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  • Locked thread
crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






Prompt for people just checking in:

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&pagenumber=73&perpage=40#post415894758

Phil Moscowitz posted:

Standard is a ban, isn't it?

Oh. probably. Man, I was there for that original thread too. I am getting old.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 21:29 on May 29, 2013

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Umbilical Lotus
Nov 13, 2005

OH NO!!!! AXE CUT YOU!!!!
I'm terrified. I'm probably going to suck. I'm trapped forever in the first person.

I'm in. And I'm doing Tennessee Williams.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









crabrock posted:

You need a toxx-clause punishment for yourself

Yeah, Toxx means the punishment is a ban.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






sebmojo posted:

Yeah, Toxx means the punishment is a ban.

i am a literal retard

I forgot that the duct taping his dick to his balls was the actual thing he said he'd do and never did, not the punishment.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 21:31 on May 29, 2013

Fumblemouse
Mar 21, 2013


STANDARD
DEVIANT
Grimey Drawer
You make yourself a cup of tea, and grab a ginger biscuit. It’s delicious, delicious tea, and you dunk the biscuit until it’s just about to fall apart, then ram it into your mouth and suck the tea from the sodden crumbs as it dissolves.

And then you wake, in your favourite chair covered in your favourite blanket, in the world you have made your new home. A different world, one without tea and biscuits, without bestselling novels and video games. A world where you are old and your life is spent.

You drift off to sleep again.

You’re striding with infernal passion toward the opening of the Cave of Time - from the inside. You’re wearing a suit. At the mouth of the cave, silhouetted against the low sun, is an young person with a walking stick - your walking stick. How did it get there? You reach the daylight and spin a web of words that have no meaning. And then, like a blow to the head, you are awake.

You mumble and gum a bit, looking around your home. Whatever startled you awake doesn’t appear to be present, so you close your eyes once more, surrendering to the comforting drowsiness.

Now you’re approaching the Cave of Time on the outside at your usual slow hobble. You know it by sight, but you’re seeing it for the first time. You don’t know what’s beyond it, but whatever it is, you know it will change your life forever. High above you in the clouds, the spectre of death is dancing with the spectre of madness.

Streaming out of the entrance to the Cave of Time is a motley assortment of men, women, and...beings. Some are dressed in period costume, some in rags and skins. Some wear the silver metallic raiment of “the Future” and carry bizarre ray-guns at their sides. The stream parts as it approaches, and forms two lines on either side of you. The separation continues on, opening a path all the way back to the Cave mouth, where, between a crew of piratical folk and a clan of giant-domed psychonauts, your family stands. Uncle Howard, whose ranch you were hiking through when you first found the Cave, wipes his brow beneath his ten-gallon hat. Your mother and father, sobbing at the grey and stooped sight of you hold each other as if either might fall any moment. Your baby sister, ignoring you, and pays rapt attention to a neolithic caveman to your left. This is what you left behind, to start your life all over again. These are the ties that have come undone.

Do you:

Rush to be re-united with your family, one last time, even though you know it’s a dream
Wake up.

Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 06:12 on Jul 15, 2013

CancerCakes
Jan 10, 2006

Does that mean that if someone else writes a story about Air Marshall Mitrofan Nedelin and wins the thunderdome Sebmojo is autobanned?

Peel
Dec 3, 2007

e: actually lemme reconsider

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









CancerCakes posted:

Does that mean that if someone else writes a story about Air Marshall Mitrofan Nedelin and wins the thunderdome Sebmojo is autobanned?

No, it's just if I don't submit a story.

Though a cage match ONE MUST FALL style Toxx-off would be metal as gently caress.

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch
In with Homer Collyer.

quote:

The younger brother, Langley, was crushed to death when he accidentally triggered one of his own booby traps that had consisted of a large pile of objects, books, and newspapers. His blind and paralyzed brother Homer, who had depended on Langley for care, died of starvation some days later.

emgeejay
Dec 8, 2007

Put me down for Garry Hoy.

quote:

1993: Garry Hoy, a 38-year-old lawyer in Toronto, fell to his death on July 9, 1993, after he threw himself against a window on the 24th floor of the Toronto-Dominion Centre in an attempt to prove to a group of visitors that the glass was "unbreakable." The glass did not break, but popped out of the window frame.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007
Well I was going to sulk and lament having no ideas last week. But due to reasons now I'm in with Sharon Lopatka

quote:

1996: Sharon Lopatka, from Maryland, was killed by Robert Glass who claimed that she had solicited him to torture and kill her for the purpose of sexual gratification.[123]

Prepair for ugly

Manoueverable
Oct 23, 2010

Dubs Loves Wubs
All right, this prompt is too good to pass up. I'm going to enter the Thunderdome as a new challenger, and I'm picking Ray Chapman.

quote:

Ray "Chappie" Chapman, shortstop for the Cleveland Indians baseball team, was killed when a submarine ball thrown by Carl Mays hit him in the temple. Chapman collapsed at the plate, and died about 12 hours later. He remains the only major league baseball player killed by a pitched ball.

