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CancerCakes posted:Awesome I have a great idea for this! You can enter as a judge, but you can't win. Probably can't lose, though I'm sure we could stretch the rules if you put in something really bad. Speaking of: in. Edit: Also, crits have been spotty to non-existent the last few rounds. This will be rectified. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 23:34 on Feb 4, 2013 |
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Feb 4, 2013 21:10
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Sedgr posted:Also, I actually kind of enjoyed writing a little something for a previous dome so I think I'll go ahead and say I'm in this week. If you don't know what it was about then it was nothing to do with you. Nothing else about the 'dome has changed, poo poo talk accepted and expected. Entry noted.
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Feb 5, 2013 01:21
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HereticMIND posted:On the fence here as whether to join or not. On one hand, I wanna flex them writing muscles of mine. Your vague watery indecision is as sweet nectar to me. Slap him on the list, STONE OF MADNESS.
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Feb 7, 2013 02:33
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quote:If that doesn't become the title of your work I will be sorely disappointed. Indeed. Let's put our gore-encrusted judge claw on the scale. Flash rule: HereticMIND's story must be called "Hard and deep".
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Feb 7, 2013 04:29
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HereticMIND posted:Ah. My bad for misconstruing that, then. Enough chitchat. You stepped up. Pleasing. Now the rest of you fuckers better get typing, we will be assigning penalties to no-shows.
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Feb 7, 2013 11:05
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http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&userid=194688#post412203217
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Feb 8, 2013 11:45
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Lord Windy posted:Holy crap, there are a lot of Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
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Feb 10, 2013 18:24
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Capntastic posted:They can lose, they just won't win. Correct.
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Feb 11, 2013 07:22
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Holy Jesus what a massive mountain of terrible stories. We are narrowing in on a winner, to be raised to the utmost heights, and a loser who is to be shunned with the heaviest shun-mallets we can locate at short notice. In the meantime, have some brief crits: Jeza: The Blues This needed another edit pass. I like the setup, the final spasm of resistance reads well, the visuals work well. But there's way too much clunk, too many unecessary words making GBS threads up their sentences, and it's lacking elegance of the brutal noir cool it aspires too. HereticMIND: HARD. AND. DEEP. INTERROBANG. This is pretty crappy, and you'd have done well to have put it aside for a day or two and revised it. Some fuckig heinous turns of phrase that should have been glocked. Also, for a blow-by-blow recounting of a battle it's way light on detail. HE RUNS, HE GUNS, HE FIRES HIS GNU. But points for stepping up, and it's got a bit of vigour. Not the worst of the week. CancerCakes: Unclean 'Sup domejudge. This is exempt from victory/failure, but not immune to critique. And that's good because it's full of bullshit. Okay, first: 'Woolnex(tm)'? That is what we call 'arch', and unless you're going to follow through shouldn't have stayed in your story longer than the half second it took to consider typing it. Next, the language is clunky as hell. Too many adjectives, too much telling not showing. Calling the captain 'the madman' reads like a twelve year old is writing it. You also need to be clearer about the physical logic of what's happening. Block it out in your head before writing (or as you write). If someone has been hit in the head, what weapons/actions/moves are available to them? This reads too much like ANDTHENANDTHENANDTHEN which makes it much less convincing as a good fight scene. That said, the fight's got some juice in it, and I like the height of the stakes. Symptomless Coma: Epistemology I liked this a lot. It's bold in its weirdness, but the style is assured enough that the reader can trust enough information will arrive to decode it. And it does. In doing that it neatly skirts a whole bunch of cliched cyberbollocks, and manages to be both gritty and witty. V for Vegas: Krakatoa 2: The Krakening See, Cancer Cakes, this is how you do arch: THESE ROLLS ROYCE TURBOFAN ENGINES PUT OUT 11.23 KILOWATTS OF ENERGY AND SHOULD ACHIEVE A VELOCITY OF BLAHBLAHBLAH I made a frowny face when I first read it then turned that upside down when I saw how well it fit into the borderline parodic jutjawed can-do-ness of the story. That said it's potentially a little cheaty to write a story in the style of a guy who's a terrible writer of YA crap, so I'm glad you didn't skimp on making the story hang together. There are minor things I could criticise, but it's solidly workmanlike. And a goddam mountain explodes in like the first line, NUFF RESPECK Noah: Up and Coming This is pretty strong, but I think you could improve it in a couple of simple ways. I don't like the protagonist being 'the boy'. There's a place for anonymous characters, but it doesn't work here. Also - the ending is weak as a newborn kitten. And gently caress, man, that is not where you want a typo. I think with an internally focussed story like this you need to pay more attention to his emotional journey. It's sort of implied, but you could do a lot more with it given the strength of the framing story. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 12:58 on Feb 11, 2013 |
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Feb 11, 2013 11:54
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Noah posted:Thanks to Stone of Madness for doing some excellent crit work. That's some dedication. It really is. Thunderdome '13: BURNISHED GRUNTING. Martello: Cherry Job Lol I just broke a teeth on your story on account of it being hardboiled and poo poo also one dude’s got your name did you know that This one’s nothing fancy but it’s solid; story just fuckin’ rolls up to the drive-thru window, pays its five bucks and gets its action monstermeal, peels out chewin’ on hamburger. Specifically it’s got a nice metronomic ticktock of description that meshes perfectly with the pro-rear end in a top hat characters you’re describing. That said, you could have ditched the nearfuture stuff and set it present day, as it is it’s a bit distancing and doesn’t really pay its way in the story (eg maybe it would be better if they’d had a camera that could see through walls/doors or something?). Black Frost: Mine This is essentially Amnesia: The Dark Descent, and do not get me WRONG that’s a great thing to crib from. However you need to tidy your poo poo up. There’s a solid core of action sequence here, but it’s spoiled by a bunch of clumsy phrasing and redundancies. What I do like is some of your attention to detail – covering the mouth to breath through the nose, and the details of how hosed he’s feeling. What I don’t like is this sort of thing: He snapped into action. In one swift motion, he flicked the light switch off, then made his way back to the desk The bolded words are just cruft. You’re trying to evoke emotion, and every word that does not do that must be burnt away. AWAY. Sedgr: Duel This is fairly bad. Melodramatic, clumsy (he’s carefully unsheathing his sword as someone’s slashing at him? SAFETY FIRST!) and sort of cliché with the black veins of poison and the blood draining from the villain’s face. However there’s a solid line through the story, motivations are well-established, the fight matters, cleverish turnaround. So it’s not a complete fail. But in future, write better words. Steriletom: