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5 hours remain. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33o32C0ogVM Get to it champs.
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May 20, 2013 03:00
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Submissions are closed. Even gave you guys a little extra time cause I like you so much. Here's looking at you, Chuck. Magnificent 7, Perpetulance, you are not my kind of people. Saddest Rhino, Sebmojo, Radioactive Bears, Impermanent, and Black Griffon, you've also got a lot to answer for. 1,000 words to answer for, to be precise. And Erik, man, come on dude, you're a judge. Gotta set an example for the community here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEClCAFjYHg To the rest of you, good job. I'll see to it your results are posted in 24 hours or less, though expect the crits to be awhile longer in coming.
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May 20, 2013 08:30
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 THUNDERDOME WEEK EXTRA LARGE THE FIRST RESULTS POST Having received a top secret cable from the late V for Vegas, the judges have "Convened" and reached their verdict. It was a close fight for the crown this time, but one must stand, and one must fall. This week's winner is Noah. Congratulations, boyo. Someday all this will be yours to squander, and that day is today. Honorable mentions are Fumblemouse and Cpt. Mahatma Ghandi, who fought like men and died bravely in the trenches of their prose. Dishonorable mention goes to SurreptitiousMuffin for ignoring his prompt and forgetting our anniversary. Meanwhile, back at the Batave, the loser this week is Voliun. Voliun, boy, I just don't know about you sometimes. Good work men. And godspeed.
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May 21, 2013 05:42
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V for Vegas posted:Special props to Muffins for a valiant attempt, but tainted by racism born of a nation that couldn't reverse swing in a transvestite night club. Crits to be posted sometime tomorrow. Probably in the evening (my time). Be there.
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May 21, 2013 09:50
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Crits and stuff because HA HA what is sleep. Nubile Hillock - Mark Zak: Lime & Ice Boy oh boy, this story. First one out the gate and you went full dudebro. The writing is competent, I suppose, though you have a few too many commas that needed to be periods, alongside a couple other grammatical foibles, but that's not really the problem here. The whole thing reads like joke that's gone on too long, and what's more a joke you've already heard too many times to remember why it was ever funny. I don't particularly care about any of their characters or their plight even in the spirit of playing along with the joke, and the ending felt more unfinished than anything else. You also pretty much botched even the slightest hint of bittersweetness I was hoping for. The guitar was important to him though, I'll give you that. And for what it is worth, there were a few moments of luminous absurdity ("parked diagonally across six handicap spaces"). You got promise kid, but you totally fell down the stairs into the trash compactor on this one. Oxxidation - In Focus Here we go, much better. Overall a very strong peace, and honestly my fifth favorite beneath the four vying for the title. You nailed the mood I was hoping for and made good use of your item, and you managed to wrap it up in an enchanting, ethereal prose style that made me wonder sometimes whether this was real or not. Unfortunately, that same gently wafting prose also obscured your story a bit. I read it a couple times and got a little bit of a different impression of what was going on, exactly, each time. There are also a few sentences that get tangled up in themselves, and the ending feels a bit, well, expected. Still, a good piece you'd be right to be proud of. CantDecideOnAName - Run Now this one I really wanted to like more than I actually did, though I still liked it a fair bit. You've got a great concept here, a bit rough around the edges in practice, but on paper the kind of premise I would gladly read an entire novel on. Of special note is the haunting feeling of uncertainty you evoke in your protagonist (and thus, your readers), on the run from a beautiful lie he wants to exist but knows cannot, his only guide a newspaper he found by chance. Doesn't quite hit the right notes concerning the sentimentality of the item (more of a psychological dependency, really), but close. Unfortunately it's still a bit unpolished in practice, but tidied up this is a diamond in the rough. Fart Particle - Spring Break in Suburbia Nice to see someone joining for a thread that isn't Dangan Ronpa. Now there's a drinking game. Unfortunately, your story was pretty run of the mill, your characters generic and their actions predictable. Tone-wise the thing came off fairly straightforward without many frills, and I'm not sure how well served your arrowheads were being we picked up literally last week. Also, that ending. See my first sentence again for that. BUT your story was clear, more or less readable, and went at a decent clip, which is more than can be said for a lot of Thunderdome first timers, so consider that your incentive to stick around and get better. Welcome to Thunderdome. Sitting Here - All My Little Somethings Always nice to see an experimental piece, and what's more this one actually kinda works. I think you did yourself a bit of a disservice labeling things Then and Now, as it suggests a lack of confidence in the dialogue to establish its own timeframe. Once you post your first break, you've already established time as a bit more fluid in your story, so don't be afraid to not hold our hand the whole time. Unfortunately, your story gets a little lost just a bit past the middle, which hurt this story a bit in my estimation, but it's nothing a good clean up couldn't cure. CancerCakes - Mark of Distinction Character voice should never interfere with my ability (or my desire) to read your story. You've got the crotchety old war veteran turned up a little too loud here, a little too slurred, making a lot of his dialogue painful to read (and brother, in this story it's all dialogue). Your sentence structure is all over the place, and why. would. you. ever. do. this.,?~ Never do that again. That aside, your taciturn military hero who remembers the battlefield as though it were yesterday comes off as strangely lenient on the dude he just caught banging his daughter. And assuming that's the Up To No Goodness you were trying to weave into the story, it feels more tacked on as a pretext for your narrator to talk about something completely unrelated. You are capable of better than this. Next time, show me. That's a personal challenge, from one guy who wrote a terrible war story to another. Systran - Butterfly Dream This story almost got interesting, but for all its hooks never felt like it had much meat to it. You're throwing tufts of grass in the air for effect, but I can't get a good grasp for the field you're pulling them from. I'm the last person to hold implying setting over telling it against anyone, but you could've used at least a little more concrete grounding. Your story itself came off a bit soulless, and your prose was decent but riddled with tense problems. What bothered me the most though was how quickly your protagonist changes his tune from wanting to save her to just cherishing her memory. There was no struggle, no tension, simply a revelation, which glossed over a lot that could've made this story meatier. Kleptobot - Flaming Karma Hmm, vignettes. Always a sure sign of a last minute entry (and believe me, I should know). Not much to comment on. A guy does a thing and then it's over. Feels like a single scene from a larger story, but there isn't much about it that makes me care what that larger story might be. Overall, forgettable, but at least you manned up and submitting something. Proud of you son. Just don't touch my stuff. Jagermonster - A Prayer Hey, how about that, another vignette, albeit longer with a bit more at stake. Also better written, with two characters I could actually kinda get into. Neat. No real narrative arc to speak of though, which hurts it despite having a semi-workable conclusion. Also the object in this case is not actually important to any of the characters involved, but instead to some nebulously defined offstage Christians. There's some groundwork here for an internal struggle, a man forced to choose between his own life and the lives of those he's only vaguely familiar with, but you don't do much with it. Still, moderately enjoyable. Nikaer Drekin - The Silver Star and the Setting Sun Two natives of Exposition Central have a conversation between bars. Okay. I like what you did with the item, and the futility of the father and the son's feud against the sheriff does well to feed the mood, but otherwise let me tell you everything you need to know to bring