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IN, let's see how far I can keep my mediocre streak going.
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# ? Feb 17, 2025 23:31 |
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J.A.B.C. posted:IN, let's see how far I can keep my mediocre streak going. your knight has taken a vow to never let food go to waste.
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In!
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your knight has sworn an actual bureaucratic oath. they are beholden to the complex nuances of a very strict organization.
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anime was right posted:the order of judgment is home to three powerful thrones and in them sits: anime was right, sparksbloom and me
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In.
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your knight is a sworn advocate and protector of an otherwise demonized creature
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In.
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your knight has sworn to always take the most challenging path in front of them.
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to clarify (i pmed this to tyrannoman since he had a question), you're welcome to be a little loose with the prompt: "just incorporate themes of knightliness. courts, orders, swords, whatever. as long as theres enough things going on that fit the standard trope of a knight, go wild. jedis are knights, batman is a knight. obviously dont write about jedi batman. if you have a biker that wears cool armor and has a pipe instead of a sword and has a guy he calls king or something thats fine!" i would say to be safe err on like 3 knightly tropes/themes just to be safe. similar to wizard week, I will be grading partially on Knightliness but it's entirely possible to win without scoring high in that department.
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In.
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your knight has sworn to protect someone from the elements of nature
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I'm so gonna regret this. In.
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FreudianSlippers Killer-of-Lawyers and Carl Killer Miller here is a line by line for each of your guy's last entries. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YW3pry7fm43dAe9kBMl0y8Twxnuxe4Xz2w7S3QT96Jg/edit?usp=sharing
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FreudianSlippers posted:Castle Doctrine That's right, I remembered that I wanted to go and give this story a quick minicrit suggesting ways you could have actually hit the word count and not wind up with the DQ that you narrowly escaped here. Here goes. quote:
Delete the first paragraph. There, done. Actually, starting with "A crowbar is a skeleton key" and merging that and the following line into your second paragraph would probably be the way to go. Doesn't solve all of the problems with this story by a long shot, but it does fix the wordcount one and give you a much stronger opening.
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Mercedes posted:I'm so gonna regret this. In. your knight has sworn to a life of peace and never accepts work involving violence.
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SlipUp posted:Come Hell or High Water you asked for a crit in IRC so i started doing one but then you left. so here it is. i ended up doing sort of a line crit because your writing is pretty bad and i wanted to help you not be so bad. enjoy CRIT DOWN HERE \/ Give your opening dialogue speaker some characterization from the start. Don't rely on just his words to do it. You're leaning too heavily on dialogue. Like you've established that there is a flood coming, a sheriffs got a guy locked up and is planning on leaving him, which is good, because it dives straight into the conflict, but you really could slow it down to tell me more about these two chars. "old dry", "lost mangy" put a comma between adjectives. Or better yet, only use one adjective. A meaningful adjective. Something that really gives it that "umph" rather than "this is what you expect." "wouldn't be cursing god," 'god' should be capitialized in this context, as it is a proper noun. "it's full face trapped in horrified expression." this is dumb. At this point your story is servicable, as you've got a plot and it's moving forward, but it's pretty boring/forgetable, because you haven't characterized anything. most plots have been done before, and this feels very familiar. How you make it your own is to make the people feel unique. Like, I've seen plot A a hundred times, but I've never seen plot A with Characters XYY and XYZ interacting. The tension you're hoping to create here doesn't matter, because right now I have no feelings either way if this guy drowns or lives. "Something tempted him" 'something' is code for "i, as the author, don't know or don't know how to articulate, and i'm hoping you don't notice." "He looked down at the water lapping [...] The water began lapping" don't be lazy. "old dry" you used this exact same pairing again. how dull. "it's old bones" 'it's' always means 'it is' "began splashing" it didn't begin splashing, it splashed. You've done this a few times. Don't kneecap your verbs by adding these stupid adverbs. "started, began, just, all" are all useless. "just stopped" lol you did it in the next sentence. "all he needed" lol. "all day." lolol. stop it. "Turning the gun over in his hands, maybe there was a way to open the lock with it." this sentence is sloppy and is a tense shift (you're in past tense