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Fine. FINE. Goddammit. FINE. I'm in.
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Jan 7, 2014 17:19
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 08:39 |
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The toy's robotic arm. It's robotic arm. Is that wrong?
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Jan 7, 2014 19:39
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THANK YOU ALL! yes makes sense.
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Jan 7, 2014 20:38
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sebmojo posted:"Shut up," Tom suggested politely. Are you even using real words, crabs magnet?
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Jan 8, 2014 02:59
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RADIOACTIVE loving FAILUREBEARS VS BITCHTITS MCFAILURE NON-BRAWL OH GOD THE RAGE
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sebmojo posted:What was that, babbling twatnugget? You want a dramatized reading of the worst old thunderdome story I can find to drive home the sad truth that it's still better than you'll ever do? ps I write for poo poo, that's a given.
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Jan 8, 2014 04:33
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Mercedes posted:Holy flaming Christ, either gently caress him or brawl him. Either way stop posting unless you're throwing down a story. The Leper Colon V posted:Just shut up and challenge him to a Thunderbrawl, broseph. I challenge you to a brawl. 500 words of pure telling, NO showing. Wait. I don't even know who I'm supposed to thunderbrawl or wtf I'm doing. This should end well. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 16:36 on Jan 8, 2014 |
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Jan 8, 2014 16:33
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The gently caress, you can just addendum a brawl? My addendum: Tell Don't Show.
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Jan 8, 2014 22:38
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Meinberg posted:gently caress you all, no one of you in this thread has any real appreciation for my animes! 
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Jan 10, 2014 03:31
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I'm out of the flashdomebrawl and this week's dome as well. Let the hateshaming begin.
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Jan 11, 2014 17:13
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^ gaaaaahhhhhhhhfuck. Death Everlasting. 452 turds. They called it the Hephaestus Event. An asteroid five miles wide bounced off the moon and into the Pacific. Half the planet died. The rest of us bathed in the life-granting gasses of the radioactive Pacific, and now we're immortal. That was a million years ago. A million years before the Hephaestus Event, apes were becoming human. A million years after it, there's nothing. We've run out of interesting stories. Stephen King won't shut his goddamn pie hole. He's written literally a million stories about a writer who something something deadly demon something something magic shadows and the day is saved. gently caress that guy. Why'd we have to lose J.K. Rowling? I'd give anything for another Harry Potter story that wasn't crap rear end fan fiction. Don't judge me! I'm in hell. Nothing kills us. I've leapt off of buildings, drowned. Hell, I went through a wood chipper off the back of a truck going 90 down the highway. You think my cells would know well enough to leave the gently caress alone? Nope. They find a way. It's life everlasting. Like all you smug motherfuckers prayed for. Life. Everlasting. What I wouldn't give to just lie down in a hole and rot. I've been married a hundred thousand times. At one point, we had a little contest, between me and my neighbors. What? Oh, you're thinking the world's declined into roaming packs of skull-face-painted ne'er-do-wells who'd get a kick out of beheading people? There were. They got bored, gave up. gently caress 'em. Where was I. Oh. Right. Married. Me and the bastards on my street had a contest going for a while. Who could stay married to their braying screeching harpie the longest? Because, sure, while you swore "til death do us part", trust me, those days are gone. And could a bitch bear to part with you after a couple thousand years? Nope. gently caress that. They're in it for the long run. And you can't kill them. Can't bury them. Can't leave them in jail. They'll claw their way out after a hundred years or so. Eventually, they get over you. Or the other way around. Theresa, she stole my heart. She took a knife, carved it out of my chest and ran away. A week later, I woke up and she was gone. She's probably with the drowners now. They strap weights to themselves and now they're on the bottom of the ocean. Drowning and then healing. It's what passes for entertainment, if that's what you're into. I miss the days of worrying. Worrying about hunger, illness. Money. A place to live. None of it matters anymore. There is nothing to do. Nothing. Anything and everything, it's been done. It's been done to death. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 06:36 on Jan 13, 2014 |
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Jan 13, 2014 06:19
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Thanks for the support.
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Jan 13, 2014 07:07
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The Saddest Rhino posted:Quidnose: OK FINE. URGH. Tiny Image to spare the rest of you from scrolling past goddamn horrible poo poo.  You'll notice I wrote this last night. That's right. I gave this thought, and an outline. And a point of view. And THEN and ONLY THEN did I begin to write. And regret. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 18:19 on Jan 13, 2014 |
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Jan 13, 2014 18:16
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ThirdEmperor posted:Holy poo poo don't post that here. Please.