you up to speed on how you are supposed to feel about everything that has happened. Also, mustache twirling. Few villains can get away with it and still be taken seriously; yours doesn't. Crabrock - Bee For Two Eh. Eh. Decent enough submission I suppose. Solidly in the middle of the pack. A bit muddled at points though, and feels like it loses itself a bit by the time it reached the end. The sealed envelope feels largely like an after though, like I could've given you anything and the old woman could've simply kept it for whatever reason. Not bad, not great, not really much of anything. MonkeyboyDC - Two kinds of spurs I'm not sure what Big Brother future you're running here that a full night's sleep constitutes a potentially criminal offense, but what do I know. Overall a fairly silly story where not much is really established or accomplished. Certainly wasn't melancholy, and I didn't really get much out of the spurs beyond this guy's dad having a serious crush on cowboys. It has a nice energy to it though, for all its shortcomings. I'd encourage you to write more, as I get the feeling there's a niche you just haven't found to fill yet. This prompt, however, wasn't it. Voliun - Encrypted Nobody talks like this, but I suppose that's not really relevant when I can't be bothered to care about what your characters are saying in the first place. Or what's happening. A heist of some kind over an object of nominal importance to anyone, least of all the characters swiping it. Of all the stories submitted this week, this was the only one I felt was wasting my time (and remember this is following in the footsteps of a dudebro beerpong high society piece). Please try again. DoubleDonut - The Gentleman and the Lady I'm sure you've heard of saying a lot with a little. This story is the exact opposite of that. You've given yourself a lot of leeway to set up things that could honestly be handled in sentences, build up to an event where you could've honestly started and finished your story. As it is, the world you've set this in is too vague to get a good handle on, as are the characters and their reasons for doing anything. Finally your item feels less like a memento and more like hand-me-down. There's a story in here somewhere with everything I asked for, but you haven't done a very good job excavating it. Next time, try starting the story right as they're breaking in, or directly after. See where that takes you. Martello - The Big Jump A solid submission, though I'll admit I was hoping the sun hat would give you something less hardboiled to write around. You're a decent writer when you want to be Martello, but a lot of your stuff comes off reading the same. You didn't this time, but sometime I would like to see you write a little more outside your comfort zone. Cpt. Mahatma Gandhi - Montevo-Figo I've gotta be honest with you. My first time through the slush pile, this was my standout favorite without question. Unfortunately, subsequent rereads found it not quite up to the snuff presented by the other top tier competitors, but nonetheless this is a good piece, and under a different prompt might've even been the winner. Unfortunately, the notebook I entrusted you with ended up being less important in and of itself and more simply illustrative of the main character's dilemma, so I had to dock you points on a technicality (though it is otherwise a good use of the object you'd been given). Thunderdome isn't the place for gushing, so I won't say too much more. I will say though you made the right choice leaving the ending open. It doesn't matter whether or not we know what our hero decided, only that he did decide, and resolved himself to live with the consequences. JonasSalk - Dead Don’t Talk Stuff happened and people died doing 80 in a school zone (what). There is an item but really, do we care? Overall very ho-hum. I would say more but, honestly? This feels like a minimum effort submission. You didn't even bother to work in a bad chess pun. Very disappointing. Dr. Kloctopussy - Fundamental Particulars A reasonably well-written piece, though the item feels more like scenery, and I'm not sure I would equate dabbling in superstition as up to no good. Your opening and ending are a bit wishy washy, but the heart of it, the flashbacks between numbers, is very solid, and makes up for what other narrative shortcomings this piece has. SurreptitiousMuffin - Just Not Cricket I'm gonna get some flak for this, but honestly I really don't care. Muffin, your prose is impeccable. You present a strong narrative voice, and your poetic background is evident in a lot of your phrasing. You have a good sense for storytelling and progression when you feel like telling a story, and your verbal illustrations are wonderful. In terms of pure skill, both technically and artistically, you are easily and consistently among the upper echelons of people who post in this thread. So why the loss? I could say I didn't really get the feeling of melancholy seeded throughout the story like I hoped. Really it comes across more like a slice of life story, the kind of thing everyone involved will be laughing about a week later none the worse for the wear. A true shot left of its target, while still impressive, is still a miss. But that's not the whole story. Although the majority of items I assigned on a whim, there were a couple I handpicked specifically to challenge their authors, people I thought could handle the change of pace or the oddly specific. You were one such person. Your challenge wasn't to write about baseball or even to write about a baseball, but to include a baseball that was itself a meaningful object to someone within it for whatever reason. But rather than play the hand you were dealt, you decided to go with something else, something more familiar to you, because you wanted to write specifically about something and couldn't be bothered to fit it in with your original prompt. A minor change, to be sure; a cricket ball is not so far removed from a baseball. But nonetheless, you stepped down from the challenge you were issued to tackle something you considered more manageable. Which is fine, and in a vacuum without shame. If I were a magazine editor and this story came across my desk, I would accept it. But in a thread such as the Thunderdome, I won't let you move your goal posts closer only to revel in victory over your competitors who ran the full length of it. Some people will probably say I was wrong to do this. You might think so too. But this was my call to make. And again, judged only against itself, this is still a wonderful story. You're a good writer Muffin, and you can take that to the bank (though you'll have to stand in line after Sebmojo). Noah - The Beast in the Woods Probably the most pleasant of surprises I could've had this week. You had V for Vegas' vote long before I ever got around to reading this one myself, and though I thought I knew where this was going early on, you still managed to impress me with the delivery and execution of it. Of special note is how you simultaneously have parts of the story happening in the future of the present, such as cutting away from what people said to what it turns out they will say, which makes the story feel both larger and more compact at the same time. The mood was perfect. The use of the item was sublime. I remember you lost some long time ago, and you've come a long way. Wear your Thunderdome crown with pride, young egret, for as with all things victory is fleeting. Fumblemouse - Forgetting Clementine Despite the fact that your submission was quite literally neck and neck with Noah's for first place for a good ten to fifteen minutes of mental deliberation, I'm afraid I don't have a whole lot to specifically comment on. Your writing is tight and you present a solid picture of a neurotic man and the gun he's grown so fond of, and the portrait of possibility he has pledged his love to. If I had to pick at anything, it's that I personally hate first person present tense, but that's just me. You're a good man Fumblemouse. Keep at it. Chairchucker - Why I Was Unable to Submit on Time: The 100% Real and not at all Fabricated Account of Chairchucker's Excuse for Tardiness Now this was a good bit of funny. Broke the mood completely, but gave me a good chuckle, which honestly after several pages worth of melancholic writing was something I probably needed. You have a distinct narrative voice that gives the character a life of his own, and though thoroughly silly, I felt it never detracted from the piece. Also you've got that Count avatar, so for some reason I imagined him in your place as narrator. Good work Chairchucker. You might not have won this week, but you won my heart. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 11:14 on May 22, 2013 |
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May 22, 2013 11:12
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I'm out. Got a trip here soon that goes just past the deadline. If you'd like it though, Noah, I can help with the judging. Thirty-something submissions is a lot for one dude to parse.