MrFlibble
Nov 28, 2007

by Jeffrey of YOSPOS
Fallen Rib
Alright I'm posting this. I worked on it during a (long) break at a training course so I need to have it somewhere. 1,013 words.

There are three ways to get to Bandundu. There is the road, there is the river and there is the air. I am Tendaji and I have chosen to fly to the dying port capital of the Bandundu (conveniently named Bandundu) because I have no car and I mislike the river, with teeming wildlife hidden beneath its murky film. I am going to watch a football match with my brother, who lives in there. I care little for the game but more for my brother.

The plane is small and full. All told there are about eighteen people including myself. Most like there is a pilot and co-pilot as well. I am sat next to a large man who is snoring ever so slightly and behind a loud American couple who are arguing loudly in their way. I can understand parts of their conversation but I make like I do not. Outside the clouds drift by and I am content to let the nattering follow.

The flight is short and, forgetting the check in and inevitable check out at the capital, shorter still. I close my eyes and listen to the soft snorts of the man next to me and I smile softly.
And then the peace is broken. A cry goes out. The American in front of me has stood up and is helping his wife out of her seat. In front of them I see other passengers heading towards the pilot’s cabin. The crowding at the front of the plane reminds me oddly of a flock of birds, two gulls standing foil.
I make apologies to my neighbour and cross the small gap to stand in the aisle. I look first towards the birds and then privy-wards.

My heart almost stops. I take a gasp of air, and finding little comfort I take another. My hands are shaking. Gripping the chair makes little difference, I almost fall over.
There is a crocodile in the aisle of this small plane, grinning happily at the fear of all men and women as is its right. There is shredded material under it, as if it had constructed a nest of some sort for itself. There is no one in the seats around the creature and no body near it.
My brain tries to compensate for this. As my body urges me to move my rear end as far away as it can get from the leathery beast, possibly further, my mind works on the small detail of why there is a leathery beast there in the first place.

They are quite valuable dead, I have heard of the many goods you can make with crocodile skin. But this seems to require them to be dead. This crocodile is very much alive, although it is very still. I think it is sizing up its opponents.

Perhaps someone intends to gift the crocodile as pet, stranger things have happened.
I turn to my compatriot and give his shoulder a hard nudge. He looks bewildered and then angry. He starts to make the sound men make when they are disturbed and I Speak.

“There is a crocodile on the plane,” He looks at me and I see on him the face of a man who feels very much like I felt a short moment ago. I make a small shrug and point to the crocodile. He looks to where I am pointing and then confirms that it is a crocodile, almost offended that I had waked him for good reason.

I back towards the front of the plane and the safety of the herd, keeping my eyes on the crocodile that seemed happy to laze there in the centre of attention. I had a great and terrible thought, giving me pause that allowed my former seatmate to push his way past me.

This plane that carried me was small, and it was full. There was no one around the crocodile, indeed there was no one at the back end of the plane at all. All of us were, to a man, at the front of the plane.

I am a simple man, but it occurs to me that if we are all at the front of the plane then we will start heading towards the ground sooner than the pilot might intend.

“We are all at one end. If we do not move the plane will fall,” I say in my Swahili. I see a flock of blank stares. I repeat it, best that I can manage, in my American.

“You want us to get closer to that thing? You first, buddy,” The man says to me. I do not understand the specifics of this, but the general thrust of his point is clear enough.

“Does anyone have a knife, or something I can keep it at bay with?” I ask twice although I do not expect an answer wither way. I sigh at my foolishness. It is probably much easier to smuggle a crocodile onto a plane than a machete, although I can’t quite see how it is so.

I keep my eyes on the crocodile and I climb towards it, keeping my hands on the chairs of both sides. I move to the left side of the plane and climb over the seats. The crocodile inclines its head towards me slightly but does not make its attack. It looks playful. I now move, slightly quicker, towards the very end of the plane.

“I need some more people over here!” By the time I call I have felt the plane dip. It seems that more time has been taken moving to the rear of the plane than is reasonable. I call again and then again and I use every language I have four words in, but I might as well be talking to the crocodile.
I cannot see the beasts face anymore. The plane is falling to the ground now I know that it has not snapped at anyone on this plane. It has not bitten anyone. But sure as the sky it has killed us all.

Ceighk
May 27, 2013

No Hospital Gang, boy
You know that shit a case close
Want him dead, bust his head
All I do is say, "Go"
Drop a opp, drop a thot
Eeny-meeny-miny-mo
So do we just post it whenever we're done?

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart

Ceighk posted:

So do we just post it whenever we're done?

You post whenever you think what you've written is ready for public viewing, or the deadline arrives, whichever comes first. If you finish early, though, you should consider letting your piece sit for a day or two. Re-read it with fresher eyes and fix the problems you'll inevitably discover. Read it dispassionately, looking for problems with pacing, tone and characterization that may not be apparent when your head is still full of all the piece's details. The Curse of Knowledge is one of your opponents.

