Register a SA Forums Account here!
JOINING THE SA FORUMS WILL REMOVE THIS BIG AD, THE ANNOYING UNDERLINED ADS, AND STUPID INTERSTITIAL ADS!!!

You can: log in, read the tech support FAQ, or request your lost password. This dumb message (and those ads) will appear on every screen until you register! Get rid of this crap by registering your own SA Forums Account and joining roughly 150,000 Goons, for the one-time price of $9.95! We charge money because it costs us $3,400 per month for bandwidth bills alone, and since we don't believe in shoving popup ads to our registered users, we try to make the money back through forum registrations.
«150 »
  • Locked thread
HiddenGecko
Apr 15, 2007

You think I'm really going
to read this shit?


Geckobrawl

Bug Catcher

(403 words)

I twisted the insect net in my hand and pushed my way through the dense brush ahead. I’d seen the butterfly flutter ahead of me in a stray beam of sunlight twisting through the canopy. One sure foot after another, that was the key. I needed that butterfly.

It technically shouldn’t exist in this forest. Pale opal steaks lanced through its butter yellow wings, an enigma among collectors and scientists. I didn’t have much time before they were all gone, no one had ever found the caterpillar, or seen the adult lay eggs. We collectors like to call it the Yellow Lady in our private circles.

The glade is quiet apart from the rustling of small animals and the call of birds, I can smell the warmth and wet wood of the forest, that slightly acidic tinge the earth adds to the air. I take a step and I see something ahead on the trunk of a willow tree. It opens it’s wings.

It’s the Yellow Lady, finally. I take a step towards the tree the butterfly rests on and it doesn’t move. I take another step and it flutters its wings, it doesn’t move. One more step.

And it flashes into the sky a streak of light moving fast through the forest. I give chase, I’m running, dodging trees, trying to keep my eyes on the creature as it darts in and out of the dark green foliage. My only hope is that it doesn’t fly up.

I burst out of the tree line into a tall grassy thicket. The soil is soft and I try not to slow down as the mud captures my boots in its grip. I sprint through the thicket and swing my net, the butterfly swerves and I swing again. Another miss. The butterfly gained a foot and I lunged forward net outstretched.

I swung down and over the butterfly right into the ground. I had the little beast. I twisted the net shut and stuck my hand into the hole and slipped the butterflies wings gently between my two forefingers. Streaks of opalescence embedded in pale yellow.

I sighed and let it go. It righted itself and made a bead over the canopy of the forest and out towards the coast. I breathed in the living forest around me and turned back the way I’d come. It wasn’t about the butterfly, it was about the chase.

HiddenGecko fucked around with this message at Jan 12, 2013 around 02:29

Adbot
ADBOT LOVES YOU

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


HiddenGecko posted:

Geckobrawl

Bug Catcher

On the one hand, I hate butterflies because they creep me the gently caress out. On the other, Iorel only has like 40 minutes to post something.

HiddenGecko
Apr 15, 2007

You think I'm really going
to read this shit?


I hope he remembered we're in the midst of a slap fight.

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.


THUNDERBRAWL - Toan vs. Seafood

Wanted to refine this a little more but the next three hours just got busy. Consider it a handicap since I guess I initiated this.

Weeding (100 words)

It’s her cooking I miss the most. Taste of homegrown vegetables, peas and carrots. She kept a garden out back, nothing serious. Couple weeks ago her tomatoes bloomed. That is what they do, right? Bloom? God but they were beautiful. Planted last spring, ripe and red. Didn’t pick ‘em. Couldn’t. Just…looked from the window whenever I passed. Sometimes a minute, maybe more.

They rotted, eventually. In a week. Took me a week till the stench of the flies and the neighbors finally got to me.

Even as I picked them, bruised and broken, I still wished I hadn't.

Iroel
Jun 28, 2012


iroelbrawl

Anamnesis


I don’t know if it ever happened to you, dreaming about people whose companionship is so charming you feel like you’ve known them all your life. And then waking up and realizing you haven’t the slightest idea of who they were. It often happened to me, especially when I was a child. Back then I clung to the memory of those people because I was sure there must have been some meaning behind them. Despite my efforts, I forgot them, one after another, with the same ease one forgets any dream. Except for one. Well, almost. You see, I just remember her hands, her voice and the place where I met her, a place where I had been before. So I went back there, to Nova Scotia.

