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sebmojo posted:Mariah Cocksucking Carey Chairchucker posted:I had better like the way she is portrayed. 
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Dec 30, 2012 13:56
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Four in the morning. I pick the best times to edit. Lighthouse (545 words) In the twenty-three years I have known him, never once has my father permitted me to touch his face. No, no. That’s a lie. Sorry, yes. I’m sure of it. I just don’t remember. When I was small I am sure he permitted it. A small child so alone and curious. It was expected then. Not now that I was older. It was then that he took exception to it. He understood, I am sure, but did not like to be reminded. I understood, of course, yet could not help myself but to envy the child who had so intimately known his father’s face. His father who now lived faceless. Nevertheless he was my father, I his son, and today his birthday. It was Claudia who greeted us. My sister, that fascist songbird. A sweet-natured girl with venomous teeth. Her gentle cruelty is unmistakable. I fear for her husband sometimes. Her future one, I mean. The current model, more occasionally. Wet and folded, I smiled and extended my umbrella into the darkness where it was taken from me and vanished into the void. For a moment I stood adrift until Audrey pulled me back into the intimacy of close contact. I introduced her. Audrey, like Audrey Hepburn. A charming girl I’d met in the city just this year. Mixed Japanese, or so I was told. I decided not to embellish. I’d never seen one, after all. In the wake of our welcome, the tipper-tap of the rain resumed its typewriter concert on the shingles of the roof. It stood muffled now and uncertain, but enough for Caroline to strike. Under temperate conditions I'd have caught her, but masked in rain the girl moved invisible. I felt her hands at my shoulders as she yanked me down to her level. Her laugh was mine. I’m sure she is beautiful. I combed her hair and clasped her face. There was a mark on her cheek. It shouldn’t have worried me but it did. Caroline will be Caroline. “Stirring up some trouble I see.” “Only a little.” “Mother’d probably prefer that you didn’t.” I felt the sway of her face between my palms. She disagreed. “Mom doesn’t understand anything.” Well that was certainly true enough. I smiled and stood and returned to the world of adults. Mother was waiting apparently. And father with her. Claudia took Audrey. She would show her around. Left by the door, I shucked off my shoes to reacquaint myself with my preferred method of navigation. Beyond the callous of the wood-furnished entry rolled the endless shag of the hallway carpet. Mother and father were in the living room, whose soft and simple carpet I could never forget. Mother herself didn’t talk much these days. Not that she’d talked much then either. But she’d let me touch her face, and that was enough. I counted more wrinkles this year, a number I decided I would keep to myself. Even so she smiled. I quarter turned to father. I always quartered turned to father. Always a quarter turn and always to the right. I offered my hand to the darkness. In turn the darkness enveloped me. A warm embrace from an uncomfortable sweater. “Good to see you Marco.” “Happy birthday papa.”
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Dec 30, 2012 13:59
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sebmojo posted:vvv Noah, no problem with me. Can't noone stop you posting, blood. A truel? Man, Thunderdome 2012 will end with a bang. Anyway, my submission, 932 words. Mr. Lestrade’s Perfect Bland Art Let me paint a picture of Mayenne Lestrade. He was a genius, capable of creating masterpieces in paintings, music and writing. He was hardworking, not stopping for one second to work on his art. Typewriters, post-it notes and melodicas litter his house, for him to experiment on something new as he wandered the house. Earphones constantly stuck to his head and played his own music at him. He was a recluse, with his ‘editor’ being the only connection to the world. I’m his new ‘editor’, temporarily replacing his old editor who was struck with appendicitis. My main job was to collect all those post-it notes where Mr. Lestrade did his sketches, the typewriter papers where he did his drafts and the recording of his melodica meddling. I put those assortments of miscellaneous creativity into the ‘main