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Sedgr posted:Is anyone else a little shocked? I just watched a man rush into the dome, trip over a rock, and fall on his own blade. It's days and days until submission time and the Thunderdome already has a man laying on the sand screaming, just waiting to be put out of his misery. ![]()
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# ¿ Feb 13, 2025 22:13 |
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Way to blow your load early. We were going to spring that on them at the end, remember?
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Such a thing would never happen.
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and lo, they realised they were writing fanfiction of one-another and bowed their heads in shame.
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Capntastic posted:The other members of the triumvirate hain't responded to messages sent last night, so I might have to pull the trigger pretty soon. If I don't have responses by the time I get back from work (around 10 hours from this time), I'll go rogue and take the shot. I've been getting a battery of blood tests and vaccinations for work so I've lost a pretty decent amount of blood and my arms are a needle-point roadmaps right now. My decision is "I agree with whatever the captain says because everything is spinning so gently caress decision making."
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I almost certainly won't be able to judge next week. What did we say we were going to do there?
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How do you get in? I don't use IRC so I don't know how it works.
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It's a bit late for it but can we get the text for the stories posted as well? It's hard to follow some of the recordings without a transcript and especially hard to crit.
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Neon did say 'recordings and not text' so I'll defer to him if he wants to slap me down but it seems like a good idea to help us with our crits.
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HereticMIND posted:You totally missed the implication that the area Brian was fighting in got nuked, I'm guessing. I think though (speaking of missing implications) that he's making fun of you for basically just writing a vidya game battle in story form.
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'sup dicks. Miss me?
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Martello posted:I did. also "if you are worried about my coughing, murder a bureaucrat."
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There some reason I'm not counted in the signups, dickstain?
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A preamble, because that wikipedia article on magical realism sucks and I have my own understanding of it: in 100 Years of Solitude, almost nothing that happens is explicitly magical. If you factor in the whimsical, somewhat-unreliable narrator, all the 'magic' comes off more like real things that the characters don't understand because of, well ... their solitude. That's sort of the point. They're so cut off from the world that the extraordinary becomes ordinary. That's always been my take on the genre: it's about using language to take the ordinary and make it magical without directly using magical elements. It's about saying "here is our world with all this amazing, horrifying, wonderful poo poo in it if you're just willing to open your eyes. Step through a curtain, you're in a fantasy without leaving our world because our world is truly a fantastical place where extraordinary things happen every day." The Bumper Book of Birds [1470 words] My mum is a bird. She flew away when I was six years old - the same year dad taught me about thee-ving hoo-ers. “A hooer,” he said, “a hooer is like a magpie. It takes all your shiny things for its nest across town and never gave a drat- for a hooer, it was all about the shine,” he said. His eyes were red. He shook me too hard and then sent me to my room for crying. I never cried, not then and not since; hooers cry out in the night and make all sorts of racket,when reasonable goddam people are trying to sleep. My mum is a bird but I'm not. I took up bird watching. All my books said that brave boys fight robbers and scary things instead of running away so I had to. We lived on the south side of town and I was told at school that birds fly south for summer, so I set up in the back yard with a pair of cheap binoculars to watch the sky. I saw blackbirds, fantails, plovers, tuis, big fat wood pidgeons that argued with the wind as they flew; I even saw a hawk once, though my book told me they stayed away from built-up ur-ban areas. The town was built much more sideways than up, so I made a quick note in the book: not unusural. I wrote in pencil so I could erase it if dad got mad. In three years of bird watching, I even saw a hawk but I never saw a hooer. Dad kept a gun in his bedroom drawer. He showed me it when he had been drinking gin, which good boys don't drink. It was a cowboy gun, the sort that brave boys aren't scared of. “point thirteeee ate,” he said with a big smile, “blow the head of a bad guy clean off. It's my point thirtee ate that keeps hooers and siffs away, you'd better believe it.” I didn't cry when dad showed me the point thirtee ate but he sent me to my room anyway. Maybe dad was secretly a cowboy and needed to do cowboy business. Sometimes he looked like a cowboy and sometimes he