In for the second time ever and first time in six months or so. I've checked this thread in the past and skipped out when I felt the prompt was too restricting with genre, but I really like how open this one will be. Looking forward to reading a huge mix of stories.
|# ¿ Nov 5, 2014 00:31|
|# ¿ Jan 18, 2022 06:33|
My first submission in many months:
Mr. Electroworth's Shovel Summer Earth / 1,200 words
Just minutes before I whacked my billionaire boss in the head with his own treasured gold shovel, I was thinking about my shoes. I’d scuffed them earlier in the day and I couldn’t get over it. They cost me $400. I never used to spend money like that on shoes or even give the whole affair more than two seconds thought. It’s strange how much you can change when you get some cash in your pocket.
“The real problem is the trees,” he said, waving an arm across the vista. I’d driven him to an overlook of a pristine valley where he planned to build the next great addition to the Electroworth Group Resort Properties. His bald spot shone in the sun. If I held a pair of mirrors just right I could catch my own starting to form in the same spot. I squinted in the bright day, hot, in the height of summer, the sun beating down and sweat starting to drip down the backs of my legs. It felt like little bugs crawling around on me. I held Mr. Electroworth’s famous Golden Shovel in both hands like an armed sentry. The same one he used to break ground at his first property over fifty years ago. He later had it gilded, and we’d come out to plunge it into the earth here. Mr. Electroworth didn’t like big ceremonies. There was something spiritual about the way he’d break ground. Alone, with his own hands, as if assuring himself he still had dominion over the earth.
“The trees,” he said again. “Tough to uproot, and you get so many of those nuts climbing all over them and refusing to come down. They think they can stand in the way of progress. They never learn, my boy. They’re like a weed. You think you’ve crushed them and they pop back up.”
He turned to me. Despite the heat and my own drenched armpits, I couldn’t see a drop of sweat in his thin gray hair or bushy eyebrows. He looked quite cool, actually. Not even the sun could have its way with him. “Do you know how to truly kill a weed, son?”
I rested the shovel on my shoulder. “Rip up the roots?”
“You’ll never be sure you’ve gotten them all. No. You pave over them with concrete. Now get me some water, would you?”
I spun to comply, and the golden shovel spun with me. The thin edge took Mr. Electroworth in the temple and he dropped faster than my stomach.
I’d just killed one of the richest men in the world.
Both our lives ended in that split second. Mine was just going to take a while to catch up. I stood staring at his lifeless body and the murder weapon still in my hands.
No one was around. I moved before I even considered it and seized both of his arms and began to drag him away from the clearing where I’d parked. One of his cuff links popped off into the bushes, and I wasted five precious minutes retrieving the evidence.
No body, no conviction, right? That’s what I learned from TV. I didn’t have time to be ashamed. As I pulled the body along, I remembered my first days at the office.
Welcome back banners were strewn about and everyone wore at least three different party hats. Mr. Electroworth was returning that morning from a month in Sub-Saharan Africa, scouting potential sites and hunting elephants for the cost of only $17,000 per head (double for the little ones). I’d gotten an internship there after the receipt of my PhD in 18th century Scandinavian Literature and my subsequent failure to find 21st century American employment. Many of my friends had found positions at environmental firms. At first, working for Electroworth felt like a betrayal of some essential part of myself. I’d grown up despising such companies.
When I saw the plans for a new resort at Yosemite, right at the top of Half Dome complete with elevator to the bottom, I told one of my old friends. He pointed out several reasons why the project could never get past the regulatory agencies. Relieved, I brought this to the attention of my superiors. A week later, the appropriate parties had been paid off and the project was greenlit. That hadn’t been my intention at all. But I was rewarded with a $5,000 check, and I smiled and said thank you. The money felt good.
Pretty soon, my environmental friends caught on and quit hanging out with me. By then, though, I had new friends. Richer friends. I helped establish a resort at the bottom of the Grand Canyon that reached high over the rim and could be seen from anywhere in the park. A part of me still felt it was wrong. But that part got smaller and smaller. Now I’m not sure it exists any more. Now I’d call my old friends “tree-fuckers.”
I managed to get Mr. Electroworth’s body out of sight and didn’t have time then to register the irony of using his own prized shovel to kill and bury him. The earth was rich and moved easily under the shovel blade. I couldn’t stand to see his pale face, looking accusingly at me. So I started tossing the dirt at him, and that’s what finally woke him up.
