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Social Studies 3rd Period
Oct 31, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER



"A woman returns her friend's dog after three years and demands payment."

K9: Genuine Canine
WC: 1042

It was a pile of junk. Bolts, nuts, pieces of twisted metal mixed in with countless electronic components filled up nearly half his tiny bedroom, barely leaving any room for the bed or the workbench beside it. Inspection rules were lax in training, thankfully.

Yet, in his precious mountain of possibility, Andy saw promise. At first, the picture in his mind was vague, unfocused. The urge to simply create called to him, and Andy could not resist answering. Hands scarred from hours of tinkering on jumpdrive motors moved of their own accord, giving shape to the chaos.

There was a little dog at the junkyard Andy visited. The owner of the yard paid the youth little mind, but his dog was ever Andy’s loyal companion on most of his searches. He couldn’t remember its name, but the friendly trust it displayed left a deeper impact than he realized. Two metal legs became four, and instead of a humanoid chassis, something smaller, more canine shaped began to come together.

The first five versions were failures, left as a stark reminder that the process of creation was a flawed, imperfect thing. But the sixth...

---

“Where is my goddamn dog?”

Andy barreled through the starport, bag bouncing at his side. Greeter droids scrambled, whirring as they lurched out of the way. The rest of his ship - what was left of it - were barely cooling down the engines when Andy took off. He leered at the Security and Information Droid behind the desk, and only reflected a moment later that intimidation was lost on a machine.

“Sir, your companion is presently waiting in a stationary vehicle outside, and requested that you join her as soon as possible,” the SAID said.

Giving it one final glare and cursing his sister beneath his breath, Andy hurried to meet her outside. He didn’t have to look far - her old, beat up car barely managed to wobble a few inches above the ground. The urge to fix it itched at him powerfully, but he quickly smothered it and slipped inside the unlocked car.

“Little Andrew! Gosh, I feel like it’s been forever! How have you been? Mom has been super worried about you and always asks when you’re going to write and thinks you’re totally going to get yourself killed and--”

“Where is Henry, Daphne?” Andy jumped in the moment she took a breath. The wide, cheerful smile died a slow, steady death, replaced by a frown resembling the one on Andy’s face. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel for several moments, breaking the silence between them. Daphne reached forward and put the vehicle into vertical drive.

Swearing, Andy threw open the door, but it was already too late - the ground wobbled before stabilizing 40, 50 feet in the air. Rather than falling from such a height, he slammed the door shut.

---

Over the next thirty minutes, Daphne tried to urge her brother to conversation, but each attempt fell on deaf ears. Almost as suddenly as the car started, it came to a stop, finally drawing a pained noise from Andy.

“What the hell—”

“If all you can think of is that - that - that thing,” she spat the word as she left the car, thankfully back just above the ground once more. “Then just take it.”

By the time Andy caught up with his sister, the trunk was already thrown open. He couldn’t see around her, at first, but the sight of his dog, once a beast of metal machinery, filled him with dread.

“Daphne - Daphne. What did you do?

“I made it better, Andy! I fixed it! Don’t - don’t you like it?”

Andy stared in horror as Henry padded around before him, the familiar little clanks of the old bits in his legs muffled by the flesh-like padding. Gone were the tinny, robotic panting noises, replaced with something sounding so much more real. It was almost as if someone had slipped a lifelike dog suit around the dog bot.

And standing there, watching Andy’s reaction with a hopeful look in her eyes, was his older sister. The mechanic opened and shut his mouth several times, uttering several worthless, pitiful syllables. Henry, before his … remodel, had been quite the bucket of bolts. Every exterior part had been replaced at least twice, and Daphne’s changes had every part functioning perfectly, Andy could tell - even if the movements all seemed so monstrous.

A peace offering. Yet, fixing everything had almost taken away Henry’s very soul. Someone had tampered with his friend and companion. Balling his fists at his side, and taking a deep breath, Andy had to say something. Something to let her down lightly. Anything.

“Did you have to kill another dog for this, Daph? Christ. You just can’t let things sit, huh?” Lowering down to his knees, Andy pet his dog, nearly flinching away at the first brush of his skin against Henry’s… flesh. Not real, thank goodness. But the tears streaming from Daphne’s face were plenty authentic.

“All you’ve ever cared about,” she whispered, staring down at him, “is those little machines.”

“Daph, I didn’t mean—”

“Fine. You wanna be that way, Andy? Take your dog. Take your dog on - on a walk. Yeah. Yeah! A long walk home.”