table’, where he would combine them into one almost-perfect work. Mr. Lestrade also didn’t care about his own rewards. All the medals and certificates he’d gained over his long career he hid on the storage, inside poorly arranged cardboard boxes. Perhaps the weirdest thing about Mr. Lestrade is his love of bland things. His walls were dull white, his furniture was only wooden tables and chairs and there were no television, radios, air conditioner or even coaches. The ‘main table’, itself a simple wooden table with drawing utensils and a computer, was located in a windowless room. This love of bland things extended to food as well. He was content with eating only white rice (while working), and would request no spices to cooked meats, not even salt and pepper. He threw it all away when it’s time to perfect his work, however. Whenever he was on the final stages of his creation, the ‘main table’ would contain numerous cans, of soft drinks, orange juices and coffee. As he wrote (or painted or recorded) his work, he would voraciously drink and eat. He would also throw super sweet or super sour candies into his mouth, which he would then chew with gusto. As he worked harder, he would drink and eat harder. This was an intense few hours as I ran between the refrigerator and the ‘main table’ to resupply the drinks and candies. After he finished his work, he would jump out from his chair and ran outside of the house, seemingly to catch some fresh air. All in all, exactly what his old editor told me would happen. However, unlike him, I broke that ritual. I hadn’t restocked enough sweets and drinks. Upon finding nothing more to consume, Mr. Lestrade’s eyes widened. He began to spit and let his tongue out. He then coughed. He looked at the back of his palm and began licking it. He then deleted his work. If it were a painting, he would murder the canvas. If it were music, he would corrupt it with white noise. If it were a piece of writing, he would drown the manuscript in correction fluid. In a final act of befuddling eccentricity, he then smiled at his destroyed artwork and shrugged. “At least the taste’s gone,” he said. He looked at me and removed his earphones. “I’m not going to hate you, but please make sure this doesn’t happen again.” Few days after that, my temporary stint as Mr. Lestrade’s ‘editor’ ended. Not content with leaving thing as they were, I asked Mr. Lestrade, “Why did you do…what you do?” Even though he didn’t remove his earphones, he could still hear me. “Because I like money.” “No, I mean, why did you behave like that on the main table? Drinking all those sweet things?” “Wait, didn’t Lokos tell you anything?” “Since I’m hired on an emergency, all I could get was this short message regarding your unusual behaviours.” “You’ve been working here for three months and you didn’t find it weird enough to ask sooner?” He said as he sketched a wardrobe on one post-it note. “It’s a…weird…condition I have. For me, everything had a taste.” “Everything?” “Yes. This is how I can understand you even though there is loud music blaring in my ears. Your sentences had a certain taste that is distinguishable – due to how simple it is – to my music.” “What do my sentences taste like?” I asked. “Like a mint-candy coated with spit,” he said. “I’m not offending you. I couldn’t control the relationship between the actual object and the taste. My song taste like slightly moldy bread inside a menthol, for example.” “Is that why you are satisfied with only white rice? Because you have enough taste?” He nodded. “It is rather overwhelming. This post-it note by its own contains two tastes: its appearance and colour. Combine that with the taste of holding a pen and looking at it. Add to that the taste of sketching. Further, the taste of looking at the sketch is also different. Thus the simple act of sketching something became a festival of odd sensations.” “Then why do you drink sweet drinks?” Mr. Lestrade smiled slightly. “See, when everything came together, all the myriad tastes ceased to be distinct; they became one taste. And that taste is absolute blandness.” “What?” “A perfect art for me tastes bland. So bland, in fact, that I couldn’t stand it. Imagine chewing on a crumpling nugget of dust. I need some other taste.” “So you don’t feel good making your work?” “Not at all. The process of making it at least feels unique. Once it’s finished, it became harmful to me.” “So why keep doing it?” “I told you. For money.”