Posting before the sign-up deadline is unusual. Generally, it means you didn't take enough time to polish your stuff.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






Yes, you submit when you're done, but the deadline is Sunday so you might wanna sit on it foot a few days and edit it. Just because it's flash fiction doesn't mean it's rushed or sloppy, and you'll get the poo poo ripped out of you for not trying.

Look at previous entries for rules/etiquette. Include a title and word count.

Also read the op you idiots.

Ceighk
May 27, 2013

No Hospital Gang, boy
You know that shit a case close
Want him dead, bust his head
All I do is say, "Go"
Drop a opp, drop a thot
Eeny-meeny-miny-mo
Yeah I was gonna wait a few days anyway. I think I'm done but I can probably find ways to polish it some.

Chairchucker
Nov 14, 2006

to ride eternal, shiny and chrome

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2022




Ceighk posted:

So do we just post it whenever we're done?

No, you post it before you're done, judging from the most recent entry. :/

Oh hey Erogenous Beef and Kaishai. Half assed judging coming your way.

OK so Beef I liked this one although TBH I'm not sure that being a tale containing a fairy necessarily makes it a fairytale, know what I'm saying? Anyway so I kind of enjoyed it like I said although the whole bat being an evil jerk thing, well the way Mort at first was all like 'nah it's cool' for a moment I was hoping you'd actually have a protagonist who wasn't too dumb to be talked into trying to murder a bunch of people, but apparently not. I kinda felt bad for him because basically everyone crapped on him so good work making me feel for the main guy I guess.

Also that cat was a jerk, so kudos for making that true to life. (Cats suck.) Ending was kinda anticlimactic, although who am I to talk I guess. (The judge, that's who!)

Kai, yours was slightly more fairytaleish although I maybe didn't empathise with your weird bird loving protagonist as much as I did with the plumber, until near the end I guess. Thought you could've done more with the end, like, the moustache twirlingly evil (what's the feminine equivalent? Would it have to do with feather boas or some kind of fur wearingness, ala Cruela De Vil?) lady's stomping his bird so he kills the hell out of her and barely pauses to shed a tear for any of what's happened, dunno maybe you could've wrung a bit more emotion out of that somehow. Oh also turning a bird into a heart for a girl who tried to kill him so she can become his wife or whatever the plan is there, is weird. I'm not sure how I felt about that ending in general really.

Having said all that, and taking into account that it was a bit more fairytaleish and even though I was conflicted about the ending it was probably slightly better in terms of closure, I am going to award this to Kaishai (helped by the fact that the title reminded me of this, which is cool: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGU_4-5RaxU

Congratulations Kaishai, come and collect your prize of bragging rights or whatever.

MrFlibble
Nov 28, 2007

by Jeffrey of YOSPOS
Fallen Rib

Chairchucker posted:

No, you post it before you're done, judging from the most recent entry. :/

No i'm done. If it sucks it sucks, I spent an hour and a half writing it and if it gets me the loser avatar well, life is as it is.

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

Put it all together.
Solve the world.
One conversation at a time.



MrFlibble posted:

I hate writing well.

CancerCakes
Jan 10, 2006

MrFlibble posted:

Alright I'm posting this. I worked on it during a (long) break at a training course so I need to have it somewhere. 1,013 words.


There are three ways to get to Bandundu.: there is the road, there is the river and there is the air. I am Tendaji and I have chosen to fly to the dying port capital of the Bandundu (conveniently named Bandundu) because I have no car and I mislike mislike is an anachronism, use dislike the river, with teeming wildlife hidden beneath its murky film. sentence structure is jarring here I am going to watch a football match with my brother, who lives in there. why does your brother live in a river (or perhaps a football match), and is he on the plane? I care little for the game but more for my brother.

The plane is small and full. All told there are about eighteen people including myself. Most like there is a pilot and co-pilot as well.why is this sentence here? would the reader assume that the flight was on complete autopilot without it? I am sat next to a large man who is snoring ever so slightly and behind a loud American couple who are arguing loudly in their way in the way of whom?. I can understand parts of their conversation but I make like I do not. Outside the clouds drift by and I am content to let the nattering follow.

The flight is short and, forgetting the check in and inevitable check out at the capital, shorter still.more wasted words I close my eyes and listen to the soft snorts of the man next to me and I smile softly. why? because he is content? because he aroused by snoring men? why isn't he sitting next to his brother?
And then the peace is broken. A cry goes out. The American in front of me has stood up and is helping his wife out of her seat. In front of them I see other passengers heading towards the pilot’s cabin. The crowding at the front of the plane reminds me oddly of a flock of birds, two gulls standing foil.
I make apologies to my neighbour and cross the small gap to stand in the aisle. I look first towards the birds and then privy-wards. something wrong with backwards?