When I woke up at the Castle Rock Country Inn it was late in the morning and dark outside. The saturnine sky loomed over the brilliant fiery colors of the beech forest springing up as the backdrop to a plumbean lake. The whole house felt empty. Cars were parked outside and a boat moved slowly in the distance as if the lake were really made of lead, but you couldn’t hear a thing except the slow rustle of leaves. I went downstairs hoping to find breakfast -- I was starving, I never eat on planes -- only to find that the meal had already been served. The feeling was so different from when I visited with my parents: back then it was spring and even the air was as light and luminous as were the days, or my mother’s laughter. I remembered my father playing Satie on the piano after our morning walks and wondered how I could have forgotten that.
I approached the woman behind the reception desk, who was aging by the hour. I asked her how long she’d been working in this place and whether there were any girls working here ten years ago. I watched her hands as she fiddled with a keychain and didn’t answer my questions. She asked me where I’m from and what my profession is and all those questions you really don’t want to answer because they seem to be all you ever talk about. Noticing my lack of interest, she asked me if I wanted something to drink, or maybe to tour the house and maybe see the other rooms, even the other guests’ empty rooms.

I decided to kill the time until lunch by taking a walk in the woods just outside the inn. I was relieved to be surrounded by the tall and slim trees. When you are used to living in the city you forget how vast and lonely the horizon can be and how vertigo can catch up to you with your first glimpse of the reunion line between sky and earth. Trodding on a carpet of red leaves, I picked up rocks one after another and lifted each one at arm’s length, hoping it would shine, but no sunrays pierced through the canopy. I wanted them to shine as they had so many years ago while I was breaking them with a little pickaxe. Their golden sparkling reassured me of their value, which I was trying to grasp by breaking them into smaller and smaller pieces, so that I could leave the dull gray parts behind. One time my mother intercepted my hand to show me that there was no need to break the rock because on its surface it bore the imprint of a fossilized leaf. I looked back to re-examine some of the rocks I had just thrown away to see if they had any fossils, but I had no pickaxe with which to split them.
I walked towards the pier from which you can view the whole panorama of the basin. The shoreline lifted itself well above the water in the distance. Its walls, steep and black, a repository of millions of years of geologic memory and a testament of the perennial action of the water, were mocking me. As my memory faded day after day, and I struggled to maintain the ever so distant memories of what I held dear, nature was posing in front of me, mocking me with its silence. Nature is in its glory indifferent to us men, and our passing ages, and yet the faithful and secret chronicler of our every event.

Unable, then, to recall the reason for my trip, I thought that after this long walk, I might as well have lunch and then sex with that woman.

Iroel fucked around with this message at Jan 12, 2013 around 05:55

Prolonged Priapism
Dec 21, 2007
Holy hookrat Sally smoking crack in the alley!





I'm in, gonna write me a satirical poem about death. The person after me, the poor dear, must have at least 5% of their final wordcount (do the math yourself, gumling) comprised of neologisms, or newly coined words. Think Jabberwocky and nonsense verse.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


God, Hidden Gecko, Iorel post your wordcounts, you amateurs.

toanoradian
May 30, 2011

The happiest waffligator


Thunderbrawl LIST EDITION: Bad “My List Comes with Pictures” Seafood vs. toa “My List Comes in White”noradian
Prompt: “rotten food”

Being Human (100 words)

Grazia and Domenico looked at the block of cheese they just dropped. It had split into many chunks. Translucent maggots wriggled out from the cheese, sploshing in pale yellow liquid.

The maggots jumped around Grazia’s feet. Although they didn’t reach him, he fell backwards. His right hand landed on a piece of cheese and squished it. Grazia stared at the cheese on his hand. He squeezed it. “This is a very soft cheese.” He began to drool.

“Grazia, don’t,” Domenico said. “The cheese’s rotten!”

Grazia bit it. “Still good.” A maggot landed on his face. He chewed.



If I have 50 more words I can add stereotypical Italian phrases like “Cor blimey”, “감사합니다” or “Will this have dicks?”

Iroel
Jun 28, 2012


I haven't gotten home all day (i'm still out after having been to work) so i did the edits on the phone. I'm not sure about the final word count. It should be around 750.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


Iroel posted:

I haven't gotten home all day (i'm still out after having been to work) so i did the edits on the phone. I'm not sure about the final word count. It should be around 750.

762, you buttlord

However, I will reserve my judgement until the morning, because I am drinking right now and don't want to read words.

twinkle cave
Dec 20, 2012


i'm in. and gently caress all if i'm 37 minutes late.

if someone else comes in late and is allowed:
their poem must have an anthem quality and use at least 2 made up words

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.