Getting Paid Okay, this is the good poo poo. Children, observe and learn. We have a protagonist, motivation, wry observation, attention to the sort of details that the protagonist would notice, cleanly described action, ebb and flow. And because of all this, you care. Excellent work. Zack Gochuck: The Ball Lol Hemingway balls. Sitting Here: Mutiny This is delightful and now I totally want to read more about our hero/ine’s adventures with Sebastian the Talking Pig, but I’m not sure it really works as action. Because your protagonist doesn’t act. I guess that is the point, given the title, but it saddens me you couldn’t have crafted a more sinewy narrative out of those awesome materials. Please do continue this one though, I’d love to keep reading it. Echo Cian: The Predator It may be because I’ve been playing too much Skyrim lately, but I liked this a lot. First sentence is clumsy, but apart from that you carried me along like a speeding destrier (<= note appropriate fantasy simile, cheers). You nailed the almost chess-like move and countermove of good action writing, while keeping the momentum up and not making GBS threads up the place with bad words. Nubile Hillock: Tensegrity Tight, very tight. I like the back and forth energy of this but it falters a little at the end, and the feline payoff is kind of a WTF? rather than an AHA! But drat if you don’t nail the momentum of a plan that just. Has. To work. I think you missed a few words at the actual pickup of the box – it goes from awesome, vivid precision to vagueness. I wanted the physicality of the McGuffin slapping into his hand, maybe nearly missing the catch and juggling it over the abyss. Then the cat coming out at the end is… nice? I suppose? But in the absence of further context you’d probably be better leaving it mysterious. Still, solid stuff. Benagain: Lucky While it’s not terribly written, this reads like an AAR of a roleplaying session and is the poorer for it. There are a lot of cardboard characters and a sense of lightness – they know they’re not in danger, so we don’t care what happens to them. Sounds like it was a fun session though so there’s that. Swaziloo: Two Thirty Lincoln to Third There’s a simple, brutal rush this story wants that you don’t quite achieve. We don’t need the cheerleader’s backstory, the final line is cheesy as hell (WE’D REMEMBER THAT SUMMER… FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES!) and I found the driving bits more opaque than they needed to be. Honestly, I’d give it a rewrite and focus on making the driving diamond sharp. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 23:39 on Feb 11, 2013 |
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Feb 11, 2013 23:34
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Sitting Here posted:You guys are all over the crits this week and you're doing a great job. I'll have a few of my own coming down the pipe since there were a lot of good things and a lot of bad things going on this week. It doesn't have to, but passivity just isn't that interesting to read. Your character was basically a slightly befuddled camera, which meant that she wasn't carrying her weight in the story. So as a response to the prompt, it's flawed, but as a piece of writing it's not a fatal error since her failure to act will have consequences down the line.
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Feb 12, 2013 01:07
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SaviourX: Suit on Suit Yeah, this is pretty bad, though it’s not obviously the worst story in the bunch. I suspect you’re catching some flak for annoying people elsewhere in CC. Martello has given you some nice detailed reasons why you suck, so I’ll just say that ‘it's about six in the morning far, far below” is fabulously meaningless. It’s every o’clock, you nonce. Bad Seafood: Flight Cute. Light, but cute. HowEVer, you need to work on your dialogue – clipped fast phrases would have worked a lot better here than the sort of languid stuff you’re putting in your dudes’ mouths. Saddest Rhino: I know this was a snarky drunken toss-off, but it actually works better than a bunch of its competitors, mainly by starting meta and narrowing down to a point of actual meaning. Chairchucker: What’s for dinner Kinda clunky in all the ways that UltraCrit SupaStar STONE OF MADNESS noted, but I actually think this is a straightforward tale told tolerably well. The end was crap though. Just have her existing in the space she’s just made for herself, you don’t need the wink and the shrinking circle. Lord Windy: Johnny Pretty terrible. Po-faced and borderline comical, which I don’t think was what you were going for. Also, what is it with everything reverberating this week? I go through my day without any reverberation to speak of; finding such a surfeit of it in my fiction is disturbing. Supermikhail: In Supermikhail, you have the best comedy russian accent in the world and I love you for it, but calling people dyslexic may want to wait until you’re not writing poo poo like: Rowan almost heard a whisper of a whisper Rowan glanced back. The figures were following at a confident jog a hundred yards away. Rowan removed the safety on his gun “Ionizers,” Heather said sideways, firing at the man, which had the necessary effect on his partner. Rowan tried to remember the controls, and hoped it would come to him when he actually saw them. That is all. Etherwind: Disquiet Ooh, yes. I was all kinds of grumpy with you for reasons, but this is nice stuff and has made me happy again. It took a couple of reads to come and while some of the obliquity is inherent, I think your tenses are unnecessarily muddled. But some lovely wordsmithing and vivid imagery. Not quite the hitting the prompt though. Juniper Cake: It’s a hobby to some It was the dreaded Screwhorn Mountain Goatbear, which Francis knew was the fourth most dangerous kind of dire goatbear! That totally cracked me up and for that I love you even more than Supermikhail. Next time you dome, however, write words that are not crap. Way too many adjectives, stupid twist ending, nonsensical plot. Canadian Surf Club: Encounter I found this story very hard to understand until I assumed the making GBS threads Wombat Stance, at which point it was still incomprehensible but at least I’d taken a load off. Capntastic: The Gravity of the Situation There’s a weird disconnect between the, well, gravity of the protagonist’s situation and his kinda herpy derpy response. Look at Echo Cian’s story for a good example of how to write a scared-but-competent character. As it is your guy’s just tossin’ the grenades (into his truck? Why into his truck, FFS?) and speculatin’ ‘bout stuff. And this: Putting distance between himself and the pursuers, if they even decided to try to follow, Darren began charging across nail-filled planks and cracked panes of glass left out in heaps next to concrete skeletons. The firing had died down, so he slowed his pace to prevent any footsteps echoing outwards and giving away his location. There was a paved walkway, full of shadow from tarps tied up all around. A good place to catch one's breath, Darren decided, sliding behind a blue tarp stained with rust trails from the rain. Within moments Darren realized that Cody would have a hard time finding him here, which might be alright given how Cody had left the truck's valuables in his care. Oh well. Without the truck's GPS, finding a route to the military checkpoint would be rough and take hours. Might be best to wait until night. So he’s running, in case his chasers bother to chase, which they might not, so he’s charging, then he’s slowing, then he’s stopping, then he’s realising, then he’s waiting. Finally – it just stops. Resolve your scenes, man. And I don’t care about his grenade pins. They are not of interest to me. Stop telling me about them. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 02:08 on Feb 12, 2013 |
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Feb 12, 2013 02:00
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And can I get a witness for STONE OF MADNESS' insane dedication to giving detailed crits for two dozen stories. You are the wind beneath my robo-wings.
