of Metacat X.

“Mroo,” said the critter.

With rendezvous coordinates punched in, the Red Lightning could handle the flight all by herself, leaving John free to mull over his thoughts. The year without Alice had been full of activity, but somewhat... hollow. Her laugh, her breasts meep, the way she held a knife while approaching a rube – all those little things. Space Rocket Jesus right here is where i rolled my eyes hard and said "oh jeeze.", did John miss her. thanks for telling me what you just showed me.

Still, love or no love, he had to decline when Alice invited him on an expedition to Alter. “Alterians are filthy creatures“ was one of the gems of wisdom passed down by his father, and John never doubted him, not even after the old man spaced himself what's that mean? while drunk. Plus, with the plague (which may or may not have been of the zombie kind according to...?), Alter had to be really filthy. Yet Alice insisted on going – she loved expeditions.

“Looting is like reading a book about new and interesting people,” she insisted, often while rummaging through stuff that didn’t belong to her, “but you get richer both spiritually and financially”. I like this line, but you're telling me things about the past, and I'd much rather see things that are happening now. right now you're keeping me at arm's length. Being a rather curious and adventurous soul, she couldn’t wait to go to Alter – and the plague meant that there was a continent free of Alterians who’d get in the way of her getting to know their culture. all in all this isn't a bad paragraph. it's got some good characterization, but it's just this random narrator telling me facts. i would have liked to actually witness this convo and have her speaking the lines.

Speak of the sexy devil! no Alice’s ship appeared on the radar, a sizeable sp, or is this is a british thing? ping on the radar. It was a tug, a gift from Grandia Security Authority for John and Alice’s help. Without their knowledge of back passages, unused maintenance shafts and tunnels built by crazed engineers, the Third Honourable Republic of Atmosia might have been able to actually hold a deck not familiar with this phrase in their air and water supply based tyranny need some hypens here, as all this stuff is describing tyranny, and it's hard to parse without it.. Alice called the tug „Venture“ guessing this bottom quote is an ESL thing? we don't do that here in 'Merca... and almost forgot about it, as managers rarely have business outside Grandia.

The tug – the elongated round forms gave it a streamline moderne sp look – was now closing in quite rapidly. John hoped it was laden with loot (some of which could be invested in Metacat development) – as for Alice, the ship’s on-time appearance meant that she was at least relatively OK. All was right in the void.

Bags jumped in surprise at the first wail of the lock-on alarm. A quick scan revealed that Red Lighting was being chased by two lumpy assailants. Without a doubt, those were hull gulls, the strange people that lived in shanties on the outside of Grandia and dealt in petty thievery, small scale piracy, and minor nuisances. Clearly they were after Red Lighting – or Venture. this sounds like the exact opposite of "clearly." because i don't know who they're actually after.

John took the ship into an evasive spin, and the g forces were almost as painful as metacat claws sinking into his thigh. The maneuver, combined with the engine smoke, had to confuse the enemy targeting. Checking the weapon systems, he glanced at the live feed trained on Venture. It showed the ship surrounded by two quickly dissipating streams of azure.

“Clever girl,” though John as he watched Alice vent plasma. Her ploy worked – two hull gull pilots broke off to go after her ship, which they considered crippled. Yet one was still giving pursuit, so John had to concentrate on flying. Holding the flight stick in one hand, he flicked out a stun baton and gave Bags a prod. Dropping the “Kitty Napper”, he grabbed the (meta) feline and threw him into a Child Acceleration Box, for safety.

Making a hard turn that squeezed him deep into the pilot chair, John managed to get the hull gull in his sights and fired guns. On screen, green lines connected with the evil red triangle, but the attacker seemed undeterred. The ships passed each other, with one hull gull laser passing through the shields and grazing an engine.

Making another 180 turn, and thankful for those stamina boosting biomods, John decided to take desperate measures. With a few quick stabs at a touchscreen, he opened Mr. Target, the open source missile targeting software used by some of the off brand missile developers. And it didn’t get more offbrand than some crazy Grandian engineer living in a maintenance corridor behind a bar. As far as John knew, “bolted on” might have been a very literal description of the one missile that he had.
Flicking away a pair of nagscreens while trying to keep the ship in an evasive pattern, he finally goaded the program into working. An icon of a bug-eyed robot started circling the dot on the radar, representing target radar lock. The robot managed to cover the dot, transforming into a crude fire belching animation. John let loose.

To everyone’s relief, the missile decoupled without incident and streaked towards the enemy. The hull gull ship tried some evasive manoeuvres, but it was not enough to confuse the piece of ordinance. It struck the target.

Normally, one expects missiles to explode near the target, hoping to catch it in a blast of lasers, flak or other unpleasant things. This particular rocket buried itself in enemy vessel and didn’t even disengage engines for three seconds before going inert. John and, no doubt, the hull gull were both perplexed.