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Dec 30, 2012 15:38
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Nes Gadol Hayah Sham, 1000 words I always sat in the corner of the room every Hanukkah, watching the children play with whatever cheap dreidel they bought from the market. The children knew the significance of the dreidel. Nes Gadol Hayah Sham, a great miracle happened here. What they never notice is the meaning of the game. Nobody can influence a dreidel once it begins to spin. None except for God. And he has built many lessons into that small toy. Alan spun the top, and, after clattering on the wood floor, cam to rest on the נ, the nun. Disappointed, he handed the dreidel to the next player. Life is often about waiting. I had been waiting in a train station from Germany to France. The chill of the winter air made everyone move in a hustle. The waiting rooms were so filled with smoke that some of the inhabitants had to duck out of the room to get a breath of fresh air. I was sitting outside, facing the train tracks, shivering so hard the rusty nuts that secured the bench to the concrete floor hummed from my shivering. Slowly, my train rolled up to the station, and I was the first in the queue. I flashed my ticket and pulled my luggage with me into the car. Behind me was a small woman. She was struggling to place her luggage onto the train, and I offered my assistance to her. She gladly accepted it, and we sat in the same booth. She, like me, was Jewish and looking for a new life, and had barely scrounged up the bucketful of marks it took to secure a train from Germany to France. I showed her the inside of the pillowcase I had brought with me. It was lined with million mark bills. We both laughed, glad to get away from at least some of our troubles. Elizabeth spun the top and it landed with a clack on the ה, the Hei. She modestly took half the pot, and handed the dreidel to Alan. It is the small things in life that often matter. The few years that had passed since Rebecca and I rode the train together were filled with many nice small surprises. I found a job quickly, and Rebecca made her wages from doing laundry. We found a nice flat in Paris, and filled it with many things over the years. We were married and she became quick with child. God had provided. It was no life of luxury, but it was an honest life. Ruth spun the dreidel, and it landed on the ש, the shin. She placed one coin into the pot, unnknowing if she will ever see that coin in her possession again. Sometimes one just has to trust in God, and that He has a plan for us. The Gimel tells us that God gives to those who serve him. It was in 1939 that we first thought of leaving France. Europe was becoming unsafe, and Rebecca's family sent her many mails regarding the nature of America. Come over, they said, to the land of plenty, where none are hungry and everyone has work. We pulled our life savings together, and after hearing of Germany's success to the East, we decided, in April of 1940, to leave for America. We would have very little money when we got there, and no savings. We would have no job, no contacts, and no knowledge of the land. As the boat slipped away from the dock, I read a letter from my close friend in Germany. He wished us the best luck in America, and he regretted not being there to send us off. It was the last letter I had ever received from him. Noah spun the top emphatically and it bounced a few times before landing on the ג, the gimel. He greedily took every chocolate coin from the pot. We had almost made it to America, and were submitting to the customs checks that would let us into the country when a finely dressed man, no older than myself, called to the captain and explained that “the papers weren't in order” and that we might have to turn back for France. We were all worried. We had heard over the radio that the war had begun in earnest in France and that the Nazis had broken through the Marginot line with no effort. We waited for days on the boat, silently praying for deliverance from the battleground of Europe. There was very little to do while we were waiting on the boat, so the eight or nine Jewish people on the boat spun the little clay dreidel we had found in Rebecca's suitcase, playing with marks and francs and dollars. Over those eight days, I learned the most curious thing about the dreidel: no matter how much one of us lost on one day, we would always get the money back. In the end, we all had the same amount of money as we had when we begun. Finally, on the eighth day, the customs officer allowed us in. I still remember that some of the other immigrants ran to the officer and hugged him so tightly that the other immigration officers had to pull them off. My family often wonders how I can't hear anything less than a shout but can hear the sound of a dreidel from a thousand miles away. I only reply that it is the will of God that I have such a blessing. Our lives are all little coin pots in an eternal game of dreidel, being dealt each hand by God. Many times, life seems as though it is nuns and shins, and that you'll never see those coins you sunk into the pot again. But during those times, I always looked at the whole dreidel, at Nes Gadol Hayah Poh, at a great miracle happened here, and I can't help but agree.
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Dec 30, 2012 15:49
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Benagain, Peel, and Sitting Here have just under 20 minutes to submit. Oh boy, it is exciting. I'm waiting a few minutes and then I'm handing out flash rules.
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Dec 30, 2012 16:44
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Edge (340) Edge my foot forward. An edge. Edge it back. “Keep going, grandad! Unless you want us to push you.” Find the edge and explore sideways, sideways, there’s another edge. A way forward. How far does it go? Hold my arms out and shuffle feet onto the naked girder, one behind the other. Inch by inch, out into void. “Man, he’s doing it!” The world falls away and there is only the beam. Six inches wide, about. My mind screams to remove the blindfold but I can’t. Those three boys are there. Even together they are surely not older than me but that makes them young and strong. Another step. The city is roaring in the distance. When I could see the other side, it didn’t seem so far. Maybe ten feet? Maybe fifteen? I can't remember but it wasn't so far. Keep calm. But it is so far. My heart thunders. The other side is distant, rushing away at the speed of falling. There is no other side. The beam will end before my feet and I will tumble. “Remember grandad, way out’s over there. Keep going!” Wind. Wind grips me and shakes me, freezing and lacerating, and the boys whoop and holler. I flicker in the wind and the beam is light like cloud and I swing but suck the wind in and lean into it and it passes and I am still on the endless beam, waiting for the end. And then my foot brishes an edge and the world opens out before it and it is vast and sweet and safe. I grip the concrete with my hands and knees and drink the cool air in gulp after gulp. The boys laugh and cheer sick cheers but they do not come for me. As I tear the blindfold from my face I see them leaving and I see the bright sun on the broken concrete and I see just how short it was, just a few feet. A few feet between the edges of the world.