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Jan 13, 2014 19:02
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ThirdEmperor posted:Fuggit. I'm bored and everyone else is getting their brawl funsies. Here is my commitment this week. I'm going to use WriteOrDie to write 500 words every night. They are going to be packed with description, since I suffer from "White Room Syndrome" in my stories. Every night. 500 words of over bloated description to get some perspective in my poo poo writing. I'll pick the least suckass of the collection and submit it to your brawlfetish. Fine. Thank you for pushing me out of my comfort zone* * doing nothing at all. quote:Your rule, gentlemen. Your story cannot start at the beginning, nor finish at the end. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 03:06 on Jan 14, 2014 |
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Jan 14, 2014 03:03
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Captain Trips posted:That was Michael Corleone. edit: well goddamn. I suppose it's in both. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 05:08 on Jan 14, 2014 |
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Jan 14, 2014 05:05
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Death Everlasting by magnificent7
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Jan 14, 2014 15:56
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The Saddest Rhino posted:Magnificient7: JJ 20140113_05234.txt
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Jan 17, 2014 21:09
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ThirdEmperor posted:What I learned this week- Never, ever try writing in present-tense, first person. Also don't brawl someone who's likely to vanish and leave you feeling quite stupid. quote:Your prompt is to tell me a story. 500 words.
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Jan 20, 2014 19:31
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Plenty Of Time To Kill - 500 words, a story that doesn't start at the beginning, and doesn't finish at the end. I like to think that Charles Manning was awake when his heart stopped, waiting in terror as that last beat fell away like a rock thrown off a cliff. Thirty years ago I was Manning’s public defense attorney, but I wasn’t surprised that the warden called me when he died last night. “He left you another note, same as them others.” The warden struggled with the scribbled message like a third grader, sputtering the words in staccato rhythm, “Thanks Jim. I’ll never forget you for saving my neck.” When I didn’t reply, he said, “You get that? He woke up his cellmate, said he’d finished his mission, scribbled that note and laid back down. This morning he was dead.” The cork board over my workbench displayed another twenty-four notes from Manning with those same words, each one pinned in a plastic bag. That first note, yellow and faded, arrived after I convinced a judge to convert Manning’s sentence to life without parole. Thanks Jim. I’ll never forget you for saving my neck. At our only interview, Charlie’s hair was a mess of black greasy tendrils, pushed around with a comb. Hunched over his chair, he traced a crack on the table with a chewed fingertip, and then peeled back a smile and said, “Pretty sure it was eleven heads in that van. Cops said ten, but they’s wrong.” Craning his head up and squinting at the lightbulb, he said, “That’s the ones I remember. There’s more, but…” He shrugged and swatted the rest of the thought away. Four years later, the second note came, scrawled in pencil, nearly carved through a light-blue index card. I’ll never forget you for saving my neck. Thanks Jim. Charlie studied enough law to write an appeal for an inmate whose double-homicide case was marred by contaminated evidence. I proudly posted the note alongside the first in my workshop. He’d done good. But my pride only lasted a few days. The state released the inmate, only to take him back nine days later with more blood on his hands. Over the next two decades, another twenty-two prisoners went free because of Charlie’s appeals. Half of them returned like the first one, leaving a wake of brutality that spun into urban legend. The last eleven of Charlie’s projects scattered into the cracks and shadows of the city like rats. I used to oppose the death penalty, didn’t think it was necessary. Hell, most times, a psychopath like Charlie would end up beat to death by another inmate. But Charlie became their hero, and died probably of natural causes. “Jim? You still there? Want me to send you this note?” “Yeah, thanks. I gotta run, there’s work to do.” I hung up and spun my stool around. “Where was I?” There’s a muffled whimper. When I remove Jimmy Earl Millsap’s blindfold, he’ll see the heads of Charlie’s other ten friends who cheated the system. He’ll probably know what’s coming next.
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Jan 20, 2014 20:45
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ThirdEmperor posted:Well shoot. Really could have used another twelve hours to edit that. Good brawl, m7.
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Jan 20, 2014 22:54
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ThirdEmperor posted:Read the OP. "The time for edits is over." I like that.
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Jan 20, 2014 23:21
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Mercedes posted:Magnificent7 your story is confusing and you suck.
