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Fighting for Seattle and Mothpeople everywhere.
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Feb 18, 2018 02:05
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Greetings, bloodthirsty savages! We're going to try this again! And at the top of a page this time! Kiwi and Coffee Megabrawl: Investing in Cryptidcurrency So the kiwis have decided the people of Seattle need to be taken down a peg--or a needle, or whatever they have in their strange land of no sheep at all, how does that even work. Will our Emerald City residents take that lying down? Somehow I think not, so here's a prompt for the most random geographical battle since the Texas-Israeli War. Chili posted:For some odd reason I've been thinking about cryptids recently. I don't know why. I don't believe in bigfoot or any of that poo poo. Anyhow, it's on my mind and maybe indulging in it for a bit will help me move on to the next thing. Why not! Cryptids it is. If you live in New Zealand or Seattle and would fight for your homeland, announce your intentions and your by Sunday, February 18, 11:59pm US Eastern. Your judges will be Chili, Ironic Twist, and myself, and we'll release further details once we know who's on the field.If you find ing just too toxic, you can accept the alternative penalty of what I'm assured will be a very shameful avatar.Defenders of the Shire: sebmojo steeltoedsneakers Yoruichi SurreptitiousMuffin Morning Bell Fumblemouse newtestleper Dulce et Decorum Est Pro Starbucks Mori: Sitting Here Jay W. Friks Dr. Kloctopussy CantDecideOnAName Uranium Phoenix curlingiron Nethilia Kaishai fucked around with this message at 02:02 on Feb 19, 2018 |
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Feb 18, 2018 02:10
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for seattle
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Feb 18, 2018 02:21
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They're going to have to call it Not-well-ington when the Seattlites have finished demolishing your hobbit holes and giving swirlies to your kakapos. In for Seattle and
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Feb 18, 2018 03:35
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I blinked and missed something...what the gently caress is all of this?
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Feb 18, 2018 05:28
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Crain posted:I blinked and missed something...what the gently caress is all of this? idk maybe if you read instead of posting inane white noise youd understand
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Feb 18, 2018 05:30
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flerp posted:idk maybe if you read instead of posting inane white noise youd understand look up 4 posts and rejoice in teh satiation of all your knowledge requirements
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Feb 18, 2018 05:37
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In with a to give it extra Welly.
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Feb 18, 2018 05:40
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If y’all need another Seattle team member, I can
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Feb 18, 2018 06:34
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curlingiron posted:If y’all need another Seattle team member, I can The more the merrier. Pretty sure the needlepeeple count you as one of their own.
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Feb 18, 2018 06:55
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Well, then, let's loving do this poo poo. 
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Feb 18, 2018 06:59
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bay area goons trying too hard to pay rent to bother with this silly brawl poo poo
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Feb 18, 2018 23:03
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Tense 1000 words      
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Feb 18, 2018 23:10
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curlingiron posted:As usual, no fanfic, erotica, quote tags, gdocs, etc. If you really want to write poetry, I don't mind, but you still need to give it a narrative arc.  Memes aside, I think we need to have a serious talk about why The Narrative Arc is considered the default unit of storytelling within the dome. I don't think plots are bad per se but there's a default assumption here that more plot = good and less plot = bad, and literary fiction would really like to have a word. Literary fiction has gone so far in the other direction that they're writing hand-wringing editorials in the Guardian about why maybe plots aren't just for hacks and children. They're obnoxious tools about it, but I think it's kinda important to note that there's a huge and important branch of fiction where our base assumption about storytelling isn't just wrong, it's foundationally and critically wrong. What's the narrative arc of Ulysses? The Sound and Fury? To the Lighthouse? These are classic pieces of literature that the dome wouldn't consider Good Writing because they don't tick a particular box. By saying "this isn't a story because it doesn't fit my very narrow understanding of fiction" you're pulling the same poo poo as The Guardian, from the other direction. Hell, you just wanna write genre fiction about spaceships? For years, Clarkesworld had "PROSE IS PLOT" front and center on their submissions page. If we as a community want to improve as writers, we need to be willing to challenge our assumptions about what fiction is. This one particular assumption has become incredibly ingrained in the writing and judging culture of the 'dome and it's time to actually ask ourselves why.
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Feb 18, 2018 23:14
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 Okay. I’m sorry you’re upset, and you can submit whatever you want, but I think if you wanted an actual discussion about the requirements for this week, it would have been better to bring it up at any point before the day submissions are due.