He sputtered, spit out dirt, and jerked upright, dirt cascading off him like an old jack-in-the-box from the back of the attic suddenly springing to life.
“What in the hell’s going on here?” he asked. I froze. I’d been so sure he was dead, and now I couldn’t remember why. He looked from the half-finished hole to me. “Did you...?”
I couldn’t decide whether to apologize, lie, run, or hit him again. Mr. Electroworth clambered to his feet, surprisingly spry for a man his age, and plunged his hand into his pocket. I thought at first he was going to shoot me, but instead produced a more dangerous weapon: a cell phone, no doubt to call the police.
I opened my mouth to protest and he stuck up a finger. I was so surprised that I clamped my lips back together.
“Gregory,” he snapped into the phone. “You’re fired. I want you out before I’m back.” The phone vanished into his pocket again.
He turned to me and said: “Quick on your feet. Important. Self-preservation is man’s most powerful instinct. It’s what made me the man I am. I need more of that around me. You’re replacing that limp idiot. He was always weak. Now get in the car and drive me to a drat hospital, you son of a bitch.”
I followed him toward the car, stepping into the hole along the way and nearly knocking myself out with the shovel. As the shock wore off, I smiled. I could really be one of them. I had what it takes. I saw mountains in my future. Not snowy-peaked ones; those would have to go, make way for industry. No, I saw mountains of money, all mine, and the earth waiting to be subdued.
(Question: Can I comment on people's stories? Should I wait?)
|# ¿ Nov 10, 2014 02:36|
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven. The time for submitting stories ends in thirty minutes.
goddamn there are a lot of stories this week. The judges practically have to read a long novella
|# ¿ Nov 10, 2014 04:35|
blue squares fucked around with this message at 05:02 on Nov 10, 2014
|# ¿ Nov 10, 2014 04:56|
Does someone usually post a new prompt despite the lengthy review time? I need to get my hour minimum in tomorrow and if there's no prompt I'll have to work on my novel and for some reason that is terrifying.
|# ¿ Nov 10, 2014 05:23|
I thought I'd done everything right. I'd peed all over my own shirt and I'd smuggled in a thick rod of wood in my rear end in a top hat. But when I thought back to Shanghai Noon and tried to copy Jackie Chan's jail-cell bar-bending technique, I only made it wide enough to slip halfway through. Then they caught me.
|# ¿ Nov 10, 2014 05:55|
I got a compliment already for my story!
Thunderdome Week CXIV: Oh! Calamity!
So In for this one.
Word count: 789, because why not.
|# ¿ Nov 11, 2014 06:14|
Prompt updated with correct number (thanks Kai) and flash rules and such including one for blue squares for being so impolite.
1. This is unfair and I'm going to cry.
2. What am I even supposed to do with that video
1b. That was more an explicative like when stubbing one's toe than a name-calling. Just for the Official Thunderdome Record.
Hey hey I'm new. Calm down motherfucker
UPDATE ON MUSICAL FLASH RULES EVEN THOUGH WE'VE HAD THESE LIKE A BILLION TIMES BEFORE.
blue squares fucked around with this message at 06:35 on Nov 11, 2014
|# ¿ Nov 11, 2014 06:31|
I'm not feeling this prompt, so I'm offering one free crit. First come, first serve.
That'd be awesome thank you!
|# ¿ Nov 11, 2014 06:35|
I'll be drinking wine and critting until I fall asleep. Post here if you want me to to do yours, otherwise I'm going chronologically. Most recent week only.
|# ¿ Nov 12, 2014 03:19|
First two crits done. Man, that took a lot longer than I thought it would. Sledge and JABC, wouldn't mind a quick look at my own (you don't need to be as detailed)
The story just ended. There's no hint to what Jack is really saying, or why Sharon gets upset and throws the ring away.
The whole thing has potential but is just too vague to make any real sense. I get the feeling that your characters are on some last ditch effort, but I don't know why. When they find a habitable world at the end, there isn't a strong enough reaction.
A New Spring
This is a story where the whole is less than the parts. You do have a few good moments here, but ultimately there are too many key details missing to bring the piece together. A firs time reader isn't going to be able to connect, because she doesn't know what is at stake for the characters, or how they really feel when it seems they have accomplished their mission.