for this story). "knee high water" knee-high "his gun" it's not really his, per se. you also do this with "his window" which I found jarring. "the" works much better imo. "burst like a drat" wrong dam. "pouring in furiously" lots of lovely adverb use, but this one sticks out even among the others. There are lots of verbs, especially for rushing water, don't use a weaker one and then adverb it. "The water rushed in," is better, cleaner. "revealed a torrent." awkward. "cold reptile eyes" sticking with your habit of describing things with 2 boring adjectives. don't just plop down the most boring, stereotypical thing to come to your mind when describing something. try to make the effort to make it entertaining. "What he'd assumed was driftwood stared back at him with hungry eyes," is better. "He was running out of time." you should be showing this, not telling. and you are, with the rising water. no reason to state it. "swallowed by a pale pallor." this is dumb. "He eyed the crocodile's toothy grin with contempt." really? cause it sounds like he's paying lots of attention to it to me. "at the gator" you call it both a croc and a gator, which makes me think you didn't pass 3rd grade biology "toothy grin, crooked smile," I get it, the alligator has teeth. "The gator lunged" awkward, considering he's swimming, and has tiny little arms. "the arm" oh, NOW you drop the "his" and go wtih "the." "jaws snapped shut like a bear trap" yeah, that's unnecessary as gently caress "He could feel the tip of the handle in the lizard's gullet [...] The demon recoiled in pain as the pistol slid back into his hand." lol wait, the gun was in the croc's throat and then he spit it back into the dude's hand? Also crocs/alligators are not lizards. since you're telling this story in third person, that means that YOU the narrator doesn't know that, and it's jarring. "as did the gator. It rolled " you're ascribing a lot of action to a dead animal. "it's blood" you did that thing again "his breathe" you are bad at proofreading. "Just as he was beginning to catch his breathe, the rafters began" here you go again with the just/beginning poo poo. You see how much of an issue it is when you do it 3 times in once sentence? "Jericho gasped lungfuls of air as the burning rafters cracked." "The current was massive" like a butt "dear life" cliche "He could feel the entire building" really? "begin to shift" gently caress you "He had come so far." show don't tell. what does he DO that shows me he is resolute to survive despite it looking like he's about to drown cause his arm's all hosed up? "pulled himself out of the cell and along the wall against the current." how exactly? do you know how much force that much water would have? and he's doing it with one hand? I just physically can't even picture how a one-handed man does something even a power lifter wouldn't be able to do. "The walls started" u better start stopping this "a final breathe" oh no you did the dumb thing again how embarrassing for you "mercilessly pummelled" unnecessary "ending his vision spiralling" I feel like your descriptions of vision are weird. you don't send vision anywhere. earlier you said he lost it in the water. like, it's not some object, which is what you're treating it as. "His vision began to darken." jesus h christ let up off the vision poo poo already "the last thing he could see," is dumb in a past tense story. "The last thing he saw..." ----------- Ok so the first part of this story is ok. You set up a conflict, and have two chars. you don't do anything with the chars, so as the plot goes along I stop really caring what happens. So exit sheriff because he has to save "his own," i guess, and leaves a dude locked up. the dude does some stuff, which is good, cause at least he's an active character still, but nothing works. Then some sort of reptile, be it lizards or gator or croc, comes to make things worse? Then the guy just kinda shakes the bars and they magically open up, ending his first conflict in a sort of boring way, but this second conflict comes in and bites him. so the guy goes "ow," then shoots the croc. Like, he doesn't overcome anything in his defeat of the croc, it just seems like a logical thing to do. There's no real character development or anything interesting going on, it's just "well of course he shoots the croc in the throat because he's holding the gun." Nothing he did set this up or prepared him for this. Your conclusion should pretty much always depend on what your character did/learned during the story. Like, think to yourself: if this same thing happened to my char at the beginning of the story, would the outcome have been the same? If the answer is "yes," congratulations: you have just written a boring story. It's just a series of events that lead from point A to point A.5. All the stuff with the girl and her dad is unresolved. It's a reason WHY he's in jail, but it's all useless info, because it contributes little to the story other than him saying "i'm innocent" which by itself isn't terribly exciting. it woulda been better if the croc was actually just the dad in a croc suit and then he killed that dude to get free. unrealistic and stupid, but better than chekov's rapist. anyway, gave you some stuff to work on for next time. happy doming.
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crabrock posted:CRIT DOWN HERE \/ Thanks! Future judges will appreciate having to read less bad stories.
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SlipUp posted:Thanks! Future judges will appreciate having to read less bad stories. fewer
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sebmojo posted:
I want one extra word.
