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I am honored to be in the top three worst submissions. Since ongoing discussion of writing concepts is discouraged, (understandably) is it possible to create a new thread for Thunderdome WIPs? Everytime I get crits, I'm thrilled somebody found out how I'm loving it up, but I have a million follow up questions. This time, I'll start earlier, write more, revise more, and then scrap it all. I am thrilled to be writing this time around this holy-loving-christ what the hell: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pNEEb6dzi8&hd=1 And I'll be bouncing that yodeling poo poo off of this anapropsillism: amorgphogirms posted:Anger is never without a reason but seldom with a good one. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 18:36 on May 8, 2013 |
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May 8, 2013 17:54
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pNEEb6dzi8&hd=1amorgphogirms posted:Anger is never without a reason but seldom with a good one. The Choreographer. 935 words Virginia skulked out of the dressing room into the murkiness, wiping the heavy drops off of her cheek. The semen made a web between her thumb and forefinger. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a short man leaning in a doorway. “So you’re blowing your way to the top now? Is that it?” It was the choreographer, Alexander. That little queen was always showing up at the wrong time. His faded getup blended into the grey hallway so well that she initially overlooked him. Wiping her hand on her skirt, she said “what do you care?” “Oh I don’t. But,” he pointed to her skirt and said “you’ll want wash that before the performance. Dried cum catches the light like a sequined glove. Trust me.” She said, “shut up idiot. I know what I’m doing.” “Really? You’d get on your knees for this show?” He looked up and down the hallway. A couple of women with clipboards passed between them under a bare lightbulb. “Take a look around Virginia. You’re better than that. You don’t need to suck your way to the top — at least not here. You’re good! Why act like a whore?” She flushed. “Shut up Alexander! Why don’t you go gently caress another farm boy?” Alexander felt the slap from across the hall. He looked at his feet as he tried to calm himself. “You start poo poo like that now,” he said, “and this is as far as you’re going to get.” He chuckled and pointed to the door behind her. “Have you heard him sing? Jesus Christ!” Her eyes grew wide. “Shut the gently caress up!” She pushed Alexander backwards into his dressing room and closed the door. Two men in sequined leotards and glittery faces walked past. “You don’t understand” she said. She looked down at her hands on his chest, still moist, and pulled them away. “Georgi says I will dance beside him tonight. His face will be on TV, but I will be right there with him. I am a great dancer, but I want the world to see me.” He softened. “Of course everyone will see you. I told you the first time I saw you in your village,” he pointed a bony finger at her face as he emphasized each word, “You have talent!” Pulling on a strand of hair she said “any girl in this business has talent. I want to be a star.” He dropped his hand and said “you’re not a cheap whore, stop acting like one.” That hurt. She tried to ignore the shame he made her feel. He did this. She closed her eyes, tight, to keep the tears from coming. Alexander lowered his voice. “Stop your crying. You can’t fool me like you fool Georgi.” He turned his back to her and sat in front of his mirror. “If you’re going to cry, at least wash your face before you go out there.” A knock at the door broke the tension in the room. From the hallway someone barked “five minutes!” Brushing what was left of his hair, Alexander said, “on your way out, hand me my shirt dear. It’s hanging on the door.” His dismissal stung the most. A wave of heat rose from her throat and her pulse pounded behind her eyes. She turned towards the door, trying to get control of herself. Pulling the shirt off of the hanger, she said, “I’m sorry I pushed you out there Alexander. You’re right, I am a good dancer, I am better than this.” “Don’t let that man play you like an idiot Virginia. He can’t sing, he’s not going to win this competition. You need to think about the next level of your career. I can help you. But not if you’re going to act like a hormone-driven teenager — “ The wire hanger slipped over his head and she pulled it tight, twisting it, cutting off the air. It dug into his skin and his hands scratched at his neck, fingers prying at the wire. He tried to reach behind his head to grab her, but she was faster and stronger. She let out a stifled grunt as she pulled the wire tighter. The only sound in the room was a clock on the wall. Virginia’s eyes settled on the clock as her arms trembled. As his hands waved in the air, his mouth worked open and shut like a fish dying on a table. He tried to twist around to face her, but she kept her arms outstretched. She was a horrified witness to her own crime, as the rage became an electric fence between her hands and her mind. Finally the high-pitched squealing in her ears began to fade. She blinked the sweat out of her eyes and realized she no longer had the wire hanger in her hands. On the floor, his body looked as harmless as a discarded overcoat. She wiped the tears off her face with throbbing hands. Out in the hallway, dancers were scampering to the stage for their big moment. “Where’s your choreographer?” the director asked from the third row of seats. The dancers were lined up on either side of Georgi, stretching and limbering up for the song. “We don’t have the time to get him. Your group needs to go ahead and begin, we’re losing time.” The director shot a glance over his shoulder to the suits sitting alongside the massive soundboard. Virginia said “We’re ready to go without him, Right Georgi?” He put his hand on her cheek, and said “of course you are Virginia.” magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 23:40 on May 12, 2013 |
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May 12, 2013 22:08
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crickets all up in this bitch.