My heart almost stops. I take a gasp of air, and finding little comfort I take another. My hands are shaking. Gripping the chair makes little difference, I almost fall over.
There is a crocodile in the aisle of this small plane, grinning happily at the fear of all men and women as is its right. how big is the crocodile? There is shredded material under it, as if it had constructed a nest of some sort for itself. There is no one in the seats around the creature and no body near it.
My brain tries to compensate for this. As my body urges me to move my rear end as far away as it can get from the leathery beast, possibly further, my mind works on the small detail of why there is a leathery beast there in the first place. too many instances of leathery beast

They are quite valuable dead, I have heard of the many goods you can make with crocodile skin. But this seems to require them to be dead. these little wry asides are not amusing, stop itThis crocodile is very much alive, although it is very still. I think it is sizing up its opponents.

Perhaps someone intended to gift the crocodile as pet, stranger things have happened.
I turn to my compatriot and give his shoulder a hard nudge. He looks bewildered and then angry. He starts to make the sound men make when they are disturbed I am disturbed right now, and the only sound I am making is sighs and I Speak. why the gently caress have you capitalised speak? are you YAHWEH?

“There is a crocodile on the plane,” He looks at me and I see on him the face of a man who feels very much like I felt a short moment ago. if someone rudely awoke you on a flight and told you there was a crocidile on a plane would you be frightened or would you tell the guy to gently caress off? I make a small shrug and point to the crocodile. He looks to where I am pointing and then confirms that it is a crocodile, almost offended that I had waked him for good reason.

I back towards the front of the plane and the safety of the herd, keeping my eyes on the crocodile that seemed happy to laze there in the centre of attention. I had a great and terrible thought, giving me pause that allowed my former seatmate to push his way past me.

This plane that carried me was small, and it was full. There was no one around the crocodile, indeed there was no one at the back end of the plane at all. All of us were, to a man, at the front of the plane. another needless sentence

I am a simple man, but it occurs to me that if we are all at the front of the plane then we will start heading towards the ground sooner than the pilot might intend.

“We are all at one end. If we do not move the plane will fall,” I say in my Swahili. is his Swahili somehow different to normal Swahili? I see a flock of blank stares. I repeat it, best that I can manage, in my American.

“You want us to get closer to that thing? You first, buddy,” The man says to me. I do not understand the specifics of this, but the general thrust of his point is clear enough. horrible, if the words appear on paper we must assume that the protagonist has heard and understood them, since this is in the first person. Either the american says something in english and the protagonist transliterates it, or leave it the gently caress alone

“Does anyone have a knife, or something I can keep it at bay with?” I ask twice although I do not expect an answer wither way why is your answer withering?. I sigh at my foolishness. It is probably much easier to smuggle a crocodile onto a plane than a machete, although I can’t quite see how it is so.

I keep my eyes on the crocodile and I climb towards it, keeping my hands on the chairs of both sides. I move to the left side of the plane and climb over the seats. The crocodile inclines its head towards me slightly but does not make its attack. It looks playful. I now move, slightly quicker, towards the very end of the plane.

“I need some more people over here!” By the time I call I have felt the plane dip. It seems that more time has been taken moving to the rear of the plane than is reasonable. I call again and then again and I use every language I have four words in, but I might as well be talking to the crocodile.
I cannot see the beasts face anymore. The plane is falling to the ground now. I know that it has not snapped at anyone on this plane. It has not bitten anyone. But sure as the sky it has killed us all.

OK so the voice wanders all over the place, your characters are unbelievable and your protagonist is an idiot. The sentence structure is generally pretty terrible, and you don't have the panache to claim that it is "style" so don't try. Your story had the opportunity for your protagonist to live at the end, the killing of the crocodile with a machete would have provided some catharsis to an otherwise predictable story. The writing is ambiguous all the way through, and not in a "deep, is this what art really is" way, but in a "this doesn't make any sense" way. In every case I understood what you were trying to say, and your writing actively got in the way of that. There is no excuse for lazy ambiguities.

THINGS I LIKED - You were consistently in the correct person and tense, and




--------------
Crabrock I have altered my choice to Janet Parker

CancerCakes fucked around with this message at 15:27 on May 30, 2013

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

Put it all together.
Solve the world.
One conversation at a time.



Yo SumatranMuffin let's THUNDERBRAWL and make Erogenous Beef our judge.



You may actually win (FOR ONCE HAHA) if my work fucks me over and I can't write again!

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010
I fear no anime. In.

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart
Muffin has accepted in IRC in-thread. Therefore:

:siren: Super Funtime Thunderbrawl, No Joke - SurreptitiousMuffin v. The Saddest Rhino :siren:

Word count: 1,200 words, or less, natch.
Deadline: 11:59 PM GMT+0 Sunday.

For this brawl, you will be writing a Just So Story in the spirit of Rudyard Kipling. That is, you will be writing the fictionalized, romanticized origin story of some phenomenon or thing.

