quote:

Moby Dick 2: A Whale of A Tale prepped for a wacky yarn let me tell u
1080 words

I had barely finished saying the title when the decrepit old man hurled the book at me.

“Tag line: You orca se-” The five-hundred page classic slammed into my face and I rocked back on my chair. A thick thud reverberated long verbs need to to be placed carefully through the coffee shop as the book landed onto the floor. The girl vivid! curled up on the sofa continued reading Moby Dick, the cashier vivid! continued to dole out change and the hipsters oh christ so intensely vivid i fear for my vitrous humour continued to talk politics. Nobody noticed. It’s not like any of them could see us, let alone hear us. deliver this kind of joke with para breaks, imo

“Hold on, Moby Dick 2: A Whale of A Tale Is just a temporary title, we can rework it in post,” post is something you do in movies (poss part of teh joke idk yet) I explained as I fixed up weak verb my business casual suit. weak noun phrase, this character would know exactly what they were wearing

He opened his hand and another copy of the classic materialized into it. He stared up at me with his sunken eyes and said, “No.” i actually like the weird ghost literary agent vibe you're rocking here, but I think it lands better when people have enough info to understand it the first time they read it. be gentle with your readers when they enter the story. You could have started with the bookshop and gone from there, your title gag is cute but not worth loving up the onramp

Alright, take a deep breath girl, I told myself, you managed to convince Les Misérables to get a makeover, you can convince this stubborn whale. trying too hard

“Listen, Moby Dick is a great work. Not every manifestation I encounter can say they came from such an esteemed classic.” I snapped my fingers at him. “But it’s the turn of the century. Sequels, movies those are the new hotness. Books ain’t selling, and if it ain’t selling, people ain’t reading them.” how about libraries and ebooks, man, informations want 2bfree

As if to spite me, the girl still vivid next to us turned the page on her book and the old man took a deep breath, gaining renewed vigor. His wrinkles smoothed out and his disheveled hair grew back. He rose from his chair and stared at me with contempt.

“Much like Ahab’s path, this path leads to destruction. this is the only bit that even vaguely sounds like it comes from teh personification of Moby Dick (novel) and it's rote I will not help you create this,” He searched for the right word, see, why would a famously verbose and erudite novel struggle for a common word like that? “abomination.”

“It’s called a sequel, and do you know how much a movie increases readership? Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter baby! That was me.”

I paused as a flicker of jealousy ran across his face. Everyone wants to be the next Harry Potter.

Seeing my chance I continued, “And partnership is essential. We need your artistic vision to help us make this a franchise. John Carter, Lone Ranger? All reboots done without the blessing of their manifestations and all box-office bombs. ok this is interesting, I'd like to hear more about this This deal is whale i actually want you to die at this point, no offence worth it.“

An awkward silence fell over us. Maybe that last pun was too much. The old man looked out at the coffee shop, noticing how few people were reading. that's some good noticing bookghost guy Then he looked at the girl, who was fascinated by Moby Dick and smiling. I actually love this core idea but you're fluffing the execution He looked at her as if she was a child taking her first steps on an amazing journey. this is potentially a lovely simile, but 'amazing journey' is so weak and vague. when you make similes give us an image you can see/feel/hear/smell He looked back at me and shook his head.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Fine, we can play hardball I thought. I let the energy from money changing hands flow through me, I let harsh decisions based off of sales numbers in and I let simple harsh corporate truths wash over me. I was energized, I was reborn, I was Capitalism made manifest; A tsk bad bitch in a suit who was gonna make this sale.

I pointed at the girl vividity enfrobulating! who was reading Moby Dick. “You see her, you know what will interest her more than your tale?” I snapped my fingers and the girlohgodvivid’s cell phone vibrated. I returned his glare and said, “Materialistic wealth, clothes and the latest fad. goddam those fickle ladies All of those things are more interesting than your book.”

The girl vividissimo looked down at her cell phone, excitement in her eyes, never write 'excitement in her eyes' again please and started to walk did she continue to walk after she started to walk could one perhaps even say that ... she walked... out of the coffee shop, the Moby Dick book left forgotten on the sofa. As the old man in front of me grew a little older I smiled.

“See, I know what the kids want. And they don’t want thou or what you’re offering. They want instant gratification and instant appreciation baby!. All it took was a sale at Abercrombie & Fitch to make her forget about you.” I motioned at the forgotten book.