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Feb 12, 2013 06:04
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Slap me down.
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Feb 12, 2013 20:01
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quote:Judges Bad Seafood posted:Flash Rule: All characters must be referred to by their first name. 
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Feb 12, 2013 21:58
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Martello posted:new thread title imo
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Feb 17, 2013 07:02
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Chandrasekhar 650 wds “Simon,” she said. I lifted my hand in her direction, palm out, tilted it back and forth. The warm breeze skirled about my fingers, and I did it again. Aw, that was nice. Like fishing for butterflies in a river of air. gently caress, I was high. “Simon,” she said again. I looked over. The beach was blinding white outside, the water blue as a baby’s eyes. Jane was lying on the mat on the polished wooden floor. I stretched my head a little, set the hammock swaying. I cleared my throat. “’Sweetheart,” I said. Jane was silent for a long moment. The pendulum motion of my hammock was mesmerising. I could feel the earth precessing around me. Who was that guy. Fucky something. Foucault. French. I liked it when Nicole spoke French. I’d tried to learn at uni, but it always felt like I was strangling a vole with my tongue. Jane sat up, abrupt. “Let’s walk. I’m growing into the ground.” I nodded carefully, composed a mental note to my legs suggesting a plan (SWOT, KPIs, core messages) for getting out the hammock, and watched with pride as the boys implemented it. Teamwork. The sand was powder smooth underfoot and the noise of the afternoon cicadas was deafening. I picked up a stick, drew it in an arc, added a curlicue. Jane crossed the line with her own stick, a wiggly sine wave. “When we go back…” “Dude, it’s not for a week,” I said. “I want to move in with you,” she said, tapping my stick out of the sand. She held hers in en garde, menacing my unprotected heart. The tip of the stick gave the faintest glow as it moved. I raised my own stick, took a step back. Gave her stick a tap, to see her reaction. She held it steady, circled round to disengage. Her face was calm, short hair still damp from our last swim. “That’s. Big call. Jane. You know how I … Jane. Dude,” I said, executing a slowmotion lunge that she sidestepped. “I’m really fuckin’ high right now. Is this the best, shouldn’t we, uh.” She took a few steps towards the ocean. “I want to. Marry me. Simon Elliot MacIntyre. I want you to marry me”. Her stick was still up, tip quivering. The world seemed to live in that tip. My world was compressing down like hydrogen in the heart of a star. I lifted my stick, opened my mouth, closed it. She looked at me for a moment, a moment that stretched on for longer than seemed possible. I watched myself watching myself watching her, feeling the pressure of that decision and the moment that contained it. A knot of past and present and future coiled around me, tighter than I could breathe through. She seemed to retreat, without moving. As my stick sagged, she reached out, tapped me in the chest with hers, just above the heart, dropped the stick. Padded into the ocean. The clear water lapped around her slim ankles. She took a few more steps, dove in, started swimming. I stood on the beach, jungle cicadas screaming, feeling compressed, the gravitational pull of what she’d said squeezing every part of me in every direction, but always down, down, inward and down. Nicole. Forever Nicole. The stick was gritty with sand in my grip. I looked out to sea, squinting at the sword of light reflected in the perfect blue, saw a spray of water flicked up by her hand sparkle in the light. And like a wash of cool air in the desert, I knew. I laughed, suddenly free for an instant of the absurdity of past and future. I sent my stick cartwheeling high in the air, took four steps and dove into the water, splashing, thrashing, caught her, grabbed her, kissed her, told her, yes, yes, yes and then and forever. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 12:57 on Sep 26, 2013 |
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Feb 18, 2013 05:29
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HereticMIND posted:Judges, I await the next prompt with great eagerness! If it will be a duel 'twixt Martello and I, then I gladly step forward, blade and shield in hand! gently caress and get it over with, imo
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Feb 18, 2013 23:53
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Yeah, slot me down. Libra (missed out on my actual sign by 2 days, tch).
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Feb 19, 2013 04:52
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The last night 768 words Research. “I can feel the stars,” said Jennifer. I nodded, took another draw on the joint. As I held the smoke in, I glanced at her. Her pale face was barely visible on the glow from the fire. I blew out a stream of smoke, admired it as it coiled in the night air. “Feel… emotionally. So you, uh, empathise with their plight,” suggested Derek from the other side of the fire. “You’d donate if they did a street appeal?” “No,” said Jennifer. “Feel feel. Like on my skin. It’s not magic, light has pressure. You know,” she paused, took a drink from the rum bottle that Derek passed her. “You go out on a beautiful day, feel the sun on your skin? It’s like that but… colder.” I frowned. “Light doesn’t have pressure. It’s… whatchamacallit. Massless.” Jennifer extracted a hand from within her duvet to wave airily, tucked it back in against the late-night Nelson chill. “I don’t know the details. I can just feel the light on my skin. Little tingly prickles.” “Huh,” I said. “They have ointments for that, don’t they?” There was silence for a moment. Derek cleared his throat. “Why do you … was there a reason you revealed this to us now, Jennifer,” he asked. His Scots accent had even more of a wry curl to it than usual, he was keeping his options open in case this was a long build-up for a joke. Jennifer shrugged, a little mounding of her enshrouded shoulders. “Because the stars say the world’s going to end. It’s been a fun tramp, we’re going home tomorrow, I thought you needed to know.” There was another silence. I stared at the fire, running over the conversation in my head and trying to work out if there had been any warning signs it was going to go hard left into weirdsville. Survey complete, and nothing to show for it, I glanced at Jennifer again. She was still staring at the fire with a half smile. I could tell Derek was looking at me. I didn’t meet his eyes. “What do you mean, Jennifer,” I asked. “It’s like braille. You know, the blind script? The stars have a language,” she said. She laughed, a nice normal laugh that made the skin down my back crawl. “Took me ages to get it. It’s very faint. Very, very faint. You need to be so calm, so balanced to feel it. But then you do and it’s.. beautiful. Transcendant.” Derek shook his head. “Jennifer,” he said. “You know this sounds… odd. Don’t you.” Jennifer nodded. “I didn’t believe it at first. But they’re very convincing. And, y’know, end of the world. Anyway, I’m turning in. See you in the morning boys.” She stood up, looking like a floral Teletubby in her quilt, smiled at both of us and went off to her little tent. I looked at Derek and opened my mouth to emit some isomer of ‘What the gently caress’ but he shook his head, mouthed ‘tomorrow’. “Well,” he said out loud, “that might be it for me too. See you in the morning.” Twelve hours later we were on the boat home, open sea, packs and