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Benny Profane posted:I want one extra word. ![]()
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mojo post the brawl results
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i was trapped in the sandwich dimension longer than anticipated. signups? they're closed.
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Sitting Here posted:mojo post the brawl results
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Mojo still hasn't posted crit from that brawl that StealthArcher bitched out on like six months ago, so don't hold your breath.
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flerp posted:S P E C T R E S B R A W L spectres of autism posted:f l e r p b r a w l ![]() ![]() Neither of these were good stories, but one of them had good solid words, some interesting character work and an impressive ambition, the other was a marshy bubble of poop gas. Spectres wins, knock out.
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Mojo still hasn't posted crit from that brawl that StealthArcher bitched out on like six months ago, so don't hold your breath. quote:The Twilight Zoned i don't get this title
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![]() ![]() It's another recap! This time we reviewed weeks 180 and 181. As usual, we discuss the losses and DMs, and Corn! gets a well-earned encour. We also confirm conclusively that Team Ock sucks. The recap Recommended reading: Week 180: Maybe I'm a Maze Week 181: We like bloodsports and we don't care who knows! Thanks as always to Kaishai, Djeser, and Twist. Other things you can listen to (thanks Kaishai): pre:Episode Recappers Week 156: LET'S GET hosed UP ON LOVE Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Djeser Week 157: BOW BEFORE THE BUZZSAW OF PROGRESS Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 158: LIKE NO ONE EVER WAS Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Djeser Week 159: SINNERS ORGY Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 160: Spin the wheel! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 161: Negative Exponents Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 36: Polishing Turds -- A retrospective special! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, and The Saddest Rhino Week 162: The best of the worst and the worst of the best Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, and The Saddest Rhino Week 163: YOUR STUPID poo poo BELONGS IN A MUSEUM Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 164: I Shouldn't Have Eaten That Souvlaki Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 165: Back to School Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 166: Comings and Goings Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 167: Black Sunshine Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 168: She Stole My Wallet and My Heart Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 169: Thunderdome o' Bedlam Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 170: Cities & Kaiju Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 171: The Honorable THUNDERDOME CLXXI Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 172: Thunderdome Startup Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 173: Pilgrim's Progress Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 174: Ladles and Jellyspoons Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Kaishai, and Djeser Week 175: Speels of Magic Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 176: Florida Man and/or Woman Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 125: Thunderdome is Coming to Town -- Our sparkly past! SH, Ironic Twist, Kaishai, Djeser, Grizzled Patriarch, and Bad Seafood Week 177: Sparkly Mermen 2: Electric Merman Boogaloo SH, Ironic Twist, Kaishai, Djeser, Grizzled Patriarch, and Bad Seafood Week 178: I'm not mad, just disappointed Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Kaishai, and Djeser Week 179: Strange Logs Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Kaishai, and Djeser
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post the crits
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Sitting Here posted:post the crits
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Sitting Here posted:Team Ock sucks Even with a forfiet we got within 1 vote of winning, and we didn't even have to tap into our latent nazi genes, so team mermans is the best team with the best stories. They will make an underdog sports story about us some day. I love u guys. RUDY
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Sitting Here posted:We also confirm conclusively that Team Ock sucks. crabrock posted:Even with a forfiet we got within 1 vote of winning, and we didn't even have to tap into our latent nazi genes, so team mermans is the best team with the best stories. They will make an underdog sports story about us some day. I love u guys. RUDY ![]() pucker up
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quote:your knight has sworn to protect someone from the elements of nature Concrete Graveyard 1,280 Words KBG Agent Sergei Olevsky held the door of the black sedan open as the aging physicist climbed out. He scratched at his collar through his transparent radiation suit as he looked out at the city of Pripyat. Dr. Volkov, hunched over with cane in hand, adjusted his glasses with a grim look on his face. They did not look at each other. They had not made any conversation during the drive from Kiev. It was improper, fraternity between a scientist and his bodyguard. "Alright," the doctor said. "Let's get this over with." The two of them headed forward on foot, leaving the car at the chain link fence adorned with myriad warning signs. Olevsky put his hand on his hip, comfortably gripping his sidearm. He focused on his breathing as he stared at the mass of steel and concrete on the horizon. Construction of the sarcophagus had already begun. The city was supposed to be evacuated, and yet a construction worker had seen movement in the window of one the apartment complexes. With the government's attention still on cleanup and publicity, only a single agent could be sent to investigate the nebulous