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Feb 18, 2018 23:36
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I want to challenge your assumptions re: your dumb butt
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Feb 18, 2018 23:41
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Tense 1000 words      
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Feb 18, 2018 23:47
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I think TD focuses on a narrative arc for a few reasons. One is because it's an amateur fiction competition. The majority of domers are nerds who post on dead gay comedy forums and want to hone their fiction skills. A narrative arc, "telling a story", is a simple task that you don't need a ton of experience in writing to accomplish. A second reason is because that's what most Thunderdome stories are trying to do in the first place. We don't get a ton of non-narrative fiction. Only rarely have I seen something that was a bad story, but a good prose piece. It's much more likely to find things that try to be a story and fail at it than things that aren't trying to be a story at all. Third, and maybe the biggest reason, is that when a TD piece slips up, it's very easy for a judge to go to "well it wasn't a good story". Which is a legitimate criticism, because it's a concrete thing you can look at and evaluate, but it does create the sense that TD is only about stories instead of fiction in a broader sense. Ultimately like anything else in TD it comes down to the judges for that week and what they're interested in seeing. Some judges are more strict about wanting to see a narrative structure, and others don't care as much as long as they enjoy the prose.
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Feb 19, 2018 00:00
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curlingiron posted:
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Feb 19, 2018 00:02
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CASE No. 67-042, Exhibit 03, A-E 568 Words     
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Feb 19, 2018 01:00
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Week 279-How to Write a Story Crits Part 3 Finishing up Week 279 crits with Flerp's "The Fable of the Camel", Tyrannosaurus's "Doctors without Borders", Fuschia tudes "How to be fabulously wealthy", Obliterati's "Backwards Compatible", and Fleta Mcgurn's "This Rider is Bullshit". I think I'm all caught up other than a poem crit and a crit on a story missing from the archive. The other parts are included below as well. Part 1: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1vk-lawrdHfwzGAxrqfhm6hoSuACcIMft/view?usp=sharing Part 2: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1mTAQki12-Bpb2aDSJWPN1NoYXKeb6H7a/view?usp=sharing Part 3: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1bh0sAO31g5C3xi5xyTNXgDYBALXpL_By/view?usp=sharing
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Feb 19, 2018 01:08
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I guess I gotta fuckin front up with a story after that, huh? For the archivists: When it broke, all the colour ran out 562 words
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Feb 19, 2018 01:34
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for the All Blacks
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Feb 19, 2018 01:35
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newtestleper posted:
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Feb 19, 2018 01:37
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:ur not even in wellington what is this christchurch boyyyy We have worse coffee but better racism
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Feb 19, 2018 01:39
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btw Seattle and Christchurch are sister cities, and I'm going to tell Mom that you snuck out with Chad on Friday. You'll be grounded until your junior year of college.
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Feb 19, 2018 01:46
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The Two-Door Machine 820 Words      
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Feb 19, 2018 01:52
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newtestleper posted:btw Seattle and Christchurch are sister cities, and I'm going to tell Mom that you snuck out with Chad on Friday. You'll be grounded until your junior year of college.
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Feb 19, 2018 01:55
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Let Us In (#327) A door in a space on a flat driving road_______ history says: STONE WHEELS make it alllll better. “I’ve seen them out here when we’re supposed to be-” "Who said that?!" They called us out and we took doors, walls, and ceilings back from memory. Set up a cone inside a cylinder, set up a tower inside a box, set up antennae inside a head. They want in. “They can keep the fields, the woods, the sea, and fears of darkness-we keep the IN inside.” MASTER HAS SPOKEN. Stay. Don’t go out or you’ll think you can’t get back in. Rage grays out as the artificial light fades from memory. I love chairs. I love to share. I don’t need a wide open vessel just a place for me and mind. “CANTYOUSEEWESEEBETTER CANTYOUSEEWEFOUNDMORTALITY ONLYLONELYPEOPLENEEDTOFEEEEEEEEEL!” Out here the air singes, the water beads, the leaves stick to everything left wide open. Somehow I’m outside and I can’t get back in. I didn’t decide this. Let me go backward. My home! It’s actually a beetle with no head. It wraps its shell around its veined wings. I was living in those veins sucking up insect oil. My place is here in the scar. It’s fun dancing with these platelets, it’s fun goading them into following you O u T f u r th e r OUT/IN to A E T H E R beautiful that I can kill myself and sleep/Wake up and eat. I can store myself inside other selves. Pleasure pleasure to be eaten up and regurgitated SPLASH onto the yellow grass. POUR ourselves up into Sky and look at them they those things have no idea that they’re trapped. we come back and show them you don’t have to let us in we’re already in the air you breathe, the skeleton you hide behind, the guts you build up. Nature is feeling you up at night and pou ring pouring Pou RING Pou ri n g in YOU “we’re really not so different.” we agreed.