“Daph - hey, wait, I’m sorry—”

“And you know what, rear end in a top hat? Fixing your dog cost a whooooole lot of money! I’ll be sending you a bill in the mail!” she yelled, sticking her head out the window to glare at him one final time before taking off, leaving man and robot-dog in the dust.

---

Sitting on the side of the virtually unused road, Andy buried his head in his hands. With a jaunty bark, the strange dog creation plodded forward and nudged its way into its owner’s lap.

From his bag, Andy took a pen and tiny sheet of paper and glanced at his checklist. Get dog back check meet up with sister check make peace with sister - that one, he scribbled out, before writing it once more at the bottom of his list. After a moment of thought, he added, right beneath it fix dog and find lawyer??? and circled the last.

“It’s not your fault, boy. Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up, good as … old, I guess."

Adbot
ADBOT LOVES YOU

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

These dentures won't stop me from tearing out jugulars in Thunderdome.




A Little Bird the Ants Have Gotten To
(765 words)
"A former friend sues for damages resulting from the online sale of a fake designer watch."

*snip* See Archive

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at Nov 20, 2015 around 01:29

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?...Lose+Your+Voice

flerp fucked around with this message at Nov 17, 2015 around 01:40

Propaganda Machine
Jan 2, 2005

Truthiness!

Caveat Emptor
1,071 words

"An older man says the full grown Pekinese he purchased at a dog show is wild when it's home."

”95 southbound continues to be slow with two lanes of traffic blocked after the three-car collision earlier on this afternoon…”

Marty snorted to himself as he changed the station. He wondered why he even bothered to listen to traffic reports when he knew full that he couldn’t change his route home, anyway.

It had been a frustrating day at the golf course. It hadn’t been a particularly windy day, excepting, of course when it was his turn to tee off. He wanted to go home after he’d hit his third sand trap, but it would have been rude to deny his former business partner the joy of snickering as he struggled to salvage each hole into a double-bogie.

It would not have taken Marty much introspection to recognize the true cause of his poor performance, but sitting in a three-lane parking lot wasn’t exactly a bastion of zen; it was yet another annoyance assaulting Marty’s annoying life. The accident wasn’t his fault, nor was the windy weather, and nor was the classical music station’s abysmal selection in afternoon programming.

The fluffy ball of white terror waiting at home wasn’t his fault either.

As traffic crawled its way forward, Marty’s heart sank as he realized that he’d forgotten to crate Bubbles before he left for the day.

Show dogs aren’t just housebroken; they represent the pinnacle of training and behavior. Marty could have chosen to raise his own puppy, but he much preferred to spend his retirement time wining, dining, and trying not to embarrass himself at the links.

$2000 should afford you a puppy with a future, perhaps for showing, perhaps for breeding, and perhaps either both. $2000 should afford you a full-grown dog whose show days are over, who deserves its own retirement of steadfast companionship.

$2000 is too much to ask for a beast that tears through the house, gnaws on table legs and loose paper, and takes apparent pleasure in pissing on the daybed and defecating on the white carpet.

The kitchen tile was two loving feet away, goddammit.

As Marty finally got his sedan up to a cruising speed of 15 miles per hour, he tried not to let his mind wander back to whatever horrors he would find at home. More of the same would be bad enough, but the tight feeling in his belly knew that the possibilities were endless.

Marty pulled into his garage, shifted his car into park, and sat in silence for a minute before he turned off the engine. Until he opened the door into his house, the possibility existed that its current state was only as bad as it had been when he'd left. His movements were heavy and deliberate as he retrieved his golf clubs from the trunk, approached the door, and turned the handle.

No yipping. No frantic energy.

He walked in through his laundry room; he saw no fresh surprises as he set his clubs down against the wall.

He continued on into the kitchen. No obvious damage.

Nothing was in disarray in the living room. There were no new spots or odors.

Oh no…

Marty pursed his lips.

She must be in my bedroom.

The bedroom door was closed; This couldn't be good. Bubbles must have been trapped in there all day.

poo poo.

He entered, afraid of what he would find where, but his bed was still made and the carpet was still clean. The master bathroom was slightly cluttered, but not abnormally so.

Marty scratched his chin, puzzled. Had Bubbles suddenly decided to calm down and behave herself?

Where was Bubbles, anyway?

“Bubbles? Are you in here?” Marty walked through the house, whistling and calling Bubbles by name, over and over.

She wasn’t under the bed, nor under the living room sofa, and as Marty found himself opening cabinet doors and rooting through drawers he didn’t even slow down to question his sanity. He’d been completely out of his mind for the last week anyway.

Marty collapsed onto his couch, exasperated as he called Bubbles’s former owner.