Then the enemy craft blossomed into a crimson ball, something totally different from a normal plasma explosion. Nevertheless, it killed the pursuer. In fact, it killed it so well, there was no salvage to collect. Breathing a sigh of relief, John turned his attention (and radar) to Alice.

Where there were two enemies and one friendly signature, only the tug remained. Careful optical analysis showed that the tug was, for lack of a better world, tugging one (much reduced) hull gull vessel. The other was caught in two mismatched actuators that were quickly gutting it for parts and precious metals. Stubby cannons were sliding back into their hidey holes. all this spacefight made me fall asleep IRL. seriously. i'm really tired, but still. just totally boring. writing isn't a movie. I have no idea who the enemies are, or what their real motivation is. all you said is that they're into petty crime, so this is basically like killing a child for stealing a bag of chips... BUT IN SPACE

John signaled for docking and got a positive answer. zzz

Ordering the ship on an automated approach, he took Moneybags out of the box. zzz The metacat was a little dazed, but still in good enough shape to be presented to Alice as subtle sign of at least partial success.

John straightened out his clothes and ran fingers through his hair. His heart swelled with anticipation of seeing her again. When the ships clanged in the embrace of docking, he was so giddy that it all felt unreal.

The airlock synched i['m playing a fun new game: sp or british? and opened with a hiss. There she stood. The haircut was a little shorter than John remembered, and he had not noticed the light plasma scarring on the cheek before, and the bionic arm – yeah, that was definitely new. Still, she had the same sparkly eyes, the same mischievous smile, and the unmistakable posture of someone who had shanked their share of bitches in maintenance tunnels.

Alice was back.


This story doesn't really have a plot so much. This guy is sitting around waiting for something to undock or whatever, while a narrator tells me things. Then he's like "ok, i'll go meet alice now!" and that somehow leads to a spacefight.

There were a few times were you actually bothered to portray some characterization. those were the best parts. all the space stuff was like a 12 year old writing a space story. you gotta have reasons and motivations for things. John wants to see alice, but it's never really clear WHY he thought she was so great. You could move this story into John's internal POV, wax poetic about poo poo, and then have him MEET her actually and have her say the poo poo that's currently said about her.

i'm going to go to sleep now.

Mar 21, 2013

In. :toxx:

Mar 21, 2013


Grimey Drawer


Apr 12, 2006


Ironic Twist
Aug 3, 2008

I'm bokeh, you're bokeh

That's it, signups closed.

Still need a third judge, PM me if you feel like being a judgmental dick like you know you want to.

Feb 16, 2011

I eat your face

Linecrit for Megazver from Black Metal Week. Finally!

Megazver posted:

You know what I'm going to say here don't you? Yup: you can come up with a better title than this.
As for the video link - Tenacious D huh? Okay cool so this story is going to be tongue-in-cheek. I'm down with that!

It was month four of us sitting under the walls of Polka-Mazurka, waiting for them to either "either/or" is used when there are exactly two options surrender, die out from hunger or get smote by divine wrath of Our Lord Metal and I was running out of ways to kill time.

“Growler, you ugly gently caress, are you trying to scalp yourself?” Corpsecunt I chuckled was inside the tent, leaning against one of the femur bones supporting it. One of the perks of being the commander of your own mercenary company, a personal tent for your troops to harass you in. Her war paint was already slathered on, Drowner Blue As in the Witcher monster or the indie rock band? being the color of the day. She leered back at me.

I scowled. “It’s called shaving. It’s that for me or a comb-over. Can’t headbang a comb-over, can I? And that’s ‘sir, you ugly gently caress, sir’ to you, you insubordinate bitch.”

She stuck out her pierced tongue at me. kinda childish but I can picture it “You already shaved it three times this week. One more pass and you’re a phrenology exhibit.” Lol, nice. Enjoying this so far but wondering where it's going.

I dunked the razor into the bowl and turned to her. She wasn’t wrong - I was only doing this out of boredom - but admitting it would be poor form. It was time for a diversionary maneuver. “Well, someone has to shave for the two of us.” I made a spectacle of moving my eyes over to her crotch and raising my eyebrows.

She snorted, otherwise ignored the bait. “Poor Growler. So bored, so shiny. Well, good news.” She reached behind her back, tossed me a scroll. “We’re being reinforced. For an assault.”

This wasn’t right. Polka-Mazurka just wasn’t worth this much effort. It wasn’t even worth our effort. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to imagine the map, the Metal Armies on it. “By who?” Not many of them were campaigning close enough to matter. “Progs? Industrials? Goths? Not Heavies or the Power or any of the others, they’re too far away. How many centuries are we being sent?”

“Not centuries, Legions. And their Frontmen, too.” She studied my face.