tents tucked into the storage. I was looking at the waves. Derek came and leaned on the gunwales beside me. “I had a chat. It’s … it’s weird, she’s fine, she just has this conviction. Fatalistic. Says it’s going to happen soon,” he said, not looking at me. I patted him on the shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Man. I’ll … I’ve got a friend at the hospital. When we get back I’ll give him a call. Maybe she could talk to someone? Or… meds, I guess?” He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure they can… Yeah. Maybe when the time comes and goes and everything is fine she’ll be a bit less… we’ll see.” I sighed, looked down at the water. Felt the boat rise beneath us. I looked around for a ship that might have put out a wake, saw the sea rise, and keep rising. As the sea mounded up into an impossible wall that towered over us. The crew were shouting, running. The boat heeled round to the left, tilted over in a doomed effort to outrun the wave. I looked to my left and right, saw the wave going on forever in each direction, looked over my shoulder. Jennifer was there, her face serene. She raised her hand towards me, and then a green veil of water swept it all away. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 13:20 on Jul 25, 2013 |
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Feb 25, 2013 05:20
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Alright. Gettin' tired of these endless victories over here, everyone needs to step up their fuckin' game so I can't win with something I crapped out at work half an hour before deadline. I need to step up my game too though, so I'll be doing line by lines of all successful entries. So get it in on time. Edit: also, what was the link to that february story competition got posted a little while back, will flick my last one in to remind me what failure tastes like Edit: ah yes kenyon review. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 01:43 on Feb 27, 2013 |
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Feb 26, 2013 23:36
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Martello posted:Updated the record post. Realized sebmojo has won a wopping SIX times.  Twinkle Cave posted:That being said, unfortunately in the dome just having a beginning/middle/end, understandable transitions, a point, some tension, and good grammar/spelling/no-typos will put you in the running every time.
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Feb 28, 2013 21:40
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted: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? A magical realist world works on the physics of emotion. Nearly everyone hosed it up. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 07:58 on Mar 4, 2013 |
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Mar 4, 2013 07:54
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train is about to go off the loving tracks)
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Martello posted:This isn't Spore. You can't just make up your own genre definitions. Dude, he's in Indonesia right now. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, UNITED STATES FOREIGN POLICY 
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Mar 4, 2013 21:59
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Martello posted:but its not my fault the S2 section gave us bad intel in the target packet... Tell that to the smoking remnants of the Te Wahipounamu World Heritage Site, you monster.
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Mar 4, 2013 22:49
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Stuporstar posted: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. 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.
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Mar 5, 2013 12:20
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I'm in.
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Mar 5, 2013 23:16
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Steriletom posted:I'm in but am I going to be given a rough idea at some point as to why I'm such a loser? I'll be doing crits for all the stories, as hopefully will my lazy rear end co-judges. My problem with your story was a combination of flaccid word fog, cliched cardboard characters, and terrible lines. I quite liked your boxing story, so whatever you were doing for that: keep doing. Actually, let's do a line by line. Macy’s Day - 1,488 words Timmy stepped out of the 5th Avenue subway station, clinging to his father’s hand. The rumbling of the nearby crowd swelled and merged with the tremor of the departing trains, forming a new sound that echoed the day’s excitement.This is a dreadful line. It's telling not showing and is very hard to parse. Flowing along in a river of spectators, they made their way If you're already flowing along, don't have them 'make their way', it's very weak. westward to 6th Avenue, seeking to stake out a claim to any decent viewing spot they could discover or, through subterfuge, acquire. Dreadful wordy piffle. You don't even need to say why they're going to 6th ave yet - words at the start of a short story are at a premium, this is just kicking your reader in the balls saying 'STOP READING MY STORY'. Timmy’s hand trembled as he tried to catch glimpses of the soaring towers shepherding the crowd from all sides. Talking about his hand trembling as he looked at the towers is just confusing. Have him blink or something. And it seems weird to try and catch a glimpse of the towers you're telling us soar up high. They're up above, just look up little protagonist. “Daddy, where did all these people come from?” “A lot of them live here.” “So many?” “A lot are also visiting. Like us.” “To see the Macy’s Day Parade?” “Yes. To see the balloons and floats.” DO THEY WALK DADDY? yes they do, son DO THEY WALK ON THE STREET DADDY? yes, son, they walk on this street with their feet DO THEY HAVE SHOES ON THEIR FEET TOO DADDY? yes son, they also have socks, some of them. WHY ARE THESE WORDS IN THIS STORY DADDY I don't know, son. Timmy walked the rest of the way to the parade route in silence, breathing in the intoxicating air of big city life, drunk with excitement and fear, the two fighting for supremacy. You've really given us no reason to feel either fear or excitement, so this is absolutely telling not showing. And a terrible sentence. When they neared the barricades lining 6th Avenue, fear dealt excitement a decisive blow as father and son found themselves caught in a crushing press of jostling, pressure building from behind and pushing the two into the backs of strangers. Timmy began crying, a puddle soon forming at his feet. Reading this for the third time I guess you're going for surreal exaggeration here, but it really doesn't work. It's a clumsy image, and doesn't give any sense of the presumed urgency of being crushed by strangers. His father, recalling his first trip to the Big Apple, pulled Timmy out of the crowd, using his shoulders to force his way through the reluctant wall of onlookers. Free of the claustrophobic crush, Timmy hyperventilated as his father held him. The man shivered at the cold being expelled in great gusts by Timmy. Breath is not cold. “Hey! Youse guys looking to score primo seats to the show?” IT'SA ME MARIO a voice called above them. They glanced up to see what looked like a failed attempt at an audition for a Lil’ Rascals film. Show, don't tell. The scrawny kid, dangling off the six foot wall separating some prestigious bank from the street, had smears of soot painted randomly across his person like a Pollack painting. He was wearing a pair of school shorts in a condition that would never be allowed into any academic setting, and topped off the image with an antique newspaper boy cap that barely contained his