”The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave your message after the tone.”

Perfect.


“Louise, it’s Marty. Bubbles has been a complete disaster. You assured me that she was fully trained and well-behaved. She doesn’t take to a leash, she does her business all over the house, and she’s running wild and chewing everything up and now I can’t even find her.” I need to to come over to retrieve her, and I’ll be expecting a full refund.”

—-

When Louise finally checked her phone and saw 5 unplayed messages, she knew what was coming. She walked into her kitchen and stooped down to let her dogs out of their kennels. Their ears perked up, and they emerged, eager for the sliding glass door to open onto Louise’s vast, fragrant backyard.

Heidi, her German Shepherd, was always first to approach the door and sit down, containing her excitement as she stared forward. Jessica, her Border Collie, sniffed at her ankles, trying to discern where she’d been all day. Finally, her Pekingese trotted out behind Heidi, looking back and forth.

“Go-od girls!” Louise approached the dog one by one, offering each a single treat out of the palm of her hand before she unlocked the back door and slid it open. Heidi dashed out into the yard while Jessica calmly followed.

“What’s the matter, Bubbles? You don’t have to go?”

Bubbles sat and looked up at Louise, who bent over to scratch her behind the ears.

Owning two dogs with the same name was no crime. Marty had papers for a Pekingese named Bubbles, and a Pekingese named Bubbles was exactly what he had received.

—-

”Marty! There you are!”

“Hmph. Took you long enough. So this is Bubbles?”

“Yes, here she is. Say hi, Bubbles!”

Bubbles yipped.

“Her papers and vaccination history are all in here. Do you have any questions? Do you want to get to know her a little before it’s settled?”

“I don’t think so, I’ve owned several Pekingese dogs before, and she performed well enough in her division, so she’s going to be exactly what I’m looking for.” He placed the $2000 check on the table, taking the envelope in one hand and the hard plastic crate in the other.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

"A woman sues her son for living expenses after he undergoes a kidney transplant"

Munchausen Siphon by Proxy
1350 words (gambit)

Nancy siphoned away Carl’s pain like a dialysis machine. When some vapid little blonde broke his heart, it was Nancy who laid curled up in bed for weeks like apocalypse itself was raining down on her. But it was worth it for her boy, her everything. She smiled through his tears as Carl went out to the bar with his friends, light and free and untouched by heartbreak. It was every mother’s fantasy, to be able to intercede on her child’s behalf. To capture all pain and suffering like a dreamcatcher, to let him live on in an endless summer of innocence.

Carl never broached the subject, though certainly he could see how Nancy suffered while he did not. Relationships broke around him. Family passed away. Jobs were lost. Carl brought his mother ginger beer and organic, unsweetened oatmeal for her stomach, which was always sore from the acid of his anxieties. He smiled at her; a tight, worried smile. Nancy spent most of the time cocooned, naked, in her comforter, which smelled of sweat and oily-sweet musk of unwashed hair.

Carl began getting home later and later from The Bar. The Bar, capital ‘T’, capital ‘B’, had become a euphemism for Carl doing whatever he wanted. Sometimes he came home with his eyes bulging out of his head like golf balls, his pupils wide and hungry as two bottomless sinkholes. Sometimes he didn’t come home at all, and Nancy would writhe in her worry until he turned up stinking of sweat and low women.

It was two thirty in the morning, and Carl was in the bathroom making terrible retching sounds, like he was vomiting up bits of his own stomach. That was one thing Nancy couldn’t bear for him. Around three, the vomiting sounds stopped, but the bathroom door remained closed. Nancy got up from the couch, blanket wrapped around her like a cumbersome robe, and tiptoed to the bathroom door. Let him be alive, let him be alive, she pleaded silently. She could hear a soft whimpering from inside. Her baby boy, in pain. She flung open the door, and there was Carl, arms wrapped around the toilet like it was a girl’s waist, his cheek on the rim of the bowl, his face red and covered in snot and tears.

“I don’t feel good, Mom,” he said. A man’s voice with a boy’s tone.

Nancy’s heart tore and she fell to her knees and took her boy in her arms, and the blanket fell away, revealing scrawny breasts that hung like empty bean pods from her bony chest, but she didn’t care, because this was her baby, the only thing in life that hadn’t yet abandoned her. Her looks, her ambition, her husband, her eldest son--these things all disappeared. But Carl was forever.