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May 13, 2013 22:14
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Erogenous Beef posted:Dude, it's not even the end of Monday for me, and I'm in loving Europe. Step off.
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May 13, 2013 22:39
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Holy christ with the crits. I get half of it. Thanks for that part. Here's where I got Virginia from. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Ruzici Just saying. I hit wiki for Romania and wrote down the names I felt were something I could use that didn't sound forced. But really? You wanna jump on that part of a story that clearly has room for improvement in real areas? And italics? That's hurting me? How else do I put emphasis on the words I want to emphasize? One minute you're telling me to do more to fill out my characters, on the other, you're telling me to strip out the parts of dialog that do tend to imply a catty bitch or a heated comeback. I'm chasing my tail here. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 02:38 on May 14, 2013 |
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May 14, 2013 02:33
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In. And how come I don't get a thunderdome loser avatar? magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 05:27 on May 14, 2013 |
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May 14, 2013 04:49
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Kaishai posted:Falsetto Dracula wept. And I went back and assembled the first 5 or 6 winners from the first post in this thread, I read them, I read the comments, and then started to write this story. I have no idea what I'm doing.
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May 14, 2013 15:28
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Bad Seafood posted:Thunderdome Week XLI: Get Everybody and the Stuff Together Florida woman allegedly stabs boyfriend after he farts in her face
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May 15, 2013 20:34
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I'm out this week. Excuses excuses and all that poo poo.
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May 19, 2013 02:30
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Bad Seafood posted:Magnificent 7, you are not my kind of people.
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May 20, 2013 23:08
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quote:You will be judged on your use of theme, symbolism, and characterization. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 23:04 on May 21, 2013 |
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May 21, 2013 22:55
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sebmojo posted:I note with displeasure that some have evaded the losertar's sticky kiss. This has been rectified.
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May 22, 2013 14:39
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Hey I have the goddamned greatest concept for a story and over 3,000 words written. I'm editing, I swear to God this is going to be the greatest thing I've ever written, guaranteeing me a spot 4 from the bottom. So - just so you know. I'm going. I'm going. Hold your horses.
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May 27, 2013 03:42
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What? Extension!?! But, but I'm done! Rock, Paper, and Scissors, 1,488 Words Rock moved along the dirt road, headed towards the county fair. It was finally spring, and the trees were showing off their new growth. The sun was shining, warming the chilly morning air, and Rock was excited. The fair only came once a year, and all his friends would be there. The path wasn't too long, the carnival wasn't too far away. As Rock plodded, a shiny thing, lustrous and polished, glinted at the top of the hill. Rock continued along the path towards the hill until eventually he was there, next to Scissors. Scissors had one point stuck in the dirt. No matter how much she would spin or snip, the point wouldn't come loose. "My! You seem to be really really stuck, don't you now!" Rock said. "Yes. Yes I am stuck. I was on my way to the fair, and in my excitement, I guess my stride caused me to bury my point too far in this dirt." "So. You're stuck, yeah?" "Of course I'm stuck, idiot. Any fool can see I'm stuck. But I'm sure, if I just keep snipping, I'll be able to finally --" Rock threw himself into Scissors, knocking her loose. "Hey!" she screamed as she fell to the ground. "Now look what you've done! You've scratched up my legs! Look at this!" Rock looked and said, "I was trying to help. You seemed to be stuck, I figured I was big enough, I'd just nudge you loose." "Oh you nudged me all right. Look at these scratches! What kind of a fool would just bump without thinking?" Scissors was clearly upset, and Rock wasn't sure what could be said to cheer her up. "Honestly, I'm very sorry. I only meant to help. Look. Let's go to the country fair together! I was already heading that