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The Saddest Rhino posted:E: Someone write this too: Martello posted:Got it Some believe I was actually entering last week, tho I wasn't because ORGY OF THE DEAD means everyone bangin in the orgy is DEAD which can't happen in a world without DEATH here's the story XXX ORGY OF THE DEAD XXX Somewhere in Romania... Vlad Blackdickula held Suzy McHugetits' hand tightly, passionately. Sweatily. "You're really going to enjoy this party, I think, my dear," he intoned, looking deeply and passionately and sexily into her big beautiful, voluptuous, sexy, round, eyes. Then he stared down at her generous, pillowy cleavage. "I certainly hope so!" Suzy McFunbags tittered. "I do so love parties." She opened her full, red lips in a pant of passionate anticipation. Sexy anticipation. Vlad leaned in for a kiss. His thin, manly lips met her full, red, pillowy womanly lips. They kissed passionately, like two people in deep lust. Sexy, passionate lust. The limousine came to a stop outside a magnificent, incredible castle. The kind of castle where they make movies about muscular, brooding knights and beautiful, lusty ladies. And vampires. "Is this all yours?" Suzy McLargebreasts shrieked. "It's so magnificent! It's incredible!" "It certainly is," Vlad returned. "All mine. Please, my dear, come inside, and see the wonderful party we have waiting for you." He held out a long-fingered hand. Suzy took it and they climbed out of the long, black, long limousine together. They walked along a path paved with old, stately, impressive stones. Huge, oaken, iron-bound gates opened for their entry. Inside was a party like Suzy McBigjuggs had never seen! Men and women in amazing, fantastic, horror-movie costumes made love on every couch, chair, table, and even the hard, cold, stone floors! Suzy McBusty's hands flew to her face. "It's a costume party!" she wondered. "Why didn't you tell me? All I have is this skimpy little sexy red dress and sexy red heels," she burst out. It was true. She saw on a couch in front of her, a very large, muscular man wrapped completely in mummy bandages. He was thrusting his very large, muscular penis between the enormous breasts of a woman painted up like the Bride of Frankenstein, from the movie Bride of Frankenstein. On the floor to her left, another very large, even more muscular black (very black) man dressed up as a Haitian voodoo zombie was double-teaming another woman (with enormous breasts) dressed up as one of the Brides of Dracula (from the Bride of Dracula movie) along with a large, muscular man wearing the best ghost costume she had ever seen! It looked like he really was transparent, see-through. They also both had very large penises. "Why," Vlad ejaculated. "Those aren't costumes, my dear." "What do you mean?" Suzy McJumboknockers gasped. Vlad threw back his head and laughed, a long, loud, deep, rich laugh. Suzy O'Balloonboobs suddenly noticed, for the first time, how long, sharp, and scary his teeth were. "My dear," he chuckled, "I mean that this party is an orgy...of the DEAD! MWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" Martello fucked around with this message at 03:13 on Jan 15, 2014 |
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Jan 15, 2014 03:06
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sebmojo posted:Rules make for rules lawyers, but I agree. So no more brawls until the next judge comes in. Brawls currently underway will continue, of course. EchoCian and Sitting Here, that means you.
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Jan 15, 2014 22:06
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I would truly appreciate a critique, good sir. http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3598931&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=13#post424452406 Don’t be too harsh, I'm fragile 
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Jan 16, 2014 03:06
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crabrock posted:It’s holding her and she jumps away? Into her fate to slay the beast? Sweet fate I guess. It doesn’t seem like it’s really hard to face your fate when it’s good. Why bother making acid blood if it doesn’t faze her? FYI you suck, let me elaborate Anyone who DIDN'T write a story about huge muscular dudes or dudettes with swords/axes/loincloths/armor/beards/horned helmets/giant penises slaying each other on a sick medieval battlefield FAILED MISERABLY Muffin said it had to be something Frazetta would draw or Iron Maiden would sing about. Not sure where setbacks and motivation and whatever other poo poo you said comes into that.
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Jan 16, 2014 22:36
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tbf I really wish someone had written a story with giant muscular dudettes with huge penises slaying each other on a sick medieval battlefield it's just a commentary on our gender-normative society that it didn't happen
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Jan 16, 2014 22:37
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You know how sometimes you sign up but then don't submit because of a million different bullshit excuses? I bet most of you are like me and wished there was redemption. Now there is.
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Jan 19, 2014 02:40
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God Over Djinn posted:weird poo poo. good
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Jan 21, 2014 01:56
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crabrock posted:in with mah babies 
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Jan 21, 2014 04:24
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ReptileChillock posted:My story fukken rocked, you rear end-turds No it didn't. It was fukken terrible. More's the pity because it had great potential and I wanted it to be good. ReptileChillock posted:A Grand Mystery 999 turds This isn't even a mystery, unless the mystery is why you decided this was a presentable story. You have a lot of good stuff going on here. There's a nice old-timey proto-noir feel, but it's ruined by bad dialogue and no concrete sense of place. You have all the pieces of a good mystery or at least crime story in that setting - rich girl losing money in a seedy gambling den, drunken kid taking the blame for something he didn't do (or did he?), inscrutable villainous Orientals. But you don't loving deliver, dude. This is a mess. I would really like to see what would come out if you take my feedback to heart, sit down, and re-write this thing. Write it with however many words you need, up to 2000. Post it in the Redemption Thread and I'll give you more feedback. Only if you want to. But I'd really like to see it.