The next morning, Carl was a little better, but not much. He laid in Nancy’s usual indent on the couch, soaking up Nancy’s usual aura of white-blue light from the TV, wrapped in Nancy’s blankets. Nancy thrashed in her seldom-used bed, consumed by his bodily anxiety: What if this pain is forever? What if I’m never okay? And bargaining: If I’m okay, I’ll never drink or smoke or take pills again. I’ll exercise and eat my veggies and meditate and take multivitamins.

Two weeks passed in a humid smog of sick and sweat and uncooperative bowels. Carl spoke of heart palpitations and a bone-deep ache that never quite went away, but he was docile and accepting of it. Nancy bore all his worry, that sense of terrible permanence that accompanies bodily decay, but she couldn’t siphon away the basic fact of illness.

One afternoon, Nancy said, “I think we need to take you to the hospital.”

And Carl said, “Okay, Mom,” like she’d just informed him they were having spaghetti for dinner.

Blood was taken, tests were run. Nancy bundled Carl to and from the hospital, and on the car rides Carl asked when he’d be able to go out with his friends again. Then, one day, he didn’t come home with her. Frowning nurses admitted Carl as a patient, gave him a flimsy gown with no back and a room with a bed and a curtain.

Finally, the doctor called Nancy and said the hateful words: “Your son has hepatorenal syndrome in conjunction with chronic liver disease.” He took a deep breath. “There’s an option--simultaneous liver-kidney transplant. And a serious, permanent change in lifestyle.”

Nancy said she needed to think, hung up the phone, and went to the couch. She wrapped herself up in the comforter, which smelled of Carl’s sweat, and let out a long noise that oscillated between a moan and a scream. The doctor had told her a few other things--the waiting list for this kind of transplant was long, and the prognosis without it was terrible. Donations from family members were quicker and less likely to create complications, though Nancy herself was not likely to be a viable candidate.

“No,” Nancy growled to the empty living room. “We’re not calling them. They’re leavers, not livers. Won’t have their terrible guts in Carl’s body.” She was thinking of her eldest son, Jason, and her ex-husband, who’d both moved back to New York after the divorce. Neither had so much as called in decades, though she sometimes saw their names crop up in the Wall Street Journal. They’d hated her genuineness and her ability to shamelessly need. Carl had possessed that same basic neediness as an infant, looking up at her with unabashed blue honesty in his eyes, his lips puckered and hungry.

No. She wouldn’t call them. She couldn’t stand the thought of their parts inside Carl, making him well, filtering out harmful waste and doing what she could never do.

Carl had other ideas.

“Mom,” he said brightly when she came to visit him at the hospital. “I found Dad and Jason on Facebook.”

Nancy hurried to the bed and clutched Carl’s thin, clammy wrist. “Now, you know we’ve got nothing to say to them, and they’ve got nothing to say to us.”

“Jason wants to come take the test,” Carl said. “To, you know, see if he can donate.”

Nancy sank down into the chair beside the bed. She reached inward for the comfort of Carl’s fear, the worry and pain she’d siphoned off of him for so many years, but it wasn’t there. Carl was no longer afraid. His big, rich brother was coming, and he was going to give Carl some of his strong, healthy body and be inside Carl and help Carl and protect Carl, and perhaps Carl wouldn’t need his mother so much anymore.

Jason came; to hear Carl tell hit, his brother had descended on the hospital like an angel in a grey Armani suit jacket, had dazzled the nurses with his physique and the doctors with the health of his innards. The operations went well; Carl seemed to take on a new vigour and hunger for recovery, for a second chance at life. Jason went. Their father sent a card.

“If I ever get better,” Carl told his mother as she sat beside his bed, clutching his hand, running her thumb nervously over the knobs of his knuckles, “I want to go see New York.”

“Yes, well,” Nancy said. “You may never get better. This could be it, forever.” She waited for some reassuring rush of worry or fear from Carl, but he just looked up and smiled a beatific, drowsy smile.

“Jason doesn’t think so. He thinks I’m gonna bounce back twice as good. And you know what, mom? I am.”

When she returned home, alone, Nancy was overcome by grief that wasn't Carl's for the first time since the divorce. She lay on the couch, wrapped in a blanket made stiff by the salt of sweat, begging god and the universe to hold her son on the cusp of death, where she could take care of him ever after.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

aka sticklegs



Grimey Drawer

Filling Up
1347 words

http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?...itle=Filling+Up

crabrock fucked around with this message at Dec 31, 2015 around 22:57

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly


Submissions are closed!

Schneider Heim
Oct 17, 2012


Lazy Beggar posted:

Thanks for the crit. Want me to crit something? If not, I'll crit someone else''s story from any TD week. In fact, I'll just do that anyway.

