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Stuporstar
May 5, 2008

Where do fists come from?


Martello posted:

This isn't Spore. You can't just make up your own genre definitions.

Magic realism explicitly has magical elements in it. It's right there in the name. Your story, while very enjoyable, wasn't magic realism. The fantastic elements were clearly just the perception of a small boy who sees the world in a typical childlike way. Everything that happens in your piece was easily explainable as a natural, rational happening. Nothing was questionable, and at the end of the story I didn't wonder if maybe his mother was an irl bird.

Bohner's post didn't say anything about urban fantasy, neither did the Achewood cartoon, and "A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings" is a widely accepted example of magic realism. So I'm not sure which prompt post you're reading or if you've just drank too much whiskey, but suffice to say that if I could bomb all of New Kiwiland just to ensure that you never posted again, I would.

I'd warn sebmojo to get the hell out first, though.

I dunno, if he'd gone further with it, it could've been like Tideland. That's the only problem, if he'd only gone further with it. In any case, I enjoyed the gently caress out of it. And gently caress that I miss this prompt by a hair. I could've shown all you sadsacks what magical realism is. I loving live it. :colbert:

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Stuporstar
May 5, 2008

Where do fists come from?


sebmojo posted:

It was a good story, for sure. As for you, Stuporstar, want a challenge? 1000 Magic Realist words at twenty paces, I'm feeling fresh.

You're on. I'll have something up by tomorrow.

Stuporstar
May 5, 2008

Where do fists come from?


Noah posted:

Flash Rule: Raw meat.

I'm gonna put as much thought into that prompt as you put into making it—none. I'm an OT. :dealwithit:

I'm gonna write what I drat well want, and you're all gonna drat well like it.

Edit: And here it is.

The Girl in the Mirror (962 words)

The girl in the mirror won't stop staring at me. Every time I look, she's there, standing beside me. I wash my hands and avoid her eyes.

"You look like Mom."

I turn back to the mirror. She never spoke before today.

"I wanted to look more like Dad."

I smirk. I could never grow a beard like I wanted.

"No, I mean the glasses. You don't wear any."

She had no idea how lucky she'd be not to have his bad eyes.

"Why do you always look so tired?" She cocks her head. First sign of pity in her frown, and I hate it.

I don't sleep anymore if I can help it. Too much life wasted away in bed. Not enough time.

"You don't sleep, you don't dream. I like dreaming."

That's all you ever did.

She twirls a finger in her long brown hair, begins to chew the ends. I don't do that anymore. Turn the light off and she's gone. Haven't slept in three days. Guess it's time for bed.

The next morning, she's standing in the kitchen.

"I want cereal."

"Don't have any."

"You don't have milk either."

Can't anymore, like mom. drat her genes. "Want some toast?"

Her eyes light up. Always liked toast.

I don't know what to do with her. Have to go to work, and there she is, sitting at my kitchen table. I hand her my ipad.

"You break it, I'll kill you."

"What's it do?"

"You're smart. Figure it out." I sound just like dad.

She smiles.

Come home from work, back killing me from slaving over a tablet making crap logos for companies I couldn't give two shits about. She's still there, fingerpainting on the pad.

"Look!" She hands it to me, covered in little people with triangle bodies.

"You forgot the arms"—again, but she'll learn.

"Why don't you draw anymore?"

"Because it stops being fun when it starts being work."

"Why aren't you a famous artist yet?"

"Because you don't get to be famous just because you can draw. Life doesn't work that way."

"That's not fair." She pouts.

"No, it isn't."

She asks too many damned questions. All of them amount to, "Why do you suck?" All the answers amount to, "Because life sucks." I'm sick of her already.

Later that night I catch her on Skype talking to my parents. She's crying.

"I want to go home."

"We don't live at home anymore, sweetie." Mom looks like she's about to cry too. "Why do you want to come home? I thought you were doing well out there."