Also, grammar note: way too many sentences that follow this pattern: I went to the store, vegetables lining the walls all around. The present-participle, "vegetables lining," doesn't fit the start of the sentence, "I went." They should be written like this: I went to the store. Vegetables lined the walls all around. I'm drinking wine and might be using present-participle incorrectly, so if you don't understand, ask.
|# ¿ Nov 12, 2014 04:51|
This was a really disappointing read, because at ties it showed real promise, but nothing happened. You have an interesting situation: The star-pupil breaks down out of nowhere and needs help. Then she is fine. Bryce takes the blame and Amy just lets him? Why does he do it? I don't know what else to say other than that it felt like you wrote this in one go without thinking of the characters at all, finished it, and never looked at it again. Do you understand your characters' motivations? Because I sure as hell don't.
|# ¿ Nov 12, 2014 05:07|
|# ¿ Nov 12, 2014 13:24|
What, Cache Cab wasn't just joking? He's being fully serious right now?
|# ¿ Nov 13, 2014 20:29|
Your first sentence is a run-on sentence
Maybe he is trying to goad people into giving him detailed crits. Because I found a comma that shouldn't be there. But I'm not telling him which one.
"Get up, you stupid child," I communicated to him with my voice
|# ¿ Nov 13, 2014 20:39|
Crit for blue squares
Dude, thank you. Really awesome comments. You made me proud and gave me things I need to think about (like throwing in sudden details that I understand but a fresh reader might).
|# ¿ Nov 14, 2014 04:09|
Which book should I start with?
|# ¿ Nov 14, 2014 05:24|
Thanks for the new crits, Sitting Here and blue squares. I've looked over them slightly, but hopefully I get some time to give them more consideration over the weekend. I have them on a word file on my computer now, so I don't have to dig through pages.
I don't have PMs. I also don't have an HM, but I didn't know that rule and crits are awesome and I am good so who cares.
|# ¿ Nov 14, 2014 14:13|
Thanks, Just a Bitch oval office (JABC... pretty sure thats right)
|# ¿ Nov 14, 2014 23:25|
if you need inspiration once I got stuck on the zipper two times in a row and when i got off i tried to catch my barf in my sleeves.
this happened to me except with pants
|# ¿ Nov 15, 2014 00:49|
So, not that most people care, but I ed myself to finish crits by the time signups close. Due to fuckyness, it'll be more like 1 AM my time that I get them in. Chairchucker's time zone is just too cool for me.
|# ¿ Nov 15, 2014 01:39|
musical flash rule: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHrkv4JRnC0
Ocean bursts its banks and all the waters goin my way
Even though you're poison babe I wouldn't even hesitate
This lie inside your head inside your little heart now
Lightin up the fire and the citys painted blood red
Too Late 752 words
Jill saw in the hotel window the aching reflection of Mark’s face, half aglow in the yellow lamplight. The half he always self-consciously joked was his bad side. Beyond his reflection, high-rise condos across the street burned. It looked as if he were on fire himself. She began to smell the stink of the blaze above their own heads.
“We have to try.” Jill’s breath fogged the window. Mark’s second face disappeared into the cloud of her breath like a ghost.
“It’s too late,” Mark whispered into her ear in a shuddering voice. His hot breath like fire. “I’m sorry. I could have gotten us out sooner. But I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”
Jill turned and kissed him. Their tears ran together. “Let’s go down. I don’t know. We could swim out. Come on. Don’t give up.”
“The water’s freezing. And too fast. And full of jagged metal, cars, who knows what. Where would we go? Everything’s on fire or drowned. Everything. Just look at it.”
“There could be rescue,” Jill’s pitch getting higher.
“They left a long time ago.” He held out a shaking hand. Two glittering yellow capsules. The power went out and the lamp with it. The hotel room glowed orange from the light of the fires outside. It looked to Jill like the light of a hundred candles. Like the day Mark proposed to her in this very room years ago.
“I don’t want to see you in any pain,” Mark said. “We can go to sleep together. I’m sorry.”
Jill considered the pills. The easy way out. “I’m scared. I can’t do it.”
She put her arms around his neck as if to dance but wept into his chest. Mark held her tight.
“I’m scared, too. I wish there was something I could do. I let you down.”
“No you didn’t,” Jill’s words muffled and insincere.
The floor shook. If the fire didn’t reach them first, the flood below would bring the hotel down. They’d already seen fiery towers in the distance slip away into the water like torpedoed ships.