claim. The decrepit doctor insisted on coming along to study the spread of the radiation. Now, instead of getting in, looking around and getting out, Olevsky was on babysitting duty. He sneered, hoping Volkov wouldn't keep him out here all day. The air felt much too chill for early autumn. The trees were still fully green, yet the slight breeze rustling their branches put Olevsky on edge. It was dead silent apart from their footsteps. Normally, sounds of construction would fill the air, but the workers had reached their daily time limit on exposure. Thanks to the encumbering suit over his clothes and the Geiger counter quietly ticking away in the doctor's hand, the agent could not relax. As the two men reached the residential area, Dr. Volkov pulled out a second handheld device, one that Olevsky couldn't begin to understand the purpose of. He fiddled with dials and tapped buttons, nodding to himself as though this ugly place held some greater meaning. Olevsky fingered the switch on his portable radio as he scanned the buildings and parks for movement. A few small animals could be seen scampering about. He squinted at a squirrel, expecting to see a third arm or some cancerous growth. "There are no mutants here boy," the doctor said. Volkov didn't have to take his eyes off his devices to placate his partner. Olevsky wondered if the comment was meant to calm him, or if the old man was making fun of him. The agent bit his tongue and mentally reminded himself of his assignment. Protecting the doctor was his first priority, investigating the area was second. He assumed it would have been the other way around, but if the brass thought knowledge was more important than the life of a civilian, then he would do his duty without complaint. Just as Olevsky set his eyes on the apartment complex in question, Volkov announced that he had already gathered all the data he needed. "I'll be back at the car. Have fun with your investigation." Volkov turned back to towards the city limits quite satisfied with himself. Much to his annoyance however, Olevsky grabbed him by the shoulder. "You're not going anywhere doctor," the agent said back. "Your protection is paramount. I cannot allow you to walk around this place by yourself." Volkov clicked his tongue, and after a moment, he resigned. "Fine. But I'm not going up any stairs," the doctor said. He glared at the seven story complex like it had personally affronted him. Olevsky wondered if the old man had any care at all for whoever might be inside, even if they were countrymen. The front door was unlocked. Olevsky peered inside, gun at the ready. The overcast sunlight seeped into the lobby from the windows, revealing a mess of dust and small debris. It had only been a few months since evacuation, yet the building seemed like it had been empty for decades. The two men shuffled inside and immediately covered their noses. A rancid odor filled the halls, a mixture of chemicals and rot. Olevsky approached an out-of-service elevator and pried the door open. He pulled out a flashlight and aimed around the shaft, not really sure what to look for. "This had better not take long agent," Volkov grumbled. Olevsky was about comment back when he suddenly heard thumping a few floors up. It sounded like someone running. Olevsky swallowed and took a deep breath. He looked towards the stairs. Three floors up maybe? He climbed a single step before stopping and remembering his partner. Volkov's hearing must not have been very good, he hadn't reacted at all. Olevsky paused in thought. Against his instincts, he stayed loyal to his mission. He walked over to the doctor and handed him his pistol. "Here, in case you need it," the agent said. Volkov didn't say anything. He just took the gun and nodded solemnly. He suddenly seemed less like an ornery cripple and more like a experienced veteran. Olevsky went back to the stairs and began to climb. If it came down to it, he could defeat an assailant in hand-to-hand, or at least he hoped. The climb up was not at all pleasant. The odor grew stronger the higher the agent went, and the amount of debris increased. Rust coated the banisters so thickly that Olevsky feared touching them, lest he cut his hand open and get infected with who knows what. Personal items were strewn across the landings. Clothes, jewelry, and small furniture, left behind in the rush to evacuate. There even appeared to be a fine layer of fog a few inches off the ground, giving the sensation of walking through some untouched cavern. It all felt very unnatural. As Olevsky reached the third floor, he saw a blur of movement at the end of the desolate hallway. He reached down and grabbed the nearest object, a radiator pipe knocked loose from its spot on the wall. Within his clammy hand, he found it brittle due to age and rust. Steeling himself, he moved down the hall. Each empty room he passed made him more nervous. At last he reached the final door. Beside it was a window overlooking the city, the dead reactor dominating the horizon. With his free hand, he grabbed the doorknob and gently pushed the door open. It creaked all the way across its hinges, screeching like a dying animal. Olevsky tightened his grip and rushed into the room. After a few seconds, Olevsky realized his eyes were closed. After making sure that nothing had actually happened, he opened them. He found himself in the center of a perfectly square apartment. There was an overturned couch, a smashed TV, a bare bed frame, and a kitchen with all the cabinets left open. In the corner whimpering was a young boy. Olevsky guessed around ten years old. He wore filthy moth-holed rags and no shoes. His eyes matched the color of the mud and grime on his face. Olevsky looked the boy up and down for signs of disease, madness, or mutation. All he saw was malnutrition and exposure. He dropped the pipe. Its clank upon hitting the ground scared the boy into cowering further. Olevsky crouched down and put out his hand. "What's your name, son?" he asked. "S-S-Sergei, s-sir," the boy replied. The KGB agent smiled. He grabbed his radio and tuned it to the evacuation services channel. He reported a survivor, picked the boy up, and headed back to civilization.