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May 23, 2013 23:32
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Well I've read the Bible and seen Spaceballs, so I guess I'm double in.
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Jun 5, 2013 22:03
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The sun never sets on the British Empire.
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Jun 6, 2013 03:50
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Blah. Similar situation to Fumblemouse, but whatever. Take it out of my paycheck.Leviticus 11:10 posted:But all in the seas or in the rivers that do not have fins and scales, all that move in the water or any living thing which is in the water, they are an abomination to you. Fishers of Men (496 words) By the time they’d finally drug him from the ocean, the man was so completely covered in shells as to be unrecognizable. The captain lit a cigarette for himself and the doctor. The chaplain just stood there and stared unbelieving. “He fell in this morning?” “Accidents happen.” “Yes, but this morning?” “We get them like this all the time. They eat through the suits and latch on to the body.” Taking a chisel from his pocket, the doctor managed to scrape off a few of the unwelcome guests. The flesh beneath was raw and waterlogged, and where the doctor placed his instruments he could make out a subtle heartbeat. “Poor bastard,” he murmured, “They’re keeping him alive. Nothing for it.” He surrendered, and the captain produced a gun. His eyes were cold, features drawn and disinterested, and it was with an unexpected discomfort the chaplain realized he had done this before. The captain wasted no time with ceremony. There was a click and the man’s head exploded in a shower of color, shells raining and snapping and clattering to the floor. Yet for all the flotsam there was very little blood. The captain turned and made his way out. “The first one’s never easy. Don’t worry. Everyone knows.” The doctor had gone off to brew tea in the corner. He offered a cup, but the chaplain refused. “What was his name?” “Hmm?” “The man.” “Adam Davis. An engineer, I think.” The chaplain chewed on the name he’d been given. He looked to the windows and took in the Europan sunset. It’d been twenty years since they’d broken through the ice, and ten short years since they’d begun draining the oceans. As the water level had decreased, emergent islands and unnatural coastlines had started to form, mountains of jutted rock that had long slept beneath still and ivory waters. The chaplain breathed deep and turned to the doctor. “So what happens now?” “Now?” “To the body?” “Usually we burn it, just to get rid of it. We’ve got no place for a burial and not enough to send it home. The families understand, they signed a waver upon employment. We only fish them out so they don’t go unaccounted.” The chaplain bit his lip. “Could I make a request?” “And that would be-” “That you throw it back into the sea.” The doctor spit his tea back into his cup. “Excuse me?” “He’s dead, isn’t he? And he signed a waver. Just throw him back. You were just going to burn him anyway.” “Well, yes, that’s certainly true. But what for?” The chaplain turned back to the horizon. “These things, they live here. They were here first. We’re taking everything they have, so we could at least let them have this.” The doctor looked slowly from the chaplain to the body. “Didn’t take you for some hippie. Take it up with the captain.” The chaplain nodded, but didn't leave until night.
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Jun 10, 2013 02:58
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Mercedes posted:“Hey there grumps!” A blond head pokes into the room. Her large smile causes you to slightly frown. Elise has one of those personalities that resemble that annoying ray of sunshine in the morning. Yet somehow the two of you bonded immensely and you now consider her your best friend; your only friend really, besides your boyfriend. To get back to work, turn to page 32.
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Jun 12, 2013 21:13
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I've got family over so I'm a little preoccupied to be writing anything this weekend, but not too preoccupied to pass judgement on heathens this Monday after they've gone (assuming Fumblemouse's offer is still open).