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Feb 19, 2018 02:13
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I'm Kin 998 words i see shadows behind the glass walls but my cousin says they’re mirages. shapes that move behind the red and ochre, split and jagged, tattered. no bones, no ridges or shoulder blades or joints. just black. they’re gone at the arches and gates, back again at the glass on the other side. we live in the city with Geometria looming over the rises, his chest muscled, head haloed. he stands over the high rises, halo breaking in rainbows through the textures of diamonds. my cousin thinks they’re mirages. he’s a detective, working for the city bureau. they’ve found bodies. maybe i grieve for them. maybe i can’t stop my mind, but my cousin can stop his. that’s why he’s a detective. the bodies are ripped apart. i go with my cousin to the new scene. see the blood, the sinew torn, the white shards dusting the cobbled ground. the bureau chief is there, smoking, an ember tube, mermaid scales. my cousin fingers his slide gun. i put on my opaque glasses, hanging on a necklace. the shadows behind the glass go with everything. it all vanishes, the glass light refracting through, blinding me. “There’s some paper here,” my cousin says. his voice is thick timbred. the bureau chief’s is more nasal. “Try and break me,” he says. but i don’t want to break him. i don’t want to break anyone. “I’ll be back,” my cousin says. “I need to guide my cousin home. She’s blinded herself again.” i hear someone spit. home is high up in the rises, the carven holes and edges in stone. he takes me there. there is no glass in our room, all for me. when I’m sure i won’t see the shadows, i take my glasses off. “Be good,” my cousin says. he leaves. i stare at the stripes at my shirt, watch them spin around and around my arm. he’s back in two hours. he talks over the case with me. i listen, intent, trying not to break him. i have to not break anyone. people don’t break when you listen.. “I saw his consort. wanted to know when he left. She had this fancy headdress, and a red and black robe, all bound up at the waist. She had these lines on her eyes, like blood streaks. That’s what I remember. She says he left her at nine, which means we found the body half an hour after it happened. I’m going to,” he drops his voice, “talk to Geometria. He can tell me where the person is that was at this place around this time.” i know talking to Geometria is bad. i tell him this. “Yeah,” he says. “Risky. But I need to. It’s my job to figure this out. I won’t make a habit of it. This one, though—he dared me to catch him.” dare to listen. i listen to him more, the words flowing through me. they reach the spaces between my cells, coarse, gritty. itch in places i can’t scratch. i can only feel the words. i can’t feel my skin. i reach up to my face, run my palm over it, can’t feel my eyes. “I have to go again,” he says, the words sudden. a blind forest, what’s inside. i stand, watching him as he slips his shoes on. bow to him, a small tilt of my head. he reaches out, ruffles my hair, and leaves me, alone again. alone, but safe, away from the glass. far away... I’m kin to her. Kin means you talk to each other. I don’t like the sound of my voice, but people like to be talked to. If no one talked to you, you’d break. My tongue scrapes the roof of my mouth when I talk. I feel each ridge, bump and crease. I am walking through the hall. For a moment I’m lost inside a dream. Then I emerge on the open plateau, the ridge that juts from the high rise wall, floor translucent, the glass of nothing. I take a zeppelin to Geometria’s head. It hovers in fits and bursts, dipping and rising, lit against the glass and stone, each lattice like the edges of someone’s nails. Geometria awaits. By his right eye, tower width itself, then circling his head, slow, steadier now in the halo’s warmth. I stop by his ear. I could fly through his ear canal to his brain. What would happen? I shout what I need to know. Each ask takes me a little closer to the answer I need. With Geometria you need to be slow. You feel his mind working on each thought. You can feel it inside your mind when he answers. Each sentence rattles the balloon, the helium drift singing my face. He tells me where the killer is, the street, the footsteps taken. I fly my zeppelin down. Drift it slow through the rises. Spool a rope from the cabin, lock it, and begin to climb down. Feel its tautness bristling against the whorls of my grip, feel the wind whipping through my hair. When I reach the bottom I tumble down the rest of the way, landing in a hard roll in the killer’s alley, the neon lights reflecting in the glass. The killer is waiting for me. Standing aloof like no one's watching. I see her eyes first. Green eyes, bleeding green tears. They drip down her face, glowing. I can see wires where her skin doesn’t cover. An android, a shelled being, no bones. She stands still, her reflections like statues on both sides of her. I shoot her with the slide gun, watching her halve, break, fragment in fizzy lines. It’s not enough. I move to her, grind her blurred pieces underneath my shoes. See the contrast of black over gray. Blacks and grays in the stained glass of the city. All around me. I hear Geometria’s voice pulsing inside my mind. I see the shadows behind the glass walls.