I'm fine for now! I might call in a favor in the future, though.

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly


Results for Thunderdome CLXXI

I should preface this by saying that your other two judges for this week, Obliterati and Enthawhat'shisname, are senseless morons with bad eyes for good prose. It's been my supreme displeasure to work alongside those double dummies.

That said, I was pretty happy with this week. For a prompt that I threw together in five minutes, the stories that were submitted were diverse and mostly well written. I'm writing, of course, about those stories that can actually be called stories because poo poo happens and a protagonist makes a decision and then some more poo poo probably happens. Some of you didn't do this. This is a bad thing to forget to do.


Lets focus on the good first.

Honorable Mentions go to Broenheim, Sitting Here, and, surprisingly, Grizzled Patriarch, who didn't really write a story (and I will maintain this despite the protests of other judges). Broenheim and GP's stories were the favorites of the other two judges, and all three of us enjoyed SH's attempt.

That said, the winner is Crabrock, who wrote a charming and meaningful story that featured decisions, characterization, structure, and seriously good sentences. For a Crabrock story it is pretty Crabrockish, and that's okay with me. When I post the crits, I will show everyone why his story is the only correct choice for the week.


Your judges were mostly able to agree on the negative.

The first dishonorable mention goes to Thranguy. The judges did not like the inexplicable time jumps in your story, and your protagonist's motivation to ruin a wedding was unclear to each of us. The second DM goes to Propaganda Machine, who wrote a story about a man who leaves an angry voicemail and not much else.

The loser this week is Lazy Beggar. Beggar, the judges were baffled by your zombie seals and insulted by your main character, who, at one point, lays on the ground and allows himself to be trampled. That's about the apex of his decision making. I wish I were at the bottom of an angry bootheel right about now, or a clubbing, or consumed in flame. Take your pick.


I will say that there was more to be enjoyed and detested in this week, but these were the mentions that the judges could agree on. Your other two judges will tell me how I am wrong in their crits, and I will expose their thoughtless attempts for rationale in mine. I will never work with you two again. If you want to go, then let's go. Brawl me.


Next week I will be happy to precrit any story receiving a negative mention during this week. I want to see some turnarounds, and for whatever good it's worth I will help where I can.

a new study bible! fucked around with this message at Nov 16, 2015 around 23:42

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

aka sticklegs



Grimey Drawer

TD CLXXII: Thunderdome Startup



Bust out your whiteboards and exercise ball chairs, because this week you're forming a startup! That's right, TD is buying into the bubble, and everybody here is writing about an App that doesn't actually exist. Maybe it's a great app you wish DID exist, or maybe it's a terrible app that brings ruin and destruction to everybody that uses it (so basically google+). I don't really care, because like all plot devices, it's only a conduit to an interesting story about CHARACTERS. I say that every time, and some of yous just refuse to listen.

You can write about people using an app or designing one or whatever, just a fictitious piece of software must be a part of the story.

But wait, there's more! Startups aren't usually a solo venture, so this week you may pair up with one (1) other person and form a partnership. You don't get any extra words or anything, and if your startup fails, you both go down in flames. Partnerships are hard work sometimes!

Don't tell me what your app is when you sign up; I'd rather read about it and be shown how it affects your character's lives. DO tell me if you're working with somebody else. Once you sign up solo, YOU CANNOT WORK WITH SOMEBODY ELSE. If you sign up as a partnership, you may only submit one story. No breakups. So know wtf you're doing before mashing that reply button. NO EXCEPTIONS

Venture Capitalists: crabrock, RedTonic, Thranguy

Signups close: Friday, Nov 20, 11:59 pm EST
Submissions close: Sunday, Nov 22, 11:50 PM EST
Wordcount: 1212

Startups:
01. jon joe
02. newtestleper
03. Sitting Here & SurreptitiousMuffin
04. Broenheim & Fuschia Tude
05. Lazy Beggar
07. ZeBourgeoisie
08. Jitzu_the_Monk
09. Claven666
10. Noah
11. Ironic Twist & Tyrannosaurus
12. Ventadour
13. Grizzled Patriarch
14. Schneider Heim
15. Kaishai
16. After The War
17. Fumblemouse

crabrock fucked around with this message at Nov 21, 2015 around 04:15

Jon Joe
Oct 19, 2011

HELP! I'VE FAILED AND I CAN'T SUBMIT


Grimey Drawer

I am a business man with a business plan and I'm not going to let the rest of you steal my fantastic ideas! In alone!

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


I offer my terrible terrible just dreadful writing ability to anyone who has lost before and never won.