curls. okay who the gently caress is looking at this. is it the dad? the kid? some omnipresent narrator? As he stared down on the visitors, a bubble of snot pulsed and expanded from one nostril, growing to the size of his head before popping without the boy taking notice. Very surreal, also comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. “How do we get up there,” shouted Timmy over the buzz of thousands of spectators. “I gots a little ladder set up back around the corner,” the kid explained. “Just go north on Sixth and hook a right at the first driveway and makes your way back here.” Timmy’s father looked at his son and raised his eyebrows in question; Timmy answered with a quick series of nods. Together, the two navigated the urban jungle, taking a wrong turn at one point and finding themselves in a dead end parking lot before coming to the promised ladder propped up against the hidden side of the wall. Reaching the top, they were greeted by a raucous yell, “Heya!” Why bother with this navigating (dreadful word)? Just have them climb up. “Hey,” Timmy said, keeping close to his father. “Why’s youse so mousey?” asked the grimy kid, sticking out his hand. “Name’s Anthony. I don’t bite.” Timmy hesitantly stepped forward and shook on the offer. “I’m Timmy. This is my dad. It’s loud, huh?” “Stick with me and youse’ll be alright,” said Anthony. A new noise began to intrude on the scene, steadily growing in volume until a carnival atmosphere had descended over the crowd. This is a terrible construction, it's all BEEP BOOP CARNIVAL ATMOSPHERE MAXIMISED. “The parade’s here,” Anthony announced. Well no poo poo fella. North of them, rounding the corner of 59th before continuing south, the balloon version of Spongebob Squarepants appeared, a giant floating yellow mass, impermeable despite its namesake. THE gently caress? I kind of know what it's trying to say but you couldn't say it much more clumsily and it's probably not worth saying anyway. Timmy jumped up and down with his new friend, squealing in delight as his favourite cartoon character floated toward them. Following Spongebob, Pikachu and Kermit bobbed as they turned the corner. Timothy hooted and clapped his hands together as Spongebob turned in his direction and gave an exaggerated wink. “Did you see that, daddy? He knows me!” “Yes, I see,” his father said, smiling with his arms around his son. Timmy turned to Anthony. “Wait a minute! What are you doing out here alone?” he asked the boy. “You know why no kids come out here by themselves.” “That’s bullcrap! I been here plenty before.” “Have you ever stayed at the parade until the end?” Timmy’s dad asked. “No….” “I think you should go home.” Anthony turned his back on Timmy and his father, arms crossed. “It ain’t true,” he whined. “Nothing bads happened before.” Timmy and his father look at each other until Timmy shrugged and put an arm around Anthony’s shoulders. “Look, Buzz Lightyear is shooting the crowd,” Timmy said. Anthony turned back to the parade, a smile blooming on his face as he watched Buzz pantomiming shooting his laser gun at children who played along by dropping, with their eyes rolled up, against the bodies pressing the parade route. “This is awesome!” I thought he was a cliche Li'l Rascal, not Bart Simpson? Anthony perked up again and the two returned to watching the incoming balloons and floats: Ronald McDonald throwing fries into the crowd; Pappa Smurf lowering his arms to the ground, allowing adventurous children to climb up, carefully balancing them before setting them down; and Snoopy, indifferent to the entire spectacle, reading a giant newspaper as he reclined on his back, bobbing as he floated along. This is clumsily phrased, but I do like the idea of the ballons being alive. The blaring music hitting the crowd began to fade as the parade drew to end. An uncomfortable mood descended on the revelry as everyone watched one final balloon round the corner. “Why’s he so angry, daddy?” Timmy asked. “The Pillsbury Doughboy?” “Yeah.” “ “He’s the one you always say will eat me if I don’t listen to you and mommy?” Timmy asked, casting a sideways glance at Anthony. “Yes, so you should make sure you behave at all times.” Timmy’s father turned to Anthony, who was pretending not to listen, and asked him. “You’ve definitely been here before without any problems?” “Huh, wha’? Oh!” Anthony returned to them. “Yeah, it’s fine. No worries.” Timmy and his dad looked at Anthony for a long moment before they returned to the Pillsbury mascot, now bearing down on them. The elephantine balloon moved its legs through the air as if walking, his chest puffed out, and his head sweeping left to right, taking in the crowd with the ponderous regularity of a pendulum. The minders leading and holding the surly pastry to the ground moved mechanically, as if in thralldom to the culinary horror they were attached to. Viewpoint check - who's talking about culinary horrors? Is HP Lovecraft looking out a skyscraper window? In his wake, the crowd grew silent as a mausoleum, spectators trying to depart as soon as they were able to given the pressure of thousands of people simultaneously realizing they had somewhere else to be. OH GOD TERRIBLE SENTENCE at once flaccid and wordy. And why would they be silent if they'd just decided to go - Timmy says something when he makes his decision. “You know what, we don’t need to see the end,” Timmy said to his dad but more for Anthony. “I think that’s a good idea, boys,” Timmy’s father replied looking to Anthony for agreement. “Sheesh, youse guys are pansies,” Anthony said with relief. “Alright, let’s go.” They began making their way THEY WERE GETTING READY TO BEGIN THE PROCESS OF PREPARING TO START MAKING THEIR WAY oh god no. What's wrong with 'they were halfway to the ladder'? to the ladder when a massive shadow fell on them. As they turned around in trepidation, Timmy’s dad began, “How did he get here so quickly-“ The Pillsbury Doughboy’s furious eyes bore down on Anthony. The boy was backing up, his hands in front of his face, palms out in supplication. Ignoring the child’s contrition, the monstrosity’s left hand shut out faster than Timmy had thought possible and grasped Anthony, now screaming at the top of his lungs, in its tensile embrace. As fast as it had shot down, the hand flew back up to the Doughboy’s mouth, tossing the boy down its gullet without ceremony. Scattered shrieks emerging, the crowd watched in horror as the silhouette of Anthony plunged down the abyss until it struck the bottom side of the balloon, bouncing up and causing a ripple to swell through the ivory canvas. Timmy sobbed into his father’s side, watching as Anthony’s shadow got to its feet and began trying to tear through the balloon’s fabric. With horror, Timmy noticed that the bottom of the balloon was littered with what looked like the outlines of child sized ribcages and skulls. Anthony continued to beat at the inflatable prison, his movements having grown more frantic as his body recognized its desperate need for the oxygen that was only millimeters away. Only a minute had passed when Anthony succumbed, his body toppling to the floor, sending one last ripple through the Pillsbury Doughboy. i suppose this is okay horror, but it's way melodramatic and comes out of nowhere. The macabre spectacle having come to an end, the crowd began filing out of the parade corridor in silence with a noticeable lack of jostling and shoving. BLAH BLAH BLAH this is another example of the perspective being all over the show. You leap from Timmy to Dad to omniscient observer. Pick a viewpoint and stick to it - you did this very well in your boxing story. Timmy looked up at his dad, the child’s face still tear streaked. “Can we come back next year?” “Maybe. If you behave. This ending makes no sense.