“Well gently caress.”


The Crimson King Prog rock, right? I had to look it up arrived first. His Legion is The March Of; I didn't get this bit though appropriate, given the poor bastards had to force-march through the Razor Fields to get here. I wondered if he made them goose-step all the way in 7/4 or if he took pity and settled for an irrational polyrhythm for the sake of urgency. hehe Moloch (Moloch! Moloch!), the impatient incomprehensible throbbing hate dynamo that he is, excellent straight up punched a tunnel through the Chrome Crags to get to us in time. We breathed the fumes of his Kampfmaschine long before we saw them. And Grief December, her camp just appeared beside ours the morning of the assault. Slithered out of the darkness, so hush-hush not even my sentries noticed. Generally this paragraph is really cool but it feels like I'm missing references I should be getting. Anyway, up to about this point I've been enjoying myself and you've been having fun establishing the setting and characters. From this point on, it goes a bit downhill...


The city fell so fast, there’s barely anything to tell. The Crimson King came out of his Fibonacci Pavilion, stood on one loving foot, and played his little flute, and as we shut our ears, and gritted our teeth, the dotted spires swayed, then toppled. He turned around and went back in, just like that. The others didn’t even come out of their campaign-palaces to watch. lol at the flute, but at the same time, this is a let-down. Could have been so much more epic.


I received an invitation to attend to the Triumvirate four days into the sacking. Considerate of them, to let my men first have their fill. It made me all the more suspicious. Still, I’m not dumb or suicidal. The first night after battle a mausoleum emerged in the field, a profane slab of black marble, ornamented with the bones of the defeated, to serve as their neutral place of meeting. I headed there.


The King was impossible to discern. Tried as I could might, he was nothing but a red blur. He whispered:

“Weep! Shriek! Howl! The good news - Our Lord of Metal rests bound beneath these crumbled stones.”

Moloch was impossible to look at. I did not even try. A barrage:

“Inculcation: Meatshit utility peakage imminent, meatshit purpose assignment commencing.”

Grief December was impossible not to look at, a cold, lethal perfection. I wished I could turn away.

“You go beneath the city. You find him. You set him free.” I love the way you've written this scene/meeting, but it's an abrupt change in direction of the story. It makes the overall piece feel a bit fragmented.

I shuddered under the weight of the revelation. It was impossible to argue and dangerous to ask:

“Why me? Why not you?”

A silence.

“Hindrance! Malefaction! For you to pass, to slither through we the mighty must wrench open a rift.”

“Only one of us could enter. One then receives divine favor above her peers. This, predictably, is a point of disagreement.”

“Assessment: Meatshit null. Meatshit favor-extraneous. Meatshit instrument of collective glory. Balance conserved.”



We inserted in a small file. ESL? "We entered in single file" Me first, Corpsecunt, then two dozen of my best headbangers. The rift shut behind us; we were alone.


A week of terror and deprivation. Most of us made it. I understand you're butting up against the word count at this point. Would be cool to read the longer version.


The gate was as they described; carvings of our glory, carvings of our doom. I entered alone.

Darkness. Silence. Oblivion. Then, an inflicted epiphany:





Silence. I turned around to leave. “HALT.” A chuckle. “WHAT ALSO IS UNMETAL?” I waited. “MALE PATTERN BALDNESS.”

“THERE." Smiled at this ending. Nice tie back to the start.


HIT PROMPT? Mostly - not getting the "insufferable" part

Overall thoughts: I know you struggled with the word limit here, and it shows. The story as a whole is fairly unbalanced because the intro/scene setting take up pretty much half your story. You didn't really manage to fulfil either the "insufferable" part of the prompt or the "range of emotions" requirement. Still, I liked the theme, the opening scene was good, the dialogue was strong throughout and you dragged a couple of chuckles out of me. Overall, middle of the pack.

Hugoon Chavez
Nov 4, 2011


As a Thunderdome newbie, how strict is the word count requirement? If I step over it by a few words (let's say...6. Hypothetically of course) is it still valid or should I trim the fat a little bit?

Oct 30, 2003

Hugoon Chavez posted:

As a Thunderdome newbie, how strict is the word count requirement? If I step over it by a few words (let's say...6. Hypothetically of course) is it still valid or should I trim the fat a little bit?

It's a hard limit. You will be disqualified if you're even one word over.

A Classy Ghost
Jul 21, 2003

this wine has a fantastic booquet

Hugoon Chavez posted:

As a Thunderdome newbie, how strict is the word count requirement? If I step over it by a few words (let's say...6. Hypothetically of course) is it still valid or should I trim the fat a little bit?

If you're over it by 6 words you can definitely find something to cut out.


anime was right
Jun 27, 2008

death is certain
keep yr cool


anime was right fucked around with this message at 05:51 on Oct 27, 2015

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