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Jan 22, 2014 01:25
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Nu Mulu di Bertoldo 150 parole Bertoldo the farmer was the cleverest man in Sicilia. One day, three San Fratello townsmen – Bene, Malo, and Brutto – passed Bertoldo’s field. He saw them from afar. “Bertoldo,” Bene called. “Finished plowing? Come walk a ways.” “Certainly.” Bertoldo led his mule onto the road. The mule stopped to relieve himself. The townsmen watched droppings fall on the stones. Plop, plop, plop - ching! Malo yelled: “He’s making GBS threads gold!” “Is he?” Bertoldo looked at the coins in the droppings. “He does that sometimes.” “Sell us the mule.” Brutto said. “Not for all the florins in Sicilia.” Bene said: “We’ll give you everything we have!” The townsmen came up with 300 florins. “Very well,” Bertoldo sighed. “You’re getting the better deal. But I'm a generous man.” The townsmen left with the mule. Bertoldo walked home with 300 florins. Not bad for one mule with a few coins slipped in his rear end!
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Jan 27, 2014 17:48
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ReptileChillock posted:Miss Robinson 900 turds This cracked me up irl
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Jan 27, 2014 18:35
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Then afterward, I cried, because there isn't really a tribe of constantly engorged homosexuals named after me.
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Jan 28, 2014 01:52
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Jan 28, 2014 02:24
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The Saddest Rhino posted:“Let me regale you the story of the Hantu Buntut,” Iqbal told Natalie. This made me laugh, and when I was a kid I was afraid of something like this happening. More like a sewer rat or something, but it's the same fear of harm to your exposed, unseen, vulnerable nethers. Not bad. Guiness13 posted:Home (149 Words) Is this broad's name Rose or Rosa? Consistency. Who's story is this? Are you a woman named Rose from the 1920s? This story is competently written but it's not very good. Why is her mom pissed that she's playing baseball? Is it because it's not what a proper young lady would do? You have very few words and you're not getting the point across, a more simple childhood story would be better. Paladinus posted:Babushkina Skazka. Is this about Russian immigrants assimilating into British culture? If so, drat. Good poo poo. crabrock posted:Consequences This had me laughing because I got pretty much the same poo poo from my parents when I was a kid. I had to explain that nobody actually kills themselves when their PC dies when I started playing Shadowrun in college. BTW the past tense of slay is slew or slain, not slayed. Good poo poo. crabrock posted:
Shameful edit, but I'm gonna let it slide because it's loving perfect. I like that you went the other way from the first story, like a reverse cautionary tale. J. Comrade posted:Pop drove the mule cart down to Denver with all hundred fifty dollars. Plans to fix out a proper cabin for us all, doors windows and such. Buy two doors and window frames, in Denver. Making his way back from Denver (we suppose some cargo here), South of Laramie a wind caught the ash from his pipe. From here it goes: 'you knew Pop' (meaning that tattooed drunken savage drunk again as always) 'drove on hard as he could'. And the cart kindled into a blaze. No notice of danger he’d never let up on the mule (sure sounds like Pop). Finally a singe on his brim, he leaped clear of the wreck. The mule died in the blaze, cart and cargo of course lost. And so that is how Pop arrived safely back home with less-than nothing to show for all the money in the world. This isn't good at all. It's clumsy and poorly-written with no flow or cadence. And I'm not sure what the point of the story is either. I quoted the whole thing because everything stands out as bad. THE WINNER crabrock for both stories. They both win. THE LOSER J. Comrade. Don't post some loving poo poo about "contrition" and whatever the gently caress in response to my crit.
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Jan 28, 2014 17:17
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Jagermonster posted:In, also requesting a decade. 2050
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Jan 28, 2014 17:27
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Entenzahn posted:This story as cake: You didn't crit my story. No cake for you. Oh I didn't? Entenzahn posted:Questionable Content This isn't terrible. I'm guessing these are the types of old-wives tales your mom or grandma told you, so you're making the parallel of someone trying to sell them as a children's book. Then again, there are published kid's books as bad or worse than that. It's not bad, like I said, but I think you could have been better with a different tack. Maybe the grandma telling the kid, or do what crabs did and make the cautionary tale into the actual story. This comes off as you trying to be too clever (possibly by half) and not really pulling it off.