The old man’s knees were shaking and he slumped back into the chair. He looked forlornly at the abandoned book, and then back at me, fear in his eyes. I wondered if ideas made manifest had balls, because if they did I had his in my hands. It was time to squeeze. they'd be all vaporous surely

“Every time money changes hands, I’m there. Every time someone wants something, I provide it, for a price. I don’t just control the world, I am the loving world. Capitalism ho!” you made this point earlier. don't have dialogue that's just people stating their character. dialogue should challenge, insight, surprise, reveal. I produced a very generous contract i like this phrase and laid it out on the table.

The old man looked at the contract and licked his lips. “You can make me relevant again?” this is a weirdly modern word. i think if you want the spirit of the novel moby dick to be vivid you need to put a bit more thought into what the spirit of moby dick (as opposed to the spirit of, say, 'Catch 22' or 'Sex Reptiles of the Lava Planet') woudl be actually like beyond grumpy old man

“You’re already relevant, I’m going to make you famous,” I said, buttering him up. YUCK IF IT'S OBVIOUS DON'T SAY IT BECAUSE IT'S OBVIOUS YOU DON'T NEED TO SAY IT “If you sign this, I’ll make you bigger than Harry Potter!”

The old man nodded. Everyone wants to be bigger than Harry Potter. i'm sure you just told me this

“So, I'm thinking maybe a reboot before the sequel. Reboots are all the rage right now. We amp up the Ishmael and Queequeg homo-eroticism. People love that . Don’t make Queequeg a cannibal though, that’s not exactly kosher.”

I was just thinking which teenage boy toy we could get to play Queequeg when the girl from before vivider than ever before! waltzed right in and ruined everything. having this be random chance is a lost opportunity. why couldn't the book manifest some uniquely moby dicky method of drawing readers to him? She looked around, rushed to the sofa and grabbed her Moby Dick book. The old man looked up at her, like she was an oasis in a desert. My jaw dropped to the floor as she let out a sigh - a sigh of relief - and put the book into her purse.

The old man looked at me, a twinkle in his eye, and shred TENSE MOTHERFUCKER DO NOT MAKE ME DOUBT THE ELDRITCH POWERS OF GRAMMARLY the contract. His boisterous laughter followed me all the way out of the coffee shop. I was fuming, I was furious, but I wasn’t done. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed SP my secretary.

“Hey, Darlene. Moby Dick didn’t pan out. “

I paused as Darlene gave me fake platitudes. She was well worth the money I paid her. I really don't think Darlene is earning her place in teh story exomnd

“Yeah tell Mr Sutherland he won’t be able to play Ahab. i think a more direct callback to 'movies without their books blessing flop' would have been much better here. it's a neat idea given short shrift. Hey, give me Pride and Prejudice’s location.”

Darlene took a moment and gave me an address.

“Get me a ticket to Hampshire then. What am I going to do? Offer a reboot deal, maybe add some zombies, everyone loves zombies!” this ending is flabby, mainly because it's not surprising (he's going to go to a new place and do the same thing he just did!). that said, the implication is she will succeed this time so that's a nice closer.

sebmojo posted:

Metafornication
1515 words

You blink scratchy eyes and look at the empty screen, again. second person, trickiest of teh tenses, hope you can pull it off. who's speaking? can we leave that on the side and assume it will be answered or satisfactorily not answered by the end?

You need a character. Easy enough, it’s like working in a stockroom, just pull him off the shelf. Dashing astronaut, bored office drone, frustrated nerd? yes those are the characters you generally have in your story, u forgot bourgeois manic pixie dream girl

Pick the nerd, why not. Pull him off the shelf. Slap him down. Call him Harry. No, Harald, for a hint of nondescript foreignness. thank you for not using ur typical boring name schema though only a little bc the pear didn't fall far from teh pear tree

He’s overweight, enough to want to avoid the stray mirror-glances that make him think ‘who’s that fat rear end in a top hat?’ Belly sore each night, from holding it in all day over his too-tight jeans. Not good with people, but worked out enough tricks to get by. brutal self ownage, respect

Genre next, riffle through the book - they’re like carpet samples, feel good beneath your fingers i don't know this simile holds its weight- science fiction, fantasy, science fantasy, cyberpunk, everyday realist humdrum … none of those, not tonight.

Noir?

No, it’s over-done. You wiki up a list of genres. How about socialist realism? Hell yeah. Bring on the tractors and the hardcore revolutionary optimism. the 2nd person is kind of working, but this is a little too cute

Ok, nerdy Harald’s sitting there in socialist reality, ok yes good twiddling his thumbs. This is a story about stories, so make him a writer. A wanna-be writer. He is trying all his tricks and they don’t work. That’s important. why? do you tell us?