way, and you said you were going. Let's go together. Maybe I can cheer you up with a song." Scissors gave him a sardonic grin. "A song? You think a song can help? I'll be on my way. If you think you can keep up, then, well it's your choice. But I'm not going to wait around for you." "It's settled then! Let's go!" The two, Rock and Scissors, continued down the hill, on towards the county fair. Not a word was said between them. Rock was happy to be in the silence, he wasn't one for words. Scissors on the other hand was becoming more and more agitated, having a guest on the road who was not one for conversation. Soon the sun was directly overhead and a shadow flittered in front of them. "Oh my! Look at that!" Rock said. Up, in the air, was Paper, riding on the spring winds. Paper would twirl and float in the breeze. Sometimes she would move far on down the path, and then the wind would change direction and she would float back towards Rock and Scissors. The bright sun shined through the orange-hued parchment whenever Paper would pass directly between the sun and Rock or Scissors. "Oh look at her," Scissors said with a sharp tongue. "Thinks she's just all beauty and perfection, flying and flipping through the breeze. She'll get stuck up in the branches before she knows it." "Oh but I think she's just beautiful!" Rock said. He'd stopped in his track, transfixed by Paper's merry twirls and twists in the air. "Hello there! That looks so fun!" "It is! I can see everything from up here!" Paper said. "Can you see the county fair?" Rock called up to her. "It's just over the next couple of hills! It looks amazing!" Paper was coming closer to them, settling on the lower breezes. "Are you two headed to the fair?" "Is there anything else we'd be doing on this filthy road?" Scissors snipped at her. "If I had my way, I'd be on a cart. Or even better? I'd have stayed home. I should have known better than to get out today." "Are you mad? Today is just beautiful!" Paper laughed and then caught a draft that sent her way into the air. "Mad enough to turn back? Yes. Mad enough to watch you float like a bubbly chirpy flap? I doubt it." Scissors was having a hard time walking and watching Paper. "Turn back?! Nonsense! The fair is right beyond that creek, and your shiny legs will be the admiration of everyone there!" Scissors and Rock looked further down the path and saw the creek. It wasn't very wide, and not very deep. "Oh I don't know about this," Scissors said. "That water will rust my legs, and the stones in the creek bed will dull my points. I'm not going. I knew this was a bad idea." Rock smiled and said, "Not to worry. It's not so deep. I'll cross it, you can stand on top of me and we'll be across shortly." "And get my feet wet? Did you hear me say I'm not going to get my tips rusted?" Scissors voice rose. "And what about Paper? Paper can't cross on top of you, she'll get wet." "Paper will be fine I'm sure. Look at her, she's so high up and can make it across without our help at all." “Oh I can't cross by myself," Paper said. "There's a breeze following the creek. Every time I've tried to cross, the wind from the creek threatens to take me into the water. I'm afraid of the water. But look! There's a rope bridge! Scissors, you could hold me while you went across on the rope bridge." Scissors considered it and said, "Nope. My blades are far too sharp for a rope bridge. I'm sure I'd cut the rope and we'd both fall into the water. Besides, how can you trust me not to harm you? I'm sharp and pointed. One slip and I might slice you to slivers as I fell into the water." Paper hadn't considered Scissors a threat until then. "Yes indeed. Your points, your blades, you're nothing but danger to anyone near you! You must have to be careful constantly." "I manage. But, just to be safe, a rope bridge won't do." Rock looked farther down the creek. "Look! There's a stone bridge! We can all three of us cross there! This is fantastic isn't it?" Rock began rolling towards the bridge. "You just wait a minute. If standing on top of you is a problem, don't you think walking across a stone bridge is just as bad? You really are slow, aren't you?" Scissors had planted both her points firmly in the ground. "Oh come on now," Paper said. "He's just trying to help. If you won't take the rope bridge, and you won't take the stone bridge, then I guess we'll just go without you." Scissors began walking behind Rock. "No! I can do it. Don't leave me. Let's go. Fine. The stone bridge will have to do I suppose." Paper laughed and landed on the ground in front of Scissors. "You're just an old grumpy hag. I don't know why Rock puts up with you. Rock. Let's get out of here and leave Scissors behind. I'll ride on your back, and we'll go over the stone bridge." Rock stopped short. "That won't do. If you cover me, I'll suffocate. We need Scissors to carry you." Paper was laying flat on the ground by now, and the breeze had died down. Scissors walked towards Paper, and pushed the tip of one point into the edge of Paper. "So I guess you do need me then, don't you?" "Ouch! Stop that!" The