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Mar 6, 2013 02:16
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THUNDERBRAWL: Stuporstar/Sebmojo A foolish consistency My goblin left me on the corner of Wilson and Broad Street while I was waiting for the lights to change. I only noticed he was gone five minutes later, when I scratched at an itch on my shoulder and felt the welts where his claws had been. I stopped dead in the middle of the footpath. A girl bumped into me with a muttered exclamation and I apologised. I met her eyes and there was a hint of sympathy before she flicked them aside, kept walking. A few metres down the road I saw her pat her own goblin a couple times. It was a beautiful bright green colour. Mine had been blue. At work my desk was full again. I did a quick inventory - five Cabinet papers, a couple of assessments to sign off on, three messages from overnight. One of the messages was from Colin the group manager. I walked down the corridor to see him. “Colin,” I said. “You wanted to talk strategic plan?” Colin is a burly man, I’d heard he’d played rugby at a high level until his ankle popped. His goblin was slumped on his desk, snoring. “Yeah, mate, just give us a--” He looked up. Frowned. “Where’s your, uh, what did you…” I inclined my head. “Hopped off. It just… Not sure.” I shrugged, not sure what sort of expression was appropriate, settled on a brave smile. Colin nodded. “Is this a good time? Because we could do it this arvo if you want, or…” “Let’s talk now,” I said. “I’ll, it’ll be alright.” Two hours later I was staring out the window. The pile of papers was higher; Ellen had dropped a few off on the way past. She hadn’t stayed to chat. I guessed I was trending upwards in the secretarial gossip charts. Didn’t really care. In fact right now I didn’t care about much. I’d spent the last twenty minutes massaging my shoulder with my right hand, unkinking its knotted muscles. My scars were starting to itch a little, but not in an unpleasant way. I plucked off the top paper, leafed through it. Closed it and put it back on the pile. It was a beautiful day outside, the sun was sparkling on the harbour. “gently caress it,” I said out loud. “Early lunch.” My office is close to the water, and I only had to cross two roads to get there. I was already starting to find the stares and whispers commonplace. Pleasant, even. I polished the apple I’d stolen from the snack bar on my shirt, took a bite. There are bright yellow bollards dotted along the boulevard that runs alongside the harbour. I perched on one, munched. The sun was warm on my skin. When I finished the apple I tossed the core into the water. From behind my sunglasses I watched the people go by, carrying their passengers. Pictured my goblin, his smooth dome of a head, little black eyes. It was a little harder than it should have been, as though he’d had taken my memories of him when he left. I contemplated going to the pub. Eh, why not. My jacket was over my chair, though. Back at the office. I stood up, enjoying the lightness. God, why do people even… I smiled at a pretty Chinese girl with a jet black goblin. It inclined its head to me, regally. As I rounded the corner to my building by the entrance I saw a lump of what looked like blue cloth, like a discarded pair of painters overalls . Two steps later I recognised him. My goblin looked up, opened his slitlike mouth, closed it. A forked tongue came out, flicked back. I felt a tightness in my chest. There were people walking past me, the automatic door opening and closing to let them into the building. I stood there. My goblin held up one hand to me, two, claws opening and shutting. I stood there. I tried to remember what happened to people who lost their goblins and never found them again. It must have happened. I took a breath, pictured myself turning around, walking away. My eyes were dry, and I blinked. Then before I could stop myself I’d dropped to my knees, reached out, gathered my goblin up, cradled him. His skin was dry and papery, his skinny arms tight around my neck. We held each other as the stream of people flowed on around us. Then I stood up, positioned him on my shoulders. He clung there, trembling. I patted him, got into the lift. The doors closed and the lift hummed as it took me back to work. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 11:59 on Oct 24, 2013 |
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Mar 7, 2013 01:49
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systran posted:My submission for the magical realism prompt was my second attempt ever at writing fiction so I don't expect to be good. I don't disagree with the overall message of the critique that it failed, but I'd appreciate if someone could point out specifically what worked and didn't. Last week I was told to cut out internal monologues, show more action, and be less wordy. I tried to ensure that I did these three things when I went back and proofread/edited my story several times throughout the week. I was waiting for the critique this week so I knew what to try to work on for this week's prompt. The above critique really only tells me that it came off as stoner poo poo and that "Jinfei leaving headlight shards behind" was confusing and didn't work. For me it was a lot of nice social observation with a bit of ill-fitting magic flimflam pasted on. Not the worst, not the best. Give it another draft, and post it in its own thread if you want additional feedback.