Is she crazy? Why is she talking to a figment of my imagination?

"Because life is mean," says the girl who shouldn't be there.

"Aw, honey." Mom looks over at Dad, and he nods. "We'll buy you a plane ticket. You can come home any time you like."

I step behind the chair and Mom looks up. "Could you drop her off at the airport?"

"What?"

"She needs to come home."

"Mom, she's not real. She's not me. What the hell?"

"What do you mean? She's standing right there, and you're standing right there. I know my baby anywhere."

"Oh, for gently caress's sake."

"Don't swear."

"Yeah, don't swear." The little girl glares.

I glare right back. "You don't think this is weird?"

"Life is weird," says Mom, "and I don't look a miracle in the mouth."

"That makes no sense."

"It doesn't have to."

Pull up at the airport. She's rubbing her eyes and yawning. So am I. It's 5 AM, but I haven't slept a wink. She just woke up. Had to carry her to the car.

"Mom said the plane leaves at seven," she says.

"Have to get there early to stand in line."

"That's dumb."

"Yeah, it is."

For two hours I watch her marvel at everything—tacky statues, smelly crowds, shops hocking cheap crap to tourists. She wants to buy everything, of course. We watch planes taking off that aren't ours—hers. I mean hers. I walk her to the counter. Maybe she'll disappear once she's out of view. I don't care. She's safely on the plane. I don't look back. She's out of my hands. Go to work early that day.

Get home late at night. Skype's been ringing. It rings again.

"She made it here safe." Mom's beaming like I haven't seen in years.

"Look!" My younger self pops into view. "Mom found our old toys. Remember Patty Rabbit and Bobby Bear? They've been sad, stuffed in a box for years." The little plush plastic toys dance in front of the screen. She's making Patty hop up and down, and I just want to reach through the screen and grab it. That was mine, dammit.

"Do you think Davey will come home too?" she says.

"I don't know, honey," says Mom. "I don't know where he is anymore."

"Mom and Dad live in the woods, just like we always wanted." She's grinning ear-to-ear. "Tomorrow I'm gonna go hobgoblin hunting."

"What are you gonna do if you find one?" I smirk. Weirder things have happened.

"Uh—" She bites her nails—stop that. "I don't know."

Never did think that part through.

"Mom," I say, "don't let her ruin her teeth this time. No Coke. No sours. She'll regret it later."

"I'll make sure, hon. Do you need any socks?"

"Mom, I can buy my own socks."

"But I found the cutest socks in the store today. Brown stripey socks, knee-length. Remember when you said you couldn't find any?"

"That was a decade ago."

"I know, but I saw them and thought of you, and little you said, 'Let's get them. They'll make her smile.'"

I did.

Stuporstar fucked around with this message at 09:19 on Mar 6, 2013

Stuporstar
May 5, 2008

Where do fists come from?


drat good crit, Noah. You hit a lot of good points, and I'm damned rusty. And yeah, 24 hours is not enough time for my stories to bake. Had to post a rough sketch. Gonna, take your crits on board, let this one sit for a while, and revisit it.

However, this:

Noah posted:

ps. Defiantly ignoring the flash prompt makes you look petty and childish.

You have to understand that you can't just toss up word salad and call it a prompt. I expect more from you guys. Whether it's a flash rule or full prompt, put some damned thought into it. We OTs have rejected better prompts than what you threw up. We long ago agreed that poo poo like, "Your character has to be named X, or has to wear a towel," is useless sluff that makes for lovely prompts that encourage people to throw extraneous junk in their stories in order to hit them. Don't do that.

Stuporstar
May 5, 2008

Where do fists come from?


sebmojo posted:

Nearly all of you hosed the tamarillo on the magic realism prompt. It's actually real simple - think of an emotional core to your story. Now, externalise it as a magic thing. loving DONE.

Yep, pretty much this. I don't know what ridiculous definitions the rest have you have been working with, but Seb's got it.

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