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Aug 20, 2014 13:10
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Tennessee Blues (1383 words) Laura woke to a trackless, featureless marsh and the sharp smell of cigarette smoke. The van was making its way down an uneven road, rattling the drum set in the back, and she immediately wished she’d stayed asleep. Ratboy had one hand on the steering wheel and the other hanging out the window, tribal tattoos exposed to a grey sky. He was chewing gum loudly. When he wasn’t smoking, he was usually chewing. “What time is it?” Laura muttered. “Hey?” he turned to her with a massive grin. Snippets of a Neil Young song came from the radio between stretches static. “America at it’s best” he half-sang the state slogan, ignoring her question. “It’s not so bad, hey? Shame the pricks refuse to drive on the Queen’s side of the road.” Laura was in no mood for his jokes. They’d only been on tour for a week but it already had the markings of a disaster: small apathetic crowds, merch sales from that show in Jackson didn’t even cover costs, and Ratboy would stagger onto the stage blind-drunk each night, but not before creeping on half the girls in the room in his broad Australian drawl. There was something especially pathetic about an Australian band called “The Memphis Wailers” on tour in southern America. Back in Sydney, naive and young, Ratboy convinced her the name would sound exotic. Now, it felt hokey and wrong. Sure, he was having a great time - high-school dropout from Australia’s arsehole, laughingstock of the girls back home, had been laid twice this week - but to Laura, the men were uninterested, the girls were hostile, and the land was both. Was it her ridiculous blue hair (never should have dyed it)? She’d gained weight, felt awful in these too-tight jeans, was that it? Ratboy had a winning smile, a tan, and plenty of hours to spend in the gym, and Laura felt like she had very little going for her at all. Her America was empty and barren, and she felt alone. She felt anxious about their long drives. About being around Ratboy all the time. She felt especially anxious about the two kilograms of cocaine he had stashed in the lining of his spare guitar case. She’d think about it over and over, her thoughts descending into a maze of nightmare what-ifs. On the bad nights (and they were mostly bad) she would like awake for hours and shudder. Last week, when they flew into LAX and Ratboy gleefully told her he’d found a way to make an extra buck and help out with the tour costs, she was suspicious. That night, when he disappeared for hours, she was furious. When he returned and showed Laura the contents of his backpack, she had slapped him across the face, and was a hair’s width away from walking out of the room and booking the first flight back across the Atlantic. How could he do this? He knew about her past! A favour for a friend, he said. We drop it off in New York and make a mint, he said. She’d been clean for years and it’ll be fine, she told herself. It was almost six years ago, you’re thirty, a big girl now and you’re in a better place, Mum’s OK now, you have a job and a band, your poo poo is together and you’ll be OK. You’ve been through rehab once and that was enough. You can handle this. The tour needs the money. Don’t think about it. Laura wiped the sleep from her eyes and opened the glovebox. “We’re out of smokes” she said, her tone curving upwards although it wasn’t a question, and turned to stare out the window. The marsh rushed by, still water, jagged reeds, no houses, no people. She felt like she was trapped in a bad dream - if she’d just shut her eyes and open again, she’d be back in bed in Darlinghurst. She did so, and she wasn’t. --- They were an hour out of Knoxville when the sheriff pulled them over. He was just like Laura imagined American sheriffs to be - a scarecrow of a man, aloof in his aviator sunglasses, a slow drawl. He was looking at Ratboy’s license after being told Ratboy knew how fast he was going. It was very fast indeed. “Name, son?” he asked. “Ratboy” Ratboy replied. “What did you call me, son?” “He’s Shaun Williams Lonsdale”, Laura interjected, before Ratboy said something dumber. Jesus, it was there right on the licence. Ratboy’s usual grin was nowhere to be seen - he looked pale and small. Those bags of cocaine were in the guitar case and her heart was pounding. “This your boyfriend, ma’am?” “We’re cousins”, she replied. “We’re on tour. We play the blues”, Ratboy added, helpfully gesticulating towards the stack of drums and guitars behind him. There came more questions. Australian? Staying in Jackson? You folks have a rock and roll per-for-mance? “You folks mind if I take a look round your van?” “Uh, sure, mate!” Ratboy said a little too eagerly. Laura grabbed his hand and squeezed. Ratboy tore it out of her grip. Five minutes, a cursory glance, and a speeding ticket later, they were back on the road. They didn’t speak for an hour. --- That night, they played to a basement bar that reeked of beer and sweat. The crowd was a thin gaggle of hushed voices and unkempt beards, eyes watching their every move from under baseball caps. The