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Feb 19, 2018 03:48
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BFF [999]        
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Feb 19, 2018 03:56
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Call and Response 490 words Archived! Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 05:57 on Jan 1, 2019 |
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Feb 19, 2018 04:23
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hello and welcome to tab week, where we hit tab a bunch until it looks cool
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Feb 19, 2018 05:02
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:hello and welcome to tab week, where we hit tab a bunch until it looks cool jfc if i wasn't already in a region brawl with you, i'd brawl you
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Feb 19, 2018 05:50
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Entry into the international megabrawl is now closed! I'll wait until Standby. Chili fucked around with this message at 06:09 on Feb 19, 2018 |
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Feb 19, 2018 06:02
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:hello and welcome to tab week, where we hit tab a bunch until it looks cool Practice what you preach. If you want to get rid of the narrative structure you should be accepting of other forms of stories.
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Feb 19, 2018 07:35
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Haunted by Numbers 964 words ”Twelve Hours at Labor And I'd guess much more would have-” Josie interrupted Will before he could finish the thought. “I’ve had longer days.” The garden was near to a full-time job this time of year, with every weed in bloom and deer to be chased off. “Would have left you in no shape for fun,” said Will, leaning in for a peck. Josie presented her cheek. “You know, my brothers still think you're imaginary,” said Josie. “They’ll be in for a shock,” said Will, his hand touching her belly. She was only far enough along to show to someone looking specifically for it. That wouldn't last long. “Will they think you're another Saint Mary?” “They'll think,” she said, moving his hand, drawing her face close to his, ”That I've been running around with strange men, pick out from bars lower than the ones they frequent.” “No such place.” “There will be in their minds,” she said. “Unless-” “You know I have an allergy to churchyards.” “A justice of the peace, then. Alison Brevard has an open afternoon Tuesday.” “Brevard, eh,” said Will. “But the paperwork-” “Taken care of,” said Josie. “No excuses, William. Will you marry me?” “One of us should be on one knee for this,” he said. “And bringing a diamond.” “We have rings,” she said. They did. Bronze and bones and old promises kept. “Then yes,” he said. She smiled. They kissed. His lips were cold as winter, until she warmed them up. “She'll Sleep for Most of the Next Three Days So it has to be done by then.” said Marty. “Three days?” asked Josie. “It's the same as when Grandfather died,” said Marty. “She can't sleep without the pills, sleeps too much with them.” “How are you holding up?” asked Will. “It's,” said Marty, “I don't know. Trying not to think about it. We're going to be moving upstate. Mom never liked it here. Not hardly going to see you again, and I keep getting mad about that more than-” “It's okay,” said Josie. “It's not,” said Marty. “But let's do this.” They planned it out like a heist in a movie, waiting until the watchful eyes of distant Brevard relatives were distracted, filching keys and sneaking into Edward’s office. “So where is it?” whispered Josie. William closed his eyes. “There,” he said. He pointed to the heating vent. Marty turned the screws lefty-loosey, gently set the heavy steel on carpet. He reached in, and pulled out a small bag. “What is it?” he asked, worrying the strings that tied it shut. “What kind of treasure did Dad have up in here?” The bag opened. The three teenagers looked inside. “Ew,” said Marty. “What is this, a dead rat or something?” He shook the bag of bones. “Better throw this away-” “No,” said Will, in a voice just louder than a whisper. “They're mine.” The room seemed ten degrees colder. Marty and Josie had forgotten how scary Will could be. Marty shoved the bag into Will’s hand. “Okay, have it,” he said. “And now they're yours” he said, handing them to Josie. “Keep them safe.” Josie didn't know what to do with them. She kept them beside her diary, and on the day Marty moved away she took them out, poured them on her desk. She moved them around, assembled one to another until they took shape. The shape was not that of a rodent, or a bird, but rather two tiny hands. ”Two Would Break Us And she'd never be happy letting one go,” said Marty. “Only reason we know she'd even want these is how she said they'd match and all.” “So let's be broke, then,” said Will. “A few skipped lunches won't hurt.” “I forgot the taxes,” said Marty. “I can get a bit more money,” said Will. “How?” “You know. No risk, unless the shopkeeper happens to be a Brevard. Don't like to, but this