Sign ups are closed. Letting in Twinkle Cave 'cause he's a superdude.

You have 47 hours to complete your submissions. May God have mercy on your souls.

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.


And while we've got top people looking into whether or not Benagain ever really existed, let's bring everybody up to speed.

SurreptitiousMuffin - Submitted
Must contain a guitar, a tunnel, and a juicer.
If poem contains rhymes they may only be internal because English let's you finagle out of that sort of thing.

Noah - Submitted
Poem must be a sestina.

Capntastic - Submitted
Poem must be in iambic pentameter.

Hidden Gecko - Submitted
Poem must be in limericks.

Budgieinspector - Submitted
Every third line must contain an enjambment.

Swaziloo - Submitted
Must contain the words "Mouth-friend" and "Frigorific."

Iroel
Poem must be nautical in theme and feature zero birds.


Canadian Surf Club - Submitted
Must contain one line that is also a palindrome.

V for Vegas - Submitted
Must begin and end with the same word.

Toanoradian - Submitted
Poem must be in free verse with short lines divided into syntactical unit stanzas of 4 to 8 because V for Vegas hates you unintentionally.

Sitting Here - Submitted
Must contain a geologist.

Fanky Malloons - Submitted
Cannot use the word "Death."

Supermikhail - Submitted
Must contain a non-Western funeral rite.

STONE OF MADNESS - SUBMITTED
MUST CONTAIN THIS RADICAL PICTURE DRAWN BY SUPERMIKHAIL THAT I'M TOTALLY NOT GOING TO LINK BECAUSE YOU ALEADY DID.

Blackfrost - Submitted
Must contain an acrostic spelling out ONLY DEATH IS REAL.

Symptomless Coma - Submitted
Poem must be in haiku.

Etherwind - Submitted
Poem must be in epic poetry.

Zack_Gochuck - Submitted
Poem must rhyme but can never use the same rhyme twice.

Areyoucontagious - Submitted
Poem must be a ballad, no shortchanging.

Monkeyboydc - Submitted
Poem must be in iambic pentameter because Areyou is lazy.

Meis
Poem must be a concrete poem must be a concrete poem must be.
Poem must be upbeat and optimistic.


Your Sledgehammer - Submitted
Poem must be from the perspective of a dying man.

Prolonged Priapism - Submitted
Poem must be satirical.

Twinkle Cave - Submitted
Poem must be at least 5% nonsense words Twinkle Cave made up.

After submissions have closed, each of you will be given one of these fine people (or Muffin) to crit. Your crit will neither positively nor negatively affect your chances of winning but is generally a nice thing to do anyway since the judges tend to be brief. How much sympathy you will be given for having to critique poetry will directly correlate with how much of a bastard you were with your flash rule.

Happy hunting.

Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at Jan 14, 2013 around 06:35

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Bad Seafood posted:

SurreptitiousMuffin - Submitted
Must contain a guitar, a tunnel, and a juicer.
Poem must feature internal rhymes. Only internal rhymes.
Bolded part wasn't in the prompt. The way I parsed it was "if you're going to use rhymes, they must be internal."

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.


Noted and edited.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go off and wonder how I landed guest judging poetry week twice.

budgieinspector
Mar 24, 2006

According to my research,
these would appear to be
Budgerigars.



FLASH RULE: Every third line must contain an enjambment.

pre:
Itlacoanotzalhuan (821 words)


The arbors of Mictlan shine an oily blue beneath
  the ghost of the moon; an anthracite shimmer like
    the back of a crow’s wing. The stems bleed when
      cut, but the fruit must be harvested and the vines

stripped.  It is here in the sweet, black grapeflesh
  that we find the glass seeds, bitter and lethal, which
    the god’s blind miller grinds beneath an opal
      wheel into a fine flour of stars.

You and I are the lord’s guests.  We walk arm
  in arm from the daylight dream, as though we were
    old friends. You totter along on a crutch of
      hawthorn. I drag palm leaves behind us to make

the path forget our passing. The hall has no door. 
  It reeks of dust and jaguar piss. Faceless maids in
    tattooed peccary skins offer a cup of peppered
      chocolate, then lead us to a room tiled in turquoise. 

They stroke the gorge of an amethyst owl’s head. 
  Its beak parts, sluicing green water,
    steaming, and strewn with orchid petals, into a
      crystal bath.  Silently, they divest us of our rags.

They hang your crutch on the owl’s talon;
  it grasps the offered prey. Naked, we sink back—-
    our tired, knotted bodies brining in perfumed
      emerald; sweat licking the road from our skin.