show was passable. Ratboy disappeared as soon as they were off-stage and Laura was left to drag her drumset back to the van on her own. She was smoking a cigarette by the van when she met the gaunt man. His young brown eyes bore into hers and he spoke in clipped sentences with a southern accent, disarming and light. He liked their first album. Two more cigarettes, and soon they were in the back of the van pressed up against the guitars, and her tongue was in his mouth. “Listen, it’s still early. I know a great party not far from here, if you’re, uh…” he said as he pulled away. She nodded, eager, the usual anxiety turning into excitement. This might not be so bad. He pulled out a small box from his jacket pocket and spilt the white contents on a guitar case. He fished out a credit card and began to roll up a dollar bill. “No, no, no” Laura said. “Oh man, I don’t need this.” He looked up at her quizzically. “Dude…” she began to explain, but was cut off. There was a bang as something slammed into the van’s side. Raised voices (was the high-pitched one Ratboy?) came from outside, sharp, aggressive. Laura pressed her finger to her lips and the man nodded, bent over dollar bill in hand, inhaled. Another bang, ten seconds, and then the wailing of a siren. Laura felt the blood drain out of her face. They lay motionless together, heart pounding, hands entwined. Another thud and Ratboy was pushed against the van again, someone in a sheriff’s hat behind him (the one from before? She couldn’t tell). She could see Ratboy’s face up in the window from where she lay, and his nose was bleeding. Traces of red and white, alternating, glowed in the distance. She heard a voice bark, something about the van. poo poo oh poo poo. She scrambled for the spare guitar case, grabbed her keys, was ripping the sharp one into the lining. The gaunt man watched, eyes wide terrified, as she pulled out bags of white powder, started stuffing them into her jacket. Only a few small bags in here. She could grab it all. Then again, she could not - leave one or two, forget about idiot cousin for a while. Teach him a lesson. OK. Leave a couple. Need the rest. They crawled towards the front, opened the passenger side door a crack, and slithered out. She heard Ratboy’s voice pleading on the other side of the van, heard another thud and a scream, could feel the bags heavy in her jacket. She felt twenty-five again. Can’t let a night like this go to waste. She grabbed the gaunt man’s hand and they started running.
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Aug 24, 2014 14:11
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Aug 26, 2014 02:22
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The Shawl 1,391 words Grigory's family owned a sparse wooden hut, a loaf of bread, a yarn of wool, and a loom. His village, its name now long forgotten, slept in the mouth of a valley, cradled between the jagged teeth of mountains and the sunless depths of forest. That day, father had gone with the other men to Tsbilisi to barter, trade textiles for food and supplies, so Grigory sat on his lonesome, wove, and listened to Izolda sing. Izolda! She would walk all over the village, singing old songs of hope and faded glories, and she would pick flowers for her father's shop. They never spoke, but she would shyly smile and wave each time she passed, and Grigory would turn beetroot-red and wave back. As far as he was concerned, Izolda was the most beautiful thing in all of Georgia. He was weaving her a shawl. He only had one yarn of wool, midnight black (Izolda’s favourite colour was red). A poor weaver isn’t a fitting partner for the daughter of a merchant. He had to show her how much she meant in deeds, not words. So, Grigory worked, and listened to her sapphire voice fade into the distance. The day grew long and he grew hungry. Stomach grumbling, Grigory pushed his work aside, and sat on the cool grass with the only loaf of bread left. A bird landed on his shoulder, and squawked as he swallowed a bite. “Sorry, friend, not for you” he said (weaving is lonely work, and one ends up talking to whatever comes by). “Aw, come on!”, the bird squawked in a human voice. His eyes went wide, jaw dropped. He stammered, composed himself, asked the obvious questions. The bird rolled little bird eyes. “Listen, kid, I’ve been flying for hours! I’ll pass out and end up catfood. Spare a loaf of bread for poor old Bird!” “I suppose… we can share. It’s all I have.” Grigory replied, still shocked, but curious. They introduced themselves as they ate. The bird was named Bird. “You’re a good kid, Grigory. What are you weaving?” Grigory explained. “…And it’s all the wool I have. I would love to weave in a crown of flowers - she loves flowers dearly - but, alas, I have nothing here to weave from.” “Nonsense! In the woods to the south, grows the heart-flower - the most magnificent thing this bird ever laid his eyes on. The petals are the brightest red, and are as strong as the sturdiest rope. Should be prefect for weaving - why are you still messing around with wool?” Could Bird get him some? No, but Bird could show him where he could. “Timing’s good, kid. Full moon tonight. This means