Harald sits at his desk - no, a table is more socialist i like the socialist gags. A plain wooden table, painted thick flat white - but painted roughly, without sanding it first. Tiny splinters abound, a sweeping motion makes a sound like rubbing stubble. this is a nice image, and good grounding after the airy fairy genre stuff Harald’s muscles are sore from a double shift at the tractor factory, trying to meet the latest Five Year Plan directive.

He’s staring at the words he’s just written in blotchy biro on the yellow paper he steals from the factory. They’re bad, he knows it; he’s trying to will them into being good. which brawl participant are you talking about now? which?!

Now you need action, you’re a whole paragraph in and nothing’s happened. A knock at the door! Harold has been waiting for this, hasn’t he? Yes. He dreads/anticipates it. Who is it? i think the voice is coming into itself more now, brisk and bossy

Harald gets up and takes a deep breath.

You can use that breath to describe the air in his tiny apartment and, with it, Harald. Cabbages, body odour, socks. The air is warm, though, because even under socialism they have central heating. this could be phrased better i think

Harald strides to the door. He pulls it open, feigning the boldness that he hopes to create in himself.

Who is there? Olga’s there, shining and beautiful. You have a man, you need a woman - or not, of course, but go traditional. Add something, though, all you can ever do is give the reader what they expect or what they don’t. tricksy dropping crits in.
i think this couild be more elegantly phrased tho So she has a - deformity? Misapprehension? Miscarriage?

That’s it. She had a child with Harald, it didn’t make it to term. Leave it at that; you might find out why later. He probably wrote her lots of letters. i like this little passage, for all it's barely paid off

Harald gives his usual snorting honk of joy at Olga’s arrival and a muscle moves under her ear as she clenches her beautiful jaw. Only a little, though, keep it subtle.

But not too subtle. Look at the word count. i don't know you really justify the nitty gritty story stuff like this, but it's inoffensive so it may stay It’s time to ramp up the tension.

She’s clutching a piece of yellow paper. nice russell hoban in-joke, fellow. Barrow full of rocks to you, sir.

“The Factory Committee has declared your repurposing of stationery supplies a counter-revolutionary activity. You are to report to the Chairman for reassignment… to the work camps!” she says.

There’s a moment here, and you need to make it land. i like this.

Olga is a good Party member. She works on the line with Harald, tightening the nuts with a big wrench. phwooar i'll say etc She has piercing blue eyes, and thews that glisten with sweat in the heat of the shop floor. Those thews are tense with suppressed emotion right now, with words unsaid.

Harald holds out a hand to her. She doesn’t look at it. Instead she hands tsk him the paper (thews! quivering!) lol and turns on her heel. Harald is left, tongue-tied, on his doorstep.

But you’re the writer, have Olga say the words in her heart that she can’t say out loud (for fear of spies): “Harald, I don’t love you, but we share a life and a death. Perhaps once there could have been more, but that time has gone. I cannot approve of your crimes, but I believe you are a good man. Good luck.” i think this could have had more voice, it's a bit to plain, even though this is socialist realism

Perhaps Harald reads the finality of her unvoiced words in the set of her handsome shoulders as she strides off down the corridor? He’s not stupid, just awkward. Does he slam the door and lean on it, panting with emotions he feels but also cannot voice? Or does he close it gently, as though not wanting to disturb the remaining sweetness of his memories of Olga? this is great, adroitly conveyed melodrama

Put them both, you can delete the one you don’t want later. and this is a good gag

Trouble is, right now there’s only two places to go in the world of the story. It’s a linear progression, either back to the paper or onwards to the factory, and both of those are dead ends. All good stories have triangles because a triangle is dynamic. Create one.

The phone rings, socialistly best gag - a harsh sharp braying clatter. At first Harald seems not to hear it, but then he jerks into motion and walks stiff legged to pick it up.

It’s Natalya. Of course, it’s Natalya. Natalya, who works at the factory. She’s a friend of Olga and has always looked down on Harald. Or so he thought, but perhaps he was wrong because Natalya is whispering hotly down the line, like she’s about to be discovered. Harald listens, silent, and his eyes go wide.

You can repay the debt you incurred before, peering into poor Olga’s tortured heart, by keeping this conversation secret. That makes two secrets, don’t forget. this is some moderately complex story machinery that fits nicely with your shtick

All you need to show is Harald putting the phone down, nestling it firmly in the cradle and holding it there while he stares out the small window. Then sitting at the rough white table and picking up his pen, still with that abstracted, exalted expression.

