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I accept the rhyming challenge. I'm in. The next person's poem must be a ballad. Like a real deal loving ballad, not a bunch of rhyming couplets with "ballad" in the title. HiddenGecko posted:
I think of my writing as junk food. It's the shallow fishin' hole as opposed to the ocean. It's your summer gently caress-buddy as opposed to your wife. I go for entertainment value over substance. It's meant to be a lark. However, I accept your challenge. I will attempt to spill my guts in my rhyming poem about death. Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 14:03 on Jan 10, 2013 |
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Jan 10, 2013 13:35
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I would not complain if they threw in some Middle English.
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Jan 10, 2013 13:59
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Admiral's Grove (358) By the sea is where I was born, In a saltbox house, battered and worn. My home, my life, around the bay, The gulls swoop through the ocean spray. There I lived since I was young, Til a sickness seeped into my lung. Though I lay in a hospital bed, My thoughts travel back home instead. I don't think of the smell of the sea, Or the wood stove or a warm cup of tea Not my family, wife or even my son, Of all the moments, I think about one. I cannot help myself but think, Of the time I bought that girl a drink. It was up the bay, Little Grouse Cove, In a run-down bar called Admiral's Grove. A pretty young thing, up on a stool, Watching Big Paddy playin' some pool. She was almost done the last of her beer, So I sings out, “Another one here!” Dark brown skin, her hair all black, None like her up the shore and back. She danced with Dick and John and Rod, But she had me hooked like a jig in a cod. So I stands up and asks her for a scuff, And she sticks with me till she has enough. We dances around, b'y I spose tis a crime, But can't a married man have a good time? I takes her up the hill and onto the head, And treated it like a wedding bed. Never felt better me entire life, But I had to go home, cause I had a wife. Didn't seen her atall after that night, I got her address, but I never did write. I thought about her, week to week, But I got me doubts we'll ever speak. I figured that fate must be unkind, I'm married, so I puts her out of me mind. Never did tell me missus the truth, I 'spose if I did she'd knock out me tooth. But I tells ya, on me way to the grave, I'm not thinkin' of Jesus or if he can save. I thinks of the girl with dark-brown skin, And cries cause I'll never see her again.
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Jan 13, 2013 23:33
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areyoucontagious posted:So I went and checked out Versed, by Rae Armantrout, to try and expand my poetic experience, and I don't loving get any of it, which makes me feel stupid and uneducated. Is there an accessible poet of the last 20-30 years you'd recommend, or should I just keep pushing through Versed? It can be a hell of a contentious issue, and it really comes down to personal taste. I've read novels and my reaction was basically, "What the gently caress it this poo poo?," but you know what, someone wrote it, someone took it and believed in it enough to publish it, and people bought it. But to me, it is loving terrible. I've submitted stuff to magazines, and this has actually happened, and have gotten a critique that basically says, "This is garbage," in a polite way, and the magazine down the street from them publishes it and invites me to participate in a public reading. Different readers want different things. Hell, I've also written stuff no one loving likes. Take for example, Twinkle Cave's critique of my poem. Now I don't consider myself a poet by any means, but his main critique seems to be that the poem was a shallow rhyming picture poem. The thing is, that's probably what most of the general public expects when they read poetry, but it's not what Twinkle Cave wanted, and I would wager there are a lot of people in this thread that would agree with him. Does that invalidate someone's opinion if they like the poem I wrote? Of course it doesn't. You're allowed to like or hate whatever the gently caress you want.This poem is nothing but rhyming couplets and it's considered a classic where I live. It's a crapshoot. You are allowed to read Rae Armantrout's poetry and think it's self-masturbatory dogshit. I'm sure lots of people do, but that doesn't mean it isn't a prime example of good poetry to someone else. There are a bajillion different audiences out there.