the Forgotten Things are having their feast, and you know what’s for dessert!” Of course he didn’t. “Sweetest dish on the menu is freshly-picked heart-flower! You really need it that badly?” He did. Forgotten Things? Don’t sound too friendly. “Well… don’t look them in eye. If we leave now, we’ll be there by sundown. Old Bird will lead the way - but when we arrive, you’re on your own!” *** They made their way south, across the valley, into the wood, Bird deflecting his questions with snide remarks. Hours passed. Night fell. Bird led him to a clearing, made his excuses, and flew off. Grigory had carried the shawl he wove with him, and now wrapped it around himself. The midnight black should shield him from prying eyes. He heard voices from the clearing, crawled towards them. The moon was full but the grass was long. This is what he saw: A creature with a skinny man’s body and a goat’s head sat talking to a creature with an obese man’s body and the head of a pig. Next to them was a gigantic squirrel with the head of a human infant. They sat behind a table made from a giant tree stump, and on it: plates full of bark! Piles of leaves! Twigs, flowers, rocks, grass - and in the centre, upon a golden bowl, a grand pile of the most magnificent red flowers he’d ever seen. The baby-headed squirrel picked up a birch-tree branch, bit into it, began to chew. Grigory crept closer. His foot struck a twig, made an audible snap. The creatures rose from the table. “Unwelcome guest!” the squirrel-creature squeaked. “Show yourself!” Grigory stood up, heart pounding. Goat eyes, pig eyes, baby eyes, fixed upon him. Too terrified to meet their gaze, he glared at the bowl of flowers. “Look!”, Pig-head said. “He wants our dessert!” “Brave, for a human”, baby-head said. “I don’t value bravery. I value manners! Do you have manners, human?” Trembling, Grigory unwrapped his shawl. “I though…” - he stammered - “that a fine table such as as yours could use a fine tablecloth” he said, and handed it over. Pig-head turned it around in his hands. Ah! Izolda will never wear this shawl now! “Wonderful work” Pig-head said. “I don’t value manners”, Goat-head interjected. “I value strength! Let us wrestle, and if you pin me, I will be satisfied.” Grigory had wrestled with the other boys of the village, and could hold his own, but he was small in stature and light. Goat-head - a full foot taller - came at him fast, dove for a leg. No time to think! Grigory sprawled, kicking legs back, and Goat-head recovered and circled. They came together, clinched, and Grigory felt the goat-thing’s strength pushing him down. From the skies, a beat of wings! Bird circled overhead, flew down - and a white clump of bird-dropping tumbled down, right into Goat-head’s eye. The creature threw up both hands to wipe the foul stuff off, and Grigory dove low, grasped Goat-head’s legs behind the knees, drove a shoulder into his frame. They went down, Grigory circling on top, turning the corner, coming down hard to pin the flailing creature chest-to-chest. Pig-head clapped. Goat-head stood up, visibly dejected. “Basely done,” he said, “but I am satisfied.” “Strength? Manners? Pfft.”, Baby-head said. “I value what we Forgotten Things lack the most - love - and I feel you have it in your heart.” Pig-head snorted. Goat-head rolled his eyes. “We will share our heart-flower” baby-head continued. “But be warned. This is no ordinary flower. It is the most beautiful in the land, but also the most delicate. A single tear, falling upon the flowers, will turn them into dust. If indeed they are for love, then you may take them.” Goat-head sighed. Pig-head was by the table, spreading their new tablecloth. The baby-headed squirrel handed Grigory a bouquet, and Grigory muttered a thank you, turned, and started running. *** When Grigory arrived, the sun was rising, and father was on the doorstep. He must’ve returned early! Grigory froze, flowers still in hand, upon seeing the fury on father’s face. “…Gone all night! And the last of the bread, and the last of the wool? Good-for-nothing…” He tore the flowers from his hand and they fell on the ground. Grigory hung his head, steeled it for a blow. A single tear rolled down his cheek. It struck the flowers… and they were dust. *** That evening he sat outside, weaving, again, with new wool his father had purchased. He didn’t see or hear Izolda all day, his heart was gloom, and his cheek burned. He didn’t hear her soft footsteps behind him. “Grigori?” Izolda asked as she approached. She looked nervous. He felt more scared now than he did back in the woods. “I was out for a walk to the south today, and I was singing the saddest songs I knew because I didn’t get to see you all day. But I was watching this funny bird frolic, and then I found this flower! And, somehow, it reminded me... of you. I’m sorry, is this too forward? I know we have never spoken, I’ve never brought you flowers, but as I was playing with the bird… this feeling just came to my heart.” She held out a single heart-flower to Grigory, batted dark eyes behind midnight-black hair, smiled shyly. The flower was beautiful, but to Grigory, Izolda was the most beautiful thing in all of Georgia.