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Jan 28, 2014 22:42
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Ohmygod what will it be
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Jan 29, 2014 01:05
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Nikaer Drekin posted:too bad baby bitch
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Jan 31, 2014 12:24
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Fanky Malloons posted:Based on sage advice from my esteemed fellow goons in IRC, I restarted my submission completely at 9:08. Overall I like this story a lot. You need to polish it quite a bit, but I'm sure you already know that. I kept asking you for more evocative and lyrical writing. For a story like this, you need that. It's strange and beautiful and it needs strange and beautiful prose. I know you're capable of it. When you have a better draft done and want some feedback, share it on Drive with me or whatever.
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Jan 31, 2014 12:47
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Tyrannosaurus posted:
Severance 1000 words Manhattan, Upper West Side 2 September 2048 1332 Jack said he was in her system. Her security was sexy, but he finessed it. "Good," Bobby said. He leaned back in his chair, translucent code flashing across his vision. “Now disable the tracker.” Jack was on it. Bobby switched display to a fighting game. The Big Bad Wolf tried to butt in. Bobby shut him up. The Wolf didn’t like that. Now Jack wasn’t so sure. Something was wrong. “What loving uh-oh?” Bobby paused the game and sat up straight. Jack explained that Bobby was hardwired for tracking. "Can't you kill the program?" No, it was built into her system’s firmware. Bobby dropped his head in his hands. “Goddamn it.” 2243 “Come to bed, baby.” Bobby clenched his teeth and set down the Dearborn Errant’s bolt. “Almost done cleaning this.” “Forget the gun. Get in here and gently caress me!” He left the handgun in pieces and walked into the bedroom. Vienna lay on her side across the California king bed. She held her head up with a palm and smiled. Five years back, when Vienna and Tristan Maskar first adopted him, Bobby would have been instantly aroused. Eyes drinking in her lush mocha curves. Now stifled the urge to flee. The Wolf snarled inside his head, laid a crosshair on Vienna’s throat. Fast ridge-hand to that spot, and she’d never breathe again. Bobby pushed the Wolf’s rage to his hindbrain. Jack was quiet. He never had much to say about meat-things. Jill reasoned that if he was going to do it, she could show him Kama sutra techniques she’d found on the net. Mother Goose highlighted flaws in Vienna’s skin, cellulite on her thighs. Zoomed-in images peppered Bobby’s vision. Mother judged her overdue for her quarterly biosculpt. “Shut up,” Bobby whispered. “What’s that, baby boy?” Vienna cocked her head. “Nothing.” He climbed into bed and her waiting arms. 3 September 0020 Vienna lay on her back, staring at the huge Corning mirror on the ceiling. “God-drat.” She showed Bobby her perfect teeth. “That was incredible.” “Uhuh.” Bobby faced away from her, not seeing the megalithic Downtown skyline through the huge smartwindow. “Tristan will be staying at home tomorrow night. Wants to act like my husband for once.” Vienna gazed at Bobby’s tight-muscled acrobat’s body. She ran a finger along his spine. No response. “But you don’t have to bother sleeping alone. I have night-work for you.” “Yeah?” The Wolf woke up, slavered. He liked night-work. “Taler’s campaign is charging up. Start following her, shovel up mud.” “Okay.” Sima Taler was Vienna’s competition for next year’s New York State Senator election, 27th District. She was a philanthropist. Her platform was stricter corporate regulations in Midtown. “No footprints,” Vienna said. 0115 Vienna’s bosom rose and fell, full lips parted, long lashes low over high cheekbones. The Wolf again urged Bobby to kill her. Predators should be free. Bobby pulled on sweatpants, a hoodie, parkour shoes. The Errant went into a holster under his arm. He interfaced with the Corning mirror, left a message. Went to Chinatown for noodles. Bringing you back veg lo mein. – Bobby 0230 “You want me to open you up and slice some hardware.” Oscar Chang’s eyebrows were in his hairline. “You know what kind of heat your owners will bring?” “I can handle it.” Bobby crossed his arms. Mother Goose catalogued every piece of equipment in the basement bodyware clinic. Jack probed Chang’s security, for fun. “I’m not up for a suicide rip against Maskar Robotics.” He shook his head. “I’m not Japanese.” Bobby waved. “We won’t do it here.” Chang spread his hands. “Then where?” “I got us a hotel room.” Jill pointed out that she’d actually booked it. Chang laughed. “Woah, I’m not into that.” “Shut up.” Bobby sliced the air with his hand. “Rip me there. Deal?” “How long you figure until Maskar goons come for you?” Fifteen minutes, Jill estimated. “Fifteen minutes. Enough time for you to scram.” Chang wrinkled his brows. Then he stuck out a hand. “Deal.” 0346 Bobby floated outside his meat. Images and code chattered through his mind. Chang drilled, cut, spliced. They talked to him, the whole hour it took for the rip. Talked in colors, photo-particle amalgams, combat video clips, strings of exploit code. Bobby let them run on. Drifting on clouds of not-pain. Bliss. 0359 Chang slapped him across the face. Bobby’s eyes, never closed, crashed into focus. “Done?” “Yup.” Chang had his equipment packed and looked at the door. “Before I leave, I gotta say. You got some primo augs in that scrawny body.” “Why do you think Maskar wants to keep me so bad?” Chang’s forehead wrinkled. “Not just that. Your headware agents. I’ve never seen code like them. All twisted up in your wetware. Like they’ve bridged memristors to synapses.” Bobby grinned. “They don’t like being called ‘agents.’ ” “I’m outta here. Good luck.” 0412 The door smashed open. Four black-clad men flowed into the room like Coke into a glass. Submachine guns and optic eyewraps. Bobby shot the first from inches, suppressed Errant snapping like an angry dog. The Wolf howled triumph, guided Bobby’s free hand in a knuckle punch to the second’s temple. The man crumpled like foil. Third and fourth shot where Bobby was a half-second ago. He kicked off the closed bathroom door, hit the third goon in the base of the skull with the Errant’s slide. Bobby put another bullet in number-four’s forehead. Two seconds. Four men dead. Bobby and the Wolf rejoiced together. The other three cheered in the back of his brain. 0440 The autocab hummed across the George Washington Bridge. More Maskar people would be looking for him. The autocab had him riding under a hacked ID. Nothing to tie him to it. Jack already stole a Delta ticket from Newark to Georgetown. They’d all be in the United Bolivarian Republic by noon. Free of her. No more tracking, no more watching. Free. All of them.