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Dec 30, 2012 16:44
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10 minutes remain! Unfortunately I was just made aware that I have a massive client meeting tomorrow morning (on my leave  ) and I can only start reading entries much later. I'm leaving it to Chairchucker to deal out flash rules if you don't make the deadline.
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Dec 30, 2012 16:54
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Time is up. Benagain, Sitting Here, there is perhaps a small chance of redemption, with these extension flash rules! The next submission must have at least three puns. Good ones. And no footnotes. The submission after that must have exactly zero puns, and must have footnotes with a word count (separate to that of the main body) with a minimum of 20 words, maximum of 200. Oh boy. Puns and footnotes are the best. I am looking forward to these submissions ever so much. EDIT: OK I am going to bed now, and when I wake up there will be either two more stories in this thread, or some people will have brought shame upon their families. Either way.
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Dec 30, 2012 17:05
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twinkle cave posted:for that i challenge you to a flash brawl. 4 stories in 4 days. 700-1000 words each. you may choose the start date of your demise, or you can use Ph.D Bohner's random algorithm. any story that reeks of "i just slapped it down like a bitch whore journal entry" is automatic disqualification. in otherwords BME and reasonable quality. you may choose the judge, or just take your shame now and back away from this challenge only fit for those who had parents with kids that lived. bring it, son. Let's start on the 2nd. I'll be getting home from vacation and I can write stories at work on the 3rd and 4th. sebmojo is obviously the ideal judge.
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Dec 30, 2012 19:03
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Carnival Melange 644 words When I ran my hands through his beard I heard rain, and I loved him for it. I loved him for many things but that was the touchstone I kept coming back to. My own personal rainmaker, I'd call him, and he'd laugh and I'd see stars. We'd met at the carnival. I'd been a tattooed, bearded lady until the barker found a non-tattooed bearded lady who could bite the tops off of bottles. So I shaved my face every morning, in order to heighten the appeal of the tattoos. The razor sliding over my face sounded like a very long, drawn out violin string and I'd hum along to it. Got to the point that my roommate would hum along too without even realizing she was doing it, accompanying something she couldn't hear. He was a lion tamer, which he always joked was basically just letting the lion do what it felt like and taking credit for it afterward. He had a few books on philosophy which he would read out loud to the lion as it sat apathetically in the cage, trying to explain the structure of the universe and the laws of ethics to it. He always said that he was testing it to see if it could understand its situation. He always claimed to like me better with a bit of stubble on my face, and whenever I'd call him a liar he'd get very serious and make his voice profound and declaim that beards were the outward signs of God's blessing upon a person and that to not display them was to spurn God, and I'd laugh and kiss him to shut him up and his body moving against mine sounded like trumpets in the distance. He'd get lost in my tattoos, tracing them with his finger, which sounded a little like jazz if he did it fast enough. The USS Friend on my shoulder, the camel on my toe. I'd gotten the entire script of Leviticus 19:28 done on my leg, my first tattoo, a stupid act of rebellion at the time but it led me to him and so how could it be anything but precious now? I don't know what he saw in the cage that day. We weren't even doing a show, just on the road from one town to the next and he was sitting in the back with the lion, reading to it as usual, and I was leaning against him watching the world pass by out the back. Occasionally he'd run his fingers through my hair, which I'd told him sounded like bells once, and he'd always make a point to try and do it in time to make a sort of song for me. Then he stopped, and I looked up and he was staring into the cage, staring at the lion and the lion was staring right back at him and I swear to you that they were talking somehow, reaching out across species and language and time to understand each other. He looked like he'd found God in that moment, and the lion looked as if it was God. I was frozen as he closed the book and moved towards the cage, frozen as he took out the key, frozen as he unlocked the door and threw it wide. They stared at each other some more, and then the lion made one giant swipe of its claw and bounded out the open back of the truck and was gone. It never even looked at me. I unfroze, went to him, lying there on the floor. His chest torn, his face bloody, he clutched at the book he was reading with one hand and grabbed my arm with the other, a sad little funeral note in the distance. “Live fast, die Jung,” he gasped out, and breathed his last.