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Jan 14, 2013 22:36
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toanoradian posted:Twice now did the prompt and challenge defeated me. I liked this, but I think it would have been almost better to go full bore satire with it. I sort of get this image of a guy, especially when he drops the f-bomb, who is totally exasperated with all the mythology surrounding his career. A blue-collar worker who's just trying to do his job. I don't understand a lot of the line breaks, though. They seem really arbitrary. For example: quote:No, there aren’t any games Why is there a line break between "Games" and "Miracles?" Like, it's not the end of a sentence. There's no thematic change, end of a clause, or meter or rhyme, etc. It doesn't feel like separating miracles and second chances from games really sets anything apart or brings anything thematic to the forefront. It doesn't mean much by itself or draw my eyes to it specifically. I feel like setting a word like "lifeless" apart from the words before and after, and putting lifeless out there by itself, would be more effective. It seems like there's only a line break there because you wanted one to fulfill your flash rule. I dunno line breaks like that just feel really prosey to me. Poetry is not exactly my forte, so I don't have much else to say. But yeah, I thought it was alright. Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 23:45 on Jan 14, 2013 |
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Jan 14, 2013 23:43
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gently caress it, I'm in.
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Jan 16, 2013 20:01
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I have to buy Capn' an avatar of his choice this time around. I toxxed it. I gotta man up and do it. If he wants to post the avatar, I'll buy it for him. *Edit* poo poo, someone already got him one? You want Archives or something, Capn'?
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Jan 23, 2013 00:02
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HereticMIND posted:Hard and Deep (Word Count: 430) Video games are art. Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 14:17 on Feb 8, 2013 |
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Feb 8, 2013 13:03
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I hate myself and I'm in.
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Feb 8, 2013 14:18
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Here's all I had time to get together because Nemo keeps knocking out my power. The Ball The ball is small and made of steel. For a long time it lay in a gutter, buried under dirt and leaves. It starts to rain, and the rain washes the ball free. The ball slowly rolls down a gradual incline. It rolls faster and faster. There is a storm drain ahead and the ball is headed straight for it. The ball picks up speed as it approaches the drain. It's going so fast that even the smallest spot of dirt causes it to wobble. The ball is running along the lip of the storm drain. There is a pebble ahead. The ball hits the pebble and wobbles closer to the edge of the drain. It continues roll forward and drifts closer to the abyss below, but the ball is back on the pavement before it falls off the lip. The ball picks up more speed as it heads downhill. It reaches the bottom of the slope and starts to roll up another one. It loses speed. The ball goes slower and slower as it approaches the crest of the hill. The ball is within sight of the top of the hill, but it is going too slow. It is an inch from the crest and it has almost stopped. Gradually, slowly, it manages to roll over the top of the crest, and rolls down the other side. It picks up speed again. A stray cat sees the ball. The cat chases the ball. If the cat catches the ball, it will pounce on the ball. It will stop the ball. The ball rolls downhill, the cat close behind. The cat runs fast and faster. It is slowly catching up to the ball. The cat measures the distance and pounces on the ball. The cat moves its paw to the side to take a look at its prize. There is nothing there. The cat fell short. The cat looks ahead and sees the ball, still rolling, well out of reach now. The ball is approaching an three-way intersection. The traffic is thick today. The ball rolls out of sight, into the busy traffic. It hits the curb, bounces back, and comes to rest in the gutter.
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Feb 9, 2013 22:23
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STONE OF MADNESS posted:Zack_Gochuck – The Ball At the time it was an earnest attempt to stick within the parameters of the prompt and do something genuinely different from everyone else, not a troll at all, but holy poo poo, dude, now it's a troll. quote:The Judge Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 20:26 on Feb 10, 2013 |
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Feb 10, 2013 20:19
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I don't know what love is, so naturally I'm in.