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Ironic Twist posted:
I was crushing upstarts before you came into this dome and i'll be crushing upstarts when you're a smear across the floor only reply to this if you're brave enough to get crushed, by me, in a brawl again
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The Finest Wine 1290 Words anime was right posted:your knight has taken a vow to never let food go to waste. Upon the morning light, Sir Gilead the Stout found himself behind the royal kitchens Looking upon a sight that offended his very core Against the stone wall were bins filled to burst with food Wilted leaves of lettuce mixed with sickly sweet, rotted fruits Bones and gristle in yet another, crowned by a swarm of flies. The sight made his heart burn in rage For he had spent many days and nights in the harsh lands abroad And knew well how scarce even a morsel could become. So he found a peasant hauling a basket of food from the cellar. "You there!" He called, moving briskly towards the man "What are you doing with that bin of food? Still full of promise and potential, too precious to waste." "Forgive me, sir," The peasant spoke meekly, head low "The royal chef instructed my cohorts and I to clean the larder Of any article older than three days of time." "What offense!" Sir Gilead said as the others came from below, Bringing up basket upon basket of foods, each one as full as the last. "Come here, all of you, and heed my words For I have seen lands where such waste would leave men dead Begging for wilted leaves and sickly fruits." So he taught the peasants how to use each wasted leaf The greens were ground fine and brought to the Gardens where they were mixed with the soil to feed the sprouting plants The fruits were brought to the troughs, where the pigs fed to make their meat sweet and succulent for the feast The bones and gristle were picked clean, then ground to feed the beasts of fangs and war, so they may grow fierce And those foods still good were to be sent to the paupers So they may thank the King's blessings and know his grace. ----- His work done, he set down the stairwell into the kitchens His head filled with impolite words for such a wasteful chef Each step landing softly on the damp stone, slime coating the walls as torches flickered in the dimness, casting long shadows. He heard voices rising up from below, and minded his step not being so large of head that he would interrupt another simply for his own misgivings. "And the nightshade, dear brother?" A sibilant voice dripping with unease echoed up the stone, to his ear. "The berries are in bloom," A thicker, haughtier voice followed closely, the disdain dressing each word. "Tonight the king shall have a rare treat from a far land. But he shall then fall ill with a terrible disease taking him from us in a most tragic manner." "And our allies across the border will seize their chance," The brother replied, his confidence growing. "Tossing out this weak-minded king, who speaks of peace, and we shall have gold so numerous we can bathe in it." "Finally, none of the King's men will be the wiser, For who would distrust the innocent chef? And even if they suspected me, what poison would I have to use? There would be no bottle, no package of dust to collect that would incriminate me." ---------- Sir Gilead stepped back in horror at what he heard and made his way up the stairs like a shadow. Moving to speak with the King himself on his findings. The King gave a nod to his council, and looked upon Sir Gilead. "You are one of my knights, proven in battle and hardship. Your word is held in the highest honor, and I wish to accept this. But I cannot spend the blood of an innocent man, and would require unwavering proof before I could act." Sir Gilead closed his eyes in thought, bowing his head to his King, fear gripping his heart, his hand uncertain. Suddenly he looked up at the King, a wry smile upon his lips. "I believe I can prove to you his guilt, my liege, and he shall be the one to confess his treason to you." -------------- So the night began, and the King and his Knights filled the feast hall. The plates of the knights were slim, only taking what they needed for fear of Sir Gilead's rebuke of their actions. For under his oath, he would not let another knight waste food, as he would not waste food and would see even a slice of apple spilt upon the ground as an offense that would require severe discipline. Finally, the food was served, the peasants from earlier bringing out succulent pig, spit upon an apple, the freshest vegetables and fruits from the royal garden, and sweets and drink from around the kingdom But Sir Gilead did not admire the food for long, for his eye was trained to find