looked like the man they dunk in the water trough. More than hooers, I was scared of siffs. Siffs is like a disease that only affects kids- if the house is dis-or-der-ly, you get siffs and so-shell workers all over the place and then you get put in a house for other bad kids and never see your dad again. Hooers live in dis-or-der-ly places and so they've got siffs all over them. I liked living with dad because he let me watch TV and only shouted sometimes. My bird book had pages on all kinds of bird but didn't have a page on hooers. It made looking for them hard: maybe I saw a hooer one time and thought it was a plover. Then I might write the wrong thing in my book and make it dis-or-der-ly, then I would have to leave home and never see dad again. I had a plan though: I could listen for their call. It's right there in the name! HOOers. HooooOOOOO. HooooOOOOO. If I knew they were coming, I could scare them off so they wouldn't bring siffs to my house. Every day I would sit out in the yard with my binoculars and my ears, making notes on all the birds that flew over and listening for even the slightest hooooOOOOO in the distance. Sometimes the Lumber Mill has a noise it makes when the Lum Bears get angry that sounds like awooOOOOO. The first time I heard it while bird watching, I started shouting -making a god drat racket- at the sky so the hooers would go away, then I realised I was being dis-or-der-ly, so I sat down in the yard and didn't cry. The next day was saturday and there were no birds at all. I stayed the whole day and didn't see one. Maybe the lum bears scared them away, or maybe it was actually hooers and all the other birds caught siffs and got taken away. Is there a home for bad birds? I don't know. It's very hard to tell hooers and lum bears apart, specially if you've only ever heard one of them. The one I heard had a tin whistle stuck in its throat but the whistle was broken so it screamed like dad when he's been drinking gin and his neck goes all red. There were no birds on Sunday either. Dad was watching TV in the lounge so I had to be out in the yard. The sheriff was off duty so it was up to Deputy Me to keep the hooers away. I starting to think the birds had been scared off for good when the world turned into noise. It came from every direction at one, the biggest god drat racket I'd ever heard. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. A war party of hooers! I couldn't see any birds but I knew they must be somewhere, hiding behind rocks and trees; that's where war parties of bad things hide. The only thing I could see was a big mess of smoke coming from over the lumber mill. The hooers and the lum bears were at war! Dad came running out of the house with a bottle of gin in one hand and the TV remote in the other, yelling about the god drat racket. He saw the smoke and went flat-white like paper. His bathrobe fell open but he didn't notice. He stood there all silent for a whole ten seconds with his mouth and his bits flapping in the wind. “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus,” he said, one more time. It was closer to a prayer than anything he ever said in church. I followed him back inside. He was on the phone doing cowboy business, saying “the mill the mill the loving mill Jerry.” Jerry smelled like cat food and shook when he talked to people. Jerry probably had siffs- the one time I saw his house, it was the most dis-or-der-ly place I'd ever seen. He said he had cats but I never saw them. Maybe the so-shell workers got them. Jerry wouldn't stop the hooers! He might even be their friend. There was only one thing I knew that could stop hooers and siffs. I went upstairs and to get the point thirtee ate, like a good deputy. I had to stand on a chair to get it out of the drawer, because it was in the very top one. I pulled and pulled until it came open with a whumpcrack, spilling undies, socks and cigarettes all over the place. The point thirtee ate had been at the back of the drawer but it came knocking forward into the middle. All the clothes around it had spilled out, so it sat on the bare wood. I picked it up- it was so heavy I nearly dropped it. It didn't look like a toy gun or a cowboy gun. It smelled bad like a broken old car but it didn't make me cry. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. and under that, feet pounding up the stairs. Dad came in all red, his bathrobe flapping open. He still had the TV remote and I wondered if maybe he'd turned the volume up on the world. He saw me and started shouting. It must've been because I spilled his clothes and made the place dis-or-der-ly. The siffs were here at our door because I had been a bad boy. “I can fix it dad,” I said. He smiled, for the second time since mum left. Then the world got even more loud. *** Dad died on the seen. I don't know what that means because I didn't see it but the police man told me so. His car made a noise like hooHOOhooHOOhooHOOhoo so I bit him, because he was a hooer in disguise. Mum is a bird that looked like a woman and I knew the police man was only a bird that looked like a man. After that the bird-police left me alone. They called a nice lady who came in a beat up car with CYFS printed on the side. CYFS sounds like siffs like awooOOOO sounds like hoooOOOOO. She didn't look sick though. She gave me chocolate and told me it was going to be alright. The sky was perfect blue except the smoke. My mum is a bird but I'm not. Not yet. One day I'll just say hoooOOOO and float off into the big blue. Until then, I'll be watching the sky.