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Feb 13, 2013 00:28
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The Purple Dory (370) Elma stood in front of the sink and rinsed the plate. She lay the plate on the drying rack, and looked out the kitchen window. The purple dory made its way past the breakwater. Without fail, Jack always got back to the harbour just as she finished the dishes. She poured up a cup of black coffee, headed across the road, down the bank, and onto the crooked, wooden wharf. Jack hauled a saltbox full of lobsters out of his Dory, the pots stacked neatly in the stern. She handed him the coffee. He took a long sip, “Tanks, maid.” “Cold out in boat today?” “B'y, it wouldn't too bad atall.” Elma went back across the road to the house, and put on a pot of turkey soup for supper. After they ate, Elma sat at one end of the kitchen table and did a crossword puzzle while Jack knit nets at the other end. At 9:00 they had a cup of tea, ate a row of jamjams and went to bed. The next morning, little spiderwebs of frost formed on the bedroom window. Jack put his hand on Elma's hip, “Stay in bed till it warms up, me duck. I'll get a bun for breakfast and throw a few splits in the stove.” When Elma got up, Jack was already headed out the harbour and into a bank of fog in his purple dory, the stern weighed down with lobster pots. When Jack went to paint the dory for the first time, he accidentally bought a can of purple paint. He pried off the lid, looked at the paint, then at Elma, “Sure I can't paint me boat wit' dat. Everyone'll tink I'm a queer.” Elma stuck her finger in the paint, and put a glob on Jack's forehead, “I tinks ya'd look right cute coming in off the bay yer purple boat.” Jack painted his dory purple ever since. Elma stood in front of the sink and rinsed the last plate. She lay the plate on the drying rack and looked out the window. No purple dory in sight. She put all the dishes back in the sink. Wouldn't hurt to give them another wash. Just in case.
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Feb 16, 2013 08:23
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Aw gently caress, I missed the flash rule.
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Feb 16, 2013 08:27
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That's your post date, dingus. Look over your avatar.
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Feb 19, 2013 18:17
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I'm in. Someone can assign something to me or something.
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Sep 5, 2013 21:45
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sebmojo posted:Suck on this. Report upon its flavour. Tastes like poo poo. quote:It was all a (Teenage) Dream I'll post my piece in a bit. Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 23:54 on Sep 8, 2013 |
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Sep 8, 2013 21:25
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Class of 2002 (405 Words) “For Sale: Land” A big red “Reduced Price!” sticker pasted diagonally across the sign. The driveway, a minuscule opening in the trees on the side of Witless Bay Line. You’d never notice it if you drove faster than 50. The speed limit is 80. No transformer on the power-line, no cell-phone reception. In the driveway, deep ruts filled with water. The hump in the middle would tear the bottom out of anything less than a 4x4 truck. On the way down, along the sides, Molson Canadian cans are scattered amongst the bunch-berries under the black spruce. A cabin made of plywood overlooks a pond at the end of the driveway. Maroon paint flakes off the side and gets carried away by the heedless breeze. The lone window is shattered. The door hangs open and a broken padlock rests on the nearby ground. A sheer rock-face borders the far side of the cabin. The words “Rog + Jen 2003” and “Goulds Rules” are written in neon-orange construction spray-paint. The remains of a picnic table stands at the back. The top is covered in charred junks of wood as if someone lit a bonfire up there. Light shines through the hole in the middle, blackened around the edges, onto the ash below. The yard is littered with cigarette butts and beer cans. A rusted, metal tent-peg is left in the ground. A double mattress to the right, a large brown vomit-stain in the middle. A balled up hoody at the foot reads, “St. Kevin’s Class of 2002.” Inside the cabin, the ceiling sags like a tarp filled with rainwater. A brown and yellow floral pattern love-seat sits under the window, caked in dust. A glass mixing bowl scattered across the floor, shattered. A battery powered radio lies on a shelf on the opposite wall. The batteries’ rot corrodes the back of the radio and disfigures the surface of the shelf. There’s a bottle of Tylenol planted further in. Its label faded from bright red to a dull pink. Expiry date: 1992. A bottle of nitroglycerin tablets stands guard to the side. Someone has spray-painted “Rog likes the dick” on the wall above. Down the hall, there is a bedroom. It smells of mildew, and mould creeps up from the baseboards. There is a double bed with a box-spring, but no mattress. Over the bed, a wooden plaque reads “Heaven is a little closer at the cabin.”