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Dec 30, 2012 19:08
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gently caress everything. I had just finished, refreshed the thread to make sure Benagin hadn't posted and of course there you are with your loving little cartoony blue hair thing avatar, you gently caress. No hard feelings though. Also sorry Charichucker, no footnotes for you. There's just no way. Also also I've been reading way too many demisexual/transfat/transethnic/otherkin blogs and tumblrs. The abyss finally stared back at me. Puntitled 477 words It was the night after Christmas, and Whitney and Angie were sitting in the only diner in town open late on a Sunday. "I can't believe you don't do Kwanzaa," Whitney said, forgetting the bit of cherry pie halfway to her mouth. "If people like me had a holiday, I'd quit Christmas." Angie opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, then opened it again just a bit to let out a neutral "Oh?" "Not everyone's differences are on the outside. Some people are minorities on the inside." Whitney put a finger to her temple. "You're gonna tell me you're some kind of rear end-backward black lady in a snowflake costume?" Whitney ignored the sarcasm, giving Angie a beatific smile. "I never told you because I don't like to make a big deal of it, but I have sinusthesia." Angie stared blankly across the table. "I--I don't...Sinus problems aren’t really the same thing..." "No, no, no!" Whitney's eyes were wide. "Sinusthesia. Sinusthesia. It's a neurological condition where I see sounds and smell colors and taste feelings. It's really distracting, you know?" Silence stretched between the two friends. "You mean synesthesia?" Angie asked at length. "What, you spend too much time hanging out with Timothy Leary and his friend Lucy?" Whitney crossed her arms and scowled. "I don't have any alter egos. Synesthesia is not the same as dissociative identity disorder. I know that you know better than that. Anyway, I'm just saying that it would be nice if sinusthetes had a day to come together to celebrate our uniqueness and give each other strength for when things get hard." "Uh huh. And did your therapist diagnose you with this or something?" Angie asked, then closed her mouth again before anything else could escape. At that, Whitney scowled, incredulous. "You didn't need a doctor to diagnose you as African-American. I'm so tired of society only seeing what's on the outside." She rested her chin on her hands and pouted, staring out the window at the street right out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. "I just thought you'd want to observe the day of Umoja together since you don't have other people to celebrate with, and I don't have a holiday at all." "White--I mean Whitney, Kwanzaa isn't about feeling unique or whatever. It's about having a connection to a culture and history that we wouldn't otherwise get to experience because we’re in WASP land." "What do wasps have to do with African heritage?" Whitney perked up, looking almost interested. Angie rubbed the bridge of her nose. "It means--you know what, gently caress it. Kwanzaa's cancelled. I declare tonight Synexmas. How do we celebrate?" Whitney sat up straight. "Well first thing," she said, her voice sweet as the cherries on her pie as she pulled out her smartphone. "We'll have to invite friends. You'll love my friend Yuki, he's transethnic!"
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Dec 30, 2012 19:50
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Seriously Don't click on this thread, I lost almost a whole workday  ing at my computer
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Dec 30, 2012 20:08
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then don't post it if we shouldn't look at it good job dumbass
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Dec 30, 2012 20:13
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:then don't post it if we shouldn't look at it wow erik thats rude no need for that kind of talk this isn't fyad jeez twinkle btw another benefit of e-cigs is that you can smoke them inside a public place, at least in NY
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Dec 30, 2012 22:09
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Week XXI critFell Fire posted:671 words Good use of prompt. With the exception of a little overuse of adverbs, this story is well done. Always looking for original language without slipping into idiocy is a challenge. A good job was done here. There was much tactile to draw us in. The ending is clear. We were shown not told. I got the entire picture through their exchanges and physical circumstance. Status: Still standing proudly in the dome, ready for anything. Though this story didn't use all of its weapons, leaving 300+ words on the table, this is an example where more may have been less... unlike many of the other sad fucks in the dome this week.