“Don’t make me do it alone, Jill. I’m not going to drown or burn. I can’t go out like that. I can’t think of you going out like that. Please.”
Jill pushed away from him and wiped tears from her face, though more followed. “Stop it! I don’t want to go out any way! I want to live. Please help me live. I need you to tell me what to do, Mark. I’m so scared. Help me.” She paused. “Don’t make me die.”
Mark pulled her back against him. “Jill, I love you. This is the only way I know how to help you. We’ll be together again.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Okay,” after a long time. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
She opened her mouth and let Mark put the pill there as if he were a pediatrician and she a little girl. He guided a glass of water to her lips. The water rushed down her throat with the pills.
Jill collapsed to her knees and sobbed. She pulled down Mark with her. The rest of the water spilled and his pill bounced away on the carpet.
“I’m dead,” Jill wailed. “I’m dead and I just killed myself. Oh my god.” She lay on her side curled in a ball.
“I’m coming, honey!” Mark shouted as he scrambled around, feeling in the dim light for the lost pill. “It’s okay! Wait for me. I’m here! We’re still together!”
The door splintered open at the end of a bright red battering ram. Ringing alarms blared through the opening. Firefighters with red helmets and axes clambered over the pieces of the door.
“Sir! Ma’am!” their heavy shouts came. “We’re here to get you out. We have to go now.” The emergency lights in the hall shone in and turned the room red.
Mark and Jill froze. “Oh!” Jill exclaimed. “No! I didn’t want to. Oh god. Help me.” She tried to push her fingers into her throat to vomit, but already her limbs were too weak. She flopped onto her back and began to shake.
“You killed me,” she managed to say.
“Jill! No, please, please don’t go. I’m sorry!”
“I didn’t want to do it,” she whispered and was gone.
“We have to go now, sir!” The firefighters grabbed Mark and pulled him to the door.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he called to her endlessly as he was taken to safety, alone.
|# ¿ Nov 16, 2014 19:20|
Submissions close in 5 minutes, eh? I've got about 12 crits ready to post as soon as I'm allowed to.
edit: hot drat I bought platinum! Someone send me my first ever PM please!! Been on this site since 2005.
blue squares fucked around with this message at 05:55 on Nov 17, 2014
|# ¿ Nov 17, 2014 05:26|
Too late, homie! But I'll still read your story.
|# ¿ Nov 17, 2014 06:32|
Hi, I'm obnoxious.
The perfect life (721 words) (Drive You Home by Garbage)
Love your first line. Hilarious. Unfortunately the rest of your story didn't have the same tone. It also didn't have a plot. I kept waiting for some kind of twist that would reveal a dark reality, but it seems like there wasn't one. Getting "fired" really does seem to be a good thing. So what's the problem?
Your opening line would be much stronger if you put a period instead of the comma. The brevity of it would emphasis the strangeness of clams falling from the sky.
As for everything else, I really liked it. One of my favorite stories I've read in the Thunderdome, though I've only read about ten, so I don't know how much that counts. Still, I had a grin on my face almost the whole time.
I didnt understand the stuff in italics. Needed a few more clues as to what that was about.
I read your story and decided it need more than a summary of my thougts
I didn't buy Min going to the protest. Less details earlier and more convincing from Shuang would have made it a lot more realistic.
That's just the start of the grammar problems. Google "comma splices" and quit using words like "interjected."
The Morning After
Also your story makes no sense. Who is this kid? You never tell the reader what the deal is.
Wow. Great story. I'd cut the first line, though. You use "it" without a clear subject, and the next sentence says the same thing in a better way. Excellent characterization, dialogue, description, etc. Really nice job. I rolled my eyes when it got to the whole RPG thing, but you made it work. Loved the ending, too, though I think it ended one sentence too early, like it needed something to wrap it up with a bow on top. Still, you got me grinning. If you don't get an HM at least I'll be shocked.
You did play very loose with the calamity thing, though. The calamity is that he rolled a 1? Pretty weak, if you ask me. It feels like a story you wrote before this week and just put it in anyway.
Jesus, three stories out of the last four begin with "It." Stop doing that, people! And especially don't write the same sentence twice in a row.
"“Where is he?” to his mother" Who is the "he" in "his"? You tell the reader later, but it's confusing here.
"The driver was sitting on the hood" Try to avoid stuff like this. "Was" should be used as sparingly as possible. "The driver sat on the hood" is just as clear and is more tightly written.