is important.” “You know,” said Marty, “Only one of us can end up being her boyfriend.” Will grimaced. “And you probably have a bit of advantage there, considering.” “Are you sure?” ”Even If We Live a Million Years You can tell no one about this” said Marty. “Okay,” said Josie. “So what's the secret?” “I am,” said Will. Josie jumped. “Where did you come from?” she asked. “I've always been here,” he said. “Will’s sort of magic,” said Marty. “And my best friend. He lives down here in the basement.” “And your parents are okay with that?” “Well, only Dad can see him. And his relatives. When he does spot us we say he’s a friend from school.” “I can see him,” said Josie, the scepticism of a world-weary eight-year-old in her voice. “Well,” said Will, “You're special.” ”Been Howling for Four Hours” ”He’ll stop soon enough,” said Laura. But he didn't. Ed found his raincoat and flashlight, put on his boots and walked out in the rain. “What's got you all riled up now?” Darby was not in his dry doghouse. He followed the sound to the woods in the back, found the old German Shepherd digging at the mud. Ed looked down and saw the small skeleton, the unformed skill and small bones. Darby saw his master and changed howls to whimpers. “Are you going to call the police?” asked Laura. “Not yet,” he said. He called his father instead. He started to explain. He didn't get far. He listened on the line, eyes welling with tears that didn't fall, hands clenching the receiver. He hung up the phone. “What did he say?” asked Laura. “I had a brother,” he said. “His name was William.”
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Feb 19, 2018 07:51
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After the Crash 520 words The crash is the last thing remember. The sounds of glass breaking and metal crunching. The tremendous G-force crushing your chest. Before that, you knew you were lost, none of the landmarks were familiar. Hours of your life were wasted, trying to find something, somewhere that you recognized. How did you let it get so bad? One wrong turn should not have led you that far away. The pain over your whole body, at least, proves that you are alive. Moving your eyelids takes an immense amount of effort. When you finally open them, you are blinded by a light like that of the sun. As soon as you close your eyes, to block out the painful light, you start to try to figure out where you are. You are in too much pain to be dead. A hospital is the most likely explanation. You were in the middle of nowhere, so far from any friends, so how did you get there? Could you have been taken? Slowly, you try to open your eyes again and out of the corner, see movement. Strange figures, move around, in the distance. More pressing than the figures, is the strange scanning device over your head. It appears to move slowly over you. Even without the pain, it would be impossible to escape it. You see that your limbs and chest are restrained. You are not among friends. One of the distant figures comes closer. Tall, taller than you, the figure is clad in protective suit that covers its whole body. The only way you can tell that the being has a face, is that there is a translucent rectangle on one side of its head. It checks a panel that has wires coming off of it, the wires likely meeting up with the ones coming off your chest. You close your eyes again, hoping that the figure will not notice you have awoken. You hear the whir of various machines, all of them likely keeping you alive. You also hear the rustle of plastic, which covers the room. One of your eyelids is yanked up, and the figure shines a bright flashlight into your eye, and then the other. Through the face-plate, you see face that reminds you of your own, but also very different. Afraid for your safety, you start tapping one of your fingers, slowly not to make it hurt more. Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, nineteen, you tap out the prime numbers in sequence, as high as you remember them. The pain of tapping wears you out and fall into unconsciousness. When you awake again the suited figures are now closer around you. Your arms are no longer restrained, but the strap remains over your chest. One of the beings holds a mirror up to your face. Above your black eyes, there is a dot of yellow on your forehead. You reach out and touch the spot on your forehead, proving again that you are sapient. Another one of the figures holds up a photograph of a destroyed spaceship, yours. You will never be able to go home again.
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Feb 19, 2018 07:52
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Exmond posted:Practice what you preach. If you want to get rid of the narrative structure you should be accepting of other forms of stories. i too get jokes
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Feb 19, 2018 07:54
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Six Questions About the Death of Greta Mandelbrot 994 words removed Solitair fucked around with this message at 18:05 on Dec 31, 2018 |
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Feb 19, 2018 08:08
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