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Dec 30, 2012 22:20
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Martello posted:bring it, son.  THUNDERBRAWL - TWO GOONS ENTER, ONE GOON LEAVESMartello and twinkle cave in a mano e mano struggle to the PAIN. The loser of the Thunderbrawl will get a custom title from me displaying their shame. They will also be obliged to refer to the victor as THE HUMONGOUS. Noah and anyone else can enter, and will be judged, but only Martello and twinkle cave face the ultimate penalty. Three stories because gently caress ties. Each due at 2400 hours EST, on the 2nd, 3rd and 4th of January 2013. Word limit: 1000 words or under. First prompt: DUEL IN THE SUN  Constraint: No male characters may speak. The second and third prompts will be announced when the previous story is due.
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Dec 30, 2012 22:35
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TWINKLE CAVE REVIEWMartello posted:chips beer babies shirts blood Good title, though i don't know why "shirt" was thrown in. You've cleanly captured the fact that rear end kicking and loving thus babies go together which is a fundamental truth of human existence. A qualm though: The moment the dude calls him a human being the second time, that's when i personally shove a foot strait in the dudes face while he's still sitting down and re-arrange the entire house with his body. That being said, ok, Max is a calculating kind of brutal, takes his time, enjoys the circumstance. Maybe that works. But, the crux of the issue here, is that the baby isn't needed. If someone calls one a human being in this dick dropping manner they got an rear end beating coming anyway, so it confuses the motivations a bit. Either he beats his rear end for one or the other. If Max where the aggressor, and "rangy guy" responds with "human being", then that sets him up to get his rear end beat with overt good reason all around, then that i get (and the added complexity of who really started the goddamn fight). Plus, where exactly is this "human being" coming from. Other than tension of the card game, the motivation for "human being" seems slim. He just decides, "human being". The word "human being" does play into the potential lack of manhood displayed from his non-baby making status, which as a reader with a possibly unreliable narrator, could mean that it's actually he that is infertile. For the sake of brevity, I cut short this dissertation of "human being" and violence and babies, but several pages could easily be written. This story has the makings of a true winner. The card scene is exceedingly sharp and the tone of the characters is convincing. Bonus points for using all your words. Status: Combatant charges forward to spread his seed.
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Dec 30, 2012 23:19
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Kk well in my fanfiction Captain Haddock gets drunk and verbally abuses the Thompsons. If you take issue with that, I would direct you to the texts below. What is the one rule of the 'dome? My favorite part is the fart-soul. As a piece with creative language, provocative ideas, and originality it exceeds with great merit. It also isn't a story (BME), uses a paltry 345 words which you were to ashamed to mention, and ends on a faint frail whimper of "i don't know what the gently caress to do with this". As a love letter to oddity, I champion it, but in the dome it must be vanquished as the imaginative journal entry it is. Statues: Marooned on a drunken boat to slowly die with the sea pouring beautiful words into the ears of your last moments
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Dec 30, 2012 23:38
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TWINKLE CAVE CRIT -lost formatting of Fanky's italics cause doing my crits in word and pasting them over cause gently caress doing this poo poo inside SA box. Fanky Malloons posted:Autopilot 962 words Great story. The fact that you took it on yourself to write such a compact moment with nothing to grip onto other than the motions and feelings of being in the bathroom is commendable. You use rich language to get this done. This is a non-trival thing to pull off. Also that you straight up used a "get inside of the head of an Oliver Sacks type" gave you the strongest placement for conforming to the prompt. I didn't think anyone would do it. You should exploit the duchampiness of the first paragraph to give the story even more richness and add another "dimension". The feelings toward the husband(a guess) are not worth a bent penny, so do something more with that, or change it someone else without getting too far out of line from the solid that is here. Using a richer integration between her condition and his exchange seems appropriate. You do point out that she can't control her volume but another nudge there would be better. Consider reading dance sections from "The Body Artist" by DeLillo for more primer on showing a body in motion if you'd like to see how far you can push this story. Status: Lives with masterful control on the battlefield.
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Dec 31, 2012 00:18
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twinkle cave posted:It also isn't a story (BME),
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Dec 31, 2012 00:32
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Ya'll are a bunch of goofy fuckers. I'm glad we have this thread.