point dug into the ground, through Paper, causing the slit to tear. Rock turned and saw Scissors, smiling, while she drove her other point into Paper. "No! Stop! You're hurting her!" Scissors began to bring her two points together. The gash in Paper was growing, and Paper was in so much pain she screamed a shrill yelp. But Scissors kept cutting and hacking. She stabbed Paper, and cut and snipped and clipped. Rock slammed into Scissors. "You have to stop that! You have to!" Rock continued to bash Scissors. The fastener broke, and Scissors fell apart, her two blades motionless, but Rock kept hitting her, denting her smooth metal legs, turning them into metallic twisted fingers. "Oh Paper, no. No." Rock wept. He tried to pick up Paper, gathering as many pieces together as he could. Paper whispered quietly, "why did you wait so long before stopping that foul shrew?" Rock held Paper in his hands and said, "How the gently caress should I know, I'm just a rock talking to a shredded piece of paper, next to a bitter broken pair of scissors. Like any of this is supposed to make sense? Bitch please." And then Rock went on to the fair and had the time of his life. gently caress bitches man. gently caress em. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 04:50 on May 27, 2013 |
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May 27, 2013 04:43
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I love fables. I have to say, after doing a ton of research on fables, and poo poo, I think I could write a hundred of them. The titles alone open themselves up to something amazing. If I had time, I'd write another one, "The Thimble and the Scrotum", "The Fox, the Cheese, and The Meaning Of Life As Seen Through The Eye Of A Mollusk".
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May 27, 2013 22:34
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crabrock posted:Please don't. I read your entry and wished I was the paper. I'll get it right one of these times. I will. But for now - you asked if I had some kind of symbolism that you missed - and I'm guessing you didn't miss it, I hosed it up. The Scissors was technology, the paper was art, and the rock was brute force. However, pitting them against each other from the outset made no sense, so art became pride, scissors became vanity, and the rock was a simple-minded kind of brute. But instead of putting them together at the beginning, (because somebody would ask, "if they all didn't like each other why did you start out with them all together?") I decided to make the rock optimistic and happy to be headed to a fair. Why? Because he's simple minded and everybody loves a fair. And then, he was going to find Paper first, but that was boring, the scissors was the most interesting to me, being a smart-rear end jaded bitch who was more concerned with preserving her beauty than getting assistance. Anyway - the story started out really simple and solid in my mind - three very different personalities, each one admires a feature of another, and fears something in the other. Something something, mistrust and flattery, then Scissors would spin into paranoia because Paper and Rock would be happy to go across the bridge without them. And why the bridge? That's the outward conflict. They're on a path, going somewhere, so a bridge is the obstacle. This is where I get frustrated that I'm diluting an idea by trying to cover all important items in all my books on writing, and the criticisms I'm getting in here. The crits are extremely valuable, but, at what point did you start writing without caring about all that stuff? magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 00:26 on May 28, 2013 |
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May 28, 2013 00:18
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sebmojo posted:Spend less time talking about getting it right and more time getting it right is Mr Rock's point here, I'm p certain.
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May 28, 2013 00:28
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JonasSalk posted:I never decided to use writing books as a manual on what must be done. You could try that, Mag7. Look - I've been a musician for 30 years - writing, recording, performing - I know my poo poo well enough that I can rip another musician to shreds, and explain how they're messing up, what they need to do to improve, all that crap. And reading about music can only improve a person so much. So I get it, I do. And right now, I totally understand that I'm that kid who shows up with a guitar and a 4-track wanting to make music. I hate the criticisms, I hate hearing that I'm not instantly amazing at this poo poo, because it's true - I am an egotistical bastard in another area. So I'm sorry I get excited and start talking poo poo when it's quite obvious I barely know what I'm doing. Thanks to anybody who takes a second to tell me how it sucks. I appreciate it. (and before you ask, yes, I'm just as annoying when I don't get it with music. I'll stop a rehearsal and make somebody break it down if I can't at least fake it.)