the royal chef. There! Wearing a white coat and the hat of his station, walking towards the king as the peasants stood aside. "My King, most noble and gracious," He said, bowing low, Setting a tray before him with a flourish. "I bring you the berries of your woods, blessed by the sunlight of you Kingdom, as sweet as your rule." And lo, they were black berries, their skins shimmering in the light of hundreds of candles above them. The King smiled, and stood before his men. "This feast is a celebration of your victories, and the continued reign of our great lands. And so, as I eat, I wish you to eat as well. Sir Gilead the Stout, the Frugal and Wise, Please stand with me." Sir Gilead stood, bowing low to his King. "Do you have any words?" Sir Gilead smiled. "I am humble, my King, and wish not to delay the wondrous feast you have provided to us. Sir Chef!" He called. "You too deserve this honor, For without your skill, this food would be nothing. So, I ask of you, please partake of the first berry so we may begin our feast." The Chef's smile suddenly wavered, eyes fluttering as if he had been struck by a knight's gauntlet. "Me? But I am merely a cook, nothing of importance. Surely the King should have the first berry." Sir Gilead shook his head. "Be glad, sir Chef, For this feast is your own as much as it is ours, And would not exist without your skilled hand. So, please, partake of the fruit of your labors and please, do not waste a single seed." The chef stepped away from the table, and the smiles faded as he began to fidget and look here and there. His face pale, he reached under his sleeve, slowly, A knight nearest the King spotted the blade first, his booming voice filling the hall as the guards set upon him, dragging the chef down to the ground with heavy hands. "Take him away!" The King called. "But let him live, For he has a story of treason to tell, that I wish to hear." The Chef cried and screamed as the guards lifted him handily, dragging him from the hall as the Knights cheered. "Sir Gilead," The King spoke, and all voices fell. "You have saved my life, and the kingdom this day. I am in your debt, my word is bond." Sir Gilead smiled. "I require naught but honor, and a grand King to serve, as befitting any knight. But if you may, I have but one request. Take the berries the Chef tried to poison you with, and make them into a wine." "A wine, Sir Gilead?" The king said. "But why?" "My King, I feel that your newest prisoner may wish for a drink before he is sent to his ultimate judgment, and what better drink than the wine of his failure?"
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Your knight has sworn to never wear shoes again after a certain incident. Having a Mare 1286 words Kings are men too. This ought to be obvious, but I still have to remind myself. King Alfred would often call on me. He enjoyed my tales and also valued my advice. In fact, he envied my adventures and coveted my mind. He was young still, I assured him from time to time, and soon I would call on him for fresh tales and new insights. I didn’t believe it, but he did. I wasn’t his advisor and nor did I hold any special title, but I had a good relationship with little Alf. One day Alf called me to his throne. Alf spent as much time sitting on that throne as possible. I had tried to warn him that it would ruin his back, that it would prevent him riding a horse, and that no one could win glory if they couldn’t ride a horse. He just dismissed my concern and asked if I had ever sat on a throne. Of course I hadn’t! If my father had been a king, I would have made a much better king than little Alf. Well that day I walked into the throne room without any boots. Before the king could ask any questions, I hit him with a pithier than usual aphorism for him to write down. Swear only when necessary. I recently had had the opportunity to learn this lesson again. The king laughed. It was a horrible, raucous laugh. When he came to, his mirth turned to misery. I could see tears in his eyes. He must have noticed my bloody, bare feet. I had found that wearing socks without boots was not very safe when walking on the stone floors of the castle and on the cobbled streets, especially when rain had made them more precarious still. My feet were rather swollen and all round not in great shape. Blisters and scrapes marred them; I winced each step I took. The king asked me what calamity had befallen me this time. I don’t know what he meant by “this time”. I suspect he meant nothing of it, but perhaps dear Alf recalls all of my plights, big and small, and just wanted to subtly remind me off this. This subtly was uncharacteristic of him. It gave me hope that Alf might attain wisdom yet. The king was smiling now. It