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Dec 31, 2012 00:35
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Noah posted:Silence is Golden Spoon Light, witty, humorous. A few good insights. Moment in the life of etc. I wasn't as rapt by this as the similar story by Franky, but I didn't find much fault with it. It just wasn't amazing or anything. There's probably ways to make this either more humorous or more plotty or both. Needs a few more ingredients. Commendable effort but... Status: Death by incomplete whimsy.
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Dec 31, 2012 00:43
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:all excellent points except this- I'm just following orders here: Chairchucker asked me to write a diss track. That's how I interpreted my bonus prompt, anyway. Also I don't know what Biomedical Engineering has to do with this. hahaha... yes, BME = beginning, middle, end. not always necessary once you're a master, but for us lowlings i believe it is the most advisable path. otherwise your just loving about and calling it a story 99 times out of 10. I don't always get the flash rules in mind when i read these, cause tracking down all the flash rules is a bitch. when people post them at the head of their story, that helps (not sure if you did, maybe i just missed it).
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Dec 31, 2012 00:52
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I was hoping that it apparent that her dad was the one who made her so sick. I had some extra room for words, I probably should have used a little more buffer.
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Dec 31, 2012 00:58
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Martello posted:wow erik thats rude Thanks big guy, I thought my lunch money was history
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Dec 31, 2012 01:11
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TWINKLE CAVE CRITBeezle Bug posted:Breeze Although you are capable of stringing sentences together that indicate an intelligent being and even decent trade writer unlike some others, next time just pour molten metal in my eye sockets. Status: Dead and buried in the same place Kyle and Maja double suicided into their own graves for what is actually eternity.
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Dec 31, 2012 01:41
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I think I feel like judging you all next week and participating. I think I got a good idea.
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Dec 31, 2012 01:41
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twinkle cave posted:TWINKLE CAVE CRIT Yeah this kinda writing really is not my thing and like the last guy it was Flash Rule, but these are all really good points. Even if I suck at writing this kind of stuff the only way I can stop doing that is putting it out here and scraping its entrails off the floor when y'all are done. The lines you really hated, by the way, are actually not my own and are based on suggestions from a friend I had give it a once-over, so I guess I'd just better not do that. Thanks man!
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Dec 31, 2012 01:50
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Beezle Bug posted:Yeah this kinda writing really is not my thing and like the last guy it was Flash Rule, but these are all really good points. Even if I suck at writing this kind of stuff the only way I can stop doing that is putting it out here and scraping its entrails off the floor when y'all are done. The lines you really hated, by the way, are actually not my own and are based on suggestions from a friend I had give it a once-over, so I guess I'd just better not do that. Thanks man! You take it like a true TD'r. Next time put the flash rule in the header and I'll know to look at it differently... i wondered about that. That friends advice = your downfall.
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Dec 31, 2012 01:53
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HiddenGecko is also coming back as a judge for next week. So it'll be me, him, and the winner. There's another rule that I need to tell you. Our good new buddy, twinkle cave, has informed me that he enjoys critting our poo poo. From now on, if you have a personal or all inclusive flash rule or special prompt, please include it at the top of your post. He's doing the Lord's work, and I invite anyone else who would step up to cleanse their souls to do the same. I now open the floor to anyone who has suggestions on how to made the Thunderdome a more productive place for everyone. What do you like, what do you hate, and what would you like your humble servants, the triumvirate, to do for you? Don't be shy.
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Dec 31, 2012 02:28
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TWINKLE CAVE CRITsebmojo posted:the girl who saw the music Written with gusto and charm. But what the gently caress happened at the end. I was aware of the Maria Carey flash rule... was there some other strobing/guiding light? Mariah prompt handled classy. In the end I didn't know if she was the real flesh of an imaginary muse, maria carey's actual witch-doctor song writer that stares into space and feeds her all her hits and thus leaving the MC missing out on the opportunity of a life time to emulate mariah and become a majestic crooner himself, or just a flash in the pan hot sex weirdo chick that got away. Status: Death. Loquacious barbarian finds himself confused in the arena. Not knowing which way to turn he is stabbed from all sides.