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Jan 31, 2014 22:53
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THUNDERDOME WEEK LXXVIII: Past Glories
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T Rex you dint add me to the sign up roster. < >
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Feb 2, 2014 06:14
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Mercedes posted:Decade: 30 AD Your genius is misunderstood.
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Feb 2, 2014 23:22
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Black Jesus? Nah, blood. Black Vikings. 250 words Jarl Deknut and his boys roll back into Grimness hood with a grip of swag. They raided them Irish fools in Lindisfarne. Pillaged a whole gang a monks, na mean? poo poo. Them gangstas throw a party at Deknut’s pimped-out meadhall. Thane Kayvon the Black and his thugs come too. That mead hall be poppin. Fine Viking bitches with weaves way down to they booty. Mead an beer an mothafuckin cognac. Fried chicken, wild boar chitlins like yo momma never made. Then poo poo goes down. Deknut’s girl Shahilda be sippin mead and lookin at this ill tapestry. Mothafucka name Malik Forkbeard come up behind, checkin out her booty an poo poo. Malik grab that bodacious Toccara Jones behind. Shahilda turn around with a mothafuckin sword in her hand. “Nigga, don’t you know I a gangsta-rear end shieldmaiden? Take yo grimy-rear end hands off me.” Malik drunk as gently caress. He laugh. “drat girl. That sword heavy for yo fine rear end?” Shahilda don’t take no poo poo off trifling niggas like Malik. She stab that mothafucka dead. Malik be Kayvon’s cousin, so the Thane vengeful as gently caress. His boys pull swords from they pants and poo poo gets real. Deknut and his posse start slicin an dicin. Smoke clears, an Deknut’s boys on top. His meadhall all hosed up, broken poo poo everywhere. Shahilda standin on a pile a bodies, blood all in her braids. She lift her sword. “Mothafuckas need to be keepin they nasty-rear end hands off my Kim Kardashian rear end!” “drat yo,” Deknut says. “Bitches be crazy.”
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Feb 3, 2014 17:21
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What was his woman's name? How come you blanked it? Those were the questions that were raised when I read your piece. Your major fuckup is that you didn't name the immortal viking Ragnar Lodbrok. I mean, poo poo son. Missed opportunity, big time.
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Feb 3, 2014 20:27
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Oh yeah, now I remember.   
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Feb 4, 2014 15:14
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crabrock posted:Do you even remember the 90s bro? He's a hipster bicycle repairman with Wolverine sideburns. So probs not. Btw I loved your story. I loved how angry the protag was. And how right. And most of all, how wrong.
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Feb 4, 2014 19:10
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Nitrogen.
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Feb 4, 2014 19:57
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No Longer Flaky posted:horror lol
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Feb 6, 2014 15:38
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inthesto posted:Somebody slap me upside the head with a flash rule. Aluminum is commonly used in aircraft. Aircraft must figure significantly in your story. Echo and Sitting Here, I read your stories. I need to think on them and re-read them a few times. I'll give you my decision in the next couple days.