calmed me down. Truth be told, I was rather angry that day. I had been angry for a few days in fact. I did not want to tell the king the details of what had happened, for it was somewhat embarrassing. I told him some jesters, no not real jesters, had tricked me into a sworn oath. No, of course, I had known I was swearing an oath, his majesty. The trickery had happened to bring the oath into effect. The king was confused, but still smiling in his calming way. I was forced to continue my story with more detail. “That devil,” I said, “Sir Leicester questioned my horse-riding skills, and as your majesty knows, my horse-riding skills are unmatched in this realm and the next. Sir Leicester might be able to sit atop a horse, but the horse is as much in control as he is. Perhaps more. Anyway, Sir Leicester said he would bet his boots that I couldn’t jump a fence riding any horse from your stables. I responded hastily that I bet my own boots I could. I thought Sir Leicester a fool and enjoyed the thought of him having to scamper home without any boots. I got caught up in the moment and when Sir Leicester suggested we swear an oath that the loser of this wager should not only lose their boots today but for a whole month, I managed to agree in between my guffaws. Oh how I laughed. His squire went and fetched a horse from the stables. It was a healthy looking mare, mild mannered to boot. Does Sir Leicester think so lowly of my knightly skills? I mounted the mare and trotted a distance away so we could build up a bit of speed before the fence, which was only four or five feet high, mind you. The horse was a little hesitant, but responded to my prompts well enough. We got up to a gallop and the fence grew near. I smiled in anticipation of Sir Leicester’s shame. But the horse didn’t jump. It ran head first through the fence. The poor mare sounded very distressed.” As I told the king of the mare’s distress, he laughed again, more loudly and more abrasively than he had earlier. And then he shouted that the horse was blind and continued to laugh, almost falling from his throne in the process. How had the the king known the horse was blind? I suspected he had deduced this from the story. Despite my recent woes and my pained feet, I was gladdened by this. I was proud that my teachings were helping Alf become wiser and more shrewd. I confirmed that his deduction was indeed correct. He stopped laughing. Who was to blame him for laughing? A more considerate man might have seen the tragedy behind the comedy, but I believed Alf would become ever more considerate as his age progressed, so I wasn't overly distraught. His personal development had been incredible in recent months. We proceed to talk the afternoon away. We laughed throughout, the king more than I, but I suspect that was down to my morose mood more than anything else. Then the king had some meetings he had to attend. He apologised that he couldn’t spend more time with me, and there was real regret in his eyes when he said so. After a couple of weeks of not wearing boots, my feet hardened and I actually felt much better for it. My knee, which had been bothering me for years, felt sprightly, and my back felt like it was twenty years younger. I suspect the latter malady had regressed because of the limited riding I had been doing. I had found riding horses much too bothersome without boots, so I had been walking much more. I actually found myself walking for the sake of walking. The feel of pine needles on my feet calmed my mind, and my bare feet on the wet cobbles felt more secure than my leather boots ever had. I had only been to the castle once since narrating to the king Sir Leicester’s trick. I saw the king in the castle and he acknowledged me despite being at a counsel meeting. He shouldn’t have done that, but I appreciated the sentiment. I would have to tell him that it was unnecessary the next time we spoke. Sir Leicester sat beside the king at the meeting, and the two of them talked and laughed amicably. I was amazed by how well the king could be civil and courteous to someone he most certainly disliked. He certainly was growing up. Little Alf hadn't called on me recently. I feared that my many strolls into the open hills and peaceful forests meant that he couldn't reach me. I suspected he was doing just fine without me for now though. But I would make an effort to be more available soon. Also, I haven’t been tricked or conned since losing my boots; I am much more aware of fraudsters and clowns these days. And besides I rarely see anyone in the countryside to bother me. One day I even swore aloud, so all the trees could hear me, that I would never wear any shoes again such was the freedom I felt. No one was there to hear my oath.