There are two constraints:

(1) Your story must hinge on an important part of the cultural or political heritage of your respective nations. You may select either your nation of origin, or your nation of current residence.

(2) Your story must include a character, significant prop or event based on your SA Forums name.

Nyarai
Jul 19, 2012

Jenn here.
Flibble's story reminds me of my manager's solution to Snakes on a Plane: turn the cabin temperature down to 55° F and wait for the snakes to go dormant.

On a more relevant note, in. I'm moving now, but gently caress it. I haven't written in a long time, and I'll hopefully have some downtime at the hotel tonight/tomorrow.

quote:

1794: John Kendrick, an American sea captain and explorer, was killed in the Hawaiian Islands when a British ship mistakenly used a loaded cannon to fire a salute to Kendrick's vessel.

Also, someone toss me a flash rule. :getin:

MrFlibble
Nov 28, 2007

by Jeffrey of YOSPOS
Fallen Rib

CancerCakes posted:

OK so the voice wanders all over the place, your characters are unbelievable and your protagonist is an idiot. The sentence structure is generally pretty terrible, and you don't have the panache to claim that it is "style" so don't try. Your story had the opportunity for your protagonist to live at the end, the killing of the crocodile with a machete would have provided some catharsis to an otherwise predictable story. The writing is ambiguous all the way through, and not in a "deep, is this what art really is" way, but in a "this doesn't make any sense" way. In every case I understood what you were trying to say, and your writing actively got in the way of that. There is no excuse for lazy ambiguities.

THINGS I LIKED - You were consistently in the correct person and tense, and


Thank you.

I have made a right hash of this and will consider my writing. I'll leave everything up as is so others may bask in my considerable idiocy while I work on my piece.

sephiRoth IRA
Jun 13, 2007

"Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan
I have to withdraw. Boss dumped a bunch of poo poo on me this morning. Sorry to flake out.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






Nyarai posted:

Also, someone toss me a flash rule. :getin:

So i asked my students and the suggestions they came up with were pretty mean (every fourth word has to have 3 letters).

Your actual rule is your story must involve some sailor who said he'd do something but doesn't, and it must be an important part of the plot.

asap-salafi
May 5, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2019
I'm not in this week but I'll be in next week and I'd like to :toxx: myself to make sure of that.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









MrFlibble posted:

No i'm done. If it sucks it sucks, I spent an hour and a half writing it and if it gets me the loser avatar well, life is as it is.

WE DON'T CARE SHUT UP

Write, or be damned.

Also: have a crit, reading through it for the first time and critting as I go:


quote:

There are three ways to get to Bandundu. There is the road, there is the river and there is the air. I am Tendaji and I have chosen to fly to the dying port capital of the Bandundu Good opening up to here. Punchy, I want to know more.I want to fly to the capital (conveniently named Bandundu) nope, this is arch and doesn't fit the style you've set because I have no car and I mislike the river, with teeming wildlife hidden beneath its murky film This is clumsy, and while I see why its there I'd cut it to keep the first para punchy. I am going to watch a football match with my brother, who lives in there. I care little for the game but more much for my brother.

The plane is small and full. All told there are about Always cut equivocations like this unless they have to be there. They weaken the story and add nothing. eighteen people including myself. Most like there is a pilot and co-pilot as well arch, irrelevant, cut. If this is a crucial point then say 'passengers' instead of 'people' in the previous sentence. I am sat next to a large man who is snoring ever so slightly and behind a loud American couple who are arguing loudly in their way. I can understand parts of their conversation but I make like I do not. Outside the clouds drift by and I am content to let the nattering follow.

The flight is will be shortif you say 'is', then it implies it's already over - makes the reader stumble and, forgetting the check in and inevitable check out at the capital, shorter still Cut, it's irrelevant.. I close my eyes and listen to the soft snorts of the man next to me and I smile softlyAdverbs should be cut, unless they absolutely have to be there.

Taking a break, to say you've done a decent job so far. You've got a mostly consistent tone, and a character who's clearly a chill bro. The plane the situation and the world have been clearly and economically (mostly) sketched out.


And then the peace is broken. A cry goes out. This is like 'they made their way, it's word fog. Who cries? What does it sound like? How does it make the protagonist feel?The American in front of me has stood up and is helping his wife out of her seat. In front of them I see other passengers heading towards word fog the pilot’s cabin. The crowding at the front of the plane reminds me oddly of a flock of birds, two gulls standing foil. This is an unusual image, which I'm not sure fits in a crowded plane. Assuming you mean the way birds sit on the beach facing the wind all facing the same way, that makes me think of peaceful windswept vistas, which is dissonant with the plane you've described. Something like a logjam on a river for e.g. would be much closer to the physical reality of the plane and be less dissonant.