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May 28, 2013 00:38
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I'm in. Sigurd The Mighty.
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May 29, 2013 18:49
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crabrock posted:Good. That is an interesting one. Remember you have 2 people who will give you an early crit if you want.
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May 29, 2013 19:05
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quote:892: Sigurd the Mighty of Orkney strapped the head of his defeated foe, Máel Brigte, to his horse's saddle. The teeth of the head grazed against his leg as he rode, causing a fatal infection. A Fool’s Grin. 718 words Before you cut off my leg, let me tell you what happened. When the sun came up yesterday morning, my soldiers and I were about to battle a fool’s army of exiled bandits and thieves. “Mael the Bucktooth is a motherless bastard!” I shouted. “We’ll rip his men apart! I’ll have his head spiked on my castle wall!” My men roared and hoisted their weapons in the air. We charged his army of bandits through the rain, and attacked without mercy. This wasn’t a battle, it was a slaughter. My soldiers dragged Mael to his knees while the carnage continued. As each of his soldiers was cut down, we beheaded them, throwing bodies into one pile, and heads in another. When we finished taking apart his army I turned to Mael and said, “Bucktooth, your head will be a warning to all others on this island! I’m going to cut it off and strap it to my saddle. When we ride inland everyone will see your gaping maw and cry out in fear.” I told him to stop weeping like a child. I wiped my bloody axe with a rag, and threw it at him, telling him to wipe away his tears. He tried, but instead smeared the blood across his face. Spitting at my feet he said, “You think this is the end of me? You’re wrong. I’ll come back and drag you with me to hell. Your men won’t help you, you’ll be dead before you make it home.” I laughed, raised my axe and took off his head with one swing. As it spun in the air, I grabbed it and raised it to the sky. My men roared in victory. I tied his filthy head to my saddle, and I told my men do the same with the other heads. We mounted up and rode inland, stopping at every settlement. Mael’s head would bounce around on his tether. His teeth scratched my leg like tree branches. I thought nothing of it; a fool’s grin couldn’t harm me! When we arrived in a town I’d shout, “Behold! Your hideous leader is dead! This land belongs to the vikings now!” Children ran in fear, women hid their faces, and men trembled. By nightfall we set up camp. When I laid down, I couldn’t stop scratching at the place where Mael had marked me. It felt like I’d ridden through a forest of thorns. I awoke this morning to find my leg oozing pus, and hot to the touch. I limped to my horse, and looked at Mael’s head. His twisted grin was a mess of crooked teeth and blood. His face was covered with dried bloody streaks, except for around his mouth. That moist blood was mine. We mounted up and rode fast for my ship. That bastard’s teeth continued scratching my leg until I cut loose his head, letting it roll away into the bushes. When we arrived back at the ship, I fell into my bed exhausted. In my dreams Mael’s head chased me, laughing. No matter how fast I ran, he was always there. One of my men shook me awake, saying I was screaming in my sleep. Looking around the room I saw Mael’s head on the table across from my bed! He’d followed me! I couldn’t look away from him as I laid there, shivering. Pulling back my covers revealed the smell from the rancid meat of my wound. The sheets were soaked with pus and sweat. There were black lines on my leg, running from the mark towards my heart. I shouted to get rid of the head! I told them to find you and bring you here immediately. It was that fool’s grin. Don’t you see? His spirit pierced my leg and now he’s in me, killing me. I told my men to get you because you’re the cook. Your delicate skill with a blade would allow you to take the leg without making a mess. Did I fall asleep just now? My head is swimming with fever and I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. But, now that I’ve told you my tale, I’m afraid it’s too late to save me. I’m already dead, I know it! His grin is the death of me. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 23:17 on Jun 2, 2013 |
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Jun 2, 2013 22:33
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Thanks Chillmatic for the crits. I appreciate your input. Big thanks to Crabrock and Sebmojo for their crits on my earlier draft. It really helped me a lot.
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Jun 3, 2013 04:46
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Chillmatic posted:I completely forgot to mention: what you wrote was a massive improvement over your previous writing. The best thing any of us can hope for is to continuously improve our craft; your latest output shows you're doing that. Keep at it, and don't let anyone crush your love of your own ideas. What's most important is to learn how to tell, before anyone else is subject to them, which ones are good and which ones are poo poo. Hard to do but always worth the effort.