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Sep 8, 2013 22:59
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Chairchucker posted:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Past_perfect I know it's technically correct, but something has to be said for being concise. I can see your argument for the first half of the first paragraph, but when you get into the poo poo "she'd just turned 17" and "her mother had agreed" that stuff is all in the present within the confines of the story. Her mother is still agreeing to let her go, and she still just turned 17. We can argue about it until we're are blue in the face, but the fact of the matter is, as a reader, not a writer, putting the entire first paragraph of your story in the pluperfect tense totally threw me off. Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 12:52 on Sep 9, 2013 |
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Sep 9, 2013 12:19
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sebmojo posted:PPPPPPRRRRRRROOOOOOMMMPPPPPPTTTTTTT Am I supposed to make a prompt? I didn't even realize I won until this morning. *Edit* I'm going to assume that I'm supposed to make one.  Week 58: Seeing vs. Seen Traditionally when you write a piece of fiction, you tell the story from the protagonist's perspective. We'll call this a seeing character. I want you to write a story where the protagonist is not your seeing character. In other words, we don't get to see things from the protagonist's perspective but through an unrelated incidental character's perspective. It's pretty much open besides that. Extra points will be given if the your seeing character's perspective skewers our view of the protagonist in some way. If you structure your story in a way that the seeing character/narrator/whatever-you-want-to-call-them steals the spotlight from the protagonist, you lose, loser. Limit is 1,000 words. Check out Kurt Vonnegut's Welcome to the Monkey House if you need an example. He does this in a bunch of the stories in there such as "The Hyannis Port Story." *Edit* Here is a good definition, but your story does not need to be in first-person: quote:A peripheral narrator is a first-person narrator who's not the main character. She gets to give us the lowdown on the juicy dealings of the true protagonists and antagonists, all while watching from a safe distance. Think Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Judges: Me and whoever. Signups due: Saturday, 14th September, 11:59pm GMT Submissions due: Sunday, 15th September, 11:59pm GMT Entrants: Jeza Lord Windy crabrock Mercedes Ceighk CantDecideOnAName Benagain sebmojo Sitting Here systran Fumblemouse Anathema Device Kaishai Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 22:59 on Sep 15, 2013 |
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Sep 10, 2013 12:18
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Who want to help judge this poo poo show?
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Sep 10, 2013 22:08
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Nyarai posted:I can judge if you need it. Yeah sure, gently caress it.
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Sep 10, 2013 23:52
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CantDecideOnAName posted:You know what, hit me up with a flash rule. Flash RuleLiteral skewers must play a role in your story.
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Sep 12, 2013 12:23
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Man, that is so loving cool. Flash Rule Every entry this week contain a 2-3 line dedication to Crabrock and Kaishai. A "To Crabrock and Kaishi..." type deal. You ungrateful bastards need to get down on your knees and thank these people. It doesn't have to factor into your word count, and does not have to be an actual part of your story, but the quality your dedication will be factored into the judgement. Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 15:34 on Sep 14, 2013 |
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Sep 14, 2013 15:31
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Signups closed!
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Sep 15, 2013 01:00
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crabrock posted:i'm on the list twice. I don't have to submit two stories, right? I think you know the answer to that.
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Sep 15, 2013 13:55
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It is now 8:18 P.M. GMT
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Sep 15, 2013 21:18
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One more hour to get them submissions in.
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Sep 16, 2013 00:00
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Submission closed!
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Sep 16, 2013 01:03
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Results I reluctantly give the win to Systran this week. Your half-assed dedication almost knocked you off the top of the pedestal, but you nailed the concept like a three dollar hooker and that made the difference. Your narrator has a strong voice without overwhelming the protagonist. I feel like my uncle saw this crazy thing down at the store and now he's telling me about it as I read it. A couple of the stories were as well-written, but the narrator unintentionally becomes the protagonist and the person who should be the protagonist is the antagonist. You managed to totally avoid this. Good job. Lord Windy is the loser this week. For one, you totally forgot the dedication and edited it in later. I also feel like there's not really a story there other than a guy overhears something in a washroom. Now, you could probably say that about a lot of stories, but I felt underwhelmed after reading "Do it with a Rockstar." Red head says, "This will be a great story someday," and she's right. I feel like a retrospective of the time my insane red-headed friend tried to gently caress a rockstar would have probably worked better. More detailed critiques to come later tonight.