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If you take issue with my interpretation of magical realism as a genre, I would ask you to lodge a complaint with my hairy rear end in a top hat.
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Another note for anyone thinking "MUFFIN SUCKS HE DIDN'T WRITE MAGICAL REALISM": the thing that got described and most people wrote is actually closer to urban fantasy. Buffy, Hellboy and Supernatural are not magical realism, duders. "but the townsfolk know" is a really lovely point of genre distinction. Wouldn't that make Shadowrun magical realism? edit: apparently wikipedia says urban fantasy is "STRONG WOMEN (if they have sex it's paranormal romance holy poo poo the ![]() SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 06:16 on Mar 4, 2013 |
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Martello posted:This isn't Spore. You can't just make up your own genre definitions. gently caress you.
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"Spelling, grammar, presentation," he says, holding his glass of merlot up to the light. "Tools of the fool, the madman. It is only by losing everything can you learn anything. I will liberate these savages of Thun-der-Dome and teach them to truly understand the written word." He lowers his glass, placing it lovingly on the table beside his antique typwriter. "Now, where to begin." RURAL RENTBOYS clickclickclickSHWING Yes.
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Fanky Malloons posted:Excellent, now I can pretend that the reason I haven't been participating lately is not because I'm a lazy jerk, but because I wanted to give other people a chance to win
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Martello posted:holy poo poo like 100 posts...gently caress you guys
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sebmojo posted:Prompt me up, BLOOD QUEEN. I'm not Sitting Here but I'm sitting here posting and there aint nothing you can do about it.
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:We're returning to hardcore thunderdome mode. I hope you enjoyed the please and thank you of regular CC cocksucking, but it's over. ![]()
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THUNDERBRAWL: Erik Shawn-Bohner vs. SurreptitiousMuffin![]() Bohner, I'm calling you out. You talk the talk, so walk the walk with me. Grab my challenge by the balls. I'll even throw a special collar on myself to make it interesting: My entry only must be completed and posted within 6 hours of the prompt being posted. Furthermore, Bohner will be choosing the prompt. Come and fight me, tiny hairless baby man. SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 05:44 on Apr 27, 2013 |
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Rook to A2 The little human being boy makes friends by the milligram, red ones that go up and white ones that go down- smiles, frowns and what might be the burning-plastic smell of dopamine receptors on the fritz. The mechanic wears a red-and-white jumpsuit, and never smiles unless he needs to. His teeth are red. The white is worse: little jackhammers that break holes in the skull and let in the smoke-that-makes-it-hard-to-think. Zugzwang: it's a chess word, it smells like burning tobacco and fussy men in plaid coats. It's a crossroads where every road leads to a cliff. You have to ask yourself where this is going. I already told you: it's going over a cliff in a robin-red '89 Corolla. Shania Twain got melted into the cassette player, and now all she does is scratch and scream. The little human being's a terrible driver but it's not like crashing takes a whole lot of skill. He's good at crashing, as he's so often reminded. It's a warm bath and a vegetable knife, because nobody makes straight razors anymore. The knife has a red plastic handle with a little sticker on it. It smells faintly of onions. He'll end up crying in the bath because it hurts and above all, he's scared of pain. He's fighting fire with smoke already, no need to make things worse. It's half a bottle of supermarket painkillers that ask 'enough?' He's had enough pills to last a lifetime but he's not sure they're enough to do the job. He locks the bathroom door and comes out two hours later, reeking of salt, bleach, violence turning in and out. Zugzwang! Almost jolly, if you ignore all the edges. It smells like tobacco and the wrong milligrams. One pills two pills, red pills new pills. He takes too many and ends up in the corner, holding in the bone-shakes and not knowing who to call. The address book is empty anyway. There's more roads going out into the dark, all smelling faintly of burning tobacco. That's the beauty of zugzwang: the freedom to make bad choices. He does the only thing left: breathe deep, say ten hail marys and step out into the smoke.