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Jun 21, 2013 21:42
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There's two kinds of people in this world. People who write and people who crit, and this week most of you didn't write but I'm gonna crit you anyway because I dunno I guess I'm supposed to. Schneider Heim - A New One I dug your opening and very little else about this story. Your overall approach was very stiff and lifeless, and you stuffed it to the gills with expospeak; when your story is only 700 words to begin with, you need to make every word count, and you did not. You also took a relatively interesting thought experiment (and a moral dilemma to boot) and managed to cover it from one of the most boring angles imaginable, thought to your credit not THE most boring angle imaginable (we'll have that discussion later). HOMEWORK: A doctor is forced to choose between saving the life of his son or a complete stranger's. Son, that is, so two sons. Tell me of his tribulations in 300 words or less. Jonked - Chapter 12: The Doctor and the Razor Cute. A little too cute, actually. You said yourself if we couldn't identify the experiment you picked that you had failed as an author, but I don't know how anyone could have missed it with how completely on the nose you were about everything. Like Schneider, you spent a good deal of time making sure we're up on the full brunt of the mechanics here, which took away a lot of opportunity for your story to be just that: a story. HOMEWORK: The Rational Knight takes a smoke break on the ramparts of the castle. Tell me his thoughts in 100 words exactly. Sitting Here - The Eighth Sea Jonked and Schneider might've said too much, but look at you here trying to say too little. Your experiment was hazy and your narrative hazier still. It's competently written, but knowing what you're capable of I had much higher expectations. It wasn't a bad idea, nor was it a bad interpretation, but this was not the winning draft of it that you could have submitted. HOMEWORK: Two people visit the grave of an organ donor. One of them is the man he saved, and the other is just some guy who knew him. What do they say? You have 300 words. Sebmojo - Picture a Room Picture a story. Now picture a picture. A picture of a picture. Get the picture? Good. You've painted a beautiful picture here Sebmojo, but at the end of the day that's all that it is. A beautiful picture, to be sure, and not without some meatiness to it, nor context, but what I wanted was a story and there you have left me unsatisfied. Also, casual drug use. Popped me from the story and set a bad example for my children; which I don't have, but you know, hypothetically. HOMEWORK: I want a children's story with a beginning, middle, and an end, and the end must be happy. 500 words and talking animals are a must. Kaishai - Brick Red A nice playful piece. For children. You know, like Fumblemouse intended? Here you've taken a densely worded thought problem and managed to reduce it to its purest particulars, and done so in a complete story with characters we care about. If I had to complain about anything it's that it lacks a certain edge, a certain bite, but that is not a significant concern. You done good son, so wear that crown with pride. HOMEWORK: [special teacher's exemption] JonasSalk - That's All Folks Fumblemouse was not incorrect in his appraisal of your work, but for what it's worth I saw what you were trying to do, or at least what I think you were trying to do, and I liked it. You didn't lose me in your labyrinthine structure, though that you lose other people is a definitive problem. Your story starts strong and ends strong, I thought, but reads weak in the middle (except, specifically, for the empty gun bit), and you complicate a few things that could really be expressed more simply. You tried something experimental though, and I am loathe to hang people out to dry just for trying to do something different, but you lost two-thirds of your audience, and if it weren't for me you might've lost the week. HOMEWORK: Two robots try to understand art. They may take as many words as you deem necessary to do so. Bachelard rear end - Room 236 A thick and tasteless stew of words. You spend an awful lot of time building up to something you never competently portray in words, and focus way too much on the insignificant details. You set up a framing device that serves no purpose, and by its very nature stretches credulity. Why is he writing this down? And to whom? This was not my pick for the worst, but with so much fat to trim to get to the meat of the story (which also isn't much of a story), any excuse to get you to refine your abilities is a good one. HOMEWORK: Someone is born, lives, and dies in 100 words. Nikaer Drekin - Moving House What you have here is a long setup to a punchline that doesn't deliver. When I first finished I thought "That's it?" then clicked your link to a much more interesting story than the one presented. There are ramifications and emotional ideas here that you don't even bring up, much less hint at or explore. High concepts demand high execution. HOMEWORK: A young girl jumps off the top of the Empire State Building. Tell me her thoughts before she lands. At no point must she regret her decision to jump, nor express any kind of self-pity or loathing. You have 204 words. EDIT: She must, of course, die when she hits the pavement. Blarg Blargety - Stay at the Hilbert In which some people change rooms and smoke a lot. That's it. Like Nikaer you saw fit to borrow from a high concept premise, but also like Nikaer you completely failed to do anything interesting with it. So there's this hotel, and it's infinite, and people go there, and...and? You don't even really describe the hotel, so all these people are just waiting in an infinite blank space I suppose, which isn't too out of place since they're all blank themselves. You also threw in the term "Multiverse," but wrote neither about comics, advanced physics, or Planescape fanfiction, any one of which would have been better received than this. Your prose is decent, but you do not have here a story worth telling. HOMEWORK: Google "Sigil the City of Doors." Read up on it, should only take a few minutes to get the gist of it, then send me an excerpt from the diary or someone who lives there. 333, 999, or 110,889 words maximum, your choice. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 06:49 on Jun 25, 2013 |
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Jun 25, 2013 06:45
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Fumblemouse posted:the Rational Knight could be a great character, but he’s just a mouthpiece here, spouting ‘Great Scott’ (which nobody except Clark Kent’s editor has ever actually said) 
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Jun 25, 2013 17:52
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Oh hey, Internet's back. That's neat. Genre: Scrambled Grade: 4-6th Prompt: Write a horror story about a million-year-old vulture who is shipwrecked on a desert island. Those of you who turned in your homework, good job. Critiques and the reasoning behind each of your assignments coming whenever I can be bothered to do so (so probably tomorrow).
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Jul 4, 2013 01:17
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Incoming what.Bad Seafood posted:Genre: Scrambled This is a world born without time. There is no past here, and there is no future. From atop the rocks on my throne I see all, and all that I see is all there has been. A body washes a shore. A man. A woman. There is always a body. An adult. A child. I see it struggle and cling to its life. I see it flounder and lust in my heart. On broken wings bent I sweep down to the sea, my lover and jailer, my mistress and key. I do not know from whence they wash. There is fire off the horizon and it is comparable to the sun. But wherever they come from matters little to me. Wherever they come from, they always come here. I am given my life and a copy of the King James. “Good enough for Jesus,” whoever that is. Tonight it rains, and every night after. I tear out the pages to construct a tent. I rip out the scriptures to furnish a nest. The Old Testament exhausted, I’ve no use for the New. I cut out the gospel and fold paper birds. I live and breathe in my own waking memories. I see myself kill a man and know I have killed him, that I have always killed him, that I will never not kill him. I see myself reflected in the eyes of woman. Eyes that I close, have always closed, will always close. Where the sea meets the sand lays rock sharp and jagged. When I saw it for the first time, and the last time, I knew what it was for. The body twitches softly. The parent’s. The child’s. They whisper in song that is foreign to me. With no time to lose, I cut out their throat. With no time to spare, I cave in their head. The bloods at my feet and I drink until drunk, the flesh cooked in the sun as I rip into the carcass. The meat is sweet. It has always been sweet. There is always a body provided, a meal. The rain comes early. It always comes early. I curse as I scuttle back up the rocks. In a cradle of paper, from my fortress, I wait. Today is tomorrow, and tomorrow is today.
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Jul 8, 2013 08:00
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Fanky Malloons posted:For what it is, I enjoyed it Fanky Malloons posted:although I’m slightly confused as to whether the narrator is supposed to be a metaphorical vulture or an actual vulture. SO HOMEWORK. Jonked The purpose of your assignment was to bring out the humanity in your characters. You succeeded. A+ Bachelard rear end The purpose of your assignment was to cut down on the chaff and tell a straight story, and standard of living aside, you did it. Congratulations. You're already improving. B- Schneider Heim The purpose of your assignment was to cultivate tension with a difficult choice. Schneider Heim posted:"Not if I operate on them at the same time." Sitting Here The purpose of your assignment was to distill the heart of your story into something more manageable. You succeeded. A+ Blarg Blargety The purpose of your assignment was to breathe life into your characters and more importantly your setting. You didn't really do either. Also, not a diary entry (also, tense-switching). D+
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Jul 11, 2013 06:23
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higgz posted:Hi, So white is traditionally a pretty feelgood color. It's the color of purity and cleanliness, new beginnings and crisp winter mornings. To some people, however, it seems stark and alienating, lonely, and cold. Should you focus on the positive aspects of this color, I want a story dower and muted in tone. Alternatively, if you're feeling a bit more negative, I expect you to keep things optimistic and upbeat.