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Aug 31, 2014 11:38
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In with 3 and 7
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Sep 17, 2014 00:57
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Please reinterpret my '3 and 7' as 'anything and anything else'
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Sep 17, 2014 05:25
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Boombye Boomba 965 words prompt - JUAN THE FOOL All the boys had their shirts off in the scorching sun except for Juan, pools of sweat blooming under his armpits. He was eight beers in, but still keenly aware of his size, sitting mute in the backyard, peeling the label off a bottle of pale ale and sneaking glances at Cassandra. The air was filled with the crackling of the radio and the chatter of his classmates. No-one talked to him. No-one even looked at him, except for the occasional glance back from Cassandra that made him both glad to be noticed by her and saddened by the look of pity in her eyes. The beer was almost all gone. Juan had paid for all of it himself. As the only eighteen year old in the group, he hoped to get some respect now that he was an adult, thought that repeating a year of high-school might not turn out so bad. He was a fool. “Let’s play some cricket then, boys” Sam said, adjusting his hat - Juan’s hat, really. Juan had turned up to the barbeque early, wearing a new hat his mother bought him, a black trucker cap emblazoned with the Holden logo. Holdens were cool - thanks mum! When he arrived at the doorstep, slabs of beer in hand, Sam simply lifted the hat from Juan’s head and set it down on his own. “Aw for me, mate? Cheers!” he said and grinned. Sam was the leader. You couldn’t say no to the leader. Last week was worse. Sam had asked to borrow his GameBoy at lunchtime. When Juan asked for it the next day, Sam told him it was going to be a gift and he was keeping it. Never again would someone push him around like that, Juan told himself. Now the hat was gone, too, and he didn’t know what to do. The boys were up now, assembling the wickets. The girls rolled their eyes and remained at the table. Maybe if Juan stuck around, Cassandra would talk to him. “Hey Phillipino, you comin’ or what?” Sam called, and he was up. They picked teams. Juan knew he’d be the last pick, expected it, but it still stung when it happened. He stood silent in the heat as the game commenced. Cricket was better than soccer because you didn’t have to run very much and no-one could push you. Cricket was worse than soccer because when you were up to bat, you were the centre of attention and everybody could laugh at you. He kept looking at Cassandra but she was engrossed in a conversation with the other girls, not returning his glances anymore. Maybe they’d get a chance to talk after the game. Cassandra’s parents were Malaysian, and although he was from Manila, he immediately felt an affinity to her. They had music class together and he liked the way she played clarinet. She was only being nice to him because she felt sorry for him, though. Juan wasn’t smart, but he wasn’t that dumb. “Juan, you’re up!” somebody called. He lumbered up to the wickets, took up the bat. Sam was bowling. The ball flew fast, bouncing once and curving up towards his head. He dodged it, not even taking a swing. Somebody laughed. The ball sailed back to Sam, and Sam bowled again. This time it didn’t even bounce, but flew straight at his face. He ducked, heard it whizz right past his ear. “Hey Juan, don’t be such a pussy.” Sam barked, retrieving the ball. He jogged towards Juan, violently jerked his hand upwards and back in a throwing motion. Juan instinctively flinched. The ball remained in Sam’s hand, and the boys erupted in laughter. Juan fixed Sam with glazed eyes, hurt and anger welling up inside him, hoping he’d had enough. Sam hadn’t, and threw the ball hard, striking him in the chest. He felt his heart pounding. The sun made his head spin. He raised the bat, held it in front of him like a sword, and stepped towards Sam. Sam face went dark. Everybody was watching them now, silent. Some nonsensical pop song blared over the radio. “Boombye booma”, the chorus sang. “Boombyebye boomba.” Juan felt like he was watching himself TV, like nothing was real. He took a step forward towards Sam, another, raised the bat and swung fast at his head. There was a sickening crunch, and Sam dropped to the grass. “Boombye boomba”, the song insisted. One of the boys yelled something, and broke into a jog towards Juan. On the ground, Sam moaned. Nobody else moved. The boy drew back his fist as he neared, and Juan thrust the bat hard into his gut. He bent over with a cry of pain, and Juan brought the bat down on his head. The boy fell. Unlike Sam, he lay still and didn’t make a sound. Everybody else stared, transfixed. Juan