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Feb 6, 2014 18:16
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbU3zdAgiX8
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Feb 6, 2014 22:11
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LOGPAC Nitrogen 1200 words “Dog Five, this is Dog One-Seven, over.” SFC Williams’ Detroit accent. I key my Bose headset. “This is Five, send it.” “ANA are stopping. Looks like they found somethin in the road, over.” “Roger, confirm and report. Dog Five out.” I open the door of my MATV, step out onto the running board. 1st Platoon’s Strykers are on the road ahead, pulled off in alternating directions in what we call a herringbone. Williams is out of his truck, walking to meet the ANA commander. His terp, short and scrawny in too-large ACUs, trots beside him. The green ANA Ford Rangers and Humvees are parked in no particular formation. A couple of the scout dirtbikes slewed across the road maybe half a klik from my vehicle. This logistics patrol to my 2nd Platoon out at COP Shamulzai is stretching on into infinity. We left at zero-seven and it’s already thirteen hundred. We’re only halfway there. “What’s the deal, Sir?” SPC Branovic asks. She tugs at the bun under her helmet. “Afghans found something up there. Probably an IED.” She nods, drums her fingers on the steering wheel. Branovic is a mechanic, not my assigned driver. But she’s a better than SPC Gray, and the mechanic team can afford to lose her for a day. Williams and the ANA captain are done. He transmits as he walks back to his Stryker. “Hey Dog Five, this is One-Seven, these dudes found a pressure-plate IED. Up where those dirtbikes are parked, over.” “One-Seven, Five, good copy. SOP for removal, over?” “Roger that.” I slide back into the vehicle. I say to Branovic, “I want to see this poo poo.” “gently caress yes.” She puts the big Oshkosh armored truck into gear. We roll past 1st Platoon’s vics and through the ANA trucks. Bearded faces swivel towards us, eyes unreadable under bushy eyebrows. Most of them don’t wear armor or helmets, just a few magazine pouches for their M16s. I’m jealous. I don’t mind my plate carrier, but I loving hate helmets. Itchy, hot, gives me a sore neck after being on patrol all day. One of the scouts is back on his dirtbike. He pulls it off the road and behind a boulder. He and one of his buddies crabwalk up to what must be the IED. “Stop here,” I say. Branovic hits the brakes. We’re a hundred meters from the scouts. Plenty far if the charge blows. I watch them fiddle with something on the ground. They walk back to where I’m parked. One has a length of five-fifty cord in his hand. He yanks on it. A piece of wood and metal skids along the dirt on the other end of the cord. I step out onto the running board again, brace my M4 over the door. With my 4x ACOG I can see the pressure plate lying harmless in the dust. A dead cobra made of wood, a saw blade, and copper wire. More wire sticks up from the ground a foot away from the plate. The two scouts go back to the site, pick up the pressure plate. They hook the cord to the wires, repeat the same walk-and-yank routine. Nothing happens, again. “Dog One-Seven, this is Dog Five. Afghans disabled the IED. I’m walking up to take a look.” “Dog Five, this is One-Seven, roger.” I dismount the MATV. Branovic stays in the driver’s seat. I clip the strap on my M4 to the buckle on the upper-right corner of my plate carrier, let it hang. This part of Zabul is never very hot, even in the height of summer. It’s still hotter than Germany. I miss the weather back there. The high-speed driving. I miss beer and liquor, but more than that, I miss good loving food. The scouts are standing near the IED site, jabbering in Dari, watching a pair of regular ANA soldiers dig with crowbars. I stop and look down at the hole. They’ve exposed a patch of dirty yellow plastic. The charge. “Hey sir, these boy-fuckers need some help?” I turn around. SGT Gavin squints down at me. He’s one of Williams’ best team leaders, a six-four, two-fifty bundle of aggression and courage. “Looks like it.” Gavin swaggers past me, unfolding his E-tool. He squats with the Afghans, starts digging with the little shovel. I get closer to the hole. If the thing blows, I figure I should go out with my dude. Some mixture of second-in-command responsibility, boredom, and a complete lack of concern for my own life. Fifteen minutes or so, and most of the charge is exposed. Gavin’s been doing the brunt of the work. It looks like a yellow plastic jug, the kind you’d get at Wal-Mart in the Oil, Salad Dressing, and Condiments aisle. But this one’s full of HME instead of corn oil. Home-Made Explosives. Some mixture of ammonium nitrate from fertilizer, other chemicals. Fertilizer. Meant to produce life in plants, grow life-giving crops for the people. Instead, these fucks use it for destruction. Irony. “Here she comes,” Gavin says. He pries the jug up out of the hole. It’s a five-liter. Enough HME to blow the wheels off my MATV. “Good poo poo,” I say. “Let the ANA handle it from here.” We walk back to my MATV. Gavin leans on the hood and we bullshit while the Afghans carry the jug to a rise just over a hundred meters away. They set it down and walk back. They’re supposed to burn it with diesel, but these guys decide to try shooting it instead. Five ANA take a knee and pop off with their M16s. No hits. “These faggots couldn’t hit a target if it was sucking their dicks,” Gavin says. “Sir, let me take a shot.” I shouldn’t let him do it. Shooting IEDs is expressly forbidden by our rules of engagement. It’s not a sure way of blowing the charge, and just makes the it unstable for if and when the EOD dudes have to go and disarm it by hand. But EOD isn’t out here. They’re forty miles away at FOB Laghman in Qalat, on the other side of the Dab Pass. Nobody’s gonna know anyway. “gently caress it,” I say. “Go ahead.” Gavin takes aim over the hood. First shot, nothing. Second, loving BOOM! A twenty-foot high cloud of dirt spreads from the blast, billowing out like a dust storm. “Nice shot,” I say. Gavin bows. “Thank you, Sir. Now can we get the gently caress back on the road, or do these moon-worshippers have to salute the sun again in celebration?” I chuckle. “Hope not. Once they get back on the road, we’re good to roll.” I slap Gavin on the shoulder and he walks back to the Strykers. The convoy gets rolling again, fifteen minutes later. Twenty more kliks to Shamulzai. I wondered about who put the IED in the road. We hadn’t driven that way for a couple weeks. What was the loving point? Nobody lived out here, not for miles. Was it that important to stop a LOGPAC of food, water, and mail for the 2nd Platoon dudes? That was the big question about all of this. What’s the loving point?