You doze, and I study your rutted brow, the hollows
  beneath, the pinched and seamed ruination of years
    spent wanting. Your thicketed nostrils flare above slack lips
      and a flecked stream dribbles into the snowy scrub beneath your chin.

I can see why the lord called you; your wheeze and rattle
  marks you as his.  But I am still young enough to hunt,
    plow, and fight—-to sow as many sons as there are hours
      —-what claim has he on me?

We dry and dress in maguey paper suits, following
  the maids to the master’s table—-a giant obsidian
    tortoise shell, overturned.  The glassy slats of its
      belly suck the light from a ring of tallow candles wafting

sooty smoke.  We stand, listening for the approach of our
  hosts, but our only reward is the crackle of fatty hempen wicks.
    A shudder of the air marks their arrival.  He is freshly-flayed, slick
      and resplendent in gold bracelets and a headdress of owl feathers. 

She, in her aspect as Queen of Bones, wears a gown of purple
  cornsilk and a beaded onyx sash.  For the occasion, a delicate
    moonflower winks from each socket. You creak to your swollen
      knees.  I follow, pressing my forehead to the tile.  In a voice

like an empty well, she bids us to rise. Servants bear rich
  savories for the feast: Rabbits stuffed with cactus and
    huitlacoche; troughs of acocil in lime; baked duck eggs
      rolled in chipotle and masa; cool tejocotes; stewed iguana;

roasted tapir, rubbed with achiote, on a bed of boiled squash.
  I do not see who gives me the scorpion pipe, but I suck at its sting,
    and its venom is a lavish stormcloud in my lungs, driving lightning
      through my head. You pinch the corner from a tamale and grind it

to the floor in honor of Tlaltecuhtli.  Our host rolls his eyes.
  “Idiot!” I hiss.  “These lands are beyond the earth; crumbs dropped
    here cannot ease her suffering!”  You bow your withered head in
      shame.  You cur, you wretch—have you no pride?  You are a slug-trail

pretending to be a man!  Show your belly to the ditch-dogs,
  that they may roll you over and mount you from both ends
    like a spitted pig!  Contempt wrings my guts.  I eat without tasting.
      The lord speaks in a gristle whisper: You may find the next course more toothsome.

Then before us, a terracotta morning glory—-red
  petals huge and folded tight.  Masked servants gently peel
    them away, revealing a pyramid of black glass.  Brilliant
      spirals, brighter than any jewel, rotate lazily within.

Perhaps your friend might break the bread?
  “He is no friend of mine,” I say.  “I found him squatting
    beneath a hawthorn tree, lashing together a crutch from
      a green bough, and I took pity on him.”

Oh?  You think him a stranger?  Perhaps, but he knows
  you well.  You are the new nation; he is the crumbling ruin. 
    Your scars are scattered jungle trails; his are wide and twisting
      roads, branching byways, forgotten and faded.  But your maps match.

In the longest of your possible lives, it is his face you wear
  when your heart finally forgets how to beat.  I give you the meat
    of my mills, risen in the living fire of the sun, cooled in the space
      between worlds.  If you hate your companion, eat.  You will

die young and strong, never knowing the indignities of age. 
  If you are brave, though, pass the plate to him.  Call him friend. 
    Forgive his infirmities.  Rest the crust on his gray 
      gums. He will become as starlight; a burning pulse in the freezing void.

Now... choose.

Benagain
Oct 10, 2007

Student of the principle art of posting

Fun Shoe

Aright, list is finalized, meis I'm pretty sure I hosed up your prompt initially so I'm sorry about that. If you don't see yourself on there or you think your flash prompt is wrong then bitch about it and I might do something.

Edit: I have a job and a social life, which I must now sacrifice for THUNDERDOME.

Benagain fucked around with this message at Jan 12, 2013 around 08:32

Iroel
Jun 28, 2012


Fanky Malloons posted:

762, you buttlord

However, I will reserve my judgement until the morning, because I am drinking right now and don't want to read words.

I know, I know. It's one of those slips like constantly misspelling my username

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


Iroel posted:

I know, I know. It's one of those slips like constantly misspelling my username

Touche. It's in my head like that forever now though, so you'll just have to deal with it.