You’re in the flow now, tapping away. There’s an ending ahead and you just have to find it. But the word count is creeping up, so: smash cut! You can do that, it’s an economical and effective way of changing scenes.nice

***

Harald is in the factory now, dressed in his too-tight jeans and his cleanest shirt, with damp patches at the armpits where he scrubbed at the sweat stains. He’s got a fistful of paper, too, yellow paper folded and re-folded on the long train ride in. The Chairman’s goon Kovalesky is there, looming like he does, lol that's so kovalesky and he looks like he wants Harald to come with him right away but Harald holds up his hand. He’s strong, because he has the words he needs. He slides his punch card into the machine, because that’s how it works, and then lack of punctuation here is subtle adn good

***

He’s in the Chairman’s office. The Chairman is an older man with greying sideburns, trimmed goatee and beaky nose, looking up like he’s not sure why Harald is there. He’s tapping away on a keyboard of some kind but Harald doesn’t care because he has unfolded the paper and he’s reading it out loud.

***

You look up at the noise because it’s really late and the house is locked, but the door just opened. Holy poo poo there’s a man there, overweight, little watery eyes. His jeans are too tight. He’s got a wodge of folded and re-folded yellow paper in his hand, and he’s reading it out loud. Why is there someone in your house.

Harald’s voice is nasal but his words are clear for all the indeterminately foreign accent. It’s a statement of grievance. He’s blaming you for himself, his too-tight jeans, his awkwardness, his ex-girlfriend’s miscarriage. He’s blaming you for the sweatstains in his cleanest shirt. It goes on and on, and there’s a certain rhythm and eloquence to it, you find yourself nodding along. Kid’s got talent. this doesn't fit with the genuine menace, make up your mind

But that doesn’t help you right now because he’s edging closer and he’s surprisingly intimidating in person. You should have written him even nerdier, idiot, buffoon. lol

Quick. Natalya. That’s the only secret left. She comes rushing in to the Factory chairman’s office, waving a statement. Behind her is Kovalesky, looking sheepish. This needs to end now, Natalya, explain how this is all a huge--

“The People’s Committee has spoken! The Chairman is declared to be an agitator, besmirching the name of Harald Wiggesmeyer for his own counter-revolutionary purposes!”

She slaps the statement down on your desk, and you gape at it. You read “... how his lascivious designs upon Comrade Olga Muresev led the Chairman to intercept Comrade Harald's correspondence was it worth bringing the letter back? maybe, maybe not. and promulgate a false rumour that he...”

Then there are hard hands on your collar and the belt of your pants, and Kovalesky is lifting you up to toss you out the window. Of your own house. Your own loving window.

Behind your back you hear Harald dictating the terms of himself and Olga in the story from now on. This is ridiculous. This won’t do at all.

You hit ctrl-A, and backspace.

Then you blink scratchy eyes and look at the empty screen, again. yeah, sweet close out

Tyrannosaurus posted:

I don't know what's going on but I know I don't like it

Exmond posted:

Metafornication

sebmojo posted:

Metafornication

Sitting Here posted:

both of these posts were edited, by the rules of this thread i declare this a MISBRAWL

You're both DQ'd from your own brawl gj

newtestleper posted:

Count your nuggets before they’re dipped
460 words.

Des Drummond stood behind the counter and surveyed his cathedral of plastic, glass and brown tile. The carpenters had been out for a week, and the shiny franchisee from Auckland had retird to his room at the Park Royal for the night, on Les’s dime of course. It was silent, but he could feel an ancient electrical pressure in his ears, like the sound inside a seashell. He took off his shoes and laid them on the counter, as if the click of his heels on ceramic crack the place in two. Gosh this feels nice. I can feel the 'mall at night' vibe hard, and future-echoes of how this place will probably abandoned in a few years. Typos aside, I can't figure out who the 'shiny franchisee' is. Not Des, obviously.
He felt tender. A few steps away, behind the fizzy machine - the soda fountain - was a button that would illuminate the acrylic tower outside, cast the light of his humming yellow beacon across an island. He hadn’t let them test it. His was the first McDonald's in Christchurch. His. The touch of meanness to his possessive feelings make Des feel real here, as does the 'fizzy machine'

It had taken Des a while to develop a taste for the food. The mayonnaise and bread were too sweet, the cheese like yellow rubber. They couldn’t make a boiled egg. And why you’d need dehydrated onions when they were ten cents a pound down at Neville’s he didn’t know. He didn’t know what that was in kilograms - that was one thing the yanks got right. He still preferred a roast on Sundays, but he could stomach a cheeseburger, quite liked the battered chicken pieces called nuggets, and had no qualms eating a medium fries all to himself. Nah. This whole paragraph is nah for me.