"cartoonishly evil" I don't like this.
You didn't explain why she was marrying him in the first place. She seems to dislike him a lot and doesn't seem surprised at all by his betrayal. I would have preferred more emotion from Iris.
The ending twist was too abrubt and not clearly presented. This needed a read-through from a fresh perspective and more concrete details to let the reader envision what was happening. But that is a minor complaint compared to the lack of emotion in the story.
You forgot to write a story. In the beginning, a spaceship has crashed into a bar. Then you spend 700 words giving exposition. At the end, nothing has changed. Boring.
I really like your concept. I just wish you had done something with it. You have excellent little bits, but what you don't have is a story. I was really hoping that there would be some clues to a murder, or something like that. As it is, it's a little art piece and not a story at all. It also doesn't much fit the prompt, in my opinion. Good actual writing, though, for what it's worth, but not the right choice made for the Thunderdome.
I was actually really excited to read this story, Sitting Here. I've never read a word of fiction by you, despite knowing who you are from this thread and the fiction discussion thread for over a year. So, it was no surpise when you wrote a story that was, on a technical level, written excellently. Still, it didn't draw me in, but I'll chalk that up to purely preferential reasons, because I can't find anything articulatable wrong with your story. My only complaint is that you didn't quite get me to care about what was happening. Not enough emotion in the characters. If this is truly a calamity for Riley (her losing her pass), I didn't feel it. Almost all of the description of the loss is done by other characterers. It's Riley who's lost the pass, but the events are presented from other characters' POVs and dialogue. A rewrite with a stronger focus on Riley's POV would have brought the emotional impact that a story like this needs to truly be successful.
Uneasy Lies the Head That Wears a Party Hat
Huh. Not sure what to say about this. I read it and I was entertained, but I was confused by the ending. You did a great job setting up the situation without talk-to-the-reader-exposition, but you lost me along the way. I had a hard time keeping track of Jan and Ander, and who was real and who wasn't.
in two minds about everything
Whenever This World is Cruel to Me
Decent idea, abysmal execution. I'm sorry, but this was awful and the ending just a little creepy. The biggest problem is that the main character figures everything out way too quickly. Just a few lines of dialogue with Terry/Terri and Jake knows what is going on. He has very little reaction, and he gets over it quickly. Then the end, with the sudden attraction Jake feels toward Terri, reeks of some kind of fan-fiction/wish fulfillment.
"So it fell on him and no one knew what to do." Standing alone, this sentence means absolutely nothing. Again, we have a Thunderdome story starting with "it" were the subject that "it" refers to has not been identified. "it" could be the moon or it could the pungent uterus of a sperm whale that washed ashore and exploded. Use concrete nouns and verbs before you use pronouns.
Under the Ice
"the largest she'd" There you go again, pronouns before the subject. Stop it.
"you fat gently caress!"" Whoa. That really came out of nowhere.
Uh... did you forget to write an ending? The POV has issues; you start in a more omniscient POV and then finish closer on Dory. And then it just seems to finish, as if you ran out of words. You need at least another paragraph to truly explain why Dory might not call for help.
blue squares fucked around with this message at 13:29 on Nov 17, 2014
|# ¿ Nov 17, 2014 13:27|
|# ¿ Nov 17, 2014 13:36|
Also, Gau, sure. I thought your story this week was downright awful, but didn't think putting that in my crit post would do much good. I can take some time out of my week to end your streak.
|# ¿ Nov 17, 2014 13:59|
Would love mine done. I wasn't happy with it for reasons I can't articulate to myself.
|# ¿ Nov 17, 2014 18:39|
The "Hey, I Should Probably Write A Story An Hour Before It's Due" Brawl Entry vs. Cache Cab (Seriously Cache Cab if you submit, you will probably win)
|# ¿ Nov 22, 2014 19:29|
Next week I'm actually going to have time to write, so I'll have enough time to whoop your rear end kid.