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WEEK 188 CRITS PART 1 For Old Times’ Sake This is…bland, for the most part. Some of the interactions between Tig and the narrator have life to them, but it feels like you came up with a conflict and then didn’t know what to do with it, because the conflict’s resolved in a very anti-climactic way. The characters don’t really grow over the course of the story, and by the end there’s nothing to suggest that the narrator’s had any more reluctance to cut Tig out of his life than he had at the beginning. If you get a chance, look up “The Rich Brother” by Tobias Wolff—it’s a story that’s similar to this one in that there’s two male relatives, one of them a constant gently caress-up and the other who feels he’s always tasked with looking after his gently caress-up brother. The difference between that story and this story is that, for one, there’s a lot more depth and distinction to the two characters, and secondly, there are strengths and flaws in both characters that make it a true conflict in the reader’s head. This story is just a one-sided affair, where Tig is the only one with flaws but he’s also the only one with any sort of depth to him, and thus we can barely see why the narrator keeps looking after him in the first place. Off Week This is probably more interesting than most of the stories that came in this week, but the problem is it doesn’t have much of a contained arc to it. The ending doesn’t feel like a real ending, more like a segue into the next chapter of a longer work. I appreciate the effort to open in medias res, but the story’d really work better if you opened with the actual ghost scene. Other than that…there isn’t much of a hurdle or any sort of difficulty that can pique the reader’s interest and create tension. The scene with the ghost ended too easily for my taste. That’s my ultimate advice to you if you want to keep the story this length, to introduce a heavier conflict. Ivory Ornament Second paragraph is a much snappier opening than the first. On the whole, I thought this was pretty good. I was missing a bit of character depth from the protagonist, but I thought the simplistic approach you took towards the plot worked in the story’s favor. I feel like the moon’s absence would have a lot more immediate effects on the Earth, but it wasn’t that kind of story, I guess. I had a bit of trouble sussing out the metaphor at the end, but I appreciated it once I did. Job well done, I just wish the main character was more of their own person, with their own way of looking at the world. Reroll This was my initial win pick for this week, mainly because I thought that the concept and execution were both really well done. What ultimately swayed my final opinion was the fact that a lot of loose ends were just left hanging after the story was over. I’m fine with not knowing what the creature was, but I at least wanted to know what happened to the baby after it survived. Or why it survived at all, considering it was covered in gasoline inside a burning house. The voice was my favorite part of the story, especially in the latter half when it tried to break down the baby’s will. I think if you worked at the voice even more, you could create an even more captivating protagonist, because its voice would start to color everything it could see through its own lens. Bring Me Down to the River This was a heavy story, one of those stories where even a glimmer of hope at the end could be considered a satisfying resolution. My main issue I had with it is that it felt like too much of it was rooted in the story’s past, and that not enough happened during the present. Their situation is so bleak, and the narrator’s outlook is so bleak, that it’s hard to sustain that tension that the story would have if the narrator was able to fight harder. As it is, most of the action in the story is framed by the setting, not by any sort of individuality in the narrator. We get more background on this deadly disease than any of the people who are fighting against it, and there’s only so much intrigue you can give to a disease. I would’ve enjoyed more of a focus on the narrator and her sister, with the disease just being ominously hinted at throughout the course of the story. If you could combine the oppressive environment with strength of character, you’d have something. Louder Than Moonlight I enjoyed this story, but agreed with my co-judge’s criticisms of it, which were that it seemed too rooted in fantasy tropes, even though they were interesting ones for the most part. The much bigger problem is that the real conflict only shows up until the very end of the story, and until that point we’re just wandering through this environment along with the narrator, which makes me think you were more invested in creating this world than making sure that it had a point to it. And when the point shows up, it’s never resolved. And we’re never given much of an insight into Violet’s character or her relationship with Nightshade, so we have to sort of go along with the narrator when she says that their relationship is solid. Without Violet, this last-ditch conflict doesn’t exist, yet she’s still barely a character to begin with. If you’d moved the actual conflict much farther up in this story, the story would’ve been more successful. Come Hell or High Water This had a decent amount in common with the winning story, in that they both had conflicts that were clear dilemmas, ones that the narrators spent the entire story trying to remedy. In your story, it really comes down to polish, because I liked a lot of the details here. I liked the opening scene with the sheriff, I liked the way the narrator had to try to convince himself not to commit suicide, I generally liked the main character as a person. But a lot of these sentence-level things trip the story up. “That was when he noticed the driftwood was staring at him with cold reptile eyes.” Just mention the alligator. No need to be cute in a 1500-word story. Also, the weaving in of the story of the dead girl comes off as a bit confusing and heavy-handed. A lot of these sentences are really divorced from the main character’s PoV, as well—lots of simple descriptions but little character. You need to be able to combine the flashbacks, which have character depth, with the present moments, which are interesting but removed from the emotion of the moment.
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# ? Feb 17, 2025 23:31 |
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Sitting Here posted:I was crushing upstarts before you came into this dome and i'll be crushing upstarts when you're a smear across the floor Upstart? You need someone to teach you what words mean. Someone judge.
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