PS: Judgement of your Thunderbrawl will commence imminently.

sephiRoth IRA
Jun 13, 2007

Gecko in the streets, Masamune in the sheets

Hey! I'm not lazy, I'm just poetically uncreative.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


THUNDERBRAWL JUDGEMENT: HiddenGecko vs Iroel

HiddenGecko posted:


Bug Catcher


I like the quiet appreciation of the landscape that you worked into this. Even though I hate butterflies, the narrator’s awe of the horrible bug can easily be a metaphor for my intense lust for the wilderness of Cape Breton. However, your incorrect use of “it’s” and a random tense change at the end do not work in your favour, so let’s see what Iroel (spelled correctly, WHAT) has to offer, hm?


Iroel posted:


Anamnesis


Your descriptions sound very technical and cold, lovely as they are. I feel like you just googled up some pictures and described them to me, and that you may or may not have ever actually been in a forest. Also, you went over the word limit and that last line is the worst thing, because I loving hate it when people pull that random, non-sequitur, I can't-think-of-a-real ending poo poo.

I'm going to toss a coin. Heads, Gecko wins, tails, you both lose. I'll report back shortly.

Edit: I flipped two coins at the same time (one for each story) and they both came up tails, so I guess the universe agrees with me that you both lose. I guess this thunderbrawl is going to have to go to ROUND TWO.

Fanky Malloons fucked around with this message at Jan 12, 2013 around 18:32

Iroel
Jun 28, 2012


I don't think that you hate the last line because it's a non-sequitur.
Because the logic is pristine: Afraid to forget -> Understands that nature is silent and indifferent -> Forgets and pays the price for looking in the wrong place (the price is cynical matter-of-factness.

I think you don't like the last line because the message of the story is "gently caress you nature, you are not beautiful and you suck, art is where it's at". And the last line is essential to drive home this point.

Edit: ready for round two.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


Iroel posted:

I think you don't like the last line because the message of the story is "gently caress you nature, you are not beautiful and you suck, art is where it's at". And the last line is essential to drive home this point.

Actually, the point is that you suck. But so does Hidden Gecko, per my above edit.

Iroel
Jun 28, 2012


Fanky Malloons posted:

Actually, the point is that you suck. But so does Hidden Gecko, per my above edit.

I do agree. And I know you don't care, but the first paragraph and the last line where actually born together and then I worked in the middle. The reason I'm saying this is because I fail to understand why the point didn't get across (to understand which is one of the reasons I'm submitting my writings).

Anyway I wanted to make a proposal: what if the contestants of a thunderbrawl had to analyze in depth the other challenger's writings after the fight is settled, in the same way we have to do with the pairings for the regular contest?

HiddenGecko
Apr 15, 2007

You think I'm really going
to read this shit?


Iroel posted:

I do agree. And I know you don't care, but the first paragraph and the last line where actually born together and then I worked in the middle. The reason I'm saying this is because I fail to understand why the point didn't get across (to understand which is one of the reasons I'm submitting my writings).

Anyway I wanted to make a proposal: what if the contestants of a thunderbrawl had to analyze in depth the other challenger's writings after the fight is settled, in the same way we have to do with the pairings for the regular contest?

Blah Blah Blah

Stop talking and get ready to write and make sure it can stand on its own this time without you having to jump in and defend it.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


.

Martello fucked around with this message at Apr 9, 2013 around 04:54

Iroel
Jun 28, 2012


HiddenGecko posted:

Blah Blah Blah

Stop talking and get ready to write and make sure it can stand on its own this time without you having to jump in and defend it.

It's because I believe that my work will stand on it's own that I can allow my self to be annoying (I'm a stupid newbie afterall).

But again it's not a defense, it's an attempt to understand why I'm misunderstood. And again, I'm being misunderstood.

Iroel fucked around with this message at Jan 12, 2013 around 19:29

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


.

Martello fucked around with this message at Apr 9, 2013 around 04:55

Benagain
Oct 10, 2007

Student of the principle art of posting

Fun Shoe

THUNDERBRAWL

In the finest tradition of monkey duels, watch as I hurl feces at my opponent.

pre:
                                  Night Dawn strips illusions away
                              Darkness, dearpale light forcing them out
                           is when I can love you,muttered lieslovefirst
                          wrapped in dreams and secret empty mimicry of emotions
                       shadows, hands reading soft wordsnot even aches anymore
                      from the curved tome of your bodysleepwalking through
                      drumming soft slow along your spine endless rituals 
                      decipheringyouPlease don't listen,false intimacy,
                       to the lies squirming slowly out.blood on demand 
                        truth comes from dark placesstone heart wants
                             deep in the soul to stop beating
                                  buried please  

budgieinspector
Mar 24, 2006

According to my research,
these would appear to be
Budgerigars.