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Jul 17, 2013 19:10
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captain platypus posted:Can we just ask for flash rules? If so, me me me. Flash Rule: Lemons are sour. So are grapes if you don't want them. Your protagonist is denied something and handles the situation poorly. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 18:05 on Jul 18, 2013 |
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Jul 18, 2013 18:03
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Marty died on IRC so I am in to avenge his death.
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Jul 30, 2013 21:38
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From The Top (383 words) Lisa found Henrietta pretty much as she had predicted; sleeves rolled back, her wrists and fingers speckled with paint. The tenement owner had denied her roof access, but that didn't seem to trouble her as she sat at her easel, alone with God beneath the roof of the world. "You're here." "Of course I'm here." "You're not supposed to be, you know." "Hmm, believe me. I know." There was a subtle strength in the breeze as it caught Lisa's hair. Even Henrietta, who kept hers short, couldn't escape the caress of the sky. It only then struck Lisa how clear today was. From the east to the west not a cloud in the sky. "So, what is it this time?" "Oh, the usual." Lisa's eyes narrowed. The usual could mean anything. Henrietta continued, unaware of her impatience. Finally she sighed and approached her sister. The view from the tenements was extraordinary. In every direction lay something to see. But it was not on the horizon Henrietta had fixed her attention, but below, down below, where the people walked the streets. "They looked like ants from up here," was the sort of thing you might expect someone to say. But not Henrietta. Even from here she saw them for who they were, and painted them in kind. They were not dots but people, exaggerated in size. It was the buildings around them that Henrietta drew small. Lisa didn't begin to understand. "You know if you're caught up here, they'll throw us out." "No they won't." "They've threatened to already!" "They always threaten." "I'm pretty sure this time they'll do it." "Maybe." "And that doesn't concern you?" "It's not like it would be the end of the world." Lisa wracked her brain trying to think of excuses. Some golden tipped reason to convince Henrietta down. "Mom's sent a package." "You're a terrible liar." "She did!" "Not improving." Lisa put her hands on her sister's shoulders, turning her away from her work. Their hazel eyes met, Lisa's dead serious. Henrietta looked on as though trapped in a daze. "Look. I just want...to live somewhere for more than a month for once. Alright? Is that too much to ask?" Henrietta blinked, and put down her brush. "No, it isn't." And she collected her things.
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Jul 31, 2013 01:00
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Blah. Blah I say. Old Debts (913 words) The gas depot had been abandoned for years, the thin red paint of the Korean lettering cracked and peeling. A flock of crows had taken up residence in the roof and the rafters, and they scattered to the winds at the sound of Chapel’s footsteps. It was two days desert whichever way they flew. He almost wondered where they’d bother to go. Duke Chapel could’ve spotted Oldboy anywhere. That tattered, yellow raincoat he wore regardless of the weather. And that eye of his, glass, electric and watching. Oldboy sat slumped against the fuel pumps, whittling away at a block of wood. He didn’t look up as Chapel approached, but his voice called out to him. He knew he was there. “Chapel. My nigga. Get your rear end on over here.” Oldboy’s only good eye was his false one, but it was good for a lot of things. From his sleeve he shook loose a cigarette, pressed it against his socket, and pulled it back lit. He offered it to Chapel, who refused him with a stare. “Still not a smoker, huh?” “I got enough poo poo in my life as it is.” Oldboy chuckled and extinguished the cigarette in the palm of his hand. He tucked it behind his ear, and from his other sleeve drew a cigar. He lit it like its cousin, and held it to his lips. Chapel couldn’t even imagine how many palms he’d greased to get his hands on one. “Saving the best for yourself, I see.” “Always, nigga. Always.” An ocean of silence filled the space between the two men. It was a foreign sensation to Chapel, born and bred within the city. He wasn’t sure that he cared for the taste, but Oldboy didn’t keep him suffering long. “So, I see you’ve found me.” “Indeed I have.” “Was it easy?” Chapel thought back. It was raining blood that night on the subway. Blood of the working man. Blood of the soul man. Twelve different languages had forbade the use of nuclear weapons from the boarding platform, but that was all ancient history when a lady had a Hiroshima-7 pressed flat against your temple. “Cool under pressure. I like that in a man.” “Sorry bitch, but I don’t think you’re my type.” It was common knowledge Calico Creed outfitted herself with a cybernetic arm to replace the one she’d lost in the Dead End Riots. Slightly less well known was that each of her fingers carried a nuclear device. One was hefty enough to blow a train off its tracks, and two were held together pointed directly at Chapel’s brain. Beside Calico bent Cashmere, still struggling to his feet. The man was still recovering from the pistol whip Chapel had delivered him. “Come on now baby, there’s got to be something you see in me.” “Yeah. An incarceration deep freeze.” Calico smirked, her afro rustling with the heartbeat of the train. In a minute they’d be out of the underground, the railway stretching endlessly over what remained of Jericho Lake. Cashmere craned his neck, a cracking sound accompanying the action. Finally he was himself again. Brushing the dust from his shoulders, whether real or imagined, he reached into his suit and retrieved a silver hammer. Cashmere was only known for two things this side of the Jericho: being Calico’s boy toy, and a promising career in unorthodox dentistry, which was unfortunately impacted by his lack of repeat customers. Duke Chapel swallowed, his breathing calm and steady. “Listen to me. I just want Oldboy. The rest of you can take a hike.” “Don’t work like that honey. Can’t get to the old man without going through me.” “I don’t think your boy Cashmere would like that too much.” “Cashmere likes what’s good for him, don’t you baby?” Calico looked to her lover. That was all Chapel needed. There was a knife in his shoe that was laced with a neurosedative. He kicked her in the leg and she collapsed into his arms. Cashmere was livid. “Be cool, nigga!” Chapel embraced her, his gun already drawn. He pointed the barrel at the base of Calico’s neck. “Now let’s you and I have a chat. Man to man. Where’s Oldboy.” Cashmere gripped his hammer tightly. Blood began to trickle down to the floor between his fingers. Chapel’s mind snapped back to the present. “Yes it was,” he replied. Oldboy studied him a moment before standing. At his full height he was a match even for Chapel. Oldboy licked his lips and pointed out towards the desert. “Something out there I think you should see.” It was a bucket, overturned, as old and rusted as the depot they’d left. There was a white handkerchief laid across it, and there was a gun. An old magnum. Nothing fancy, nothing special. “You know how we settle things in this family, Duke.” Chapel nodded. He’d brought no weapons with him, and neither had Oldboy. He never asked him, just knew. Not because he trusted him, but because he knew his style. This was his style, this bucket, this gun. This was how they’d do it, out here before God. Oldboy walked ten paces north. Chapel went south. They both turned and looked at one another. No more words needed to be said. Oldboy took the cigar from his mouth and held it at arms reach. A crow returned and called out from his perch. Oldboy dropped the cigar, and both met in the center.