I was just kidding. Maybe I'll take you on sometime. I got assigned a goddamn 2500 word horror story for my current brawl.
|# ¿ Nov 22, 2014 21:43|
Prompt: Some people can't see a priest on a mountain of sugar (can't see the obvious)
The Producer's Wife
Word Count: 1499
Like a hermit crab sensing danger, George’s hardon disappeared. Next to him, Michelle clutched her fuzzy red pillow as if it were the adequate lover George kept trying to be. She lay facing away and a silence filled the room like the opposite of laughing gas. George wondered why he still bothered to try, or what had gone so wrong. Even today, they’d had a blast hiking up to the Hollywood sign and watching the day’s high-speed police chase from above. When the suspect’s car exploded, they clapped together and took a picture with the smoke in the background. It had been a perfect Valentine’s Day. But later, in the bedroom, Michelle shied away from his touch again, as she had for a long time. He didn’t know what was the problem was.
Michelle’s hand reached out into the space near his crotch. He became excited again for a moment. Her hand closed on the hard rod she sought and she used it to turn on the television, not him. George closed his eyes and resigned himself to imagining what it might be like to sink into quicksand. Somewhat soothing, he suspected. He ignored the noise from the television as Michelle flipped through the channels.
Later, Michelle nudged him on the shoulder. George opened one eye then quickly closed it.
“Honey, I don’t want to watch this. I’m there all day.” As a producer on Sesame Street, George preferred to think as little as possible about the Street’s residents when off the clock.
“But it’s so good,” she said in a breathless whisper. George looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed and she sat up with her legs crossed. “Do you realize I’ve never seen the show that you work on? At least not since I was a little girl. I really like it!”
“Yes!” Michelle cried, then put her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide, as if she’d just cursed in church. She burst into laughter and flopped onto her back, bouncing in the bed and pushing herself up against George. “It’s great.”
George was puzzled by her strong reaction, but he wasn’t going to complain. This was the most animated he’d seen her in the bedroom for some time. She lay her head on his chest, one leg flung over his, watching the show.
“My sexy producer,” she said, causing an immediate reaction below his waist. She trailed a finger in descending circles on his stomach as The Count counted. Her hand slipped into his boxers. Her head soon followed, to George’s amazement. Had he known that his job would be such a turn on for her, he would have used it long ago.
At the time, George thought nothing of it when she insisted on facing the television while he took her from behind, relieved as he was just to be getting anything. Elmo laughed on the screen and Michelle increased the pace. She grabbed her fuzzy pillow and thrust it between her legs as they climaxed together.
George awoke feeling like he could write the sequel to the Kama Sutra. He’d never had such good sex. Unfortunately, Michelle’s mood hadn’t lasted. When he woke her up by kissing her neck, she squirmed from bed like she’d just had a regrettable one-night-stand.
“I have too much work to do,” she said.
“What work? You don’t work.”
“I work. Don’t say I don’t do work. Do you like having a clean house? Food in the pantry?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You know, you don’t have to do those things. We can hire a maid, a chef. I’m a producer, after all.”
“I have to get in the shower.” George heard the shower squeak on, and she stayed in there until steam began to come out from under the door. George wanted to capitalize on his realization that Michelle had some sort of power fetish regarding his job, but he didn’t know how. The next Sesame Street episode wasn’t due to air until Monday morning, by which time he’d be in the office.
So, when he she came out of the shower, he said: “Clear your schedule for tomorrow.”
“I have my cooking class. I can’t miss that.”
“Just this once. I have a surprise for you. You’re really going to like it.”
“What kind of surprise?”
The next day, he brought her along to the studio. As soon as Michelle realized where they were headed, she grew giddy. George could feel her excitement and arousal.
“This is so cool,” she said as they drove through the gate. Her eagerness was contagious, and George couldn’t stop grinning, even though he thought he probably looked like an idiot. Her words from the other day (”my sexy producer”) rang through his head.
The minute they stepped inside, they were greeted by the young receptionist. George almost fired him on the spot, just to show off for Michelle, but restrained himself and settled for a scolding of the boy’s tie length. The receptionist stammered apologies. George looked at Michelle, but she wasn’t even watching. Her eyes were drawn the photos on the wall of famous guest stars posing with the Muppets.
George pointed to Brad Pitt. “I got him to agree to be on the show.”
“Mhmm,” Michelle murmured, not listening.
George cleared his throat then took her arm and led her into the studio halls. They passed offices and visited sets. Michelle’s head whipped left and right to take it all in. When they passed a rack of Muppets ready for shooting, Michelle pressed herself against George as if he were a sponge that could soak her up. She brushed their fuzzy faces and tittered, burying her face into his chest to surpress her girlish giggles. George couldn’t wait any longer. He routed her toward an unused dressing room popular for just what he had in mind. He opened the door and ushered her inside, but a frazzled PA appeared and seized his arm.