I make apologies word fogto my neighbour and cross the small gap to stand in the aisle. I look first towards the birds and then privy-wards. this is tedious blocking. Why not just have him lean over and look down the aisle? If you want to get to E, you don't need to go through ABCD

My heart almost stops. I take a gasp of air, and finding little comfort I take another. My hands are shaking. Gripping the chair makes little difference, I almost fall over. This is terrible purple prose. Particularly as you're telling us his reaction before we know what he's reacting to. There is a crocodile in the aisle of this small plane, grinning happily at the fear of all men and women as is its right. See, I think you'd get a better effect from doing it like this, because you've spent lots of time laying out how drat chill our protagonist dude is

There is shredded material under it, as if it had constructed a nest of some sort for itself. There is no one in the seats around the creature and no body near it. I like this, though 'nobody' is one word.

My brain tries to compensate for this. As my body urges me to move my rear end as far away as it can get from the leathery beast, possibly further, my mind works on the small detail of why there is a leathery beast there in the first place. bad para. Convey his fear by the things he sees and does, not by listing physiological effects like this.

They are quite valuable dead, I have heard of the many goods you can make with crocodile skin. But this seems to requires them to be dead. This crocodile is very much alive, although it is very still. I think it is sizing up its opponents. removed word fog Perhaps someone intends to gift the crocodile as pet, stranger things have happened word fog.

I turn to my compatriot and give his shoulder a hard nudge. He looks bewildered and then angry. He starts to make the sound men make when they are disturbed and I Speak.
Terrible para. Just have him talk to the dude.

“There is a crocodile on the plane,” He looks at me and I see on him the face of a man who feels very much like I felt a short moment ago. I make a small shrug and point to the crocodile. He looks to where I am pointing and then confirms that it is a crocodile, almost offended that I had waked him for good reason. What does this paragraph do? I quite like the last few words, because 'snorksnuffle HUH? Oh... Crocodile. OK, I'mma go back to sleep now' is funny. But that scuppers the tension you're trying to create, so still not sure what the point of the para is.

I back towards the front and then I right towards the left of the plane and the safety of the herd they were a flock, before, keep track of your metaphors, keeping my eyes on the crocodile that seemed happy to laze there in the centre of attention. I had a great and terrible thought, giving me pause that allowed my former seatmate to push his way past me.

This plane that carried me was small, and it was full. There was no one around the crocodile, indeed there was no one at the back end of the plane at all. All of us were, to a man (no women?), at the front of the plane.

I am a simple man, but it occurs to me that if we are all at the front of the plane then we will start heading towards the ground sooner than the pilot might intend.

this is the actual crisis of the story and it's put across sheepishly. It's also way weaker and less interesting than having a CROCODILE in the AISLE.

“We are all at one end. If we do not move the plane will fall,” I say in my Swahili. I see a flock of blank stares. I repeat it, best that I can manage, in my American.

“You want us to get closer to that thing? You first, buddy,” The man says to me. I do not understand the specifics of this, but the general thrust of his point is clear enough.if he can't understand the words, then how come the reader does?

“Does anyone have a knife, or something I can keep it at bay with?” I ask twice although I do not expect an answer wither way word fog. I sigh at my foolishness. It is probably much easier to smuggle a crocodile onto a plane than a machete, although I can’t quite see how it is so. tension killing. Don't have your characters stop to muse lazily in an emergency.

I keep my eyes on the crocodile and I climb towards it, keeping my hands on the chairs of both sides. I move to the left side of the plane and climb over the seats. The crocodile inclines its head towards me slightly but does not make its attack. It looks playful. I now move, slightly quicker, towards the very end of the plane.this para is fine

“I need some more people over here!” By the time I call I have felt the plane dip. It seems that more time has been taken moving to the rear of the plane than is reasonable. I call again and then again and I use every language I have four words in, but I might as well be talking to the crocodile.

I cannot see the beasts face anymore. The plane is falling to the ground now I know that it has not snapped at anyone on this plane. It has not bitten anyone. But sure as the sky it has killed us all.

As are these two. It's not the strongest ending, since there's no actual sense of impending doom (you could have people clawing at the pilots door, the croc sliding down the aisle, anything more than the dry pronouncement you've got), but there's some ok irony there.

While it's not what I'd call good, I think there's a little merit in this one. I like the agreeably wonky ESL cadences, and the situation is interesting. You need to integrate the metaphor (predator vs flocks?) more into your story, and work on making exciting things exciting with rhythm - if your normal state is blaaaah, blaaaah, and then poo poo REALLY KICKS OFF then if you're still going blaaaah blaaaah instead of bl blah B Bla! then the reader will not come along with you. And as my colleague M. Cakes says, cut the little asides, they are word fog.

sebmojo fucked around with this message at 22:45 on May 30, 2013

Bubble Bobby
Jan 28, 2005
Since someone picked Homer Collyer is it all right if I do Langley?

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I'm so sorry to do this to the world but I am back in (booo) after a 6 month hiatus. I shall chose 1926: Phillip McClean.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






Bug Bill Murray posted:

Since someone picked Homer Collyer is it all right if I do Langley?

you can do whatever you want.