But he was nothing if not practical, and if there was anything that carpet manufacturing had taught him it was the value of getting stuck in, of knowing your business better than the next fellow. He knew a correctly dispensed ice cream - soft-serve - as well as a nicely cut multi-level pile. He knew a Big Mac from a McFeast. He slid one foot over the floor as he stalked the dining room on his final check, feeling the places where errant specks of mortar snagged the fibres of his sock. This one is good. More quiet feels with the socks getting snagged, more of Des' officious nature emerging, his old-man generalizations followed by insistent corrections.

The opening would be grand. Tomorrow a baying crowd of Linwood barbarians would be unleashed upon his red-capped regiment of servers and cooks. He puffed out his chest with confidence and pride in the perky youngsters that he’d trained. Never had his work chairing the board of the Lion’s club been so richly rewarded as when he saw the speed with which they constructed and packaged quarter pounders. ahahaha. You have captured the essence of the Lion's club.

Wool prices were falling, and carpet profits were rising. But the business of flooring had taught him never to stand still. The world wouldn’t leave Des Drummond behind. He locked the doors behind him, looked up at the great, dark golden arches, breathed in deep, and strode across the car park, shoes still in his hands. I was ready for no conclusion to this story, so it doesn't bother me. This is private, sad, and sweet, even though I don't like the main and only character at all. It's a good portrait piece and, hey, for under 500 words, I don't at all want my time back. Good job.

Exmond posted:

Prompt is a place where stories turn into characters, so take Death of a story but get rid of all the TD Meta references.

Winner gets a new avatar of their choosing

sebmojo's story, which was edited 10:57am, I don't know why posted:

Metafornication
1515 words

You blink scratchy eyes and look at the empty screen, again.

You need a character. Easy enough, it’s like working in a stockroom, just pull him off the shelf. Dashing astronaut, bored office drone, frustrated nerd?

Pick the nerd, why not. Pull him off the shelf. Slap him down. Call him Harry. No, Harald, for a hint of nondescript foreignness. Nice prose at the end there, I like it.

He’s overweight, enough to want to avoid the stray mirror-glances that make him think ‘who’s that fat rear end in a top hat?’ Belly sore each night, from holding it in all day over his too-tight jeans. Not good with people, but worked out enough tricks to get by. Don't doxx me bro

sebmojo's story, posted:

Genre next, riffle through the book - they’re like carpet samples, feel good beneath your fingers This missed, but good try at prose - science fiction, fantasy, science fantasy, cyberpunk, everyday realist humdrum … none of those, not tonight.

Noir?

No, it’s over-done. You wiki up a list of genres. How about socialist realism? Hell yeah. Bring on the tractors and the hardcore revolutionary optimism. Neat sentence

Ok, nerdy Harald’s sitting there in socialist reality, twiddling his thumbs. This is a story about stories, so make him a writer. A wanna-be writer. He is trying all his tricks and they don’t work. That’s important.

sebmojo's story, posted:

Harald sits at his desk - no, a table is more socialist. Lol, I chuckled A plain wooden table, painted thick flat white - but painted roughly, without sanding it first. Tiny splinters abound, a sweeping motion makes a sound like rubbing stubble. Harald’s muscles are sore from a double shift at the tractor factory, trying to meet the latest Five Year Plan directive. Huh? This seems boring

He’s staring at the words he’s just written in blotchy biro on the yellow paper he steals from the factory. They’re bad, he knows it; he’s trying to will them into being good.

sebmojo's story, posted:

Now you need action, Hell yes this story needs action, also I wish the "you" character had been expanded on and made me care about them you’re a whole paragraph in and nothing’s happened. A knock at the door! Harold has been waiting for this, hasn’t he? Yes. He dreads/anticipates it. Who is it?

Harald gets up and takes a deep breath.

You can use that breath to describe the air in his tiny apartment and, with it, Harald. Cabbages, body odour, socks. The air is warm, though, because even under socialism they have central heating.

Harald strides to the door. He pulls it open, feigning the boldness that he hopes to create in himself.

Who is there? Olga’s there, shining and beautiful. I dislike this sentence, Who is there? YOGI is there. You have a man, you need a woman - or not, of course, but go traditional. I like this sentence. I'm liking your "Asides" mentions here. Add something, though, all you can ever do is give the reader what they expect or what they don’t. ]So she has a - deformity? Misapprehension? Miscarriage?

sebmojo's story, posted:

That’s it. She had a child with Harald, it didn’t make it to term. Leave it at that; you might find out why later. He probably wrote her lots of letters.