“Mr. Houghleton, Daisy Connor’s having a meltdown. They sent me to get you right away.” The PA received some command in her headset and bounded away again.
George theatrically sighed. “Actors,” he said, though was secretly glad to be given another chance to show off his importance. He knew that it would turn Michelle on even more. “The show would fall apart without me. You wait right here.”
“But I’m so horny,” Michelle whispered in his ear, her hand resting on his belt. “This place gets me going. I don’t know what it is.”
“Oh, I know what it is.”
“I want you right now.”
“Duty calls. You just think about me while I’m saving the day.” He grabbed her rear end as she scurried away into the dressing room, the kind of public gesture Michelle forbade years ago.
George left to deal with the collapsing-guest-star of the day, walking with the awkward gait of a man with a hardon that won’t quit. He was amazed by the turn things had taken, by the unbelievable arousal his job incited in his wife. He felt twenty years old again.
The static shock George felt when he touched the dressing room door knob nearly made him come, his anticipation so great. The shock he received when the door opened nearly stopped his heart.
Michelle sat naked on the couch, surrounded by the characters George had been supervising for years: held by masturbating puppeteers, Bert and Ernie shared her tits, Cookie Monster munched on a new dessert between her legs, Bird Bird’s orange feet stuck out from whatever was happening underneath her, and Elmo was getting his crotch tickled by Michelle’s tongue.
Her moans felt loud enough to shake the room——but George quickly realized that was the thudding in his own chest. The puppeteers saw him and pulled their hands out of their pants. Michelle froze, though she couldn’t quite stop twitching in ecstasy. The puppeteers fled as one, giving George a wide berth. One dropped Elmo on the floor as he scampered past, hesitated, saw George’s face, and left without the doll.
“I...” Michelle said. She crossed her legs and covered her chest with her hands.
George face burned and his head felt like it was under intense pressure. He closed the door behind him and his breathing started again. He bent and picked up the abandoned Elmo.
“This? This is what... does it for you? This is why you...?”
“I... I guess so?”
“I thought it was me. My job.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry. I love you. I didn’t even really know, not until just now.”
“Okay. Okay.” He took a deep breath and tried to say something other than “okay,” but failed.
George walked slowly toward her, breathing heavily. Michelle looked up at him, unsure. He raised the Elmo doll in the air until it was in front of his face.
He spoke in a falsetto: “Elmo going to gently caress you now.”
Michelle moaned in delight.
|# ¿ Nov 23, 2014 15:28|
But where was the golden bean worth no more or less than one million US dollars?
What are you talking about?
edit: VVV Check the OP. No Docs.
blue squares fucked around with this message at 02:03 on Nov 24, 2014
|# ¿ Nov 24, 2014 01:47|
TD has a standing 'no erotica' rule. The only guy to previously break it wrote a series about loving his dad, and finding a very valuable golden bean somewhere in the vicinity of his dad's penis.
Its not erotica dummy. Sex & fetishes != erotica. Grow up. Done with this convo to avoid angering the (mercedes) gods.
blue squares fucked around with this message at 02:29 on Nov 24, 2014
|# ¿ Nov 24, 2014 02:25|
Ok well thats not the point and I am not into "puppet loving" and I am a good writer so deal with it
|# ¿ Nov 24, 2014 02:34|
lol a good writer wouldn't mistype Big Bird as Bird Bird
|# ¿ Nov 24, 2014 02:37|
Yeah my bad for the "no google docs" thing. I thought I remembered reading that somewhere and was honestly trying to be helpful, not snarky at all. I only said anything because I'd already made a post and could edit it in. I wouldn't have made a post by itself just to say that.
But yeah, I hope I'm not coming across defensive or anything. Sorry to everyone for the derail. I feel like my story is good as a look into repressed sexual stuff. I drew on David Foster Wallace's Brief Interviews with Hideous Men as a minor inspiration. I'll leave it at this.
Thunderdome is awesome I didn't mean to cause any issues.
|# ¿ Nov 24, 2014 02:45|
Sorry for this, everyone. Not my best work.
Also stop capitalizing non-proper nouns after dialogue. There are a lot of typos in this, so I'm guessing it's a first draft.
There should have been more focus on Derek to make the betrayal more effective.