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Jun 3, 2013 18:58
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Did I miss this week's prompt?
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Jun 4, 2013 17:57
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I'm in. Thanks for recognizing the most improved part. It was a poo poo ton lot more work than I expected, but worth it. Other than Chillmatic, did I even get an official crit on my final work?
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Jun 5, 2013 16:08
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I'm sorry - I've got to pull out - work just got awesome, so I have no time for me and my happiness.
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Jun 6, 2013 20:26
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I'm in. Delightfully in with my favorite quote of all time. "Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess."
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Jun 11, 2013 22:48
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Mercedes posted:Write what you know am I right fellas?
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Jun 12, 2013 18:34
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MY WILDE QUOTE: Moderation is a fatal thing; nothing succeeds like excess. Helping Death -- 1172 goddamn words. — My first death was a fortunate accident — I saw a kid get beat to death in seventh grade. One minute he was running down the hall screaming at us to get out of the way. Next minute some Special-Ed kid with a wrench beat the poo poo out of him. Blood went everywhere. While teachers pulled them apart, the dying kid looked at me and his eyes faded from shock to… to nothing at all. Just like that. — My second death showed me my path — Senior year, me and some friends cut class and walked to the drugstore to get cokes and smokes. When a car screeched at the red light, I looked around in time to see an old bum arcing through the air, all coats and beard and long hair flying. It felt like forever before he come down on the street. Hard. The driver jumped out of his car and ran over to him. There was nothing he could do. The bum was coughing blood out onto the asphalt and trying to sit up. He had the look of a man kicked out of bed during a dream. Me and other folks moved in closer. His eyes flicked through the crowd of rubberneckers and when he settled on me I couldn’t turn away. Time unwound and all I could do was stand there, staring back as his life slipped away from him. I smile at him, the way I think Jesus would’ve; a mixture of comfort and peace. Somebody stepped in between us, and that moment was gone. He went ahead and died. Wasn’t nothing anybody could do to save him. My friends headed on to the drug store but I stayed. I found a spot on the lawn of the baptist church and sat there for hours, while cars drove through the blood. Nobody cared. They just kept going their own ways, didn’t know how lucky they were. I kept thinking about how I helped him into death. Felt like I done something good. And Death appreciated that. I had a purpose in life. — Somewhere between the death of that bum and this train wreck, things changed. I changed. It wasn’t enough to watch a man die by accident. I knew Death was satisfied with my work, the way I helped people move on, but I worried. If I didn’t keep Death satisfied, he’d come for me instead. — I took a job at the drugstore and kept an eye on our oldest customers. When they didn’t pick up their meds, I’d pay them a visit. Most times it was nothing; they just forgot. Or I’d get there, and they’d already died in their sleep. But twice I got there in time to watch them die. I sat by their beds, and helped them let go. That second time, I finished up and was slipping out the back door when headlights lit the driveway. The car rolled halfway down, and then turned off the engine. I stepped back into the house and stood still while my heart blew up my chest. Somebody rang the bell and banged on the door. When I heard keys jingling into the lock, I ran out the back and escaped into the woods. — It was the next week when my boss, Mr. Johnson, figured me out. He saw the way I slipped out early to check on Mrs. Langdon. She was 96 and her home was four blocks from our store. She’d drop off the scrips every Sunday after church. We’d fill ‘em, and she’d pick ‘em up the next day. When she missed her pickup on Monday, I knew it was up to me to help her. I got off work and all but ran to her home. I walked down her driveway to the back porch. Most old folks around here left their back doors unlocked. I could go in, help them die, and nobody on the street would interrupt us. But Mrs. Langdon, she was on the porch on her rocker, watching the birds eat scraps of bread. “See ‘em all out there?” I jumped a little, didn’t know she’d seen me. “You hear me boy?” “Yes ma’am,” came out of my mouth before I knew I was saying it. “Everyday they pick up my scraps. I bet If it wasn’t for me, they’d starve to death.” She clapped her hands and cackled. “You think so?” “Lord yes! They’d up and die. I’ve been feeding them for sixty years. Not these exact ones, but you know what I mean.” She smiled at me and I said, “You ever seen one die? Or seen ‘em after they died?” “No.” She said it in a way of wonder. “No, I never seen a single one of them die. That’s odd, ain’t it?” Before I could answer, Mr. Johnson called out behind me. “There you are, boy! What you doing here, bothering Missus Langdon?” My pulse jolted through my veins. “Making sure she was alright, that’s