Harald gives his usual snorting honk of joyW..What? at Olga’s arrival and a muscle moves under her ear as she clenches her beautiful jaw. Only a little, though, keep it subtle.

But not too subtle. Look at the word count. It’s time to ramp up the tension.

She’s clutching a piece of yellow paper.

“The Factory Committee has declared your repurposing of stationery supplies a counter-revolutionary activity. You are to report to the Chairman for reassignment… to the work camps!” she says.

There’s a moment here, and you need to make it land. Okay, so I hope you explain how to make it land

Olga is a good PartyCapitalize? Unsure about this member. She works on the line with Harald, tightening the nuts with a big wrench. ]She has piercing blue eyes, and thews that glisten with sweat in the heat of the shop floor. Those thews are tense with suppressed emotion right now, with words unsaid.
Nope, that landed nowhere

sebmojo's story, posted:

Harald holds out a hand to her. She doesn’t look at it. Instead she hands him the paper (thews! quivering! What are these in parentheses?) and turns on her heel. Harald is left, tongue-tied, on his doorstep.

But you’re the writer Man I would love to see what the writer is thinking instead of being talked to about boring stuff, have Olga say the words in her heart that she can’t say out loud (for fear of spies): “Harald, I don’t love you, but we share a life and a death. Perhaps once there could have been more, but that time has gone. I cannot approve of your crimes, but I believe you are a good man. Good luck.”

Perhaps Harald reads the finality of her unvoiced words in the set of her handsome shoulders as she strides off down the corridor? He’s not stupid, just awkward. Does he slam the door and lean on it, panting with emotions he feels but also cannot voice? Or does he close it gently, as though not wanting to disturb the remaining sweetness of his memories of Olga?

Put them both, you can delete the one you don’t want later.

Trouble is, right now there’s There is, following a plural object? I think this should be there are only two places to go in the world of the story. It’s a linear progression, either back to the paper or onwards to the factory, and both of those are dead ends. All good stories have triangles because a triangle is dynamic. Create one. Neat, I like this advice and the prose on this triangle bit

sebmojo's story, posted:

The phone rings, socialistly- Heh it's still funny! a harsh sharp braying clatter. At first Harald seems not to hear it, but then he jerks into motion and walks stiff legged to pick it up.

It’s Natalya. Of course, it’s Natalya. Natalya, who works at the factory. She’s a friend of Olga and has always looked down on Harald. Or so he thought, but perhaps he was wrong because Natalya is whispering hotly down the line, like she’s about to be discovered. Harald listens, silent, and his eyes go wide.

You can repay the debt you incurred before, peering into poor Olga’s tortured heart, by keeping this conversation secret. That makes two secrets, don’t forget.

All you need to show is Harald putting the phone down, nestling it firmly in the cradle and holding it there while he stares out the small window. Then sitting at the rough white table and picking up his pen, still with that abstracted, exalted expression.

You’re in the flow now, tapping away. There’s an ending ahead and you just have to find it. But the word count is creeping up, so: smash cut! You can do that, it’s an economical and effective way of changing scenes.

***

Harald is in the factory now, dressed in his too-tight jeans and his cleanest shirt, with damp patches at the armpits where he scrubbed at the sweat stains. He’s got a fistful of paper, too, yellow paper folded and re-folded on the long train ride in. The Chairman’s goon Kovalesky is there, looming like he does, lol that's so kovalesky Umm, don't think you meant to keep that in thereand he looks like he wants Harald to come with him right away but Harald holds up his hand. He’s strong, because he has the words he needs. He slides his punch card into the machine, because that’s how it works, and then AND THEN WHAT? And then- Smash cut? Did you just explain what you were going to do a few sentences above? There are better ways to do smash cuts!

***

He’s in the Chairman’s office. The Chairman is an older man with greying sideburns, trimmed goatee and beaky nose, looking up like he’s not sure why Harald is there. He’s tapping away on a keyboard of some kind but Harald doesn’t care because he has unfolded the paper and he’s reading it out loud.

***

You look up at the noise because it’s really late and the house is locked, but the door just opened. Holy poo poo there’s a man there, overweight, little watery eyes. His jeans are too tight. He’s got a wodge of folded and re-folded yellow paper in his hand, and he’s reading it out loud. Why is there someone in your house.