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Feb 10, 2014 00:12
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sebmojo posted:
seb here's your picture 
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Feb 10, 2014 22:06
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sebmojo posted:Some crits. You missed one, old fellow. Lake Jucas posted:“Dan, are you down here? I heard – Oh my God!” Jess's cries where downed out by THE hoard HOLY gently caress THAT'S THE OTHER KIND OF HOARD, YOU MEAN HORDE YOU GRADE-SCHOOL WORD CONFUSION MOTHERFUCKER of high schoolers singing along to Miley Cyrus's “Wrecking Ball.” Well, two actually.
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Feb 12, 2014 12:57
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sebmojo posted:martello to the courtesy judgephone I'm judgin' em today, promise 
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Feb 13, 2014 12:44
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Martello posted:Write up to 2000 words of cyberpunk/technoir/space-based near-future sci-fi. Any of those three, interpreted how you want. Writing about violent criminals and street mercenaries (my ouvre, in other words) may get you bonus points but ain't necessary at all. If you write a cyberpunk oppressed housewife story that gets the cyberpunk part across in a way that makes sense, I'll probably like it even more. Yeah this is late I guess but since you guys were like TWO WEEKS late I'm not exactly shedding any tears of guilt. Sitting Here posted:
So this is kind of post-apocalyptic with a little bit of cyberpunk/whatever thrown in. That's fine, I wasn't trying to get you two to adhere to some Gibsonian ideal of 80s cyberpunk. Let's talk specifics. Setting In general, the people in the domes are kind of generic white American. Maybe you're trying to say something with this, but if so I didn't figure it out. To me it just smacks of lazy naming. You had Vijo-Ryu Goggles, why couldn't the protag be named Malena or Liang or Monifa? Little Junie Shipping sounds like something from Little House on the Prairie. Maybe that's what you were going for, but it just doesn't sound right. I get that the people in the Park are supposed to be backwards so it makes a certain amount of sense, but if this is far future America you'd think the pot would be a little more melted at this point. The Cloud. So I know why you picked that term, but c'mon. Nobody's gonna start calling the internet the Cloud. It'll be the internet until the sun burns out. Language doesn't change the way it used to. Sure, slang comes and goes, but American English has become very stable due to the immortality of the printed (or coded) word. You're making a common near-future sci-fi blunder where you try to get cute and futurey with your tech when you should just stick to the established lingo for things that already exist. The Goggles are all good, though. We're getting there. The domes. I like this. The epidemic storyline has been done a million times, but who the gently caress cares? It works when you do it well, which you did. You leave the workings of the domes just enough of a mystery for me to want to know more. Who's keeping them running? Do the domes produce anything for the outside world? Are the cityfolk using them for insidious social experiments? The idea isn't perfect, though. I find it difficult to believe that "no one wanted to leave unless everyone left." Rachel wouldn't be the first adventurous kid to want to get out of there. It’s not a huge negative, but since the plot rides on the idea you could come up with a stronger reason why. It might make more sense if the domers thought the crisis was still ongoing. The paranoia keeps em in. Rachel’s saving dollars? Like, paper money? Do you think New Reno would use that poo poo still? Maybe, but likely not. Overall, you capture a nice near-future feel. Not too much tech to get boring, and enough that it’s more than just a veneer. There are some holes but nothing game-breaking. Characters Rachel is an okay character, I guess. She’s a little bland for a short piece. This could work in a novel or longer short – you have the space to develop her character. In something this short it would pay to make her more decisive, or aggressive, or in some way more externally interesting. She’s not bad, just a little weak. Delta seems like this whack-a-do social worker type, which fits her role. She, too, could use some juicing up. Again, with a short piece, it’s always good to make your characters more outstanding in some way. Give her a verbal tic, something to set her dialogue apart from Rachel’s. Your characters do their jobs. They aren’t spectacular, but they get it done. Plot The plot’s nice but there’s not enough conflict. The bit in the beginning with the lovers trying to find a place to bang – yawn. You can do better than that. What would even happen if they found Delta? Who would they tell? She makes her entry of the dome public anyway. What does it matter? Something like a couple of trigger-happy guards would be better. Something dangerous that creates tension. We know Rachel is gonna leave. You need to make us wonder. Give her better reasons to stay. Make her argue with Delta. Put some emotion into it. Right now there aren’t any stakes. We don’t know anything about Mom and her Goggles. What’s Rachel leaving behind? Make us feel her struggle. The plot, like the characters, is workaday. It serves us the burger and fries, with a smile but not much else. Echo Cian posted:Brawl vs Sitting Here Setting This is much more sci-fi. That’s not necessarily a good or bad thing here, because