all.” Mrs. Langdon said, “Don’t beat him up, James, we were just talking!” “Hmm.” He said at me. “Mrs. Langdon, I can bring you your meds by tomorrow if you’d like.” “Don’t worry.” She said. “I’ll be by to pick them up. I just got sidetracked today is all.” His bony hand settled on my shoulder. “Give you a ride home. boy?” I climbed into his pickup and he said, “Lately, I notice that when our older customers died, you slipped out early the same day. That seem strange to you?” The flap of skin below his chin waggled with every word. “I’m not saying you killed nobody, but I’m saying it’s a damned odd coincidence. A coincidence we can’t have at a drug store.” I didn’t hear his words, he sounded so far away. All I could think of was Death getting closer, catching up to me. — Hidden in the woods, I heard the train whistle coming. The warning arm was down with lights blinking and bells ringing, but the train hit that truck just the same. I found the conductor on the ground beside the engine. His face was a mess of blood and skin and his hands opened and closed at me while he snatched his last couple of breaths. I helped him let go. Then in the first passenger car, I stepped over the dead, looking for ones who were still moving. I was able to help seven people into death. Not a one of them thanked me, they just groaned and had that surprised look on their face. Once I heard the sirens, I slipped back into the woods. The ambulances and police arrived, picking apart the dead and the living. When they came back to the truck, it took them awhile, but they pulled out Mr. Johnson’s body. His snapped neck would look like the train done it. In just one night, I’d put death far behind me. Just like that. --- magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 05:23 on Jun 17, 2013 |
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Jun 17, 2013 05:01
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sebmojo posted:First: magnificent7. Yes, I know, loving hell. This was a drat solid piece, written with barely an ounce of fat, that only really stumbles in a clumsy ending and its failure to be comedy or tragedy. While this eliminates it from contention, future competitors should eye this one with respect - he has come far and may yet go further. What, you don't find crazy people killing people funny?
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Jun 18, 2013 15:22
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Thanks for the crits. Most of those problems were staring me in the face when I submitted the thing. It's so frustrating to know what the problem is, but to be afraid to change anything. Like when you get half-way through a rubik's cube. edit: just reread your crit a second time. Yes - the prompt is the reason for the train full of deaths. My original story had the train pulling empty boxcars. So then, it was a tragedy, (if you squint) but didn't line up with the quote at all. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 17:08 on Jun 18, 2013 |
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Jun 18, 2013 16:47
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Going Goes Gone Went Will Go http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3495955&pagenumber=42#post416619814 OH - and in my story, I found a typo that put me into the loathe box. "I smile at him" should have been "I smiled at him". But it was 11:59 and I'd been up all drat day doing sketches for my job.
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Jun 18, 2013 18:00
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I'm in with the Liar's Paradox.
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Jun 18, 2013 19:36
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As a judge, do I still get to write?
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Jun 18, 2013 22:19
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sebmojo posted:You are a judge. The rules are creatures of your fickle whim. I mean I wont, sir. But. If I wanted.
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Jun 19, 2013 00:10
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I don't even know what... I. It's. What.
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Jun 19, 2013 01:20
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As a judge I'd like to penalize those who didn't include their prompt selection. Or at the very least call them out. Bachelared rear end too, I think. I'm not entirely sure. What's an epigram? Sitting Here. Jonked Because WHO HAS TIME TO GO BACK TWO PAGES? magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 15:43 on Jun 24, 2013 |
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Jun 24, 2013 14:15
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Jonked, Thanks for letting me know. Yes, your story illustrated the question quite well. However, without knowing that, your story could have been about people getting ugly hoping to hook up with princesses or something. Or the smarter man lets the idiot drink the potion, something something. And Sitting Here - I see it in the story now. Just wasn't sure if you were talking about reincarnation, zombie frankenstein children slaves, war-torn England. It had it all. I've gone over all the stories and given my recommendations to Fumblemouse. There were no stories as bad as my Rock Paper Scissors Fable. I was really disappointed. I'd hoped to go all double barrel on some poor sap, but no, not really. I can post my thoughts on the stories if you WANT them, but really I don't feel like I'm in any position to criticize anybody else's writing. Yet.