looked down at the bat. He was dimly aware of something being very wrong. The hat had flown off Sam’s head when he had struck it, and he bent down to retrieve it, adjusted the strap, put it on. He felt beer on the edge of his throat, swallowed. Juan marched over to the table where Cassandra sat, bat still clenched tight. They looked at each other, their faces cold. Her gaze was different now - instead of pity her eyes held fright, revulsion, disgust. Self-loathing enveloped him like the arms of an old friend. “I wanted my hat back” he said to her, although he wasn’t sure why. She nodded. “I want my GameBoy back” he said again. She nodded, quicker. The radio was still playing the same song. “Boombye boomba”, it washed over the backyard. Juan dropped the bat. “Boombye boomba”, he said.
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Sep 21, 2014 14:29
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Oct 15, 2014 00:00
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http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=2674&title=Julie%2C+Mon+Ch%E9ri
Morning Bell fucked around with this message at 05:56 on Nov 18, 2014 |
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Oct 19, 2014 13:25
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Thank you for the crits, everybody!
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Nov 2, 2014 22:31
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Grizzled Patriarch posted:It warms the cockles to see all these crits flying around, so I'll toss my hat into the ring, too. First three people to claim 'em get a line-by-line. Doesn't matter what week, as long as it's in the archives I'm willing to take a look at it. I'd love a line-by-line on my story from Thunderdome Week CXV, please. I'd also like to offer somebody a line-by-line crit. Who is interested?
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Nov 12, 2014 23:25
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Anathema Device posted:http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3598931&userid=158999#post437452767 Spring, Earth 835 Words “Get a hobby,” the lawyer said. “Volunteer or something.” nice opening line I stared at her and saw only the walls and floor and ceiling, the tightly closed window. I paced. pacing seems rude when talking with a lawyer, wouldnt you be sitting Outside a chill rain washed away the last of the snowbanks. i like this opening paragraph The thought was terrifying. The thought was thrilling.that's a bit of an overreaction? who is this narrator My soon-to-be ex’s subtle siege had kept me in the shelter for three weeks. He’d broken into my facebook and email, put pressure on my friends to tell him where I went. Nothing was safe.ah, cool. thats serious business so this is a strong start “The community garden is right next door.” ... The smell of bergamot and damp earth suffused the garden office. “Jessica.” The wordname? caught in my throat as his hand closed around mine. Gentle. Firm. “ “Sure.” Crow’s feet bloomed around his eyes when he smiled. I thought of him as young, but he was probably my age. Younger than my husband or our friends. “You want anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?” “Is that Earl Grey I smell?” I asked. He made us tea in silence, fragrant and hot and strong. My husband hated the smell of bergamot. When I raised the cup to my lips the steam smelled of freedom and the scalding tea left a warmth inside that felt like happiness. that last sentence is way too much. the rest of this is good. “What do you know about gardening?” he asked. “Nothing much,” I admitted. We lingered over the tea while he told me what would need doing. “You’d best come back tomorrow,” he said when the cups had gone empty twice. “You won’t want to get your pretty things dirty.”that sounds really condescending. also - if they drank two cups of tea, i want to know what they talked about (or didn't) way more than 'he told me what would need doing' I blushed like fire. ... Dampness? soaked my knees as I knelt in the empty bed, transplanting basil seedlings. The trowel felt awkward and heavy in my hand. I pressed it into the dirt but couldn’t break through the heavy mud. “Like this,” Sean said, stabbing sharply downward with the shovel. The violent movement sent my heart skipping, made me pull back defensivelya bit passive, maybe "i pulled back defensively", but he just repeated the motion, digging out a hole with a few deft flicks. I pulled the spade back and plunged it into the dirt. The blade crunched through the soil to the handle. Vicious pleasure surged through me, and I stabbed downward again and again, loosening the dirt and scooping it aside. My breath was fast and ragged through parted, chapped lips. I shrugged out of my jacket, set it aside. The weak spring sun touched my bare arms. Sweat coated my skin; the cool breeze turned it instantly