Kaishai
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

Chairchucker posted:

Congratulations Kaishai, come and collect your prize of bragging rights or whatever.

Thanks for the fast judgin', Chairchucker, and for the crit too. I will treasure these bragging rights forever. E. Beef, good match; someday our swords will cross again.

To celebrate, I'm going in for this round with Frank Hayes, the jockey whose corpse probably made the winner's circle awkward.

Bubble Bobby
Jan 28, 2005

crabrock posted:

you can do whatever you want.

Cool I'm in with Langley Collyer then

Truman Sticks
Nov 2, 2011
Hey crabrock, looks like you accidentally deleted the prompt from your earlier post. It's 1400 words, with the caveat that there be no mention of clothing, right?

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






Truman Sticks posted:

Hey crabrock, looks like you accidentally deleted the prompt from your earlier post. It's 1400 words, with the caveat that there be no mention of clothing, right?

oh gently caress me. i totally didn't save that either. ugh.

horray for the back button and me keeping my tabs open for weeks at a time! it is back; thank you.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 04:12 on May 31, 2013

autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007

by Lowtax
Fun Shoe
Feathers 453 words

The Erinyes rode in on trumpet blasts and Gods applause. The Olympiad had begun. Claps turned into dusty thunder-strikes: hooves on stone. I shifted the pebbles on the floor – first a line, then an angle, now round as the seal on my fate. The couriers would be here soon, bearing laurel. My mind’s eye saw the oracled words lit like torches.

I took my skin and drank the lees, sweet wine dripping over the pebbles.

“Sealed with the blood of another,” the infernal messenger once spoke to me, and again now – her voice woven across time’s tapestry.

Outside there was only silence. The King was speaking. A knock at my door; quiet, urgent. I cast the stones across the room, restored them to their natural order: chaotic, lawless, bloodstained. The men crossed the threshold. I stood.

“Draco, God-favoured sage! It is time!” Agathon said.

I embraced them as brothers; knelt when they crowned me with laurel. Outside, the cart was already waiting. The oil-blessed tablets shone in the midday sun; my words burned into their faces. And they were mine, not passed down through quiet coughing of dying men or handed down from vengeful Gods.

I got onto the cart, as did Agathon. The other man walked beside us, arms heavy with wreaths. The trumpets blared, applause erupted once more. The wagon pulled us ahead – a sum of working parts. An axle, a wheel, leather and nails. Each proscribed and measured and crafted from an ideal – should not such be the actions of men?

The crowd was all around us now, the aether filling with sounds. Over this I could hear the Erinyes speak, their infernal tongue there and gone all at once. Anger; but I’d broken no pact.

“Men!” I bellowed, raising my arms, “I give you Law!

The crowd cheered, euphoric. All went dark. Sounds like flapping of enormous wings, my body weighed down by shades. The Erinyes had come to claim their dues. But it was too late, the deed was done. No longer would a God barter with the soul of man. I collapsed under their weight, yet more still came. I could barely hear the crowd.

I saw myself in Hades, but I’d known it all before. My eternity was to be a single moment. That night they’d come from Athens, to steal my father’s swine. Scared, I ran from the attackers. I heard my brother’s cries. I’d paid the Gods then, in my brother’s blood, asked for mercy and for vengeance. The Gods had named their price, but I vowed to never let another follow in my path.

I could feel the heat of Hades across the cold darkness of the Styx, it wouldn’t be long now.

PotatoManJack
Nov 9, 2009
I'm new to Thunderdome, but I'm in. Posting as the 1995 Australian fellow who shot himself 3 times with a shotgun.

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Ceighk
May 27, 2013

No Hospital Gang, boy
You know that shit a case close
Want him dead, bust his head
All I do is say, "Go"
Drop a opp, drop a thot
Eeny-meeny-miny-mo
This is as done as it's ever gonna be. I took a bit of artistic license but the story's practically a myth anyway. Based on the story of Philitas of Cos.

The Liar's Paradox
1223 Words

Hunger has become a constant. Having spread outwards from my stomach like a jot of wine blooms in water, it permeates my body. My toes as much as much as my tongue pine for the flatbread that lies beside me in a wicker basket. It was brought for me to eat, but I shall not eat it.

Balanced on the brink of the dirt cliff by the river, leant out just slightly over the water, stands an old plane tree. When I need to think, I lie under its limbs with my back to its bark. I am nestled in its shade. Its leaves whisper to the wind. Below, the glistening waterway murmurs deeply.

To my right stretches my garden; at the foot of it stands my house. Beyond its white geometry, swollen hills dotted with sheep and criss-crossed with drystone walls rise lazily into the pinch of blue mountains, their sides spattered with snow, their every crinkle accentuated by the low orange light of the sun. The river is shallow and clear. Small brown fish hover above its rocky bottom. Above the surface, C-shaped swallows swoop at the hanging clouds of flies.