Pm me or find me in irc

e: nvm

flerp fucked around with this message at Nov 17, 2015 around 02:36

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly


Docbeard, you are not the recipient of a negative mention for the week, but as a part of the negotiating process I agreed to call you out for your "disappointing" story. I was not personally offended by this story, but one of your judges was, and as such you narrowly escaped an unfortunate fate.

Entenzahn
Nov 15, 2012

What will you say when
your child asks:
why didn't you invest in
Thunderdome?


WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:

*wrong opinions*

I will never work with you two again. If you want to go, then let's go. Brawl me.

sure i think td deserves at least one proper judgement post to result from this week

newtestleper
Oct 30, 2003


in

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


In a joint venture with our fallen queen, Sittinghere.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

In a joint venture with our fallen queen, Sittinghere.

RIP muffin

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

In reality though, me and smuffin are gonna roll in like Google and cannibalize you entreprenerds and your weak quarterly earnings

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


I'm making this official, Fuschia Tude and I are partners in writing terrible words. With 13 DMs and 4 losses split among us, this week is more than in the bag for us.

Fuschia tude
Dec 26, 2004

THUNDERDOME LOSER



Broenheim posted:

I'm making this official, Fuschia Tude and I are partners in writing terrible words. With 13 DMs and 4 losses split among us, this week is more than in the bag for us.

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:

I will say that there was more to be enjoyed and detested in this week, but these were the mentions that the judges could agree on. Your other two judges will tell me how I am wrong in their crits, and I will expose their thoughtless attempts for rationale in mine. I will never work with you two again. If you want to go, then let's go. Brawl me.

Entenzahn posted:

sure i think td deserves at least one proper judgement post to result from this week



Obliterati posted:

what the gently caress you're not leaving me out of this, I loving fought for you, man





In the Unknown

Your going to write me stories where the setting is a place humanity hasn't explored. It can be the bottom of the Mariana Trench, or the center of the Earth, or anything really. This is fiction, so it doesn't even have to exist. However, it must be found somewhere on planet Earth. And by "hasn't explored" I mean by contemporary standards, so don't write about Darwin discovering the Galapagos or similar past discoveries.

Do NOT write wikipedia articles or stupid world building poo poo. Sure, you're setting is somewhere unknown, but it better have loving characters I like.

1750 words
Due November 30th, 11:58 PM PST

flerp fucked around with this message at Nov 17, 2015 around 07:02

Obliterati
Nov 13, 2012

Ask me about being the most Magnificent Bastard in EU4 Multiplayer.

Broenheim posted:

In the Unknown

Your going to write me stories where the setting is a place humanity hasn't explored. It can be the bottom of the Mariana Trench, or the center of the Earth, or anything really. This is fiction, so it doesn't even have to exist. However, it must be found somewhere on planet Earth. And by "hasn't explored" I mean by contemporary standards, so don't write about Darwin discovering the Galapagos or similar past discoveries.

Do NOT write wikipedia articles or stupid world building poo poo. Sure, you're setting is somewhere unknown, but it better have loving characters I like.

1750 words
Due November 30th, 11:58 PM PST

what the gently caress you're not leaving me out of this, I loving fought for you, man

Lazy Beggar
Dec 9, 2011


In. And I'll take a pre-crit, WeLandedOnTheMoon. Please.
When should I get it to you by?

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


LimerickBrawl


The Twilight Zoned

Jimmy hated Maine. It was too cold, and too woody, and too drat backwards-rear end for its own good. Driving a day or so up the coast from Boston was like going into a new country. Even Nantucket was better than Maine, and that was saying a lot. Nantucket had decent WiFi. His GPS was totally lost, and so was he.

The trunk of his car was packed with thousands of dollars in fine Quebecoise weed. It was ridiculous stuff – worked like straight-laced 50s TV men had tried to spin it. Must’ve been treated with some kinda Russian synthetic poo poo. Turned the whole world into a carnival. If they’d had crazyass Quebecoise weed in the 60s, Woodstock would’ve had a whole lot more of a Reefer Madness feel to it. In a good way, though.

“there once was a man from Nantucket,” said a voice. Jimmy drat near jumped out of his skin. His muscles went tight and tore the steering wheel to the left, almost taking him off the road. He slammed the brake with both feet. The car fishtailed all over the icy road, then spun to a stop.

The man in the back seat wore a white suit. He had two short horns sticking out of his forehead. His hair was short, and so blonde it was almost white. He was smoking a blunt with a look of obvious pleasure on his face.

“Ahem,” he said, “it’s rude to stare.”

He pulled the brim of his white top-hat down over his horns.