Harald’s voice is nasal but his words are clear for all the indeterminately foreign accent. It’s a statement of grievance. He’s blaming you for himself, his too-tight jeans, his awkwardness, his ex-girlfriend’s miscarriage. He’s blaming you for the sweatstains in his cleanest shirt. It goes on and on, and there’s a certain rhythm and eloquence to it, you find yourself nodding along. Kid’s got talent.

But that doesn’t help you right now because he’s edging closer and he’s surprisingly intimidating in person. You should have written him even nerdier, idiot, buffoon.

sebmojo's story, posted:

Quick. Natalya. That’s the only secret left. She comes rushing in to the Factory chairman’s office, waving a statement. Behind her is Kovalesky, looking sheepish. This needs to end now, Natalya, explain how this is all a huge--

“The People’s Committee has spoken! The Chairman is declared to be an agitator, besmirching the name of Harald Wiggesmeyer for his own counter-revolutionary purposes!”

She slaps the statement down on your desk, and you gape at it. You read “... how his lascivious designs upon Comrade Olga Muresev led the Chairman to intercept Comrade Harald's correspondence and promulgate a false rumour that he...”

Then there are hard hands on your collar and the belt of your pants, and Kovalesky is lifting you up to toss you out the window. Of your own house. Your own loving window.

Behind your back you hear Harald dictating the terms of himself and Olga in the story from now on. This is ridiculous. This won’t do at all.

You hit ctrl-A, and backspace.

sebmojo's story, posted:

Then you blink scratchy eyes and look at the empty screen, again.

Exmond posted:

Moby Dick 2: A Whale of A Tale
1080 words

I had barely finished saying the title when the decrepit old man hurled the book at me.

“Tag line: You orca se-” The five-hundred page classic slammed into my face and I rocked back on my chair. A thick thud reverberated through the coffee shop as the book landed onto the floor. The girl curled up on the sofa continued reading Moby Dick, the cashier continued to dole out change and the hipsters continued to talk politics. Nobody noticed. It’s not like any of them could see us, let alone hear us.

Exmond posted:

“Hold on, Moby Dick 2: A Whale of A Tale Is just a temporary title, we can rework it in post,” I explained as I fixed up my business casual suit.

He opened his hand and another copy of the classic materialized into it. He stared up at me with his sunken eyes and said, “No.”

Exmond posted:

Alright, take a deep breath girl, I told myself, you managed to convince Les Misérables to get a makeover, you can convince this stubborn whale.

“Listen, Moby Dick is a great work. Not every manifestation I encounter can say they came from such an esteemed classic.” I snapped my fingers at him. “But it’s the turn of the century. Sequels, movies those are the new hotness. Books ain’t selling, and if it ain’t selling, people ain’t reading them.” Good point about Libraries and Ebooks

As if to spite me, the girl next to us turned the page on her book and the old man took a deep breath, gaining renewed vigor. His wrinkles smoothed out and his disheveled hair grew back. He rose from his chair and stared at me with contempt.

“Much like Ahab’s path, this path leads to destruction. I will not help you create this,” He searched for the right word, “abomination.”

Exmond posted:

“It’s called a sequel, and do you know how much a movie increases readership? Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter baby! That was me.”

I paused as a flicker of jealousy ran across his face. Everyone wants to be the next Harry Potter.

Seeing my chance I continued, “And partnership is essential. We need your artistic vision to help us make this a franchise. John Carter, Lone Ranger? All reboots done without the blessing of their manifestations and all box-office bombs. This deal is whale worth it.“

Exmond posted:

An awkward silence fell over us. Maybe that last pun was too much. The old man looked out at the coffee shop, noticing how few people were reading. Then he looked at the girl, who was fascinated by Moby Dick and smiling. He looked at her as if she was a child taking her first steps on an amazing journey. He looked back at me and shook his head.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Fine, we can play hardball I thought. I let the energy from money changing hands flow through me, I let harsh decisions based off of sales numbers in and I let simple harsh corporate truths wash over me. I was energized, I was reborn, I was Capitalism made manifest; A bad bitch in a suit who was gonna make this sale.

Exmond posted:

I pointed at the girl who was reading Moby Dick. “You see her, you know what will interest her more than your tale?” I snapped my fingers and the girl’s cell phone vibrated. I returned his glare and said, “Materialistic wealth, clothes and the latest fad. All of those things are more interesting than your book.”

The girl looked down at her cell phone, excitement in her eyes, and started to walk out of the coffee shop, the Moby Dick book left forgotten on the sofa. As the old man in front of me grew a little older I smiled.

"See, I know what the kids want. And they don’t want thou or what you’re offering. They want instant gratification and instant appreciation baby!. All it took was a sale at Abercrombie & Fitch to make her forget about you.” I motioned at the forgotten book.