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Jan 21, 2014 04:04
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crabrock posted:For what it's worth: I thought your story was decent. Probably your best since the death helper one. You failed to really make me feel the motivation for why the lawyer was doing the killing (that's a huge step to make), but I understood it all and thought that your writing (especially your showing) was much improved. A few times it feels a little over-written in the descriptions and similis, but just barely. The main problem is that your main char doesn't really have a distinct voice. The call over the phone is a little bland and lacking in any punch. Just two dude's talkin. The warden has more character than your main. I'm in with the grave of Mary Ellis. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Ellis_grave
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Jan 21, 2014 04:40
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I'm in.
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May 29, 2014 04:03
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:You loserbrawlers had better be working hard.
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May 29, 2014 17:11
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:1) I wasn't talking to you.
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May 29, 2014 17:43
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One More For The Road. 514 Words. The Man briefly mourned his suit, then put his gun back in the leather holster with its blooded bloodless knight and drove off into the dying light of the sun. He pressed hard on the gas, desperate to put as many miles as possible between himself and The Lover before nightfall. The headlights didn't work, and he'd be damned if he'd make an exit like that only to hit a tree a mile down the road. He kept his eyes on the road, never checking the rear-view mirror. He didn't want to see her. The broken muffler of the Corvelle drowned out any sound except for The Nuge's Cat Scratch Fever, crackling from the dashboard speaker. He didn't want to hear her. The Lover, on her knees in the middle of the street, cried, pleading through the cloud of exhaust and flecks of asphalt, screaming for The Man to turn around. Her lungs filled with exhaust and she coughed between heaving sobs, the tracks of her tears caked with dirt. The rumble of his car faded away, finally falling beneath the music of crickets. Her hand reached out, thin and wrinkled, clawing at the air, trying to snatch the car and pull him back to her. She coughed again, her shoulders hitched in one last sob, and then she hung her head. Seated in the otherwise empty bar, the Daughter let go of her frown, glad that no one else was there to see her mother. A similar scene had played out before, so many times that she'd lost count. She knew The Man would leave; they all left. Every man her mother took to bed was reliable, only in the way they proved to be unreliable. Her mother made men want to leave. No, that was wrong. Her mother made men want to leave only after they'd used her and treated her like poo poo. The cloud of dust was gone and the street was empty. Her mother — The Lover — stood and brushed the dirt off her dress. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing brown streaks under each bloodshot eye. She raised her chin, trying to collect what little dignity she had left. Inside the bar, the daughter's smile felt comfortable on her face. It hurt to see her mother cry, but each time, it hurt a little less. And this time, The Daughter's heart was racing as she watched him blow out in a cloud of dust. If he'd changed his mind, if he'd looked in the rear-view mirror and had a change of heart, he might have stopped. But even if he tried to, she knew he wouldn't stop. And people might ask about that; might ask why his brake fluid sprayed everywhere; or why his brake line was cut. But he didn't look and he didn't stop. He'd be miles away before he tried to stop. That's how it was in a one-light town. She filled her glass again, took a sip and waited for her mother to come inside.
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Jun 2, 2014 01:19
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Well Huzzah I didn't suck enough to get called out. (let the calling out begin).
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Jun 3, 2014 04:27
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Did some hippie REALLY name their kid's book GOOD poo poo? I can't unsee it. I'm in.
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Jun 3, 2014 14:37
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Blade_of_tyshalle posted:If I regret this, I will personally murder each and every person in this thread whose username is magnificent7.
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Jun 4, 2014 05:30
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So... what? No crits?