“So uh,” said Jimmy, “are you the devil?”

“Yup,” said Satan. He took another puff, then grinned a too-big Cheshire Cat grin. “This is some good poo poo. Anyway, you didn’t let me finish.”

He leaned back, then cracked his knuckles. He had pianist’s hands, with long, lean fingers. They cracked too loudly for such pretty things. The Devil began to sing in a pleasant, lilting baritone.

“There once was a man from Nantucket
Who ruined his whole life -- he hosed it!
he murdered his wife
with a razor-sharp knife
when she came back, she told him to suck it.”

He spread his hands wide, then inclined his head forward just an inch, as if he were too modest to smile and too proud to bow. Jimmy didn’t know how to respond, so he clapped. The Devil screwed up his face.

“You’re not going to beg for mercy?” said Lucifer, Lord of Lies.

Jimmy shrugged. “Nope,” he said. “I liked it. I don’t get why she came back though. And what did she tell him to suck? That’s not very clear.”

He wanted to be helpful. The devil seemed alright.

“She’s a zombie and she eats him,” said the Devil. “Also, he’s you. That’s what I do – I punish sinners for their crimes but first I tell a little poem about it. It’s traditional, you know?”

“I’m not married,” said Jimmy. There was a lady who worked at the hotel IBIS in Bangor who he liked a lot but he was too scared to talk to her. That was as close to love as he got. Satan’s face fell.

“You’re Jimmy Schmidt, though? Jimmy Schmidt of Nantucket, Massachusetts? Guy who owns a car shop?”

Jimmy groaned. Not again. “I work at an ice cream place,” he said. “People keep asking me if I’m related to that guy but I’ve never met him. It’s not really a rare name.”

A bloody palm slammed against the car’s window, and Jimmy screamed. The Devil sighed, and waved it away. He cracked the window, then poked his head out into the frigid air. “Wrong guy, Nancy,” he said. “Sorry about this. I’ve got a new phone, you know? It’s hard to use. We’ll have you doing the whole revenant fury thing ASAP. Just sit tight.”

“Did you do anything really terrible that I can do a poem about?” said Beelzebub, Lord of the Pit. “Like, do you steal jewelry from senile old ladies by pretending to be their son? That would be pretty evil. I mean I gotta punish you for something or I’ll be hearing about it from upstairs.”

He took out his phone and glared at it. Jimmy felt sorry for him: a very old man adrift in a changing world.

“Nope,” said Jimmy. He wanted to be helpful. Jimmy was not a smart man.

“I stay in a lot of motels,” he said, “and I take their pens sometimes. I mean, I’m smuggling weed across the border but who isn’t these days? That’s what Canada is there for.”

The Devil screwed up his face. He took another hit of the joint, then put it out on the car-seat. After a few moments staring out the window, he clicked his tongue. “Good enough,” he said, then he began to sing.

“there once was a smuggler of weed
whose heart was a bastion of greed
his life went to pot
when his keys he forgot
and his whole life went rather to seed.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Jimmy. “I’ve got my keys right h-”

The blacktop writhed and cracked beneath them, then a monstrous sativa plant burst up through the ground. Its stalks were thicker than Jimmy’s arms, and its leaves were the size of soup plates. Its buds were bigger than Jimmy’s head. It wrapped around the car, and the metal screamed in protest. The windows all shattered at once, pelting Jimmy with broken glass.

Stalks invaded the car. Jimmy was about to make a hentai joke when the first one rammed itself down his throat. He clawed at it, but it was alive, and strong. Another wrapped around his waist, and squeezed. Four sharp gunshot-cracks rang out, and pain blossomed in Jimmy’s ribcage.

The last thing he heard before the life was crushed from him was the Devil saying “SIRI, Jimmy Schmidt.”

“Do You Want To Call Jeremy Schmidt?”

“No, I said – ugh gently caress it. I’ll do it tomorrow.”




1000 words exactly

a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly


Lazy Beggar posted:

In. And I'll take a pre-crit, WeLandedOnTheMoon. Please.
When should I get it to you by?

Whenever you want! I sit around on the computer all weekend. Hopefully before Sunday morning, but whatever works.

Radical and BADical!
Jun 27, 2010

by Lowtax


Fun Shoe

In the interest of fairness, I toxxed myself to submit a story last week and then lost my weekend to an illness so I was not able to complete my story. I should eat a ban for that if I ever want to try and compete in Thunderdome again.

Kaishai
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

Claven666 posted:

In the interest of fairness, I toxxed myself to submit a story last week and then lost my weekend to an illness so I was not able to complete my story. I should eat a ban for that if I ever want to try and compete in Thunderdome again.