The old man’s knees were shaking and he slumped back into the chair. He looked forlornly at the abandoned book, and then back at me, fear in his eyes. I wondered if ideas made manifest had balls, because if they did I had his in my hands. It was time to squeeze.

“Every time money changes hands, I’m there. Every time someone wants something, I provide it, for a price. I don’t just control the world, I am the loving world. Capitalism ho!”. I produced a very generous contract and laid it out on the table.

The old man looked at the contract and licked his lips. “You can make me relevant again?”

“You’re already relevant, I’m going to make you famous,” I said, buttering him up. “If you sign this, I’ll make you bigger than Harry Potter!”

The old man nodded. Everyone wants to be bigger than Harry Potter.

Exmond posted:

“So, I'm thinking maybe a reboot before the sequel. Reboots are all the rage right now. We amp up the Ishmael and Queequeg homo-eroticism. People love that . Don’t make Queequeg a cannibal though, that’s not exactly kosher.”

I was just thinking which teenage boy toy we could get to play Queequeg when the girl from before waltzed right in and ruined everything. She looked around, rushed to the sofa and grabbed her Moby Dick book. The old man looked up at her, like she was an oasis in a desert. My jaw dropped to the floor as she let out a sigh - a sigh of relief - and put the book into her purse.

The old man looked at me, a twinkle in his eye, and shredRight, teeeechnically in dialogue shred can be past tense, but yes this should be shredded the contract. His boisterous laughter followed me all the way out of the coffee shop. I was fuming, I was furious, but I wasn’t done. I grabbed my cell phone and dialedAmerica! my secretary.

Exmond posted:

“Hey, Darlene. Moby Dick didn’t pan out. “

I paused as Darlene gave me fake platitudes. She was well worth the money I paid her.

“Yeah tell Mr Sutherland he won’t be able to play Ahab. Hey, give me Pride and Prejudice’s location.”

Darlene took a moment and gave me an address.

“Get me a ticket to Hampshire then. What am I going to do? Offer a reboot deal, maybe add some zombies, everyone loves zombies!”

Exmond posted:

Umm, I know some AAA people in New Zealand if you want someone to talk to you Sebmojo.

Crain posted:

You mean AA. As in Alcoholics Anonymous.

AAA is the car service.

steeltoedsneakers posted:

Well, this is confusing: https://aa.co.nz

Crain posted:

Goddammit NZ, just flipping the script like that.

sebmojo posted:

Well, I guess it comes down to beefsupreme's tiebreaker judgment to bring this delightfully retarded episode of tdome history to a close

But while we wait, SITTINGHERE you cutprice svengali, you moustache-twirling manipulator, you eminence sleaze! This whole dumb fight is your fault, so it's time to come out from behind the curtain.

Get on down here, and put up your puny word fists. This is a double team, exmond and me against you.

Exmond posted:

Pfft, getting disqualified due to Sebmojo editing my post.

Im IN!

Sitting Here posted:

Antivehicular posted:

Interprompt: "Sing, O Muse, of rear end frog"

200 words

Thranguy posted:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=riH5EsGcmTw

Exmond posted:

I believe I have the better start sir

Sebmojo posted:

While there are a few areas this could be tweaked or trimmed this is a solid, if cliche, idea (what if characters in stories were real!) executed with verve and precision.

Chairchucker posted:

fjgj imo

Unfunny Poster posted:

In less than a month I've jumped to one of the all time losingest TD contributors.

Go me?

Unfunny Poster posted:

Yeah I misread the stats page. Still pretty abyssmal performance so far.

Unfunny Poster posted:

Yeah I misread the stats page. Still pretty abyssmal performance so far.

Exmond posted:

We would hate to see you leave

Kaishai posted:

A prompt will have to wait until I'm home from work, more's the pity. Keep yourselves busy until then with posterior amphibians or whatever.

Chili posted:

What the hell kind of nonsense is this now?

Sitting Here posted:

shut up and rear end your newts

Kaishai posted:

It's not great, but do you see the HM that Jay W. Friks just earned? His start was pretty damned rough--and he largely earned his stats, as you've largely earned yours based on the three entries I've read so far. Now he's gotten HMs in two consecutive weeks. How long it might be before you do the same, I don't know, but each of your stories I read was a bit better than the last. Persistence is the key to improvement. Stick with writing and let us all see the day when you shine.

Thank you, judges! A prompt will have to wait until I'm home from work, more's the pity. Keep yourselves busy until then with posterior amphibians or whatever.