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Aug 4, 2013 07:21
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Make it happen, captain.
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Aug 14, 2013 19:30
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Noah posted:BadSeafood: Your story must contain a clearly identified macguffin. It was with a practiced candor Ursula snapped open the metal folding fan. Like all things in her world, it was beautiful; but it was not by the merits of its beauty she had brought it. It was Japanese in origin, black ink on gold leaf, and inscribed amongst the petals flowed an eloquent haiku. Sinclair’s wife had been from there, she was told, and she trusted the modest display would be enough to lower his guard. “And where was it that you met your wife?” “Suncheon, Korea. After the war.” “Ah…ha…” Ursula shut the fan with a click, eyes closed, an uncomfortable smile on her lips. A servant in black tie and gloves appeared and whisked away the offending object, tossing it overboard as he returned to the galley. Ursula regained her composure. She had not lost her opportunity to make a positive impression. It was a private affair. Ursula, her guest, and about thirty staff. Space was cramped on her second largest yacht, but she didn’t want Sinclair to think she was trying too hard. If there was anything she had taken away from the lone fishing expedition her late father had taken her on, it was that one had to be careful when hooking their prey. It was one of the few things of value her father had left her, along with the estate, the money, and half of Rassgart. Still, Ursula had always believed in doing things herself, which was what brought the two of them here today. “I can hardly believe August is just around the corner. Almost time for the annual dog show.” “Indeed,” Sinclair perked up. “I must say, I didn’t expect to be picked to judge again.” Ursula had, but humored the old man with a laugh. “I’m sure you’ll do your best.” The previous two years had been a disaster. The first had suffered the peerage of Rebecca Tenenbaum, a mouse of a woman with the manners of a lion. The second had been worse. In all of Rassgart there was no one who ruffled Ursula’s feathers more than that abominable man, Alexei Sayle. A year later they still hadn’t cleaned the coffee stains from the carpet. She would’ve long since ordered it burned if that hadn’t felt like a concession of victory. But that was the past. This year she had picked a winner, she was sure. “Now then,” Ursula signaled to her servants with her eyes, “About my concerns.” “Rest assured, Madam Stanton, I will do my utmost to uphold the sanctity of this monumental occasion. Not even in my darkest dreams would I think of compromising the integrity of this event.” “Your words warm my heart, Mister Kasbah. I am glad to see my faith in you was not misplaced.” As Ursula spoke, a maid approached with a small briefcase. She set it at the foot of her mistress’ chair, making a show of nudging it slowly over towards Sinclair. Sinclair noticed, of course. He would have had to have been blind not to. “Ah, oh my, and what am I to make of this, Miss Stanton?” “Think of it as a gift,” Ursula smiled, her attention to the waves and the seagulls. “Just a little something to ensure your continued professionalism.” There was the click of the briefcase, then silence. It was a very long time before Sinclair spoke. “You…you can’t mean this.” “I am the heiress Ursula Stanton, and I can mean whatever I want. I mean for you to be my friend, and would hope this token of my appreciation would go a long way towards making it mutual.” There was another click. Sinclair had closed the briefcase, but he had not returned it. “I don’t know what to say.” “You don’t have to say anything. Silence is golden, after all. Like first prize.” Sinclair nodded, fiddling with his cufflinks. Another maid arrived with an envelope and a letter opener on a tray. The contents of the envelope proved to be several interesting facts about the Korean peninsula, freshly printed and expertly sourced. Ursula skimmed them briefly before folding the letter and handing it back. Neither Ursula nor her guest heard the splash this time. “Mister Kasbah, were you aware that the Korean won is currently a thousand on the American dollar?” Sinclair smiled. He did not smile the day of the dog show, trapped in his bedroom with a doctor and a head cold. Ursula also found her smile escaping her, her program crumpling as Alexei Sayle took the judges podium for the second year in a row, in an emergency capacity he was quick to explain. The whole ceremony was over in thirty minutes; to Ursula, it felt like thirty years.
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Aug 19, 2013 07:59
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It's always sunny here in Rassgart. Except when it rains.
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Aug 20, 2013 01:05
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Sitting Here posted:The Institute for Anonymous Public Facilitators Accretionist posted:The Academy for Sudden Bursts of Motivation while Depressed Unknowing posted:Mars Institute for Waste Processing and Reclamation wash clothes posted:Rob Dyrdek School of Skateboarding Nikaer Drekin posted:Detective Dick DeForest's Private Eye Hard-Boiling School
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Aug 20, 2013 21:57
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docbeard posted:The International Academy of Practical Mime* Accretionist posted:I want to shoot them into space. Mercedes posted:Xavier Marchena School of Urban Parkour Chillmatic posted:Madam Charlotte's School For Aberrant Girls Schneider Heim posted:St. George's School of Monster-slaying and People-saving
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Aug 22, 2013 04:21
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Mercedes posted:I still don't understand what you two mean by "bettering of polite minorities." The end. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 06:04 on Aug 22, 2013 |
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Aug 22, 2013 06:02
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Barracuda Bang! posted:The Cooper Union for the Cooping Arts M. Propagandalf posted:Starkhall Training Academy for Truancy Investigations and Corrections (STATIC) Kaishai posted:The Prestonwood Forest Institute of Artistic Application of Light.
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Aug 24, 2013 05:07
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Submissions are closed. Gold stars all around. Barracuda, Accretionist, I want you in my office. Unknowing, Wash Clothes, I have no idea who you guys are.