what matters is whether it works. Let’s see. The tech is mostly spot-on. You give just enough without going into nuts and bolts. I can buy almost all of it. Except the Circuit. So, this is a thing that can break down a human body – and presumably pretty much any other matter – into “data.” What do you mean by “data?” This is worse than transporters in Star Trek and every other fictech that converts matter to energy. This is a world where all these animals are extinct and the environment is hosed, and apparently unfixable. But, people can turn into data. Nope. So what’s up with the elves? Is this Shadowrun? Or is it ELF, like Electronic Life Form or something? If so, and if only elves can use the Circuit, you can ignore my prior complaint. I was hoping that was the case when I read it, but even on a second read-through I see you didn’t say anything like “the fast travel system for us elves” or whatever. If they’re just regular elves, why? What does it do for the story? It comes out of nowhere and you spend words saying “elf” and describing the differences between them and humans when you could just call them robots or whatever. One way or another, you can’t just leave elves in a cyberpunk world hanging. They have to make sense. Moving on. Bunraku box sounds cool but doesn’t bunraku mean “puppet?” Unless I missed something I’m not seeing anything puppety about these things. The concept is cool but the name makes no sense to me. A lot of the other stuff is great – augmented reality displays, unobtrusive augmentations, etc. I can really “see” it. Characters The protag is unnamed. The protag has no name. She has no name. Why? Nameless protagonist is an old and tired trope that never really did anything for anybody. Send that old horse to the glue factory. Give your lady a name. She’s fine otherwise. She’s this gritty black marketeer, tough and resourceful. She jumps off the page. I just wish she had an effing name. The side characters are good. Each one has a defining characteristic. Tegal has his dumb mood tattoo, Mr. Allen is a slimy gently caress, Gaddy is a back-stabbing conniving bitch. Like I said for T-Dog above, characters in short stories need to be a little exaggerated. You did that here. Plot Betrayal is one of the most common plot devices in the book. For a reason. It works. And it works here, too. I didn’t necessarily see it coming, though a short piece like this isn’t really long enough to even get you wondering. But you pull me right through the story. It was an easy read, and I was satisfied at the end. Good stuff. Oh, and I really like “the cat caught with the canapé.” Made me smile. Judgement Echo wins this one. Your story is competent overall and gives me the sci-fi punch I wanted. I just wish I knew why there are elves and how matter converts to data. Sitting Here, I didn’t hate your story by any means. I think you need more time and space for this one. If you ever end up expanding it, share it on Drive so I can see where you go with it.
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Feb 14, 2014 04:28
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Lake Jucas posted:Do you really want more werewolf skateboarders? I do. Make them skateboard though.
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Feb 18, 2014 17:21
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This, right here, is how you do a restrictive prompt. 
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Feb 19, 2014 13:29
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Sitting Here posted:After a languid pause Sitting Here chortled, "in." the languid pause was to take a sick bong hit, just so everyone is tracking
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Mar 4, 2014 12:57
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Erogenous Beef posted:Also, marty, get your lazy rear end in here and write us some crackling cyberpunk saidbooks, ja? FINE! I'M loving IN
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Mar 4, 2014 14:15
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Black Gold 1199 cyberwords Benny Ortiz washed down a tube of Dr. Victarion’s Nutrient Wonder Paste with a non-petroleum-plastic can of Red Bull ULTRA. He settled into his padded synthleather deckerchair. “Time to fly,” he belched. Benny pulled the datacord from his cyberdeck’s spool. He plugged it into the jack behind his left ear. Both hands dropped to the chair arms. His body went slack. Data raced along his synapses like wildfire. The meat world fell away, replaced by the netreal. The shabby basement apartment supplanted by a hyperreal Gothic cathedral. Ultradef stained-glass windows. Saints, demons, and sinners that changed every few minutes. Lossless organ music backed up by algorithm-based Gregorian chant. The RASS*gart Multi-User-Directory. Here, Benny was no longer just plain Benny Ortiz, semi-employed programmer living in his parents’ basement in Bayonne. He was The Snake. A hotshot decker with a nuclear rep. His avatar was a slender dude in a trenchcoat with the head of a snake. The snakehead changed from a diamondback to an anaconda to a gaboon viper to a hundred other serpents, cycling through according to an algorithm he wrote himself. “Yo, bud,” a deep voice rumbled. “You ready for this?” The Snake turned to see a squat, mole-like figure grinning up at him from a wooden pew. In meatspace, he was called James McSweeny. In the net, he was PheonixXGuru. “You know it, duder,” Snake smiled venomously. “Let’s go.” # It was an easy hack. Install a dataminer in, ironically, a Nessus Stellar Resources mainframe. In and out. “That ICE sniffed us out