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Jun 24, 2013 16:38
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Bachelard rear end posted:Eh, the prompt reminded me a lot of that Keats quote, so I went off that and had the whole impossible architecture thing work in tandem with an imagined result of a Maxwell's demon type experiment.
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Jun 24, 2013 16:50
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JonasSalk posted:Post your thoughts. We want to read them and maybe say you're wrong. Schneider Heim Where is mom? Why is she gone when the father says goodbye for the last time? I think the story would have been much stronger from a single point of view (the boy). It SEEMS to be like writing from the kid’s POV, but if it’s from the boy, then leave out mom and dad’s names, or stop switching between "Dad" and "James", etc. Good enough story, heavy handed and a literal telling of the prompt from start to finish. The writing really seemed like it was from a 50’s drama… just really a simple life lesson from Andy Griffith mixed with the Twilight Zone. But in a very dated old fashioned way. Jonked "No! No! That's cheating, that's cheating!" The little man cried. How is it cheating? I lost something there I guess? He decides to drink the potion, the box opens, he drinks it. That’s not cheating. In the end, I liked your story. There’s some oddball spots in it, and the “he said loudly” or “screamed with a shout” etc is annoying, but if this were a YA story, those would be a part of it. So I’ll let them slide, I said wryly. Sitting Here You have a whole lot of VERY's in there. A very very lot of verys. I get it, I think, sort of. The ending sucked. The story up to that part was good - it was great. It was good. Until that last part. Too existentialist artsy in-the-now for me. Sebmojo Okay, so, we’ve got oppression, China sweat shop, North Korean thought control thing that produces symbols of itself? Good. Deep. Now let me go read wtf this paradox choice was... headscratches. Hm. I don’t know enough about Deep Thoughts and Philosophy to really make the connection between the computer and the humans in your story as having a conversation that neither one understands, except that these perfect policement are carrying out rules that don’t really make sense but the humans do it because… fear? I’ll give you an extra point because it’s one of those french philosopher tree-falling-one-hand-clapping things. Kashai It’s fun, it’s real, it reads from the kid’s perspective, it’s good. Dammit. I don’t get the paradox itself and I don’t really see how it works in this story, but that’s because I’m dumb. JonasSalk Charles is a thing? A person? No, he's a thing. No, wait, a person. I can't tell. This story is like a Nine Inch Nails song - not one of the ones where he’s pissing and moaning about his girlfriend, but the one where he’s being so goddamn obscure I don’t know if I’m the one he hates or if I hate the one he hates. I don’t know what this story is about. If that’s the goal, congratulations. Bachelard rear end My initial notes while reading your story: 1500 words, a cobbled together pencil and home made ink, and you’re getting gabby with the descriptions? Unless the story includes your narrator doing a lot of cocaine, I’m confused how you can go on so much about the little things. Might be best to leave out how little time you have plus how much work it takes to create the ink, since you go on and on a lot. It’s not a bad story, it's a bloated story. I wouldn’t have finished it if I didn’t have to. You write some oddly shaped sentences. They sort of eventually make sense but I had to read them a couple times to understand what could have been simple to convey. And I do not know what the prompt was. Oh, okay, then you posted it. And I'm still not sure of the connection entirely. Nikaer Drekin There’s some clunky writing. The idea is neat, the story is neat, but I’m not sure why she’s running away from the man who, in theory, is an exact copy of her dead husband - or IS her husband since they transferred him from the old body to the new one? And she runs away all of a sudden weeks after the transfer happened. But I DID like the flipping around in time. Blarg Blargety I have no idea what this story is about except for a narrator who leaves her room, goes to the front desk, gets another room, and awaits a phone call. And smokes. Is there more to the story? Multiverse random room generator number thing - what does that have to do with anything? Other than to piss off the narrator? I just read the prompt, and yes, you definitely wrote a story about a hotel with infinite rooms and infinite guests arriving over and over but in the end, I magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 19:38 on Jun 24, 2013 |
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Jun 24, 2013 19:01
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