The PM has been sent, I believe, so the bans will go through as the mods will. I like your sense of fair play. Hurry back, you hear?

(Rarr kayfabe eat your eyes your mother was a hamster, etc.)

ZeBourgeoisie
Aug 8, 2013

THUNDERDOME
LOSER


In

Armack
Jan 27, 2006

Corde pulsum tangite


In

Radical and BADical!
Jun 27, 2010

by Lowtax


Fun Shoe

Kaishai posted:

The PM has been sent, I believe, so the bans will go through as the mods will. I like your sense of fair play. Hurry back, you hear?

(Rarr kayfabe eat your eyes your mother was a hamster, etc.)

Sweet, C U at the crossroads.

dreadmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk

stealtharcher where is your loving brawl piece you sassmouthed cocksucker

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



be careful or you'll get that sass on ur dick

Radical and BADical!
Jun 27, 2010

by Lowtax


Fun Shoe

Much like the Protoss Dragoon or whatever that thing was, I have returned

In.

dreadmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk

Djeser posted:

good, also good night, judgement tomorrow


Djeser posted:

be careful or you'll get that sass on ur dick

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013




Djeser posted:

be careful or you'll get that sass on ur dick

Mojomouse Brawl Results

Fumblemouse:

The beginning reads sloppy, like you're stumbling to establish everything necessary. I got the idea that Dancing Man shows up often, but their dialogue feels weird, like they're not quite responding to what each other is saying. Once you catch your pace later on that problem fades away more, but I tripped pretty hard on that 'if only'. Without a lot of description about him, the green fedora made me think he was more gross peacocking guy than ephemeral spirit. I picked that up pretty quickly after that though, when he shows up outside of their window. The dance is a nice piece of imagery but I almost wished it could have been extended, because it's over pretty quickly. When the ending shows up, I like how she's left a bit disappointed, like it's this spirit's job to make people want more excitement in their lives, then force them to go out and find it on their own.

Your dance: an embarassingly sloppy shakedown with someone you care about

Sebmojo:

This took me two reads to understand fully because you were pulling the style lever so hard that you forgot to spin the clarity wheel. And it is stylish, but there's also some parts where you did the thing people do when they're rushed and just write on autopilot. There's good phrases in there, but in like your second sentence you said something was red like wine, and '[color] like wine' is so old that Homer was doing it. I know you're TD's bossdad but you're not that old yet. On top of that, you've got sentences that are garden pathed, and while I know it's an element of style where you're letting the sentences flow, I'm not a fan of style that gets in the way of something I want to understand. I know you had only a short amount of space to work with and three characters to try to juggle, and I appreciate that yours cleaved closer to the song than Fumb's, but I wanted to find something to dig my teeth into with this story and the motions all the characters go through, while stylish, don't really do anything.

Your dance: a fancy tap-dance performed to no one

Results:
This is pretty tough to judge, but not because you both did well. You both did decent at some stuff and not great at other stuff, and I have to decide what to reward. Seb's was fun to just shut off my brain and let my eyes bounce along the words. Fumb's had the prose working to its detriment more often than to its benefit (c'mon, said bookisms every time?). Seb's had some manner of familial drama that began and ended in vague archetypes. Fumb's encounter with a familiar magical/imaginary man ended in a way that felt satisfyingly unexpected. Because I'm hungry, I'll put it like this: sebmojo wrote a tasty-looking meringue that's mostly air when you bite into it, while fumblemouse wrote a gross "crunchy" granola bar that'll keep you going for a few hours.

Neither of you managed to write a story that I want to read more than I want to listen to the song, but I guess someone has to win. For writing something that had more meat on its bones than puff in its pastry, Fumblemouse takes the win.

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


in.

Ironic Twist
Aug 3, 2008

THUNDERDOME LOSER



In, and teaming up with the mighty Tyrannosaurus.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

aka sticklegs



Grimey Drawer

Ironic Twist posted:

In, and teaming up with the mighty Tyrannosaurus.

sorry i forgot to put "no zombies" in the rules. jk jk

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry



Ironic Twist posted:

In, and teaming up with the mighty Tyrannosaurus.

im feeling the most conflicted feeling of and and

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a new study bible!
Feb 1, 2009



BIG DICK NICK
A Philadelphia Legend
Fly Eagles Fly


Yo I might be interested in forming a partnership, but just understand that I will screw you over and soak up all the glory when we win. You must be willing to take a creative, emotional, and financial backseat on this. Now accepting apps.

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