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Mar 7, 2013 01:59
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Very good crits. quote:I can’t tell if this little nugget about the bollard is part of the story, why would one perch upon a bollard? It makes me wonder if these are not necessarily humans the story is based upon. That starts to tread into fantasy, so be careful with how overtly magical this world is. If you have abunch of trolls living with goblins, there’s no “reality” with which to compare the supernatural to. This:  is a bollard. Perching may have been a confusing turn of phrase, it's understood to mean 'sit, slightly uncomfortably' in Kiwi English. The story is set at my office, the bollards on the waterfront are about a metre high. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 07:47 on Mar 7, 2013 |
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Mar 7, 2013 07:17
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Well let's check the thread I'm sure my learned fellow judges have posted some insightfulErik Shawn Bohner posted:bllleeruuruuuuurrughhhh okay, well maybe not all of them but certainly the other one will have Martello posted:FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF Ooooo. Kay. 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. Let's see all the exciting ways you failed, shall we? Nubile Hillock: Same as Mine This was poncy, incomprehensible nonsense. You have some facility at putting words together - use it to go clear and direct next time. Budgieinspector: The Van Gogh Shoes I thought this was a well-written yarn that needed more character in its focus, clog girl. However magic realism it wasn't - it was a regular story with a little garnish of fantasy. And the narrator felt like he was holding the events of the story at arms length - he made it clear he didn't care about woodenshoe lady, so why should we? Magic realism needs the magic to be essential to the drama of the story - it's like how Buffy episodes would externalise an emotional problem into occult terms. But it was very readable, if a little try-hard (bomb rear end beats? really?). systran: Leaving Fog City I gave this a fail on my first skim read, then came to like it on subsequent reads. Which is a very strong sign that your beginning sucks. You've got a tightly imagined world that creates a good window on a foreign (for me) culture. But the magic stuff is awkwardly tacked on, and the Captain Planet moral lands like a lead hippy. Surreptitious Muffin: The Bumper Book of Birds Dude. Mate. Let me level with you. You know how to write, no question. But you keep failing here because you try to out-clever the prompt. Don't do that. The point of this place is you work with what you're given. And yeah, blah, thunderdome gently caress you, whatever. Your challenge is to subordinate the cleverness and find the discipline. All that said, and minus a few annoying twee touches (siffs is borderline, all the hyphens are less so) this is a pretty kickass story. It's a genre, retard gothic i guess you might term it, and you do it very well. Erogonous Beef: Last Flight from Copenhagen You're about 60% of the way to a neat story here. The two things holding you back are the laboured music/weather metaphor (which, I know, is the point) and the overly intricate structure. My rule of thumb for wibbly structural stuff is that if the story wouldn't be interesting in order, it won't be that interesting out of order. Plus, I honestly had no idea what was going on in the first three readings. So: work on that. But you get a lot of stuff right, it's competently written, so that's a thing. Kaishai: The Frozen Child I mostly liked this. Nice detail, clear physicality, good words. It painted a picture. I'm not sure the circularity in the dancing girls at the beginning and the end is the right idea, it sort of suggests the world is going to be depopulated in a few years. The image of the ice baby is a good one, but it misses a magic realist trick because you don't suggest it reflects a physical or emotional reality - it's just a weird thing that kind of you know happens. Oxxidation: All You Ghosts This was the most properly magic realist of the lot, and also a decent story. Hence: victory. The ghosts played a role that was potent yet undefined, which is how you get your magic realist groove on. And that last para? That was the killer poo poo. Sitting Here: Omnibus You seem to be developing this kind of Pratchett/Rowling/Gaiman register that is proper delightful, Ms Here, and I for one could do with a lot more of it. That said, this doesn't quite hit the mark it's aiming for. The pigeons talk, but so what? The bus is fast and rude, but so what? The charming parts don't quite hang together. But still, very enjoyable to read. Purple Prince: Letting Go This gets the emotion/reality conflux better than many this weak, but needed a trim. Opening on rehearsing a conversation is clever and effective, but there's too much flab before you get to the meat of the story, which is the conflict. The protagonist is a whiny manchild, so either make more of that or go the other way and intensify the drama, faster. But still: serviceable. Bug Bill Murray: First Time I haven't too much to say about the craft here, it's solid (if flaccid, you could have cut half the words). But as magic realism goes it's terrible. It's a DUDE WETS DICK BUT MAGIC story, and really has nothing more to say than that. In magic realism the magic has to reflect or enliven the realism otherwise you're writing fantasy and/or poo poo. Noah: Of Conviction and Man First up - what the narbacular gently caress is up with that title. Okay, that out of the way, this was pretty bad. I see what you were doing with the disillusioned greenie, but it really didn't play out convincingly at all. As I said in my pm, ending it with a whale re-eating Jonah would have at least given the piece some point, but there's a lot wrong with it in craft as well. When you're considering having a character saying "Phenomenal. A bridge between two worlds," while staring out at the turbulent sea? Make another choice. Haititian Divorce: A Curious Tree This story was a bunch of poo poo that happened. I feel like there was the raw material for at least five, different, actually good stories within it, but none of them were the story you chose to tell. And that poo poo's on you, dog. Jeza: But you, brothers, are not in darkness No word of a lie I actually had to google that title to make sure it wasn't an Explosions in the Sky song title. Waddaya know, it's from TV's famous The Bible. Apart from that, this story is basically a bunch of problems turned into words. I like the idea of the tunnel, and it's effectively evoked, but everything about the old woman and the boy is tacky, leaden and cliche. You're writing about a Mary Sue who lives down a hole, in the dark. There's an interesting story there, but you chose not to tell it. Chairchucker: Acting goat in charge of HR I actually liked this a lot, it's funny. The goat is just hanging out, doing meetings. He's cool. It doesn't quite hang together as a story, you should have wrapped it after the rear end in a top hat left, but: good work little Thunderdome mascot. Benagain: Quest This was a middling clever idea, well executed. I think you could have made it sing by taking it a little more seriously. As it is it's not funny enough to sail by on charm, but it's too weightless to work as drama. But still, solid. toanoradian: urania Not one of your more successful outings, Mr radian. I liked the trippy 70s sci fi visuals, and the hallucinogenic flavour of it all, but the story really didn't hang together. And was not magically realistic, no it was not. STONE OF MADNESS: Skirmish Good craft servicing a poor and weird idea. So they're snakes, fighting a war. Okay. Where now? I liked your language a lot, but the story fell flat because them being snakes fighting a war seemed irrelevant. monkeyboydc: the maybe machine This is robust 60s sci fi fare with an even more robust final kick. It fails on craft, first by going on about sunrises (why bother? he finds a box, bam) second by not anticipating him looking ahead (why wouldn't you?) and finally by making a huge, unnecessary deal about how dark it is then letting him read tiny print. But the magic and the realism work nicely together, there's some good imagination, and the ending hooks in nicely. Destrado: Rocket Science A lovely piece that was one of my picks for winner. Like the Muffin, doesn't really hit the magical realism bullseye - there's nothing here apart from delusion, which is missing the point. But good words well deployed. I do have some problems with the order and sense of the thing: I'm still not clear about whether Jude wearing the thing comes before or after the end. And the ending needed more space to breathe. But the charm of the thing is considerable. Nice work. swaziloo: Na'Awleans While it was full of Good words, I felt like this was about 500 words short. Because while the wishes being granted were nice, there was no sense of why they'd turned bad. And, while it is magical to have a magical wish granting rabbit foot (if cliche as gently caress) it's not magical realism. Bad Seafood: What to do when Eaten Alive I loved the poo poo out of this one, and it was my pick for second place. It absolutely nailed the way that magic take the place of a strong emotion in the genre, and had an entrancing descending rhythm, punctuated by the consumption of the titular octopi. Very good work M. Seafood. Capntastic: Primary Concern You totally had some good words in here ("a despairing can of red paint", just lovely), but the story flopped. Calling a town Rainbow vs Primary is weak as hell and you needed to run that idea through a few more spin cycles. Plus: where's the magic? sebmojo fucked around with this message at 11:55 on Mar 7, 2013 |