Iroel posted:

It's because I believe that my work will stand on it's own that I can allow my self to be annoying.

But again it's not a defense, it's an attempt to understand why I'm misunderstood. And again, I'm being misunderstood.

I had to learn the lesson a long time ago that, if more than one reader doesn't grasp what I'm trying to say, the work probably doesn't stand on its own. And readers who don't understand what you're trying to say can't tell you how to communicate what you want to communicate... because they don't understand what you're trying to say. Best to break everything down to first principles and keep rebuilding from the bottom up until you get your point across, then work backwards to figure out why the original configuration didn't do what you wanted it to do.

HiddenGecko
Apr 15, 2007

You think I'm really going
to read this shit?


Benagain posted:

THUNDERBRAWL

In the finest tradition of monkey duels, watch as I hurl feces at my opponent.

pre:
                                  Night Dawn strips illusions away
                              Darkness, dearpale light forcing them out
                           is when I can love you,muttered lieslovefirst
                          wrapped in dreams and secret empty mimicry of emotions
                       shadows, hands reading soft wordsnot even aches anymore
                      from the curved tome of your bodysleepwalking through
                      drumming soft slow along your spine endless rituals 
                      decipheringyouPlease don't listen,false intimacy,
                       to the lies squirming slowly out.blood on demand 
                        truth comes from dark placesstone heart wants
                             deep in the soul to stop beating
                                  buried please  

This reminds me of when I wrote a sonnet about love and farts for my creative writing class.

Benagain
Oct 10, 2007

Student of the principle art of posting

Fun Shoe

Good my message came through.

HiddenGecko
Apr 15, 2007

You think I'm really going
to read this shit?


We're getting into Saturday evening Noah. I'm expecting that poem soon.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk


Thunderbrawl Judgin'

Time to squat over the ceremonial Thunderdome Judge kazi and unload a few dozen pounds of impacted wisdom.

Bad Seafood vs toanoradian

100 words, "rotten food"

toanoradian: being human

Reading toa's stories sometimes make me feel like I'm watching a Javanese redub of a long-running Uzbek soap opera, with glitchy english subtitles. Which is loving awesome.

I liked the greasy physicality of this piece, the nausea of it. It doesn't try to set a scene or tell a story or demonstrate character, and is all the better for it. Just some dudes and their delicious maggoty cheese. Strong work.

That said, you don't get much room for error in 100 words. I couldn't parse the physicality of dropping a cheese, falling backwards and having your hand land on the cheese you just dropped. So knocked back a notch for that.

Bad Seafood: weeding

Though it doesn't have the visceral punch of toa's piece, this one is tight. Steps up, lays out its cards, sits back down. And it's a beautiful bit of craft for it. I think you could have cut the final 'still', but otherwise the writing in this is exactingly good. Strong work.

Judgment

They're essentially neck and neck, but I'm going to dock toanoradian a bisected maggotsworth of a point for the falling over thing. So the narrowest of victories to Bad Seafood.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


A domer asked Martello, "Why should I waste time on flash fiction when I'm trying to finish my brilliant novel?"

Martello replied, "I certainly like both pork chops and prosciutto!"

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


It's more like "why are you applying to work in a French Restaurant if you can't cook ramen."

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


HiddenGecko posted:

We're getting into Saturday evening Noah. I'm expecting that poem soon.

Oh sorry, it's only 1pm here. Poem is done, just shaping it. Can you give me a deadline?

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

It's more like "why are you applying to work in a French Restaurant if you can't cook ramen."

That's not obtuse enough. It's a koan you kunt.

HiddenGecko
Apr 15, 2007

You think I'm really going
to read this shit?


Noah posted:

Oh sorry, it's only 1pm here. Poem is done, just shaping it. Can you give me a deadline?

let's say 4pm your time. Just so you have a hard number to work with.

Adbot
ADBOT LOVES YOU

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


HiddenGecko posted:

THUNDERBRAWL ROUND I OF III

Contestants: Noah and Benagain. Others may join as well.

Conditions: You're going to write a SHAPE poem.
http://goo.gl/LHMeD will give you an exact idea of what I'm talking about.

Your Prompt: "Canned peaches, a down comforter, and the gardener."

Your prize: MY LOVE

Deadline: Saturday afternoonish. Since this is an artsy kind of prompt and you'll need the time to make it good.

Since the format for this is unconventional you can hand draw your poem, save as a PDF, use html, or even save it as a bitmap. Whatever it takes to get me the poem


  • Locked thread
«150 »