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Aug 26, 2013 10:22
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"Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted." - Kurt Vonnegut, Creative Writing 101 Sure. Nikaer Drekin - Detective Dick DeForest's Private Eye Hard-Boilding School I actually laughed quite a few times while reading this. It's all very stock, but stock with a purpose. It's a bit too meta, perhaps, but still managed to hit the right notes for a parody. Really, at the end of the day your biggest crime is you didn't do more with it. Here was a concept ripe for exploring, but you largely kept it contained, and I think that was to its detriment. I believe at one point or another Crabrock mentioned there should be a bit more dialogue diversity between the two students, and looking at it again I believe that he's right. VOTED: "Most likely to get caught smoking cigarettes in the bathroom while someone else doesn't." HOMEWORK: Two people from two diametrically different genres sit next to each other on a train. You have 500 words and one sentence of physical description each. Chillmatic - Sidestepping the fact that you disregarded your flash rules, and that your school featured no vocational training of any sort, I really expected a lot more from you. Your characters were all one-note and unlikeable, which in and of itself wouldn't be a bad thing except that they weren't very interesting either. The girl is too cool to care and detached from the violence around her, which I have only your word on, and the headmistress is essentially every Evil Boarding School Principle distilled into a single character, no flourish. Your prose is competent, but the nitpicks pile up, and the dialogue is groan-worthy with very few exceptions. Really, all you've managed to tell is a really bad joke; the rumors are false not because they aren't true, but because everyone keeps lumping her with the wrong sort of people. Great ending. VOTED: "Most likely to talk smack before the big game only to get sacked by the quarterback." HOMEWORK: The emperor shows mercy. 1,000 words and chiefly dialogue. Mercedes - Xavier Marchena School of Urban Parkour Just so we're clear here, the intent was for you to write about a school that accepted only polite minorities as its students. But you didn't write about a school anyway, so I guess that really doesn't matter. Honestly, this feels more like you already had something in mind you wanted to write about, then shoehorned in your prompt (and flash rules) in the least intrusive manner possible. I am partial though to your method of leaving dialogue unattributed in conversations of three or more people where everybody talks the same. Good job. Your prose has been getting clearer, but so far it's only served to highlight the actual content of your writing being subpar. VOTED: "Most likely to fill in profanities on their scantron." HOMEWORK: Three people have a disagreement over coffee and cigarettes. You may not attribute any dialogue, but it must always be clear who is talking. You have have 700 words, and the argument must be petty. Docbeard - The International Academy Of Practical Mime Finally, someone capable of actually managing their flash rule. This managed to bring a smile to my lips, but very little else can be said for it. It's got some good moments, but tappers off into a weak ending. For a school about practical miming, very little of what was taught seemed to be practical. I was expecting more a class on non-verbal cues. Still, I enjoyed it for what it was. VOTED: "Most likely to write opinion columns nobody reads in the school newspaper." HOMEWORK: A man shares his worries with an inanimate object in 500 words. Sitting Here - The Flow Fascile I'll admit, it took me a little bit to realize where you were going with this, but once that happened it was all gravy. You do a good job framing the school and its students and instructors without every actually featuring any of them, save for one (their alumni). You managed to take a ridiculous premise and spin it into something both subtle and meaningful; the ending in particular was very well handled. Among a week of slightly above average and worse submissions, this stood out like a pillar of light. VOTED: "Most likely to succeed, no funny modifiers." HOMEWORK: Time slows down when you're dying. This person has 1,000 words left to live. Make them count. Kaishai - Night of Lights Eh. Eh. This was okay. You managed to avoid most of the pitfalls of your fellow contestants, but your story really only stands out as managing to toe the baseline several other people missed. Your protagonist and their dilemma is an old one, as is their solution, though you presented it with class. About the most interesting thing in this piece was the fact that "Revenge" was never actually taken against the saboteur. Overall, there's nothing particularly wrong with this piece, it just fails to shine in any aspect beside basic competency. The C+ of submissions. VOTED: "Most likely to waste space on the senior mosaic with pictures of trees." HOMEWORK: This story again from the perspective of the thief. I would prefer it if I didn't hate him. M. Propagandalf - Trackers I actually had to go back to your sign-up post to remind myself what your school was supposed to be. Not that it mattered. This story was so dry I almost thought I was living during the Prohibition. My eyes actually started glazing over around the halfway point, and by the time I read your closing lines I didn't feel like I had missed any important information. Your characters are uninteresting and your premise overdone, without even the benefit of the usual polish afforded to things that have been done before. Crabrock is correct in that your prose is competent, but all that really amounts to is you never confused us. What's more, you missed what would have been a brilliant opportunity to showcase an hilariously insignificant academy that takes its petty, narrowly-defined area of expertise with the utmost seriousness. A lost cause all around. VOTED: "Most likely to get beaten up by the hall monitor." HOMEWORK: A woman lives happily in a society steeped in bureaucracy. Your story must be exactly 820 words and written with "Brazil" by Frank Sinatra playing in the background. Chairchucker - Academie d'Cake l'Orange It's probably telling that Chairchucker, in little under half an hour, churned out a better vignette than most people's complete stories. It's simple, flows, and there's a real heart to it. Sadly it isn't much for meat. We've got a small handful of brain jars picking fruit in a vast, empty expanse while talking to each other. Even for a last minute entry, it could've been quite a bit more. VOTED: "Most likely to show up naked on pajama day." HOMEWORK: Everything goes disastrously right for a young couple in love. 1,000 words with a definitive beginning, middle, and end. Schneider Heim - Nobody's Princess This chewed off more than it could swallow. Rather than hitting a few notes just right, you try for playing the whole song in a very limited time frame, and it shows. Like Nikaer's submission, steeped in the meta, but without the confidence and fine tuning his piece used to really show it off. Rather than writing an entire novel in less than 2,000 words, it would've been better to try for a single scene that implied an entire novel in the margins. VOTED: "Most likely to get to play a tree in the school production of Hamlet." HOMEWORK: Two people exchange dark glances from across a crowded place. I want 1,000 words and what is clearly only the middle chapter of their saga. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 04:42 on Aug 29, 2013 |
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Aug 29, 2013 04:20
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Thunderdome homework may also be posted in the dome, except during submission weekends. Additionally, there is never a due date for the homework I assign. You may complete it at your earliest convenience and are to do so for your own edification. The only reason you have to post is to determine how edifying it was for the rest of us (i.e. "Me"). You are, of course, free to blow me off, but that presumes you are content with being a horrible person.
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Aug 29, 2013 22:03
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Anathema Device posted:You give the best homework. Can I request homework? A man wants something, but you're not allowed to tell me what it is. You have 700 words with which to imply the object of his desire, and by the time I've finished I should be able to guess it.