You made your protagonist a passive idiot that everything just happens to. The main character should have been the one to discover the theft. Especially with the police bearing down on him. This would create tension and give the character agency. You could even have a twist where by discovering the theft he actually implicates himself further, playing into Derek's hands.
Prompt: May night continue to fall on the orchestra
Blue Squares Patented 4 Step Program to FIX! YOUR! STORY! (TM)
Step 1: Add 1,000 words
Step 2: Mix in some emotion
Step 3: Vary sentence construction
Step 4: Stir and enjoy!
The introduction of the gang was confusing. I finished the story without a reason to care what happened to Adam or Tim. This story needs more characterization and a character to give a poo poo about.
Interesting first paragraph. I'm a sucker for ecological-disaster type stuff, and you present it in a great way; not exposition, but a character reacting to a simple thing. Take note, Thunderdomers; this is how you introduce a setting.
You had me throughout the story. My eyes even widened when he stabbed the kitchen guy. Then you lost me. What? The ending made no sense to me. I read it several times and I still have no idea what the hell. But seeing as you are my Brawl Judge, let me just say that I LOVED IT.
Prompt: Time isn't wasted when you're getting wasted
This is nonsense to me. Did you consider that people might read this that aren't you? When you write a story, you should always keep your audience in mind. This reads like the product of an acid trip. CLARITY IS KEY. Not surprised if this ends up a loser for the week for sheer incomprehensibility.
edit: I cannot write clearly either
Not a story. There's no clear goal or conflict. You withold too much information for the reader, a very common issue in the Thunderdome weeks I've participated in. By the end, the reader has no idea why Mary is doing the thing she is doing or who she answers to. There's no character growth or acheivement. There's a question you should always ask yourself, whenever you write a story: Why should a reader care? Here, you don't provide a reason.
Maculatus (756 words: any port in a storm.)
Teeth are just bones Death is everywhere, your own mortality can't be escaped
Look at that. That is every "had" verb in your entire story. Eighty-five in 1500 words. Get control of your tenses. All you have to do is use one single sentence to establish that a part of the story is in a further past-tense than the rest of the story, then you can operate with normal grammar.
This feels more like the opening to a story, not a story itself. There's no ending.
Easy winner so far. And creepy as hell, though I'm not entirely sure you meant it to be. But drat, it was. My take is that Celia didn't realize what was happening to her until it was too late---that the mushrooms or whatever were taking her over, like rabies. Some great imagery and metaphors. I read this twice trying to find something I could comment on that would be more than nitpicky, just to try to be helpful. I got nothing. Send me a PM with what triggered the idea for this, and if I was right in my interpretation. Great job.
Inspired by: There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it's going to be a butterfly
Please send help.
Not bad. A little uneven with the pacing, but just as I was getting bored, you sprung the trip to the reservoir on me. I was worried that the whole thing was going to be Aurthur moping, but I like the final scene. Could be a couple hundred words shorter and work much better, imo.
Good writing and imagery. I wish you had taken advantage of the word count to write something a little meatier, a little less cliche.
drat. That was fantastic. Perfect. Publish this.
On A String
This is okay. It's well-written, but it's more of a premise than a story. A story should include some kind of change in a character; this doesn't have one. It's just business as usual for the mother.
Great opening line. Unfortunately the rest of the story didn't deliver. It just meandered around and then she leaves. I was disappointed that Rose didn't succeed. Also, good pun at the end w/r/t future perfect.
Don't open a story with an "it" and no noun. Because I have no idea what you're writing about, the sentence has no power. You don't hold the information back for any reason (it's given in the second paragraph), so this is a mistake. If you substituted "the meteor's" for "it," the sentence would be much stronger and attention-grabbing.
Also, your story itself is boring. Nothing happens. The snarky remark at the end isn't accurate either; dust would make global warming worse.
blue squares fucked around with this message at 03:14 on Nov 25, 2014
|# ¿ Nov 25, 2014 03:08|
Critical. It's a major faux pas to be a handful of words over, much less hundreds. Being over the word count gives you an advantage over other participants and you'll be disqualified.
|# ¿ Nov 28, 2014 21:29|
Let me guess you're a technical writer
|# ¿ Nov 28, 2014 22:10|
|# ¿ Jan 18, 2022 06:33|
If you can't be bothered to follow the rules no one is going to waste their time reading your story. That's just insulting to the TD.
|# ¿ Nov 28, 2014 22:13|