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Dec 31, 2012 02:33
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Well all contestants have entered in some form or other, even though some may still have brought shame upon their families, but I guess that means eventually we judges can confer and make a decision about which of you is most and least shameful. Oorah.
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Dec 31, 2012 02:40
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twinkle cave posted:TWINKLE CAVE CRIT DEEEEAAATTHHHH. My intent was she was a nice girl who could see music, viz the title. Their relationship was going south, she saw it in the tune he was humming, and got out first. Nothing more than that. Flash rule was just to have Mariah Carey in there, IIRC. I think there's a few missing paras I could have put in there since that didn't come across. Good crits, I'm going to enjoy applying the flensing knives to you and soldier boy, should be a fun fight.
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Dec 31, 2012 02:53
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dromer posted:Nes Gadol Hayah Sham, 1000 words Points for using the flash rule non-ironically or absurdly. As a morality tale it serves its function. More original language and situations may have added to this, but as immigration/dreidel story in a box it works. Acceptable though not mind blowing. There are a lot of little-bit words laying around that could be struck. Rating: Almost died by strike-thru, but still living severally maimed leaving you partially deaf to beg the streets for survival, or taking your chances with the dreidel.
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Dec 31, 2012 02:55
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Peel posted:Edge (340) My assumption is that grandpa is lost in a memory when his eyes are covered. Like a bird that sleeps dreaming of jungles when hooded. It wasn't clear how this was synesthsia or such related, other than he has memory and chronology confusion(but gently caress the rules anyway). The sentence about being confused about the boys age didn't seem to help anything. I liked the use of the beam and the descriptions you played with his imaginings. This seems the strongest part. Consider improving it even more. As a reader I didn't know why I was being told this story though. Why was he blindfolded? What was special about that moment on the beam(i'm assuming he was an iron-worker or some such)? There is potential here but more is needed for the reader to grip onto, some more ideas or devices. Inject more original thought. You have a "framework". Another mark against for using a paltry number of words when there was more here to work with. Rating: Death. By steel girder plunging through chest or a mighty fall.
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Dec 31, 2012 03:06
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How about a kind of scorecard thing? Everyone's best and worst, ranked only against themselves, their strengths and weaknesses as decided by the triumvirate. For example: BAD SEAFOOD (15 submissions) Strength: Talking the talk. Weakness: Walking the walk. Best Submission: That one thing that was pretty okay I guess. Worst Submission: Whatever he wrote this week. Should Probably: Learn what a beginning is. And a middle. And an ending.
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Dec 31, 2012 03:29
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sebmojo posted:DEEEEAAATTHHHH. I look forward to the flensing.
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Dec 31, 2012 03:31
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Bad Seafood posted:How about a kind of scorecard thing? Everyone's best and worst, ranked only against themselves, their strengths and weaknesses as decided by the triumvirate. 
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Dec 31, 2012 03:39
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twinkle cave posted:My assumption is that grandpa is lost in a memory when his eyes are covered. Like a bird that sleeps dreaming of jungles when hooded. It wasn't clear how this was synesthsia or such related, other than he has memory and chronology confusion(but gently caress the rules anyway). The sentence about being confused about the boys age didn't seem to help anything. I liked the use of the beam and the descriptions you played with his imaginings. This seems the strongest part. Consider improving it even more. As a reader I didn't know why I was being told this story though. Why was he blindfolded? What was special about that moment on the beam(i'm assuming he was an iron-worker or some such)? There is potential here but more is needed for the reader to grip onto, some more ideas or devices. Inject more original thought. You have a "framework". Another mark against for using a paltry number of words when there was more here to work with. What was actually going on was the dude was being forced to walk across a bare roof support in an abandoned ruined building by a gang. I wanted to try being super short and not explicitly expositing the setup but evidently, I went too far. Thing I did: what I criticised some people for last round Result: same as theirs
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Dec 31, 2012 03:55
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Bad Seafood posted:How about a kind of scorecard thing? Everyone's best and worst, ranked only against themselves, their strengths and weaknesses as decided by the triumvirate. We can do it (I'll force the other two to man/woman up). Do you think it would be helpful or discouraging? We're just three people with opinions, so while I love the idea, I think it should be a free for all where people give an effort to do it. Make it inclusive, and we'll poo poo on the trash people as we always have. I like the idea.
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Dec 31, 2012 04:24
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