Think about this: if a man says 'I am lying', is he telling the truth? Is that an impossible question? It seems that way. It's a paradox.

There are swallows over the garden, too. One dives past me so close that if I was quick enough I could have grabbed it.

Hermesianax is over by the house again. He picks his way through the grass with his distinctive care.

“Hello, Philitas,” he says. “You haven't eaten the bread I brought you.”

“I haven't. Again, I'm afraid, I've been much too busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“Well, thinking. Naturally.”

He sighs and sinks into the shade.

“What have you been thinking about today?”

“Philitas, if a man says to you, 'I am lying', can he be telling telling the truth?”

Hermesianax steeples his fingers and gazes out over the water. His fingers are dark, solid, and strong; they are quite unlike mine.

“It's just a paradox,” he says. “He can't be telling the truth or he'd be lying, and he can't be lying or he'd be telling he truth.”

“Well, yes. That's what I thought too – at first.”

“What do you mean 'at first'? There's nothing more to it. It's a paradox. You can't be telling me you've skipped food for so long to think about something so trivial!”

“My boy, my boy, my boy!” I say. “Open your mind! There's more to it than that!”

“Is there?”

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

He's got me there. If there is anything more to it, I don't know what it is. He's probably right but I can't let him know that.

“Look, it's complicated. Leave me in peace and I'll explain later.”

“No,” he says. “I'm not leaving you in peace until you eat some of that bread.”

I was hoping he wouldn't say that.

“Then you'll be waiting a long time,” I tell him. “I told you, I'm much too busy.”

“That makes no sense!”

“It makes perfect sense. It's a fact of life that comes to you with age. One day, my boy, you'll understand.”

“I pray to Zeus that I don't,” he says. “Look, Philitas, when did you last eat? In this past week have you eaten anything? Anything at all?”

I watch the swallows on the river to avoid his gaze.

The answer is no. It's been longer than a week. The morning after the last full moon he came to me here with a flatbread in a basket and some water. I didn't see him approach, so intensely was I re-evaluating the subtleties of a long-passed argument. I told him I was too busy thinking to eat, and he told me that was impossible.

“It's perfectly possible,” I said, “and if you give me some quiet I'll show you how it's done.”

Hermesianax chuckled and set the basket down at the base of the tree. When he came back that evening, it hadn't moved.

“How can you have been too busy thinking to eat for an entire day?”

“Fairly easily, actually,” I said. “You know, it happens all the time.”

He shook his head. “There are times when I don't believe you.”

Since that day I have eaten nothing. Now, where the colour has run from the eastern sky a silver disk looms over the mountains. The full moon is back. It has been twenty-nine days since I last touched food. In that time, the flesh has melted from my shoulders and chest. Starvation has whittled my legs and arms into broom handles.

It hurts.

“Philitas!”

“What?”

“I said, when did you last eat?”

“That's nothing to do with you?”

“Yes it is!”

“How is it?”

“Because you're my friend.”

“Hermesianax,” I say, “a good friend respects his friends' wishes.”

Hermesianax stands and looks down at me, his dark eyes shimmering wetly. “A great friend stops you when you're being retarded.” He takes a couple of steps away then turns back. “But maybe I'm just not that great a friend.”

“If you're leaving,” I tell him, “take that loving bread with you.”

He ignores me. I throw it at him. It's heavy in my palm. It bounces weakly off his back and lands in the grass.
Maybe I could eat the bread when no one would see and say I chucked it in the river. Maybe I could sneak into the house and get something from the cellar without the servants noticing.

When I'm sure he's gone, I attempt to stand. I can't. My heels press into the dirt, but the muscles in my legs no longer have the strength to get me upright. The bread landed too far away for me to reach. I don't have the energy to crawl for it. I collapse backwards into the tree's embrace and let the night engulf my body and then my mind.

When I awake, Hermesianax is again standing over me. The morning sunlight slips through his blonde hair. He is holding a skin of water and another flat bread.

“Look who came back,” I say. My voice is weak and unfamiliar, barely audible.

“Are you going to eat now?”

“Still thinking.”

“You were asleep!”

“Concentrating.”

“Do you want me to tear the bread for you? I can help you eat it.”

He sits down beside me and tears off a chunk. He holds it out to me. I look at it, and then at him.

“When I'm done I can eat it myself. Let me be. This is important.”

His face looks like I punched it.

“I get it, you know,” he says, standing up again, dropping the bread. “I do. It's completely stupid, but I get it. I get what you're doing.”

“Don't know what you're on about. Leave me alone.”

He paws at his cheek with the back of his hand. He grits his teeth. He takes a step away and a step back. He punches the tree so hard its trunk shifts against my spine and blood falls from his fingers to the grass.

He looks me in the eyes. His face is quivering and red. “You stubborn old gently caress,” he says. Now he leaves me, cradling his right hand in his left.

Ceighk fucked around with this message at 14:17 on May 31, 2013

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