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Sep 16, 2013 14:51
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In: St. John's
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Sep 16, 2013 16:56
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St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada
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Sep 16, 2013 17:43
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Do it With a Rockstar - Lord Windy I think the overall concept is sound, but my biggest issue is I feel like nothing really happens. There's also no real sense of voice. Like I said earlier, I think something a bit more retrospective, like, "That time my red-headed friend slept with a rockstar." Probably would have worked better. I also don't understand why the girls give the speaker a $20. My first thought was washroom attendant, but I've never been to a concert with washroom attendants. The dedication, though it was added late, was adequate. Prophet of Death -CantDecideOnAName In terms of the construct of the competition, I think that the narrator plays too active of a role and becomes a protagonist. Besides that, it needs some polishing overall. I think the dialogue tags were overdone a little. Don't be afraid to put dialogue out there on its own. For example, I think the first line would have been stronger without the "I was aghast." The "I repeated" in the next piece of dialogue explains well enough that the first bit was spoken by the narrator, and I think a question like, "You're the prophet?" would be stronger if it's set out by itself on the page. It makes it seem important. Great dedication. Diamonds - Kaishai I liked this one. You nailed the concept. I think it could still use a little work. Maybe a bit more subtly with regards to the interaction between the couple, I have a hard time picturing a couple arguing that openly in a high-end jewelry store, but it's a really solid piece. The attempted robbery and subsequent double homicide was hilariously over the top (in a good way). Good dedication. At the Market in Alabama -systran I think I said all I had to say earlier, again, great voice, nailed the concept. The narrator has his own voice and opinions, but it doesn't overwhelm the story. This is still "The boy's" story. Like I said, I can picture my uncle telling my about this crazy thing that happened down at the store. Great job. Dedication sucked. Walter Grant - Jeza Really liked this one too. I honestly went back and fourth between this one and systran's story quite a bit. I can buy all this because I totally believe that it's so boring in jail that this guy has nothing better to do than to watch a murder go about his day. His insights into Walter's behavior were interesting, and gave him his own voice, but they didn't overwhelm Walter. Walter is the star of the show here. I think the one issue I had was nailing down the narrator's role in the prison. I wasn't entirely sure if he was a prisoner or if he worked there. My first thought was prisoner, but then I thought about some of the pronouns, "We might learn something," "I've been locked in his cell." They somehow suggest a separation from the prisoners to me. "We" makes me feel like the speaker is including himself in society as a whole, which is not how most people think of prisoners. The "his cell" line makes me feel like he's not a cellmate, but he's locked in there, so is the speaker a guard? Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Got a laugh out of this dedication. The Heisenberg Property -Sebmojo Solid effort. The best part was the last line. That worked really well. The prose is fine, I think what I really wanted to see was more of Derek and Sarah. Can the speaker hear what she says when she berates him? What does Derek do the few times he's out in the yard after she's gone? What's there works so well that I want more concrete details about these two people the narrator watches. I also liked the little bits we did get about the narrator. The bit about the mice was particularly strong. You walk the fine line of providing details about the narrator and not overwhelming Derek and Sarah very well. Good dedication. At the Seams - Sitting Here Well written. Good voice. I feel like June is less incidental and more the protagonist. A lot of little details piqued my curiosity, the grandma oak tree, for example. The ending is heart-breaking in the best possible way. I don't have a lot of comments besides that, but I don't have a lot of comments besides that for a good reason. Keep up the good work. Probably my favorite dedication. Robbery -Fumblemouse Same overall problem I had with a couple of the stories here. I felt like Jeremy was the protagonist once the robber grabs hold of him because it generates way too much sympathy. It's sort of contrary to the spirit of the exercise. The dialouge in this one doesn't really works at some points. For example, "Not going to happen. In case you hedn't realised, we got twenty hostages just lying around. You move the gently caress away and let us out of here and maybe they all walk home. Maybe." I don't feel like someone in the process of robbing a bank who is surrounded by police would be that eloquent. I feel like he'd be all like, "gently caress you! We got hostages!" I think your prose could also use a cut here and there. Decent dedication even though it was edited in later. The Lady in the Recliner -Crabrock Here's the thing, and I'm going to be brutally honest here, the first line absolutely kills this piece. Once I read that, the piece was dead in the water. Half the fun of this type of piece, is figuring out who's perspective it's being told from, and the whole "I am a cat" takes a lot of the fun out of that. It's a shame because I think the rest of the paragraph would be a lot stronger if we were allowed to figure out the cat was a narrator on our own as he describes the ways he's tried to kill himself. In terms of the exercise, I felt like the cat was the protagonist here and the old lady was the antagonist, so yeah. I appreciate the attempt to do something different. If anyone wants more details on anything or has any questions, feel free to shoot me a pm. Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 02:44 on Sep 17, 2013 |
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Sep 17, 2013 02:30
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In because I had a stroke.