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You gonna come and fight me Boner? I shat my gold in 65 minutes, so you'd better impress, what with all this time you're taking.
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While we're on the subject of magazines, have the other people who got accepted by the Thunderdome mag been paid yet? Because I haven't and "Mid April" is starting to ring a little hollow.
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Are we absolutely sure no older entries? Because the infamous Moldova 2010 is practically screaming "Join, or die." or Lordi. Holy poo poo please let me use Lordi.
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Women and wine, game and deceit make the wealth small and the wants great. EDIT: Oh gently caress yes. In with Hard Rock Hallelujah (Finland 2006) and Join, or die. SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 19:07 on May 8, 2013 |
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Verses I will be using: Psalm 95:1 Oh come, let us sing to the Lord; let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation! Kings 1:40 And all the people came vp after him, and the people piped with pipes, and reioyced with great ioy, so that the earth rent with the sound of them
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You still owe me a brawl, baby man.
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When I went to go write today, I found the power had gone out. Turns out there was some big show on at the stadium and every fucker there plugging into every socket killed the power for the whole town. Also, the show involved tables of transsexuals and people in dog costumes frantically making satay sauce and it was apparently good luck to touch the white guy so I got bounced around like a loving pinball for two hours while trying to figure out when the show would end and the power would go back on. I got dragged up on stage at one point and they gave me a t-shirt. It's green. I'm wearing it right now. True story. Can I have a two hour extension on the deadline?
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Chur. Didn't need the extension but it was nice to have. I pulled some of their other discography into the mix as well. Chainsaw Buffet It was then that Lordi came out of Finland, over the hills, under the skin, rattling bones and pulling behind them a great throng of thralls and lovers. Their great cacophony filled us, pulled us along by hooks in the eyes and soul: whether to follow or not was no choice at all. The greatest among them wore upon his head a jaunty hat of white and blue: a dollop of cream on a mass grave, a cross to which we were all nailed. Aye, call him the walking grave, the lord of the leather apron, the crow of Golgotha. With his axe he split hearts but left chests uncleaved. Behind Him and His came the horde, chanting ecstacies of love and the liberation of blood. Each town they fell upon was given the same offer: devotion, or death. Those who joined the throng were lifted up on high, kissed and brought into a great embrace. The rest were torn at with teeth, knives and wailing chainsaw blades. Their skulls were made into chalices and their bones were made into pipes for us to play the great songs. We wrenched apart the houses behind us with fire and steel, so that no man might turn his back, for fear of smoke. Oh come, all ye faithful. Come into our arms so we might love you, carry you finally home. This is the true love, the house of flesh and violence that has slept too long. Come to us, lest we come to you instead. Hear him now, casting from upon high in his hat of blue and white the devil is a loser and he's my bitch for better or for worse and you don't care which Aye, we don't. We follow; it is no choice at all. We follow the maddening beat of drums and the piping of bone flutes. We sing, lurch and hiss as a red tide, a gardener with slick shears and wild eyes. Above all we love, in the old way that was forgotten. Through snow and steel, we are coming. Remember this, lest one day you be reminded. [344 words] Finland, 2006. Must include Lordi's hat and reference bible verses (Psalm 95:1 and Kings 1:40).
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Some music to help you focus.
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Rhino actually found a picture of one of the dog-costume ladies. This whole day was weird. She was waggling her tongue furiously when I saw her.
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Alright, sure. I need to get writing again.
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Kaishai posted:It's so close to tripping over the line between epic and stupid, but it doesn't. ![]()
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He's got three days, then I'm claiming victory by default.
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:He's got three days, then I'm claiming victory by default.
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:Thunderballs: Eternal President of DPRTD, ESB vs Imperialist Pig, Muffy the Vampire Slayer ![]()
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# ¿ Feb 13, 2025 22:13 |
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Heads up: "baseball" is getting replaced with "cricket ball" because I'm having none of your Yankee jackanapes and because I've never played or watched a baseball game in my life. I know there's a man called Baby Ruth who points at people and that's about it. Instead, I'm writing about a superior sport for classy men. ![]()
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