yet?” Snake queried. His avatar squatted over an airlock, the cyber-representation of a security gate. The system was sculpted like a mining station. Nessus netmasters had never been accused of creativity. “Nah,” Pheonix shrugged. “I sleazed the hell out of those things.” Snake glanced up for a fraction of a second, which felt like thirty in cyberspace. He watched the crablike ICE avatar drift by, never swiveling a turreted eye in their direction. They were modeled on Nessus maintenance bots, but could kill a decker in ways the real bots never could. “Just keep an eye out and don’t let our access codes go static,” Snake worried sibilantly. “I got it, I got it,” Pheonix rebounded. Snake continued to fiddle with the airlock’s controls, trying to slice his way through a complex security protocol. He almost had a handle on it when Pheonix gasped in surprise. “What the gently caress?” he questioned. Snake looked up, followed Pheonix’s pointing claw. A golden bird hovered a few feet away, huge wings flapping. “ICE?” Snake pondered. “Not like any I’ve ever seen,” his friend pronounced. “Scanning now…nope, it’s an avatar.” “Who are you?” Snake interrogated. He had a sinking feeling it was a Nessus security decker, toying with them before the kill. The bird only blinked. Then it wheeled, turning sideways so its wingtips brushed floor and ceiling. It took off down another tunnel junction. “Let’s follow it,” Snake decided. He pulled out of the airlock code and walked after the bird. “Wait, we don’t even know who it is! Be careful,” Pheonix implored. Snake didn’t respond. He hurried after the bird as they twisted and turned through tunnel after tunnel. They came up against an airlock, and the bird swiped it open like it didn’t exist. “Where are we?” Pheonix wondered. “This wasn’t on the system blueprint.” “Backdoor, hidden files maybe,” Snake guessed. They followed the golden bird through one more airlock, and entered what looked like an EVA ready room. Right down to the vacsuits and mag-clamp boots velcro’d to the walls. But in the middle of the room was a sculpt of a huge mason jar full of thick black liquid. The black stuff pulsed and shifted inside the jar. “Z-omg,” Pheonix breathed. “Is that what I think it is?” “Black Gold,” Snake nodded emphatically. “Just a quick scan, but it looks legit. And unguarded. They probably figured nobody could get through the security protocols.” Pheonix goggled at the bird. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. It blinked and flapped its wings. Snake picked up the Black Gold. No hidden ICE, no alarms, nothing. “You know what this poo poo is worth?” he inquired. Pheonix squinted his moley eyes. “About half a mil for a hacked copy, last I checked,” he calculated. “For an original, with no corruption? Gotta be a mil and a half, easy.” “Think about what we could do with that money,” Snake dreamed. “My mom’s cancer treatment…” he trailed off. “I’m gonna build myself the sickest custom rig,” Pheonix smirked. “Probably move into a bigger apartment in Bronxville, too. Snake looked Pheonix. They had been vest buddies since middle school. When they hung out in meatspace, he was always jealous of James’ family. They had plenty of money. His dad was a research manager for National Biotech, his mom a corporate lawyer for the same company. Pheonix sliced systems for kicks, not money. That mil and a half would be just about right to get Marsha Ortiz the cancer treatment she needed. It was just a question of the right gene therapy, these days. But that didn’t come cheap. National Biotech had the best treatment, so he’d heard. Ironic, considering what Snake was about to do. Pheonix was still looking at the bird when Snake loaded his Russian program. It was superblack, ICE of the deadliest kind. It didn’t have the varied utility of Black Gold, but for geeking one individual decker it was unstoppable. Even Pheonix didn’t know about it. The program appeared in Snake’s palm, a red Matroshka devil. It opened up and successively smaller devils hopped out into infinity. Pheonix turned, his scanner detecting the Russian program. He screamed. The Matroshka devils swarmed him, chattering in high-pitched Russian. Pheonix’s avatar pixelized, flickered a few times, and disappeared. The devils vanished with him. Snake knew that in meatspace, James would be slouched on his genuine leather chair, mouth open and body limp as always. But instead of drool running from the corner of his mouth, it would be blood. Snake didn’t wait for the bird to react, pulling out of the Nessus system with a single command. He could have jacked out straight from there, but leaving through RASS*gart MUD would lead any programs through multiple redirects. They’d stymie out in a system in Helsinki, or Mombasa, or Luna City, or anywhere but Bayonne, NJ. Meatspace roiled back into Benny’s consciousness as he jacked out. He yanked the cord from behind his ear and sat up. He’d only been in for an hour, but it seemed like five. # Upstairs, his mother was making soup from a can. “Benny!” she exclaimed. “You’re upstairs.” “I had to take a break,” Benny admitted. “Mom, I have great news for you.” “Really?” she brightened. “What is it?” “First,” Benny sighed. “I need a hug.” He held his arms out, as tears welled in his eyes. He’d murdered his best friend, he finally had the money to cure his mother. And that golden bird haunted him. Who was it? Why did it help him? What would it want in return? Momma Ortiz took Benny in her arms, and held him while he cried.
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Mar 10, 2014 01:56
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