chill, and the hairs on the backs of my arms stood up.nice I glanced up to find Sean smiling at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. cool callback about the crow's feet, makes his appearance memorable … “Are you ready to sign the papers?” My lawyer asked me, as she had every couple days since I’d called her. I picked up the pen, feeling that same warming thrill, that same violent impulse I had so reveled in earlier. I signed. i like this but maybe "I signed the papers" or "i signed them"? i signed seems like a fragment ... “Back again?” Sean asked with a smile. “ “Can we do both?”cute We took our time over the tea. He broke a muffin in half and pushed one towards me he broke a muffin in two halves and pushed one towards me. I hesitated to take half his lunch, but he insisted. “Go on. I baked it myself with berries I grew here.”i don't like this dialogue. "baked it myself with the berries I grew here" reads like a writer trying to shoehorn information into a character, not like a character saying something. its clumsy. what do they even talk about? why do they enjoy their tea time together? The plump blueberries looked amazing. I broke it into dainty bites with my fingers. broke the plump blueberries? If I caught his eyes lingering when I licked my fingers clean, I didn’t mind. It was his turn to blush.very cute … “You’ll still have to appear in court,” the lawyer warned me. “You’ll have to see him again.” i like the jumping back to lawyer stuff, to remind us what's going on … My basil plants were growing new leaves. I smiled at them, gently ran a finger along the edge of one sun-warmed leaf before moving on with my weeding. nice but feels out of place/pointless ... I gritted my teeth and put on my nicest white pantsuit. White for brides, white for innocence. It made me look pale, fragile. I cleaned the dirt out from under my nails and painted them bright red. I walked into the courtroom with my head held high, and I looked the bastard in the eye while the lawyers showed the pictures of my bruises. I looked him in the eye and thought of roots growing underground and leaves reaching for the sun and did not flinch or cry or look away.cool. this is a big deal though so maybe a bit more here? it feels too short and easy, like this is a big deal but it just works out fine really quickly. i get that Jessica's grown and become strong and everything but its a bit of a letdown … Sean found me kneeling in the back of the lot, dirt under my red fingernails and covering my white blouse. My jacket was discarded on the ground, and my pants were ruined. Mascara streaked my cheeks, which were sore from the force of my smile. wait, is her smile forced? anyway this is a nice image, it's cool that she doesn't give a gently caress and just ruins her nicest pants “So it went well then?” he asked, dropping to his knees beside me. His shoulder brushed mine and heat like sunlight raced over my skin. I leaned against him. whaat, is that it? you couldn't even give us a kiss? * * * * * The ending felt really abrupt, like you'd run out of word count and wrapped it up quick. I get it that they'll get together but at least a kiss would have been nice, or something more. Feels a bit limp, the way it is. I also think the dialogue could use work. Except for lawyer at the start, it felt a bit off, though I struggle to pin down why. Maybe it was bland, didn't say anything interesting? I'm not sure. The earth imagery was quite sexual in places. Good use of the prompt. I thought this was a neat story, but no standout. I fear it might be forgettable - the start was strong, with the protagonist in a harsh place, but everything went so smoothly from there for Jessica. This doesn't make for a thrilling tale. After setting up some good hard stuff at the start, the second half of the story felt too easy. Sean also wasn't much of a character at all, which hurt the piece - we have a romance but we know nothing about him other than he gardens and has wrinkly eyes (although his physical descriptions I did like). Still, I think this is a legit decent story and I enjoyed it. I like the way you write in general - your style is very nice. It's evocative, interesting, and there was good imagery.
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Nov 13, 2014 01:55
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Grizzled Patriarch posted:a good crit Belated, but thank you for the crit! Would you mind terribly editing the story portion out of your crit post ((http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3598931&pagenumber=174&perpage=40#post437652397), please? I'm doing a bunch of revision and then sending it to a couple of places, and the story not being accessible on the web is usually in submission guidelines.
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Nov 19, 2014 04:06
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