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Jun 4, 2014 22:11
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God Over Djinn posted:magnificent7 - One More For The Road. Hey that was awful nice of you. Thanks! sebmojo posted:Sounds like a good reason for a brawl, then. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 23:43 on Jun 4, 2014 |
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Jun 4, 2014 23:40
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Sitting Here posted:Magnificent7
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Jun 5, 2014 15:17
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 THEM CREEPY rear end TREES. 906 Words. The woods are too dense to discern the giants from the trees; thick legs could be stumps, stretched arms could be branches. I can't tell. "Hurry, Chico! They're right behind us!" My words come out in short breaths. Chico has me clenched tightly while he runs, wrapped bound in a blue blanket. I can't remember how long he's been carrying me. I'm not even sure where we are. Without slowing, he glances over his shoulder. "No one's behind us." He speaks effortlessly, not tired at all. "Don't you see them?" I'm having trouble catching my breath. "There? In the trees?" Without looking back, he tells me there's no one chasing us. I can't move my arms, can't move my legs, and he tells me we're safe. Thirty minutes ago I was a captive patient. I'm free now, but at a price. "I've been sedated — paralyzed — by madmen!" Chico's eyes flick down at me for just a second, then straight ahead. The lights overhead cut through the branches, shining off his greasy black hair. A bright flash, and another. And another. "Annette, he's awake." Chico says, the way he'd tattletale on his sister. From ahead she asks him, "Is he comfortable?" He looks down at me. "Are you comfortable?" "I can't feel my legs; you wrapped me too tightly in this blanket. But there's no time to fix it now." "Are you hurt?" He says this time without looking down, keeping an eye on our guide. "I told you already, they paralyzed me! I can't feel anything below my chin." "No one paralyzed you." A smile flashes across his face and he adds, "But they might find us if you don't stop yelling at me." We go over a bump, and my head falls forward, into the blanket. I can't see the trees go by, but I hear Chico and Annette's footfalls on leaves linoleum, echoing in the woods corridor. The woods smell like piss and old magazines. "Annette, he's awake. Says he was paralyzed. What do you want to do?" He calls her Annette? Annette stops running and turns to face us. Chico stops before we run into her. She's out of breath. How long have we been going? She pushes a brown lock of hair out of her face. She wore a cloak when we first escaped, I'm sure of it, but now it's gone. Her face is young, but the wrinkles new wrinkles make her look older; and tired. Her eyes are glassy, upset that Chico made her stop? I can't tell. I don't know Annette. "What is it? Why did you stop?" I try to look around Chico but he's too big. She's walking towards me. I pull the blanket around me. "Who are you?" She smiles in a way that looks like her muscles can't hold the pose for too long. Her breath goes in and rushes out in a flicker. "I'm your daughter. We —" Nonsense. "You're lying." My hands go to my wheels. "Chico she's lying." "She's not lying Mr. F." He's looking at her, not at me. He shrugs. "Don't condescend me boy; I know my daughter. Annie's five, saw her last week. Who are you?" A bird chirps. Bell dings. "I was wrong Chico." Her voice cracks and she says, "Maybe we can try again tomorrow?" Annette Annie looks back over her shoulder into the woods, except the woods are a glossy mural on pockmarked cinderblock walls beneath fluorescent lights. Beyond the trees is a sky, the color of blue you'd only find inside a bottle of antacids. I raise my head to ask Chico to put me down, but his arms are by his side, giant hands wrapped around the handles of my wheelchair. There's a draft across my legs so I pull the blanket tighter. A woman in scrubs passes us with a clipboard in her hand, and the giants among the trees have gone away. I'm safe, Chico was right. But I'm scaring the hell out of Annie, acting like a fool. "No," I tell her. "Stay here, with me." It's hot and my forehead's damp. I wipe it and I nod. "I'm okay. Annie." That's not right anymore. "Annette. Please. Stay with me, just a little while?" "Daddy?" She wipes a tear and I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "Yes. That's right." I smile like a damned idiot to soothe her; make her stop crying. "It's me. I'm here. Where were we going?" "You —" Her words hitch in her chest. "You wanted to go to the courtyard to look at the trees. Remember?" "The trees! Of course. The oaks, right?" Chico coughs like he doesn't have all day for this. "Chico?" I keep smiling. Just get this moment behind us. "Let's go look at those trees, that all right with you?" He clears his throat. "It's all right as long as we don't have anymore fuss." I wave my hand. "No fuss. My Annie's here. We're going to see the trees." The chair rolls and Annie Annette leads the way. The painted trees are peeling along the tops where they touch the lights clouds and a bird weaves in and out of the branches, so gracefully I can't take my eyes off it. Chico's steps are hypnotic on the forest floor, and pretty soon I can't keep my eyelids open. He'll have to hurry if we're going to escape the giants.
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Jun 9, 2014 03:32
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Sitting Here posted:
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Jun 9, 2014 04:41
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Sure, Fine. Don't crit my children's book about grandaddy's dementia. I can take a hint.
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Jun 11, 2014 17:11
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Absolutely. I was just kind of hoping it was overlooked. That first batch came out so fast I set my watch to it. I'm good. Promise.
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Jun 11, 2014 17:37
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Tyrannosaurus posted:Use of cover: Great idea. Poor implementation
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Jun 11, 2014 23:47
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I am in.
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Oct 3, 2014 20:02
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Just gimme my loving virtue.
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Oct 3, 2014 20:12
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