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Oct 22, 2013 13:50
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In, but I have no ideas. Give me two flash rules. 
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Nov 5, 2013 17:55
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I'm not going to make it this week because my friend came up and we played Wayne Gretzsky's 3D Hockey and smoked pot all day, but I will get my entry in next week and use the two flash rules assigned to me this week or I will write a 1,200 word story about anime and post in in the fiction farm.
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Nov 11, 2013 02:53
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In.
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Nov 12, 2013 13:31
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Flash Rule 1: The main character has to be caught between a a literal or metaphorical rock and hard place. Flash Rule 2: The story has to have a father and son. Polar Bear 510 Words John leans over the rail of the pen, and watches as the polar bear hangs its rear over the edge of the ice and shits in the water. He laughs, but stops when he realizes Owen isn't laughing. His son just stares at the polar bear, face void of all emotion. John laughs again, “Did you see that?” He makes a fart noise and mimmicks the bear dung falling into the water. Owen doesn't smile. They stare at the polar bear and her cub for another few minutes, until both retreat into the fibreglass den. John watches until he can't see them anymore. John takes Owen by the hand and walks back through the zoo toward the exit. Owen doesn't look at any of the animals, just his feet. John notices the little canteen off to the side, a food truck with a wooden polar bear facade. The words “Polar Bear Cafe” are painted over the order window in flaking red paint. The bears nose is cracked off, and its face is odd and unsettling. “Want something to eat, buddy?” Owen shrugs. They sit at a plastic table on a couple of folding chairs on the pavement in front of the food truck. Some bird droppings have dried onto the middle, so John covers them with a napkin before then eat. John eats a polar burger and fries. The fries are hard in the middle, not fully cooked. John eats them anyway. Owen doesn't touch his cub meal. He slowly pushes the little plastic polar bear cub figure that came with his food around the table. “Your fries are getting cold.” “I don't care,” says Owen. Owen doesn't speak on the way home. John turns on the classic rock station and sings along in a silly voice and he makes funny faces. Owen doesn't laugh. John stops when his vocal cords start to hurt. He turns left by the bent street sign, and stops in front of an apartment building. The sidewalk leading up the the building is cracked and uneven. The windows in an apartment on the third floor are boarded up, and the entire building is painted an outdated vomit green colour. Owen gets out of the car. John's voice is hoarse, “I know it's hard now, buddy. It will get easier.” Owen closes the door without saying goodbye. “I promise,” John finishes. He watches Owen walk away. John turns on his cab light. Owen left his little plastic bear on the seat. He carefully picks it up and puts it in the glove box. The reflection looking back at him in the windshield is broken-down and sad. Dark bags hang under his eyes, “It will get easier.” He takes out his cell phone and types, “Having second thoughts. Talk it out?” His thumb hovers over the send button for a moment, but he hits backspace and deletes each letter one by one instead. He tosses his phone in the back seat, turns off the light and drives away.
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Nov 14, 2013 22:28
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 11:58 |
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Done. Flash Rule: Your entire story must be set on a tour of some sort.
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Nov 26, 2013 03:20
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