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Aug 30, 2013 00:50
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CancerCakes posted:Kai your knowledge of horrific body piercings is inadequate. 
Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 04:52 on Sep 13, 2013 |
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Sep 13, 2013 04:33
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Bad Seafood won't tell me who it is.
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Sep 24, 2013 08:52
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I've been lapse in my Thunderdome commitments. In.
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Oct 8, 2013 05:11
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sebmojo posted:BAD SEAFOOD THUNDERBRAWL: Sebmojo vs. Sitting Here - Round 3 The Prompt Two siblings separated by a great distance, both geographical and emotional. Sitting Here will be entrusted with the girl, Sebmojo with the boy. They need not be comparable age, nor even any particular age. Both old, both young, one old one young, whatever. The "Whys" and "Hows" of any age discrepancy don't matter. What matters is this: a brother and sister have found themselves apart, leading their own lives and their own stories, but still thinking of one another across time and space. The boy's name is Walter, the girl's name is Sasha, their ethnicity should be irrelevant, and the rest is up to you. In short, what I'm asking for is for each of you to write a self-contained story in which your protagonist is led to remember, reflect, or otherwise reminisce about their sibling, the protagonist of your competitor's story. The Word Count There is no word count. Take exactly as many words as you feel is necessary, but you absolutely must not waste my time. Every word, every sentence, must count. The Deadline Sunday, Sunday, next Friday October 18th at 11:59 PM PST Also, since this prompt is kinda esoteric by design, you are both permitted up to three questions concerning what you are and aren't allowed to do, or any other clarification you feel is necessary. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 02:42 on Oct 12, 2013 |
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Oct 12, 2013 02:11
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Best in Show (666 words) Patricia snuffed her cigarette against the bottom of Bert's scotch glass. The good stuff. Resting her cheek against the palm of her hand, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, she stared at him with the same dull expectation she always wore whenever he came home beaten and bloody. She sigh and let him in, sit him down, treat him, pour him a glass - the good stuff - and await his explanation. Bert wasn't good people she'd say, but he was honest people. He'd never lie, or not to her. "So," she inspected the cigarette, rolling it between her fingers, before tossing it unceremoniously in the trash, the scent of nicotine still lingering between them. "What was it this time?" "Well, you know Wallace, right? And Leroy?" "Wish I didn't." Bert wished he could've said likewise. He shifted in his chair, a subtle pain in his features. The worst of it was over, at least. "Right. So Wallace, he keeps these Shetland ponies out back. Like five or six, you know, tiny little things. All named after rock bands. The Queen. Zeppelin. You know. Anyway, Leroy thought he'd make himself a profit selling a few down by the fair, only he didn't tell Wallace which ones he took. Zeppelin, and that was okay, but also Reo. Big mistake." Patricia blinked, as she was won't to do very rarely during these sort of conversations. "Seen Reo. That's the white one, right? Black legs?" "Yeah, that's him." "So what's so special about Reo." "Wouldn't say at the time. Just said Leroy couldn't sell it, but you know him he's blind as poo poo. Couldn't tell one horse from a hole in his rear end." "How generous of you. So what happened?" "Well," Bert leaned over the table, his hand squared as though he were delivering a package of utmost intimacy. "He asks me to go get him back. Reo, that is, not Zeppelin. Forget Zeppelin. Not important. It's just Reo we're talking about here. Thirty bucks to bring him back. No idea why that horse was so important to him at the time, but hey, thirty bucks. Not bad for ten, fifteen minutes of work. So I drive down to the fair and find his brother and try to talk the horse off him, but he won't hear it. Too busy listening to folks shopping for tiny horses. So I figure-" "You'd just steal it." Bert's gaze failed to meet Patricia's. She allowed herself a dark chuckle before nodding to him. "Continue." "I'd steal it. So I stole it. Knew there'd be no trouble. Wallace would back me up, chew out his brother later. Peachy keen. So I wrapped my hands around it's neck, like so," Bert demonstrated, fighting the soreness in his joints for the sake of authenticity. Then he froze, his attention fixed on Patricia, the pain in his face overcome with a certain cold frankness. "You know what that thing's been drinking? Water. Hallucinogenic water. Seems Wallace has some other business he's not too keen on leaking out into his other business. Only some of it leaked out into the yard and Reo's been drinking it. A lot of it, it turns out. Wallace told me later. After I beat the poo poo out of him. Cost him twenty extra. Anyway. So Reo's just nodded along in his part of the pen, head dropping, legs kinda shakey. Think it'll be easy to snare him. Nope. loving exploded out of that pen the minute I got a hold of him, and me too stupid to let go. Ran a good mile off, me in tow." "Hmm," Patricia raised an eyebrow. "So that would explain the bruises." "What? Nah,” Bert cradled his arm, rotating it as he spoke. “That was Wallace. Told you I beat the poo poo out of him. Well, yeah. He reciprocated. Mean left hook, that Wallace. Thanks for patching me up." "No problem," Patricia nodded, her finger to her temple. "That'll be fifty dollars."
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Oct 14, 2013 04:58
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Bad Seafood posted:The Deadline  Let it never be said I was unmerciful. Sitting Here and Sebmojo, you are both granted a 24 hour extension, effective retroactively from your previous due date. Your new deadline is Saturday, October 19th at 11:59 PM PST. That's tonight for those of you keeping score at home. HOWEVER, should this deadline also fall by the wayside, remember this? Bad Seafood posted:The Word Count To be clear, if you submit tonight, before midnight, the initial constraints of the challenge are still in effect. If you submit anytime tomorrow, Sunday, you are reduced to a word ceiling of 1,000 words you absolutely may not go over for any reason. Should you submit Monday, 800 words; Tuesday, 600; Wednesday, 400. If Friday hits and neither of you have submitted anything, the bell tolls for both you. Should only one of you submit, they will be declared the winner by default over the entire contest, disregarding the standing of previous rounds. Get to it, cowboys. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 23:28 on Oct 19, 2013 |
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Oct 19, 2013 23:20
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Bad Seafood posted:To be clear, if you submit tonight, before midnight, the initial constraints of the challenge are still in effect. If you submit anytime tomorrow, Sunday, you are reduced to a word ceiling of 1,000 words you absolutely may not go over for any reason. Should you submit Monday, 800 words; Tuesday, 600; Wednesday, 400.
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Oct 21, 2013 19:34
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I think it's time we blow this scene, get everybody and the stuff together. Okay, 3, 2, 1, let's jam.
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Oct 22, 2013 04:33
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