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Mar 7, 2013 10:22
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Second Day of the Rains 780 words In a wide open courtyard, the priestesses sang blessings as the rain poured down. They stood in a circle around a shallow pool, their red robes turning black in the rain and their eyes closed, ecstatic. From the shadows of an arched corridor, Hajani Faroud watched them. His face was impassive. "So, Cowman, you return. With news I hope" Burk stood dripping beneath another archway. "Yeah, did at dat. A whole bunch a news...and, uh, dis." Burk pulled a chuck of dark rock from his pocket. "The Shard. Excellent. You surpass my expectations, Burk," said Hajani and extended his hand. "Good good...Burk glad dat you is pleased." He made no move to hand over the Shard. "But...Burk's been tinkin too. He's been hearing lots of stuff about dah … dread star and all dat. He wonders, what your priestess or goddess or whatever, what she's gonna do about it?" Hajani stopped, hand outstretched. His eyes flicked to the left and right, then back to Burk. He smiled. "But of course - these are dark times, yesno? My answer is ... not simple. But I appreciate that neither are you, my friend. Was smart question, huh? Smart, thoughtful. So before Hajani am giving smart thoughtful answer, perhaps Burk answer him this - what to stop me nodding to people there, there and there and taking Shard off Burk?" Burk shifted uneasily. "Dat had crossed Burk's mind. But Burk came anyways, cos Burk tink...Hey! Hajani have a smart answer to this...Hajani don't wanna be eaten by dah dread star, his soul ripped out and all dat. Cos dat is whats gonna happen, lessen dese tings is stopped...Hajani - you seen dese things ? You seen dem up close ? Felt dem sucking at you, felt dere hunger ?" Burk looked a little grey, a greasy sweat across his face. "Burk has." Hajani nodded. The smile dropped from his face like a closing window. "Yes. Yes, I have seen the bodies. Cold flesh, even in the hot sun. The insects will not touch them, you know? They just ... lie there until the priests come. Eyes wide, empty." He chewed his lip, gestured down the colonnade. "Walk with me." Burk glanced around, saw armed men withdrawing into the shadows, grinned mirthlessly. As an unseen drum began to play the priestesses in the courtyard started turning in place, chanting a single phrase. Burk's steel shod feet tapped a counter rhythm as they paced down the pillared walk. "Burk, I think you are smarter than you look, eh? Handy thing to be. Hajani could learn from you, hey? So you maybe understand me when I say truth... difficult commodity to come by in this town. I tell you what I think is true, you take it for what you think it's worth. But in the end, who is going to decide what's really true? The one who is left standing, ha?" The pair stepped into a wide open space, empty, a low broken wall along one side bordering empty space. The desert was far below, washed in soft tones of ochre and caramel through a misty haze of distant rain. Hajani leaned on the wall, pulled out a small silver flask, unscrewed the lid, hesitated. "Drink?" "Tanks..." Burk sniffed at it, shrugged, and took a slug. "Hooooweeee! Dat's nice!" Burk sat against the wall, clumping the Shard on the edge of the drop. "You know anyting about Cow Man gods ?" Hajani shook his head carefully, eyes on the Shard. "Dey is right cunts. You know, once a year, dah priests dey cut throat of girl, bury her in bog, just to keep Gods happy. Gods never do nuffing good for us...dey just do bad, so we got magic and stuff so they don't notice us, to keep em happy...make em stay away. Must be nice to have God that wants to save everyone, neh? Hajani accepted the flask back, took a swig. "Yes. But I think you know that is not always good to rely on nice. What was your word? Interests. That's the coin to count when you go home of a night." Hajani pointed upwards. Above their heads the Spire of Zathar receded into the warm wet air. “Fellows who built that, they had interests. No gods, from what I hear. Just interests. They started this whole mess, dug a real deep hole for themselves, put a lid on it because it suited their interests. That lid be about to break, yes? Lid has someone holding it shut, somewhere up in there. “Calipha, she been waiting a long time for this. Belief, you see? People round here think kind of like your fellows – want the priests and priestesses to keep the badness away. If we get it right the spire thing takes that, uh, assabiya… yes, “belief” and makes it into nice new lid. Lasts maybe another thousand years, maybe longer. I won’t care, guessing you won’t neither. Calipha, she gets to not die, we get to not die until it’s our proper time, and we all have big parties and lots of money and plenty of pretty ladies in the meanwhile, is all good neh?” Hajani turned back, looked out over the desert. Above them clouds of cool mist billowed, buffeted by the wind off the sands. “So what you think, Emir Burk? That a smart enough answer for your smart question?” Burk laughed, and stroked his mustache. "Emir Burk". He laughed again. He scooped up the Shard in one huge hand and tossed it to Hajani. "I tink I like the sound o dat."
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Mar 11, 2013 05:23
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Sitting Here posted:Speedy judgement and fast dirty crits? I'm almost starting to enjoy the feeling of stockholm syndrome I get for this thread. Good prompt, good crits, would abase myself before these judges again etc etc etc.
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Mar 12, 2013 20:56
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Some Strange Flea posted:
 Flash RuleYour story must have a beautiful moment. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 23:23 on Mar 12, 2013 |
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Mar 12, 2013 22:49
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systran posted:The only way I can submit something I feel is decent is to start the first draft on Tuesday, right after I see the prompt. Then I look at it several more times throughout the week and edit as much as possible. Last week I was sick all week and I made a rough draft after I saw the prompt, but it kind of sucked so I scrapped it. Then in the last three hours I wrote a draft and tried to revise is several times in the space of three hours or so and it ended up being total poo poo. Honestly? No-one cares. Write or be damned.
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Mar 14, 2013 21:00
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Fanky Malloons posted:Has the signup deadline passed? YOU'RE A LOOSE CANNON MALLOONS YOU'RE OFF THE CASE
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Mar 16, 2013 07:36
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Noah posted:This is what happens when you don't get a prompt out in time. Looking at you Fanky. Make it a one and done. Multi stage brawls poo poo up the dome, especially as blood is in the water right now.
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Mar 20, 2013 04:29
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Sitting Here posted:So here's a thing. I got this sweet av from kicking a lot of asses in the last incarnation of the Thunderdome thread. But now I'm suffering beneath the weight of my forums avatar's legacy due to constantly falling short of victory. SOMEONE BETTER PICK UP THIS GAUNTLET OR SO HELP ME YOU WILL ALL PAY
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Mar 20, 2013 10:31
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Mar 20, 2013 21:24
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